the convert * * * * * transcriber's note: lists of macmillan titles from this spot have been moved to the end of the text. following the moved section, the reader will find a list of corrections made to the text. * * * * * the convert by elizabeth robins author of "a dark lantern," "the magnetic north," etc. new york the macmillan company all rights reserved copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published october, . reprinted march, ; march, ; august, . norwood press j. s. cushing co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. the convert chapter i the tall young lady who arrived fifteen minutes before the freddy tunbridges' dinner-hour, was not taken into the great empty drawing-room, but, as though she were not to be of the party expected that night, straight upstairs she went behind the footman, and then up more stairs behind a maid. the smart, white-capped domestic paused, and her floating muslin streamers cut short their aërial gyrations subsiding against her straight black back as she knocked at the night-nursery door. it was opened by a middle-aged head nurse of impressive demeanour. she stood there an instant eyeing the intruder with the kind of overbearing hauteur that in these days does duty as the peculiar hall-mark of the upper servant, being seldom encountered in england among even the older generation of the so-called governing class. 'it's too late to see the baby, miss. he's asleep.' 'yes, i know; but the others are expecting me, aren't they?' question hardly necessary, perhaps, with the air full of cries from beyond the screen: 'yes, yes.' 'we're waiting!' 'mummy promised'--cut short by the nurse saying sharply, 'not so much noise, miss sara.' but the presiding genius of the tunbridge nursery opened the door a little wider and stood aside. handsome compensation for her studied coldness was offered in the shrill shrieks of joy with which a little girl and a very small boy celebrated the lady's entrance. she, for her part, joined the austere nurse in saying, 'sh! sh!' and in simulating consternation at the spectacle behind the screen, miss sara jumping up and down in the middle of her bed with wild brown hair swirling madly about a laughing but mutinous face. the visitor, hurrying forward, received the impetuous little girl in her arms, while the nurse described her own sentiments of horror and detestation of such performances, and hinted vaguely at retribution that might with safety be looked for no later than the morrow. nobody listened. miss levering nodded smiling across sara's nightgowned figure to the little boy hanging over the side of the neighbouring cot. but he kept remonstrating, 'you always go to her first.' the lady drew a flat, shiny wooden box out of the inside pocket of her cloak. the little girl seized it rapturously. 'oh, did you only bring sara's bock?' wailed the smaller tunbridge. 'i told you expecially we wanted _two_ bocks.' 'i've got two pockets and i've got two bocks. let me give him his, sara darling.' but 'sara darling' dropped her own 'bock' the better to cling round the neck of the giver. naturally master cecil sounded the horn of indignation. 'hush!' commanded his sister. 'don't you know his little lordship never did that?' and to emphasize this satirical appeal to a higher standard of manners, sara loosened her tight-locked arms an instant; but still holding to the visitor with one hand, she picked up the pillow and deftly hurled it at the neighbouring cot, extinguishing the little boy. through the general recriminations that ensued, the culprit cried with shrill rapture, 'lady gladys never pillow-fought! lady gladys was a little lady and never did _any_thing!' the merry eyes shamelessly invited miss levering to mock at dampney's former charges. but the visitor detached herself from miss sara, and wishing apparently to ingratiate herself with the offended majesty of the nurse, miss levering said gravely over her shoulder, 'now, lie down, sara, and be a good girl.' sara's reply to that was to (what she called) 'diddle up and down' on her knees and emit shrill squeals of some pleasurable emotion not defined. this, too, in spite of the fact that dampney had picked up the pillow and was advancing upon miss sara with an expression calculated to shake the stoutest heart. it obviously shook the visitor's. 'listen, sara! if you don't be quiet and let nurse cover you up, she won't want me to stay.' miss levering actually got up off the little boy's bed, and stood as though ready to carry the obnoxious suggestion into instant effect. sara darted under the bedclothes like a rabbit into its burrow. the rigid woman, without words, restored the tousled pillow to the head of the bed, extracted miss sara from her hiding-place with one hand, smoothed out the rebellious legs with the other, covered the child firmly over, and tucked the bedclothes in. 'what's the use of all that? mother always does it over again.' 'you know very well she's been and done it once already.' 'she's coming again if father doesn't need her.' 'there's a whole big dinner-party needing her, so you needn't think she can come twice to say good-night to a jumping-jack like you.' 'you ought to say a jumping-jill,' amended sara. during this interchange master cecil was complaining to the visitor-- 'i can't see you with that thing all round your head.' 'yes, take it off!' his sister agreed; and when the lady had unwound her lace scarf--'now the coat! and you have to sit on my bed this time. it's my turn.' as the visitor divested herself of the long ermine-lined garment, 'oh, you _are_ pretty to-night!' observed the gallant young gentleman over the way, seeming not to have heard that these effects don't appeal to little boys. sara silently craned her neck. even the high and mighty mrs. dampney, in the surreptitious way of the superior servant, without seeming to look, was covertly taking in the vision that the cloak had hitherto obscured. the little girl followed with critical eyes the movement of the tall figure, the graceful fall of the clinging black lace gown embroidered in yellow irises, the easy bend of the small waist in its jewelled belt of yellow. the growing approval in the little face culminated in an ecstatic 'oh-h-h! let me see what's on your neck! that's new, isn't it?' 'no--very old.' 'i didn't know there were yellow diamonds,' said sara. 'there are; but these are sapphires.' 'and the little stones round?' 'yes, they're diamonds.' 'the hanging-down thing is _such_ a pretty shape!' 'yes, the fleur-de-lys is a pretty shape. it's the flower of france, you know--just as the thistle is the----' 'there, now!' a penetrating whisper came from the other bed. 'she's _gone_.' 'it's you who've been keeping her here, you know.' miss levering bent her neat, dark head over the little girl, and the gleaming jewels swung forward. 'yes,' said cecil, in a tone of grandfatherly disgust; 'yelling like a wild indian.' 'well, you _cried_,' said his sister--'just because a feather pillow hit you.' her eye never once left the glittering gaud. 'you see, cecil is younger than you,' miss levering reminded her. 'yes,' said sara, with conscious superiority--'a whole year and eight months. but even when i was young _i_ had sense.' miss levering laughed. 'you're a horrid little pharisee--and as wild as a young colt.' contrary to received canons, the visitor seemed to find something reassuring in the latter reflection, for she kissed the small, self-righteous face. 'you just ought to have seen sara this morning!' cecil chuckled, with a generous admiration in family achievements. 'we waked up early, and sara said, "let's go mountaineering." so we did. all over the rocks and presserpittses.' he waved his hand comprehensively at the rugged scenery of the night-nursery. 'of course we had to pile up the chairs and things,' his sister explained. 'and the coal scuttle.' 'and we made snow mountains out of the pillows. when the chairs wobbled, the coal and the pillows kept falling about; it was quite a real avalanche,' sara said conversationally. 'i should think so,' agreed the guest. 'yes; and it was glorious when sara excaped to the top of the wardrobe.' 'to the w----' miss levering gasped. 'yes. we were having the most perfectly fascinating time----' sara took up the tale. but cecil suddenly sat bolt upright, his little face quite pink with excitement at recollection of these alpine exploits. 'yes, sara had come down off the wardrobe--she'd been sitting on the carved piece--she says that's the schreckhorn!--but she'd come down off it, and we was just jumping about all those mountains like two shamrocks----' 'like what?' '--when _she_ came in.' 'yes,' agreed sara. 'just when we're happiest _she_ always comes interfiddling.' 'oh, sara mine, i rather like you!' said miss levering, laying her laughing face against the tousled hair. 'now! now!' cried cecil, suddenly beating with his two fists on the counterpane as though he'd seen as much valuable time wasted as he felt it incumbent upon him to tolerate. 'go on where you left off.' 'no, it's _my_ visit this time.' sara held fast to her friend. 'it's for me to say what we're going to talk about.' 'it's got to be alligators!' said cecil, waving his arms. 'it _shan't_ be alligators! i want to know more about doris.' 'doris!' cecil's tone implied that the human intelligence could no lower sink. 'yes. i expect you like her better than you do us.' 'don't you think i ought to like my niece best?' 'no'--from cecil. 'you said we belonged to you, too,' observed miss sara. 'of course.' 'and all aunts,' she pursued, 'don't like their nieces so _dreadfully_.' 'don't they?' inquired miss levering, with an elaborate air of innocence. 'you didn't say how-do-you-do to me,' said cecil, with the air of one who makes a useful discovery. '_what?_' 'why, she went to you the minute i threw the pillow.' 'that was just to save me from being dead. it isn't a proper how-do-you-do when she doesn't hug you.' 'i'll hug you when i go.' but a better plan than that occurred to cecil. he flung down the covers with the decision of one called to set about some urgent business. 'cecil! i simply won't have you catching cold!' before the words were out of miss levering's mouth he had tumbled out of bed and leapt into her lap. he clasped his arms round her neck with an air of rapturous devotion, but what he said was-- 'go on 'bout the alligator.' 'no, no. go 'way!' protested sara, pushing him with hands and feet. 'sh! you really will have nurse back!' that horrid thought coerced the prudent sara to endurance of the interloping brother. and now of his own accord cecil had taken his arms from round his friend's neck. 'that's horrid!' he said. 'i don't like that hard thing. take it off.' 'let me.' sara sat up with alacrity. 'let me.' but miss levering undid the sapphire necklace herself. 'if you'll be very careful, sara, i'll let you hold it.' it was as if she well knew the deft little hands she had delivered the ornament to, and knew equally well that in her present mood, absorption in the beauty of it would keep the woman-child still. 'there, that's better!' cecil replaced his arms firmly where the necklace had been. miss levering pulled up her long cloak from the bottom of the bed and wrapped the little boy in the warm lining. the comfort of the arrangement was so great, and it implied so little necessity for 'hanging on,' that cecil loosed his arms and lay curled up against his friend. she held him close, adapting her lithe slimness to the easy supporting and enfolding of the childish figure. the little girl was absorbed in the necklace after her strenuous hour; the boy, content for a moment, having gained his point, just to lie at his ease; the woman rested her cheek on his ruffled hair and looked straight before her. as she sat there holding him, something came into her face, guiltless though it was of any traceable change, without the verifiable movement of a muscle, something none the less that would have minded the beholder uneasily to search the eyes for tears, and, finding no tears there, to feel no greater sense of reassurance. so motionless she sat that presently the child turned up his rosy face, and seeing the brooding look, it was plain he had the sense of being somehow left behind. he put up his hand to her cheek, and rubbed it softly with his own. 'i don't like you like that. tell me about----' 'like what?' said the lady. 'like--i don't know.' then, with a sudden inspiration, 'uncle ronald says you're like the sphinx. who are they?' 'who are who?' 'why, the sfinks. have they got a boy? is the little sfink as old as me? oh, you only laugh, just like uncle ronald. he asked us why we liked you, and we told him.' 'you've never told me.' 'oh, didn't we? well, it's because you aren't beady.' 'beady?' 'yes. we hate all beady ladies, don't we, sara?' 'yes; but it's my turn.' however, she said it half-heartedly as she stopped drawing the shining jewels lightly through her slim fingers, and began gently to swing the fleur-de-lys back and forth like a pendulum that glanced bewitchingly in the light. miss levering knew that the next phase would be to try it on, but for the moment sara had still half an ear for general conversation. 'we hate them to have hard things on their shoulders!' cecil explained. 'on their shoulders?' miss levering asked. 'here, just in the way of our heads.' 'yes, bead-trimming on their dresses,' explained the little girl. 'hard stuff that scratches when they hold you tight.' cecil cuddled his impudent round face luxuriously on the soft lace-covered shoulder of the visitor, and laughed up in her face. 'aunts are very beady,' said sara, absent-mindedly, as she tried the effect of the glitter against her night-gown. 'grandmothers are worse,' amended cecil. 'they're beady and bu-gly, too.' 'what's bewgly?' 'well, it's what my grandmother called them when i pulled some of them off. not proper bugles, you know, what you "too! too! too!" make music with when you're fighting the enemy. my grandmother thinks bugles are little shiny black things only about that long'--he measured less than an inch on his minute forefinger--'with long holes through so they can sew them on their clothes.' 'on their caps, too,' said sara; 'only they're usurally white when they're on caps.' 'here's your mother coming! now, what will she say to you, cecil?' they turned their eyes to the door, strangely unwelcoming for laura tunbridge's children, and their young faces betrayed no surprise when the very different figure of nurse dampney emerged from behind the tall chintz screen that protected the cots from any draught through the opening door. cecil, with an action of settled despair, turned from the spectacle, and buried his face for one last moment of comfort in vida levering's shoulder; while sara, with a baleful glance, muttered-- 'i knew it was that old interfiddler.' 'now, master cecil----' 'yes, nurse.' miss levering carried him back to his cot. 'mrs. tunbridge has sent up, miss, to know if you've come. they're waiting dinner.' 'not really! is it a quarter past already?' 'more like twenty minutes, miss.' the lady caught up her necklace, cut short her good-byes, and fled downstairs, clasping the shining thing round her neck as she went--a swaying figure in soft flying draperies and gleaming, upraised arms. she entered the drawing-room with a quiet deliberation greater even than common. it was the effect that haste and contrition frequently wrought in her--one of the things that made folk call her 'too self-contained,' even 'a trifle supercilious.' but when other young women, recognizing some not easily definable charm in this new-comer into london life, tried to copy the effect alluded to, it was found to be less imitable than it looked. chapter ii there were already a dozen or so persons in the gold-and-white drawing-room, yet the moment vida levering entered, she knew from the questing glance mrs. freddy sent past her children's visitor, that even now the party was not complete. other eyes turned that way as the servant announced 'miss levering.' it is seldom that in this particular stratum of london life anything so uncontrolled and uncontrollable as a 'sensation' is permitted to chequer the even distribution of subdued good humour that reigns so modestly in the drawing-rooms of the tunbridge world. if any one is so ill-advised as to bring to these gatherings anything resembling a sensation, even if it is of the less challengeable sort of striking personal beauty, the general aim of the company is to pretend either that they see nothing unusual in the conjunction, or that they, for their part, are impervious to such impacts. vida levering's beauty was not strictly of the _éclatant_ type. if it did--as could not be denied--arrest the eye, its refusal to let attention go was mitigated by something in the quietness, the disarming softness, with which the hold was maintained. men making her acquaintance frequently went through four distinct phases in their feeling about her. the first was the common natural one, the instant stirring of the pulses that beauty of any sort produces in persons having the eye that sees. the second stage was a rousing of the instinct to be 'on guard,' which feminine beauty not infrequently breeds in the breasts of men. not on guard so much against the thing itself, or even against ready submission to it, but against allowing onlookers to be witness of such submission. even the very young man knows either by experience or hearsay, that women have concentrated upon their faculty for turning this particular weapon to account, all the skill they would have divided among other resources had there been others. yet the charm is something too delicious even to desire to escape from--the impulse centres in a determination to _seem_ untouched, immune. the third stage in this declension from pleasure through caution to reassurance is induced by something so gentle, so unemphatic in the vida levering aspect, so much what the man thinks 'feminine,' that even the wariest male is reassured. he comes to be almost as easy before this particular type of allurement as he would be with the frankly plain 'good sort'; only there is all about him the exquisite aroma of a subtle charm which he may almost persuade himself that he alone perceives, since this softly gracious creature seems so little to insist upon it--seems, indeed, to be herself unaware of its presence. whereupon the man conceives a new idea of his own perspicacity in detecting a thing at once so agreeable and so little advertised. he may, with a woman of this kind, go long upon the third 'tack'--may, indeed, never know it was she who gently 'shunted' him, still unenlightened, and left him side-tracked, but cherishing to the end of time the soothing conviction that he 'might an' if he would.' to the more robust order of man will come a day of awakening, when he rubs his eyes and retreats hurriedly with a sense of good faith injured--nay, of hopes positively betrayed. if she were '_that_ sort,' why not hang out some signal? it wasn't playing fair. and so without anything so crude as a sensation, but with a retinue of covert looks following in her train, she made her way to the young hostess, and was there joined by two men and a middle-aged woman, who plainly had been a beauty, and though 'gone to fat,' as the vulgar say, had yet kept her complexion. with an air of genial authority, the pink-cheeked lady john ulland proceeded to appropriate the new-comer in the midst of a general hum of conversation, whose key to the sensitive ear had become a little heightened since the last arrival. the women grew more insistently vivacious in proportion as the men's minds seemed to wander from matters they had discussed contentedly enough before. mrs. freddy tunbridge was a very popular person. it was agreed that nobody willingly missed one of her parties. there were those who said this was not so much because of her and mr. freddy, though they were eminently likeable people; not merely because you met 'everybody' there, and not even because of the excellence of their dinners. notoriously this last fact fails to appeal very powerfully to the majority of women, and it is they, not men, who make the social reputation of the hostess. there was in this particular case a theory, held even by those who did not care especially about mrs. freddy, that hers was an 'amusing,' above all, perhaps, a 'becoming,' house. people had a pleasant consciousness of looking uncommon well in her pretty drawing-room. others said it wasn't the room, it was the lighting, which certainly was most discerningly done--not dim, and yet so far from glaring that quite plain people enjoyed there a brief unwonted hour of good looks. only a limited amount of electricity was used, and that little was carefully masked and modulated, while the two great chandeliers each of them held aloft a very forest of wax candles. it was known, too, that the spell was in no danger of being rudely broken. the same tender but festive radiance would bathe the hospitable board of the great oak dining-room below. and why were they not processing thither? 'is it my sister who is late?' miss levering asked, turning her slim neck in that deliberate way of hers to look about the room. 'no; your sister is over there, talking to---- oh--a----' mrs. freddy, having looked round to refresh her memory, was fain to slur over the fact that mrs. fox-moore was in the corner by the pierced screen, not talking to any one, but, on the contrary, staring dark-visaged, gloomy, sibylline, at a leaflet advertising a charity concert, a document conspicuously left by mrs. freddy on a little table. on her way to rescue mrs. fox-moore from her desert island of utter loneliness, mrs. freddy saw sir william haycroft, the newly-made cabinet minister, rather pointedly making his escape from a tall, keen-looking, handsome woman wearing eye-glasses and iron-grey hair dressed commandingly. without a qualm mrs. freddy abandoned mrs. fox-moore to prolonged exile, in order to soothe the ruffled minister. 'i think,' she said, pausing in front of the great man and delicately offering him an opportunity to make any predilection known--'i think you know every one here.' haycroft muttered in his beard--but his eyes had lit upon the new face. 'who's that?' he said; but his tone added, 'not that it matters.' 'you don't know her? well, that's a proof of how you've neglected your friends since the new government came in. but you really mean it--that nobody has introduced you to miss levering yet? what _is_ freddy thinking about!' 'dinner!' replied a voice at her elbow with characteristic laconism, and freddy tunbridge pulled out his watch. 'oh, give them five minutes more,' said his wife, indulgently. 'that's not a daughter of old sir hervey?' pursued the other man, his eyes still on the young woman talking to lady john and the foreign ambassador. 'yes; go on,' said mrs. freddy, with as cloudless a brow as though she had no need to manufacture conversation while the dinner was being kept waiting. 'go on! they _all_ do it.' 'do what?' demanded the great man, suspiciously. '"why haven't they seen her before" comes next. then the next time you and i meet in the country or find ourselves alone in a crush, you'll be saying, "what's her story? why hasn't a woman like that married?" they all do! you don't believe me? just wait! freddy shall take you over, and----' was mrs. freddy beaming at the prospective success of her new friend, or was her vanity flattered by reflecting upon her own perspicacity? unavoidable as it was in a way that mrs. graham townley should be taken down to dinner by the new minister--nevertheless the antidote had been cleverly provided for. 'freddy dear--why, i thought he was---- oh, there he is!' seeing her hungry husband safely anchored in front of the iris gown, instantly she abandoned the idea of disturbing him. 'after all,' she said, turning again to haycroft, who had stood the image of stolid unimpressionableness--'after all, freddy's right. since she's going to sit beside you at dinner, it's a good reason for not making you known to each other before. or perhaps you never experience that awful feeling of being talked out by the time you go down, and not having a single thing left----' she saw that the great man was not going to vouchsafe any contribution to her small attempt to keep the ball rolling; so without giving him the chance to mark her failure by a silence, however brief, she chattered on. 'though with vida you're not likely to find yourself in that predicament. is he, ronald?' with the instinct of the well-trained female to draw into her circle any odd man hovering about on the periphery, mrs. freddy appealed to her brother-in-law. lord borrodaile turned in her direction his long sallow face--a face that would have been saturnine but for its touch of whimsicality and a singularly charming smile. 'my brother-in-law will bear me out,' mrs. freddy went on, quite as though breaking off a heated argument. lord borrodaile sauntered up and offered a long thin hand to haycroft ('the fella who's bringing the country to the dogs,' as mrs. freddy knew right well was his conviction). steering wide of politics, 'i gather,' he said, with his air of amiable boredom, 'that you were discussing what used in the days of my youth to be called a lady's "conversational powers."' 'i forbid you to apply such deadly phrases to my friend,' mrs. freddy denounced him. '_your_ friend, too!' 'i'll prove my title to the distinction by proclaiming that she has the subtlest art a woman can possess.' 'ah, _that's_ more like it!' said mrs. freddy, gaily. 'what is the subtlest art?' 'the art of being silent without being dull.' if there was any sting in this for the lady nearest him, she gave no sign of making the personal application. 'now i expressly forbid your encouraging vida in silence! most men like to be amused. you know perfectly well _you_ do!' 'ah, yes,' he said languidly, catching haycroft's eye and almost making terms with him upon a common ground of masculine understanding. 'yes, yes. it is well known what children we are. pleased with a rattle!' then, as if fearing he might be going too far, he smiled that disarming smile of his, and said good-humouredly, 'i know now why you are called a good hostess.' 'why?' asked the lady a little anxiously, for his compliments were not always soothing. a motion towards the watch-pocket. 'no one, to look at you, would suppose that your spirit was racked between the clock and the door.' 'oh,' she said, relieved, 'if they come in five minutes or so, you'll see! the dinner won't be a penny the worse. jules is such a wizard. all i mind is seeing freddy fussed.' she turned with an engaging smile to her minister again. 'freddy has the most angelic temper except when he's hungry--bless him! now that he's talking to vida levering, freddy'll forget whether it's before dinner or after.' 'what! what!' said a brisk old gentleman, with a face like a peculiarly wicked monkey. he abandoned mrs. townley with enthusiasm in order to say to his hostess, 'show me the witch who can work that spell!' 'oh, dear, i'm afraid,' said mrs. freddy, prettily, 'i'm dreadfully afraid that means you're starving! does it make you morose as it does freddy?' she asked, with an air of comic terror. 'then we won't wait.' she tossed out one arm with a funny little movement that sent her thin draperies floating as though towards the bell. 'my dear lady!' the old gentleman arrested her. 'i hunger, it is true, but only for knowledge.' in a silent but rather horrible laugh he wrinkled up his aged nose, which was quite enough wrinkled and sufficiently 'up' already. 'who _is_ the witch?' 'why, we were talking about a member of your family.' she turned again to the new minister. 'mr. fox-moore--sir--oh! how absurd! i was going to introduce two pillars of the state to one another. i _must_ be anxious about those late people, after all.' 'as a matter of fact you and i never have met,' said haycroft, cordially taking old mr. fox-moore's hand. 'beside you permanent officials we ephemeræ, the sport of parties----' 'ah, _that's_ all right!' mrs. freddy's head, poised an instant on one side, seemed to say. 'who is it? who is late?' demanded mrs. graham townley, whose entrance into the conversation produced the effect of the sudden opening of window and door on a windy day. people shrink a little in the draught, and all light, frivolous things are blown out of the way. english people stand this sort of thing very much as they stand the actual draughts in their cold houses. they feel it to be good for them on the whole. mrs. graham townley was acknowledged to be a person of much character. though her interest in public affairs was bounded only by the limits of the empire, she had found time to reform the administration of a great london hospital. also she was related to a great many people. in the ultra smart set she of course had no _raison d'être_, but in the older society it was held meet that these things be. so that when she put her question, not only was she not ignored, but each one felt it a serious thing for anybody to be so late that mrs. graham townley instead of button-holing some one with, 'what, now, should you say is the extent of the pan-islamic influence in egypt?' should be reduced to asking, 'who are we waiting for?' 'it's certain to be a man,' said lady john ulland, as calmly convinced as one who states a natural law. 'why?' asked her niece, the charming girl in rose colour. 'no woman would dare to come in so late as this. she'd have turned back and telephoned that the horses had run away with her or something of the sort.' 'dick farnborough won't turn back.' 'oh, mr. farnborough's the culprit!' said a smartly dressed woman, with a nervous, rather angry air, though the ropes of fine pearls she wore might, some would think, have soothed the most savage breast. 'yes, dick and captain beeching!' said mrs. freddy; 'and i shall give them just two minutes more!' 'aunt ellen _said_ it couldn't be a woman,' remarked the girl in pink, as one struck with such perspicacity. 'well, i wouldn't ask them again to _my_ house,' said the discontented person with the pearls. 'yes, she would,' lady john said aside to borrodaile. 'she has a daughter, and so have most of the london hostesses, and the young villains know it.' 'oh, yes; sometimes they never turn up at all,' said the pink niece. 'after accepting!' ejaculated lady whyteleafe of the pearls. 'oh, yes; sometimes they don't even answer.' 'i never heard of such impudence.' 'i have, twice this year,' said mrs. graham townley, with that effect of breaking by main force into a conversation instead of being drawn into it. 'twice in this last year i've sat with an empty place on one side of me at a dinner-party. on each occasion it was a young member of parliament who never turned up and never sent an apology.' 'the same man both times?' asked lord borrodaile. 'yes; different houses, but the same man.' 'he _knew_!' whispered borrodaile in lady john's ear. 'dick farnborough has been complaining that since he smashed his motor all existence has become disorganized. i always feel'--the hostess addressed herself to the minister and the pearls--'don't you, that one ought to stretch a point for people who have to go about in cabs?' as haycroft began a disquisition on the changes in social life initiated by the use of the motor-car, mrs. freddy floated away. borrodaile, looking after her, remarked, 'it's humane of my sister-in-law to think of making allowances. most of us gratify the dormant cruelty in human nature by keeping an eagle eye on the wretched late ones when at last they _do_ slink in. don't you know'--he turned to lady john--'that look of half-resentful interest?' 'perfectly. every one wants to see whether these particular culprits wear their rue with a difference.' 'or whether,' borrodaile went on, 'whether, like the majority, they merely look abject and flustered, and whisper agitated lies. personally i have known it to be the most interesting moment of the evening.' what brought mrs. fox-moore's plight forcibly home to mrs. freddy was seeing vida leave her own animated group to join her sister. mrs. freddy made her way across the room, stopping a moment to say to freddy as she passed-- '_do_ go and make conversation to lady whyteleafe.' 'which is lady whyteleafe?' drawled freddy. 'oh, you _always_ forget her! what _am_ i to do with you? she's the woman with the pearls.' 'not that cross-looking----' 'sh! yes, darling, that's the one. she's only looking like that because you aren't talking to her;' and mrs. freddy overtook vida just as she reached the desert island where mrs. fox-moore stood, looking seaward for a sail. a few moments later, after ringing for dinner, mrs. freddy paused an instant, taking in the fact that lady whyteleafe hadn't been made as happy by mr. tunbridge's attentions as his wife had prophesied. no, the angry woman with the pearls, so far from being intent upon freddy's remarks, was levelling at mrs. freddy the critical eye that says, 'now i shall see if i can determine just how miserably conscious you are that dinner's unpardonably late, everybody starving, and since you've only just rung, that you have at least eight minutes still to fill up before you'll hear that you are "served."' lady whyteleafe leaned against the back of the little periwinkle damask sofa, and waited to see mrs. freddy carry off these last minutes of suspense by an affectation of great good spirits. but the lady under the social microscope knew a trick worth two of that. she could turn more than one mishap to account. 'oh, freddy! oh, lady whyteleafe! i've just gone and said the most awful, dreadful, appalling thing! oh, i should like to creep under the sofa and die!' 'what's up?' demanded mr. freddy, with an air of relief at being reinforced. 'i've been talking to vida levering and that funereal sister of hers.' 'oh, mrs. fox-moore!' said lady whyteleafe, obviously disappointed. 'she's a step-sister, isn't she?' 'yes, yes. oh, i wish she'd never stepped over my threshold!' 'why?' said mr. freddy, sticking in his eyeglass. 'don't, freddy. don't look at her. oh, i wish i were dead!' 'what _have_ you been doing? she looks as if she wished _she_ were dead.' 'that's nothing. she always looks like that,' lady whyteleafe assured the pair. 'yes, and she makes it a great favour to come. "i seldom go into society," she writes in her stiff little notes; and you're reminded that way, without her actually setting it down, that she devotes herself to good works.' 'perhaps she doesn't know what else to do with all that money,' said the lady of the pearls. '_she_ hasn't got a penny piece.' 'oh, is it all his? i thought the leverings were rather well off.' 'yes, but the money came through the second wife, vida's mother. oh, i hate that fox-moore woman!' mrs. freddy laughed ruefully. 'and i'm sure her husband is a great deal too good for her. but how _could_ i have done it!' 'you haven't told us yet.' 'they asked me who was late, and i said dick farnborough, and that i hoped he hadn't forgotten, for i had hermione heriot here on purpose to meet him. and i told vida about the heriots trying to marry hermione to that old colonel redding.' 'oh, can't they bring it off?' said lady whyteleafe. 'i've been afraid they would. "it's so dreadful," i said, "to see a fresh young girl tied to a worn-out old man."' '_oh!_' remarked lady whyteleafe, genuinely shocked. 'and you said that to----' mrs. freddy nodded with melancholy significance. 'even when vida said, "it seems to do well enough sometimes," _still_ i never never remembered the fox-moore story! and i went on about it being a miracle when it turned out even tolerably--and, oh, heaven forgive me! i grew eloquent!' 'it's your passion for making speeches,' said mr. freddy. at which, accountably to lady whyteleafe, mrs. freddy blushed and stumbled in this particular 'speech.' 'i know, i know,' she said, carrying it off with an air of comic contrition. 'i even said, "there's a modesty in nature that it isn't wise to overstep" (i'd forgotten some people think speech-making comes under that head). "it's been realized," i said--yes, rushing on my doom!--"it's been realized up to now only in the usual one-sided way--discouraging boys from marrying women old enough to be their mothers. but dear, blundering, fatuous man"'--she smiled into her husband's pleasantly mocking face--'"_he_ thinks," i said, "at _any_ age he's a fit mate for a fresh young creature in her teens. if they only knew--the dreadful old ogres!" yes, i said that. i piled it on--oh, i stuck at nothing! "the men think an ugly old woman monopolizes all the opportunities humanity offers for repulsiveness. but there's nothing on the face of the earth as hideous," i said, "as an ugly old man. doesn't it stand to reason? he's bound to go greater lengths than any woman can aspire to. there's more of him to _be_ ugly, isn't there? i appealed to them--everything about him is bigger, coarser--he's much less human," says i, "and _much_ more like a dreadful old monkey." i raised my wretched eyes, and there, not three feet away, was the aged husband of the fox-moore woman ogling hermione heriot! oh, let me die!' mrs. freddy leaned against the blue-grey sofa for a moment and half closed her pretty eyes. the next instant she was running gaily across the room to welcome richard farnborough and captain beeching. * * * * * 'i always know,' said lord borrodaile, glancing over the banisters as he and vida went down--'i always know the kind of party it's going to be when i see--certain people. don't you?' 'i know who you mean,' vida whispered back, her eyes on mrs. graham townley's aggressively high-piled hair towering over the bald pate of the minister, as, side by side, they disappeared through the dining-room door. 'why _does_ laura have her?' 'well, she's immensely intelligent, they _say_,' he sighed. 'that's why i wonder,' laughed vida. '_we_ are rather frivolous, i'm afraid.' 'to tell the truth, i wondered, too. i even sounded my sister-in-law.' 'well?' 'she said it was her day of reckoning. "i never ask the woman," she said, "except to a scratch party like this."' '"scratch party"--with you and me here!' 'ah, we are the leaven. we make the compound possible.' 'still, i don't think she ought to call it "scratch" when she's got an ambassador and a cabinet minister----' 'just the party to ask a scratch cabinet minister to,' he insisted, stopping between the two cards inscribed respectively with their names. 'as for the ambassador, he's an old friend of ours--knows his london well--knows we are the most tolerant society on the face of the earth.' in spite of her companion's affectation of a smiling quarrelsomeness, vida unfolded her table-napkin with the air of one looking forward to her _tête-à-tête_ with the man who had brought her down. but lord borrodaile was a person most women liked talking to, and hardly had she begun to relish that combination in the man of careless pleasantry and pungent criticism, when vida caught an agonized glance from her hostess, which said plainly, 'rescue the man on your right,'--and lo! miss levering became aware that already, before the poor jaded politician had swallowed his soup, mrs. townley had fallen to catechising him about the new bill--a theme talked threadbare by newspaperdom and all political england. but mrs. townley, albeit not exactly old, was one of those old-fashioned women who take what used to be called 'an intelligent interest in politics.' you may pick her out in any drawing-room from the fact that politicians shun her like the plague. rich, childless, lonely, with more wits than occupation, practically shelved at a time when her intellectual life is most alert--the mrs. townleys of the world do, it must be admitted, labour under the delusion that men fighting the battle of public life, go out to dine for the express purpose of telling the intelligent female 'all about it.' she is a staunch believer not so much in women's influence as in woman's. and there is no doubt in her mind which woman's. if among her smart relations who ask her to their houses and go to hers (from that sentiment of the solidarity of the family so powerful in english life), if amongst these she succeeds from time to time in inducing two or three public officials, or even private members, to prove how good a cook she keeps, she thinks she is exercising an influence on the politics of her time. her form of conversation consists in plying her victim with questions. not here one there one, to keep the ball rolling, but a steady and pitiless fire of 'do you think?' and '_why_ do you?' obedient to her hostess's wireless telegram, miss levering bent her head, and said to mrs. townley's neighbour-- 'i know i ought not to talk to you till after the _entrée_.' 'pray do!' said sir william, with a sudden glint in his little eyes; and then with a burnt-child air of caution, 'unless----' he began. 'oh, you make conditions!' said miss levering, laughing. 'only one. promise not'--he lowered his voice--'promise not to say "bill."' 'i won't even go so far as to say "william."' he laughed as obligingly as though the jest had been a good one. a little ashamed, its maker hastened to leave it behind. 'there's nothing i should quite so much hate talking about as politics--saving your presence.' 'ah!' 'i was thinking of something _much_ more important.' even her rallying tone did not wholly reassure the poor man. 'more important?' he repeated. 'yes; i long to know (and i long to be forgiven for asking), what order that is you are wearing, and what you did to get it.' haycroft breathed freely. he talked for the next ten minutes about the bauble, making a humorous translation of its latin 'posy,' and describing in the same vein the service to a foreign state that had won him the recognition. he wouldn't have worn the thing to-night except out of compliment to the ambassador from the power in question. they were going on together to the reception at the foreign office. as to the order, haycroft seemed to feel he owed it to himself to smile at all such toys, but he did not disdain to amuse the pretty lady with the one in question, any more than being humane (and even genial sitting before mrs. freddy's menu), he would have refused to show the whirring wheels of his watch to a nice child. the two got on so well that the anxious look quite faded out of mrs. freddy's face, and she devoted herself gaily to the distinguished foreigner at her side. but haycroft at a party was, like so many englishmen, as the lilies of the field. they toil not, neither do they spin. the man vida had rescued from mrs. graham townley was, when in the society of women, so accustomed to seeing them take on themselves the onus of entertainment, was himself so unused to being at the smallest trouble, that when the 'order' was exhausted, had vida not invented another topic, there would have been an absolute cessation of all converse till mrs. graham townley had again caught him up like a big reluctant fish on the hook of interrogation. at a reproachful aside from lord borrodaile, miss levering broke off in the middle of her second subject to substitute, 'but i am monopolizing you disgracefully,' and she half turned away from the eminent politician into whose slightly flushed face and humid eyes had come something like animation. 'not at all. not at all. go on.' 'no, i've gone far enough. do you realize that we left "orders" and "honours" half an hour ago, and ever since we've been talking scandal?' 'criticizing life,' he amended--'a pursuit worthy of two philosophers.' 'i did it--' said the lady, with an air of half-amused discontent with herself; 'you know why i did it.' he met her eye, and the faint motion that indicated the woman on his other side. 'terrible person,' he whispered. 'she goes out to dine as a soldier goes into action.' for the next few minutes they made common cause in heaping ridicule on 'the political woman.' 'but, after all'--vida pulled herself up--'it may be only a case of sour grapes on my part. i'm afraid _my_ conversation is inclined to be frivolous.' he turned and gave her her reward--the feeling smile that says, '_thank god!_' but, strangely, it did not reflect itself in the woman's face. something quite different there, lurking under the soft gaiety. was it consciousness of this being the second time during the evening that she had employed the too common vaunt of the woman of that particular world? did some ironic echo reach her of that same boast (often as mirthless and as pitiful as the painted smile on the cruder face), the 'i'm afraid i'm rather frivolous' of the well-to-do woman, whose frivolity--invaluable asset!--is beginning to show wear? 'well, to return to our mutton,' he said; and, as his companion seemed suddenly to be overtaken by some unaccountable qualm, 'what a desert life would be,' he added encouragingly, 'if we couldn't talk to the discreet about the indiscreet.' 'i wonder if there wouldn't be still more oases in the desert,' she said idly, 'if there were a new law made----' he glanced at her with veiled apprehension in the pause. 'you being so liberal,' she went on with faint mockery, 'you're the very one to introduce the measure' (he shrank visibly, and seemed about to remind her of her pledge). 'it shall ordain,' she went on, 'that those who have found satisfactory husbands or wives are to rest content with their good fortune, and not be so greedy as to insist on having the children, too.' 'oh!' his gravity relaxed. 'but, on the other hand, all the lonely women, the widows and spinsters, who haven't got anything else, _they_ shall have the children.' 'i won't go so far as that,' he laughed, boundlessly relieved that the conversation was not taking the strenuous turn he for a moment feared. 'but i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll support a measure that shall make an allowance of _one_ child to every single woman the proper and accepted arrangement. no questions asked, and no disgrace.' 'disgrace!' she echoed, smiling. 'on the contrary, it should be the woman's title to honour! she should be given a beautiful order like yours for service to the state.' 'ah, yes! but, what then would we talk about?' she had turned away definitely this time. 'well,' said borrodaile, a little mocking, 'what is it?' 'i don't know,' she answered. 'i don't know _what_ it is that seizes hold of me after i've been chattering like this for an hour or more.' borrodaile bent his head, and glanced past vida to the abandoned minister. 'console me by saying a slight weariness.' 'more like loathing.' 'not of _both_ your neighbours, i hope.' he lost the low 'of myself.' 'but there's one person,' she said, with something like enthusiasm--'one person that i respect and admire.' 'oh!' he glanced about the board with an air of lazy interest. 'which one?' 'i don't know her name. i mean the woman who dares to sit quite silent and eat her dinner without looking like a lost soul.' 'i've been saying you could do that.' she shook her head. 'no, i've been engaged for the last hour in proving i haven't the courage. it's just come over me,' she said, her eyes in their turn making a tour of the table, and coming back to borrodaile with the look of having caught up a bran-new topic on the way--'it's just come over me, what we're all doing.' 'are we all doing the same thing?' 'all the men are doing one thing. and all the women another.' his idly curious look travelled up and down, and returned to her unenlightened. 'all the women,' she said, 'are trying with might and main to amuse the men, and all the men are more or less permitting the women to succeed.' 'i'm sorry,' he said, laughing, 'to hear of your being so over-worked.' 'oh, _you_ make it easy. and yet'--she caught the gratitude away from her voice--'i suppose i should have said something like that, even if i'd been talking to my other neighbour.' borrodaile's look went again from one couple to another, for, as usual in england, the talk was all _tête-à-tête_. the result of his inspection seemed not to lend itself to her mood. 'i can't speak for others, but for myself, i'm always conscious of wanting to be agreeable when i'm with you. i'm sorry'--he was speaking in the usual half-genial, half-jeering tone--'very sorry, if i succeed so ill.' 'i've already admitted that with _me_ you succeed to admiration. but you only try because it's easy.' 'oh!' he laughed. 'you rather like talking to me, you know. now, can you lay your hand on your heart----' 'and deny it? never!' 'can you lay your hand on your heart, and say you've tried as hard to entertain your other neighbour as i have to keep mine going?' 'ah, well, we men aren't as good at it. after all, it's rather the woman's "part," isn't it?' 'the art of pleasing? i suppose it is--but it's rather a geisha view of life, don't you think?' 'not at all; rightly viewed, it's a woman's privilege--her natural function.' 'then the brutes are nobler than we.' wondering, he glanced at her. the face was wholly reassuring, but he said, with a faint uneasiness-- 'if it weren't you, i'd say that sounds a little bitter.' 'oh, no,' she laughed. 'i was only thinking about the lion's mane and the male bird's crest, and what the natural history bores say they're for.' chapter iii the darkness and the quiet of vida levering's bedroom were rudely dispelled at a punctual eight each morning by the entrance of a gaunt middle-aged female. it was this person's unvarying custom to fling back the heavy curtains, as though it gratified some strong recurrent need in her, to hear brass rings run squealing along a bar; as if she counted that day lost which was not well begun--by shooting the blinds up with a clatter and a bang! the harsh ceremonial served as a sort of setting of the pace, or a metaphorical shaking of a bony fist in the face of the day, as much as to say, 'if i admit you here you'll have to toe the mark!' it might be taken as proof of sound nerves that the lady in the bed offered no remonstrance at being jarred awake in this ungentle fashion. fourteen years before, when vida levering was only eighteen, she had tried to make something like a conventional maid out of the faithful northumbrian. rachel wark had entered lady levering's service just before vida's birth, and had helped to nurse her mistress through a mortal illness ten years later. after sir hervey levering lost his wife, wark became in time housekeeper and general factotum to the family. this arrangement held without a break until, as before hinted, miss vida, full of the hopeful idealism of early youth, had tried and ignominiously failed in her attempt to teach the woman gentler manners. for wark's characteristic retort had been to pack her box and go to spend sixteen months among her kinsfolk, where energy was accounted a virtue, and smooth ways held in suspicion. at the end of that time, seeming to judge the lesson she wished to impart had been sufficiently digested, wark wrote to miss vida proposing to come back. for some months she waited for the answer. it came at last from biarritz, where it appeared the young lady was spending the winter with her father. after an exchange of letters wark joined them there. in the twelve years since her return to the family, she had by degrees adapted herself to the task of looking after her young lady. the adaptation was not all on one side. many of vida's friends wondered that she could put up with a lady's maid who could do so few of the things commonly expected of that accomplished class. 'i don't want dressmaking going on in the house,' contentedly vida told off her maid's negative qualifications, 'and i hate having anybody do my hair for me. wark packs quite beautifully, and then i _do_ like some one about me--that i like.' in the early days what she had 'liked' most about the woman was that wark had known and been attached to lady levering. there was no one else with whom vida could talk about her mother. by the time death overtook sir hervey two winters ago in rome, wark had become so essential a part of vida's little entourage, that one of the excuses offered by that lady for not going to live with her half-sister in london had been--'wark doesn't always get on with other servants.' for several years miss levering's friends had been speaking of her as one fallen a victim to that passion for italy that makes it an abiding place dearer than home to so many english-born. but the half-sister, mrs. fox-moore, had not been misled either by that theory or by the difficulty as to pleasing wark with the queen anne's gate servants. 'it's not that vida loves italy so much as that, for some reason, she doesn't love england at all.' nevertheless, mrs. fox-moore after some months had persuaded her to 'bring wark and try us.' the experiment, now over a year old, seemed to have turned out well. if vida really did not love her native land, she seemed to enjoy well enough what she called smiling 'the st. martin's summer' of her success in london society. * * * * * she turned over in her bed on this particular may morning, stretching out her long figure, and then letting it sink luxuriously back into relaxed quiescence with a conscious joy in prolonging those last ten minutes when sleep is slowly, softly, one after another, withdrawing her thousand veils. vaguely, as she lay there with face half buried in her pillow, vaguely she was aware that wark was making even more noise than common. when the woman had bustled in and bustled out several times, and deposited the shoes with a 'dump,' she reappeared with the delicate porcelain tray that bore the early tea. on the little table close to where the dark head lay half hidden, wark set the fragile burden down--did it with an emphasis that made cup and saucer shiver and run for support towards the round-bellied pot. vida opened her heavy-lidded eyes. 'really, wark, you know, nobody on earth would let you wake them in the morning except me.' she sat up and pulled the pillow higher. 'give me the tray here,' she said sleepily. wark obeyed. she had said nothing to vida's reproof. she stood now by the bedside without a trace of either contrition or resentment in the wooden face that seemed, in recompense for never having been young, to be able successfully to defy the 'antique pencil.' time had made but one or two faint ineffectual scratches there, as one who tries, and then abandons, an unpromising surface. the lack of record in the face lent it something almost cryptic. if there were no laughter-wrought lines about the eyes, neither was there mark of grief or self-repression near the mouth. she would, you felt, defy time as successfully as she defied lesser foes. even the lank, straw-coloured hair hardly showed the streaks of yellow-white that offered their unemphatic clue to wark's age. the sensitive face of the woman in the bed--even now with something of the peace of sleep still shadowing its brilliancy--gave by contrast an impression of vividness and eager sympathies. the mistress, too, looked younger than her years. she did not seem to wonder at the dull presence that seemed to be held there, prisoner-like, behind the brass bars at the foot of the bed. wark sometimes gave herself this five minutes' _tête-à-tête_ with her mistress before the business of the day began and all their intercourse was swamped in clothes. 'i meant to pin a paper on the door to say i wasn't to be called till ten,' said the lady, as though keeping up the little pretence of not being pleased. 'didn't you sleep well, 'm?' the maid managed wholly to denude the question of its usual grace of solicitude. 'yes; but it was so late when i began. we didn't get back till nearly three.' 'i didn't get much sleep, either.' it was an unheard-of admission from wark. 'oh!' said vida, lazily sipping her tea. 'bad conscience?' 'no,' she said slowly, 'no.' as the woman raised her light eyes, miss levering saw, to her astonishment, that the lids were red. wark, too, seemed uncomfortably aware of something unusual in her face, for she turned it away, and busied herself in smoothing down the near corner of the bath blanket. 'what kept _you_ awake?' miss levering asked. 'well, i suppose i'd better tell you while the other people aren't round. i want a day or two to go into the country.' 'into the country?' no such request had been heard for a round dozen of years. 'i've got some business to see to.' 'at home? in northumberland?' 'no.' the tone seemed so little to promise anything in the nature of a confidence that miss levering merely said-- 'oh, very well. when do you want to go?' 'i could go to-morrow if----' she stopped, and looked down at the hem of her long white apron. something unwonted in the wooden face prompted miss levering to say-- 'what do you want to do in the country?' 'to see about a place that's been offered me.' 'a _place_, wark!' 'yes; post of housekeeper. that's what i really am, you know.' miss levering looked at her, and set down the half-finished cup without opening her lips. if the speech had come from any other than wark, it would have been easy to believe it merely the prelude to complaint of a fellow-servant or plea for a rise in wages. but if wark objected to a fellow-servant, her own view of the matter had always been that the other one should go. her mistress knew quite well that in the mouth of the woman standing there with red eyes at the foot of the bed, such an announcement as had just been made, meant more. and the consciousness seemed to bring with it a sense of acute discomfort not unmixed with anger. for there was a threat of something worse than an infliction of mere inconvenience. it was a species of desertion. it was almost treachery. they had lived together all the younger woman's life, except for those two years that followed on the girl's attempt to make a conventional servant out of a creature who couldn't be that, but who had it in her to be more. they had been too long together for wark not to divine something--through all the lady's self-possession--of her sense of being abandoned. 'it's having to tell you that that kept me awake.' the wave of dull colour that mounted up to the bushy, straw-coloured eyebrows seemed on the way to have overflowed into her eyes. they grew redder than before, and slowly they filled. 'you don't like living here in this house.' vida caught at the old complication. 'i've got used to it,' the woman said baldly. then, after a little pause, during which she made a barely audible rasping to clear her throat, 'i don't like leaving you, miss. i always remember how, that time before--the only time i was ever away from you since you was a baby--how different i found you when i came back.' 'different, wark?' 'yes, miss. it seemed like you'd turned into somebody else.' 'most people change--develope--in those years just before twenty.' 'not like you did, miss. you gave me a deal of trouble when you was little, but it nearly broke my heart to come back and find you so quieted down and wise-like.' a flash of tears glimmered in the mistress's eyes, though her lips were smiling. 'of course,' the maid went on, 'though you never told me about it, i know you had things to bear while i was away, or else you wouldn't have gone away from your home that time--a mere child--and tried to teach for a living.' 'it _was_ absurd of me! but whosever fault it was, it wasn't yours.' 'yes, miss, in a way it was. i owed it to your mother not to have left you. i've never told you how i blamed myself when i heard--and i didn't wonder at you. it _was_ hard when your mother was hardly cold to see your father----' 'yes; now that's enough, wark. you know we never speak of that.' 'no, we've never spoken about it. and, of course, you won't need me any more like you did then. but it's looking back and remembering--it's that that's making it so hard to leave you now. but----' 'well?' 'my friends have been talking to me.' 'about----' 'yes, this post.' then, almost angrily, 'i didn't try for it. it's come after me. my cousin knows the man.' 'the man who wants you to go to him as housekeeper?' vida wrinkled her brows. wark hadn't said 'gentleman,' who alone in her employer's experience had any need of a housekeeper. 'you mean you don't know him yourself?' 'not yet, 'm. i know he's a market gardener, and he wants his house looked after.' 'what if he does? a market gardener won't be able to pay the wages i----' 'the wages aren't much to begin with--but he's getting along--except for the housekeeping. that's in a bad way.' 'what if it is? i never heard such nonsense. you don't want to leave me, wark, for a market gardener you've never so much as seen;' and miss levering covered her discomfort by a little smiling. 'my cousin's seen him many a time. she likes him.' 'let your cousin go, then, and keep his house for him.' 'my cousin has her own house to keep, and she's got a young baby.' 'oh, the woman who brought her child here once?' 'yes, 'm, the child you gave the coral beads to. my cousin has written and talked about it ever since.' 'about the beads?' 'about the market gardener. and the way his house is--ever since we came back to england she's been going on at me about it. i told her all along i couldn't leave you, but she's always said (since that day you walked about with the baby and gave him the beads to play with, and wouldn't let her make him cry by taking them away)--ever since then my cousin has said you'd understand.' 'what would i understand?' wark laid her hand on the nearest of the shining bars of brass, and slowly she polished it with her open palm. she obviously found it difficult to go on with her defence. 'i wanted my cousin to come and explain to you.' here was wark in a new light indeed! if she really wanted any creature on the earth to speak for her. as she stood there in stolid embarrassment polishing the shiny bar, miss levering clutched the tray to steady it, and with the other hand she pulled the pillow higher. one had to sit bolt upright, it seemed, and give this matter one's entire attention. 'i don't want to talk to your cousin about your affairs. we are old friends, wark. tell me yourself.' she forced her eyes to meet her mistress's. 'he told my cousin: "just you find me a good housekeeper," he said, "and if i like her," he said, "she won't be my housekeeper long."' 'wark! _you!_ you aren't thinking of marrying?' 'if he's what my cousin says----' 'a man you've never seen? oh, my _dear_ wark! well, i shall hope and pray he won't think your housekeeping good enough.' 'he will! from what my cousin says, he's had a run of worthless huzzies. i don't expect he'll find much fault with _my_ housekeeping after what he's been through.' vida looked wondering at the triumphant face of the woman. 'and so you're ready to leave me after all these years?' 'no, miss, i'm not to say "ready," but i think i'll have to go.' 'my poor old wark'--the lady leaned over the tray--'i could almost think you are in love with this man you've only heard about!' 'no, miss, i'm not to say in love.' 'i believe you are! for what other reason would you have for leaving me?' the woman looked as if she could show cause had she a mind. but she said nothing. 'you know,' vida pursued--'you know quite well you don't need to marry for a home.' 'no, 'm; i'm quite comfortable, of course, with you. but time goes on. i don't get younger.' 'none of us do that, wark.' 'that's just the trouble, miss. it ain't only _me_.' vida looked at her, more perplexed than ever by the curious regard in the hard-featured countenance. for there was something very like dumb reproach in wark's face. 'still,' said miss levering, 'you know, even if none of us do get younger, we are not any of us (to judge by appearances) on the brink of the grave. even if i should be smashed up in a motor accident--i know you're always expecting that--even if i were killed to-morrow, still you'd find i hadn't forgotten you, wark.' 'it isn't that, miss. it isn't death i'm afraid of.' there was a pause--the longest that yet had come. 'what _are_ you afraid of?' miss levering asked. 'it's--you see, i've been looking these twelve years to see you married.' 'me? what's that got to do with----' 'yes, miss. you see, i've counted a good while on looking after children again some day. but if you won't get married----' vida flung her hair back with a burst of not very merry laughter. 'if i won't, you must! but _why_ in the world? i'd no idea you were so romantic. why must there be a wedding in the family, wark?' 'so there can be children, miss,' said the woman, stolidly. 'well, there is a child. there's doris.' 'poor miss doris!' the woman shook her head. 'but she's got a good nurse. i say it, though she calls advice interfering. and miss doris has got a mother' (plain that wark was again in the market garden). 'yes, _she's_ got a mother! and a sort of a father, and she's got a governess, and a servant to carry her about. i sometimes think what miss doris needs most is a little letting alone. leastways, she don't need _me_. no, nor _you_, miss.' 'and you've given me up?' the mistress probed. wark raised her red eyes. 'of course, miss, if i'm wrong----' her knuckly hand slid down from the brass bar, and she came round to the side of the bed with an unmistakable eagerness in her face. 'if you're going to get married, i don't see as i _could_ leave ye.' the lady's lips twitched with an instant's silent laughter, but there was something else than laughter in her eyes. 'oh, i _can_ buy you off, can i? if i give you my word--if to save you from need to try the great experiment, i'll sacrifice _my_self----' 'i wouldn't like to see you make a sacrifice, miss,' wark said, with perfect gravity. 'but'--as though reconsidering--'you wouldn't feel it so much, i dare say, after the child was there.' they looked at one another. 'if it's children you yearn for, my poor wark, you've waited too long, i'm afraid.' 'oh, no, miss.' she spoke with a fatuous confidence. 'why, you must be fifty.' 'fifty-three, miss. but'--she met her mistress's eye unflinching--'bunting--he's the market gardener--he's been married before. he's got three girls and two boys.' 'heavens!' vida fell back against the pillow. 'what a handful!' 'oh, no, 'm. my cousin says they're nice children.' it would have been funny if it hadn't somehow been pathetic to see how instantly she was on the defensive. '"healthy and hearty," my cousin says, all but the little one. she hardly thinks they'll raise _him_.' 'well, i wish your market gardener had confined himself to raising onions and cabbages. if he hadn't those children i don't believe you'd dream of----' 'well, of course not, miss. but it seems like those children need some one to look after them more than--more than----' 'than i do? that ought to be true.' 'one of 'em is little more than a baby.' the wooden woman offered it as an apology. 'take the tray,' said vida. from the look on her face you would say she knew she had lost the faithfullest of servants, and that five little children somewhere in a market garden had won, if not a mother, at least a doughty champion. chapter iv no matter how late either vida levering or her half-sister had gone to bed the night before, they breakfasted, as they did so many other things, at the hour held to be most advantageous for doris. mr. fox-moore was sometimes there and often not. on those mornings when his health or his exertions the night previous did not prevent his appearance, there was little conversation at the fox-moore breakfast table, except such as was initiated by the only child of the marriage, a fragile girl of ten. little doris, owing to some obscure threat of hip-disease, made much of her progress about the house in a footman's arms. but hardly, so borne, would she reach the threshold of the breakfast room before her thin little voice might be heard calling out, '_fa_-ther! _fa_-ther!' those who held they had every ground for disliking the old man would have been surprised to watch him during the half hour that ensued, ministering to the rather querulous little creature, adapting his tone and view to her comprehension, with an art that plainly took its inspiration from affection. if doris were not well enough to come down, mr. fox-moore read his letters and glanced at 'the' paper, directing his few remarks to his sister-in-law, whom he sometimes treated in such a way as would have given a stranger the impression, in spite of the lady's lack of response, that there was some secret understanding between the two. a great many years before, donald fox-moore had tumbled into a government office, the affairs of which he had ultimately got into such excellent running order, that, with a few hours' supervision from the chief each week, his clerks were easily able to maintain the high reputation of that particular department of the public service. what mr. fox-moore did with the rest of his time was little known. a good deal of it was spent with a much younger bachelor brother near brighton. at least, this was the family legend. in spite of his undoubted affection for his child, little of his leisure was wasted at home. when people looked at the sallow, smileless face of his wife they didn't blame him. sometimes, when a general sense of tension and anxiety betrayed his presence somewhere in the great dreary house, and the master yet forbore to descend for the early meal, he would rejoice the heart of his little daughter by having her brought to his room to make tea and share his breakfast. on these occasions a sense of such unexpected surcease from care prevailed in the dining-room as called for some celebration of the holiday spirit. it found expression in the inclination of the two women to linger over their coffee, embracing the only sure opportunity the day offered for confidential exchange. one of these occasions was the morning of wark's warning, which, however, vida determined to say nothing about till she was obliged. she had just handed up her cup for replenishing when the door opened, and, to the surprise of the ladies, the master of the house appeared on the threshold. 'is--is anything the matter?' faltered his wife, half rising. 'matter? must something be the matter that i venture into my own breakfast-room of a morning?' 'no, no. only i thought, as doris didn't come, you were breakfasting upstairs, too.' no notice being taken of this, she at once set about heating water, for no one expected mr. fox-moore to drink tea made in the kitchen. 'i thought,' said he, twitching an open newspaper off the table and folding it up--'i thought i asked to be allowed the privilege of opening my paper for myself.' 'your _times_ hasn't been touched,' said his wife, anxiously occupied with the spirit-lamp. he stopped in the act of thrusting the paper in his pocket and shook it. 'what do you call this?' 'that is my _times_,' she said. '_your_ _times_?' 'i ordered an extra copy, because you dislike so to have yours looked at till you've finished with it.' 'dreadful hardship _that_ is!' he said, glancing round, and seeing his own particular paper neatly folded and lying still on the side table. 'it was no great hardship when you read it before night. when you don't, it's rather long to wait.' 'to wait for what?' 'for the news of the day.' 'don't you get the news of the day in the _morning post_?' 'i don't get such full parliamentary reports nor the foreign correspondence.' 'good lord! what next?' 'i think you must blame me,' said vida, speaking for the first time. 'i'm afraid you'll find it's only since i've been here that janet has broken loose and taken in an extra copy.' 'oh, it's on your account, is it?' he grumbled, but the edge had gone out of his ill-humour. 'i suppose you _have_ to keep up with politics or you couldn't keep the ball rolling as you did last night?' 'yes,' said vida, with an innocent air. 'it is well known what superhuman efforts we have to make before we can qualify ourselves to talk to men.' 'hm!' grumbled fox-moore. 'i never saw _you_ at a loss.' 'you did last night.' 'no, i didn't. i saw you getting on like a house afire with haycroft and the beguiling borrodaile. it's a pity all the decent men are married.' mrs. fox-moore allowed her own coffee to get cold while she hovered over the sacred rite of scientific tea-making. mr. fox-moore, talking to vida about the foreign office reception, to which they had all gone on after the tunbridges' dinner, kept watching with a kind of half-absent-minded scorn his wife's fussily punctilious pains to prepare the brew 'his way.' when all was ready and the tea steaming on its way to him in the hands of its harassed maker, he curtly declined it, got up, and left the room. a moment after, the shutting of the front door announced the beginning of yet another of the master's absences. 'how can you stand it?' said vida, under her breath. 'oh, i don't mind his going away,' said the other, dully. 'no; but his coming back!' 'one of the things i'm grateful to donald for'--she spoke as if there were plenty more--'he is very good to you, vida.' and in her tone there was criticism of the beneficiary. 'you mean, he's not as rude to me as he is to you?' 'he is even forbearing. and you--you rather frighten me sometimes.' 'i see that.' 'it would be very terrible for _me_ if he took it into his head not to like you.' 'if he took it into his head to forbid your having me here, you mean.' 'but even when you aren't polite he just laughs. still, he's not a patient man.' 'do you think you have to tell me that?' 'no, dear, only to remind you not to try him too far. for my sake, vida, don't ever do that.' she put out her yellow, parchment-like hand, and her sister closed hers over it an instant. 'here's the hot milk,' said vida. 'now we'll have some more coffee.' 'are you coming with me to-day?' mrs. fox-moore asked quite cheerfully for her as the servant shut the door. 'oh, is this friday? n--no.' the younger woman looked at the chill grey world through the window, and followed up the hesitating negative with a quite definite, 'i couldn't stand slums to-day.' the two exchanged the look that means, 'here we are again up against this recurring difference.' but there was no ill-humour in either face as their eyes met. between these two daughters of one father existed that sort of haunting family resemblance often seen between two closely related persons, despite one being attractive and the other in some way repellent. the observer traces the same lines in each face, the same intensification of 'the family look' in the smile, and yet knows that the slight disparity in age fails to account for a difference wide as the poles. and not alone difference of taste, of environment and experience, not these alone make up the sum of their unlikeness. you had only to look from the fresh simplicity of white muslin blouse and olive-coloured cloth in the one case, to the ungainly expensiveness of the black silk gown of the married woman, in order to get from the first a sense of dainty morning freshness, and from mrs. fox-moore not alone a lugubrious _memento mori_ sort of impression, but that more disquieting reminder of the ugly and over-elaborate thing life is to many an estimable soul. janet fox-moore had the art of rubbing this dark fact in till, so to speak, the black came off. she seemed to achieve it partly by dint of wearing (instead of any relief of lace or even of linen at her throat) a hard band of that passementerie secretly so despised of the little tunbridges. this device did not so much 'finish off' the neck of mrs. fox-moore's gowns, as allow the funereal dulness of them to overflow on to her brown neck. it even cast an added shadow on her sallow cheek. the figure of the older woman, gaunt and thin enough, announced the further constriction of the corset. by way of revenge the sharp shoulder-blades poked the corset out till it defined a ridge in the black silk back. in front, too, the slab-like figure declined co-operation with the corset, and withdrew, leaving a hiatus that the silk bodice clothed though it did not conceal. you could not have told whether the other woman wore that ancient invention for a figure insufficient or over-exuberant. as you followed her movements, easy with the ease of a child, while she walked or stooped or caught up the fragile doris, or raised her arm to take a book from the shelf, you got an impression of a physique in perfect because unconscious harmony with its environment. if, on the contrary, you watched but so much as the nervous, uncertain hand of the other woman, you would know here was one who had spent her years in alternately grasping the nettle and letting it go--reaping only stings in life's fair fields. easy for any one seeing her in these days (though she wasn't thirty-six) to share mrs. freddy's incredulous astonishment at hearing from haycroft the night before that janet levering had been 'the beauty of her family.' mrs. freddy's answer had been, 'oh, don't make fun of her!' and haycroft had had to assure her of his seriousness, while the little hostess still stared uncertain. 'the _lines_ of her face are rather good,' she admitted. 'oh, but those yellow and pink eyes, and her general muddiness!' 'yes, yes,' sir william had agreed. 'she's changed so that i would never have known her, but her colouring used to be her strong point. i assure you she was magnificent--oh, much more striking than the younger sister!' the bloodless-looking woman who sat uneasily at her own board clutching at a thin fragment of cold dry toast that hung cheerlessly awry in the silver rack, like the last brown leaf to a frosty tree, while she crunched the toast, spoke dryly of the poor; of how 'interesting many of them are;' how when you take the trouble to understand them, you no longer lump them all together in a featureless misery, you realize how significant and varied are their lives. 'not half as significant and varied as their smells,' said her unchastened sister. 'oh, you sometimes talk as if you had no heart!' 'the trouble is, i have no stomach. when you've lured me into one of those dingy alleys and that all-pervading greasy smell of poverty comes flooding into my face--well, simply all my most uncharitable feelings rise up in revolt. i want to hold my nose and hide my eyes, and call for the motor-car. running away isn't fast enough,' she said, with energy and a sudden spark in her golden-brown eye. mrs. fox-moore poised the fat silver jug over her own belated cup, and waited for the thick cream to come out in a slow and grudging gobbet with a heavy plump into the coffee. as she waited, she gently rebuked that fastidiousness in her companion that shrank from contact with the unsavoury and the unfortunate. 'it isn't only my fastidiousness, as you call it, that is offended,' vida retorted. 'i am penetrated by the hopelessness of what we're doing. it salves my conscience, or _yours_----' hurriedly she added, '----that's not what you mean to do it for, i _know_, dear--and you're an angel and i'm a mere cumberer of the earth. but when i'm only just "cumbering," i feel less a fraud than when i'm pretending to do good.' 'you needn't pretend.' 'i can't do anything else. to go among your poor makes me feel in my heart that i'm simply flaunting my better fortune.' 'i never saw you flaunting it.' 'well, i assure you it's when you've got me to go with you on one of your whitechapel raids that i feel most strongly how outrageous it is that, in addition to all my other advantages, i should buy self-approval by doing some tuppenny-ha'penny service to a toiling, starving fellow-creature.' mrs. fox-moore set down her coffee-cup. 'you mustn't suppose----' she began. 'no, no,' vida cut her short. 'i don't doubt _your_ motives. i know too well how ready you are to sacrifice yourself. but it does fill me with a kind of rage to see some of those smug settlement workers, the people that plume themselves on leaving luxurious homes. they don't say how hideously bored they were in them. they are perfectly enchanted at the excitement and importance they get out of going to live among the poor, who don't want them----' 'oh, my dear vida!' 'not a little bit! well, the _wily_ paupers do, perhaps, for what they can get out of our sort.' mrs. fox-moore cast down her eyes as though convicted by the recollection of some concrete example. 'we're only scratching at the surface,' vida, said--'such an ugly surface, too! and the more we scratch, the uglier things come to light.' 'you make too much of that disappointment at christmas.' 'i wasn't even thinking of the hundredth time you've been disillusioned.' vida threw down her table napkin, and stood up. 'i was thinking of people like our young parson cousin.' 'george----' vida made a shrug of half-impatient, half-humorous assent. 'leaves the bishop's palace and comes to london. he, too, wants "to live for the poor." never for an instant one of them. always the patron--the person something may be got out of--or, at all events, hoped from.' she seemed to be about to leave the room, but as her sister answered with some feeling, 'no, no, they love and respect him!' vida paused, and brought up by the fire that the sudden cold made comforting. 'george is a different man since he's found his vocation,' mrs. fox-moore insisted. 'you read it in his face.' 'oh, if all you mean is that _he's_ happier, why not? he's able to look on himself as a benefactor. he's tasting the intoxication of the king among beggars.' 'you are grossly unfair, vida.' 'so he thinks when i challenge him: "what good, what earthly good, is all this unless an anodyne--for you--is good?"' 'it seems to me a very real good that george nuneaton and his kind should go into the dark places and brighten hopeless lives with a little christian kindness--sometimes with a little timely counsel.' 'yes, yes,' said the voice by the fire; 'and a little good music--don't forget the good music.' 'an object-lesson in practical religion, isn't that something?' 'practical! good heaven! a handful of complacent, expensively educated young people playing at reform. the poor wanting work, wanting decent housing--wanting _bread_--and offered a little cultivated companionship.' 'vida, what have you been reading?' 'reading? i've been visiting george at his settlement. i've been intruding myself on the privacy of the poor once a week with you--and i'm done with it! personally i don't get enough out of it to reconcile me to their getting so little.' 'you're burning,' observed the toneless voice from the head of the table. 'yes, i believe i was a little hot,' vida laughed as she drew her smoking skirt away from the fire. but she still stood close to the cheerful blaze, one foot on the fender, the green cloth skirt drawn up, leaving the more delicate fabric of her silk petticoat to meet the fiery ordeal. 'if it annoys you to hear me say that's my view of charity, why, don't make me talk about it;' but the face she turned for an instant over her shoulder was far gentler than her words. 'and don't in future'--she was again looking down into the fire, and she spoke slowly as one who delivers a reluctant ultimatum--'don't ask me to help, except with money. _that_ doesn't cost so much.' 'i am disappointed.' nothing further, but the sound of a chair moved back, eloquent somehow of a discouragement deeper than words conveyed. vida turned swiftly, and, coming back to her sister, laid an arm about her shoulder. 'i'm a perfect monster! but you know, my dear, you rather goaded me into saying all this by looking such a martyr when i've tried to get out of going----' 'very well, i won't ask you again.' but the toneless rejoinder was innocent of rancour. janet fox-moore gave the impression of being too chilled, too drained of the generous life-forces, even for anger. 'besides,' said vida, hurriedly, 'i'd nearly forgotten; there's the final practising at eleven.' '_i'd_ forgotten your charity concert was so near!' as mrs. fox-moore gathered up her letters, she gave way for the first time to a wintry little smile. 'the concert's mine, i admit, but the charity's the bishop's. what absurd things we women fill up the holes in our lives with!' vida said, as she followed her sister into the hall. 'do you know the real reason i'm getting up this foolish concert?' 'because you like singing, and do it so well that--yes, without your looks and the indescribable "rest," you'd be a success. i told you that, when i begged you to come and try london.' 'the reason i'm slaving over the concert--it isn't all musical enthusiasm. it amuses me to organize it. all the ticklish, difficult, "bothering" part of getting up a monster thing of this sort, reconciling malcontents, enlisting the great operatic stars and not losing the great social lights--it all interests me like a game. i'm afraid the truth is i like managing things.' 'perhaps mrs. freddy's not so far wrong.' 'does mrs. freddy accuse me of being a "managing woman," horrid thought?' 'she was talking about you in her enthusiastic way when she was here the other day. "vida could administer a state," she said. yes, _i_ laughed, too, but mrs. freddy shook her head quite seriously, and said, "to think of a being like vida--not even a citizen."' 'i'm not a citizen?' exclaimed the lady, laughing down at her sister over the banisters. 'does she think because i've lived abroad i've forfeited my rights of----' 'no, all she means is---- oh, you know the bee she's got in her bonnet. she means, as she'll tell you, that "you have no more voice in the affairs of england than if you were a hottentot."' 'i can't say i've ever minded that. but it has an odd sound, hasn't it--to hear one isn't a citizen.' 'mrs. freddy forgets----' 'i know! i know what you're going to say,' said the other, light-heartedly. 'mrs. freddy forgets our unique ennobling influence;' and the tall young woman laughed as she ran up the last half of the long flight of stairs. at the top she halted a moment, and called down to mrs. fox-moore, who was examining the cards left the day before, 'speaking of our powerful influence over our men-folk--mr. freddy wasn't present, was he, when she aired her views?' 'no.' 'i thought not. her influence over mr. freddy is maintained by the strictest silence on matters he isn't keen about.' chapter v seeing ulland house for the first time on a fine afternoon in early may against the jubilant green of its woodland hillside, the beholder, a little dazzled in that first instant by the warmth of colour burning in the ancient brick, might adapt the old dean's line and call the coral-tinted structure rambling down the hillside, 'a rose-red dwelling half as old as time.' its original architecture had been modified by the generations as they passed. one lord of ulland had expressed his fancy on the eastern facade in gable and sculptured gargoyle; another his fear or his defiance in the squat and sturdy tower with its cautious slits in lieu of windows. yet another ulland had brought home from eighteenth-century italy a love of colonnades and terraced gardens; and one still later had cut down to the level of the sward the high ground-floor windows, so that where before had been two doors or three, were now a dozen giving egress to the gardens. the legend so often encountered in the history of old english houses was not neglected here--that it had been a crusader of this family who had himself brought home from the holy land the lebanon cedar that spread wide its level branches on the west, cutting the sunset into even bars. tradition also said it was a counsellor of elizabeth who had set the dial on the lawn. even the latest lord had found a way to leave his impress upon the time. he introduced 'clock golf' at ulland. from the upper windows on the south and west the roving eye was caught by the great staring face of this new timepiece on the turf--its roman numerals showing keen and white upon the vivid green. on the other side of the cedar, that incorrigible hedonist, the crumbling dial, told you in latin that he only marked the shining hours. but the brand new clock on the lawn bore neither watchword nor device--seemed even to have dropped its hands as though in modesty withheld from pointing to hours so little worthy of record. two or three men, on this fine saturday, had come down from london for the week-end to disport themselves on the ulland links, half a mile beyond the park. after a couple of raw days, the afternoon had turned out quite unseasonably warm, and though the golfers had come back earlier than usual, not because of the heat but because one of their number had a train to catch, they agreed it was distinctly reviving to find tea served out of doors. already lady john was in her place on the pillared colonnade, behind the urn. already, too, one of her pair of pretty nieces was at hand to play the skilful lieutenant. hermione heriot, tactful, charming, twenty-five, was equally ready to hand bread and butter, or, sitting quietly, to perform the greater service--that of presenting the fresh-coloured, discreetly-smiling vision called 'the typical english girl.' miss heriot fulfilled to a nicety the requirements of those who are sensibly reassured by the spectacle of careful conventionality allied to feminine charm--a pleasant conversability that may be trusted to soothe and counted on never to startle. hermione would almost as soon have stood on her head in piccadilly as have said anything original, though to her private consternation such perilous stuff had been known to harbour an uneasy instant in her bosom. she carried such inconvenient cargo as carefully hidden as a conspirator would a bomb under his cloak. it had grown to be as necessary to her to agree with the views and fashions of the majority as it was disquieting to her to see these contravened, or even for a single hour ignored. from the crown of her carefully dressed head to the tips of her pointed toes she was engaged in testifying her assent to the prevailing note. despite all this to recommend her, she was not lady john's favourite niece. no doubt about jean dunbarton holding that honour; and, to hermione's credit, her own love for her cousin enabled her to accept the situation with a creditable equability. jean dunbarton was due now at any moment, she having already sent over her luggage with her maid the short two miles from the bishop's palace, where the girl had dined and slept the night before. the rest of the ulland house party were arriving by the next train. as miss levering was understood to be one of those expected it will be seen that a justified faith in the excellence of the ulland links had not made lady john unmindful of the wisdom of including among 'the week-enders' a nice assortment of pretty women for the amusement of her golfers in the off hours. of this other young lady swinging her golf club as she came across the lawn with the men--sole petticoat among them--it could not be pretended that any hostess, let alone one so worldly-wise as lady john ulland, would look to have the above-hinted high and delicate office performed by so upright and downright--not to say so bony--a young woman, with face so like a horse, and the stride of a grenadier. under her short leather-bound skirt the great brown-booted feet seemed shamelessly to court attention--as it were out of malice to catch your eye, while deliberately they trampled on the tenderest traditions clinging still about the weaker sex. lady john held in her hand the top of the jade and silver tea-caddy. hermione, as well as her aunt, knew that this top held four teaspoonsful of tea. lady john filled it once, filled it twice, and turned the contents out each time into the gaping pot. then, absent-mindedly, she paused, eyeing the approaching party,--that genial silver-haired despot, her husband, walking with lord borrodaile, the gawky girl between them, except when she paused to practise a drive. the fourth person, a short, compactly knit man, was lounging along several paces behind, but every now and then energetically shouting out his share in the conversation. the ground of lady john's interest in the group seemed to consist in a half-mechanical counting of noses. her eyes came back to the tea-table and she made a third addition to the jade and silver measure. 'we shall be only six for the first brew,' prompted the girl at her side. 'paul filey is mooning somewhere about the garden.' 'oh!' 'why do you say it like that?' hermione's eyes rested a moment on the golfer who was bringing up the rear. he was younger than his rather set figure had at a distance proclaimed him. 'i was only thinking dick farnborough can't abide paul,' said the girl. 'a typical product of the public school is hardly likely to appreciate an undisciplined creature with a streak of genius in him like paul filey.' 'oh, i rather love him myself,' said the girl, lightly, 'only as sophia says he does talk rather rot at times.' with her hand on the tea-urn, releasing a stream of boiling water into the pot, lady john glanced over the small thickset angel that poised himself on one podgy foot upon the lid of the urn. 'sophia's too free with her tongue. it's a mistake. it frightens people off.' 'men, you mean?' 'especially men.' 'i often think,' said the young woman, 'that men--all except paul--would be more shocked at sophia--if--she wasn't who she is.' 'no doubt,' agreed her aunt. 'still i sympathize with her parents. i don't see how they'll ever marry her. she might just as well be miss jones--that girl--for all she makes of herself.' 'yes; i've often thought so, too,' agreed hermione, apparently conscious that the very most was made of _her_. 'she hasn't even been taught to walk.' lady john was still watching the girl's approach. 'yet she looks best out of doors,' said hermione, firmly. 'oh, yes! she comes into the drawing-room as if she were crossing a ploughed field!' 'all the same,' said hermione, under her breath, 'when she _is_ indoors i'd rather see her walking than sitting.' 'you mean the way she crosses her legs?' 'yes.' 'but that, too--it seems like so many other things, a question only of degree. nobody objects to seeing a pair of neat ankles crossed--it looks rather nice and early victorian. nowadays lots of girls cross their knees--and nobody says anything. but sophia crosses her--well, her _thighs_.' and the two women laughed understandingly. a stranger might imagine that the reason for lady sophia's presence in the party was that she, by common consent, played a capital game of golf--'for a woman.' that fact, however, was rather against her. for people who can play the beguiling game, _want_ to play it--and want to play it not merely now and then out of public spirit to make up a foursome, but constantly and for pure selfish love of it. woman may, if she likes, take it as a compliment to her sex that this proclivity--held to be wholly natural in a man--is called 'rather unfeminine' in a woman. but it was a defect like the rest, forgiven the lady sophia for her father's sake. lord borrodaile, held to be one of the most delightful of men, was much in request for parties of this description. one reason for his daughter's being there was that it glossed the fact that lady borrodaile was not--was, indeed, seldom present, and one may say never missed, in the houses frequented by her husband. but as he and his friends not only did not belong to, but looked down upon, the ultra smart set, where the larger freedoms are practised in lieu of the lesser decencies, lord borrodaile lived his life as far removed from any touch of scandal and irregularity as the most puritanic of the bourgeoisie. part and parcel of his fastidiousness, some said--others, that from his eton days he had always been a lazy beggar. as though to show that he did not shrink from reasonable responsibility towards his female impedimenta, any inquiry as to the absence of lady borrodaile was met by reference to sophia. in short, where other attractive husbands brought a boring wife, lord borrodaile brought an undecorative daughter. while to the onlooker nearly every aspect of this particular young woman would seem destined to offend a beauty-loving, critical taste like that of borrodaile, he was probably served, as other mortals are, by that philosophy of the senses which brings in time a deafness and a blindness to the unloveliness that we needs must live beside. lord borrodaile was far too intelligent not to see, too, that when people had got over lady sophia's uncompromising exterior, they found things in her to admire as well as to stand a little in awe of. unlike one another as the borrodailes were, in one respect they presented to the world an undivided front. from their point of view, just as laws existed to keep other people in order, so was 'fashion' an affair for the middle classes. the borrodailes might dress as dowdily as they pleased, might speak as uncompromisingly as they felt inclined. were they not borrodailes of borrodaile? though open expression of this spirit grows less common, they would not have denied that it is still the prevailing temper of the older aristocracy. and so it has hitherto been true that among its women you find that sort of freedom which is the prerogative of those called the highest and of those called the lowest. it is the women of all the grades between these two extremes who have dared not to be themselves, who ape the manners, echo the catchwords, and garb themselves in the elaborate ugliness, devised for the blind meek millions. as the lady sophia, now a little in advance of her companions, came stalking towards the steps, out from a little path that wound among the thick-growing laurels issued paul filey. he raised his eyes, and hurriedly thrust a small book into his pocket. the young lady paused, but only apparently to pat, or rather to administer an approving cuff to, the bedlington terrier lying near the lower step. 'well,' she said over her shoulder to filey, 'our side gave a good account of itself that last round.' 'i was sure it would as soon as my malign influence was removed.' 'yes; from the moment i took on dick farnborough, the situation assumed a new aspect. you'll _never_ play a good game, you know, if you go quoting baudelaire on the links.' 'poor paul!' his hostess murmured to her niece, 'i always tremble when i see him exposed to sophia's ruthless handling.' 'yes,' whispered hermione. 'she says she's sure he thinks of himself as a prose shelley; and for some reason that infuriates sophia.' with a somewhat forced air of amusement, mr. filey was following his critic up the steps, she still mocking at his 'drives' and the way he negotiated his bunkers. arrived at the top of the little terrace, whose close-shorn turf was level with the flagged floor of the colonnade, mr. filey sought refuge near hermione, as the storm-tossed barque, fleeing before the wind, hies swift to the nearest haven. bending over the bedlington, the amazon remained on the top step, her long, rather good figure garbed in stuff which filey had said was fit only for horse-blankets, but which was harris tweed slackly belted by a broad canvas girdle drawn through a buckle of steel. '_will_ you tell me,' he moaned in hermione's ear, 'why the daughter of a hundred earls has the manners of a groom, and dresses herself in odds and ends of the harness room?' 'sh! somebody told her once you'd said something of that sort.' 'no!' he said. 'who?' 'it wasn't i.' 'of course not. but did she mind? what did she say, eh?' 'she only said, "he got that out of a novel of miss broughton's."' filey looked a little dashed. 'no! has miss broughton said it, too? then there are more of them!' he glanced again at the amazon. 'horrible thought!' 'don't be so unreasonable. she couldn't play golf in a long skirt and high heels!' 'who _wants_ a woman to play golf?' hermione gave him his tea with a smile. she knew with an absolute precision just how perfectly at that moment she herself was presenting the average man's picture of the ideal type of reposeful womanhood. as lord john and the two other men, his companions, came up the steps in the midst of a discussion-- 'if you stop to argue, mr. farnborough,' said lady john, holding out a cup, 'you won't have time for tea before you catch that train.' 'oh, thank you!' he hastened to relieve her, while hermione murmured regrets that he wasn't staying. 'lady john didn't ask me,' he confided. as he saw in hermione's face a project to intercede for him, he added, 'and now i've promised my mother--we've got a lot of people coming, and two men short!' 'two men short! how horrible for her!' she said it half laughing, but her view of the reality of the dilemma was apparent in her letting the subject drop. farnborough, standing there tea-cup in hand, joined again in the discussion that was going on about some unnamed politician of the day, with whose character and destiny the future of england might quite conceivably be involved. before a great while this unnamed person would be succeeding his ailing and childless brother. there were lamentations in prospect of his too early translation to the upper house. the older men had been speaking of his family, in which the tradition of public service, generations old, had been revived in the person of this younger son. 'i have never understood,' lord john was saying, 'how a man with such opportunities hasn't done more.' 'a man as able, too,' said borrodaile, lazily. 'think of the tribute he wrung out of gladstone at the very beginning of his career. whatever we may think of the old fox, gladstone had an eye for men.' 'be _quiet_, will you!' lady sophia administered a little whack to the bedlington. 'sh! joey! don't you hear they're talking about our cousin?' 'who?' said filey, bending over the lady with a peace-offering of cake. 'why, geoffrey stonor,' answered sophia. '_is_ it stonor they mean?' 'well, of course.' 'how do you know?' demanded filey, in the pause. 'oh, wherever there are two or three gathered together talking politics and "the coming man"--who has such a frightful lot in him that very little ever comes out--it's sure to be geoffrey stonor they mean, isn't it, joey?' 'perhaps,' said her father, dryly, 'you'll just mention that to him at dinner to-night.' '_what!_' said farnborough, with a keen look in his eyes. 'you don't mean he's coming here!' sophia, too, had looked round at her host with frank interest. 'comin' to play golf?' 'well, he mayn't get here in time for a round to-night, but we're rather expecting him by this four-thirty.' 'what fun!' lady sophia's long face had brightened. 'may i stay over till the next train?' farnborough was whispering to lady john as he went round to her on the pretext of more cream. 'thank you--then i won't go till the six forty-two.' 'i didn't know,' lady sophia was observing in her somewhat crude way, 'that you knew geoffrey as well as all that.' 'we don't,' said lord john. 'he's been saying for years he wanted to come down and try our links, but it's by a fluke that he's coming, after all.' 'he never comes to see _us_. he's far too busy, ain't he, joey, even if we can't see that he accomplishes much?' 'give him time and you'll see!' said farnborough, with a wag of his head. 'yes,' said lord john, 'he's still a young man. barely forty.' 'barely forty! _they_ believe in prolonging their youth, don't they?' said lady sophia to no one in particular, and with her mouth rather more full of cake than custom prescribes. 'good thing it isn't us, ain't it, joey?' 'for a politician forty _is_ young,' said farnborough. 'oh, don't i know it!' she retorted. 'i was reading the life of randolph churchill the other day, and i came across a paragraph of filial admiration about the hold lord randolph had contrived to get so early in life over the house of commons. it occurred to me to wonder just how much of a boy lord randolph was at the time. i was going to count up when i was saved the trouble by coming to a sentence that said he was then "an unproved stripling of thirty-two." you shouldn't laugh. it wasn't meant sarcastic.' 'unless you're leader of the opposition, i suppose it's not very easy to do much while your party's out of power,' hazarded lady john, 'is it?' 'one of the most interesting things about our coming back will be to watch stonor,' said farnborough. 'after all, they said he did very well with his under secretaryship under the last government, didn't they?' again lady john appealed to the two elder men. 'oh, yes,' said borrodaile. 'oh, yes.' 'and the way'--farnborough made up for any lack of enthusiasm--'the way he handled that balkan question!' 'all that was pure routine,' lord john waved it aside. 'but if stonor had ever looked upon politics as more than a game, he'd have been a power long before this.' 'ah,' said borrodaile, slowly, 'you go as far as that? i doubt myself if he has enough of the demagogue in him.' 'but that's just why. the english people are not like the americans or the french. the english have a natural distrust of the demagogue. i tell you if stonor once believed in anything with might and main, he'd be a leader of men.' 'here he is now.' farnborough was the first to distinguish the sound of carriage wheels behind the shrubberies. the others looked up and listened. yes, the crunch of gravel. the wall of laurel was too thick to give any glimpse from this side of the drive that wound round to the main entrance. but some animating vision nevertheless seemed miraculously to have penetrated the dense green wall, to the obvious enlivenment of the company. 'it's rather exciting seeing him at close quarters,' hermione said to filey. 'yes! he's the only politician i can get up any real enthusiasm for. he's so many-sided. i saw him yesterday at a bond street show looking at caricatures of himself and all his dearest friends.' 'really. how did he take the sacrilege?' 'oh, he was immensely amused at the fellow's impudence. you see, stonor could understand the art of the thing as well as the fun--the fierce economy of line----' nobody listened. there were other attempts at conversation, mere decent pretence at not being absorbed in watching for the appearance of geoffrey stonor. chapter vi there was the faint sound of a distant door's opening, and there was a glimpse of the old butler. but before he could reach the french window with his announcement, his own colourless presence was masked, wiped out--not as the company had expected by the apparition of a man, but by a tall, lightly-moving young woman with golden-brown eyes, and wearing a golden-brown gown that had touches of wallflower red and gold on the short jacket. there were only wallflowers in the small leaf-green toque, and except for the sable boa in her hand (which so suddenly it was too warm to wear) no single thing about her could at all adequately account for the air of what, for lack of a better term, may be called accessory elegance that pervaded the golden-brown vision, taking the low sunlight on her face and smiling as she stepped through the window. it was no small tribute to the lady had she but known it, that her coming was not received nor even felt as an anti-climax. as she came forward, all about her rose a significant babel: 'here's miss levering!' 'it's vida!' 'oh, how do you _do_!'--the frou-frou of swishing skirts, the scrape of chairs pushed back over stone flags, and the greeting of the host and hostess, cordial to the point of affection--the various handshakings, the discreet winding through the groups of a footman with a fresh teapot, the bedlington's first attack of barking merged in tail-wagging upon pleased recognition of a friend; and a final settling down again about the tea-table with the air full of scraps of talk and unfinished questions. 'you didn't see anything of my brother and his wife?' asked lord borrodaile. 'oh, yes,' his host suddenly remembered. 'i thought the freddys were coming by that four-thirty as well as----' 'no--nobody but me.' she threw her many-tailed boa on the back of the chair that paul filey had drawn up for her between the hostess and the place where borrodaile had been sitting. 'there are two more good trains before dinner----' began lord john. 'oh, didn't i tell you,' said his wife, as she gave the cup just filled for the new-comer into the nearest of the outstretched hands--'didn't i tell you i had a note from mrs. freddy by the afternoon post? they aren't coming.' out of a little chorus of regret, came borrodaile's slightly mocking, 'anything wrong with the precious children?' 'she didn't mention the children--nor much of anything else--just a hurried line.' 'the children were as merry as grigs yesterday,' said vida, looking at their uncle across the table. 'i went on to the freddys' after the royal academy. no!' she put her cup down suddenly. 'nobody is to ask me how i like my own picture! the tunbridge children----' 'that thing hoyle has done of you,' said lord borrodaile, deliberately, 'is a very brilliant and a very misleading performance.' 'thank you.' filey and lord john, in spite of her interdiction, were pursuing the subject of the much-discussed portrait. 'it certainly is one aspect of you----' 'don't you think his velasquez-like use of black and white----' 'the tiny tunbridges, as i was saying,' she went on imperturbably, 'were having a teafight when i got there. i say "fight" advisedly.' 'then i'll warrant,' said their uncle, 'that sara was the aggressor.' 'she was.' 'you saw mrs. freddy?' asked lady john, with an interest half amused, half cynical, in her eyes. 'for a moment.' 'she doesn't confess it, i suppose,' the hostess went on, 'but i imagine she is rather perturbed;' and lady john glanced at borrodaile with her good-humoured, worldly-wise smile. 'poor mrs. freddy!' said vida. 'you see, she's taken it all quite seriously--this suffrage nonsense.' 'yes;' mrs. freddy's brother-in-law had met lady john's look with the same significant smile as that lady's own--'yes, she's naturally feeling rather crestfallen--perhaps she'll _see_ now!' 'mrs. freddy crestfallen, what about?' said farnborough. but he was much preoccupied at that moment in supplying lady sophia with bits of toast the exact size for balancing on the bedlington's nose. for the benefit of his end of the table paul filey had begun to describe the new one-man show of caricatures of famous people just opened in bond street. the 'mordant genius,' as he called it, of this new man--an american jew--offered an irresistible opportunity for phrase-making. and still on the other side of the tea urn the ullands were discussing with borrodaile and miss levering the absent lady whose 'case' was obviously a matter of concern to her friends. 'well, let us hope,' lord john was saying as sternly as his urbanity permitted--'let us hope this exhibition in the house will be a lesson to her.' '_she_ wasn't concerned in it!' vida quickly defended her. 'nevertheless we are all hoping,' said lady john, 'that it has come just in time to prevent her from going over the edge.' 'over the edge!' farnborough pricked up his ears at last in good earnest, feeling that the conversation on the other side had grown too interesting for him to be out of it any longer. 'over what edge?' 'the edge of the woman suffrage precipice,' said lady john. 'you call it a precipice?' vida levering raised her dark brows in a little smile. 'don't you?' demanded her hostess. 'i should say mud-puddle.' 'from the point of view of the artist'--paul filey had begun laying down some new law, but turning an abrupt corner, he followed the wandering attention of his audience--'from the point of view of the artist,' he repeated, 'it would be interesting to know what the phenomenon is, that lady john took for a precipice and that miss levering says is a mud-puddle.' 'oh,' said lord john, thinking it well to generalize and spare mrs. freddy further rending, 'we've been talking about this public demonstration of the unfitness of women for public affairs.' 'give me some more toast dice!' sophia said to farnborough. 'you haven't seen joey's new accomplishment. they're only discussing that idiotic scene the women made the other night.' 'oh, in the gallery of the house of commons?' 'yes, wasn't it disgustin'?' said paul filey, facing about suddenly with an air of cheerful surprise at having at last hit on something that he and lady sophia could heartily agree about. 'perfectly revolting!' said hermione heriot, not to be out of it. for it is well known that, next to a great enthusiasm shared, nothing so draws human creatures together as a good bout of cursing in common. so with emphasis miss heriot repeated, 'perfectly revolting!' her reward was to see paul turn away from sophia and say, in a tone whose fervour might be called marked-- 'i'm glad to hear you say so!' she consolidated her position by asking sweetly, 'does it need saying?' 'not by people like you. but it _does_ need saying when it comes to people we know----' 'like mrs. freddy. yes.' that unfortunate little lady seemed to be 'getting it' on all sides. even her brother-in-law, who was known to be in reality a great ally of hers--even lord borrodaile was chuckling as though at some reflection distinctly diverting. 'poor laura! she was being unmercifully chaffed about it last night.' 'i don't myself consider it any longer a subject for chaff,' said lord john. 'no,' agreed his wife; '_i_ felt that before this last outbreak. at the time of the first disturbance--where was it?--in some town in the north several weeks ago----' 'yes,' said vida levering; 'i almost think that was even worse!' 'conceive the sublime impertinence,' said lady john, 'of an ignorant little factory girl presuming to stand up in public and interrupt a speech by a minister of the crown!' 'i don't know what we're coming to, i'm sure!' said borrodaile, with a detached air. 'oh, _that_ girl--beyond a doubt,' said his host, with conviction--'that girl was touched.' 'oh, beyond a doubt!' echoed mr. farnborough. 'there's something about this particular form of feminine folly----' began lord john. but he wasn't listened to--for several people were talking at once. after receiving a few preliminary kicks, the subject had fallen, as a football might, plump into the very midst of a group of school-boys. its sudden presence there stirred even the sluggish to unwonted feats. every one must have his kick at this suffrage ball, and manners were for the nonce in abeyance. in the midst of an obscuring dust of discussion, floated fragments of condemnation: 'sexless creatures!' 'the shrieking sisterhood!' etc., in which the kindest phrase was lord john's repeated, 'touched, you know,' as he tapped his forehead--'not really responsible, poor wretches. touched.' 'still, everybody doesn't know that. it must give men a quite horrid idea of women,' said hermione, delicately. 'no'--lord borrodaile spoke with a wise forbearance--'we don't confound a handful of half-insane females with the whole sex.' dick farnborough was in the middle of a spirited account of that earlier outbreak in the north-- 'she was yelling like a red indian, and the policeman carried her out scratching and spitting----' 'ugh!' hermione exchanged looks of horror with paul filey. 'oh, yes,' said lady john, with disgust, 'we saw all that in the papers.' miss levering, too, had turned her face away--not as hermione did, to summon a witness to her detestation, but rather as one avoiding the eyes of the men. 'you see,' said farnborough, with gusto, 'there's something about women's clothes--_especially_ their hats, you know--they--well, they ain't built for battle.' 'they ought to wear deer-stalkers,' was lady sophia's contribution to the new movement. 'it is quite true,' lady john agreed, 'that a woman in a scrimmage can never be a heroic figure.' 'no, that's just it,' said farnborough. 'she's just funny, don't you know!' 'i don't agree with you about the fun,' borrodaile objected. 'that's why i'm glad they've had their lesson. i should say there was almost nothing more degrading than this public spectacle of----' borrodaile lifted his high shoulders higher still, with an effect of intense discomfort. 'it never but once came my way that i remember, but i'm free to own,' he said, 'there's nothing that shakes my nerves like seeing a woman struggling and kicking in a policeman's arms.' but farnborough was not to be dissuaded from seeing humour in the situation. 'they say they swept up a peck of hairpins after the battle!' as though she had had as much of the subject as she could very well stand, miss levering leaned sideways, put an arm behind her, and took possession of her boa. 'they're just ending the first act of _siegfried_. how glad i am to be in your garden instead of covent garden!' ordinarily there would have been a movement to take the appreciative guest for a stroll. perhaps it was only chance, or the enervating heat, that kept the company in their chairs listening to farnborough-- 'the cattiest one of the two, there she stood like this, her clothes half torn off, her hair down her back, her face the colour of a lobster and the crowd jeering at her----' 'i don't see how you could stand and look on at such a hideous scene,' said miss levering. 'oh--i--i didn't! i'm only telling you how wilkinson described it. he said----' 'how did major wilkinson happen to be there?' asked lady john. 'he'd motored over from headquarters to move a vote of thanks to the chairman. he said he'd seen some revolting things in his time, but the scrimmage of the stewards and the police with those women----!' farnborough ended with an expressive gesture. 'if it was as horrible as that for major wilkinson to look on at--what must it have been for those girls?' it was miss levering speaking. she seemed to have abandoned the hope of being taken for a stroll, and was leaning forward, chin in hand, looking at the fringe of the teacloth. richard farnborough glanced at her as if he resented the note of wondering pity in the low tone. 'it's never so bad for the lunatic,' he said, 'as for the sane people looking on.' 'oh, i don't suppose _they_ mind,' said hermione--'women like _that_.' 'it's flattery to call them women. they're sexless monstrosities,' said paul filey. 'you know some of them?' vida raised her head. '_i?_' filey's face was nothing less than aghast at the mere suggestion. 'but you've seen them----?' 'heaven forbid!' 'but i suppose you've gone and listened to them haranguing the crowds.' 'now _do_ i look like a person who----' 'well, you see we're all so certain they're such abominations,' said vida, 'i thought maybe some of us knew something about them.' dick farnborough was heard saying to lord john in a tone of cheerful vigour-- 'locking up is too good for 'em. i'd give 'em a good thrashin'.' 'spirited fellow!' said miss levering, promptly, with an accent that brought down a laugh on the young gentleman's head. he joined in it, but with a _naïf_ uneasiness. what's the matter with the woman?--his vaguely bewildered face seemed to inquire. after all, i'm only agreeing with her. 'few of us have time, i imagine,' said filey, 'to go and listen to their ravings.' as filey was quite the idlest of men, without the preoccupation of being a tolerable sportsman or even a player of games, miss levering's little laugh was echoed by others beside lady sophia. 'at all events,' said vida to lord borrodaile, as she stood up, and he drew her chair out of her way, 'even if we don't know much about these women, we've spent a happy hour denouncing them.' 'who's going to have a short round before sundown?' said lady sophia, getting up briskly. '_you_, of course, mr. filey. or are you too "busy"?' 'say too thirsty. may i?' he carried his cup round to lady john, not seeming to see hermione's hospitable hand held out for it. in the general shuffle farnborough found himself carried off by sophia and lord john. 'who is our fourth?' said lady sophia, suddenly. 'oh, borrodaile!' lord john stopped halfway across the lawn and called back, 'aren't you coming?' 'it's not a bit of use,' said sophia. 'you'll see. he's safe to sit there and talk to miss levering till the dressing-bell rings.' 'isn't she a _nice_ creature!' said lord john. 'i can't think how a woman like that hasn't got some nice fella to marry her!' * * * * * 'would you like to see my yellow garden, vida?' lady john asked. 'it's rather glorious at this moment.' obvious from the quick lifting of the eyes that the guest was on the point of welcoming the proposal, had filey not swallowed his belated cup of tea with surprising quickness after saying, 'what's a yellow garden?' in the unmistakable tone of one bent upon enlarging his experience. lady john, with all her antennæ out, lost no time in saying to vida-- 'perhaps you're a little tired. hermione, you show mr. filey the garden. and maybe, lord borrodaile would like to see it, too.' although the last-named failed to share the enthusiasm expected in a gardener, he pulled his long, slackly-put-together figure out of the chair and joined the young people. when they were out of earshot, 'what's the matter?' asked lady john. 'matter?' 'yes, what did poor paul say to make you fall upon him like that?' 'i didn't "fall upon" him, did i?' 'well, yes, i rather thought you did.' 'oh, i suppose i--perhaps it did jar on me, just a little, to hear a cocksure boy----' 'he's not a boy. paul is over thirty.' 'i was thinking of dick farnborough, too--talking about women like that, before women.' 'oh, all they meant was----' 'yes, i know. of course we _all_ know they aren't accustomed to treating our sex in general with overmuch respect when there are only men present--but--do you think it's quite decent that they should be so free with their contempt of women before us?' 'but, my dear vida! _that_ sort of woman! haven't they deserved it?' 'that's just what nobody seems to know. i've sat and listened to conversations like the one at tea for a week now, and i've said as much against those women as anybody. only to-day, somehow, when i heard that boy--yes, i was conscious i didn't like it.' 'you're behaving exactly as dr. johnson did about garrick. you won't allow any one to abuse those women but yourself.' lady john cleared the whole trivial business away with a laugh. 'now, be nice to paul. he's dying to talk to you about his book. let us go and join them in the garden. see if you can stand before my yellow blaze and not feel melted.' the elder woman and the younger went down the terrace through a little copse to her ladyship's own area of experimentation. a gate of old florentine scrolled iron opened suddenly upon a blaze of yellow in all the shades from the orange velvet of the wallflower through the shaded saffron of azalias and a dozen tints of tulip to the palest primrose and jonquil. the others were walking round the enclosing grass paths that served as broad green border, and filey, who had been in all sorts of queer places, said the yellow garden made him think of a mexican serapé--'one of those silk scarves, you know--native weaving made out of the pineapple fibre.' but vida only said, 'yes. it's a good scheme of colour.' she sat on the rustic seat while lady john explained to lord borrodaile, whose gardens were renowned, how she and simonson treated this and that plant to get so fine a result. filey had lost no time in finding a place for himself by miss levering, while hermione trailed dutifully round the garden with the others. occasionally she looked over her shoulder at the two on the seat by the sunken wall--vida leaning back in the corner motionless, absolutely inexpressive; filey's eager face bent forward. he was moving his hands in a way he had learned abroad. 'you were rather annoyed with me,' he was saying. 'i saw that.' the lady did not deny the imputation. 'but you oughtn't to be. because you see it's only because my ideal of woman is'--again that motion of the hands--'_what_ it is, that when i see her stepping down from her pedestal i----' the hands indicated consternation, followed hard by cataclysmic ruin. 'of course, lots of men don't care. i _do_. i care enormously, and so you must forgive me. won't you?' he bent nearer. 'oh, _i've_ nothing to forgive.' 'i know without your telling me, i feel instinctively, _you_ more than most people--you'd simply loathe the sort of thing we were talking about at tea--women yelling and fighting men----' 'yes--yes, don't go all over that.' 'no, of course i won't,' he said soothingly. 'i can feel it to my very spine, how you shrink from such horrors.' miss levering, raising her eyes suddenly, caught the look hermione cast backward as lady john halted her party a moment near the pansy-strip in the gorgeous yellow carpet spread out before them. 'don't you want to sit down?' vida called out to the girl, drawing aside her gown. 'what?' said hermione, though she had heard quite well. slowly she retraced her steps down the grass path as if to have the words repeated. but if miss levering's idea had been to change the conversation, she was disappointed. there was nothing paul filey liked better than an audience, and he had already the impression that miss heriot was what he would have scorned to call anything but 'simpatica.' 'i'm sure you've shown the new garden to dozens already,' miss levering said to the niece of the house. 'sit down and confess you've had enough of it!' 'oh, i don't think,' began hermione, suavely, 'that one ever gets too much of a thing like that!' 'there! i'm glad to hear you say so. how can we have too much beauty!' exclaimed filey, receiving the new occupant of the seat as a soul worthy of high fellowship. then he leaned across miss heriot and said to the lady in the corner, 'i'm making that the theme of my book.' 'oh, i heard you were writing something.' 'yes, a sort of plea for the æsthetic basis of society! it's the only cure for the horrors of modern civilization--for the very thing we were talking about at tea! what is it but a loss of the sense of beauty that's to blame?' elbows on knees, he leaned so far forward that he could see both faces, and yet his own betrayed the eye turned inward--the face of the one who quotes. the ladies knew that he was obliging them with a memorized extract from 'a plea for the Æsthetic basis.' 'nothing worse can happen to the world than loss of its sense of beauty. men, high and low alike, cling to it still as incarnated in women.' (hermione crossed her pointed toes and lowered her long eyelashes.) 'we have made woman the object of our deepest adoration! we have set her high on a throne of gold. we have searched through the world for jewels to crown her. we have built millions of temples to our ideal of womanhood and called them homes. we have fought and wrought and sung for her--and all we ask in return is that she should tend the sacred fire, so that the light of beauty might not die out of the world.' he was not ill-pleased with his period. 'but women'--he leaned back, and illustrated with the pliant white hands that were ornamented with outlandish rings--'women are not content with their high and holy office.' '_some_ women,' amended hermione, softly. 'there are more and more every day who are not content,' he said sternly; then, for an instant unbending and craning a little forward, 'of course i don't mean you--_you_ are exceptions--but of women in the mass! look at them! they force their way into men's work, they crowd into the universities--yes, yes' (in vain hermione tried to reassure him by 'exceptions')--'beauty is nothing to them! they fling aside their delicate, provocative draperies, they cast off their scented sandals. they pull on brown boots and bicycling skirts! they put man's yoke of hard linen round their ivory throats, and they scramble off their jewelled thrones to mount the rostrum and the omnibus!' 'why? _why_ do they?' vida demanded, laughing. 'nobody ever tells me why. i can't believe they're as unselfish as _you_ make out.' 'i!' 'you ought to admire them if they voluntarily give up all those beautiful things--knowing beforehand they'll only win men's scorn. for you've always warned them!' he didn't even hear. 'ah, ladies, ladies!' half laughing, but really very much in earnest, he apostrophized the peccant sex, 'i should like to ask, are we men to look upon our homes as dusty din-filled camps on the field of battle, or as holy temples of peace? ah!' he leaned back in his corner, stretched out his long legs, and thrust his restless hands in his pockets. 'if they knew!' 'women?' asked hermione, with the air of one painstakingly brushing up crumbs of wisdom. paul filey nodded. 'knew----?' 'they would see that in the ugly scramble they had let fall their crowns! if they only knew,' he repeated, 'they would go back to their thrones, and, with the sceptre of beauty in one hand and the orb of purity in the other, they would teach men to worship them again.' 'and then?' said miss levering. 'then? why, men will fall on their knees before them.' as miss levering made no rejoinder, 'what greater victory do women want?' he demanded. for the first time miss levering bent her head forward slightly as though to see how far he was conscious of the fatuity of his climax. but his flushed face showed a childlike good faith. 'eh? will any one tell me what they _want_?' 'since you need to ask,' said the gently smiling woman in the corner, 'perhaps there's more need to show than i'd quite realized.' 'i don't think you quite followed,' he began, with an air of forbearance. 'what i mean is----' miss levering jumped up. 'lord borrodaile!' he was standing at the little iron gate waiting for his hostess, who had stopped to speak to one of the gardeners. 'wait a moment!' vida called, and went swiftly down the grass path. he had turned and was advancing to meet her. 'no, come away,' she said under her breath, 'come away quickly'--(safe on the other side of the gate)--'and talk to me! tell me about old, half-forgotten pictures or about young rose trees.' 'is something the matter?' 'i'm ruffled.' 'who has ruffled you?' his tone was as serene as it was sympathetic. 'several people.' 'why, i thought you were never ruffled.' 'i'm not, often.' they turned down into a little green aisle between two dense thickets of rhododendrons. 'it's lucky you are here,' she said irrelevantly. he glanced at her face. 'it's not luck. it's foresight.' 'oh, you arranged it? well, i'm glad.' 'so am i,' he answered quietly. 'we get on rather well together,' he added, after a moment. she nodded half absently. 'i feel as if i'd known you for years instead of for months,' she said. 'yes, i have rather that feeling, too. except that i'm always a little nervous when i meet you again after an interval.' 'nervous,' she frowned. 'why nervous?' 'i'm always afraid you'll have some news for me.' 'what news?' 'oh, the usual thing. that a pleasant friendship is going to be interrupted if not broken by some one's carrying you off. it would be a pity, you know.' 'then you don't agree with lord john.' 'oh, i suppose you _ought_ to marry,' he said, with smiling impatience, 'and i'm very sure you will! but i shan't like it'--he wound up with an odd little laugh--'and neither will you.' 'it's an experiment i shall never try.' he smiled, but as he glanced at her he grew grave. 'i've heard more than one young woman say that, but you look as if it might really be so.' 'it is so.' he waited, and then, switching at the wild hyacinths with his stick-- 'of course,' he said, 'i have no right to suppose you are going to give me your reasons.' 'no. that's why i shall never even consider marrying--so that i shall not have to set out my reasons.' he had never seen that look in her face before. he made an effort to put aside the trouble of it, saying almost lightly-- 'i often wonder why people can't be happy as they are!' 'they think of the future, i suppose.' 'there's no such thing as the future.' 'you can't say there's no such thing as growth. if it's only a garden, it's natural to like to see life unfolding--that's the future.' 'yes, in spite of resolutions, you'll be trying the great experiment.' he said it wearily. 'why should you mind so?' she asked curiously; 'you are not in love with me.' 'how do you know?' 'because you give me such a sense of rest.' 'thank you.' he caught himself up. 'or perhaps i should thank my grey hair.' 'grey hair doesn't bring the thing i mean. i've sometimes wished it did. but our friendship is an uncommonly peaceful one, don't you think?' 'yes; i think it is,' he said. 'all the same, you know there's a touch of magic in it.' but, as though to condone the confession, 'you haven't told me why you were ruffled.' 'it's nothing. i dare say i was a little tired.' they had come out into the park. 'i hurried so to catch the train. my sister's new coachman is stupid about finding short cuts in london, and we got blocked by a procession--a horrible sort of demonstration, you know.' 'oh, the unemployed.' 'yes. and i got so tired of leaning out of the window and shouting directions that i left the maid and the luggage to come later. i got out of the brougham and ran through a slum, or i'd have lost my train. i nearly lost it anyway, because i saw a queer picture that made me stop.' she stopped again at the mere memory of it. 'in a second-hand shop?' he turned his pointed face to her, and the grey-green eyes wore a gleam of interest that few things could arouse in their cool depths. 'no, not in a shop.' she stopped and leaned against a tree. 'in the street. it was a middle-aged workman. when i caught sight of his back and saw his worn clothes--the coat went up in the middle, and had that despairing sag on both sides--it crossed my mind, here's another of those miserable, unemployed wastrels obstructing my way! then he looked round and i saw--solid content in his face!' she stopped a moment. 'so he _wasn't_ one of the----' 'well, i wondered. i couldn't see at first what it was he had looked round at. then i noticed he had a rope in his hand, and was dragging something. as the people who had been between us hurried on i saw--i saw a child, two or three years old, in a flapping, pink sun-bonnet. he was sitting astride a toy horse. the horse was clumsily made, and had lost its tail. but it had its head still, and the board it was mounted on had fat, wooden rollers. the horse was only about that long, and so near the ground that, for all his advantage in the matter of rollers, still the little rider's feet touched the pavement. they even trailed and lurched, as the horse went on, in that funny, spasmodic gait. the child had to half walk, or, rather, make the motions--you know, without actually bearing any of even his own weight. the slack-shouldered man did it all. i crossed to the other side of the street, and stood and watched them till, as i say, i nearly lost my train. the dingy workman, smoking imperturbably, dragging the grotesque, almost hidden, horse--the delighted child in the flapping sun-bonnet--the crisis when they came to the crossing! the man turned and called out something. the child declined to budge. i wondered what would happen. so did the man. he waited a moment, and puffed smoke and considered. the baby dug his heels in the pavement and shouted. then i saw the man carefully tilt the toy horse up by the rope. i stood and watched the successful surmounting of the obstacle, and the triumphant progress as before--sun-bonnet flapping, smoke curling. of course the man was content! he had lost the battle. you saw that in his lined face. what did it matter? _he held the future by a string._' lord borrodaile lifted his eyes and looked at her. without a word the two walked on. the first to speak after the silence was the man. he pointed out a curious effect of the light, and reminded her who had painted it best-- 'corot could do these things!'--and he flung a stone in passing at the new impressionists. at the lodge gate they found lady john with filey and hermione. 'we thought if we walked this way we might meet jean and her bodyguard. but i mustn't go any further.' lady john consulted her watch. 'the rest of you can take your time, but i have to go and receive my other guest.' filey and hermione were still at the gate. the girl had caught sight of farnborough being driven by the park road to the station. 'oh, i do believe it's the new mare they're trying in the dogcart,' said hermione. 'let's wait and see her go by.' borrodaile and his companion kept at lady john's side. 'i'm glad,' said vida, 'that i shall at last make acquaintance with your jean.' 'yes; it's odd your never having met, especially as she knows your cousins at bishopsmead so well.' 'i've been so little in england----' 'yes, i know. a great business it is,' lady john explained to lord borrodaile, 'each time to get that crusty old covenanter, jean's grandfather, to allow her to stay at bishopsmead. so it's the sadder for them to have her visit cut short.' 'why is it cut short?' he asked. 'because the hostess took to her bed yesterday with a chill, and her temperature was a hundred and one this afternoon.' 'really?' said miss levering. 'i hadn't heard----' 'she is rather bad, i'm afraid. we are taking over another of her guests. of course you know him--geoffrey stonor.' 'taking him over?' miss levering repeated. 'yes; he was originally going to bishopsmead this week-end, but as he's been promising for ages to come here, it's been arranged that we should take him off their hands. of course we're delighted.' miss levering walked on, between her two companions, looking straight in front of her. as lady john, with a glance at her watch, quickened the pace-- 'i'm rather unhappy at what you tell me about my cousin,' said vida. 'she's a delicate creature.' then, as though acting on a sudden impulse, vida paused. 'you mustn't mind, lady john, but i shall have to go to her. can i have a trap of some sort to take me over?' she put aside the objections with a gentle but unmistakable decision that made lady john say-- 'i'm sure i've alarmed you more than there was the least need for. but the carriage shall wait and bring you back just as soon as you've satisfied yourself.' 'i can't tell, of course, till i've seen mary. but may my maid be told not to unpack----' 'not unpack!' 'in case i have to send for my things.' 'my _dear_!' lady john stopped short for very vexation. '_don't_ desert us! i've been so congratulating myself on having you, since i knew geoffrey stonor was coming.' again she glanced nervously at her watch. 'he is due in ten minutes! john won't like it if i'm not there.' as she was about to hurry on, the other slackened pace. she seemed to be revolving some further plan. 'why shouldn't'--she turned suddenly--'why shouldn't the dogcart take me on after dropping mr. farnborough at the station? yes, that will be simplest. mr. farnborough!' she waved to him as the cart came in sight, 'wait! good-bye! forgive my rushing off, won't you?' she called back over her shoulder, and then with that swift, light step of hers, she covered by a short cut the little distance that lay between her and the lodge gate. 'i wish i'd held my tongue,' said lady john almost angrily as she hastened in the opposite direction. already some sense seemed to reach her of the hopelessness of expecting vida's return. 'i didn't _dream_ she cared so much for that dull cousin of hers!' 'do you think she really does?' said borrodaile, dryly. chapter vii about vida's little enterprise on a certain sunday a few weeks later was an air of elaborate mystery. yet the expedition was no further than to trafalgar square. it was there that those women, the so-called 'suffragettes,' in the intervals of making worse public disturbances, were rumoured to be holding open-air meetings--a circumstance distinctly fortunate for any one who wanted to 'see what they were like,' and who was yet unwilling to commit herself by doing anything so eccentric as publicly to seek admission under any roof known to show hospitality to 'such goings on.' in those days, only a year ago, and yet already such ancient history that the earlier pages are forgotten and scarce credible if recalled, it took courage to walk past the knots of facetious loafers, and the unblushing suffragette poster, into the hall where the meetings were held. deliberately to sit down among odd, misguided persons in rows, to listen to, and by so much to lend public countenance to 'women of that sort'--the sort that not only wanted to vote (quaint creatures!), but were not content with merely wanting to--for the average conventional woman to venture upon a step so compromising, to risk seeming for a moment to take these crazy brawlers seriously, was to lay herself open to 'the comic laugh'--most dreaded of all the weapons in the social armoury. but it was something wholly different to set out for a sunday afternoon concert, or upon some normal and recognized philanthropic errand, and on the way find one's self arrested for a few minutes by seeing a crowd gathered in a public square. yet it had not been easy to screw mrs. fox-moore up to thinking even this non-committal measure a possible one to pursue. 'what would anybody think,' she had asked vida, 'to see them lending even the casual support of a presence (however ironic) to so reprehensible a spectacle!' had it not been for very faith in the eccentricity of the proceeding--one wildly unlikely to be adopted, mrs. fox-moore felt, by any one else of 'their kind'--she would never have consented to be drawn into vida's absurd project. of course it was absolutely essential to disguise the object of the outing from mr. fox-moore. not merely because with the full weight of his authority he would most assuredly have forbidden it, but because of a nervous prefiguring on his wife's part of the particular things he would say, and the particular way he would look in setting his extinguisher on the enterprise. vida, from the first, had never explained or excused herself to him, so that when he asked at luncheon what she was going to do with this fine sunday afternoon, she had simply smiled, and said, 'oh, i have a tryst to keep.' it was her sister who added anxiously, 'is wood leading now at the queen's hall concerts?' and so, without actually committing herself to a lie, gave the impression that music was to be their quest. an hour later, while the old man was nursing his gout by the library window, he saw the ladies getting into a hansom. in spite of the inconvenience to his afflicted member he got up and opened the window. 'don't tell me you're doing anything so rational--you two--as going to a concert.' 'why do you say that? you know i never like to take the horses out on sunday----' 'rubbish! you think a dashing, irresponsible hansom is more in keeping with the factory girls' club or some giddy whitechapel frivolity!' mrs. fox-moore gave her sister a look of miserable apprehension; but the younger woman laughed and waved a hand. she knew that, even more than the hansom, their 'get up' had given them away. it must be confessed she had felt quite as strongly as her sister that it wouldn't do to be recognized at a suffragette meeting. even as a nameless 'fine lady' standing out from a mob of the dowdy and the dirty, to be stared at by eyes however undiscerning, under circumstances so questionable, would be distinctly distasteful. so, reversing the order of nature, the butterfly had retired into a 'grubby' state. in other words, vida had put on the plainest of her discarded mourning-gowns. from a small tuscan straw travelling-toque, the new maid, greatly wondering at such instructions, had extracted an old paste buckle and some violets, leaving it 'not fit to be seen.' in spite of having herself taken these precautions, vida had broken into uncontrollable smiles at the apparition of mrs. fox-moore, asking with pride-- 'will i do? i look quite like a woman of the people, don't i?' the unconscious humour of the manifestation filled miss levering with an uneasy merriment every time she turned her eyes that way. little as mr. fox-moore thought of his wife's taste, either in clothes or in amusements, he would have been more mystified than ever he had been in his life had he seen her hansom, ten minutes later, stop on the north side of trafalgar square, opposite the national gallery. 'look out and see,' she said, retiring guiltily into the corner of the conveyance. 'are they there?' and it was plain that nothing could more have relieved mrs. fox-moore at that moment than to hear 'they' were not. but vida, glancing discreetly out of the side window, had said-- 'there? i should think they are--and a crowd round them already. look at their banners!' and she laughed as she leaned out and read the legend, 'we demand votes for women' inscribed in black letters on the white ground of two pieces of sheeting stretched each between a pair of upright poles, standing one on either side of the plinth of nelson's column. in the very middle, and similarly supported, was a banner of blood red. upon this one, in great white letters, appeared the legend-- 'effingham, the enemy of women and the workers.' as vida read it out-- '_what!_' ejaculated her sister. 'they haven't really got that on a banner!' and so intrigued was she that, like some shy creature dwelling in a shell, cautiously she protruded her head out of the shiny, black sheath of the hansom. but as she did so she met the innocent eye of a passer-by, tired of craning his neck to look back at the meeting. with precipitation mrs. fox-moore withdrew into the innermost recesses of the black shell. 'come, janet,' said vida, who had meanwhile jumped out and settled the fare. 'did that man know us?' asked the other, lifting up the flap from the back window of the hansom and peering out. 'no, i don't think so.' 'he stared, vida. he certainly stared very hard.' still she hesitated, clinging to the friendly shelter of the hansom. 'oh, come on! he only stared because---- he took you for a suffragette!' but the indiscretion lit so angry a light in the lady's eye, that vida was fain to add, 'no, no, do come--and i'll tell you what he was really looking at.' 'what?' said mrs. fox-moore, putting out her head again. 'he was struck,' said vida, biting her lip to repress smiles, 'by the hat of the woman of the people.' but the lady was too entirely satisfied with her hat to mind vida's poking fun at it. '"effingham, the enemy!"' mrs. fox-moore read for herself as they approached the flaunting red banner. 'how perfectly outrageous!' 'how perfectly _silly_!' amended the other, 'when one thinks of that kind and charming pillar of excellence!' 'i told you they were mad as well as bad.' 'i know; and now we're going to watch them prove it. come on.' 'why, they've stopped the fountains!' mrs. fox-moore spoke as though detecting an additional proof of turpitude. 'those two policemen,' she went on, in a whisper, 'why are they looking at _us_ like that?' vida glanced at the men. their eyes were certainly fixed on the two ladies in a curious, direct fashion, not exactly impudent, but still in a way no policeman had ever looked at either of them before. a coolly watchful, slightly contemptuous stare, interrupted by one man turning to say something to the other, at which both grinned. vida was conscious of wishing that she had come in her usual clothes--above all, that janet had not raked out that 'jumble sale' object she had perched on her head. the wearer of the incriminatory hat, acting upon some quite unanalyzed instinct to range herself unmistakably on the side of law and order, paused as they were passing the two policemen and addressed them with dignity. 'is it safe to stop and listen for a few minutes to these people?' the men looked at mrs. fox-moore with obvious suspicion. 'i cawn't say,' said the one nearest. 'do you expect any trouble?' she demanded. there was a silence, and then the other policeman said with a decidedly snubby air-- 'it ain't our business to go _lookin'_ fur trouble;' and he turned his eyes away. 'of course not,' said vida, pleasantly, coming to her sister's rescue. 'all this lady wants to be assured of is that there are enough of you present to make it safe----' 'if ladies wants to be safe,' said number one, 'they'd better stop in their 'omes.' 'that's the first rude policeman i ever----' began mrs. fox-moore, as they went on. 'well, you know he's only echoing what we all say.' vida was looking over the crowd to where on the plinth of the historic column the little group of women and a solitary man stood out against the background of the banners. here they were--these new furies that pursued the agreeable men one sat by at dinner--men who, it was well known, devoted their lives--when they weren't dining--to the welfare of england. but were these frail, rather depressed-looking women--were they indeed the ones, outrageously daring, who broke up meetings and bashed in policemen's helmets? nothing very daring in their aspect to-day--a little weary and preoccupied they looked, as they stood up there in twos and threes, talking to one another in that exposed position of theirs, while from time to time about their ears like spent bullets flew the spasmodic laughter and rude comment of the crowd--strangely unconscious, those 'blatant sensation-mongers,' of the thousand eyes and the sea of upturned faces! 'not _quite_ what i expected!' said mrs. fox-moore, with an unmistakable accent of disappointment. it was plainly her meaning that to a general reprehensibleness, dulness was now superadded. 'perhaps these are not the ones,' said vida, catching at hope. mrs. fox-moore took heart. 'suppose we find out,' she suggested. they had penetrated the fringe of a gathering composed largely of weedy youths and wastrel old men. a few there were who looked like decent artizans, but more who bore the unmistakable aspect of the beery out-of-work. among the strangely few women, were two or three girls of the domestic servant or strand restaurant cashier class--wearers of the cheap lace blouse and the wax bead necklace. mrs. fox-moore, forgetting some of her reluctance now that she was on the spot, valiantly followed vida as the younger woman threaded her way among the constantly increasing crowd. just in front of where the two came to a final standstill was a quiet-looking old man with a lot of unsold sunday papers under one arm and wearing like an apron the bill of the _sunday times_. many of the boys and young men were smoking cigarettes. some of the older men had pipes. mrs. fox-moore commented on the inferior taste in tobacco as shown by the lower orders. but she, too, kept her eyes glued to the figures up there on the plinth. 'they've had to get men to hold up their banners for them,' laughed vida, as though she saw a symbolism in the fact, further convicting these women of folly. 'but there's a well-dressed man--that one who isn't holding up anything that i can see--what on earth is _he_ doing there?' 'perhaps he'll be upholding something later.' 'going to speak, you mean?' 'it may be a debate. perhaps he's going to present the other side.' 'well, if he does, i hope he'll tell them plainly what he thinks of them.' she said it quite distinctly for the benefit of the people round her. both ladies were still obviously self-conscious, occupied with the need to look completely detached, to advertise: '_i'm_ not one of them! never think it!' but it was gradually being borne in upon them that they need take no further trouble in this connection. nobody in the crowd noticed any one except 'those ordinary looking persons,' as mrs. fox-moore complainingly called them, up there on the plinth--'quite like what one sees on the tops of omnibuses!' certainly it was an exercise in incongruity to compare these quiet, rather depressed looking people with the vision conjured up by lord john's 'raving lunatics,' 'worthy of the straight jacket,' or paul filey's 'sexless monstrosities.' 'it's rather like a jest that promised very well at the beginning, only the teller has forgotten the point. or else,' vida added, looking at the face of one of the women up there--'or else the mistake was in thinking it a jest at all!' she turned away impatiently and devoted her attention to such scraps of comment as she could overhear in the crowd--or such, rather, as she could understand. 'that one--that's just come--yes, in the blue tam-o'-shanter, that's the one i was tellin' you about,' said a red-haired man, with a cheerful and rubicund face. '_looks_ like she'd be 'andy with her fists, don't she?' contributed a friend alongside. the boys in front and behind laughed appreciatively. but the ruddy man said, 'fists? no. _she's_ the one wot carries the dog-whip;' and they all craned forward with redoubled interest. it is sad to be obliged to admit that the two ladies did precisely the same. while the boys were, in addition, cat-calling and inquiring about the dog-whip-- 'that must be the woman the papers have been full of,' mrs. fox-moore whispered, staring at the new-comer with horrified eyes. 'yes, no doubt.' vida, too, scrutinized her more narrowly. the wearer of the 'tam' was certainly more robust-looking than the others, but even she had the pallor of the worker in the town. she carried her fine head and shoulders badly, like one who has stooped over tasks at an age when she should have been running about the fields. she drew her thick brows together every now and then with an effect of determination that gave her well-chiselled features so dark and forbidding an aspect it was a surprise to see the grace that swept into her face when, at something one of her comrades said, she broke into a smile. two shabby men on vida's left were working themselves into a fine state of moral indignation over the laxity of the police in allowing these women to air their vanity in public. 'comin' here with tam-o'-shanters to tell us 'ow to do our business.' 'it's part o' wot i mean w'en i s'y old england's on the down gryde.' 'w'ich is the one in black--this end?' his companion asked, indicating a refined-looking woman of forty or so. 'is that miss----?' 'miss,' chipped in a young man of respectable appearance just behind. '_miss?_ why, that's the mother o' the gracchi,' and there was a little ripple of laughter. 'hasn't she got any of her jewels along with her to-day?' said another voice. 'what do they mean?' demanded mrs. fox-moore. vida shook her head. she herself was looking about for some one to ask. 'isn't it queer that you and i have lived all this time in the world and have never yet been in a mixed crowd before in all our lives?--never _as a part of it_.' 'i think myself it's less strange we haven't done it before than that we're doing it now. there's the woman selling things. let us ask her----' they had noticed before a faded-looking personage who had been going about on the fringe of the crowd with a file of propagandist literature on her arm. vida beckoned to her. she made her way with some difficulty through the chaffing, jostling horde, saying steadily and with a kind of cheerful doggedness-- 'leaflets! citizenship of women, by lothian scott! labour record! prison experiences of miss----' 'how much?' asked miss levering. 'what you like,' she answered. miss levering took her change out in information. 'can you tell me who the speakers are?' 'oh, yes.' the haggard face brightened before the task. 'that one is the famous miss claxton.' 'with her face screwed up?' 'that's because the sun is in her eyes.' 'she isn't so bad-looking,' admitted mrs. fox-moore. 'no; but just wait till she speaks!' the faded countenance of the woman with the heavy pile of printed propaganda on her arm was so lit with enthusiasm, that it, too, was almost good-looking, in the same way as the younger, more regular face up there, frowning at the people, or the sun, or the memory of wrongs. 'is miss claxton some relation of yours?' asked mrs. fox-moore. 'no, oh, no, i don't even know her. she hasn't been out of prison long. the man in grey--he's mr. henry.' 'out of prison! and henry's the chairman, i suppose.' 'no; the chairman is the lady in black.' the pamphlet-seller turned away to make change for a new customer. 'do you mean the mother of the gracchi?' said vida, at a venture, and saw how if she herself hadn't understood the joke the lady with the literature did. she laughed good-humouredly. 'yes; that's mrs. chisholm.' 'what!' said a decent-looking but dismal sort of shopman just behind, 'is that the mother of those dreadful young women?' neither of the two ladies were sufficiently posted in the nefarious goings on of the 'dreadful' progeny quite to appreciate the bystander's surprise, but they gazed with renewed interest at the delicate face. 'what can the man mean! she doesn't _look_----' mrs. fox-moore hesitated. 'no,' vida helped her out with a laughing whisper; 'i agree she doesn't _look_ big enough or bad enough or old enough or bold enough to be the mother of young women renowned for their dreadfulness. but as soon as she opens her mouth no doubt we'll smell the brimstone. i wish she'd begin her raging. why are they waiting?' 'it's only five minutes past,' said the lady with the literature. 'i think they're waiting for mr. lothian scott. he's ill. but he'll come!' as though the example of his fidelity to the cause nerved her to more earnest prosecution of her own modest duty, she called out, 'leaflets! citizenship of women, by lothian scott!' 'wot do they give ye,' inquired a half-tipsy tramp, 'fur 'awkin' that rot about?' she turned away quite unruffled. 'citizenship of women, one penny.' 'i hope you _do_ get paid for so disagreeable a job--forgive my saying so,' said vida. 'paid? oh, no!' she said cheerfully. 'i'm too hard at work all week to help much. and i can't speak, so i do this. leaflets! citizenship----' 'is that pinched-looking creature at the end,'--mrs. fox-moore detained the pamphlet-seller to point out a painfully thin, eager little figure sitting on the ledge of the plinth and looking down with anxious eyes at the crowd--'is that one of them?' 'oh, yes. i thought everybody knew _her_. that's miss mary o'brian.' she spoke the name with an accent of such protecting tenderness that vida asked-- 'and who is miss mary o'brian?' but the pamphlet-seller had descried a possible customer, and was gone. 'mary o'brian,' said a blear-eyed old man, 'is the one that's just come out o' quod.' 'oh, thank you.' then to her sister vida whispered, 'what is quod?' but mrs. fox-moore could only shake her head. even when they heard the words these strange fellow-citizens used, meaning often failed to accompany sound. 'oh, is _that_ mary?' a rollicking young rough, with his hat on the extreme back of his head, began to sing, 'molly darling.' ''ow'd yer like the skilly?' another shouted up at the girl. 'skilly?' whispered mrs. fox-moore. vida in turn shook her head. it wasn't in the dictionary of any language she knew. but it seemed in some way to involve dishonour, for the chairman, who had been consulting with the man in grey, turned suddenly and faced the crowd. her eyes were shining with the light of battle, but what she said in a peculiarly pleasant voice was-- 'miss o'brian has come here for the express purpose of telling you how she liked it.' 'oh, she's going to tell us all about it. 'ow _nice_!' but they let the thin little slip of a girl alone after that. it was a new-comer, a few moments later who called out from the fringe of the crowd-- 'i say, mary, w'en yer get yer rights will y' be a perliceman?' even the tall, grave guardians of the peace ranged about the monument, even they smiled at the suggested image. after all, it might not be so uninteresting to listen to these people for a few minutes. it wasn't often that life presented such an opportunity. it probably would never occur again. these women on the plinth must be not alone of a different world, but of a different clay, since they not only did not shrink from disgracing themselves--women had been capable of that before--but these didn't even mind ridicule. which was new. just then the mother of the gracchi came to the edge of the plinth to open the meeting. 'friends!' she began. the crowd hooted that proposition to start with. but the pale woman with the candid eyes went on as calmly as though she had been received with polite applause, telling the jeering crowd several things they certainly had not known before, that, among other matters, they were met there to pass a censure on the government---- 'haw! haw!' ''ear, 'ear!' said the deaf old newsvendor, with his free hand up to his ear. 'and to express our sympathy with the brave women----' the staccato cries throughout the audience dissolved into one general hoot; but above it sounded the old newsvendor's ''ear, 'ear!' ''e can't 'ear without 'e shouts about it.' 'try and keep _yerself_ quiet,' said he, with dignity. 'we ain't 'ere to 'ear _you_.' '----sympathy with the brave women,' the steady voice went on, 'who are still in prison.' 'serve 'em jolly well right!' 'give the speaker a chaunce, caun't ye?' said the newsvendor, with a withering look. it was plain this old gentleman was an unblushing adherent to the cause (undismayed by being apparently the only one in that vicinity), ready to cheer the chairman at every juncture, and equally ready to administer caustic reproof to her opponents. 'our friends who are in prison, are there simply for trying to bring before a member of the government----' 'good old effingham. three cheers for effingham!' 'oh, yes,' said the newsvendor, 'go on! 'e needs a little cheerin', awfter the mess 'e's made o' things!' 'for trying to put before a member of the government a statement of the injustice----' '_that_ ain't why they're in gaol. it's fur ringin' wot's-'is-name's door-bell.' 'kickin' up rows in the street----' 'oh, you shut up,' says the old champion, out of patience. 'you've 'ad 'arf a pint too much.' everybody in the vicinity was obliged to turn and look at the youth to see what proportion of the charge was humour and how much was fact. the youth resented so deeply the turn the conversation had taken that he fell back for a moment on bitter silence. 'when you go to call on some one,' the chairman was continuing, with the patient air of one instructing a class in a kindergarten, 'it is the custom to ring the bell. what do you suppose a door-bell is for? do you think our deputation should have tried to get in without ringing at the door?' 'they 'adn't no business goin' to 'is private 'ouse.' 'oh, look 'ere, just take that extry 'arf pint outside the meetin' and cool off, will yer?' it was the last time that particular opponent aired his views. the old man's judicious harping on the ''arf pint' induced the ardent youth to moderate his political transports. they were not rightly valued, it appeared. after a few more mutterings he took his 'extry 'alf pint' into some more congenial society. but there were several others in the crowd who had come similarly fortified, and they were everywhere the most audible opponents. but above argument, denial, abuse, steadily in that upper air the clear voice kept on-- 'do you think they _wanted_ to go to his house? haven't you heard that they didn't do that until they had exhausted every other means to get a hearing?' to the shower of denial and objurgation that greeted this, she said with uplifted hand-- 'stop! let me tell you about it.' the action had in it so much of authority that (as it seemed, to their own surprise) the interrupters, with mouths still open, suspended operations for a moment. 'why, this is a woman of education! what on earth is a person like that doing in this _galère_?' vida asked, as if mrs. fox-moore might be able to enlighten her. 'can't she see--even if there were anything in the "cause," as she calls it--what an imbecile waste of time it is talking to these louts?' 'there's a good many voters here,' said a tall, gloomy-looking individual, wearing a muffler in lieu of a collar. 'she's politician enough to know that.' mrs. fox-moore looked through the man. 'the only reassuring thing i see in the situation,' she said to her sister, 'is that they don't find many women to come and listen to their nonsense.' 'well, they've got you and me! awful thought! suppose they converted us!' mrs. fox-moore didn't even trouble to reply to such levity. what was interesting was the discovery that this 'chairman,' before an audience so unpromising, not only held her own when she was interrupted and harassed by the crowd--even more surprising she bore with the most recalcitrant members of it--tried to win them over, and yet when they were rude, did not withhold reproof, and at times looked down upon them with so fine a scorn that it seemed as if even those ruffianly young men felt the edge of it. certainly a curious sight--this well-bred woman standing there in front of the soaring column, talking with grave passion to those loafers about the 'great woman question,' and they treating it as a sunday afternoon street entertainment. the next speaker was a working woman, the significance of whose appearance in that place and in that company was so little apprehended by the two ladies in the crowd that they agreed in laughingly commiserating the chairman for not having more of her own kind to back her up in her absurd contention. though the second speaker merely bored the two who, having no key either to her pathos or her power, saw nothing but 'low cockney effrontery' in her effort, she nevertheless had a distinct success with the crowd. here was somebody speaking their own language--they paid her the tribute of their loudest hoots mixed with applause. she never lost her hold on them until the appearance on the plinth of a grave, rugged, middle-aged man in a soft hat. 'that's 'im!' 'yes. lothian scott!' small need for the chairwoman to introduce the grey man with the northern burr in his speech, and the northern turn for the uncompromising in opinion. every soul there save the two 'educated' ladies knew this was the man who had done more to make the labour party a political force to be reckoned with than any other creature in the three kingdoms. whether he was conscious of having friends in a gathering largely tory (as lower-class crowds still are), certainly he did not spare his enemies. during the first few minutes of a speech full of socialism, mrs. fox-moore (stirred to unheard-of expressiveness) kept up a low, running comment-- 'oh, of _course_! he says that to curry favour with the mob--a rank demagogue, this man! such pandering to the populace!' then, turning sharply to her companion, '_he wants votes!_' she said, as though detecting in him a taste unknown among the men in her purer circle. 'oh, no doubt he makes a very good thing out of it! going about filling the people's heads with revolutionary ideas! monstrous wickedness, _i_ call it, stirring up class against class! i begin to wonder what the police are thinking about.' she looked round uneasily. the excitement had certainly increased as the little grey politician denounced the witlessness of the working-class, and when they howled at him, went on to expound a trenchant doctrine of universal responsibility, which preceded the universal suffrage that was to come. much of what he said was drowned in uproar. it had become clear that his opinions revolted the majority of his hearers even more than they did the two ladies. so outraged were the sensibilities of the hooligan and the half-drunk that they drowned as much of the speech as they were able in cat-calls and jeers. but enough still penetrated to ears polite not only to horrify, but to astonish them--such force has the spoken word above even its exaggeration in cold print. the ladies had read--sparingly, it is true--that these things were said, but to _hear_ them! 'he doesn't, after all, seem to be saying what the mob wants to hear,' said the younger woman. 'no; mercifully the heart of the country is still sound!' but for one of these two out of the orderlier world, the opposition that the 'rank demagogue' roused in the mob was to light a lamp whereby she read wondering the signs of an unsuspected bond between janet fox-moore and the reeking throng. when, contrary to the old-established custom of the demagogue, the little politician in homespun had confided to the men in front of him what he thought of them, he told them that the woman's movement which they held themselves so clever for ridiculing, was in much the same position to-day as the extension of suffrage for men was in ' . had it not been for demonstrations (beside which the action that had lodged the women in gaol was innocent child's play), neither he, the speaker, nor any of the men in front of him would have the right to vote to-day. 'you ridicule and denounce these women for trying peacefully--yes, i say _peacefully_--to get their rights as citizens. do you know what our fathers did to get ours? they broke down hyde park railings, they burnt the bristol municipal buildings, they led riots, and they shed blood. these women have hurt nobody.' 'what about the policeman?' he went on steadily, comparing the moderation of the women with the red-hot violence of their chartist forbears--till one half-drunken listener, having lost the thread, hiccuped out-- 'can't do nothin'--them women. even after we've showed 'em _'ow_!' 'has he got his history right?' vida asked through her smiling at the last sally. 'not that it applies, of course,' she was in haste to add. 'oh, what does it matter?' her sister waved it aside. 'an unscrupulous politician hasn't come here to bother about little things like facts.' 'i don't think i altogether agree with you _there_. that man may be a fanatic, but he's honest, i should say. those scotch peasants, you know----' 'oh, because he's rude, and talks with a burr, you think he's a sort of political thomas carlyle?' though vida smiled at the charge, something in her alert air as she followed the brief recapitulation of the chartist story showed how an appeal to justice, or even to pity, may fail, where the rousing of some dim sense of historical significance (which is more than two-thirds fear), may arrest and even stir to unsuspected deeps. the grave scotsman's striking that chord even in a mind as innocent as vida's, of accurate or ordered knowledge of the past, even here the chord could vibrate to a strange new sense of possible significance in this scene '----after all.' it would be queer, it would be horrible, it was fortunately incredible, but what if, 'after all,' she were ignorantly assisting at a scene that was to play its part in the greatest revolution the world had seen? some such mental playing with possibilities seemed to lurk behind the intent reflective face. 'there are far too many voters already,' her sister had flung out. 'yes--yes, a much uglier world they want to make!' but in the power to make history--if these people indeed had that, then indeed might they be worth watching--even if it were only after one good look to hide the eyes in dismay. that possibility of historic significance had suddenly lifted the sordid exhibition to a different plane. as the man, amid howls, ended his almost indistinguishable peroration, the unmoved chairman stepped forward again to try to win back for the next speaker that modicum of quiet attention which he, at all events, had the art of gaining and of keeping. as she came forward this time one of her auditors looked at the woman leader in the crusade with new eyes--not with sympathy, rather with a vague alarm. vida levering's air of almost strained attention was an unconscious public confession: 'i haven't understood these strange women; i haven't understood the spirit of the mob that hoots the man we know vaguely for their champion; i haven't understood the allusions nor the argot that they talk; i can't check the history that peasant has appealed to. in the midst of so much that is obscure, it is meet to reserve judgment.' something of that might have been read in the look lifted once or twice as though in wonderment, above the haggard group up there between the guardian lions, beyond even the last reach of the tall monument, to the cloudless sky of june. was the great shaft itself playing a part in the impression? was it there not at all for memory of some battle long ago, but just to mark on the fair bright page of afternoon a huge surprise? what lesser accent than just this titanic exclamation point could fitly punctuate the record of so strange a portent!--women confronting the populace of the mightiest city in the world--pleading in her most public place their right to a voice in her affairs. in the face of this unexpected mood of receptivity, however unwilling, came a sharp corrective in the person of the next speaker. 'oh, it's not going to be one that's been to prison!' 'oh, dear! it's the one with the wild black hair and the awful "picture hat"!' but they stared for a few moments as if, in despite of themselves, fascinated by this lady be-feathered, be-crimped, and be-ringed, wearing her huge hat cocked over one ear with a defiant coquetry above a would-be conquering smile. the unerring wits in the crowd had already picked her out for special attention, but her active 'public form' was even more torturing to the fastidious feminine sense than her 'stylish' appearance. for her language, flowery and grandiloquent, was excruciatingly genteel, one moment conveyed by minced words through a pursed mouth, and the next carried away on a turgid tide of rhetoric--the swimmer in this sea of sentiment flinging out braceleted arms, and bawling appeals to the '_wim--men--nof--vinglund!_' the crowd howled with derisive joy. all the same, when they saw she had staying power, and a kind of transpontine sense of drama in her, the populace mocked less and applauded more. why not? she was very much like an overblown adelphi heroine, and they could see her act for nothing. but every time she apostrophized the '_wim--men--nof--vinglund!_' two of those same gave way to overcharged feelings. 'oh, my dear, i can't stand this! i'm going home!' 'yes, yes. let's get away from this terrible female. i suppose they keep back the best speakers for the last.' the two ladies turned, and began to edge their way out of the tightly packed mass of humanity. 'it's rather a pity, too,' said mrs. fox-moore, looking back, 'for this is the only chance we'll ever have. i did want to hear what the skilly was.' 'yes, and about the dog-whip.' 'skilly! sounds as if it might be what she hit the policeman with.' mrs. fox-moore was again pausing to look back. 'that gyrating female is more what i expected them _all_ to be.' 'yes; but just listen to that.' 'to what?' 'why, the way they're applauding her.' 'yes, they positively revel in the creature!' it was a long, tiresome business this worming their way out. they paused again and again two or three times, looking back at the scene with a recurrent curiosity, and each time repelled by the platform graces of the lady who was so obviously enjoying herself to the top of her bent. yet even after the fleeing twain arrived on the fringe of the greatly augmented crowd, something even then prevented their instantly making the most of their escape. they stood criticizing and denouncing. again mrs. fox-moore said it was a pity, since they were there, that they should have to go without hearing one of those who had been in prison, 'for we'll never have another chance.' 'perhaps,' said her sister, looking back at the gesticulating figure--'perhaps we're being a little unreasonable. we were annoyed at first because they weren't what we expected, and when we get what we came to see, we run away.' while still they lingered, with a final fling of arms and toss of plumes, the champion of the women of england sat down in the midst of applause. 'you hear? it's all very well. most of them simply loved it.' and now the chairman, in a strikingly different style, was preparing the way for the next speaker, at mention of whom the crowd seemed to feel they'd been neglecting their prerogative of hissing. 'what name did she say? why do they make that noise?' the two ladies began to worm their way back; but this was a different matter from coming out. 'wot yer doin'?' some one inquired sternly of mrs. fox-moore. another turned sharply, 'look out! oo yer pushin', old girl?' the horrid low creatures seemed to have no sense of deference. and the stuff they smoked! 'pah!' observed mrs. fox-moore, getting the full benefit of a noxious puff. '_pah!_' '_wot!_' said the smoker, turning angrily. 'pah to you, miss!' he eyed mrs. fox-moore from head to foot with a withering scorn. 'comin' 'ere awskin' us fur votes' (vida nearly fainted), 'and ain't able to stand a little tobacco.' 'stand in front, janet,' said miss levering, hastily recovering herself. '_i_ don't mind smoke,' she said mendaciously, trying to appease the defiler of the air with a little smile. indeed, the idea of mrs. fox-moore having come to 'awsk' this person for a vote was sufficiently quaint. 'this is the sort of thing they mean, i suppose,' said that lady, 'when they talk about cockney humour. it doesn't appeal to me.' vida bit her lip. her own taste was less pure. 'we needn't try to get any nearer,' she said hastily. 'this chairman-person can make herself heard without screeching.' but having lost the key during the passage over the pipe, they could only make out that she was justifying some one to the mob, some one who apparently was coming in for too much sharp criticism for the chairman to fling her to the wolves without first diverting them a little. the battle of words that ensued was almost entirely unintelligible to the two ladies, but they gathered, through means more expressive than speech, that the chairman was dealing with some sort of crisis in the temper of the meeting, brought about by the mention of a name. the only thing clear was that she was neither going to give in, nor going to turn over the meeting in a state of ferment to some less practised hand. 'yes, she did! she had a perfect right,' the chairman maintained against a storm of noes--'more than a right, _a duty_, to perform in going with that deputation on public business to the house of a public servant, since, unlike the late prime minister, he had refused to women all opportunity to treat with him through the usual channels always open to citizens having a political grievance.' 'citizens? suffragettes!' 'very well.' she set her mouth. 'suffragettes if you like. to get an abuse listened to is the first thing; to get it understood is the next. rather than not have our cause stand out clear and unmistakable before a preoccupied, careless world, we accept the clumsy label; we wear it proudly. and it won't be the first time in history that a name given in derision has become a badge of honour!' why, the woman's eyes were suffused!--a flush had mounted up to her hair! how she cared! 'yer ain't told us the reason ye _want_ the vote.' 'reason? why, she's a woman!' 'haw! haw!' the speaker had never paused an instant, but--it began to be clear that she heard any interruption it suited her to hear. 'some one asking, at this time of day, why women want the vote? why, for exactly the same reason that you men do. because, not having any voice in public affairs, our interests are neglected; and since woman's interests are man's, all humanity suffers. we want the vote, because taxation without representation is tyranny; because the laws as they stand bear hardly on women; and because those unfair, man-made laws will never be altered till women have a share in electing the men who control legislation.' 'yer ought ter leave politics to us----' 'we can't leave politics to the men, because politics have come into the home, and if the higher interests of the home are to be served, women must come into politics.' 'that's a bad argument!' 'wot i always say is----' 'can't change nature. nature says----' 'let 'er st'y at 'ome and mind 'er business!' the interjections seemed to come all at once. the woman bent over the crowd. nothing misty in her eyes now--rather a keener light than before. 'don't you see,' she appealed to them as equals--'don't you see that in your improvement of the world you men have taken women's business out of her home? in the old days there was work and responsibility enough for woman without going outside her own gate. the women were the bakers and brewers, the soap and candle-makers, the loom-workers of the world. you men,' she said, delicately flattering them, '_you_ have changed all that. you have built great factories and warehouses and mills. but how do you keep them going? by calling women to come in their thousands and help you. but women love their homes. you couldn't have got these women out of their homes without the goad of poverty. you men can't always earn enough to keep the poor little home going, so the women work in the shops, they swarm at the mill gates, and the factories are full.' 'true! true, every blessed word!' said the old newsvendor. 'hush!' she said. 'don't interrupt. in taking women's business out of the home you haven't freed her from the need to see after the business. the need is greater than ever it was. why, eighty-two per cent of the women of this country are wage-earning women! yet, you go on foolishly echoing: woman's place is at home.' 'true! true!' said the aged champion, unabashed. 'then there are those men, philanthropists, statesmen, who believe they are safeguarding the interests of women by making laws restricting their work, and so restricting their resources without ever consulting these women. if they consulted these women, they would hear truths that would open their blind eyes. but no, the woman isn't worthy of being consulted. she is worthy to do the highest work given to humanity, to bear and to bring up children; she is worthy to teach and to train them; she is worthy to pay the taxes that she has no voice in levying. if she breaks the law that she has no share in making, she is worth hanging, but she is not worth consulting about her own affairs--affairs of supremest importance to her very existence--affairs that no man, however great and good, can understand so well as she. she will never get justice until she gets the vote. even the well-to-do middle-class woman----' 'wot are _you_?' 'and even the woman of what are called the upper classes--even she must wince at the times when men throw off the mask and let her see how in their hearts they despise her. a few weeks ago mr. lothian scott----' 'boo! boo!' 'hooray!' ''ray for lothian scott!' in the midst of isolated cheers and a volume of booing, she went on-- 'when he brought a resolution before the house of commons to remove the sex disqualification, what happened?' 'y' kicked up a row!' 'lot o' yer got jugged!' 'the same thing happened that has been happening for half a century every time the question comes up in that english parliament that englishmen are supposed to think of with such respect as a place of dignity. what _happened_?' she leaned forward and her eyes shone. 'what happened in that sacred place, that ark where they safeguard the honour of england? what happened to _our_ honour, that these men dare tell us is so safe in their hands? our cause was dragged through filth. the very name "woman" was used as a signal for jests and ribald laughter, and for such an exhibition of sex rancour and mistrust that it passed imagination to think what the mothers and wives of the members must think of the public confession of the deep disrespect their menfolk feel for them. some one here spoke of "a row."' she threw back her head, and faced the issue as though she knew that by bringing it forward herself, she could turn the taunt against the next speaker into a title of respect. 'you blame us for making a scene in that holy place! you would have us imitate those other women--the well-behaved--the women who think more of manners than of morals. there they were--for an example to us--that night of the debate, that night of the "row"--there they sat as they have always done, like meek mute slaves up there in their little gilded pen, ready to listen to any insult, ready to smile on the men afterward. in only one way, but it was an important exception, in just one way that debate on woman suffrage differed from any other that had ever taken place in the house of commons.' a voice in the crowd was raised, but before the jeer was out mrs. chisholm had flung down her last ringing sentences. 'there were _others_ up there in the little pen that night!--women, too--but women with enough decency to be revolted, and with enough character to resent such treatment as the members down there on the floor of the house were giving to our measure. though the women who ought to have felt it most sat there cowed and silent, i am proud to think there were other women who cried out, "_shame!_" yes, yes,' she interrupted the interrupters, 'those women were dragged away to prison, and all the world was aghast. but i tell you that cry was the beginning of a new chapter in human history. it began with "shame!" but it will end with "honour."' the old newsvendor led the applause. 'janet! that woman never spat in a policeman's face.' 'pull down your veil,' was the lady's sharp response. 'quick----' 'my----' 'yes, pull it down, and don't turn round.' a little dazed by the red-hot torrent the woman on the plinth was still pouring down on the people, vida's mind at the word 'veil,' so peremptorily uttered, reverted by some trick of association to the oriental significance of that mark in dress distinctively the woman's. 'why should i pull down my veil?' she answered abstractedly. 'they're looking this way. don't turn round. come, come.' with a surprising alacrity and skill mrs. fox-moore made her way out of the throng. vida, following, yet looking back, heard-- 'now, i want you men to give a fair hearing to a woman who----' 'vida, _don't_ look! mercifully, they're too much amused to notice us.' disobeying the mandate, the younger woman's eyes fell at last upon the figures of two young men hovering on the outer circle. the sun caught their tall, glossy hats, played upon the single flower in the frock coat, struck on the eyeglass, and gleamed mockingly on the white teeth of the one who smiled the broadest as they both stood, craning their necks, whispering and laughing, on the fringe of the crowd. 'why, it's dick farnborough--and that friend of his from the austrian embassy.' vida pulled down her veil. chapter viii devoutly thankful at having escaped from her compromising position unrecognized, mrs. fox-moore firmly declined to go 'awskin' fur the vote' again! when vida gave up her laughing remonstrance, mrs. fox-moore thought her sister had also given up the idea. but as vida afterwards confessed, she told herself that she would go 'just once more.' it could not be but what she was under some illusion about that queer spectacle. from one impression each admitted it was difficult to shake herself free. whatever those women were or were not, they weren't fools. what did the leaders (in prison and out), what did they think they were accomplishing, besides making themselves hideously uncomfortable? the english parliament, having flung them out, had gone on with its routine, precisely as though nothing had happened. _had_ anything happened? that was the question. the papers couldn't answer. they were given over to lies. the bare idea of women pretending to concern themselves with public affairs--from the point of view of the press, it was enough to make the soberest sides shake with homeric laughter. so, then, one last time to see for one's self. and on this occasion no pettiness of disguise, miss levering's aspect seemed to say--no recurrence of any undignified flight. she had been frightened away from her first meeting, but she would not be frightened from the second, which was also to be the last. an instinct unanalyzed, but significant of what was to follow, kept her from seeking companionship outside. had wark not gone over to the market-gardener, her former mistress would have had no misgiving about taking the woman into her confidence. but wark, with lightning rapidity, had become mrs. anderson slynes, and was beyond recall. so the new maid was told the following sunday, that she might walk with her mistress across hyde park (where the papers said the meetings in future were to be), carrying some music which had to be returned to the tunbridges. pursuing this programme, what more natural than that those two chance pedestrians should be arrested by an apparition on their way, of a flaming banner bearing, along with a demand for the vote, an outrageous charge against a distinguished public servant--'a pity the misguided creatures didn't know him, just a little!' yes. there it was! a rectangle of red screaming across the vivid green of the park not a hundred yards from the marble arch, the denunciatory banner stretched above the side of an uncovered van. a little crowd of perhaps a hundred collected on one side of the cart--the loafers on the outermost fringe, lying on the grass. never a sign of a suffragette, and nearly three o'clock! impossible for any passer-by to carry out the programme of pausing to ask idly, 'what are those women screeching about?' seeming to search in vain for some excuse to linger, miss levering's wandering eye fell upon a young mother wheeling a perambulator. she had glanced with mild curiosity at the flaunting ensign, and then turned from it to lean forward and straighten her baby's cap. 'i wonder what _she_ thinks of the woman question,' miss levering observed, in a careless aside to her maid. before gorringe could reply: 'doddy's a bootiful angel, isn't doddy?' said the young mother, with subdued rapture. 'ah, she's found the solution,' said the lady, looking back. other pedestrians glanced at the little crowd about the cart, read demand and denunciation on the banner, laughed, and they, too, for the most part, went on. an eton boy, who looked as if he might be her grandson, came by with a white-haired lady of distinguished aspect, who held up her voluminous silken skirts and stared silently at the legend. 'do you see what it says?' the eton boy laughed as he looked back. '"_we demand the vote._" fancy! they "demand" it. what awful cheek!' and he laughed again at the fatuity of the female creature. vida glanced at the dignified old dame as though with an uneasy new sense of the incongruity in the attitude of those two quite commonplace, everyday members of a world that was her world, and that yet could for a moment look quite strange. she turned and glanced back at the ridiculous cart as if summoning the invisible presence of mrs. chisholm to moderate the insolence of the budding male. still there was no sign either of mrs. chisholm or any of her fellow-conspirators against the old order of the world. miss levering stood a moment hesitating. 'i believe i'm a little tired,' she said to the discreet maid. 'we'll rest here a moment,' and she sat down with her back to the crowd. a woman, apparently of the small shopkeeping class, was already established at one end of the only bench anywhere near the cart. her child who was playing about, was neatly dressed, and to vida's surprise wore sandals on her stockingless feet. this fashion for children, which had been growing for years among the upper classes, had found little imitation among tradesmen or working people. they presumably were still too near the difficulty of keeping their children in shoes and stockings, to be able to see anything but a confession of failure in going without. in the same way, the 'simple life,' when led by the rich, wears to the poverty-struck an aspect of masked meanness--a matter far less tolerable in the eyes of the pauper than the traditional splendour of extravagance in the upper class, an extravagance that feeds more than the famished stomach with the crumbs that it lets fall. as miss levering sat watching the child, and wondering a little at the sandals, the woman caught her eye. 'could you please tell me the time?' she asked. miss levering took out her watch, and then spoke of the wisdom of that plan of sandals. the woman answered with such self-possession and good sense, that the lady sent a half-amused glance over her shoulder as if relishing in advance the sturdy disapproval of this highly respectable young mother when she should come to realize how near she and the precious daughter were to the rostrum of the shrieking sisterhood. it might be worth prolonging the discussion upon health and education for the amusement there would be in seeing what form condemnation of the suffragettes took among people of this kind. by turning her head to one side, out of the tail of her eye the lady could see that an excitement of some sort was agitating the crowd. the voices rose more shrill. people craned and pushed. a derisive cheer went up as a woman appeared on the cart. the wearer of the tam-o'-shanter! three others followed--all women. miss levering saw without seeming to look, still listening while the practical-minded mother talked on about her child, and what 'was good for it.' all life had resolved itself into pursuit of that. an air of semi-abstraction came over the lady. it was as if in the presence of this excellent bourgeoise she felt an absurd constraint in showing an interest in the proceedings of these unsexed creatures behind them. to her obvious astonishment the mother of the child was the first to jump up. 'now they're going to begin!' she said briskly. 'who?' asked miss levering. 'why, the suffrage people.' 'oh! are _you_ going to listen to them?' 'yes; that's what i've come all this way for.' and she and her bare-legged offspring melted into the growing crowd. vida turned to the maid and met her superior smile. 'that woman says she has come a long way to hear these people advocating woman's suffrage,' and slowly with an air of complete detachment she approached the edge of the crowd, followed by the supercilious maid. they were quickly hemmed in by people who seemed to spring up out of the ground. it was curious to look back over the vivid green expanse and see the dotted humanity running like ants from all directions to listen to this handful of dowdy women in a cart! in finding her way through the crowd it would appear that the lady was not much sustained by the presence of a servant, however well-meaning. much out of place in such a gathering as mrs. fox-moore or any ultra-oldfashioned woman was, still more incongruous showed there the relation of mistress and maid. the punctilious gorringe was plainly horrified at the proximity to her mistress of these canaille, and the mistress was not so absorbed it would seem but what she felt the affront to seemliness in a servant's seeing her pushed and shoved aside--treated with slight regard or none. necessary either to leave the scene with lofty disapproval, or else make light of the discomfort. 'it doesn't matter!' she assured the girl, who was trying to protect her mistress's dainty wrap from contact with a grimy tramp. and, again, when half a dozen boys forced their way past, 'it's all right!' she nodded to the maid, 'it's no worse than the crowd at charing cross coming over from paris.' but it was much worse, and gorringe knew it. 'the old man is standing on your gown, miss.' 'oh, would you mind----' miss levering politely suggested another place for his feet. but the old man had no mind left for a mere bystander--it was all absorbed in suffragettes. ''is feet are filthy muddy, 'm,' whispered gorringe. it may have been in part the maid's genteel horror of such proximities that steeled miss levering to endure them. under circumstances like these the observant are reminded that no section of the modern community is so scornfully aristocratic as our servants. their horror of the meanly-apparelled and the humble is beyond the scorn of kings. the fine lady shares her shrinking with those inveterate enemies of democracy, the lackey who shuts the door in the shabby stranger's face, and the dog who barks a beggar from the gate. and so while the maid drew her own skirts aside and held her nose high in the air, the gentlewoman stood faintly smiling at the queer scene. alas! no mrs. chisholm. it looked as if they must have been hard up for speakers to-day, for two of them were younger even than miss claxton of the tam-o'-shanter. one of them couldn't be more than nineteen. 'how dreadful to put such very young girls up there to be stared at by all these louts!' 'oh, yes, 'm, quite 'orrid,' agreed the maid, but with the air of 'what can you expect of persons so low?' 'however, the young girls seem to have as much self-possession as the older ones!' pursued miss levering, as she looked in vain for any sign of flinching from the sallies of cockney impudence directed at the occupants of the cart. they exhibited, too, what was perhaps even stranger--an utter absence of any flaunting of courage or the smallest show of defiance. what was this armour that looked like mere indifference? it couldn't be that those quiet-looking young girls _were_ indifferent to the ordeal of standing up there before a crowd of jeering rowdies whose less objectionable utterances were: 'where did you get that 'at?' 'the one in green is my girl!' 'got yer dog-whip, miss?' and such-like utterances. the person thus pointedly alluded to left her companions ranged along the side of the cart against the background of banner, while she, the famous miss claxton, took the meeting in charge. she wasted no time, this lady. her opening remarks, which, in the face of a fire of interruption, took the form of an attack upon the government, showed her an alert, competent, cut-and-thrust, imperturbably self-possessed politician, who knew every aspect of the history of the movement, as able to answer any intelligent question off-hand as to snub an impudent irrelevance, able to take up a point and drive it well in--to shrug and smile or frown and point her finger, all with most telling effect, and keep the majority of her audience with her every minute of the time. as a mere exhibition of nerve it was a thing to make you open your eyes. only a moment was she arrested by either booing or applause. when a knot of young men, who had pushed their way near the front, kept on shouting argument and abuse, she interrupted her harangue an instant. pointing out the ring-leader-- 'now you be quiet, if you please,' she said. 'these people are here to listen to _me_.' 'no, they ain't. they come to see wot you look like.' 'that can't be so,' she said calmly, 'because after they've seen us they stay.' then, as the interrupter began again, 'no, it's no use, my man'--she shook her head gently as if almost sorry for him--'you can't talk _me_ down!' 'now, ain't that just _like_ a woman!' he complained to the crowd. just in front of where miss levering and her satellite first came to a standstill, was a cheerful, big, sandy man with long flowing moustachios, a polo cap, and a very dirty collar. at intervals he inquired of the men around him, in a great jovial voice, 'are we down-'earted?' as though the meeting had been called, not for the purpose of rousing interest in the question of woman's share in the work of the world, but as though its object were to humiliate and disfranchise the men. but his exclamation, repeated at intervals, came in as a sort of refrain to the rest of the proceedings. 'the conservatives,' said the speaker, 'had never pretended they favoured broadening the basis of the franchise. but here were these liberals, for thirty years they'd been saying that the demand on the part of women for political recognition commanded their respect, and would have their support, and yet there were four hundred and odd members who had got into the house of commons very largely through the efforts of women--oh, yes, we know all about that! we've been helping the men at elections for years.' 'what party?' adroitly she replied, 'we have members of every party in our ranks.' 'are you a conservative?' 'no, i myself am not a conservative----' 'you work for the labour men--i know!' 'it's child's play belonging to any party till we get the vote,' she dismissed it. 'in future we are neither for liberal nor conservative nor labour. we are for women. when we get the sex bar removed, it will be time for us to sort ourselves into parties. at present we are united against any government that continues to ignore its duty to the women of the country. in the past we were so confiding that when a candidate said he was in favour of woman's suffrage (he was usually a liberal), we worked like slaves to get that man elected, so that a voice might be raised for women's interests in the next parliament. again and again the man we worked for got in. but the voice that was to speak for us--that voice was mute. we had served his purpose in helping him to win his seat, and we found ourselves invariably forgotten or ignored. the conservatives have never shown the abysmal hypocrisy of the liberals. we can get on with our open enemies; it's these _cowards_' ('boo!' and groans)--'these cowards, i say--who, in order to sneak into a place in the house, pretend to sympathize with this reform--who use us, and then betray us; it's these who are women's enemies!' 'why are you always worrying the liberals? why don't you ask the conservatives to give you the vote?' 'you don't go to a person for something he hasn't got unless you're a fool. the liberals are in power; the liberals were readiest with fair promises; and so we go to the liberals. and we shall continue to go to them. we shall never leave off' (boos and groans) 'till they leave office. then we'll begin on the conservatives.' she ended in a chorus of laughter and cheers, 'i will now call upon miss cynthia chisholm to propose the resolution.' wherewith the chairman gave way to the younger of the two girls. this one of the gracchi--a gentle-seeming creature, carelessly dressed, grave and simple--faced the mob with evident trepidation, a few notes, to which she never referred, in her shaking hand. what brought a girl like that here?--was the question on the few thoughtful faces in the crowd confronting her. she answered the query by introducing the resolution in an earnest little speech which, if it didn't show that much of the failure and suffering that darken the face of the world is due to women's false position, showed, at all events, that this young creature held a burning conviction that the subjection of her sex was the world's root-evil. with no apparent apprehension of the colossal audacity of her position, the girl moved gravely that 'this meeting demands of the government the insertion of an enfranchisement clause in the plural voting bill, and demands that it shall become law during the present session.' her ignorance of parliamentary procedure was freely pointed out to her. 'no,' she said, 'it is you who are ignorant--of how pressing the need is. you say it is "out of order." if treating the women of the country fairly is out of order, it is only because men have made a poor sort of order. it is the _order_ that should be changed.' of course that dictum received its due amount of hooting. 'the vote is the reward for defending the country,' said a voice. 'no,' said the girl promptly, 'for soldiers and sailors don't vote.' 'it implies fitness for military service,' somebody amended. 'it _shouldn't_,' said nineteen, calmly; 'it ought to imply merely _a stake_ in the country. no one denies we have that.' the crowd kept on about soldiering, till the speaker was goaded into saying-- 'i don't say women like fighting, but women _can_ fight! in these days warfare isn't any more a matter of great physical strength, and a woman can pull a trigger as well as a man. the boer women found that out--and so has the russian. i don't like thinking about it myself--for i seem to realize too clearly what horrors those women endured before they could carry bombs or shoulder rifles.' 'rifles? why a woman can't never hit _nothing_.' 'it is quite true we can't most of us even throw a stone straight--the great mass of women never in all their lives wanted to hit anybody or anything. and that'--she came nearer, and leaned over the side of the cart with scared face--'it's that that makes it so dreadful to realize how at last when women's eyes are opened--when they see their homes and the holiest things in life threatened and despised, how quickly after all _they can learn the art of war_.' 'with hatpins!' some one called out. 'yes, scratching and spitting,' another added. that sort of interruption did not so much embarrass her, but once or twice she was nearly thrown off her beam-ends by men and boys shouting, 'wot's the matter with yer anyway? can't yer get a husband?' and such-like brilliant relevancies. although she flushed at some of these sallies, she stuck to her guns with a pluck that won her friends. in one of the pauses a choleric old man gesticulated with his umbrella. 'if what the world needed was woman's suffrage, it wouldn't have been left for a minx like you to discover it.' at which volleys of approval. 'that gentleman seems to think it's a new madness that we've recently invented.' the child seemed in her loneliness to reach out for companioning. she spoke of 'our friend john stuart mill.' 'oo's mill?' 'that great liberal wrote in ----' but mill and she were drowned together. she waited a moment for the flood of derision to subside. ''e wouldn't 'ad nothin' to do with yer if 'e'd thought you'd go on like you done.' 'benjamin disraeli was on our side. mazzini--charles kingsley. as long ago as , a woman's suffrage bill that was drafted by dr. pankhurst and mr. jacob bright passed a second reading.' 'the best sort of women _never_ wanted it.' 'the kind of women in the past who cared to be associated with this reform--they were women like florence nightingale, and harriet martineau, and josephine butler, and the two thousand other women of influence who memorialized mr. gladstone.' something was called out that vida could not hear, but that brought the painful scarlet into the young face. 'shame! shame!' some of the men were denouncing the interjection. after a little pause the girl found her voice. 'you make it difficult for me to tell you what i think you ought to know. i don't believe i could go on if i didn't see over there the reformer's tree. it makes me think of how much had to be borne before other changes could be brought about.' she reminded the people of what had been said and suffered on that very spot in the past, before the men standing before her had got the liberties they enjoyed to-day. 'they were _men_!' 'yes, and so perhaps it wasn't so hard for them. i don't know, and i'm sure it was hard enough. when we women remember what _they suffered_--though you think meanly of us because we can't be soldiers, you may as well know we are ready to do whatever has to be done--we are ready to bear whatever has to be borne. there seem to be things harder to face than bullets, but it doesn't matter, they'll be faced.' the lady standing with her maid in the incongruous crowd, looked round once or twice with eyes that seemed to say, 'how much stranger life is than we are half the time aware, and how much stranger it bids fair to be!' the rude platform with the scarlet backing flaming in the face of the glorious summer afternoon, near the very spot upon which the great battles for reform had been fought out in the past, and in place of england's sturdy freeman making his historic appeal for justice, and admission to the commons--a girl pouring out this stream of vigorous english, upholding the cause her family had stood for. her voice failed her a little towards the close, or rather it did not so much fail as betray to any sensitive listener the degree of strain she put upon it to make it carry above laughter and interjection. as she raised the note she bent over the crowd, leaning forward, with her neck outstretched, the cords in it swelling, and the heat of the sun bringing a flush and a moisture to her face, steadying her voice as the thought of the struggle to come, shook and clouded it, and calling on the people to judge of this matter without prejudice. it was a thing to live in the memory--the vision of that earnest child trying to fire the london louts with the great names of the past, and failing to see her bite her lip to keep back tears, and, bending over the rabble, find a choked voice to say-- 'if your forefathers and foremothers who suffered for the freedom you young men enjoy--if they could come out of their graves to-day and see how their descendants use the great privileges they won--i believe they would go back into their graves and pull the shrouds over their eyes to hide them from your shame!' 'hear! hear!' 'right you are.' but she was done. she turned away, and found friendly hands stretched out to draw her to a seat. the next speaker was an alert little woman with a provincial accent and the briskness of a cock-sparrow, whose prettiness, combined with pertness, rather demoralized the mob. 'men and women,' she began, pitching her rather thin voice several notes too high. 'men and women!' some one piped in mimicry; and the crowd dissolved in laughter. it was curious to note again how that occasional exaggerated shrillness of the feminine voice when raised in the open air--how it amused the mob. they imitated the falsetto with squeals of delight. each time she began afresh she was met by the shrill echo of her own voice. the contest went on for several minutes. the spectacle of the agitated little figure, bobbing and gesticulating and nothing heard but shrill squeaks, raised a very pandemonium of merriment. it didn't mend matters for her to say when she did get a hearing-- 'i've come all the way from----' (place indistinguishable in the confusion) 'to talk to you this afternoon----' ''ow kind!' 'do you reely think they could spare you?' 'and i'm going to convert every man within reach of my voice.' groans, and 'hear! hear!' 'let's see you try!' she talked on quite inaudibly for the most part. a phrase here and there came out, and the rest lost. so much hilarity in the crowd attracted to it a bibulous gentleman, who kept calling out, 'oh, the pretty dear!' to the rapture of the bystanders. he became so elevated that the police were obliged to remove him. when the excitement attending this passage had calmed down, the reformer was perceived to be still piping away. ''ow long are you goin' on like this?' 'ain't you _never_ goin' to stop?' 'oh, not for a long time,' she shrilled cheerfully. 'i've got the accumulations of _centuries_ on me, and i'm only just beginning to unload! although we haven't got the vote--_not yet_--never mind, we've got our tongues!' 'lord, don't we know it!' said a sad-faced gentleman, in a rusty topper. 'this one's too intolerable,' said a man to his companion. 'yes; she ought to be smacked.' they melted out of the crowd. 'we've got our tongues, and i've been going round among all the women i know getting them to promise to _use_ their tongues----' 'you stand up there and tell us they needed _urgin'_?' 'to use their tongues to such purpose that it won't be women, but _men_, who get up the next monster petition to parliament asking for woman's suffrage.' she went down under a flood of jeers, and rose to the surface again to say-- 'a man's petition, praying parliament for goodness' sake give those women the vote! yes, you'd better be seeing about that petition, my friends, for i tell you there isn't going to be any peace till we get the franchise.' 'aw now, they'd give _you_ anything!' when the jeering had died a little, and she came to the top once more, she was discovered to be shouting-- 'you men 'ad just better keep an eye on us----' 'can't take our eyes off yer!' 'we suffragettes _never_ have a day of rest! every day in the week, while you men are at work or sitting in the public-house, we are visiting the women in their homes, explaining and stirring them up to a sense of their wrongs.' 'this i should call an example of what _not_ to say!' remarked a shrewd-looking man with a grin. the crowd were ragging the speaker again, while she shouted-- 'we are going to effect such a revolution as the world has never seen!' 'i'd like to bash her head for her!' 'we let them know that so long as women have no citizenship they are outside the pale of the law. if we are outside the law, we can't _break_ the law. it is not our fault that we're outlaws. it is you men's fault.' 'don't say that,' said a voice in mock agony. 'i love you so.' 'i know you can't help it,' she retorted. 'if we gave you the vote, what would you do with it? put it in a pie?' 'well, i wouldn't make the _hash_ of it you men do!' and she turned the laugh. 'look at you! _look_ at you!' she said, when quiet was restored. the young revellers gave a rather blank snigger, as though they had all along supposed looking at them to be an exhilarating occupation for any young woman. 'what do you do with your power? you throw it away. you submit to being taxed and to _our_ being taxed to the tune of a hundred and twenty-seven millions, that a war may be carried on in south africa--a war that most of you know nothing about and care nothing about--a war that some of us knew only too much about, and wanted only to see abandoned. we see constantly how you men either misuse the power you have or you don't use it at all. don't appreciate it. don't know what to do with it. haven't a notion you ought to be turning it into good for the world. hundreds of men don't care anything about political influence, except that women shouldn't have it.' she was getting on better till some one called out, 'you ought to get married.' 'i'm going to. if you don't be good you won't be asked to the wedding.' before the temptation of a retort she had dropped her argument and encouraged personalities. in vain she tried to recover that thread of attention which, not her interrupter, but herself had snapped. she retired in the midst of uproar. the chairman came forward and berated the crowd for its un-english behaviour in not giving a speaker a fair hearing. a man held up a walking-stick. 'will you just tell me one thing, miss----' 'not now. when the last speaker has finished there will be ten minutes for questions. and i may say that it is a great and rare pleasure to have any that are intelligent. don't waste anything so precious. just save it up till you're asked for it. i want you now to give a fair hearing to mrs. bewley.' this was a wizened creature of about fifty, in rusty black, widow of a stonemason and mother of four children--'four _livin'_,' she said with some significance. she added her mite of testimony to that of the , organized women of the mills, that the workers in her way of life realized how their condition and that of the children would be improved 'if the women 'ad some say in things.' 'it's quite certain,' she assured the people, 'there ought to be women relief-officers and matrons in the prisons. and it's very 'ard on women that there isn't the same cheap lodgin'-'ouse accommodation fur single women as there is fur single men. it's very 'ard on poor girls. it's worse than 'ard. but men won't never change that. we women 'as got to do it.' 'go 'ome and get your 'usban's tea!' said a new-comer, squeezing her way into the tight-packed throng, a queer little woman about the same age as the speaker, but dressed in purple silk and velvet, and wearing a wonderful purple plush hat on a wig of sandy curls. she might have been a prosperous milliner from the commercial road, and she had a meek man along who wore the husband's air of depressed responsibility. she was spared the humiliating knowledge, but she was taken at first for a sympathizer with the cause. in manners she was precisely like what the suffragette was at that time expected to be, pushing her way through the crowd, and vociferating 'shyme!' to all and sundry. the men who had been pleasantly occupied in boo-ing the speaker turned and glared at her. the hang-dog husband had an air of not observing. some of the boys pushed and harried her, but, to their obvious surprise, they heard her advising the rusty widow: 'go 'ome and get your 'usban's tea!' she varied that advice by repeating her favourite 'shyme!' varied by 'wot beayviour!--old enough to know better. every good wife oughter stay at 'ome and darn 'er 'usban's socks and make 'im comftubble.' after delivering which womanly sentiment she would nod her purple plumes and smile at the men. it was the sorriest travesty of similar scenes in a politer world. to the credit of the loafers about her, they did not greatly encourage her. she was perhaps overmature for her _rôle_. but they ceased to jostle her. they even allowed her to get in front of them. the tall, rusty woman in the cart was meanwhile telling a story of personal experience of the operation of some law which shut out from any share in the benefits of the new act which regulates the feeding of school children, the very people most in need of it. for it appeared that orphans and the children of widows were excluded. the bill provided only for children living under their father's roof. if the roof was kept over them by the shackled hands of the mother, according to the speaker, they might go hungry. 'no, no,' miss levering shook her head, explaining to her maid. 'i don't doubt the poor soul has had some difficulty, some hard experience, but she can't be quoting the law correctly.' nevertheless, in the halting words of the woman who had suffered, if only from misapprehension upon so grave a point, there was a rude eloquence that overbore the lady's incredulity. the crowd hissed such gross unfairness. 'if women 'ad 'ave made the laws, do you think we'd 'ave 'ad one like that disgracin' the statue-book? no! and in all sorts o' ways it looks like the law seems to think a child's got only one parent. i'd like to tell them gentlemen that makes the laws that (it may be different in their world, i only speak for my little corner of it)--but in 'ackney it looks like when a child's got only one parent, that one is the mother.' 'sy, let up, old gal! there's some o' them young ones ain't 'ad a show yet.' 'about time you had a rest, mother!' 'if the mother dies,' she was saying, 'wot 'appens?' 'let's 'ope she goes to heaven.' 'wot 'appens to the pore little 'ome w'en the mother dies? why, the pore little home is sold up, and the children's scattered among relations, or sent out so young to work it makes yer 'art ache. but if a man dies--you see it on every side, _in 'ackney_--the widow takes in sewin', or goes out charin', or does other people's washin' as well as 'er own, or she mykes boxes--_something_ er ruther, any'ow, that makes it possible fur 'er to keep 'er 'ome together. you don't see the mother scatterin' the little family w'en the only parent the law seems to reconize is dead and gone. i say----' 'you've a been sayin' it for a good while. you must be needin' a cup o' tea yerself.' 'in india i'm told they burn the widows. in england they do worse than that. they keep them _half_ alive.' the crowd rose to that, with the pinched proof before their eyes. 'just enough alive to suffer through their children. and so the workin' women round about where i live--that's 'ackney--they say if we ain't 'eathins in this country let's give up 'eathin ways. let the mothers o' this country 'ave their 'ands untied. we're willin' to work for our children, but it breaks our 'earts to work without tools. the tool we're needin' is the tool that mends the laws. i 'ave pleasure in secondin' the resolution.' with nervously twitching lips the woman sat down. they cheered her lustily--a little out of sympathy, a good deal from relief that she had finished, and a very different sort of person was being introduced by the chairman. chapter ix 'i will now call upon the last speaker. yes, i will answer any general questions _after_ miss ernestine blunt has spoken.' 'oh, i sy!' ''ere's miss blunt.' 'not that little one?' 'yes. this is the one i was tellin' you about.' people pushed and craned their necks, the crowd swayed as the other one of the two youngest 'suffragettes' came forward. she had been sitting very quietly in her corner of the cart, looking the least concerned person in hyde park. almost dull the round rather pouting face with the vivid scarlet lips; almost sleepy the heavy-lidded eyes. but when she had taken the speaker's post above the crowd, the onlooker wondered why he had not noticed her before. it seemed probable that all save those quite new to the scene had been keeping an eye on this person, who, despite her childish look, was plainly no new recruit. her self-possession demonstrated that as abundantly as the reception she got--the vigorous hoots and hoorays in the midst of clapping and cries-- 'does your mother know you're out?' 'go 'ome and darn your stockens.' 'hurrah!' 'you're a disgryce!' 'i bet on little blunt!' 'boo!' even in that portion of the crowd that did not relieve its feelings by either talking or shouting, there was observable the indefinable something that says, 'now the real fun's going to begin.' you see the same sort of manifestation in the playhouse when the favourite comedian makes his entrance. he may have come on quite soberly only to say, 'tea is ready,' but the grin on the face of the public is as ready as the tea. the people sit forward on the edge of their seats, and the whole atmosphere of the theatre undergoes some subtle change. so it was here. and yet in this young woman was the most complete lack of any dependence upon 'wiles' that platform ever saw. her little off-hand manner seemed to say, 'don't expect me to encourage you in any nonsense, and, above all, don't dare to presume upon my youth.' she began by calling on the government to save the need of further demonstration by giving the women of the country some speedy measure of justice. 'they'll have to give it to us in the end. they might just as well do it gracefully and at once as do it grudgingly and after more "scenes."' whereupon loud booing testified to the audience's horror of anything approaching unruly behaviour. 'oh, yes, you are scandalized at the trouble we make. but--i'll tell you a secret'--she paused and collected every eye and ear--'_we've only just begun_! you'd be simply _staggered_ if you knew what the government still has to expect from us, if they don't give us what we're asking for.' 'oh, ain't she just _awful_!' sniggered a girl with dyed hair and gorgeous jewelry. the men laughed and shook their heads. she just was! they crowded nearer. 'you'd better take care! there's a policeman with 'is eye on you.' 'it's on you, my friends, he's got his eye. you saw a little while ago how they had to take away somebody for disturbing our meeting. it wasn't a woman.' 'hear, hear!' 'the police are our friends, when the government allows them to be. the other day when there was that scene in the house, one of the policemen who was sent up to clear the gallery said he wished the members would come and do their own dirty work. they hate molesting us. we don't blame the police. we put the blame where it belongs--on the liberal government.' 'pore old gov'mint--gettin' it 'ot.' 'hooray fur the gov'mint!' 'we see at last--it's taken us a long time, but we see at last--women get nothing even from their professed political friends, they've nothing whatever to expect by waiting and being what's called "ladylike."' 'shame!' 'we don't want to depreciate the work of preparation the older, the "ladylike," suffrage women did, but we came at last to see that all that was possible to accomplish that way had been done. the cause hadn't moved an inch for years. it was even doing the other thing. yes, it was going backward. even the miserable little pettifogging share women had had in urban and borough councils--even that they were deprived of. and they were tamely submitting! women who had been splendid workers ten years ago, women with the best capacities for public service, had fallen into a kind of apathy. they were utterly disheartened. many had given up the struggle. that was the state of affairs with regard to woman's suffrage only a few short months ago. we looked at the suffragists who had grown grey in petitioning parliament and being constitutional and "ladylike," and we said, "_that's no good._"' through roars of laughter and indistinguishable denunciation certain fragments rose clear-- 'so you tried being a public nuisance!' 'a laughing-stock!' 'when we got to the place where we were a public laughing-stock we knew we were getting on.' the audience screamed. '_we began to feel encouraged!_' a very hurricane swept the crowd. perhaps it was chiefly at the gleam of eye and funny little wag of the head with the big floppity hat that made the people roar with delight. 'yes; when things got to that point even the worst old fogey in the cabinet----' 'name! name!' 'no, we are merciful. we withhold the name!' she smiled significantly, while the crowd yelled. 'even the very fogeyest of them all you'd think might have rubbed his eyes and said, "everybody's laughing at them--why, there must be something serious at the bottom of this!" but no; the members of the present government _never_ rub their eyes.' 'if you mean the prime minister----' 'hooray for the----' through the cheering you heard ernestine saying, 'no, i _didn't_ mean the prime minister. the prime minister, between you and me, is as good a suffragist as any of us. only he----well, he likes his comfort, does the prime minister!' when ernestine looked like that the crowd roared with laughter. yet it was impossible not to feel that when she herself smiled it was because she couldn't help it, and not, singularly enough, because of any dependence she placed upon the value of dimples as an asset of persuasion. what she seemed to be after was to stir these people up. it could not be denied that she knew how to do it, any more than it could be doubted that she was ignorant of how large a part in her success was played by a peculiarly amusing and provocative personality. always she was the first to be grave again. 'now if you noisy young men can manage to keep quiet for a minute, i'll tell you a little about our tactics,' she said obligingly. 'we know! breakin' up meetings!' '_rotten_ tactics!' 'that only shows you don't understand them yet. now i'll explain to you.' a little wind had sprung up and ruffled her hair. it blew open her long plain coat. it even threatened to carry away her foolish flapping hat. she held it on at critical moments, and tilted her delicate little greuze-like face at a bewitching angle, and all the while that she was looking so fetching, she was briskly trouncing by turns the liberal party and the delighted crowd. the man of the long moustachios, who had been swept to the other side of the monument, returned to his old inquiry with mounting cheer-- 'are we down'earted? _oh_, no!' 'pore man! 'ave a little pity on us, miss!' there were others who edged nearer, narrowing their eyes and squaring their shoulders as much as to say, 'now we'll just trip her up at the first opportunity.' 'that's a very black cloud, miss,' gorringe had whispered several minutes before a big raindrop had fallen on the lady's upturned face. as gorringe seemed to be the only one who had observed the overclouding of the sky, so she seemed to be the only one to think it mattered much. but one by one, like some species of enormous black 'four-o-clocks,' umbrellas blossomed above the undergrowth at the foot of the monument. the lady of the purple plumes had long vanished. a few others moved off, head turned over shoulder, as if doubtful of the policy of leaving while ernestine was explaining things. the great majority turned up their coat collars and stood their ground. the maid hurriedly produced an umbrella and held it over the lady. ''igher up, please, miss! caun't see,' said a youth behind. nothing cloudy about ernestine's policy: independence of all parties, and organized opposition to whatever government was in power, until something was done to prove it that friend to women it pretended to be. 'we are tired of being lied to and cheated. there isn't a man in the world whose promise at election time i would trust!' it struck some common chord in the gathering. they roared with appreciation, partly to hear that baby saying it. 'no, not one!' she repeated stoutly, taking the raindrops in her face, while the risen wind tugged at her wide hat. 'they'll promise us heaven, and earth, and the moon, and the stars, just to get our help. oh, we are old hands at it now, and we can see through the game!' 'old 'and _she_ is! ha! ha! old 'and!' 'do they let you sit up for supper?' 'we are going to every contested election from this on.' 'lord, yes! rain or shine _they_ don't mind!' 'they'll find they'll always have us to reckon with. and we aren't _the least bit_ impressed any more, when a candidate tells us he's in favour of woman's suffrage. we say, "oh, we've got four hundred and twenty of your kind already!"' 'oh! oh!' 'haw! haw!' 'oo did you say that to?' by name she held up to scorn the candidates who had given every reason for the general belief that they were indifferent, if not opposed, to woman's suffrage till the moment came for contesting a seat. 'then when they find us there (we hear it keeps them awake at night, thinking we always _will_ be there in future!)--when they find us there, they hold up their little white flags. yes. and they say, "oh, but i'm in favour of votes for women!" we just smile.' the damp gathering in front of her hallooed. 'yes. and when they protest what splendid friends of the suffrage they are, we say, "you don't care twopence about it. you are like the humbugs who are there in the house of commons already."' 'humbugs!' 'calls 'em 'umbugs to their fyces! haw! haw!' roars and booing filled the air. 'we know, for many of us helped to put them there. but that was before we knew any better. _never again!_' once more that wise little wag of the head, while the people shrieked with laughter. it was highly refreshing to think those government blokes couldn't take in ernestine. 'it's only the very young or the very foolish who will ever be caught that way again,' she assured them. ''ow old are you?' 'much too old to----' 'just the right age to think about gettin' married,' shouted a pasty-faced youth. 'haw! haw!' then a very penetrating voice screamed, 'will you be mine?' and that started off several others. though the interruptions did not anger nor in the least discompose this surprising young person in the cart--so far at least as could be seen--the audience looked in vain for her to give the notice to these that she had to other interruptions. it began to be plain that, ready as she was to take 'a straight ball' from anybody in the crowd, she discouraged impertinence by dint of an invincible deafness. if you wanted to get a rise out of ernestine you had to talk about her 'bloomin' policy.' no hint in her of the cheap smartness that had wrecked the other speaker. in that highly original place for such manifestation, ernestine offered all unconsciously a new lesson of the moral value that may lie in good-breeding. she won the loutish crowd to listen to her on her own terms. 'both parties,' she was saying, 'have been glad enough to use women's help to get candidates elected. we've been quite intelligent enough to canvass for them; we were intelligent enough to explain to the ignorant men----' she acknowledged the groans by saying, 'of course there are none of that sort here, but elsewhere there are such things as ignorant men, and women by dozens and by scores are sent about to explain to them why they should vote this way or that. but as the chairman told you, any woman who does that kind of thing in the future is a very poor creature. she deserves no sympathy when her candidate forgets his pledge and sneers at womanhood in the house. if we put ourselves under men's feet we must _expect_ to be trodden on. we've come to think it's time women should give up the door-mat attitude. that's why we've determined on a policy of independence. we see how well independence has worked for the irish party--we see what a power in the house even the little labour party is, with only thirty members. some say those thirty labour members lead the great liberal majority by the nose----' 'hear! hear!' 'rot!' they began to cheer lothian scott. some one tossed mr. chamberlain's name into the air. like a paper balloon it was kept afloat by vigorous puffings of the human breath. ''ray fur joe!' 'three cheers for joe!'--and it looked as if ernestine had lost them. 'listen!' she held out her hands for silence, but the tumult only grew. 'just a moment. i want to tell you men--here's a friend of yours--he's a new-comer, but he looks just your kind! give him a hearing.' she strained her voice to overtop the din. 'he's a _liberal_.' 'hooray!' 'yes, i thought you'd listen to a liberal. he's asking that old question, why did we wait till the liberals came in? why didn't we worry the conservatives when they were in power? the answer to that is that the woman's suffrage cause was then still in the stage of mild constitutional propaganda. women were still occupied in being ladylike and trying to get justice by deserving it. now wait a moment.' she stemmed another torrent. 'be quiet, while i tell you something. you men have taught us that women can get a great deal by coaxing, often far more than we deserve! but justice isn't one of the things that's ever got that way. justice has to be fought for. justice has to be won.' howls and uproar. 'you men----' (it began to be apparent that whenever the roaring got so loud that it threatened to drown her, she said, 'you men--' very loud, and then gave her voice a rest while the din died down that they might hear what else the irrepressible ernestine had to say upon that absorbing topic). 'you men discovered years ago that you weren't going to get justice just by deserving it, or even by being men, so when you got tired of asking politely for the franchise, you took to smashing windows and burning down custom houses, and overturning bishops' carriages; while _we_, why, we haven't so much as upset a curate off a bicycle!' others might laugh, not ernestine. 'you men,' she went on, 'got up riots in the streets--_real_ riots where people lost their lives. it may have to come to that with us. but the government may as well know that if women's political freedom has to be bought with blood, we can pay that price, too.' above a volley of boos and groans she went on, 'but we are opposed to violence, and it will be our last resort. we are leaving none of the more civilized ways untried. we publish a great amount of literature--i hope you are all buying some of it--you can't understand our movement unless you do! we organize branch unions and we hire halls--we've got the somerset hall to-night, and we hope you'll all come and bring your friends. we have very interesting debates, and _we_ answer questions, politely!' she made her point to laughter. 'we don't leave any stone unturned. because there are people who don't buy our literature, and who don't realize how interesting the somerset hall debates are, we go into the public places where the idle and the foolish, _like that man just over there!_--where they may point and laugh and make their poor little jokes. but let me tell you we never hold a meeting where we don't win friends to our cause. a lot of you who are jeering and interrupting now are going to be among our best friends. _all_ the intelligent ones are going to be on our side.' above the laughter, a rich groggy voice was heard, 'them that's against yer are all drunk, miss' (hiccup). 'd--don't mind 'em!' ernestine just gave them time to appreciate that, and then went on-- 'men and women were never meant to fight except side by side. you've been told by one of the other speakers how the men suffer by the women more and more underselling them in the labour market----' 'don't need no tellin'.' 'bloody black-legs!' 'do you know how that has come about? i'll tell you. it's come about through your keeping the women out of your unions. you never would have done that if they'd had votes. you saw the important people ignored them. you thought it was safe for you to do the same. but i tell you it _isn't ever_ safe to ignore the women!' high over the groans and laughter the voice went on, 'you men have got to realize that if our battle against the common enemy is to be won, you've got to bring the women into line.' 'what's to become of chivalry?' 'what _has_ become of chivalry?' she retorted; and no one seemed to have an answer ready, but the crowd fell silent, like people determined to puzzle out a conundrum. 'don't you know that there are girls and women in this very city who are working early and late for rich men, and who are expected by those same employers to live on six shillings a week? perhaps i'm wrong in saying the men expect the women to live on that. it may be they _know_ that no girl can--it may be the men know how that struggle ends. but do they care? do _they_ bother about chivalry? yet they and all of you are dreadfully exercised for fear having a vote would unsex women. we are too delicate--women are such fragile flowers.' the little face was ablaze with scorn. 'i saw some of those fragile flowers last week--and i'll tell you where. not a very good place for gardening. it was a back street in liverpool. the "flowers"' (oh, the contempt with which she loaded the innocent word!)--'the flowers looked pretty dusty--but they weren't quite dead. i stood and looked at them! hundreds of worn women coming down steep stairs and pouring out into the street. what had they all been doing there in that--garden, i was going to say!--that big grimy building? they had been making cigars!--spending the best years of their lives, spending all their youth in that grim dirty street making cigars for men. whose chivalry prevents that? why were they coming out at that hour of the day? because their poor little wages were going to be lowered, and with the courage of despair they were going on strike. no chivalry prevents men from getting women at the very lowest possible wage--(i want you to notice the low wage is the main consideration in all this)--men get these women, that they say are so tender and delicate, to undertake the almost intolerable toil of the rope-walk. they get women to make bricks. girls are driven--when they are not driven to worse--they are driven to being lodging-house slaveys or over-worked scullions. _that's_ all right! women are graciously permitted to sweat over other people's washing, when they should be caring for their own babies. in birmingham'--she raised the clear voice and bent her flushed face over the crowd--'in birmingham those same "fragile flowers" make bicycles to keep alive! at cradley heath we make chains. at the pit brows we sort coal. but a vote would soil our hands! you may wear out women's lives in factories, you may sweat them in the slums, you may drive them to the streets. you _do_. but a vote would unsex them.' her full throat choked. she pressed her clenched fist against her chest and seemed to admonish herself that emotion wasn't her line. 'if you are intelligent you know as well as i do that women are exploited the length and the breadth of the land. and yet you come talking about chivalry! now, i'll just tell you men something for your future guidance.' she leaned far out over the crowd and won a watchful silence. '_that talk about chivalry makes women sick._' in the midst of the roar, she cried, 'yes, they mayn't always show it, for women have had to learn to conceal their deepest feelings, but depend on it that's how they feel.' then, apparently thinking she'd been serious enough, 'there might be some sense in talking to us about chivalry if you paid our taxes for us,' she said; while the people recovered their spirits in roaring with delight at the coolness of that suggestion. 'if you forgave us our crimes because we are women! if you gave annuities to the eighty-two women out of every hundred in this country who are slaving to earn their bread--many of them having to provide for their children; some of them having to feed sick husbands or old parents. but chivalry doesn't carry you men as far as that! no! no further than the door! you'll hold that open for a lady and then expect her to grovel before such an exhibition of _chivalry_! we don't need it, thank you! we can open doors for ourselves.' she had quite recovered her self-possession, and it looked, as she faced the wind and the raindrops, as if she were going to wind up in first-class fighting form. the umbrellas went down before a gleam of returning sun. an aged woman in rusty black, who late in the proceedings had timidly adventured a little way into the crowd, stood there lost and wondering. she had peered about during the last part of miss blunt's speech with faded incredulous eyes, listened to a sentence or two, and then, turning with a pathetic little nervous laugh of apology, consulted the faces of the lords of creation. when the speaker was warned that a policeman had his eye on her, the little old woman's instant solicitude showed that the dauntless suffragist had both touched and frightened her. she craned forward with a fluttering anxiety till she could see for herself. yes! a stern-looking policeman coming slow and majestic through the crowd. was he going to hale the girl off to holloway? no; he came to a standstill near some rowdy boys, and he stared straight before him--herculean, impassive, the very image of conscious authority. whenever ernestine said anything particularly dreadful, the old lady craned her neck to see how the policeman was taking it. when ernestine fell to drubbing the government, the old lady, in her agitation greatly daring, squeezed up a little nearer as if half of a mind to try to placate that august image of the power that was being flouted. but it ended only in trembling and furtive watching, till ernestine's reckless scorn at the idea of chivalry moved the ancient dame faintly to admonish the girl, as a nurse might speak to a wilful child. 'dear! _dear!_'--and then furtively trying to soothe the great policeman she twittered at his elbow, 'no! no! she don't mean it!' when ernestine declared that women could open doors for themselves, some one called out-- 'when do you expect to be a k.c.?' 'oh, quite soon,' she answered cheerfully, with her wind-blown hat rakishly over one ear, while the boys jeered. 'well,' said the policeman, 'she's pawsed 'er law examination!' as some of the rowdiest boys, naturally surprised at this interjection, looked round, he rubbed it in. 'did better than the men,' he assured them. was it possible that this dread myrmidon of the law was vaunting the prowess of the small rebel? miss levering moved nearer. 'is that so? did i understand you----' with a surly face he glanced round at her. not for this lady's benefit had the admission been made. 'so they say!' he observed, with an assumption of indifference, quite other than the tone in which he had betrayed where his sympathies, in spite of himself, really were. well, well, there were all kinds, even of people who looked so much alike as policemen. now the crowd, with him and miss levering as sole exceptions, were dissolved again in laughter. what had that girl been saying? 'yes, we're spectres at the liberal feast; and we're becoming inconveniently numerous. we've got friends everywhere. up and down the country we go organizing----' ''ow do you go--in a pram?' at which the crowd rocked with delight. the only person who hadn't heard the sally, you would say, was the orator. on she went-- 'organizing branches and carrying forward the work of propaganda. you people in london stroll about with your hands in your pockets and your hats on the back of your heads, and with never a _notion_ of what's going on in the world that thinks and works. that's the world that's making the future. some of you understand it so little you think all that we tell you is a joke--just as the governing class used to laugh at the idea of a labour party in conservative england. while those people were laughing, the labour men were at work. they talked and wrote; they lectured, and printed, and distributed, and organized, and one fine day there was a general election! to everybody's astonishment, thirty labour men were returned to parliament! just that same sort of thing is going on now among women. we have our people at work everywhere. and let me tell you, the most wonderful part of it all is to discover how little teaching we have to do. how _ready_ the women are, all over the three kingdoms.' 'rot!' 'the women are against it.' 'read the letters in the papers.' 'why don't more women come to hear you if they're so in favour?' 'the converted don't need to come. it's you who need to come!' above roars of derision: 'you felt that or, of course, you wouldn't be here. men are so reasonable! as to the women who write letters to the papers to say they're against the suffrage, they are very ignorant, those ladies, or else it may be they write their foolish letters to please their menfolk. some of them, i know, think the end and aim of woman is to please. i don't blame them; it's the penalty of belonging to the parasite class. but those women are a poor little handful. they write letters to prove that they "don't count," and they _prove it_.' she waved them away with one slim hand. 'that's one reason we don't bother much with holding drawing-room meetings. the older suffragists have been holding drawing-room meetings _for forty years_!' she brought it out to shouts. 'but we go to the mill gates! that's where we hold our meetings! we hold them at the pit-brow; we hold them everywhere that men and women are working and suffering and hoping for a better time.' with that miss ernestine sat down. they applauded her lustily; they revelled in laughing praise, yielding to a glow that they imagined to be pure magnanimity. 'are there any questions?' miss claxton, with her eyes still screwed up to meet the returning sun and the volley of interrogatory, appeared at the side of the cart. 'now, one at a time, please. what? i can't hear when you all talk together. write it down and hand it to me. now, you people who are nearer--what? very well! here's a man who wants to know whether if women had the vote wouldn't it make dissension in the house, when husband and wife held different views?' she had smiled and nodded, as though in this question she welcomed an old friend, but instead of answering it she turned to the opposite side and looked out over the clamourers on the left. they were engaged for the most part in inquiring about her matrimonial prospects, and why she had carried that dog-whip. something in her face made them fall silent, for it was both good-humoured and expectant, even intent. 'i'm waiting,' she said, after a little pause. 'at every meeting we hold there's usually another question put at the same time as that first one about the quarrels that will come of husbands and wives holding different opinions. as though the quarrelsome ones had been waiting for women's suffrage before they fell out! when the man on my right asks, "wouldn't they quarrel?" there's almost always another man on my left who says, "if women were enfranchised we wouldn't be an inch forrader, because the wife would vote as her husband told her to. the man's vote would simply be duplicated, and things would be exactly as they were." neither objector seems to see that the one scruple cancels the other. but to the question put this afternoon, i'll just say this.' she bent forward, and she held up her hand. 'to the end of time there'll be people who won't rest till they've found something to quarrel about. and to the end of time there'll be wives who follow blindly where their husbands lead. and to the end of time there'll be husbands who are influenced by their wives. what's more, all this has gone on ever since there were husbands, and it will go on as long as there are any left, and it's got no more to do with women's voting than it has with their making cream tarts. no, not half as much!' she laughed. 'now, where's that question that you were going to write?' some one handed up a wisp of white paper. miss claxton opened it, and upon the subject presented she embarked with the promising beginning, 'your economics are pretty wobbly, my friend,' and proceeded to clear the matter up and incidentally to flatten out the man. one wondered that under such auspices 'question time' was as popular as it obviously was. there is no doubt a fearful joy in adventuring yourself in certain danger before the public eye. besides the excitement of taking a personal share in the game, there is always the hope that it may have been reserved to you to stump the speaker and to shine before the multitude. a gentleman who had vainly been trying to get her to hear him, again asked something in a hesitating way, stumbling and going back to recast the form of his question. he was evidently quite in earnest, but either unaccustomed to the sound of his own voice or unnerved to find himself bandying words in hyde park with a suffragette. so when he stuck fast in the act of fashioning his phrases, miss claxton bent in the direction whence the voice issued, and said, briskly obliging-- 'you needn't go on. i know the rest. what this gentleman is trying to ask is----' and although no denial on his part reached the public ear, it was not hard to imagine him seething with indignation, down there helpless in his crowded corner, while the facile speaker propounded as well as demolished his objection to her and all her works. 'yes; one last question. let us have it.' 'how can you pretend that women want the vote? why, there are hardly any here.' 'more women would join us openly but for fear of their fellow-cowards. thousands upon thousands of women feel a sympathy with this movement they dare not show.' 'lots of women don't want the vote.' 'what women don't want it? are you worrying about a handful who think because they have been trained to like subservience everybody else ought to like subservience, too? the very existence of a movement like this is a thorn in their sleek sides. we are a reproach and a menace to such women. but this isn't a movement to compel anybody to vote. it is to give the right to those who _do_ want it--to those signatories of the second largest petition ever laid on the table of the house of commons--to the , textile workers--to the women who went last month in deputation to the prime minister, and who represented over half a million belonging to trades unions and organized societies. to--perhaps more than all, to the unorganized women, those whose voices are never heard in public. _they_, as mrs. bewley told you--they are beginning to want it. the women who are made to work over hours--_they_ want the vote. to compel them to work over hours is illegal. but who troubles to see that laws are fairly interpreted for the unrepresented? i know a factory where a notice went up yesterday to say that the women employed there will be required to work twelve hours a day for the next few weeks. instead of starting at eight, they must begin at six, and work till seven. the hours in this particular case are illegal--as the employer will find out!' she threw in with a flash, and one saw by that illumination the avenue through which his enlightenment would come. 'but in many shops where women work, twelve hours a day is legal. much of women's employment is absolutely unrestricted, except that they may not be worked on sunday. and while all that is going on, comfortable gentlemen sit in armchairs and write alarmist articles about the falling birth-rate and the horrible amount of infant mortality. a government calling itself liberal goes pettifogging on about side issues, while women are debased and babies die. here and there we find a man who realizes that the main concern of the state should be its children, and that you can't get worthy citizens where the mothers are sickly and enslaved. the question of statecraft, rightly considered, always reaches back to the mother. that state is most prosperous that most considers her. no state that forgets her can survive. the future is rooted in the well-being of women. if you rob the women, your children and your children's children pay. men haven't realized it--your boasted logic has never yet reached so far. of all the community, the women who give the next generation birth, and who form its character during the most impressionable years of its life--of all the community, these mothers now or mothers to be ought to be set free from the monstrous burden that lies on the shoulders of millions of women. those of you who want to see women free, hold up your hands.' a strange, orchid-like growth sprang up in the air. hands gloved and ungloved, hands of many shades and sizes, hands grimy and hands ringed. something curious to the unaccustomed eye, these curling, clutching, digitated members raised above their usual range and common avocations, suddenly endowed with speech, and holding forth there in the silent upper air for the whole human economy. 'now, down.' the pallid growth vanished. 'those against the freedom of women.' again hands, hands. far too many to suit the promoters of the meeting. but miss claxton announced, 'the ayes are in the majority. the meeting is with us.' 'she can't even count!' the air was full of the taunting phrase--'can't count!' 'yes,' said miss claxton, wheeling round again upon the people, as some of her companions began to get down out of the cart. 'yes, she can count, and she can see when men don't play fair. each one in that group held up _two_ hands when the last vote was taken.' she made a great deal of this incident, and elevated it into a principle. 'it is entirely characteristic of the means men will stoop to use in opposing the women's cause.' to hoots and groans and laughter the tam-o'-shanter disappeared. 'rank socialists every one of 'em!' was one of the verdicts that flew about. 'they ought _all_ to be locked up.' 'a danger to the public peace.' a man circulating about on the edge of the crowd was calling out, ''andsome souvenir. scented paper 'andkerchief! with full programme of great suffragette meeting in 'yde park!' as the crowd thinned, some of the roughs pressing forward were trying to 'rush' the speakers. the police hastened to the rescue. it looked as if there would be trouble. vida and her maid escaped towards the marble arch. ''andsome scented 'andkerchief! suffragette programme!' the raucous voice followed them, and not the voice alone. through the air was wafted the cheap and stifling scent of patchouli. chapter x jean dunbarton received mr. geoffrey stonor upon his entrance into mrs. freddy's drawing-room with a charming little air of fluttered responsibility. 'mrs. freddy and i have been lunching with the whyteleafes. she had to go afterwards to say good-bye to some people who are leaving for abroad. so mrs. freddy asked me to turn over my girls' club to your cousin sophia----' 'are you given to good works, too?' he interrupted. 'what a terribly philanthropic age it is!' jean smiled as she went on with her explanation. 'although it wasn't her sunday, sophia, like an angel, has gone to the club. and i'm here to explain. mrs. freddy said if she wasn't back on the stroke----' 'oh, i dare say i'm a trifle early.' it was a theory that presented fewer difficulties than that he should be kept waiting. 'i was to beg you to give her a few minutes' grace in any case.' instead of finding a seat, he stood looking down at the charming face. his indifference to mrs freddy's precise programme lent his eyes a misleading look of absent-mindedness, which dashed the girl's obvious excitement over the encounter. 'i see,' he had said slowly. what he saw was a graceful creature of medium height, with a clear colour and grey-blue eyes fixed on him with an interest as eager as it was frank. what the grey-blue eyes saw was probably some glorified version of stonor's straight, firm features, a little blunt, which lacked that semblance of animation given by colour, and seemed to scorn to make up for it by any mobility of expression. the grey eyes, set somewhat too prominently, were heavy when not interested, and the claim to good looks which nobody had dreamed of denying seemed to rest mainly upon the lower part of his face. the lips, over-full, perhaps, were firmly moulded, but the best lines were those curves from the ear to the quite beautiful chin. the gloss on the straight light-brown hair may have stood to the barber's credit, but only health could keep so much grace still in the carriage of a figure heavier than should be in a man of forty--one who, without a struggle, had declined from polo unto golf. there was no denying that the old expression of incipient sullenness, fleeting or suppressed, was deepening into the main characteristic of his face, though it was held that he, as little as any man, had cause to present that aspect to a world content to be his oyster. yet, as no doubt he had long ago learned, it was that very expression which was the cause of much of the general concern people seemed to feel to placate, to amuse, to dispel the menace of that cloud. the girl saw it, and her heart failed her. 'mrs. freddy said if i told you the children were in the garden expecting you, you wouldn't have the heart to go away directly.' 'she is right. i _haven't_ the heart.' and in that lifting of his cloud, the girl's own face shone an instant. 'i should have felt it a terrible responsibility if you were to go.' she spoke as if the gladness that was not to be repressed called for some explanation. 'mrs. freddy says that she and mr. freddy see so little of you nowadays. that was why she made such a point of my coming and trying to--to----' 'you needed a great deal of urging then?' he betrayed the half-amused, half-ironic surprise of the man accustomed to find people ready enough, as a rule, to clutch at excuse for a _tête-à-tête_. although she had flushed with mingled embarrassment and excitement, he proceeded to increase her perturbation by suggesting, 'mrs. freddy had to overcome your dislike for the mission.' 'dislike? oh, no!' 'what then?' 'my--well----' she lifted her eyes, and dared to look him full in the face as she said, 'i suppose you know you are rather alarming.' 'am i?' he smiled. people less interested in him than jean were grateful to geoffrey stonor when he smiled. they felt relieved from some intangible responsibility for the order of the universe. the girl brightened wonderfully. 'oh, yes, very alarming indeed,' she assured him cheerfully. 'how do you make that out?' 'i don't need to "make it out." it's so very plain.' then a little hastily, as if afraid of having said something that sounded like impious fault-finding, 'anybody's alarming who is so--so much talked about, and so--well, like you, you understand.' 'i don't understand,' he objected mendaciously--'not a little bit.' 'i think you must,' she said, with her candid air. 'though i had made up my mind that i wouldn't be afraid of you any more since our week-end at ulland.' 'ah, that's better!' there was nothing in the words, but in the gentleness with which he brought them out, so much that the girl turned her eyes away and played with the handle of her parasol. 'have you been reading any more poetry?' he said. 'no.' 'no? why not?' she shook her head. 'it doesn't sound the same.' 'what! i spoilt it for you?' she laughed, and again she shook her head, but with something shy, half-frightened in her look. nervously she dashed at a diversion. 'i'm afraid i was a little misleading about the children. they aren't in the garden yet. shall we go up and see them having tea?' 'oh, no, it would be bad for their little digestions to hurry them.' he sat down. her face gave him as much credit as though he had done some fine self-abnegating deed. they spoke of that sunday walk in the valley below the ulland links, and the crossing of a swollen little stream on a rotting and rickety log. 'i _had_ to go,' she explained apologetically. 'hermione had gone on and forgotten the puppy hadn't learnt to follow. i was afraid he'd lose himself.' 'it _was_ a dangerous place to go across,' he said, as if to justify some past opinion. her eyes were a little mischievous. 'i never thought _you'd_ come.' 'why?' he demanded. 'oh, because i thought you'd be too----' his slow look quickened as if to surprise in her some reflection upon his too solid flesh--or might it even be upon the weight of years? but the uncritical admiration in her face must have reassured him before the words, 'i thought you'd be too grand. it was delightful to find you weren't.' he kept his eyes on her. 'are you always so happy?' 'oh, i hope not. that would be rather too inhuman, wouldn't it?' 'too celestial, perhaps!' he laughed--but he was looking into the blue of her eyes as if through them he too had caught a glimpse of paradise. 'i remember thinking at ulland,' he said more slowly again, 'i had never seen any one quite so happy.' 'i was happy at ulland. but i'm not happy now.' 'then your looks belie you.' 'no, i am very sad. i have to go away from this delightful london to scotland. i shall be away for weeks. it's too dismal.' 'why do you go?' 'my grandfather makes me. he hates london. and his dreary old house on a horrible windy hill--he simply loves that!' 'and you don't love it _at all_. i see.' he seemed to be thinking out something. compunction visited the face before him. 'i didn't mean to say i didn't love it _at all_. it's like those people you care to be with for a little while, but if you must go being with them for ever you come to hate them--almost.' they sat silent for a moment, then with slow reflectiveness, like one who thinks aloud, he said-- 'i have to go to scotland next week.' 'do you! what part?' 'i go to inverness-shire.' 'why, that's where we are! near----' 'why shouldn't i drop down upon you some day?' 'oh, _will_ you? that would be----' she seemed to save herself from some gulf of betrayal. 'there are walks about my grandfather's more beautiful than anything you ever saw--or perhaps i ought to say more beautiful than anything _i_ ever saw.' 'nicer walks than at ulland?' 'oh, no comparison! one is a bridle-path all along a wonderful brown trout stream that goes racing down our hill. there's a moor on one side, and a wood on the other, and a peat bog at the bottom.' 'we might perhaps stop short of the bog.' 'yes, we'd stop at old mctaggart's. he's the head-keeper and a real friend. mctaggart "has the gaelic." but he hasn't much else, so perhaps you'd prefer his wife.' 'why should i prefer his wife?' jean's face was full of laughter. stonor's plan of going to scotland had singularly altered the character of that country. its very inhabitants were now perceived to be enlivening even to talk about; to _know_--the gamekeeper's wife alone--would repay the journey thither. 'i assure you mrs. mctaggart is a travelled, experienced person.' he shook his head while he humoured her. 'i'm not sure travel or experience is what we chiefly prize--in ladies.' 'oh, isn't it? i didn't know, you see. i didn't know how dreadfully you might miss the terribly clever people you're accustomed to in london.' 'it's because of the terribly clever people we are glad to go away.' he waxed so eloquent in his admiration of the womanly woman (who seemed by implication to have steered clear of mrs. mctaggart's pitfalls), that jean asked with dancing eyes-- 'are you consoling me for not being clever?' 'are you sure you aren't?' 'oh, dear, yes. no possible shadow of doubt about it.' 'then,' he laughed, 'i'm coming to inverness-shire! i'll even go so far as to call on the mctaggarts if you'll undertake that she won't instruct me about foreign lands.' 'no such irrelevance! she'd tell you about london. she was here for six whole months. and she got something out of it i don't believe even you have. a certificate of merit.' 'no. london certainly never gave me one.' 'you see! mrs. mctaggart lived the life of the metropolis with such success that she passed an examination before she left. the subject was: "incidents in the life of abraham." it says so on the certificate. she has it framed and hung in the parlour.' he smiled. 'i admit few can point to such fruits of metropolitan ausbildung. but i think i shall prefer the burnside--or even the bog.' 'no; the moors. they're best of all.' she sat looking straight before her, with her heart's deep well overflowing at her eyes. as if she felt vaguely that some sober reason must be found for seeing those same moors in this glorified light all of a sudden, she went on, 'i'll show you a special place where white heather grows, and the rabbits tumble about as tame as kittens. it's miles away from the sea, but the gulls come sunning themselves and walking about like pigeons. i used to hide up there when i was little and naughty. nobody ever found the place out except an old gaberlunzie, and i gave him tuppence not to tell.' 'yes, show me that place.' his face was wonderfully attractive so! 'and we'll take the earthly--william morris--along, won't we?' 'i thought you'd given up reading poetry.' 'yes--to myself. i used to think i knew about poetry, yes, better than anybody but the poets. there are people as arrogant as that.' 'why, it's worse than mrs. mctaggart!' the girl was grave, even tremulous. 'but, no! i never had a notion of what poetry really was till down at ulland you took my book away from me, and read aloud----' * * * * * mr. freddy let himself and lord borrodaile in at the front door so closely on the heels of mrs. freddy that the servant who had closed the door behind her had not yet vanished into the lower regions. at a word from that functionary, mr. freddy left his brother depositing hat and stick with the usual deliberation, and himself ran upstairs two steps at a time. he caught up with his wife just outside the drawing-room door, as she paused to take off her veil in front of that mirror which mrs. freddy said should be placed between the front door and the drawing-room in every house in the land for the reassurance of the timid feminine creature. she was known to add privately that it was not ignored by men--and that those who came often, contracted a habit of hurrying upstairs close at the servant's heels, in order to have two seconds to spare for furtive consultation, while he went on to open the drawing-room door. she had observed this pantomime more than once, leaning over the banisters, herself on the way downstairs. 'they tell me stonor's been here half an hour,' said mr. freddy, breathlessly. 'you're dreadfully late!' 'no, darling----' he held out his watch to confound her. 'you tell me you aren't late?' 'sh--no. i do so sympathize with a girl who has no mother,' with which enigmatic rejoinder she pushed open the door, and went briskly through the double drawing-room to where mr. geoffrey stonor and jean dunbarton were sitting by a window that overlooked the square. stonor waved away mrs. freddy's shower of excuses, saying-- 'you've come just in time to save us from falling out. i've been telling miss dunbarton that in another age she would have been a sort of dinah morris, or more likely another st. ursula with a train of seven thousand virgins.' 'and all because i've told him about my girls' club! and----' 'yes,' he said, '"and"----' he turned away and shook hands with his two kinsmen. he sat talking to them with his back to the girl. it was a study in those delicate weights and measures that go to estimating the least tangible things in personality, to note how his action seemed not only to dim her vividness but actually to efface the girl. in the first moments she herself accepted it at that. her looks said: he is not aware of me any more--ergo, i don't exist. during the slight distraction incident to the bringing in of tea, and mr. freddy's pushing up some of the big chairs, mr. stonor had a moment's remembrance of her. he spoke of his scottish plans and fell to considering dates. then all of a sudden she saw that again and yet more woundingly his attention had wandered. the moment came while lord borrodaile was busy russianizing a cup of tea, and mr. freddy, balancing himself on very wide-apart legs in front of his wife's tea-table, had interrogated her-- 'what do you think, shall i ring and say we aren't at home?' 'perhaps it would be----' mrs. freddy's eye flying back from stonor caught her brother-in-law's. 'freddy'--she arrested her husband as he was making for the bell--'say, "except to miss levering."' 'all right. except to miss levering.' and it was at that point that jean saw she wasn't being listened to. even mrs. freddy, looking up, was conscious of something in stonor's face that made her say-- 'old sir hervey's youngest daughter. you knew _him_, i suppose, even if you haven't met her. jean, you aren't giving mr. stonor anything to eat.' 'no, no, thanks. i don't know why i took this.' he set down his tea-cup. 'i never have tea.' 'you're like everybody else,' said the girl, in a half-petulant aside. 'does nobody have tea?' she lowered her voice while the others discussed who had already been sent away, and who might still be expected to invade. 'nobody remembers anybody else when that miss levering of theirs is to the fore. you began to say when--to talk about scotland.' he had taken out his watch. 'i was wondering if the children were down yet. shall we go and see?' jean jumped up with alacrity. 'sh!' mrs. freddy held up a finger and silenced her little circle. 'they must have thought i was ringing for toast--somebody's being let in!' 'let's hope it's miss levering,' said mr. freddy. 'i must see those young barbarians of yours before i go,' said stonor, rising with decision. the sound of voices on the stair was quite distinct now. by the time the servant had opened the door and announced: 'mrs. heriot, miss heriot, captain beeching,' mr. freddy, the usually gracious host, was leading the way through the back drawing-room, unblushingly abetting mr. stonor's escape under the very eyes of persons who would have gone miles on the chance of meeting him. small wonder that jean was consoled for knowing herself too shy to follow, if she remembered that he had actually asked her to do so! she showed no surprise at the tacit assumption on the part of his relations that geoffrey stonor could never be expected to sit there as common mortals might, making himself more or less agreeable to whoever might chance to drop in. unless they were 'very special' of course he couldn't be expected to put up with them. but what on earth was happening! no wonder mrs. freddy looked aghast. for mrs. heriot had had the temerity to execute a short cut and waylay the escaping lion. 'oh, how do you do?'--she thrust out a hand. and he went out as if she had been thin air! it was the kind of insolence that used to be more common, because safer, than it is likely to be in future--a form of condoned brutality that used to inspire more awe than disgust. people were guilty even of a slavish admiration of those who had the nerve to administer this wholly disproportionate reproof to the merely maladroit. it could be done only by one whom all the world had conspired to befog and befool about his importance in the scheme of things. small wonder the girl, too, was bewildered. for no one seemed to dream of resenting what had occurred. the lesson conveyed appeared to be that the proper attitude to certain of your fellow-creatures was very much the traditional one towards royalty. you were not to speak unless you were spoken to. and yet this man who with impunity snubbed persons of consideration, was the same one who was coming to call on sally mctaggart--he was going to walk the bridle-path along the burnside to the white heather haven. with the dazed look in her eyes, and cheeks scarlet with sympathy and confusion, the girl had run forward to greet her aunt, and to do her little share toward dissipating the awkward chill that had fallen on the company. after producing a stammered, 'oh--a--i thought it was----' the immediate effect on mrs. heriot was to make her both furious and cowed. though a nervous stream of talk trickled on, mrs. freddy's face did not lose its flustered look nor did the company regain its ease, until a further diversion was created by the appearance of miss levering with an alert, humorous-looking man of middle-age in her train. 'mr. greatorex was passing just in time to help me out of my hansom,' was her greeting to mrs. freddy. 'and i,' said the gentleman, 'insisted on being further rewarded by being brought in.' '_that_ is miss levering?' whispered jean, partly to distract her aunt. 'yes; why not?' said lord borrodaile, overhearing. 'oh, i somehow imagined her different.' 'she _is_ different,' said aunt lydia, with bitter gloom. 'you would never know in the least what she was like from the look of her.' lord borrodaile's eyes twinkled. 'is that so?' he said, indulgent to a mood which hardly perhaps made for dispassionate appraisement. 'you don't believe it!' said mrs. heriot. 'of course not!' 'i was only thinking what a fillip it gave acquaintance to be in doubt whether a person was a sinner or a saint.' 'it wouldn't for me,' said jean. 'oh, you see, you're so scotch.' he was incorrigible! 'i didn't hear, who is the man?' jean asked, as those not knowing usually did. although far from distinguished in appearance, mr. greatorex would have stood in no danger of being overlooked, even if he had not those twinkling jewel-like eyes, and two strands of coal-black hair trained across his large bumpy cranium, from the left ear to the right, and securely pasted there. 'it's that wretched radical, st. john greatorex.' mrs. heriot turned from her niece to lord borrodaile. 'what foundation is there,' she demanded, 'for the rumour that he tells such good stories at dinner? _i_ never heard any.' 'ah, i believe he keeps them till the ladies have left the room.' 'you don't like him, either,' said mrs. heriot, reaching out for the balm of alliance with lord borrodaile. but he held aloof. 'oh, they say he has his points--a good judge of wine, and knows more about parliamentary procedure than most of us.' 'how you men stand up for one another! you know perfectly well you can't endure him.' mrs. heriot jerked her head away and faced the group round the tea-table. 'what is she saying? that she's been to a suffrage meeting in hyde park!' 'how could she! nothing would induce me to go and listen to such people!' said miss dunbarton. her eyes, as well as mrs. heriot's, were riveted on the tall figure, tea-cup in hand, moving away from the table now to make room for some new arrivals, and drawing after her a portion of the company, including lady whyteleafe and richard farnborough, who one after another had come in a few moments before. it was to the young man that greatorex was saying, with a twinkle, 'i am sure mr. farnborough agrees with me.' slightly self-conscious, he replied, 'about miss levering being too--a----' 'for that sort of thing altogether "too."' 'how do you know?' said the lady herself, with a teasing smile. greatorex started out of the chair in which he had just deposited himself at her side. 'god bless my soul!' he said. 'she's only saying that to get a rise out of you.' farnborough seemed unable to bear the momentary shadow obscuring the lady's brightness. 'ah, yes'--greatorex leaned back again--'your frocks aren't serious enough.' 'haven't i been telling you it's an exploded notion that the suffrage people are all dowdy and dull?' 'pooh!' said mr. greatorex. 'you talk about some of them being pretty,' farnborough said. '_i_ didn't see a good-looking one among 'em.' 'ah, you men are so unsophisticated; you missed the fine feathers.' 'plenty o' feathers on the one i heard.' 'yes, but not _fine_ feathers. a man judges of the general effect. we can, at a pinch, see past unbecoming clothes, can't we, lady whyteleafe? we see what women could make of themselves if they took the trouble.' 'all the same,' said the lady appealed to, 'it's odd they don't see how much better policy it would be if they _did_ take a little trouble about their looks. now, if we got our maids to do those women's hair for them--if we lent them our french hats--ah, _then_'--lady whyteleafe nodded till the pear-shaped pearls in her ears swung out like milk-white bells ringing an alarum--'they'd convert you creatures fast enough then.' 'perhaps "convert" is hardly the word,' said vida, with ironic mouth. as though on an impulse, she bent forward to say, with her lips near lady whyteleafe's pearl drop: 'what if it's the aim of the movement to get away from the need of just these little dodges?' 'dodges?' but without the exclamation, miss levering must have seen that she had been speaking in an unknown tongue. a world where beauty exists for beauty's sake--which is love's sake--and not for tricking money or power out of men, even the possibility of such a world is beyond the imagining of many. something was said about a deputation of women who had waited on mr. greatorex. 'hm, yes, yes.' he fiddled with his watch chain. as though she had just recalled the circumstances, 'oh, yes,' vida said, 'i remember i thought at the time, in my modest way, it was nothing short of heroic of them to go asking audience of their arch opponent.' 'it didn't come off!' he wagged his strange head. 'oh,' she said innocently, 'i thought they insisted on bearding the lion in his den.' 'of course i wasn't going to be bothered with a lot of----' 'you don't mean you refused to go out and face them!' he put on a comic look of terror. 'i wouldn't have done it for worlds! but a friend of mine went and had a look at 'em.' 'well,' she laughed,'did he get back alive?' 'yes, but he advised me not to go. "you're quite right," he said. "don't you think of bothering," he said. "i've looked over the lot," he said, "and there isn't a week-ender among 'em."' upon the general laugh that drew hermione and captain beeching into the group, jean precipitated herself gaily into the conversation. 'have they told you about mrs. freddy's friend who came to tea here in the winter?' she asked hermione. 'he was a member of parliament, too--quite a little young one--he said women would never be respected till they had the vote!' mr. greatorex snorted, the other men smiled, and all the women, except aunt lydia, did the same. 'i remember telling him,' mrs. heriot said, with marked severity, 'that he was too young to know what he was talking about.' 'yes, i'm afraid you all sat on the poor gentleman,' said lord borrodaile. 'it was such fun. he was flat as a pancake when we'd done with him. aunt ellen was here. she told him with her most distinguished air she didn't want to be respected.' 'dear lady john!' murmured miss levering. 'i can hear her!' 'quite right,' said captain beeching. 'awful idea to think you're _respected_.' 'simply revolting,' agreed miss heriot. 'poor little man!' laughed jean, 'and he thought he was being _so_ agreeable!' 'instead of which it was you.' miss levering said the curious words quite pleasantly, but so low that only jean heard them. the girl looked up. 'me?' 'you had the satisfaction of knowing you had made yourself immensely popular with all other men.' the girl flushed. 'i hope you don't think i did it for that reason.' the little passage was unnoticed by the rest of the company, who were listening to lord borrodaile's contented pronouncement: 'i'm afraid the new-fangled seed falls on barren ground in our old-fashioned gardens--_pace_ my charming sister-in-law.' greatorex turned sharply. 'mrs. tunbridge! god bless my soul, you don't mean----' 'there is one thing i will say for her'--mrs. freddy's brother-in-law lazily defended the honour of the house--'she doesn't, as a rule, obtrude her opinions. there are people who have known her for years, and haven't a notion she's a light among the misguided.' but greatorex was not to be reassured. 'mrs. tunbridge! lord, the perils that beset the feet of man!' he got up with a half-comic ill humour. 'you're not going!' the hostess flitted over to remonstrate. 'i haven't had a word with you.' 'yes, yes; i'm going.' mrs. freddy looked bewildered at the general laugh. 'he's heard aspersions cast upon your character,' said lord borrodaile. 'his moral sense is shocked.' 'honestly, mrs. tunbridge'--farnborough was for giving her a chance to clear herself--'what do you think of your friends' recent exploits?' 'my friends?' 'yes; the disorderly women.' 'they are not my friends,' said mrs. freddy, with dignity, 'but i don't think you must call them----' 'why not?' said lord borrodaile. '_i_ can forgive them for worrying the liberals'--he threw a laughing glance at greatorex--'but they _are_ disorderly.' 'isn't the phrase consecrated to a different class?' said miss levering, quietly. 'you're perfectly right.' greatorex, for once, was at one with lord borrodaile. 'they've become nothing less than a public nuisance. going about with dog-whips and spitting in policemen's faces.' 'i wonder,' said mrs. freddy, with a harassed air--'i wonder if they did spit!' 'of course they did!' greatorex exulted. 'you're no authority on what they do,' said mrs. freddy. 'you run away.' 'run away?' he turned the laugh by precipitately backing away from her in a couple of agitated steps. 'yes, and if ever i muster up courage to come back, it will be to vote for better manners in public life, not worse than we have already.' 'so should i,' observed mrs. freddy, meekly. 'don't think i defended the suffragettes.' 'but still,' said miss levering, with a faint accent of impatience, 'you _are_ an advocate for the suffrage, aren't you?' 'i don't beat the air.' 'only policemen,' greatorex mocked. 'if you cared to know the attitude of the real workers in the reform,' mrs. freddy said plaintively, 'you might have seen in any paper that we lost no time in dissociating ourselves from the two or three hysterical----' she caught her brother-in-law's critical eye, and instantly checked her flow of words. there was a general movement as greatorex made his good-byes. mrs. heriot signalled her daughter. in the absence of the master, lord borrodaile made ready to do the honours of the house to a lady who had had so little profit of her visit. beeching carried off the reluctant farnborough. mrs. freddy kept up her spirits until after the exodus; then, with a sigh, she sat down beside vida. 'it's true what that old cynic says,' she admitted sorrowfully. 'the scene has put back the reform a generation.' 'it must have been awfully exciting. i wish i'd been there,' said jean. 'i _was_ there.' 'oh, was it as bad as the papers said?' 'worse. i've never been so moved in public--no tragedy, no great opera ever gripped an audience as the situation in the house did that night. there we all sat breathless--with everything more favourable to us than it had been within the memory of woman. another five minutes and the resolution would have passed. then--all in a moment'--mrs. freddy clasped her hands excitedly--'all in a moment a horrible, dingy little flag was poked through the grille of the woman's gallery--cries--insults-- scuffling--the police--the ignominious turning out of the women--_us_ as well as the---- oh, i can't _think_ of it without----' she jumped up and walked to and fro. 'then the next morning!' she paused. 'the people gloating. our friends antagonized--people who were wavering--nearly won over--all thrown back! heart-breaking! even my husband! freddy's been an angel about letting me take my share when i felt i must--but, of course, i've always known he doesn't like it. it makes him shy. i'm sure it gives him a horrid twist inside when he sees even the discreetest little paragraph to say that i am "one of the speakers." but he's always been an angel about it before this. after the disgraceful scene, he said, "it just shows how unfit women are for any sort of coherent thinking or concerted action."' 'to think,' said jean, more sympathetically, 'that it should be women who've given their own scheme the worst blow it ever had!' 'the work of forty years destroyed in five minutes!' 'they must have felt pretty sick,' said the girl, 'when they waked up the next morning--those suffragettes.' 'i don't waste any sympathy on _them_. i'm thinking of the penalty _all_ women have to pay because two or three hysterical----' 'still, i think i'm sorry for them,' the girl persisted. 'it must be dreadful to find you've done such a lot of harm to the thing you care most about in the world.' 'do you picture the suffragettes sitting in sack-cloth?' said vida, speaking at last. 'well, they can't help realizing _now_ what they've done.' 'isn't it just possible they realize they've waked up interest in the woman question so that it's advertised in every paper, and discussed under every roof, from land's end to john-o'-groats? don't you think _they_ know there's been more said and written about it in these days since the scene than in the ten years before it!' 'you aren't saying you think it was a good way to get what they wanted!' exclaimed mrs. freddy. 'i'm only pointing out that it seems not such a bad way to get it known they _do_ want something, and--"want it bad,"' vida added, smiling. jean drew her low chair almost in front of the lady who had so wounded her sensibilities a little while before with that charge of popularity-hunting. 'mrs. tunbridge says before that horrid scene everything was favourable at last,' the girl hazarded. 'yes,' said mrs. freddy, 'we never had so many friends in the house before----' '"friends,"' echoed the other woman, with a faint smile. 'why do you say it like that?' 'because i was thinking of a funny story--(he _said_ it was funny)--a liberal whip told me the other day. a radical member went out of the house after his speech in favour of the women's bill, and as he came back half an hour later he heard some members talking in the lobby about the astonishing number who were going to vote for the measure. and the friend of woman dropped his jaw and clutched the man next him. "my god!" he said, "you don't mean they're going to _give_ it to them!"' 'sh! here is ronald.' mrs. freddy's tact brought her smiling to her feet as the figure of her brother-in-law appeared in the doorway. but she turned her back on him and affected absorption in the tableau presented by jean leaning forward, elbow on knee, chin in hand, gazing steadily in vida levering's face. 'i don't want to interrupt you two,' said the hostess, 'but i think you must look at the pictures.' 'oh, yes, i brought them specially'--lord borrodaile deflected his course in order to take up from the table two squares of cardboard tied face to face with tape. 'bless the man!' mrs. freddy contemplated him with smiling affectation of scorn. 'i mean the new photographs of the children. he's thinking of some reproductions herbert tunbridge got while he was abroad--pictures of things somebody's unearthed in sicily or cyprus.' 'crete, my dear.' he turned his back on the fond mother and jean who was already oh-ing with appreciation at the first of a pile of little saras and cecils. when he came back to his corner of the sofa he made no motion to undo his packet, but 'now then!' he said, as he often did on sitting down beside vida levering--as though they had been interrupted on the verge of coming to an agreement about something. she, with an instinct of returning the ball, usually tossed at him some scrap of news or a jest, or some small social judgment. this time when he uttered his 'now then,' with that anticipatory air, she answered instantly--'yes; something rather odd has been happening. i've been seeing beyond my usual range.' 'really!' he smiled at her with a mixture of patronage and affection. 'and did you find there was "something new under the sun" after all?' 'well, perhaps not so new, though it seemed new to me. but something differently looked at. why do we pretend that all conversion is to some religious dogma--why not to a view of life?' 'bless my soul! i begin to feel nervous.' 'do you remember once telling me that i had a thing that was rare in my sex--a sense of humour?' 'i remember often thinking it,' he said handsomely. 'it wasn't the first time i'd heard that. and it was one of the compliments i liked best.' 'we all do. it means we have a sense of proportion--the mental suppleness that is capable of the ironic view; an eye that can look right as well as left.' she nodded. 'when you wrote to me once, "my dear ironist," i--yes--i felt rather superior. i'm conscious now that it's been a piece of hidden, intellectual pride with me that i could smile at most things.' 'well, do you mean to forswear pride? for you can't live without smiling.' 'i've seen something to-day that i don't feel i want to smile at. and yet to you it's the most ludicrous spectacle in london.' 'this is all very mysterious.' he turned his long, whimsical face on one side as he settled himself more comfortably against the cushion. 'you heard why i was late?' she said. 'i took the liberty of doubting the reason you gave!' 'you mustn't. it wasn't even my first offence.' 'you must find time hang very heavy on your hands.' 'on the contrary. i've never known the time to go so fast. oh, heaps of people would do what i have, if they only knew how queer and interesting it is, and how already the outer aspect of the thing is changing. at the first meetings very few women of any class. now there are dozens--scores. soon there'll be hundreds. there were three thousand people in the park this afternoon, so a policeman told me, but hardly any of the class that what dick farnborough calls "runs england."' 'i suppose not.' 'you don't even know yet you'll have to deal with all that passionate feeling, all that fixed determination to bring about a vast, far-reaching change!--a change so great----' 'that it would knock civilized society into a cocked hat.' 'i wonder.' 'you _wonder_?' 'i wonder if you oughtn't to be reassured by the--bigness of the thing. it isn't only these women in hyde park. they have a feministe movement in france. they say there's a frauenbewegung in germany. from finland to italy----' 'oh, yes, strikes and uprisings. it's an uneasy age.' 'people in india wanting a greater share in the government----' 'mad as the persians----' he smiled--'fancy _persians_ clamouring for a representative chamber! it's a sort of epidemic.' 'the egyptians, too, restless under "benefits." and now everywhere, as if by some great concerted movement--the women!' 'yes, yes; there's plenty of regrettable restlessness up and down the world, a sort of wave of revolt against the constituted authorities. if it goes too far--nothing for us but a military despotism!' she shook her head with a look of such serene conviction that he persisted, 'i'd be sorry if we came to it--but if this spirit grows, this rebellion against all forms of control----' 'no, no, against other people's control. suppose it ends in people learning self-control.' 'that's the last thing the masses can do. there are few, even of the _élite_, who have ever done it, and they belong to the moral aristocracy--the smallest and most rigid in the world. this thing that you're just opening your eyes to, is the rage against restraint that goes with decadence. but the phlegmatic englishman won't lead in that dégringolade.' 'you mean we won't be among the first of the great nations to give women the suffrage?' '_england?_' the slow head-shake and the smile airily relegated the woman's movement to the limbo of the infinitely distant. 'just because the men won't have it?' and for the second time she said, 'i wonder. for myself, i rather think the women are going to win.' 'not in my time. not even in yours.' 'why?' 'oh, the men will never let it come to the point.' 'it's interesting to hear you say that. you justify the militant women, you know.' 'that is perhaps _not_ to hit the bull's eye!' he said, a little grimly. then dropping his unaccustomed air of chill disapproval, he appealed to his friend's better taste. a confession of sheer physical loathing crept into his face as he let fall two or three little sentences about these women's offence against public decorum. 'why, it is as hideous as war!' he wound up, dismissing it. 'perhaps it _is_ war.' her phrase drew the cloud of menace down again; it closed about them. it seemed to trouble her that he would not meet her gaze. 'don't think----' she prayed, and stumbling against the new hardness in his face, broke off, withdrew her eyes and changed the form of what she had meant to say. 'i think i like good manners, too, but i see it would be a mistake to put them first. what if we have to earn the right to be gentle and gracious without shame?' 'you seriously defend these people!' 'i'm not sure they haven't taken the only way.' she looked at her friend with a fresh appeal in her eyes. but his were wearing their new cold look. she seemed to nerve herself to meet some numbing danger of cowardice. 'the old rule used to be patience--with no matter what wrong. the new feeling is: shame on any one who weakly suffers wrong! isn't it too cheap an idea of morals that women should take credit for the enduring that keeps the wrong alive? you won't say women have no stake in morals. have we any right to let the world go wrong while we get compliments for our forbearance and for pretty manners?' 'you began,' said borrodaile, 'by explaining other women's notions. you have ended by seeming to adopt them as your own. but you are a person of some intelligence. you will open your eyes before you go too far. you belong to the people who are responsible for handing on the world's treasure. as we've agreed, there never was a time when it was attacked from so many sides. can't you see what's at stake?' 'i see that many of the pleasantest things may be in eclipse for a time.' 'my dear, they would die off the face of the earth.' 'no, they are too necessary.' 'to you and me. not to the brawlers in hyde park. the life of civilized beings is a very complex thing. it isn't filled by good intentions nor even by the cardinal virtues. the function of the older societies is to hand on the best things the world has won, so that those who come after, instead of having to go back to barbarism, may start from where the best of their day left off. we do for manners and the arts in general what the moors did for learning when the wild hordes came down. there were capital chaps among the barbarians,' he smiled, 'i haven't a doubt! but it was the men who held fast to civilization's clue, they were the people who mattered. _we_ matter. we hold the clue.' he was recovering his spirits. 'your friends want to open the gates still wider to the huns. you want even the moors overwhelmed.' 'many women are as jealous to guard the old gains as the men are. wait!' she leaned forward. 'i begin to see! they are more keen about it than the mass of men. the women! they are civilization's only ally against your brother, the goth.' he laughed. 'when you are as absurd as that, my dear, i don't mind. no, not a little bit. and i really believe i'm too fond of you to quarrel on any ground.' 'you don't care enough about anything to quarrel about it,' she said, smiling, too. 'but it's just as well'--she rose and began to draw on her glove--'just as well that each of us should know where to find the other. so tell me, what if it should be a question of going forward in the suffrage direction or going back?' 'you mean----' '----on from latchkeys and university degrees to parliament, or back.' 'oh, back,' he said hastily. 'back. yes, back to the harem.' when the words were out, lord borrodaile had laughed a little uneasily--like one who has surprised even himself by some too-illuminating avowal. 'see here,' he put out a hand. 'i'm not going to let you go for a minute or two. i've brought something to show you. this foolish discussion put it out of my head.' but the revealing word he had flung out--it seemed to have struck wide some window that had been shuttered close before. the woman stood there in the glare. she did not refuse to be drawn back to her place on the sofa, but she looked round first to see if the others had heard and how they took it. a glimpse of mrs. freddy's gown showed her out of earshot on the balcony. 'i've got something here really rather wonderful,' lord borrodaile went on, with that infrequent kindling of enthusiasm. he had taken one of the unmounted photographs from between its two bits of cardboard and was holding it up before his eyeglass. 'yes, he's an extraordinary beggar!'--which remark in the ears of those who knew his lordship, advertized his admiration of either some man of genius or 'uebermensch' of sorts. before he shared the picture with his companion he told her of what was not then so widely known--details of that most thrilling moment perhaps in all the romance of archæology--where the excavators of knossos came upon the first authentic picture of a man belonging to that mysterious and forgotten race that had raised up a civilization in some things rivalling the greek--a race that had watched minoan power wane and die, and all but the dimmest legend of it vanish, before the builders of argos and mycenæ began laying their foundation stones. borrodaile, with an accent that for him was almost emotion, emphasized the strangeness to the scholar of having to abandon the old idea of the greek being the sole flower of mediterranean civilization. for here was this wonderful island folk--a people standing between and bridging east and west--these cretan men and women who, though they show us their faces, their delicate art and their stupendous palaces, have held no parley with the sons of men, some say for three and thirty centuries. 'but wait! they'll tell us tales before those fellows have done! i wouldn't mind hearing what this beggar has to say for himself!' at last he shared the picture. they agreed that he was a beggar to be reckoned with--this proud athlete coming back to the world of men after his long sleep, not blinded by the new day, not primitive, apologetic, but meeting us with a high imperial mien, daring and beautiful. 'what do you suppose he is carrying in that vase?' vida asked; 'or is that some trophy?' 'no, no, it's the long drinking cup--to the expert eye that is added evidence of his high degree of civilization. but _think_, you know, a man like that walking the earth so long before the greeks! and here. this courtly train looking on at the games. what do you say to the women!' 'why, they had got as far as flouncing their gowns and puffing their sleeves! their hair!'--'dear me, they must have had a m. raoul to ondulé and dress it.' 'amazing!--was there ever anything so modern dug out of the earth before?' 'no, nothing like it!' he said, holding the pictures up again between the glass and his kindling eye. 'ce sont vraiment des parisiennes!' over his shoulder the modern woman looked long at that strange company. 'it is nothing less than uncanny,' she said at last. 'it makes one vaguely wretched.' 'what does?' 'to realize that so long ago the world had got so far. why couldn't people like these go further still? why didn't their sons hold fast what so great a race had won?' 'these things go in cycles.' 'isn't that a phrase?'--the woman mused--'to cover our ignorance of how things go--and why? why should we be so content to go the old way to destruction? if i were "the english" of this splendid specimen of a cretan, i would at least find a new way to perdition.' 'perhaps we shall!' they sat trying from the accounts of lord borrodaile's archæological friends to reconstruct something of that vanished world. it was a game they had played at before, with etruscan vases and ivories from ephesus--the man bringing to it his learning and his wit, the woman her supple imagination and a passion of interest in the great romance of the pilgrimage of man. but to-day she bore a less light-hearted part--'it all came to an end!' she repeated. 'well, so shall we.' 'but--we--_you_ will leave your like behind to "hold fast to the clue," as you said a little while ago.' 'till the turn of the wheel carries the english down. then somewhere else on our uneasy earth men will begin again----' '----the fruitless round! but it's horrible--the waste of effort in the world! it's worse than horrible. it's insane.' she looked up suddenly into his face. 'you are wise. tell me what you think the story of the world means, with its successive clutches at civilization--all those histories of slow and painful building--by ganges and by nile and in the isles of greece.' 'it's a part of the universal rhythm that all things move to--nature's way,' he answered. 'or was it because of some offence against one of her high laws that she wiped the old experiments out? what if the meaning of history is that an empire maintained by brute force shall perish by brute force!' 'ah,' he fixed her with those eyes of his. 'i see where you are going.' 'you can't either of you go anywhere,' said mrs. freddy, appearing through the balcony window, 'till you've seen the children's pictures.' vida's eye had once more fallen on the reproduction of one of the cretan frescoes with a sudden intensification of interest. 'what is it?' borrodaile asked, looking over her shoulder. woman-like she offered the man the outermost fringe of her thought. 'even lady whyteleafe,' she said, 'would be satisfied with the attention they paid to their hair.' 'come, you two.' mrs. freddy was at last impatient. 'jean's got the _really_ beautiful pictures, showing them to geoffrey. let us all go down to help him to decide which is the best.' 'geoffrey?' 'geoffrey stonor--you know him, of course. but nobody knows the very nicest side of geoffrey, do they?' she appealed to borrodaile,--'nobody who hasn't seen him with children?' 'i never saw him with children,' said vida, buttoning the last button of her glove. 'well, come down and watch him with sara and cecil. they perfectly adore him.' 'no, it's too late.' but the fond mother drew her friend to the window. 'you can see them from here.' vida was not so hurried, apparently, but what she could stand there taking in the picture of sara and cecil climbing about their big, kind cousin, with jean and mr. freddy looking on. 'children!' their mother waved a handkerchief. 'here's another friend! chil---- they're too absorbed to notice,' she said apologetically, turning to find vida had left the window, and was saying good-bye to borrodaile. 'oh, yes,' he agreed, 'they won't care about anybody else while geoffrey is there.' lord borrodaile stooped and picked up a piece of folded paper off the sofa. 'did i drop that?' he opened it. '_votes for_----' he read the two words out in an accent that seemed to brand them with foolishness, even with vulgarity. 'no, decidedly i did not drop it.' he was conveying the sheet to the wastepaper basket as one who piously removes some unsavoury litter out of the way of those who walk delicately. miss levering arrested him with outstretched hand. 'do you want it?' his look adjured her to say, 'no.' 'yes, i want it.' 'what for?' he persisted. 'i want it for an address there is on it.' chapter xi it was friday, and mrs. fox-moore was setting out to alleviate the lot of the poor in whitechapel. 'even if it were not friday,' vida said slyly as her sister was preparing to leave the house, 'you'd invent some errand to take you out of the contaminated air of queen anne's gate this afternoon.' 'well, as i told you,' said the other woman, nervously, 'you ask that person here on your own responsibility.' vida smiled. 'i'm obliged to ask people here if i want to see them quietly. you make such a fuss when i suggest having a house of my own!' mrs. fox-moore ignored the alternative. 'you'll see you're only making trouble for yourself. you'll have to pay handsomely for your curiosity.' 'well, i've been rather economical of late. maybe i'll be able "to pay."' 'don't imagine you'll be able to settle an account of that kind with a single cheque. give people like that an inch, and they'll expect a weekly ell.' 'are you afraid she'll abstract the spoons?' 'i'm not only afraid, i _know_ she won't be satisfied with one contribution, or one visit. she'll regard it as the thin end of the wedge--getting her nose into a house of this kind.' irresistibly the words conjured up a vision of some sharp-visaged female marauder insinuating the tip of a very pointed nose between the great front door and the lintel. 'i only hope,' the elder woman went on, 'that i won't be here the first time donald encounters your new friend on the doorstep. _that's_ all!' wherewith she departed to succour women and children at long range in the good old way. little doris was ill in bed. mr. fox-moore was understood to have joined his brother's coaching party. the time had been discreetly chosen--the coast was indubitably clear. but would it remain so? to insure that it should, miss levering had a private conference with the butler. 'some one is coming to see me on business.' 'yes, miss.' 'at half-past five.' 'yes, miss.' 'i specially don't want to be interrupted.' 'no, miss.' 'not by _any_body, no matter whom.' 'very well, miss.' a slight pause. 'shall i show the gentleman into the drawing-room, miss?' 'it's not a gentleman, and i'll see her upstairs in my sitting-room.' 'yes, miss. very well, miss.' 'and don't forget--to _any_ one else i'm not at home.' 'no, miss. what name, miss?' vida hesitated. the servants nowadays read everything. 'oh, you can't make a mistake. she---- it will be a stranger--some one who has never been here before. wait! i'll look out of the morning-room window. if it is the person i'm expecting, i'll ring the bell. you understand. if the morning-room bell has rung just as this person comes, it will be the one i'm expecting.' 'yes, miss.' with a splendid impassivity in the face of precautions so unprecedented, the servant withdrew. vida smiled to herself as she leaned back among the cushions of her capacious sofa, cutting the pages of a book. a pleasant place this room of hers, wide and cool, where the creamy background of wall and chintz-cover was lattice-laced with roses. the open windows looked out upon one of those glimpses of greenery made vivid to the london eye, not alone by gratitude, but by contrast of the leafage against the ebonized bark of smoke-ingrained bole and twig. the summer wind was making great, gentle fans of the plane branches; it was swaying the curtains that hung down in long, straight folds from the high cornices. no other sound in the room but the hard grate of the ivory paper-knife sawing its way through a book whose outside alone (a muddy-brown, pimpled cloth) proclaimed it utilitarian. among the fair-covered italian volumes, the vellum-bound poets, and those friends-for-a-lifetime wearing linen or morocco to suit a special taste; above all, among that greater company 'quite impudently french' that stood close ranked on shelves or lay about on tables--the brown book on its dusty modern theme wore the air of a frieze-coated yeoman sitting amongst broadcloth and silk. the reader glanced from time to time at the clock. when the small glittering hand on the porcelain face pointed to twenty minutes past five, the lady took her book and her paper-knife into a front room on the floor below. she sat down behind the lowered persienne, and every now and then lifted her eyes from the page and peered out between the tiny slits. as the time went on she looked out oftener. more than once she half rose and seemed about to abandon all hope of the mysterious visitor when a hansom dashed up to the door. one swift glance: 'they go in cabs!'--and miss levering ran to the bell. a few moments after, she was again established in her sofa corner, and the door of her sitting-room opened. 'the lady, miss.' into the wide, harmonious space was ushered a hot and harassed-looking woman, in a lank alpaca gown and a tam-o'-shanter. miss claxton's clothes, like herself, had borne the heat and burden of the day. she frowned as she gave her hand. 'i am late, but it was very difficult to get away at all.' miss levering pushed towards her one of the welcoming great easy-chairs that stood holding out cool arms and a lap of roses. the tired visitor, with her dusty clothes and brusque manner, sat down without relaxing to the luxurious invitation. her stiffly maintained attitude and direct look said as plain as print, now what excuse have you to offer for asking me to come here? it may have been recollection of mrs. fox-moore's fear of 'the thin end of the wedge' that made miss levering smile as she said-- 'yes, i've been expecting you for the last half hour, but it's very good of you to come at all.' miss claxton looked as if she quite agreed. 'you'll have some tea?' miss levering was moving towards the bell. 'no, i've had my tea.' the queer sound of 'my' tea connoting so much else! the hostess subsided on to the sofa. 'i heard you speak the other day as i told you in my note. but all the same i came away with several unanswered questions--questions that i wanted to put to you quietly. as i wrote you, i am not what _you_ would call a convert. i've only got as far as the inquiry stage.' miss claxton waited. 'still, if i take up your time, i ought not to let you be out of pocket by it.' the hostess glanced towards the little spindle-legged writing-table, where, on top of a heap of notes, lay the blue oblong of a cheque-book. 'we consider it part of every day's business to answer questions,' said miss claxton. 'i suppose i can make some little contribution without--without its committing me to anything?' 'committing you----' 'yes; it wouldn't get into the papers,' she said, a little shamefaced, 'or--or anything like that.' 'it wouldn't get into the papers unless you put it in.' the lady blinked. there was a little pause. she was not easy to talk to--this young woman. nor was she the ideal collector of contributions. 'that was a remarkable meeting you had in hyde park last sunday.' 'remarkable? oh, no, they're all pretty much alike.' 'do they all end like that?' 'oh, yes; people come to scoff, and by degrees we get hold of them--even the hyde park loafers.' 'i mean, do they often crowd up and try to hustle the speakers?' 'oh, they are usually quite good-natured.' 'you handled them wonderfully.' 'we're used to dealing with crowds.' her look went round the room, as if to say, 'it's this kind of thing i'm not used to, and i don't take to it over-kindly.' 'in the crush at the end,' said miss levering, 'i overheard a scrap of conversation between two men. they were talking about you. "very good for a woman," one said.' miss claxton smiled a scornful little smile. 'and the other one said, "it would have been very good for a man. and personally," he said, "i don't know many men who could have kept that crowd in hand for two hours." that's what two men thought of it.' she made no answer. 'it doesn't seem to me possible that your speakers average as good as those i heard on sunday.' 'we have a good many who speak well, but we look upon ernestine blunt as our genius.' 'yes, she seems rather a wonderful little person, but i wrote to you because--partly because you are older. and you gave me the impression of being extremely level-headed.' 'ernestine blunt is level-headed too,' said miss claxton, warily. she was looking into the lady's face, frowning a little in that way of hers, intent, even somewhat suspicious. 'oh, i dare say, but she's such a child!' 'we sometimes think ernestine blunt has the oldest head among us.' 'really,' said miss levering. 'when a person is as young as that, you don't know how much is her own and how much borrowed.' 'she doesn't need to borrow.' 'but _you_. i said to myself, "that woman, who makes other things so clear, she can clear up one or two things for me."' 'well, i don't know.' more wary than ever, she suspended judgment. 'i noticed none of you paid any attention when the crowd called out--things about----' miss claxton's frown deepened. it was plain she heard the echo of that insistent, never-answered query of the crowd, 'got your dog-whip, miss?' she waited. it looked as though miss levering lacked courage to repeat it in all its violent bareness. '----when they called out things--about the encounters with the police. it's those stories, as i suppose you know, that have set so many against the movement.' no word out of miss claxton. she sat there, not leaning back, nor any longer stiffly upright, but hunched together like a creature ready to spring. 'i believed those stories too; but when i had watched you, and listened to you on sunday,' miss levering hastened to add, a little shamefaced at the necessity, 'i said to myself, not' (suddenly she stopped and smiled with disarming frankness)--'i didn't say, "that woman's too well-behaved, or too amiable;" i said, "she's too intelligent. that woman never spat at a policeman.'" 'spit? no,' she said grimly. '"nor bit, nor scratched, nor any of those things. and since the papers have lied about that," i said to myself, "i'll go to headquarters for information."' 'what papers do you read?' 'oh, practically all. this house is like a club for papers and magazines. my brother-in-law has everything.' 'the _clarion_?' 'no, i never saw the _clarion_.' 'the _labour leader_?' 'no.' 'the _labour record_?' 'no.' 'it is the organ of our party.' 'i--i'm afraid i never heard of any of them.' miss claxton smiled. 'i'll take them in myself in future,' said the lady on the sofa. 'was it reading those papers that set you to thinking?' 'reading papers? oh, no. it was----' she hesitated, and puckered up her brows again as she stared round the room. 'yes, go on. that's one of the things i wanted to know, if you don't mind--how you came to be identified with the movement.' a little wearily, without the smallest spark of enthusiasm at the prospect of imparting her biography, miss claxton told slowly, even dully, and wholly without passion, the story of a hard life met single-handed from even the tender childhood days--one of those recitals that change the relation between the one who tells and the one who listens--makes the last a sharer in the life to the extent that the two can never be strangers any more. though they may not meet, nor write, nor have any tangible communication, there is understanding between them. at the close miss levering stood up and gave the other her hand. neither said anything. they looked at each other. after the lady had resumed her seat, miss claxton, as under some compulsion born of the other's act of sympathy, went on-- 'it is a newspaper lie--as you haven't needed to be told--about the spitting and scratching and biting--but the day i was arrested; the day of the deputation to effingham, i saw a policeman knocking some of our poorer women about very roughly' (it had its significance, the tone in which she said 'our poorer women'). 'i called out that he was not to do that again. he had one of our women like this, and he was banging her against the railings. i called out if he didn't stop i would make him. he kept on'--a cold glitter came into the eyes--'and i struck him. i struck the coward in the face.' the air of the mild luxurious room grew hot and quivered. the lady on the sofa lowered her eyes. 'they must be taught,' the other said sternly, 'the police must be taught, they are not to treat our women like that. on the whole the police behave well. but their power is immense and almost entirely unchecked. it's a marvel they are as decent as they are. how should _they_ be expected to know how to treat women? what example do they have? don't they hear constantly in the courts how little it costs a man to be convicted of beating his own wife?' she fired the questions at the innocent person on the sofa, as if she held her directly responsible for the need to ask them. 'stealing is far more dangerous; yes, even if a man's starving. that's because bread is often dear and women are always cheap.' she waited a moment, waited for the other to contradict or at least resent the dictum. the motionless figure among the sofa cushions, whose very look and air seemed to proclaim 'some of us are expensive enough,' hardly opened her lips to say, as if to herself-- 'yes, women are cheap.' perhaps miss claxton thought the agreement lacked conviction, for she went on with a harsh hostility that seemed almost personal-- 'we'd rather any day be handled by the police than by the self-constituted stewards of political meetings.' partly the words, even more the look in the darkening face, made miss levering say-- 'that brings me to something else i wanted to be enlightened about. one reason i wrote to ask for a little talk with _you_ specially, was because i couldn't imagine your doing anything so futile as to pit your physical strength--considerable as it may be--but to pit your muscle against men's is merely absurd. and i, when i saw how intelligent you were, i saw that you know all that quite as well as i. why, then, carry a whip?' the lowered eyelids of the face opposite quivered faintly. 'you couldn't think it would save you from arrest.' 'no, not from arrest.' the woman's mouth hardened. 'i know'--miss levering bridged the embarrassment of the pause--'i know there must be some rational explanation.' but if there were it was not forthcoming. 'so you see your most indefensible and even futile-appearing action gave the cue for my greatest interest,' said vida, with a mixture of anxiety and bluntness. 'for just the woman you were, to do so brainless a thing--what was behind? that was what i kept asking myself.' 'it--isn't--only--_rough_ treatment one or two of us have met'--she pulled out the words slowly--'it's sometimes worse.' they both waited in a curious chill embarrassment. 'not the police, but the stewards at political meetings, and the men who volunteer to "keep the women in order," they'--she raised her fierce eyes and the colour rose in her cheeks--'as they're turning us out they punish us in ways the public don't know.' she saw the shrinking wonder in the woman opposite, and she did not spare her. 'they punish us by underhand maltreatment--of the kind most intolerable to a decent woman.' 'oh, no, no!' the other face was a flame to match. 'yes!' she flung it out like a poisoned arrow. 'how _dare_ they!' said vida in a whisper. 'they know we dare not complain.' 'why not?' a duller red overspread the face as the woman muttered, 'nobody, no woman, wants to talk about it. and if we did they'd only say, "see! you're killing chivalry." _chivalry!_' she laughed. it was not good to hear a laugh like that. the figure on the sofa winced. 'i assure you people don't know,' said vida. 'it's known well enough to those who've had to suffer it, and it's known to the brutes of men who----' 'ah, but you _must_ realize'--miss levering jumped to her feet--'you must admit that the great mass of men would be indignant if they knew.' 'you think so?' the question was insulting in its air of forbearance with a fairy-tale view of life. 'think so? i _know_ it. i should be sorry for my own powers of judgment if i believed the majority of men were like the worst specimens--like those you----' 'oh, well, we don't dwell on that side. it's enough to remember that women without our incentive have to bear worse. it's part of a whole system.' 'i shall never believe that!' exclaimed vida, thinking what was meant was an organized conspiracy against the suffragettes. 'yes, it's all part of the system we are in the world to overturn. why should we suppose we'd gain anything by complaining? don't hundreds, thousands of meek creatures who have never defied anybody, don't they have to bear worse ignominies? every man knows that's true. who troubles himself? what is the use, we say, of crying about individual pains and penalties? no. the thing is to work day and night to root out the system that makes such things possible.' 'i still don't understand--why you thought it would be a protection to carry----' 'a man's fear of ridicule will restrain him when nothing else will. if one of them is publicly whipped, _and by a woman_, it isn't likely to be forgotten. even the fear of it--protects us from some things. after an experience some of the women had, the moment our committee decided on another demonstration, little mary o'brian went out, without consulting anybody, and bought me the whip. "if you will go," she said, "you shan't go unarmed. if we have that sort of cur to deal with, the only thing is to carry a dog-whip."' miss claxton clenched her hands in their grey cotton gloves. there was silence in the room for several seconds. 'what we do in asking questions publicly--it's only what men do constantly. the greatest statesman in the land stops to answer a man, even if he's a fool naturally, or half drunk. they treat those interrupters with respect, they answer their questions civilly. they are men. they have votes. but women: "where's the chucker out?"' 'are you never afraid that all you're going through may be in vain?' 'no. we are quite certain to succeed. we have found the right way at last.' 'you mean what are called your tactics?' 'i mean the spirit of the women. i mean: not to mind the price. when you've got people to feel like that, success is sure.' 'but it comes very hard on those few who pay with the person, as the french say, pay with prison--and with----' 'prison isn't the worst!' a kind of shyness came over the woman on the sofa; she dropped her eyes from the other's face. 'of course,' the ex-prisoner went on, 'if more women did a little it wouldn't be necessary for the few to do so much.' 'i suppose you are in need of funds to carry on the propaganda.' 'money isn't what is most needed. one of our workers--a little mill girl--came up from the country with only two pounds in her pocket to rouse london. and she did it!' her comrade exulted. 'but there's a class we don't reach. if only'--she hesitated and glanced reflectively at the woman before her. 'yes?' miss levering's eye flew to the cheque-book. 'if only we could get women of influence to understand what's at stake,' said miss claxton, a little wistfully. 'they don't?' 'oh, some. a few. as much as can be expected.' 'why do you say that?' 'well, the upper-class women, i don't say all' (she spoke as one exercising an extreme moderation); 'but many of them are such sexless creatures.' miss levering opened wide eyes--a glint of something like amazed laughter crossed her face, as she repeated-- '_they_ are sexless, you think?' 'we find them so,' said the other, firmly. 'why'--miss levering smiled outright--'that's what they say of you.' 'well, it's nonsense, like the rest of what they say.' the accusation of sexlessness brought against the curled darlings of society by these hard-working, hard-hitting sisters of theirs was not the least ironic thing in the situation. 'why do you call them----?' 'because we see they have no sex-pride. if they had, they couldn't do the things they do.' 'what sort of things?' 'oh, i can't go into that.' she stood up and tugged at her wrinkled cotton gloves. 'but it's easy for us to see they're sexless.' she seemed to resent the unbelief in the opposite face. 'lady caterham sent for me the other day. you may have heard of lady caterham.' miss levering suppressed the fact of how much, by a vague-sounding-- 'y--yes.' 'well, she sent for me to---- oh, i suppose she was curious!' 'like me,' said the other, smiling. '_she's_ a very great person in her county, and she _said_ she sympathized with the movement--only she didn't approve of our tactics, she said. we are pretty well used by now to people who don't approve of our tactics, so i just sat and waited for the "dog-whip."' it was obvious that the lady without influence in her county winced at that, almost as though she felt the whip on her own shoulders. she was indeed a hard-hitter, this woman. 'i don't go about talking of why i carry a whip. i _hate_ talking about it,' she flung the words out resentfully. 'but i'd been sent to try to get that woman to help, and so i explained. i told her when she asked why it seemed necessary'--again the face flushed--'i told her!--more than i've told you. and will you believe it, she never turned a hair. just sat there with a look of cool curiosity on her face. oh, they have no sex-pride, those upper-class women!' 'lady caterham probably didn't understand.' 'perfectly. she asked questions. no, it just didn't matter much to her that a woman should suffer that sort of thing. she didn't feel the indignity of it. perhaps if it had come to her, _she_ wouldn't have suffered,' said the critic, with a grim contempt. 'there may be another explanation,' said miss levering, a little curtly, but wisely she forbore to present it. if the rough and ready reformer had chilled her new sympathizer by this bitterness against 'the parasite class,' she wiped out the memory of it by the enthusiasm with which she spoke of those other women, her fellow-workers. 'our women are wonderful!' she lifted her tired head. 'i knew they'd never had a chance to show what they were, but there are some things---- no! i didn't think women had it in them.' she had got up and was standing now by the door, her limp gown clinging round her, her weather-beaten tam on one side. but in the confident look with which she spoke of 'our women,' the brow had cleared. you saw that it was beautiful. miss levering stood at the door with an anxious eye on the stair, as if fearful of the home-coming of 'her fellow-coward,' or, direr catastrophe--old mr. fox-moore's discovering the damning fact of this outlaw's presence under his roof! yet, even so, torn thus between dread and desire to pluck out the heart of the new mystery, 'the militant woman,' miss levering did not speed the parting guest. as though recognizing fully now that the prophesied use was not going to be made of the 'thin end of the wedge,' she detained her with-- 'i wonder when i shall see you again.' 'i don't know,' said the other, absently. 'when is the next meeting?' 'next sunday. every sunday.' 'i shall be glad to hear you speak again; but--you'll come and see me--here.' 'i can't. i'm going away.' 'oh! to rest, i hope.' 'rest?' she laughed at an idea so comic. 'oh, no. i'm going to work among the women in wales. we have great hopes of those west-country women. they're splendid! they're learning the secret of co-operation, too. oh, it's good stuff to work on--the relief of it after london!' miss levering smiled. 'then i won't be seeing you very soon.' 'no.' she seemed to be thinking. 'it's true what i say of the welsh women, and yet we oughtn't to be ungrateful to our london women either.' she seemed to have some sense of injustice on her soul. 'we've been seeing just recently what they're made of, too!' she paused on the threshold and began to tell in a low voice of women 'new to the work,' who had been wavering, uncertain if they could risk imprisonment--poor women with husbands and children. 'when they heard _what it might mean_--this battle we're fighting--they were ashamed not to help us!' 'you mean----' vida began, shrinking. 'yes!' said the other, fiercely. 'the older women saw they ought to save the younger ones from having to face that sort of thing. that was how we got some of the wives and mothers.' she went on with a stern emotion that was oddly contagious, telling about a certain scene at the headquarters of the union. against the grey and squalid background of a poor women's movement, stood out in those next seconds a picture that the true historian who is to come will not neglect. a call for recruits with this result--a huddled group, all new, unproved, ignorant of the ignorant. the two or three leaders, conscience-driven, feeling it necessary to explain to the untried women that if they shared in the agitation, they were not only facing imprisonment, but unholy handling. 'it was only fair to let them know the worst,' said the woman at the door, 'before they were allowed to join us.' as the abrupt sentences fell, the grim little scene was reconstituted; the shrinking of the women who had offered their services ignorant of this aspect of the battle--their horror and their shame. at the memory of that hour the strongly-controlled voice shook. 'they cried, those women,' she said. 'but they came?' asked the other, trembling, as though for her, too, it was vital that these poor women should not quail. 'yes,' answered their leader a little hoarsely, 'they came!' chapter xii one of the oddest things about these neo-suffragists was the simplicity with which they accepted aid--the absence in the responsible ones of conventional gratitude. this became matter for both surprise and instruction to the outsider. it no doubt had the effect of chilling and alienating the 'philanthropist on the make.' even to the less ungenerous, not bargainers for approbation or for influence, even in their case the deep-rooted suspicion we have been taught to cultivate for one another, makes the gift of good faith so difficult that it can be given freely only to people like these, people who plainly and daily suffered for their creed, who stood to lose all the things most of us strive for, people who valued neither comfort, nor money, nor the world's good word. that they took help, and even sacrifice, as a matter of course, seemed in them mere modesty and sound good sense; tantamount to saying, 'i am not so silly or self-centred as to suppose you do this for _me_. you do it, of course, for the cause. the cause is yours--is all women's. you serve humanity. who am i that i should thank you?' this attitude extended even to acts that were in truth prompted less by concern for the larger issue than by sheer personal interest. vida levering's first experience of this 'new attitude' came one late afternoon while on her way to leave cards on some people in grosvenor road. driving through pimlico about half-past six, she lifted up her eyes at the sound of many voices and beheld a mob of men and boys in the act of pursuing a little group of women, who were fleeing up a side street away from the river. the natural shrinking and disgust of 'the sheltered woman' showed in the face of the occupant of the brougham as she leaned forward and said to the coachman-- 'not this way! don't you see there's some disturbance? turn back.' the man obeyed. the little crowd had halted. it looked as if the thief, or drunken woman, or what not, had been surrounded and overwhelmed. the end of the street abutted on pimlico pier. two or three knots of people were still standing about, talking and looking up the street at the little crowd of shouting, gesticulating rowdies. a woman with a perambulator, making up her mind at just the wrong moment to cross the road, found herself almost under the feet of the fox-moore horses. the coachman pulled up sharply, and before he had driven on, the lady's eyes had fallen on an inscription in white chalk on the flagstone-- 'votes for women. 'meeting here to-night at a quarter to six.' the occupant of the carriage turned her head sharply in the direction of the 'disturbance,' and then-- 'after all, i must go up that street. drive fast till you get near those people. quick!' 'up _there_, miss?' 'yes, yes. make haste!' for the crowd was moving on, and still no sign of a policeman. by the time the brougham caught up with them, the little huddle of folk had nearly reached the top of the street. in the middle of the _mêlée_ a familiar face. ernestine blunt! 'oh, henderson!'--miss levering put her head out of the window--'that girl! the young one! she's being mobbed.' 'yes, miss.' 'but something must be done! hail a policeman.' 'yes, miss.' 'do you _see_ a policeman?' 'no, miss.' 'well, stop a moment,' for even at this slowest gait the brougham had passed the storm centre. the lady hanging out of the window looked back and saw that ernestine's face, very pink as to cheeks, very bright as to eyes, was turned quite unruffled on the rabble. 'can't you see the meeting's over?' she called out. 'you boys go home now and think about what we've told you.' the reply to that was a laugh and a concerted 'rush' that all but carried the girl and her companions off their feet. to henderson's petrifaction, the door of the brougham was hastily opened and then slammed to, leaving miss levering in the road, saying to him over her shoulder-- 'wait just round the corner, unless i call.' with which she hurried across the street, her eyes on the little face that, in spite of its fresh colouring, looked so pathetically tired. making her way round the outer fringe of the crowd, vida saw on the other side--near where ernestine and her sore-beset companions stood with their backs to the wall--an opening in the dingy ranks. fleet of foot, she gained it, thrust an arm between the huddled women, and, taking the foolhardy girl by the sleeve, said, _sotto voce_-- 'come! come with me!' ernestine raised her eyes, fixed them for one calm instant on vida levering's face, and then, turning round, said-- 'where's mrs. brown?' 'never mind mrs. brown!' whispered the strange lady, drawing off as the rowdy young men came surging round that side. there was another rush and a yell, and vida fled. when next she turned to look, it was to see two women making a sudden dash for liberty. they had escaped through the rowdy ranks, and they tore across the street, running for their lives and calling for help as they ran. vida, a shade or two paler, stood transfixed. what was going to happen? but there was the imperturbable ernestine holding the forsaken position, still the centre of the pushing, shouting little mob who had jeered frantically as the other women fled. it was too much. not ernestine's isolation alone, the something childish in the brilliant face would have enlisted a less sympathetic observer. a single moment's wavering and the lady made for the place where the besiegers massed less thick. she was near enough now to call out over the rowdies' heads-- 'come. why do you stay there?' faces turned to look at her; while ernestine shouted back the cryptic sentence-- 'it wasn't my bus!' _bus?_ had danger robbed her of her reason? the boys were cheering now and looking past miss levering: she turned, bewildered, to see 'mrs. brown' and a sister reformer mounting the top of a sober london road car. they had been running for that, then--and not for life! miss levering raised her hand and her voice as she looked back at ernestine-- 'i've got a trap. come!' 'where?' ernestine stepped out from the vociferating, jostling crowd and followed the new face as simply as though she had been waiting for just that summons. the awful moment was when, with a shout, the tail of rowdies followed after. miss levering had not bargained for that. her agitated glance left the unsavoury horde at her heels and went nervously up and down the street. it was plainly not only, nor even chiefly, the hooligans she feared, but the amazéd eye of some acquaintance. bad enough to meet henderson's! 'jump in!' she said hastily to the girl, and then, 'go on!' she called out desperately, flying in after ernestine and slamming the door. 'drive _fast_!' she thrust her head through the window to add, '_anywhere!_' and she sank back. 'how dreadful that was!' 'what was?' said the rescued one, glancing out of the carriage with an air of suddenly renewed interest. 'why, the attack of those hooligans on a handful of defenceless women.' 'oh, they weren't attacking us.' 'what were they doing?' 'oh, just running after us and screaming a little.' 'but i _saw_ them--pushing and jostling and----' 'oh, it was all quite good-natured.' 'you mean you weren't frightened?' 'there's nothing to be frightened at.' she was actually saying it in a soothing, 'motherly' sort of way, calculated to steady the lady's nerves--reassuring the rescuer. vida's eye fell on the festoon of braid falling from the dark cloth skirt. 'well, the polite attentions of your friends seem to have rather damaged your gown.' over a big leather portfolio that she held clasped in her arms, ernestine, too, looked down at the torn frock. 'that foolish trimming--it's always getting stepped on.' miss levering's search had produced a pin. 'no; i'll just pull it off.' ernestine did so, and proceeded to drop a yard of it out of the window. miss levering began to laugh. 'which way are we going?' says miss blunt, looking out. 'i have to be at battersea at----' 'what were you doing at pimlico pier?' 'holding a meeting for the government employees--the people who work for the army and navy clothing department.' 'oh. and you live at battersea?' 'no; but i have a meeting there to-night. we had a very good one at the docks, too.' her eyes sparkled. 'a suffrage meeting?' 'yes; one of the best we've had----' 'when was that?' 'during the dinner hour. the men stood with their pails and ate while they listened. they were quite nice and understanding, those men.' 'what day was that?' 'this morning.' 'and the battersea meeting?' 'that's not for another hour; but i have to be there first--to arrange.' 'when do you dine?' 'oh, i'll get something either before the meeting or after--whenever there's time.' 'isn't it a pity not to get your food regularly? won't you last longer if you do?' 'oh, i shall last.' she sat contentedly, hugging her big portfolio. the lady glanced at the carriage clock. 'in the house where i live, dinner is a sort of sacred rite. if you are two seconds late you are disgraced, so i'm afraid i can't----' 'there's the bus i was waiting for!' ernestine thrust her head out. 'stop, will you!' she commanded the astonished henderson. 'good-bye.' she nodded, jumped out, shut the door, steadied her hat, and was gone. it was so an acquaintance began that was destined to make a difference to more than one life. those days of the summer that miss claxton spent indoctrinating the women of wales, and that mrs. chisholm utilized in 'organizing scotland,' were dedicated by ernestine and her friends to stirring up london and the various dim and populous worlds of the suburbs. much oftener than even mrs. fox-moore knew, her sister, instead of being in the houses where she was supposed to be, and doing the things she was expected to be doing, might have been seen in highly unexpected haunts prosecuting her acquaintance with cockney crowds, never learning ernestine's fearlessness of them, and yet in some way fascinated almost as much as she was repelled. at first she would sit in a hansom at safe distance from the turmoil that was usually created by the expounders of what to the populace was a 'rum new doctrine' invented by ernestine. miss levering would lean over the apron of the cab hearing only scraps, till the final, 'now, all who are in favour of justice, hold up their hands.' as the crowd broke and dissolved, the lady in the hansom would throw open the doors, and standing up in front of the dashboard, she would hail and carry off the arch-agitator, while the crowd surged round. several times this programme had been carried out, when one afternoon, after seeing the girl and her big leather portfolio safe in the cab, and the cab safe out of the crowd, vida heaved a sigh of relief. '_there!_ now tell me, what did you do yesterday?'--meaning, how in the world did you manage without me to take care of you? 'yesterday? we had a meeting down at the woolwich arsenal. and we distributed handbills for two hours. and we had a debate in the evening at the new reform club.' 'oh, you didn't hold a meeting here in the afternoon?' 'yes we did. i forgot that.' she seemed also to have forgotten that her new friend had been prevented from appearing to carry her off. miss levering smiled down at her. 'what a funny little person you are. do you know who i am?' 'no.' 'it hasn't ever occurred to you to ask?' the face turned to her with a half roguish smile. 'oh, i thought you looked all right.' 'i'm the person who had the interview with your friend, miss claxton.' as no recollection showed in the face, 'at queen anne's gate,' she added. 'i don't think i knew about that,' said ernestine, absently. then alert, disdainful, 'fancy the member for wrotton saying---- yes, we went to see him this morning.' 'oh, that is very exciting! what was he like?' 'quite a feeble sort of person, i thought.' 'really!' laughed miss levering. 'he talked such nonsense to us about that old plural voting bill. his idea seemed to be to get us to promise to behave nicely while the overworked house of commons considered the iniquity of some men having more than one vote--they hadn't a minute this session to consider the much greater iniquity of no women having any vote at all! of course he said he _had_ been a great friend to woman suffrage, until he got shocked with our tactics.' she smiled broadly. 'we asked him what he'd ever done to show his friendship.' 'well?' 'he didn't seem to know the answer to that. what strikes me most about men is their being so illogical.' * * * * * lady john ulland had been openly surprised, even enthusiastically grateful, at discovering before this that vida levering was ready to help her with some of the unornamental duties that fall to the lot of the 'great ladies' of england. 'i don't know what that discontented creature, her sister, means by saying vida is so unsympathetic about charity work.' neither could lady john's neighbour, the bishop, understand mrs. fox-moore's reproach. had not his young kinswoman's charity concerts helped to rebuild the chantry? 'such a _nice creature_!' was lord john's contribution. then, showing the profundity of his friendly interest, 'why doesn't she find some nice fella to marry her?' 'people don't marry so early nowadays,' his wife reassured him. lord borrodaile, to whom vida still talked freely, he alone had some understanding of the changed face life was coming to wear for her. when he found that laughing at her failed of the desired effect, he offered touching testimony to his affection for her by trying to understand. it was no small thing for a man like borrodaile, who, for the rest, found it no easier than others of his class rightly to interpret the modern scene as looked down upon from the narrow lancet of the mediæval tower which was his mind. when she got him to smile at her report of the humours of the populace, he did so against his will, shaking his long van dyke head, and saying-- 'it spoils the fun for me to think of your being there. i have a quite unconquerable distrust of eccentricity.' 'there's nothing the least original about my mixing with "the people," as my sister would call them. the women of my world would often go slumming. the only difference between me and them may be that i, perhaps, shall go a little farther, that's all.' 'well, i devoutly hope you won't!' he said, with unusual emphasis. 'let the proletariat attend to the affairs of the proletariat. they don't need a woman like you.' 'they not only need--what's more, they are getting, all kinds! it's that, more than anything else, that shows their strength. the miracle it is, to see the way they all work together! women, the poorest and most ignorant (except of hardship), working shoulder to shoulder with women of substance and position. oh, yes, they are winning over that sort, teachers and university graduates--a whole group who would be called intellectuals if they were men--all doing what men have said women could never do--pulling together. and, oh! that reminds me,' she said suddenly, smiling as one who has thought of a capital joke at her companion's expense: 'it's my duty to warn you. i went with your daughter to lunch at her country club, and they were all discussing the suffrage! a good dozen! and sophia--well, sophia came out in a new light. i want you, please, to believe _i've_ never talked to her.' 'oh,' said borrodaile, with an unconscious arrogance, 'sophia doesn't wait to be talked to. she takes her own line. politics are a tradition with our women. i found her reading the parliamentary debates when she was fourteen.' 'and your boys, are they equally----?' he sighed. 'the world has got very topsy-turvy. all my girls are boys--and all my boys are girls.' 'well, sophia can take care of the country club! i remember how we scoffed when she organized it.' 'it's had precisely the effect i expected. takes her away from her own home, where she ought to be----' 'who wants her at home?' unblushingly he answered, '_i_ do.' 'why, you're never there yourself.' he blinked. 'when you aren't in your garden you're----' 'here?' he laughed. 'i don't myself,' she went on, '_i_ don't belong to any clubs----' 'i should hope not, indeed! where should i go for tea and for news of the workings of the zeitgeist?' he mocked. 'but i begin to see what women's clubs are for.' 'they're for the dowdy, unattached females to meet and gossip in, to hold feeble little debates in, to listen to pettifogging little lectures, and imagine they're _dans le mouvement_.' 'they are to accustom women to thinking and acting together. while you and i have been laughing at them, they've been building up a huge machinery of organization, ready to the hand of the chief engineer who is to come.' 'horrible thought!' 'well, horrible or not, i don't despise clubs any more. they're largely responsible for the new corporate spirit among women.' he pulled himself out of the cavernous comfort of his chair, and stood glooming in front of the screen that hid the fireless grate. 'clubs, societies, leagues, they're all devices for robbing people of their freedom. it's no use to talk to me. i'm one of the few individualists left in the world. i never wanted in my life to belong to any body.' her pealing laughter made him explain, smiling, 'to any corporation, was what i meant.' 'no, no. you got it right the first time! the reason that, in spite of my late perversities, you don't cast me off is because i'm one of the few women who don't make claims.' 'it is the claim of the community that i resent. i want to keep clear of all complication. i want to be really free. i could never have pledged myself to any church or any party.' 'perhaps'--she smiled at him--'perhaps that's why you are a beautiful and ineffectual angel.' 'the reason i never did is because i care about liberty--the thing itself. you are in danger, i see, of being enamoured of the name. in thought women are always half a century or so behind. what patriot's voice is heard in europe or america to-day? where is the modern kossuth, garibaldi? what poet goes out in these times to die at missolonghi? just as men are finding out the vanity of the old dreams, the women seem to be seizing on them. the mass of intelligent men have no longing for political power. if a sort of public prominence is thrust on men'--he shrugged as if his shoulders chafed under some burden--'_in their hearts_ they curse their lot. i suppose it's all so new to the woman she is amused. she even--i'm _told_'--his lifted hand, with the closed fingers suddenly flung open, advertised the difficulty a sane person found in crediting the uncanny rumour--'i'm _told_ that women even like public dinners.' 'well, you do.' 'i?' 'you go--to all the most interesting ones.' 'part of my burden! unlike your new friends, there's nothing i hate so much, unless it is having to make a speech.' 'well, now, shall i stop "playing at ma'ams" and just say that when i hear a man like you explaining in that superior way how immensely he _doesn't care_, i seem to see that that is precisely the worst indictment against your class. if special privilege breeds that----' it merely amused him to see that she was forgetting herself. he sat down again. he stretched out his long legs and interlaced his fingers across his bulging shirt front. his air of delicate mockery supplied the whip. 'if,' vida went on with shining eyes, 'if to be able to care and to work and to sacrifice, if to get those impulses out of life, you must carry your share of the world's burden, then no intelligent creature can be sorry the day is coming when all men will have to----' she took breath, a little frightened to see where she was going. 'have to----?' he encouraged her, lazily smiling. 'have to work, or else not eat.' 'even under your hard rule i wouldn't have to work much. my appetite is mercifully small.' 'it would grow if you sweated for your bread.' 'help! help!' he said, not above his usual tone, but slowly he turned his fine head as the door opened. he fixed the amused grey-green eyes on old mr. fox-moore: 'a small and inoffensive pillar of the upper house is in the act of being abolished.' 'what, is she talking politics? she never favours me with her views,' said fox-moore, with his chimpanzee smile. when borrodaile had said good-bye, vida followed him to the top of the stairs. 'it's rather on my mind that i--i've not been very nice to you.' '"i would not hear thine enemy say so."' 'yes, i've been rather horrid. i went and trafalgar-squared you, when i ought to have amused you.' 'but you have amused me!' his eyes shone mischievously. 'oh, very well.' she took the gibe in good part, offering her hand again. 'good-bye, my dear,' he said gently. 'it's great fun having you in the world!' he spoke as though he had personally arranged this provision against dulness for his latter end. * * * * * the next evening he came up to her at a party to ask why she had absented herself from a dinner the night before where he expected to find her. 'oh, i telephoned in the morning they weren't to expect me.' 'what were you doing, i should like to know?' 'no, you wouldn't like to know. but you couldn't have helped laughing if you'd seen me.' 'where?' 'wandering about the purlieus of battersea.' 'bless me! who with?' 'why, with that notorious suffragette, miss ernestine blunt. oh, you'd have stared even harder if you'd seen us, i promise you! she with a leather portfolio under one arm--a most business-like apparatus, and a dinner-bell in one hand.' 'a _dinner_ bell!' he put his hand to his brow as one who feels reason reeling. 'yes, holding fast to the clapper so that we shouldn't affright the isle out of season. i, if you please, carrying an armful of propagandist literature.' 'good lord! _where_ do you say these orgies take place?' 'near the fire station on the far side of battersea park.' 'i think you are in great need of somebody to look after you,' he laughed, but no one who knew him could mistake his seriousness. 'come over here.' he found a sofa a little apart from the crush. 'who goes with you on these raids?' 'why, ernestine--or rather, i go with her.' 'but who takes care of you?' 'ernestine.' 'who knows you're doing this kind of thing?' 'ernestine--and you. it's a secret.' 'well, if i'm the only sane person who knows--it's something of a responsibility.' 'i won't tell you about it if it oppresses you.' 'on the contrary, i insist on your telling me.' vida smiled reflectively. 'the mode of procedure strikes one as highly original. it is simple beyond anything in the world. they select an open space at the convergence of several thoroughfares--if possible, near an omnibus centre. for these smaller meetings they don't go to the length of hiring a lorry. do you know what a lorry is?' 'i regret to say my education in that direction leaves something to be desired.' 'last week i was equally ignorant. to-day i can tell you all about it. a lorry is a cart or a big van with the top off. but such elegancies are for the parks. in battersea, you go into some modest little restaurant, and you say, "will you lend me a chair?" this is a surprise for the battersea restaurateur.' 'naturally--poor man!' 'exactly. he refuses. but he also asks questions. he is amazed. he is against the franchise for women. "you'll _never_ get the vote!" "well, we must have something," says ernestine. "i'm sure it isn't against your principles to lend a woman a chair." she lays hands on one. "i never said you could have one of my----" "but you meant to, didn't you? isn't a chair one of the things men have always been ready to offer us? thank you. i'll take good care of it and bring it back quite safe." out marches ernestine with the enemy's property. she carries the chair into the road and plants it in front of the fire station. usually there are two or three "helpers." sometimes ernestine, if you please, carries the meeting entirely on her own shoulders--those same shoulders being about so wide. yes, she's quite a little thing. if there are helpers she sends them up and down the street sowing a fresh crop of handbills. when ernestine is ready to begin she stands up on that chair, in the open street and, as if she were doing the most natural thing in the world, she begins ringing that dinner bell. naturally people stop and stare and draw nearer. ernestine tells me that battersea has got so used now to the ding-dong and to associating it with "our meeting," that as far off as they hear it the inhabitants say, "it's the suffragettes! come along!" and from one street and another the people emerge laughing and running. of course as soon as there is a little crowd that attracts more, and so the snowball grows. sometimes the traffic is impeded. oh, it's a much odder world than i had suspected!' for a moment laughter interrupted the narrative. '"the salvation army doesn't _quite_ approve of us," ernestine says, "and the socialists don't love us either! we always take their audiences away from them--poor things," says ernestine, with a sympathetic air. "_you_ do!" i say, because'--vida nodded at lord borrodaile--'you must know ernestine is a beguiler.' 'oh, a beguiler. i didn't suppose----' 'no, it's against the tradition, i know, but it's true. she herself, however, doesn't seem to realize her beguilingness. "it isn't any one in particular they come to hear," she says, "it's just that a woman making a speech is so much more interesting than a man making a speech." it surprises you? so it did me.' 'nothing surprises me!' said borrodaile, with a wave of his long hands. 'last night she was wonderful, our ernestine! even i, who am used to her, i was stirred. i was even thrilled. she had that crowd in the hollow of her hand! when she wound up, "the motion is carried. the meeting is over!" and climbed down off her perch, the mob cheered and pressed round her so close that i had to give up trying to join her. i extricated myself and crossed the street. she is so little that, unless she's on a chair, she is swallowed up. for a long time i couldn't see her. i didn't know whether she was taking the names and addresses of the people who want to join the union, or whether she had slipped away and gone home, till i saw practically the whole crowd moving off after her up the street. i followed for some distance on the off-side. she went calmly on her way, a tiny figure in a long grey coat between two helpers, the lancashire cotton-spinner and the cockney working woman, with that immense tail of boys and men (and a few women) all following after--quite quiet and well-behaved--just following, because it didn't occur to them to do anything else. in a way she was still exercising her hold over her meeting. i saw, presently, there was one person in front of her--a great big fellow--he looked like a carter--he was carrying home the chair!' they both laughed. 'well, she's found a thick-and-thin advocate in you apparently,' said borrodaile. 'ah! if only you could _see_ her! trudging along, apparently quite oblivious of her quaint following, dinner bell in one hand, leather case piled high with "tracts" on the other arm, some of the leaflets sliding off, tumbling on to the pavement.' vida laughed as she recalled the scene. 'then dozens of hands darting out to help her to recover her precious property! after the chair had been returned the crowd thinned, and i crossed over to her.' 'you in that _mêlée_!' borrodaile ejaculated. 'well, ernestine hadn't the quaintness all to herself.' 'no. oh, no,' vida agreed. 'i thought of you, and how you'd look if you had come on us suddenly. after the crowd had melted and the helpers had vanished into the night, we went on together--all the way, from the battersea fire station to sloane square, did ernestine and i walk, talking reform last night. you laugh? so do i; but not at ernestine. she's a most wonderful person. i sometimes ask myself if the world will ever know half how wonderful. you, for instance, you haven't, after all i've said, you haven't _an idea_!' 'oh, i don't doubt--i don't think i ever doubted that women have a facility in speech--no, no, i'm not gibing! i don't even doubt they can, as you say, sway and control crowds. but i maintain it is very bad for the women.' 'how is it bad?' 'how can it fail to be! all that horrible publicity. all that concentrating of crude popular interest on themselves! believe me, nobody who watches a public career carefully but sees the demoralizing effect the limelight has even on men's characters. and i suppose you'll admit that men are less delicately organized than women.' 'i can only say i've seen the sort of thing you mean in our world, where a good many women have only themselves to think about. i've looked in vain for those evil effects among the suffrage women. it almost seems, on the contrary, as if there were something ennobling in working for a public cause.' 'personally, i can't say i've observed it--not among the political women of my acquaintance!' 'but you only know the old kind. yes, the kind whose idea of influence is to make men fall in love with them, whose idea of working is to put on a smart gown and smile their prettiest. no, i agree that _isn't_ necessarily ennobling!' 'i see, it's the new taste in manners and the new arts of persuasion that make the ideal women and'--with an ironic little bow--'the impassioned convert.' 'i'm bound to admit,' she said stoutly, 'that i think the suffrage movement in england has the advantage of being engineered by a very remarkable set of women. not in ability alone, but in dignity of character. people will never know, i sometimes think, how much the movement has owed to being taken in hand by just these particular women. i don't pretend they're the average. they're very far above the average. and what the world will owe to them i very much doubt if even the future will know. but i seem to be the only one who minds.' she laughed. 'i could take my oath _they_ never give the matter a thought. one thing----' she leaned forward and then checked herself. 'no, i've talked about them enough!' she opened her fan and looked about the crowded room. 'say what you were going to. i'm reconciled. i see what's coming.' 'what's coming?' 'yes. go on.' she looked at him a little perplexed over the top of her fan. 'i was only going to say that what struck me particularly in that girl, for instance, is her inaccessibility to flattery. i've watched her with men.' 'of course! she knew you were watching her. she no doubt thinks the eyes of the world are upon her.' 'on the contrary, it's her unselfconsciousness that's the most surprising thing about her. or, no! it's something more interesting even than that. she is conscious, in a way, of the hold she has on the public. but it hasn't any of the deteriorating effect you were deprecating. i've been moved once or twice to congratulate her. she takes it as unmoved as a child. it's just as if you said to a little thing of three, "what a clever baby you are!" or, "you've got the most beautiful eyes in the world." the child would realize that you meant well, that you were being pleasant, but it wouldn't think about either its cleverness or its eyes. it's like that with ernestine. when i said to her, "you made an astoundingly good speech to-night. the best i've heard even you make," she looked at me with a sort of half-absent-minded, half-wondering expression, without a glimmer of personal vanity. when i was so ill-advised as not to drop the subject, when i ventured to say something more about that great gift of hers, she interrupted me with a little laugh, "it's a sign of grace in you not to get tired of our speeches," she said. "i suppose we repeat ourselves a good deal. you see that's just what we've got to do. we've got to _hammer it in_." but the fact is that she doesn't repeat herself, that she's always fresh and stimulating, because--i suppose it's because she's always thinking of the great impersonal object, and talking about it out of her own eager heart. ernestine? she's as unhackneyed as a spring morning!' 'oh, very well. i'll go.' 'go? where?' for he still sat there. 'why, to hear your paragon. i've seen that was what you were leading up to.' 'n--no. i don't think i want you to go.' 'oh, yes, you do. i knew you'd make me sooner or later.' 'no, don't be afraid.' she stood up. 'i'm not afraid. i'm eager,' he laughed. she shook her head. 'no, i'll never take you.' 'why not?' 'because--it isn't all ernestine and skittles. and because you'd make me keenly alive again to all sorts of things that i see now don't matter--things that have lost some of their power to trouble me, but that i should feel for you.' 'what sort of----' 'oh, oddities, uglinesses--things that abound, i'm told, at all men's meetings, and that yet, somehow, we'd like to eliminate from women's quite on the old angel theory. no, i won't take you!' chapter xiii the following afternoon, at half-past five, the carelessly dressed, rather slouching figure of lord borrodaile might have been seen walking along the thames embankment in the neighbourhood of pimlico pier. he passed without seeing the only other person visible at that quiet hour--one of the 'unemployed,' like himself, but save in that respect sufficiently unlike the earl of borrodaile was the grimy, unshaven tramp collapsed in one corner of the double-seated municipal bench. lord borrodaile's fellow-citizen leaned heavily on one of the stout scrolls of ironwork which, repeated at regular intervals on each side, divided the seat into six compartments. no call for any one to notice such a man--there are so many of them in these piping times of peace and prosperity. then, too, they go crawling about our world protected from notice, as the creatures are who take their colouring from bark or leaf or arctic snows. so these other forms of life, weather-beaten, smoke-begrimed, subdued to the hues of the dusty roads they travel, and the unswept spaces where they sleep--over these the eye glides unseeing. as little interested in the gentleman as the gentleman was in him, the wastrel contemplated the river with grimly speculative eye. but when suddenly borrodaile's sauntering figure came to a standstill near the lower end of the bench, the tramp turned his head and watched dully the gloveless hands cross one over the other on the knob of the planted umbrella; the bent head; one hand raised now, groping about the waistcoat, lighting upon what it sought and raising a pince-nez, through which he read the legend scrawled in chalk upon the pavement. with a faint saturnine smile lord borrodaile dropped the glass, and took his bearings. he consulted his watch, and walked on. upon his return a quarter of an hour later, he viewed the same little-alluring prospect from the opposite side of the street. the tramp still stared at the river, but on his side of the bench, at the other end, sat a lady reading a book. between the two motionless figures and the parapet, a group of dirty children were wrangling. lord borrodaile crossed the wide street and paused a moment just behind the lady. he leaned forward as if to speak to her across the middle division of the bench. but he reconsidered, and turning his back to her, sat down and drew an evening paper out of his pocket. he was so little like that glittering figment, the peer of popular imagination, that the careless sobriety of dress and air in the person of this third occupant of the capacious double bench struck an even less arresting note than the frank wretchedness of the other man. presently one of the children burst out crying, and continued to howl lustily till the lady looked up from her page and inquired what was the matter. the unwashed infant stared open-mouthed at this intruder upon her grief. instead of answering, she regarded the lady with a bored astonishment, as who should say: what are you interrupting me for, just in the middle of a good yell? she then took up the strain as nearly as possible where she had left off. she was getting on very well with this second attempt at a demonstration until miss levering made some mention of a penny, whereupon the infant again suspended her more violent manifestations, though the tears kept rolling down. after various attempts on the lady's part, the little girl was induced to come and occupy the middle place on the river side of the bench, between vida and the tramp. while the lady held the penny in her hand, and cross-examined the still weeping child, borrodaile sat quietly listening behind his paper. when the child couldn't answer those questions that were of a general nature, the tramp did, and the three were presently quite a pleasant family party. the only person 'out of it' was the petrified gentleman on the other side. a few minutes before the arrival of the suffragettes, two nondescript young men, in a larky mood, appeared with the announcement that they'd seen 'one of them' at the top of ranelagh street. 'that'll be the little 'un,' said the tramp to nobody. 'you don't ketch 'er bein' late!' 'blunt! no--cheeky little devil,' remarked one of the young men, offering a new light upon the royal virtue of punctuality; but from the enthusiasm with which they availed themselves of the rest of lord borrodaile's side of the bench, it was obvious they had hurried to the spot with the intention of securing front seats at the show. 'of course it ain't goin' to be as much fun as the 'yde park sunday aufternoons. jim wrightson goes to them. keeps things lively--'e does.' 'kicks up a reg'lar shindy, don't 'e?' 'yes. we can't do nothin' 'ere--ain't enough'--whether of space or of spirited young men he did not specify. as they lit their cigarettes the company received further additions--one obviously otherwise employed than with politics. her progress--was it symbolic?--was necessarily slow, for a small child clung to her skirt, and she trundled a sickly boy in a go-cart. the still sniffling person in possession of the middle seat on the other side (her anxious and watery eye fixed on the penny) was told by miss levering to make room for the new-comers. the child's way of doing so was to crowd closer to the neighbourhood of the fascinating coin. but that mandate to 'make room' had proved a conversational opening through which poured--or trickled rather--the mother's sorry little history. her husband was employed in the clothing department of the army and navy stores--yes, nine years now. he was considered very lucky to keep his place when the staff was reduced. but the costliness of raising the children! it was well that three were dead. if she had it all to do over again--no! no! the seeming heartlessness with which she envisaged the non-existence of her babies contrasted strangely with her patient tenderness to the querulous boy in the go-cart. meanwhile miss levering had not forgotten her earlier acquaintance. as the wan mother watched the end of the transaction which left the sniffler now quite consoled, in possession of the modest coin, she said naïvely-- 'when anybody gives one of my children a penny, i always save half of it for them the next day.' vida levering turned her head away, and in so doing met lord borrodaile's eyes over the back of the bench. she gave a faint start of surprise, and then-- 'she saves half of it!' was all she said. borrodaile, glancing shrewdly over the further augmented gathering, asked the invariable question-- 'how do you account for the fact that so few women are here to show their interest in a matter that's supposed to concern them so much?' vida craned her head. 'beside you, only one!' borrodaile's mocking voice went on. 'isn't this an instance of your sex's indifference to the whole thing? isn't it equally an instance of man's keenness about public questions?' he couldn't forbear adding in a whisper, 'even such a question, and such men?' vida still craned, searching in vain for refutation in female form. but she did not take her failure lying down. 'the men who are here,' she said, 'the great majority of men at all open-air meetings seem to be loafers. woman--whatever else she may or may not be--isn't a loafer!' through borrodaile's laugh she persisted. 'a woman always seems to have something to do, even if it's of the silliest description. yes, and if she's a decent person at all, she's not hanging about at street corners waiting for some diversion!' 'not bad; not bad! i see you are catching the truly martial spirit.' 'that's them, ain't it?' one of the young men jumped up. vida turned her head in time to see the meeting between two girls and a woman arriving from opposite directions. 'yes,' she whispered; 'that's ernestine with the pile of handbills on her arm.' the lady sent out smiles and signals of welcome with a lifted hand. the busy propagandist took no notice. she was talking to her two companions, one of whom, the younger with head on one side, kept shooting out glances half provocative, half appealing, towards lord borrodaile and the young men. she seemed as keenly alive to the fact of these male presences as the two other women seemed oblivious. 'which is the one,' asked lord borrodaile, 'that you were telling me about?' 'why, ernestine blunt--the pink-cheeked one in the long alpaca coat.' 'she doesn't look so very devilish,' he laughed. after an impatient moment's hope that devilishness might develop, he said, 'she hasn't seen you yet.' 'oh, yes, she has.' 'then she isn't as overjoyed as she ought to be.' 'she'd be surprised to know she was expected to be overjoyed.' 'why? aren't you very good to her?' 'no. she's been rather good to me, though she doesn't take very much stock in me.' 'why doesn't she?' 'oh, there are only two kinds of people that interest ernestine. those who'll be active in carrying on the propaganda, and those who have yet to be converted.' 'well, i'm disappointed,' he teased, perceiving how keen his friend was that he should not be. 'the other one would be more likely to convert _me_.' 'oh, you only say that because the other one's tall, and makes eyes!' vida denounced him, to his evident diversion. whatever his reasons were, the young men seemed to share his preference. they were watching the languishing young woman, who in turn kept glancing at them. ernestine, having finished what she was saying, made her way to where miss levering sat, not, it would appear, for any purpose so frivolous as saying good evening, but to deposit what were left of the handbills and the precious portfolio in the care of one well known by now to have a motherly oversight of such properties. lord borrodaile's eyes narrowed with amusement as he watched the hurried pantomime. instead of 'thank you,' as vida meekly accepted the incongruous and by no means light burden: 'we are short of speakers,' said ernestine. 'you'll help us out, won't you?' as though it were the simplest thing in the world. lord borrodaile half rose in protest. 'no,' said vida. 'i won't speak till i have something to say.' 'i should have thought there was plenty to _say_!' said the girl. 'yes, for you. you know such a lot,' smiled her new friend. 'i must get some first-hand knowledge, too, before i try to stand up and speechify.' 'it's now we need help. by-and-by there'll be plenty. but i'm not going to worry you,' she caught herself up. then, confidentially, 'we've got one new helper that we've great hopes of. she joined to-day.' 'some one who can speak?' 'oh, she'll speak, i dare say, by and by.' 'what does she do in the meantime--to----' (to account for your enthusiasm, was implied) 'to show she's a helper? subscribes?' 'i expect she'll subscribe, too. she takes such an interest. plenty of courage, too.' 'how do you know?' 'well'--the voice dropped--'she's _all right_, but she belongs to rather stodgy people. bothers about respectability, and that sort of thing. but she came along with me this afternoon distributing handbills all over the city for two hours! not many women of her kind are ready to do _that_ the first thing.' 'no, i dare say not,' said vida, humbly. 'and one thing i thought a very good sign'--ernestine bent lower in her enthusiasm--'when we got to finsbury circus she said'--ernestine paused as if struck afresh by the merits of the new recruit--'she said, "_give me a piece of chalk!_"' 'chalk! what did she want with----?' borrodaile, too, leaned nearer. 'she saw me beginning to write meeting notices on the stones. of course, the people stopped and stared and laughed. but she, instead of getting shy, and pretending she hadn't anything to do with me, she took the chalk and wrote, "votes for women!" all over the pavement of finsbury circus.' ernestine paused a moment that miss levering might applaud the new 'helper.' 'i thought that a very good sign in such a respectable person.' 'oh, yes; a most encouraging sign. is it the one in mauve who did that?' 'no, that's--i forget her name--oh, mrs. thomas. she's new, too. i'll have to let her speak if you won't,' she said, a trifle anxiously. 'mrs. thomas, by all means,' murmured borrodaile, as ernestine, seeing her plea was hopeless, turned away. vida caught her by the coat. 'where are the others? the rest of your _good_ speakers?' 'scattered up and down. getting ready for the general election. that's why we have to break in new people. oh, she sent me some notes, that girl did. i must give them back to her.' ernestine stooped and opened the portfolio on miss levering's lap. she rummaged through the bulging pockets. 'i thought,' said miss levering, with obvious misgiving, 'i thought i hadn't seen that affected-looking creature before.' 'oh, she'll get over all that,' ernestine whispered. 'you haven't much opinion of our crowds, but they can teach people a lot.' 'teach them not to hold their heads like a broken lily?' 'yes, knock all sorts of nonsense out and stiffen them up wonderfully.' she found the scrap of paper, and shut the portfolio with a snap. 'now!' she stood up, took in the fact of the audience having increased and a policeman in the offing. she summoned her allies. 'it's nearly time for those army and navy workers to come out. the men will come first,' she said, 'and five minutes after, they let the women out. i'll begin, and then i think you'd better speak next,' she said, handing the die-away young woman her notes. 'these seem all right.' 'oh, but, miss blunt,' she whispered, 'i'm so nervous. how am i ever to face all those men?' 'you'll find it quite easy when once you are started,' said ernestine, in a quiet undertone. 'but i'm so afraid that, just out of pure nervousness, i'll say the wrong thing.' 'if you do, i'll be there,' returned the chairman, a little grimly. 'but it's the very first time in my life----' 'now, look here----' ernestine reached out past this person who was luxuriating in her own emotions, and drew the ample mauve matron into the official group close to where miss levering sat nursing the handbills. 'it's easy enough talking to these little meetings. they're quite good and quiet--not a bit like hyde park.' (one of the young men poked the other. they exchanged looks.) 'but there are three things we all agree it's just as well to keep in mind: not to talk about ourselves'--she measured off the tit-bits of wisdom with a slim forefinger--'not to say anything against the press, and, if possible, remember to praise the police.' 'praise the police!' ejaculated the mauve matron. 'sh!' said ernestine, softly. but not so easily was the tide of indignation stemmed. 'i saw with my own eyes----' began the woman. 'yes, yes, but----' she lowered her voice, borrodaile had to strain to catch what she said, 'you see it's no use beating our heads against a stone wall. a movement that means to be popular must have the police on its side. after all, they do very well--considering.' 'considering they're men?' demanded the matron. 'anyhow,' ernestine went on, 'even if they behaved ten times worse, it's not a bit of good to antagonize the police or the press. if they aren't our friends, we've got to make them our friends. they're both _much_ better than they were. they must be encouraged!' said the wise young daniel, with a little nod. then as she saw or felt that the big matron might elude her vigilance and break out into indiscretion, 'why, we had a reporter in from the _morning magnifier_ only to-day. he said, "the public seems to have got tired of reading that you spit and scratch and prod policemen with your hatpins. now, do you mind saying what is it you really do?" i told him to come here this afternoon. now, when i've opened the meeting, _you'll_ tell him!' 'oh, _dear_!' the young woman patted her fringe, 'do you suppose we'll be in the _magnifier_ to-morrow? how dreadful!' during this little interchange a procession of men streaming homeward in their hundreds came walking down the embankment in twos and threes or singly, shambling past the loosely gathered assemblage about the bench. the child on the riverward side still clutching its penny was unceremoniously ousted. as soon as ernestine had mounted the seat the slackly held gathering showed signs of cohesion. the waiting units drew closer. the dingy procession slowed--the workmen, looking up at the young face with the fluttering sycamore shadows printed on its pink and white, grinned or frowned, but many halted and listened. through the early part of the speech miss levering kept looking out of the corner of her eye to see what effect it had on borrodaile. but borrodaile gave no sign. ernestine was trying to make it clear what a gain it would be, especially to this class, if women had the vote. an uphill task to catch and hold the attention of those tired workmen. they hadn't stopped there to be made to think--if they weren't going to be amused, they'd go home. a certain number did go home, after pausing to ask the young reformer, more or less good-humouredly, why she didn't get married. lord borrodaile had privately asked for enlightenment on the same score. vida had only smiled. one man varied the monotony by demanding why, if it would be a good thing for the working class to have women voting, why didn't the labour party take up the question. 'some of the labour party have,' ernestine told them, 'but the others are afraid. they've been told that women are such slaves to convention--such timid creatures! they know their own women aren't, but they're doubtful about the rest. the labour party, you know'--she spoke with a condescending forbearance--'the labour party is young yet, and knows what it's like to feel timid. some of the labour men have the wild notion that women would all vote conservative.' 'so they would!' but ernestine shook her head. 'while we are trying to show the people who say that, that even if they were right, it would be no excuse whatever for denying our claim to vote whichever way we thought best. while we are going to the root of the principle of the thing, another lot of logical gentlemen are sure to say, "oh, it would never do to have women voting. they'd be going in for all sorts of new-fangled reforms, and the whole place would be turned upside down!" so between the men who think we'd all turn tory and the men who are sure we'd all be socialists, we don't seem likely to get very far, unless we do something to show them we mean to have it for no better reason than just that we're human beings!' 'isn't she delightfully--direct!' whispered miss levering, eager to cull some modest flower of praise. 'oh, direct enough!' his tone so little satisfied the half-maternal pride of the other woman that she was almost prepared for the slighting accent in which he presently asked, 'is this the sort of thing that's supposed to convert people to a great constitutional change?' 'it isn't our women would get the vote,' a workman called out. 'it's the rich women.' 'is it only the rich men who have the vote?' demanded ernestine. 'you know it isn't. we are fighting to get the franchise on precisely the same terms as men.' for several moments the wrangle went on. 'would wives have a vote?' she showed how that could be made a matter of adjustment. she quoted the lodger franchise and the latch-key decision. vida kept glancing at borrodaile. as still he made no sign, 'of course,' the lady whispered across the back of the bench, 'of course, you think she's an abomination, but----?' she paused for a handsome disavowal. borrodaile looked at the eager face--vida's, for miss blunt's was calm as a may morning. as he did not instantly speak, 'but you can't deny she's got extremely good wits.' he seemed to relent before such persuasiveness. 'she's got a delicious little face,' he admitted, thinking to say the most. 'oh, her _face_! that's scarcely the point.' 'it's always the point.' 'it's the principle that's at stake,' ernestine was saying. 'the most out-and-out socialist among us would welcome the enfranchisement of six duchesses or all the women born with red hair; we don't care on what plea the entering wedge gets in. but let me tell you there aren't any people on earth so blind to their own interests as just you working men when you oppose or when you are indifferent to women's having votes. all women suffer--but it's the women of your class who suffer most. _isn't_ it? don't you men know--why, it's notorious!--that the women of the working class are worse sweated even than the men?' 'so they are!' 'if you don't believe me, _ask_ them. here they come.' it was well contrived--that point! it struck full in the face of the homeward-streaming women who had just been let out. 'we know, and you men know----' the speaker nailed her advantage, 'that even the government that's being forced to become a model employer where men are concerned, the very _government_ is responsible for sweating thousands of women in state employments! we know and you know that in those work-rooms over yonder these very women have been sitting weighed down by the rumour of a reduction in their wages already so much below the men's. they've sat there wondering whether they can risk a strike. women--it's notorious,' she flung it out on a wave of passion, 'women everywhere suffer most from the evils of our social system. why not? they've had no hand in it! our social system is the work of men! yet we must work to uphold it! this system that crushes us. we must swell the budget, we must help to pay the bill! what _fools_ we've all been! what fools we are if we don't do something!' 'gettin' up rows and goin' to 'olloway's no good.' while she justified the course that led to holloway-- 'rot! piffle!' they interjected. one man called out: 'i'd have some respect for you if you'd carried a bomb into the house of commons, but a miserable little scuffle with the police!' 'here's a gentleman who is inciting us to carry bombs. now, that shocks me.' the crowd recovered its spirits at the notion of the champion-shocker shocked. 'we've been dreadfully browbeaten about our tactics, but that gentleman with his bad advice makes our tactics sound as innocent and reasonable as they actually are. when you talk in that wild way about bombs--you--i may be a hooligan'--she held up the delicate pink-and-white face with excellent effect--'but you do shock me.' it wore well this exquisitely humorous jest about shocking a suffragette. the whole crowd was one grin. 'i'm specially shocked when i hear a _man_ advocating such a thing! you men have other and more civilized ways of getting the government to pay attention to abuses. now listen to what i'm saying: for it's the justification of everything we are going to do in the future, _unless_ we get what we're asking for! it's this. our justification is that men, even poor men, have that powerful leverage of the vote. you men have no right to resort to violence; you have a better way. we have _no_ way but agitation. a _liberal_ government that refuses----' 'three cheers for the liberals! hip, hip----' 'my friend, i see you are young,' says ernestine. 'lord, wot are you?' the young man hurled back. 'before i got my political education, when _i_ was young and innocent, like this gentleman, who still pins his faith to the liberals, i, too, hoped great things from them. my friends, it's a frame of mind we outlive!'--and her friends shrieked with delight. 'well, it's one way for a girl to amuse herself till she gets married,' said borrodaile. 'why, that's just what the hooligans all say!' laughed vida. 'and, like you, they think that if a woman wants justice for other women she must have a grievance of her own. i've heard them ask ernestine in battersea--she has valiant friends there--"oo's 'urt _your_ feelin's?" they say. "tell me, and i'll punch 'is 'ead." but you aren't here to listen to _me_!' vida caught herself up. 'this is about the deputation of women that waited on the prime minister.' 'didn't get nothin' out of him!' somebody shouted. 'oh, yes, we did! we got the best speech in favour of woman's suffrage that any of us ever heard.' 'haw! haw! clever ol' fox!' ''e just buttered 'em up! but 'e don't do nothin'.' 'oh, yes, he did something!' 'what?' 'he gave us advice!' they all laughed together at that in the most friendly spirit in the world. 'two nice pieces,' ernestine held up each hand very much like a school child rejoicing over slices of cake. 'one we are taking'--she drew in a hand--'the other we aren't'--she let it fall. 'he said we must win people to our way of thinking. we're doing it; at a rate that must astonish, if it doesn't even embarrass him. the other piece of distinguished advice he gave us was of a more doubtful character.' her small hands took it up gingerly. again she seemed to weigh it there in the face of the multitude. 'the prime minister said we "must have patience." she threw the worthless counsel into the air and tossed contempt after it. 'it is man's oldest advice to woman!' 'all our trouble fur nothin'!' groaned an impish boy. 'we see now that patience has been our bane. if it hadn't been for this same numbing slavish patience we wouldn't be standing before the world to-day, political outcasts--catalogued with felons and lunatics----' 'and peers!' called a voice. 'we are _done_ with patience!' said ernestine, hotly; 'and for that reason there is at last some hope for the women's cause. now miss scammell will speak to you.' a strange thing happened when miss scammell got up. she seemed to leave her attractiveness, such as it was, behind when she climbed up on the bench. standing mute, on a level with the rest, her head deprecatingly on one side, she had pleased. up there on the bench, presuming to teach, she woke a latent cruelty in the mob. they saw she couldn't take care of herself, and so they 'went for her'--the very same young men who had got up and given her a choice of the seats they had been at the pains to come early to secure. to be sure, when, with a smile, she had sat down only a quarter of an hour before, in the vacated place of one of them, the other boy promptly withdrew with his pal. it would have been too compromising to remain alongside the charmer. but when miss scammell stood up on that same bench, she was assumed to have left the realm of smiles and meaning looks where she was mistress and at home. she had ventured out into the open, not only without the sword of pointed speech--that falls to few--but this young lady had not even the armour of absolute earnestness. when she found that smiling piteously wouldn't do, she proceeded, looking more and more like a scared white rabbit, to tell about the horrible cases of lead-poisoning among the girls in certain china and earthenware works. all that she had to say was true and significant enough. but it was no use. they jeered and howled her down for pure pleasure in her misery. she trembled and lost her thread. she very nearly cried. vida wondered that the little chairwoman didn't fly to the rescue. but ernestine sat quite unmoved looking in her lap. 'lamentable exhibition!' said borrodaile, moving about uneasily. the odd thing was that miss scammell kept on with her prickly task. 'why don't you make her sit down?' vida whispered to miss blunt. 'because i've got to see what she's made of.' 'but surely you see! she's awful!' 'not half so bad as lots of men when they first try. if she weathers this, she'll be a speaker some day.' at last, having told her story through the interruptions--told it badly, brokenly, but to the end--having given proofs that lead-poisoning among women was on the increase and read out from her poor crumpled, shaking notes, the statistics of infant and still-birth mortality, the unhappy new helper sat down. miss blunt leaned over, and whispered, 'that's all right! i was wrong. this is nearly as bad as hyde park,' and with that jumped up to give the crowd a piece of her mind. they sniggered, but they quieted down, all but one. 'yes, you are the gentleman, you there with the polo cap, who doesn't believe in giving a fair hearing. i would like to ask that man who thinks himself so superior, _that_ one in the grey cap, whether he is capable of standing up here on this bench and addressing the crowd.' 'hear, hear.' 'yes! get on the bench. up with him.' a slight scrimmage, and an agitated man was observed to be seeking refuge on the outskirts. 'bad as miss scammell was, she made me rather ashamed of myself,' vida confided to borrodaile. 'yes,' he said sympathetically, 'it always makes one rather ashamed--even if it's a man making public failure.' 'oh, that wasn't what i meant. _she_ at least tried. but i--i feel i'm a type of all the idle women the world over. leaving it to the poor and the ill-equipped to----' 'to keep the world from slipping into chaos?' he inquired genially. she hadn't heard. her eyes were fastened on the chairwoman. 'after all, they've got ernestine,' vida exulted under her breath. borrodaile fell to studying this aspect of the face whose every change he had thought he knew so well. what was the new thing in it? not admiration merely, not affection alone--something almost fierce behind the half-protecting tenderness with which she watched the chairman's duel with the mob. borrodaile lifted a hand--people were far too engrossed, he knew, to notice--and he laid it on vida's, which had tightened on the back of the bench. 'my dear!' he said wondering and low as one would to wake a sleepwalker. she answered without looking at him, 'what is it?' he seemed not to know quite how to frame his protest. 'she can carry _you_ along at least!' he grumbled. 'you forget everybody else!' vida smiled. it was so plain whom he meant by 'everybody.' lord borrodaile gave a faint laugh. he probably knew that would 'bring her round.' it did. it brought her quick eyes to his face; it brought low words. '_please!_ don't let her see you--laughing, i mean.' 'you can explain to her afterwards that it was you i was laughing at.' as that failed of specific effect, 'you really are a little ridiculous,' he said again, with the edge in his voice, 'hanging on the lips of that backfisch as if she were demosthenes.' 'we don't think she's a demosthenes. we know she is something much more significant--for _us_.' 'what?' 'she's ernestine blunt.' clean out of patience, he turned his back. 'am i alone?' she whispered over his shoulder, as if in apology. 'look at all the other women. some of them are very intelligent. our interest in our fellow-woman seems queer and unnatural to you because you don't realize mrs. brown has always been interested in mrs. jones.' 'oh, has she?' 'yes. she hasn't said much to mr. brown about it,' vida admitted, smiling, because a man's interest in woman is so limited.' borrodaile laughed. 'i didn't know that was his failing!' 'i mean his interest is of one sort. it's confined to the woman he finds interesting in _that_ way at _that_ minute. other women bore him. but other women have always been mightily interesting to us! now, sh! let's listen.' 'i can understand those callow youths,' unwarily he persisted; 'she's pink and pert and all the rest, but _you_----' 'oh, will you _never_ understand? don't you know women are more civilized than men?' 'woman! she'll be the last animal domesticated.' it seemed as if he preferred to have her angry rather than oblivious of him. but not for nothing did she belong to a world which dares to say whatever it wants to say. 'we are civilized enough, at all events'--there was an ominous sparkle in her eye--'to listen to men speakers clever or dull--we listen quietly enough. but men!--a person must be of your own sex for you to be able to regard him without distraction. if the woman is beautiful enough, you are intoxicated. if she's plain enough, you are impatient. all you see in any woman is her sex. you can't _listen_.' 'whew!' remarked borrodaile. 'but _i_ must listen--i haven't got over being ashamed to find how much this girl can teach me.' 'i'm sorry for you that any of miss scammell's interesting speech was lost,' the chairman was saying. 'she was telling you just the kind of thing that you men ought to know, the kind of thing you get little chance of knowing about from men. yet those wretched girls who die young of lead-poisoning, or live long enough to bring sickly babies into the world, those poor working women look to you working men for help. are they wrong to look to you, or are they right? you working men represent the majority of the electorate. _you_ can change things if you will. if you don't, don't think the woman will suffer alone. we shall all suffer together. more and more the masters are saying, "we'll get rid of these men--they're too many for us with their unions and their political pull. we'll get women. we'll get them for two-thirds of what we pay the men. good business!" say the masters. but it's bad business----' 'for all but the masters,' muttered the tramp. 'bad for the masters, too,' said the girl, 'only they can't see it, or else they don't care what sort of world they leave to their children. if you men weren't so blind, you'd see the women will be in politics what they are in the home--your best friends.' 'haw! haw! listen at 'er!' '_with_ the women you would be strong. without them you are--what you are!' the ringing contempt in her tone was more than one gentleman could put up with. 'how do you think the world got on before you came to show it _how_?' 'it got on very badly. not only in england--all over the world men have insisted on governing alone. what's the result? misery and degradation to the masses, and to the few--the rich and high-placed--for them corruption and decline.' 'that's it, always 'ammering away at the men--pore devils!' 'some people are so foolish as to think we are working against the men.' 'so you are!' 'it's just what the old-school politicians would like you to think. but it's nonsense. nobody knows better than we that the best interests of men and women are identical--they _can't be separated_. it's trying to separate them that's made the whole trouble.' 'oh, you know it all!' 'well, you see'--she put on her most friendly and reasonable air--'men have never been obliged to study women's point of view. but we've been obliged to study the men's point of view. it's natural we should understand you a great deal better than you understand us. and though you sometimes disappoint us, we don't lose hope of you.' 'thanks awfully.' 'we think that if we can only make you understand the meaning of this agitation, then you'll help us to get what we want. we believe the day will come when the old ideal of men standing by the women--when that ideal will be realized. for don't believe it ever _has_ been realized. it never has! now our last speaker for to-day will say a few words to you. mrs. thomas.' 'haven't you had about enough?' said borrodaile, impatiently. 'don't wait for me,' was all her answer. 'shall you stay, then, till the bitter end?' 'it will only be a few moments now. i may as well see it out.' he glanced at his watch, detached it, and held it across the back of the seat. she nodded, and repeated, 'don't wait.' his answer to that was to turn not only a bored but a slightly injured face towards the woman who had, not without difficulty, balanced her rotund form on the bench at the far end. she might have been the comfortable wife of a rural grocer. she spoke the good english you may not infrequently hear among that class, but it became clear, as she went on, that she was a person of a wider cultivation. 'you'd better go. she'll be stodgy and dull.' vida spoke with a real sympathy for her friend's sufferings. 'oh, portentous dull.' 'and no waist!' sighed borrodaile, but he sank back in his corner. presently his wandering eye discovered something in his companion's aspect that told him subtly she was not listening to the mauve matron. neither were some of the others. a number had moved away, and the little lane their going left was not yet closed, for the whole general attention was obviously slackened. this woman wasn't interesting enough even to boo at. the people who didn't go home began to talk to one another. but in vida's face--what had brought to it that still intensity? borrodaile moved so that he could follow the fixed look. one of the infrequently passing hansoms had stopped. was she looking at that? two laughing people leaning out, straining to catch what the mauve orator was saying. suddenly borrodaile pulled his slack figure together. 'sophia!' he ejaculated softly, 'and stonor!--by the beard of the prophet!' he half rose, whether more annoyed or amazed it would be hard to tell. 'we're discovered!' he said, in a laughing whisper. as he turned to add 'the murder's out,' he saw that vida had quietly averted her face. she was leaning her head on her hand, so that it masked her features. even if the woman who was speaking had not been the object of such interest as the people in the hansom had to bestow, even had either of them looked towards vida's corner, only a hat and a gauze ruffle would have been seen. borrodaile took the hint. his waning sense of the humour of the situation revived. 'perhaps, after all, if we lay low,' he said, smiling more broadly. 'it would be nuts for stonor to catch us sitting at the feet of mrs. thomas.' he positively chuckled at the absurdity of the situation. he had slipped back into his corner, but he couldn't help craning his neck to watch those two leaning over the door of the hansom, while they discussed some point with animation. several times the man raised his hand as if to give an order through the trap door. each time sophia laughingly arrested him. 'he wants to go on,' reported borrodaile, sympathetically. 'she wants him to wait a minute. now he's jumped out. what's he--looking for another hansom? no--now _she's_ out. bless me, she's shaking hands with him. he's back in the hansom!--driving away. sophia's actually---- 'pon my soul, i don't know what's come over the women! i'm rather relieved on the whole.' he turned round and spoke into vida's ear. 'i've been a little sorry for sophia. she's never had the smallest interest in any man but that cousin of hers--and, of course, it's quite hopeless.' vida sat perfectly motionless, back to the speaker, back to the disappearing hansom, staring at the parapet. 'you can turn round now--quite safe. sophia's out of range. poor sophia!' after a little pause, 'of course you know stonor?' 'why, of course.' 'oh, well, my distinguished cousin used not to be so hard to get hold of--not in the old days when we were seeing so much of your father.' 'that must have been when i was in the schoolroom--wasn't it?' he turned suddenly and looked at her. 'i'd forgotten. you know geoffrey, and you don't like him. i saw that once before.' 'once before?' she echoed. he reminded her of the time she hurried away from ulland house to bishopsmead. '_i_ wasn't deceived,' he said, with his look of smiling malice. 'you didn't care two pins about your cousin mary and her influenza.' vida moved her expressionless face a little to the right. 'i can see sophia. but she's listening to the speech;' and vida herself, with something of an effort, seemed now to be following the sordid experiences of a girl that the speaker had befriended some years before. it was through this girl, the mauve matron said, that she herself had come into touch with the abject poor. she took a big barrack of a house in a poverty-stricken neighbourhood, and it became known that there she received and helped both men and women. 'i sympathized with the men, but it was the things the women told me that appalled me. they were too bad to be entirely believed, but i wrote them down. they haunted me. i investigated. i found i had no excuse for doubting those stories.' 'this woman's a find,' vida whispered to the chairman. ernestine shook her head. 'why, she's making a first-rate speech!' said vida, astonished. 'there's nobody here who will care about it.' 'why do you say that?' 'oh, all she's saying is a commonplace to these people. lead-poisoning was new, to _them_--something they could take hold of.' 'well, i stick to it, you've got a good ally in this woman. let her stand up in somerset hall, and tell the people----' 'it wouldn't do,' said the young daniel, firmly. 'you don't believe her story?' 'oh, i don't say the things aren't true. but'--she moved uneasily--'the subject's too prickly.' 'too prickly for you!' the girl nodded with an anxious eye on the speaker. 'we sometimes make a passing reference--just to set men thinking, and there leave it. but it always makes them furious, of course. it does no good. either people know and just accept it, or else they won't believe, and it only gets them on the raw. i'll have to stop her if----' she leaned forward. 'it's odd your taking it like this. i suppose it's because you're so young,' said vida, wondering. 'it must be because for you it isn't real.' 'no, it's because i see no decent woman can think much about it and keep sane. that's why i say this one won't be any good to us. she'll never be able to see anything clearly but that one thing. she'll always be forgetting the main issue.' 'what do you call the main issue?' 'why, political power, of course.' 'oh, wise young daniel!' she murmured, as miss blunt touched the speaker's sleeve and interjected a word into the middle of a piece of depressing narrative. mrs. thomas stopped, faltered, and pulled herself up with, 'well, as i say, with my own verifications these experiences form a body of testimony that should stir the conscience of the community. i _myself_ felt'--she glanced at ernestine--'i felt it was too ghastly to publish, but it ought to be used. those who doubted the evidence should examine it. i went to a lady who is well known to be concerned about public questions; her husband is a member of parliament, and a person of influence. you don't know, perhaps, but she did, that there's a parliamentary commission going to sit here in london in a few weeks for the purpose of inquiring into certain police regulations which greatly concern women. who do you think are invited to serve on that commission? men. all men. not a woman in england is being consulted. the husband of the lady i went to see--he was one of the commissioners. i said to her, "_you_ ought to be serving on that board." she said, "oh, no," but that women like her could influence the men who sat on the commission.' 'this is better!' whispered the ever-watchful ernestine, with a smile. 'so i told her about my ten years' work. i showed her some of my records--not the worst, the average, sifted and verified. she could hardly be persuaded to glance at what i had been at so much pains to collect. you see'--she spoke as though in apology for the lady--'you see i had no official or recognized position.' 'hear, hear,' said ernestine. 'i was simply a woman whose standing in the community was all right, but i had nothing to recommend me to serious attention. i had nothing but the courage to look wrong in the face, and the conscience to report it honestly. when i told her certain things--things that are so stinging a disgrace that no decent person can hear them unmoved--when i told her of the degrading discomforts, the cruelties, that are practised against homeless women even in some of the rate-supported casual wards and the mixed lodging-houses, that lady said--sitting there in her pleasant drawing-room--she said it could not be true! my reports were exaggerated--women were sentimental--the authorities managed these places with great wisdom. they are so horrible, i said, they drive women to the streets. she assured me i was mistaken. i asked her if she had ever been inside a mixed lodging-house. she never had. but the casual wards she knew about. they were so well managed she herself wouldn't mind at all spending a night in one of these municipal provisions for the homeless. then i said, "you are the woman i am looking for! come with me one night and try it. what night shall it be?" she said she was engaged in writing a book. she could not interrupt her work. but i said, if those rate-supported places are so comfortable, it won't interfere with your work. she _turned the conversation_. she talked about the commission. the commission was going to make a thorough scientific investigation. nothing amateur about the commission. the lady was sincere'--mrs. thomas vouched for it--'she had a comfortable faith in the commission. but, i say'--the woman leaned forward in her earnestness--'i say that commission will waste its time! i don't deny it will investigate and discuss the position of the outcast women of this country. their plight, which is the work of men, will once more be inquired into by men. i say there should be women on that commission. if the middle and upper class women have the dignity and influence men pretend they have, why aren't they represented there? nobody pretends the matter doesn't concern the mothers of the nation. it concerns them horribly. nobody can think so ill of them as to suppose they don't care. it's monstrous that men should sit upon that committee alone. women have had to think about these things. we believe this evil can be met--if men will let us try. it may be that only women comprehend it, since men through the ages have been helpless before it. why, then, once again, this commission of _men_? the mockery of it! setting men to make their report upon this matter to men! i am not a public speaker, but i am a wife and a mother. do you wonder that hearing about that commission gave me courage to take the first opportunity to join these brave sisters of mine who are fighting for political liberty?' she seemed for the first time to notice that a little group of sniggerers were becoming more obstreperous. 'we knew, of course, that whatever we say some of you will laugh and jeer; but, speaking for myself, no mockery that you are able to fling at us, can sting _me_ like the thought of the hypocrisy of that commission! do you wonder that when we think of it--you men who have power and don't use it!--do you wonder that women come out of their homes--young, and old, and middle-aged--that we stand up here in the public places and give you scorn for scorn?' as the unheroic figure trembling stepped off the bench, she found vida levering's hand held out to steady her. 'take my seat,' said the younger woman. she stood beside her, for once oblivious of ernestine, who was calling for new members, and giving out notices. vida bent over the shapeless mauve bundle. 'you asked that woman to go with you. i wish you'd take me.' 'ah, my dear, _i_ don't need to go again. i thought to have that lady see it would do good. her husband has influence, you see.' 'but you've just said the men are useless in this matter.' she had no answer. 'but, i believe,' vida went on, 'if more women were like you--if they looked into the thing----' 'very few could stand it.' 'but don't hundreds of poor women "stand" much worse?' 'no; they drink and they die. i was ill for three months after my first experience even of the tramp ward.' 'was that the first thing you tried?' 'no. the first thing i tried was putting on a salvation army bonnet, and following the people i wanted to help into the public-houses, selling the _war cry_.' 'may one wear the uniform who isn't a member of the army?' 'it isn't usual,' she said slowly. and then, as though to give the _coup de grace_ to the fine lady's curiosity, 'but that was child's play. before i sampled the tramp ward, i covered myself with keating's powder from head to foot. it wasn't a bit of good.' 'when may i come and talk to you?' 'hello, mrs. thomas!' vida turned and found the lady sophia at her side. 'why, father!--oh, i see, miss levering. well'--she turned to the woman in the corner--'how's the house of help?' 'do you know about mrs. thomas's work?' vida asked. 'well, rather! i collect rents in her district.' 'oh, do you? you never told me.' 'why should i tell you?' ernestine was dismissing the meeting. 'you are very tired,' said lord borrodaile, looking at vida levering's face. 'yes,' she said. 'i'll go now. come, sophia!' 'we shall be here on thursday,' ernestine was saying, 'at the same hour, and we hope a great many of you will want to join us.' 'in a trip to 'olloway? no, thank you!' upon that something indistinguishable to the three who were withdrawing was said in the group that had sniggered through mrs. thomas's speech. another one of that choice circle gave a great guffaw. there were still more who were amused, but less indiscreetly. three men, looking like gentlemen, paused in the act of strolling by. they, too, were smiling. 'you laugh!' ernestine's voice rang out. 'wait a moment,' said vida to her companions. she looked back. it was plain, from ernestine's face, she was not going to let the meeting break up on that note. 'don't you think it a little strange, considering the well-known chivalry among men--don't you think it strange that against no reform the world has ever seen----?' 'reform! wot rot!' 'if you don't admit it's reform, call it revolt!' she threw the red-hot word out among the people as if its fire scorched her. 'against no revolt has there ever been such a torrent of ridicule let loose as against the women's movement. it almost seems as if--in spite of men's well-known protecting tenderness towards woman--it almost seems as if there's nothing in this world so funny to a man as a woman!' 'haw! haw! got it right that time!' borrodaile was smiling, too. 'do you know,' vida asked, 'who those men are who have just stopped?' 'no.' 'i believe ernestine does.' 'oh, perhaps they're bold bad members of parliament.' 'some of us,' she was saying, 'have read a little history. we have read how every struggle towards freedom has met with opposition and abuse. we expected to have our share of those things. but we find that no movement before ours has ever had so much laughter to face.' through the renewed merriment she went on: 'yes, you wonder i admit that. we don't deny anything that's true. and i'll tell you another thing! we aren't made any prouder of our men-folk by the discovery that behind their old theory of woman as "half angel, half idiot," is a sneaking feeling that "woman is a huge joke."' 'or just a little one for a penny like you!' 'men have imagined--they imagine still, that we have never noticed how ridiculous _they_ can be. you see'--she leaned over and spoke confidentially--'we've never dared break it to them.' 'haw! haw!' 'we know they _couldn't bear it_.' 'oh-h!' 'so we've done all our laughing in our sleeves. yes--and some years our sleeves had to be made--like balloons!' she pulled out the loose alpaca of her own while the workmen chuckled with appreciation. 'i bet on ernestine any'ow', said a young man, with an air of admitting himself a bold original fellow. 'well, open laughter is less dangerous laughter. it's even a guide; it helps us to find out things some of us wouldn't know otherwise. lots of women used to be taken in by that talk about feminine influence and about men's immense respect for them! but any number of women have come to see that underneath that old mask of chivalry was a broad grin.--we are reminded of that every time the house of commons talks about us.' she flung it at the three supercilious strangers. 'the dullest gentleman there can raise a laugh if he speaks of the "fair sex." such jokes!--even when they are clean such poor little feeble efforts that even a member of parliament couldn't laugh at them unless he had grown up with the idea that woman was somehow essentially funny--and that _he_, oh, no! there was nothing whatever to laugh at in man. those members of parliament don't have the enlightenment that you men have--of hearing what women _really_ think when we hear men laugh as you did just now about our going to prison. they don't know that we find it just a little strange'--she bent over the scattering rabble and gathered it into a sudden fellowship--'doesn't it strike you, too, as strange that when a strong man goes to prison for his convictions it is thought to be something rather fine (i don't say it is myself--though it's the general impression). but when a weak woman goes for _her_ convictions, men find it very humorous indeed. our prisoners have to bear not only the hardships of holloway gaol, but they have to bear the worse pains and penalties inflicted by the general public. you, too, you laugh! and yet i say'--she lifted her arms and spread them out above the people--'i say it was not until women were found ready to go to prison--not till then was the success of the cause assured.' her bright eyes were shining brighter still with tears. 'if prison's so good fur the cause, why didn't _you_ go?' 'here's a gentleman who asks why i didn't go to prison. the answer to that is, i did go.' she tossed the information down among the cheers and groans as lightly as though it had no more personal significance for her than a dropped leaflet setting forth some minor fact. 'that delicate little girl!' breathed vida. 'you never told _me_ that item in her history,' said borrodaile. 'she never told me--never once spoke of it! they put her in prison!' it was as if she couldn't grasp it. 'of course one person's going isn't of much consequence,' ernestine was winding up with equal spirit and _sang-froid_. 'but the fact that dozens and scores--all sorts and conditions--are ready to go--_that_ matters! and that's the place our reprehensible tactics have brought the movement to. the meeting is closed.' * * * * * they dropped sophia at her own door, but lord borrodaile said he would take vida home. they drove along in silence. when they stopped before the tall house in queen anne's gate, vida held out her hand. 'it's late. i won't ask you in.' 'you are over-tired. go to bed.' 'i wish i could. i'm dining out.' he looked at her out of kind eyes. 'it begins to be dreadfully stuffy in town. i'm glad, after all, we're going on that absurd yachting trip.' 'i'm not going,' she said. 'oh, nonsense! sophia and i would break our hearts.' 'i'm sure about sophia.' 'it will do you good to come and have a look at the land of the midnight sun,' he said. 'i'm going to have a look at the land of midnight where there's no sun. and everybody but you and sophia and my sister will think i'm in norway.' when she explained, he broke out: 'it's the very wildest nonsense that ever---- it would kill you.' the intensity of his opposition made him incoherent. 'you, of all women in the world! a creature who can't even stand people who say "serviette" instead of "table-napkin"!' 'fancy the little blunt having been in prison!' 'oh, let the little blunt go to----' he checked himself. 'be reasonable, child.' he turned and looked at her with an earnestness she had never seen in his eyes before. 'why in heaven should _you_----' 'why? you heard what that woman said.' 'i heard _nothing_ to account for----' 'that's partly,' she interrupted, 'why i must make this experiment. when a man like you--as good a man as you'--she repeated with slow wonder--'when you and all the other good men that the world is full of--when you all know everything that that woman knows--and more! and yet see nothing in it to account for what she feels, and what i--i too, am beginning to feel----!' she broke off. 'good-bye! if i go far on this new road, it's you i shall have to thank.' 'i?' he shrugged drearily at the absurd charge, making no motion to take the offered hand, but sat there in the corner of the hansom looking rather old and shrunken. 'you and one other,' she said. that roused him. 'ah, he has come, then.' 'who?' 'the other. the man who is going to count.' her eyelids drooped. 'the man who was to count most for me came a long while ago. and a long while ago--he went.' borrodaile looked at her. 'but this---- who is the gentleman who shares with me the doubtful, i may without undue modesty say the undeserved, honour of urging you to disappear into the slums? who is it?' 'the man who wrote this.' it was the book he had seen in her hands before the meeting. he read on the green cover, 'in the days of the comet.' 'oh, that fellow! well, he's not my novelist, but it's the keenest intelligence we have applied to fiction.' 'he _is_ my novelist. so i've a right to be sorry he knows nothing about women. see here! even in his most rationalized vision of the new time, he can't help betraying his old-fashioned prejudice in favour of the "dolly" view of women. his hero says, "i prayed that night, let me confess it, to an image i had set up in my heart, an image that still serves with me as a symbol for things inconceivable, to a master artificer, the unseen captain of all who go about the building of the world, the making of mankind----"' vida's finger skipped, lifting to fall on the heroine's name. '"nettie... she never came into the temple of that worshipping with me."' swiftly she turned the pages back. 'where's that other place? here! the man says to the heroine--to his ideal woman he says, "behind you and above you rises the coming city of the world, and i am in that building. dear heart! you are only happiness!" that's the whole view of man in a nutshell. even the highest type of woman such an imagination as this can conjure up----' she shook her head. '"you are only happiness, dear"--a minister of pleasure, negligible in all the nobler moods, all the times of wider vision or exalted effort! tell me'--she bent her head and looked into her companion's face with a new passion dawning in her eyes--'in the building of that city of the future, in the making of it beautiful, shall women really have no share?' 'my dear, i only know that i shall have no share myself.' 'ah, we don't speak of ourselves.' she opened the hansom doors and her companion got out. 'but this comet man,' she said as she followed, '_he_ might have a share if only he knew why all the great visions have never yet been more than dreams. that this man should think foundations can be well and truly laid when the best of one half the race are "only happiness, dear!"' she turned on the threshold. '_whose_ happiness?' chapter xiv the fall of the liberal ministry was said by the simple-minded to have come as a bolt from the blue. certainly into the subsequent general election were entering elements but little foreseen. nevertheless, the last two bye-elections before the crash had resulted in the defeat of the liberal candidate not by the tory antagonist, but in one case by the nominee of the labour party, in the other by an independent socialist. both these men had publicly thanked the suffragettes for their notable share in piling up those triumphant and highly significant majorities. now the country was facing an election where, for the first time in the history of any great nation, women were playing a part that even their political enemies could hardly with easy minds call subordinate. only faint echoes of the din penetrated the spacious quiet of ulland house. although the frequent week-end party was there, the great hall on this particular morning presented a deserted appearance as the tall clock by the staircase chimed the hour of noon. the insistence of the ancient timepiece seemed to have set up a rival in destruction of the sunday peace, for no sooner had the twelfth stroke died than a bell began to ring. the little door in the wainscot beyond the clock was opened. an elderly butler put his head round the huge screen of spanish leather that masked the very existence of the modest means of communication with the quarters of the ulland domestics. so little was a ring at the front door expected at this hour that sutton was still slowly getting into the left sleeve of his coat when his mistress appeared from the garden by way of the french window. the old butler withdrew a discreet instant behind the screen to put the last touches to his toilet, but lady john had seen that he was there. 'has miss levering gone for a walk?' she inquired of the servant. 'i don't know, m'lady.' 'she's not in the garden. do you think she's not down yet?' 'i haven't seen her, m'lady,' said sutton, emerging from his retirement and approaching the wide staircase on his way to answer the front-door bell. 'never mind'--his mistress went briskly over to a wide-winged writing-table and seated herself before a litter of papers--'i won't have her disturbed if she's resting,' lady john said, adding half to herself, 'she certainly needs it.' 'yes, m'lady,' said sutton, adjusting the maroon collar of his livery which had insisted upon riding up at the back. 'but i want her to know'--lady john spoke while glancing through a letter before consigning it to the wastepaper basket--'the moment she comes down she must be told that the new plans arrived by the morning post.' 'plans, m'la----' 'she'll understand. there they are.' the lady held up a packet about which she had just snapped an elastic band. 'i'll put them here. it's very important she should have them in time to look over before she goes.' 'yes, m'lady.' sutton opened a door and disappeared. a footstep sounded on the marble floor of the lobby. over her shoulder lady john called out, 'is _that_ miss levering?' '_no_, m'lady. mr. farnborough.' 'i'm afraid i'm scandalously early.' in spite of his words the young man whipped off his dust coat and flung it to the servant with as much precipitation as though what he had meant to say was 'scandalously late.' 'i motored up from dutfield. it didn't take me nearly so long as lord john said.' the lady had given the young man her hand without rising. 'i'm afraid my husband is no authority on motoring--and he's not home yet from church.' 'it's the greatest luck finding _you_.' farnborough sat himself down in the easy-chair on the other side of the wide writing-table undaunted by its business-like air or the preoccupied look of the woman before it. 'i thought miss levering was the only person under this roof who was ever allowed to observe sunday as a real day of rest.' 'if you've come to see miss levering----' began lady john. 'is she here? i give you my word i didn't know it.' 'oh?' said the lady, unconvinced. 'i thought she'd given up coming.' 'well, she's begun again. she's helping me about something.' 'oh, helping you, is she?' said farnborough with absent eyes; and then suddenly 'all there,' 'lady john, i've come to ask you to help _me_.' 'with miss levering?' said hermione heriot's aunt. 'i can't do it.' 'no, no--all that's no good. she only laughs.' 'oh,' breathed the lady, relieved, 'she looks upon you as a boy.' 'such nonsense,' he burst out suddenly. 'what do you think she said to me the day before she went off yachting?' 'that she was four years older than you?' 'oh, i knew that. no. she said _she_ knew she was all the charming things i'd been saying, but there was only one way to prove it, and that was to marry some one young enough to be her son. she'd noticed, she said, that was what the _most_ attractive women did--and she named names.' lady john laughed. '_you_ were too old!' he nodded. 'her future husband, she said, was probably just entering eton.' 'exactly like her.' 'no, no.' dick farnborough waived the subject away. 'i wanted to see you about the secretaryship.' 'you didn't get it then?' 'no. it's the grief of my life.' 'oh, if you don't get one you'll get another.' 'but there _is_ only one,' he said desperately. 'only one vacancy?' 'only one man i'd give my ears to work for.' lady john smiled. 'i remember.' he turned his sanguine head with a quick look. 'do i _always_ talk about stonor? well, it's a habit people have got into.' 'i forget, do you know mr. stonor personally, or'--she smiled her good-humoured tolerant smile--'or are you just dazzled from afar?' 'oh, i know him! the trouble is he doesn't know me. if he did he'd realize he can't be sure of winning his election without my valuable services.' 'geoffrey stonor's re-election is always a foregone conclusion.' farnborough banged his hand on the arm of the chair. 'that the great man shares that opinion is precisely his weak point'--then breaking into a pleasant smile as he made a clean breast of his hero-worship--'his _only_ weak point!' 'oh, you think,' inquired lady john, lightly, 'just because the liberals swept the country the last time, there's danger of their----' 'how can we be sure _any_ conservative seat is safe, after----' as lady john smiled and turned to her papers again. 'forgive me,' said the young man, with a tolerant air, 'i know you're not interested in politics _qua_ politics. but this concerns geoffrey stonor.' 'and you count on my being interested in him like all the rest?' he leaned forward. 'lady john, i've heard the news.' 'what news?' 'that your little niece, the scotch heiress, is going to marry him.' 'who told you that?' she dropped the paper she had picked up and stared. no doubt about his having won her whole attention at last. 'please don't mind my knowing.' but lady john was visibly perturbed. 'jean had set her heart on having a few days with just her family in the secret, before the flood of congratulation broke loose.' 'oh, _that's_ all right,' he said soothingly. 'i always hear things before other people.' 'well, i must ask you to be good enough to be very circumspect.' lady john spoke gravely. 'i wouldn't have my niece or mr. stonor think that any of us----' 'oh, of course not.' 'she'll suspect something if you so much as mention stonor; and you can't help mentioning stonor!' 'yes, i can. besides i shan't see her!' 'but you will'--lady john glanced at the clock. 'she'll be here in an hour.' he jumped up delighted. 'what? to-day. the future mrs. stonor!' 'yes,' said his hostess, with a harassed air. 'unfortunately we had one or two people already asked for the week and----' 'and i go and invite myself to luncheon! lady john.' he pushed back the armchair like one who clears the field for action. he stood before her with his legs wide apart, and a look of enterprise on his face. 'you can buy me off! i'll promise to remove myself in five minutes if you'll put in a word for me.' 'ah!' lady john shook her head. 'mr. stonor inspires a similar enthusiasm in so many young----' 'they haven't studied the situation as i have.' he sat down to explain his own excellence. 'they don't know what's at stake. they don't go to that hole dutfield, as i did, just to hear his friday speech.' 'but you were rewarded. my niece, jean, wrote me it was "glorious."' 'well, you know, i was disappointed,' he said judicially. 'stonor's too content just to criticize, just to make his delicate pungent fun of the men who are grappling--very inadequately of course--still _grappling_ with the big questions. there's a carrying power'--he jumped to his feet again and faced an imaginary audience--'some of stonor's friends ought to point it out--there's a driving power in the poorest constructive policy that makes the most brilliant criticism look barren.' she regarded the budding politician with good-humoured malice. 'who told you that?' 'you think there's nothing in it because _i_ say it. but now that he's coming into the family, lord john or somebody really ought to point out--stonor's overdoing his rôle of magnificent security.' the lady sat very straight. 'i don't see even lord john offering to instruct mr. stonor,' she said, with dignity. 'believe me, that's just stonor's danger! nobody saying a word, everybody hoping he's on the point of adopting some definite line, something strong and original, that's going to fire the public imagination and bring the tories back into power----' 'so he will.' 'not if he disappoints meetings,' said farnborough, hotly; 'not if he goes calmly up to town, and leaves the field to the liberals.' 'when did he do anything like that?' 'yesterday!' farnborough flung out the accusation as he strode up and down before the divan. 'and now he's got this other preoccupation----' 'you mean----?' 'yes, your niece--the spoilt child of fortune.' farnborough stopped suddenly and smacked his forehead. 'of _course_!'--he wheeled round upon lady john with accusing face--'i understand it now. _she_ kept him from the meeting last night! _well!_'--he collapsed in the nearest chair--'if that's the effect she's going to have, it's pretty serious!' 'you are,' said his hostess. 'i can assure you the election agent's more so. he's simply tearing his hair.' she had risen. 'how do you know?' she asked more gravely. 'he told me so himself, yesterday. i scraped acquaintance with the agent, just to see if--if----' 'i see,' she smiled. 'it's not only here that you manoeuvre for that secretaryship!' as lady john moved towards the staircase she looked at the clock. farnborough jumped up and followed her, saying confidentially-- 'you see, you can never tell when your chance might come. the election chap's promised to keep me posted. why, i've even taken the trouble to arrange with the people at the station to receive any message that might come over from dutfield.' 'for you?' she smiled at his self-importance. breathlessly he hurried on: 'immense unexpected pressure of work, you know--now that we've forced the liberals to appeal to the country----' he stopped as the sound of light steps came flying through the lobby, and a young girl rushed into the hall calling out gaily-- 'aunt ellen! here i----' she stopped precipitately, and her outstretched arms fell to her sides. a radiant, gracious figure, she stood poised an instant, the light of gladness in her eyes only partially dimmed by the horrid spectacle of an interloper in the person of a strange young man. 'my darling jean!' lady john went forward and kissed her at the moment that the master of the house came hurrying in from the garden with a cheerful-- 'i _thought_ that was you running up the avenue!' 'uncle, dear!' the pretty vision greeted him with the air of a privileged child of the house, interrupting only for an instant the babel of cross-purpose explanation about carriages and trains. lord john had shaken hands with dick farnborough and walked him towards the window, saying through the torrent-- 'now they'll tell each other for the next ten minutes that she's an hour earlier than we expected.' although young farnborough had looked upon the blooming addition to the party with an undisguised interest, he readily fell in with lord john's diplomatic move to get him out of the way. he even helped towards his own effacement, looking out through the window with-- 'the freddy tunbridges said they were coming to you this week.' 'yes, they're dawdling through the park with the church brigade.' 'oh, i'll go and meet them;' and farnborough disappeared. as lord john turned back to his two ladies he offered it as his opinion-- 'that discreet young man will get on.' 'but _how_ did you get here?' lady john was still wondering. breathless, the girl answered, 'he motored me down.' 'geoffrey stonor?' she nodded, beaming. 'why, where is he then?' 'he dropped me at the end of the avenue, and went on to see a supporter about something.' 'you let him go off like that!' lord john reproached her. 'without ever----' lady john interrupted herself to take jean's two hands in hers. 'just tell me, my child, is it all right?' 'my engagement? absolutely.' such radiant security shone in the soft face that the older woman, drawing the girl down beside her on the divan, dared to say-- 'geoffrey stonor isn't going to be--a little too old for you.' jean chimed out the gayest laugh in the world. 'bless me! am i such a chicken?' 'twenty-four used not to be so young, but it's become so.' 'yes, we don't grow up so quick,' she agreed merrily. 'but, on the other hand, we _stay_ up longer.' 'you've got what's vulgarly called "looks," my dear,' said her uncle, 'and that will help to _keep_ you up.' 'i know what uncle john's thinking,' she turned on him with a pretty air of challenge. 'but i'm not the only girl who's been left "what's vulgarly called" money.' 'you're the only one of our immediate circle who's been left so beautifully much.' 'ah! but remember, geoffrey could--everybody _knows_ he could have married any one in england.' 'i am afraid everybody does know it,' said her ladyship, faintly ironic, 'not excepting mr. stonor.' 'well, how spoilt is the great man?' inquired lord john, mischievously. 'not the least little bit in the world. you'll see! he so wants to know my best-beloved relations better.' she stopped to bestow another embrace on lady john. 'an orphan has so few belongings, she has to make the most of them.' 'let us hope he'll approve of us on further acquaintance.' 'oh, he will! he's an angel. why, he gets on with my grandfather!' 'does he?' said her aunt, unable to forbear teasing her a little. 'you mean to say mr. geoffrey stonor isn't just a tiny bit "superior" about dissenters.' 'not half as much so as uncle john, and all the rest of you! my grandfather's been ill again, you know, and rather difficult--bless him! but geoffrey----' she clasped her hands to fill out her wordless content with him. 'geoffrey _must_ have powers of persuasion, to get that old covenanter to let you come in an abhorred motor-car, on sunday, too!' jean pursed her red lips and put up a cautionary finger with a droll little air of alarm. 'grandfather didn't know!' she half whispered. 'didn't know?' 'i honestly meant to come by train,' she hastened to exculpate herself. 'geoffrey met me on my way to the station. we had the most glorious run! oh, aunt ellen, we're so happy!' she pressed her cheek against lady john's shoulder. 'i've so looked forward to having you to myself the whole day just to talk to you about----' lord john turned away with affected displeasure. 'oh, very well----' she jumped up and caught him affectionately by the arm. '_you'd_ find it dreffly dull to hear me talk about geoffrey the whole blessed day!' 'well, till luncheon, my dear----' lady john had risen with a glance at the clock. 'you mustn't mind if i----' she broke off and went to the writing-table, saying aside to her husband, 'i'm beginning to feel a little anxious; miss levering wasn't only tired last night, she was ill.' 'i thought she looked very white,' said lord john. 'oh, dear! have you got other people?' demanded the happy egoist. 'one or two. your uncle's responsible for asking that old cynic, st. john greatorex, and i'm responsible for----' jean stopped in the act of taking off her long gloves. 'mr. greatorex! he's a liberal, isn't he?' she said with sudden gravity. 'little jean!' lord john chuckled, 'beginning to "think in parties!"' 'it's very natural now that she should----' 'i only meant it was odd he should be _here_. of course i'm not so silly----' 'it's all right, my child,' said her uncle, kindly. 'we naturally expect now that you'll begin to think like geoffrey stonor, and to feel like geoffrey stonor, and to talk like geoffrey stonor. and quite proper, too!' 'well,'--jean quickly recovered her smiles--'if i _do_ think with my husband, and feel with him--as of course i shall--it will surprise me if i ever find myself talking a tenth as well!' in her enthusiasm she followed her uncle to the french window. 'you should have heard him at dutfield.' she stopped short. 'the freddy tunbridges!' she exclaimed, looking out into the garden. a moment later her gay look fell. 'what? not aunt lydia! oh-h!' she glanced back reproachfully at lady john, to find her making a discreet motion of 'i couldn't help it!' as the party from the garden came in. the greetings of the freddys were cut short by mrs. heriot, who embraced her niece with a significant warmth. '_i_ wasn't surprised,' she said _sotto voce_. 'i always prophesied----' 'sh--_please_----' the girl escaped. 'we haven't met since you were in short skirts,' said the young man who had been watching his opportunity. 'i'm dick farnborough.' 'oh, i remember.' jean gave him her hand. mrs. freddy was looking round and asking where was the elusive one? 'who is the elusive one?' jean demanded. 'lady john's new ally in good works!' said mrs. freddy. 'why, you met her one day at my house before you went back to scotland.' 'oh, you mean miss levering.' 'yes; nice creature, isn't she?' said lord john, benevolently. 'i used rather to love her,' said mrs. freddy, brightly, 'but she doesn't come to us any more. she seems to be giving up going anywhere, except here, so far as i can make out.' 'she knows she can rest here,' said lady john. 'what does she do to tire her?' demanded mr. freddy. 'hasn't she been amusing herself in norway?' 'since she came back she's been helping my sister and me with a scheme of ours,' said lady john. 'she certainly knows how to juggle money out of the men!' admitted mrs. heriot. 'it would sound less equivocal, lydia, if you added that the money is to build baths in our shelter for homeless women.' 'homeless women?' echoed mr. freddy. 'yes; in the most insanitary part of soho.' 'oh--a--really.' mr. freddy stroked his smart little moustache. 'it doesn't sound quite in miss levering's line,' farnborough hazarded. 'my dear boy,' said his hostess, 'you know as little about what's in a woman's line as most men.' 'oh, i say!' mr. freddy looked round with a laugh. lord john threw out his chest and dangled his eyeglass with an indulgent air. 'philanthropy,' he said, 'in a woman like miss levering, is a form of restlessness. but she's a _nice_ creature. all she needs is to get some "nice" fella to marry her!' mrs. freddy laughingly hooked herself on her husband's arm. 'yes; a woman needs a balance wheel, if only to keep her from flying back to town on a hot day like this.' 'who,' demanded the host, 'is proposing anything so----' 'the elusive one,' said mrs. freddy. 'not miss----' 'yes; before luncheon.' dick farnborough glanced quickly at the clock, and then his eyes went questing up the great staircase. lady john had met the chorus of disapproval with-- 'she must be in london by three, she says.' lord john stared. '_to-day?_ why she only came late last night! what must she go back for, in the name of----' 'well, _that_ i didn't ask her. but it must be something important, or she would stay and talk over the plans for the new shelter.' farnborough had pulled out his cigarette case and stepped out through the window into the garden. but he went not as one who means to take a stroll and enjoy a smoke, rather as a man on a mission. a few minutes after, the desultory conversation in the hall was arrested by the sound of voices near the windows. they were in full view now--vida levering, hatless, a cool figure in pearl-grey with a red umbrella; st. john greatorex, wearing a panama hat, talking and gesticulating with a small book, in which his fingers still kept the place; farnborough, a little supercilious, looking on. 'i protest! good lord! what are the women of this country coming to? i _protest_ against miss levering being carried indoors to discuss anything so revolting.' as lord john moved towards the window the vermilion disk of the umbrella closed and dropped like a poppy before it blooms. as the owner of it entered the hall, greatorex followed in her wake, calling out-- 'bless my soul! what can a woman like you _know_ about such a thing?' 'little enough,' said miss levering, smiling and scattering good-mornings. 'i should think so indeed!' he breathed a sigh of relief and recovered his waggishness. 'it's all this fellow farnborough's wicked jealousy--routing us out of the summer-house where we were sitting, _perfectly_ happy--weren't we?' 'ideally,' said the lady. 'there. you hear!' he interrupted lord john's inquiry as to the seriousness of miss levering's unpopular and mysterious programme for the afternoon. but the lady quietly confirmed it, and looked over her hostess's shoulder at the plan-sheet that lady john was silently holding out between two extended hands. 'haled indoors on a day like this'--greatorex affected a mighty scorn of the document--'to talk about--public sanitation, forsooth! why, god bless my soul, do you realize that's _drains_!' 'i'm dreadfully afraid it is,' said miss levering, smiling down at the architectural drawing. 'and we in the act of discussing italian literature!' greatorex held out the little book with an air of comic despair. 'perhaps you'll tell me that isn't a more savoury topic for a lady.' 'but for the tramp population less conducive to savouriness--don't you think--than baths?' she took the book from him, shutting her handkerchief in the place where his finger had been. 'no, no'--greatorex, panama in hand, was shaking his piebald head--'i can't understand this morbid interest in vagrants. you're too--much too---- leave it to others!' 'what others?' 'oh, the sort of woman who smells of india-rubber,' he said, with smiling impertinence. 'the typical english spinster. you've seen her. italy's full of her. she never goes anywhere without a mackintosh and a collapsible bath--_rubber_. when you look at her it's borne in upon you that she doesn't only smell of rubber. she is rubber, too.' they all laughed. 'now you frivolous people go away,' lady john said. 'we've only got a few minutes to talk over the terms of the late mr. barlow's munificence before the carriage comes for miss levering.' in the midst of the general movement to the garden, mrs. freddy asked farnborough did he know she'd got that old horror to give lady john £ for her charity before he died? 'who got him to?' demanded greatorex. 'miss levering,' answered lady john. 'he wouldn't do it for me, but she brought him round.' 'bah-ee jove!' said freddy. 'i expect so.' 'yes.' mrs. freddy beamed in turn at her lord and at farnborough as she strolled with them through the window. '_isn't_ she wonderful?' 'too wonderful,' said greatorex to the lady in question, lowering his voice, 'to waste your time on the wrong people.' 'i shall waste less of my time after this.' miss levering spoke thoughtfully. 'i'm relieved to hear it. i can't see you wheedling money for shelters and rot of that sort out of retired grocers.' 'you see, you call it rot. we couldn't have got £ out of _you_.' speaking still lower, 'i'm not sure,' he said slyly. she looked at him. 'if i gave you that much--for your little projects--what would you give me?' he demanded. 'barlow didn't ask that.' she spoke quietly. 'barlow!' he echoed, with a truly horrified look. 'i should think not!' 'barlow!' lord john caught up the name on his way out with jean. 'you two still talking barlow? how flattered the old beggar'd be! did you hear'--he turned back and linked his arm in greatorex's--'did you hear what mrs. heriot said about him? "so kind, so munificent--so _vulgar_, poor soul, we couldn't know him in london--but we shall meet him in heaven!"' the two men went out chuckling. jean stood hesitating a moment, glancing through the window at the laughing men, and back at the group of women, mrs. heriot seated magisterially at the head of the writing-table, looking with inimical eyes at miss levering, who stood in the middle of the hall with head bent over the plan. 'sit here, my dear,' lady john called to her. then with a glance at her niece, 'you needn't stay, jean; this won't interest you.' miss levering glanced over her shoulder as she moved to the chair opposite lady john, and in the tone of one agreeing with the dictum just uttered, 'it's only an effort to meet the greatest evil in the world,' she said, and sat down with her back to the girl. 'what do you call the greatest evil in the world?' jean asked. a quick look passed between mrs. heriot and lady john. miss levering answered without emphasis, 'the helplessness of women.' the girl still stood where the phrase had arrested her. after a moment's hesitation, lady john went over to her and put an arm about her shoulder. 'i know, darling, you can think of nothing but "him," so just go----' 'indeed, indeed,' interrupted the girl, brightly, 'i can think of everything better than i ever did before. he has lit up everything for me--made everything vivider, more--more significant.' 'who has?' miss levering asked, turning round. as though she had not heard, jean went on, 'oh, yes, i don't care about other things less but a thousand times more.' 'you _are_ in love,' said lady john. 'oh, that's it. i congratulate you.' over her shoulder miss levering smiled at the girl. 'well, now'--lady john returned to the outspread plan--'_this_, you see, obviates the difficulty you raised.' 'yes, it's a great improvement,' miss levering agreed. mrs. heriot, joining in for the first time, spoke with emphasis-- 'but it's going to cost a great deal more.' 'it's worth it,' said miss levering. 'but we'll have nothing left for the organ at st. pilgrim's.' 'my dear lydia,' said lady john, 'we're putting the organ aside.' 'we can't afford to "put aside" the elevating influence of music.' mrs. heriot spoke with some asperity. 'what we must make for, first, is the cheap and humanely conducted lodging-house.' 'there are several of those already; but poor st. pilgrim's----' 'there are none for the poorest women,' said miss levering. 'no; even the excellent barlow was for multiplying rowton houses. you can never get men to realize--you can't always get women----' 'it's the work least able to wait,' said miss levering. 'i don't agree with you,' mrs. heriot bridled, 'and i happen to have spent a great deal of my life in works of charity.' 'ah, then,'--miss levering lifted her eyes from the map to mrs. heriot's face--'you'll be interested in the girl i saw dying in a tramp ward a little while ago. _glad_ her cough was worse, only she mustn't die before her father. two reasons. nobody but her to keep the old man out of the workhouse, and "father is so proud." if she died first, he would starve--worst of all, he might hear what had happened up in london to his girl.' with an air of profound suspicion, mrs. heriot interrupted-- 'she didn't say, i suppose, how she happened to fall so low?' 'yes, she did. she had been in service. she lost the train back one sunday night, and was too terrified of her employer to dare to ring him up after hours. the wrong person found her crying on the platform.' 'she should have gone to one of the friendly societies.' 'at eleven at night?' 'and there are the rescue leagues. i myself have been connected with one for twenty years----' 'twenty years!' echoed miss levering. 'always arriving "after the train's gone,"--after the girl and the wrong person have got to the journey's end.' mrs. heriot's eyes flashed, but before she could speak jean asked-- 'where is she now?' 'never mind.' lady john turned again to the plan. 'two nights ago she was waiting at a street corner in the rain. 'near a public-house, i suppose?' mrs. heriot threw in. 'yes; a sort of public-house. she was plainly dying. she was told she shouldn't be out in the rain. "i mustn't go in yet," she said. "_this_ is what he gave me," and she began to cry. in her hand were two pennies silvered over to look like half-crowns.' 'i don't believe that story!' mrs. heriot announced. 'it's just the sort of thing some sensation-monger trumps up. now, who tells you these----?' 'several credible people. i didn't believe them till----' 'till?' jean came nearer. 'till i saw for myself.' '_saw?_' exclaimed mrs. heriot. 'where----?' 'in a low lodging-house not a hundred yards from the church you want a new organ for.' 'how did _you_ happen to be there?' 'i was on a pilgrimage.' 'a pilgrimage?' echoed jean. miss levering nodded. 'into the underworld.' '_you_ went!' even lady john was aghast. 'how could you?' jean whispered. 'i put on an old gown and a tawdry hat----' she turned suddenly to her hostess. 'you'll never know how many things are hidden from a woman in good clothes. the bold free look of a man at a woman he believes to be destitute--you must _feel_ that look on you before you can understand--a good half of history.' mrs. heriot rose as her niece sat down on the footstool just below the writing-table. 'where did you go--dressed like that?' the girl asked. 'down among the homeless women, on a wet night, looking for shelter.' 'jean!' called mrs. heriot. 'no wonder you've been ill,' lady john interposed hastily. 'and it's like _that_?' jean spoke under her breath. 'no,' came the answer, in the same hushed tone. 'no?' 'it's so much worse i dare not tell about it, even if you weren't here i couldn't.' but mrs. heriot's anger was unappeased. 'you needn't suppose, darling, that those wretched creatures feel it as we would.' miss levering raised grave eyes. 'the girls who need shelter and work aren't _all_ serving-maids.' 'we know,' said mrs. heriot, with an involuntary flash, 'that all the women who make mistakes aren't.' 'that is why _every_ woman ought to take an interest in this,' said miss levering, steadily; 'every girl, too.' 'yes. oh, yes!' jean agreed. 'no.' lady john was very decisive. 'this is a matter for us older----' 'or for a person who has some special knowledge,' mrs. heriot amended, with an air of sly challenge. '_we_ can't pretend to have access to such sources of information as miss levering.' 'yes, you can'--she met mrs. heriot's eye--'for i can give you access. as you suggest, i have some personal knowledge about homeless girls.' 'well, my dear'--with a manufactured cheerfulness lady john turned it aside--'it will all come in convenient.' she tapped the plan. miss levering took no notice. 'it once happened to me to take offence at an ugly thing that was going on under my father's roof. oh, _years_ ago! i was an impulsive girl. i turned my back on my father's house.' 'that was ill-advised.' lady john glanced at her niece. 'so all my relations said'--miss levering, too, looked at jean--'and i couldn't explain.' 'not to your mother?' the girl asked. 'my mother was dead. i went to london to a small hotel, and tried to find employment. i wandered about all day and every day from agency to agency. i was supposed to be educated. i'd been brought up partly in paris, i could play several instruments and sing little songs in four different tongues.' in the pause jean asked, 'did nobody want you to teach french or sing the little songs?' 'the heads of schools thought me too young. there were people ready to listen to my singing. but the terms, they were too hard. soon my money was gone. i began to pawn my trinkets. _they_ went.' 'and still no work?' 'no; but by that time i had some real education--an unpaid hotel bill, and not a shilling in the world. some girls think it hardship to have to earn their living. the horror is not to be allowed to.' jean bent forward. 'what happened?' lady john stood up. 'my dear,' she asked her visitor, 'have your things been sent down?' 'yes. i am quite ready, all but my hat.' 'well?' insisted jean. 'well, by chance i met a friend of my family.' 'that was lucky.' 'i thought so. he was nearly ten years older than i. he said he wanted to help me.' again she paused. 'and didn't he?' jean asked. lady john laid her hand on miss levering's shoulder. 'perhaps, after all, he did,' she said. 'why do i waste time over myself? i belonged to the little class of armed women. my body wasn't born weak, and my spirit wasn't broken by the _habit_ of slavery. but, as mrs. heriot was kind enough to hint, i do know something about the possible fate of homeless girls. what was true a dozen years ago is true to-day. there are pleasant parks, museums, free libraries in our great rich london, and not one single place where destitute women can be sure of work that isn't killing, or food that isn't worse than prison fare. that's why women ought not to sleep o' nights till this shelter stands spreading out wide arms.' 'no, no,' said the girl, jumping up. 'even when it's built,'--mrs. heriot was angrily gathering up her gloves, her fan and her prayer-book--'you'll see! many of those creatures will prefer the life they lead. they _like_ it. a woman told me--one of the sort that knows--told me many of them like it so much that they are indifferent to the risk of being sent to prison. "_it gives them a rest_,"' she said. 'a rest!' breathed lady john, horror-struck. miss levering glanced at the clock as she rose to go upstairs, while lady john and mrs. heriot bent their heads over the plan covertly talking. jean ran forward and caught the tall grey figure on the lower step. 'i want to begin to understand something of----,' she began in a beseeching tone. 'i'm horribly ignorant.' miss levering looked down upon her searchingly. 'i'm a rather busy person,' she said. 'i have a quite special reason for wanting _not_ to be ignorant. i'll go to town to-morrow,' said jean, impulsively, 'if you'll come and lunch with me--or let me come to you.' 'jean!' it was aunt lydia's voice. 'i must go and put my hat on,' said miss levering, hurrying up the stair. mrs. heriot bent towards her sister and half whispered, 'how little she minds talking about horrors!' 'they turn me cold. ugh! i wonder if she's signed the visitor's book.' lady john rose with harassed look. 'such foolishness john's new plan of keeping it in the lobby. it's twice as likely to be forgotten.' 'for all her shelter schemes, she's a hard woman,' said aunt lydia. 'miss levering is!' exclaimed jean. 'oh, of course _you_ won't think so. she has angled very adroitly for your sympathy.' 'she doesn't look----' protested the girl. lady john, glancing at her niece, seemed in some intangible way to take alarm. 'i'm not sure but what she does. her mouth--always like this--as if she were holding back something by main force.' 'well, so she is,' slipped out from between aunt lydia's thin lips as lady john disappeared into the lobby. 'why haven't i seen miss levering before this summer?' jean asked. 'oh, she's lived abroad.' the lady was debating with herself. 'you don't know about her, i suppose?' 'i don't know how aunt ellen came across her, if that's what you mean.' 'her father was a person everybody knew. one of his daughters made a very good marriage. but this one--i didn't bargain for you and hermione getting mixed up with her.' 'i don't see that we're either of us---- but miss levering seems to go everywhere. why shouldn't she?' with sudden emphasis, 'you mustn't ask her to eaton square,' said aunt lydia. 'i have.' mrs. heriot half rose from her seat. 'then you'll have to get out of it!' 'why?' 'i am sure your grandfather would agree with me. i warn you i won't stand by and see that woman getting you into her clutches.' 'clutches? why should you think she wants me in her clutches?' 'just for the pleasure of clutching! she's the kind that's never satisfied till she has everybody in the pitiful state your aunt ellen's in about her. richard farnborough, too, just on the very verge of asking hermione to marry him!' 'oh, is that it?' the girl smiled wisely. 'no!' too late mrs. heriot saw her misstep. 'that's _not_ it! and i am sure, if mr. stonor knew what i do, he would agree with me that you must not ask her to the house.' 'of course i'd do anything he asked me to. but he would give me a reason. and a very good reason, too!' the pretty face was very stubborn. aunt lydia's wore the inflamed look not so much of one who is angry as of a person who has a cold in the head. 'i'll give you the reason!' she said. 'it's not a thing i should have preferred to tell you, but i know how difficult you are to guide--so i suppose you'll have to know.' she looked round and lowered her voice. 'it was ten or twelve years ago. i found her horribly ill in a lonely welsh farmhouse.' 'miss levering?' mrs. heriot nodded. 'we had taken the manor for that august. the farmer's wife was frightened, and begged me to go and see what i thought. i soon saw how it was--i thought she was dying.' '_dying?_ what was the----' 'i got no more out of her than the farmer's wife did. she had no letters. there had been no one to see her except a man down from london, a shady-looking doctor--nameless, of course. and then this result. the farmer and his wife, highly respectable people, were incensed. they were for turning the girl out.' '_oh_! but----' 'yes. pitiless some of these people are! although she had forfeited all claim--still she was a daughter of sir hervey levering. i insisted they should treat the girl humanely, and we became friends--that is, "sort of." in spite of all i did for her----' 'what did you do?' 'i--i've told you, and i lent her money. no small sum either----' 'has she never paid it back?' 'oh, yes; after a time. but i _always_ kept her secret--as much as i knew.' 'but you've been telling me----' 'that was my duty--and i never had her full confidence.' 'wasn't it natural she----' 'well, all things considered, she might have wanted to tell me who was responsible.' 'oh, aunt lydia.' 'all she ever said was that she was ashamed'--mrs. heriot was fast losing her temper and her fine feeling for the innocence of her auditor--'ashamed that she "hadn't had the courage to resist"--not the original temptation, but the pressure brought to bear on her "not to go through with it," as she said.' with a shrinking look the girl wrinkled her brows. 'you are being so delicate--i'm not sure i understand.' 'the only thing you need understand,' said her aunt, irritably, 'is that she's not a desirable companion for a young girl.' there was a pause. 'when did you see her after--after----' mrs. heriot made a slight grimace. 'i met her last winter at--of all places--the bishop's!' 'they're relations of hers.' 'yes. it was while you were in scotland. they'd got her to help with some of their work. now she's taken hold of ours. your aunt and uncle are quite foolish about her, and i'm debarred from taking any steps, at least till the shelter is out of hand.' the girl's face was shadowed--even a little frightened. it was evident she was struggling not to give way altogether to alarm and repulsion. 'i do rather wonder that after that, she can bring herself to talk about--the unfortunate women of the world.' 'the effrontery of it!' said her aunt. 'or--the courage!' the girl put her hand up to her throat as if the sentence had caught there. 'even presumes to set _me_ right! of course i don't _mind_ in the least, poor soul--but i feel i owe it to your dead mother to tell you about her, especially as you're old enough now to know something about life.' 'and since a girl needn't be very old to suffer for her ignorance'--she spoke slowly, moving a little away. but she stopped on the final sentence: 'i _felt_ she was rather wonderful!' '_wonderful!_' 'to have lived through _that_, when she was--how old?' mrs. heriot rose with an increased irritation. 'nineteen or thereabouts.' 'five years younger than i!' jean sat down on the divan and stared at the floor. 'to be abandoned, and to come out of it like this!' mrs. heriot went to her and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. 'it was too bad to have to tell you such a sordid story to-day of all days.' 'it is a terrible story, but this wasn't a bad time. i feel very sorry to-day for women who aren't happy.' she started as a motor-horn was faintly heard. 'that's geoffrey!' she jumped to her feet. 'mr. stonor. what makes you think----?' 'yes, yes. i'm sure. i'm sure!' every shadow fled out of her face in the sudden burst of sunshine. lord john hurried in from the garden as the motor-horn sounded louder. 'who do you think is coming round the drive?' jean caught hold of him. 'oh, dear! are those other people all about? how am i ever going to be able to behave like a girl who--who isn't engaged to the only man in the world worth marrying!' 'you were expecting mr. stonor all the time!' exclaimed aunt lydia. 'he promised he'd come to luncheon if it was humanly possible. i was afraid to tell you for fear he'd be prevented.' lord john was laughing as he went towards the lobby. 'you felt we couldn't have borne the disappointment!' 'i felt i couldn't,' said the girl, standing there with a rapt look. chapter xv she did not look round when dick farnborough ran in from the garden, saying: '_is_ it--is it really?' for just then on the opposite side of the great hall, the centre of a little buzz of welcome, stonor's tall figure appeared between host and hostess. 'what luck!' farnborough said under his breath. he hurried back and faced the rest of the party who were clustered outside the window trying to look unconcerned. 'yes, by jove!' he set their incredulity at rest. 'it _is_!' discreetly they glanced and craned and then elaborately turned their backs, pretending to be talking among themselves. but, as though the girl standing there expectant in the middle of the hall were well aware of the enormous sensation the new arrival had created, she herself contributed nothing to it. stonor came forward, and she met him with a soft, happy look, and the low words: 'what a good thing you managed it!' then she made way for mrs. heriot's far more impressive greeting, innocent of the smallest reminder of the last encounter! it was lord john who cut these amenities short by chaffing stonor for being so enterprising all of a sudden. 'fancy your motoring out of town to see a supporter on sunday!' 'i don't know how we ever covered the ground in the old days,' he answered. 'it's no use to stand for your borough any more. the american, you know, he "runs" for congress. by-and-by we shall all be flying after the thing we want.' he smiled at jean. 'sh!' she glanced over her shoulder and spoke low. 'all sorts of irrelevant people here.' one of them, unable any longer to resist the temptation, was making a second foray into the hall. 'how do you do, mr. stonor?' farnborough stood there holding out his hand. the great man seemed not to see it, but he murmured, 'how do you do?' and proceeded to share with lady john his dislike of any means of locomotion except his own legs or those of a horse. it took a great deal to disconcert farnborough. 'some of us were arguing in the smoking-room last night,' he said, 'whether it didn't hurt a candidate's chances going about in a motor.' as mr. stonor, not deigning to reply to this, paused the merest instant in what he was saying to his hostess, lord john came to the rescue of the audacious young gentleman. 'yes, we've been hearing a great many stories about the unpopularity of motor-cars--among the class that hasn't got 'em, of course.' 'i'm sure,' lady john put in, 'you gain more votes by being able to reach so many more of your constituents than we used----' 'well, i don't know,' said stonor. 'i've sometimes wondered whether the charm of our presence wasn't counterbalanced by the way we tear about smothering our fellow-beings in dust and running down their pigs and chickens,--not to speak of their children.' 'what on the whole are the prospects?' lord john asked. 'we shall have to work harder than we realized,' stonor answered gravely. farnborough let slip an 'ah, i said so!' meant for lady john, and then before stonor's raised eyes, the over-zealous young politician retreated towards the window--but with hands in his pockets and head held high, like one who has made his mark. and so in truth he had. for lady john let drop one or two good-natured phrases--what he had done, his hero-worship, his mother had been a betham--yes, he was one of the farnboroughs of moore abbey. though stonor made no comment beyond a dry, 'the staple product of this country, young men like that!'--it appeared later that lady john's good offices in favour of a probable nephew-in-law had not been invoked in vain. despite the menace of 'the irrelevant' dotting the lawn immediately outside the windows, the little group on the farther side of the hall still stood there talking in low tones with the sense of intimacy which belongs to a family party. jean had slipped her arm in her uncle's, and was smiling at stonor-- 'he says he believes i'll be able to make a real difference to his chances,' she said, half aside. 'isn't it angelic of him?' 'angelic?' laughed the great man. 'macchiavellian. i pin all my hopes on your being able to counteract the pernicious influence of my opponent's glib wife.' 'you want me to have a real share in it all, don't you, geoffrey?' 'of course i do.' he smiled into her eyes. that moth farnborough, whirling in the political effulgence, was again hovering on the outskirts. he even made conversation to mrs. heriot, as an excuse to remain inside the window. 'but you don't mean seriously,' lord john asked his guest, 'you don't mean, do you, that there's any possible complication about _your_ seat?' 'oh, i dare say it's all right'--stonor drew a sunday paper out of his pocket. 'there's this agitation about the woman question. oddly enough, it seems as if it might--there's just the off-chance--it _might_ affect the issue.' 'affect it? how? god bless my soul!' lord john's transparent skin flushed up to his white hair. 'don't tell me any responsible person is going even to consider the lunacy of tampering with the british constitution----' 'we _have_ heard that suggested, though for better reasons,' stonor laughed, but not lord john. 'turn over the destinies of the empire,' he said hotly, 'to a lot of ignorant women just because a few of 'em have odious manners and violent tongues!' the sight of stonor's cool impassivity calmed him somewhat. he went on more temperately. 'every sane person sees that the only trouble with england to-day is that too many ignorant people have votes already.' 'the penalty we pay for being more republican than the republics.' lord john had picked up the sunday paper and glanced down a column. 'if the worst came to the worst, you can do what the other four hundred have done.' 'easily! but the mere fact that four hundred and twenty members have been worried into promising support--and then, once in the house, have let the matter severely alone----' 'let it alone?' lord john burst out again. 'i should think so indeed!' 'yes,' laughed stonor, 'only it's a device that's somewhat worn.' 'still,' lord john put on a macchiavellian air that sat rather incongruously on his honest english face, 'still, if they think they're getting a future cabinet minister on their side----' 'it will be sufficiently embarrassing for the cabinet minister.' stonor caught sight of farnborough approaching and lowered his voice. he leaned his elbow on the end of the wide mantelpiece and gave his attention exclusively to lord john, seeming to ignore even the pretty girl who still stood by her uncle with a hand slipped through his arm. 'nobody says much about it,' stonor went on, 'but it's realized that the last labour member, and that colne valley socialist--those men got in largely through the tireless activity of the women.' 'the suffragettes!' exclaimed the girl, '_they_ were able to do that?' 'they're always saying they don't favour _any_ party,' said a voice. stonor looked up, and, to jean's obvious relief, refrained from snubbing the irrepressible farnborough. 'i don't know what they _say_----' began stonor. 'oh, _i_ do!' farnborough interrupted. 'they're not _for_ anybody. they're simply agin the government.' 'whatever they say, they're all socialists.' lord john gave a snort. 'no,' said farnborough, with cool audacity. 'it only looks like that.' jean turned quite pink with anxiety. she, and all who knew him well, had seen stonor crush the cocksure and the unwary with an awful effectualness. but farnborough, with the courage of enthusiasm--enthusiasm for himself and his own future--went stoutly on. 'there are liberals and even unionists among 'em. and they do manage to hold the balance pretty even. i go and hear them, you see!' 'and speaking from the height of your advantage,' although stonor was slightly satirical, he was exercising an exceptional forbearance, 'do you mean to tell me they are not more in sympathy with the labour party than with any other?' 'if they are, it's not because the suffragists are all for socialism. but because the labour party is the only one that puts women's suffrage in the forefront of its programme.' stonor took his elbow off the mantel. 'whatever the reason,' he said airily, 'the result is momentarily inconvenient. though i am one of those who think it would be easy to overestimate the importance----' he broke off with an effect of dismissing both the matter and the man. as he turned away, he found himself without the smallest warning face to face with vida levering. she had come down the great staircase unobserved and unobserving; her head bent, and she in the act of forcing a recalcitrant hatpin through her hat--doing it under certain disadvantages, as she held her gloves and her veil in one hand. as she paused there, confronting the tall figure of the new-comer, although it was obvious that her unpreparedness was not less than his own, there was to the most acute eye nothing in the remotest degree dramatic about the encounter--hardly more than a cool surprise, and yet there was that which made jean say, smiling-- 'oh, you know one another already?' 'everybody in this part of the world knows mr. stonor,' the lady said, 'but he doesn't know me.' 'this is miss levering. you knew her father, didn't you?' even before lady john had introduced them, the people in the garden seemed not to be able to support the prospect of miss levering's threatened monopoly of the lion. they swarmed in--hermione heriot and paul filey appearing for the first time since church--they overflowed into the hall, while jean dunbarton, with artless enthusiasm, was demanding of miss levering if the reason she knew mr. stonor was that she had been hearing him speak. 'yes,' the lady met his eyes, 'i was visiting some relations near dutfield. they took me to hear you.' 'oh--the night the suffragettes made their customary row----' 'they didn't attack _you_,' she reminded him. 'they will if we win the election!' he said, with a cynical anticipation. it was a mark of how far the women's cause had travelled that, although there was no man there (except the ineffectual farnborough)--no one to speak of it even with tolerance, there was also no one, not even greatorex, who any longer felt the matter to be much of a joke. here again in this gathering was happening what the unprejudiced observer was seeing in similar circumstances all over england. the mere mention of women's suffrage in general society (rarest of happenings now)--that topic which had been the prolific mother of so much merriment, bred in these days but silence and constraint. the quickest-witted changed the topic amid a general sense of grateful relief. the thing couldn't be laughed at any longer, but it could still be pretended it wasn't there. 'you've come just in time to rescue me!' mrs. freddy said, sparkling at stonor. 'you don't appear to be in any serious danger,' he said. 'but i am, or i _was_! they were just insisting i should go upstairs and change my frock.' 'is there anybody here so difficult as not to like that one?' she made him a smart little curtsey. 'although we're going to have luncheon in less than an hour, somebody was going to insist (out of pure mistaken philanthropy) in taking me for a walk. i've told freddy that when i've departed for realms of bliss, he is to put on my tombstone, "died of changing her clothes." i know the end will come some sunday. we appear at breakfast dressed for church. that's a long skirt. we are usually shooed upstairs directly we get back, to put on a short one, so that we can go and look at the kennels or the prize bull. we come back muddy and smelling of stables. we get into something fresh for luncheon. after luncheon some one says, "walk!" another short skirt. we come back draggled and dreadful. we change. something sweetly feminine for tea! the gong. we rush and dress for dinner! you've saved me one change, anyhow. you are my benefactor. why don't you ask after my babies?' 'well, how are the young barbarians?' he rubbed his hand over the lower part of his face. 'your concern for personal appearance reminds me that a little soap and water after my dusty drive----' little as had fallen from him since his entrance, as he followed lord john upstairs, he left behind that sense of blankness so curiously independent of either words or deeds. greatorex, in his patent leather shoes and immaculate white gaiters, pattered over to miss levering, but she unkindly presented her back, and sat down at the writing-table to make a note on the abhorred shelter plan. he showed his disapproval by marching off with mr. freddy, and there was a general trickling back into the garden in that aimless, before-luncheon mood. but mrs. heriot and lady john sat with their heads close together on the sofa, discussing in undertones the absorbing subject of the prospective new member of the family. mrs. freddy perched on the edge of the writing-table between miss levering, who sat in front of it, and jean, whose chair was on the other side. she was nearest jean, but it was to her children's sworn friend that she turned to say enthusiastically-- 'delightful his coming in like that!' and no one needed to be told whose coming brought delight. 'we must tell sara and cecil.' as miss levering seemed to be still absorbed in making notes on that boring plan, the lively mrs. freddy turned to her other neighbour. 'penny for your thoughts,' she demanded with such suddenness that jean dunbarton started and reddened. 'something very weighty, to judge from----' 'i believe i was thinking it was rather odd to hear two men like my uncle and mr. stonor talking about the influence of the suffrage women really quite seriously. _oh!_'--she clutched mrs. freddy's arm, laughing apologetically--'i beg your pardon. i forgot. besides, i wasn't thinking of your kind; i was thinking of the suffragettes.' 'as the only conceivable ones to be exercising any influence. thank you.' 'oh, no, no. indeed, i didn't mean----' 'yes, you did. you're like the rest. you don't realize how we prepared the ground. all the same,' she went on, with her unfailing good humour, 'it's frightfully exciting seeing the question come into practical politics at last. i only hope those women won't go and upset the apple-cart again.' 'how?' 'oh, by doing something that will alienate all our good friends in both parties. it's queer they can't see our only chance to get what we want is by winning over the men.' there was a low sound of impatience from the person at the writing-table, and a rustle of paper as the plan was thrown down. 'what's the matter?' said mrs. freddy. '"winning over the men" has been the woman's way since the creation. do you think the result should make us proud of our policy? yes? then go and walk in piccadilly at midnight.' lady john and mrs. heriot rose as one, while miss levering was adding-- 'no, i forgot----' 'yes,' interposed mrs. heriot, with majesty, 'it is not the first time you've forgotten.' 'what i forgot was the magistrate's ruling. he said no decent woman had any business to be in london's main thoroughfares at night "_unless she has a man with her_." you can hear that in soho, too. "you're obliged to take up with a chap!" is what the women say.' in a highly significant silence, mrs. heriot withdrew with her niece and mrs. freddy to where hermione sat contentedly between two young men on the window-step. lady john, naturally somewhat ruffled, but still quite kind, bent over her indiscreet guest to say-- 'what an odd mood you are in to-day, my dear. i think lydia heriot's right. we oughtn't to do anything, or _say_ anything to encourage this ferment of feminism--and i'll tell you why: it's likely to bring a very terrible thing in its train.' 'what terrible thing?' 'sex-antagonism.' 'it's here.' 'don't say that!' lady john spoke very gravely. 'you're so conscious it's here, you're afraid to have it mentioned.' lady john perceived that jean had quietly slipped away from the others, and was standing behind her. if mrs. heriot had not been too absorbed in dick farnborough and hermione she would have had a moment's pleasure in her handiwork--that half-shamed scrutiny in jean dunbarton's face. but as the young girl studied the quiet figure, looked into the tender eyes that gazed so steadily into some grey country far away, the effect of mrs. heriot's revelation was either weakened or transmuted subtly to something stronger than the thing that it replaced. as the woman sat there leaning her head a little wearily on her hand, there was about the whole _wesen_ an indefinable nobility that answered questions before they were asked. but lady john, upon perceiving her niece, had said hurriedly-- 'if what you say is so, it's the fault of those women agitators.' 'sex-antagonism wasn't their invention,' miss levering answered. 'no woman begins that way. every woman is in a state of natural subjection'--she looked up, and seeing jean's face, smiled--'no, i'd rather say "allegiance" to her idea of romance and her hope of motherhood; they're embodied for her in man. they're the strongest things in life till man kills them. let's be fair. if that allegiance dies, each woman knows why.' lady john, always keenly alive to any change in the social atmosphere, looked up and saw her husband coming downstairs with their guest. as she went to meet them, stonor stopped halfway down to say something. the two men halted there deep in discussion. but scarcely deeper than those other two lady john had left by the writing-table. 'who is it you are going to marry?' miss levering had asked. 'it isn't going to be announced for a few days yet.' and then jean relented enough to say in an undertone, almost confidentially, 'i should think you'd guess.' 'guess what?' said the other, absent-mindedly, but again lifting her eyes. 'who i'm going to marry.' 'oh, i know him, then?' she said, surprised. 'well, you've seen him.' miss levering shook her head. 'there are so very many young men in the world.' but she looked with a moment's wondering towards the window, seeming to consider first filey and then farnborough. 'what made you think of going on that terrible pilgrimage?' asked the girl. 'something i heard at a suffrage meeting.' 'well, do you know, ever since that sunday at the freddys', when you told us about the suffragettes, i--i've been curious about them.' 'you said nothing would ever induce you to listen to such people.' 'i know, and it's rather silly, but one says a thing like that on the spur of the moment, and then one is bound by it.' 'you mean one imagines one is bound.' 'then, too, i've been in scotland ever since; but i've often thought about you and what you said that day at the freddys'!' 'and yet you've been a good deal absorbed----' 'you see,' the girl put on a pretty little air of superiority, 'it isn't as if the man i'm going to marry wasn't very broad-minded. he wants me to be intelligent about politics. are those women holding meetings in london now as well as in the constituencies?' they both became aware at the same moment that lord john was coming slowly down the last steps, with stonor still more slowly following, talking land tenure. as miss levering rose and hurriedly turned over the things on the table to look for her veil, the handkerchief she had shut in her little italian book dropped out. a further shifting of plans and papers sent it unobserved to the floor. jean put once more the question that had remained unanswered. 'they collect too great crowds,' miss levering answered her. 'the authorities won't let them meet in trafalgar square after to-day. they have their last meeting there at three o'clock.' 'to-day! that's no use to people out of town--unless i could invent some excuse----' 'wait till you can go without inventions and excuses.' 'you think all that wrong!' 'i think it rather undignified.' 'so do i--but if i'm ever to go----' lord john came forward, leaving stonor to his hostess. 'still talking over your shelter plan?' he asked benevolently. 'no,' answered miss levering, 'we left the shelter some time ago.' he pinched his niece's ear with affectionate playfulness. 'then what's all this chatterment about?' the girl, a little confused, looked at her fellow-conspirator. 'the latest things in veils,' said miss levering, smiling, as she caught up hers. 'the invincible frivolity of women!' said lord john, with immense geniality. 'oh, they're coming for you,' jean said. 'don't forget your book. when shall i see you again, i wonder?' but instead of announcing the carriage the servant held out a salver. on it lay a telegraph form scribbled over in pencil. 'a telephone message, miss.' 'for me?' said jean, in surprise. 'yes, miss. i didn't know you was here, miss. they asked me to write it down, and let you have it as soon as possible.' 'i knew how it would be if i gave in about that telephone!' lord john arraigned his wife. even mr. stonor had to sympathize. 'they won't leave people in peace even one day in the week.' 'i've got your book,' jean said, looking at miss levering over the top of the telegraph form, and then glancing at the title as she restored the volume to its owner. 'dante! whereabouts are you?' she opened it without waiting to hear. 'oh, the inferno.' 'no, i'm in a worse place,' said the other, smiling vaguely as she drew on her gloves. 'i didn't know there was a worse.' 'yes, it's worse with the vigliacchi.' 'i forget, were they guelf or ghibelline?' 'they weren't either, and that was why dante couldn't stand them. he said there was no place in heaven nor in purgatory--not even a corner in hell, for the souls who had stood aloof from strife.' the smile faded as she stood there looking steadily into the girl's eyes. 'he called them "wretches who never lived," dante did, because they'd never felt the pangs of partisanship. and so they wander homeless on the skirts of limbo, among the abortions and off-scourings of creation.' the girl drew a fluttering breath. miss levering glanced at the clock, and turned away to make her leisurely adieux among the group at the window. mrs. heriot left it at once. 'what was that about a telephone message, jean darling?' the girl glanced at the paper, and then quite suddenly said to lady john-- 'aunt ellen, i've got to go to london!' 'not to-day!' 'my dear child!' 'nonsense!' 'is your grandfather worse?' 'n--no. i don't think my grandfather is any worse. but i must go, all the same.' 'you _can't_ go away,' whispered mrs. heriot, 'when mr. stonor----' 'back me up!' jean whispered to lady john. 'he said he'd have to leave directly after luncheon. and anyhow--all these people--please have us another time.' 'i'll just see miss levering off,' said lady john, 'and then i'll come back and talk about it.' in the midst of the good-byeing that was going on over by the window, jean suddenly exclaimed-- 'there mayn't be another train! miss levering!' but stonor was standing in front of the girl barring the way. 'what if there isn't? i'll take you back in my motor,' he said aside. '_will_ you?' in her rapture at the thought jean clasped her hands, and the paper fluttered to the floor. 'but i must be there by three,' she said. he had picked up the telegraph form as well as the handkerchief lying near. 'why, it's only an invitation to dine--wednesday!' 'sh!' she took the paper. 'oh! i see!' he smiled and lowered his voice. 'it's rather dear of you to arrange our going off like that. you _are_ a clever little girl!' 'it's not exactly that i was arranging. i want to hear those women in trafalgar square--the suffragettes.' he stared at her more than half incredulous, but smiling still. 'how perfectly absurd! besides,'--he looked across the room at lady john--'besides, i expect she wouldn't like my carrying you off like that.' 'then she'll have to make an excuse, and come too.' 'ah, it wouldn't be quite the same if she did that.' but jean had thought it out. 'aunt ellen and i could get back quite well in time for dinner.' the group that had closed about the departing guest dissolved. 'why are you saying good-bye as if you were never coming back?' lord john demanded. 'one never knows,' miss levering laughed. 'maybe i shan't come back.' 'don't talk as if you meant never!' said mrs. freddy. 'perhaps i do mean never.' she nodded to stonor. he bowed ceremoniously. 'never come back! what nonsense are you talking?' said lady john. 'is it premonition of death, or don't you like us any more?' laughed her husband. the little group trailed across the great room, escorting the guest to the front door, lady john leading the way. as they passed, geoffrey stonor was obviously not listening very attentively to jean's enthusiastic explanation of her plan for the afternoon. he kept his eyes lowered. they rested on the handkerchief he had picked up, but hardly as if, after all, they saw it, though he turned the filmy square from corner to corner with an air partly of nervousness, partly of abstraction. 'is it mine?' asked jean. he paused an instant. 'no. yours,' he said, mechanically, and held out the handkerchief to miss levering. she seemed not to hear. lord john had blocked the door a moment, insisting on a date for the next visit. jean caught up the handkerchief and went running forward with it. suddenly she stopped, glancing down at the embroidered corner. 'but that's not an l! it's v--i----' stonor turned his back, and took up a magazine. lady john's voice sounded clear from the lobby. 'you must let vida go, john, or she'll miss her train.' miss levering vanished. 'i didn't know her name was vida; how did you?' said jean. stonor bent his head silently over the book. perhaps he hadn't heard. that deafening old gong was sounding for luncheon. chapter xvi the last of the trafalgar square meetings was half over when the great chocolate-coloured motor, containing three persons besides the chauffeur, slowed up on the west side of the square. neither of the two ladies in their all-enveloping veils was easily recognizable, still less the be-goggled countenance of the hon. geoffrey stonor. when he took off his motor glasses, he did not turn down his dust collar. he even pulled farther over his eyes the peak of his linen cap. by coming at all on this expedition, he had given jean a signal proof of his desire to please her--but it was plain that he had no mind to see in the papers that he had been assisting at such a spectacle. while he gave instructions as to where the car should wait, jean was staring at the vast crowd massed on the north side of the column. it extended back among the fountains, and even escaped on each side beyond the vigilance of the guardian lions. there were scores listening there who could not see the speakers even as well as could the occupants of the car. in front of the little row of women on the plinth a gaunt figure in brown serge was waving her arms. what she was saying was blurred in the general uproar. 'oh, that's one!' jean called out excitedly. 'oh, let's hurry.' but even after they left the car and reached the crowd, to hurry was a thing no man could do. for some minutes the motor-party had only occasional glimpses of the speakers, and heard little more than fragments. 'who is that, geoffrey?' 'the tall young fellow with the stoop? that appears to be the chairman.' stonor himself stooped--to the eager girl who had clutched his sleeve from behind, and was following him closely through the press. 'the artless chairman, i take it, is scolding the people for not giving the woman a hearing!' they laughed together at the young man's foolishness. even had an open-air meeting been more of a commonplace to stonor, it would have had for him that effect of newness that an old thing wears when seen by an act of sympathy through new eyes. 'you must be sure and explain _everything_ to me, geoffrey,' said the girl. 'this is to be an important chapter in my education.' merrily and without a shadow of misgiving she spoke in jest a truer word than she dreamed. he fell in with her mood. 'well, i rather gather that he's been criticizing the late government, and liberals have made it hot for him.' 'i shall never be able to hear unless we get nearer,' said jean, anxiously. 'there's a very rough element in front there----' 'oh, don't let us mind!' 'most certainly i mind!' 'oh, but i should be miserable if i didn't hear.' she pleaded so bewitchingly for a front seat at the show that unwillingly he wormed his way on. suddenly he stood still and stared about. 'what's the matter?' said lady john. 'i can't have you ladies pushed about in this crowd,' he said under his breath. 'i must get hold of a policeman. you wait just here. i'll find one.' the adoring eyes of the girl watched the tall figure disappear. 'look at her face!' lady john, with her eyeglass up, was staring in the opposite direction. 'she's like an inspired charwoman!' jean turned, and in her eagerness pressed on, lady john following. the agreeable presence of the young chairman was withdrawn from the fighting-line, and the figure of the working-woman stood alone. with her lean brown finger pointing straight at the more outrageous of the young hooligans, and her voice raised shrill above their impertinence-- 'i've got boys of me own,' she said, 'and we laugh at all sorts o' things, but i should be ashymed, and so would they, if ever they wus to be'yve as you're doin' to-d'y.' when they had duly hooted that sentiment, they were quieter for a moment. 'people 'ave been sayin' this is a middle-class woman's movement. it's a libel. i'm a workin' woman m'self, the wife of a workin' man----' 'pore devil!' 'don't envy 'im, m'self!' as one giving her credentials, she went on, 'i'm a pore law guardian----' 'think o' that, now! gracious me!' a friendly person in the crowd turned upon the scoffer. 'shut up, cawn't yer.' 'not fur you! further statements on the part of the orator were drowned by-- 'go 'ome and darn your ol' man's stockin's.' 'just clean yer _own_ doorstep.' she glowered her contempt upon the interrupters.' it's a pore sort of 'ousekeeper that leaves 'er doorstep till sunday afternoon. maybe that's when you would do your doorstep. i do mine in the mornin', before you men are awake!' they relished that and gave her credit for a bull's eye. 'you think,' she went on quietly, seeing she had 'got them'--'you think we women 'ave no business servin' on boards and thinking about politics.' in a tone of exquisite contempt, 'but wot's politics!' she demanded. 'it's just 'ousekeepin' on a big scyle.' somebody applauded. 'oo among you workin' men 'as the most comfortable 'omes? those of you that gives yer wives yer wyges.' 'that's it! that's it!' they roared with passion. 'wantin' our money.' 'that's all this agitation's about.' 'listen to me!' she came close to the edge of the plinth. 'if it wus only to use fur _our_ comfort, d'ye think many o' you workin' men would be found turnin' over their wyges to their wives? no! wot's the reason thousands do--and the best and the soberest? because the workin' man knows that wot's a pound to _'im_ is twenty shillins to 'is wife, and she'll myke every penny in every one o' them shillins _tell_. she gets more fur 'im out of 'is wyges than wot 'e can. some o' you know wot the 'omes is like w'ere the men _don't_ let the women manage. well, the poor laws and the 'ole government is just in the syme muddle because the men 'ave tried to do the national 'ousekeepin' without the women!' they hooted, but they listened, too. 'like i said to you before, it's a libel to say it's only the well-off women wot's wantin' the vote. i can tell you wot plenty o' the poor women think about it. i'm one o' them! and i can tell you we see there's reforms needed. _we ought to 'ave the vote_; and we know 'ow to appreciate the other women 'oo go to prison for tryin' to get it for us!' with a little final bob of emphasis, and a glance over her shoulder at the old woman and the young one behind her, she was about to retire. but she paused as the murmur in the crowd grew into distinct phrases. ''inderin' policemen!'--'mykin' rows in the street;' and a voice called out so near jean that the girl jumped, 'it's the w'y yer goes on as mykes 'em keep ye from gettin' votes. they see ye ain't fit to 'ave----' and then all the varied charges were swallowed in a general uproar. 'where's geoffrey? oh, _isn't_ she too funny for words?' the agitated chairman had come forward. 'you evidently don't know,' he said, 'what had to be done by _men_ before the extension of suffrage in ' . if it hadn't been for demonstrations----' but the rest was drowned. the brown-serge woman stood there waiting, wavering a moment; and suddenly her shrill note rose clear over the indistinguishable babel. 'you s'y woman's plyce is 'ome! don't you know there's a third of the women in this country can't afford the luxury of stayin' in their 'omes? they _got_ to go out and 'elp make money to p'y the rent and keep the 'ome from bein' sold up. then there's all the women that 'aven't got even miserable 'omes. they 'aven't got any 'omes _at all_.' 'you said _you_ got one. w'y don't you stop in it?' 'yes, that's like a man. if one o' you is all right he thinks the rest don't matter. we women----' but they overwhelmed her. she stood there with her gaunt arms folded--waiting. you felt that she had met other crises of her life with just that same smouldering patience. when the wave of noise subsided again, she was discovered to be speaking. 'p'raps _your_ 'omes are all right! p'raps your children never goes 'ungry. p'raps you aren't livin', old and young, married and single, in one room.' 'i suppose life is like that for a good many people,' jean dunbarton turned round to say. 'oh, yes,' said her aunt. 'i come from a plyce where many fam'lies, if they're to go on livin' _at all_, 'ave to live like that. if you don't believe me, come and let me show you!' she spread out her lean arms. 'come with me to canning town--come with me to bromley--come to poplar and to bow. no, you won't even think about the over-worked women and the underfed children, and the 'ovels they live in. and you want that _we_ shouldn't think neither----' 'we'll do the thinkin'. you go 'ome and nuss the byby.' 'i do nurse my byby; i've nursed seven. what have you done for yours?' she waited in vain for the answer. 'p'raps,' her voice quivered, 'p'raps your children never goes 'ungry, and maybe you're satisfied--though i must say i wouldn't a thought it from the look o' yer.' 'oh, i s'y!' 'but we women are not satisfied. we don't only want better things for our own children; we want better things for all. _every_ child is our child. we know in our 'earts we oughtn't to rest till we've mothered 'em every one.' 'wot about the men? are _they_ all 'appy?' there was derisive laughter at that, and 'no! no!' 'not precisely!' '_'appy?_ lord!' 'no, there's lots o' you men i'm sorry for,' she said. 'thanks, awfully!' 'and we'll 'elp you if you let us,' she said. ''elp us? you tyke the bread out of our mouths.' 'now you're goin' to begin about us blackleggin' the men! _w'y_ does any woman tyke less wyges than a man for the same work? only because we can't get anything better. that's part the reason w'y we're yere to-d'y. do you reely think,' she reasoned with them as man to man; 'do you think, now, we tyke those low wyges because we got a likin' fur low wyges? no. we're just like you. we want as much as ever we can get.' ''ear! 'ear!' 'we got a gryte deal to do with our wyges, we women has. we got the children to think about. and w'en we get our rights, a woman's flesh and blood won't be so much cheaper than a man's that employers can get rich on keepin' you out o' work and sweatin' us. if you men only could see it, we got the syme cause, and if you 'elped us you'd be 'elpin' yerselves.' 'rot!' 'true as gospel!' some one said. 'drivel!' as she retired against the banner with the others, there was some applause. 'well, now,' said a man patronizingly, 'that wusn't so bad--fur a woman.' 'n--naw. not fur a woman.' jean had been standing on tip-toe making signals. ah, at last geoffrey saw her! but why was he looking so grave? 'no policeman?' lady john asked. 'not on that side. they seem to have surrounded the storm centre, which is just in front of the place you've rather unwisely chosen.' indeed it was possible to see, further on, half a dozen helmets among the hats. what was happening on the plinth seemed to have a lessened interest for jean dunbarton. she kept glancing sideways up under the cap brim at the eyes of the man at her side. lady john on the other hand was losing nothing. 'is _she_ one of them? that little thing?' 'i--i suppose so,' answered stonor, doubtfully, though the chairman, with a cheerful air of relief, had introduced miss ernestine blunt to the accompaniment of cheers and a general moving closer to the monument. lady john, after studying ernestine an instant through her glass, turned to a dingy person next her, who was smoking a short pipe. 'among those women up there,' said lady john, 'can you tell me, my man, which are the ones that a--that make the disturbances?' the man removed his pipe and spat carefully between his feet. then with deliberation he said-- 'the one that's doing the talking now--she's the disturbingest o' the lot.' 'not that nice little----' 'don't you be took in, mum;' and he resumed the consolatory pipe. 'what is it, geoffrey? have i done anything?' jean said very low. 'why didn't you stay where i left you?' he answered, without looking at her. 'i couldn't hear. i couldn't even see. please don't look like that. forgive me,' she pleaded, covertly seeking his hand. his set face softened. 'it frightened me when i didn't see you where i left you.' she smiled, with recovered spirits. she could attend now to the thing she had come to see. 'i'm sorry you missed the inspired charwoman. it's rather upsetting to think--do you suppose any of our servants have--views?' stonor laughed. 'oh, no! our servants are all too superior.' he moved forward and touched a policeman on the shoulder. what was said was not audible--the policeman at first shook his head, then suddenly he turned round, looked sharply into the gentleman's face, and his whole manner changed. obliging, genial, almost obsequious. 'oh, he's recognized geoffrey!' jean said to her aunt. 'they _have_ to do what a member tells them! they'll stop the traffic any time to let geoffrey go by!' she exulted. stonor beckoned to his ladies. the policeman was forging a way in which they followed. 'this will do,' stonor said at last, and he whispered again to the policeman. the man replied, grinning. 'oh, really,' stonor smiled, too. 'this is the redoubtable miss ernestine blunt,' he explained over his shoulder, and he drew back so that jean could pass, and standing so, directly in front of him, she could be protected right and left, if need were, by a barrier made of his arms. 'now can you see?' he asked. she looked round and nodded. her face was without cloud again. she leaned lightly against his arm. miss ernestine had meanwhile been catapulting into election issues with all the fervour of a hot-gospeller. 'what outrageous things she says about important people--people she ought to respect and be rather afraid of,' objected jean, rather scandalized. 'impudent little baggage!' said stonor. reasons, a plenty, the baggage had why the party which had so recently refused to enfranchise women should not be returned to power. 'you're in too big a hurry,' some one shouted. 'all the liberals want is a little time.' 'time! you seem not to know that the first petition in favour of giving us the franchise was signed in .' 'how do _you_ know?' she paused a moment, taken off her guard by the suddenness of the attack. '_you_ wasn't there!' 'that was the trouble. haw! haw!' 'that petition,' she said, 'was presented forty years ago.' 'give 'er a 'reain' now she _'as_ got out of 'er crydle.' 'it was presented to the house of commons by john stuart mill. give the liberals time!' she echoed. 'thirty-three years ago memorials in favour of the suffrage were presented to mr. gladstone and mr. disraeli. in , , women of these british isles signed an appeal to the members of parliament. bills or resolutions have been before the house, on and off, for the last thirty-six years. all that "time" thrown away! at the opening of this year we found ourselves with no assurance that if we went on in the same way, any girl born into the world in our time would ever be able to exercise the rights of citizenship though she lived to be a hundred. that was why we said all this has been in vain. we must try some other way. how did you working men get the suffrage, we asked ourselves. well, we turned up the records--and we _saw_. we don't want to follow such a violent example. we would much rather not--but if that's the only way we can make the country see we're in earnest--we are prepared to show them!' 'an' they'll show _you_!' 'give ye another month 'ard!' in the midst of the laughter and interruptions, a dirty, beery fellow of fifty or so, from whom stonor's arm was shielding jean, turned to the pal behind him with-- 'ow'd yer like to be _that_ one's 'usband? think o' comin' 'ome to _that_!' 'i'd soon learn 'er!' answered the other, with a meaning look. 'don't think that going to prison again has any fears for us. we'd go for life if by doing that we got freedom for the rest of the women.' 'hear! hear!' 'rot!' 'w'y don't the men 'elp ye to get yer rights?' 'here's some one asking why the men don't help. it's partly they don't understand yet--they _will_ before we've done!' she wagged her head in a sort of comical menace, and the crowd screamed with laughter--'partly, they don't understand yet what's at stake----' 'lord!' said an old fellow, with a rich chuckle. 'she's a educatin' of us!' '--and partly that the bravest man is afraid of ridicule. oh, yes, we've heard a great deal all our lives about the timidity and the sensitiveness of women. and it's true--we _are_ sensitive. but i tell you, ridicule crumples a man up. it steels a woman. we've come to know the value of ridicule. we've educated ourselves so that we welcome ridicule. we owe our sincerest thanks to the comic writers. the cartoonist is our unconscious friend. who cartoons people who are of no importance? what advertisement is so sure of being remembered? if we didn't know it by any other sign, the comic papers would tell us--_we've arrived_!' she stood there for one triumphant moment in an attitude of such audacious self-confidence, that jean turned excitedly to her lover with-- 'i know what she's like! the girl in ibsen's "master builder"!' 'i don't think i know the young lady.' 'oh, there was a knock at the door that set the master builder's nerves quivering. he felt in his bones it was the younger generation coming to upset things. he _thought_ it was a young man----' 'and it was really miss ernestine blunt? he has my sympathies.' the younger generation was declaring from the monument-- 'our greatest debt of gratitude we owe to the man who called us female hooligans!' that tickled the crowd, too; she was such a charming little pink-cheeked specimen of a hooligan. 'i'm being frightfully amused, geoffrey,' said jean. he looked down at her with a large indulgence. 'that's right,' he said. 'we aren't hooligans, but we hope the fact will be overlooked. if everybody said we were nice, well-behaved women, who'd come to hear us? _not the men._' the people dissolved in laughter, but she was grave enough. 'men tell us it isn't womanly for us to care about politics. how do they know what's womanly? it's for women to decide that. let them attend to being manly. it will take them all their time.' 'pore benighted man!' 'some of you have heard it would be dreadful if we got the vote, because then we'd be pitted against men in the economic struggle. but it's too late to guard against that. it's fact. but facts, we've discovered, are just what men find it so hard to recognize. men are so dreadfully sentimental.' she smiled with the crowd at that, but she proceeded to hammer in her pet nail. 'they won't recognize those eighty-two women out of every hundred who are wage-earners. we used to believe men when they told us that it was unfeminine--hardly respectable--for women to be students and to aspire to the arts that bring fame and fortune. but men have never told us it was unfeminine for women to do the heavy drudgery that's badly paid. that kind of work had to be done by somebody, and men didn't hanker after it. _oh_, no! let the women scrub and cook and wash, or teach without diplomas on half pay. that's all right. but if they want to try their hand at the better-rewarded work of the liberal professions--oh, very unfeminine indeed.' as ernestine proceeded to show how all this obsolete unfairness had its roots in political inequality, lady john dropped her glass with a sigh. 'you are right,' she said to jean. 'this is hilda, harnessed to a purpose. a portent to shake middle-aged nerves.' with jean blooming there before him, stonor had no wish to prove his own nerves middle-aged. 'i think she's rather fun, myself. though she ought to be taken home and well smacked.' somebody had interrupted to ask, 'if the house of commons won't give you justice, why don't you go to the house of lords?' 'what?' she hadn't heard, but the question was answered by some one who had. 'she'd 'ave to 'urry up. case of early closin'!' 'you'll be allowed to ask any question you like,' she said, 'at the end of the meeting.' 'wot's that? oh, is it question time? i s'y, miss, 'oo killed cock robin?' 'i've got a question, too,' a boy called through his hollowed hands. 'are--you--married?' 'ere's your chance. 'e's a bachelor.' 'here's a man,' says ernestine, 'asking, "if the women get full citizenship, and a war is declared, will the women fight?"' 'haw! haw!' 'yes.' 'yes. just tell us _that_!' 'well'--she smiled--'you know some say the whole trouble about us is that we _do_ fight. but it's only hard necessity makes us do that. we don't want to fight--as men seem to--just for fighting's sake. women are for peace.' 'hear! hear!' 'and when we have a share in public affairs there'll be less likelihood of war. wasn't it a woman, the baroness von suttner, whose book about peace was the corner-stone of the peace congress? wasn't it that book that converted the millionaire maker of armaments of war? wasn't it the baroness von suttner's book that made nobel offer those great international prizes for the arts of peace? i'm not saying women can't fight. but we women know all war is evil, and we're for peace. our part--we're proud to remember it--our part has been to go about after you men in war time and _pick up the pieces_!' a great shout went up as the truth of that rolled in upon the people. 'yes; seems funny, doesn't it? you men blow people to bits, and then we come along and put them together again. if you know anything about military nursing, you know a good deal of our work has been done in the face of danger; _but it's always been done_.' 'that's so. that's so.' 'well, what of it?' said a voice. 'women must do something for their keep.' 'you complain that more and more we're taking away from you men the work that's always been yours. you can't any longer keep woman out of the industries. the only question is, on what terms shall she continue to be in? as long as she's in on bad terms, she's not only hurting herself, she's hurting you. but if you're feeling discouraged about our competing with you, we're willing to leave you your trade in war. let the men take life! we _give_ life!' her voice was once more moved and proud. 'no one will pretend ours isn't one of the dangerous trades either. i won't say any more to you now, because we've got others to speak to you, and a new woman helper that i want you to hear.' with an accompaniment of clapping she retired to hold a hurried consultation with the chairman. jean turned to see how geoffrey had taken it. 'well?' he smiled down at her, echoing, 'well?' 'nothing so _very_ reprehensible in what she said, was there?' 'oh, "reprehensible"!' 'it makes one rather miserable all the same.' he pressed his guardian arm the closer. 'you mustn't take it as much to heart as all that.' 'i can't help it. i can't indeed, geoffrey. i shall _never_ be able to make a speech like that.' he stared, considerably taken aback. 'i hope not indeed.' 'why? i thought you said you wanted me to----' 'to make nice little speeches with composure? so i did. so i do----' as he looked down upon the upturned face he seemed to lose his thread. she was for helping him to recover it. 'don't you remember how you said----' 'that you have very pink cheeks? well, i stick to it.' she smiled. 'sh! don't tell everybody.' 'and you're the only female creature----' 'that's a most proper sentiment.' 'the only one i ever saw who didn't look a fright in motor things.' 'i'm glad you don't think me a fright. oh!'--she turned at the sound of applause--'we're forgetting all about----' a big sandy man, not hitherto seen, was rolling his loose-knit body up and down the platform, smiling at the people and mopping a great bony skull, on which, low down, a few scanty wisps of colourless hair were growing. 'if you can't afford a bottle of tatcho,' a boy called out, 'w'y don't you get yer 'air cut?' he just shot out one hand and wagged it in grotesque greeting, not in the least discomposed. 'i've been addressin' a big meetin' at 'ammersmith this morning, and w'en i told 'em i wus comin' 'ere this awfternoon to speak fur the women--well--then the usual thing began.' an appreciative roar rose from the crowd. 'yes,' he grinned, 'if you want peace and quiet at a public meetin', better not go mentionin' the lydies these times!' he stopped, and the crowd filled in the hiatus with laughter. 'there wus a man at 'ammersmith, too, talkin' about woman's sphere bein' 'ome. 'ome do you call it? _'ome!_' and at the word his _bonhomie_ suffered a singular eclipse. ''ome!' he bellowed, as if some one had struck him in a vital spot, and the word was merely a roar of pain. '_'ome!_ you've got a kennel w'ere you can munch your tommy. you got a corner w'ere you can curl up fur a few hours till you go out to work again. but 'omes! no, my men, there's too many of you ain't able to _give_ the women 'omes fit to live in; too many of you in that fix fur you to go on jawin' at those o' the women 'oo want to myke the 'omes a little more deservin' o' the name.' 'if the vote ain't done us any good,' a man bawled up at him, ''ow'll it do the women any good?' 'look 'ere! see 'ere!' he rolled his shapeless body up and down the stone platform, taking in great draughts of cheer from some invisible fountain. 'any men here belongin' to the labour party?' he inquired. to an accompaniment of shouts and applause he went on, smiling and rubbing his hands in a state of bubbling brotherliness. 'well, i don't need tell those men the vote 'as done us _some_ good. they _know_ it. and it'll do us a lot more good w'en you know 'ow to use the power you got in your 'and.' 'power!' grumbled an old fellow. 'it's those fellows at the bottom of the street'--he hitched his head toward st. stephen's--'it's them that's got the power.' the speaker pounced on him. 'it's you and men like you that give it to them. wot did you do last election? you carried the liberals into parliament street on your own shoulders. you believed all their fine words. you never asked yerselves, "wot's a liberal, anyway?"' in the chorus of cheers and booing some one sang out, 'he's a jolly good fellow!' 'no 'e ain't,' said the labour man, with another wheel about and a pounce. 'no 'e ain't, or, if 'e's jolly, it's only because 'e thinks you're such a cod-fish you'll go swellin' 'is majority again.' stonor joined in that laugh. he rather liked the man. 'yes, it's enough to make any liberal "jolly" to see a sheep like you lookin' on, proud and 'appy, while you see liberal leaders desertin' liberal principles.' through the roar of protest and argument, he held out those grotesque great hands of his with the suggestion-- 'you show me a liberal, and i'll show you a mr. facing-both-ways. yuss. the liberal, 'e sheds the light of his warm and 'andsome smile on the workin' man, and round on the other side 'e's tippin' the wink to the great landowners. yuss. that's to let 'em know 'e's standin' between them and socialists. ha! the socialists!' puffing and flushed and perspiring he hurled it out again and again over the heads of the people. 'the socialists! yuss. _socialists!_ ha! ha!' when he and the audience had a little calmed down, 'the liberal,' he said, with that look of sly humour, ''e's the judicial sort o' chap that sits in the middle.' 'on the fence.' he nodded. 'tories one side, socialists the other. well, it ain't always so comfortable in the middle. no. yer like to get squeezed. now, i says to the women, wot i says is, the conservatives don't promise you much, but wot they promise they _do_.' he whacked one fist into the other with tremendous effect. 'this fellow isn't half bad,' stonor said to lady john. 'but the liberals, they'll promise you the earth and give you the whole o' nothin'.' there were roars of approval. liberal stock had sunk rather low in trafalgar square. 'isn't it fun?' said jean. 'now aren't you glad i brought you?' 'oh, this chap's all right!' 'we men 'ave seen it 'appen over and over. but the women can tyke an 'int quicker 'n what we can. they won't stand the nonsense men do. only they 'aven't got a fair chawnce even to agitate fur their rights. as i wus comin' up ere, i 'eard a man sayin', "look at this big crowd. w'y, we're all _men_! if the women want the vote, w'y ain't they here to s'y so?" well, i'll tell you w'y. it's because they've 'ad to get the dinner fur you and me, and now they're washin' up dishes.' 'd'you think we ought to st'y at 'ome and wash the dishes?' he laughed with good-natured shrewdness. 'well, if they'd leave it to us once or twice per'aps we'd understand a little more about the woman question. i know w'y _my_ wife isn't here. it's because she _knows_ i can't cook, and she's 'opin' i can talk to some purpose. yuss,'--he acknowledged another possible view,--'yuss, maybe she's mistaken. any'ow, here i am to vote for her and all the other women, and to----' they nearly drowned him with '_oh-h!_' and 'hear! hear!' 'and to tell you men what improvements you can expect to see w'en women 'as the share in public affairs they ought to 'ave!' out of the babel came the question, 'what do you know about it? you can't even talk grammar.' his broad smile faltered a little. 'oh, what shame!' said jean, full of sympathy. 'he's a dear--that funny cockney.' but he had been dashed for the merest moment. 'i'm not 'ere to talk grammar, but to talk reform. i ain't defendin' my grammar,' he said, on second thoughts, 'but i'll say in pawssing that if my mother 'ad 'ad 'er rights, maybe my grammar would 'ave been better.' it was a thrust that seemed to go home. but, all the same, it was clear that many of his friends couldn't stomach the sight of him up there demeaning himself by espousing the cause of the suffragettes. he kept on about woman and justice, but his performance was little more than vigorous pantomime. the boyish chairman looked harassed and anxious, miss ernestine blunt alert, watchful. stonor bent his head to whisper something in jean dunbarton's ear. she listened with lowered eyes and happy face. the discreet little interchange went on for several minutes, while the crowd booed at the bald-headed labourite for his mistaken enthusiasm. geoffrey stonor and his bride-to-be were more alone now in the midst of this shouting mob than they had been since the ulland house luncheon-gong had broken in upon and banished momentary wonderment about the name--that name beginning with v. plain to see in the flushed and happy face that jean dunbarton was not 'asking questions.' she was listening absorbed to the oldest of all the stories. and now the champion of the suffragettes had come to the surface again with his-- 'wait a bit--'arf a minute, my man.' 'oo you talkin' to? i ain't your man!' 'oh, that's lucky for me. there seems to be an individual here who doesn't think women ought to 'ave the vote.' 'one? oh-h!' they all but wiped him out again in laughter; but he climbed on the top of the great wave of sound with-- 'p'raps the gentleman who thinks they oughtn't to 'ave a vote, p'raps 'e don't know much about women. wot? oh, the gentleman says 'e's married. well, then, fur the syke of 'is wife we mustn't be too sorry 'e's 'ere. no doubt she's s'ying, "'eaven be prysed those women are mykin' a demonstrytion in trafalgar square, and i'll 'ave a little peace and quiet at 'ome for one sunday in me life."' the crowd liked that, and found themselves jeering at the interrupter as well as at the speaker. 'why, you'--he pointed at some one in the crowd--'_you_'re like the man at 'ammersmith this morning. 'e wus awskin' me, "'ow would you like men to st'y at 'ome and do the fam'ly washin'?" i told 'im i wouldn't advise it. i 'ave too much respect fur'--they waited while slyly he brought out--'me clo'es.' 'it's their place,' said some one in a rage; 'the women _ought_ to do the washin'.' 'i'm not sure you aren't right. for a good many o' you fellas from the look o' you, you cawn't even wash yourselves.' this was outrageous. it was resented in an incipient riot. the helmets of the police bobbed about. an angry voice had called out-- 'oo are you talkin' to?' the anxiety of the inexperienced chairman was almost touching. the socialist revelled in the disturbance he'd created. he walked up and down with that funny rolling gait, poking out his head at intervals in a turtle-esque fashion highly provocative, holding his huge paws kangaroo fashion, only with fingers stiffly pointed, and shooting them out at intervals towards the crowd in a very ecstasy of good-natured contempt. 'better go 'ome and awsk yer wife to wash yer fice,' he advised. '_you_ cawn't even do _that_ bit o' fam'ly washin'. go and awsk _some_ woman.' there was a scuffle in the crowd. a section of it surged up towards the monument. 'which of us d'you mean?' demanded a threatening voice. 'well,' said the socialist, coolly looking down, 'it takes about ten of your sort to make a man, so you may take it i mean the lot of you.' again the hands shot out and scattered scorn amongst his critics. there were angry, indistinguishable retorts, and the crowd swayed. miss ernestine blunt, who had been watching the fray with serious face, turned suddenly, catching sight of some one just arrived at the end of the platform. she jumped up, saying audibly to the speaker as she passed him, 'here she is,' and proceeded to offer her hand to help some one to get up the improvised steps behind the lion. the socialist had seized with fervour upon his last chance, and was flinging out showers of caustic advice among his foes, stirring them up to frenzy. stonor, with contracted brows, had stared one dazed instant as the head of the new-comer came up behind the lion on the left. jean, her eyes wide, incredulous, as though unable to accept their testimony, pressed a shade nearer the monument. stonor made a sharp move forward, and took her by the arm. 'we're going now,' he said. 'not yet--oh, _please_ not just yet,' she pleaded as he drew her round. 'geoffrey, i do believe----' she looked back, with an air almost bewildered, over her shoulder, like one struggling to wake from a dream. stonor was saying with decision to lady john, 'i'm going to take jean out of this mob. will you come?' 'what? oh, yes, if you think'--she had disengaged the chain of her eyeglass at last. 'but isn't that, surely it's----' 'geoffrey----!' jean began. 'lady john's tired,' he interrupted. 'we've had enough of this idiotic----' 'but you don't see who it is, geoffrey. that last one is----' suddenly jean bent forward as he was trying to extricate her from the crowd, and she looked in his face. something that she found there made her tighten her hold on his arm. 'we can't run away and leave aunt ellen,' was all she said; but her voice sounded scared. stonor repressed a gesture of anger, and came to a standstill just behind two big policemen. the last-comer to that strange platform, after standing for some seconds with her back to the people and talking to ernestine blunt, the tall figure in a long sage-green dust coat and familiar hat, had turned and glanced apprehensively at the crowd. it was vida levering. the girl down in the crowd locked her hands together and stood motionless. the socialist had left the platform with the threat that he was 'coming down now to attend to that microbe that's vitiating the air on my right, while a lady will say a few words to you--if she can myke 'erself 'eard.' he retired to a chorus of cheers and booing, while the chairman, more harassed than ever, it would seem, but determined to create a diversion, was saying that some one had suggested--'and it's such a good idea i'd like you to listen to it--that a clause shall be inserted in the next suffrage bill that shall expressly give to each cabinet minister, and to any respectable man, the power to prevent a vote being given to the female members of his family, on his public declaration of their lack of sufficient intelligence to entitle them to one.' 'oh! oh!' 'now, i ask you to listen as quietly as you can to a lady who is not accustomed to speaking--a--in trafalgar square, or--a--as a matter of fact, at all.' 'a dumb lady!' 'hooray!' 'three cheers for the dumb lady!' the chairman was dreadfully flustered at the unfortunate turn his speech had taken. 'a lady who, as i've said, will tell you, if you'll behave yourselves----' 'oh! oh!' 'will tell you something of her impression of police-court justice in this country.' jean stole a wondering look at stonor's sphinx-like face as vida levering came forward. there she stood, obviously very much frightened, with the unaccustomed colour coming and going in her white face--farther back than any of the practised speakers--there she stood like one who too much values the space between her and the mob voluntarily to lessen it by half an inch. the voice was steady enough, though low, as she began. 'mr. chairman, men, and women----' 'speak up.' she flushed, came nearer to the edge of the platform, and raised the key a little. 'i just wanted to tell you that i was--i was present in the police court when the women were charged for creating a disturbance.' 'you oughtn't to get mix'd up in wot didn't concern you!' 'i--i----' she stumbled and stopped. 'give the lady a hearing,' said a shabby art-student, magisterially. he seemed not ill-pleased when he had drawn a certain number of eyes to his long hair, picturesque hat, and flowing byronic tie. 'wot's the lydy's nyme?' 'i ain't seen this one before.' 'is she mrs. or miss?' 'she's dumb, anyway, like 'e said.' 'haw! haw!' the anxious chairman was fidgeting in an agony of apprehension. he whispered some kind prompting word after he had flung out-- 'now, see here, men; fair play, you know.' 'i think i ought----' vida began. 'no wonder she can't find a word to say for 'em. they're a disgryce, miss--them women behind you. it's the w'y they goes on as mykes the govermint keep ye from gettin' yer rights.' the chairman had lost his temper. 'it's the way _you_ go on,' he screamed; but the din was now so great, not even he could be heard. he stood there waving his arms and moving his lips while his dark eyes glittered. miss levering turned and pantomimed to ernestine, 'you see it's no use!' thus appealed to, the girl came forward, and said something in the ear of the frantic chairman. when he stopped gyrating, and nodded, miss blunt came to the edge of the platform, and held up her hand as if determined to stem this tide of unfavourable comment upon the dreadful women who were complicating the election difficulties of both parties. 'listen,' says ernestine; 'i've got something to propose.' they waited an instant to hear what this precious proposal might be. 'if the government withholds the vote because they don't like the way some of us ask for it, let them give it to the quiet ones. do they want to punish all women because they don't like the manners of a handful? perhaps that's men's notion of justice. it isn't ours.' 'haw! haw!' 'yes'--miss levering plucked up courage, seeing her friend sailing along so safely. 'this is the first time i've ever "gone on," as you call it, but they never gave me a vote.' '_no_,' says miss ernestine, with energy--'and there are'--she turned briskly, with forefinger uplifted punctuating her count--'there are two, three, four women on this platform. now, we all want the vote, as you know.' 'lord, yes, we know _that_.' 'well, we'd agree to be disfranchised all our lives if they'd give the vote to all the other women.' 'look here! you made one speech--give the lady a chance.' miss blunt made a smiling little bob of triumph. 'that's just what i wanted you to say!' and she retired. miss levering came forward again. but the call to 'go on' had come a little suddenly. 'perhaps you--you don't know--you don't know----' '_how_'re we going to know if you can't tell us?' demanded a sarcastic voice. it steadied her. 'thank you for that,' she said, smiling. 'we couldn't have a better motto. how _are_ you to know if we can't somehow manage to tell you?' with a visible effort she went on, 'well, _i_ certainly didn't know before that the sergeants and policemen are instructed to deceive the people as to the time such cases are heard.' 'it's just as hard,' said a bystander to his companion, '_just_ as hard for learned counsel in the august quiet of the chancery division to find out when their cases are really coming on.' 'you ask, and you're sent to marlborough police court,' said miss levering, 'instead of to marylebone.' 'they oughter send yer to 'olloway--do y' good.' 'you go on, miss. nobody minds 'im.' 'wot can you expect from a pig but a grunt?' 'you are told the case will be at two o'clock, and it's really called for eleven. well, i took a great deal of trouble, and i didn't believe what i was told.' she was warming a little to her task. 'yes, that's almost the first thing we have to learn--to get over our touching faith that because a man tells us something, it's true. i got to the right court, and i was so anxious not to be late, i was too early.' 'like a woman!' 'the case before the suffragists' was just coming on. i heard a noise. i saw the helmets of two policemen.' 'no, you didn't. they don't wear their helmets in court.' 'they were coming in from the corridor. as i saw them, i said to myself, "what sort of crime shall i have to sit and hear about? is this a burglar being brought along between the two big policemen, or will it be a murderer? what sort of felon is to stand in the dock before the people, whose crime is, they ask for the vote?" but try as i would, i couldn't see the prisoner. my heart misgave me. is it some poor woman, i wondered?' a tipsy tramp, with his battered bowler over one eye, wheezed out, 'drunk again!' with an accent of weary philosophy. 'syme old tyle.' 'then the policemen got nearer, and i saw'--she waited an instant--'a little thin, half-starved boy. what do you think he was charged with?' 'travellin' first with a third-class ticket.' a boy offered a page out of personal history. 'stealing. what had he been stealing, that small criminal? _milk._ it seemed to me, as i sat there looking on, that the men who had had the affairs of the world in their hands from the beginning, and who've made so poor a business of it----' 'oh, pore devils! give 'em a rest!' 'who've made so bad a business of it as to have the poor and the unemployed in the condition they're in to-day, whose only remedy for a starving child is to hale him off to the police court, because he had managed to get a little milk, well, i did wonder that the men refuse to be helped with a problem they've so notoriously failed at. i began to say to myself, "isn't it time the women lent a hand?"' 'doin' pretty well fur a dumb lady!' 'would you have women magistrates?' she was stumped by the suddenness of the query. 'haw! haw! magistrates and judges! _women!_' 'let 'em prove first they're able to----' it was more than the shabby art-student could stand. 'the schools are full of them!' he shouted. 'where's their michael angelo? they study music by thousands: where's their beethoven? where's their plato? where's the woman shakespeare?' 'where's their harry lauder?' at last a name that stirred the general enthusiasm. 'who is harry lauder?' jean asked her aunt. lady john shook her head. 'yes, wot 'ave women ever _done_?' the speaker had clenched her hands, but she was not going to lose her presence of mind again. by the time the chairman could make himself heard with, 'now, men, it's one of our british characteristics that we're always ready to give the people we differ from a hearing,' miss levering, making the slightest of gestures, waved him aside with a low-- 'it's all right.' 'these questions are quite proper,' she said, raising her voice. 'they are often asked elsewhere; and i would like to ask in return: since when was human society held to exist for its handful of geniuses? how many platos are there here in this crowd?' 'divil a wan!' and a roar of laughter followed that free confession. 'not one,' she repeated. 'yet that doesn't keep you men off the register. how many shakespeares are there in all england to-day? not one. yet the state doesn't tumble to pieces. railroads and ships are built, homes are kept going, and babies are born. the world goes on'--she bent over the crowd with lit eyes--'the world goes on _by virtue of its common people_.' there was a subdued 'hear! hear!' 'i am not concerned that you should think we women could paint great pictures, or compose immortal music, or write good books. i am content'--and it was strange to see the pride with which she said it, a pride that might have humbled vere de vere--'i am content that we should be classed with the common people, who keep the world going. but'--her face grew softer, there was even a kind of camaraderie where before there had been shrinking--'i'd like the world to go a great deal better. we were talking about justice. i have been inquiring into the kind of lodging the poorest class of homeless women can get in this town of london. i find that only the men of that class are provided for. some measure to establish rowton houses for women has been before the london county council. they looked into the question very carefully--so their apologists say. and what did they decide? they decided that they could do nothing. 'why could that great, all-powerful body do nothing? because, they said, if these cheap and decent houses were opened, the homeless women in the streets would make use of them. you'll think i'm not in earnest, but that was actually the decision, and the reason given for it. women that the bitter struggle for existence had forced into a life of horror might take advantage of the shelter these decent, cheap places offered. but the _men_, i said! are the men who avail themselves of lord rowton's hostels, are _they_ all angels? or does wrong-doing in a man not matter? yet women are recommended to depend on the chivalry of men!' the two tall policemen who had been standing for some minutes in front of mr. stonor in readiness to serve him, seeming to feel there was no further need of them in this quarter, shouldered their way to the left, leaving exposed the hitherto masked figure of the tall gentleman in the motor cap. he moved uneasily, and, looking round, he met jean's eyes fixed on him. as each looked away again, each saw that for the first time vida levering had become aware of his presence. a change passed over her face, and her figure swayed as if some species of mountain-sickness had assailed her, looking down from that perilous high perch of hers upon the things of the plain. while the people were asking one another, 'what is it? is she going to faint?' she lifted one hand to her eyes, and her fingers trembled an instant against the lowered lids. but as suddenly as she had faltered, she was forging on again, repeating like an echo of a thing heard in a dream-- 'justice and chivalry! justice and chivalry remind me of the story that those of you who read the police-court news--i have begun only lately to do that--but _you_'ve seen the accounts of the girl who's been tried in manchester lately for the murder of her child.' people here and there in the crowd regaled one another with choice details of the horror. 'not pleasant reading. even if we'd noticed it, we wouldn't speak of it in my world. a few months ago i should have turned away my eyes and forgotten even the headline as quickly as i could.' 'my opinion,' said a shrewd-looking young man, 'is that she's forgot what she meant to say, and just clutched at this to keep her from drying up.' 'since that morning in the police-court i read these things. this, as you know, was the story of a working girl--an orphan of seventeen--who crawled with the dead body of her new-born child to her master's back door and left the baby there. she dragged herself a little way off and fainted. a few days later she found herself in court being tried for the murder of her child. her master, a married man, had of course reported the "find" at his back door to the police, and he had been summoned to give evidence. the girl cried out to him in the open court, "you are the father!" he couldn't deny it. the coroner, at the jury's request, censured the man, and regretted that the law didn't make him responsible. but'--she leaned down from the plinth with eyes blazing--'he went scot free. and that girl is at this moment serving her sentence in strangeways gaol.' through the moved and murmuring crowd, jean forced her way, coming in between lady john and stonor, who stood there immovable. the girl strained to bring her lips near his ear. 'why do you dislike her so?' 'i?' he said. 'why should you think----' 'i never saw you look as you did;' with a vaguely frightened air she added, 'as you do.' 'men make boast'--the voice came clear from the monument--'that an english citizen is tried by his peers. what woman is tried by hers?' 'she mistakes the sense in which the word was employed,' said a man who looked like an oxford don. but there was evidently a sense, larger than that one purely academic, in which her use of the word could claim its pertinence. the strong feeling that had seized her as she put the question was sweeping the crowd along with her. 'a woman is arrested by a man, brought before a man judge, tried by a jury of men, condemned by men, taken to prison by a man, and by a man she's hanged! where in all this were _her_ "peers"? why did men, when british justice was born--why did they so long ago insist on trial by "a jury of their peers"? so that justice shouldn't miscarry--wasn't it? a man's peers would best understand his circumstances, his temptation, the degree of his guilt. yet there's no such unlikeness between different classes of men as exists between man and woman. what man has the knowledge that makes him a fit judge of woman's deeds at that time of anguish--that hour that some woman struggled through to put each man here into the world. i noticed when a previous speaker quoted the labour party, you applauded. some of you here, i gather, call yourselves labour men. every woman who has borne a child is a labour woman. no man among you can judge what she goes through in her hour of darkness.' jean's eyes had dropped from her lover's set white face early in the recital. but she whispered his name. he seemed not to hear. the speaker up there had caught her fluttering breath, and went on so low that people strained to follow. 'in that great agony, even under the best conditions that money and devotion can buy, many a woman falls into temporary mania, and not a few go down to death. in the case of this poor little abandoned working girl, what man can be the fit judge of her deeds in that awful moment of half-crazed temptation? women know of these things as those know burning who have walked through fire.' stonor looked down at the girl at his side. he saw her hands go up to her throat as though she were suffocating. the young face, where some harsh knowledge was struggling for birth, was in pity turned away from the man she loved. the woman leaned down from the platform, and spoke her last words with a low and thrilling earnestness. 'i would say in conclusion to the women here, it's not enough to be sorry for these, our unfortunate sisters. we must get the conditions of life made fairer. we women must organize. we must learn to work together. we have all (rich and poor, happy and unhappy) worked so long and so exclusively for men, we hardly know how to work for one another. but we must learn. those who can, may give money. those who haven't pennies to give, even those people are not so poor but what they can give some part of their labour--some share of their sympathy and support. i know of a woman--she isn't of our country--but a woman who, to help the women strikers of an oppressed industry to hold out, gave a thousand pounds a week for thirteen weeks to get them and their children bread, and help them to stand firm. the masters were amazed. week after week went by, and still the people weren't starved into submission. where did this mysterious stream of help come from? the employers couldn't discover, and they gave in. the women got back their old wages, and i am glad to say many of them began to put by pennies to help a little to pay back the great sum that had been advanced to them.' 'she took their pennies--a rich woman like that?' 'yes--to use again, as well as to let the working women feel they were helping others. i hope you'll all join the union. come up after the meeting is over and give us your names.' as she turned away, 'you won't get any men!' a taunting voice called after her. the truth in the gibe seemed to sting. forestalling the chairman, quickly she confronted the people again, a new fire in her eyes. 'then,' she said, holding out her hands--'then _it is to the women i appeal_!' she stood so an instant, stilling the murmur, and holding the people by that sudden concentration of passion in her face. 'i don't mean to say it wouldn't be better if men and women did this work together, shoulder to shoulder. but the mass of men won't have it so. i only hope they'll realize in time the good they've renounced and the spirit they've aroused. for i know as well as any man could tell me, it would be a bad day for england if all women felt about all men _as i do_.' she retired in a tumult. the others on the platform closed about her. the chairman tried in vain to get a hearing from the swaying and dissolving crowd. jean made a blind forward movement towards the monument. stonor called out, in a toneless voice-- 'here! follow me!' 'no--no--i----' the girl pressed on. 'you're going the wrong way.' '_this_ is the way----' 'we can get out quicker on this side.' 'i don't _want_ to get out.' 'what?' he had left lady john, and was following jean through the press. 'where are you going?' he asked sharply. 'to ask that woman to let me have the honour of working with her.' the crowd surged round the girl. 'jean!' he called upon so stern a note that people stared and stopped. others--not jean. chapter xvii a little before six o'clock on that same sunday, jean dunbarton opened the communicating door between her own little sitting-room and the big bare drawing-room of her grandfather's house in eaton square. she stood a moment on the threshold, looking back over her shoulder, and then crossed the drawing-room, treading softly on the parquet spaces between the rugs. she went straight to the window, and was in the act of parting the lace curtains to look out, when she heard the folding doors open. with raised finger she turned to say 'sh!' the servant stood silently waiting, while she went back to the door she had left open and with an air of caution closed it. when she turned round again the butler had stepped aside to admit mr. stonor. he came in with a quick impatient step; but before he had time to get a word out--'speak low, please,' the girl said. he was obviously too much annoyed to pay much heed to her request, which if he thought about it at all, he must have interpreted as consideration for the ailing grandfather. 'i waited a full half-hour for you to come back,' he said in a tone no lower than usual. the girl had led the way to the side of the room furthest from the communicating door. 'i am sorry,' she said dully. 'if you didn't mind leaving me like that,' he followed her up with his arraignment, 'you might at least have considered lady john.' 'is she here with you?' jean stopped by the sofa near the window. 'no,' he said curtly. 'my place was nearer than this and she was tired. i left her to get some tea. we couldn't tell whether you'd be here, or _what_ had become of you!' 'mr. trent got us a hansom.' 'trent?' 'the chairman of the meeting.' 'got us----?' 'miss levering and me.' stonor's incensed face turned almost brick colour as he repeated, '_miss lev_----!' before he got the name out, the folding doors had opened again, and the butler was saying, 'mr. farnborough.' that young gentleman was far too anxious and flurried himself, to have sufficient detachment of mind to consider the moods of other people. 'at last!' he said, stopping short as soon as he caught sight of stonor. 'don't speak loud, please,' said miss dunbarton; 'some one is resting in the next room.' 'oh, did you find your grandfather worse?'--but he never waited to learn. 'you'll forgive the incursion when you hear'--he turned abruptly to stonor again. 'they've been telegraphing you all over london,' he said, putting his hat down in the nearest chair. 'in sheer despair they set me on your track.' 'who did?' farnborough was fumbling agitatedly in his breast-pocket. 'there was the devil to pay at dutfield last night. the liberal chap tore down from london, and took over your meeting.' 'oh? nothing about it in the sunday paper i saw.' 'wait till you see the press to-morrow! there was a great rally, and the beggar made a rousing speech.' 'what about?' 'abolition of the upper house.' 'they were at that when i was at eton.' stonor turned on his heel. 'yes, but this man has got a way of putting things--the people went mad.' it was all very well for a mere girl to be staring indifferently out of the window, while a great historic party was steering straight for shipwreck; but it really was too much to see this man who ought to be taking the situation with the seriousness it deserved, strolling about the room with that abstracted air, looking superciliously at mr. dunbarton's examples of the glasgow school. farnborough balanced himself on wide-apart legs and thrust one hand in his trousers' pocket. the other hand held a telegram. 'the liberal platform as defined at dutfield is going to make a big difference,' he pronounced. 'you think so,' said stonor, dryly. 'well, your agent says as much.' he pulled off the orange-brown envelope, threw it and the reply-paid form on the table, and held the message under the eyes of the obviously surprised gentleman in front of him. 'my agent!' stonor had echoed with faint incredulity. he took the telegram. '"try find stonor,"' he read. 'h'm! h'm!' his eyes ran on. farnborough looked first at the expressionless face, and then at the message. 'you see!'--he glanced over stonor's shoulder--'"tremendous effect of last night's liberal manifesto ought to be counteracted in to-morrow's papers."' then withdrawing a couple of paces, he said very earnestly, 'you see, mr. stonor, it's a battle-cry we want.' 'clap-trap,' said the great man, throwing the telegram down on the table. 'well,' said farnborough, distinctly dashed, 'they've been saying we have nothing to offer but personal popularity. no practical reform, no----' 'no truckling to the masses, i suppose.' poor farnborough bit his lip. 'well, in these democratic days, you're obliged (i should _think_), to consider----' in his baulked and snubbed condition he turned to miss dunbarton for countenance. 'i hope you'll forgive my bursting in like this, but'--he gathered courage as he caught a glimpse of her averted face--'i can see you realize the gravity of the situation.' he found her in the embrasure of the window, and went on with an air of speaking for her ear alone. 'my excuse for being so officious--you see it isn't as if he were going to be a mere private member. everybody knows he'll be in the cabinet.' 'it may be a liberal cabinet,' came from stonor at his dryest. farnborough leapt back into the fray. 'nobody thought so up to last night. why, even your brother----' he brought up short. 'but i'm afraid i'm really seeming rather _too_----' he took up his hat. 'what about my brother?' 'oh, only that i went from your house to the club, you know--and i met lord windlesham as i rushed up the carlton steps.' 'well?' 'i told him the dutfield news.' stonor turned sharply round. his face was much more interested than any of his words had been. as though in the silence, stonor had asked a question, farnborough produced the answer. 'your brother said it only confirmed his fears.' 'said that, did he?' stonor spoke half under his breath. 'yes. defeat is inevitable, he thinks, unless----' farnborough waited, intently watching the big figure that had begun pacing back and forth. it paused, but no word came, even the eyes were not raised. 'unless,' farnborough went on, 'you can manufacture some political dynamite within the next few hours. those were his words.' as stonor resumed his walk he raised his head and caught sight of jean's face. he stopped short directly in front of her. 'you are very tired,' he said. 'no, no.' she turned again to the window. 'i'm obliged to you for troubling about this,' he said, offering farnborough his hand with the air of civilly dismissing him. 'i'll see what can be done.' farnborough caught up the reply-paid form from the table. 'if you'd like to wire i'll take it.' faintly amused at this summary view of large complexities, 'you don't understand, my young friend,' he said, not unkindly. 'moves of this sort are not rushed at by responsible politicians. i must have time for consideration.' farnborough's face fell. 'oh. well, i only hope some one else won't jump into the breach before you.' with his watch in one hand, he held out the other to miss dunbarton. 'good-bye. i'll just go and find out what time the newspapers go to press on sunday. i'll be at the club,' he threw over his shoulder, 'just in case i can be of any use.' 'no; don't do that. if i should have anything new to say----' 'b-b-but with our party, as your brother said, "heading straight for a vast electoral disaster," and the liberals----' 'if i decide on a counter-blast, i shall simply telegraph to headquarters. good-bye.' 'oh! a--a--good-bye.' with a gesture of 'the country's going to the dogs,' farnborough opened the doors and closed them behind him. jean had rung the bell. she came back with her eyes on the ground, and paused near the table where the crumpled envelope made a dash of yellow-brown on the polished satinwood. stonor stood studying the carpet, more concern in his face now that there was only jean to see it. '"political dynamite," eh?' he repeated, walking a few paces away. he returned with, 'after all, women are much more conservative _naturally_ than men, aren't they?' jean's lowered eyes showed no spark of interest in the issue. her only motion, an occasional locking and unlocking of her fingers. but no words came. he glanced at her, as if for the first time conscious of her silence. 'you see now'--he threw himself into a chair--'one reason why i've encouraged you to take an interest in public questions. because people like us don't go screaming about it, is no sign we don't--some of us--see what's on the way. however little they may want to, women of our class will have to come into line. all the best things in the world, everything civilization has won, will be in danger if--when this change comes--the only women who have practical political training are the women of the lower classes. women of the lower classes,' he repeated, '_and_'--the line between his eyebrows deepening--'women inoculated by the socialist virus.' 'geoffrey!' he was in no mood to discuss a concrete type. to so intelligent a girl, a hint should be enough. he drew the telegraph-form that still lay on the table towards him. 'let us see how it would sound, shall we?' he detached a gold pencil from one end of his watch-chain, and, with face more and more intent, bent over the paper, writing. the girl opened her lips more than once to speak, and each time fell back again on her silent, half-incredulous misery. when stonor finished writing, he held the paper off, smiling a little, with the craftsman's satisfaction in his work, and more than a touch of shrewd malice-- 'enough dynamite in that,' he commented. 'rather too much, isn't there, little girl?' 'geoffrey, i know her story.' he looked at her for the first time since farnborough left the room. 'whose story?' 'miss levering's.' '_whose?_' he crushed the rough note of his manifesto into his pocket. 'vida levering's.' he stared at the girl, till across the moment's silence a cry of misery went out-- 'why did you desert her?' 'i?' he said, like one staggered by the sheer wildness of the charge. '_i?_' but no comfort of doubting seemed to cross the darkness of jean's backward look into the past. 'oh, why did you do it?' 'what, in the name of----? what has she been saying to you?' 'some one else told me part. then the way you looked when you saw her at aunt ellen's--miss levering's saying you didn't know her--then your letting out that you knew even the curious name on the handkerchief--oh, i pieced it together.' while she poured out the disjointed sentences, he had recovered his self-possession. 'your ingenuity is undeniable,' he said coldly, rising to his feet. but he paused as the girl went on-- 'and then when she said that at the meeting about "the dark hour," and i looked at her face, it flashed over me----oh, why did you desert her?' it was as if the iteration of that charge stung him out of his chill anger. 'i _didn't_ desert her,' he said. 'ah-h!' her hands went fluttering up to her eyes, and hid the quivering face. something in the action touched him, his face changed, and he made a sudden passionate movement toward the trembling figure standing there with hidden eyes. in another moment his arms would have been round her. her muffled voice saying, 'i'm glad. i'm glad,' checked him. he stood bewildered, making with noiseless lips the word '_glad?_' she was 'glad' he hadn't tired of her rival? the girl brushed the tears from her eyes, and steadied herself against the table. 'she went away from you, then?' the momentary softening had vanished out of geoffrey stonor's face. in its stead the look of aloofness that few dared brave, the warning 'thus far and no farther' stamped on every feature, he answered-- 'you can hardly expect me to enter into----' she broke through the barrier without ruth--such strength, such courage has honest pain. 'you mean she went away from you?' 'yes!' the sharp monosyllable fell out like a thing metallic. 'was that because you wouldn't marry her?' 'i couldn't marry her--and she knew it.' he turned on his heel. 'did you want to?' he paused nearly at the window, and looked back at her. she deserved to have the bare 'yes,' but she was a child. he would soften a little the truth's harsh impact upon the young creature's shrinking jealousy. 'i thought i wanted to marry her then. it's a long time ago.' 'and why couldn't you?' he controlled a movement of strong irritation. 'why are you catechizing me? it's a matter that concerns another woman.' 'if you say it doesn't concern me, you're saying'--her lip trembled--'saying that you don't concern me.' with more difficulty than the girl dreamed, he compelled himself to answer quietly-- 'in those days--i--i was absolutely dependent on my father.' 'why, you must have been thirty, geoffrey.' 'what? oh--thereabouts.' 'and everybody says you're so clever.' 'well, everybody's mistaken.' she left the table, and drew nearer to him. 'it must have been terribly hard----' sounding the depth of sympathy in the gentle voice, he turned towards her to meet a check in the phrase-- '----terribly hard for you both.' he stood there stonily, but looking rather handsome in his big, sulky way. the sort of person who dictates terms rather than one to accept meekly the thing that might befall. something of that overbearing look of his must have penetrated the clouded consciousness of the girl, for she was saying-- 'you! a man like _you_ not to have had the freedom, that even the lowest seem to have----' 'freedom?' 'to marry the woman they choose.' 'she didn't break off our relations because i couldn't marry her.' 'why was it, then?' 'you're too young to discuss such a story.' he turned away. 'i'm not so young,' said the shaking voice, 'as she was when----' 'very well, then, if you will have it!' his look was ill to meet, for any one who loved him. 'the truth is, it didn't weigh upon her as it seems to on you, that i wasn't able to marry her.' 'why are you so sure of that?' 'because she didn't so much as hint at it when she wrote that she meant to break off the--the----' 'what made her write like that?' 'why _will_ you go on talking of what's so long over and ended?' 'what reason did she give?' 'if your curiosity has so got the upper hand, _ask her_.' her eyes were upon him. in a whisper, 'you're afraid to tell me,' she said. he went over to the window, seeming to wait there for something that did not come. he turned round at last. 'i still hoped, at _that_ time, to win my father over. she blamed me because'--again he faced the window and looked blindly out--'if the child had lived it wouldn't have been possible to get my father to--to overlook it.' 'you--wanted--it _overlooked_?' the girl said faintly. 'i don't underst----' he came back to her on a wave of passion. 'of course you don't understand. if you did you wouldn't be the beautiful, tender, innocent child you are.' he took her hand, and tried to draw her to him. she withdrew her hand, and shrank from him with a movement, slight as it was, so tragically eloquent, that fear for the first time caught hold of him. 'i am glad you didn't mean to desert her, geoffrey. it wasn't your fault, after all--only some misunderstanding that can be cleared up.' '_cleared up?_' 'yes, cleared up.' 'you aren't thinking that this miserable old affair i'd as good as forgotten----' he did not see the horror-struck glance at the door, but he heard the whisper-- '_forgotten!_' 'no, no'--he caught himself up--'i don't mean exactly forgotten. but you're torturing me so that i don't know what i'm saying.' he went closer. 'you aren't going to let this old thing come between you and me?' she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, and then took it away. 'i can't make or unmake the past,' she said steadily. 'but i'm glad, at least, that you didn't mean to desert her in her trouble. you'll remind her of that first of all, won't you?' she was moving across the room as she spoke, and, when she had ended, the handkerchief went quickly to her lips again as if to shut the door on sobbing. 'where are you going?' he raised his voice. 'why should i remind _any_body of what i want only to forget?' 'hush! oh, hush!' a moment she looked back, holding up praying hands. his eyes had flown to the door. 'you don't mean _she's_----' 'yes. i left her to get a little rest.' he recoiled in an access of uncontrollable anger. she followed him. speechless, he eluded her, and went for his hat. 'geoffrey,' she cried, 'don't go before you hear me. i don't know if what i think matters to you now, but i hope it does. you can still'--her voice was faint with tears--'still make me think of you without shrinking--if you will.' he fixed her for a moment with eyes more stern than she had ever seen. 'what is it you are asking of me?' he said. 'to make amends, geoffrey.' his anger went out on a wave of pity. 'you poor little innocent!' 'i'm poor enough. but'--she locked her hands together like one who summons all her resolution--'i'm not so innocent but what i know you must right that old wrong now, if you're ever to right it.' 'you aren't insane enough to think i would turn round in these few hours and go back to something that ten years ago was ended forever!' as he saw how unmoved her face was, 'why,' he burst out, 'it's stark, staring madness!' 'no!' she caught his arm. 'what you did ten years ago--that was mad. this is paying a debt.' any man looking on, or hearing of stonor's dilemma, would have said, 'leave the girl alone to come to her senses.' but only a stupid man would himself have done it. stonor caught her two hands in his, and drew her into his arms. 'look, here, jeannie, you're dreadfully wrought up and excited--tired, too.' 'no!' she freed herself, and averted the tear-stained face. 'not tired, though i've travelled far to-day. i know you smile at sudden conversions. you think they're hysterical--worse--vulgar. but people must get their revelation how they can. and, geoffrey, if i can't make you see this one of mine, i shall know your love could never mean strength to me--only weakness. and i shall be afraid,' she whispered. her dilated eyes might have seen a ghost lurking there in the commonplace room. 'so afraid i should never dare give you the chance of making me loathe myself.' there was a pause, and out of the silence fell words that were like the taking of a vow. 'i would never see you again.' 'how right i was to be afraid of that vein of fanaticism in you!' 'certainly you couldn't make a greater mistake than to go away now and think it any good ever to come back. even if i came to feel different, i couldn't _do_ anything different. i should _know_ all this couldn't be forgotten. i should know that it would poison my life in the end--yours too.' 'she has made good use of her time!' he said bitterly. then, upon a sudden thought, 'what has changed _her_? has she been seeing visions too?' 'what do you mean?' 'why is she intriguing to get hold of a man that ten years ago she flatly refused to see or hold any communication with?' 'intriguing to get hold of? she hasn't mentioned you!' 'what! then how, in the name of heaven, do you know--she wants--what you ask?' 'there can't be any doubt about that,' said the girl, firmly. with all his tenderness for her, so little still did he understand what she was going through, that he plainly thought all her pain had come of knowing that this other page was in his life--he had no glimpse of the girl's passionate need to think of that same long-turned-over page as unmarred by the darker blot. 'you absurd, ridiculous child!' with immense relief he dropped into the nearest chair. 'then all this is just your own unaided invention. well, i could thank god!' he passed his handkerchief over his face. 'for what are you thanking god?' he sat there obviously thinking out his plan of action. 'suppose--i'm not going to risk it--but _suppose_----' he looked up, and at the sight of jean's face he rose with an expression strangely gentle. the rather hard eyes were softened in a sudden mist. 'whether _i_ deserve to suffer or not, it's quite certain _you_ don't. don't cry, dear one. it never was the real thing. i had to wait till i knew you before i understood.' her own eyes were brimming as she lifted them in a passion of gratitude to his face. 'oh! is that true? loving you has made things clear to me i didn't dream of before. if i could think that because of me you were able to do this----' 'you go back to that?' he seized her by the shoulders, and said hoarsely, 'look here! do you seriously ask me to give up the girl i love--to go and offer to marry a woman that even to think of----' 'you cared for her once!' she cried. 'you'll care about her again. she is beautiful and brilliant--_every_thing. i've heard she could win any man----' he pushed the girl from him. 'she's bewitched you!' he was halfway to the door. 'geoffrey, geoffrey, you aren't going away like that? this isn't _the end_?' the face he turned back upon her was dark and hesitating. 'i suppose if she refused me, you'd----' 'she won't refuse you.' 'she did once.' 'she didn't refuse to marry you.' as she passed him on the way to her sitting-room he caught her by the arm. 'stop!' he said, glancing about like one hunting desperately for a means of gaining a few minutes. 'lady john is waiting all this time at my house for the car to go back with a message.' '_that's_ not a matter of life and death!' she said, with all the impatience of the young at that tyranny of little things which seems to hold its unrelenting sway, though the battlements of righteousness are rocking, and the tall towers of love are shaken to the nethermost foundation-stones. 'no, it's not a matter of life and death,' stonor said quietly. 'all the same, i'll go down and give the order.' 'very well.' of her own accord this time she stopped on her way to that other door, behind which was the past and the future incarnate in one woman. 'i'll wait,' said jean. she went to the table. sitting there with her face turned from him, she said, quite low, 'you'll come back, if you're the man i pray you are.' her self-control seemed all at once to fail. she leaned her elbows on the table and broke into a flood of silent tears, with face hidden in her hands. he came swiftly back, and bent over her a moved, adoring face. 'dearest of all the world,' he began, in that beautiful voice of his. his arms were closing round her, when the door on the left was softly opened. vida levering stood on the threshold. chapter xviii she drew back as soon as she saw him, but stonor had looked round. his face darkened as he stood there an instant, silently challenging her. not a word spoken by either of them, no sound but the faint, muffled sobbing of the girl, who sat with hidden face. with a look of speechless anger, the man went out and shut the doors behind him. not seeing, only hearing that he had gone, jean threw her arms out across the table in an abandonment of grief. the other woman laid on a chair the hat and cloak that she was carrying. then she went slowly across the room and stood silent a moment at jean's side. 'what is the matter?' the girl started. impossible for her to speak in that first moment. but when she had dried her eyes, she said, with a pathetic childish air-- 'i--i've been seeing geoffrey.' 'is this the effect "seeing geoffrey" has?' said the other, with an attempt at lightness. 'you see, i know now,' jean explained, with the brave directness that was characteristic. the more sophisticated woman presented an aspect totally unenlightened. 'i know how he'--jean dropped her eyes--'how he spoiled some one else's life.' 'who tells you that?' asked miss levering. 'several people have told me.' 'well, you should be very careful how you believe what you hear.' 'you know it's true!' said the girl, passionately. 'i know that it's possible to be mistaken.' 'i see! you're trying to shield him----' 'why should i? what is it to me?' 'oh-h, how you must love him!' she said with tears. 'i? listen to me,' said vida, gravely. as she drew up a chair the girl rose to her feet. 'what's the use--what's the use of your going on denying it?' as she saw vida was about to break in, she silenced her with two words, '_geoffrey doesn't._' and with that she fled away to the window. vida half rose, and then relinquished the idea of following the girl, seemed presently to forget her, and sat as one alone with sorrow. when jean had mastered herself, she came slowly back. not till she was close to the motionless figure did the girl lift her eyes. 'oh, don't look like that,' the girl prayed. 'i shall bring him back to you.' she was on her knees by vida's chair. the fixed abstraction went out of the older face, but it was very cold as she began-- 'you would be impertinent--if--you weren't a romantic child. you can't bring him back.' 'yes, yes, he----' 'no. but'--vida looked deep into the candid eyes--'there is something you _can_ do----' 'what?' 'bring him to a point where he recognizes that he is in our debt.' 'in _our_ debt?' vida nodded. 'in debt to women. he can't repay the one he robbed.' jean winced at that. the young do not know that nothing but money can ever be paid back. 'yes,' she insisted, out of the faith she still had in him, ready to be his surety. 'yes, he can. he will.' the other shook her head. 'no, he can't repay the dead. but there are the living. there are the thousands with hope still in their hearts and youth in their blood. let him help _them_. let him be a friend to women.' 'i understand!' jean rose up, wide-eyed. 'yes, _that_ too.' the door had opened, and lady john was coming in with stonor towering beside her. when he saw the girl rising from her knees, he turned to lady john with a little gesture of, 'what did i tell you?' the moment jean caught sight of him, 'thank you!' she said, while her aunt was briskly advancing, filling all the room with a pleasant silken rustling, and a something nameless, that was like clear noonday after storm-cloud or haunted twilight. 'well,' she said in a cheerful commonplace tone to jean; 'you rather gave us the slip! vida, i believe mr. stonor wants to see you for a few minutes, but'--she glanced at her watch--'i'd like a word with you first, as i must get back. do you think the car'--she turned to stonor--'your man said something about recharging----' 'oh, did he? i'll see about it.' as he went out he brushed past the butler. 'mr. trent has called, miss, to take the lady to the meeting,' said that functionary. 'bring mr. trent into my sitting-room,' said jean hastily, and then to miss levering, 'i'll tell him you can't go to-night.' lady john stood watching the girl with critical eyes till she had disappeared into the adjoining room and shut the door behind her. then-- 'i know, my dear'--she spoke almost apologetically--'you're not aware of what that impulsive child wants to insist on. i feel it an embarrassment even to tell you.' 'i know.' 'you know?' lady john waited for condemnation of jean's idea. she waited in vain. 'it isn't with your sanction, surely, that she makes this extraordinary demand?' 'i didn't sanction it at first,' said the other slowly; 'but i've been thinking it over.' lady john's suavity stiffened perceptibly. 'then all i can say is, i am greatly disappointed in you. you threw this man over years ago, for reasons, whatever they were, that seemed to you good and sufficient. and now you come in between him and a younger woman, just to play nemesis, so far as i can make out.' 'is that what he says?' 'he says nothing that isn't fair and considerate.' 'i can see he's changed.' 'and you're unchanged--is that it?' 'i'm changed even more than he.' lady john sat down, with pity and annoyance struggling for the mastery. 'you care about him still?' 'no.' 'no? and yet you--i see! there are obviously certain things he can give his wife, and you naturally want to marry somebody.' 'oh, lady john,' said vida, wearily, 'there are no men listening.' 'no'--she looked round surprised--'i didn't suppose there were.' 'then why keep up that old pretence?' 'what pret----' 'that to marry _at all costs_ is every woman's dearest ambition till the grave closes over her. you and i _know_ it isn't true.' 'well, but----' her ladyship blinked, suddenly seeing daylight. 'oh! it was just the unexpected sight of him bringing it all back! _that_ was what fired you this afternoon. of course'--she made an honest attempt at sympathetic understanding--'the memory of a thing like that can never die--can never even be dimmed for the woman.' 'i mean her to think so.' 'jean?' vida nodded. 'but it isn't so?' lady john was a little bewildered. 'you don't seriously believe,' said vida, 'that a woman, with anything else to think about, comes to the end of ten years still absorbed in a memory of that sort?' lady john stared speechless a moment. 'you've got over it, then?' 'if it weren't for the papers, i shouldn't remember twice a year there was ever such a person as geoffrey stonor in the world.' 'oh, i'm _so_ glad!' said lady john, with unconscious rapture. vida smiled grimly. 'yes, i'm glad, too.' 'and if geoffrey stonor offered you--er--"reparation," you'd refuse it?' 'geoffrey stonor! for me he's simply one of the far back links in a chain of evidence. it's certain i think a hundred times of other women's present unhappiness to once that i remember that old unhappiness of mine that's past. i think of the nail and chain makers of cradley heath, the sweated girls of the slums; i think,' her voice fell, 'of the army of ill-used women, whose very existence i mustn't mention----' lady john interrupted her hurriedly. 'then why in heaven's name do you let poor jean imagine----' vida suddenly bent forward. 'look--i'll trust you, lady john. i don't suffer from that old wrong as jean thinks i do, but i shall coin her sympathy into gold for a greater cause than mine.' 'i don't understand you.' 'jean isn't old enough to be able to care as much about a principle as about a person. but if my old half-forgotten pain can turn her generosity into the common treasury----' 'what do you propose she shall do, poor child?' 'use her hold over geoffrey stonor to make him help us.' 'to help you?' 'the man who served one woman--god knows how many more--very ill, shall serve hundreds of thousands well. geoffrey stonor shall make it harder for his son, harder still for his grandson, to treat any woman as he treated me.' 'how will he do that?' said the lady coldly. 'by putting an end to the helplessness of women.' 'you must think he has a great deal of power,' said her ladyship, with some irony. 'power? yes,' answered the other, 'men have too much over penniless and frightened women.' 'what nonsense! you talk as though the women hadn't their share of human nature. _we_ aren't made of ice any more than the men.' 'no, but we have more self-control.' 'than men?' vida had risen. she looked down at her friend. 'you know we have,' she said. 'i know,' said lady john shrewdly, 'we mustn't admit it.' 'for fear they'd call us fishes?' lady john had been frankly shocked at the previous plain speaking, but she found herself stimulated to show in this moment of privacy that even she had not travelled her sheltered way through the world altogether in blinkers. 'they talk of our lack of self-control, but,' she admitted, 'it's the last thing men _want_ women to have.' 'oh, we know what they want us to have! so we make shift to have it. if we don't, we go without hope--sometimes we go without bread.' 'vida! do you mean to say that you----' 'i mean to say that men's vanity won't let them see it, but the thing's largely a question of economics.' 'you _never_ loved him, then!' 'yes, i loved him--once. it was my helplessness that turned the best thing life can bring into a curse for both of us.' 'i don't understand you----' 'oh, being "understood"! that's too much to expect. i make myself no illusions. when people come to know that i've joined the women's union----' 'but you won't' '----who is there who will resist the temptation to say "poor vida levering! what a pity she hasn't got a husband and a baby to keep her quiet"? the few who know about me, they'll be equally sure that, not the larger view of life i've gained, but my own poor little story, is responsible for my new departure.' she leaned forward and looked into lady john's face. 'my best friend, she will be surest of all, that it's a private sense of loss, or lower yet, a grudge, that's responsible for my attitude. i tell you the only difference between me and thousands of women with husbands and babies is that i am free to say what i think. _they aren't!_' lady john opened her lips and then closed them firmly. after all, why pursue the matter? she had got the information she had come for. 'i must hurry back;' she rose, murmuring, 'my poor ill-used guests----' vida stood there quiet, a little cold. 'i won't ring,' she said. 'i think you'll find mr. stonor downstairs waiting for you.' 'oh--a--he will have left word about the car in any case.' lady john's embarrassment was not so much at seeing that her friend had divined the gist of the arrangement that had been effected downstairs. it was that vida should be at no pains to throw a decent veil over the fact of her realization that lady john had come there in the character of scout. with an openness not wholly free from scorn, the younger woman had laid her own cards on the table. she made no scruple at turning her back on lady john's somewhat incoherent evasion. ignoring it she crossed the room and opened the door for her. jean was in the corridor saying good-bye to the chairman of the afternoon. 'well, mr. trent,' said miss levering in even tones, 'i didn't expect to see you this evening.' he came forward and stood in the doorway. 'why not? have i ever failed?' 'lady john,' said vida, turning, 'this is one of our allies. he is good enough to squire me through the rabble from time to time.' 'well,' said lady john, advancing quite graciously, 'i think it's very handsome of you after what she said to-day about men.' 'i've no great opinion of most men myself,' said the young gentleman. 'i might add, or of most women.' 'oh!' lady john laughed. 'at any rate i shall go away relieved to think that miss levering's plain speaking hasn't alienated _all_ masculine regard.' 'why should it?' he said. 'that's right.' lady john metaphorically patted him on the back. 'don't believe all she says in the heat of propaganda.' 'i _do_ believe all she says. but i'm not cast down.' 'not when she says----' 'was there never,' he made bold to interrupt, 'a misogynist of _my_ sex who ended by deciding to make an exception?' 'oh!' lady john smiled significantly; 'if _that's_ what you build on!' 'why,' he demanded with an effort to convey 'pure logic,' 'why shouldn't a man-hater on your side prove equally open to reason?' 'that aspect of the question has become irrelevant so far as i'm personally concerned,' said vida, exasperated by lady john's look of pleased significance. 'i've got to a place where i realize that the first battles of this new campaign must be fought by women alone. the only effective help men could give--amendment of the law--they refuse. the rest is nothing.' 'don't be ungrateful, vida. here is this gentleman ready to face criticism in publicly championing you----' 'yes, but it's an illusion that i, as an individual, need a champion. i am quite safe in the crowd. please don't wait for me and don't come for me again.' the sensitive dark face flushed. 'of course if you'd rather----' 'and that reminds me,' she went on, unfairly punishing poor mr. trent for lady john's meaning looks, 'i was asked to thank you, and to tell you, too, that they won't need your chairmanship any more--though that, i beg you to believe, has nothing to do with any feeling of mine.' he was hurt and he showed it. 'of course i know there must be other men ready--better known men----' 'it isn't that. it's simply that we find a man can't keep a rowdy meeting in order as well as a woman.' he stared. 'you aren't serious?' said lady john. 'haven't you noticed,' miss levering put it to trent, 'that all our worst disturbances come when men are in charge?' 'ha! ha! well--a--i hadn't connected the two ideas.' still laughing a little ruefully, he suffered himself to be taken downstairs by kind little miss dunbarton, who had stood without a word waiting there with absent face. 'that nice boy's in love with you,' said lady john, _sotto voce_. vida looked at her without answering. 'good-bye.' they shook hands. 'i _wish_ you hadn't been so unkind to that nice boy.' 'do you?' 'yes; for then i would be more sure of your telling geoffrey stonor that intelligent women don't nurse their wrongs indefinitely, and lie in wait to punish them.' 'you are _not_ sure?' lady john went up close and looked into her face with searching anxiety. 'are _you_?' she asked. vida stood there mute, with eyes on the ground. lady john glanced nervously at her watch, and, with a gesture of perturbation, hurriedly left the room. the other went slowly back to her place by the table. * * * * * the look she bent on stonor as he came in seemed to take no account of those hurried glimpses at the tunbridges' months before, and twice to-day when other eyes were watching. it was as if now, for the first time since they parted, he stood forth clearly. this man with the changed face, coming in at the door and carefully shutting it--he had once been mystery's high priest and had held the keys of joy. to-day, beyond a faint pallor, there was no trace of emotion in that face that was the same and yet so different. not even anger there. where a less complex man would have brought in, if not the menace of a storm, at least an intimation of masterfulness that should advertise the uselessness of opposition, stonor brought a subtler ally in what, for lack of better words, must be called an air of heightened fastidiousness--mainly physical. man has no shrewder weapon against the woman he has loved and wishes to exorcise from his path. for the simple, and even for those not so much simple as merely sensitive, there is something in that cool, sure assumption of unapproachableness on the part of one who once had been so near--something that lames advance and hypnotizes vision. geoffrey stonor's aloofness was not in the 'high look' alone; it was as much as anything in the very way he walked, as if the ground were hardly good enough, in the way he laid his shapely hand on the carved back of the sofa, the way his eyes rested on inanimate things in the room, reducing whoever was responsible for them to the need of justifying their presence and defending their value. as the woman in the chair, leaning cheek on hand, sat silently watching him, it may have been that obscure things in those headlong hours of the past grew plainer. however ludicrous the result may look in the last analysis, it is clear that a faculty such as stonor's for overrating the value of the individual in the scheme of things, does seem more effectually than any mere patent of nobility to confer upon a man the 'divine right' to dictate to his fellows and to look down upon them. the thing is founded on illusion, but it is founded as firm as many another figment that has governed men and seen the generations come to heel and go crouching to their graves. but the shining superiority of the man seemed to be a little dimmed for the woman sitting there. the old face and the new face, she saw them both through a cloud of long-past memories and a mist of present tears. 'well, have they primed you?' she said very low. 'have you got your lesson--by heart at last?' he looked at her from immeasurable distance. 'i am not sure that i understand you,' he said. he waited an instant, then, seeing no explanation vouchsafed, 'however unpropitious your mood may be,' he went on with a satirical edge in his tone, 'i shall discharge my errand.' still she waited. her silence seemed to irritate him. 'i have promised,' he said, with a formality that smacked of insolence, 'to offer you what i believe is called "amends."' the quick change in the brooding look should have warned him. 'you have come to realize, then--after all these years--that you owed me something?' he checked himself on the brink of protest. 'i am not here to deny it.' 'pay, then,' she said fiercely--'pay.' a moment's dread flickered in his eye and then was gone. 'i have said that, if you exact it, i will.' 'ah! if i insist, you'll "make it all good"! then, don't you know, you must pay me in kind?' he looked down upon her--a long, long way. 'what do you mean?' 'give me back what you took from me--my old faith,' she said, with shaking voice. 'give me that.' 'oh, if you mean to make phrases----' he half turned away, but the swift words overtook him. 'or, give me back mere kindness--or even tolerance! oh, i don't mean _your_ tolerance.' she was on her feet to meet his eyes as he faced her again. 'give me back the power to think fairly of my brothers--not as mockers--thieves.' 'i have not mocked you. and i have asked you----' 'something you knew i should refuse. or'--her eyes blazed--'or did you dare to be afraid i wouldn't?' 'oh, i suppose'--he buttressed his good faith with bitterness--'i suppose if we set our teeth we could----' 'i couldn't--not even if i set my teeth. and you wouldn't dream of asking me if you thought there was the smallest chance.' ever so faintly he raised his heavy shoulders. 'i can do no more than make you an offer of such reparation as is in my power. if you don't accept it----' he turned away with an air of '_that's_ done.' but her emotion had swept her out of her course. she found herself at his side. 'accept it? no! go away and live in debt. pay and pay and pay--and find yourself still in debt--for a thing you'll never be able to give me back. and when you come to die'--her voice fell--'say to yourself, "i paid all my creditors but one."' he stopped on his way to the door and faced her again. 'i'm rather tired, you know, of this talk of debt. if i hear that you persist in it, i shall have to----' again he checked himself. 'what?' 'no. i'll keep to my resolution.' he had nearly reached the threshold. she saw what she had lost by her momentary lack of that boasted self-control. she forestalled him at the door. 'what resolution?' she asked. he looked down at her an instant, clothed from head to foot in that indefinable armour of unapproachableness. this was a man who asked other people questions, himself ill-accustomed to be catechised. if he replied it was a grace. 'i came here,' he said, 'under considerable pressure, to speak of the future. not to reopen the past.' 'the future and the past are one,' said the woman at the door. 'you talk as if that old madness was mine alone; it is the woman's way.' 'i know,' she agreed, to his obvious surprise, 'and it's not fair. men suffer as well as we by the woman's starting wrong. we are taught to think the man a sort of demi-god. if he tells her, "go down into hell," down into hell she goes.' he would not have been human had he not resented that harsh summary of those days that lay behind. 'make no mistake,' he said. 'not the woman alone. _they go down together._' 'yes, they go down together. but the man comes up alone. as a rule. it is more convenient so--_for him_. and even for the other woman.' both pairs of eyes went to jean's door. 'my conscience is clear,' he said angrily. 'i know--and so do you--that most men in my position wouldn't have troubled themselves. i gave myself endless trouble.' she looked at him with wondering eyes. 'so you've gone about all these years feeling that you'd discharged every obligation?' 'not only that. i stood by you with a fidelity that was nothing short of quixotic. if, woman-like, you _must_ recall the past, i insist on your recalling it correctly.' 'you think i don't recall it correctly?' she said very low. 'not when you make--other people believe that i deserted you!' the gathering volume of his righteous wrath swept the cool precision out of his voice. 'it's a curious enough charge,' he said, 'when you stop to consider----' again he checked himself, and, with a gesture of impatience, was for sweeping the whole thing out of his way, including that figure at the door. but she stood there. 'well, when we do just for five minutes out of ten years--when we do stop to consider----' 'we remember it was _you_ who did the deserting. and since you had to rake the story up, you might have had the fairness to tell the facts.' 'you think "the facts" would have excused you?' it was a new view. she left the door, and sat down in the nearest chair. 'no doubt you've forgotten the facts, since lady john tells me you wouldn't remember my existence once a year, if the papers didn't----' 'ah!' she interrupted, with a sorry little smile, 'you minded that!' 'i mind your giving false impressions,' he said with spirit. as she was about to speak he advanced upon her. 'do you deny'--he bent over her, and told off those three words by striking one clenched fist into the palm of the other hand--'do you deny that you returned my letters unopened?' 'no,' she said. 'do you deny that you refused to see me, and that when i persisted you vanished?' 'i don't deny any of those things.' 'why'--he stood up straight again, and his shoulders grew more square with justification--'why i had no trace of you for years.' 'i suppose not.' 'very well, then.' he walked away. 'what could i do?' 'nothing. it was too late to do anything.' 'it wasn't too late! you knew, since you "read the papers," that my father died that same year. there was no longer any barrier between us.' 'oh, yes, there was a barrier.' 'of your own making, then.' 'i had my guilty share in it, but the barrier'--her voice trembled on the word--'the barrier was your invention.' 'the only barrier i knew of was no "invention." if you had ever known my father----' 'oh, the echoes! the echoes!' she lay back in the chair. 'how often you used to say, if i "knew your father." but you said, too'--her voice sank--'you called the greatest "barrier" by another name.' 'what name?' so low that even he could hardly hear she answered, 'the child that was to come.' 'that was before my father died,' stonor returned hastily, 'while i still hoped to get his consent.' she nodded, and her eyes were set like wide doors for memory to enter in. 'how the thought of that all-powerful personage used to terrorize me! what chance had a little unborn child against "the last of the great feudal lords," as you called him?' 'you _know_ the child would have stood between you and me.' 'i know the child did stand between you and me.' he stared at her. with vague uneasiness he repeated, '_did_ stand----' she seemed not to hear. the tears were running down her rigid face. 'happy mothers teach their children. mine had to teach me----' 'you talk as if----' '----teach me that a woman may do that for love's sake that shall kill love.' neither spoke for some seconds. fearing and putting from him fuller comprehension, he broke the silence, saying with an air of finality-- 'you certainly made it plain you had no love left for me.' 'i had need of it all for the child.' her voice had a curious crooning note in it. he came closer. he bent down to put the low question, 'do you mean, then, that after all--it lived?' 'no. i mean that it was sacrificed. but it showed me no barrier is so impassable as the one a little child can raise.' it was as if lightning had flashed across the old picture. he drew back from the fierce illumination. 'was _that_ why you----' he began, in a voice that was almost a whisper. 'was that why?' she nodded, speechless a moment for tears. 'day and night there it was between my thought of you and me.' he sat down, staring at her. 'when i was most unhappy,' she went on, in that low voice, 'i would wake thinking i heard it cry. it was my own crying i heard, but i seemed to have it in my arms. i suppose i was mad. i used to lie there in that lonely farmhouse pretending to hush it. it was so i hushed myself.' 'i never knew----' 'i didn't blame you. you couldn't risk being with me.' 'you agreed that, for both our sakes----' 'yes, you had to be very circumspect. you were so well known. your autocratic father, your brilliant political future----' 'be fair. our future--as i saw it then.' 'yes, everything hung on concealment. it must have looked quite simple to you. you didn't know the ghost of a child that had never seen the light, the frail thing you meant to sweep aside and forget'--she was on her feet--'_have_ swept aside and forgotten!--you didn't know it was strong enough to push you out of my life.' with an added intensity, 'it can do more!' she said. she leaned over his bowed figure and whispered, 'it can push that girl out!' as again she stood erect, half to herself she added, 'it can do more still.' 'are you threatening me?' he said dully. 'no, i am preparing you.' 'for what?' 'for the work that must be done. either with your help or that girl's.' the man's eyes lifted a moment. 'one of two things,' she said--'either her life, and all she has, given to this new service; or a ransom if i give her up to you.' 'i see. a price. well----?' she looked searchingly at him for an instant, and then slowly shook her head. 'even if i could trust you to pay the price,' she said, 'i'm not sure but what a young and ardent soul as faithful and as pure as hers--i'm not sure but i should make a poor bargain for my sex to give that up for anything you could do.' he found his feet like a man roused out of an evil dream to some reality darker than the dream. 'in spite of your assumption, she may not be your tool,' he said. 'you are horribly afraid she is! but you are wrong. she's an instrument in stronger hands than mine. soon my little personal influence over her will be merged in something infinitely greater. oh, don't think it's merely i that have got hold of jean dunbarton.' 'who else?' 'the new spirit that's abroad.' with an exclamation he turned away. and though his look branded the idea for a wild absurdity, sentinel-like he began to pace up and down a few yards from jean's door. 'how else,' said the woman, 'should that inexperienced girl have felt the new loyalty and responded as she did?' '"new," indeed!' he said under his breath, 'however little "loyal."' 'loyal, above all. but no newer than electricity was when it first lit up the world. it had been there since the world began--waiting to do away with the dark. _so has the thing you're fighting._' 'the thing i'm fighting'--and the violence with which he spoke was only in his face and air; he held his voice down to its lowest register--'the thing i'm fighting is nothing more than one person's hold upon a highly sensitive imagination. i consented to this interview with the hope'--he made a gesture of impotence. 'it only remains for me to show her that your true motive is revenge.' 'once say that to her, and you are lost.' he stole an uneasy look at the woman out of a face that had grown haggard. 'if you were fighting for that girl only against me, you'd win,' she said. 'it isn't so--and you will fail. the influence that has hold of her is in the very air. no soul knows where it comes from, except that it comes from the higher sources of civilization.' 'i see the origin of it before my eyes!' 'as little as you see the beginnings of life. this is like the other mysterious forces of mother earth. no warning given--no sign. a night wind passes over the brown land, and in the morning the fields are green.' his look was the look of one who sees happiness slipping away. 'or it passes over gardens like a frost,' he said, 'and the flowers die.' 'i know that is what men fear. it even seems as if it must be through fear that your enlightenment will come. the strangest things make you men afraid! that's why i see a value in jean dunbarton far beyond her fortune.' he looked at her dully. 'more than any other girl i know--if i keep her from you, that gentle, inflexible creature could rouse in men the old half-superstitious fear----' 'fear! are you mad?' 'mad!' she echoed. 'unsexed'--those are the words to-day. in the middle ages men cried out 'witch!' and burnt her--the woman who served no man's bed or board. 'you want to make the poor child believe----' 'she sees for herself we've come to a place where we find there's a value in women apart from the value men see in them. you teach us not to look to you for some of the things we need most. if women must be freed by women, we have need of such as----' her eyes went to the door that stonor still had an air of guarding. 'who knows--she may be the new joan of arc.' he paused, and for that moment he seemed as bankrupt in denunciation as he was in hope. this personal application of the new heresy found him merely aghast, with no words but 'that _she_ should be the sacrifice!' 'you have taught us to look very calmly on the sacrifice of women,' was the ruthless answer. 'men tell us in every tongue, it's "a necessary evil."' he stood still a moment, staring at the ground. 'one girl's happiness--against a thing nobler than happiness for thousands--who can hesitate? _not jean._' 'good god! can't you see that this crazed campaign you'd start her on--even if it's successful, it can only be so through the help of men? what excuse shall you make your own soul for not going straight to the goal?' 'you think we wouldn't be glad,' she said, 'to go straight to the goal?' 'i do. i see you'd much rather punish me and see her revel in a morbid self-sacrifice.' 'you say i want to punish you only because, like other men, you won't take the trouble to understand what we do want--or how determined we are to have it. you can't kill this new spirit among women.' she went nearer. 'and you couldn't make a greater mistake than to think it finds a home only in the exceptional or the unhappy. it is so strange to see a man like you as much deluded as the hyde park loafers, who say to ernestine blunt, "who's hurt _your_ feelings?" why not realize'--she came still closer, if she had put out her hand she would have touched him--'this is a thing that goes deeper than personal experience? and yet,' she said in a voice so hushed that it was full of a sense of the girl on the other side of the door, 'if you take only the narrowest personal view, a good deal depends on what you and i agree upon in the next five minutes.' 'you recommend my realizing the larger issues. but in your ambition to attach that poor girl to the chariot-wheels of progress'--his voice put the drag of ironic pomposity upon the phrase--'you quite ignore the fact that people fitter for such work, the men you look to enlist in the end, are ready waiting'--he pulled himself up in time for an anti-climax--'to give the thing a chance.' 'men are ready! what men?' his eyes evaded hers. he picked his words. 'women have themselves to blame that the question has grown so delicate that responsible people shrink for the moment from being implicated in it.' 'we have seen the shrinking.' 'without quoting any one else, i might point out that the new antagonism seems to have blinded you to the small fact that i for one am not an opponent.' 'the phrase has a familiar ring. we have heard it four hundred and twenty times.' his eyes were shining with anger. 'i spoke, if i may say so, of some one who would count. some one who can carry his party along with him--or risk a seat in the cabinet over the issue.' 'did you mean you are "ready" to do that?' she exclaimed. 'an hour ago i was.' 'ah! an hour ago!' 'exactly! you don't understand men. they can be led; they can't be driven. ten minutes before you came into the room i was ready to say i would throw in my political lot with this reform.' 'and now?' 'now you block my way by an attempt at coercion. by forcing my hand you give my adherence an air of bargain-driving for a personal end. exactly the mistake of the ignorant agitators in trafalgar square. you have a great deal to learn. this movement will go forward, not because of the agitation outside, but in spite of it. there are men in parliament who would have been actively serving the reform to-day--as actively as so vast a constitutional change----' she smiled faintly. 'and they haven't done it because----' 'because it would have put a premium on breaches of decent behaviour and defiance of the law!' she looked at him with an attempt to appear to accept this version. what did it matter what reasons were given for past failure, if only the future might be assured? he had taken a piece of crumpled paper from his pocket and smoothed it out. 'look here!' he held the telegram before her. she flushed with excitement as she read. 'this is very good. i see only one objection.' 'objection!' 'you haven't sent it.' 'that is your fault.' and he looked as if he thought he spoke the truth. 'when did you write this?' 'just before you came in--when she began to talk about----' 'ah, jean!' vida gave him back the paper. 'that must have pleased jean.' it was a master stroke, the casual giving back, and the invocation of a pleasure that had been strangled at the birth along with something greater. did he see before him again the girl's tear-filled, hopeless eyes, that had not so much as read the wonderful message, too intent upon the death-warrant of their common happiness? he threw himself heavily into a chair, staring at the closed door. behind it, in a prison of which this woman held the key, jean waited for her life sentence. stonor's look, his attitude, seemed to say that he too only waited now to hear it. he dropped his head in his hand. when vida spoke, it was without raising her eyes from the ground. 'i could drive a hard-and-fast bargain with you; but i think i won't. if love and ambition both urge you on, perhaps----' she looked up a little defiantly, seeming to expect to meet triumph in his face. instead, her eye took in the profound hopelessness of the bent head, the slackness of the big frame, that so suddenly had assumed a look of age. she went over to him silently, and stood by his side. 'after all,' she said, 'life hasn't been quite fair to you.' at the new thing in her voice he raised his heavy eyes. 'you fall out of one ardent woman's dreams into another's,' she said. 'then you don't--after all, you don't mean to----' 'to keep you and her apart? no.' for the first time tears came into his eyes. after a little silence he held out his hand. 'what can i do for you?' she seemed not to see the hand he offered. or did she only see that it was empty? she was looking at the other. mere instinct made him close his left hand more firmly on the message. it was as if something finer than her slim fingers, the woman's invisible antennæ, felt the force that would need be overcome if trial of strength should be precipitated then. upon his 'what can i do?' she shook her head. 'for the real you,' he said. 'not the reformer, or the would-be politician--for the woman i so unwillingly hurt.' as she only turned away, he stood up, detaining her with a hold upon her arm. 'you may not believe it, but now that i understand, there is almost nothing i wouldn't do to right that old wrong.' 'there's nothing to be done,' she said; and then, shrinking under that look of almost cheerful benevolence, 'you can never give me back my child.' more than at the words, at the anguish in her face, his own had changed. 'will that ghost give you no rest?' he said. 'yes, oh, yes.' she was calm again. 'i see life is nobler than i knew. there is work to do.' on her way to the great folding doors, once again he stopped her. 'why should you think that it's only you these ten years have taught something to? why not give even a man credit for a willingness to learn something of life, and for being sorry--profoundly sorry--for the pain his instruction has cost others? you seem to think i've taken it all quite lightly. that's not fair. all my life, ever since you disappeared, the thought of you has hurt. i would give anything i possess to know you--were happy again.' 'oh, happiness!' 'why shouldn't you find it still?' he said it with a significance that made her stare, and then?-- 'i see! she couldn't help telling you about allen trent--lady john couldn't!' he ignored the interpretation. 'you're one of the people the years have not taken from, but given more to. you are more than ever----you haven't lost your beauty.' 'the gods saw it was so little effectual, it wasn't worth taking away.' she stood staring out into the void. 'one woman's mishap--what is that? a thing as trivial to the great world as it's sordid in most eyes. but the time has come when a woman may look about her and say, what general significance has my secret pain? does it "join on" to anything? and i find it _does_. i'm no longer simply a woman who has stumbled on the way.' with difficulty she controlled the shake in her voice. 'i'm one who has got up bruised and bleeding, wiped the dust from her hands and the tears from her face--and said to herself not merely: here's one luckless woman! but--here is a stone of stumbling to many. let's see if it can't be moved out of other women's way. and she calls people to come and help. no mortal man, let alone a woman, _by herself_, can move that rock of offence. but,' she ended with a sudden sombre flare of enthusiasm, 'if _many_ help, geoffrey, the thing can be done.' he looked down on her from his height with a wondering pity. 'lord! how you care!' he said, while the mist deepened before his eyes. 'don't be so sad,' she said--not seeming to see his sadness was not for himself. it was as if she could not turn her back on him this last time without leaving him comforted. 'shall i tell you a secret? jean's ardent dreams needn't frighten you, if she has a child. _that_--from the beginning it was not the strong arm--it was the weakest, the little, little arms that subdued the fiercest of us.' he held out a shaking hand, so uncertain, that it might have been begging pity, or it might have been bestowing it. even then she did not take it, but a great gentleness was in her face as she said-- 'you will have other children, geoffrey; for me there was to be only one. well, well,' she brushed the tears away, 'since men have tried, and failed to make a decent world for the little children to live in, it's as well some of us are childless. yes,' she said quietly, taking up the hat and cloak, '_we_ are the ones who have no excuse for standing aloof from the fight!' her hand was on the door. 'vida!' 'what?' 'you forgot something.' she looked back. he was signing the message. '_this_,' he said. she went out with the paper in her hand. * * * * * the following pages are advertisements of the macmillan standard library the macmillan fiction library the macmillan juvenile library the macmillan standard library this series has taken its place as one of the most important popular-priced editions. the "library" includes only those books which have been put to the test of public opinion and have not been found wanting,--books, in other words, which have come to be regarded as standards in the fields of knowledge--literature, religion, biography, history, politics, art, economics, sports, sociology, and belles lettres. together they make the most complete and authoritative works on the several subjects. each volume, cloth, mo, cents net; postage, cents extra addams--the spirit of youth and the city streets by jane addams "shows such sanity, such breadth and tolerance of mind, and such penetration into the inner meanings of outward phenomena as to make it a book 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most judicious and balanced discussion at the disposal of the general reader."--_world to-day._ white--the old order changeth by william allen white "the present status of society in america. an excellent antidote to the pessimism of modern writers on our social system."--_baltimore sun._ * * * * * the macmillan fiction library a new and important series of some of the best popular novels which have been published in recent years. these successful books are now made available at a popular price in response to the insistent demand for cheaper editions. each volume, cloth, mo, cents net; postage, cents extra allen--a kentucky cardinal by james lane allen "a narrative, told with naïve simplicity, of how a man who was devoted to his fruits and flowers and birds came to fall in love with a fair neighbor."--_new york tribune._ allen--the reign of law, _a tale of the kentucky hempfields_ by james lane allen "mr. allen has style as original and almost as perfectly finished as hawthorne's.... and rich in the qualities that are lacking in so many novels of the period."--_san francisco chronicle._ atherton--patience sparhawk by gertrude atherton "one of the most interesting works of the foremost american novelist." child--jim hands by richard washburn child "a big, simple, leisurely moving chronicle of life. commands the profoundest respect and admiration. jim is a real man, sound and fine."--_daily news._ crawford--the heart of rome by marion crawford "a story of underground mysterie." crawford--fair margaret: a portrait by marion crawford "a story of modern life in italy, visualizing the country and its people, and warm with the red blood of romance and melodrama."--_boston transcript._ davis--a friend of cÆsar by william stearns davis "there are many incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the memory."--nancy huston banks in _the bookman_. drummond--the justice of the king by hamilton drummond "read the story for the sake of the living, breathing people, the adventures, but most for the sake of the boy who served love and the king."--_chicago record-herald._ elizabeth and her german garden "it is full of nature in many phases--of breeze and sunshine, of the glory of the land, and the sheer joy of living."--_new york times._ gale--loves of pelleas and etarre by zona gale "... full of fresh feeling and grace of style, a draught from the fountain of youth."--_outlook._ herrick--the common lot by robert herrick "a story of present-day life, intensely real in its picture of a young architect whose ideals in the beginning were, at their highest, æsthetic rather than spiritual. it is an unusual novel of great interest." london--adventure by jack london "no reader of jack london's stories need be told that this abounds with romantic and dramatic incident."--_los angeles tribune._ london--burning daylight by jack london "jack london has outdone himself in 'burning daylight.'"--_the springfield union._ loti--disenchanted by pierre loti "it gives a more graphic picture of the life of the rich turkish women of to-day than anything that has ever been written."--_brooklyn daily eagle._ lucas--mr. ingleside by e. v. lucas "he displays himself as an intellectual and amusing observer of life's foibles with a hero characterized by inimitable kindness and humor."--_the independent._ mason--the four feathers by a. e. w. mason "'the four feathers' is a first-rate story, with more legitimate thrills than any novel we have read in a long time."--_new york press._ norris--mother by kathleen norris "worth its weight in gold."--_catholic columbian._ oxenham--the long road by john oxenham "'the long road' is a tragic, heart-gripping story of russian political and social conditions."--_the craftsman._ pryor--the colonel's story by mrs. roger a. pryor "the story is one in which the spirit of the old south figures largely; adventure and romance have their play and carry the plot to a satisfying end." remington--ermine of the yellowstone by john remington "a very original and remarkable novel wonderful in its vigor and freshness." roberts--kings in exile by charles g. d. roberts "the author catches the spirit of forest and sea life, and the reader comes to have a personal love and knowledge of our animal friends."--_boston globe._ robins--the convert by elizabeth robins "'the convert' devotes itself to the exploitation of the recent suffragist movement in england. it is a book not easily forgotten, by any thoughtful reader."--_chicago evening post._ robins--a dark lantern by elizabeth robins a powerful and striking novel, english in scene, which takes an essentially modern view of society and of certain dramatic situations. ward--david grieve by mrs. humphrey ward "a perfect picture of life, remarkable for its humor and extraordinary success at character analysis." wells--the wheels of chance by h. g. wells "mr. wells is beyond question the most plausible romancer of the time."--_the new york tribune._ * * * * * the macmillan juvenile library this collection of juvenile books contains works of standard quality, on a variety of subjects--history, biography, fiction, science, and poetry--carefully chosen to meet the needs and interests of both boys and girls. _each volume, cloth, mo, cents net; postage, cents extra_ altsheler--the horsemen of the plains by joseph a. altsheler "a story of the west, of indians, of scouts, trappers, fur traders, and, in short, of everything that is dear to the imagination of a healthy american boy."--_new york sun._ bacon--while caroline was growing by josephine daskam bacon "only a genuine lover of children, and a keenly sympathetic observer of human nature, could have given us a book as this."--_boston herald._ carroll--alice's adventures, and through the looking glass by lewis carroll "one of the immortal books for children." dix--a little captive lad by marie beulah dix "the human interest is strong, and children are sure to like it."--_washington times._ greene--pickett's gap by homer greene "the story presents a picture of truth and honor that cannot fail to have a vivid impression upon the reader."--_toledo blade._ lucas--slowcoach by e. v. lucas "the record of an english family's coaching tour in a great old-fashioned wagon. a charming narrative, as quaint and original as its name."--_booknews monthly._ mabie--book of christmas by h. w. mabie "a beautiful collection of christmas verse and prose in which all the old favorites will be found in an artistic setting."--_the st. louis mirror._ major--the bears of blue river by charles major "an exciting story with all the thrills the title implies." major--uncle tom andy bill by charles major "a stirring story full of bears, indians, and hidden treasures."--_cleveland leader._ nesbit--the railway children by e. nesbit "a delightful story revealing the author's intimate knowledge of juvenile ways."--_the nation._ whyte--the story book girls by christina g. whyte "a book that all girls will read with delight--a sweet, wholesome story of girl life." wright--dream fox story book by mabel osgood wright "the whole book is delicious with its wise and kindly humor, its just perspective of the true value of things." wright--aunt jimmy's will by mabel osgood wright "barbara has written no more delightful book than this." * * * * * [beginning of moved advertising] the best new books at the least prices each volume in the macmillan libraries sells for cents, never more, wherever books are sold. the macmillan standard library addams--the spirit of youth and the city streets. bailey--the country life movement in the united states. bailey & hunn--the practical garden book. campbell--the new theology. clark--the care of a house. conyngton--how to help: a manual of practical charity. coolidge--the united states as a world power. croly--the promise of american life. devine--misery and its causes. earle--home life in colonial days. ely--evolution of industrial society. ely--monopolies and trusts. french--how to grow vegetables. goodyear--renaissance and modern art. hapgood--lincoln, abraham, the man of the people. haultain--the mystery of golf. hearn--japan: an attempt at interpretation. hillis--the quest of happiness. hillquit--socialism in theory and practice. hodges--everyman's religion. horne--david livingstone. hunter--poverty. hunter--socialists at work. jefferson--the building of the church. king--the ethics of jesus. king--rational living. london--the war of the classes. london--revolution and other essays. lyon--how to keep bees for profit. mclennan--a manual of practical farming. mabie--william shakespeare: poet, dramatist, and man. mahaffy--rambles and studies in greece. mathews--the church and the changing order. mathews--the gospel and the modern man. patten--the social basis of religion. peabody--the approach to the social question. pierce--the tariff and the trusts. rauschenbusch--christianity and the social crisis. riis--the making of an american citizen. riis--theodore roosevelt, the citizen. ryan--a living wage: its ethical and economic aspects. st. maur--a self-supporting home. sherman--what is shakespeare? sidgwick--home life in germany. smith--the spirit of the american government. spargo--socialism. tarbell--history of greek art. valentine--how to keep hens for profit. van dyke--the gospel for a world of sin. van dyke--the spirit of america. veblen--the theory of the leisure class. wells--new worlds for old. white--the old order changeth. the macmillan fiction library allen--a kentucky cardinal. allen--the reign of law. atherton--patience sparhawk. child--jim hands. crawford--the heart of rome. crawford--fair margaret: a portrait. davis--a friend of cæsar. drummond--the justice of the king. elizabeth and her german garden. gale--loves of pelleas and etarre. herrick--the common lot. london--adventure. london--burning daylight. loti--disenchanted. lucas--mr. ingleside. mason--the four feathers. norris--mother. oxenham--the long road. pryor--the colonel's story. remington--ermine of the yellowstone. roberts--kings in exile. robins--the convert. robins--a dark lantern. ward--david grieve. wells--the wheels of chance. the macmillan juvenile library altsheler--the horsemen of the plains. bacon--while caroline was growing. carroll--alice's adventures and through the looking glass. dix--a little captive lad. greene--pickett's gap. lucas--slow coach. mabie--book of christmas. major--the bears of blue river. major--uncle tom andy bill. nesbit--the railway children. whyte--the story book girls. wright--dream fox story book. wright--aunt jimmy's will. the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto [end of moved advertising] * * * * * transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings. obvious typographical errors in punctuation (misplaced quotes and the like) have been corrected. corrections [in brackets] in the text are noted below: page : hyphen removed about that long'--he measured less than an inch on his minute fore-finger[hyphen removed]--'with long holes through so they page : typographical error corrected refusal to let attenion[attention] go was mitigated by something in the quietness, page : hyphen removed 'why?' said mr. freddy, sticking in his eye-glass.[hyphen removed] page : hyphen added kept watching with a kind of half-absent-[hyphen added]minded scorn page : quotation typographical error corrected dr. pankhurst and mr. jacob bright passed a second reading."['] page : quotation typographical error corrected next monster petition to parliament asking for woman's suffrage."['] page : typographical error corrected the vivid scarlet lips; almost spleepy[sleepy] the heavy-lidded eyes. page : quotation typographical error corrected those of you who want to see women free, hold up your hands."['] page : typographical error corrected 'we got a gryte deal to do with our wgyes[wyges], we women has. page : quotation typographical error corrected 'why didn't you stay where i left you?"['] he answered, without page : added single quotation mark a rich chuckle. 'she's a educatin' of us!['] page : added double quotation mark "look at this big crowd. w'y, we're all _men_! if the women want the vote, w'y ain't they here to s'y so?["] well, i'll tell you w'y. it's because they've 'ad to get page : typographical error corrected in a turtle-esque fashion highty[highly] provocative, page : quotation typographical error corrected whose crime is, they ask for the vote?'["] but try as i would, page : typographical error corrected stonor as he came in seemed to take no acccount[account] of those page : typographical error corrected for that moment he semed[seemed] as bankrupt in denunciation transcriber's note: the author is mary wollstonecraft ( - ). mary, a fiction l'exercice des plus sublimes vertus éleve et nourrit le génie. rousseau. london, printed for j. johnson, st. paul's church-yard. mdcclxxxviii advertisement. in delineating the heroine of this fiction, the author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed. this woman is neither a clarissa, a lady g----, nor a[a] sophie.--it would be vain to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the originals of great masters. they catch the gross parts; but the subtile spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts, when grace was expected to charm. those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the hidden springs. lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track, solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath, according to the prescribed rules of art. these chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime beams. the[b] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying principle, fades and dies. in an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed. the female organs have been thought too weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the assertion. without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but drawn by the individual from the original source. footnotes: [footnote a: rousseau.] [footnote b: i here give the reviewers an opportunity of being very witty about the paradise of fools, &c.] mary chap. i. mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of edward, who married eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp. she carefully attended to the _shews_ of things, and her opinions, i should have said prejudices, were such as the generality approved of. she was educated with the expectation of a large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments, without having any taste for them. when she was first introduced into the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound. while they resided in london, they lived in the usual fashionable style, and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful country, where nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around; for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved, and sought amusement in country sports. he hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the preference to. their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. her voice was but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing. many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes read her week's preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting spirit, i cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this world, let metaphysicians settle; i have nothing to say to her unclothed spirit. as she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her french waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications, and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily dissipation, novels. i say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational one can find no employment in polite circles. the glare of lights, the studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses. when she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she tried another. the platonic marriage, eliza warwick, and some other interesting tales were perused with eagerness. nothing could be more natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than the views of the human heart. what delicate struggles! and uncommonly pretty turns of thought! the picture that was found on a bramble-bush, the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--fatal image!--it planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a new kind of a knight-errant into the world. but even this was nothing to the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet settling on the sleeping lover's face. what a _heart-rending_ accident! she planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it with her tears.--alas! alas! if my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit for genius, i would go on and tell them such tales as would force the sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. nay, i would make it so interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her. she had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. these she watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest caresses. this fondness for animals was not that kind of _attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest french expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned by tenderness. she was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by the clear light of the moon. she wondered her husband did not stay at home. she was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things? gentle reader, i will tell thee; they neither of them felt what they could not utter. i will not pretend to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of those feelings which are not easily analyzed. chap. ii. in due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter. after the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she played with her dogs. want of exercise prevented the least chance of her recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a consumption, to which her constitution tended. her children all died in their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the son, as he was remarkably handsome. for years she divided her time between the sofa, and the card-table. she thought not of death, though on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station occur to her as necessary. her children were left in the nursery; and when mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away. to own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. an old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her french. as she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her way. neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think. she had heard of a separate state, and that angels sometimes visited this earth. she would sit in a thick wood in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet and touching. her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself about them. she had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. her husband was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when inebriated, that mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten her mother to death; her sickness called forth all mary's tenderness, and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart through life. she was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her own.--she did more; artless prayers rose to heaven for pardon, when she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse. sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer. she would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. the wandering spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and confidants. she began to consider the great first cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and goodness. could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new world. her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress. she had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. she then concluded animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? in this style year after year rolled on, her mother still vegetating. a little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. mary paid her great attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child while she earned her daily bread. the poor wretch, in a fit of delirium stabbed herself, and mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first began to slumber. tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it. the impression that this accident made was indelible. as her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. in general he treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and visibly harassed the invalid. mary would then assiduously try to turn his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she could not rest. other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow. she was miserable when beggars were driven from the gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of it, she was pinched by hunger. she had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. in this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent. her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the slave of compassion. chap. iii. near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune; and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very scanty pittance. the eldest daughter was for some years educated by a distant relation, a clergyman. while she was with him a young gentleman, son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of her. it is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. just at this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright, and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. she returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took no more sweet counsel together. this disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. she grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to mary's, though her natural disposition was very different. she was several years older than mary, yet her refinement, her taste, caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb; and now she had another motive to actuate her. as she had often occasion to send messages to ann, her new friend, mistakes were frequently made; ann proposed that in future they should be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their intercourse more agreeable. young people are mostly fond of scribbling; mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave force to it. in conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes. as she grew more intimate with ann, her manners were softened, and she acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. she felt less pain on account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. ann only felt gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter. mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced. when her friend was all the world to her, she found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the offspring of pity. very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and not perceiving any thing of the same kind in ann's countenance, she has shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility. she would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all reflection. in this manner was her sensibility called forth, and exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her own unsettled mind. chap. iv. near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were, literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested, and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river. through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea. this castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there. when her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself from the only thing that impeded its course. when more cheerful, she admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in existence, and darted into futurity. one way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. a clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks fallen into it. here twilight always reigned--it seemed the temple of solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. in this retreat she read thomson's seasons, young's night-thoughts, and paradise lost. at a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. in these little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure. in these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had not animated them. they were not at all like those brilliant ones which look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more light to the beholders than they receive themselves. her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or comforted them. the warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent, that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less interested observer. in like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read, and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a part of her mind. enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were mostly the grand or solemn features of nature which she delighted to contemplate. she would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of the voice that could still the tumultuous deep. these propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse. years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity. many nights she sat up, if i may be allowed the expression, _conversing_ with the author of nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own composing. she considered also, and tried to discern what end her various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth, which afterwards more fully unfolded itself. she thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. under the influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with redoubled force. often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstacies arose from genius. she was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state. but her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor. the night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching. the orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung with wild delight, glory to god on high, good will towards men. she was indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly passions made it grow languid. these various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. the servants and the poor adored her. in order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object, she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment. this habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions. we will now enter on the more active field of life. chap. v. a few months after mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. she was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her _the child_. proper masters were sent for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments. a part of the estate she was to inherit had been litigated, and the heir of the person who still carried on a chancery suit, was only two years younger than our heroine. the fathers, spite of the dispute, frequently met, and, in order to settle it amicably, they one day, over a bottle, determined to quash it by a marriage, and, by uniting the two estates, to preclude all farther enquiries into the merits of their different claims. while this important matter was settling, mary was otherwise employed. ann's mother's resources were failing; and the ghastly phantom, poverty, made hasty strides to catch them in his clutches. ann had not fortitude enough to brave such accumulated misery; besides, the canker-worm was lodged in her heart, and preyed on her health. she denied herself every little comfort; things that would be no sacrifice when a person is well, are absolutely necessary to alleviate bodily pain, and support the animal functions. there were many elegant amusements, that she had acquired a relish for, which might have taken her mind off from its most destructive bent; but these her indigence would not allow her to enjoy: forced then, by way of relaxation, to play the tunes her lover admired, and handle the pencil he taught her to hold, no wonder his image floated on her imagination, and that taste invigorated love. poverty, and all its inelegant attendants, were in her mother's abode; and she, though a good sort of a woman, was not calculated to banish, by her trivial, uninteresting chat, the delirium in which her daughter was lost. this ill-fated love had given a bewitching softness to her manners, a delicacy so truly feminine, that a man of any feeling could not behold her without wishing to chase her sorrows away. she was timid and irresolute, and rather fond of dissipation; grief only had power to make her reflect. in every thing it was not the great, but the beautiful, or the pretty, that caught her attention. and in composition, the polish of style, and harmony of numbers, interested her much more than the flights of genius, or abstracted speculations. she often wondered at the books mary chose, who, though she had a lively imagination, would frequently study authors whose works were addressed to the understanding. this liking taught her to arrange her thoughts, and argue with herself, even when under the influence of the most violent passions. ann's misfortunes and ill health were strong ties to bind mary to her; she wished so continually to have a home to receive her in, that it drove every other desire out of her mind; and, dwelling on the tender schemes which compassion and friendship dictated, she longed most ardently to put them in practice. fondly as she loved her friend, she did not forget her mother, whose decline was so imperceptible, that they were not aware of her approaching dissolution. the physician, however, observing the most alarming symptoms; her husband was apprised of her immediate danger; and then first mentioned to her his designs with respect to his daughter. she approved of them; mary was sent for; she was not at home; she had rambled to visit ann, and found her in an hysteric fit. the landlord of her little farm had sent his agent for the rent, which had long been due to him; and he threatened to seize the stock that still remained, and turn them out, if they did not very shortly discharge the arrears. as this man made a private fortune by harassing the tenants of the person to whom he was deputy, little was to be expected from his forbearance. all this was told to mary--and the mother added, she had many other creditors who would, in all probability, take the alarm, and snatch from them all that had been saved out of the wreck. "i could bear all," she cried; "but what will become of my children? of this child," pointing to the fainting ann, "whose constitution is already undermined by care and grief--where will she go?"--mary's heart ceased to beat while she asked the question--she attempted to speak; but the inarticulate sounds died away. before she had recovered herself, her father called himself to enquire for her; and desired her instantly to accompany him home. engrossed by the scene of misery she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood her mother had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness. overwhelmed by this intelligence, mary rolled her eyes about, then, with a vacant stare, fixed them on her father's face; but they were no longer a sense; they conveyed no ideas to the brain. as she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind,--her dying mother,--her friend's miserable situation,--and an extreme horror at taking--at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from a prior attachment. she loved ann better than any one in the world--to snatch her from the very jaws of destruction--she would have encountered a lion. to have this friend constantly with her; to make her mind easy with respect to her family, would it not be superlative bliss? full of these thoughts she entered her mother's chamber, but they then fled at the sight of a dying parent. she went to her, took her hand; it feebly pressed her's. "my child," said the languid mother: the words reached her heart; she had seldom heard them pronounced with accents denoting affection; "my child, i have not always treated you with kindness--god forgive me! do you?"--mary's tears strayed in a disregarded stream; on her bosom the big drops fell, but did not relieve the fluttering tenant. "i forgive you!" said she, in a tone of astonishment. the clergyman came in to read the service for the sick, and afterwards the marriage ceremony was performed. mary stood like a statue of despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms. her husband set off for the continent the same day, with a tutor, to finish his studies at one of the foreign universities. ann was sent for to console her, not on account of the departure of her new relation, a boy she seldom took any notice of, but to reconcile her to her fate; besides, it was necessary she should have a female companion, and there was not any maiden aunt in the family, or cousin of the same class. chap. vi. mary was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis. her intention of leaving that part of the country, had much more weight with him, than mary's arguments, drawn from motives of philanthropy and friendship; this was a language he did not understand; expressive of occult qualities he never thought of, as they could not be seen or felt. after the departure of her mother, ann still continued to languish, though she had a nurse who was entirely engrossed by the desire of amusing her. had her health been re-established, the time would have passed in a tranquil, improving manner. during the year of mourning they lived in retirement; music, drawing, and reading, filled up the time; and mary's taste and judgment were both improved by contracting a habit of observation, and permitting the simple beauties of nature to occupy her thoughts. she had a wonderful quickness in discerning distinctions and combining ideas, that at the first glance did not appear to be similar. but these various pursuits did not banish all her cares, or carry off all her constitutional black bile. before she enjoyed ann's society, she imagined it would have made her completely happy: she was disappointed, and yet knew not what to complain of. as her friend could not accompany her in her walks, and wished to be alone, for a very obvious reason, she would return to her old haunts, retrace her anticipated pleasures--and wonder how they changed their colour in possession, and proved so futile. she had not yet found the companion she looked for. ann and she were not congenial minds, nor did she contribute to her comfort in the degree she expected. she shielded her from poverty; but this was only a negative blessing; when under the pressure it was very grievous, and still more so were the apprehensions; but when exempt from them, she was not contented. such is human nature, its laws were not to be inverted to gratify our heroine, and stop the progress of her understanding, happiness only flourished in paradise--we cannot taste and live. another year passed away with increasing apprehensions. ann had a hectic cough, and many unfavourable prognostics: mary then forgot every thing but the fear of losing her, and even imagined that her recovery would have made her happy. her anxiety led her to study physic, and for some time she only read books of that cast; and this knowledge, literally speaking, ended in vanity and vexation of spirit, as it enabled her to foresee what she could not prevent. as her mind expanded, her marriage appeared a dreadful misfortune; she was sometimes reminded of the heavy yoke, and bitter was the recollection! in one thing there seemed to be a sympathy between them, for she wrote formal answers to his as formal letters. an extreme dislike took root in her mind; the found of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame. she would then catch her to her bosom with convulsive eagerness, as if to save her from sinking into an opening grave. chap. vii. it was the will of providence that mary should experience almost every species of sorrow. her father was thrown from his horse, when his blood was in a very inflammatory state, and the bruises were very dangerous; his recovery was not expected by the physical tribe. terrified at seeing him so near death, and yet so ill prepared for it, his daughter sat by his bed, oppressed by the keenest anguish, which her piety increased. her grief had nothing selfish in it; he was not a friend or protector; but he was her father, an unhappy wretch, going into eternity, depraved and thoughtless. could a life of sensuality be a preparation for a peaceful death? thus meditating, she passed the still midnight hour by his bedside. the nurse fell asleep, nor did a violent thunder storm interrupt her repose, though it made the night appear still more terrific to mary. her father's unequal breathing alarmed her, when she heard a long drawn breath, she feared it was his last, and watching for another, a dreadful peal of thunder struck her ears. considering the separation of the soul and body, this night seemed sadly solemn, and the hours long. death is indeed a king of terrors when he attacks the vicious man! the compassionate heart finds not any comfort; but dreads an eternal separation. no transporting greetings are anticipated, when the survivors also shall have finished their course; but all is black!--the grave may truly be said to receive the departed--this is the sting of death! night after night mary watched, and this excessive fatigue impaired her own health, but had a worse effect on ann; though she constantly went to bed, she could not rest; a number of uneasy thoughts obtruded themselves; and apprehensions about mary, whom she loved as well as her exhausted heart could love, harassed her mind. after a sleepless, feverish night she had a violent fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. the physician, who was in the house, was sent for, and when he left the patient, mary, with an authoritative voice, insisted on knowing his real opinion. reluctantly he gave it, that her friend was in a critical state; and if she passed the approaching winter in england, he imagined she would die in the spring; a season fatal to consumptive disorders. the spring!--her husband was then expected.--gracious heaven, could she bear all this. in a few days her father breathed his last. the horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and ann's danger, and her own situation, made mary deliberate what mode of conduct she should pursue. she feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. it was to accompany ann to a more salubrious climate. chap. viii. i mentioned before, that mary had never had any particular attachment, to give rise to the disgust that daily gained ground. her friendship for ann occupied her heart, and resembled a passion. she had had, indeed, several transient likings; but they did not amount to love. the society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her faculties. with beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favourites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn. determined on going to the south of france, or lisbon; she wrote to the man she had promised to obey. the physicians had said change of air was necessary for her as well as her friend. she mentioned this, and added, "her comfort, almost her existence, depended on the recovery of the invalid she wished to attend; and that should she neglect to follow the medical advice she had received, she should never forgive herself, or those who endeavoured to prevent her." full of her design, she wrote with more than usual freedom; and this letter was like most of her others, a transcript of her heart. "this dear friend," she exclaimed, "i love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one--i am her only support, she leans on me--could i forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed--no--i would die first! i must--i will go." she would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted--and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy.--"do i not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name--it was blotted, the letter sealed in a hurry, and sent out of her sight; and she began to prepare for her journey. by the return of the post she received an answer; it contained some common-place remarks on her romantic friendship, as he termed it; "but as the physicians advised change of air, he had no objection." chap. ix. there was nothing now to retard their journey; and mary chose lisbon rather than france, on account of its being further removed from the only person she wished not to see. they set off accordingly for falmouth, in their way to that city. the journey was of use to ann, and mary's spirits were raised by her recovered looks--she had been in despair--now she gave way to hope, and was intoxicated with it. on ship-board ann always remained in the cabin; the sight of the water terrified her: on the contrary, mary, after she was gone to bed, or when she fell asleep in the day, went on deck, conversed with the sailors, and surveyed the boundless expanse before her with delight. one instant she would regard the ocean, the next the beings who braved its fury. their insensibility and want of fear, she could not name courage; their thoughtless mirth was quite of an animal kind, and their feelings as impetuous and uncertain as the element they plowed. they had only been a week at sea when they hailed the rock of lisbon, and the next morning anchored at the castle. after the customary visits, they were permitted to go on shore, about three miles from the city; and while one of the crew, who understood the language, went to procure them one of the ugly carriages peculiar to the country, they waited in the irish convent, which is situated close to the tagus. some of the people offered to conduct them into the church, where there was a fine organ playing; mary followed them, but ann preferred staying with a nun she had entered into conversation with. one of the nuns, who had a sweet voice, was singing; mary was struck with awe; her heart joined in the devotion; and tears of gratitude and tenderness flowed from her eyes. my father, i thank thee! burst from her--words were inadequate to express her feelings. silently, she surveyed the lofty dome; heard unaccustomed sounds; and saw faces, strange ones, that she could not yet greet with fraternal love. in an unknown land, she considered that the being she adored inhabited eternity, was ever present in unnumbered worlds. when she had not any one she loved near her, she was particularly sensible of the presence of her almighty friend. the arrival of the carriage put a stop to her speculations; it was to conduct them to an hotel, fitted up for the reception of invalids. unfortunately, before they could reach it there was a violent shower of rain; and as the wind was very high, it beat against the leather curtains, which they drew along the front of the vehicle, to shelter themselves from it; but it availed not, some of the rain forced its way, and ann felt the effects of it, for she caught cold, spite of mary's precautions. as is the custom, the rest of the invalids, or lodgers, sent to enquire after their health; and as soon as ann left her chamber, in which her complaints seldom confined her the whole day, they came in person to pay their compliments. three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. they entered into conversation immediately. people who meet in a strange country, and are all together in a house, soon get acquainted, without the formalities which attend visiting in separate houses, where they are surrounded by domestic friends. ann was particularly delighted at meeting with agreeable society; a little hectic fever generally made her low-spirited in the morning, and lively in the evening, when she wished for company. mary, who only thought of her, determined to cultivate their acquaintance, as she knew, that if her mind could be diverted, her body might gain strength. they were all musical, and proposed having little concerts. one of the gentlemen played on the violin, and the other on the german-flute. the instruments were brought in, with all the eagerness that attends putting a new scheme in execution. mary had not said much, for she was diffident; she seldom joined in general conversations; though her quickness of penetration enabled her soon to enter into the characters of those she conversed with; and her sensibility made her desirous of pleasing every human creature. besides, if her mind was not occupied by any particular sorrow, or study, she caught reflected pleasure, and was glad to see others happy, though their mirth did not interest her. this day she was continually thinking of ann's recovery, and encouraging the cheerful hopes, which though they dissipated the spirits that had been condensed by melancholy, yet made her wish to be silent. the music, more than the conversation, disturbed her reflections; but not at first. the gentleman who played on the german-flute, was a handsome, well-bred, sensible man; and his observations, if not original, were pertinent. the other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. his manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice. when the concert was over, they all retired to their apartments. mary always slept with ann, as she was subject to terrifying dreams; and frequently in the night was obliged to be supported, to avoid suffocation. they chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion. chap. x. every day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy. mary sometimes left her friend with them; while she indulged herself in viewing new modes of life, and searching out the causes which produced them. she had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted. the roman catholic ceremonies attracted her attention, and gave rise to conversations when they all met; and one of the gentlemen continually introduced deistical notions, when he ridiculed the pageantry they all were surprised at observing. mary thought of both the subjects, the romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built. she read butler's analogy, and some other authors: and these researches made her a christian from conviction, and she learned charity, particularly with respect to sectaries; saw that apparently good and solid arguments might take their rise from different points of view; and she rejoiced to find that those she should not concur with had some reason on their side. chap. xi. when i mentioned the three ladies, i said they were fashionable women; and it was all the praise, as a faithful historian, i could bestow on them; the only thing in which they were consistent. i forgot to mention that they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. the daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her. they were people of rank; but unfortunately, though of an ancient family, the title had descended to a very remote branch--a branch they took care to be intimate with; and servilely copied the countess's airs. their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people. what will the world say? was the first thing that was thought of, when they intended doing any thing they had not done before. or what would the countess do on such an occasion? and when this question was answered, the right or wrong was discovered without the trouble of their having any idea of the matter in their own heads. this same countess was a fine planet, and the satellites observed a most harmonic dance around her. after this account it is scarcely necessary to add, that their minds had received very little cultivation. they were taught french, italian, and spanish; english was their vulgar tongue. and what did they learn? hamlet will tell you--words--words. but let me not forget that they squalled italian songs in the true _gusto_. without having any seeds sown in their understanding, or the affections of the heart set to work, they were brought out of their nursery, or the place they were secluded in, to prevent their faces being common; like blazing stars, to captivate lords. they were pretty, and hurrying from one party of pleasure to another, occasioned the disorder which required change of air. the mother, if we except her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of the last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do to the sun. it appears to me that every creature has some notion--or rather relish, of the sublime. riches, and the consequent state, are the sublime of weak minds:--these images fill, nay, are too big for their narrow souls. one afternoon, which they had engaged to spend together, ann was so ill, that mary was obliged to send an apology for not attending the tea-table. the apology brought them on the carpet; and the mother, with a look of solemn importance, turned to the sick man, whose name was henry, and said; "though people of the first fashion are frequently at places of this kind, intimate with they know not who; yet i do not choose that my daughter, whose family is so respectable, should be intimate with any one she would blush to know elsewhere. it is only on that account, for i never suffer her to be with any one but in my company," added she, sitting more erect; and a smile of self-complacency dressed her countenance. "i have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune." "lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "she is a romantic creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much admired; but she is married." she then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who picked it out of mary's servant. "she is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "well, how strange!" cried the girls. "she is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. henry sighed, and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and played the air which first struck mary; he had often heard her praise it. the music was uncommonly melodious, "and came stealing on the senses like the sweet south." the well-known sounds reached mary as she sat by her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears almost without being conscious of it. ann soon fell asleep, as she had taken an opiate. mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine she had deceived herself--ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this welcome guest.--and she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety, that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid. no sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look, to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. when she entered the room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken words, and she remained silent. the ladies wondered that a person of her sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the will of heaven, and the like trite consolations, which mary did not answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed, "i cannot live without her!--i have no other friend; if i lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "no other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?" mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. a delicate sense of propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered reason.--assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. henry's eyes followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange behaviour. chap. xii. the physician was sent for; his prescription afforded ann a little temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. unfortunately, the weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined them to the house. ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and, but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in listless indolence. the bad weather had had as ill an effect on henry as on ann. he was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. when she conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves; genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful, unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse. they frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as henry, whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all more attention than her. besides, as there was nothing alluring in her dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them. henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities of his own. his taste was just, as it had a standard--nature, which he observed with a critical eye. mary could not help thinking that in his company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. she increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved. he was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions, kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. the ridiculous ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to notice. chap. xiii. when the weather began to clear up, mary sometimes rode out alone, purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or she would ride to the banks of the tagus, to feast her eyes with the sight of that magnificent river. at other times she would visit the churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings. one of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in which they should wish to be drawn. mary did not fix on one--when henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "i would give the world for your picture, with the expression i have seen in your face, when you have been supporting your friend." this delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her heart. she then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for whom was it designed? for a boy! her cheeks flushed with indignation, so strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown away--given in with an estate. as mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her thoughts were employed about the objects around her. she visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. she saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers may fall from the lips without purifying the heart. they who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers, or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish principles; how then can they be called good? the pattern of all goodness went about _doing_ good. wrapped up in themselves, the nuns only thought of inferior gratifications. and a number of intrigues were carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were fixed: such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that were servile or laborious. in short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations? in these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step. the same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow, the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart. she will find that those affections that have once been called forth and strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which there is no specific. the community at large mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the same things with her. the exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning. chap. xiv. the portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in europe. dr. johnson would have said, "they have the least mind.". and can such serve their creator in spirit and in truth? no, the gross ritual of romish ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not conquer their revenge, or lust. religion, or love, has never humanized their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. taste is unknown; gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. reverence for mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation. could the contemplation of such a people gratify mary's heart? no: she turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement. henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; mary would have been attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant endeavours to amuse ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind of quiet despair. she found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him, and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness that she was not conscious of. this divided attention was of use to her, and prevented her continually thinking of ann, whose fluctuating disorder often gave rise to false hopes. a trifling thing occurred now which occasioned mary some uneasiness. her maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring compting-house. as the match was an advantageous one, mary could not raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. however, the girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her mistress; and, besides, looked forward to ann's death as a time of harvest. henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain. the only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. he would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. in the same style, he would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing. ann did not take notice of either his or mary's behaviour, nor did she suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his appearing neither well nor happy. she had often seen that when a person was unfortunate, mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and, indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. such it was--why it was so, let others define, i cannot argue against instincts. as reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "that as judgment improves, genius evaporates." chap. xv. one morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came from behind them uncommonly bright. mary would fain have persuaded ann not to have left the carriage; but she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on walking, tho' the ground was damp. but her strength was not equal to her spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time. henry would have supported her; but mary would not permit him; her recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive, though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. as to herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated, she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it. when ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed, and the next morning mary thought she observed a visible change for the worse. the physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most imminent danger. all mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a crime. the disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--bereft of it, mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of tranquillity. she stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she only could be overwhelmed by it. she did not think of henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have strayed from ann.--ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she died suddenly as mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--the first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery. the body was stolen out of the house the second night, and mary refused to see her former companions. she desired her maid to conclude her marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was absolutely necessary. she then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening. she was right; the sight of them did not affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her eyes; all was impenetrable gloom. chap. xvi. soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from henry, requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. she ran eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. she burst into tears; and, unable to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since ann's death; but her conversation was incoherent. she called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"mine is a selfish grief," she exclaimed--"yet; heaven is my witness, i do not wish her back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest. her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am i!" henry forgot his cautious reserve. "would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "i feel, dear girl, the tendered interest in whatever concerns thee." his eyes spoke the rest. they were both silent a few moments; then henry resumed the conversation. "i have also been acquainted with grief! i mourn the loss of a woman who was not worthy of my regard. let me give thee some account of the man who now solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart." "i have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; i wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, mary, there may be many bright days in store." "impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that she was in love with misery. he smiled at her impatience, and went on. "my father died before i knew him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took very little pains to fit me for the profession to which i was destined: and, may i tell thee, i left my family, and, in many different stations, rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in order to be independent, exerted those talents nature has given me: these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries i was witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. my constitution is naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain some dominion over my passions. at least," added he, stifling a sigh, "over the violent ones, though i fear, refinement and reflection only renders the tender ones more tyrannic. "i have told you already i have been in love, and disappointed--the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! yet this passion has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and pursuits.--i am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin i tell the sorrows i now confide with thee. the object i loved forfeited my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently delighted to form a creature that i could love, that could convey to my soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception of." he stopped, as mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "i kept up an irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. i hastened to comfort her--and was a comfort to her. "my declining health prevented my taking orders, as i had intended; but i with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness. but, do not imagine i have always been a die-away swain. no: i have frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has made many moments fly free from care. i am too fond of the elegant arts; and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant. "i have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending this winter in a warmer climate; and i fixed on lisbon, as i had before visited the continent." he then looked mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? if she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's." such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into mary's mind, that she in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant. her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection. henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. he had exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for ann, she dwelt on henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate was a balm to her sick mind. she did not reason on the subject; but she felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to; nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for. he had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by accident; but they did not fall to the ground. my child! his child, what an association of ideas! if i had had a father, such a father!--she could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves. her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul. lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered henry's account of himself; till she actually thought she would tell ann--a bitter recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged forgiveness of her. by these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her waking train of thoughts. one instant she was supporting her dying mother; then ann was breathing her last, and henry was comforting her. the unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, i must tell the truth, she thought she should see henry, and this hope set her spirits in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that account--mary did not want a companion. as she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the lonely voyage, as the captain intended taking advantage of the first fair wind. she had too much strength of mind to waver in her determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old wounds, and made them bleed afresh. what was she to do? where go? could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her soul revolted. "i might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should i not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!" there is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while, stills the tumult of passion. mary's mind had been thrown off its poise; her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but less regular. she forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth, and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness. in a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared! chap. xvii. in order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went out in a carriage. the day was fine; but all nature was to her a universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could not. she passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad to contend with it, or rather walk against it. exhausted she returned to the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room. henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire. he was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the present happiness of seeing, of hearing him. once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm. the ladies prevailed on her to spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and waited for the dreaded to-morrow. chap. xviii. the ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the custom-house. henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and mary called up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the females her internal struggles. she durst not encounter henry's glances when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to laugh she could not stop herself. henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and, the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn. henry began. "you are going, mary, and going by yourself; your mind is not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet i cannot, dissuade you; if i attempted to do it, i should ill deserve the title i wish to merit. i only think of your happiness; could i obey the strongest impulse of my heart, i should accompany thee to england; but such a step might endanger your future peace." mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that he trembled for her. "i cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me to love!" her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew henry. did she not fix on lisbon rather than france on purpose to avoid him? and if ann had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some remote corner to have escaped from him. "i intend," said henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall i hear of your health?" "oh! let me hear of thine," replied mary. "i am well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most precarious state." she then mentioned her intention of going to ann's relations. "i am her representative, i have duties to fulfil for her: during my voyage i have time enough for reflection; though i think i have already determined." "be not too hasty, my child," interrupted henry; "far be it from me to persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of conduct. our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the object you now shun may appear in a different light." he paused. "in advising thee in this style, i have only thy good at heart, mary." she only answered to expostulate. "my affections are involuntary--yet they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies, and make me all i am capable of being. the governing affection gives its stamp to the rest--because i am capable of loving one, i have that kind of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked. milton has asserted, that earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly we may ascend." she went on with eagerness. "my opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death--no, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved. yet a little while am i parted from my ann--i could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--i could not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from certain modifications of it." "dear enthusiastic creature," whispered henry, "how you steal into my soul." she still continued. "the same turn of mind which leads me to adore the author of all perfection--which leads me to conclude that he only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder strokes to them. i knew i am in some degree under the influence of a delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that i myself 'am _of subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the imagination point to futurity; i cannot banish them. every cause in nature produces an effect; and am i an exception to the general rule? have i desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they never be gratified? shall i never be happy? my feelings do not accord with the notion of solitary happiness. in a state of bliss, it will be the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great part of our happiness. "with these notions can i conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can i listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits, and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one i wish to please--one who could be all the world to me. argue not with me, i am bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could i consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful day of judgment i must give an account of. my conscience does not smite me, and that being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve of what the world condemns; sensible that in him i live, could i brave his presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if i acted contrary to conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed against the feeling heart! "riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to sit down and enjoy them--i cannot conquer my feelings, and till i do, what are these baubles to me? you may tell me i follow a fleeting good, an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for eternity--when i no longer see through a glass darkly i shall not reason about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists." henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour, and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. he was startled, if not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures were all persuasive. some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue; it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to reveal it? he wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. when passion first enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out. chap. xix. two days passed away without any particular conversation; henry, trying to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. the conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade away--what was that world to him that mary did not inhabit; she lived not for him. he was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his attention snatched her from despair. inscrutable are the ways of heaven! the third day mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. she tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage with composure. on great occasions she was generally calm and collected, her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy, and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over. the morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them slip away without their having said much to each other. henry was afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with respect to his declining health. "we shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; mary smiled too; she caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. when she was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "the few precious moments i have thus thrown away may never return," she thought-the reflection led to misery. she waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. she could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived. the summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. for a while the remembrance of ann banished her regret at parting with henry, though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his own. "my poor ann!" thought mary, "along this road we came, and near this spot you called me your guardian angel--and now i leave thee here! ah! no, i do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement! tell me, thou soul of her i love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?" ann occupied her until they reached the ship. the anchor was weighed. nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say farewel. as the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and then got into the boat; henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the last;--the universe contained no being but henry!--the grief of parting with him had swept all others clean away. her eyes followed the keel of the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time. she then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. on this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable to close her eyes. a small taper made the darkness visible; and the third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment. "poor solitary wretch that i am; here alone do i listen to the whistling winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can i rest--when not lost to hope i found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to them. how long, how dreary has this day been; yet i scarcely wish it over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--yet surely, i am not alone!" her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them. "father of mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do i indeed wish it to be composed--to forget my henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn across in an agony. chap. xx. the mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink. after drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid. the wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever, which sometimes gave her false spirits. the winds then became very tempestuous, the great deep was troubled, and all the passengers appalled. mary then left her bed, and went on deck, to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present state of her soul; she thought in a few hours i may go home; the prisoner may be released. the vessel rose on a wave and descended into a yawning gulph--not slower did her mounting soul return to earth, for--ah! her treasure and her heart was there. the squalls rattled amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a tremendous roar. in a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she was not dismayed; she felt herself independent. just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm. mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of destruction. they bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the sea. stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again. at last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and mary caught the poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in thanking that gracious being, who though he had not thought fit to still the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour. amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was hauled on board: mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her strength, which fear had quite exhausted. she returned again to view the angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of the being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of the sea; and the madness of the people--he only could speak peace to her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself. one of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new train of thoughts: some of handel's sublime compositions occurred to her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. the lord god omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--why then did she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that he would bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great tribulation. she retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that was now her only confident. it was after midnight. "at this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed; when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. i have not words to express the sublime images which the bare contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. then, indeed, the lord omnipotent will reign, and he will wipe the tearful eye, and support the trembling heart--yet a little while he hideth his face, and the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from our god; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know even as we are known. here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear the warfare of life. we know that many run the race; but he that striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. our race is an arduous one! how many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the garb of virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. surely any thing like happiness is madness! shall probationers of an hour presume to pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is guarded, when the great day, to which i allude, arrives, the way will again be opened. ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet i cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--i try to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to fix them. every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctating principle is not compatible. eternity, immateriality, and happiness,--what are ye? how shall i grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?" after writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the father of spirits; and slept in peace. chap. xxi. mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. full of her own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and then she gave way to boisterous emotions. mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours, which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity. there are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of the senses: to them did mary address herself; she made her some presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in england. this employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the contention. how short-lived was the calm! when the english coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--she was to visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend--and where then should she take up her residence? these thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude. chap. xxii. in england then landed the forlorn wanderer. she looked round for some few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of the island. she knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without an informing soul. as she passed through the streets in an hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. she met some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors, made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow creatures! detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--forgetting her own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world in ruins. she then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could not bear to see her own species sink below them. in a little dwelling in one of the villages near london, lived the mother of ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did not resemble ann. to her house mary directed the coach, and told the unfortunate mother of her loss. the poor woman, oppressed by it, and her many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all her past misfortunes, and present cares. the heavy tale lasted until midnight, and the impression it made on mary's mind was so strong, that it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things. she sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging, and relieved her present necessities. a few days were spent in a kind of listless way; then the mother of ann began to enquire when she thought of returning home. she had hitherto treated her with the greatest respect, and concealed her wonder at mary's choosing a remote room in the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as if she intended living in it. mary did not choose to explain herself; had ann lived, it is probable she would never have loved henry so fondly; but if she had, she could not have talked of her passion to any human creature. she deliberated, and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--not live with him! how will you live then? this was a question she could not answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? i will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave. chap. xxiii. unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of education. she was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind. one evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she resided in, caught her eye. she accosted him; in a confused manner, he informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the bread he could not earn. mary desired to be conducted to his habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. some tattered shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth; round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of festivity. it was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or singing indecent songs. what a sight for mary! her blood ran cold; yet she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. on the floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. near her were five children, all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes, exhibited none of the charms of childhood. some were fighting, and others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. mary was petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and, regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch, and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want. their state did not require much explanation. mary sent the husband for a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a shop not far distant. her knowledge of physic had enabled her to prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. she visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome food had a wonderful effect; and mary saw her rising as it were from the grave. not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it till she perceived she had caught the fever. it made such an alarming progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. after the crisis, the symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low: she wanted a tender nurse. for some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. this ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship. mary had hitherto supported her; as her finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse. two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from henry. he was sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all the people ungrateful. she sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she wrote in her book another fragment: "surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? shall i ever feel joy? do all suffer like me; or am i framed so as to be particularly susceptible of misery? it is true, i have experienced the most rapturous emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear leave such deep traces? i could almost wish for the madman's happiness, and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe. "oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when i most need thy assistance! canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. i am now the prey of apathy--i could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes illumined my path; i had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts forlorn_. too well have i loved my fellow creatures! i have been wounded by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth. "when overwhelmed by sorrow, i have met unkindness; i looked for some one to have pity on me; but found none!--the healing balm of sympathy is denied; i weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. i have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera i have so often chased, a friend. shade of my loved ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor mary? refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode her small portion of comfort!" she could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. she sent for the poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been bred a gardener. mary promised to visit the family, and see their new abode when she was able to go out. chap. xxiv. mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his best songs. the family were particularly civil this fine morning, and tried to prevail on her to walk out. any thing like kindness melted her; she consented. softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to the habitation she had rendered comfortable. emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned the trees, and the birds sung. she reached the dwelling, without being much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. the mother with tears thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. mary's tears flowed not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to play, and reanimated nature. she observed the change in herself, tried to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility. "sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction. "it is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this, which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a good action. the same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of music is heard in the land. softened by tenderness; the soul is disposed to be virtuous. is any sensual gratification to be compared to that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the unfortunate? "sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--but it is only to be felt; it escapes discussion." she then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. he endeavoured to draw mary out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination was lively. she glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of truth. her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity never threw a shade over her words or actions. mary found him a man of learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence. this man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature induced him to visit her; but when he saw mary he had another inducement. her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. he knew men, as well as books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. in mary's company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine; and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things that render life tolerable." he had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made the body appear lovely in his eyes. he was humane, despised meanness; but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. he talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented. mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections, which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her. "there are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the apostle, _that it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. man seems formed for action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to overleap all bounds. "every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape or other, visits every heart. sensibility produces flights of virtue; and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even thinking of virtue. "christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it. "it is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to seek content, instead of happiness. good dispositions, and virtuous propensities, without the light of the gospel, produce eccentric characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in confusion." chap. xxv. a few mornings after, as mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the servant waited for an answer. her heart palpitated; it was from henry; she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. some tender enquiries were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. she wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his letter. her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come; certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret. to beguile the tedious time, henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a hundred times.--any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she was trying to decypher chinese characters. after a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the street door opened. at last he came, and she who had been counting the hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped the approaching interview. with an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful presentiment stilled the internal conflict. she caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "indeed, you are not well!" "i am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is a tender nurse, and i shall sometimes see thee." mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. she enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was sure he would soon recover. she would then look in his face, to see if he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. she tried to avoid speaking of herself, and henry left her, with, a promise of visiting her the next day. her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself to think that she feared an event she could not name. she still saw his pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed. henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind? these thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all was not well there. out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival of a letter from her husband; it came to lisbon after her departure: henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took its rise almost equally from benevolence and love. she could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. he informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements. these instances of folly relieved mary, in some degree reconciled her to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she reflected, that it is the office of religion to reconcile us to the seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination, however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties, refines our affections, and enables us to be useful. one reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty; her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy. heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of his benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her own inclinations? these suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion, increased her misery. one moment she was a heroine, half determined to bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and tenderness possessed her whole soul. some instances of henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her. chap. xxvi. henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the following week; but still mary kept up some little formality, a certain consciousness restrained her; and henry did not enter on the subject which he found she wished to avoid. in the course of conversation, however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a place in one of the public offices for ann's brother, as the family were again in a declining way. henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. mary could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused her face; her blood eloquently spoke. she delighted to receive benefits through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from henry was exquisite pleasure. as the summer advanced, henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. he could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the banks of the thames, near mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his mother. they frequently went down the river in a boat; henry would take his violin, and mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. she pleased his mother; she inchanted him. it was an advantage to mary that friendship first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it. the last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black, and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness that had prevailed previous to it. the thunder roared; and the oars plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not unpleasing sound. mary drew still nearer henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him.--she spoke not, but henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.--as they touched the shore, mary perceived that henry was wet; with eager anxiety she cried, what shall i do!--this day will kill thee, and i shall not die with thee! this accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. in vain did mary try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! henry every day grew worse and worse. chap. xxvii. oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. she saw henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate, and she sat down by him. "i did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest mary; but i was thinking of thee. heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in the world. this is not a time for disguise; i know i am dear to thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my heart.--i loved thee ever since i have been acquainted with thine: thou art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which i imagined existed only there! in a little while the shades of death will encompass me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed the rugged path. try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add to thy other virtues patience. i could have wished, for thy sake, that we could have died together--or that i could live to shield thee from the assaults of an unfeeling world! could i but offer thee an asylum in these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy griefs--" he pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her throbbing heart. a mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the conversation. "i wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do i feel that it will not be long delayed! the passion i have nursed is so pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy virtues have made on my soul. i would fain comfort thee--" "talk not of comfort," interrupted mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and ann--while i shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--she grasped his hand. "there we shall meet, my love, my mary, in our father's--" his voice faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked slowly to the garden-gate (mary would not go into the house); they could not say farewel when they reached it--and mary hurried down the lane; to spare henry the pain of witnessing her emotions. when she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it grew late, thinking of all that had passed. full of these thoughts, she crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present state of mind. it was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon, over which clouds continually flitted. where am i wandering, god of mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. in what a labyrinth am i lost! what miseries have i already encountered--and what a number lie still before me. her thoughts flew rapidly to something. i could be happy listening to him, soothing his cares.--would he not smile upon me--call me his own mary? i am not his--said she with fierceness--i am a wretch! and she heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were running into confusion. wherefore am i made thus? vain are my efforts--i cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--yet i will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction. she looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--no where could she find rest. i have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is not my abiding place--may i not too go home! ah! no. is this complying with my henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to associate with his? tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. she felt the rain, and turned to her solitary home. fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers. feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten to draw. the dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre; the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. she looked; her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one object. did i ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's scene. his faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe, were all graven on her heart; as were the words "could these arms shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world." the pressure to his bosom was not forgot. for a moment she was happy; but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated. soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all i love! and the remnant of my days--she could not proceed--were there then days to come after that? chap. xxviii. just as she was going to quit her room, to visit henry, his mother called on her. "my son is worse to-day," said she, "i come to request you to spend not only this day, but a week or two with me.--why should i conceal any thing from you? last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when i shall be childless. i will not attempt to describe what i felt when he talked thus to me. if i am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow--may i call her child whom my henry wishes me to adopt?" this new instance of henry's disinterested affection, mary felt most forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced tears from her, by saying, "i deserve this blow; my partial fondness made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect, perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous heaven has made my crime its own punishment; and now i am indeed a mother, i shall loss my child--my only child!" when they were a little more composed they hastened to the invalide; but during the short ride, the mother related several instances of henry's goodness of heart. mary's tears were not those of unmixed anguish; the display of his virtues gave her extreme delight--yet human nature prevailed; she trembled to think they would soon unfold themselves in a more genial clime. chap. xxix. she found henry very ill. the physician had some weeks before declared he never knew a person with a similar pulse recover. henry was certain he could not live long; all the rest he could obtain, was procured by opiates. mary now enjoyed the melancholy pleasure of nursing him, and softened by her tenderness the pains she could not remove. every sigh did she stifle, every tear restrain, when he could see or hear them. she would boast of her resignation--yet catch eagerly at the least ray of hope. while he slept she would support his pillow, and rest her head where she could feel his breath. she loved him better than herself--she could not pray for his recovery; she could only say, the will of heaven be done. while she was in this state, she labored to acquire fortitude; but one tender look destroyed it all--she rather labored, indeed, to make him believe he was resigned, than really to be so. she wished to receive the sacrament with him, as a bond of union which was to extend beyond the grave. she did so, and received comfort from it; she rose above her misery. his end was now approaching. mary sat on the side of the bed. his eyes appeared fixed--no longer agitated by passion, he only felt that it was a fearful thing to die. the soul retired to the citadel; but it was not now solely filled by the image of her who in silent despair watched for his last breath. collected, a frightful calmness stilled every turbulent emotion. the mother's grief was more audible. henry had for some time only attended to mary--mary pitied the parent, whose stings of conscience increased her sorrow; she whispered him, "thy mother weeps, disregarded by thee; oh! comfort her!--my mother, thy son blesses thee.--" the oppressed parent left the room. and mary _waited_ to see him die. she pressed with trembling eagerness his parched lips--he opened his eyes again; the spreading film retired, and love returned them--he gave a look--it was never forgotten. my mary, will you be comforted? yes, yes, she exclaimed in a firm voice; you go to be happy--i am not a complete wretch! the words almost choked her. he was a long time silent; the opiate produced a kind of stupor. at last, in an agony, he cried, it is dark; i cannot see thee; raise me up. where is mary? did she not say she delighted to support me? let me die in her arms. her arms were opened to receive him; they trembled not. again he was obliged to lie down, resting on her: as the agonies increased he leaned towards her: the soul seemed flying to her, as it escaped out of its prison. the breathing was interrupted; she heard distinctly the last sigh--and lifting up to heaven her eyes, father, receive his spirit, she calmly cried. the attendants gathered round; she moved not, nor heard the clamor; the hand seemed yet to press hers; it still was warm. a ray of light from an opened window discovered the pale face. she left the room, and retired to one very near it; and sitting down on the floor, fixed her eyes on the door of the apartment which contained the body. every event of her life rushed across her mind with wonderful rapidity--yet all was still--fate had given the finishing stroke. she sat till midnight.--then rose in a phrensy, went into the apartment, and desired those who watched the body to retire. she knelt by the bed side;--an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair.--she prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored--again--and again,--she prayed wildly--and fervently--but attempting to touch the lifeless hand--her head swum--she sunk-- chap. xxx. three months after, her only friend, the mother of her lost henry began to be alarmed, at observing her altered appearance; and made her own health a pretext for travelling. these complaints roused mary out of her torpid state; she imagined a new duty now forced her to exert herself--a duty love made sacred!-- they went to bath, from that to bristol; but the latter place they quickly left; the sight of the sick that resort there, they neither of them could bear. from bristol they flew to southampton. the road was pleasant--yet mary shut her eyes;--or if they were open, green fields and commons, passed in quick succession, and left no more traces behind than if they had been waves of the sea. some time after they were settled at southampton, they met the man who took so much notice of mary, soon after her return to england. he renewed his acquaintance; he was really interested in her fate, as he had heard her uncommon story; besides, he knew her husband; knew him to be a good-natured, weak man. he saw him soon after his arrival in his native country, and prevented his hastening to enquire into the reasons of mary's strange conduct. he desired him not to be too precipitate, if he ever wished to possess an invaluable treasure. he was guided by him, and allowed him to follow mary to southampton, and speak first to her friend. this friend determined to trust to her native strength of mind, and informed her of the circumstance; but she overrated it: mary was not able, for a few days after the intelligence, to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue. but at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her _husband_ an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence. he came in person to answer the letter. mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her. the time too quickly elapsed, and she gave him her hand--the struggle was almost more than she could endure. she tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open and swallow her. chap. xxxi. mary visited the continent, and sought health in different climates; but her nerves were not to be restored to their former state. she then retired to her house in the country, established manufactories, threw the estate into small farms; and continually employed herself this way to dissipate care, and banish unavailing regret. she visited the sick, supported the old, and educated the young. these occupations engrossed her mind; but there were hours when all her former woes would return and haunt her.--whenever she did, or said, any thing she thought henry would have approved of--she could not avoid thinking with anguish, of the rapture his approbation ever conveyed to her heart--a heart in which there was a void, that even benevolence and religion could not fill. the latter taught her to struggle for resignation; and the former rendered life supportable. her delicate state of health did not promise long life. in moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind--she thought she was hastening to that world _where there is neither marrying_, nor giving in marriage. none distributed proofreaders miss lulu bett by zona gale contents chapter i. april ii. may iii. june iv. july v. august vi. september i april the deacons were at supper. in the middle of the table was a small, appealing tulip plant, looking as anything would look whose sun was a gas jet. this gas jet was high above the table and flared, with a sound. "better turn down the gas jest a little," mr. deacon said, and stretched up to do so. he made this joke almost every night. he seldom spoke as a man speaks who has something to say, but as a man who makes something to say. "well, what have we on the festive board to-night?" he questioned, eyeing it. "festive" was his favourite adjective. "beautiful," too. in october he might be heard asking: "where's my beautiful fall coat?" "we have creamed salmon," replied mrs. deacon gently. "on toast," she added, with a scrupulous regard for the whole truth. why she should say this so gently no one can tell. she says everything gently. her "could you leave me another bottle of milk this morning?" would wring a milkman's heart. "well, now, let us see," said mr. deacon, and attacked the principal dish benignly. "_let_ us see," he added, as he served. "i don't want any," said monona. the child monona was seated upon a book and a cushion, so that her little triangle of nose rose adultly above her plate. her remark produced precisely the effect for which she had passionately hoped. "_what's_ this?" cried mr. deacon. "_no_ salmon?" "no," said monona, inflected up, chin pertly pointed. she felt her power, discarded her "sir." "oh now, pet!" from mrs. deacon, on three notes. "you liked it before." "i don't want any," said monona, in precisely her original tone. "just a little? a very little?" mr. deacon persuaded, spoon dripping; the child monona made her lips thin and straight and shook her head until her straight hair flapped in her eyes on either side. mr. deacon's eyes anxiously consulted his wife's eyes. what is this? their progeny will not eat? what can be supplied? "some bread and milk!" cried mrs. deacon brightly, exploding on "bread." one wondered how she thought of it. "no," said monona, inflection up, chin the same. she was affecting indifference to this scene, in which her soul delighted. she twisted her head, bit her lips unconcernedly, and turned her eyes to the remote. there emerged from the fringe of things, where she perpetually hovered, mrs. deacon's older sister, lulu bett, who was "making her home with us." and that was precisely the case. _they_ were not making her a home, goodness knows. lulu was the family beast of burden. "can't i make her a little milk toast?" she asked mrs. deacon. mrs. deacon hesitated, not with compunction at accepting lulu's offer, not diplomatically to lure monona. but she hesitated habitually, by nature, as another is by nature vivacious or brunette. "yes!" shouted the child monona. the tension relaxed. mrs. deacon assented. lulu went to the kitchen. mr. deacon served on. something of this scene was enacted every day. for monona the drama never lost its zest. it never occurred to the others to let her sit without eating, once, as a cure-all. the deacons were devoted parents and the child monona was delicate. she had a white, grave face, white hair, white eyebrows, white lashes. she was sullen, anaemic. they let her wear rings. she "toed in." the poor child was the late birth of a late marriage and the principal joy which she had provided them thus far was the pleased reflection that they had produced her at all. "where's your mother, ina?" mr. deacon inquired. "isn't she coming to her supper?" "tantrim," said mrs. deacon, softly. "oh, ho," said he, and said no more. the temper of mrs. bett, who also lived with them, had days of high vibration when she absented herself from the table as a kind of self-indulgence, and no one could persuade her to food. "tantrims," they called these occasions. "baked potatoes," said mr. deacon. "that's good--that's good. the baked potato contains more nourishment than potatoes prepared in any other way. the nourishment is next to the skin. roasting retains it." "that's what i always think," said his wife pleasantly. for fifteen years they had agreed about this. they ate, in the indecent silence of first savouring food. a delicate crunching of crust, an odour of baked-potato shells, the slip and touch of the silver. "num, num, nummy-num!" sang the child monona loudly, and was hushed by both parents in simultaneous exclamation which rivalled this lyric outburst. they were alone at table. di, daughter of a wife early lost to mr. deacon, was not there. di was hardly ever there. she was at that age. that age, in warbleton. a clock struck the half hour. "it's curious," mr. deacon observed, "how that clock loses. it must be fully quarter to." he consulted his watch. "it is quarter to!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "i'm pretty good at guessing time." "i've noticed that!" cried his ina. "last night, it was only twenty-three to, when the half hour struck," he reminded her. "twenty-one, i thought." she was tentative, regarded him with arched eyebrows, mastication suspended. this point was never to be settled. the colloquy was interrupted by the child monona, whining for her toast. and the doorbell rang. "dear me!" said mr. deacon. "what can anybody be thinking of to call just at meal-time?" he trod the hall, flung open the street door. mrs. deacon listened. lulu, coming in with the toast, was warned to silence by an uplifted finger. she deposited the toast, tiptoed to her chair. a withered baked potato and cold creamed salmon were on her plate. the child monona ate with shocking appreciation. nothing could be made of the voices in the hall. but mrs. bett's door was heard softly to unlatch. she, too, was listening. a ripple of excitement was caused in the dining-room when mr. deacon was divined to usher some one to the parlour. mr. deacon would speak with this visitor in a few moments, and now returned to his table. it was notable how slight a thing would give him a sense of self-importance. now he felt himself a man of affairs, could not even have a quiet supper with his family without the outside world demanding him. he waved his hand to indicate it was nothing which they would know anything about, resumed his seat, served himself to a second spoon of salmon and remarked, "more roast duck, anybody?" in a loud voice and with a slow wink at his wife. that lady at first looked blank, as she always did in the presence of any humour couched with the least indirection, and then drew back her chin and caught her lower lip in her gold-filled teeth. this was her conjugal rebuking. swedenborg always uses "conjugial." and really this sounds more married. it should be used with reference to the deacons. no one was ever more married than they--at least than mr. deacon. he made little conjugal jokes in the presence of lulu who, now completely unnerved by the habit, suspected them where they did not exist, feared lurking _entendre_ in the most innocent comments, and became more tense every hour of her life. and now the eye of the master of the house fell for the first time upon the yellow tulip in the centre of his table. "well, _well_!" he said. "what's this?" ina deacon produced, fleetly, an unlooked-for dimple. "have you been buying flowers?" the master inquired. "ask lulu," said mrs. deacon. he turned his attention full upon lulu. "suitors?" he inquired, and his lips left their places to form a sort of ruff about the word. lulu flushed, and her eyes and their very brows appealed. "it was a quarter," she said. "there'll be five flowers." "you _bought_ it?" "yes. there'll be five--that's a nickel apiece." his tone was as methodical as if he had been talking about the bread. "yet we give you a home on the supposition that you have no money to spend, even for the necessities." his voice, without resonance, cleft air, thought, spirit, and even flesh. mrs. deacon, indeterminately feeling her guilt in having let loose the dogs of her husband upon lulu, interposed: "well, but, herbert--lulu isn't strong enough to work. what's the use...." she dwindled. for years the fiction had been sustained that lulu, the family beast of burden, was not strong enough to work anywhere else. "the justice business--" said dwight herbert deacon--he was a justice of the peace--"and the dental profession--" he was also a dentist--"do not warrant the purchase of spring flowers in my home." "well, but, herbert--" it was his wife again. "no more," he cried briefly, with a slight bend of his head. "lulu meant no harm," he added, and smiled at lulu. there was a moment's silence into which monona injected a loud "num, num, num-my-num," as if she were the burden of an elizabethan lyric. she seemed to close the incident. but the burden was cut off untimely. there was, her father reminded her portentously, company in the parlour. "when the bell rang, i was so afraid something had happened to di," said ina sighing. "let's see," said di's father. "where is little daughter to-night?" he must have known that she was at jenny plow's at a tea party, for at noon they had talked of nothing else; but this was his way. and ina played his game, always. she informed him, dutifully. "oh, _ho_," said he, absently. how could he be expected to keep his mind on these domestic trifles. "we told you that this noon," said lulu. he frowned, disregarded her. lulu had no delicacy. "how much is salmon the can now?" he inquired abruptly--this was one of his forms of speech, the can, the pound, the cord. his partner supplied this information with admirable promptness. large size, small size, present price, former price--she had them all. "dear me," said mr. deacon. "that is very nearly salmoney, isn't it?" "herbert!" his ina admonished, in gentle, gentle reproach. mr. deacon punned, organically. in talk he often fell silent and then asked some question, schemed to permit his vice to flourish. mrs. deacon's return was always automatic: "_her_bert!" "whose bert?" he said to this. "i thought i was your bert." she shook her little head. "you are a case," she told him. he beamed upon her. it was his intention to be a case. lulu ventured in upon this pleasantry, and cleared her throat. she was not hoarse, but she was always clearing her throat. "the butter is about all gone," she observed. "shall i wait for the butter-woman or get some creamery?" mr. deacon now felt his little jocularities lost before a wall of the matter of fact. he was not pleased. he saw himself as the light of his home, bringer of brightness, lightener of dull hours. it was a pretty rôle. he insisted upon it. to maintain it intact, it was necessary to turn upon their sister with concentrated irritation. "kindly settle these matters without bringing them to my attention at meal-time," he said icily. lulu flushed and was silent. she was an olive woman, once handsome, now with flat, bluish shadows under her wistful eyes. and if only she would look at her brother herbert and say something. but she looked in her plate. "i want some honey," shouted the child, monona. "there isn't any, pet," said lulu. "i want some," said monona, eyeing her stonily. but she found that her hair-ribbon could be pulled forward to meet her lips, and she embarked on the biting of an end. lulu departed for some sauce and cake. it was apple sauce. mr. deacon remarked that the apples were almost as good as if he had stolen them. he was giving the impression that he was an irrepressible fellow. he was eating very slowly. it added pleasantly to his sense of importance to feel that some one, there in the parlour, was waiting his motion. at length they rose. monona flung herself upon her father. he put her aside firmly, every inch the father. no, no. father was occupied now. mrs. deacon coaxed her away. monona encircled her mother's waist, lifted her own feet from the floor and hung upon her. "she's such an active child," lulu ventured brightly. "not unduly active, i think," her brother-in-law observed. he turned upon lulu his bright smile, lifted his eyebrows, dropped his lids, stood for a moment contemplating the yellow tulip, and so left the room. lulu cleared the table. mrs. deacon essayed to wind the clock. well now. did herbert say it was twenty-three to-night when it struck the half hour and twenty-one last night, or twenty-one to-night and last night twenty-three? she talked of it as they cleared the table, but lulu did not talk. "can't you remember?" mrs. deacon said at last. "i should think you might be useful." lulu was lifting the yellow tulip to set it on the sill. she changed her mind. she took the plant to the wood-shed and tumbled it with force upon the chip-pile. the dining-room table was laid for breakfast. the two women brought their work and sat there. the child monona hung miserably about, watching the clock. right or wrong, she was put to bed by it. she had eight minutes more--seven--six--five-- lulu laid down her sewing and left the room. she went to the wood-shed, groped about in the dark, found the stalk of the one tulip flower in its heap on the chip-pile. the tulip she fastened in her gown on her flat chest. outside were to be seen the early stars. it is said that if our sun were as near to arcturus as we are near to our sun, the great arcturus would burn our sun to nothingness. * * * * * in the deacons' parlour sat bobby larkin, eighteen. he was in pain all over. he was come on an errand which civilisation has contrived to make an ordeal. before him on the table stood a photograph of diana deacon, also eighteen. he hated her with passion. at school she mocked him, aped him, whispered about him, tortured him. for two years he had hated her. nights he fell asleep planning to build a great house and engage her as its servant. yet, as he waited, he could not keep his eyes from this photograph. it was di at her curliest, at her fluffiest, di conscious of her bracelet, di smiling. bobby gazed, his basic aversion to her hard-pressed by a most reluctant pleasure. he hoped that he would not see her, and he listened for her voice. mr. deacon descended upon him with an air carried from his supper hour, bland, dispensing. well! let us have it. "what did you wish to see me about?"--with a use of the past tense as connoting something of indirection and hence of delicacy--a nicety customary, yet unconscious. bobby had arrived in his best clothes and with an air of such formality that mr. deacon had instinctively suspected him of wanting to join the church, and, to treat the time with due solemnity, had put him in the parlour until he could attend at leisure. confronted thus by di's father, the speech which bobby had planned deserted him. "i thought if you would give me a job," he said defencelessly. "so that's it!" mr. deacon, who always awaited but a touch to be either irritable or facetious, inclined now to be facetious. "filling teeth?" he would know. "marrying folks, then?" assistant justice or assistant dentist--which? bobby blushed. no, no, but in that big building of mr. deacon's where his office was, wasn't there something ... it faded from him, sounded ridiculous. of course there was nothing. he saw it now. there was nothing. mr. deacon confirmed him. but mr. deacon had an idea. hold on, he said--hold on. the grass. would bobby consider taking charge of the grass? though mr. deacon was of the type which cuts its own grass and glories in its vigour and its energy, yet in the time after that which he called "dental hours" mr. deacon wished to work in his garden. his grass, growing in late april rains, would need attention early next month ... he owned two lots--"of course property _is_ a burden." if bobby would care to keep the grass down and raked ... bobby would care, accepted this business opportunity, figures and all, thanked mr. deacon with earnestness. bobby's aversion to di, it seemed, should not stand in the way of his advancement. "then that is checked off," said mr. deacon heartily. bobby wavered toward the door, emerged on the porch, and ran almost upon di returning from her tea-party at jenny plow's. "oh, bobby! you came to see me?" she was as fluffy, as curly, as smiling as her picture. she was carrying pink, gauzy favours and a spear of flowers. undeniably in her voice there was pleasure. her glance was startled but already complacent. she paused on the steps, a lovely figure. but one would say that nothing but the truth dwelt in bobby. "oh, hullo," said he. "no. i came to see your father." he marched by her. his hair stuck up at the back. his coat was hunched about his shoulders. his insufficient nose, abundant, loose-lipped mouth and brown eyes were completely expressionless. he marched by her without a glance. she flushed with vexation. mr. deacon, as one would expect, laughed loudly, took the situation in his elephantine grasp and pawed at it. "mamma! mamma! what do you s'pose? di thought she had a beau----" "oh, papa!" said di. "why, i just hate bobby larkin and the whole _school_ knows it." mr. deacon returned to the dining-room, humming in his throat. he entered upon a pretty scene. his ina was darning. four minutes of grace remaining to the child monona, she was spinning on one toe with some bacchanalian idea of making the most of the present. di dominated, her ruffles, her blue hose, her bracelet, her ring. "oh, and mamma," she said, "the sweetest party and the dearest supper and the darlingest decorations and the gorgeousest----" "grammar, grammar," spoke dwight herbert deacon. he was not sure what he meant, but the good fellow felt some violence done somewhere or other. "well," said di positively, "they _were_. papa, see my favour." she showed him a sugar dove, and he clucked at it. ina glanced at them fondly, her face assuming its loveliest light. she was often ridiculous, but always she was the happy wife and mother, and her rôle reduced her individual absurdities at least to its own. the door to the bedroom now opened and mrs. bett appeared. "well, mother!" cried herbert, the "well" curving like an arm, the "mother" descending like a brisk slap. "hungry _now?_" mrs. bett was hungry now. she had emerged intending to pass through the room without speaking and find food in the pantry. by obscure processes her son-in-law's tone inhibited all this. "no," she said. "i'm not hungry." now that she was there, she seemed uncertain what to do. she looked from one to another a bit hopelessly, somehow foiled in her dignity. she brushed at her skirt, the veins of her long, wrinkled hands catching an intenser blue from the dark cloth. she put her hair behind her ears. "we put a potato in the oven for you," said ina. she had never learned quite how to treat these periodic refusals of her mother to eat, but she never had ceased to resent them. "no, thank you," said mrs. bett. evidently she rather enjoyed the situation, creating for herself a spot-light much in the manner of monona. "mother," said lulu, "let me make you some toast and tea." mrs. bett turned her gentle, bloodless face toward her daughter, and her eyes warmed. "after a little, maybe," she said. "i think i'll run over to see grandma gates now," she added, and went toward the door. "tell her," cried dwight, "tell her she's my best girl." grandma gates was a rheumatic cripple who lived next door, and whenever the deacons or mrs. bett were angry or hurt or wished to escape the house for some reason, they stalked over to grandma gates--in lieu of, say, slamming a door. these visits radiated an almost daily friendliness which lifted and tempered the old invalid's lot and life. di flashed out at the door again, on some trivial permission. "a good many of mamma's stitches in that dress to keep clean," ina called after. "early, darling, early!" her father reminded her. a faint regurgitation of his was somehow invested with the paternal. "what's this?" cried dwight herbert deacon abruptly. on the clock shelf lay a letter. "oh, dwight!" ina was all compunction. "it came this morning. i forgot." "i forgot it too! and i laid it up there." lulu was eager for her share of the blame. "isn't it understood that my mail can't wait like this?" dwight's sense of importance was now being fed in gulps. "i know. i'm awfully sorry," lulu said, "but you hardly ever get a letter----" this might have made things worse, but it provided dwight with a greater importance. "of course, pressing matter goes to my office," he admitted it. "still, my mail should have more careful----" he read, frowning. he replaced the letter, and they hung upon his motions as he tapped the envelope and regarded them. "now!" said he. "what do you think i have to tell you?" "something nice," ina was sure. "something surprising," dwight said portentously. "but, dwight--is it _nice?_" from his ina. "that depends. i like it. so'll lulu." he leered at her. "it's company." "oh, dwight," said ina. "who?" "from oregon," he said, toying with his suspense. "your brother!" cried ina. "is he coming?" "yes. ninian's coming, so he says." "ninian!" cried ina again. she was excited, round-eyed, her moist lips parted. dwight's brother ninian. how long was it? nineteen years. south america, central america, mexico, panama "and all." when was he coming and what was he coming for? "to see me," said dwight. "to meet you. some day next week. he don't know what a charmer lulu is, or he'd come quicker." lulu flushed terribly. not from the implication. but from the knowledge that she was not a charmer. the clock struck. the child monona uttered a cutting shriek. herbert's eyes flew not only to the child but to his wife. what was this, was their progeny hurt? "bedtime," his wife elucidated, and added: "lulu, will you take her to bed? i'm pretty tired." lulu rose and took monona by the hand, the child hanging back and shaking her straight hair in an unconvincing negative. as they crossed the room, dwight herbert deacon, strolling about and snapping his fingers, halted and cried out sharply: "lulu. one moment!" he approached her. a finger was extended, his lips were parted, on his forehead was a frown. "you _picked_ the flower on the plant?" he asked incredulously. lulu made no reply. but the child monona felt herself lifted and borne to the stairway and the door was shut with violence. on the dark stairway lulu's arms closed about her in an embrace which left her breathless and squeaking. and yet lulu was not really fond of the child monona, either. this was a discharge of emotion akin, say, to slamming the door. ii may lulu was dusting the parlour. the parlour was rarely used, but every morning it was dusted. by lulu. she dusted the black walnut centre table which was of ina's choosing, and looked like ina, shining, complacent, abundantly curved. the leather rocker, too, looked like ina, brown, plumply upholstered, tipping back a bit. really, the davenport looked like ina, for its chintz pattern seemed to bear a design of lifted eyebrows and arch, reproachful eyes. lulu dusted the upright piano, and that was like dwight--in a perpetual attitude of rearing back, with paws out, playful, but capable, too, of roaring a ready bass. and the black fireplace--there was mrs. bett to the life. colourless, fireless, and with a dust of ashes. in the midst of all was lulu herself reflected in the narrow pier glass, bodiless-looking in her blue gingham gown, but somehow alive. natural. this pier glass lulu approached with expectation, not because of herself but because of the photograph on its low marble shelf. a large photograph on a little shelf-easel. a photograph of a man with evident eyes, evident lips, evident cheeks--and each of the six were rounded and convex. you could construct the rest of him. down there under the glass you could imagine him extending, rounded and convex, with plump hands and curly thumbs and snug clothes. it was ninian deacon, dwight's brother. every day since his coming had been announced lulu, dusting the parlour, had seen the photograph looking at her with its eyes somehow new. or were her own eyes new? she dusted this photograph with a difference, lifted, dusted, set it back, less as a process than as an experience. as she dusted the mirror and saw his trim semblance over against her own bodiless reflection, she hurried away. but the eyes of the picture followed her, and she liked it. she dusted the south window-sill and saw bobby larkin come round the house and go to the wood-shed for the lawn mower. she heard the smooth blur of the cutter. not six times had bobby traversed the lawn when lulu saw di emerge from the house. di had been caring for her canary and she carried her bird-bath and went to the well, and lulu divined that di had deliberately disregarded the handy kitchen taps. lulu dusted the south window and watched, and in her watching was no quality of spying or of criticism. nor did she watch wistfully. rather, she looked out on something in which she had never shared, could not by any chance imagine herself sharing. the south windows were open. airs of may bore the soft talking. "oh, bobby, will you pump while i hold this?" and again: "now wait till i rinse." and again: "you needn't be so glum"--the village salutation signifying kindly attention. bobby now first spoke: "who's glum?" he countered gloomily. the iron of those days when she had laughed at him was deep within him, and this she now divined, and said absently: "i used to think you were pretty nice. but i don't like you any more." "yes, you used to!" bobby repeated derisively. "is that why you made fun of me all the time?" at this di coloured and tapped her foot on the well-curb. he seemed to have her now, and enjoyed his triumph. but di looked up at him shyly and looked down. "i had to," she admitted. "they were all teasing me about you." "they were?" this was a new thought to him. teasing her about him, were they? he straightened. "huh!" he said, in magnificent evasion. "i had to make them stop, so i teased you. i--i never wanted to." again the upward look. "well!" bobby stared at her. "i never thought it was anything like that." "of course you didn't." she tossed back her bright hair, met his eyes full. "and you never came where i could tell you. i wanted to tell you." she ran into the house. lulu lowered her eyes. it was as if she had witnessed the exercise of some secret gift, had seen a cocoon open or an egg hatch. she was thinking: "how easy she done it. got him right over. but _how_ did she do that?" dusting the dwight-like piano, lulu looked over-shoulder, with a manner of speculation, at the photograph of ninian. bobby mowed and pondered. the magnificent conceit of the male in his understanding of the female character was sufficiently developed to cause him to welcome the improvisation which he had just heard. perhaps that was the way it had been. of course that was the way it had been. what a fool he had been not to understand. he cast his eyes repeatedly toward the house. he managed to make the job last over so that he could return in the afternoon. he was not conscious of planning this, but it was in some manner contrived for him by forces of his own with which he seemed to be coöperating without his conscious will. continually he glanced toward the house. these glances lulu saw. she was a woman of thirty-four and di and bobby were eighteen, but lulu felt for them no adult indulgence. she felt that sweetness of attention which we bestow upon may robins. she felt more. she cut a fresh cake, filled a plate, called to di, saying: "take some out to that bobby larkin, why don't you?" it was lulu's way of participating. it was her vicarious thrill. after supper dwight and ina took their books and departed to the chautauqua circle. to these meetings lulu never went. the reason seemed to be that she never went anywhere. when they were gone lulu felt an instant liberation. she turned aimlessly to the garden and dug round things with her finger. and she thought about the brightness of that chautauqua scene to which ina and dwight had gone. lulu thought about such gatherings in somewhat the way that a futurist receives the subjects of his art--forms not vague, but heightened to intolerable definiteness, acute colour, and always motion--motion as an integral part of the desirable. but a factor of all was that lulu herself was the participant, not the onlooker. the perfection of her dream was not impaired by any longing. she had her dream as a saint her sense of heaven. "lulie!" her mother called. "you come out of that damp." she obeyed, as she had obeyed that voice all her life. but she took one last look down the dim street. she had not known it, but superimposed on her chautauqua thoughts had been her faint hope that it would be to-night, while she was in the garden alone, that ninian deacon would arrive. and she had on her wool chally, her coral beads, her cameo pin.... she went into the lighted dining-room. monona was in bed. di was not there. mrs. bett was in dwight herbert's leather chair and she lolled at her ease. it was strange to see this woman, usually so erect and tense, now actually lolling, as if lolling were the positive, the vital, and her ordinary rigidity a negation of her. in some corresponding orgy of leisure and liberation, lulu sat down with no needle. "inie ought to make over her delaine," mrs. bett comfortably began. they talked of this, devised a mode, recalled other delaines. "dear, dear," said mrs. bett, "i had on a delaine when i met your father." she described it. both women talked freely, with animation. they were individuals and alive. to the two pallid beings accessory to the deacons' presence, mrs. bett and her daughter lulu now bore no relationship. they emerged, had opinions, contradicted, their eyes were bright. toward nine o'clock mrs. bett announced that she thought she should have a lunch. this was debauchery. she brought in bread-and-butter, and a dish of cold canned peas. she was committing all the excesses that she knew--offering opinions, laughing, eating. it was to be seen that this woman had an immense store of vitality, perpetually submerged. when she had eaten she grew sleepy--rather cross at the last and inclined to hold up her sister's excellencies to lulu; and, at lulu's defence, lifted an ancient weapon. "what's the use of finding fault with inie? where'd you been if she hadn't married?" lulu said nothing. "what say?" mrs. bett demanded shrilly. she was enjoying it. lulu said no more. after a long time: "you always was jealous of inie," said mrs. bett, and went to her bed. as soon as her mother's door had closed, lulu took the lamp from its bracket, stretching up her long body and her long arms until her skirt lifted to show her really slim and pretty feet. lulu's feet gave news of some other lulu, but slightly incarnate. perhaps, so far, incarnate only in her feet and her long hair. she took the lamp to the parlour and stood before the photograph of ninian deacon, and looked her fill. she did not admire the photograph, but she wanted to look at it. the house was still, there was no possibility of interruption. the occasion became sensation, which she made no effort to quench. she held a rendezvous with she knew not what. in the early hours of the next afternoon with the sun shining across the threshold, lulu was paring something at the kitchen table. mrs. bett was asleep. ("i don't blame you a bit, mother," lulu had said, as her mother named the intention.) ina was asleep. (but ina always took off the curse by calling it her "si-esta," long _i_.) monona was playing with a neighbour's child--you heard their shrill yet lovely laughter as they obeyed the adult law that motion is pleasure. di was not there. a man came round the house and stood tying a puppy to the porch post. a long shadow fell through the west doorway, the puppy whined. "oh," said this man. "i didn't mean to arrive at the back door, but since i'm here--" he lifted a suitcase to the porch, entered, and filled the kitchen. "it's ina, isn't it?" he said. "i'm her sister," said lulu, and understood that he was here at last. "well, i'm bert's brother," said ninian. "so i can come in, can't i?" he did so, turned round like a dog before his chair and sat down heavily, forcing his fingers through heavy, upspringing brown hair. "oh, yes," said lulu. "i'll call ina. she's asleep." "don't call her, then," said ninian. "let's you and i get acquainted." he said it absently, hardly looking at her. "i'll get the pup a drink if you can spare me a basin," he added. lulu brought the basin, and while he went to the dog she ran tiptoeing to the dining-room china closet and brought a cut-glass tumbler, as heavy, as ungainly as a stone crock. this she filled with milk. "i thought maybe ..." said she, and offered it. "thank _you_!" said ninian, and drained it. "making pies, as i live," he observed, and brought his chair nearer to the table. "i didn't know ina had a sister," he went on. "i remember now bert said he had two of her relatives----" lulu flushed and glanced at him pitifully. "he has," she said. "it's my mother and me. but we do quite a good deal of the work." "i'll bet you do," said ninian, and did not perceive that anything had been violated. "what's your name?" he bethought. she was in an immense and obscure excitement. her manner was serene, her hands as they went on with the peeling did not tremble; her replies were given with sufficient quiet. but she told him her name as one tells something of another and more remote creature. she felt as one may feel in catastrophe--no sharp understanding but merely the sense that the thing cannot possibly be happening. "you folks expect me?" he went on. "oh, yes," she cried, almost with vehemence. "why, we've looked for you every day." "'see," he said, "how long have they been married?" lulu flushed as she answered: "fifteen years." "and a year before that the first one died--and two years they were married," he computed. "i never met that one. then it's close to twenty years since bert and i have seen each other." "how awful," lulu said, and flushed again. "why?" "to be that long away from your folks." suddenly she found herself facing this honestly, as if the immensity of her present experience were clarifying her understanding: would it be so awful to be away from bert and monona and di--yes, and ina, for twenty years? "you think that?" he laughed. "a man don't know what he's like till he's roamed around on his own." he liked the sound of it. "roamed around on his own," he repeated, and laughed again. "course a woman don't know that." "why don't she?" asked lulu. she balanced a pie on her hand and carved the crust. she was stupefied to hear her own question. "why don't she?" "maybe she does. do you?" "yes," said lulu. "good enough!" he applauded noiselessly, with fat hands. his diamond ring sparkled, his even white teeth flashed. "i've had twenty years of galloping about," he informed her, unable, after all, to transfer his interests from himself to her. "where?" she asked, although she knew. "south america. central america. mexico. panama." he searched his memory. "colombo," he superadded. "my!" said lulu. she had probably never in her life had the least desire to see any of these places. she did not want to see them now. but she wanted passionately to meet her companion's mind. "it's the life," he informed her. "must be," lulu breathed. "i----" she tried, and gave it up. "where you been mostly?" he asked at last. by this unprecedented interest in her doings she was thrown into a passion of excitement. "here," she said. "i've always been here. fifteen years with ina. before that we lived in the country." he listened sympathetically now, his head well on one side. he watched her veined hands pinch at the pies. "poor old girl," he was thinking. "is it miss lulu bett?" he abruptly inquired. "or mrs.?" lulu flushed in anguish. "miss," she said low, as one who confesses the extremity of failure. then from unplumbed depths another lulu abruptly spoke up. "from choice," she said. he shouted with laughter. "you bet! oh, you bet!" he cried. "never doubted it." he made his palms taut and drummed on the table. "say!" he said. lulu glowed, quickened, smiled. her face was another face. "which kind of a mr. are you?" she heard herself ask, and his shoutings redoubled. well! who would have thought it of her? "never give myself away," he assured her. "say, by george, i never thought of that before! there's no telling whether a man's married or not, by his name!" "it don't matter," said lulu. "why not?" "not so many people want to know." again he laughed. this laughter was intoxicating to lulu. no one ever laughed at what she said save herbert, who laughed at _her_. "go it, old girl!" ninian was thinking, but this did not appear. the child monona now arrived, banging the front gate and hurling herself round the house on the board walk, catching the toe of one foot in the heel of the other and blundering forward, head down, her short, straight hair flapping over her face. she landed flat-footed on the porch. she began to speak, using a ridiculous perversion of words, scarcely articulate, then in vogue in her group. and, "whose dog?" she shrieked. ninian looked over his shoulder, held out his hand, finished something that he was saying to lulu. monona came to him readily enough, staring, loose-lipped. "i'll bet i'm your uncle," said ninian. relationship being her highest known form of romance, monona was thrilled by this intelligence. "give us a kiss," said ninian, finding in the plural some vague mitigation for some vague offence. monona, looking silly, complied. and her uncle said my stars, such a great big tall girl--they would have to put a board on her head. "what's that?" inquired monona. she had spied his great diamond ring. "this," said her uncle, "was brought to me by santa claus, who keeps a jewellery shop in heaven." the precision and speed of his improvisation revealed him. he had twenty other diamonds like this one. he kept them for those sundays when the sun comes up in the west. of course--often! some day he was going to melt a diamond and eat it. then you sparkled all over in the dark, ever after. another diamond he was going to plant. they say----he did it all gravely, absorbedly. about it he was as conscienceless as a savage. this was no fancy spun to pleasure a child. this was like lying, for its own sake. he went on talking with lulu, and now again he was the tease, the braggart, the unbridled, unmodified male. monona stood in the circle of his arm. the little being was attentive, softened, subdued. some pretty, faint light visited her. in her listening look, she showed herself a charming child. "it strikes me," said ninian to lulu, "that you're going to do something mighty interesting before you die." it was the clear conversational impulse, born of the need to keep something going, but lulu was all faith. she closed the oven door on her pies and stood brushing flour from her fingers. he was looking away from her, and she looked at him. he was completely like his picture. she felt as if she were looking at his picture and she was abashed and turned away. "well, i hope so," she said, which had certainly never been true, for her old formless dreams were no intention--nothing but a mush of discontent. "i hope i can do something that's nice before i quit," she said. nor was this hope now independently true, but only this surprising longing to appear interesting in his eyes. to dance before him. "what would the folks think of me, going on so?" she suddenly said. her mild sense of disloyalty was delicious. so was his understanding glance. "you're the stuff," he remarked absently. she laughed happily. the door opened. ina appeared. "well!" said ina. it was her remotest tone. she took this man to be a pedlar, beheld her child in his clasp, made a quick, forward step, chin lifted. she had time for a very javelin of a look at lulu. "hello!" said ninian. he had the one formula. "i believe i'm your husband's brother. ain't this ina?" it had not crossed the mind of lulu to present him. beautiful it was to see ina relax, soften, warm, transform, humanise. it gave one hope for the whole species. "ninian!" she cried. she lent a faint impression of the double _e_ to the initial vowel. she slurred the rest, until the _y_ sound squinted in. not neenyun, but nearly neenyun. he kissed her. "since dwight isn't here!" she cried, and shook her finger at him. ina's conception of hostess-ship was definite: a volley of questions--was his train on time? he had found the house all right? of course! any one could direct him, she should hope. and he hadn't seen dwight? she must telephone him. but then she arrested herself with a sharp, curved fling of her starched skirts. no! they would surprise him at tea--she stood taut, lips compressed. oh, the plows were coming to tea. how unfortunate, she thought. how fortunate, she said. the child monona made her knees and elbows stiff and danced up and down. she must, she must participate. "aunt lulu made three pies!" she screamed, and shook her straight hair. "gracious sakes," said ninian. "i brought her a pup, and if i didn't forget to give it to her." they adjourned to the porch--ninian, ina, monona. the puppy was presented, and yawned. the party kept on about "the place." ina delightedly exhibited the tomatoes, the two apple trees, the new shed, the bird bath. ninian said the un-spellable "m--m," rising inflection, and the "i see," prolonging the verb as was expected of him. ina said that they meant to build a summer-house, only, dear me, when you have a family--but there, he didn't know anything about that. ina was using her eyes, she was arch, she was coquettish, she was flirtatious, and she believed herself to be merely matronly, sisterly, womanly ... she screamed. dwight was at the gate. now the meeting, exclamation, banality, guffaw ... good will. and lulu, peeping through the blind. when "tea" had been experienced that evening, it was found that a light rain was falling and the deacons and their guests, the plows, were constrained to remain in the parlour. the plows were gentle, faintly lustrous folk, sketched into life rather lightly, as if they were, say, looking in from some other level. "the only thing," said dwight herbert, "that reconciles me to rain is that i'm let off croquet." he rolled his r's, a favourite device of his to induce humour. he called it "croquette." he had never been more irrepressible. the advent of his brother was partly accountable, the need to show himself a fine family man and host in a prosperous little home--simple and pathetic desire. "tell you what we'll do!" said dwight. "nin and i'll reminisce a little." "do!" cried mr. plow. this gentle fellow was always excited by life, so faintly excited by him, and enjoyed its presentation in any real form. ninian had unerringly selected a dwarf rocker, and he was overflowing it and rocking. "take this chair, do!" ina begged. "a big chair for a big man." she spoke as if he were about the age of monona. ninian refused, insisted on his refusal. a few years more, and human relationships would have spread sanity even to ina's estate and she would have told him why he should exchange chairs. as it was she forbore, and kept glancing anxiously at the over-burdened little beast beneath him. the child monona entered the room. she had been driven down by di and jenny plow, who had vanished upstairs and, through the ventilator, might be heard in a lift and fall of giggling. monona had also been driven from the kitchen where lulu was, for some reason, hurrying through the dishes. monona now ran to mrs. bett, stood beside her and stared about resentfully. mrs. bett was in best black and ruches, and she seized upon monona and patted her, as her own form of social expression; and monona wriggled like a puppy, as hers. "quiet, pettie," said ina, eyebrows up. she caught her lower lip in her teeth. "well, sir," said dwight, "you wouldn't think it to look at us, but mother had her hands pretty full, bringing us up." into dwight's face came another look. it was always so, when he spoke of this foster-mother who had taken these two boys and seen them through the graded schools. this woman dwight adored, and when he spoke of her he became his inner self. "we must run up-state and see her while you're here, nin," he said. to this ninian gave a casual assent, lacking his brother's really tender ardour. "little," dwight pursued, "little did she think i'd settle down into a nice, quiet, married dentist and magistrate in my town. and nin into--say, nin, what are you, anyway?" they laughed. "that's the question," said ninian. they laughed. "maybe," ina ventured, "maybe ninian will tell us something about his travels. he is quite a traveller, you know," she said to the plows. "a regular gulliver." they laughed respectfully. "how we should love it, mr. deacon," mrs. plow said. "you know we've never seen _very_ much." goaded on, ninian launched upon his foreign countries as he had seen them: population, exports, imports, soil, irrigation, business. for the populations ninian had no respect. crops could not touch ours. soil mighty poor pickings. and the business--say! those fellows don't know--and, say, the hotels! don't say foreign hotel to ninian. he regarded all the alien earth as barbarian, and he stoned it. he was equipped for absolutely no intensive observation. his contacts were negligible. mrs. plow was more excited by the deacons' party than ninian had been wrought upon by all his voyaging. "tell you," said dwight. "when we ran away that time and went to the state fair, little did we think--" he told about running away to the state fair. "i thought," he wound up, irrelevantly, "ina and i might get over to the other side this year, but i guess not. i guess not." the words give no conception of their effect, spoken thus. for there in warbleton these words are not commonplace. in warbleton, europe is never so casually spoken. "take a trip abroad" is the phrase, or "go to europe" at the very least, and both with empressement. dwight had somewhere noted and deliberately picked up that "other side" effect, and his ina knew this, and was proud. her covert glance about pensively covered her soft triumph. mrs. bett, her arm still circling the child monona, now made her first observation. "pity not to have went while the going was good," she said, and said no more. nobody knew quite what she meant, and everybody hoped for the best. but ina frowned. mamma did these things occasionally when there was company, and she dared. she never sauced dwight in private. and it wasn't fair, it wasn't _fair_-- abruptly ninian rose and left the room. * * * * * the dishes were washed. lulu had washed them at break-neck speed--she could not, or would not, have told why. but no sooner were they finished and set away than lulu had been attacked by an unconquerable inhibition. and instead of going to the parlour, she sat down by the kitchen window. she was in her chally gown, with her cameo pin and her string of coral. laughter from the parlour mingled with the laughter of di and jenny upstairs. lulu was now rather shy of di. a night or two before, coming home with "extra" cream, she had gone round to the side-door and had come full upon di and bobby, seated on the steps. and di was saying: "well, if i marry you, you've simply got to be a great man. i could never marry just anybody. i'd _smother_." lulu had heard, stricken. she passed them by, responding only faintly to their greeting. di was far less taken aback than lulu. later di had said to lulu: "i s'pose you heard what we were saying." lulu, much shaken, had withdrawn from the whole matter by a flat "no." "because," she said to herself, "i couldn't have heard right." but since then she had looked at di as if di were some one else. had not lulu taught her to make buttonholes and to hem--oh, no! lulu could not have heard properly. "everybody's got somebody to be nice to them," she thought now, sitting by the kitchen window, adult yet cinderella. she thought that some one would come for her. her mother or even ina. perhaps they would send monona. she waited at first hopefully, then resentfully. the grey rain wrapped the air. "nobody cares what becomes of me after they're fed," she thought, and derived an obscure satisfaction from her phrasing, and thought it again. ninian deacon came into the kitchen. her first impression was that he had come to see whether the dog had been fed. "i fed him," she said, and wished that she had been busy when ninian entered. "who, me?" he asked. "you did that all right. say, why in time don't you come in the other room?" "oh, i don't know." "well, neither do i. i've kept thinking, 'why don't she come along.' then i remembered the dishes." he glanced about. "i come to help wipe dishes." "oh!" she laughed so delicately, so delightfully, one wondered where she got it. "they're washed----" she caught herself at "long ago." "well then, what are you doing here?" "resting." "rest in there." he bowed, crooked his arm. "señora," he said,--his spanish matched his other assimilations of travel-- "señora. allow me." lulu rose. on his arm she entered the parlour. dwight was narrating and did not observe that entrance. to the plows it was sufficiently normal. but ina looked up and said: "well!"--in two notes, descending, curving. lulu did not look at her. lulu sat in a low rocker. her starched white skirt, throwing her chally in ugly lines, revealed a peeping rim of white embroidery. her lace front wrinkled when she sat, and perpetually she adjusted it. she curled her feet sidewise beneath her chair, her long wrists and veined hands lay along her lap in no relation to her. she was tense. she rocked. when dwight had finished his narration, there was a pause, broken at last by mrs. bett: "you tell that better than you used to when you started in telling it," she observed. "you got in some things i guess you used to clean forget about. monona, get off my rocker." monona made a little whimpering sound, in pretence to tears. ina said "darling--quiet!"--chin a little lifted, lower lip revealing lower teeth for the word's completion; and she held it. the plows were asking something about mexico. dwight was wondering if it would let up raining _at all_. di and jenny came whispering into the room. but all these distractions ninian deacon swept aside. "miss lulu," he said, "i wanted you to hear about my trip up the amazon, because i knew how interested you are in travels." he talked, according to his lights, about the amazon. but the person who most enjoyed the recital could not afterward have told two words that he said. lulu kept the position which she had taken at first, and she dare not change. she saw the blood in the veins of her hands and wanted to hide them. she wondered if she might fold her arms, or have one hand to support her chin, gave it all up and sat motionless, save for the rocking. then she forgot everything. for the first time in years some one was talking and looking not only at ina and dwight and their guests, but at her. iii june on a june morning dwight herbert deacon looked at the sky, and said with his manner of originating it: "how about a picnic this afternoon?" ina, with her blank, upward look, exclaimed: "to-_day?_" "first class day, it looks like to me." come to think of it, ina didn't know that there was anything to prevent, but mercy, herbert was so sudden. lulu began to recite the resources of the house for a lunch. meanwhile, since the first mention of picnic, the child monona had been dancing stiffly about the room, knees stiff, elbows stiff, shoulders immovable, her straight hair flapping about her face. the sad dance of the child who cannot dance because she never has danced. di gave a conservative assent--she was at that age--and then took advantage of the family softness incident to a guest and demanded that bobby go too. ina hesitated, partly because she always hesitated, partly because she was tribal in the extreme. "just our little family and uncle ninian would have been so nice," she sighed, with her consent. when, at six o'clock, ina and dwight and ninian assembled on the porch and lulu came out with the basket, it was seen that she was in a blue-cotton house-gown. "look here," said ninian, "aren't you going?" "me?" said lulu. "oh, no." "why not?" "oh, i haven't been to a picnic since i can remember." "but why not?" "oh, i never think of such a thing." ninian waited for the family to speak. they did speak. dwight said: "lulu's a regular home body." and ina advanced kindly with: "come with us, lulu, if you like." "no," said lulu, and flushed. "thank you," she added, formally. mrs. bett's voice shrilled from within the house, startlingly close--just beyond the blind, in fact: "go on, lulie. it'll do you good. you mind me and go on." "well," said ninian, "that's what i say. you hustle for your hat and you come along." for the first time this course presented itself to lulu as a possibility. she stared up at ninian. "you can slip on my linen duster, over," ina said graciously. "your new one?" dwight incredulously wished to know. "oh, no!" ina laughed at the idea. "the old one." they were having to wait for di in any case--they always had to wait for di--and at last, hardly believing in her own motions, lulu was running to make ready. mrs. bett hurried to help her, but she took down the wrong things and they were both irritated. lulu reappeared in the linen duster and a wide hat. there had been no time to "tighten up" her hair; she was flushed at the adventure; she had never looked so well. they started. lulu, falling in with monona, heard for the first time in her life, the step of the pursuing male, choosing to walk beside her and the little girl. oh, would ina like that? and what did lulu care what ina liked? monona, making a silly, semi-articulate observation, was enchanted to have lulu burst into laughter and squeeze her hand. di contributed her bright presence, and bobby larkin appeared from nowhere, running, with a gigantic bag of fruit. "bullylujah!" he shouted, and lulu could have shouted with him. she sought for some utterance. she wanted to talk with ninian. "i do hope we've brought sandwiches enough," was all that she could get to say. they chose a spot, that is to say dwight herbert chose a spot, across the river and up the shore where there was at that season a strip of warm beach. dwight herbert declared himself the builder of incomparable fires, and made a bad smudge. ninian, who was a camper neither by birth nor by adoption, kept offering brightly to help, could think of nothing to do, and presently, bethinking himself of skipping stones, went and tried to skip them on the flowing river. ina cut her hand opening the condensed milk and was obliged to sit under a tree and nurse the wound. monona spilled all the salt and sought diligently to recover it. so lulu did all the work. as for di and bobby, they had taken the pail and gone for water, discouraging monona from accompanying them, discouraging her to the point of tears. but the two were gone for so long that on their return dwight was hungry and cross and majestic. "those who disregard the comfort of other people," he enunciated, "can not expect consideration for themselves in the future." he did not say on what ethical tenet this dictum was based, but he delivered it with extreme authority. ina caught her lower lip with her teeth, dipped her head, and looked at di. and monona laughed like a little demon. as soon as lulu had all in readiness, and cold corned beef and salad had begun their orderly progression, dwight became the immemorial dweller in green fastnesses. he began: "this is ideal. i tell you, people don't half know life if they don't get out and eat in the open. it's better than any tonic at a dollar the bottle. nature's tonic--eh? free as the air. look at that sky. see that water. could anything be more pleasant?" he smiled at his wife. this man's face was glowing with simple pleasure. he loved the out-of-doors with a love which could not explain itself. but he now lost a definite climax when his wife's comment was heard to be: "monona! now it's all over both ruffles. and mamma does try so hard...." after supper some boys arrived with a boat which they beached, and dwight, with enthusiasm, gave the boys ten cents for a half hour's use of that boat and invited to the waters his wife, his brother and his younger daughter. ina was timid----not because she was afraid but because she was congenitally timid--with her this was not a belief or an emotion, it was a disease. "dwight darling, are you sure there's no danger?" why, none. none in the world. whoever heard of drowning in a river. "but you're not so very used----" oh, wasn't he? who was it that had lived in a boat throughout youth if not he? ninian refused out-of-hand, lighted a cigar, and sat on a log in a permanent fashion. ina's plump figure was fitted in the stern, the child monona affixed, and the boat put off, bow well out of water. on this pleasure ride the face of the wife was as the face of the damned. it was true that she revered her husband's opinions above those of all other men. in politics, in science, in religion, in dentistry she looked up to his dicta as to revelation. and was he not a magistrate? but let him take oars in hand, or shake lines or a whip above the back of any horse, and this woman would trust any other woman's husband by preference. it was a phenomenon. lulu was making the work last, so that she should be out of everybody's way. when the boat put off without ninian, she felt a kind of terror and wished that he had gone. he had sat down near her, and she pretended not to see. at last lulu understood that ninian was deliberately choosing to remain with her. the languor of his bulk after the evening meal made no explanation for lulu. she asked for no explanation. he had stayed. and they were alone. for di, on a pretext of examining the flocks and herds, was leading bobby away to the pastures, a little at a time. the sun, now fallen, had left an even, waxen sky. leaves and ferns appeared drenched with the light just withdrawn. the hush, the warmth, the colour, were charged with some influence. the air of the time communicated itself to lulu as intense and quiet happiness. she had not yet felt quiet with ninian. for the first time her blind excitement in his presence ceased, and she felt curiously accustomed to him. to him the air of the time imparted itself in a deepening of his facile sympathy. "do you know something?" he began. "i think you have it pretty hard around here." "i?" lulu was genuinely astonished. "yes, sir. do you have to work like this all the time? i guess you won't mind my asking." "well, i ought to work. i have a home with them. mother too." "yes, but glory. you ought to have some kind of a life of your own. you want it, too. you told me you did--that first day." she was silent. again he was investing her with a longing which she had never really had, until he had planted that longing. she had wanted she knew not what. now she accepted the dim, the romantic interest of this rôle. "i guess you don't see how it seems," he said, "to me, coming along--a stranger so. i don't like it." he frowned, regarded the river, flicked away ashes, his diamond obediently shining. lulu's look, her head drooping, had the liquid air of the look of a young girl. for the first time in her life she was feeling her helplessness. it intoxicated her. "they're very good to me," she said. he turned. "do you know why you think that? because you've never had anybody really good to you. that's why." "but they treat me good." "they make a slave of you. regular slave." he puffed, frowning. "damned shame, _i_ call it," he said. her loyalty stirred lulu. "we have our whole living----" "and you earn it. i been watching you since i been here. don't you ever go anywheres?" she said: "this is the first place in--in years." "lord. don't you want to? of course you do!" "not so much places like this----" "i see. what you want is to get away--like you'd ought to." he regarded her. "you've been a blamed fine-looking woman," he said. she did not flush, but that faint, unsuspected lulu spoke for her: "you must have been a good-looking man once yourself." his laugh went ringing across the water. "you're pretty good," he said. he regarded her approvingly. "i don't see how you do it," he mused, "blamed if i do." "how i do what?" "why come back, quick like that, with what you say." lulu's heart was beating painfully. the effort to hold her own in talk like this was terrifying. she had never talked in this fashion to any one. it was as if some matter of life or death hung on her ability to speak an alien tongue. and yet, when she was most at loss, that other lulu, whom she had never known anything about, seemed suddenly to speak for her. as now: "it's my grand education," she said. she sat humped on the log, her beautiful hair shining in the light of the warm sky. she had thrown off her hat and the linen duster, and was in her blue gingham gown against the sky and leaves. but she sat stiffly, her feet carefully covered, her hands ill at ease, her eyes rather piteous in their hope somehow to hold her vague own. yet from her came these sufficient, insouciant replies. "education," he said laughing heartily. "that's mine, too." he spoke a creed. "i ain't never had it and i ain't never missed it." "most folks are happy without an education," said lulu. "you're not very happy, though." "oh, no," she said. "well, sir," said ninian, "i'll tell you what we'll do. while i'm here i'm going to take you and ina and dwight up to the city." "to the city?" "to a show. dinner and a show. i'll give you _one_ good time." "oh!" lulu leaned forward. "ina and dwight go sometimes. i never been." "well, just you come with me. i'll look up what's good. you tell me just what you like to eat, and we'll get it----" she said: "i haven't had anything to eat in years that i haven't cooked myself." he planned for that time to come, and lulu listened as one intensely experiencing every word that he uttered. yet it was not in that future merry-making that she found her joy, but in the consciousness that he--some one--any one--was planning like this for her. meanwhile di and bobby had rounded the corner by an old hop-house and kept on down the levee. now that the presence of the others was withdrawn, the two looked about them differently and began themselves to give off an influence instead of being pressed upon by overpowering personalities. frogs were chorusing in the near swamp, and bobby wanted one. he was off after it. but di eventually drew him back, reluctant, frogless. he entered upon an exhaustive account of the use of frogs for bait, and as he talked he constantly flung stones. di grew restless. there was, she had found, a certain amount of this to be gone through before bobby would focus on the personal. at length she was obliged to say, "like me to-day?" and then he entered upon personal talk with the same zest with which he had discussed bait. "bobby," said di, "sometimes i think we might be married, and not wait for any old money." they had now come that far. it was partly an authentic attraction, grown from out the old repulsion, and partly it was that they both--and especially di--so much wanted the experiences of attraction that they assumed its ways. and then each cared enough to assume the pretty rôle required by the other, and by the occasion, and by the air of the time. "would you?" asked bobby--but in the subjunctive. she said: "yes. i will." "it would mean running away, wouldn't it?" said bobby, still subjunctive. "i suppose so. mamma and papa are so unreasonable." "di," said bobby, "i don't believe you could ever be happy with me." "the idea! i can too. you're going to be a great man--you know you are." bobby was silent. of course he knew it--but he passed it over. "wouldn't it be fun to elope and surprise the whole school?" said di, sparkling. bobby grinned appreciatively. he was good to look at, with his big frame, his head of rough dark hair, the sky warm upon his clear skin and full mouth. di suddenly announced that she would be willing to elope _now_. "i've planned eloping lots of times," she said ambiguously. it flashed across the mind of bobby that in these plans of hers he may not always have been the principal, and he could not be sure ... but she talked in nothings, and he answered her so. soft cries sounded in the centre of the stream. the boat, well out of the strong current, was seen to have its oars shipped; and there sat dwight herbert gently rocking the boat. dwight herbert would. "bertie, bertie--please!" you heard his ina say. monona began to cry, and her father was irritated, felt that it would be ignominious to desist, and did not know that he felt this. but he knew that he was annoyed, and he took refuge in this, and picked up the oars with: "some folks never can enjoy anything without spoiling it." "that's what i was thinking," said ina, with a flash of anger. they glided toward the shore in a huff. monona found that she enjoyed crying across the water and kept it up. it was almost as good as an echo. ina, stepping safe to the sands, cried ungratefully that this was the last time that she would ever, ever go with her husband anywhere. ever. dwight herbert, recovering, gauged the moment to require of him humour, and observed that his wedded wife was as skittish as a colt. ina kept silence, head poised so that her full little chin showed double. monona, who had previously hidden a cooky in her frock, now remembered it and crunched sidewise, the eyes ruminant. moving toward them, with di, bobby was suddenly overtaken by the sense of disliking them all. he never had liked dwight herbert, his employer. mrs. deacon seemed to him so overwhelmingly mature that he had no idea how to treat her. and the child monona he would like to roll in the river. even di ... he fell silent, was silent on the walk home which was the signal for di to tease him steadily. the little being was afraid of silence. it was too vast for her. she was like a butterfly in a dome. but against that background of ruined occasion, lulu walked homeward beside ninian. and all that night, beside her mother who groaned in her sleep, lulu lay tense and awake. he had walked home with her. he had told ina and herbert about going to the city. what did it mean? suppose ... oh no; oh no! "either lay still or get up and set up," mrs. bett directed her at length. iv july when, on a warm evening a fortnight later, lulu descended the stairs dressed for her incredible trip to the city, she wore the white waist which she had often thought they would "use" for her if she died. and really, the waist looked as if it had been planned for the purpose, and its wide, upstanding plaited lace at throat and wrist made her neck look thinner, her forearm sharp and veined. her hair she had "crimped" and parted in the middle, puffed high--it was so that hair had been worn in lulu's girlhood. "_well_!" said ina, when she saw this coiffure, and frankly examined it, head well back, tongue meditatively teasing at her lower lip. for travel lulu was again wearing ina's linen duster--the old one. ninian appeared, in a sack coat--and his diamond. his distinctly convex face, its thick, rosy flesh, thick mouth and cleft chin gave lulu once more that bold sense of looking--not at him, for then she was shy and averted her eyes--but at his photograph at which she could gaze as much as she would. she looked up at him openly, fell in step beside him. was he not taking her to the city? ina and dwight themselves were going because she, lulu, had brought about this party. "act as good as you look, lulie," mrs. bett called after them. she gave no instructions to ina who was married and able to shine in her conduct, it seemed. dwight was cross. on the way to the station he might have been heard to take it up again, whatever it was, and his ina unmistakably said: "well, now don't keep it going all the way there"; and turned back to the others with some elaborate comment about the dust, thus cutting off her so-called lord from his legitimate retort. a mean advantage. the city was two hours' distant, and they were to spend the night. on the train, in the double seat, ninian beside her among the bags, lulu sat in the simple consciousness that the people all knew that she too had been chosen. a man and a woman were opposite, with their little boy between them. lulu felt this woman's superiority of experience over her own, and smiled at her from a world of fellowship. but the woman lifted her eyebrows and stared and turned away, with slow and insolent winking. ninian had a boyish pride in his knowledge of places to eat in many cities--as if he were leading certain of the tribe to a deer-run in a strange wood. ninian took his party to a downtown café, then popular among business and newspaper men. the place was below the sidewalk, was reached by a dozen marble steps, and the odour of its griddle-cakes took the air of the street. ninian made a great show of selecting a table, changed once, called the waiter "my man" and rubbed soft hands on "what do you say? shall it be lobster?" he ordered the dinner, instructing the waiter with painstaking gruffness. "not that they can touch _your_ cooking here, miss lulu," he said, settling himself to wait, and crumbling a crust. dwight, expanding a bit in the aura of the food, observed that lulu was a regular chef, that was what lulu was. he still would not look at his wife, who now remarked: "sheff, dwightie. not cheff." this was a mean advantage, which he pretended not to hear--another mean advantage. "ina," said lulu, "your hat's just a little mite--no, over the other way." "was there anything to prevent your speaking of that before?" ina inquired acidly. "i started to and then somebody always said something," said lulu humbly. nothing could so much as cloud lulu's hour. she was proof against any shadow. "say, but you look tremendous to-night," dwight observed to her. understanding perfectly that this was said to tease his wife, lulu yet flushed with pleasure. she saw two women watching, and she thought: "they're feeling sorry for ina--nobody talking to her." she laughed at everything that the men said. she passionately wanted to talk herself. "how many folks keep going past," she said, many times. at length, having noted the details of all the clothes in range, ina's isolation palled upon her and she set herself to take ninian's attention. she therefore talked with him about himself. "curious you've never married, nin," she said. "don't say it like that," he begged. "i might yet." ina laughed enjoyably. "yes, you might!" she met this. "she wants everybody to get married, but she wishes i hadn't," dwight threw in with exceeding rancour. they developed this theme exhaustively, dwight usually speaking in the third person and always with his shoulder turned a bit from his wife. it was inconceivable, the gusto with which they proceeded. ina had assumed for the purpose an air distrait, casual, attentive to the scene about them. but gradually her cheeks began to burn. "she'll cry," lulu thought in alarm, and said at random: "ina, that hat is so pretty--ever so much prettier than the old one." but ina said frostily that she never saw anything the matter with the old one. "let us talk," said ninian low, to lulu. "then they'll simmer down." he went on, in an undertone, about nothing in particular. lulu hardly heard what he said, it was so pleasant to have him talking to her in this confidential fashion; and she was pleasantly aware that his manner was open to misinterpretation. in the nick of time, the lobster was served. * * * * * dinner and the play--the show, as ninian called it. this show was "peter pan," chosen by ninian because the seats cost the most of those at any theatre. it was almost indecent to see how dwight herbert, the immortal soul, had warmed and melted at these contacts. by the time that all was over, and they were at the hotel for supper, such was his pleasurable excitation that he was once more playful, teasing, once more the irrepressible. but now his ina was to be won back, made it evident that she was not one lightly to overlook, and a fine firmness sat upon the little doubling chin. they discussed the play. not one of them had understood the story. the dog-kennel part--wasn't that the queerest thing? nothing to do with the rest of the play. "i was for the pirates. the one with the hook--he was my style," said dwight. "well, there it is again," ina cried. "they didn't belong to the real play, either." "oh, well," ninian said, "they have to put in parts, i suppose, to catch everybody. instead of a song and dance, they do that." "and i didn't understand," said ina, "why they all clapped when the principal character ran down front and said something to the audience that time. but they all did." ninian thought this might have been out of compliment. ina wished that monona might have seen, confessed that the last part was so pretty that she herself would not look; and into ina's eyes came their loveliest light. lulu sat there, hearing the talk about the play. "why couldn't i have said that?" she thought as the others spoke. all that they said seemed to her apropos, but she could think of nothing to add. the evening had been to her a light from heaven--how could she find anything to say? she sat in a daze of happiness, her mind hardly operative, her look moving from one to another. at last ninian looked at her. "sure you liked it, miss lulu?" "oh, yes! i think they all took their parts real well." it was not enough. she looked at them appealingly, knowing that she had not said enough. "you could hear everything they said," she added. "it was--" she dwindled to silence. dwight herbert savoured his rarebit with a great show of long wrinkled dimples. "excellent sauces they make here--excellent," he said, with the frown of an epicure. "a tiny wee bit more athabasca," he added, and they all laughed and told him that athabasca was a lake, of course. of course he meant tobasco, ina said. their entertainment and their talk was of this sort, for an hour. "well, now," said dwight herbert when it was finished, "somebody dance on the table." "dwightie!" "got to amuse ourselves somehow. come, liven up. they'll begin to read the funeral service over us." "why not say the wedding service?" asked ninian. in the mention of wedlock there was always something stimulating to dwight, something of overwhelming humour. he shouted a derisive endorsement of this proposal. "i shouldn't object," said ninian. "should you, miss lulu?" lulu now burned the slow red of her torture. they were all looking at her. she made an anguished effort to defend herself. "i don't know it," she said, "so i can't say it." ninian leaned toward her. "i, ninian, take thee, lulu, to be my wedded wife," he pronounced. "that's the way it goes!" "lulu daren't say it!" cried dwight. he laughed so loudly that those at the near tables turned. and, from the fastness of her wifehood and motherhood, ina laughed. really, it was ridiculous to think of lulu that way.... ninian laughed too. "course she don't dare say it," he challenged. from within lulu, that strange lulu, that other lulu who sometimes fought her battles, suddenly spoke out: "i, lulu, take thee, ninian, to be my wedded husband." "you will?" ninian cried. "i will," she said, laughing tremulously, to prove that she too could join in, could be as merry as the rest. "and i will. there, by jove, now have we entertained you, or haven't we?" ninian laughed and pounded his soft fist on the table. "oh, say, honestly!" ina was shocked. "i don't think you ought to--holy things----what's the _matter_, dwightie?" dwight herbert deacon's eyes were staring and his face was scarlet. "say, by george," he said, "a civil wedding is binding in this state." "a civil wedding? oh, well--" ninian dismissed it. "but i," said dwight, "happen to be a magistrate." they looked at one another foolishly. dwight sprang up with the indeterminate idea of inquiring something of some one, circled about and returned. ina had taken his chair and sat clasping lulu's hand. ninian continued to laugh. "i never saw one done so offhand," said dwight. "but what you've said is all you have to say according to law. and there don't have to be witnesses ... say!" he said, and sat down again. above that shroud-like plaited lace, the veins of lulu's throat showed dark as she swallowed, cleared her throat, swallowed again. "don't you let dwight scare you," she besought ninian. "scare me!" cried ninian. "why, i think it's a good job done, if you ask me." lulu's eyes flew to his face. as he laughed, he was looking at her, and now he nodded and shut and opened his eyes several times very fast. their points of light flickered. with a pang of wonder which pierced her and left her shaken, lulu looked. his eyes continued to meet her own. it was exactly like looking at his photograph. dwight had recovered his authentic air. "oh, well," he said, "we can inquire at our leisure. if it is necessary, i should say we can have it set aside quietly up here in the city--no one'll be the wiser." "set aside nothing!" said ninian. "i'd like to see it stand." "are you serious, nin?" "sure i'm serious." ina jerked gently at her sister's arm. "lulu! you hear him? what you going to say to that?" lulu shook her head. "he isn't in earnest," she said. "i am in earnest--hope to die," ninian declared. he was on two legs of his chair and was slightly tilting, so that the effect of his earnestness was impaired. but he was obviously in earnest. they were looking at lulu again. and now she looked at ninian, and there was something terrible in that look which tried to ask him, alone, about this thing. dwight exploded. "there was a fellow i know there in the theatre," he cried. "i'll get him on the line. he could tell me if there's any way--" and was off. ina inexplicably began touching away tears. "oh," she said, "what will mamma say?" lulu hardly heard her. mrs. bett was incalculably distant. "you sure?" lulu said low to ninian. for the first time, something in her exceeding isolation really touched him. "say," he said, "you come on with me. we'll have it done over again somewhere, if you say so." "oh," said lulu, "if i thought--" he leaned and patted her hand. "good girl," he said. they sat silent, ninian padding on the cloth with the flat of his plump hands. dwight returned. "it's a go all right," he said. he sat down, laughed weakly, rubbed at his face. "you two are tied as tight as the church could tie you." "good enough," said ninian. "eh, lulu?" "it's--it's all right, i guess," lulu said. "well, i'll be dished," said dwight. "sister!" said ina. ninian meditated, his lips set tight and high. it is impossible to trace the processes of this man. perhaps they were all compact of the devil-may-care attitude engendered in any persistent traveller. perhaps the incomparable cookery of lulu played its part. "i was going to make a trip south this month," he said, "on my way home from here. suppose we get married again by somebody or other, and start right off. you'd like that, wouldn't you--going south?" "yes," said lulu only. "it's july," said ina, with her sense of fitness, but no one heard. it was arranged that their trunks should follow them--ina would see to that, though she was scandalised that they were not first to return to warbleton for the blessing of mrs. bett. "mamma won't mind," said lulu. "mamma can't stand a fuss any more." they left the table. the men and women still sitting at the other tables saw nothing unusual about these four, indifferently dressed, indifferently conditioned. the hotel orchestra, playing ragtime in deafening concord, made lulu's wedding march. * * * * * it was still early next day--a hot sunday--when ina and dwight reached home. mrs. bett was standing on the porch. "where's lulie?" asked mrs. bett. they told. mrs. bett took it in, a bit at a time. her pale eyes searched their faces, she shook her head, heard it again, grasped it. her first question was: "who's going to do your work?" ina had thought of that, and this was manifest. "oh," she said, "you and i'll have to manage." mrs. bett meditated, frowning. "i left the bacon for her to cook for your breakfasts," she said. "i can't cook bacon fit to eat. neither can you." "we've had our breakfasts," ina escaped from this dilemma. "had it up in the city, on expense?" "well, we didn't have much." in mrs. bett's eyes tears gathered, but they were not for lulu. "i should think," she said, "i should think lulie might have had a little more gratitude to her than this." on their way to church ina and dwight encountered di, who had left the house some time earlier, stepping sedately to church in company with bobby larkin. di was in white, and her face was the face of an angel, so young, so questioning, so utterly devoid of her sophistication. "that child," said ina, "_must_ not see so much of that larkin boy. she's just a little, little girl." "of course she mustn't," said dwight sharply, "and if _i_ was her mother--" "oh stop that!" said ina, sotto voce, at the church steps. to every one with whom they spoke in the aisle after church, ina announced their news: had they heard? lulu married dwight's brother ninian in the city yesterday. oh, sudden, yes! and ro_man_tic ... spoken with that upward inflection to which ina was a prey. v august mrs. bett had been having a "tantrim," brought on by nothing definable. abruptly as she and ina were getting supper, mrs. bett had fallen silent, had in fact refused to reply when addressed. when all was ready and dwight was entering, hair wetly brushed, she had withdrawn from the room and closed her bedroom door until it echoed. "she's got one again," said ina, grieving; "dwight, you go." he went, showing no sign of annoyance, and stood outside his mother-in-law's door and knocked. no answer. "mother, come and have some supper." no answer. "looks to me like your muffins was just about the best ever." no answer. "come on--i had something funny to tell you and ina." he retreated, knowing nothing of the admirable control exercised by this woman for her own passionate satisfaction in sliding him away unsatisfied. he showed nothing but anxious concern, touched with regret, at his failure. ina, too, returned from that door discomfited. dwight made a gallant effort to retrieve the fallen fortunes of their evening meal, and turned upon di, who had just entered, and with exceeding facetiousness inquired how bobby was. di looked hunted. she could never tell whether her parents were going to tease her about bobby, or rebuke her for being seen with him. it depended on mood, and this mood di had not the experience to gauge. she now groped for some neutral fact, and mentioned that he was going to take her and jenny for ice cream that night. ina's irritation found just expression in office of motherhood. "i won't have you downtown in the evening," she said. "but you let me go last night." "all the better reason why you should not go to-night." "i tell you," cried dwight. "why not all walk down? why not all have ice cream...." he was all gentleness and propitiation, the reconciling element in his home. "me too?" monona's ardent hope, her terrible fear were in her eyebrows, her parted lips. "you too, certainly." dwight could not do enough for every one. monona clapped her hands. "goody! goody! last time you wouldn't let me go." "that's why papa's going to take you this time," ina said. these ethical balances having been nicely struck, ina proposed another: "but," she said, "but, you must eat more supper or you can _not_ go." "i don't want any more." monona's look was honest and piteous. "makes no difference. you must eat or you'll get sick." "no!" "very well, then. no ice cream soda for such a little girl." monona began to cry quietly. but she passed her plate. she ate, chewing high, and slowly. "see? she can eat if she will eat," ina said to dwight. "the only trouble is, she will _not_ take the time." "she don't put her mind on her meals," dwight herbert diagnosed it. "oh, bigger bites than that!" he encouraged his little daughter. di's mind had been proceeding along its own paths. "are you going to take jenny and bobby too?" she inquired. "certainly. the whole party." "bobby'll want to pay for jenny and i." "me, darling," said ina patiently, punctiliously--and less punctiliously added: "nonsense. this is going to be papa's little party." "but we had the engagement with bobby. it was an engagement." "well," said ina, "i think we'll just set that aside--that important engagement. i think we just will." "papa! bobby'll want to be the one to pay for jenny and i--" "di!" ina's voice dominated all. "will you be more careful of your grammar or shall i speak to you again?" "well, i'd rather use bad grammar than--than--than--" she looked resentfully at her mother, her father. their moral defection was evident to her, but it was indefinable. they told her that she ought to be ashamed when papa wanted to give them all a treat. she sat silent, frowning, put-upon. "look, mamma!" cried monona, swallowing a third of an egg at one impulse. ina saw only the empty plate. "mamma's nice little girl!" cried she, shining upon her child. the rules of the ordinary sports of the playground, scrupulously applied, would have clarified the ethical atmosphere of this little family. but there was no one to apply them. * * * * * when di and monona had been excused, dwight asked: "nothing new from the bride and groom?" "no. and, dwight, it's been a week since the last." "see--where were they then?" he knew perfectly well that they were in savannah, georgia, but ina played his game, told him, and retold bits that the letter had said. "i don't understand," she added, "why they should go straight to oregon without coming here first." dwight hazarded that nin probably had to get back, and shone pleasantly in the reflected importance of a brother filled with affairs. "i don't know what to make of lulu's letters," ina proceeded. "they're so--so--" "you haven't had but two, have you?" "that's all--well, of course it's only been a month. but both letters have been so--" ina was never really articulate. whatever corner of her brain had the blood in it at the moment seemed to be operative, and she let the matter go at that. "i don't think it's fair to mamma--going off that way. leaving her own mother. why, she may never see mamma again--" ina's breath caught. into her face came something of the lovely tenderness with which she sometimes looked at monona and di. she sprang up. she had forgotten to put some supper to warm for mamma. the lovely light was still in her face as she bustled about against the time of mamma's recovery from her tantrim. dwight's face was like this when he spoke of his foster-mother. in both these beings there was something which functioned as pure love. mamma had recovered and was eating cold scrambled eggs on the corner of the kitchen table when the ice cream soda party was ready to set out. dwight threw her a casual "better come, too, mother bett," but she shook her head. she wished to go, wished it with violence, but she contrived to give to her arbitrary refusal a quality of contempt. when jenny arrived with bobby, she had brought a sheaf of gladioli for mrs. bett, and took them to her in the kitchen, and as she laid the flowers beside her, the young girl stopped and kissed her. "you little darling!" cried mrs. bett, and clung to her, her lifted eyes lit by something intense and living. but when the ice cream party had set off at last, mrs. bett left her supper, gathered up the flowers, and crossed the lawn to the old cripple, grandma gates. "inie sha'n't have 'em," the old woman thought. and then it was quite beautiful to watch her with grandma gates, whom she tended and petted, to whose complainings she listened, and to whom she tried to tell the small events of her day. when her neighbour had gone, grandma gates said that it was as good as a dose of medicine to have her come in. mrs. bett sat on the porch restored and pleasant when the family returned. di and bobby had walked home with jenny. "look here," said dwight herbert, "who is it sits home and has _ice_ cream put in her lap, like a queen?" "vanilly or chocolate?" mrs. bett demanded. "chocolate, mammal" ina cried, with the breeze in her voice. "vanilly sets better," mrs. bett said. they sat with her on the porch while she ate. ina rocked on a creaking board. dwight swung a leg over the railing. monona sat pulling her skirt over her feet, and humming all on one note. there was no moon, but the warm dusk had a quality of transparency as if it were lit in all its particles. the gate opened, and some one came up the walk. they looked, and it was lulu. * * * * * "well, if it ain't miss lulu bett!" dwight cried involuntarily, and ina cried out something. "how did you know?" lulu asked. "know! know what?" "that it ain't lulu deacon. hello, mamma." she passed the others, and kissed her mother. "say," said mrs. bett placidly. "and i just ate up the last spoonful o' cream." "ain't lulu deacon!" ina's voice rose and swelled richly. "what you talking?" "didn't he write to you?" lulu asked. "not a word." dwight answered this. "all we've had we had from you--the last from savannah, georgia." "savannah, georgia," said lulu, and laughed. they could see that she was dressed well, in dark red cloth, with a little tilting hat and a drooping veil. she did not seem in any wise upset, nor, save for that nervous laughter, did she show her excitement. "well, but he's here with you, isn't he?" dwight demanded. "isn't he here? where is he?" "must be 'most to oregon by this time," lulu said. "oregon!" "you see," said lulu, "he had another wife." "why, he had not!" exclaimed dwight absurdly. "yes. he hasn't seen her for fifteen years and he thinks she's dead. but he isn't sure." "nonsense," said dwight. "why, of course she's dead if he thinks so." "i had to be sure," said lulu. at first dumb before this, ina now cried out: "monona! go upstairs to bed at once." "it's only quarter to," said monona, with assurance. "do as mamma tells you." "but--" "monona!" she went, kissing them all good-night and taking her time about it. everything was suspended while she kissed them and departed, walking slowly backward. "married?" said mrs. bett with tardy apprehension. "lulie, was your husband married?" "yes," lulu said, "my husband was married, mother." "mercy," said ina. "think of anything like that in our family." "well, go on--go on!" dwight cried. "tell us about it." lulu spoke in a monotone, with her old manner of hesitation: "we were going to oregon. first down to new orleans and then out to california and up the coast." on this she paused and sighed. "well, then at savannah, georgia, he said he thought i better know, first. so he told me." "yes--well, what did he _say_?" dwight demanded irritably. "cora waters," said lulu. "cora waters. she married him down in san diego, eighteen years ago. she went to south america with him." "well, he never let us know of it, if she did," said dwight. "no. she married him just before he went. then in south america, after two years, she ran away again. that's all he knows." "that's a pretty story," said dwight contemptuously. "he says if she'd been alive, she'd been after him for a divorce. and she never has been, so he thinks she must be dead. the trouble is," lulu said again, "he wasn't sure. and i had to be sure." "well, but mercy," said ina, "couldn't he find out now?" "it might take a long time," said lulu simply, "and i didn't want to stay and not know." "well, then, why didn't he say so here?" ina's indignation mounted. "he would have. but you know how sudden everything was. he said he thought about telling us right there in the restaurant, but of course that'd been hard--wouldn't it? and then he felt so sure she was dead." "why did he tell you at all, then?" demanded ina, whose processes were simple. "yes. well! why indeed?" dwight herbert brought out these words with a curious emphasis. "i thought that, just at first," lulu said, "but only just at first. of course that wouldn't have been right. and then, you see, he gave me my choice." "gave you your choice?" dwight echoed. "yes. about going on and taking the chances. he gave me my choice when he told me, there in savannah, georgia." "what made him conclude, by then, that you ought to be told?" dwight asked. "why, he'd got to thinking about it," she answered. a silence fell. lulu sat looking out toward the street. "the only thing," she said, "as long as it happened, i kind of wish he hadn't told me till we got to oregon." "lulu!" said ina. ina began to cry. "you poor thing!" she said. her tears were a signal to mrs. bett, who had been striving to understand all. now she too wept, tossing up her hands and rocking her body. her saucer and spoon clattered on her knee. "he felt bad too," lulu said. "he!" said dwight. "he must have." "it's you," ina sobbed. "it's you. _my_ sister!" "well," said lulu, "but i never thought of it making you both feel bad, or i wouldn't have come home. i knew," she added, "it'd make dwight feel bad. i mean, it was his brother--" "thank goodness," ina broke in, "nobody need know about it." lulu regarded her, without change. "oh, yes," she said in her monotone. "people will have to know." "i do not see the necessity." dwight's voice was an edge. then too he said "do not," always with dwight betokening the finalities. "why, what would they think?" lulu asked, troubled. "what difference does it make what they think?". "why," said lulu slowly, "i shouldn't like--you see they might--why, dwight, i think we'll have to tell them." "you do! you think the disgrace of bigamy in this family is something the whole town will have to know about?" lulu looked at him with parted lips. "say," she said, "i never thought about it being that." dwight laughed. "what did you think it was? and whose disgrace is it, pray?" "ninian's," said lulu. "ninian's! well, he's gone. but you're here. and i'm here. folks'll feel sorry for you. but the disgrace--that'd reflect on me. see?" "but if we don't tell, what'll they think then?" said dwight: "they'll think what they always think when a wife leaves her husband. they'll think you couldn't get along. that's all." "i should hate that," said lulu. "well, i should hate the other, let me tell you." "dwight, dwight," said ina. "let's go in the house. i'm afraid they'll hear--" as they rose, mrs. bett plucked at her returned daughter's sleeve. "lulie," she said, "was his other wife--was she _there_?" "no, no, mother. she wasn't there." mrs. bett's lips moved, repeating the words. "then that ain't so bad," she said. "i was afraid maybe she turned you out." "no," lulu said, "it wasn't that bad, mother." mrs. bett brightened. in little matters, she quarrelled and resented, but the large issues left her blank. through some indeterminate sense of the importance due this crisis, the deacons entered their parlour. dwight lighted that high, central burner and faced about, saying: "in fact, i simply will not have it, lulu! you expect, i take it, to make your home with us in the future, on the old terms." "well--" "i mean, did ninian give you any money?" "no. he didn't give me any money--only enough to get home on. and i kept my suit--why!" she flung her head back, "i wouldn't have taken any money!" "that means," said dwight, "that you will have to continue to live here--on the old terms, and of course i'm quite willing that you should. let me tell you, however, that this is on condition--on condition that this disgraceful business is kept to ourselves." she made no attempt to combat him now. she looked back at him, quivering, and in a great surprise, but she said nothing. "truly, lulu," said ina, "wouldn't that be best? they'll talk anyway. but this way they'll only talk about you, and the other way it'd be about all of us." lulu said only: "but the other way would be the truth." dwight's eyes narrowed: "my dear lulu," he said, "are you _sure_ of that?" "sure?" "yes. did he give you any proofs?" "proofs?" "letters--documents of any sort? any sort of assurance that he was speaking the truth?" "why, no," said lulu. "proofs--no. he told me." "he told you!" "why, that was hard enough to have to do. it was terrible for him to have to do. what proofs--" she stopped, puzzled. "didn't it occur to you," said dwight, "that he might have told you that because he didn't want to have to go on with it?" as she met his look, some power seemed to go from lulu. she sat down, looked weakly at them, and within her closed lips her jaw was slightly fallen. she said nothing. and seeing on her skirt a spot of dust she began to rub at that. "why, dwight!" ina cried, and moved to her sister's side. "i may as well tell you," he said, "that i myself have no idea that ninian told you the truth. he was always imagining things--you saw that. i know him pretty well--have been more or less in touch with him the whole time. in short, i haven't the least idea he was ever married before." lulu continued to rub at her skirt. "i never thought of that," she said. "look here," dwight went on persuasively, "hadn't you and he had some little tiff when he told you?" "no--no! why, not once. why, we weren't a bit like you and ina." she spoke simply and from her heart and without guile. "evidently not," dwight said drily. lulu went on: "he was very good to me. this dress--and my shoes--and my hat. and another dress, too." she found the pins and took off her hat. "he liked the red wing," she said. "i wanted black--oh, dwight! he did tell me the truth!" it was as if the red wing had abruptly borne mute witness. dwight's tone now mounted. his manner, it mounted too. "even if it is true," said he, "i desire that you should keep silent and protect my family from this scandal. i merely mention my doubts to you for your own profit." "my own profit!" she said no more, but rose and moved to the door. "lulu--you see! with di and all!" ina begged. "we just couldn't have this known--even if it was so." "you have it in your hands," said dwight, "to repay me, lulu, for anything that you feel i may have done for you in the past. you also have it in your hands to decide whether your home here continues. that is not a pleasant position for me to find myself in. it is distinctly unpleasant, i may say. but you see for yourself." lulu went on, into the passage. "wasn't she married when she thought she was?" mrs. bett cried shrilly. "mamma," said ina. "do, please, remember monona. yes--dwight thinks she's married all right now--and that it's all right, all the time." "well, i hope so, for pity sakes," said mrs. bett, and left the room with her daughter. hearing the stir, monona upstairs lifted her voice: "mamma! come on and hear my prayers, why don't you?" * * * * * when they came downstairs next morning, lulu had breakfast ready. "well!" cried ina in her curving tone, "if this isn't like old times." lulu said yes, that it was like old times, and brought the bacon to the table. "lulu's the only one in _this_ house can cook the bacon so's it'll chew," mrs. bett volunteered. she was wholly affable, and held contentedly to ina's last word that dwight thought now it was all right. "ho!" said dwight. "the happy family, once more about the festive toaster." he gauged the moment to call for good cheer. ina, too, became breezy, blithe. monona caught their spirit and laughed, head thrown well back and gently shaken. di came in. she had been told that auntie lulu was at home, and that she, di, wasn't to say anything to her about anything, nor anything to anybody else about auntie lulu being back. under these prohibitions, which loosed a thousand speculations, di was very nearly paralysed. she stared at her aunt lulu incessantly. not one of them had even a talent for the casual, save lulu herself. lulu was amazingly herself. she took her old place, assumed her old offices. when monona declared against bacon, it was lulu who suggested milk toast and went to make it. "mamma," di whispered then, like escaping steam, "isn't uncle ninian coming too?" "hush. no. now don't ask any more questions." "well, can't i tell bobby and jenny she's here?" "_no_. don't say anything at all about her." "but, mamma. what has she done?" "di! do as mamma tells you. don't you think mamma knows best?" di of course did not think so, had not thought so for a long time. but now dwight said: "daughter! are you a little girl or are you our grown-up young lady?" "i don't know," said di reasonably, "but i think you're treating me like a little girl now." "shame, di," said ina, unabashed by the accident of reason being on the side of di. "i'm eighteen," di reminded them forlornly, "and through high school." "then act so," boomed her father. baffled, thwarted, bewildered, di went over to jenny plow's and there imparted understanding by the simple process of letting jenny guess, to questions skilfully shaped. when dwight said, "look at my beautiful handkerchief," displayed a hole, sent his ina for a better, lulu, with a manner of haste, addressed him: "dwight. it's a funny thing, but i haven't ninian's oregon address." "well?" "well, i wish you'd give it to me." dwight tightened and lifted his lips. "it would seem," he said, "that you have no real use for that particular address, lulu." "yes, i have. i want it. you have it, haven't you, dwight?" "certainly i have it." "won't you please write it down for me?" she had ready a bit of paper and a pencil stump. "my dear lulu, now why revive anything? why not be sensible and leave this alone? no good can come by--" "but why shouldn't i have his address?" "if everything is over between you, why should you?" "but you say he's still my husband." dwight flushed. "if my brother has shown his inclination as plainly as i judge that he has, it is certainly not my place to put you in touch with him again." "you won't give it to me?" "my dear lulu, in all kindness--no." his ina came running back, bearing handkerchiefs with different coloured borders for him to choose from. he chose the initial that she had embroidered, and had not the good taste not to kiss her. * * * * * they were all on the porch that evening, when lulu came downstairs. "_where_ are you going?" ina demanded, sisterly. and on hearing that lulu had an errand, added still more sisterly; "well, but mercy, what you so dressed up for?" lulu was in a thin black and white gown which they had never seen, and wore the tilting hat with the red wing. "ninian bought me this," said lulu only. "but, lulu, don't you think it might be better to keep, well--out of sight for a few days?" ina's lifted look besought her. "why?" lulu asked. "why set people wondering till we have to?" "they don't have to wonder, far as i'm concerned," said lulu, and went down the walk. ina looked at dwight. "she never spoke to me like that in her life before," she said. she watched her sister's black and white figure going erectly down the street. "that gives me the funniest feeling," said ina, "as if lulu had on clothes bought for her by some one that wasn't--that was--" "by her husband who has left her," said dwight sadly. "is that what it is, papa?" di asked alertly. for a wonder, she was there; had been there the greater part of the day--most of the time staring, fascinated, at her aunt lulu. "that's what it is, my little girl," said dwight, and shook his head. "well, i think it's a shame," said di stoutly. "and i think uncle ninian is a slunge." "di!" "i do. and i'd be ashamed to think anything else. i'd like to tell everybody." "there is," said dwight, "no need for secrecy--now." "dwight!" said ina--ina's eyes always remained expressionless, but it must have been her lashes that looked so startled. "no need whatever for secrecy," he repeated with firmness. "the truth is, lulu's husband has tired of her and sent her home. we must face it." "but, dwight--how awful for lulu...." "lulu," said dwight, "has us to stand by her." lulu, walking down the main street, thought: "now mis' chambers is seeing me. now mis' curtis. there's somebody behind the vines at mis' martin's. here comes mis' grove and i've got to speak to her...." one and another and another met her, and every one cried out at her some version of: "lulu bett!" or, "w-well, it _isn't_ lulu bett any more, is it? well, what are you doing here? i thought...." "i'm back to stay," she said. "the idea! well, where you hiding that handsome husband of yours? say, but we were surprised! you're the sly one--" "my--mr. deacon isn't here." "oh." "no. he's west." "oh, i see." having no arts, she must needs let the conversation die like this, could invent nothing concealing or gracious on which to move away. she went to the post-office. it was early, there were few at the post-office--with only one or two there had she to go through her examination. then she went to the general delivery window, tense for a new ordeal. to her relief, the face which was shown there was one strange to her, a slim youth, reading a letter of his own, and smiling. "excuse me," said lulu faintly. the youth looked up, with eyes warmed by the words on the pink paper which he held. "could you give me the address of mr. ninian deacon?" "let's see--you mean dwight deacon, i guess?" "no. it's his brother. he's been here. from oregon. i thought he might have given you his address--" she dwindled away. "wait a minute," said the youth. "nope. no address here. say, why don't you send it to his brother? he'd know. dwight deacon, the dentist." "i'll do that," lulu said absurdly, and turned away. she went back up the street, walking fast now to get away from them all. once or twice she pretended not to see a familiar face. but when she passed the mirror in an insurance office window, she saw her reflection and at its appearance she felt surprise and pleasure. "well!" she thought, almost in ina's own manner. abruptly her confidence rose. something of this confidence was still upon her when she returned. they were in the dining-room now, all save di, who was on the porch with bobby, and monona, who was in bed and might be heard extravagantly singing. lulu sat down with her hat on. when dwight inquired playfully, "don't we look like company?" she did not reply. he looked at her speculatively. where had she gone, with whom had she talked, what had she told? ina looked at her rather fearfully. but mrs. bett rocked contentedly and ate cardamom seeds. "whom did you see?" ina asked. lulu named them. "see them to talk to?" from dwight. oh, yes. they had all stopped. "what did they say?" ina burst out. they had inquired for ninian, lulu said; and said no more. dwight mulled this. lulu might have told every one of these women that cock-and-bull story with which she had come home. it might be all over town. of course, in that case he could turn lulu out--should do so, in fact. still the story would be all over town. "dwight," said lulu, "i want ninian's address." "going to write to him!" ina cried incredulously. "i want to ask him for the proofs that dwight wanted." "my dear lulu," dwight said impatiently, "you are not the one to write. have you no delicacy?" lulu smiled--a strange smile, originating and dying in one corner of her mouth. "yes," she said. "so much delicacy that i want to be sure whether i'm married or not." dwight cleared his throat with a movement which seemed to use his shoulders for the purpose. "i myself will take this up with my brother," he said. "i will write to him about it." lulu sprang to her feet. "write to him _now_!" she cried. "really," said dwight, lifting his brows. "now--now!" lulu said. she moved about, collecting writing materials from their casual lodgments on shelf and table. she set all before him and stood by him. "write to him now," she said again. "my dear lulu, don't be absurd." she said: "ina. help me. if it was dwight--and they didn't know whether he had another wife, or not, and you wanted to ask him--oh, don't you see? help me." ina was not yet the woman to cry for justice for its own sake, nor even to stand by another woman. she was primitive, and her instinct was to look to her own male merely. "well," she said, "of course. but why not let dwight do it in his own way? wouldn't that be better?" she put it to her sister fairly: now, no matter what dwight's way was, wouldn't that be better? "mother!" said lulu. she looked irresolutely toward her mother. but mrs. bett was eating cardamom seeds with exceeding gusto, and lulu looked away. caught by the gesture, mrs. bett voiced her grievance. "lulie," she said, "set down. take off your hat, why don't you?" lulu turned upon dwight a quiet face which he had never seen before. "you write that letter to ninian," she said, "and you make him tell you so you'll understand. _i_ know he spoke the truth. but i want you to know." "m--m," said dwight. "and then i suppose you're going to tell it all over town--as soon as you have the proofs." "i'm going to tell it all over town," said lulu, "just as it is--unless you write to him now." "lulu!" cried ina. "oh, you wouldn't." "i would," said lulu. "i will." dwight was sobered. this unimagined lulu looked capable of it. but then he sneered. "and get turned out of this house, as you would be?" "dwight!" cried his ina. "oh, you wouldn't!" "i would," said dwight. "i will. lulu knows it." "i shall tell what i know and then leave your house anyway," said lulu, "unless you get ninian's word. and i want you should write him now." "leave your mother? and ina?" he asked. "leave everything," said lulu. "oh, dwight," said ina, "we can't get along without lulu." she did not say in what particulars, but dwight knew. dwight looked at lulu, an upward, sidewise look, with a manner of peering out to see if she meant it. and he saw. he shrugged, pursed his lips crookedly, rolled his head to signify the inexpressible. "isn't that like a woman?" he demanded. he rose. "rather than let you in for a show of temper," he said grandly, "i'd do anything." he wrote the letter, addressed it, his hand elaborately curved in secrecy about the envelope, pocketed it. "ina and i'll walk down with you to mail it," said lulu. dwight hesitated, frowned. his ina watched him with consulting brows. "i was going," said dwight, "to propose a little stroll before bedtime." he roved about the room. "where's my beautiful straw hat? there's nothing like a brisk walk to induce sound, restful sleep," he told them. he hummed a bar. "you'll be all right, mother?" lulu asked. mrs. bett did not look up. "these cardamon hev got a little mite too dry," she said. * * * * * in their room, ina and dwight discussed the incredible actions of lulu. "i saw," said dwight, "i saw she wasn't herself. i'd do anything to avoid having a scene--you know that." his glance swept a little anxiously his ina. "you know that, don't you?" he sharply inquired. "but i really think you ought to have written to ninian about it," she now dared to say. "it's--it's not a nice position for lulu." "nice? well, but whom has she got to blame for it?" "why, ninian," said ina. dwight threw out his hands. "herself," he said. "to tell you the truth, i was perfectly amazed at the way she snapped him up there in that restaurant." "why, but, dwight--" "brazen," he said. "oh, it was brazen." "it was just fun, in the first place." "but no really nice woman--" he shook his head. "dwight! lulu _is_ nice. the idea!" he regarded her. "would you have done that?" he would know. under his fond look, she softened, took his homage, accepted everything, was silent. "certainly not," he said. "lulu's tastes are not fine like yours. i should never think of you as sisters." "she's awfully good," ina said feebly. fifteen years of married life behind her--but this was sweet and she could not resist. "she has excellent qualities." he admitted it. "but look at the position she's in--married to a man who tells her he has another wife in order to get free. now, no really nice woman--" "no really nice man--" ina did say that much. "ah," said dwight, "but _you_ could never be in such a position. no, no. lulu is sadly lacking somewhere." ina sighed, threw back her head, caught her lower lip with her upper, as might be in a hem. "what if it was di?" she supposed. "di!" dwight's look rebuked his wife. "di," he said, "was born with ladylike feelings." it was not yet ten o'clock. bobby larkin was permitted to stay until ten. from the veranda came the indistinguishable murmur of those young voices. "bobby," di was saying within that murmur, "bobby, you don't kiss me as if you really wanted to kiss me, to-night." vi september the office of dwight herbert deacon, dentist, gold work a speciality (sic) in black lettering, and justice of the peace in gold, was above a store which had been occupied by one unlucky tenant after another, and had suffered long periods of vacancy when ladies' aid societies served lunches there, under great white signs, badly lettered. some months of disuse were now broken by the news that the store had been let to a music man. a music man, what on earth was that, warbleton inquired. the music man arrived, installed three pianos, and filled his window with sheet music, as sung by many ladies who swung in hammocks or kissed their hands on the music covers. while he was still moving in, dwight herbert deacon wandered downstairs and stood informally in the door of the new store. the music man, a pleasant-faced chap of thirty-odd, was rubbing at the face of a piano. "hello, there!" he said. "can i sell you an upright?" "if i can take it out in pulling your teeth, you can," dwight replied. "or," said he, "i might marry you free, either one." on this their friendship began. thenceforth, when business was dull, the idle hours of both men were beguiled with idle gossip. "how the dickens did you think of pianos for a line?" dwight asked him once. "now, my father was a dentist, so i came by it natural--never entered my head to be anything else. but _pianos_--" the music man--his name was neil cornish--threw up his chin in a boyish fashion, and said he'd be jiggered if he knew. all up and down the warbleton main street, the chances are that the answer would sound the same. "i'm studying law when i get the chance," said cornish, as one who makes a bid to be thought of more highly. "i see," said dwight, respectfully dwelling on the verb. later on cornish confided more to dwight: he was to come by a little inheritance some day--not much, but something. yes, it made a man feel a certain confidence.... "_don't_ it?" said dwight heartily, as if he knew. every one liked cornish. he told funny stories, and he never compared warbleton save to its advantage. so at last dwight said tentatively at lunch: "what if i brought that neil cornish up for supper, one of these nights?" "oh, dwightie, do," said ina. "if there's a man in town, let's know it." "what if i brought him up to-night?" up went ina's eyebrows. _to-night_? "'scalloped potatoes and meat loaf and sauce and bread and butter," lulu contributed. cornish came to supper. he was what is known in warbleton as dapper. this ina saw as she emerged on the veranda in response to dwight's informal halloo on his way upstairs. she herself was in white muslin, now much too snug, and a blue ribbon. to her greeting their guest replied in that engaging shyness which is not awkwardness. he moved in some pleasant web of gentleness and friendliness. they asked him the usual questions, and he replied, rocking all the time with a faint undulating motion of head and shoulders: warbleton was one of the prettiest little towns that he had ever seen. he liked the people--they seemed different. he was sure to like the place, already liked it. lulu came to the door in ninian's thin black-and-white gown. she shook hands with the stranger, not looking at him, and said, "come to supper, all." monona was already in her place, singing under-breath. mrs. bett, after hovering in the kitchen door, entered; but they forgot to introduce her. "where's di?" asked ina. "i declare that daughter of mine is never anywhere." a brief silence ensued as they were seated. there being a guest, grace was to come, and dwight said unintelligibly and like lightning a generic appeal to bless this food, forgive all our sins and finally save us. and there was something tremendous, in this ancient form whereby all stages of men bow in some now unrecognized recognition of the ceremonial of taking food to nourish life--and more. at "amen" di flashed in, her offices at the mirror fresh upon her--perfect hair, silk dress turned up at the hem. she met cornish, crimsoned, fluttered to her seat, joggled the table and, "oh, dear," she said audibly to her mother, "i forgot my ring." the talk was saved alive by a frank effort. dwight served, making jests about everybody coming back for more. they went on with warbleton happenings, improvements and openings; and the runaway. cornish tried hard to make himself agreeable, not ingratiatingly but good-naturedly. he wished profoundly that before coming he had looked up some more stories in the back of the musical gazettes. lulu surreptitiously pinched off an ant that was running at large upon the cloth and thereafter kept her eyes steadfastly on the sugar-bowl to see if it could be from _that_. dwight pretended that those whom he was helping a second time were getting more than their share and facetiously landed on di about eating so much that she would grow up and be married, first thing she knew. at the word "married" di turned scarlet, laughed heartily and lifted her glass of water. "and what instruments do you play?" ina asked cornish, in an unrelated effort to lift the talk to musical levels. "well, do you know," said the music man, "i can't play a thing. don't know a black note from a white one." "you don't? why, di plays very prettily," said di's mother. "but then how can you tell what songs to order?" ina cried. "oh, by the music houses. you go by the sales." for the first time it occurred to cornish that this was ridiculous. "you know, i'm really studying law," he said, shyly and proudly. law! how very interesting, from ina. oh, but won't he bring up some songs some evening, for them to try over? her and di? at this di laughed and said that she was out of practice and lifted her glass of water. in the presence of adults di made one weep, she was so slender, so young, so without defences, so intolerably sensitive to every contact, so in agony lest she be found wanting. it was amazing how unlike was this di to the di who had ensnared bobby larkin. what was one to think? cornish paid very little attention to her. to lulu he said kindly, "don't you play, miss--?" he had not caught her name--no stranger ever did catch it. but dwight now supplied it: "miss lulu bett," he explained with loud emphasis, and lulu burned her slow red. this question lulu had usually answered by telling how a felon had interrupted her lessons and she had stopped "taking"--a participle sacred to music, in warbleton. this vignette had been a kind of epitome of lulu's biography. but now lulu was heard to say serenely: "no, but i'm quite fond of it. i went to a lovely concert--two weeks ago." they all listened. strange indeed to think of lulu as having had experiences of which they did not know. "yes," she said. "it was in savannah, georgia." she flushed, and lifted her eyes in a manner of faint defiance. "of course," she said, "i don't know the names of all the different instruments they played, but there were a good many." she laughed pleasantly as a part of her sentence. "they had some lovely tunes," she said. she knew that the subject was not exhausted and she hurried on. "the hall was real large," she superadded, "and there were quite a good many people there. and it was too warm." "i see," said cornish, and said what he had been waiting to say: that he too had been in savannah, georgia. lulu lit with pleasure. "well!" she said. and her mind worked and she caught at the moment before it had escaped. "isn't it a pretty city?" she asked. and cornish assented with the intense heartiness of the provincial. he, too, it seemed, had a conversational appearance to maintain by its own effort. he said that he had enjoyed being in that town and that he was there for two hours. "i was there for a week." lulu's superiority was really pretty. "have good weather?" cornish selected next. oh, yes. and they saw all the different buildings--but at her "we" she flushed and was silenced. she was colouring and breathing quickly. this was the first bit of conversation of this sort of lulu's life. after supper ina inevitably proposed croquet, dwight pretended to try to escape and, with his irrepressible mien, talked about ina, elaborate in his insistence on the third person--"she loves it, we have to humour her, you know how it is. or no! you don't know! but you will"--and more of the same sort, everybody laughing heartily, save lulu, who looked uncomfortable and wished that dwight wouldn't, and mrs. bett, who paid no attention to anybody that night, not because she had not been introduced, an omission, which she had not even noticed, but merely as another form of "tantrim." a self-indulgence. they emerged for croquet. and there on the porch sat jenny plow and bobby, waiting for di to keep an old engagement, which di pretended to have forgotten, and to be frightfully annoyed to have to keep. she met the objections of her parents with all the batteries of her coquetry, set for both bobby and cornish and, bold in the presence of "company," at last went laughing away. and in the minute areas of her consciousness she said to herself that bobby would be more in love with her than ever because she had risked all to go with him; and that cornish ought to be distinctly attracted to her because she had not stayed. she was as primitive as pollen. ina was vexed. she said so, pouting in a fashion which she should have outgrown with white muslin and blue ribbons, and she had outgrown none of these things. "that just spoils croquet," she said. "i'm vexed. now we can't have a real game." from the side-door, where she must have been lingering among the waterproofs, lulu stepped forth. "i'll play a game," she said. * * * * * when cornish actually proposed to bring some music to the deacons', ina turned toward dwight herbert all the facets of her responsibility. and ina's sense of responsibility toward di was enormous, oppressive, primitive, amounting, in fact, toward this daughter of dwight herbert's late wife, to an ability to compress the offices of stepmotherhood into the functions of the lecture platform. ina was a fountain of admonition. her idea of a daughter, step or not, was that of a manufactured product, strictly, which you constantly pinched and moulded. she thought that a moral preceptor had the right to secrete precepts. di got them all. but of course the crest of ina's responsibility was to marry di. this verb should be transitive only when lovers are speaking of each other, or the minister or magistrate is speaking of lovers. it should never be transitive when predicated of parents or any other third party. but it is. ina was quite agitated by its transitiveness as she took to her husband her incredible responsibility. "you know, herbert," said ina, "if this mr. cornish comes here _very_ much, what we may expect." "what may we expect?" demanded dwight herbert, crisply. ina always played his games, answered what he expected her to answer, pretended to be intuitive when she was not so, said "i know" when she didn't know at all. dwight herbert, on the other hand, did not even play her games when he knew perfectly what she meant, but pretended not to understand, made her repeat, made her explain. it was as if ina _had_ to please him for, say, a living; but as for that dentist, he had to please nobody. in the conversations of dwight and ina you saw the historical home forming in clots in the fluid wash of the community. "he'll fall in love with di," said ina. "and what of that? little daughter will have many a man fall in love with her, _i_ should say." "yes, but, dwight, what do you think of him?" "what do i think of him? my dear ina, i have other things to think of." "but we don't know anything about him, dwight--a stranger so." "on the other hand," said dwight with dignity, "i know a good deal about him." with a great air of having done the fatherly and found out about this stranger before bringing him into the home, dwight now related a number of stray circumstances dropped by cornish in their chance talks. "he has a little inheritance coming to him--shortly," dwight wound up. "an inheritance--really? how much, dwight?" "now isn't that like a woman. isn't it?" "i _thought_ he was from a good family," said ina. "my mercenary little pussy!" "well," she said with a sigh, "i shouldn't be surprised if di did really accept him. a young girl is awfully flattered when a good-looking older man pays her attention. haven't you noticed that?" dwight informed her, with an air of immense abstraction, that he left all such matters to her. being married to dwight was like a perpetual rehearsal, with dwight's self-importance for audience. a few evenings later, cornish brought up the music. there was something overpowering in this brown-haired chap against the background of his negligible little shop, his whole capital in his few pianos. for he looked hopefully ahead, woke with plans, regarded the children in the street as if, conceivably, children might come within the confines of his life as he imagined it. a preposterous little man. and a preposterous store, empty, echoing, bare of wall, the three pianos near the front, the remainder of the floor stretching away like the corridors of the lost. he was going to get a dark curtain, he explained, and furnish the back part of the store as his own room. what dignity in phrasing, but how mean that little room would look--cot bed, washbowl and pitcher, and little mirror--almost certainly a mirror with a wavy surface, almost certainly that. "and then, you know," he always added, "i'm reading law." the plows had been asked in that evening. bobby was there. they were, dwight herbert said, going to have a sing. di was to play. and di was now embarked on the most difficult feat of her emotional life, the feat of remaining to bobby larkin the lure, the beloved lure, the while to cornish she instinctively played the rôle of womanly little girl. "up by the festive lamp, everybody!" dwight herbert cried. as they gathered about the upright piano, that startled, dwightish instrument, standing in its attitude of unrest, lulu came in with another lamp. "do you need this?" she asked. they did not need it, there was, in fact, no place to set it, and this lulu must have known. but dwight found a place. he swept ninian's photograph from the marble shelf of the mirror, and when lulu had placed the lamp there, dwight thrust the photograph into her hands. "you take care of that," he said, with a droop of lid discernible only to those who--presumably--loved him. his old attitude toward lulu had shown a terrible sharpening in these ten days since her return. she stood uncertainly, in the thin black and white gown which ninian had bought for her, and held ninian's photograph and looked helplessly about. she was moving toward the door when cornish called: "see here! aren't _you_ going to sing?" "what?" dwight used the falsetto. "lulu sing? _lulu_?" she stood awkwardly. she had a piteous recrudescence of her old agony at being spoken to in the presence of others. but di had opened the "album of old favourites," which cornish had elected to bring, and now she struck the opening chords of "bonny eloise." lulu stood still, looking rather piteously at cornish. dwight offered his arm, absurdly crooked. the plows and ina and di began to sing. lulu moved forward, and stood a little away from them, and sang, too. she was still holding ninian's picture. dwight did not sing. he lifted his shoulders and his eyebrows and watched lulu. when they had finished, "lulu the mocking bird!" dwight cried. he said "ba-ird." "fine!" cried cornish. "why, miss lulu, you have a good voice!" "miss lulu bett, the mocking ba-ird!" dwight insisted. lulu was excited, and in some accession of faint power. she turned to him now, quietly, and with a look of appraisal. "lulu the dove," she then surprisingly said, "to put up with you." it was her first bit of conscious repartee to her brother-in-law. cornish was bending over di. "what next do you say?" he asked. she lifted her eyes, met his own, held them. "there's such a lovely, lovely sacred song here," she suggested, and looked down. "you like sacred music?" she turned to him her pure profile, her eyelids fluttering up, and said: "i love it." "that's it. so do i. nothing like a nice sacred piece," cornish declared. bobby larkin, at the end of the piano, looked directly into di's face. "give _me_ ragtime," he said now, with the effect of bursting out of somewhere. "don't you like ragtime?" he put it to her directly. di's eyes danced into his, they sparkled for him, her smile was a smile for him alone, all their store of common memories was in their look. "let's try 'my rock, my refuge,'" cornish suggested. "that's got up real attractive." di's profile again, and her pleased voice saying that this was the very one she had been hoping to hear him sing. they gathered for "my rock, my refuge." "oh," cried ina, at the conclusion of this number, "i'm having such a perfectly beautiful time. isn't everybody?" everybody's hostess put it. "lulu is," said dwight, and added softly to lulu: "she don't have to hear herself sing." it was incredible. he was like a bad boy with a frog. about that photograph of ninian he found a dozen ways to torture her, called attention to it, showed it to cornish, set it on the piano facing them all. everybody must have understood--excepting the plows. these two gentle souls sang placidly through the album of old favourites, and at the melodies smiled happily upon each other with an air from another world. always it was as if the plows walked some fair, inter-penetrating plane, from which they looked out as do other things not quite of earth, say, flowers and fire and music. strolling home that night, the plows were overtaken by some one who ran badly, and as if she were unaccustomed to running. "mis' plow, mis' plow!" this one called, and lulu stood beside them. "say!" she said. "do you know of any job that i could get me? i mean that i'd know how to do? a job for money.... i mean a job...." she burst into passionate crying. they drew her home with them. * * * * * lying awake sometime after midnight, lulu heard the telephone ring. she heard dwight's concerned "is that so?" and his cheerful "be right there." grandma gates was sick, she heard him tell ina. in a few moments he ran down the stairs. next day they told how dwight had sat for hours that night, holding grandma gates so that her back would rest easily and she could fight for her faint breath. the kind fellow had only about two hours of sleep the whole night long. next day there came a message from that woman who had brought up dwight--"made him what he was," he often complacently accused her. it was a note on a postal card--she had often written a few lines on a postal card to say that she had sent the maple sugar, or could ina get her some samples. now she wrote a few lines on a postal card to say that she was going to die with cancer. could dwight and ina come to her while she was still able to visit? if he was not too busy.... nobody saw the pity and the terror of that postal card. they stuck it up by the kitchen clock to read over from time to time, and before they left, dwight lifted the griddle of the cooking-stove and burned the postal card. and before they left lulu said: "dwight--you can't tell how long you'll be gone?" "of course not. how should i tell?" "no. and that letter might come while you're away." "conceivably. letters do come while a man's away!" "dwight--i thought if you wouldn't mind if i opened it--" "opened it?" "yes. you see, it'll be about me mostly--" "i should have said that it'll be about my brother mostly." "but you know what i mean. you wouldn't mind if i did open it?" "but you say you know what'll be in it." "so i did know--till you--i've got to see that letter, dwight." "and so you shall. but not till i show it to you. my dear lulu, you know how i hate having my mail interfered with." she might have said: "small souls always make a point of that." she said nothing. she watched them set off, and kept her mind on ina's thousand injunctions. "don't let di see much of bobby larkin. and, lulu--if it occurs to her to have mr. cornish come up to sing, of course you ask him. you might ask him to supper. and don't let mother overdo. and, lulu, now do watch monona's handkerchief--the child will never take a clean one if i'm not here to tell her...." she breathed injunctions to the very step of the 'bus. in the 'bus dwight leaned forward: "see that you play post-office squarely, lulu!" he called, and threw back his head and lifted his eyebrows. in the train he turned tragic eyes to his wife. "ina," he said. "it's _ma_. and she's going to die. it can't be...." ina said: "but you're going to help her, dwight, just being there with her." it was true that the mere presence of the man would bring a kind of fresh life to that worn frame. tact and wisdom and love would speak through him and minister. toward the end of their week's absence the letter from ninian came. lulu took it from the post-office when she went for the mail that evening, dressed in her dark red gown. there was no other letter, and she carried that one letter in her hand all through the streets. she passed those who were surmising what her story might be, who were telling one another what they had heard. but she knew hardly more than they. she passed cornish in the doorway of his little music shop, and spoke with him; and there was the letter. it was so that dwight's foster mother's postal card might have looked on its way to be mailed. cornish stepped down and overtook her. "oh, miss lulu. i've got a new song or two--" she said abstractedly: "do. any night. to-morrow night--could you--" it was as if lulu were too preoccupied to remember to be ill at ease. cornish flushed with pleasure, said that he could indeed. "come for supper," lulu said. oh, could he? wouldn't that be.... well, say! such was his acceptance. he came for supper. and di was not at home. she had gone off in the country with jenny and bobby, and they merely did not return. mrs. bett and lulu and cornish and monona supped alone. all were at ease, now that they were alone. especially mrs. bett was at ease. it became one of her young nights, her alive and lucid nights. she was _there_. she sat in dwight's chair and lulu sat in ina's chair. lulu had picked flowers for the table--a task coveted by her but usually performed by ina. lulu had now picked sweet william and had filled a vase of silver gilt taken from the parlour. also, lulu had made ice-cream. "i don't see what di can be thinking of," lulu said. "it seems like asking you under false--" she was afraid of "pretences" and ended without it. cornish savoured his steaming beef pie, with sage. "oh, well!" he said contentedly. "kind of a relief, _i_ think, to have her gone," said mrs. bett, from the fulness of something or other. "mother!" lulu said, twisting her smile. "why, my land, i love her," mrs. bett explained, "but she wiggles and chitters." cornish never made the slightest effort, at any time, to keep a straight face. the honest fellow now laughed loudly. "well!" lulu thought. "he can't be so _very_ much in love." and again she thought: "he doesn't know anything about the letter. he thinks ninian got tired of me." deep in her heart there abode her certainty that this was not so. by some etiquette of consent, mrs. bett cleared the table and lulu and cornish went into the parlour. there lay the letter on the drop-leaf side-table, among the shells. lulu had carried it there, where she need not see it at her work. the letter looked no more than the advertisement of dental office furniture beneath it. monona stood indifferently fingering both. "monona," lulu said sharply, "leave them be!" cornish was displaying his music. "got up quite attractive," he said--it was his formula of praise for his music. "but we can't try it over," lulu said, "if di doesn't come." "well, say," said cornish shyly, "you know i left that album of old favourites here. some of them we know by heart." lulu looked. "i'll tell you something," she said, "there's some of these i can play with one hand--by ear. maybe--" "why sure!" said cornish. lulu sat at the piano. she had on the wool chally, long sacred to the nights when she must combine her servant's estate with the quality of being ina's sister. she wore her coral beads and her cameo cross. in her absence she had caught the trick of dressing her hair so that it looked even more abundant--but she had not dared to try it so until to-night, when dwight was gone. her long wrist was curved high, her thin hand pressed and fingered awkwardly, and at her mistakes her head dipped and strove to make all right. her foot continuously touched the loud pedal--the blurred sound seemed to accomplish more. so she played "how can i leave thee," and they managed to sing it. so she played "long, long ago," and "little nell of narragansett bay." beyond open doors, mrs. bett listened, sang, it may be, with them; for when the singers ceased, her voice might be heard still humming a loud closing bar. "well!" cornish cried to lulu; and then, in the formal village phrase: "you're quite a musician." "oh, no!" lulu disclaimed it. she looked up, flushed, smiling. "i've never done this in front of anybody," she owned. "i don't know what dwight and ina'd say...." she drooped. they rested, and, miraculously, the air of the place had stirred and quickened, as if the crippled, halting melody had some power of its own, and poured this forth, even thus trampled. "i guess you could do 'most anything you set your hand to," said cornish. "oh, no," lulu said again. "sing and play and cook--" "but i can't earn anything. i'd like to earn something." but this she had not meant to say. she stopped, rather frightened. "you would! why, you have it fine here, i thought." "oh, fine, yes. dwight gives me what i have. and i do their work." "i see," said cornish. "i never thought of that," he added. she caught his speculative look--he had heard a tale or two concerning her return, as who in warbleton had not heard? "you're wondering why i didn't stay with him!" lulu said recklessly. this was no less than wrung from her, but its utterance occasioned in her an unspeakable relief. "oh, no," cornish disclaimed, and coloured and rocked. "yes, you are," she swept on. "the whole town's wondering. well, i'd like 'em to know, but dwight won't let me tell." cornish frowned, trying to understand. "'won't let you!'" he repeated. "i should say that was your own affair." "no. not when dwight gives me all i have." "oh, that--" said cornish. "that's not right." "no. but there it is. it puts me--you see what it does to me. they think--they all think my--husband left me." it was curious to hear her bring out that word--tentatively, deprecatingly, like some one daring a foreign phrase without warrant. cornish said feebly: "oh, well...." before she willed it, she was telling him: "he didn't. he didn't leave me," she cried with passion. "he had another wife." incredibly it was as if she were defending both him and herself. "lord sakes!" said cornish. she poured it out, in her passion to tell some one, to share her news of her state where there would be neither hardness nor censure. "we were in savannah, georgia," she said. "we were going to leave for oregon--going to go through california. we were in the hotel, and he was going out to get the tickets. he started to go. then he came back. i was sitting the same as there. he opened the door again--the same as here. i saw he looked different--and he said quick: 'there's something you'd ought to know before we go.' and of course i said, 'what?' and he said it right out--how he was married eighteen years ago and in two years she ran away and she must be dead but he wasn't sure. he hadn't the proofs. so of course i came home. but it wasn't him left me." "no, no. of course he didn't," cornish said earnestly. "but lord sakes--" he said again. he rose to walk about, found it impracticable and sat down. "that's what dwight don't want me to tell--he thinks it isn't true. he thinks--he didn't have any other wife. he thinks he wanted--" lulu looked up at him. "you see," she said, "dwight thinks he didn't want me." "but why don't you make your--husband--i mean, why doesn't he write to mr. deacon here, and tell him the truth--" cornish burst out. under this implied belief, she relaxed and into her face came its rare sweetness. "he has written," she said. "the letter's there." he followed her look, scowled at the two letters. "what'd he say?" "dwight don't like me to touch his mail. i'll have to wait till he comes back." "lord sakes!" said cornish. this time he did rise and walk about. he wanted to say something, wanted it with passion. he paused beside lulu and stammered: "you--you--you're too nice a girl to get a deal like this. darned if you aren't." to her own complete surprise lulu's eyes filled with tears, and she could not speak. she was by no means above self-sympathy. "and there ain't," said cornish sorrowfully, "there ain't a thing i can do." and yet he was doing much. he was gentle, he was listening, and on his face a frown of concern. his face continually surprised her, it was so fine and alive and near, by comparison with ninian's loose-lipped, ruddy, impersonal look and dwight's thin, high-boned hardness. all the time cornish gave her something, instead of drawing upon her. above all, he was there, and she could talk to him. "it's--it's funny," lulu said. "i'd be awful glad if i just _could_ know for sure that the other woman was alive--if i couldn't know she's dead." this surprising admission cornish seemed to understand. "sure you would," he said briefly. "cora waters," lulu said. "cora waters, of san diego, california. and she never heard of me." "no," cornish admitted. they stared at each other as across some abyss. in the doorway mrs. bett appeared. "i scraped up everything," she remarked, "and left the dishes set." "that's right, mamma," lulu said. "come and sit down." mrs. bett entered with a leisurely air of doing the thing next expected of her. "i don't hear any more playin' and singin'," she remarked. "it sounded real nice." "we--we sung all i knew how to play, i guess, mamma." "i use' to play on the melodeon," mrs. bett volunteered, and spread and examined her right hand. "well!" said cornish. she now told them about her log-house in a new england clearing, when she was a bride. all her store of drama and life came from her. she rehearsed it with far eyes. she laughed at old delights, drooped at old fears. she told about her little daughter who had died at sixteen--a tragedy such as once would have been renewed in a vital ballad. at the end she yawned frankly as if, in some terrible sophistication, she had been telling the story of some one else. "give us one more piece," she said. "can we?" cornish asked. "i can play 'i think when i read that sweet story of old,'" lulu said. "that's the ticket!" cried cornish. they sang it, to lulu's right hand. "that's the one you picked out when you was a little girl, lulie," cried, mrs. bett. lulu had played it now as she must have played it then. half after nine and di had not returned. but nobody thought of di. cornish rose to go. "what's them?" mrs. bett demanded. "dwight's letters, mamma. you mustn't touch them!" lulu's voice was sharp. "say!" cornish, at the door, dropped his voice. "if there was anything i could do at any time, you'd let me know, wouldn't you?" that past tense, those subjunctives, unconsciously called upon her to feel no intrusion. "oh, thank you," she said. "you don't know how good it is to feel--" "of course it is," said cornish heartily. they stood for a moment on the porch. the night was one of low clamour from the grass, tiny voices, insisting. "of course," said lulu, "of course you won't--you wouldn't--" "say anything?" he divined. "not for dollars. not," he repeated, "for dollars." "but i knew you wouldn't," she told him. he took her hand. "good-night," he said. "i've had an awful nice time singing and listening to you talk--well, of course--i mean," he cried, "the supper was just fine. and so was the music." "oh, no," she said. mrs. bett came into the hall. "lulie," she said, "i guess you didn't notice--this one's from ninian." "mother--" "i opened it--why, of course i did. it's from ninian." mrs. bett held out the opened envelope, the unfolded letter, and a yellowed newspaper clipping. "see," said the old woman, "says, 'corie waters, music hall singer--married last night to ninian deacon--' say, lulie, that must be her...." lulu threw out her hands. "there!" she cried triumphantly. "he _was_ married to her, just like he said!" * * * * * the plows were at breakfast next morning when lulu came in casually at the side-door. yes, she said, she had had breakfast. she merely wanted to see them about something. then she said nothing, but sat looking with a troubled frown at jenny. jenny's hair was about her neck, like the hair of a little girl, a south window poured light upon her, the fruit and honey upon the table seemed her only possible food. "you look troubled, lulu," mrs. plow said. "is it about getting work?" "no," said lulu, "no. i've been places to ask--quite a lot of places. i guess the bakery is going to let me make cake." "i knew it would come to you," mrs. plow said, and lulu thought that this was a strange way to speak, when she herself had gone after the cakes. but she kept on looking about the room. it was so bright and quiet. as she came in, mr. plow had been reading from a book. dwight never read from a book at table. "i wish----" said lulu, as she looked at them. but she did not know what she wished. certainly it was for no moral excellence, for she perceived none. "what is it, lulu?" mr. plow asked, and he was bright and quiet too, lulu thought. "well," said lulu, "it's not much. but i wanted jenny to tell me about last night." "last night?" "yes. would you----" hesitation was her only way of apology. "where did you go?" she turned to jenny. jenny looked up in her clear and ardent fashion: "we went across the river and carried supper and then we came home." "what time did you get home?" "oh, it was still light. long before eight, it was." lulu hesitated and flushed, asked how long di and bobby had stayed there at jenny's; whereupon she heard that di had to be home early on account of mr. cornish, so that she and bobby had not stayed at all. to which lulu said an "of course," but first she stared at jenny and so impaired the strength of her assent. almost at once she rose to go. "nothing else?" said mrs. plow, catching that look of hers. lulu wanted to say: "my husband _was_ married before, just as he said he was." but she said nothing more, and went home. there she put it to di, and with her terrible bluntness reviewed to di the testimony. "you were not with jenny after eight o'clock. where were you?" lulu spoke formally and her rehearsals were evident. di said: "when mamma comes home, i'll tell her." with this lulu had no idea how to deal, and merely looked at her helplessly. mrs. bett, who was lacing her shoes, now said casually: "no need to wait till then. her and bobby were out in the side yard sitting in the hammock till all hours." di had no answer save her furious flush, and mrs. bett went on: "didn't i tell you? i knew it before the company left, but i didn't say a word. thinks i, 'she's wiggles and chitters.' so i left her stay where she was." "but, mother!" lulu cried. "you didn't even tell me after he'd gone." "i forgot it," mrs. bett said, "finding ninian's letter and all--" she talked of ninian's letter. di was bright and alert and firm of flesh and erect before lulu's softness and laxness. "i don't know what your mother'll say," said lulu, "and i don't know what people'll think." "they won't think bobby and i are tired of each other, anyway," said di, and left the room. through the day lulu tried to think what she must do. about di she was anxious and felt without power. she thought of the indignation of dwight and ina that di had not been more scrupulously guarded. she thought of di's girlish folly, her irritating independence--"and there," lulu thought, "just the other day i was teaching her to sew." her mind dwelt too on dwight's furious anger at the opening of ninian's letter. but when all this had spent itself, what was she herself to do? she must leave his house before he ordered her to do so, when she told him that she had confided in cornish, as tell she must. but what was she to _do_? the bakery cake-making would not give her a roof. stepping about the kitchen in her blue cotton gown, her hair tight and flat as seemed proper when one was not dressed, she thought about these things. and it was strange: lulu bore no physical appearance of one in distress or any anxiety. her head was erect, her movements were strong and swift, her eyes were interested. she was no drooping lulu with dragging step. she was more intent, she was somehow more operative than she had ever been. mrs. bett was working contentedly beside her, and now and then humming an air of that music of the night before. the sun surged through the kitchen door and east window, a returned oriole swung and fluted on the elm above the gable. wagons clattered by over the rattling wooden block pavement. "ain't it nice with nobody home?" mrs. bett remarked at intervals, like the burden of a comic song. "hush, mother," lulu said, troubled, her ethical refinements conflicting with her honesty. "speak the truth and shame the devil," mrs. bett contended. when dinner was ready at noon, di did not appear. a little earlier lulu had heard her moving about her room, and she served her in expectation that she would join them. "di must be having the 'tantrim' this time," she thought, and for a time said nothing. but at length she did say: "why doesn't di come? i'd better put her plate in the oven." rising to do so, she was arrested by her mother. mrs. bett was eating a baked potato, holding her fork close to the tines, and presenting a profile of passionate absorption. "why, di went off," she said. "went off!" "down the walk. down the sidewalk." "she must have gone to jenny's," said lulu. "i wish she wouldn't do that without telling me." monona laughed out and shook her straight hair. "she'll catch it!" she cried in sisterly enjoyment. it was when lulu had come back from the kitchen and was seated at the table that mrs. bett observed: "i didn't think inie'd want her to take her nice new satchel." "her satchel?" "yes. inie wouldn't take it north herself, but di had it." "mother," said lulu, "when di went away just now, was she carrying a satchel?" "didn't i just tell you?" mrs. bett demanded, aggrieved. "i said i didn't think inie--" "mother! which way did she go?" monona pointed with her spoon. "she went that way," she said. "i seen her." lulu looked at the clock. for monona had pointed toward the railway station. the twelve-thirty train, which every one took to the city for shopping, would be just about leaving. "monona," said lulu, "don't you go out of the yard while i'm gone. mother, you keep her--" lulu ran from the house and up the street. she was in her blue cotton dress, her old shoes, she was hatless and without money. when she was still two or three blocks from the station, she heard the twelve-thirty "pulling out." she ran badly, her ankles in their low, loose shoes continually turning, her arms held taut at her sides. so she came down the platform, and to the ticket window. the contained ticket man, wonted to lost trains and perturbed faces, yet actually ceased counting when he saw her: "lenny! did di deacon take that train?" "sure she did," said lenny. "and bobby larkin?" lulu cared nothing for appearances now. "he went in on the local," said lenny, and his eyes widened. "where?" "see." lenny thought it through. "millton," he said. "yes, sure. millton. both of 'em." "how long till another train?" "well, sir," said the ticket man, "you're in luck, if you was goin' too. seventeen was late this morning--she'll be along, jerk of a lamb's tail." "then," said lulu, "you got to give me a ticket to millton, without me paying till after--and you got to lend me two dollars." "sure thing," said lenny, with a manner of laying the entire railway system at her feet. "seventeen" would rather not have stopped at warbleton, but lenny's signal was law on the time card, and the magnificent yellow express slowed down for lulu. hatless and in her blue cotton gown, she climbed aboard. then her old inefficiency seized upon her. what was she going to do? millton! she had been there but once, years ago--how could she ever find anybody? why had she not stayed in warbleton and asked the sheriff or somebody--no, not the sheriff. cornish, perhaps. oh, and dwight and ina were going to be angry now! and di--little di. as lulu thought of her she began to cry. she said to herself that she had taught di to sew. in sight of millton, lulu was seized with trembling and physical nausea. she had never been alone in any unfamiliar town. she put her hands to her hair and for the first time realized her rolled-up sleeves. she was pulling down these sleeves when the conductor came through the train. "could you tell me," she said timidly, "the name of the principal hotel in millton?" ninian had asked this as they neared savannah, georgia. the conductor looked curiously at her. "why, the hess house," he said. "wasn't you expecting anybody to meet you?" he asked, kindly. "no," said lulu, "but i'm going to find my folks--" her voice trailed away. "beats all," thought the conductor, using his utility formula for the universe. in millton lulu's inquiry for the hess house produced no consternation. nobody paid any attention to her. she was almost certainly taken to be a new servant there. "you stop feeling so!" she said to herself angrily at the lobby entrance. "ain't you been to that big hotel in savannah, georgia?" the hess house, millton, had a tradition of its own to maintain, it seemed, and they sent her to the rear basement door. she obeyed meekly, but she lost a good deal of time before she found herself at the end of the office desk. it was still longer before any one attended her. "please, sir!" she burst out. "see if di deacon has put her name on your book." her appeal was tremendous, compelling. the young clerk listened to her, showed her where to look in the register. when only strange names and strange writing presented themselves there, he said: "tried the parlour?" and directed her kindly and with his thumb, and in the other hand a pen divorced from his ear for the express purpose. in crossing the lobby in the hotel at savannah, georgia, lulu's most pressing problem had been to know where to look. but now the idlers in the hess house lobby did not exist. in time she found the door of the intensely rose-coloured reception room. there, in a fat, rose-coloured chair, beside a cataract of lace curtain, sat di, alone. lulu entered. she had no idea what to say. when di looked up, started up, frowned, lulu felt as if she herself were the culprit. she said the first thing that occurred to her: "i don't believe mamma'll like your taking her nice satchel." "well!" said di, exactly as if she had been at home. and superadded: "my goodness!" and then cried rudely: "what are you here for?" "for you," said lulu. "you--you--you'd ought not to be here, di." "what's that to you?" di cried. "why, di, you're just a little girl----" lulu saw that this was all wrong, and stopped miserably. how was she to go on? "di," she said, "if you and bobby want to get married, why not let us get you up a nice wedding at home?" and she saw that this sounded as if she were talking about a tea-party. "who said we wanted to be married?" "well, he's here." "who said he's here?" "isn't he?" di sprang up. "aunt lulu," she said, "you're a funny person to be telling _me_ what to do." lulu said, flushing: "i love you just the same as if i was married happy, in a home." "well, you aren't!" cried di cruelly, "and i'm going to do just as i think best." lulu thought this over, her look grave and sad. she tried to find something to say. "what do people say to people," she wondered, "when it's like this?" "getting married is for your whole life," was all that came to her. "yours wasn't," di flashed at her. lulu's colour deepened, but there seemed to be no resentment in her. she must deal with this right--that was what her manner seemed to say. and how should she deal? "di," she cried, "come back with me--and wait till mamma and papa get home." "that's likely. they say i'm not to be married till i'm twenty-one." "well, but how young that is!" "it is to you." "di! this is wrong--it _is_ wrong." "there's nothing wrong about getting married--if you stay married." "well, then it can't be wrong to let them know." "it isn't. but they'd treat me wrong. they'd make me stay at home. and i won't stay at home--i won't stay there. they act as if i was ten years old." abruptly in lulu's face there came a light of understanding. "why, di," she said, "do you feel that way too?" di missed this. she went on: "i'm grown up. i feel just as grown up as they do. and i'm not allowed to do a thing i feel. i want to be away--i will be away!" "i know about that part," lulu said. she now looked at di with attention. was it possible that di was suffering in the air of that home as she herself suffered? she had not thought of that. there di had seemed so young, so dependent, so--asquirm. here, by herself, waiting for bobby, in the hess house at millton, she was curiously adult. would she be adult if she were let alone? "you don't know what it's like," di cried, "to be hushed up and laughed at and paid no attention to, everything you say." "don't i?" said lulu. "don't i?" she was breathing quickly and looking at di. if _this_ was why di was leaving home.... "but, di," she cried, "do you love bobby larkin?" by this di was embarrassed. "i've got to marry somebody," she said, "and it might as well be him." "but is it him?" "yes, it is," said di. "but," she added, "i know i could love almost anybody real nice that was nice to me." and this she said, not in her own right, but either she had picked it up somewhere and adopted it, or else the terrible modernity and honesty of her day somehow spoke through her, for its own. but to lulu it was as if something familiar turned its face to be recognised. "di!" she cried. "it's true. you ought to know that." she waited for a moment. "you did it," she added. "mamma said so." at this onslaught lulu was stupefied. for she began to perceive its truth. "i know what i want to do, i guess," di muttered, as if to try to cover what she had said. up to that moment, lulu had been feeling intensely that she understood di, but that di did not know this. now lulu felt that she and di actually shared some unsuspected sisterhood. it was not only that they were both badgered by dwight. it was more than that. they were two women. and she must make di know that she understood her. "di," lulu said, breathing hard, "what you just said is true, i guess. don't you think i don't know. and now i'm going to tell you--" she might have poured it all out, claimed her kinship with di by virtue of that which had happened in savannah, georgia. but di said: "here come some ladies. and goodness, look at the way you look!" lulu glanced down. "i know," she said, "but i guess you'll have to put up with me." the two women entered, looked about with the complaisance of those who examine a hotel property, find criticism incumbent, and have no errand. these two women had outdressed their occasion. in their presence di kept silence, turned away her head, gave them to know that she had nothing to do with this blue cotton person beside her. when they had gone on, "what do you mean by my having to put up with you?" di asked sharply. "i mean i'm going to stay with you." di laughed scornfully--she was again the rebellious child. "i guess bobby'll have something to say about that," she said insolently. "they left you in my charge." "but i'm not a baby--the idea, aunt lulu!" "i'm going to stay right with you," said lulu. she wondered what she should do if di suddenly marched away from her, through that bright lobby and into the street. she thought miserably that she must follow. and then her whole concern for the ethics of di's course was lost in her agonised memory of her terrible, broken shoes. di did not march away. she turned her back squarely upon lulu, and looked out of the window. for her life lulu could think of nothing more to say. she was now feeling miserably on the defensive. they were sitting in silence when bobby larkin came into the room. four bobby larkins there were, in immediate succession. the bobby who had just come down the street was distinctly perturbed, came hurrying, now and then turned to the left when he met folk, glanced sidewise here and there, was altogether anxious and ill at ease. the bobby who came through the hotel was a bobby who had on an importance assumed for the crisis of threading the lobby--a bobby who wished it to be understood that here he was, a man among men, in the hess house at millton. the bobby who entered the little rose room was the bobby who was no less than overwhelmed with the stupendous character of the adventure upon which he found himself. the bobby who incredibly came face to face with lulu was the real bobby into whose eyes leaped instant, unmistakable relief. di flew to meet him. she assumed all the pretty agitations of her rôle, ignored lulu. "bobby! is it all right?" bobby looked over her head. "miss lulu," he said fatuously. "if it ain't miss lulu." he looked from her to di, and did not take in di's resigned shrug. "bobby," said di, "she's come to stop us getting married, but she can't. i've told her so." "she don't have to stop us," quoth bobby gloomily, "we're stopped." "what do you mean?" di laid one hand flatly along her cheek, instinctive in her melodrama. bobby drew down his brows, set his hand on his leg, elbow out. "we're minors," said he. "well, gracious, you didn't have to tell them that." "no. they knew _i_ was." "but, silly! why didn't you tell them you're not?" "but i am." di stared. "for pity sakes," she said, "don't you know how to do anything?" "what would you have me do?" he inquired indignantly, with his head held very stiff, and with a boyish, admirable lift of chin. "why, tell them we're both twenty-one. we look it. we know we're responsible--that's all they care for. well, you are a funny...." "you wanted me to lie?" he said. "oh, don't make out you never told a fib." "well, but this--" he stared at her. "i never heard of such a thing," di cried accusingly. "anyhow," he said, "there's nothing to do now. the cat's out. i've told our ages. we've got to have our folks in on it." "is that all you can think of?" she demanded. "what else?" "why, come on to bainbridge or holt, and tell them we're of age, and be married there." "di," said bobby, "why, that'd be a rotten go." di said, oh very well, if he didn't want to marry her. he replied stonily that of course he wanted to marry her. di stuck out her little hand. she was at a disadvantage. she could use no arts, with lulu sitting there, looking on. "well, then, come on to bainbridge," di cried, and rose. lulu was thinking: "what shall i say? i don't know what to say. i don't know what i can say." now she also rose, and laughed awkwardly. "i've told di," she said to bobby, "that wherever you two go, i'm going too. di's folks left her in my care, you know. so you'll have to take me along, i guess." she spoke in a manner of distinct apology. at this bobby had no idea what to reply. he looked down miserably at the carpet. his whole manner was a mute testimony to his participation in the eternal query: how did i get into it? "bobby," said di, "are you going to let her lead you home?" this of course nettled him, but not in the manner on which di had counted. he said loudly: "i'm not going to bainbridge or holt or any town and lie, to get you or any other girl." di's head lifted, tossed, turned from him. "you're about as much like a man in a story," she said, "as--as papa is." the two idly inspecting women again entered the rose room, this time to stay. they inspected lulu too. and lulu rose and stood between the lovers. "hadn't we all better get the four-thirty to warbleton?" she said, and swallowed. "oh, if bobby wants to back out--" said di. "i don't want to back out," bobby contended furiously, "b-b-but i won't--" "come on, aunt lulu," said di grandly. bobby led the way through the lobby, di followed, and lulu brought up the rear. she walked awkwardly, eyes down, her hands stiffly held. heads turned to look at her. they passed into the street. "you two go ahead," said lulu, "so they won't think--" they did so, and she followed, and did not know where to look, and thought of her broken shoes. at the station, bobby put them on the train and stepped back. he had, he said, something to see to there in millton. di did not look at him. and lulu's good-bye spoke her genuine regret for all. "aunt lulu," said di, "you needn't think i'm going to sit with you. you look as if you were crazy. i'll sit back here." "all right, di," said lulu humbly. * * * * * it was nearly six o'clock when they arrived at the deacons'. mrs. bett stood on the porch, her hands rolled in her apron. "surprise for you!" she called brightly. before they had reached the door, ina bounded from the hall. "darling!" she seized upon di, kissed her loudly, drew back from her, saw the travelling bag. "my new bag!" she cried. "di! what have you got that for?" in any embarrassment di's instinctive defence was hearty laughter. she now laughed heartily, kissed her mother again, and ran up the stairs. lulu slipped by her sister, and into the kitchen. "well, where have _you_ been?" cried ina. "i declare, i never saw such a family. mamma don't know anything and neither of you will tell anything." "mamma knows a-plenty," snapped mrs. bett. monona, who was eating a sticky gift, jumped stiffly up and down. "you'll catch it--you'll catch it!" she sent out her shrill general warning. mrs. bett followed lulu to the kitchen; "i didn't tell inie about her bag and now she says i don't know nothing," she complained. "there i knew about the bag the hull time, but i wasn't going to tell her and spoil her gettin' home." she banged the stove-griddle. "i've a good notion not to eat a mouthful o' supper," she announced. "mother, please!" said lulu passionately. "stay here. help me. i've got enough to get through to-night." dwight had come home. lulu could hear ina pouring out to him the mysterious circumstance of the bag, could hear the exaggerated air of the casual with which he always received the excitement of another, and especially of his ina. then she heard ina's feet padding up the stairs, and after that di's shrill, nervous laughter. lulu felt a pang of pity for di, as if she herself were about to face them. there was not time both to prepare supper and to change the blue cotton dress. in that dress lulu was pouring water when dwight entered the dining-room. "ah!" said he. "our festive ball-gown." she gave him her hand, with her peculiar sweetness of expression--almost as if she were sorry for him or were bidding him good-bye. "_that_ shows who you dress for!" he cried. "you dress for me; ina, aren't you jealous? lulu dresses for me!" ina had come in with di, and both were excited, and ina's head was moving stiffly, as in all her indignations. mrs. bett had thought better of it and had given her presence. already monona was singing. "lulu," said dwight, "really? can't you run up and slip on another dress?" lulu sat down in her place. "no," she said. "i'm too tired. i'm sorry, dwight." "it seems to me--" he began. "i don't want any," said monona. but no one noticed monona, and ina did not defer even to dwight. she, who measured delicate, troy occasions by avoirdupois, said brightly: "now, di. you must tell us all about it. where had you and aunt lulu been with mamma's new bag?" "aunt lulu!" cried dwight. "a-ha! so aunt lulu was along. well now, that alters it." "how does it?" asked his ina crossly. "why, when aunt lulu goes on a jaunt," said dwight herbert, "events begin to event." "come, di, let's hear," said ina. "ina," said lulu, "first can't we hear something about your visit? how is----" her eyes consulted dwight. his features dropped, the lines of his face dropped, its muscles seemed to sag. a look of suffering was in his eyes. "she'll never be any better," he said. "i know we've said good-bye to her for the last time." "oh, dwight!" said lulu. "she knew it too," he said. "it--it put me out of business, i can tell you. she gave me my start--she took all the care of me--taught me to read--she's the only mother i ever knew----" he stopped, and opened his eyes wide on account of their dimness. "they said she was like another person while dwight was there," said ina, and entered upon a length of particulars, and details of the journey. these details dwight interrupted: couldn't lulu remember that he liked sage on the chops? he could hardly taste it. he had, he said, told her this thirty-seven times. and when she said that she was sorry, "perhaps you think i'm sage enough," said the witty fellow. "dwightie!" said ina. "mercy." she shook her head at him. "now, di," she went on, keeping the thread all this time. "tell us your story. about the bag." "oh, mamma," said di, "let me eat my supper." "and so you shall, darling. tell it in your own way. tell us first what you've done since we've been away. did mr. cornish come to see you?" "yes," said di, and flashed a look at lulu. but eventually they were back again before that new black bag. and di would say nothing. she laughed, squirmed, grew irritable, laughed again. "lulu!" ina demanded. "you were with her--where in the world had you been? why, but you couldn't have been with her--in that dress. and yet i saw you come in the gate together." "what!" cried dwight herbert, drawing down his brows. "you certainly did not so far forget us, lulu, as to go on the street in that dress?" "it's a good dress," mrs. bett now said positively. "of course it's a good dress. lulie wore it on the street--of course she did. she was gone a long time. i made me a cup o' tea, and _then_ she hadn't come." "well," said ina, "i never heard anything like this before. where were you both?" one would say that ina had entered into the family and been born again, identified with each one. nothing escaped her. dwight, too, his intimacy was incredible. "put an end to this, lulu," he commanded. "where were you two--since you make such a mystery?" di's look at lulu was piteous, terrified. di's fear of her father was now clear to lulu. and lulu feared him too. abruptly she heard herself temporising, for the moment making common cause with di. "oh," she said, "we have a little secret. can't we have a secret if we want one?" "upon my word," dwight commented, "she has a beautiful secret. i don't know about your secrets, lulu." every time that he did this, that fleet, lifted look of lulu's seemed to bleed. "i'm glad for my dinner," remarked monona at last. "please excuse me." on that they all rose. lulu stayed in the kitchen and did her best to make her tasks indefinitely last. she had nearly finished when di burst in. "aunt lulu, aunt lulu!" she cried. "come in there--come. i can't stand it. what am i going to do?" "di, dear," said lulu. "tell your mother--you must tell her." "she'll cry," di sobbed. "then she'll tell papa--and he'll never stop talking about it. i know him--every day he'll keep it going. after he scolds me it'll be a joke for months. i'll die--i'll die, aunt lulu." ina's voice sounded in the kitchen. "what are you two whispering about? i declare, mamma's hurt, di, at the way you're acting...." "let's go out on the porch," said lulu, and when di would have escaped, ina drew her with them, and handled the situation in the only way that she knew how to handle it, by complaining: well, but what in this world.... lulu threw a white shawl about her blue cotton dress. "a bridal robe," said dwight. "how's that, lulu--what are _you_ wearing a bridal robe for--eh?" she smiled dutifully. there was no need to make him angry, she reflected, before she must. he had not yet gone into the parlour--had not yet asked for his mail. it was a warm dusk, moonless, windless. the sounds of the village street came in--laughter, a touch at a piano, a chiming clock. lights starred and quickened in the blurred houses. footsteps echoed on the board walks. the gate opened. the gloom yielded up cornish. lulu was inordinately glad to see him. to have the strain of the time broken by him was like hearing, on a lonely whiter wakening, the clock strike reassuring dawn. "lulu," said dwight low, "your dress. do go!" lulu laughed. "the bridal shawl takes off the curse," she said. cornish, in his gentle way, asked about the journey, about the sick woman--and dwight talked of her again, and this time his voice broke. di was curiously silent. when cornish addressed her, she replied simply and directly--the rarest of di's manners, in fact not di's manner at all. lulu spoke not at all--it was enough to have this respite. after a little the gate opened again. it was bobby. in the besetting fear that he was leaving di to face something alone, bobby had arrived. and now di's spirits rose. to her his presence meant repentance, recapitulation. her laugh rang out, her replies came archly. but bobby was plainly not playing up. bobby was, in fact, hardly less than glum. it was dwight, the irrepressible fellow, who kept the talk going. and it was no less than deft, his continuously displayed ability playfully to pierce lulu. some one had "married at the drop of the hat. you know the kind of girl?" and some one "made up a likely story to soothe her own pride--you know how they do that?" "well," said ina, "my part, i think _the_ most awful thing is to have somebody one loves keep secrets from one. no wonder folks get crabbed and spiteful with such treatment." "mamma!" monona shouted from her room. "come and hear me say my prayers!" monona entered this request with precision on ina's nastiest moments, but she always rose, unabashed, and went, motherly and dutiful, to hear devotions, as if that function and the process of living ran their two divided channels. she had dispatched this errand and was returning when mrs. bett crossed the lawn from grandma gates's, where the old lady had taken comfort in mrs. bett's ministrations for an hour. "don't you help me," mrs. bett warned them away sharply. "i guess i can help myself yet awhile." she gained her chair. and still in her momentary rule of attention, she said clearly: "i got a joke. grandma gates says it's all over town di and bobby larkin eloped off together to-day. _he_!" the last was a single note of laughter, high and brief. the silence fell. "what nonsense!" dwight herbert said angrily. but ina said tensely: "_is_ it nonsense? haven't i been trying and trying to find out where the black satchel went? di!" di's laughter rose, but it sounded thin and false. "listen to that, bobby," she said. "listen!" "that won't do, di," said ina. "you can't deceive mamma and don't you try!" her voice trembled, she was frantic with loving and authentic anxiety, but she was without power, she overshadowed the real gravity of the moment by her indignation. "mrs. deacon----" began bobby, and stood up, very straight and manly before them all. but dwight intervened, dwight, the father, the master of his house. here was something requiring him to act. so the father set his face like a mask and brought down his hand on the rail of the porch. it was as if the sound shattered a thousand filaments--where? "diana!" his voice was terrible, demanded a response, ravened among them. "yes, papa," said di, very small. "answer your mother. answer _me_. is there anything to this absurd tale?" "no, papa," said di, trembling. "nothing whatever?" "nothing whatever." "can you imagine how such a ridiculous report started?" "no, papa." "very well. now we know where we are. if anyone hears this report repeated, send them to _me_." "well, but that satchel--" said ina, to whom an idea manifested less as a function than as a leech. "one moment," said dwight. "lulu will of course verify what the child has said." there had never been an adult moment until that day when lulu had not instinctively taken the part of the parents, of all parents. now she saw dwight's cruelty to her as his cruelty to di; she saw ina, herself a child in maternity, as ignorant of how to deal with the moment as was dwight. she saw di's falseness partly parented by these parents. she burned at the enormity of dwight's appeal to her for verification. she threw up her head and no one had ever seen lulu look like this. "if you cannot settle this with di," said lulu, "you cannot settle it with me." "a shifty answer," said dwight. "you have a genius at misrepresenting facts, you know, lulu." "bobby wanted to say something," said ina, still troubled. "no, mrs. deacon," said bobby, low. "i have nothing--more to say." in a little while, when bobby went away, di walked with him to the gate. it was as if, the worst having happened to her, she dared everything now. "bobby," she said, "you hate a lie. but what else could i do?" he could not see her, could see only the little moon of her face, blurring. "and anyhow," said di, "it wasn't a lie. we _didn't_ elope, did we?" "what do you think i came for to-night?" asked bobby. the day had aged him; he spoke like a man. his very voice came gruffly. but she saw nothing, softened to him, yielded, was ready to take his regret that they had not gone on. "well, i came for one thing," said bobby, "to tell you that i couldn't stand for your wanting me to lie to-day. why, di--i hate a lie. and now to-night--" he spoke his code almost beautifully. "i'd rather," he said, "they had never let us see each other again than to lose you the way i've lost you now." "bobby!" "it's true. we mustn't talk about it." "bobby! i'll go back and tell them all." "you can't go back," said bobby. "not out of a thing like that." she stood staring after him. she heard some one coming and she turned toward the house, and met cornish leaving. "miss di," he cried, "if you're going to elope with anybody, remember it's with me!" her defence was ready--her laughter rang out so that the departing bobby might hear. she came back to the steps and mounted slowly in the lamplight, a little white thing with whom birth had taken exquisite pains. "if," she said, "if you have any fear that i may ever elope with bobby larkin, let it rest. i shall never marry him if he asks me fifty times a day." "really, darling?" cried ina. "really and truly," said di, "and he knows it, too." lulu listened and read all. "i wondered," said ina pensively, "i wondered if you wouldn't see that bobby isn't much beside that nice mr. cornish!" when di had gone upstairs, ina said to lulu in a manner of cajoling confidence: "sister----" she rarely called her that, "_why_ did you and di have the black bag?" so that after all it was a relief to lulu to hear dwight ask casually: "by the way, lulu, haven't i got some mail somewhere about?" "there are two letters on the parlour table," lulu answered. to ina she added: "let's go in the parlour." as they passed through the hall, mrs. bett was going up the stairs to bed--when she mounted stairs she stooped her shoulders, bunched her extremities, and bent her head. lulu looked after her, as if she were half minded to claim the protection so long lost. dwight lighted the gas. "better turn down the gas jest a little," said he, tirelessly. lulu handed him the two letters. he saw ninian's writing and looked up, said "a-ha!" and held it while he leisurely read the advertisement of dental furniture, his ina reading over his shoulder. "a-ha!" he said again, and with designed deliberation turned to ninian's letter. "an epistle from my dear brother ninian." the words failed, as he saw the unsealed flap. "you opened the letter?" he inquired incredulously. fortunately he had no climaxes of furious calm for high occasions. all had been used on small occasions. "you opened the letter" came in a tone of no deeper horror than "you picked the flower"--once put to lulu. she said nothing. as it is impossible to continue looking indignantly at some one who is not looking at you, dwight turned to ina, who was horror and sympathy, a nice half and half. "your sister has been opening my mail," he said. "but, dwight, if it's from ninian--" "it is _my_ mail," he reminded her. "she had asked me if she might open it. of course i told her no." "well," said ina practically, "what does he say?" "i shall open the letter in my own time. my present concern is this disregard of my wishes." his self-control was perfect, ridiculous, devilish. he was self-controlled because thus he could be more effectively cruel than in temper. "what excuse have you to offer?" lulu was not looking at him. "none," she said--not defiantly, or ingratiatingly, or fearfully. merely, "none." "why did you do it?" she smiled faintly and shook her head. "dwight," said ina, reasonably, "she knows what's in it and we don't. hurry up." "she is," said dwight, after a pause, "an ungrateful woman." he opened the letter, saw the clipping, the avowal, with its facts. "a-ha!" said he. "so after having been absent with my brother for a month, you find that you were _not_ married to him." lulu spoke her exceeding triumph. "you see, dwight," she said, "he told the truth. he had another wife. he didn't just leave me." dwight instantly cried: "but this seems to me to make you considerably worse off than if he had." "oh, no," lulu said serenely. "no. why," she said, "you know how it all came about. he--he was used to thinking of his wife as dead. if he hadn't--hadn't liked me, he wouldn't have told me. you see that, don't you?" dwight laughed. "that your apology?" he asked. she said nothing. "look here, lulu," he went on, "this is a bad business. the less you say about it the better, for all our sakes--_you_ see that, don't you?" "see that? why, no. i wanted you to write to him so i could tell the truth. you said i mustn't tell the truth till i had the proofs ..." "tell who?" "tell everybody. i want them to know." "then you care nothing for our feelings in this matter?" she looked at him now. "your feeling?" "it's nothing to you that we have a brother who's a bigamist?" "but it's me--it's me." "you! you're completely out of it. just let it rest as it is and it'll drop." "i want the people to know the truth," lulu said. "but it's nobody's business but our business! i take it you don't intend to sue ninian?" "sue him? oh no!" "then, for all our sakes, let's drop the matter." lulu had fallen in one of her old attitudes, tense, awkward, her hands awkwardly placed, her feet twisted. she kept putting a lock back of her ear, she kept swallowing. "tell you, lulu," said dwight. "here are three of us. our interests are the same in this thing--only ninian is our relative and he's nothing to you now. is he?" "why, no," said lulu in surprise. "very well. let's have a vote. your snap judgment is to tell this disgraceful fact broadcast. mine is, least said, soonest mended. what do you say, ina--considering di and all?" "oh, goodness," said ina, "if we get mixed up with bigamy, we'll never get away from it. why, i wouldn't have it told for worlds." still in that twisted position, lulu looked up at her. her straying hair, her parted lips, her lifted eyes were singularly pathetic. "my poor, poor sister!" ina said. she struck together her little plump hands. "oh, dwight--when i think of it: what have i done--what have _we_ done that i should have a good, kind, loving husband--be so protected, so loved, when other women.... darling!" she sobbed, and drew near to lulu. "you _know_ how sorry i am--we all are...." lulu stood up. the white shawl slipped to the floor. her hands were stiffly joined. "then," she said, "give me the only thing i've got--that's my pride. my pride--that he didn't want to get rid of me." they stared at her. "what about _my_ pride?" dwight called to her, as across great distances. "do you think i want everybody to know my brother did a thing like that?" "you can't help that," said lulu. "but i want you to help it. i want you to promise me that you won't shame us like this before all our friends." "you want me to promise what?" "i want you--i ask you," dwight said with an effort, "to promise me that you will keep this, with us--a family secret." "no!" lulu cried. "no. i won't do it! i won't do it! i won't do it!" it was like some crude chant, knowing only two tones. she threw out her hands, her wrists long and dark on her blue skirt. "can't you understand anything?" she asked. "i've lived here all my life--on your money. i've not been strong enough to work, they say--well, but i've been strong enough to be a hired girl in your house--and i've been glad to pay for my keep.... but there wasn't anything about it i liked. nothing about being here that i liked.... well, then i got a little something, same as other folks. i thought i was married and i went off on the train and he bought me things and i saw the different towns. and then it was all a mistake. i didn't have any of it. i came back here and went into your kitchen again--i don't know why i came back. i s'pose because i'm most thirty-four and new things ain't so easy any more--but what have i got or what'll i ever have? and now you want to put on to me having folks look at me and think he run off and left me, and having 'em all wonder.... i can't stand it. i can't stand it. i can't...." "you'd rather they'd know he fooled you, when he had another wife?" dwight sneered. "yes! because he wanted me. how do i know--maybe he wanted me only just because he was lonesome, the way i was. i don't care why! and i won't have folks think he went and left me." "that," said dwight, "is a wicked vanity." "that's the truth. well, why can't they know the truth?" "and bring disgrace on us all." "it's me--it's me----" lulu's individualism strove against that terrible tribal sense, was shattered by it. "it's all of us!" dwight boomed. "it's di." "_di?_" he had lulu's eyes now. "why, it's chiefly on di's account that i'm talking," said dwight. "how would it hurt di?" "to have a thing like that in the family? well, can't you see how it'd hurt her?" "would it, ina? would it hurt di?" "why, it would shame her--embarrass her--make people wonder what kind of stock she came from--oh," ina sobbed, "my pure little girl!" "hurt her prospects, of course," said dwight. "anybody could see that." "i s'pose it would," said lulu. she clasped her arms tightly, awkwardly, and stepped about the floor, her broken shoes showing beneath her cotton skirt. "when a family once gets talked about for any reason----" said ina and shuddered. "i'm talked about now!" "but nothing that you could help. if he got tired of you, you couldn't help that." this misstep was dwight's. "no," lulu said, "i couldn't help that. and i couldn't help his other wife, either." "bigamy," said dwight, "that's a crime." "i've done no crime," said lulu. "bigamy," said dwight, "disgraces everybody it touches." "even di," lulu said. "lulu," said dwight, "on di's account will you promise us to let this thing rest with us three?" "i s'pose so," said lulu quietly. "you will?" "i s'pose so." ina sobbed: "thank you, thank you, lulu. this makes up for everything." lulu was thinking: "di has a hard enough time as it is." aloud she said: "i told mr. cornish, but he won't tell." "i'll see to that," dwight graciously offered. "goodness," ina said, "so he knows. well, that settles----" she said no more. "you'll be happy to think you've done this for us, lulu," said dwight. "i s'pose so," said lulu. ina, pink from her little gust of sobbing, went to her, kissed her, her trim tan tailor suit against lulu's blue cotton. "my sweet, self-sacrificing sister," she murmured. "oh stop that!" lulu said. dwight took her hand, lying limply in his. "i can now," he said, "overlook the matter of the letter." lulu drew back. she put her hair behind her ears, swallowed, and cried out. "don't you go around pitying me! i'll have you know i'm glad the whole thing happened!" * * * * * cornish had ordered six new copies of a popular song. he knew that it was popular because it was called so in a chicago paper. when the six copies arrived with a danseuse on the covers he read the "words," looked wistfully at the symbols which shut him out, and felt well pleased. "got up quite attractive," he thought, and fastened the six copies in the window of his music store. it was not yet nine o'clock of a vivid morning. cornish had his floor and sidewalk sprinkled, his red and blue plush piano spreads dusted. he sat at a folding table well back in the store, and opened a law book. for half an hour he read. then he found himself looking off the page, stabbed by a reflection which always stabbed him anew: was he really getting anywhere with his law? and where did he really hope to get? of late when he awoke at night this question had stood by the cot, waiting. the cot had appeared there in the back of the music-store, behind a dark sateen curtain with too few rings on the wire. how little else was in there, nobody knew. but those passing in the late evening saw the blur of his kerosene lamp behind that curtain and were smitten by a realistic illusion of personal loneliness. it was behind that curtain that these unreasoning questions usually attacked him, when his giant, wavering shadow had died upon the wall and the faint smell of the extinguished lamp went with him to his bed; or when he waked before any sign of dawn. in the mornings all was cheerful and wonted--the question had not before attacked him among his red and blue plush spreads, his golden oak and ebony cases, of a sunshiny morning. a step at his door set him flying. he wanted passionately to sell a piano. "well!" he cried, when he saw his visitor. it was lulu, in her dark red suit and her tilted hat. "well!" she also said, and seemed to have no idea of saying anything else. her excitement was so obscure that he did not discern it. "you're out early," said he, participating in the village chorus of this bright challenge at this hour. "oh, no," said lulu. he looked out the window, pretending to be caught by something passing, leaned to see it the better. "oh, how'd you get along last night?" he asked, and wondered why he had not thought to say it before. "all right, thank you," said lulu. "was he--about the letter, you know?" "yes," she said, "but that didn't matter. you'll be sure," she added, "not to say anything about what was in the letter?" "why, not till you tell me i can," said cornish, "but won't everybody know now?" "no," lulu said. at this he had no more to say, and feeling his speculation in his eyes, dropped them to a piano scarf from which he began flicking invisible specks. "i came to tell you good-bye," lulu said. "_good-bye!_" "yes. i'm going off--for a while. my satchel's in the bakery--i had my breakfast in the bakery." "say!" cornish cried warmly, "then everything _wasn't_ all right last night?" "as right as it can ever be with me," she told him. "oh, yes. dwight forgave me." "forgave you!" she smiled, and trembled. "look here," said cornish, "you come here and sit down and tell me about this." he led her to the folding table, as the only social spot in that vast area of his, seated her in the one chair, and for himself brought up a piano stool. but after all she told him nothing. she merely took the comfort of his kindly indignation. "it came out all right," she said only. "but i won't stay there any more. i can't do that." "then what are you going to do?" "in millton yesterday," she said, "i saw an advertisement in the hotel--they wanted a chambermaid." "oh, miss bett!" he cried. at that name she flushed. "why," said cornish, "you must have been coming from millton yesterday when i saw you. i noticed miss di had her bag--" he stopped, stared. "you brought her back!" he deduced everything. "oh!" said lulu. "oh, no--i mean--" "i heard about the eloping again this morning," he said. "that's just what you did--you brought her back." "you mustn't tell that! you won't? you won't!" "no. 'course not." he mulled it. "you tell me this: do they know? i mean about your going after her?" "no." "you never told!" "they don't know she went." "that's a funny thing," he blurted out, "for you not to tell her folks--i mean, right off. before last night...." "you don't know them. dwight'd never let up on that--he'd _joke_ her about it after a while." "but it seems--" "ina'd talk about disgracing _her_. they wouldn't know what to do. there's no sense in telling them. they aren't a mother and father," lulu said. cornish was not accustomed to deal with so much reality. but lulu's reality he could grasp. "you're a trump anyhow," he affirmed. "oh, no," said lulu modestly. yes, she was. he insisted upon it. "by george," he exclaimed, "you don't find very many _married_ women with as good sense as you've got." at this, just as he was agonising because he had seemed to refer to the truth that she was, after all, not married, at this lulu laughed in some amusement, and said nothing. "you've been a jewel in their home all right," said cornish. "i bet they'll miss you if you do go." "they'll miss my cooking," lulu said without bitterness. "they'll miss more than that, i know. i've often watched you there--" "you have?" it was not so much pleasure as passionate gratitude which lighted her eyes. "you made the whole place," said cornish. "you don't mean just the cooking?" "no, no. i mean--well, that first night when you played croquet. i felt at home when you came out." that look of hers, rarely seen, which was no less than a look of loveliness, came now to lulu's face. after a pause she said: "i never had but one compliment before that wasn't for my cooking." she seemed to feel that she must confess to that one. "he told me i done my hair up nice." she added conscientiously: "that was after i took notice how the ladies in savannah, georgia, done up theirs." "well, well," said cornish only. "well," said lulu, "i must be going now. i wanted to say good-bye to you--and there's one or two other places...." "i hate to have you go," said cornish, and tried to add something. "i hate to have you go," was all that he could find to add. lulu rose. "oh, well," was all that she could find. they shook hands, lulu laughing a little. cornish followed her to the door. he had begun on "look here, i wish ..." when lulu said "good-bye," and paused, wishing intensely to know what he would have said. but all that he said was: "good-bye. i wish you weren't going." "so do i," said lulu, and went, still laughing. cornish saw her red dress vanish from his door, flash by his window, her head averted. and there settled upon him a depression out of all proportion to the slow depression of his days. this was more--it assailed him, absorbed him. he stood staring out the window. some one passed with a greeting of which he was conscious too late to return. he wandered back down the store and his pianos looked back at him like strangers. down there was the green curtain which screened his home life. he suddenly hated that green curtain. he hated this whole place. for the first time it occurred to him that he hated warbleton. he came back to his table, and sat down before his lawbook. but he sat, chin on chest, regarding it. no ... no escape that way.... a step at the door and he sprang up. it was lulu, coming toward him, her face unsmiling but somehow quite lighted. in her hand was a letter. "see," she said. "at the office was this...." she thrust in his hand the single sheet. he read: " ... just wanted you to know you're actually rid of me. i've heard from her, in brazil. she ran out of money and thought of me, and her lawyer wrote to me.... i've never been any good--dwight would tell you that if his pride would let him tell the truth once in a while. but there ain't anything in my life makes me feel as bad as this.... i s'pose you couldn't understand and i don't myself.... only the sixteen years keeping still made me think she was gone sure ... but you were so downright good, that's what was the worst ... do you see what i want to say ..." cornish read it all and looked at lulu. she was grave and in her eyes there was a look of dignity such as he had never seen them wear. incredible dignity. "he didn't lie to get rid of me--and she was alive, just as he thought she might be," she said. "i'm glad," said cornish. "yes," said lulu. "he isn't quite so bad as dwight tried to make him out." it was not of this that cornish had been thinking. "now you're free," he said. "oh, that ..." said lulu. she replaced her letter in its envelope. "now i'm really going," she said. "good-bye for sure this time...." her words trailed away. cornish had laid his hand on her arm. "don't say good-bye," he said. "it's late," she said, "i--" "don't you go," said cornish. she looked at him mutely. "do you think you could possibly stay here with me?" "oh!" said lulu, like no word. he went on, not looking at her. "i haven't got anything. i guess maybe you've heard something about a little something i'm supposed to inherit. well, it's only five hundred dollars." his look searched her face, but she hardly heard what he was saying. "that little warden house--it don't cost much--you'd be surprised. rent, i mean. i can get it now. i went and looked at it the other day, but then i didn't think--" he caught himself on that. "it don't cost near as much as this store. we could furnish up the parlour with pianos--" he was startled by that "we," and began again: "that is, if you could ever think of such a thing as marrying me." "but," said lulu. "you _know_! why, don't the disgrace--" "what disgrace?" asked cornish. "oh," she said, "you--you----" "there's only this about that," said he. "of course, if you loved him very much, then i'd ought not to be talking this way to you. but i didn't think--" "you didn't think what?" "that you did care so very much--about him. i don't know why." she said: "i wanted somebody of my own. that's the reason i done what i done. i know that now." "i figured that way," said cornish. they dismissed it. but now he brought to bear something which he saw that she should know. "look here," he said, "i'd ought to tell you. i'm--i'm awful lonesome myself. this is no place to live. and i guess living so is one reason why i want to get married. i want some kind of a home." he said it as a confession. she accepted it as a reason. "of course," she said. "i ain't never lived what you might say private," said cornish. "i've lived too private," lulu said. "then there's another thing." this was harder to tell her. "i--i don't believe i'm ever going to be able to do a thing with law." "i don't see," said lulu, "how anybody does." "i'm not much good in a business way," he owned, with a faint laugh. "sometimes i think," he drew down his brows, "that i may never be able to make any money." she said: "lots of men don't." "could you risk it with me?" cornish asked her. "there's nobody i've seen," he went on gently, "that i like as much as i do you. i--i was engaged to a girl once, but we didn't get along. i guess if you'd be willing to try me, we would get along." lulu said: "i thought it was di that you--" "miss di? why," said cornish, "she's a little kid. and," he added, "she's a little liar." "but i'm going on thirty-four." "so am i!" "isn't there somebody--" "look here. do you like me?" "oh, yes!" "well enough--" "it's you i was thinking of," said lulu. "i'd be all right." "then!" cornish cried, and he kissed her. * * * * * "and now," said dwight, "nobody must mind if i hurry a little wee bit. i've got something on." he and ina and monona were at dinner. mrs. bett was in her room. di was not there. "anything about lulu?" ina asked. "lulu?" dwight stared. "why should i have anything to do about lulu?" "well, but, dwight--we've got to do something." "as i told you this morning," he observed, "we shall do nothing. your sister is of age--i don't know about the sound mind, but she is certainly of age. if she chooses to go away, she is free to go where she will." "yes, but, dwight, where has she gone? where could she go? where--" "you are a question-box," said dwight playfully. "a question-box." ina had burned her plump wrist on the oven. she lifted her arm and nursed it. "i'm certainly going to miss her if she stays away very long," she remarked. "you should be sufficient unto your little self," said dwight. "that's all right," said ina, "except when you're getting dinner." "i want some crust coffee," announced monona firmly. "you'll have nothing of the sort," said ina. "drink your milk." "as i remarked," dwight went on, "i'm in a tiny wee bit of a hurry." "well, why don't you say what for?" his ina asked. she knew that he wanted to be asked, and she was sufficiently willing to play his games, and besides she wanted to know. but she _was_ hot. "i am going," said dwight, "to take grandma gates out in a wheel-chair, for an hour." "where did you get a wheel-chair, for mercy sakes?" "borrowed it from the railroad company," said dwight, with the triumph peculiar to the resourceful man. "why i never did it before, i can't imagine. there that chair's been in the depot ever since i can remember--saw it every time i took the train--and yet i never once thought of grandma." "my, dwight," said ina, "how good you are!" "nonsense!" said he. "well, you are. why don't i send her over a baked apple? monona, you take grandma gates a baked apple--no. you shan't go till you drink your milk." "i don't want it." "drink it or mamma won't let you go." monona drank it, made a piteous face, took the baked apple, ran. "the apple isn't very good," said ina, "but it shows my good will." "also," said dwight, "it teaches monona a life of thoughtfulness for others." "that's what i always think," his ina said. "can't you get mother to come out?" dwight inquired. "i had so much to do getting dinner onto the table, i didn't try," ina confessed. "you didn't have to try," mrs. bett's voice sounded. "i was coming when i got rested up." she entered, looking vaguely about. "i want lulie," she said, and the corners of her mouth drew down. she ate her dinner cold, appeased in vague areas by such martyrdom. they were still at table when the front door opened. "monona hadn't ought to use the front door so common," mrs. bett complained. but it was not monona. it was lulu and cornish. "well!" said dwight, tone curving downward. "well!" said ina, in replica. "lulie!" said mrs. bett, and left her dinner, and went to her daughter and put her hands upon her. "we wanted to tell you first," cornish said. "we've just got married." "for _ever_ more!" said ina. "what's this?" dwight sprang to his feet. "you're joking!" he cried with hope. "no," cornish said soberly. "we're married--just now. methodist parsonage. we've had our dinner," he added hastily. "where'd you have it?" ina demanded, for no known reason. "the bakery," cornish replied, and flushed. "in the dining-room part," lulu added. dwight's sole emotion was his indignation. "what on earth did you do it for?" he put it to them. "married in a bakery--" no, no. they explained it again. neither of them, they said, wanted the fuss of a wedding. dwight recovered himself in a measure. "i'm not surprised, after all," he said. "lulu usually marries in this way." mrs. bett patted her daughter's arm. "lulie," she said, "why, lulie. you ain't been and got married twice, have you? after waitin' so long?" "don't be disturbed, mother bett," dwight cried. "she wasn't married that first time, if you remember. no marriage about it!" ina's little shriek sounded. "dwight!" she cried. "now everybody'll have to know that. you'll have to tell about ninian now--and his other wife!" standing between her mother and cornish, an arm of each about her, lulu looked across at ina and dwight, and they all saw in her face a horrified realisation. "ina!" she said. "dwight! you _will_ have to tell now, won't you? why i never thought of that." at this dwight sneered, was sneering still as he went to give grandma gates her ride in the wheel-chair and as he stooped with patient kindness to tuck her in. the street door was closed. if mrs. bett was peeping through the blind, no one saw her. in the pleasant mid-day light under the maples, mr. and mrs. neil cornish were hurrying toward the railway station. work: a story of experience. by louisa m. alcott, author of "little women," "little men," "an old-fashioned girl," "hospital sketches," etc. "an endless significance lies in work; in idleness alone is there perpetual despair."--carlyle. boston: . to my mother, whose life has been a long labor of love, this book is gratefully inscribed by her daughter. contents. i. christie ii. servant iii. actress iv. governess v. companion vi. seamstress vii. through the mist viii. a cure for despair ix. mrs. wilkins's minister x. beginning again xi. in the strawberry bed xii. christie's gala xiii. waking up xiv. which? xv. midsummer xvi. mustered in xvii. the colonel xviii. sunrise xix. little heart's-ease xx. at forty list of illustrations, from drawings by sol eytinge. "how doth the little busy bee" christie aunt betsey's interlarded speech mrs. stuart. hepsey christie as queen of the amazons mr. philip fletcher mrs. saltonstall and family "no, i thank you" helen carrol mrs. king and miss cotton the rescue "c. wilkins, clear starcher" lisha wilkins mrs. wilkins' "six lively infants" mr. power mrs. sterling david and christie in the greenhouse mr. power and christie in the strawberry bed a friendly chat kitty. "one happy moment" david "then they were married" "don't mourn, dear heart, but work" "she's a good little gal; looks consid'able like you" "each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the happy end" work: a story of experience. chapter i. christie. christie. "aunt betsey, there's going to be a new declaration of independence." "bless and save us, what do you mean, child?" and the startled old lady precipitated a pie into the oven with destructive haste. "i mean that, being of age, i'm going to take care of myself, and not be a burden any longer. uncle wishes me out of the way; thinks i ought to go, and, sooner or later, will tell me so. i don't intend to wait for that, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away into the world and seek my fortune. i know i can find it." christie emphasized her speech by energetic demonstrations in the bread-trough, kneading the dough as if it was her destiny, and she was shaping it to suit herself; while aunt betsey stood listening, with uplifted pie-fork, and as much astonishment as her placid face was capable of expressing. as the girl paused, with a decided thump, the old lady exclaimed: "what crazy idee you got into your head now?" "a very sane and sensible one that's got to be worked out, so please listen to it, ma'am. i've had it a good while, i've thought it over thoroughly, and i'm sure it's the right thing for me to do. i'm old enough to take care of myself; and if i'd been a boy, i should have been told to do it long ago. i hate to be dependent; and now there's no need of it, i can't bear it any longer. if you were poor, i wouldn't leave you; for i never forget how kind you have been to me. but uncle doesn't love or understand me; i am a burden to him, and i must go where i can take care of myself. i can't be happy till i do, for there's nothing here for me. i'm sick of this dull town, where the one idea is eat, drink, and get rich; i don't find any friends to help me as i want to be helped, or any work that i can do well; so let me go, aunty, and find my place, wherever it is." "but i do need you, deary; and you mustn't think uncle don't like you. he does, only he don't show it; and when your odd ways fret him, he ain't pleasant, i know. i don't see why you can't be contented; i've lived here all my days, and never found the place lonesome, or the folks unneighborly." and aunt betsey looked perplexed by the new idea. "you and i are very different, ma'am. there was more yeast put into my composition, i guess; and, after standing quiet in a warm corner so long, i begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time, so that i may turn out a wholesome loaf. you can't do this; so let me go where it can be done, else i shall turn sour and good for nothing. does that make the matter any clearer?" and christie's serious face relaxed into a smile as her aunt's eye went from her to the nicely moulded loaf offered as an illustration. "i see what you mean, kitty; but i never thought on't before. you be better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes bread poor stuff, like baker's trash; and too much workin' up makes it hard and dry. now fly 'round, for the big oven is most het, and this cake takes a sight of time in the mixin'." "you haven't said i might go, aunty," began the girl, after a long pause devoted by the old lady to the preparation of some compound which seemed to require great nicety of measurement in its ingredients; for when she replied, aunt betsey curiously interlarded her speech with audible directions to herself from the receipt-book before her. aunt betsey's interlarded speech. "i ain't no right to keep you, dear, ef you choose to take (a pinch of salt). i'm sorry you ain't happy, and think you might be ef you'd only (beat six eggs, yolks and whites together). but ef you can't, and feel that you need (two cups of sugar), only speak to uncle, and ef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and take my blessin' with you (not forgettin' to cover with a piece of paper)." christie's laugh echoed through the kitchen; and the old lady smiled benignly, quite unconscious of the cause of the girl's merriment. "i shall ask uncle to-night, and i know he won't object. then i shall write to see if mrs. flint has a room for me, where i can stay till i get something to do. there is plenty of work in the world, and i'm not afraid of it; so you'll soon hear good news of me. don't look sad, for you know i never could forget you, even if i should become the greatest lady in the land." and christie left the prints of two floury but affectionate hands on the old lady's shoulders, as she kissed the wrinkled face that had never worn a frown to her. full of hopeful fancies, christie salted the pans and buttered the dough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mundane affairs, and the ludicrous dismay of aunt betsey, who followed her about rectifying her mistakes, and watching over her as if this sudden absence of mind had roused suspicions of her sanity. "uncle, i want to go away, and get my own living, if you please," was christie's abrupt beginning, as they sat round the evening fire. "hey! what's that?" said uncle enos, rousing from the doze he was enjoying, with a candle in perilous proximity to his newspaper and his nose. christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, when, after a meditative stare, the old man briefly answered: "wal, go ahead." "i was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir." "i think it's the best thing you could do; and i like your good sense in pupposin' on't." "then i may really go?" "soon's ever you like. don't pester me about it till you're ready; then i'll give you a little suthing to start off with." and uncle enos returned to "the farmer's friend," as if cattle were more interesting than kindred. christie was accustomed to his curt speech and careless manner; had expected nothing more cordial; and, turning to her aunt, said, rather bitterly: "didn't i tell you he'd be glad to have me go? no matter! when i've done something to be proud of, he will be as glad to see me back again." then her voice changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips softened with a smile. "yes, i'll try my experiment; then i'll get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a mrs. fry, a florence nightingale, or"-- "how are you on't for stockin's, dear?" christie's castles in the air vanished at the prosaic question; but, after a blank look, she answered pleasantly: "thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when i was soaring away too far and too fast. i'm poorly off, ma'am; but if you are knitting these for me, i shall certainly start on a firm foundation." and, leaning on aunt betsey's knee, she patiently discussed the wardrobe question from hose to head-gear. "don't you think you could be contented any way, christie, ef i make the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?" asked the old lady, loth to lose the one youthful element in her quiet life. "no, ma'am, for i can't find what i want here," was the decided answer. "what do you want, child?" "look in the fire, and i'll try to show you." the old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and christie said in a tone half serious, half playful: "do you see those two logs? well that one smouldering dismally away in the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singing is what i want my life to be." "bless me, what an idee! they are both a-burnin' where they are put, and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make?" christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancy that pleased her, she added earnestly: "i know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how they turn to ashes, and how i spend my life. that log, with its one dull spot of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling despondently among the cinders. but the other glows from end to end with cheerful little flames that go singing up the chimney with a pleasant sound. its light fills the room and shines out into the dark; its warmth draws us nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the house, and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it dies. yes," she added, as if to herself, "i hope my life may be like that, so that, whether it be long or short, it will be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave something behind besides ashes." though she only half understood them, the girl's words touched the kind old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young face gazing so wistfully into the fire. "a good smart blowin' up with the belluses would make the green stick burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. i guess contentedness is the best bellus for young folks, ef they would only think so." "i dare say you are right, aunty; but i want to try for myself; and if i fail, i'll come back and follow your advice. young folks always have discontented fits, you know. didn't you when you were a girl?" "shouldn't wonder ef i did; but enos came along, and i forgot 'em." "my enos has not come along yet, and never may; so i'm not going to sit and wait for any man to give me independence, if i can earn it for myself." and a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner plainly betrayed that, in christie's opinion, aunt betsey made a bad bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for a man whose soul was in his pocket. "jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented, and sot in her own idees. poor capital to start a fortin' on." christie's eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of his paper with an expression that always tried her patience. now it was like a dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked quickly: "how do you mean, sir?" "i mean that you are startin' all wrong; your redic'lus notions about independence and self-cultur won't come to nothin' in the long run, and you'll make as bad a failure of your life as your mother did of her'n." "please, don't say that to me; i can't bear it, for i shall never think her life a failure, because she tried to help herself, and married a good man in spite of poverty, when she loved him! you call that folly; but i'll do the same if i can; and i'd rather have what my father and mother left me, than all the money you are piling up, just for the pleasure of being richer than your neighbors." "never mind, dear, he don't mean no harm!" whispered aunt betsey, fearing a storm. but though christie's eyes had kindled and her color deepened, her voice was low and steady, and her indignation was of the inward sort. "uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and this is one reason why i want to go away before i get sharp and bitter and distrustful as he is. i don't suppose i can make you understand my feeling, but i'd like to try, and then i'll never speak of it again;" and, carefully controlling voice and face, christie slowly added, with a look that would have been pathetically eloquent to one who could have understood the instincts of a strong nature for light and freedom: "you say i am discontented, proud and ambitious; that's true, and i'm glad of it. i am discontented, because i can't help feeling that there is a better sort of life than this dull one made up of everlasting work, with no object but money. i can't starve my soul for the sake of my body, and i mean to get out of the treadmill if i can. i'm proud, as you call it, because i hate dependence where there isn't any love to make it bearable. you don't say so in words, but i know you begrudge me a home, though you will call me ungrateful when i'm gone. i'm willing to work, but i want work that i can put my heart into, and feel that it does me good, no matter how hard it is. i only ask for a chance to be a useful, happy woman, and i don't think that is a bad ambition. even if i only do what my dear mother did, earn my living honestly and happily, and leave a beautiful example behind me, to help one other woman as hers helps me, i shall be satisfied." christie's voice faltered over the last words, for the thoughts and feelings which had been working within her during the last few days had stirred her deeply, and the resolution to cut loose from the old life had not been lightly made. mr. devon had listened behind his paper to this unusual outpouring with a sense of discomfort which was new to him. but though the words reproached and annoyed, they did not soften him, and when christie paused with tearful eyes, her uncle rose, saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle: "ef i'd refused to let you go before, i'd agree to it now; for you need breakin' in, my girl, and you are goin' where you'll get it, so the sooner you're off the better for all on us. come, betsey, we may as wal leave, for we can't understand the wants of her higher nater, as christie calls it, and we've had lecterin' enough for one night." and with a grim laugh the old man quitted the field, worsted but in good order. "there, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all about it!" purred aunt betsey, as the heavy footsteps creaked away, for the good soul had a most old-fashioned and dutiful awe of her lord and master. "i shan't cry but act; for it is high time i was off. i've stayed for your sake; now i'm more trouble than comfort, and away i go. good-night, my dear old aunty, and don't look troubled, for i'll be a lamb while i stay." having kissed the old lady, christie swept her work away, and sat down to write the letter which was the first step toward freedom. when it was done, she drew nearer, to her friendly confidante the fire, and till late into the night sat thinking tenderly of the past, bravely of the present, hopefully of the future. twenty-one to-morrow, and her inheritance a head, a heart, a pair of hands; also the dower of most new england girls, intelligence, courage, and common sense, many practical gifts, and, hidden under the reserve that soon melts in a genial atmosphere, much romance and enthusiasm, and the spirit which can rise to heroism when the great moment comes. christie was one of that large class of women who, moderately endowed with talents, earnest and true-hearted, are driven by necessity, temperament, or principle out into the world to find support, happiness, and homes for themselves. many turn back discouraged; more accept shadow for substance, and discover their mistake too late; the weakest lose their purpose and themselves; but the strongest struggle on, and, after danger and defeat, earn at last the best success this world can give us, the possession of a brave and cheerful spirit, rich in self-knowledge, self-control, self-help. this was the real desire of christie's heart; this was to be her lesson and reward, and to this happy end she was slowly yet surely brought by the long discipline of life and labor. sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strengthen herself with all the good and helpful memories she could recall, before she went away to find her place in the great unknown world. she thought of her mother, so like herself, who had borne the commonplace life of home till she could bear it no longer. then had gone away to teach, as most country girls are forced to do. had met, loved, and married a poor gentleman, and, after a few years of genuine happiness, untroubled even by much care and poverty, had followed him out of the world, leaving her little child to the protection of her brother. christie looked back over the long, lonely years she had spent in the old farm-house, plodding to school and church, and doing her tasks with kind aunt betsey while a child; and slowly growing into girlhood, with a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry for love and a larger, nobler life. she had tried to appease this hunger in many ways, but found little help. her father's old books were all she could command, and these she wore out with much reading. inheriting his refined tastes, she found nothing to attract her in the society of the commonplace and often coarse people about her. she tried to like the buxom girls whose one ambition was to "get married," and whose only subjects of conversation were "smart bonnets" and "nice dresses." she tried to believe that the admiration and regard of the bluff young farmers was worth striving for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feet, she found it impossible to accept for her life's companion a man whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and big turnips. uncle enos never could forgive her for this piece of folly, and christie plainly saw that one of three things would surely happen, if she lived on there with no vent for her full heart and busy mind. she would either marry joe butterfield in sheer desperation, and become a farmer's household drudge; settle down into a sour spinster, content to make butter, gossip, and lay up money all her days; or do what poor matty stone had done, try to crush and curb her needs and aspirations till the struggle grew too hard, and then in a fit of despair end her life, and leave a tragic story to haunt their quiet river. to escape these fates but one way appeared; to break loose from this narrow life, go out into the world and see what she could do for herself. this idea was full of enchantment to the eager girl, and, after much earnest thought, she had resolved to try it. "if i fail, i can come back," she said to herself, even while she scorned the thought of failure, for with all her shy pride she was both brave and ardent, and her dreams were of the rosiest sort. "i won't marry joe; i won't wear myself out in a district-school for the mean sum they give a woman; i won't delve away here where i'm not wanted; and i won't end my life like a coward, because it is dull and hard. i'll try my fate as mother did, and perhaps i may succeed as well." and christie's thoughts went wandering away into the dim, sweet past when she, a happy child, lived with loving parents in a different world from that. lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old moon-faced clock behind the door struck twelve, then the visions vanished, leaving their benison behind them. as she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a slender spire of flame shot up from the log that had blazed so cheerily, and shone upon her as she went. a good omen, gratefully accepted then, and remembered often in the years to come. chapter ii. servant. a fortnight later, and christie was off. mrs. flint had briefly answered that she had a room, and that work was always to be found in the city. so the girl packed her one trunk, folding away splendid hopes among her plain gowns, and filling every corner with happy fancies, utterly impossible plans, and tender little dreams, so lovely at the time, so pathetic to remember, when contact with the hard realities of life has collapsed our bright bubbles, and the frost of disappointment nipped all our morning glories in their prime. the old red stage stopped at enos devon's door, and his niece crossed the threshold after a cool handshake with the master of the house, and a close embrace with the mistress, who stood pouring out last words with spectacles too dim for seeing. fat ben swung up the trunk, slammed the door, mounted his perch, and the ancient vehicle swayed with premonitory symptoms of departure. then something smote christie's heart. "stop!" she cried, and springing out ran back into the dismal room where the old man sat. straight up to him she went with outstretched hand, saying steadily, though her face was full of feeling: "uncle, i'm not satisfied with that good-bye. i don't mean to be sentimental, but i do want to say, 'forgive me!' i see now that i might have made you sorry to part with me, if i had tried to make you love me more. it's too late now, but i'm not too proud to confess when i'm wrong. i want to part kindly; i ask your pardon; i thank you for all you've done for me, and i say good-bye affectionately now." mr. devon had a heart somewhere, though it seldom troubled him; but it did make itself felt when the girl looked at him with his dead sister's eyes, and spoke in a tone whose unaccustomed tenderness was a reproach. conscience had pricked him more than once that week, and he was glad to own it now; his rough sense of honor was touched by her frank expression, and, as he answered, his hand was offered readily. "i like that, kitty, and think the better of you for't. let bygones be bygones. i gen'lly got as good as i give, and i guess i deserved some on't. i wish you wal, my girl, i heartily wish you wal, and hope you won't forgit that the old house ain't never shet aginst you." christie astonished him with a cordial kiss; then bestowing another warm hug on aunt niobe, as she called the old lady in a tearful joke, she ran into the carriage, taking with her all the sunshine of the place. christie found mrs. flint a dreary woman, with "boarders" written all over her sour face and faded figure. butcher's bills and house rent seemed to fill her eyes with sleepless anxiety; thriftless cooks and saucy housemaids to sharpen the tones of her shrill voice; and an incapable husband to burden her shoulders like a modern "old man of the sea." a little room far up in the tall house was at the girl's disposal for a reasonable sum, and she took possession, feeling very rich with the hundred dollars uncle enos gave her, and delightfully independent, with no milk-pans to scald; no heavy lover to elude; no humdrum district school to imprison her day after day. for a week she enjoyed her liberty heartily, then set about finding something to do. her wish was to be a governess, that being the usual refuge for respectable girls who have a living to get. but christie soon found her want of accomplishments a barrier to success in that line, for the mammas thought less of the solid than of the ornamental branches, and wished their little darlings to learn french before english, music before grammar, and drawing before writing. so, after several disappointments, christie decided that her education was too old-fashioned for the city, and gave up the idea of teaching. sewing she resolved not to try till every thing else failed; and, after a few more attempts to get writing to do, she said to herself, in a fit of humility and good sense: "i'll begin at the beginning, and work my way up. i'll put my pride in my pocket, and go out to service. housework i like, and can do well, thanks to aunt betsey. i never thought it degradation to do it for her, so why should i mind doing it for others if they pay for it? it isn't what i want, but it's better than idleness, so i'll try it!" full of this wise resolution, she took to haunting that purgatory of the poor, an intelligence office. mrs. flint gave her a recommendation, and she hopefully took her place among the ranks of buxom german, incapable irish, and "smart" american women; for in those days foreign help had not driven farmers' daughters out of the field, and made domestic comfort a lost art. at first christie enjoyed the novelty of the thing, and watched with interest the anxious housewives who flocked in demanding that rara avis, an angel at nine shillings a week; and not finding it, bewailed the degeneracy of the times. being too honest to profess herself absolutely perfect in every known branch of house-work, it was some time before she suited herself. meanwhile, she was questioned and lectured, half engaged and kept waiting, dismissed for a whim, and so worried that she began to regard herself as the incarnation of all human vanities and shortcomings. "a desirable place in a small, genteel family," was at last offered her, and she posted away to secure it, having reached a state of desperation and resolved to go as a first-class cook rather than sit with her hands before her any longer. a well-appointed house, good wages, and light duties seemed things to be grateful for, and christie decided that going out to service was not the hardest fate in life, as she stood at the door of a handsome house in a sunny square waiting to be inspected. mrs. stuart, having just returned from italy, affected the artistic, and the new applicant found her with a roman scarf about her head, a rosary like a string of small cannon balls at her side, and azure draperies which became her as well as they did the sea-green furniture of her marine boudoir, where unwary walkers tripped over coral and shells, grew sea-sick looking at pictures of tempestuous billows engulfing every sort of craft, from a man-of-war to a hencoop with a ghostly young lady clinging to it with one hand, and had their appetites effectually taken away by a choice collection of water-bugs and snakes in a glass globe, that looked like a jar of mixed pickles in a state of agitation. mrs. stuart. madame was intent on a water-color copy of turner's "rain, wind, and hail," that pleasing work which was sold upsidedown and no one found it out. motioning christie to a seat she finished some delicate sloppy process before speaking. in that little pause christie examined her, and the impression then received was afterward confirmed. mrs. stuart possessed some beauty and chose to think herself a queen of society. she assumed majestic manners in public and could not entirely divest herself of them in private, which often produced comic effects. zenobia troubled about fish-sauce, or aspasia indignant at the price of eggs will give some idea of this lady when she condescended to the cares of housekeeping. presently she looked up and inspected the girl as if a new servant were no more than a new bonnet, a necessary article to be ordered home for examination. christie presented her recommendation, made her modest little speech, and awaited her doom. mrs. stuart read, listened, and then demanded with queenly brevity: "your name?" "christie devon." "too long; i should prefer to call you jane as i am accustomed to the name." "as you please, ma'am." "your age?" "twenty-one." "you are an american?" "yes, ma'am." mrs. stuart gazed into space a moment, then delivered the following address with impressive solemnity: "i wish a capable, intelligent, honest, neat, well-conducted person who knows her place and keeps it. the work is light, as there are but two in the family. i am very particular and so is mr. stuart. i pay two dollars and a half, allow one afternoon out, one service on sunday, and no followers. my table-girl must understand her duties thoroughly, be extremely neat, and always wear white aprons." "i think i can suit you, ma'am, when i have learned the ways of the house," meekly replied christie. mrs. stuart looked graciously satisfied and returned the paper with a gesture that victoria might have used in restoring a granted petition, though her next words rather marred the effect of the regal act, "my cook is black." "i have no objection to color, ma'am." an expression of relief dawned upon mrs. stuart's countenance, for the black cook had been an insurmountable obstacle to all the irish ladies who had applied. thoughtfully tapping her roman nose with the handle of her brush madame took another survey of the new applicant, and seeing that she looked neat, intelligent, and respectful, gave a sigh of thankfulness and engaged her on the spot. much elated christie rushed home, selected a bag of necessary articles, bundled the rest of her possessions into an empty closet (lent her rent-free owing to a profusion of cockroaches), paid up her board, and at two o'clock introduced herself to hepsey johnson, her fellow servant. hepsey was a tall, gaunt woman, bearing the tragedy of her race written in her face, with its melancholy eyes, subdued expression, and the pathetic patience of a wronged dumb animal. she received christie with an air of resignation, and speedily bewildered her with an account of the duties she would be expected to perform. a long and careful drill enabled christie to set the table with but few mistakes, and to retain a tolerably clear recollection of the order of performances. she had just assumed her badge of servitude, as she called the white apron, when the bell rang violently and hepsey, who was hurrying away to "dish up," said: "it's de marster. you has to answer de bell, honey, and he likes it done bery spry." christie ran and admitted an impetuous, stout gentleman, who appeared to be incensed against the elements, for he burst in as if blown, shook himself like a newfoundland dog, and said all in one breath: "you're the new girl, are you? well, take my umbrella and pull off my rubbers." "sir?" mr. stuart was struggling with his gloves, and, quite unconscious of the astonishment of his new maid, impatiently repeated his request. "take this wet thing away, and pull off my overshoes. don't you see it's raining like the very deuce!" christie folded her lips together in a peculiar manner as she knelt down and removed a pair of muddy overshoes, took the dripping umbrella, and was walking away with her agreeable burden when mr. stuart gave her another shock by calling over the banister: "i'm going out again; so clean those rubbers, and see that the boots i sent down this morning are in order." "yes, sir," answered christie meekly, and immediately afterward startled hepsey by casting overshoes and umbrella upon the kitchen floor, and indignantly demanding: "am i expected to be a boot-jack to that man?" "i 'spects you is, honey." "am i also expected to clean his boots?" "yes, chile. katy did, and de work ain't hard when you gits used to it." "it isn't the work; it's the degradation; and i won't submit to it." christie looked fiercely determined; but hepsey shook her head, saying quietly as she went on garnishing a dish: "dere's more 'gradin' works dan dat, chile, and dem dat's bin 'bliged to do um finds dis sort bery easy. you's paid for it, honey; and if you does it willin, it won't hurt you more dan washin' de marster's dishes, or sweepin' his rooms." "there ought to be a boy to do this sort of thing. do you think it's right to ask it of me?" cried christie, feeling that being servant was not as pleasant a task as she had thought it. "dunno, chile. i'se shore i'd never ask it of any woman if i was a man, 'less i was sick or ole. but folks don't seem to 'member dat we've got feelin's, and de best way is not to mind dese ere little trubbles. you jes leave de boots to me; blackin' can't do dese ole hands no hurt, and dis ain't no deggydation to me now; i's a free woman." "why, hepsey, were you ever a slave?" asked the girl, forgetting her own small injury at this suggestion of the greatest of all wrongs. "all my life, till i run away five year ago. my ole folks, and eight brudders and sisters, is down dere in de pit now; waitin' for the lord to set 'em free. and he's gwine to do it soon, soon!" as she uttered the last words, a sudden light chased the tragic shadow from hepsey's face, and the solemn fervor of her voice thrilled christie's heart. all her anger died out in a great pity, and she put her hand on the woman's shoulder, saying earnestly: "i hope so; and i wish i could help to bring that happy day at once!" for the first time hepsey smiled, as she said gratefully, "de lord bress you for dat wish, chile." then, dropping suddenly into her old, quiet way, she added, turning to her work: "now you tote up de dinner, and i'll be handy by to 'fresh your mind 'bout how de dishes goes, for missis is bery 'ticular, and don't like no 'stakes in tendin'." thanks to her own neat-handed ways and hepsey's prompting through the slide, christie got on very well; managed her salver dexterously, only upset one glass, clashed one dish-cover, and forgot to sugar the pie before putting it on the table; an omission which was majestically pointed out, and graciously pardoned as a first offence. by seven o'clock the ceremonial was fairly over, and christie dropped into a chair quite tired out with frequent pacings to and fro. in the kitchen she found the table spread for one, and hepsey busy with the boots. "aren't you coming to your dinner, mrs. johnson?" she asked, not pleased at the arrangement. "when you's done, honey; dere's no hurry 'bout me. katy liked dat way best, and i'se used ter waitin'." "but i don't like that way, and i won't have it. i suppose katy thought her white skin gave her a right to be disrespectful to a woman old enough to be her mother just because she was black. i don't; and while i'm here, there must be no difference made. if we can work together, we can eat together; and because you have been a slave is all the more reason i should be good to you now." if hepsey had been surprised by the new girl's protest against being made a boot-jack of, she was still more surprised at this sudden kindness, for she had set christie down in her own mind as "one ob dem toppin' smart ones dat don't stay long nowheres." she changed her opinion now, and sat watching the girl with a new expression on her face, as christie took boot and brush from her, and fell to work energetically, saying as she scrubbed: "i'm ashamed of complaining about such a little thing as this, and don't mean to feel degraded by it, though i should by letting you do it for me. i never lived out before: that's the reason i made a fuss. there's a polish, for you, and i'm in a good humor again; so mr. stuart may call for his boots whenever he likes, and we'll go to dinner like fashionable people, as we are." there was something so irresistible in the girl's hearty manner, that hepsey submitted at once with a visible satisfaction, which gave a relish to christie's dinner, though it was eaten at a kitchen table, with a bare-armed cook sitting opposite, and three rows of burnished dish-covers reflecting the dreadful spectacle. after this, christie got on excellently, for she did her best, and found both pleasure and profit in her new employment. it gave her real satisfaction to keep the handsome rooms in order, to polish plate, and spread bountiful meals. there was an atmosphere of ease and comfort about her which contrasted agreeably with the shabbiness of mrs. flint's boarding-house, and the bare simplicity of the old home. like most young people, christie loved luxury, and was sensible enough to see and value the comforts of her situation, and to wonder why more girls placed as she was did not choose a life like this rather than the confinements of a sewing-room, or the fatigue and publicity of a shop. she did not learn to love her mistress, because mrs. stuart evidently considered herself as one belonging to a superior race of beings, and had no desire to establish any of the friendly relations that may become so helpful and pleasant to both mistress and maid. she made a royal progress through her dominions every morning, issued orders, found fault liberally, bestowed praise sparingly, and took no more personal interest in her servants than if they were clocks, to be wound up once a day, and sent away the moment they got out of repair. mr. stuart was absent from morning till night, and all christie ever knew about him was that he was a kind-hearted, hot-tempered, and very conceited man; fond of his wife, proud of the society they managed to draw about them, and bent on making his way in the world at any cost. if masters and mistresses knew how skilfully they are studied, criticised, and imitated by their servants, they would take more heed to their ways, and set better examples, perhaps. mrs. stuart never dreamed that her quiet, respectful jane kept a sharp eye on all her movements, smiled covertly at her affectations, envied her accomplishments, and practised certain little elegancies that struck her fancy. mr. stuart would have become apoplectic with indignation if he had known that this too intelligent table-girl often contrasted her master with his guests, and dared to think him wanting in good breeding when he boasted of his money, flattered a great man, or laid plans to lure some lion into his house. when he lost his temper, she always wanted to laugh, he bounced and bumbled about so like an angry blue-bottle fly; and when he got himself up elaborately for a party, this disrespectful hussy confided to hepsey her opinion that "master was a fat dandy, with nothing to be vain of but his clothes,"--a sacrilegious remark which would have caused her to be summarily ejected from the house if it had reached the august ears of master or mistress. "my father was a gentleman; and i shall never forget it, though i do go out to service. i've got no rich friends to help me up, but, sooner or later, i mean to find a place among cultivated people; and while i'm working and waiting, i can be fitting myself to fill that place like a gentlewoman, as i am." with this ambition in her mind, christie took notes of all that went on in the polite world, of which she got frequent glimpses while "living out." mrs. stuart received one evening of each week, and on these occasions christie, with an extra frill on her white apron, served the company, and enjoyed herself more than they did, if the truth had been known. while helping the ladies with their wraps, she observed what they wore, how they carried themselves, and what a vast amount of prinking they did, not to mention the flood of gossip they talked while shaking out their flounces and settling their topknots. later in the evening, when she passed cups and glasses, this demure-looking damsel heard much fine discourse, saw many famous beings, and improved her mind with surreptitious studies of the rich and great when on parade. but her best time was after supper, when, through the crack of the door of the little room where she was supposed to be clearing away the relics of the feast, she looked and listened at her ease; laughed at the wits, stared at the lions, heard the music, was impressed by the wisdom, and much edified by the gentility of the whole affair. after a time, however, christie got rather tired of it, for there was an elegant sameness about these evenings that became intensely wearisome to the uninitiated, but she fancied that as each had his part to play he managed to do it with spirit. night after night the wag told his stories, the poet read his poems, the singers warbled, the pretty women simpered and dressed, the heavy scientific was duly discussed by the elect precious, and mrs. stuart, in amazing costumes, sailed to and fro in her most swan-like manner; while my lord stirred up the lions he had captured, till they roared their best, great and small. "good heavens! why don't they do or say something new and interesting, and not keep twaddling on about art, and music, and poetry, and cosmos? the papers are full of appeals for help for the poor, reforms of all sorts, and splendid work that others are doing; but these people seem to think it isn't genteel enough to be spoken of here. i suppose it is all very elegant to go on like a set of trained canaries, but it's very dull fun to watch them, and hepsey's stories are a deal more interesting to me." having come to this conclusion, after studying dilettanteism through the crack of the door for some months, christie left the "trained canaries" to twitter and hop about their gilded cage, and devoted herself to hepsey, who gave her glimpses into another sort of life so bitterly real that she never could forget it. hepsey. friendship had prospered in the lower regions, for hepsey had a motherly heart, and christie soon won her confidence by bestowing her own. her story was like many another; yet, being the first christie had ever heard, and told with the unconscious eloquence of one who had suffered and escaped, it made a deep impression on her, bringing home to her a sense of obligation so forcibly that she began at once to pay a little part of the great debt which the white race owes the black. christie loved books; and the attic next her own was full of them. to this store she found her way by a sort of instinct as sure as that which leads a fly to a honey-pot, and, finding many novels, she read her fill. this amusement lightened many heavy hours, peopled the silent house with troops of friends, and, for a time, was the joy of her life. hepsey used to watch her as she sat buried in her book when the day's work was done, and once a heavy sigh roused christie from the most exciting crisis of "the abbot." "what's the matter? are you very tired, aunty?" she asked, using the name that came most readily to her lips. "no, honey; i was only wishin' i could read fast like you does. i's berry slow 'bout readin' and i want to learn a heap," answered hepsey, with such a wistful look in her soft eyes that christie shut her book, saying briskly: "then i'll teach you. bring out your primer and let's begin at once." "dear chile, it's orful hard work to put learnin' in my ole head, and i wouldn't 'cept such a ting from you only i needs dis sort of help so bad, and i can trust you to gib it to me as i wants it." then in a whisper that went straight to christie's heart, hepsey told her plan and showed what help she craved. for five years she had worked hard, and saved her earnings for the purpose of her life. when a considerable sum had been hoarded up, she confided it to one whom she believed to be a friend, and sent him to buy her old mother. but he proved false, and she never saw either mother or money. it was a hard blow, but she took heart and went to work again, resolving this time to trust no one with the dangerous part of the affair, but when she had scraped together enough to pay her way she meant to go south and steal her mother at the risk of her life. "i don't want much money, but i must know little 'bout readin' and countin' up, else i'll get lost and cheated. you'll help me do dis, honey, and i'll bless you all my days, and so will my old mammy, if i ever gets her safe away." with tears of sympathy shining on her cheeks, and both hands stretched out to the poor soul who implored this small boon of her, christie promised all the help that in her lay, and kept her word religiously. from that time, hepsey's cause was hers; she laid by a part of her wages for "ole mammy," she comforted hepsey with happy prophecies of success, and taught with an energy and skill she had never known before. novels lost their charms now, for hepsey could give her a comedy and tragedy surpassing any thing she found in them, because truth stamped her tales with a power and pathos the most gifted fancy could but poorly imitate. the select receptions upstairs seemed duller than ever to her now, and her happiest evenings were spent in the tidy kitchen, watching hepsey laboriously shaping a's and b's, or counting up on her worn fingers the wages they had earned by months of weary work, that she might purchase one treasure,--a feeble, old woman, worn out with seventy years of slavery far away there in virginia. for a year christie was a faithful servant to her mistress, who appreciated her virtues, but did not encourage them; a true friend to poor hepsey, who loved her dearly, and found in her sympathy and affection a solace for many griefs and wrongs. but providence had other lessons for christie, and when this one was well learned she was sent away to learn another phase of woman's life and labor. while their domestics amused themselves with privy conspiracy and rebellion at home, mr. and mrs. stuart spent their evenings in chasing that bright bubble called social success, and usually came home rather cross because they could not catch it. on one of these occasions they received a warm welcome, for, as they approached the house, smoke was seen issuing from an attic window, and flames flickering behind the half-drawn curtain. bursting out of the carriage with his usual impetuosity, mr. stuart let himself in and tore upstairs shouting "fire!" like an engine company. in the attic christie was discovered lying dressed upon her bed, asleep or suffocated by the smoke that filled the room. a book had slipped from her hand, and in falling had upset the candle on a chair beside her; the long wick leaned against a cotton gown hanging on the wall, and a greater part of christie's wardrobe was burning brilliantly. "i forbade her to keep the gas lighted so late, and see what the deceitful creature has done with her private candle!" cried mrs. stuart with a shrillness that roused the girl from her heavy sleep more effectually than the anathemas mr. stuart was fulminating against the fire. sitting up she looked dizzily about her. the smoke was clearing fast, a window having been opened; and the tableau was a striking one. mr. stuart with an excited countenance was dancing frantically on a heap of half-consumed clothes pulled from the wall. he had not only drenched them with water from bowl and pitcher, but had also cast those articles upon the pile like extinguishers, and was skipping among the fragments with an agility which contrasted with his stout figure in full evening costume, and his besmirched face, made the sight irresistibly ludicrous. mrs. stuart, though in her most regal array, seemed to have left her dignity downstairs with her opera cloak, for with skirts gathered closely about her, tiara all askew, and face full of fear and anger, she stood upon a chair and scolded like any shrew. the comic overpowered the tragic, and being a little hysterical with the sudden alarm, christie broke into a peal of laughter that sealed her fate. "look at her! look at her!" cried mrs. stuart gesticulating on her perch as if about to fly. "she has been at the wine, or lost her wits. she must go, horatio, she must go! i cannot have my nerves shattered by such dreadful scenes. she is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain. hepsey can watch her to-night, and at dawn she shall leave the house for ever." "not till after breakfast, my dear. let us have that in comfort i beg, for upon my soul we shall need it," panted mr. stuart, sinking into a chair exhausted with the vigorous measures which had quenched the conflagration. christie checked her untimely mirth, explained the probable cause of the mischief, and penitently promised to be more careful for the future. mr. stuart would have pardoned her on the spot, but madame was inexorable, for she had so completely forgotten her dignity that she felt it would be impossible ever to recover it in the eyes of this disrespectful menial. therefore she dismissed her with a lecture that made both mistress and maid glad to part. she did not appear at breakfast, and after that meal mr. stuart paid christie her wages with a solemnity which proved that he had taken a curtain lecture to heart. there was a twinkle in his eye, however, as he kindly added a recommendation, and after the door closed behind him christie was sure that he exploded into a laugh at the recollection of his last night's performance. this lightened her sense of disgrace very much, so, leaving a part of her money to repair damages, she packed up her dilapidated wardrobe, and, making hepsey promise to report progress from time to time, christie went back to mrs. flint's to compose her mind and be ready à la micawber "for something to turn up." chapter iii. actress. feeling that she had all the world before her where to choose, and that her next step ought to take her up at least one round higher on the ladder she was climbing, christie decided not to try going out to service again. she knew very well that she would never live with irish mates, and could not expect to find another hepsey. so she tried to get a place as companion to an invalid, but failed to secure the only situation of the sort that was offered her, because she mildly objected to waiting on a nervous cripple all day, and reading aloud half the night. the old lady called har an "impertinent baggage," and christie retired in great disgust, resolving not to be a slave to anybody. things seldom turn out as we plan them, and after much waiting and hoping for other work christie at last accepted about the only employment which had not entered her mind. among the boarders at mrs. flint's were an old lady and her pretty daughter, both actresses at a respectable theatre. not stars by any means, but good second-rate players, doing their work creditably and earning an honest living. the mother had been kind to christie in offering advice, and sympathizing with her disappointments. the daughter, a gay little lass, had taken christie to the theatre several times, there to behold her in all the gauzy glories that surround the nymphs of spectacular romance. to christie this was a great delight, for, though she had pored over her father's shakespeare till she knew many scenes by heart, she had never seen a play till lucy led her into what seemed an enchanted world. her interest and admiration pleased the little actress, and sundry lifts when she was hurried with her dresses made her grateful to christie. the girl's despondent face, as she came in day after day from her unsuccessful quest, told its own story, though she uttered no complaint, and these friendly souls laid their heads together, eager to help her in their own dramatic fashion. "i've got it! i've got it! all hail to the queen!" was the cry that one day startled christie as she sat thinking anxiously, while sewing mock-pearls on a crown for mrs. black. looking up she saw lucy just home from rehearsal, going through a series of pantomimic evolutions suggestive of a warrior doing battle with incredible valor, and a very limited knowledge of the noble art of self-defence. "what have you got? who is the queen?" she asked, laughing, as the breathless hero lowered her umbrella, and laid her bonnet at christie's feet. "you are to be the queen of the amazons in our new spectacle, at half a dollar a night for six or eight weeks, if the piece goes well." "no!" cried christie, with a gasp. "yes!" cried lucy, clapping her hands; and then she proceeded to tell her news with theatrical volubility. "mr. sharp, the manager, wants a lot of tallish girls, and i told him i knew of a perfect dear. he said: 'bring her on, then,' and i flew home to tell you. now, don't look wild, and say no. you've only got to sing in one chorus, march in the grand procession, and lead your band in the terrific battle-scene. the dress is splendid! red tunic, tiger-skin over shoulder, helmet, shield, lance, fleshings, sandals, hair down, and as much cork to your eyebrows as you like." christie certainly did look wild, for lucy had burst into the room like a small hurricane, and her rapid words rattled about the listeners' ears as if a hail-storm had followed the gust. while christie still sat with her mouth open, too bewildered to reply, mrs. black said in her cosey voice: "try it, me dear, it's just what you'll enjoy, and a capital beginning i assure ye; for if you do well old sharp will want you again, and then, when some one slips out of the company, you can slip in, and there you are quite comfortable. try it, me dear, and if you don't like it drop it when the piece is over, and there's no harm done." "it's much easier and jollier than any of the things you are after. we'll stand by you like bricks, and in a week you'll say it's the best lark you ever had in your life. don't be prim, now, but say yes, like a trump, as you are," added lucy, waving a pink satin train temptingly before her friend. "i will try it!" said christie, with sudden decision, feeling that something entirely new and absorbing was what she needed to expend the vigor, romance, and enthusiasm of her youth upon. with a shriek of delight lucy swept her off her chair, and twirled her about the room as excitable young ladies are fond of doing when their joyful emotions need a vent. when both were giddy they subsided into a corner and a breathless discussion of the important step. though she had consented, christie had endless doubts and fears, but lucy removed many of the former, and her own desire for pleasant employment conquered many of the latter. in her most despairing moods she had never thought of trying this. uncle enos considered "play-actin'" as the sum of all iniquity. what would he say if she went calmly to destruction by that road? sad to relate, this recollection rather strengthened her purpose, for a delicious sense of freedom pervaded her soul, and the old defiant spirit seemed to rise up within her at the memory of her uncle's grim prophecies and narrow views. "lucy is happy, virtuous, and independent, why can't i be so too if i have any talent? it isn't exactly what i should choose, but any thing honest is better than idleness. i'll try it any way, and get a little fun, even if i don't make much money or glory out of it." so christie held to her resolution in spite of many secret misgivings, and followed mrs. black's advice on all points with a docility which caused that sanguine lady to predict that she would be a star before she knew where she was. "is this the stage? how dusty and dull it is by daylight!" said christie next day, as she stood by lucy on the very spot where she had seen hamlet die in great anguish two nights before. "bless you, child, it's in curl-papers now, as i am of a morning. mr. sharp, here's an amazon for you." as she spoke, lucy hurried across the stage, followed by christie, wearing any thing but an amazonian expression just then. "ever on before?" abruptly asked, a keen-faced, little man, glancing with an experienced eye at the young person who stood before him bathed in blushes. "no, sir." "do you sing?" "a little, sir." "dance, of course?" "yes, sir." "just take a turn across the stage, will you? must walk well to lead a march." as she went, christie heard mr. sharp taking notes audibly: "good tread; capital figure; fine eye. she'll make up well, and behave herself, i fancy." a strong desire to make off seized the girl; but, remembering that she had presented herself for inspection, she controlled the impulse, and returned to him with no demonstration of displeasure, but a little more fire in "the fine eye," and a more erect carriage of the "capital figure." "all right, my dear. give your name to mr. tripp, and your mind to the business, and consider yourself engaged,"--with which satisfactory remark the little man vanished like a ghost. "lucy, did you hear that impertinent 'my dear'?" asked christie, whose sense of propriety had received its first shock. "lord, child, all managers do it. they don't mean any thing; so be resigned, and thank your stars he didn't say 'love' and 'darling,' and kiss you, as old vining used to," was all the sympathy she got. having obeyed orders, lucy initiated her into the mysteries of the place, and then put her in a corner to look over the scenes in which she was to appear. christie soon caught the idea of her part,--not a difficult matter, as there were but few ideas in the whole piece, after which she sat watching the arrival of the troop she was to lead. a most forlorn band of warriors they seemed, huddled together, and looking as if afraid to speak, lest they should infringe some rule; or to move, lest they be swallowed up by some unsuspected trap-door. presently the ballet-master appeared, the orchestra struck up, and christie found herself marching and counter-marching at word of command. at first, a most uncomfortable sense of the absurdity of her position oppressed and confused her; then the ludicrous contrast between the solemn anxiety of the troop and the fantastic evolutions they were performing amused her till the novelty wore off; the martial music excited her; the desire to please sharpened her wits; and natural grace made it easy for her to catch and copy the steps and poses given her to imitate. soon she forgot herself, entered into the spirit of the thing, and exerted every sense to please, so successfully that mr. tripp praised her quickness at comprehension, lucy applauded heartily from a fairy car, and mr. sharp popped his head out of a palace window to watch the amazon's descent from the mountains of the moon. when the regular company arrived, the troop was dismissed till the progress of the play demanded their reappearance. much interested in the piece, christie stood aside under a palm-tree, the foliage of which was strongly suggestive of a dilapidated green umbrella, enjoying the novel sights and sounds about her. yellow-faced gentlemen and sleepy-eyed ladies roamed languidly about with much incoherent jabbering of parts, and frequent explosions of laughter. princes, with varnished boots and suppressed cigars, fought, bled, and died, without a change of countenance. damsels of unparalleled beauty, according to the text, gaped in the faces of adoring lovers, and crocheted serenely on the brink of annihilation. fairies, in rubber-boots and woollen head-gear, disported themselves on flowery barks of canvas, or were suspended aloft with hooks in their backs like young hindoo devotees. demons, guiltless of hoof or horn, clutched their victims with the inevitable "ha! ha!" and vanished darkly, eating pea-nuts. the ubiquitous mr. sharp seemed to pervade the whole theatre; for his voice came shrilly from above or spectrally from below, and his active little figure darted to and fro like a critical will-o-the-wisp. the grand march and chorus in the closing scene were easily accomplished; for, as lucy bade her, christie "sung with all her might," and kept step as she led her band with the dignity of a boadicea. no one spoke to her; few observed her; all were intent on their own affairs; and when the final shriek and bang died away without lifting the roof by its din, she could hardly believe that the dreaded first rehearsal was safely over. a visit to the wardrobe-room to see her dress came next; and here christie had a slight skirmish with the mistress of that department relative to the length of her classical garments. as studies from the nude had not yet become one of the amusements of the elite of little babel, christie was not required to appear in the severe simplicity of a costume consisting of a necklace, sandals, and a bit of gold fringe about the waist, but was allowed an extra inch or two on her tunic, and departed, much comforted by the assurance that her dress would not be "a shock to modesty," as lucy expressed it. "now, look at yourself, and, for my sake, prove an honor to your country and a terror to the foe," said lucy, as she led her protégée before the green-room mirror on the first night of "the demon's daughter, or the castle of the sun!! the most magnificent spectacle ever produced upon the american stage!!!" christie looked, and saw a warlike figure with glittering helmet, shield and lance, streaming hair and savage cloak. she liked the picture, for there was much of the heroic spirit in the girl, and even this poor counterfeit pleased her eye and filled her fancy with martial memories of joan of arc, zenobia, and britomarte. "go to!" cried lucy, who affected theatrical modes of speech. "don't admire yourself any longer, but tie up your sandals and come on. be sure you rush down the instant i cry, 'demon, i defy thee!' don't break your neck, or pick your way like a cat in wet weather, but come with effect, for i want that scene to make a hit." christie as queen of the amazons. princess caremfil swept away, and the amazonian queen climbed to her perch among the painted mountains, where her troop already sat like a flock of pigeons shining in the sun. the gilded breast-plate rose and fell with the quick beating of her heart, the spear shook with the trembling of her hand, her lips were dry, her head dizzy, and more than once, as she waited for her cue, she was sorely tempted to run away and take the consequences. but the thought of lucy's good-will and confidence kept her, and when the cry came she answered with a ringing shout, rushed down the ten-foot precipice, and charged upon the foe with an energy that inspired her followers, and quite satisfied the princess struggling in the demon's grasp. with clashing of arms and shrill war-cries the rescuers of innocence assailed the sooty fiends who fell before their unscientific blows with a rapidity which inspired in the minds of beholders a suspicion that the goblins' own voluminous tails tripped them up and gallantry kept them prostrate. as the last groan expired, the last agonized squirm subsided, the conquerors performed the intricate dance with which it appears the amazons were wont to celebrate their victories. then the scene closed with a glare of red light and a "grand tableau" of the martial queen standing in a bower of lances, the rescued princess gracefully fainting in her arms, and the vanquished demon scowling fiercely under her foot, while four-and-twenty dishevelled damsels sang a song of exultation, to the barbaric music of a tattoo on their shields. all went well that night, and when at last the girls doffed crown and helmet, they confided to one another the firm opinion that the success of the piece was in a great measure owing to their talent, their exertions, and went gaily home predicting for themselves careers as brilliant as those of siddons and rachel. it would be a pleasant task to paint the vicissitudes and victories of a successful actress; but christie was no dramatic genius born to shine before the world and leave a name behind her. she had no talent except that which may be developed in any girl possessing the lively fancy, sympathetic nature, and ambitious spirit which make such girls naturally dramatic. this was to be only one of many experiences which were to show her her own weakness and strength, and through effort, pain, and disappointment fit her to play a nobler part on a wider stage. for a few weeks christie's illusions lasted; then she discovered that the new life was nearly as humdrum as the old, that her companions were ordinary men and women, and her bright hopes were growing as dim as her tarnished shield. she grew unutterably weary of "the castle of the sun," and found the "demon's daughter" an unmitigated bore. she was not tired of the profession, only dissatisfied with the place she held in it, and eager to attempt a part that gave some scope for power and passion. mrs. black wisely reminded her that she must learn to use her wings before she tried to fly, and comforted her with stories of celebrities who had begun as she was beginning, yet who had suddenly burst from their grub-like obscurity to adorn the world as splendid butterflies. "we'll stand by you, kit; so keep up your courage, and do your best. be clever to every one in general, old sharp in particular, and when a chance comes, have your wits about you and grab it. that's the way to get on," said lucy, as sagely as if she had been a star for years. "if i had beauty i should stand a better chance," sighed christie, surveying herself with great disfavor, quite unconscious that to a cultivated eye the soul of beauty was often visible in that face of hers, with its intelligent eyes, sensitive mouth, and fine lines about the forehead, making it a far more significant and attractive countenance than that of her friend, possessing only piquant prettiness. "never mind, child; you've got a lovely figure, and an actress's best feature,--fine eyes and eyebrows. i heard old kent say so, and he's a judge. so make the best of what you've got, as i do," answered lucy, glancing at her own comely little person with an air of perfect resignation. christie laughed at the adviser, but wisely took the advice, and, though she fretted in private, was cheerful and alert in public. always modest, attentive, and obliging, she soon became a favorite with her mates, and, thanks to lucy's good offices with mr. sharp, whose favorite she was, christie got promoted sooner than she otherwise would have been. a great christmas spectacle was brought out the next season, and christie had a good part in it. when that was over she thought there was no hope for her, as the regular company was full and a different sort of performance was to begin. but just then her chance came, and she "grabbed it." the first soubrette died suddenly, and in the emergency mr. sharp offered the place to christie till he could fill it to his mind. lucy was second soubrette, and had hoped for this promotion; but lucy did not sing well. christie had a good voice, had taken lessons and much improved of late, so she had the preference and resolved to stand the test so well that this temporary elevation should become permanent. she did her best, and though many of the parts were distasteful to her she got through them successfully, while now and then she had one which she thoroughly enjoyed. her tilly slowboy was a hit, and a proud girl was christie when kent, the comedian, congratulated her on it, and told her he had seldom seen it better done. to find favor in kent's eyes was an honor indeed, for he belonged to the old school, and rarely condescended to praise modern actors. his own style was so admirable that he was justly considered the first comedian in the country, and was the pride and mainstay of the old theatre where he had played for years. of course he possessed much influence in that little world, and being a kindly man used it generously to help up any young aspirant who seemed to him deserving. he had observed christie, attracted by her intelligent face and modest manners, for in spite of her youth there was a native refinement about her that made it impossible for her to romp and flirt as some of her mates did. but till she played tilly he had not thought she possessed any talent. that pleased him, and seeing how much she valued his praise, and was flattered by his notice, he gave her the wise but unpalatable advice always offered young actors. finding that she accepted it, was willing to study hard, work faithfully, and wait patiently, he predicted that in time she would make a clever actress, never a great one. of course christie thought he was mistaken, and secretly resolved to prove him a false prophet by the triumphs of her career. but she meekly bowed to his opinion; this docility pleased him, and he took a paternal sort of interest in her, which, coming from the powerful favorite, did her good service with the higher powers, and helped her on more rapidly than years of meritorious effort. toward the end of that second season several of dickens's dramatized novels were played, and christie earned fresh laurels. she loved those books, and seemed by instinct to understand and personate the humor and pathos of many of those grotesque creations. believing she had little beauty to sacrifice, she dressed such parts to the life, and played them with a spirit and ease that surprised those who had considered her a dignified and rather dull young person. "i'll tell you what it is, sharp, that girl is going to make a capital character actress. when her parts suit, she forgets herself entirely and does admirably well. her miggs was nearly the death of me to-night. she's got that one gift, and it's a good one. you 'd better give her a chance, for i think she'll be a credit to the old concern." kent said that,--christie heard it, and flew to lucy, waving miggs's cap for joy as she told the news. "what did mr. sharp say?" asked lucy, turning round with her face half "made up." "he merely said 'hum,' and smiled. wasn't that a good sign?" said christie, anxiously. "can't say," and lucy touched up her eyebrows as if she took no interest in the affair. christie's face fell, and her heart sunk at the thought of failure; but she kept up her spirits by working harder than ever, and soon had her reward. mr. sharp's "hum" did mean yes, and the next season she was regularly engaged, with a salary of thirty dollars a week. it was a grand step, and knowing that she owed it to kent, christie did her utmost to show that she deserved his good opinion. new trials and temptations beset her now, but hard work and an innocent nature kept her safe and busy. obstacles only spurred her on to redoubled exertion, and whether she did well or ill, was praised or blamed, she found a never-failing excitement in her attempts to reach the standard of perfection she had set up for herself. kent did not regret his patronage. mr. sharp was satisfied with the success of the experiment, and christie soon became a favorite in a small way, because behind the actress the public always saw a woman who never "forgot the modesty of nature." but as she grew prosperous in outward things, christie found herself burdened with a private cross that tried her very much. lucy was no longer her friend; something had come between them, and a steadily increasing coldness took the place of the confidence and affection which had once existed. lucy was jealous for christie had passed her in the race. she knew she could not fill the place christie had gained by favor, and now held by her own exertions, still she was bitterly envious, though ashamed to own it. christie tried to be just and gentle, to prove her gratitude to her first friend, and to show that her heart was unchanged. but she failed to win lucy back and felt herself injured by such unjust resentment. mrs. black took her daughter's part, and though they preserved the peace outwardly the old friendliness was quite gone. hoping to forget this trouble in excitement christie gave herself entirely to her profession, finding in it a satisfaction which for a time consoled her. but gradually she underwent the sorrowful change which comes to strong natures when they wrong themselves through ignorance or wilfulness. pride and native integrity kept her from the worst temptations of such a life, but to the lesser ones she yielded, growing selfish, frivolous, and vain,--intent on her own advancement, and careless by what means she reached it. she had no thought now beyond her art, no desire beyond the commendation of those whose opinion was serviceable, no care for any one but herself. her love of admiration grew by what it fed on, till the sound of applause became the sweetest music to her ear. she rose with this hope, lay down with this satisfaction, and month after month passed in this feverish life, with no wish to change it, but a growing appetite for its unsatisfactory delights, an ever-increasing forgetfulness of any higher aspiration than dramatic fame. "give me joy, lucy, i'm to have a benefit next week! everybody else has had one, and i've played for them all, so no one seemed to begrudge me my turn when dear old kent proposed it," said christie, coming in one night still flushed and excited with the good news. "what shall you have?" asked lucy, trying to look pleased, and failing decidedly. "'masks and faces.' i've always wanted to play peg. and it has good parts for you and kent, and st. george i chose it for that reason, for i shall need all the help i can get to pull me through, i dare say." the smile vanished entirely at this speech, and christie was suddenly seized with a suspicion that lucy was not only jealous of her as an actress, but as a woman. st. george was a comely young actor who usually played lovers' parts with christie, and played them very well, too, being possessed of much talent, and a gentleman. they had never thought of falling in love with each other, though st. george wooed and won christie night after night in vaudeville and farce. but it was very easy to imagine that so much mock passion had a basis of truth, and lucy evidently tormented herself with this belief. "why didn't you choose juliet: st. george would do romeo so well?" said lucy, with a sneer. "no, that is beyond me. kent says shakespeare will never be my line, and i believe him. i should think you'd be satisfied with 'masks and faces,' for you know mabel gets her husband safely back in the end," answered christie, watching the effect of her words. "as if i wanted the man! no, thank you, other people's leavings won't suit me," cried lucy, tossing her head, though her face belied her words. "not even though he has 'heavenly eyes,' 'distracting legs,' and 'a melting voice?'" asked christie maliciously, quoting lucy's own rapturous speeches when the new actor came. "come, come, girls, don't quarrel. i won't 'ave it in me room. lucy's tired to death, and it's not nice of you, kitty, to come and crow over her this way," said mamma black, coming to the rescue, for lucy was in tears, and christie looking dangerous. "it's impossible to please you, so i'll say good-night," and christie went to her room with resentment burning hotly in her heart. as she crossed the chamber her eye fell on her own figure reflected in the long glass, and with a sudden impulse she tinned up the gas, wiped the rouge from her cheeks, pushed back her hair, and studied her own face intently for several moments. it was pale and jaded now, and all its freshness seemed gone; hard lines had come about the mouth, a feverish disquiet filled the eyes, and on the forehead seemed to lie the shadow of a discontent that saddened the whole face. if one could believe the testimony of that countenance things were not going well with christie, and she owned it with a regretful sigh, as she asked herself, "am i what i hoped i should be? no, and it is my fault. if three years of this life have made me this, what shall i be in ten? a fine actress perhaps, but how good a woman?" with gloomy eyes fixed on her altered face she stood a moment struggling with herself. then the hard look returned, and she spoke out defiantly, as if in answer to some warning voice within herself. "no one cares what i am, so why care myself? why not go on and get as much fame as i can? success gives me power if it cannot give me happiness, and i must have some reward for my hard work. yes! a gay life and a short one, then out with the lights and down with the curtain!" but in spite of her reckless words christie sobbed herself to sleep that night like a child who knows it is astray, yet cannot see the right path or hear its mother's voice calling it home. on the night of the benefit, lucy was in a most exasperating mood, christie in a very indignant one, and as they entered their dressing-room they looked as if they might have played the rival queens with great effect. lucy offered no help and christie asked none, but putting her vexation resolutely out of sight fixed her mind on the task before her. as the pleasant stir began all about her, actress-like, she felt her spirits rise, her courage increase with every curl she fastened up, every gay garment she put on, and soon smiled approvingly at herself, for excitement lent her cheeks a better color than rouge, her eyes shone with satisfaction, and her heart beat high with the resolve to make a hit or die. christie needed encouragement that night, and found it in the hearty welcome that greeted her, and the full house, which proved how kind a regard was entertained for her by many who knew her only by a fictitious name. she felt this deeply, and it helped her much, for she was vexed with many trials those before the footlights knew nothing of. the other players were full of kindly interest in her success, but lucy took a naughty satisfaction in harassing her by all the small slights and unanswerable provocations which one actress has it in her power to inflict upon another. christie was fretted almost beyond endurance, and retaliated by an ominous frown when her position allowed, threatening asides when a moment's by-play favored their delivery, and angry protests whenever she met lucy off the stage. but in spite of all annoyances she had never played better in her life. she liked the part, and acted the warm-hearted, quick-witted, sharp-tongued peg with a spirit and grace that surprised even those who knew her best. especially good was she in the scenes with triplet, for kent played the part admirably, and cheered her on with many an encouraging look and word. anxious to do honor to her patron and friend she threw her whole heart into the work; in the scene where she comes like a good angel to the home of the poor play-wright, she brought tears to the eyes of her audience; and when at her command triplet strikes up a jig to amuse the children she "covered the buckle" in gallant style, dancing with all the frolicsome abandon of the irish orange-girl who for a moment forgot her grandeur and her grief. that scene was her best, for it is full of those touches of nature that need very little art to make them effective; and when a great bouquet fell with a thump at christie's feet, as she paused to bow her thanks for an encore, she felt that she had reached the height of earthly bliss. in the studio scene lucy seemed suddenly gifted with unsuspected skill; for when mabel kneels to the picture, praying her rival to give her back her husband's heart, christie was amazed to see real tears roll down lucy's cheeks, and to hear real love and longing thrill her trembling words with sudden power and passion. "that is not acting. she does love st. george, and thinks i mean to keep him from her. poor dear! i'll tell her all about it to-night, and set her heart at rest," thought christie; and when peg left the frame, her face expressed the genuine pity that she felt, and her voice was beautifully tender as she promised to restore the stolen treasure. lucy felt comforted without knowing why, and the piece went smoothly on to its last scene. peg was just relinquishing the repentant husband to his forgiving wife with those brave words of hers, when a rending sound above their heads made all look up and start back; all but lucy, who stood bewildered. christie's quick eye saw the impending danger, and with a sudden spring she caught her friend from it. it was only a second's work, but it cost her much; for in the act, down crashed one of the mechanical contrivances used in a late spectacle, and in its fall stretched christie stunned and senseless on the stage. a swift uprising filled the house with tumult; a crowd of actors hurried forward, and the panic-stricken audience caught glimpses of poor peg lying mute and pallid in mabel's arms, while vane wrung his hands, and triplet audibly demanded, "why the devil somebody didn't go for a doctor?" then a brilliant view of mount parnassus, with apollo and the nine muses in full blast, shut the scene from sight, and soon mr. sharp appeared to ask their patience till the after-piece was ready, for miss douglas was too much injured to appear again. and with an unwonted expression of feeling, the little man alluded to "the generous act which perhaps had changed the comedy to a tragedy and robbed the beneficiary of her well-earned reward at their hands." all had seen the impulsive spring toward, not from, the danger, and this unpremeditated action won heartier applause than christie ever had received for her best rendering of more heroic deeds. but she did not hear the cordial round they gave her. she had said she would "make a hit or die;" and just then it seemed as if she had done both, for she was deaf and blind to the admiration and the sympathy bestowed upon her as the curtain fell on the first, last benefit she ever was to have. chapter iv. governess. mr. philip fletcher. during the next few weeks christie learned the worth of many things which she had valued very lightly until then. health became a boon too precious to be trifled with; life assumed a deeper significance when death's shadow fell upon its light, and she discovered that dependence might be made endurable by the sympathy of unsuspected friends. lucy waited upon her with a remorseful devotion which touched her very much and won entire forgiveness for the past, long before it was repentantly implored. all her comrades came with offers of help and affectionate regrets. several whom she had most disliked now earned her gratitude by the kindly thoughtfulness which filled her sick-room with fruit and flowers, supplied carriages for the convalescent, and paid her doctor's bill without her knowledge. thus christie learned, like many another needy member of the gay profession, that though often extravagant and jovial in their way of life, these men and women give as freely as they spend, wear warm, true hearts under their motley, and make misfortune only another link in the bond of good-fellowship which binds them loyally together. slowly christie gathered her energies after weeks of suffering, and took up her life again, grateful for the gift, and anxious to be more worthy of it. looking back upon the past she felt that she had made a mistake and lost more than she had gained in those three years. others might lead that life of alternate excitement and hard work unharmed, but she could not. the very ardor and insight which gave power to the actress made that mimic life unsatisfactory to the woman, for hers was an earnest nature that took fast hold of whatever task she gave herself to do, and lived in it heartily while duty made it right, or novelty lent it charms. but when she saw the error of a step, the emptiness of a belief, with a like earnestness she tried to retrieve the one and to replace the other with a better substitute. in the silence of wakeful nights and the solitude of quiet days, she took counsel with her better self, condemned the reckless spirit which had possessed her, and came at last to the decision which conscience prompted and much thought confirmed. "the stage is not the place for me," she said. "i have no genius to glorify the drudgery, keep me from temptation, and repay me for any sacrifice i make. other women can lead this life safely and happily: i cannot, and i must not go back to it, because, with all my past experience, and in spite of all my present good resolutions, i should do no better, and i might do worse. i'm not wise enough to keep steady there; i must return to the old ways, dull but safe, and plod along till i find my real place and work." great was the surprise of lucy and her mother when christie told her resolution, adding, in a whisper, to the girl, "i leave the field clear for you, dear, and will dance at your wedding with all my heart when st. george asks you to play the 'honeymoon' with him, as i'm sure he will before long." many entreaties from friends, as well as secret longings, tried and tempted christie sorely, but she withstood them all, carried her point, and renounced the profession she could not follow without self-injury and self-reproach. the season was nearly over when she was well enough to take her place again, but she refused to return, relinquished her salary, sold her wardrobe, and never crossed the threshold of the theatre after she had said good-bye. then she asked, "what next?" and was speedily answered. an advertisement for a governess met her eye, which seemed to combine the two things she most needed just then,--employment and change of air. "mind you don't mention that you've been an actress or it will be all up with you, me dear," said mrs. black, as christie prepared to investigate the matter, for since her last effort in that line she had increased her knowledge of music, and learned french enough to venture teaching it to very young pupils. "i'd rather tell in the beginning, for if you keep any thing back it's sure to pop out when you least expect or want it. i don't believe these people will care as long as i'm respectable and teach well," returned christie, wishing she looked stronger and rosier. "you'll be sorry if you do tell," warned mrs. black, who knew the ways of the world. "i shall be sorry if i don't," laughed christie, and so she was, in the end. "l. n. saltonstall" was the name on the door, and l. n. saltonstall's servant was so leisurely about answering christie's meek solo on the bell, that she had time to pull out her bonnet-strings half-a-dozen times before a very black man in a very white jacket condescended to conduct her to his mistress. a frail, tea-colored lady appeared, displaying such a small proportion of woman to such a large proportion of purple and fine linen, that she looked as if she was literally as well as figuratively "dressed to death." christie went to the point in a business-like manner that seemed to suit mrs. saltonstall, because it saved so much trouble, and she replied, with a languid affability: "i wish some one to teach the children a little, for they are getting too old to be left entirely to nurse. i am anxious to get to the sea-shore as soon as possible, for they have been poorly all winter, and my own health has suffered. do you feel inclined to try the place? and what compensation do you require?" christie had but a vague idea of what wages were usually paid to nursery governesses, and hesitatingly named a sum which seemed reasonable to her, but was so much less than any other applicant had asked, that mrs. saltonstall began to think she could not do better than secure this cheap young person, who looked firm enough to manage her rebellious son and heir, and well-bred enough to begin the education of a little fine lady. her winter had been an extravagant one, and she could economize in the governess better perhaps than elsewhere; so she decided to try christie, and get out of town at once. "your terms are quite satisfactory, miss devon, and if my brother approves, i think we will consider the matter settled. perhaps you would like to see the children? they are little darlings, and you will soon be fond of them, i am sure." a bell was rung, an order given, and presently appeared an eight-year old boy, so excessively scotch in his costume that he looked like an animated checkerboard; and a little girl, who presented the appearance of a miniature opera-dancer staggering under the weight of an immense sash. "go and speak prettily to miss devon, my pets, for she is coming to play with you, and you must mind what she says," commanded mamma. the pale, fretful-looking little pair went solemnly to christie's knee, and stood there staring at her with a dull composure that quite daunted her, it was so sadly unchildlike. "what is your name, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on the young lady's head. "villamena temmatina taltentall. you mustn't touch my hair; it's just turled," was the somewhat embarrassing reply. "mine's louy 'poleon thaltensthall, like papa's," volunteered the other young person, and christie privately wondered if the possession of names nearly as long as themselves was not a burden to the poor dears. feeling that she must say something, she asked, in her most persuasive tone: "would you like to have me come and teach you some nice lessons out of your little books?" if she had proposed corporal punishment on the spot it could not have caused greater dismay. wilhelmina cast herself upon the floor passionately, declaring that she "touldn't tuddy," and saltonstall, jr., retreated precipitately to the door, and from that refuge defied the whole race of governesses and "nasty lessons" jointly. "there, run away to justine. they are sadly out of sorts, and quite pining for sea-air," said mamma, with both hands at her ears, for the war-cries of her darlings were piercing as they departed, proclaiming their wrongs while swarming up stairs, with a skirmish on each landing. with a few more words christie took leave, and scandalized the sable retainer by smiling all through the hall, and laughing audibly as the door closed. the contrast of the plaid boy and beruffled girl's irritability with their mother's languid affectation, and her own unfortunate efforts, was too much for her. in the middle of her merriment she paused suddenly, saying to herself: "i never told about my acting. i must go back and have it settled." she retraced a few steps, then turned and went on again, thinking, "no; for once i'll be guided by other people's advice, and let well alone." a note arrived soon after, bidding miss devon consider herself engaged, and desiring her to join the family at the boat on monday next. at the appointed time christie was on board, and looked about for her party. mrs. saltonstall appeared in the distance with her family about her, and christie took a survey before reporting herself. madame looked more like a fashion-plate than ever, in a mass of green flounces, and an impressive bonnet flushed with poppies and bristling with wheat-ears. beside her sat a gentleman, rapt in a newspaper, of course, for to an american man life is a burden till the daily news have been absorbed. mrs. saltonstall's brother was the possessor of a handsome eye without softness, thin lips without benevolence, but plenty of will; a face and figure which some thirty-five years of ease and pleasure had done their best to polish and spoil, and a costume without flaw, from his aristocratic boots to the summer hat on his head. the little boy more checkered and the little girl more operatic than before, sat on stools eating bonbons, while a french maid and the african footman hovered in the background. mrs. saltonstall and family. feeling very much like a meek gray moth among a flock of butterflies, christie modestly presented herself. "good morning," said madame with a nod, which, slight as it was, caused a great commotion among the poppies and the wheat; "i began to be anxious about you. miss devon, my brother, mr. fletcher." the gentleman bowed, and as christie sat down he got up, saying, as he sauntered away with a bored expression: "will you have the paper, charlotte? there's nothing in it." as mrs. saltonstall seemed going to sleep and she felt delicate about addressing the irritable infants in public, christie amused herself by watching mr. fletcher as he roamed listlessly about, and deciding, in her usual rash way, that she did not like him because he looked both lazy and cross, and ennui was evidently his bosom friend. soon, however, she forgot every thing but the shimmer of the sunshine on the sea, the fresh wind that brought color to her pale cheeks, and the happy thoughts that left a smile upon her lips. then mr. fletcher put up his glass and stared at her, shook his head, and said, as he lit a cigar: "poor little wretch, what a time she will have of it between charlotte and the brats!" but christie needed no pity, and thought herself a fortunate young woman when fairly established in her corner of the luxurious apartments occupied by the family. her duties seemed light compared to those she had left, her dreams were almost as bright as of old, and the new life looked pleasant to her, for she was one of those who could find little bits of happiness for herself and enjoy them heartily in spite of loneliness or neglect. one of her amusements was studying her companions, and for a time this occupied her, for christie possessed penetration and a feminine fancy for finding out people. mrs. saltonstall's mission appeared to be the illustration of each new fashion as it came, and she performed it with a devotion worthy of a better cause. if a color reigned supreme she flushed herself with scarlet or faded into primrose, made herself pretty in the bluest of blue gowns, or turned livid under a gooseberry colored bonnet. her hat-brims went up or down, were preposterously wide or dwindled to an inch, as the mode demanded. her skirts were rampant with sixteen frills, or picturesque with landscapes down each side, and a greek border or a plain hem. her waists were as pointed as those of queen bess or as short as diana's; and it was the opinion of those who knew her that if the autocrat who ruled her life decreed the wearing of black cats as well as of vegetables, bugs, and birds, the blackest, glossiest puss procurable for money would have adorned her head in some way. her time was spent in dressing, driving, dining and dancing; in skimming novels, and embroidering muslin; going to church with a velvet prayer-book and a new bonnet; and writing to her husband when she wanted money, for she had a husband somewhere abroad, who so happily combined business with pleasure that he never found time to come home. her children were inconvenient blessings, but she loved them with the love of a shallow heart, and took such good care of their little bodies that there was none left for their little souls. a few days' trial satisfied her as to christie's capabilities, and, relieved of that anxiety, she gave herself up to her social duties, leaving the ocean and the governess to make the summer wholesome and agreeable to "the darlings." mr. fletcher, having tried all sorts of pleasure and found that, like his newspaper, there was "nothing in it," was now paying the penalty for that unsatisfactory knowledge. ill health soured his temper and made his life a burden to him. having few resources within himself to fall back upon, he was very dependent upon other people, and other people were so busy amusing themselves, they seemed to find little time or inclination to amuse a man who had never troubled himself about them. he was rich, but while his money could hire a servant to supply each want, gratify each caprice, it could not buy a tender, faithful friend to serve for love, and ask no wages but his comfort. he knew this, and felt the vain regret that inevitably comes to those who waste life and learn the value of good gifts by their loss. but he was not wise or brave enough to bear his punishment manfully, and lay the lesson honestly to heart. fretful and imperious when in pain, listless and selfish when at ease, his one aim in life now was to kill time, and any thing that aided him in this was most gratefully welcomed. for a long while he took no more notice of christie than if she had been a shadow, seldom speaking beyond the necessary salutations, and merely carrying his finger to his hat-brim when he passed her on the beach with the children. her first dislike was softened by pity when she found he was an invalid, but she troubled herself very little about him, and made no romances with him, for all her dreams were of younger, nobler lovers. busied with her own affairs, the days though monotonous were not unhappy. she prospered in her work and the children soon believed in her as devoutly as young turks in their prophet. she devised amusements for herself as well as for them; walked, bathed, drove, and romped with the little people till her own eyes shone like theirs, her cheek grew rosy, and her thin figure rounded with the promise of vigorous health again. christie was at her best that summer, physically speaking, for sickness had refined her face, giving it that indescribable expression which pain often leaves upon a countenance as if in compensation for the bloom it takes away. the frank eyes had a softer shadow in their depths, the firm lips smiled less often, but when it came the smile was the sweeter for the gravity that went before, and in her voice there was a new undertone of that subtle music, called sympathy, which steals into the heart and nestles there. she was unconscious of this gracious change, but others saw and felt it, and to some a face bright with health, intelligence, and modesty was more attractive than mere beauty. thanks to this and her quiet, cordial manners, she found friends here and there to add charms to that summer by the sea. the dashing young men took no more notice of her than if she had been a little gray peep on the sands; not so much, for they shot peeps now and then, but a governess was not worth bringing down. the fashionable belles and beauties were not even aware of her existence, being too entirely absorbed in their yearly husband-hunt to think of any one but themselves and their prey. the dowagers had more interesting topics to discuss, and found nothing in christie's humble fortunes worthy of a thought, for they liked their gossip strong and highly flavored, like their tea. but a kind-hearted girl or two found her out, several lively old maids, as full of the romance of the past as ancient novels, a bashful boy, three or four invalids, and all the children, for christie had a motherly heart and could find charms in the plainest, crossest baby that ever squalled. of her old friends she saw nothing, as her theatrical ones were off on their vacations, hepsey had left her place for one in another city, and aunt betsey seldom wrote. but one day a letter came, telling her that the dear old lady would never write again, and christie felt as if her nearest and dearest friend was lost. she had gone away to a quiet spot among the rocks to get over her first grief alone, but found it very hard to check her tears, as memory brought back the past, tenderly recalling every kind act, every loving word, and familiar scene. she seldom wept, but when any thing did unseal the fountains that lay so deep, she cried with all her heart, and felt the better for it. with the letter crumpled in her hand, her head on her knees, and her hat at her feet, she was sobbing like a child, when steps startled her, and, looking up, she saw mr. fletcher regarding her with an astonished countenance from under his big sun umbrella. something in the flushed, wet face, with its tremulous lips and great tears rolling down, seemed to touch even lazy mr. fletcher, for he furled his umbrella with unusual rapidity, and came up, saying, anxiously: "my dear miss devon, what's the matter? are you hurt? has mrs. s. been scolding? or have the children been too much for you?" "no; oh, no! it's bad news from home," and christie's head went down again, for a kind word was more than she could bear just then. "some one ill, i fancy? i'm sorry to hear it, but you must hope for the best, you know," replied mr. fletcher, really quite exerting himself to remember and present this well-worn consolation. "there is no hope; aunt betsey's dead!" "dear me! that's very sad." mr. fletcher tried not to smile as christie sobbed out the old-fashioned name, but a minute afterward there were actually tears in his eyes, for, as if won by his sympathy, she poured out the homely little story of aunt betsey's life and love, unconsciously pronouncing the kind old lady's best epitaph in the unaffected grief that made her broken words so eloquent. for a minute mr. fletcher forgot himself, and felt as he remembered feeling long ago, when, a warm-hearted boy, he had comforted his little sister for a lost kitten or a broken doll. it was a new sensation, therefore interesting and agreeable while it lasted, and when it vanished, which it speedily did, he sighed, then shrugged his shoulders and wished "the girl would stop crying like a water-spout." "it's hard, but we all have to bear it, you know; and sometimes i fancy if half the pity we give the dead, who don't need it, was given to the living, who do, they'd bear their troubles more comfortably. i know i should," added mr. fletcher, returning to his own afflictions, and vaguely wondering if any one would cry like that when he departed this life. christie minded little what he said, for his voice was pitiful and it comforted her. she dried her tears, put back her hair, and thanked him with a grateful smile, which gave him another pleasant sensation; for, though young ladies showered smiles upon him with midsummer radiance, they seemed cool and pale beside the sweet sincerity of this one given by a girl whose eyes were red with tender tears. "that's right, cheer up, take a little run on the beach, and forget all about it," he said, with a heartiness that surprised himself as much as it did christie. "i will, thank you. please don't speak of this; i'm used to bearing my troubles alone, and time will help me to do it cheerfully." "that's brave! if i can do any thing, let me know; i shall be most happy." and mr. fletcher evidently meant what he said. christie gave him another grateful "thank you," then picked up her hat and went away along the sands to try his prescription; while mr. fletcher walked the other way, so rapt in thought that he forgot to put up his umbrella till the end of his aristocratic nose was burnt a deep red. that was the beginning of it; for when mr. fletcher found a new amusement, he usually pursued it regardless of consequences. christie took his pity for what it was worth, and thought no more of that little interview, for her heart was very heavy. but he remembered it, and, when they met on the beach next day, wondered how the governess would behave. she was reading as she walked, and, with a mute acknowledgment of his nod, tranquilly turned a page and read on without a pause, a smile, or change of color. mr. fletcher laughed as he strolled away; but christie was all the more amusing for her want of coquetry, and soon after he tried her again. the great hotel was all astir one evening with bustle, light, and music; for the young people had a hop, as an appropriate entertainment for a melting july night. with no taste for such folly, even if health had not forbidden it, mr. fletcher lounged about the piazzas, tantalizing the fair fowlers who spread their nets for him, and goading sundry desperate spinsters to despair by his erratic movements. coming to a quiet nook, where a long window gave a fine view of the brilliant scene, he found christie leaning in, with a bright, wistful face, while her hand kept time to the enchanting music of a waltz. "wisely watching the lunatics, instead of joining in their antics," he said, sitting down with a sigh. christie looked around and answered, with the wistful look still in her eyes: "i'm very fond of that sort of insanity; but there is no place for me in bedlam at present." "i daresay i can find you one, if you care to try it. i don't indulge myself." and mr. fletcher's eye went from the rose in christie's brown hair to the silvery folds of her best gown, put on merely for the pleasure of wearing it because every one else was in festival array. she shook her head. "no, thank you. governesses are very kindly treated in america; but ball-rooms like that are not for them. i enjoy looking on, fortunately; so i have my share of fun after all." "i shan't get any complaints out of her. plucky little soul! i rather like that," said mr. fletcher to himself; and, finding his seat comfortable, the corner cool, and his companion pleasant to look at, with the moonlight doing its best for her, he went on talking for his own satisfaction. christie would rather have been left in peace; but fancying that he did it out of kindness to her, and that she had done him injustice before, she was grateful now, and exerted herself to seem so; in which endeavor she succeeded so well that mr. fletcher proved he could be a very agreeable companion when he chose. he talked well; and christie was a good listener. soon interest conquered her reserve, and she ventured to ask a question, make a criticism, or express an opinion in her own simple way. unconsciously she piqued the curiosity of the man; for, though he knew many lovely, wise, and witty women, he had never chanced to meet with one like this before; and novelty was the desire of his life. of course he did not find moonlight, music, and agreeable chat as delightful as she did; but there was something animating in the fresh face opposite, something flattering in the eager interest she showed, and something most attractive in the glimpses unconsciously given him of a nature genuine in its womanly sincerity and strength. something about this girl seemed to appeal to the old self, so long neglected that he thought it dead. he could not analyze the feeling, but was conscious of a desire to seem better than he was as he looked into those honest eyes; to talk well, that he might bring that frank smile to the lips that grew either sad or scornful when he tried worldly gossip or bitter satire; and to prove himself a man under all the elegance and polish of the gentleman. he was discovering then, what christie learned when her turn came, that fine natures seldom fail to draw out the finer traits of those who approach them, as the little witch-hazel wand, even in the hand of a child, detects and points to hidden springs in unsuspected spots. women often possess this gift, and when used worthily find it as powerful as beauty; for, if less alluring, it is more lasting and more helpful, since it appeals, not to the senses, but the souls of men. christie was one of these; and in proportion as her own nature was sound and sweet so was its power as a touchstone for the genuineness of others. it was this unconscious gift that made her wonder at the unexpected kindness she found in mr. fletcher, and this which made him, for an hour or two at least, heartily wish he could live his life over again and do it better. after that evening mr. fletcher spoke to christie when he met her, turned and joined her sometimes as she walked with the children, and fell into the way of lounging near when she sat reading aloud to an invalid friend on piazza or sea-shore. christie much preferred to have no auditor but kind miss tudor; but finding the old lady enjoyed his chat she resigned herself, and when he brought them new books as well as himself, she became quite cordial. everybody sauntered and lounged, so no one minded the little group that met day after day among the rocks. christie read aloud, while the children revelled in sand, shells, and puddles; miss tudor spun endless webs of gay silk and wool; and mr. fletcher, with his hat over his eyes, lay sunning himself like a luxurious lizard, as he watched the face that grew daily fairer in his sight, and listened to the pleasant voice that went reading on till all his ills and ennui seemed lulled to sleep as by a spell. a week or two of this new caprice set christie to thinking. she knew that uncle philip was not fond of "the darlings;" it was evident that good miss tudor, with her mild twaddle and eternal knitting, was not the attraction, so she was forced to believe that he came for her sake alone. she laughed at herself for this fancy at first; but not possessing the sweet unconsciousness of those heroines who can live through three volumes with a burning passion before their eyes, and never see it till the proper moment comes, and eugene goes down upon his knees, she soon felt sure that mr. fletcher found her society agreeable, and wished her to know it. being a mortal woman, her vanity was flattered, and she found herself showing that she liked it by those small signs and symbols which lovers' eyes are so quick to see and understand,--an artful bow on her hat, a flower in her belt, fresh muslin gowns, and the most becoming arrangement of her hair. "poor man, he has so few pleasures i'm sure i needn't grudge him such a small one as looking at and listening to me if he likes it," she said to herself one day, as she was preparing for her daily stroll with unusual care. "but how will it end? if he only wants a mild flirtation he is welcome to it; but if he really cares for me, i must make up my mind about it, and not deceive him. i don't believe he loves me: how can he? such an insignificant creature as i am." here she looked in the glass, and as she looked the color deepened in her cheek, her eyes shone, and a smile would sit upon her lips, for the reflection showed her a very winning face under the coquettish hat put on to captivate. "don't be foolish, christie! mind what you do, and be sure vanity doesn't delude you, for you are only a woman, and in things of this sort we are so blind and silly. i'll think of this possibility soberly, but i won't flirt, and then which ever way i decide i shall have nothing to reproach myself with." armed with this virtuous resolution, christie sternly replaced the pretty hat with her old brown one, fastened up a becoming curl, which of late she had worn behind her ear, and put on a pair of stout, rusty boots, much fitter for rocks and sand than the smart slippers she was preparing to sacrifice. then she trudged away to miss tudor, bent on being very quiet and reserved, as became a meek and lowly governess. but, dear heart, how feeble are the resolutions of womankind! when she found herself sitting in her favorite nook, with the wide, blue sea glittering below, the fresh wind making her blood dance in her veins, and all the earth and sky so full of summer life and loveliness, her heart would sing for joy, her face would shine with the mere bliss of living, and underneath all this natural content the new thought, half confessed, yet very sweet, would whisper, "somebody cares for me." if she had doubted it, the expression of mr. fletcher's face that morning would have dispelled the doubt, for, as she read, he was saying to himself: "yes, this healthful, cheery, helpful creature is what i want to make life pleasant. every thing else is used up; why not try this, and make the most of my last chance? she does me good, and i don't seem to get tired of her. i can't have a long life, they tell me, nor an easy one, with the devil to pay with my vitals generally; so it would be a wise thing to provide myself with a good-tempered, faithful soul to take care of me. my fortune would pay for loss of time, and my death leave her a bonny widow. i won't be rash, but i think i'll try it," with this mixture of tender, selfish, and regretful thoughts in his mind, it is no wonder mr. fletchcr's eyes betrayed him, as he lay looking at christie. never had she read so badly, for she could not keep her mind on her book. it would wander to that new and troublesome fancy of hers; she could not help thinking that mr. fletcher must have been a handsome man before he was so ill; wondering if his temper was very bad, and fancying that he might prove both generous and kind and true to one who loved and served him well. at this point she was suddenly checked by a slip of the tongue that covered her with confusion. she was reading "john halifax," and instead of saying "phineas fletcher" she said philip, and then colored to her forehead, and lost her place. miss tudor did not mind it, but mr. fletcher laughed, and christie thanked heaven that her face was half hidden by the old brown hat. nothing was said, but she was much relieved to find that mr. fletcher had joined a yachting party next day and he would be away for a week. during that week christie thought over the matter, and fancied she had made up her mind. she recalled certain speeches she had heard, and which had more weight with her than she suspected. one dowager had said to another: "p. f. intends to marry, i assure you, for his sister told me so, with tears in her eyes. men who have been gay in their youth make very good husbands when their wild oats are sowed. clara could not do better, and i should be quite content to give her to him." "well, dear, i should be sorry to see my augusta his wife, for whoever he marries will be a perfect slave to him. his fortune would be a nice thing if he did not live long; but even for that my augusta shall not be sacrificed," returned the other matron whose augusta had vainly tried to captivate "p. f.," and revenged herself by calling him "a wreck, my dear, a perfect wreck." at another time christie heard some girls discussing the eligibility of several gentlemen, and mr. fletcher was considered the best match among them. "you can do any thing you like with a husband a good deal older than yourself. he's happy with his business, his club, and his dinner, and leaves you to do what you please; just keep him comfortable and he'll pay your bills without much fuss," said one young thing who had seen life at twenty. "i'd take him if i had the chance, just because everybody wants him. don't admire him a particle, but it will make a jolly stir whenever he does marry, and i wouldn't mind having a hand in it," said the second budding belle. "i'd take him for the diamonds alone. mamma says they are splendid, and have been in the family for ages. he won't let mrs. s. wear them, for they always go to the eldest son's wife. hope he'll choose a handsome woman who will show them off well," said a third sweet girl, glancing at her own fine neck. "he won't; he'll take some poky old maid who will cuddle him when he is sick, and keep out of his way when he is well. see if he don't." "i saw him dawdling round with old tudor, perhaps he means to take her: she's a capital nurse, got ill herself taking care of her father, you know." "perhaps he's after the governess; she's rather nice looking, though she hasn't a bit of style." "gracious, no! she's a dowdy thing, always trailing round with a book and those horrid children. no danger of his marrying her." and a derisive laugh seemed to settle that question beyond a doubt. "oh, indeed!" said christie, as the girls went trooping out of the bath-house, where this pleasing chatter had been carried on regardless of listeners. she called them "mercenary, worldly, unwomanly flirts," and felt herself much their superior. yet the memory of their gossip haunted her, and had its influence upon her decision, though she thought she came to it through her own good judgment and discretion. "if he really cares for me i will listen, and not refuse till i know him well enough to decide. i'm tired of being alone, and should enjoy ease and pleasure so much. he's going abroad for the winter, and that would be charming. i'll try not to be worldly-minded and marry without love, but it does look tempting to a poor soul like me." so christie made up her mind to accept, if this promotion was offered her; and while she waited, went through so many alternations of feeling, and was so harassed by doubts and fears that she sometimes found herself wishing it had never occurred to her. mr. fletcher, meantime, with the help of many meditative cigars, was making up his mind. absence only proved to him how much he needed a better time-killer than billiards, horses, or newspapers, for the long, listless days seemed endless without the cheerful governess to tone him up, like a new and agreeable sort of bitters. a gradually increasing desire to secure this satisfaction had taken possession of him, and the thought of always having a pleasant companion, with no nerves, nonsense, or affectation about her, was an inviting idea to a man tired of fashionable follies and tormented with the ennui of his own society. the gossip, wonder, and chagrin such a step would cause rather pleased his fancy; the excitement of trying almost the only thing as yet untried allured him; and deeper than all the desire to forget the past in a better future led him to christie by the nobler instincts that never wholly die in any soul. he wanted her as he had wanted many other things in his life, and had little doubt that he could have her for the asking. even if love was not abounding, surely his fortune, which hitherto had procured him all he wished (except health and happiness) could buy him a wife, when his friends made better bargains every day. so, having settled the question, he came home again, and every one said the trip had done him a world of good. christie sat in her favorite nook one bright september morning, with the inevitable children hunting hapless crabs in a pool near by. a book lay on her knee, but she was not reading; her eyes were looking far across the blue waste before her with an eager gaze, and her face was bright with some happy thought. the sound of approaching steps disturbed her reverie, and, recognizing them, she plunged into the heart of the story, reading as if utterly absorbed, till a shadow fell athwart the page, and the voice she had expected to hear asked blandly: "what book now, miss devon?" "'jane eyre,' sir." mr. fletcher sat down just where her hat-brim was no screen, pulled off his gloves, and leisurely composed himself for a comfortable lounge. "what is your opinion of rochester?" he asked, presently. "not a very high one." "then you think jane was a fool to love and try to make a saint of him, i suppose?" "i like jane, but never can forgive her marrying that man, as i haven't much faith in the saints such sinners make." "but don't you think a man who had only follies to regret might expect a good woman to lend him a hand and make him happy?" "if he has wasted his life he must take the consequences, and be content with pity and indifference, instead of respect and love. many good women do 'lend a hand,' as you say, and it is quite christian and amiable, i 've no doubt; but i cannot think it a fair bargain." mr. fletcher liked to make christie talk, for in the interest of the subject she forgot herself, and her chief charm for him was her earnestness. but just then the earnestness did not seem to suit him, and he said, rather sharply: "what hard-hearted creatures you women are sometimes! now, i fancied you were one of those who wouldn't leave a poor fellow to his fate, if his salvation lay in your hands." "i can't say what i should do in such a case; but it always seemed to me that a man should have energy enough to save himself, and not expect the 'weaker vessel,' as he calls her, to do it for him," answered christie, with a conscious look, for mr. fletcher's face made her feel as if something was going to happen. evidently anxious to know what she would do in aforesaid case, mr. fletcher decided to put one before her as speedily as possible, so he said, in a pensive tone, and with a wistful glance: "you looked very happy just now when i came up. i wish i could believe that my return had any thing to do with it." christie wished she could control her tell-tale color, but finding she could not, looked hard at the sea, and, ignoring his tender insinuation, said, with suspicious enthusiasm: "i was thinking of what mrs. saltonstall said this morning. she asked me if i would like to go to paris with her for the winter. it has always been one of my dreams to go abroad, and i do hope i shall not be disappointed." christie's blush seemed to be a truer answer than her words, and, leaning a little nearer, mr. fletcher said, in his most persuasive tone: "will you go to paris as my governess, instead of charlotte's?" christie thought her reply was all ready; but when the moment came, she found it was not, and sat silent, feeling as if that "yes" would promise far more than she could give. mr. fletcher had no doubt what the answer would be, and was in no haste to get it, for that was one of the moments that are so pleasant and so short-lived they should be enjoyed to the uttermost. he liked to watch her color come and go, to see the asters on her bosom tremble with the quickened beating of her heart, and tasted, in anticipation, the satisfaction of the moment when that pleasant voice of hers would falter out its grateful assent. drawing yet nearer, he went on, still in the persuasive tone that would have been more lover-like if it had been less assured. "i think i am not mistaken in believing that you care for me a little. you must know how fond i am of you, how much i need you, and how glad i should be to give all i have if i might keep you always to make my hard life happy. may i, christie?" "you would soon tire of me. i have no beauty, no accomplishments, no fortune,--nothing but my heart, and my hand to give the man i marry. is that enough?" asked christie, looking at him with eyes that betrayed the hunger of an empty heart longing to be fed with genuine food. but mr. fletcher did not understand its meaning; he saw the humility in her face, thought she was overcome by the weight of the honor he did her, and tried to reassure her with the gracious air of one who wishes to lighten the favor he confers. "it might not be for some men, but it is for me, because i want you very much. let people say what they will, if you say yes i am satisfied. you shall not regret it, christie; i'll do my best to make you happy; you shall travel wherever i can go with you, have what you like, if possible, and when we come back by and by, you shall take your place in the world as my wife. you will fill it well, i fancy, and i shall be a happy man. i've had my own way all my life, and i mean to have it now, so smile, and say, 'yes, philip,' like a sweet soul, as you are." but christie did not smile, and felt no inclination to say "yes, philip," for that last speech of his jarred on her ear. the tone of unconscious condescension in it wounded the woman's sensitive pride; self was too apparent, and the most generous words seemed to her like bribes. this was not the lover she had dreamed of, the brave, true man who gave her all, and felt it could not half repay the treasure of her innocent, first love. this was not the happiness she had hoped for, the perfect faith, the glad surrender, the sweet content that made all things possible, and changed this work-a-day world into a heaven while the joy lasted. she had decided to say "yes," but her heart said "no" decidedly, and with instinctive loyalty she obeyed it, even while she seemed to yield to the temptation which appeals to three of the strongest foibles in most women's nature,--vanity, ambition, and the love of pleasure. "you are very kind, but you may repent it, you know so little of me," she began, trying to soften her refusal, but sadly hindered by a feeling of contempt. "i know more about you than you think; but it makes no difference," interrupted mr. fletcher, with a smile that irritated christie, even before she understood its significance. "i thought it would at first, but i found i couldn't get on without you, so i made up my mind to forgive and forget that my wife had ever been an actress." christie had forgotten it, and it would have been well for him if he had held his tongue. now she understood the tone that had chilled her, the smile that angered her, and mr. fletcher's fate was settled in the drawing of a breath. "who told you that?" she asked, quickly, while every nerve tingled with the mortification of being found out then and there in the one secret of her life. "i saw you dancing on the beach with the children one day, and it reminded me of an actress i had once seen. i should not have remembered it but for the accident which impressed it on my mind. powder, paint, and costume made 'miss douglas' a very different woman from miss devon, but a few cautious inquiries settled the matter, and i then understood where you got that slight soupcon of dash and daring which makes our demure governess so charming when with me." as he spoke, mr. fletcher smiled again, and kissed his hand to her with a dramatic little gesture that exasperated christie beyond measure. she would not make light of it, as he did, and submit to be forgiven for a past she was not ashamed of. heartily wishing she had been frank at first, she resolved to have it out now, and accept nothing mr. fletcher offered her, not even silence. "yes," she said, as steadily as she could, "i was an actress for three years, and though it was a hard life it was an honest one, and i'm not ashamed of it. i ought to have told mrs. saltonstall, but i was warned that if i did it would be difficult to find a place, people are so prejudiced. i sincerely regret it now, and shall tell her at once, so you may save yourself the trouble." "my dear girl, i never dreamed of telling any one!" cried mr. fletcher in an injured tone. "i beg you won't speak, but trust me, and let it be a little secret between us two. i assure you it makes no difference to me, for i should marry an opera dancer if i chose, so forget it, as i do, and set my mind at rest upon the other point. i'm still waiting for my answer, you know." "it is ready." "a kind one, i'm sure. what is it, christie?" "no, i thank you." "but you are not in earnest?" "perfectly so." mr. fletcher got up suddenly and set his back against the rock, saying in a tone of such unaffected surprise and disappointment that her heart reproached her: "no, i thank you." "am i to understand that as your final answer, miss devon?" "distinctly and decidedly my final answer, mr fletcher." christie tried to speak kindly, but she was angry with herself and him, and unconsciously showed it both in face and voice, for she was no actress off the stage, and wanted to be very true just then as a late atonement for that earlier want of candor. a quick change passed over mr. fletcher's face; his cold eyes kindled with an angry spark, his lips were pale with anger, and his voice was very bitter, as he slowly said: "i've made many blunders in my life, and this is one of the greatest; for i believed in a woman, was fool enough to care for her with the sincerest love i ever knew, and fancied that she would be grateful for the sacrifice i made." he got no further, for christie rose straight up and answered him with all the indignation she felt burning in her face and stirring the voice she tried in vain to keep as steady as his own. "the sacrifice would not have been all yours, for it is what we are, not what we have, that makes one human being superior to another. i am as well-born as you in spite of my poverty; my life, i think, has been a better one than yours; my heart, i know, is fresher, and my memory has fewer faults and follies to reproach me with. what can you give me but money and position in return for the youth and freedom i should sacrifice in marrying you? not love, for you count the cost of your bargain, as no true lover could, and you reproach me for deceit when in your heart you know you only cared for me because i can amuse and serve you. i too deceived myself, i too see my mistake, and i decline the honor you would do me, since it is so great in your eyes that you must remind me of it as you offer it." in the excitement of the moment christie unconsciously spoke with something of her old dramatic fervor in voice and gesture; mr. fletcher saw it, and, while he never had admired her so much, could not resist avenging himself for the words that angered him, the more deeply for their truth. wounded vanity and baffled will can make an ungenerous man as spiteful as a woman; and mr. fletcher proved it then, for he saw where christie's pride was sorest, and touched the wound with the skill of a resentful nature. as she paused, he softly clapped his hands, saying, with a smile that made her eyes flash: "very well done! infinitely superior to your 'woffington,' miss devon. i am disappointed in the woman, but i make my compliment to the actress, and leave the stage free for another and a more successful romeo." still smiling, he bowed and went away apparently quite calm and much amused, but a more wrathful, disappointed man never crossed those sands than the one who kicked his dog and swore at himself for a fool that day when no one saw him. for a minute christie stood and watched him, then, feeling that she must either laugh or cry, wisely chose the former vent for her emotions, and sat down feeling inclined to look at the whole scene from a ludicrous point of view. "my second love affair is a worse failure than my first, for i did pity poor joe, but this man is detestable, and i never will forgive him that last insult. i dare say i was absurdly tragical, i'm apt to be when very angry, but what a temper he has got! the white, cold kind, that smoulders and stabs, instead of blazing up and being over in a minute. thank heaven, i'm not his wife! well, i've made an enemy and lost my place, for of course mrs. saltonstall won't keep me after this awful discovery. i'll tell her at once, for i will have no 'little secrets' with him. no paris either, and that's the worst of it all! never mind, i haven't sold my liberty for the fletcher diamonds, and that's a comfort. now a short scene with my lady and then exit governess." but though she laughed, christie felt troubled at the part she had played in this affair; repented of her worldly aspirations; confessed her vanity; accepted her mortification and disappointment as a just punishment for her sins; and yet at the bottom of her heart she did enjoy it mightily. she tried to spare mr. fletcher in her interview with his sister, and only betrayed her own iniquities. but, to her surprise, mrs. saltonstall, though much disturbed at the discovery, valued christie as a governess, and respected her as a woman, so she was willing to bury the past, she said, and still hoped miss devon would remain. then christie was forced to tell her why it was impossible for her to do so; and, in her secret soul, she took a naughty satisfaction in demurely mentioning that she had refused my lord. mrs. saltonstall's consternation was comical, for she had been so absorbed in her own affairs she had suspected nothing; and horror fell upon her when she learned how near dear philip had been to the fate from which she jealously guarded him, that his property might one day benefit the darlings. in a moment every thing was changed; and it was evident to christie that the sooner she left the better it would suit madame. the proprieties were preserved to the end, and mrs. saltonstall treated her with unusual respect, for she had come to honor, and also conducted herself in a most praiseworthy manner. how she could refuse a fletcher visibly amazed the lady; but she forgave the slight, and gently insinuated that "my brother" was, perhaps, only amusing himself. christie was but too glad to be off; and when mrs. saltonstall asked when she would prefer to leave, promptly replied, "to-morrow," received her salary, which was forthcoming with unusual punctuality, and packed her trunks with delightful rapidity. as the family was to leave in a week, her sudden departure caused no surprise to the few who knew her, and with kind farewells to such of her summer friends as still remained, she went to bed that night all ready for an early start. she saw nothing more of mr. fletcher that day, but the sound of excited voices in the drawing-room assured her that madame was having it out with her brother; and with truly feminine inconsistency christie hoped that she would not be too hard upon the poor man, for, after all, it was kind of him to overlook the actress, and ask the governess to share his good things with him. she did not repent, but she got herself to sleep, imagining a bridal trip to paris, and dreamed so delightfully of lost splendors that the awakening was rather blank, the future rather cold and hard. she was early astir, meaning to take the first boat and so escape all disagreeable rencontres, and having kissed the children in their little beds, with tender promises not to forget them, she took a hasty breakfast and stepped into the carriage waiting at the door. the sleepy waiters stared, a friendly housemaid nodded, and miss walker, the hearty english lady who did her ten miles a day, cried out, as she tramped by, blooming and bedraggled: "bless me, are you off?" "yes, thank heaven!" answered christie; but as she spoke mr. fletcher came down the steps looking as wan and heavy-eyed as if a sleepless night had been added to his day's defeat. leaning in at the window, he asked abruptly, but with a look she never could forget: "will nothing change your answer, christie?" "nothing." his eyes said, "forgive me," but his lips only said, "good-by," and the carriage rolled away. then, being a woman, two great tears fell on the hand still red with the lingering grasp he had given it, and christie said, as pitifully as if she loved him: "he has got a heart, after all, and perhaps i might have been glad to fill it if he had only shown it to me sooner. now it is too late." chapter v. companion. before she had time to find a new situation, christie received a note from miss tudor, saying that hearing she had left mrs. saltonstall she wanted to offer her the place of companion to an invalid girl, where the duties were light and the compensation large. "how kind of her to think of me," said christie, gratefully. "i'll go at once and do my best to secure it, for it must be a good thing or she wouldn't recommend it." away went christie to the address sent by miss tudor, and as she waited at the door she thought: "what a happy family the carrols must be!" for the house was one of an imposing block in a west end square, which had its own little park where a fountain sparkled in the autumn sunshine, and pretty children played among the fallen leaves. mrs. carrol was a stately woman, still beautiful in spite of her fifty years. but though there were few lines on her forehead, few silver threads in the dark hair that lay smoothly over it, and a gracious smile showed the fine teeth, an indescribable expression of unsubmissive sorrow touched the whole face, betraying that life had brought some heavy cross, from which her wealth could purchase no release, for which her pride could find no effectual screen. she looked at christie with a searching eye, listened attentively when she spoke, and seemed testing her with covert care as if the place she was to fill demanded some unusual gift or skill. "miss tudor tells me that you read aloud well, sing sweetly, possess a cheerful temper, and the quiet, patient ways which are peculiarly grateful to an invalid," began mrs. carrol, with that keen yet wistful gaze, and an anxious accent in her voice that went to christie's heart. "miss tudor is very kind to think so well of me and my few accomplishments. i have never been with an invalid, but i think i can promise to be patient, willing, and cheerful. my own experience of illness has taught me how to sympathize with others and love to lighten pain. i shall be very glad to try if you think i have any fitness for the place." "i do," and mrs. carrol's face softened as she spoke, for something in christie's words or manner seemed to please her. then slowly, as if the task was a hard one, she added: "my daughter has been very ill and is still weak and nervous. i must hint to you that the loss of one very dear to her was the cause of the illness and the melancholy which now oppresses her. therefore we must avoid any thing that can suggest or recall this trouble. she cares for nothing as yet, will see no one, and prefers to live alone. she is still so feeble this is but natural; yet solitude is bad for her, and her physician thinks that a new face might rouse her, and the society of one in no way connected with the painful past might interest and do her good. you see it is a little difficult to find just what we want, for a young companion is best, yet must be discreet and firm, as few young people are." fancying from mrs. carrol's manner that miss tudor had said more in her favor than had been repeated to her, christie in a few plain-words told her little story, resolving to have no concealments here, and feeling that perhaps her experiences might have given her more firmness and discretion than many women of her age possessed. mrs. carrol seemed to find it so; the anxious look lifted a little as she listened, and when christie ended she said, with a sigh of relief: "yes, i think miss tudor is right, and you are the one we want. come and try it for a week and then we can decide. can you begin to-day?" she added, as christie rose. "every hour is precious, for my poor girl's sad solitude weighs on my heart, and this is my one hope." "i will stay with pleasure," answered christie, thinking mrs. carrol's anxiety excessive, yet pitying the mother's pain, for something in her face suggested the idea that she reproached herself in some way for her daughter's state. with secret gratitude that she had dressed with care, christie took off her things and followed mrs. carrol upstairs. entering a room in what seemed to be a wing of the great house, they found an old woman sewing. "how is helen to-day, nurse?" asked mrs. carrol, pausing. "poorly, ma'am. i've been in every hour, but she only says: 'let me be quiet,' and lies looking up at the picture till it's fit to break your heart to see her," answered the woman, with a shake of the head. "i have brought miss devon to sit with her a little while. doctor advises it, and i fancy the experiment may succeed if we can only amuse the dear child, and make her forget herself and her troubles." "as you please, ma'am," said the old woman, looking with little favor at the new-comer, for the good soul was jealous of any interference between herself and the child she had tended for years. "i won't disturb her, but you shall take miss devon in and tell helen mamma sends her love, and hopes she will make an effort for all our sakes." "yes, ma'am." "go, my dear, and do your best." with these words mrs. carrol hastily left the room, and christie followed nurse. a quick glance showed her that she was in the daintily furnished boudoir of a rich man's daughter, but before she could take a second look her eyes were arrested by the occupant of this pretty place, and she forgot all else. on a low luxurious couch lay a girl, so beautiful and pale and still, that for an instant christie thought her dead or sleeping. she was neither, for at the sound of a voice the great eyes opened wide, darkening and dilating with a strange expression as they fell on the unfamiliar face. "nurse, who is that? i told you i would see no one. i'm too ill to be so worried," she said, in an imperious tone. helen carrol "yes, dear, i know, but your mamma wished you to make an effort. miss devon is to sit with you and try to cheer you up a bit," said the old woman in a dissatisfied tone, that contrasted strangely with the tender way in which she stroked the beautiful disordered hair that hung about the girl's shoulders. helen knit her brows and looked most ungracious, but evidently tried to be civil, for with a courteous wave of her hand toward an easy chair in the sunny window she said, quietly: "please sit down, miss devon, and excuse me for a little while. i've had a bad night, and am too tired to talk just yet. there are books of all sorts, or the conservatory if you like it better." "thank you. i'll read quietly till you want me. then i shall be very glad to do any thing i can for you." with that christie retired to the big chair, and fell to reading the first book she took up, a good deal embarrassed by her reception, and very curious to know what would come next. the old woman went away after folding the down coverlet carefully over her darling's feet, and helen seemed to go to sleep. for a time the room was very still; the fire burned softly on the marble hearth, the sun shone warmly on velvet carpet and rich hangings, the delicate breath of flowers blew in through the half-open door that led to a gay little conservatory, and nothing but the roll of a distant carriage broke the silence now and then. christie's eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and motionless figure on the couch. just opposite, in a recess, hung the portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of flowers, a graceful roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it were the shrine where some dead love was mourned and worshipped still. as she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its quietude, to the painted one so full of color, strength, and happiness, her heart ached for poor helen, and her eyes were wet with tears of pity. a sudden movement on the couch gave her no time to hide them, and as she hastily looked down upon her book a treacherous drop fell glittering on the page. "what have you there so interesting?" asked helen, in that softly imperious tone of hers. "don quixote," answered christie, too much abashed to have her wits about her. helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying wearily: "they gave me that to make me laugh, but i did not find it funny; neither was it sad enough to make me cry as you do." "i was not reading, i was"--there christie broke down, and could have cried with vexation at the bad beginning she had made. but that involuntary tear was better balm to helen than the most perfect tact, the most brilliant conversation. it touched and won her without words, for sympathy works miracles. her whole face changed, and her mournful eyes grew soft as with the gentle freedom of a child she lifted christie's downcast face and said, with a falter in her voice: "i know you were pitying me. well, i need pity, and from you i'll take it, because you don't force it on me. have you been ill and wretched too? i think so, else you would never care to come and shut yourself up here with me!" "i have been ill, and i know how hard it is to get one's spirits back again. i've had my troubles, too, but not heavier than i could bear, thank god." "what made you ill? would you mind telling me about it? i seem to fancy hearing other people's woes, though it can't make mine seem lighter." "a piece of the castle of the sun fell on my head and nearly killed me," and christie laughed in spite of herself at the astonishment in helen's face. "i was an actress once; your mother knows and didn't mind," she added, quickly. "i'm glad of that. i used to wish i could be one, i was so fond of the theatre. they should have consented, it would have given me something to do, and, however hard it is, it couldn't be worse than this." helen spoke vehemently and an excited flush rose to her white cheeks; then she checked herself and dropped into a chair, saying, hurriedly: "tell about it: don't let me think; it's bad for me." glad to be set to work, and bent on retrieving her first mistake, christie plunged into her theatrical experiences and talked away in her most lively style. people usually get eloquent when telling their own stories, and true tales are always the most interesting. helen listened at first with a half-absent air, but presently grew more attentive, and when the catastrophe came sat erect, quite absorbed in the interest of this glimpse behind the curtain. charmed with her success, christie branched off right and left, stimulated by questions, led on by suggestive incidents, and generously supplied by memory. before she knew it, she was telling her whole history in the most expansive manner, for women soon get sociable together, and helen's interest flattered her immensely. once she made her laugh at some droll trifle, and as if the unaccustomed sound had startled her, old nurse popped in her head; but seeing nothing amiss retired, wondering what on earth that girl could be doing to cheer up miss helen so. "tell about your lovers: you must have had some; actresses always do. happy women, they can love as they like!" said helen, with the inquisitive frankness of an invalid for whom etiquette has ceased to exist. remembering in time that this was a forbidden subject, christie smiled and shook her head. "i had a few, but one does not tell those secrets, you know." evidently disappointed, and a little displeased at being reminded of her want of good-breeding, helen got up and began to wander restlessly about the room. presently, as if wishing to atone for her impatience, she bade christie come and see her flowers. following her, the new companion found herself in a little world where perpetual summer reigned. vines curtained the roof, slender shrubs and trees made leafy walls on either side, flowers bloomed above and below, birds carolled in half-hidden prisons, aquariums and ferneries stood all about, and the soft plash of a little fountain made pleasant music as it rose and fell. helen threw herself wearily down on a pile of cushions that lay beside the basin, and beckoning christie to sit near, said, as she pressed her hands to her hot forehead and looked up with a distressful brightness in the haggard eyes that seemed to have no rest in them: "please sing to me; any humdrum air will do. i am so tired, and yet i cannot sleep. if my head would only stop this dreadful thinking and let me forget one hour it would do me so much good." "i know the feeling, and i'll try what lucy used to do to quiet me. put your poor head in my lap, dear, and lie quite still while i cool and comfort it." obeying like a worn-out child, helen lay motionless while christie, dipping her fingers in the basin, passed the wet tips softly to and fro across the hot forehead, and the thin temples where the pulses throbbed so fast. and while she soothed she sang the "land o' the leal," and sang it well; for the tender words, the plaintive air were dear to her, because her mother loved and sang it to her years ago. slowly the heavy eyelids drooped, slowly the lines of pain were smoothed away from the broad brow, slowly the restless hands grew still, and helen lay asleep. so intent upon her task was christie, that she forgot herself till the discomfort of her position reminded her that she had a body. fearing to wake the poor girl in her arms, she tried to lean against the basin, but could not reach a cushion to lay upon the cold stone ledge. an unseen hand supplied the want, and, looking round, she saw two young men standing behind her. helen's brothers, without doubt; for, though utterly unlike in expression, some of the family traits were strongly marked in both. the elder wore the dress of a priest, had a pale, ascetic face, with melancholy eyes, stern mouth, and the absent air of one who leads an inward life. the younger had a more attractive face, for, though bearing marks of dissipation, it betrayed a generous, ardent nature, proud and wilful, yet lovable in spite of all defects. he was very boyish still, and plainly showed how much he felt, as, with a hasty nod to christie, he knelt down beside his sister, saying, in a whisper: "look at her, augustine! so beautiful, so quiet! what a comfort it is to see her like herself again." "ah, yes; and but for the sin of it, i could find it in my heart to wish she might never wake!" returned the other, gloomily. "don't say that! how could we live without her?" then, turning to christie, the younger said, in a friendly tone: "you must be very tired; let us lay her on the sofa. it is very damp here, and if she sleeps long you will faint from weariness." carefully lifting her, the brothers carried the sleeping girl into her room, and laid her down. she sighed as her head touched the pillow, and her arm clung to harry's neck, as if she felt his nearness even in sleep. he put his cheek to hers, and lingered over her with an affectionate solicitude beautiful to see. augustine stood silent, grave and cold as if he had done with human ties, yet found it hard to sever this one, for he stretched his hand above his sister as if he blessed her, then, with another grave bow to christie, went away as noiselessly as he had come. but harry kissed the sleeper tenderly, whispered, "be kind to her," with an imploring voice, and hurried from the room as if to hide the feeling that he must not show. a few minutes later the nurse brought in a note from mrs. carrol. "my son tells me that helen is asleep, and you look very tired. leave her to hester, now; you have done enough to-day, so let me thank you heartily, and send you home for a quiet night before you continue your good work to-morrow." christie went, found a carriage waiting for her, and drove home very happy at the success of her first attempt at companionship. the next day she entered upon the new duties with interest and good-will, for this was work in which heart took part, as well as head and hand. many things surprised, and some things perplexed her, as she came to know the family better. but she discreetly held her tongue, used her eyes, and did her best to please. mrs. carrol seemed satisfied, often thanked her for her faithfulness to helen, but seldom visited her daughter, never seemed surprised or grieved that the girl expressed no wish to see her; and, though her handsome face always wore its gracious smile, christie soon felt very sure that it was a mask put on to hide some heavy sorrow from a curious world. augustine never came except when helen was asleep: then, like a shadow, he passed in and out, always silent, cold, and grave, but in his eyes the gloom of some remorseful pain that prayers and penances seemed powerless to heal. harry came every day, and no matter how melancholy, listless, or irritable his sister might be, for him she always had a smile, an affectionate greeting, a word of praise, or a tender warning against the reckless spirit that seemed to possess him. the love between them was very strong, and christie found a never-failing pleasure in watching them together, for then helen showed what she once had been, and harry was his best self. a boy still, in spite of his one-and-twenty years, he seemed to feel that helen's room was a safe refuge from the temptations that beset one of his thoughtless and impetuous nature. here he came to confess his faults and follies with the frankness which is half sad, half comical, and wholly charming in a good-hearted young scatter-brain. here he brought gay gossip, lively descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world he moved in. all his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, successes and defeats, he told to helen. and she, poor soul, in this one happy love of her sad life, forgot a little the burden of despair that darkened all the world to her. for his sake she smiled, to him she talked when others got no word from her, and harry's salvation was the only duty that she owned or tried to fulfil. a younger sister was away at school, but the others seldom spoke of her, and christie tired herself with wondering why bella never wrote to helen, and why harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of pity to bestow upon the blooming girl whose picture hung in the great drawing-room below. it was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one to christie, for she felt herself loved and trusted, saw that she suited, and believed that she was doing good, as women best love to do it, by bestowing sympathy and care with generous devotion. helen and harry loved her like an elder sister; augustine showed that he was grateful, and mrs. carrol sometimes forgot to put on her mask before one who seemed fast becoming confidante as well as companion. in the spring the family went to the fine old country-house just out of town, and here christie and her charge led a freer, happier life. walking and driving, boating and gardening, with pleasant days on the wide terrace, where helen swung idly in her hammock, while christie read or talked to her; and summer twilights beguiled with music, or the silent reveries more eloquent than speech, which real friends may enjoy together, and find the sweeter for the mute companionship. harry was with them, and devoted to his sister, who seemed slowly to be coming out of her sad gloom, won by patient tenderness and the cheerful influences all about her. christie's heart was full of pride and satisfaction, as she saw the altered face, heard the tone of interest in that once hopeless voice, and felt each day more sure that helen had outlived the loss that seemed to have broken her heart. alas, for christie's pride, for harry's hope, and for poor helen's bitter fate! when all was brightest, the black shadow came; when all looked safest, danger was at hand; and when the past seemed buried, the ghost which haunted it returned, for the punishment of a broken law is as inevitable as death. when settled in town again bella came home, a gay, young girl, who should have brought sunshine and happiness into her home. but from the hour she returned a strange anxiety seemed to possess the others. mrs. carrol watched over her with sleepless care, was evidently full of maternal pride in the lovely creature, and began to dream dreams about her future. she seemed to wish to keep the sisters apart, and said to christie, as if to explain this wish: "bella was away when helen's trouble and illness came, she knows very little of it, and i do not want her to be saddened by the knowledge. helen cares only for hal, and bella is too young to be of any use to my poor girl; therefore the less they see of each other the better for both. i am sure you agree with me?" she added, with that covert scrutiny which christie had often felt before. she could but acquiesce in the mother's decision, and devote herself more faithfully than ever to helen, who soon needed all her care and patience, for a terrible unrest grew upon her, bringing sleepless nights again, moody days, and all the old afflictions with redoubled force. bella "came out" and began her career as a beauty and a belle most brilliantly. harry was proud of her, but seemed jealous of other men's admiration for his charming sister, and would excite both helen and himself over the flirtations into which "that child" as they called her, plunged with all the zest of a light-hearted girl whose head was a little turned with sudden and excessive adoration. in vain christie begged harry not to report these things, in vain she hinted that bella had better not come to show herself to helen night after night in all the dainty splendor of her youth and beauty; in vain she asked mrs. carrol to let her go away to some quieter place with helen, since she never could be persuaded to join in any gayety at home or abroad. all seemed wilful, blind, or governed by the fear of the gossiping world. so the days rolled on till an event occurred which enlightened christie, with startling abruptness, and showed her the skeleton that haunted this unhappy family. going in one morning to helen she found her walking to and fro as she often walked of late, with hurried steps and excited face as if driven by some power beyond her control. "good morning, dear. i'm so sorry you had a restless night, and wish you had sent for me. will you come out now for an early drive? it's a lovely day, and your mother thinks it would do you good," began christie, troubled by the state in which she found the girl. but as she spoke helen turned on her, crying passionately: "my mother! don't speak of her to me, i hate her!" "oh, helen, don't say that. forgive and forget if she has displeased you, and don't exhaust yourself by brooding over it. come, dear, and let us soothe ourselves with a little music. i want to hear that new song again, though i can never hope to sing it as you do." "sing!" echoed helen, with a shrill laugh, "you don't know what you ask. could you sing when your heart was heavy with the knowledge of a sin about to be committed by those nearest to you? don't try to quiet me, i must talk whether you listen or not; i shall go frantic if i don't tell some one; all the world will know it soon. sit down, i'll not hurt you, but don't thwart me or you'll be sorry for it." speaking with a vehemence that left her breathless, helen thrust christie down upon a seat, and went on with an expression in her face that bereft the listener of power to move or speak. "harry has just told me of it; he was very angry, and i saw it, and made him tell me. poor boy, he can keep nothing from me. i've been dreading it, and now it's coming. you don't know it, then? young butler is in love with bella, and no one has prevented it. think how wicked when such a curse is on us all." the question, "what curse?" rose involuntarily to christie's lips, but did not pass them, for, as if she read the thought, helen answered it in a whisper that made the blood tingle in the other's veins, so full of ominous suggestion was it. "the curse of insanity i mean. we are all mad, or shall be; we come of a mad race, and for years we have gone recklessly on bequeathing this awful inheritance to our descendants. it should end with us, we are the last; none of us should marry; none dare think of it but bella, and she knows nothing. she must be told, she must be kept from the sin of deceiving her lover, the agony of seeing her children become what i am, and what we all may be." here helen wrung her hands and paced the room in such a paroxysm of impotent despair that christie sat bewildered and aghast, wondering if this were true, or but the fancy of a troubled brain. mrs. carrol's face and manner returned to her with sudden vividness, so did augustine's gloomy expression, and the strange wish uttered over his sleeping sister long ago. harry's reckless, aimless life might be explained in this way; and all that had perplexed her through that year. every thing confirmed the belief that this tragical assertion was true, and christie covered up her face, murmuring, with an involuntary shiver: "my god, how terrible!" helen came and stood before her with such grief and penitence in her countenance that for a moment it conquered the despair that had broken bounds. "we should have told you this at first; i longed to do it, but i was afraid you'd go and leave me. i was so lonely, so miserable, christie. i could not give you up when i had learned to love you; and i did learn very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help and comfort more than i. for your sake i tried to be quiet, to control my shattered nerves, and hide my desperate thoughts. you helped me very much, and your unconsciousness made me doubly watchful. forgive me; don't desert me now, for the old horror may be coming back, and i want you more than ever." too much moved to speak, christie held out her hands, with a face full of pity, love, and grief. poor helen clung to them as if her only help lay there, and for a moment was quite still. but not long; the old anguish was too sharp to be borne in silence; the relief of confidence once tasted was too great to be denied; and, breaking loose, she went to and fro again, pouring out the bitter secret which had been weighing upon heart and conscience for a year. "you wonder that i hate my mother; let me tell you why. when she was beautiful and young she married, knowing the sad history of my father's family. he was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her wicked, and she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his children were sure to inherit the curse, for when one generation goes free it falls more heavily upon the rest. she knew it all, and yet she married him. i have her to thank for all i suffer, and i cannot love her though she is my mother. it may be wrong to say these things, but they are true; they burn in my heart, and i must speak out; for i tell you there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and women, in spite of filial duty, and woe to those whose actions change affection and respect to hatred or contempt." the bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both touched and awed christie too much for speech. helen had passed beyond the bounds of ceremony, fear, or shame: her hard lot, her dark experience, set her apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. to her heart's core christie felt that warning; and for the first time saw what many never see or wilfully deny,--the awful responsibility that lies on every man and woman's soul forbidding them to entail upon the innocent the burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their own sins. sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most unhappy daughter spoke: "if ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my mother; but she will not, and till she does, god has forsaken us. nothing can subdue her pride, not even an affliction like mine. she hides the truth; she hides me, and lets the world believe i am dying of consumption; not a word about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but doctor, nurse, and you. this is why i was not sent away, but for a year was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked. if you look in, you'll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled walls, and other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful things were meant for me." "don't speak, don't think of them! don't talk any more; let me do something to comfort you, for my heart is broken with all this," cried christie, panic-stricken at the picture helen's words had conjured up. "i must go on! there is no rest for me till i have tried to lighten this burden by sharing it with you. let me talk, let me wear myself out, then you shall help and comfort me, if there is any help and comfort for such as i. now i can tell you all about my edward, and you'll listen, though mamma forbade it. three years ago my father died, and we came here. i was well then, and oh, how happy!" clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a beautiful, pale image of despair; tearless and mute, but with such a world of anguish in the eyes lifted to the smiling picture opposite that it needed no words to tell the story of a broken heart. "how i loved him!" she said, softly, while her whole face glowed for an instant with the light and warmth of a deathless passion. "how i loved him, and how he loved me! too well to let me darken both our lives with a remorse which would come too late for a just atonement. i thought him cruel then,--i bless him for it now. i had far rather be the innocent sufferer i am, than a wretched woman like my mother. i shall never see him any more, but i know he thinks of me far away in india, and when i die one faithful heart will remember me." there her voice faltered and failed, and for a moment the fire of her eyes was quenched in tears. christie thought the reaction had come, and rose to go and comfort her. but instantly helen's hand was on her shoulder, and pressing her back into her seat, she said, almost fiercely: "i'm not done yet; yon must hear the whole, and help me to save bella. we knew nothing of the blight that hung over us till father told augustine upon his death-bed. august, urged by mother, kept it to himself, and went away to bear it as he could. he should have spoken out and saved me in time. but not till he came home and found me engaged did he have courage to warn me of the fate in store for us. so edward tore himself away, although it broke his heart, and i--do you see that?" with a quick gesture she rent open her dress, and on her bosom christie saw a scar that made her turn yet paler than before. "yes, i tried to kill myself; but they would not let me die, so the old tragedy of our house begins again. august became a priest, hoping to hide his calamity and expiate his father's sin by endless penances and prayers. harry turned reckless; for what had he to look forward to? a short life, and a gay one, he says, and when his turn comes he will spare himself long suffering, as i tried to do it. bella was never told; she was so young they kept her ignorant of all they could, even the knowledge of my state. she was long away at school, but now she has come home, now she has learned to love, and is going blindly as i went, because no one tells her what she must know soon or late. mamma will not. august hesitates, remembering me. harry swears he will speak out, but i implore him not to do it, for he will be too violent; and i am powerless. i never knew about this man till hal told me to-day. bella only comes in for a moment, and i have no chance to tell her she must not love him." pressing her hands to her temples, helen resumed her restless march again, but suddenly broke out more violently than before: "now do you wonder why i am half frantic? now will you ask me to sing and smile, and sit calmly by while this wrong goes on? you have done much for me, and god will bless you for it, but you cannot keep me sane. death is the only cure for a mad carrol, and i'm so young, so strong, it will be long in coming unless i hurry it." she clenched her hands, set her teeth, and looked about her as if ready for any desperate act that should set her free from the dark and dreadful future that lay before her. for a moment christie feared and trembled; then pity conquered fear. she forgot herself, and only remembered this poor girl, so hopeless, helpless, and afflicted. led by a sudden impulse, she put both arms about her, and held her close with a strong but silent tenderness better than any bonds. at first, helen seemed unconscious of it, as she stood rigid and motionless, with her wild eyes dumbly imploring help of earth and heaven. suddenly both strength and excitement seemed to leave her, and she would have fallen but for the living, loving prop that sustained her. still silent, christie laid her down, kissed her white lips, and busied herself about her till she looked up quite herself again, but so wan and weak, it was pitiful to see her. "it's over now," she whispered, with a desolate sigh. "sing to me, and keep the evil spirit quiet for a little while. to-morrow, if i'm strong enough, we'll talk about poor little bella." and christie sang, with tears dropping fast upon the keys, that made a soft accompaniment to the sweet old hymns which soothed this troubled soul as david's music brought repose to saul. when helen slept at last from sheer exhaustion, christie executed the resolution she had made as soon as the excitement of that stormy scene was over. she went straight to mrs. carrol's room, and, undeterred by the presence of her sons, told all that had passed. they were evidently not unprepared for it, thanks to old hester, who had overheard enough of helen's wild words to know that something was amiss, and had reported accordingly; but none of them had ventured to interrupt the interview, lest helen should be driven to desperation as before. "mother, helen is right; we should speak out, and not hide this bitter fact any longer. the world will pity us, and we must bear the pity, but it would condemn us for deceit, and we should deserve the condemnation if we let this misery go on. living a lie will ruin us all. bella will be destroyed as helen was; i am only the shadow of a man now, and hal is killing himself as fast as he can, to avoid the fate we all dread." augustine spoke first, for mrs. carrol sat speechless with her trouble as christie paused. "keep to your prayers, and let me go my own way, it's the shortest," muttered harry, with his face hidden, and his head down on his folded arms. "boys, boys, you'll kill me if you say such things! i have more now than i can bear. don't drive me wild with your reproaches to each other!" cried their mother, her heart rent with the remorse that came too late. "no fear of that; you are not a carrol," answered harry, with the pitiless bluntness of a resentful and rebellious boy. augustine turned on him with a wrathful flash of the eye, and a warning ring in his stern voice, as he pointed to the door. "you shall not insult your mother! ask her pardon, or go!" "she should ask mine! i'll go. when you want me, you'll know where to find me." and, with a reckless laugh, harry stormed out of the room. augustine's indignant face grew full of a new trouble as the door banged below, and he pressed his thin hands tightly together, saying, as if to himself: "heaven help me! yes, i do know; for, night after night, i find and bring the poor lad home from gambling-tables and the hells where souls like his are lost." here christie thought to slip away, feeling that it was no place for her now that her errand was done. but mrs. carrol called her back. "miss devon--christie--forgive me that i did not trust you sooner. it was so hard to tell; i hoped so much from time; i never could believe that my poor children would be made the victims of my mistake. do not forsake us: helen loves you so. stay with her, i implore you, and let a most unhappy mother plead for a most unhappy child." then christie went to the poor woman, and earnestly assured her of her love and loyalty; for now she felt doubly bound to them because they trusted her. "what shall we do?" they said to her, with pathetic submission, turning like sick people to a healthful soul for help and comfort. "tell bella all the truth, and help her to refuse her lover. do this just thing, and god will strengthen you to bear the consequences," was her answer, though she trembled at the responsibility they put upon her. "not yet," cried mrs. carrol. "let the poor child enjoy the holidays with a light heart,--then we will tell her; and then heaven help us all!" so it was decided; for only a week or two of the old year remained, and no one had the heart to rob poor bella of the little span of blissful ignorance that now remained to her. a terrible time was that to christie; for, while one sister, blessed with beauty, youth, love, and pleasure, tasted life at its sweetest, the other sat in the black shadow of a growing dread, and wearied heaven with piteous prayers for her relief. "the old horror is coming back; i feel it creeping over me. don't let it come, christie! stay by me! help me! keep me sane! and if you cannot, ask god to take me quickly!" with words like these, poor helen clung to christie; and, soul and body, christie devoted herself to the afflicted girl. she would not see her mother; and the unhappy woman haunted that closed door, hungering for the look, the word, that never came to her. augustine was her consolation, and, during those troublous days, the priest was forgotten in the son. but harry was all in all to helen then; and it was touching to see how these unfortunate young creatures clung to one another, she tenderly trying to keep him from the wild life that was surely hastening the fate he might otherwise escape for years, and he patiently bearing all her moods, eager to cheer and soothe the sad captivity from which he could not save her. these tender ministrations seemed to be blessed at last; and christie began to hope the haunting terror would pass by, as quiet gloom succeeded to wild excitement. the cheerful spirit of the season seemed to reach even that sad room; and, in preparing gifts for others, helen seemed to find a little of that best of all gifts,--peace for herself. on new year's morning, christie found her garlanding her lover's picture with white roses and the myrtle sprays brides wear. "these were his favorite flowers, and i meant to make my wedding wreath of this sweet-scented myrtle, because he gave it to me," she said, with a look that made christie's eyes grow dim. "don't grieve for me, dear; we shall surely meet hereafter, though so far asunder here. nothing can part us there, i devoutly believe; for we leave our burdens all behind us when we go." then, in a lighter tone, she said, with her arm on christie's neck: "this day is to be a happy one, no matter what comes after it. i'm going to be my old self for a little while, and forget there's such a word as sorrow. help me to dress, so that when the boys come up they may find the sister nell they have not seen for two long years." "will you wear this, my darling? your mother sends it, and she tried to have it dainty and beautiful enough to please you. see, your own colors, though the bows are only laid on that they may be changed for others if you like." as she spoke christie lifted the cover of the box old hester had just brought in, and displayed a cashmere wrapper, creamy-white, silk-lined, down-trimmed, and delicately relieved by rosy knots, like holly berries lying upon snow. helen looked at it without a word for several minutes, then gathering up the ribbons, with a strange smile, she said: "i like it better so; but i'll not wear it yet." "bless and save us, deary; it must have a bit of color somewhere, else it looks just like a shroud," cried hester, and then wrung her hands in dismay as helen answered, quietly: "ah, well, keep it for me, then. i shall be happier when i wear it so than in the gayest gown i own, for when you put it on, this poor head and heart of mine will be quiet at last." motioning hester to remove the box, christie tried to banish the cloud her unlucky words had brought to helen's face, by chatting cheerfully as she helped her make herself "pretty for the boys." all that day she was unusually calm and sweet, and seemed to yield herself wholly to the happy influences of the hour, gave and received her gifts so cheerfully that her brothers watched her with delight; and unconscious bella said, as she hung about her sister, with loving admiration in her eyes: "i always thought you would get well, and now i'm sure of it, for you look as you used before i went away to school, and seem just like our own dear nell." "i'm glad of that; i wanted you to feel so, my bella. i'll accept your happy prophecy, and hope i may get well soon, very soon." so cheerfully she spoke, so tranquilly she smiled, that all rejoiced over her believing, with love's blindness, that she might yet conquer her malady in spite of their forebodings. it was a very happy day to christie, not only that she was generously remembered and made one of them by all the family, but because this change for the better in helen made her heart sing for joy. she had given time, health, and much love to the task, and ventured now to hope they had not been given in vain. one thing only marred her happiness, the sad estrangement of the daughter from her mother, and that evening she resolved to take advantage of helen's tender mood, and plead for the poor soul who dared not plead for herself. as the brothers and sisters said good-night, helen clung to them as if loth to part, saying, with each embrace: "keep hoping for me, bella; kiss me, harry; bless me, augustine, and all wish for me a happier new year than the last." when they were gone she wandered slowly round the room, stood long before the picture with its fading garland, sung a little softly to herself, and came at last to christie, saying, like a tired child: "i have been good all day; now let me rest." "one thing has been forgotten, dear," began christie, fearing to disturb the quietude that seemed to have been so dearly bought. helen understood her, and looked up with a sane sweet face, out of which all resentful bitterness had passed. "no, christie, not forgotten, only kept until the last. to-day is a good day to forgive, as we would be forgiven, and i mean to do it before i sleep," then holding christie close, she added, with a quiver of emotion in her voice: "i have no words warm enough to thank you, my good angel, for all you have been to me, but i know it will give you a great pleasure to do one thing more. give dear mamma my love, and tell her that when i am quiet for the night i want her to come and get me to sleep with the old lullaby she used to sing when i was a little child." no gift bestowed that day was so precious to christie as the joy of carrying this loving message from daughter to mother. how mrs. carrol received it need not be told. she would have gone at once, but christie begged her to wait till rest and quiet, after the efforts of the day, had prepared helen for an interview which might undo all that had been done if too hastily attempted. hester always waited upon her child at night; so, feeling that she might be wanted later, christie went to her own room to rest. quite sure that mrs. carrol would come to tell her what had passed, she waited for an hour or two, then went to ask of hester how the visit had sped. "her mamma came up long ago, but the dear thing was fast asleep, so i wouldn't let her be disturbed, and mrs. carrol went away again," said the old woman, rousing from a nap. grieved at the mother's disappointment, christie stole in, hoping that helen might rouse. she did not, and christie was about to leave her, when, as she bent to smooth the tumbled coverlet, something dropped at her feet. only a little pearl-handled penknife of harry's; but her heart stood still with fear, for it was open, and, as she took it up, a red stain came off upon her hand. helen's face was turned away, and, bending nearer, christie saw how deathly pale it looked in the shadow of the darkened room. she listened at her lips; only a faint flutter of breath parted them; she lifted up the averted head, and on the white throat saw a little wound, from which the blood still flowed. then, like a flash of light, the meaning of the sudden change which came over her grew clear,--her brave efforts to make the last day happy, her tender good-night partings, her wish to be at peace with every one, the tragic death she had chosen rather than live out the tragic life that lay before her. christie's nerves had been tried to the uttermost; the shock of this discovery was too much for her, and, in the act of calling for help, she fainted, for the first time in her life. when she was herself again, the room was full of people; terror-stricken faces passed before her; broken voices whispered, "it is too late," and, as she saw the group about the bed, she wished for unconsciousness again. helen lay in her mother's arms at last, quietly breathing her life away, for though every thing that love and skill could devise had been tried to save her, the little knife in that desperate hand had done its work, and this world held no more suffering for her. harry was down upon his knees beside her, trying to stifle his passionate grief. augustine prayed audibly above her, and the fervor of his broken words comforted all hearts but one. bella was clinging, panic-stricken, to the kind old doctor, who was sobbing like a boy, for he had loved and served poor helen as faithfully as if she had been his own. "can nothing save her?" christie whispered, as the prayer ended, and a sound of bitter weeping filled the room. "nothing; she is sane and safe at last, thank god!" christie could not but echo his thanksgiving, for the blessed tranquillity of the girl's countenance was such as none but death, the great healer, can bring; and, as they looked, her eyes opened, beautifully clear and calm before they closed for ever. from face to face they passed, as if they looked for some one, and her lips moved in vain efforts to speak. christie went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes searched the room as if unsatisfied; and, with a longing that conquered the mortal weakness of the body, the heart sent forth one tender cry: "my mother--i want my mother!" there was no need to repeat the piteous call, for, as it left her lips, she saw her mother's face bending over her, and felt her mother's arms gathering her in an embrace which held her close even after death had set its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which passed between those reunited hearts. when she was asleep at last, christie and her mother made her ready for her grave; weeping tender tears as they folded her in the soft, white garment she had put by for that sad hour; and on her breast they laid the flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift. so beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the early dawn they called her brothers, that they might not lose the memory of the blessed peace that shone upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new year had happily begun. "now my work here is done, and i must go," thought christie, when the waves of life closed over the spot where another tired swimmer had gone down. but she found that one more task remained for her before she left the family which, on her coming, she had thought so happy. mrs. carrol, worn out with the long effort to conceal her secret cross, broke down entirely under this last blow, and besought christie to tell bella all that she must know. it was a hard task, but christie accepted it, and, when the time came, found that there was very little to be told, for at the death-bed of the elder sister, the younger had learned much of the sad truth. thus prepared, she listened to all that was most carefully and tenderly confided to her, and, when the heavy tale was done, she surprised christie by the unsuspected strength she showed. no tears, no lamentations, for she was her mother's daughter, and inherited the pride that can bear heavy burdens, if they are borne unseen. "tell me what i must do, and i will do it," she said, with the quiet despair of one who submits to the inevitable, but will not complain. when christie with difficulty told her that she should give up her lover, bella bowed her head, and for a moment could not speak, then lifted it as if defying her own weakness, and spoke out bravely: "it shall be done, for it is right. it is very hard for me, because i love him; he will not suffer much, for he can love again. i should be glad of that, and i'll try to wish it for his sake. he is young, and if, as harry says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much the better. what next, christie?" amazed and touched at the courage of the creature she had fancied a sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed by a single blow, christie took heart, and, instead of soothing sympathy, gave her the solace best fitted for strong natures, something to do for others. what inspired her, christie never knew; perhaps it was the year of self-denying service she had rendered for pity's sake; such devotion is its own reward, and now, in herself, she discovered unsuspected powers. "live for your mother and your brothers, bella; they need you sorely, and in time i know you will find true consolation in it, although you must relinquish much. sustain your mother, cheer augustine, watch over harry, and be to them what helen longed to be." "and fail to do it, as she failed!" cried bella, with a shudder. "listen, and let me give you this hope, for i sincerely do believe it. since i came here, i have read many books, thought much, and talked often with dr. shirley about this sad affliction. he thinks you and harry may escape it, if you will. you are like your mother in temperament and temper; you have self-control, strong wills, good nerves, and cheerful spirits. poor harry is willfully spoiling all his chances now; but you may save him, and, in the endeavor, save yourself." "oh, christie, may i hope it? give me one chance of escape, and i will suffer any hardship to keep it. let me see any thing before me but a life and death like helen's, and i'll bless you for ever!" cried bella, welcoming this ray of light as a prisoner welcomes sunshine in his cell. christie trembled at the power of her words, yet, honestly believing them, she let them uplift this disconsolate soul, trusting that they might be in time fulfilled through god's mercy and the saving grace of sincere endeavor. holding fast to this frail spar, bella bravely took up arms against her sea of troubles, and rode out the storm. when her lover came to know his fate, she hid her heart, and answered "no," finding a bitter satisfaction in the end, for harry was right, and, when the fortune was denied him, young butler did not mourn the woman long. pride helped bella to bear it; but it needed all her courage to look down the coming years so bare of all that makes life sweet to youthful souls, so desolate and dark, with duty alone to cheer the thorny way, and the haunting shadow of her race lurking in the background. submission and self-sacrifice are stern, sad angels, but in time one learns to know and love them, for when they have chastened, they uplift and bless. dimly discerning this, poor bella put her hands in theirs, saying, "lead me, teach me; i will follow and obey you." all soon felt that they could not stay in a house so full of heavy memories, and decided to return to their old home. they begged christie to go with them, using every argument and entreaty their affection could suggest. but christie needed rest, longed for freedom, and felt that in spite of their regard it would be very hard for her to live among them any longer. her healthy nature needed brighter influences, stronger comrades, and the memory of helen weighed so heavily upon her heart that she was eager to forget it for a time in other scenes and other work. so they parted, very sadly, very tenderly, and laden with good gifts christie went on her way weary, but well satisfied, for she had earned her rest. chapter vi. seamstress. for some weeks christie rested and refreshed herself by making her room gay and comfortable with the gifts lavished on her by the carrols, and by sharing with others the money which harry had smuggled into her possession after she had steadily refused to take one penny more than the sum agreed upon when she first went to them. she took infinite satisfaction in sending one hundred dollars to uncle enos, for she had accepted what he gave her as a loan, and set her heart on repaying every fraction of it. another hundred she gave to hepsey, who found her out and came to report her trials and tribulations. the good soul had ventured south and tried to buy her mother. but "ole missis" would not let her go at any price, and the faithful chattel would not run away. sorely disappointed, hepsey had been obliged to submit; but her trip was not a failure, for she liberated several brothers and sent them triumphantly to canada. "you must take it, hepsey, for i could not rest happy if i put it away to lie idle while you can save men and women from torment with it. i'd give it if it was my last penny, for i can help in no other way; and if i need money, i can always earn it, thank god!" said christie, as hepsey hesitated to take so much from a fellow-worker. the thought of that investment lay warm at christie's heart, and never woke a regret, for well she knew that every dollar of it would be blessed, since shares in the underground railroad pay splendid dividends that never fail. another portion of her fortune, as she called harry's gift, was bestowed in wedding presents upon lucy, who at length succeeded in winning the heart of the owner of the "heavenly eyes" and "distracting legs;" and, having gained her point, married him with dramatic celerity, and went west to follow the fortunes of her lord. the old theatre was to be demolished and the company scattered, so a farewell festival was held, and christie went to it, feeling more solitary than ever as she bade her old friends a long good-bye. the rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she prudently put it by for a rainy day, and fell to work again when her brief vacation was over. hearing of a chance for a good needle-woman in a large and well-conducted mantua-making establishment, she secured it as a temporary thing, for she wanted to divert her mind from that last sad experience by entirely different employment and surroundings. she liked to return at night to her own little home, solitary and simple as it was, and felt a great repugnance to accept any place where she would be mixed up with family affairs again. so day after day she went to her seat in the workroom where a dozen other young women sat sewing busily on gay garments, with as much lively gossip to beguile the time as miss cotton, the forewoman, would allow. for a while it diverted christie, as she had a feminine love for pretty things, and enjoyed seeing delicate silks, costly lace, and all the indescribable fantasies of fashion. but as spring came on, the old desire for something fresh and free began to haunt her, and she had both waking and sleeping dreams of a home in the country somewhere, with cows and flowers, clothes bleaching on green grass, bob-o'-links making rapturous music by the river, and the smell of new-mown hay, all lending their charms to the picture she painted for herself. most assuredly she would have gone to find these things, led by the instincts of a healthful nature, had not one slender tie held her till it grew into a bond so strong she could not break it. among her companions was one, and one only, who attracted her. the others were well-meaning girls, but full of the frivolous purposes and pleasures which their tastes prompted and their dull life fostered. dress, gossip, and wages were the three topics which absorbed them. christie soon tired of the innumerable changes rung upon these themes, and took refuge in her own thoughts, soon learning to enjoy them undisturbed by the clack of many tongues about her. her evenings at home were devoted to books, for she had the true new england woman's desire for education, and read or studied for the love of it. thus she had much to think of as her needle flew, and was rapidly becoming a sort of sewing-machine when life was brightened for her by the finding of a friend. among the girls was one quiet, skilful creature, whose black dress, peculiar face, and silent ways attracted christie. her evident desire to be let alone amused the new comer at first, and she made no effort to know her. but presently she became aware that rachel watched her with covert interest, stealing quick, shy glances at her as she sat musing over her work. christie smiled at her when she caught these glances, as if to reassure the looker of her good-will. but rachel only colored, kept her eyes fixed on her work, and was more reserved than ever. this interested christie, and she fell to studying this young woman with some curiosity, for she was different from the others. though evidently younger than she looked, rachel's face was that of one who had known some great sorrow, some deep experience; for there were lines on the forehead that contrasted strongly with the bright, abundant hair above it; in repose, the youthfully red, soft lips had a mournful droop, and the eyes were old with that indescribable expression which comes to those who count their lives by emotions, not by years. strangely haunting eyes to christie, for they seemed to appeal to her with a mute eloquence she could not resist. in vain did rachel answer her with quiet coldness, nod silently when she wished her a cheery "good morning," and keep resolutely in her own somewhat isolated corner, though invited to share the sunny window where the other sat. her eyes belied her words, and those fugitive glances betrayed the longing of a lonely heart that dared not yield itself to the genial companionship so freely offered it. christie was sure of this, and would not be repulsed; for her own heart was very solitary. she missed helen, and longed to fill the empty place. she wooed this shy, cold girl as patiently and as gently as a lover might, determined to win her confidence, because all the others had failed to do it. sometimes she left a flower in rachel's basket, always smiled and nodded as she entered, and often stopped to admire the work of her tasteful fingers. it was impossible to resist such friendly overtures, and slowly rachel's coldness melted; into the beseeching eyes came a look of gratitude, the more touching for its wordlessness, and an irrepressible smile broke over her face in answer to the cordial ones that made the sunshine of her day. emboldened by these demonstrations, christie changed her seat, and quietly established between them a daily interchange of something beside needles, pins, and spools. then, as rachel did not draw back offended, she went a step farther, and, one day when they chanced to be left alone to finish off a delicate bit of work, she spoke out frankly: "why can't we be friends? i want one sadly, and so do you, unless your looks deceive me. we both seem to be alone in the world, to have had trouble, and to like one another. i won't annoy you by any impertinent curiosity, nor burden you with uninteresting confidences; i only want to feel that you like me a little and don't mind my liking you a great deal. will you be my friend, and let me be yours?" a great tear rolled down upon the shining silk in rachel's hands as she looked into christie's earnest face, and answered with an almost passionate gratitude in her own: "you can never need a friend as much as i do, or know what a blessed thing it is to find such an one as you are." "then i may love you, and not be afraid of offending?" cried christie, much touched. "yes. but remember i didn't ask it first," said rachel, half dropping the hand she had held in both her own. "you proud creature! i'll remember; and when we quarrel, i'll take all the blame upon myself." then christie kissed her warmly, whisked away the tear, and began to paint the delights in store for them in her most enthusiastic way, being much elated with her victory; while rachel listened with a newly kindled light in her lovely eyes, and a smile that showed how winsome her face had been before many tears washed its bloom away, and much trouble made it old too soon. christie kept her word,--asked no questions, volunteered no confidences, but heartily enjoyed the new friendship, and found that it gave to life the zest which it had lacked before. now some one cared for her, and, better still, she could make some one happy, and in the act of lavishing the affection of her generous nature on a creature sadder and more solitary than herself, she found a satisfaction that never lost its charm. there was nothing in her possession that she did not offer rachel, from the whole of her heart to the larger half of her little room. "i'm tired of thinking only of myself. it makes me selfish and low-spirited; for i'm not a bit interesting. i must love somebody, and 'love them hard,' as children say; so why can't you come and stay with me? there's room enough, and we could be so cosy evenings with our books and work. i know you need some one to look after you, and i love dearly to take care of people. do come," she would say, with most persuasive hospitality. but rachel always answered steadily: "not yet, christie, not yet. i 've got something to do before i can think of doing any thing so beautiful as that. only love me, dear, and some day i'll show you all my heart, and thank you as i ought." so christie was content to wait, and, meantime, enjoyed much; for, with rachel as a friend, she ceased to care for country pleasures, found happiness in the work that gave her better food than mere daily bread, and never thought of change; for love can make a home for itself anywhere. a very bright and happy time was this in christie's life; but, like most happy times, it was very brief. only one summer allowed for the blossoming of the friendship that budded so slowly in the spring; then the frost came and killed the flowers; but the root lived long underneath the snows of suffering, doubt, and absence. coming to her work late one morning, she found the usually orderly room in confusion. some of the girls were crying; some whispering together,--all looking excited and dismayed. mrs. king sat majestically at her table, with an ominous frown upon her face. miss cotton stood beside her, looking unusually sour and stern, for the ancient virgin's temper was not of the best. alone, before them all, with her face hidden in her hands, and despair in every line of her drooping figure, stood rachel,--a meek culprit at the stern bar of justice, where women try a sister woman. "what's the matter?" cried christie, pausing on the threshold. mrs. king and miss cotton. rachel shivered, as if the sound of that familiar voice was a fresh wound, but she did not lift her head; and mrs. king answered, with a nervous emphasis that made the bugles of her head-dress rattle dismally: "a very sad thing, miss devon,--very sad, indeed; a thing which never occurred in my establishment before, and never shall again. it appears that rachel, whom we all considered a most respectable and worthy girl, has been quite the reverse. i shudder to think what the consequences of my taking her without a character (a thing i never do, and was only tempted by her superior taste as a trimmer) might have been if miss cotton, having suspicions, had not made strict inquiry and confirmed them." "that was a kind and generous act, and miss cotton must feel proud of it," said christie, with an indignant recollection of mr. fletcher's "cautious inquiries" about herself. "it was perfectly right and proper, miss devon; and i thank her for her care of my interests." and mrs. king bowed her acknowledgment of the service with a perfect castanet accompaniment, whereat miss cotton bridled with malicious complacency. "mrs. king, are you sure of this?" said christie. "miss cotton does not like rachel because her work is so much praised. may not her jealousy make her unjust, or her zeal for you mislead her?" "i thank you for your polite insinuations, miss," returned the irate forewoman. "i never make mistakes; but you will find that you have made a very great one in choosing rachel for your bosom friend instead of some one who would be a credit to you. ask the creature herself if all i've said of her isn't true. she can't deny it." with the same indefinable misgiving which had held her aloof, christie turned to rachel, lifted up the hidden face with gentle force, and looked into it imploringly, as she whispered: "is it true?" the woful countenance she saw made any other answer needless. involuntarily her hands fell away, and she hid her own face, uttering the one reproach, which, tender and tearful though it was, seemed harder to be borne than the stern condemnation gone before. "oh, rachel, i so loved and trusted you!" the grief, affection, and regret that trembled in her voice roused rachel from her state of passive endurance and gave her courage to plead for herself. but it was christie whom she addressed, christie whose pardon she implored, christie's sorrowful reproach that she most keenly felt. "yes, it is true," she said, looking only at the woman who had been the first to befriend and now was the last to desert her. "it is true that i once went astray, but god knows i have repented; that for years i've tried to be an honest girl again, and that but for his help i should be a far sadder creature than i am this day. christie, you can never know how bitter hard it is to outlive a sin like mine, and struggle up again from such a fall. it clings to me; it won't be shaken off or buried out of sight. no sooner do i find a safe place like this, and try to forget the past, than some one reads my secret in my face and hunts me down. it seems very cruel, very hard, yet it is my punishment, so i try to bear it, and begin again. what hurts me now more than all the rest, what breaks my heart, is that i deceived you. i never meant to do it. i did not seek you, did i? i tried to be cold and stiff; never asked for love, though starving for it, till you came to me, so kind, so generous, so dear,--how could i help it? oh, how could i help it then?" christie had watched rachel while she spoke, and spoke to her alone; her heart yearned toward this one friend, for she still loved her, and, loving, she believed in her. "i don't reproach you, dear: i don't despise or desert you, and though i'm grieved and disappointed, i'll stand by you still, because you need me more than ever now, and i want to prove that i am a true friend. mrs. king, please forgive and let poor rachel stay here, safe among us." "miss devon, i'm surprised at you! by no means; it would be the ruin of my establishment; not a girl would remain, and the character of my rooms would be lost for ever," replied mrs. king, goaded on by the relentless cotton. "but where will she go if you send her away? who will employ her if you inform against her? what stranger will believe in her if we, who have known her so long, fail to befriend her now? mrs. king, think of your own daughters, and be a mother to this poor girl for their sake." that last stroke touched the woman's heart; her cold eye softened, her hard mouth relaxed, and pity was about to win the day, when prudence, in the shape of miss cotton, turned the scale, for that spiteful spinster suddenly cried out, in a burst of righteous wrath: "if that hussy stays, i leave this establishment for ever!" and followed up the blow by putting on her bonnet with a flourish. at this spectacle, self-interest got the better of sympathy in mrs. king's worldly mind. to lose cotton was to lose her right hand, and charity at that price was too expensive a luxury to be indulged in; so she hardened her heart, composed her features, and said, impressively: "take off your bonnet, cotton; i have no intention of offending you, or any one else, by such a step. i forgive you, rachel, and i pity you; but i can't think of allowing you to stay. there are proper institutions for such as you, and i advise you to go to one and repent. you were paid saturday night, so nothing prevents your leaving at once. time is money here, and we are wasting it. young ladies, take your seats." all but christie obeyed, yet no one touched a needle, and mrs. king sat, hurriedly stabbing pins into the fat cushion on her breast, as if testing the hardness of her heart. rachel's eye went round the room; saw pity, aversion, or contempt, on every face, but met no answering glance, for even christie's eyes were bent thoughtfully on the ground, and christie's heart seemed closed against her. as she looked her whole manner changed; her tears ceased to fall, her face grew hard, and a reckless mood seemed to take possession of her, as if finding herself deserted by womankind, she would desert her own womanhood. "i might have known it would be so," she said abruptly, with a bitter smile, sadder to see than her most hopeless tears. "it's no use for such as me to try; better go back to the old life, for there are kinder hearts among the sinners than among the saints, and no one can live without a bit of love. your magdalen asylums are penitentiaries, not homes; i won't go to any of them. your piety isn't worth much, for though you read in your bible how the lord treated a poor soul like me, yet when i stretch out my hand to you for help, not one of all you virtuous, christian women dare take it and keep me from a life that's worse than hell." as she spoke rachel flung out her hand with a half-defiant gesture, and christie took it. that touch, full of womanly compassion, seemed to exorcise the desperate spirit that possessed the poor girl in her despair, for, with a stifled exclamation, she sunk down at christie's feet, and lay there weeping in all the passionate abandonment of love and gratitude, remorse and shame. never had human voice sounded so heavenly sweet to her as that which broke the silence of the room, as this one friend said, with the earnestness of a true and tender heart: "mrs. king, if you send her away, i must take her in; for if she does go back to the old life, the sin of it will lie at our door, and god will remember it against us in the end. some one must trust her, help her, love her, and so save her, as nothing else will. perhaps i can do this better than you,--at least, i'll try; for even if i risk the loss of my good name, i could bear that better than the thought that rachel had lost the work of these hard years for want of upholding now. she shall come home with me; no one there need know of this discovery, and i will take any work to her that you will give me, to keep her from want and its temptations. will you do this, and let me sew for less, if i can pay you for the kindness in no other way?" poor mrs. king was "much tumbled up and down in her own mind;" she longed to consent, but cotton's eye was upon her, and cotton's departure would be an irreparable loss, so she decided to end the matter in the most summary manner. plunging a particularly large pin into her cushioned breast, as if it was a relief to inflict that mock torture upon herself, she said sharply: "it is impossible. you can do as you please, miss devon, but i prefer to wash my hands of the affair at once and entirely." christie's eye went from the figure at her feet to the hard-featured woman who had been a kind and just mistress until now, and she asked, anxiously: "do you mean that you wash your hands of me also, if i stand by rachel?" "i do. i'm very sorry, but my young ladies must keep respectable company, or leave my service," was the brief reply, for mrs. king grew grimmer externally as the mental rebellion increased internally. "then i will leave it!" cried christie, with an indignant voice and eye. "come, dear, we'll go together." and without a look or word for any in the room, she raised the prostrate girl, and led her out into the little hall. there she essayed to comfort her, but before many words had passed her lips rachel looked up, and she was silent with surprise, for the face she saw was neither despairing nor defiant, but beautifully sweet and clear, as the unfallen spirit of the woman shone through the grateful eyes, and blessed her for her loyalty. "christie, you have done enough for me," she said. "go back, and keep the good place you need, for such are hard to find. i can get on alone; i'm used to this, and the pain will soon be over." "i'll not go back!" cried christie, hotly. "i'll do slop-work and starve, before i'll stay with such a narrow-minded, cold-hearted woman. come home with me at once, and let us lay our plans together." "no, dear; if i wouldn't go when you first asked me, much less will i go now, for i've done you harm enough already. i never can thank you for your great goodness to me, never tell you what it has been to me. we must part now; but some day i'll come back and show you that i've not forgotten how you loved and helped and trusted me, when all the others cast me off." vain were christie's arguments and appeals. rachel was immovable, and all her friend could win from her was a promise to send word, now and then, how things prospered with her. "and, rachel, i charge you to come to me in any strait, no matter what it is, no matter where i am; for if any thing could break my heart, it would be to know that you had gone back to the old life, because there was no one to help and hold you up." "i never can go back; you have saved me, christie, for you love me, you have faith in me, and that will keep me strong and safe when you are gone. oh, my dear, my dear, god bless you for ever and for ever!" then christie, remembering only that they were two loving women, alone in a world of sin and sorrow, took rachel in her arms, kissed and cried over her with sisterly affection, and watched her prayerfully, as she went away to begin her hard task anew, with nothing but the touch of innocent lips upon her cheek, the baptism, of tender tears upon her forehead to keep her from despair. still cherishing the hope that rachel would come back to her, christie neither returned to mrs. king nor sought another place of any sort, but took home work from a larger establishment, and sat sewing diligently in her little room, waiting, hoping, longing for her friend. but month after month went by, and no word, no sign came to comfort her. she would not doubt, yet she could not help fearing, and in her nightly prayer no petition was more fervently made than that which asked the father of both saint and sinner to keep poor rachel safe, and bring her back in his good time. never had she been so lonely as now, for christie had a social heart, and, having known the joy of a cordial friendship even for a little while, life seemed very barren to her when she lost it. no new friend took rachel's place, for none came to her, and a feeling of loyalty kept her from seeking one. but she suffered for the want of genial society, for all the tenderness of her nature seemed to have been roused by that brief but most sincere affection. her hungry heart clamored for the happiness that was its right, and grew very heavy as she watched friends or lovers walking in the summer twilight when she took her evening stroll. often her eyes followed some humble pair, longing to bless and to be blessed by the divine passion whose magic beautifies the little milliner and her lad with the same tender grace as the poet and the mistress whom he makes immortal in a song. but neither friend nor lover came to christie, and she said to herself, with a sad sort of courage: "i shall be solitary all my life, perhaps; so the sooner i make up my mind to it, the easier it will be to bear." at christmas-tide she made a little festival for herself, by giving to each of the household drudges the most generous gift she could afford, for no one else thought of them, and having known some of the hardships of servitude herself, she had much sympathy with those in like case. then, with the pleasant recollection of two plain faces, brightened by gratitude, surprise, and joy, she went out into the busy streets to forget the solitude she left behind her. very gay they were with snow and sleigh-bells, holly-boughs, and garlands, below, and christmas sunshine in the winter sky above. all faces shone, all voices had a cheery ring, and everybody stepped briskly on errands of good-will. up and down went christie, making herself happy in the happiness of others. looking in at the shop-windows, she watched, with interest, the purchases of busy parents, calculating how best to fill the little socks hung up at home, with a childish faith that never must be disappointed, no matter how hard the times might be. she was glad to see so many turkeys on their way to garnish hospitable tables, and hoped that all the dear home circles might be found unbroken, though she had place in none. no christmas-tree went by leaving a whiff of piny sweetness behind, that she did not wish it all success, and picture to herself the merry little people dancing in its light. and whenever she saw a ragged child eying a window full of goodies, smiling even, while it shivered, she could not resist playing santa claus till her purse was empty, sending the poor little souls enraptured home with oranges and apples in either hand, and splendid sweeties in their pockets, for the babies. no envy mingled with the melancholy that would not be dispelled even by these gentle acts, for her heart was very tender that night, and if any one had asked what gifts she desired most, she would have answered with a look more pathetic than any shivering child had given her: "i want the sound of a loving voice; the touch of a friendly hand." going home, at last, to the lonely little room where no christmas fire burned, no tree shone, no household group awaited her, she climbed the long, dark stairs, with drops on her cheeks, warmer than any melted snow-flake could have left, and opening her door paused on the threshold, smiling with wonder and delight, for in her absence some gentle spirit had remembered her. a fire burned cheerily upon the hearth, her lamp was lighted, a lovely rose-tree, in full bloom, filled the air with its delicate breath, and in its shadow lay a note from rachel. "a merry christmas and a happy new year, christie! long ago you gave me your little rose; i have watched and tended it for your sake, dear, and now when i want to show my love and thankfulness, i give it back again as my one treasure. i crept in while you were gone, because i feared i might harm you in some way if you saw me. i longed to stay and tell you that i am safe and well, and busy, with your good face looking into mine, but i don't deserve that yet. only love me, trust me, pray for me, and some day you shall know what you have done for me. till then, god bless and keep you, dearest friend, your rachel." never had sweeter tears fallen than those that dropped upon the little tree as christie took it in her arms, and all the rosy clusters leaned toward her as if eager to deliver tender messages. surely her wish was granted now, for friendly hands had been at work for her. warm against her heart lay words as precious as if uttered by a loving voice, and nowhere, on that happy night, stood a fairer christmas tree than that which bloomed so beautifully from the heart of a magdalen who loved much and was forgiven. chapter vii. through the mist. the year that followed was the saddest christie had ever known, for she suffered a sort of poverty which is more difficult to bear than actual want, since money cannot lighten it, and the rarest charity alone can minister to it. her heart was empty and she could not fill it; her soul was hungry and she could not feed it; life was cold and dark and she could not warm and brighten it, for she knew not where to go. she tried to help herself by all the means in her power, and when effort after effort failed she said: "i am not good enough yet to deserve happiness. i think too much of human love, too little of divine. when i have made god my friend perhaps he will let me find and keep one heart to make life happy with. how shall i know god? who will tell me where to find him, and help me to love and lean upon him as i ought?" in all sincerity she asked these questions, in all sincerity she began her search, and with pathetic patience waited for an answer. she read many books, some wise, some vague, some full of superstition, all unsatisfactory to one who wanted a living god. she went to many churches, studied many creeds, and watched their fruits as well as she could; but still remained unsatisfied. some were cold and narrow, some seemed theatrical and superficial, some stern and terrible, none simple, sweet, and strong enough for humanity's many needs. there was too much machinery, too many walls, laws, and penalties between the father and his children. too much fear, too little love; too many saints and intercessors; too little faith in the instincts of the soul which turns to god as flowers to the sun. too much idle strife about names and creeds; too little knowledge of the natural religion which has no name but godliness, whose creed is boundless and benignant as the sunshine, whose faith is as the tender trust of little children in their mother's love. nowhere did christie find this all-sustaining power, this paternal friend, and comforter, and after months of patient searching she gave up her quest, saying, despondently: "i'm afraid i never shall get religion, for all that's offered me seems so poor, so narrow, or so hard that i cannot take it for my stay. a god of wrath i cannot love; a god that must be propitiated, adorned, and adored like an idol i cannot respect; and a god who can be blinded to men's iniquities through the week by a little beating of the breast and bowing down on the seventh day, i cannot serve. i want a father to whom i can go with all my sins and sorrows, all my hopes and joys, as freely and fearlessly as i used to go to my human father, sure of help and sympathy and love. shall i ever find him?" alas, poor christie! she was going through the sorrowful perplexity that comes to so many before they learn that religion cannot be given or bought, but must grow as trees grow, needing frost and snow, rain and wind to strengthen it before it is deep-rooted in the soul; that god is in the hearts of all, and they that seek shall surely find him when they need him most. so christie waited for religion to reveal itself to her, and while she waited worked with an almost desperate industry, trying to buy a little happiness for herself by giving a part of her earnings to those whose needs money could supply. she clung to her little room, for there she could live her own life undisturbed, and preferred to stint herself in other ways rather than give up this liberty. day after day she sat there sewing health of mind and body into the long seams or dainty stitching that passed through her busy hands, and while she sewed she thought sad, bitter, oftentimes rebellious thoughts. it was the worst life she could have led just then, for, deprived of the active, cheerful influences she most needed, her mind preyed on itself, slowly and surely, preparing her for the dark experience to come. she knew that there was fitter work for her somewhere, but how to find it was a problem which wiser women have often failed to solve. she was no pauper, yet was one of those whom poverty sets at odds with the world, for favors burden and dependence makes the bread bitter unless love brightens the one and sweetens the other. there are many christies, willing to work, yet unable to bear the contact with coarser natures which makes labor seem degrading, or to endure the hard struggle for the bare necessities of life when life has lost all that makes it beautiful. people wonder when such as she say they can find little to do; but to those who know nothing of the pangs of pride, the sacrifices of feeling, the martyrdoms of youth, love, hope, and ambition that go on under the faded cloaks of these poor gentle-women, who tell them to go into factories, or scrub in kitchens, for there is work enough for all, the most convincing answer would be, "try it." christie kept up bravely till a wearisome low fever broke both strength and spirit, and brought the weight of debt upon her when least fitted to bear or cast it off. for the first time she began to feel that she had nerves which would rebel, and a heart that could not long endure isolation from its kind without losing the cheerful courage which hitherto had been her staunchest friend. perfect rest, kind care, and genial society were the medicines she needed, but there was no one to minister to her, and she went blindly on along the road so many women tread. she left her bed too soon, fearing to ask too much of the busy people who had done their best to be neighborly. she returned to her work when it felt heavy in her feeble hands, for debt made idleness seem wicked to her conscientious mind. and, worst of all, she fell back into the bitter, brooding mood which had become habitual to her since she lived alone. while the tired hands slowly worked, the weary brain ached and burned with heavy thoughts, vain longings, and feverish fancies, till things about her sometimes seemed as strange and spectral as the phantoms that had haunted her half-delirious sleep. inexpressibly wretched were the dreary days, the restless nights, with only pain and labor for companions. the world looked very dark to her, life seemed an utter failure, god a delusion, and the long, lonely years before her too hard to be endured. it is not always want, insanity, or sin that drives women to desperate deaths; often it is a dreadful loneliness of heart, a hunger for home and friends, worse than starvation, a bitter sense of wrong in being denied the tender ties, the pleasant duties, the sweet rewards that can make the humblest life happy; a rebellious protest against god, who, when they cry for bread, seems to offer them a stone. some of these impatient souls throw life away, and learn too late how rich it might have been with a stronger faith, a more submissive spirit. others are kept, and slowly taught to stand and wait, till blest with a happiness the sweeter for the doubt that went before. there came a time to christie when the mist about her was so thick she would have stumbled and fallen had not the little candle, kept alight by her own hand, showed her how far "a good deed shines in a naughty world;" and when god seemed utterly forgetful of her he sent a friend to save and comfort her. march winds were whistling among the house-tops, and the sky was darkening with a rainy twilight as christie folded up her finished work, stretched her weary limbs, and made ready for her daily walk. even this was turned to profit, for then she took home her work, went in search of more, and did her own small marketing. as late hours and unhealthy labor destroyed appetite, and unpaid debts made each mouthful difficult to swallow with mrs. flint's hard eye upon her, she had undertaken to supply her own food, and so lessen the obligation that burdened her. an unwise retrenchment, for, busied with the tasks that must be done, she too often neglected or deferred the meals to which no society lent interest, no appetite gave flavor; and when the fuel was withheld the fire began to die out spark by spark. as she stood before the little mirror, smoothing the hair upon her forehead, she watched the face reflected there, wondering if it could be the same she used to see so full of youth and hope and energy. "yes, i'm growing old; my youth is nearly over, and at thirty i shall be a faded, dreary woman, like so many i see and pity. it's hard to come to this after trying so long to find my place, and do my duty. i'm a failure after all, and might as well have stayed with aunt betsey or married joe." "miss devon, to-day is saturday, and i'm makin' up my bills, so i'll trouble you for your month's board, and as much on the old account as you can let me have." mrs. flint spoke, and her sharp voice rasped the silence like a file, for she had entered without knocking, and her demand was the first intimation of her presence. christie turned slowly round, for there was no elasticity in her motions now; through the melancholy anxiety her face always wore of late, there came the worried look of one driven almost beyond endurance, and her hands began to tremble nervously as she tied on her bonnet. mrs. flint was a hard woman, and dunned her debtors relentlessly; christie dreaded the sight of her, and would have left the house had she been free of debt. "i am just going to take these things home and get more work. i am sure of being paid, and you shall have all i get. but, for heaven's sake, give me time." two days and a night of almost uninterrupted labor had given a severe strain to her nerves, and left her in a dangerous state. something in her face arrested mrs. flint's attention; she observed that christie was putting on her best cloak and hat, and to her suspicious eye the bundle of work looked unduly large. it had been a hard day for the poor woman, for the cook had gone off in a huff; the chamber girl been detected in petty larceny; two desirable boarders had disappointed her; and the incapable husband had fallen ill, so it was little wonder that her soul was tried, her sharp voice sharper, and her sour temper sourer than ever. "i have heard of folks putting on their best things and going out, but never coming back again, when they owed money. it's a mean trick, but it's sometimes done by them you wouldn't think it of," she said, with an aggravating sniff of intelligence. to be suspected of dishonesty was the last drop in christie's full cup. she looked at the woman with a strong desire to do something violent, for every nerve was tingling with irritation and anger. but she controlled herself, though her face was colorless and her hands were more tremulous than before. unfastening her comfortable cloak she replaced it with a shabby shawl; took off her neat bonnet and put on a hood, unfolded six linen shirts, and shook them out before her landlady's eyes; then retied the parcel, and, pausing on the threshold of the door, looked back with an expression that haunted the woman long afterward, as she said, with the quiver of strong excitement in her voice: "mrs. flint, i have always dealt honorably by you; i always mean to do it, and don't deserve to be suspected of dishonesty like that. i leave every thing i own behind me, and if i don't come back, you can sell them all and pay yourself, for i feel now as if i never wanted to see you or this room again." then she went rapidly away, supported by her indignation, for she had done her best to pay her debts; had sold the few trinkets she possessed, and several treasures given by the carrols, to settle her doctor's bill, and had been half killing herself to satisfy mrs. flint's demands. the consciousness that she had been too lavish in her generosity when fortune smiled upon her, made the present want all the harder to bear. but she would neither beg nor borrow, though she knew harry would delight to give, and uncle enos lend her money, with a lecture on extravagance, gratis. "i'll paddle my own canoe as long as i can," she said, sternly; "and when i must ask help i'll turn to strangers for it, or scuttle my boat, and go down without troubling any one." when she came to her employer's door, the servant said: "missis was out;" then seeing christie's disappointed face, she added, confidentially: "if it's any comfort to know it, i can tell you that missis wouldn't have paid you if she had a been to home. there's been three other women here with work, and she's put 'em all off. she always does, and beats 'em down into the bargain, which ain't genteel to my thinkin'." "she promised me i should be well paid for these, because i undertook to get them done without fail. i've worked day and night rather than disappoint her, and felt sure of my money," said christie, despondently. "i'm sorry, but you won't get it. she told me to tell you your prices was too high, and she could find folks to work cheaper." "she did not object to the price when i took the work, and i have half-ruined my eyes over the fine stitching. see if it isn't nicely done." and christie displayed her exquisite needlework with pride. the girl admired it, and, having a grievance of her own, took satisfaction in berating her mistress. "it's a shame! these things are part of a present, the ladies are going to give the minister; but i don't believe he'll feel easy in 'em if poor folks is wronged to get 'em. missis won't pay what they are worth, i know; for, don't you see, the cheaper the work is done, the more money she has to make a spread with her share of the present? it's my opinion you'd better hold on to these shirts till she pays for 'em handsome." "no; i'll keep my promise, and i hope she will keep hers. tell her i need the money very much, and have worked very hard to please her. i'll come again on monday, if i'm able." christie's lips trembled as she spoke, for she was feeble still, and the thought of that hard-earned money had been her sustaining hope through the weary hours spent over that ill-paid work. the girl said "good-bye," with a look of mingled pity and respect, for in her eyes the seamstress was more of a lady than the mistress in this transaction. christie hurried to another place, and asked eagerly if the young ladies had any work for her. "not a stitch," was the reply, and the door closed. she stood a moment looking down upon the passers-by wondering what answer she would get if she accosted any one; and had any especially benevolent face looked back at her she would have been tempted to do it, so heart-sick and forlorn did she feel just then. she knocked at several other doors, to receive the same reply. she even tried a slop-shop, but it was full, and her pale face was against her. her long illness had lost her many patrons, and if one steps out from the ranks of needle-women, it is very hard to press in again, so crowded are they, and so desperate the need of money. one hope remained, and, though the way was long, and a foggy drizzle had set in, she minded neither distance nor the chilly rain, but hurried away with anxious thoughts still dogging her steps. across a long bridge, through muddy roads and up a stately avenue she went, pausing, at last, spent and breathless at another door. a servant with a wedding-favor in his button-hole opened to her, and, while he went to deliver her urgent message, she peered in wistfully from the dreary world without, catching glimpses of home-love and happiness that made her heart ache for very pity of its own loneliness. a wedding was evidently afoot, for hall and staircase blazed with light and bloomed with flowers. smiling men and maids ran to and fro; opening doors showed tables beautiful with bridal white and silver; savory odors filled the air; gay voices echoed above and below; and once she caught a brief glance at the bonny bride, standing with her father's arm about her, while her mother gave some last, loving touch to her array; and a group of young sisters with april faces clustered round her. the pretty picture vanished all too soon; the man returned with a hurried "no" for answer, and christie went out into the deepening twilight with a strange sense of desperation at her heart. it was not the refusal, not the fear of want, nor the reaction of overtaxed nerves alone; it was the sharpness of the contrast between that other woman's fate and her own that made her wring her hands together, and cry out, bitterly: "oh, it isn't fair, it isn't right, that she should have so much and i so little! what have i ever done to be so desolate and miserable, and never to find any happiness, however hard i try to do what seems my duty?" there was no answer, and she went slowly down the long avenue, feeling that there was no cause for hurry now, and even night and rain and wind were better than her lonely room or mrs. flint's complaints. afar off the city lights shone faintly through the fog, like pale lamps seen in dreams; the damp air cooled her feverish cheeks; the road was dark and still, and she longed to lie down and rest among the sodden leaves. when she reached the bridge she saw the draw was up, and a spectral ship was slowly passing through. with no desire to mingle in the crowd that waited on either side, she paused, and, leaning on the railing, let her thoughts wander where they would. as she stood there the heavy air seemed to clog her breath and wrap her in its chilly arms. she felt as if the springs of life were running down, and presently would stop; for, even when the old question, "what shall i do?" came haunting her, she no longer cared even to try to answer it, and had no feeling but one of utter weariness. she tried to shake off the strange mood that was stealing over her, but spent body and spent brain were not strong enough to obey her will, and, in spite of her efforts to control it, the impulse that had seized her grew more intense each moment. "why should i work and suffer any longer for myself alone?" she thought; "why wear out my life struggling for the bread i have no heart to eat? i am not wise enough to find my place, nor patient enough to wait until it comes to me. better give up trying, and leave room for those who have something to live for." many a stronger soul has known a dark hour when the importunate wish has risen that it were possible and right to lay down the burdens that oppress, the perplexities that harass, and hasten the coming of the long sleep that needs no lullaby. such an hour was this to christie, for, as she stood there, that sorrowful bewilderment which we call despair came over her, and ruled her with a power she could not resist. a flight of steps close by led to a lumber wharf, and, scarcely knowing why, she went down there, with a vague desire to sit still somewhere, and think her way out of the mist that seemed to obscure her mind. a single tall lamp shone at the farther end of the platform, and presently she found herself leaning her hot forehead against the iron pillar, while she watched with curious interest the black water rolling sluggishly below. she knew it was no place for her, yet no one waited for her, no one would care if she staid for ever, and, yielding to the perilous fascination that drew her there, she lingered with a heavy throbbing in her temples, and a troop of wild fancies whirling through her brain. something white swept by below,--only a broken oar--but she began to wonder how a human body would look floating through the night. it was an awesome fancy, but it took possession of her, and, as it grew, her eyes dilated, her breath came fast, and her lips fell apart, for she seemed to see the phantom she had conjured up, and it wore the likeness of herself. with an ominous chill creeping through her blood, and a growing tumult in her mind, she thought, "i must go," but still stood motionless, leaning over the wide gulf, eager to see where that dead thing would pass away. so plainly did she see it, so peaceful was the white face, so full of rest the folded hands, so strangely like, and yet unlike, herself, that she seemed to lose her identity, and wondered which was the real and which the imaginary christie. lower and lower she bent; looser and looser grew her hold upon the pillar; faster and faster beat the pulses in her temples, and the rush of some blind impulse was swiftly coming on, when a hand seized and caught her back. for an instant every thing grew black before her eyes, and the earth seemed to slip away from underneath her feet. then she was herself again, and found that she was sitting on a pile of lumber, with her head uncovered, and a woman's arm about her. the rescue. "was i going to drown myself?" she asked, slowly, with a fancy that she had been dreaming frightfully, and some one had wakened her. "you were most gone; but i came in time, thank god! o christie! don't you know me?" ah! no fear of that; for with one bewildered look, one glad cry of recognition, christie found her friend again, and was gathered close to rachel's heart. "my dear, my dear, what drove you to it? tell me all, and let me help you in your trouble, as you helped me in mine," she said, as she tenderly laid the poor, white face upon her breast, and wrapped her shawl about the trembling figure clinging to her with such passionate delight. "i have been ill; i worked too hard; i'm not myself to-night. i owe money. people disappoint and worry me; and i was so worn out, and weak, and wicked, i think i meant to take my life." "no, dear; it was not you that meant to do it, but the weakness and the trouble that bewildered you. forget it all, and rest a little, safe with me; then we'll talk again." rachel spoke soothingly, for christie shivered and sighed as if her own thoughts frightened her. for a moment they sat silent, while the mist trailed its white shroud above them, as if death had paused to beckon a tired child away, but, finding her so gently cradled on a warm, human heart, had relented and passed on, leaving no waif but the broken oar for the river to carry toward the sea. "tell me about yourself, rachel. where have you been so long? i 've looked and waited for you ever since the second little note you sent me on last christinas; but you never came." "i've been away, dear heart, hard at work in another city, larger and wickeder than this. i tried to get work here, that i might be near you; but that cruel cotton always found me out; and i was so afraid i should get desperate that i went away where i was not known. there it came into my mind to do for others more wretched than i what you had done for me. god put the thought into my heart, and he helped me in my work, for it has prospered wonderfully. all this year i have been busy with it, and almost happy; for i felt that your love made me strong to do it, and that, in time, i might grow good enough to be your friend." "see what i am, rachel, and never say that any more!" "hush, my poor dear, and let me talk. you are not able to do any thing, but rest, and listen. i knew how many poor souls went wrong when the devil tempted them; and i gave all my strength to saving those who were going the way i went. i had no fear, no shame to overcome, for i was one of them. they would listen to me, for i knew what i spoke; they could believe in salvation, for i was saved; they did not feel so outcast and forlorn when i told them you had taken me into your innocent arms, and loved me like a sister. with every one i helped my power increased, and i felt as if i had washed away a little of my own great sin. o christie! never think it's time to die till you are called; for the lord leaves us till we have done our work, and never sends more sin and sorrow than we can bear and be the better for, if we hold fast by him." so beautiful and brave she looked, so full of strength and yet of meek submission was her voice, that christie's heart was thrilled; for it was plain that rachel had learned how to distil balm from the bitterness of life, and, groping in the mire to save lost souls, had found her own salvation there. "show me how to grow pious, strong, and useful, as you are," she said. "i am all wrong, and feel as if i never could get right again, for i haven't energy enough to care what becomes of me." "i know the state, christie: i've been through it all! but when i stood where you stand now, there was no hand to pull me back, and i fell into a blacker river than this underneath our feet. thank god, i came in time to save you from either death!" "how did you find me?" asked christie, when she had echoed in her heart the thanksgiving that came with such fervor from the other's lips. "i passed you on the bridge. i did not see your face, but you stood leaning there so wearily, and looking down into the water, as i used to look, that i wanted to speak, but did not; and i went on to comfort a poor girl who is dying yonder. something turned me back, however; and when i saw you down here i knew why i was sent. you were almost gone, but i kept you; and when i had you in my arms i knew you, though it nearly broke my heart to find you here. now, dear, come home. "home! ah, rachel, i've got no home, and for want of one i shall be lost!" the lament that broke from her was more pathetic than the tears that streamed down, hot and heavy, melting from her heart the frost of her despair. her friend let her weep, knowing well the worth of tears, and while christie sobbed herself quiet, rachel took thought for her as tenderly as any mother. when she had heard the story of christie's troubles, she stood up as if inspired with a happy thought, and stretching both hands to her friend, said, with an air of cheerful assurance most comforting to see: "i'll take care of you; come with me, my poor christie, and i'll give you a home, very humble, but honest and happy." "with you, rachel?" "no, dear, i must go back to my work, and you are not fit for that. neither must you go again to your own room, because for you it is haunted, and the worst place you could be in. you want change, and i'll give you one. it will seem queer at first, but it is a wholesome place, and just what you need." "i'll do any thing you tell me. i'm past thinking for myself to-night, and only want to be taken care of till i find strength and courage enough to stand alone," said christie, rising slowly and looking about her with an aspect as helpless and hopeless as if the cloud of mist was a wall of iron. rachel put on her bonnet for her and wrapped her shawl about her, saying, in a tender voice, that warmed the other's heart: "close by lives a dear, good woman who often befriends such as you and i. she will take you in without a question, and love to do it, for she is the most hospitable soul i know. just tell her you want work, that i sent you, and there will be no trouble. then, when you know her a little, confide in her, and you will never come to such a pass as this again. keep up your heart, dear; i'll not leave you till you are safe." so cheerily she spoke, so confident she looked, that the lost expression passed from christie's face, and hand in hand they went away together,--two types of the sad sisterhood standing on either shore of the dark river that is spanned by a bridge of sighs. rachel led her friend toward the city, and, coming to the mechanics' quarter, stopped before the door of a small, old house. "just knock, say 'rachel sent me,' and you'll find yourself at home." "stay with me, or let me go with you. i can't lose you again, for i need you very much," pleaded christie, clinging to her friend. "not so much as that poor girl dying all alone. she's waiting for me, and i must go. but i'll write soon; and remember, christie, i shall feel as if i had only paid a very little of my debt if you go back to the sad old life, and lose your faith and hope again. god bless and keep you, and when we meet next time let me find a happier face than this." rachel kissed it with her heart on her lips, smiled her brave sweet smile, and vanished in the mist. pausing a moment to collect herself, christie recollected that she had not asked the name of the new friend whose help she was about to ask. a little sign on the door caught her eye, and, bending down, she managed to read by the dim light of the street lamp these words: "c. wilkins, clear-starcher. "laces done up in the best style." too tired to care whether a laundress or a lady took her in, she knocked timidly, and, while she waited for an answer to her summons, stood listening to the noises within. a swashing sound as of water was audible, likewise a scuffling as of flying feet; some one clapped hands, and a voice said, warningly, "into your beds this instant minute or i'll come to you! andrew jackson, give gusty a boost; ann lizy, don't you tech wash's feet to tickle 'em. set pretty in the tub, victory, dear, while ma sees who's rappin'." "c. wilkins, clear starcher." then heavy footsteps approached, the door opened wide, and a large woman appeared, with fuzzy red hair, no front teeth, and a plump, clean face, brightly illuminated by the lamp she carried. "if you please, rachel sent me. she thought you might be able"-- christie got no further, for c. wilkins put out a strong bare arm, still damp, and gently drew her in, saying, with the same motherly tone as when addressing her children, "come right in, dear, and don't mind the clutter things is in. i'm givin' the children their sat'day scrubbin', and they will slop and kite 'round, no matter ef i do spank 'em." talking all the way in such an easy, comfortable voice that christie felt as if she must have heard it before, mrs. wilkins led her unexpected guest into a small kitchen, smelling suggestively of soap-suds and warm flat-irons. in the middle of this apartment was a large tub; in the tub a chubby child sat, sucking a sponge and staring calmly at the new-comer with a pair of big blue eyes, while little drops shone in the yellow curls and on the rosy shoulders. "how pretty!" cried christie, seeing nothing else and stopping short to admire this innocent little venus rising from the sea. "so she is! ma's darlin' lamb! and ketehin' her death a cold this blessed minnit. set right down, my dear, and tuck your wet feet into the oven. i'll have a dish o' tea for you in less 'n no time; and while it's drawin' i'll clap victory adelaide into her bed." christie sank into a shabby but most hospitable old chair, dropped her bonnet on the floor, put her feet in the oven, and, leaning back, watched mrs. wilkins wipe the baby as if she had come for that especial purpose. as rachel predicted, she found herself, at home at once, and presently was startled to hear a laugh from her own lips when several children in red and yellow flannel night-gowns darted like meteors across the open doorway of an adjoining room, with whoops and howls, bursts of laughter, and antics of all sorts. how pleasant it was; that plain room, with no ornaments but the happy faces, no elegance, but cleanliness, no wealth, but hospitality and lots of love. this latter blessing gave the place its charm, for, though mrs. wilkins threatened to take her infants' noses off if they got out of bed again, or "put 'em in the kettle and bile 'em" they evidently knew no fear, but gambolled all the nearer to her for the threat; and she beamed upon them with such maternal tenderness and pride that her homely face grew beautiful in christie's eyes. when the baby was bundled up in a blanket and about to be set down before the stove to simmer a trifle before being put to bed, christie held out her arms, saying with an irresistible longing in her eyes and voice: "let me hold her! i love babies dearly, and it seems as if it would do me more good than quarts of tea to cuddle her, if she'll let me." "there now, that's real sensible; and mother's bird'll set along with you as good as a kitten. toast her tootsies wal, for she's croupy, and i have to be extra choice of her." "how good it feels!" sighed christie, half devouring the warm and rosy little bunch in her lap, while baby lay back luxuriously, spreading her pink toes to the pleasant warmth and smiling sleepily up in the hungry face that hung over her. mrs. wilkins's quick eyes saw it all, and she said to herself, in the closet, as she cut bread and rattled down a cup and saucer: "that's what she wants, poor creeter; i'll let her have a right nice time, and warm and feed and chirk her up, and then i'll see what's to be done for her. she ain't one of the common sort, and goodness only knows what rachel sent her here for. she's poor and sick, but she ain't bad. i can tell that by her face, and she's the sort i like to help. it's a mercy i ain't eat my supper, so she can have that bit of meat and the pie." putting a tray on the little table, the good soul set forth all she had to give, and offered it with such hospitable warmth that christie ate and drank with unaccustomed appetite, finishing off deliciously with a kiss from baby before she was borne away by her mother to the back bedroom, where peace soon reigned. "now let me tell you who i am, and how i came to you in such an unceremonious way," began christie, when her hostess returned and found her warmed, refreshed, and composed by a woman's three best comforters,--kind words, a baby, and a cup of tea. "'pears to me, dear, i wouldn't rile myself up by telling any werryments to-night, but git right warm inter bed, and have a good long sleep," said mrs. wilkins, without a ray of curiosity in her wholesome red face. "but you don't know any thing about me, and i may be the worst woman in the world," cried christie, anxious to prove herself worthy of such confidence. "i know that you want takin' care of, child, or rachel wouldn't a sent you. ef i can help any one, i don't want no introduction; and ef you be the wust woman in the world (which you ain't), i wouldn't shet my door on you, for then you'd need a lift more'n you do now." christie could only put out her hand, and mutely thank her new friend with full eyes. "you're fairly tuckered out, you poor soul, so you jest come right up chamber and let me tuck you up, else you'll be down sick. it ain't a mite of inconvenience; the room is kep for company, and it's all ready, even to a clean night-cap. i'm goin' to clap this warm flat to your feet when you're fixed; it's amazin' comfortin' and keeps your head cool." up they went to a tidy little chamber, and christie found herself laid down to rest none too soon, for she was quite worn out. sleep began to steal over her the moment her head touched the pillow, in spite of the much beruffled cap which mrs. wilkins put on with visible pride in its stiffly crimped borders. she was dimly conscious of a kind hand tucking her up, a comfortable voice purring over her, and, best of all, a motherly good-night kiss, then the weary world faded quite away and she was at rest. chapter viii. a cure for despair. lisha wilkins. when christie opened the eyes that had closed so wearily, afternoon sunshine streamed across the room, and seemed the herald of happier days. refreshed by sleep, and comforted by grateful recollections of her kindly welcome, she lay tranquilly enjoying the friendly atmosphere about her, with so strong a feeling that a skilful hand had taken the rudder, that she felt very little anxiety or curiosity about the haven which was to receive her boat after this narrow escape from shipwreck. her eye wandered to and fro, and brightened as it went; for though a poor, plain room it was as neat as hands could make it, and so glorified with sunshine that she thought it a lovely place, in spite of the yellow paper with green cabbage roses on it, the gorgeous plaster statuary on the mantel-piece, and the fragrance of dough-nuts which pervaded the air. every thing suggested home life, humble but happy, and christie's solitary heart warmed at the sights and sounds about her. a half open closet-door gave her glimpses of little frocks and jackets, stubby little shoes, and go-to-meeting hats all in a row. from below came up the sound of childish voices chattering, childish feet trotting to and fro, and childish laughter sounding sweetly through the sabbath stillness of the place. from a room near by, came the soothing creak of a rocking-chair, the rustle of a newspaper, and now and then a scrap of conversation common-place enough, but pleasant to hear, because so full of domestic love and confidence; and, as she listened, christie pictured mrs. wilkins and her husband taking their rest together after the week's hard work was done. "i wish i could stay here; it's so comfortable and home-like. i wonder if they wouldn't let me have this room, and help me to find some better work than sewing? i'll get up and ask them," thought christie, feeling an irresistible desire to stay, and strong repugnance to returning to the room she had left, for, as rachel truly said, it was haunted for her. when she opened the door to go down, mrs. wilkins bounced out of her rocking-chair and hurried to meet her with a smiling face, saying all in one breath: "good mornin', dear! rested well, i hope? i'm proper glad to hear it. now come right down and have your dinner. i kep it hot, for i couldn't bear to wake you up, you was sleepin' so beautiful." "i was so worn out i slept like a baby, and feel like a new creature. it was so kind of you to take me in, and i'm so grateful i don't know how to show it," said christie, warmly, as her hostess ponderously descended the complaining stairs and ushered her into the tidy kitchen from which tubs and flat-irons were banished one day in the week. "lawful sakes, the' ain't nothing to be grateful for, child, and you're heartily welcome to the little i done. we are country folks in our ways, though we be livin' in the city, and we have a reg'lar country dinner sundays. hope you'll relish it; my vittles is clean ef they ain't rich." as she spoke, mrs. wilkins dished up baked beans, indian-pudding, and brown bread enough for half a dozen. christie was hungry now, and ate with an appetite that delighted the good lady who vibrated between her guest and her children, shut up in the "settin'-room." "now please let me tell you all about myself, for i am afraid you think me something better than i am. if i ask help from you, it is right that you should know whom you are helping," said christie, when the table was cleared and her hostess came and sat down beside her. "yes, my dear, free your mind, and then we'll fix things up right smart. nothin' i like better, and lisha says i have considerable of a knack that way," replied mrs. wilkins, with a smile, a nod, and an air of interest most reassuring. so christie told her story, won to entire confidence by the sympathetic face opposite, and the motherly pats so gently given by the big, rough hand that often met her own. when all was told, christie said very earnestly: "i am ready to go to work to-morrow, and will do any thing i can find, but i should love to stay here a little while, if i could; i do so dread to be alone. is it possible? i mean to pay my board of course, and help you besides if you'll let me." mrs. wilkins glowed with pleasure at this compliment, and leaning toward christie, looked into her face a moment in silence, as if to test the sincerity of the wish. in that moment christie saw what steady, sagacious eyes the woman had; so clear, so honest that she looked through them into the great, warm heart below, and looking forgot the fuzzy, red hair, the paucity of teeth, the faded gown, and felt only the attraction of a nature genuine and genial as the sunshine dancing on the kitchen floor. beautiful souls often get put into plain bodies, but they cannot be hidden, and have a power all their own, the greater for the unconsciousness or the humility which gives it grace. christie saw and felt this then, and when the homely woman spoke, listened to her with implicit confidence. "my dear, i'd no more send you away now than i would my adelaide, for you need looking after for a spell, most as much as she doos. you've been thinkin' and broodin' too much, and sewin' yourself to death. we'll stop all that, and keep you so busy there won't be no time for the hypo. you're one of them that can't live alone without starvin' somehow, so i'm jest goin' to turn you in among them children to paster, so to speak. that's wholesome and fillin' for you, and goodness knows it will be a puffect charity to me, for i'm goin' to be dreadful drove with gettin' up curtins and all manner of things, as spring comes on. so it ain't no favor on my part, and you can take out your board in tendin' baby and putterin' over them little tykes." "i should like it so much! but i forgot my debt to mrs. flint; perhaps she won't let me go," said christie, with an anxious cloud coming over her brightening face. "merciful, suz! don't you be worried about her. i'll see to her, and ef she acts ugly lisha 'll fetch her round; men can always settle such things better'n we can, and he's a dreadful smart man lisha is. we'll go to-morrer and get your belongins, and then settle right down for a spell; and by-an'-by when you git a trifle more chipper we'll find a nice place in the country some'rs. that's what you want; nothin' like green grass and woodsy smells to right folks up. when i was a gal, ef i got low in my mind, or riled in my temper, i jest went out and grubbed in the gardin, or made hay, or walked a good piece, and it fetched me round beautiful. never failed; so i come to see that good fresh dirt is fust rate physic for folk's spirits as it is for wounds, as they tell on." "that sounds sensible and pleasant, and i like it. oh, it is so beautiful to feel that somebody cares for you a little bit, and you ain't one too many in the world," sighed christie. "don't you never feel that agin, my dear. what's the lord for ef he ain't to hold on to in times of trouble. faith ain't wuth much ef it's only lively in fair weather; you've got to believe hearty and stan' by the lord through thick and thin, and he'll stan' by you as no one else begins to. i remember of havin' this bore in upon me by somethin' that happened to a man i knew. he got blowed up in a powder-mill, and when folks asked him what he thought when the bust come, he said, real sober and impressive: 'wal, it come through me, like a flash, that i'd served the lord as faithful as i knew how for a number a years, and i guessed he'd fetch me through somehow, and he did.' sure enough the man warn't killed; i'm bound to confess he was shook dreadful, but his faith warn't." christie could not help smiling at the story, but she liked it, and sincerely wished she could imitate the hero of it in his piety, not his powder. she was about to say so when the sound of approaching steps announced the advent of her host. she had been rather impressed with the "smartness" of lisha by his wife's praises, but when a small, sallow, sickly looking man came in she changed her mind; for not even an immensely stiff collar, nor a pair of boots that seemed composed entirely of what the boys call "creak leather," could inspire her with confidence. without a particle of expression in his yellow face, mr. wilkins nodded to the stranger over the picket fence of his collar, lighted his pipe, and clumped away to enjoy his afternoon promenade without compromising himself by a single word. his wife looked after him with an admiring gaze as she said: "them boots is as good as an advertisement, for he made every stitch on 'em himself;" then she added, laughing like a girl: "it's redick'lus my bein' so proud of lisha, but ef a woman ain't a right to think wal of her own husband, i should like to know who has!" christie was afraid that mrs. wilkins had seen her disappointment in her face, and tried, with wifely zeal, to defend her lord from even a disparaging thought. wishing to atone for this transgression she was about to sing the praises of the wooden-faced elisha, but was spared any polite fibs by the appearance of a small girl who delivered an urgent message to the effect, that "mis plumly was down sick and wanted mis wilkins to run over and set a spell." as the good lady hesitated with an involuntary glance at her guest, christie said quickly: "don't mind me; i'll take care of the house for you if you want to go. you may be sure i won't run off with the children or steal the spoons." "i ain't a mite afraid of anybody wantin' to steal them little toads; and as for spoons, i ain't got a silver one to bless myself with," laughed mrs. wilkins. "i guess i will go, then, ef you don't mind, as it's only acrost the street. like's not settin' quiet will be better for you 'n talkin', for i'm a dreadful hand to gab when i git started. tell mis plumly i'm a comin'." then, as the child ran off, the stout lady began to rummage in her closet, saying, as she rattled and slammed: "i'll jest take her a drawin' of tea and a couple of nut-cakes: mebby she'll relish 'em, for i shouldn't wonder ef she hadn't had a mouthful this blessed day. she's dreadful slack at the best of times, but no one can much wonder, seein' she's got nine children, and is jest up from a rheumatic fever. i'm sure i never grudge a meal of vittles or a hand's turn to such as she is, though she does beat all for dependin' on her neighbors. i'm a thousand times obleeged. you needn't werry about the children, only don't let 'em git lost, or burnt, or pitch out a winder; and when it's done give 'em the patty-cake that's bakin' for 'em." with which maternal orders mrs. wilkins assumed a sky-blue bonnet, and went beaming away with several dishes genteelly hidden under her purple shawl. being irresistibly attracted toward the children christie opened the door and took a survey of her responsibilities. six lively infants were congregated in the "settin'-room," and chaos seemed to have come again, for every sort of destructive amusement was in full operation. george washington, the eldest blossom, was shearing a resigned kitten; gusty and ann eliza were concocting mud pies in the ashes; adelaide victoria was studying the structure of lamp-wicks, while daniel webster and andrew jackson were dragging one another in a clothes-basket, to the great detriment of the old carpet and still older chariot. thinking that some employment more suited to the day might be introduced, christie soon made friends with these young persons, and, having rescued the kitten, banished the basket, lured the elder girls from their mud-piety, and quenched the curiosity of the pickwickian adelaide, she proposed teaching them some little hymns. the idea was graciously received, and the class decorously seated in a row. but before a single verse was given out, gusty, being of a house-wifely turn of mind, suggested that the patty-cake might burn. instant alarm pervaded the party, and a precipitate rush was made for the cooking-stove, where christie proved by ocular demonstration that the cake showed no signs of baking, much less of burning. the family pronounced themselves satisfied, after each member had poked a grimy little finger into the doughy delicacy, whereon one large raisin reposed in proud pre-eminence over the vulgar herd of caraways. order being with difficulty restored, christie taught her flock an appropriate hymn, and was flattering herself that their youthful minds were receiving a devotional bent, when they volunteered a song, and incited thereunto by the irreverent wash, burst forth with a gem from mother goose, closing with a smart skirmish of arms and legs that set all law and order at defiance. hoping to quell the insurrection christie invited the breathless rioters to calm themselves by looking at the pictures in the big bible. but, unfortunately, her explanations were so vivid that her audience were fired with a desire to enact some of the scenes portrayed, and no persuasions could keep them from playing ark on the spot. the clothes-basket was elevated upon two chairs, and into it marched the birds of the air and the beasts of the field, to judge by the noise, and all set sail, with washington at the helm, jackson and webster plying the clothes and pudding-sticks for oars, while the young ladies rescued their dolls from the flood, and waved their hands to imaginary friends who were not unmindful of the courtesies of life even in the act of drowning. mrs. wilkins' six lively infants. finding her authority defied christie left the rebels to their own devices, and sitting in a corner, began to think about her own affairs. but before she had time to get anxious or perplexed the children diverted her mind, as if the little flibberty-gibbets knew that their pranks and perils were far wholesomer for her just then than brooding. the much-enduring kitten being sent forth as a dove upon the waters failed to return with the olive-branch; of which peaceful emblem there was soon great need, for mutiny broke out, and spread with disastrous rapidity. ann eliza slapped gusty because she had the biggest bandbox; andrew threatened to "chuck" daniel overboard if he continued to trample on the fraternal toes, and in the midst of the fray, by some unguarded motion, washington capsized the ship and precipitated the patriarchal family into the bosom of the deep. christie flew to the rescue, and, hydropathically treated, the anguish of bumps and bruises was soon assuaged. then appeared the appropriate moment for a story, and gathering the dilapidated party about her she soon enraptured them by a recital of the immortal history of "frank and the little dog trusty." charmed with her success she was about to tell another moral tale, but no sooner had she announced the name, "the three cakes," when, like an electric flash a sudden recollection seized the young wilkinses, and with one voice they demanded their lawful prize, sure that now it must be done. christie had forgotten all about it, and was harassed with secret misgivings as she headed the investigating committee. with skipping of feet and clapping of hands the eager tribe surrounded the stove, and with fear and trembling christie drew forth a melancholy cinder, where, like casablanca, the lofty raisin still remained, blackened, but undaunted, at its post. then were six little vials of wrath poured out upon her devoted head, and sounds of lamentation filled the air, for the irate wilkinses refused to be comforted till the rash vow to present each member of the outraged family with a private cake produced a lull, during which the younger ones were decoyed into the back yard, and the three elders solaced themselves with mischief. mounted on mettlesome broomsticks andrew and daniel were riding merrily away to the banbury cross, of blessed memory, and little vie was erecting a pagoda of oyster-shells, under christie's superintendence, when a shrill scream from within sent horsemen and architects flying to the rescue. gusty's pinafore was in a blaze; ann eliza was dancing frantically about her sister as if bent on making a suttee of herself, while george washington hung out of window, roaring, "fire!" "water!" "engine!" "pa!" with a presence of mind worthy of his sex. a speedy application of the hearth-rug quenched the conflagration, and when a minute burn had been enveloped in cotton-wool, like a gem, a coroner sat upon the pinafore and investigated the case. it appeared that the ladies were "only playing paper dolls," when wash, sighing for the enlightenment of his race, proposed to make a bonfire, and did so with an old book; but gusty, with a firm belief in future punishment, tried to save it, and fell a victim to her principles, as the virtuous are very apt to do. the book was brought into court, and proved to be an ancient volume of ballads, cut, torn, and half consumed. several peculiarly developed paper dolls, branded here and there with large letters, like galley-slaves, were then produced by the accused, and the judge could with difficulty preserve her gravity when she found "john gilpin" converted into a painted petticoat, "the bay of biscay, o," situated in the crown of a hat, and "chevy chase" issuing from the mouth of a triangular gentleman, who, like dickens's cherub, probably sung it by ear, having no lungs to speak of. it was further apparent from the agricultural appearance of the room that beans had been sowed broadcast by means of the apple-corer, which wash had converted into a pop-gun with a mechanical ingenuity worthy of more general appreciation. he felt this deeply, and when christie reproved him for leading his sisters astray, he resented the liberty she took, and retired in high dudgeon to the cellar, where he appeared to set up a menagerie,--for bears, lions, and unknown animals, endowed with great vocal powers, were heard to solicit patronage from below. somewhat exhausted by her labors, christie rested, after clearing up the room, while the children found a solace for all afflictions in the consumption of relays of bread and molasses, which infantile restorative occurred like an inspiration to the mind of their guardian. peace reigned for fifteen minutes; then came a loud crash from the cellar, followed by a violent splashing, and wild cries of, "oh, oh, oh, i've fell into the pork barrel! i'm drownin', i'm drownin'!" down rushed christie, and the sticky innocents ran screaming after, to behold their pickled brother fished up from the briny deep. a spectacle well calculated to impress upon their infant minds the awful consequences of straying from the paths of virtue. at this crisis mrs. wilkins providentially appeared, breathless, but brisk and beaming, and in no wise dismayed by the plight of her luckless son, for a ten years' acquaintance with wash's dauntless nature had inured his mother to "didoes" that would have appalled most women. "go right up chamber, and change every rag on you, and don't come down agin till i rap on the ceilin'; you dreadful boy, disgracin' your family by sech actions. i'm sorry i was kep' so long, but mis plumly got tellin' her werryments, and 'peared to take so much comfort in it i couldn't bear to stop her. then i jest run round to your place and told that woman that you was safe and well, along'r friends, and would call in to-morrer to get your things. she 'd ben so scart by your not comin' home that she was as mild as milk, so you won't have no trouble with her, i expect." "thank you very much! how kind you are, and how tired you must be! sit down and let me take your things," cried christie, more relieved than she could express. "lor', no, i'm fond of walkin', but bein' ruther hefty it takes my breath away some to hurry. i'm afraid these children have tuckered you out though. they are proper good gen'lly, but when they do take to trainen they're a sight of care," said mrs. wilkins, as she surveyed her imposing bonnet with calm satisfaction. "i've enjoyed it very much, and it's done me good, for i haven't laughed so much for six months as i have this afternoon," answered christie, and it was quite true, for she had been too busy to think of herself or her woes. "wal, i thought likely it would chirk you up some, or i shouldn't have went," and mrs. wilkins put away a contented smile with her cherished bonnet, for christie's face had grown so much brighter since she saw it last, that the good woman felt sure her treatment was the right one. at supper lisha reappeared, and while his wife and children talked incessantly, he ate four slices of bread and butter, three pieces of pie, five dough-nuts, and drank a small ocean of tea out of his saucer. then, evidently feeling that he had done his duty like a man, he gave christie another nod, and disappeared again without a word. when she had done up her dishes mrs. wilkins brought out a few books and papers, and said to christie, who sat apart by the window, with the old shadow creeping over her face: "now don't feel lonesome, my dear, but jest lop right down on the sotff and have a sociable kind of a time. lisha's gone down street for the evenin'. i'll keep the children as quiet as one woman can, and you may read or rest, or talk, jest as you're a mind." "thank you; i'll sit here and rock little vie to sleep for you. i don't care to read, but i'd like to have you talk to me, for it seems as if i'd known you a long time and it does me good," said christie, as she settled herself and baby on the old settee which had served as a cradle for six young wilkinses, and now received the honorable name of sofa in its old age. mrs. wilkins looked gratified, as she settled her brood round the table with a pile of pictorial papers to amuse them. then having laid herself out to be agreeable, she sat thoughtfully rubbing the bridge of her nose, at a loss how to begin. presently christie helped her by an involuntary sigh. "what's the matter, dear? is there any thing i can do to make you comfortable?" asked the kind soul, alert at once, and ready to offer sympathy. "i'm very cosy, thank you, and i don't know why i sighed. it's a way i've got into when i think of my worries," explained christie, in haste. "wal, dear, i wouldn't ef i was you. don't keep turnin' your troubles over. git atop of 'em somehow, and stay there ef you can," said mrs. wilkins, very earnestly. "but that's just what i can't do. i've lost all my spirits and courage, and got into a dismal state of mind. you seem to be very cheerful, and yet you must have a good deal to try you sometimes. i wish you'd tell me how you do it;" and christie looked wistfully into that other face, so plain, yet so placid, wondering to see how little poverty, hard work, and many cares had soured or saddened it. "really i don't know, unless it's jest doin' whatever comes along, and doin' of it hearty, sure that things is all right, though very often i don't see it at fust." "do you see it at last?" "gen'lly i do; and if i don't i take it on trust, same as children do what older folks tell 'em; and byme-by when i'm grown up in spiritual things i'll understan' as the dears do, when they git to be men and women." that suited christie, and she thought hopefully within herself: "this woman has got the sort of religion i want, if it makes her what she is. some day i'll get her to tell me where she found it." then aloud she said: "but it's so hard to be patient and contented when nothing happens as you want it to, and you don't get your share of happiness, no matter how much you try to deserve it." "it ain't easy to bear, i know, but having tried my own way and made a dreadful mess on 't, i concluded that the lord knows what's best for us, and things go better when he manages than when we go scratchin' round and can't wait." "tried your own way? how do you mean?" asked christie, curiously; for she liked to hear her hostess talk, and found something besides amusement in the conversation, which seemed to possess a fresh country flavor as well as country phrases. mrs. wilkins smiled all over her plump face, as if she liked to tell her experience, and having hunched sleepy little andy more comfortably into her lap, and given a preparatory hem or two, she began with great good-will. "it happened a number a years ago and ain't much of a story any way. but you're welcome to it, as some of it is rather humorsome, the laugh may do you good ef the story don't. we was livin' down to the east'ard at the time. it was a real pretty place; the house stood under a couple of maples and a gret brook come foamin' down the rayvine and away through the medders to the river. dear sakes, seems as ef i see it now, jest as i used to settin' on the doorsteps with the lay-locks all in blow, the squirrels jabberin' on the wall, and the saw-mill screekin' way off by the dam." pausing a moment, mrs. wilkins looked musingly at the steam of the tea-kettle, as if through its silvery haze she saw her early home again. wash promptly roused her from this reverie by tumbling off the boiler with a crash. his mother picked him up and placidly went on, falling more and more into the country dialect which city life had not yet polished. "i oushter hev been the contentedest woman alive, but i warn't, for you see i'd worked at millineryin' before i was married, and had an easy time on't, afterwards the children come along pretty fast, there was sights of work to do, and no time for pleasuring so i got wore out, and used to hanker after old times in a dreadful wicked way. "finally i got acquainted with a mis bascum, and she done me a sight of harm. you see, havin' few pies of her own to bake, she was fond of puttin' her fingers into her neighborses, but she done it so neat that no one mistrusted she was takin' all the sarce and leavin' all the crust to them, as you may say. wal, i told her my werryments and she sympathized real hearty, and said i didn't ought to stan' it, but have things to suit me, and enjoy myself, as other folks did. so when she put it into my head i thought it amazin' good advice, and jest went and done as she told me. "lisha was the kindest man you ever see, so when i up and said i warn't goin' to drudge round no more, but must hev a girl, he got one, and goodness knows what a trial she was. after she came i got dreadful slack, and left the house and the children to hen'retta, and went pleasurin' frequent all in my best. i always was a dressy woman in them days, and lisha give me his earnin's real lavish, bless his heart! and i went and spent 'em on my sinful gowns and bunnets." here mrs. wilkins stopped to give a remorseful groan and stroke her faded dress, as if she found great comfort in its dinginess. "it ain't no use tellin' all i done, but i had full swing, and at fust i thought luck was in my dish sure. but it warn't, seein' i didn't deserve it, and i had to take my mess of trouble, which was needful and nourishin,' ef i'd had the grace to see it so. "lisha got into debt, and no wonder, with me a wastin' of his substance; hen'retta went off suddin', with whatever she could lay her hands on, and everything was at sixes and sevens. lisha's patience give out at last, for i was dreadful fractious, knowin' it was all my fault. the children seemed to git out of sorts, too, and acted like time in the primer, with croup and pins, and whoopin'-cough and temper. i declare i used to think the pots and kettles biled over to spite each other and me too in them days. "all this was nuts to mis bascum, and she kep' advisin' and encouragin' of me, and i didn't see through her a mite, or guess that settin' folks by the ears was as relishin' to her as bitters is to some. merciful, suz! what a piece a work we did make betwixt us! i scolded and moped 'cause i couldn't have my way; lisha swore and threatened to take to drinkin' ef i didn't make home more comfortable; the children run wild, and the house was gittin' too hot to hold us, when we was brought up with a round turn, and i see the redicklousness of my doin's in time. "one day lisha come home tired and cross, for bills was pressin', work slack, and folks talkin' about us as ef they 'd nothin' else to do. i was dishin' up dinner, feelin' as nervous as a witch, for a whole batch of bread had burnt to a cinder while i was trimmin' a new bunnet, wash had scart me most to death swallerin' a cent, and the steak had been on the floor more'n once, owin' to my havin' babies, dogs, cats, or hens under my feet the whole blessed time. "lisha looked as black as thunder, throwed his hat into a corner, and came along to the sink where i was skinnin' pertaters. as he washed his hands, i asked what the matter was; but he only muttered and slopped, and i couldn't git nothin' out of him, for he ain't talkative at the best of times as you see, and when he's werried corkscrews wouldn't draw a word from him. "bein' riled myself didn't mend matters, and so we fell to hectorin' one another right smart. he said somethin' that dreened my last drop of patience; i give a sharp answer, and fust thing i knew he up with his hand and slapped me. it warn't a hard blow by no means, only a kind of a wet spat side of the head; but i thought i should have flew, and was as mad as ef i'd been knocked down. you never see a man look so 'shamed as lisha did, and ef i'd been wise i should have made up the quarrel then. but i was a fool. i jest flung fork, dish, pertaters and all into the pot, and says, as ferce as you please: "'lisha wilkins, when you can treat me decent you may come and fetch me back; you won't see me till then, and so i tell you.' "then i made a bee-line for mis bascum's; told her the whole story, had a good cry, and was all ready to go home in half an hour, but lisha didn't come. "wal, that night passed, and what a long one it was to be sure! and me without a wink of sleep, thinkin' of wash and the cent, my emptins and the baby. next day come, but no lisha, no message, no nuthin', and i began to think i'd got my match though i had a sight of grit in them days. i sewed, and mis bascum she clacked; but i didn't say much, and jest worked like sixty to pay for my keep, for i warn't goin' to be beholden to her for nothin'. "the day dragged on terrible slow, and at last i begged her to go and git me a clean dress, for i'd come off jest as i was, and folks kep' droppin' in, for the story was all round, thanks to mis bascum's long tongue. "wal, she went, and ef you'll believe me lisha wouldn't let her in! he handed my best things out a winder and told her to tell me they were gittin' along fust rate with florindy walch to do the work. he hoped i'd have a good time, and not expect him for a consider'ble spell, for he liked a quiet house, and now he'd got it. "when i heard that, i knew he must be provoked the wust kind, for he ain't a hash man by nater. i could have crep' in at the winder ef he wouldn't open the door, i was so took down by that message. but mis bascum wouldn't hear of it, and kep' stirrin' of me up till i was ashamed to eat 'umble pie fust; so i waited to see how soon he'd come round. but he had the best on't you see, for he'd got the babies and lost a cross wife, while i'd lost every thing but mis bascum, who grew hatefuler to me every hour, for i begun to mistrust she was a mischief-maker,--widders most always is,--seein' how she pampered up my pride and 'peared to like the quarrel. "i thought i should have died more'n once, for sure as you live it went on three mortal days, and of all miser'ble creeters i was the miser'blest. then i see how wicked and ungrateful i'd been; how i'd shirked my bounden duty and scorned my best blessins. there warn't a hard job that ever i'd hated but what grew easy when i remembered who it was done for; there warn't a trouble or a care that i wouldn't have welcomed hearty, nor one hour of them dear fractious babies that didn't seem precious when i'd gone and left 'em. i'd got time to rest enough now, and might go pleasuring all day long; but i couldn't do it, and would have given a dozin bunnets trimmed to kill ef i could only have been back moilin' in my old kitchen with the children hangin' round me and lisha a comin' in cheerful from his work as he used to 'fore i spoilt his home for him. how sing'lar it is folks never do know when they are wal off!" "i know it now," said christie, rocking lazily to and fro, with a face almost as tranquil as little vic's, lying half asleep in her lap. "glad to hear it, my dear. as i was goin' on to say, when saturday come, a tremenjus storm set in, and it rained guns all day. i never shall forgit it, for i was hankerin' after baby, and dreadful worried about the others, all bein' croupy, and florindy with no more idee of nussin' than a baa lamb. the rain come down like a reg'lar deluge, but i didn't seem to have no ark to run to. as night come on things got wuss and wuss, for the wind blowed the roof off mis bascum's barn and stove in the butt'ry window; the brook riz and went ragin' every which way, and you never did see such a piece of work. "my heart was most broke by that time, and i knew i should give in 'fore monday. but i set and sewed and listened to the tinkle tankle of the drops in the pans set round to ketch 'em, for the house leaked like a sieve. mis bascurn was down suller putterin' about, for every kag and sarce jar was afloat. moses, her brother, was lookin' after his stock and tryin' to stop the damage. all of a sudden he bust in lookin' kinder wild, and settin' down the lantern, he sez, sez he: 'you're ruthern an unfortinate woman to-night, mis wilkins.' 'how so?' sez i, as ef nuthin' was the matter already. "'why,' sez he, 'the spilins have give way up in the rayvine, and the brook 's come down like a river, upsot your lean-to, washed the mellion patch slap into the road, and while your husband was tryin' to git the pig out of the pen, the water took a turn and swep him away.' "'drownded?' sez i, with only breath enough for that one word. 'shouldn't wonder,' sez moses, 'nothin' ever did come up alive after goin' over them falls.' "it come over me like a streak of lightenin'; every thin' kinder slewed round, and i dropped in the first faint i ever had in my life. next i knew lisha was holdin' of me and cryin' fit to kill himself. i thought i was dreamin', and only had wits enough to give a sort of permiscuous grab at him and call out: "'oh, lisha! ain't you drownded?' he give a gret start at that, swallered down his sobbin', and sez as lovin' as ever a man did in this world: "'bless your dear heart, cynthy, it warn't me it was the pig;' and then fell to kissin' of me, till betwixt laughin' and cryin' i was most choked. deary me, it all comes back so livin' real it kinder takes my breath away." and well it might, for the good soul entered so heartily into her story that she unconsciously embellished it with dramatic illustrations. at the slapping episode she flung an invisible "fork, dish, and pertaters" into an imaginary kettle, and glared; when the catastrophe arrived, she fell back upon her chair to express fainting; gave christie's arm the "permiscuous grab" at the proper moment, and uttered the repentant lisha's explanation with an incoherent pathos that forbid a laugh at the sudden introduction of the porcine martyr. "what did you do then?" asked christie in a most flattering state of interest. "oh, law! i went right home and hugged them children for a couple of hours stiddy," answered mrs; wilkins, as if but one conclusion was possible. "did all your troubles go down with the pig?" asked christie, presently. "massy, no, we're all poor, feeble worms, and the best meanin' of us fails too often," sighed mrs. wilkins, as she tenderly adjusted the sleepy head of the young worm in her lap. "after that scrape i done my best; lisha was as meek as a whole flock of sheep, and we give mis bascum a wide berth. things went lovely for ever so long, and though, after a spell, we had our ups and downs, as is but natural to human creeters, we never come to such a pass agin. both on us tried real hard; whenever i felt my temper risin' or discontent comin' on i remembered them days and kep' a taut rein; and as for lisha he never said a raspin' word, or got sulky, but what he'd bust out laughin' after it and say: 'bless you, cynthy, it warn't me, it was the pig.'" mrs. wilkins' hearty laugh fired a long train of lesser ones, for the children recognized a household word. christie enjoyed the joke, and even the tea-kettle boiled over as if carried away by the fun. "tell some more, please," said christie, when the merriment subsided, for she felt her spirits rising. "there's nothin' more to tell, except one thing that prevented my ever forgittin' the lesson i got then. my little almiry took cold that week and pined away rapid. she'd always been so ailin' i never expected to raise her, and more 'n once in them sinful tempers of mine i'd thought it would be a mercy ef she was took out of her pain. but when i laid away that patient, sufferin' little creeter i found she was the dearest of 'em all. i most broke my heart to hev her back, and never, never forgive myself for leavin' her that time." with trembling lips and full eyes mrs. wilkins stopped to wipe her features generally on andrew jackson's pinafore, and heave a remorseful sigh. "and this is how you came to be the cheerful, contented woman you are?" said christie, hoping to divert the mother's mind from that too tender memory. "yes," she answered, thoughtfully, "i told you lisha was a smart man; he give me a good lesson, and it set me to thinkin' serious. 'pears to me trouble is a kind of mellerin' process, and ef you take it kindly it doos you good, and you learn to be glad of it. i'm sure lisha and me is twice as fond of one another, twice as willin' to work, and twice as patient with our trials sense dear little almiry died, and times was hard. i ain't what i ought to be, not by a long chalk, but i try to live up to my light, do my duty cheerful, love my neighbors, and fetch up my family in the fear of god. ef i do this the best way i know how, i'm sure i'll get my rest some day, and the good lord won't forgit cynthy wilkins. he ain't so fur, for i keep my health wonderfle, lisha is kind and stiddy, the children flourishin', and i'm a happy woman though i be a humly one." there she was mistaken, for as her eye roved round the narrow room from the old hat on the wall to the curly heads bobbing here and there, contentment, piety, and mother-love made her plain face beautiful. "that story has done me ever so much good, and i shall not forget it. now, good-night, for i must be up early to-morrow, and i don't want to drive mr. wilkins away entirely," said christie, after she had helped put the little folk to bed, during which process she had heard her host creaking about the kitchen as if afraid to enter the sitting-room. she laughed as she spoke, and ran up stairs, wondering if she could be the same forlorn creature who had crept so wearily up only the night before. it was a very humble little sermon that mrs. wilkins had preached to her, but she took it to heart and profited by it; for she was a pupil in the great charity school where the best teachers are often unknown, unhonored here, but who surely will receive commendation and reward from the head master when their long vacation comes. chapter ix. mrs. wilkins's minister. mr. power. next day christie braved the lion in his den, otherwise the flinty flint, in her second-class boarding-house, and found that alarm and remorse had produced a softening effect upon her. she was unfeignedly glad to see her lost lodger safe, and finding that the new friends were likely to put her in the way of paying her debts, this much harassed matron permitted her to pack up her possessions, leaving one trunk as a sort of hostage. then, with promises to redeem it as soon as possible, christie said good-bye to the little room where she had hoped and suffered, lived and labored so long, and went joyfully back to the humble home she had found with the good laundress. all the following week christie "chored round," as mrs. wilkins called the miscellaneous light work she let her do. much washing, combing, and clean pinaforing of children fell to her share, and she enjoyed it amazingly; then, when the elder ones were packed off to school she lent a hand to any of the numberless tasks housewives find to do from morning till night. in the afternoon, when other work was done, and little vic asleep or happy with her playthings, christie clapped laces, sprinkled muslins, and picked out edgings at the great table where mrs. wilkins stood ironing, fluting, and crimping till the kitchen bristled all over with immaculate frills and flounces. it was pretty delicate work, and christie liked it, for mrs. wilkins was an adept at her trade and took as much pride and pleasure in it as any french blanchisseuse tripping through the streets of paris with a tree full of coquettish caps, capes, and petticoats borne before her by a half invisible boy. being women, of course they talked as industriously as they worked; fingers flew and tongues clacked with equal profit and pleasure, and, by saturday, christie had made up her mind that mrs. wilkins was the most sensible woman she ever knew. her grammar was an outrage upon the memory of lindley murray, but the goodness of her heart would have done honor to any saint in the calendar. she was very plain, and her manners were by no means elegant, but good temper made that homely face most lovable, and natural refinement of soul made mere external polish of small account. her shrewd ideas and odd sayings amused christie very much, while her good sense and bright way of looking at things did the younger woman a world of good. mr. wilkins devoted himself to the making of shoes and the consumption of food, with the silent regularity of a placid animal. his one dissipation was tobacco, and in a fragrant cloud of smoke he lived and moved and had his being so entirely that he might have been described as a pipe with a man somewhere behind it. christie once laughingly spoke of this habit and declared she would try it herself if she thought it would make her as quiet and undemonstrative as mr. wilkins, who, to tell the truth, made no more impression on her than a fly. "i don't approve on't, but he might do wuss. we all have to have our comfort somehow, so i let lisha smoke as much as he likes, and he lets me gab, so it's about fair, i reckon," answered mrs. wilkins, from the suds. she laughed as she spoke, but something in her face made christie suspect that at some period of his life lisha had done "wuss;" and subsequent observations confirmed this suspicion and another one also,--that his good wife had saved him, and was gently easing him back to self-control and self-respect. but, as old fuller quaintly says, "she so gently folded up his faults in silence that few guessed them," and loyally paid him that respect which she desired others to bestow. it was always "lisha and me," "i'll ask my husband" or "lisha 'll know; he don't say much, but he's a dreadful smart man," and she kept up the fiction so dear to her wifely soul by endowing him with her own virtues, and giving him the credit of her own intelligence. christie loved her all the better for this devotion, and for her sake treated mr. wilkins as if he possessed the strength of samson and the wisdom of solomon. he received her respect as if it was his due, and now and then graciously accorded her a few words beyond the usual scanty allowance of morning and evening greetings. at his shop all day, she only saw him at meals and sometimes of an evening, for mrs. wilkins tried to keep him at home safe from temptation, and christie helped her by reading, talking, and frolicking with the children, so that he might find home attractive. he loved his babies and would even relinquish his precious pipe for a time to ride the little chaps on his foot, or amuse vic with shadow rabbit's on the wall. at such times the entire content in mrs. wilkins's face made tobacco fumes endurable, and the burden of a dull man's presence less oppressive to christie, who loved to pay her debts in something besides money. as they sat together finishing off some delicate laces that saturday afternoon, mrs. wilkins said, "ef it's fair to-morrow i want you to go to my meetin' and hear my minister. it'll do you good." "who is he?" "mr. power." christie looked rather startled, for she had heard of thomas power as a rampant radical and infidel of the deepest dye, and been warned never to visit that den of iniquity called his free church. "why, mrs. wilkins, you don't mean it!" she said, leaving her lace to dry at the most critical stage. "yee, i do!" answered mrs. wilkins, setting down her flat-iron with emphasis, and evidently preparing to fight valiantly for her minister, as most women will. "i beg your pardon; i was a little surprised, for i'd heard all sorts of things about him," christie hastened to say. "did you ever hear him, or read any of his writins?" demanded mrs. wilkins, with a calmer air. "never." "then don't judge. you go hear and see that blessed man, and ef you don't say he's the shadder of a great rock in a desert land, i'll give up," cried the good woman, waxing poetical in her warmth. "i will to please you, if nothing else. i did go once just because i was told not to; but he did not preach that day and every thing was so peculiar, i didn't know whether to like it or be shocked." "it is kind of sing'lar at fust, i'm free to confess, and not as churchy as some folks like. but there ain't no place but that big enough to hold the crowds that want to go, for the more he's abused the more folks flock to see him. they git their money's wuth i do believe, for though there ain't no pulpits and pews, there's a sight of brotherly love round in them seats, and pious practice, as well as powerful preaching, in that shabby desk. he don't need no commandments painted up behind him to read on sunday, for he keeps 'em in his heart and life all the week as honest as man can." there mrs. wilkins paused, flushed and breathless with her defence, and christie said, candidly: "i did like the freedom and good-will there, for people sat where they liked, and no one frowned over shut pew-doors, at me a stranger. an old black woman sat next me, and said 'amen' when she liked what she heard, and a very shabby young man was on the other, listening as if his soul was as hungry as his body. people read books, laughed and cried, clapped when pleased, and hissed when angry; that i did not like." "no more does mr. power; he don't mind the cryin' and the smilin' as it's nat'ral, but noise and disrespect of no kind ain't pleasin' to him. his own folks behave becomin', but strangers go and act as they like, thinkin' that there ain't no bounds to the word free. then we are picked at for their doin's, and mr. power has to carry other folkses' sins on his shoulders. but, dear suz, it ain't much matter after all, ef the souls is well-meanin'. children always make a noise a strivin' after what they want most, and i shouldn't wonder ef the lord forgive all our short-comin's of that sort, sense we are hankerin' and reachin' for the truth." "i wish i had heard mr. power that day, for i was striving after peace with all my heart, and he might have given it to me," said christie, interested and impressed with what she heard. "wal, no, dear, i guess not. peace ain't give to no one all of a suddin, it gen'lly comes through much tribulation, and the sort that comes hardest is best wuth havin'. mr. power would a' ploughed and harrered you, so to speak, and sowed good seed liberal; then ef you warn't barren ground things would have throve, and the lord give you a harvest accordin' to your labor. who did you hear?" asked mrs. wilkins, pausing to starch and clap vigorously. "a very young man who seemed to be airing his ideas and beliefs in the frankest manner. he belabored everybody and every thing, upset church and state, called names, arranged heaven and earth to suit himself, and evidently meant every word he said. much of it would have been ridiculous if the boy had not been so thoroughly in earnest; sincerity always commands respect, and though people smiled, they liked his courage, and seemed to think he would make a man when his spiritual wild oats were sown." "i ain't a doubt on't. we often have such, and they ain't all empty talk, nuther; some of 'em are surprisingly bright, and all mean so well i don't never reluct to hear 'em. they must blow off their steam somewheres, else they'd bust with the big idees a swellin' in 'em; mr. power knows it and gives 'em the chance they can't find nowheres else. 'pears to me," added mrs. wilkins, ironing rapidly as she spoke, "that folks is very like clothes, and a sight has to be done to keep 'em clean and whole. all on us has to lend a hand in this dreadful mixed-up wash, and each do our part, same as you and me is now. there's scrubbin' and bilin', wrenchin' and bluein', dryin' and foldin', ironin' and polishin', before any of us is fit for wear a sunday mornin'." "what part does mr. power do?" asked christie, much amused at this peculiarly appropriate simile. "the scrubbin' and the bilin'; that's always the hardest and the hottest part. he starts the dirt and gits the stains out, and leaves 'em ready for other folks to finish off. it ain't such pleasant work as hangin' out, or such pretty work as doin' up, but some one's got to do it, and them that's strongest does it best, though they don't git half so much credit as them as polishes and crimps. that's showy work, but it wouldn't be no use ef the things warn't well washed fust," and mrs. wilkins thoughtfully surveyed the snowy muslin cap, with its border fluted like the petals of a prim white daisy, that hung on her hand. "i'd like to be a washerwoman of that sort; but as i'm not one of the strong, i'll be a laundress, and try to make purity as attractive as you do," said christie, soberly. "ah, my dear, it's warm and wearin' work i do assure you, and hard to give satisfaction, try as you may. crowns of glory ain't wore in this world, but it's my 'pinion that them that does the hard jobs here will stand a good chance of havin' extra bright ones when they git through." "i know you will," said christie, warmly. "land alive, child! i warn't thinking of cynthy wilkins, but mr. power. i'll be satisfied ef i can set low down somewheres and see him git the meddle. he won't in this world, but i know there's rewards savin' up for him byme-by." "i'll go to-morrow if it pours!" said christie, with decision. "do, and i'll lend you my bunnit," cried mrs. wilkins, passing, with comical rapidity, from crowns of glory to her own cherished head-gear. "thank you, but i can't wear blue, i look as yellow as a dandelion in it. mrs. flint let me have my best things though i offered to leave them, so i shall be respectable and by-and-by blossom out." on the morrow christie went early, got a good seat, and for half an hour watched the gathering of the motley congregation that filled the great hall. some came in timidly, as if doubtful of their welcome; some noisily, as if, as mrs. wilkins said, they had not learned the wide difference between liberty and license; many as if eager and curious; and a large number with the look of children gathering round a family table ready to be fed, and sure that wholesome food would be bountifully provided for them. christie was struck by the large proportion of young people in the place, of all classes, both sexes, and strongly contrasting faces. delicate girls looking with the sweet wistfulness of maidenly hearts for something strong to lean upon and love; sad-eyed women turning to heaven for the consolations or the satisfactions earth could not give them; anxious mothers perplexed with many cares, trying to find light and strength; young men with ardent faces, restless, aspiring, and impetuous, longing to do and dare; tired-looking students, with perplexed wrinkles on their foreheads, evidently come to see if this man had discovered the great secrets they were delving after; and soul-sick people trying this new, and perhaps dangerous medicine, when others failed to cure. many earnest, thoughtful men and women were there, some on the anxious seat, and some already at peace, having found the clew that leads safely through the labyrinth of life. here and there a white head, a placid old face, or one of those fine countenances that tell, unconsciously, the beautiful story of a victorious soul. some read, some talked, some had flowers in their hands, and all sat at ease, rich and poor, black and white, young and old, waiting for the coming of the man who had power to attract and hold so many of his kind. christie was so intent on watching those about her that she did not see him enter, and only knew it by the silence which began just in front of her, and seemed to flow backward like a wave, leaving a sea of expectant faces turning to one point. that point was a gray head, just visible above the little desk which stood in the middle of a great platform. a vase of lovely flowers was on the little shelf at one side, a great bible reposed on the other, and a manuscript lay on the red slope between. in a moment christie forgot every thing else, and waited with a curious anxiety to see what manner of man this was. presently he got up with an open book in his hand, saying, in a strong, cheerful voice: "let us sing," and having read a hymn as if he had composed it, he sat down again. then everybody did sing; not harmoniously, but heartily, led by an organ, which the voices followed at their own sweet will. at first, christie wanted to smile, for some shouted and some hummed, some sat silent, and others sung sweetly; but before the hymn ended she liked it, and thought that the natural praise of each individual soul was perhaps more grateful to the ear of god than masses by great masters, or psalms warbled tunefully by hired opera singers. then mr. power rose again, and laying his hands together, with a peculiarly soft and reverent gesture, lifted up his face and prayed. christie had never heard a prayer like that before; so devout, so comprehensive, and so brief. a quiet talk with god, asking nothing but more love and duty toward him and our fellow-men; thanking him for many mercies, and confiding all things trustfully to the "dear father and mother of souls." the sermon which followed was as peculiar as the prayer, and as effective. "one of power's judgment-day sermons," as she heard one man say to another, when it was over. christie certainly felt at first as if kingdoms and thrones were going down, and each man being sent to his own place. a powerful and popular wrong was arrested, tried, and sentenced then and there, with a courage and fidelity that made plain words eloquent, and stern justice beautiful. he did not take david of old for his text, but the strong, sinful, splendid davids of our day, who had not fulfilled the promise of their youth, and whose seeming success was a delusion and a snare to themselves and others, sure to be followed by sorrowful abandonment, defeat, and shame. the ashes of the ancient hypocrites and pharisees was left in peace, but those now living were heartily denounced; modern money-changers scourged out of the temple, and the everlasting truth set up therein. as he spoke, not loudly nor vehemently, but with the indescribable effect of inward force and true inspiration, a curious stir went through the crowd at times, as a great wind sweeps over a corn field, lifting the broad leaves to the light and testing the strength of root and stem. people looked at one another with a roused expression; eyes kindled, heads nodded involuntary approval, and an emphatic, "that's so!" dropped from the lips of men who saw their own vague instincts and silent opinions strongly confirmed and nobly uttered. consciences seemed to have been pricked to duty, eyes cleared to see that their golden idols had feet of clay, and wavering wills strengthened by the salutary courage and integrity of one indomitable man. another hymn, and a benediction that seemed like a fit grace after meat, and then the crowd poured out; not yawning, thinking of best clothes, or longing for dinner, but waked up, full of talk, and eager to do something to redeem the country and the world. christie went rapidly home because she could not help it, and burst in upon mrs. wilkins with a face full of enthusiasm, exclaiming, while she cast off her bonnet as if her head had outgrown it since she left: "it was splendid! i never heard such a sermon before, and i'll never go to church anywhere else." "i knew it! ain't it fillin'? don't it give you a kind of spirital h'ist, and make things wuth more somehow?" cried mrs. wilkins, gesticulating with the pepper-pot in a way which did not improve the steak she was cooking, and caused great anguish to the noses of her offspring, who were watching the operation. quite deaf to the chorus of sneezes which accompanied her words, christie answered, brushing back her hair, as if to get a better out-look at creation generally: "oh, yes, indeed! at first it was rather terrible, and yet so true i wouldn't change a word of it. but i don't wonder he is misunderstood, belied, and abused. he tells the truth so plainly, and lets in the light so clearly, that hypocrites and sinners must fear and hate him. i think he was a little hard and unsparing, sometimes, though i don't know enough to judge the men and measures he condemned. i admire him very much, but i should be afraid of him if i ever saw him nearer." "no, you wouldn't; not a grain. you hear him preach agin and you'll find him as gentle as a lamb. strong folks is apt to be ruther ha'sh at times; they can't help it no more than this stove can help scorchin' the vittles when it gits red hot. dinner's ready, so set right up and tell me all about it," said mrs. wilkins, slapping the steak on to the platter, and beginning to deal out fried potatoes all round with absent-minded lavishness. christie talked, and the good soul enjoyed that far more than her dinner, for she meant to ask mr. power to help her find the right sort of home for the stranger whose unfitness for her present place was every day made more apparent to the mind of her hostess. "what took you there first?" asked christie, still wondering at mrs. wilkins's choice of a minister. "the lord, my dear," answered the good woman, in a tone of calm conviction. "i'd heard of him, and i always have a leanin' towards them that's reviled; so one sabbath i felt to go, and did. 'that's the gospel for me,' says i, 'my old church ain't big enough now, and i ain't goin' to set and nod there any longer,' and i didn't." "hadn't you any doubts about it, any fears of going wrong or being sorry afterwards?" asked christie, who believed, as many do, that religion could not be attained without much tribulation of some kind. "in some things folks is led; i be frequent, and when them leadin's come i don't ask no questions but jest foller, and it always turns out right." "i wish i could be led." "you be, my dear, every day of your life only you don't see it. when you are doubtful, set still till the call comes, then git up and walk whichever way it says, and you won't fall. you've had bread and water long enough, now you want meat and wine a spell; take it, and when it's time for milk and honey some one will fetch 'em ef you keep your table ready. the lord feeds us right; it's we that quarrel with our vittles." "i will," said christie, and began at once to prepare her little board for the solid food of which she had had a taste that day. that afternoon mrs. wilkins took her turn at church-going, saw mr. power, told christie's story in her best style, and ended by saying: "she's true grit, i do assure you, sir. willin' to work, but she's seen the hard side of things and got kind of discouraged. soul and body both wants tinkerin' up, and i don't know anybody who can do the job better 'n you can." "very well, i'll come and see her," answered mr. power, and mrs. wilkins went home well satisfied. he kept his word, and about the middle of the week came walking in upon them as they were at work. "don't let the irons cool," he said, and sitting down in the kitchen began to talk as comfortably as if in the best parlor; more so, perhaps, for best parlors are apt to have a depressing effect upon the spirits, while the mere sight of labor is exhilarating to energetic minds. he greeted christie kindly, and then addressed himself to mrs. wilkins on various charitable matters, for he was a minister at large, and she one of his almoners. christie could really see him now, for when he preached she forgot the man in the sermon, and thought of him only as a visible conscience. a sturdy man of fifty, with a keen, brave face, penetrating eyes, and mouth a little grim; but a voice so resonant and sweet it reminded one of silver trumpets, and stirred and won the hearer with irresistible power. rough gray hair, and all the features rather rugged, as if the great sculptor had blocked out a grand statue, and left the man's own soul to finish it. had christie known that he came to see her she would have been ill at ease; but mrs. wilkins had kept her own counsel, so when mr. power turned to christie, saying: "my friend here tells me you want something to do. would you like to help a quaker lady with her housework, just out of town?" she answered readily: "yes, sir, any thing that is honest." "not as a servant, exactly, but companion and helper. mrs. sterling is a dear old lady, and the place a pleasant little nest. it is good to be there, and i think you'll say so if you go." "it sounds pleasant. when shall i go?" mr. power smiled at her alacrity, but the longing look in her eyes explained it, for he saw at a glance that her place was not here. "i will write at once and let you know how matters are settled. then you shall try it, and if it is not what you want, we will find you something else. there's plenty to do, and nothing pleasanter than to put the right pair of hands to the right task. good-by; come and see me if the spirit moves, and don't let go of mrs. wilkins till you lay hold of a better friend, if you can find one." then he shook hands cordially, and went walking out again into the wild march weather as if he liked it. "were you afraid of him?" asked mrs. wilkins. "i forgot all about it: he looked so kind and friendly. but i shouldn't like to have those piercing eyes of his fixed on me long if i had any secret on my conscience," answered christie. "you ain't nothin' to fear. he liked your way of speakin' fust rate, i see that, and you'll be all right now he's took hold." "do you know mrs. sterling?" "only by sight, but she's a sweet appearin' woman, and i wouldn't ask nothin' better 'n to see more of her," said mrs. wilkins, warmly, fearing christie's heart might misgive her. but it did not, and when a note came saying mrs. sterling would be ready for her the next week, she seemed quite content with every thing, for though the wages were not high she felt that country air and quiet were worth more to her just then than money, and that wilkinses were better taken homoeopathically. the spirit did move her to go and see mr. power, but she could not make up her mind to pass that invisible barrier which stands between so many who could give one another genuine help if they only dared to ask it. but when sunday came she went to church, eager for more, and thankful that she knew where to go for it. this was a very different sermon from the other, and christie felt as if he preached it for her alone. "keep innocency and take heed to the thing that is right, for this will bring a man peace at the last," might have been the text, and mr. power treated it as if he had known all the trials and temptations that made it hard to live up to. justice and righteous wrath possessed him before, now mercy and tenderest sympathy for those who faltered in well-doing, and the stern judge seemed changed to a pitiful father. but better than the pity was the wise counsel, the cheering words, and the devout surrender of the soul to its best instincts; its close communion with its maker, unchilled by fear, untrammelled by the narrowness of sect or superstition, but full and free and natural as the breath of life. as she listened christie felt as if she was climbing up from a solitary valley, through mist and shadow toward a mountain top, where, though the way might be rough and strong winds blow, she would get a wider outlook over the broad earth, and be nearer the serene blue sky. for the first time in her life religion seemed a visible and vital thing; a power that she could grasp and feel, take into her life and make her daily bread. not a vague, vast idea floating before her, now beautiful, now terrible, always undefined and far away. she was strangely and powerfully moved that day, for the ploughing had begun; and when the rest stood up for the last hymn, christie could only bow her head and let the uncontrollable tears flow down like summer rain, while her heart sang with new aspiration: "nearer, my god, to thee, e'en though a cross it be that raiseth me, still all my song shall be, nearer, my god, to thee. nearer to thee!" sitting with her hand before her eyes, she never stirred till the sound of many feet told her that service was done. then she wiped her eyes, dropped her veil, and was about to rise when she saw a little bunch of flowers between the leaves of the hymn book lying open in her lap. only a knot of violets set in their own broad leaves, but blue as friendly eyes looking into hers, and sweet as kind words whispered in her ear. she looked about her hoping to detect and thank the giver; but all faces were turned the other way, and all feet departing rapidly. christie followed with a very grateful thought in her heart for this little kindness from some unknown friend; and, anxious to recover herself entirely before she faced mrs. wilkins, she took a turn in the park. the snow was gone, high winds had dried the walk, and a clear sky overhead made one forget sodden turf and chilly air. march was going out like a lamb, and christie enjoyed an occasional vernal whiff from far-off fields and wakening woods, as she walked down the broad mall watching the buds on the boughs, and listening to the twitter of the sparrows, evidently discussing the passers-by as they sat at the doors of their little mansions. presently she turned to walk back again and saw mr. power coming toward her. she was glad, for all her fear had vanished now, and she wanted to thank him for the sermon that had moved her so deeply. he shook hands in his cordial way, and, turning, walked with her, beginning at once to talk of her affairs as if interested in them. "are you ready for the new experiment?" he asked. "quite ready, sir; very glad to go, and very much obliged to you for your kindness in providing for me." "that is what we were put into the world for, to help one another. you can pass on the kindness by serving my good friends who, in return, will do their best for you." "that's so pleasant! i always knew there were plenty of good, friendly people in the world, only i did not seem to find them often, or be able to keep them long when i did. is mr. sterling an agreeable old man?" "very agreeable, but not old. david is about thirty-one or two, i think. he is the son of my friend, the husband died some years ago. i thought i mentioned it." "you said in your note that mr. sterling was a florist, and might like me to help in the green-house, if i was willing. it must be lovely work, and i should like it very much." "yes, david devotes himself to his flowers, and leads a very quiet life. you may think him rather grave and blunt at first, but you'll soon find him out and get on comfortably, for he is a truly excellent fellow, and my right-hand man in good works." a curious little change had passed over christie's face during these last questions and answers, unconscious, but quite observable to keen eyes like mr. power's. surprise and interest appeared first, then a shadow of reserve as if the young woman dropped a thin veil between herself and the young man, and at the last words a half smile and a slight raising of the brows seemed to express the queer mixture of pity and indifference with which we are all apt to regard "excellent fellows" and "amiable girls." mr. power understood the look, and went on more confidentially than he had at first intended, for he did not want christie to go off with a prejudice in her mind which might do both david and herself injustice. "people sometimes misjudge him, for he is rather old-fashioned in manner and plain in speech, and may seem unsocial, because he does not seek society. but those who know the cause of this forgive any little short-comings for the sake of the genuine goodness of the man. david had a great trouble some years ago and suffered much. he is learning to bear it bravely, and is the better for it, though the memory of it is still bitter, and the cross hard to bear even with pride to help him hide it, and principle to keep him from despair." mr. power glanced at christie as he paused, and was satisfied with the effect of his words, for interest, pity, and respect shone in her face, and proved that he had touched the right string. she seemed to feel that this little confidence was given for a purpose, and showed that she accepted it as a sort of gage for her own fidelity to her new employers. "thank you, sir, i shall remember," she said, with her frank eyes lifted gravely to his own. "i like to work for people whom i can respect," she added, "and will bear with any peculiarities of mr. sterling's without a thought of complaint. when a man has suffered through one woman, all women should be kind and patient with him, and try to atone for the wrong which lessens his respect and faith in them." "there you are right; and in this case all women should be kind, for david pities and protects womankind as the only retaliation for the life-long grief one woman brought upon him. that's not a common revenge, is it?" "it's beautiful!" cried christie, and instantly david was a hero. "at one time it was an even chance whether that trouble sent david to 'the devil,' as he expressed it, or made a man of him. that little saint of a mother kept him safe till the first desperation was over, and now he lives for her, as he ought. not so romantic an ending as a pistol or byronic scorn for the world in general and women in particular, but dutiful and brave, since it often takes more courage to live than to die." "yes, sir," said christie, heartily, though her eyes fell, remembering how she had failed with far less cause for despair than david. they were at the gate now, and mr. power left her, saying, with a vigorous hand-shake: "best wishes for a happy summer. i shall come sometimes to see how you prosper; and remember, if you tire of it and want to change, let me know, for i take great satisfaction in putting the right people in the right places. good-by, and god be with you." chapter x. beginning again. mrs. sterling. it was an april day when christie went to her new home. warm rains had melted the last trace of snow, and every bank was full of pricking grass-blades, brave little pioneers and heralds of the spring. the budding elm boughs swung in the wind; blue-jays screamed among the apple-trees; and robins chirped shrilly, as if rejoicing over winter hardships safely passed. vernal freshness was in the air despite its chill, and lovely hints of summer time were everywhere. these welcome sights and sounds met christie, as she walked down the lane, and, coming to a gate, paused there to look about her. an old-fashioned cottage stood in the midst of a garden just awakening from its winter sleep. one elm hung protectingly over the low roof, sunshine lay warmly on it, and at every window flowers' bright faces smiled at the passer-by invitingly. on one side glittered a long green-house, and on the other stood a barn, with a sleek cow ruminating in the yard, and an inquiring horse poking his head out of his stall to view the world. many comfortable gray hens were clucking and scratching about the hay-strewn floor, and a flock of doves sat cooing on the roof. a quiet, friendly place it looked; for nothing marred its peace, and the hopeful, healthful spirit of the season seemed to haunt the spot. snow-drops and crocuses were up in one secluded nook; a plump maltese cat sat purring in the porch; and a dignified old dog came marching down the walk to escort the stranger in. with a brightening face christie went up the path, and tapped at the quaint knocker, hoping that the face she was about to see would be in keeping with the pleasant place. she was not disappointed, for the dearest of little quaker ladies opened to her, with such an air of peace and good-will that the veriest ruffian, coming to molest or make afraid, would have found it impossible to mar the tranquillity of that benign old face, or disturb one fold of the soft muslin crossed upon her breast. "i come from mr. power, and i have a note for mrs. sterling," began christie in her gentlest tone, as her last fear vanished at sight of that mild maternal figure. "i am she; come in, friend; i am glad to see thee," said the old lady, smiling placidly, as she led the way into a room whose principal furniture seemed to be books, flowers, and sunshine. the look, the tone, the gentle "thee," went straight to christie's heart; and, while mrs. sterling put on her spectacles and slowly read the note, she stroked the cat and said to herself: "surely, i have fallen among a set of angels. i thought mrs. wilkins a sort of saint, mr. power was an improvement even upon that good soul, and if i am not mistaken this sweet little lady is the best and dearest of all. i do hope she will like me." "it is quite right, my dear, and i am most glad to see thee; for we need help at this season of the year, and have had none for several weeks. step up to the room at the head of the stairs, and lay off thy things. then, if thee is not tired, i will give thee a little job with me in the kitchen," said the old lady with a kindly directness which left no room for awkwardness on the new-comer's part. up went christie, and after a hasty look round a room as plain and white and still as a nun's cell, she whisked on a working-apron and ran down again, feeling, as she fancied the children did in the fairy tale, when they first arrived at the house of the little old woman who lived in the wood. mrs. wilkins's kitchen was as neat as a room could be, wherein six children came and went, but this kitchen was tidy with the immaculate order of which shakers and quakers alone seem to possess the secret,--a fragrant, shining cleanliness, that made even black kettles ornamental and dish-pans objects of interest. nothing burned or boiled over, though the stove was full of dinner-pots and skillets. there was no litter or hurry, though the baking of cake and pies was going on, and when mrs. sterling put a pan of apples, and a knife into her new assistant's hands, saying in a tone that made the request a favor, "will thee kindly pare these for me?" christie wondered what would happen if she dropped a seed upon the floor, or did not cut the apples into four exact quarters. "i never shall suit this dear prim soul," she thought, as her eye went from puss, sedately perched on one small mat, to the dog dozing upon another, and neither offering to stir from their own dominions. this dainty nicety amused her at first, but she liked it, and very soon her thoughts went back to the old times when she worked with aunt betsey, and learned the good old-fashioned arts which now were to prove her fitness for this pleasant place. mrs. sterling saw the shadow that crept into christie's face, and led the chat to cheerful things, not saying much herself, but beguiling the other to talk, and listening with an interest that made it easy to go on. mr. power and the wilkinses made them friends very soon; and in an hour or two christie was moving about the kitchen as if she had already taken possession of her new kingdom. "thee likes housework i think," said mrs. sterling, as she watched her hang up a towel to dry, and rinse her dish-cloth when the cleaning up was done. "oh, yes! if i need not do it with a shiftless irish girl to drive me distracted by pretending to help. i have lived out, and did not find it hard while i had my good hepsey. i was second girl, and can set a table in style. shall i try now?" she asked, as the old lady went into a little dining-room with fresh napkins in her hand. "yes, but we have no style here. i will show thee once, and hereafter it will be thy work, as thy feet are younger than mine." a nice old-fashioned table was soon spread, and christie kept smiling at the contrast between this and mrs. stuart's. chubby little pitchers appeared, delicate old glass, queer china, and tiny tea-spoons; linen as smooth as satin, and a quaint tankard that might have come over in the "may-flower." "now, will thee take that pitcher of water to david's room? it is at the top of the house, and may need a little dusting. i have not been able to attend to it as i would like since i have been alone," said mrs. sterling. rooms usually betray something of the character and tastes of their occupants, and christie paused a moment as she entered david's, to look about her with feminine interest. it was the attic, and extended the whole length of the house. one end was curtained off as a bedroom, and she smiled at its austere simplicity. a gable in the middle made a sunny recess, where were stored bags and boxes of seed, bunches of herbs, and shelves full of those tiny pots in which baby plants are born and nursed till they can grow alone. the west end was evidently the study, and here christie took a good look as she dusted tidily. the furniture was nothing, only an old sofa, with the horsehair sticking out in tufts here and there; an antique secretary; and a table covered with books. as she whisked the duster down the front of the ancient piece of furniture, one of the doors in the upper half swung open, and christie saw three objects that irresistibly riveted her eyes for a moment. a broken fan, a bundle of letters tied up with a black ribbon, and a little work-basket in which lay a fanciful needle-book with "letty" embroidered on it in faded silk. "poor david, that is his little shrine, and i have no right to see it," thought christie, shutting the door with self-reproachful haste. at the table she paused again, for books always attracted her, and here she saw a goodly array whose names were like the faces of old friends, because she remembered them in her father's library. faust was full of ferns, shakspeare, of rough sketches of the men and women whom he has made immortal. saintly herbert lay side by side with saint augustine's confessions. milton and montaigne stood socially together, and andersen's lovely "märchen" fluttered its pictured leaves in the middle of an open plato; while several books in unknown tongues were half-hidden by volumes of browning, keats, and coleridge. in the middle of this fine society, slender and transparent as the spirit of a shape, stood a little vase holding one half-opened rose, fresh and fragrant as if just gathered. christie smiled as she saw it, and wondered if the dear, dead, or false woman had been fond of roses. then her eye went to the mantel-piece, just above the table, and she laughed; for, on it stood three busts, idols evidently, but very shabby ones; for göthe's nose was broken, schiller's head cracked visibly, and the dust of ages seemed to have settled upon linnæus in the middle. on the wall above them hung a curious old picture of a monk kneeling in a devout ecstasy, while the face of an angel is dimly seen through the radiance that floods the cell with divine light. portraits of mr. power and martin luther stared thoughtfully at one another from either side, as if making up their minds to shake hands in spite of time and space. "melancholy, learned, and sentimental," said christie to herself, as she settled david's character after these discoveries. the sound of a bell made her hasten down, more curious than ever to see if this belief was true. "perhaps thee had better step out and call my son. sometimes he does not hear the bell when he is busy. thee will find my garden-hood and shawl behind the door," said mrs. sterling, presently; for punctuality was a great virtue in the old lady's eyes. christie demurely tied on the little pumpkin-hood, wrapped the gray shawl about her, and set out to find her "master," as she had a fancy to call this unknown david. from the hints dropped by mr. power, and her late discoveries, she had made a hero for herself; a sort of melancholy jaques; sad and pale and stern; retired from the world to nurse his wounds in solitude. she rather liked this picture; for romance dies hard in a woman, and, spite of her experiences, christie still indulged in dreams and fancies. "it will be so interesting to see how he bears his secret sorrow. i am fond of woe; but i do hope he won't be too lackadaisical, for i never could abide that sort of blighted being." thinking thus, she peeped here and there, but saw no one in yard or barn, except a workman scraping the mould off his boots near the conservatory. "this david is among the flowers, i fancy; i will just ask, and not bolt in, as he does not know me. "where is mr. sterling?" added christie aloud, as she approached. the man looked up, and a smile came into his eyes, as he glanced from the old hood to the young face inside. then he took off his hat, and held out his hand, saying with just his mother's simple directness: "i am david; and this is christie devon, i know. how do you do?" "yes; dinner's ready," was all she could reply, for the discovery that this was the "master," nearly took her breath away. not the faintest trace of the melancholy jaques about him; nothing interesting, romantic, pensive, or even stern. only a broad-shouldered, brown-bearded man, with an old hat and coat, trousers tucked into his boots, fresh mould on the hand he had given her to shake, and the cheeriest voice she had ever heard. what a blow it was to be sure! christie actually felt vexed with him for disappointing her so, and could not recover herself, but stood red and awkward, till, with a last scrape of his boots, david said with placid brevity: "well, shall we go in?" christie walked rapidly into the house, and by the time she got there the absurdity of her fancy struck her, and she stifled a laugh in the depths of the little pumpkin-hood, as she hung it up. then, assuming her gravest air, she went to give the finishing touches to dinner. ten minutes later she received another surprise; for david appeared washed, brushed, and in a suit of gray,--a personable gentleman, quite unlike the workman in the yard. christie gave one look, met a pair of keen yet kind eyes with a suppressed laugh in them, and dropped her own, to be no more lifted up till dinner was done. it was a very quiet meal, for no one said much; and it was evidently the custom of the house to eat silently, only now and then saying a few friendly words, to show that the hearts were social if the tongues were not. on the present occasion this suited christie; and she ate her dinner without making any more discoveries, except that the earth-stained hands were very clean now, and skilfully supplied her wants before she could make them known. as they rose from table, mrs. sterling said: "davy, does thee want any help this afternoon?" "i shall be very glad of some in about an hour if thee can spare it, mother." "i can, dear." "do you care for flowers?" asked david, turning to christie, "because if you do not, this will be a very trying place for you." "i used to love them dearly; but i have not had any for so long i hardly remember how they look," answered christie with a sigh, as she recalled rachel's roses, dead long ago. "shy, sick, and sad; poor soul, we must lend a hand and cheer her up a bit" thought david, as he watched her eyes turn toward the green tilings in the windows with a bright, soft look, he liked to see. "come to the conservatory in an hour, and i'll show you the best part of a 'german,'" he said, with a nod and a smile, as he went away, beginning to whistle like a boy when the door was shut behind him. "what did he mean?" thought christie, as she helped clear the table, and put every thing in pimlico order. she was curious to know, and when mrs. sterling said: "now, my dear, i am going to take my nap, and thee can help david if thee likes," she was quite ready to try the new work. she would have been more than woman if she had not first slipped upstairs to smooth her hair, put on a fresh collar, and a black silk apron with certain effective frills and pockets, while a scarlet rigolette replaced the hood, and lent a little color to her pale cheeks. "i am a poor ghost of what i was," she thought; "but that's no matter: few can be pretty, any one can be neat, and that is more than ever necessary here." then she went away to the conservatory, feeling rather oppressed with the pity and sympathy, for which there was no call, and fervently wishing that david would not be so comfortable, for he ate a hearty dinner, laughed four times, and whistled as no heart-broken man would dream of doing. no one was visible as she went in, and walking slowly down the green aisle, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the lovely place. the damp, sweet air made summer there, and a group of slender, oriental trees whispered in the breath of wind that blew in from an open sash. strange vines and flowers hung overhead; banks of azaleas, ruddy, white, and purple, bloomed in one place; roses of every hue turned their lovely faces to the sun; ranks of delicate ferns, and heaths with their waxen bells, were close by; glowing geraniums and stately lilies side by side; savage-looking scarlet flowers with purple hearts, or orange spikes rising from leaves mottled with strange colors; dusky passion-flowers, and gay nasturtiums climbing to the roof. all manner of beautiful and curious plants were there; and christie walked among them, as happy as a child who finds its playmates again. coming to a bed of pansies she sat down on a rustic chair, and, leaning forward, feasted her eyes on these her favorites. her face grew young as she looked, her hands touched them with a lingering tenderness as if to her they were half human, and her own eyes were so busy enjoying the gold and purple spread before her, that she did not see another pair peering at her over an unneighborly old cactus, all prickles, and queer knobs. presently a voice said at her elbow: "you look as if you saw something beside pansies there." david spoke so quietly that it did not startle her, and she answered before she had time to feel ashamed of her fancy. "i do; for, ever since i was a child, i always see a little face when i look at this flower. sometimes it is a sad one, sometimes it's merry, often roguish, but always a dear little face; and when i see so many together, it's like a flock of children, all nodding and smiling at me at once." "so it is!" and david nodded, and smiled himself, as he handed her two or three of the finest, as if it was as natural a thing as to put a sprig of mignonette in his own button-hole. christie thanked him, and then jumped up, remembering that she came there to work, not to dream. he seemed to understand, and went into a little room near by, saying, as he pointed to a heap of gay flowers on the table: "these are to be made into little bouquets for a 'german' to-night. it is pretty work, and better fitted for a woman's fingers than a man's. this is all you have to do, and you can use your taste as to colors." while he spoke david laid a red and white carnation on a bit of smilax, tied them together, twisted a morsel of silver foil about the stems, and laid it before christie as a sample. "yes, i can do that, and shall like it very much," she said, burying her nose in the mass of sweetness before her, and feeling as if her new situation grew pleasanter every minute. "here is the apron my mother uses, that bit of silk will soon be spoilt, for the flowers are wet," and david gravely offered her a large checked pinafore. christie could not help laughing as she put it on: all this was so different from the imaginary picture she had made. she was disappointed, and yet she began to feel as if the simple truth was better than the sentimental fiction; and glanced up at david involuntarily to see if there were any traces of interesting woe about him. but he was looking at her with the steady, straight-forward look which she liked so much, yet could not meet just yet; and all she saw was that he was smiling also with an indulgent expression as if she was a little girl whom he was trying to amuse. "make a few, and i'll be back directly when i have attended to another order," and he went away thinking christie's face was very like the pansies they had been talking about,--one of the sombre ones with a bright touch of gold deep down in the heart, for thin and pale as the face was, it lighted up at a kind word, and all the sadness vanished out of the anxious eyes when the frank laugh came. christie fell to work with a woman's interest in such a pleasant task, and soon tied and twisted skilfully, exercising all her taste in contrasts, and the pretty little conceits flower-lovers can produce. she was so interested that presently she began to hum half unconsciously, as she was apt to do when happily employed: "welcome, maids of honor, you do bring in the spring, and wait upon her. she has virgins many, fresh and fair, yet you are more sweet than any." there she stopped, for david's step drew near, and she remembered where she was. "the last verse is the best in that little poem. have you forgotten it?" he said, pleased and surprised to find the new-comer singing herrick's lines "to violets." "almost; my father used to say that when we went looking for early violets, and these lovely ones reminded me of it," explained christie, rather abashed. david and christie in the greenhouse. as if to put her at ease david added, as he laid another handful of double-violets on the table: "'y' are the maiden posies, and so graced, to be placed fore damask roses. yet, though thus respected, by and by ye do lie, poor girls, neglected.' "i always think of them as pretty, modest maids after that, and can't bear to throw them away, even when faded." christie hoped he did not think her sentimental, and changed the conversation by pointing to her work, and saying, in a business-like way: "will these do? i have varied the posies as much as possible, so that they may suit all sorts of tastes and whims. i never went to a 'german' myself; but i have looked on, and remember hearing the young people say the little bouquets didn't mean any thing, so i tried to make these expressive." "well, i should think you had succeeded excellently, and it is a very pretty fancy. tell me what some of them mean: will you?" "you should know better than i, being a florist," said christie, glad to see he approved of her work. "i can grow the flowers, but not read them," and david looked rather depressed by his own ignorance of those delicate matters. still with the business-like air, christie held up one after another of the little knots, saying soberly, though her eyes smiled: "this white one might be given to a newly engaged girl, as suggestive of the coming bridal. that half-blown bud would say a great deal from a lover to his idol; and this heliotrope be most encouraging to a timid swain. here is a rosy daisy for some merry little damsel; there is a scarlet posy for a soldier; this delicate azalea and fern for some lovely creature just out; and there is a bunch of sober pansies for a spinster, if spinsters go to 'germans.' heath, scentless but pretty, would do for many; these parma violets for one with a sorrow; and this curious purple flower with arrow-shaped stamens would just suit a handsome, sharp-tongued woman, if any partner dared give it to her." david laughed, as his eye went from the flowers to christie's face, and when she laid down the last breast-knot, looking as if she would like the chance of presenting it to some one she knew, he seemed much amused. "if the beaux and belles at this party have the wit to read your posies, my fortune will be made, and you will have your hands full supplying compliments, declarations, rebukes, and criticisms for the fashionable butterflies. i wish i could put consolation, hope, and submission into my work as easily, but i am afraid i can't," he added a moment afterward with a changed face, as he began to lay the loveliest white flowers into a box. "those are not for a wedding, then?" "for a dead baby; and i can't seem to find any white and sweet enough." "you know the people?" asked christie, with the sympathetic tone in her voice. "never saw or heard of them till to-day. isn't it enough to know that 'baby's dead,' as the poor man said, to make one feel for them?" "of course it is; only you seemed so interested in arranging the flowers, i naturally thought it was for some friend," christie answered hastily, for david looked half indignant at her question. "i want them to look lovely and comforting when the mother opens the box, and i don't seem to have the right flowers. will you give it a touch? women have a tender way of doing such things that we can never learn." "i don't think i can improve it, unless i add another sort of flower that seems appropriate: may i?" "any thing you can find." christie waited for no more, but ran out of the greenhouse to david's great surprise, and presently came hurrying back with a handful of snow-drops. "those are just what i wanted, but i didn't know the little dears were up yet! you shall put them in, and i know they will suggest what you hope to these poor people," he said approvingly, as he placed the box before her, and stood by watching her adjust the little sheaf of pale flowers tied up with a blade of grass. she added a frail fern or two, and did give just the graceful touch here and there which would speak to the mother's sore heart of the tender thought some one had taken for her dead darling. the box was sent away, and christie went on with her work, but that little task performed together seemed to have made them friends; and, while david tied up several grand bouquets at the same table, they talked as if the strangeness was fast melting away from their short acquaintance. christie's own manners were so simple that simplicity in others always put her at her ease: kindness soon banished her reserve, and the desire to show that she was grateful for it helped her to please. david's bluntness was of such a gentle sort that she soon got used to it, and found it a pleasant contrast to the polite insincerity so common. he was as frank and friendly as a boy, yet had a certain paternal way with him which rather annoyed her at first, and made her feel as if he thought her a mere girl, while she was very sure he could not be but a year or two older than herself. "i'd rather he'd be masterful, and order me about," she thought, still rather regretting the "blighted being" she had not found. in spite of this she spent a pleasant afternoon, sitting in that sunny place, handling flowers, asking questions about them, and getting the sort of answers she liked; not dry botanical names and facts, but all the delicate traits, curious habits, and poetical romances of the sweet things, as if the speaker knew and loved them as friends, not merely valued them as merchandise. they had just finished when the great dog came bouncing in with a basket in his mouth. "mother wants eggs: will you come to the barn and get them? hay is wholesome, and you can feed the doves if you like," said david, leading the way with bran rioting about him. "why don't he offer to put up a swing for me, or get me a doll? it's the pinafore that deceives him. never mind: i rather like it after all," thought christie; but she left the apron behind her, and followed with the most dignified air. it did not last long, however, for the sights and sounds that greeted her, carried her back to the days of egg-hunting in uncle enos's big barn; and, before she knew it, she was rustling through the hay mows, talking to the cow and receiving the attentions of bran with a satisfaction it was impossible to conceal. the hens gathered about her feet cocking their expectant eyes at her; the doves came circling round her head; the cow stared placidly, and the inquisitive horse responded affably when she offered him a handful of hay. "how tame they all are! i like animals, they are so contented and intelligent," she said, as a plump dove lit on her shoulder with an impatient coo. "that was kitty's pet, she always fed the fowls. would you like to do it?" and david offered a little measure of oats. "very much;" and christie began to scatter the grain, wondering who "kitty" was. as if he saw the wish in her face, david added, while he shelled corn for the hens: "she was the little girl who was with us last. her father kept her in a factory, and took all her wages, barely giving her clothes and food enough to keep her alive. the poor child ran away, and was trying to hide when mr. power found and sent her here to be cared for." "as he did me?" said christie quickly. "yes, that's a way he has." "a very kind and christian way. why didn't she stay?" "well, it was rather quiet for the lively little thing, and rather too near the city, so we got a good place up in the country where she could go to school and learn housework. the mill had left her no time for these things, and at fifteen she was as ignorant as a child." "you must miss her." "i do very much." "was she pretty?" "she looked like a little rose sometimes," and david smiled to himself as he fed the gray hens. christie immediately made a picture of the "lively little thing" with a face "like a rose," and was uncomfortably conscious that she did not look half as well feeding doves as kitty must have done. just then david handed her the basket, saying in the paternal way that half amused, half piqued her: "it, is getting too chilly for you here: take these in please, and i'll bring the milk directly." in spite of herself she smiled, as a sudden vision of the elegant mr. fletcher, devotedly carrying her book or beach-basket, passed through her mind; then hastened to explain the smile, for david lifted his brows inquiringly, and glanced about him to see what amused her. "i beg your pardon: i've lived alone so much that it seems a little odd to be told to do things, even if they are as easy and pleasant as this." "i am so used to taking care of people, and directing, that i do so without thinking. i won't if you don't like it," and he put out his hand to take back the basket with a grave, apologetic air. "but i do like it; only it amused me to be treated like a little girl again, when i am nearly thirty, and feel seventy at least, life has been so hard to me lately." her face sobered at the last words, and david's instantly grew so pitiful she could not keep her eyes on it lest they should fill, so suddenly did the memory of past troubles overcome her. "i know," he said in a tone that warmed her heart, "i know, but we are going to try, and make life easier for you now, and you must feel that this is home and we are friends." "i do!" and christie flushed with grateful feeling and a little shame, as she went in, thinking to herself: "how silly i was to say that! i may have spoilt the simple friendliness that was so pleasant, and have made him think me a foolish stuck-up old creature." whatever he might have thought, david's manner was unchanged when he came in and found her busy with the table. "it's pleasant to see thee resting, mother, and every thing going on so well," he said, glancing about the room, where the old lady sat, and nodding toward the kitchen, where christie was toasting bread in her neatest manner. "yes, davy, it was about time i had a helper for thy sake, at least; and this is a great improvement upon heedless kitty, i am inclined to think." mrs. sterling dropped her voice over that last sentence; but christie heard it, and was pleased. a moment or two later, david came toward her with a glass in his hand, saying as if rather doubtful of his reception: "new milk is part of the cure: will you try it?" for the first time, christie looked straight up in the honest eyes that seemed to demand honesty in others, and took the glass, answering heartily: "yes, thank you; i drink good health to you, and better manners to me." the newly lighted lamp shone full in her face, and though it was neither young nor blooming, it showed something better than youth and bloom to one who could read the subtle language of character as david could. he nodded as he took the glass, and went away saying quietly: "we are plain people here, and you won't find it hard to get on with us, i think." but he liked the candid look, and thought about it, as he chopped kindlings, whistling with a vigor which caused christie to smile as she strained the milk. after tea a spider-legged table was drawn out toward the hearth, where an open fire burned cheerily, and puss purred on the rug, with bran near by. david unfolded his newspapers, mrs. sterling pinned on her knitting-sheath, and christie sat a moment enjoying the comfortable little scene. she sighed without knowing it, and mrs. sterling asked quickly: "is thee tired, my dear?" "oh, no! only happy." "i am glad of that: i was afraid thee would find it dull." "it's beautiful!" then christie checked herself feeling that these outbursts would not suit such quiet people; and, half ashamed of showing how much she felt, she added soberly, "if you will give me something to do i shall be quite contented." "sewing is not good for thee. if thee likes to knit i'll set up a sock for thee to-morrow," said the old lady well pleased at the industrious turn of her new handmaid. "i like to darn, and i see some to be done in this basket. may i do it?" and christie laid hold of the weekly job which even the best housewives are apt to set aside for pleasanter tasks. "as thee likes, my dear. my eyes will not let me sew much in the evening, else i should have finished that batch to-night. thee will find the yarn and needles in the little bag." so christie fell to work on gray socks, and neat lavender-colored hose, while the old lady knit swiftly, and david read aloud. christie thought she was listening to the report of a fine lecture; but her ear only caught the words, for her mind wandered away into a region of its own, and lived there till her task was done. then she laid the tidy pile in the basket, drew her chair to a corner of the hearth, and quietly enjoyed herself. the cat, feeling sure of a welcome, got up into her lap, and went to sleep in a cosy bunch; bran laid his nose across her feet, and blinked at her with sleepy good-will, while her eyes wandered round the room, from its quaint furniture and the dreaming flowers in the windows, to the faces of its occupants, and lingered there. the plain border of a quaker cap encircled that mild old face, with bands of silver hair parted on a forehead marked with many lines. but the eyes were clear and sweet; winter roses bloomed in the cheeks, and an exquisite neatness pervaded the small figure, from the trim feet on the stool, to the soft shawl folded about the shoulders, as only a quakeress can fold one. in mrs. sterling, piety and peace made old age lovely, and the mere presence of this tranquil soul seemed to fill the room with a reposeful charm none could resist. the other face possessed no striking comeliness of shape or color; but the brown, becoming beard made it manly, and the broad arch of a benevolent brow added nobility to features otherwise not beautiful,--a face plainly expressing resolution and rectitude, inspiring respect as naturally as it certain protective kindliness of manner won confidence. even in repose wearing a vigilant look as if some hidden pain or passion lay in wait to surprise and conquer the sober cheerfulness that softened the lines of the firm-set lips, and warmed the glance of the thoughtful eyes. christie fancied she possessed the key to this, and longed to know all the story of the cross which mr. power said david had learned to bear so well. then she began to wonder if they could like and keep her, to hope so, and to feel that here at last she was at home with friends. but the old sadness crept over her, as she remembered how often she had thought this before, and how soon the dream ended, the ties were broken, and she adrift again. "ah well," she said within herself, "i won't think of the morrow, but take the good that comes and enjoy it while i may. i must not disappoint rachel, since she kept her word so nobly to me. dear soul, when shall i see her again?" the thought of rachel always touched her heart; more now than ever; and, as she leaned back in her chair with closed eyes and idle hands, these tender memories made her unconscious face most eloquent. the eyes peering over the spectacles telegraphed a meaning message to the other eyes glancing over the paper now and then; and both these friends in deed as well as name felt assured that this woman needed all the comfort they could give her. but the busy needles never stopped their click, and the sonorous voice read on without a pause, so christie never knew what mute confidences passed between mother and son, or what helpful confessions her traitorous face had made for her. the clock struck nine, and these primitive people prepared for rest; for their day began at dawn, and much wholesome work made sleep a luxury. "davy will tap at thy door as he goes down in the morning, and i will soon follow to show thee about matters. good-night, and good rest, my child." so speaking, the little lady gave christie a maternal kiss; david shook hands; and then she went away, wondering why service was so lightened by such little kindnesses. as she lay in her narrow white bed, with the "pale light of stars" filling the quiet, cell-like room, and some one playing softly on a flute overhead, she felt as if she had left the troublous world behind her, and shutting out want, solitude, and despair, had come into some safe, secluded spot full of flowers and sunshine, kind hearts, and charitable deeds. chapter xl in the strawberry bed. from that day a new life began for christie, a happy, quiet, useful life, utterly unlike any of the brilliant futures she had planned for herself; yet indescribably pleasant to her now, for past experience had taught her its worth, and made her ready to enjoy it. never had spring seemed so early or so fair, never had such a crop of hopeful thoughts and happy feelings sprung up in her heart as now; and nowhere was there a brighter face, a blither voice, or more willing hands than christie's when the apple blossoms came. this was what she needed, the protection of a home, wholesome cares and duties; and, best of all, friends to live and labor for, loving and beloved. her whole soul was in her work now, and as health returned, much of the old energy and cheerfulness came with it, a little sobered, but more sweet and earnest than ever. no task was too hard or humble; no day long enough to do all she longed to do; and no sacrifice would have seemed too great for those whom she regarded with steadily increasing love and gratitude. up at dawn, the dewy freshness of the hour, the morning rapture of the birds, the daily miracle of sunrise, set her heart in tune, and gave her nature's most healing balm. she kept the little house in order, with mrs. sterling to direct and share the labor so pleasantly, that mistress and maid soon felt like mother and daughter, and christie often said she did not care for any other wages. the house-work of this small family was soon done, and then christie went to tasks that she liked better. much out-of-door life was good for her, and in garden and green-house there was plenty of light labor she could do. so she grubbed contentedly in the wholesome earth, weeding and potting, learning to prune and bud, and finding mrs. wilkins was quite right in her opinion of the sanitary virtues of dirt. trips to town to see the good woman and carry country gifts to the little folks; afternoon drives with mrs. sterling in the old-fashioned chaise, drawn by the roman-nosed horse, and sunday pilgrimages to church to be "righted up" by one of mr. power's stirring sermons, were among her new pleasures. but, on the whole, the evenings were her happiest times: for then david read aloud while she worked; she sung to the old piano tuned for her use; or, better still, as spring came on, they sat in the porch, and talked as people only do talk when twilight, veiling the outer world, seems to lift the curtains of that inner world where minds go exploring, hearts learn to know one another, and souls walk together in the cool of the day. at such times christie seemed to catch glimpses of another david than the busy, cheerful man apparently contented with the humdrum duties of an obscure, laborious life, and the few unexciting pleasures afforded by books, music, and much silent thought. she sometimes felt with a woman's instinct that under this composed, commonplace existence another life went on; for, now and then, in the interest of conversation, or the involuntary yielding to a confidential impulse, a word, a look, a gesture, betrayed an unexpected power and passion, a secret unrest, a bitter memory that would not be ignored. only at rare moments did she catch these glimpses, and so brief, so indistinct, were they that she half believed her own lively fancy created them. she longed to know more; but "david's trouble" made him sacred in her eyes from any prying curiosity, and always after one of these twilight betrayals christie found him so like his unromantic self next day, that she laughed and said: "i never shall outgrow my foolish way of trying to make people other than they are. gods are gone, heroes hard to find, and one should be contented with good men, even if they do wear old clothes, lead prosaic lives, and have no accomplishments but gardening, playing the flute, and keeping their temper." she felt the influences of that friendly place at once; but for a time she wondered at the natural way in which kind things were done, the protective care extended over her, and the confiding air with which these people treated her. they asked no questions, demanded no explanations, seemed unconscious of conferring favors, and took her into their life so readily that she marvelled, even while she rejoiced, at the good fortune which led her there. she understood this better when she discovered, what mr. power had not mentioned, that the little cottage was a sort of refuge for many women like herself; a half-way house where they could rest and recover themselves after the wrongs, defeats, and weariness that come to such in the battle of life. with a chivalry older and finer than any spenser sung, mr. power befriended these forlorn souls, and david was his faithful squire. whoever knocked at that low door was welcomed, warmed, and fed; comforted, and set on their way, cheered and strengthened by the sweet good-will that made charity no burden, and restored to the more desperate and despairing their faith in human nature and god's love. there are many such green spots in this world of ours, which often seems so bad that a second deluge could hardly wash it clean again; and these beneficent, unostentatious asylums are the salvation of more troubled souls than many a great institution gilded all over with the rich bequests of men who find themselves too heavily laden to enter in at the narrow gate of heaven. happy the foot-sore, heart-weary traveller who turns from the crowded, dusty highway down the green lane that leads to these humble inns, where the sign of the good samaritan is written on the face of whomsoever opens to the stranger, and refreshment for soul and body is freely given in the name of him who loved the poor. mr. power came now and then, for his large parish left him but little time to visit any but the needy. christie enjoyed these brief visits heartily, for her new friends soon felt that she was one of them, and cordially took her into the large circle of workers and believers to which they belonged. mr. power's heart was truly an orphan asylum, and every lonely creature found a welcome there. he could rebuke sin sternly, yet comfort and uplift the sinner with fatherly compassion; righteous wrath would flash from his eyes at injustice, and contempt sharpen his voice as he denounced hypocrisy: yet the eyes that lightened would dim with pity for a woman's wrong, a child's small sorrow; and the voice that thundered would whisper consolation like a mother, or give counsel with a wisdom books cannot teach. he was a moses in his day and generation, born to lead his people out of the bondage of dead superstitions, and go before them through a red sea of persecution into the larger liberty and love all souls hunger for, and many are just beginning to find as they come doubting, yet desiring, into the goodly land such pioneers as he have planted in the wilderness. he was like a tonic to weak natures and wavering wills; and christie felt a general revival going on within herself as her knowledge, honor, and affection for him grew. his strength seemed to uphold her; his integrity to rebuke all unworthiness in her own life; and the magic of his generous, genial spirit to make the hard places smooth, the bitter things sweet, and the world seem a happier, honester place than she had ever thought it since her father died. mr. power had been interested in her from the first; had watched her through other eyes, and tried her by various unsuspected tests. she stood them well; showed her faults as frankly as her virtues, and tried to deserve their esteem by copying the excellencies she admired in them. "she is made of the right stuff, and we must keep her among us; for she must not be lost or wasted by being left to drift about the world with no ties to make her safe and happy. she is doing so well here, let her stay till the restless spirit begins to stir again; then she shall come to me and learn contentment by seeing greater troubles than her own." mr. power said this one day as he rose to go, after sitting an hour with mrs. sterling, and hearing from her a good report of his new protegee. the young people were out at work, and had not been called in to see him, for the interview had been a confidential one. but as he stood at the gate he saw christie in the strawberry bed, and went toward her, glad to see how well and happy she looked. her hat was hanging on her shoulders, and the sun giving her cheeks a healthy color; she was humming to herself like a bee as her fingers flew, and once she paused, shaded her eyes with her hand, and took a long look at a figure down in the meadow; then she worked on silent and smiling,--a pleasant creature to see, though her hair was ruffled by the wind; her gingham gown pinned up; and her fingers deeply stained with the blood of many berries. "i wonder if that means anything?" thought mr. power, with a keen glance from the distant man to the busy woman close at hand. "it might be a helpful, happy thing for both, if poor david only could forget." he had time for no more castle-building, for a startled robin flew away with a shrill chirp, and christie looked up. "oh, i'm so glad!" she said, rising quickly. "i was picking a special box for you, and now you can have a feast beside, just as you like it, fresh from the vines. sit here, please, and i'll hull faster than you can eat." "this is luxury!" and mr. power sat down on the three-legged stool offered him, with a rhubarb leaf on his knee which christie kept supplying with delicious mouthfuls. mr. power and christie in the strawberry bed. "well, and how goes it? are we still happy and contented here?" he asked. "i feel as if i had been born again; as if this was a new heaven and a new earth, and every thing was as it should be," answered christie, with a look of perfect satisfaction in her face. "that's a pleasant hearing. mrs. sterling has been praising you, but i wanted to be sure you were as satisfied as she. and how does david wear? well, i hope." "oh, yes, he is very good to me, and is teaching me to be a gardener, so that i needn't kill myself with sewing any more. much of this is fine work for women, and so healthy. don't i look a different creature from the ghost that came here three or four mouths ago?" and she turned her face for inspection like a child. "yes, david is a good gardener. i often send my sort of plants here, and he always makes them grow and blossom sooner or later," answered mr. power, regarding her like a beneficent genie on a three-legged stool. "you are the fresh air, and mrs. sterling is the quiet sunshine that does the work, i fancy. david only digs about the roots." "thank you for my share of the compliment; but why say 'only digs'? that is a most important part of the work: i'm afraid you don't appreciate david." "oh, yes, i do; but he rather aggravates me sometimes," said christie, laughing, as she put a particularly big berry in the green plate to atone for her frankness. "how?" asked mr. power, interested in these little revelations. "well, he won't be ambitious. i try to stir him up, for he has talents; i've found that out: but he won't seem to care for any thing but watching over his mother, reading his old books, and making flowers bloom double when they ought to be single." "there are worse ambitions than those, christie. i know many a man who would be far better employed in cherishing a sweet old woman, studying plato, and doubling the beauty of a flower, than in selling principles for money, building up a cheap reputation that dies with him, or chasing pleasures that turn to ashes in his mouth." "yes, sir; but isn't it natural for a young man to have some personal aim or aspiration to live for? if david was a weak or dull man i could understand it; but i seem to feel a power, a possibility for something higher and better than any thing i see, and this frets me. he is so good, i want him to be great also in some way." "a wise man says, 'the essence of greatness is the perception that virtue is enough.' i think david one of the most ambitious men i ever knew, because at thirty he has discovered this truth, and taken it to heart. many men can be what the world calls great: very few men are what god calls good. this is the harder task to choose, yet the only success that satisfies, the only honor that outlives death. these faithful lives, whether seen of men or hidden in corners, are the salvation of the world, and few of us fail to acknowledge it in the hours when we are brought close to the heart of things, and see a little as god sees." christie did not speak for a moment: mr. power's voice had been so grave, and his words so earnest that she could not answer lightly, but sat turning over the new thoughts in her mind. presently she said, in a penitent but not quite satisfied tone: "of course you are right, sir. i'll try not to care for the outward and visible signs of these hidden virtues; but i'm afraid i still shall have a hankering for the worldly honors that are so valued by most people." "'success and glory are the children of hard work and god's favor,' according to Ã�schylus, and you will find he was right. david got a heavy blow some years ago as i told you, i think; and he took it hard, but it did not spoil him: it made a man of him; and, if i am not much mistaken, he will yet do something to be proud of, though the world may never hear of it." "i hope so!" and christie's face brightened at the thought. "nevertheless you look as if you doubted it, o you of little faith. every one has two sides to his nature: david has shown you the least interesting one, and you judge accordingly. i think he will show you the other side some day,--for you are one of the women who win confidence without trying,--and then you will know the real david. don't expect too much, or quarrel with the imperfections that make him human; but take him for what he is worth, and help him if you can to make his life a brave and good one." "i will, sir," answered christie so meekly that mr. power laughed; for this confessional in the strawberry bed amused him very much. "you are a hero-worshipper, my dear; and if people don't come up to the mark you are so disappointed that you fail to see the fine reality which remains when the pretty romance ends. saints walk about the world today as much as ever, but instead of haircloth and halos they now wear"-- "broadcloth and wide-brimmed hats," added christie, looking up as if she had already found a better st. thomas than any the church ever canonized. he thanked her with a smile, and went on with a glance toward the meadow. "and knights go crusading as gallantly as ever against the giants and the dragons, though you don't discover it, because, instead of banner, lance, and shield they carry"-- "bushel-baskets, spades, and sweet-flag for their mothers," put in christie again, as david came up the path with the loam he had been digging. both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment without knowing why, as he put down his load, took off his hat, and shook hands with his honored guest. "what's the joke?" he asked, refreshing himself with the handful of berries christie offered him. "don't tell," she whispered, looking dismayed at the idea of letting him know what she had said of him. but mr. power answered tranquilly: "we were talking about coins, and christie was expressing her opinion of one i showed her. the face and date she understands; but the motto puzzles her, and she has not seen the reverse side yet, so does not know its value. she will some day; and then she will agree with me, i think, that it is sterling gold." the emphasis on the last words enlightened david: his sunburnt cheek reddened, but he only shook his head, saying: "she will find a brass farthing i'm afraid, sir," and began to crumble a handful of loam about the roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up by chance at the foot of the apple-tree. "how did that get there?" asked christie, with sudden interest in the flower. "it dropped when i was setting out the others, took root, and looked so pretty and comfortable that i left it. these waifs sometimes do better than the most carefully tended ones: i only dig round them a bit and leave them to sun and air." mr. power looked at christie with so much meaning in his face that it was her turn to color now. but with feminine perversity she would not own herself mistaken, and answered with eyes as full of meaning as his own: "i like the single ones best: double-carnations are so untidy, all bursting out of the calyx as if the petals had quarrelled and could not live together." "the single ones are seldom perfect, and look poor and incomplete with little scent or beauty," said unconscious david propping up the thin-leaved flower, that looked like a pale solitary maiden, beside the great crimson and white carnations near by, filling the air with spicy odor. "i suspect you will change your mind by and by, christie, as your taste improves, and you will learn to think the double ones the handsomest," added mr. power, wondering in his benevolent heart if he would ever be the gardener to mix the colors of the two human plants before him. "i must go," and david shouldered his basket as if he felt he might be in the way. "so must i, or they will be waiting for me at the hospital. give me a handful of flowers, david: they often do the poor souls more good than my prayers or preaching." then they went away, and left christie sitting in the strawberry bed, thinking that david looked less than ever like a hero with his blue shirt, rough straw hat, and big boots; also wondering if he would ever show her his best side, and if she would like it when she saw it. chapter xii. christie's gala. on the fourth of september, christie woke up, saying to herself: "it is my birthday, but no one knows it, so i shall get no presents. ah, well, i'm too old for that now, i suppose;" but she sighed as she said it, for well she knew one never is too old to be remembered and beloved. just then the door opened, and mrs. sterling entered, carrying what looked very like a pile of snow-flakes in her arms. laying this upon the bed, she kissed christie, saying with a tone and gesture that made the words a benediction: "a happy birthday, and god bless thee, my daughter!" before christie could do more than hug both gift and giver, a great bouquet came flying in at the open window, aimed with such skill that it fell upon the bed, while david's voice called out from below: "a happy birthday, christie, and many of them!" "how sweet, how kind of you, this is! i didn't dream you knew about to-day, and never thought of such a beautiful surprise," cried christie, touched and charmed by this unexpected celebration. "thee mentioned it once long ago, and we remembered. they are very humble gifts, my dear; but we could not let the day pass without some token of the thanks we owe thee for these months of faithful service and affectionate companionship." christie had no answer to this little address, and was about to cry as the only adequate expression of her feelings, when a hearty "hear! hear!" from below made her laugh, and call out: "you conspirators! how dare you lay plots, and then exult over me when i can't find words to thank you? i always did think you were a set of angels, and now i'm quite sure of it." "thee may be right about davy, but i am only a prudent old woman, and have taken much pleasure in privately knitting this light wrap to wear when thee sits in the porch, for the evenings will soon grow chilly. my son did not know what to get, and finally decided that flowers would suit thee best; so he made a bunch of those thee loves, and would toss it in as if he was a boy." "i like that way, and both my presents suit me exactly," said christie, wrapping the fleecy shawl about her, and admiring the nosegay in which her quick eye saw all her favorites, even to a plumy spray of the little wild asters which she loved so much. "now, child, i will step down, and see about breakfast. take thy time; for this is to be a holiday, and we mean to make it a happy one if we can." with that the old lady went away, and christie soon followed, looking very fresh and blithe as she ran down smiling behind her great bouquet. david was in the porch, training up the morning-glories that bloomed late and lovely in that sheltered spot. he turned as she approached, held out his hand, and bent a little as if he was moved to add a tenderer greeting. but he did not, only held the hand she gave him for a moment, as he said with the paternal expression unusually visible: "i wished you many happy birthdays; and, if you go on getting younger every year like this, you will surely have them." it was the first compliment he had ever paid her, and she liked it, though she shook her head as if disclaiming it, and answered brightly: "i used to think many years would be burdensome, and just before i came here i felt as if i could not bear another one. but now i like to live, and hope i shall a long, long time." "i'm glad of that; and how do you mean to spend these long years of yours?" asked david, brushing back the lock of hair that was always falling into his eyes, as if he wanted to see more clearly the hopeful face before him. "in doing what your morning-glories do,--climb up as far and as fast as i can before the frost comes," answered christie, looking at the pretty symbols she had chosen. "you have got on a good way already then," began david, smiling at her fancy. "oh no, i haven't!" she said quickly. "i'm only about half way up. see here: i'll tell how it is;" and, pointing to the different parts of the flowery wall, she added in her earnest way: "i've watched these grow, and had many thoughts about them, as i sit sewing in the porch. these variegated ones down low are my childish fancies; most of them gone to seed you see. these lovely blue ones of all shades are my girlish dreams and hopes and plans. poor things! some are dead, some torn by the wind, and only a few pale ones left quite perfect. here you observe they grow sombre with a tinge of purple; that means pain and gloom, and there is where i was when i came here. now they turn from those sad colors to crimson, rose, and soft pink. that's the happiness and health i found here. you and your dear mother planted them, and you see how strong and bright they are." she lifted up her hand, and gathering one of the great rosy cups offered it to him, as if it were brimful of the thanks she could not utter. he comprehended, took it with a quiet "thank you," and stood looking at it for a moment, as if her little compliment pleased him very much. "and these?" he said presently, pointing to the delicate violet bells that grew next the crimson ones. the color deepened a shade in christie's cheek, but she went on with no other sign of shyness; for with david she always spoke out frankly, because she could not help it. "those mean love to me, not passion: the deep red ones half hidden under the leaves mean that. my violet flowers are the best and purest love we can know: the sort that makes life beautiful and lasts for ever. the white ones that come next are tinged with that soft color here and there, and they mean holiness. i know there will be love in heaven; so, whether i ever find it here or not, i am sure i shall not miss it wholly." then, as if glad to leave the theme that never can be touched without reverent emotion by a true woman, she added, looking up to where a few spotless blossoms shone like silver in the light: "far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. i cannot reach them: but i can look up, and see their beauty; believe in them, and try to follow where they lead; remember that frost comes latest to those that bloom the highest; and keep my beautiful white flowers as long as i can." "the mush is ready; come to breakfast, children," called mrs. sterling, as she crossed the hall with a teapot in her hand. christie's face fell, then she exclaimed laughing: "that's always the way; i never take a poetic flight but in comes the mush, and spoils it all." "not a bit; and that's where women are mistaken. souls and bodies should go on together; and you will find that a hearty breakfast won't spoil the little hymn the morning-glories sung;" and david set her a good example by eating two bowls of hasty-pudding and milk, with the lovely flower in his button-hole. "now, what are we to do next?" asked christie, when the usual morning work was finished. "in about ten minutes thee will see, i think," answered mrs. sterling, glancing at the clock, and smiling at the bright expectant look in the younger woman's eyes. she did see; for in less than ten minutes the rumble of an omnibus was heard, a sound of many voices, and then the whole wilkins brood came whooping down the lane. it was good to see ma wilkins jog ponderously after in full state and festival array; her bonnet trembling with bows, red roses all over her gown, and a parasol of uncommon brilliancy brandished joyfully in her hand. it was better still to see her hug christie, when the latter emerged, flushed and breathless, from the chaos of arms, legs, and chubby faces in which she was lost for several tumultuous moments; and it was best of all to see the good woman place her cherished "bunnit" in the middle of the parlor table as a choice and lovely ornament, administer the family pocket-handkerchief all round, and then settle down with a hearty: "wal, now, mis sterlin', you've no idee how tickled we all was when mr. david came, and told us you was goin' to have a galy here to-day. it was so kind of providential, for 'lisha was invited out to a day's pleasuring so i could leave jest as wal as not. the childern's ben hankerin' to come the wust kind, and go plummin' as they did last month, though i told 'em berries was gone weeks ago. i reelly thought i'd never get 'em here whole, they trained so in that bus. wash would go on the step, and kep fallin' off; gusty's hat blew out a winder; them two bad boys tumbled round loose; and dear little victory set like a lady, only i found she'd got both feet in the basket right atop of the birthday cake, i made a puppose for christie." "it hasn't hurt it a bit; there was a cloth over it, and i like it all the better for the marks of totty's little feet, bless 'em!" and christie cuddled the culprit with one hand while she revealed the damaged delicacy with the other, wondering inwardly what evil star was always in the ascendant when mrs. wilkins made cake. "now, my dear, you jest go and have a good frolic with them childern, i'm a goin' to git dinner, and you a goin' to play; so we don't want to see no more of you till the bell rings," said mrs. wilkins pinning up her gown, and "shooing" her brood out of the room, which they entirely filled. catching up her hat christie obeyed, feeling as much like a child as any of the excited six. the revels that followed no pen can justly record, for goths and vandals on the rampage but feebly describes the youthful wilkinses when their spirits effervesced after a month's bottling up in close home quarters. david locked the greenhouse door the instant he saw them; and pervaded the premises generally like a most affable but very watchful policeman, for the ravages those innocents committed much afflicted him. yet he never had the heart to say a word of reproof, when he saw their raptures over dandelions, the relish with which they devoured fruit, and the good it did the little souls and bodies to enjoy unlimited liberty, green grass, and country air, even for a day. christie usually got them into the big meadow as soon as possible, and there let them gambol at will; while she sat on the broken bough of an apple-tree, and watched her flock like an old-fashioned shepherdess. to-day she did so; and when the children were happily sailing boats, tearing to and fro like wild colts, or discovering the rustic treasures nurse nature lays ready to gladden little hearts and hands, christie sat idly making a garland of green brakes, and ruddy sumach leaves ripened before the early frosts had come. a friendly chat. david saw her there, and, feeling that he might come off guard for a time, went strolling down to lean upon the wall, and chat in the friendly fashion that had naturally grown up between these fellow-workers. she was waiting for the new supply of ferns little adelaide was getting for her by the wall; and while she waited she sat resting her cheek upon her hand, and smiling to herself, as if she saw some pleasant picture in the green grass at her feet. "now i wonder what she's thinking about," said david's voice close by, and christie straightway answered: "philip fletcher." "and who is he?" asked david, settling his elbow in a comfortable niche between the mossy stones, so that he could "lean and loaf" at his ease. "the brother of the lady whose children i took care of;" and christie wished she had thought before she answered that first question, for in telling her adventures at diiferent times she had omitted all mention of this gentleman. "tell about him, as the children say: your experiences are always interesting, and you look as if this man was uncommonly entertaining in some way," said david, indolently inclined to be amused. "oh, dear no, not at all entertaining! invalids seldom are, and he was sick and lazy, conceited and very cross sometimes." christie's heart rather smote her as she said this, remembering the last look poor fletcher gave her. "a nice man to be sure; but i don't see any thing to smile about," persisted david, who liked reasons for things; a masculine trait often very trying to feminine minds. "i was thinking of a little quarrel we once had. he found out that i had been an actress; for i basely did not mention that fact when i took the place, and so got properly punished for my deceit. i thought he'd tell his sister of course, so i did it myself, and retired from the situation as much disgusted with christie devon as you are." "perhaps i ought to be, but i don't find that i am. do you know i think that old fletcher was a sneak?" and david looked as if he would rather like to mention his opinion to that gentleman. "he probably thought he was doing his duty to the children: few people would approve of an actress for a teacher you know. he had seen me play, and remembered it all of a sudden, and told me of it: that was the way it came about," said christie hastily, feeling that she must get out of the scrape as soon as possible, or she would be driven to tell every thing in justice to mr. fletcher. "i should like to see you act." "you a quaker, and express such a worldly and dreadful wish?" cried christie, much amused, and very grateful that his thoughts had taken a new direction. "i'm not, and never have been. mother married out of the sect, and, though she keeps many of her old ways, always left me free to believe what i chose. i wear drab because i like it, and say 'thee' to her because she likes it, and it is pleasant to have a little word all our own. i've been to theatres, but i don't care much for them. perhaps i should if i'd had fletcher's luck in seeing you play." "you didn't lose much: i was not a good actress; though now and then when i liked my part i did pretty well they said," answered christie, modestly. "why didn't you go back after the accident?" asked david, who had heard that part of the story. "i felt that it was bad for me, and so retired to private life." "do you ever regret it?" "sometimes when the restless fit is on me: but not so often now as i used to do; for on the whole i'd rather be a woman than act a queen." "good!" said david, and then added persuasively: "but you will play for me some time: won't you? i've a curious desire to see you do it." "perhaps i'll try," replied christie, flattered by his interest, and not unwilling to display her little talent. "who are you making that for? it's very pretty," asked david, who seemed to be in an inquiring frame of mind that day. "any one who wants it. i only do it for the pleasure: i always liked pretty things; but, since i have lived among flowers and natural people, i seem to care more than ever for beauty of all kinds, and love to make it if i can without stopping for any reason but the satisfaction." "'tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, "'then beauty is its own excuse for being,'" observed david, who had a weakness for poetry, and, finding she liked his sort, quoted to christie almost as freely as to himself. "exactly, so look at that and enjoy it," and she pointed to the child standing knee-deep in graceful ferns, looking as if she grew there, a living buttercup, with her buff frock off at one plump shoulder and her bright hair shining in the sun. before david could express his admiration, the little picture was spoilt; for christie called out, "come, vic, bring me some more pretties!" startling baby so that she lost her balance, and disappeared with a muffled cry, leaving nothing to be seen but a pair of small convulsive shoes, soles uppermost, among the brakes. david took a leap, reversed vic, and then let her compose her little feelings by sticking bits of green in all the button-holes of his coat, as he sat on the wall while she stood beside him in the safe shelter of his arm. "you are very like an englishman," said christie, after watching the pair for a few minutes. "how do you know?" asked david, looking surprised. "there were several in our company, and i found them very much alike. blunt and honest, domestic and kind; hard to get at, but true as steel when once won; not so brilliant and original as americans, perhaps, but more solid and steadfast. on the whole, i think them the manliest men in the world," answered christie, in the decided way young people have of expressing their opinions. "you speak as if you had known and studied a great variety of men," said david, feeling that he need not resent the comparison she had made. "i have, and it has done me good. women who stand alone in the world, and have their own way to make, have a better chance to know men truly than those who sit safe at home and only see one side of mankind. we lose something; but i think we gain a great deal that is more valuable than admiration, flattery, and the superficial service most men give to our sex. some one says, 'companionship teaches men and women to know, judge, and treat one another justly.' i believe it; for we who are compelled to be fellow workers with men understand and value them more truly than many a belle who has a dozen lovers sighing at her feet. i see their faults and follies; but i also see so much to honor, love, and trust, that i feel as if the world was full of brothers. yes, as a general rule, men have been kinder to me than women; and if i wanted a staunch friend i'd choose a man, for they wear better than women, who ask too much, and cannot see that friendship lasts longer if a little respect and reserve go with the love and confidence." christie had spoken soberly, with no thought of flattery or effect; for the memory of many kindnesses bestowed on her by many men, from rough joe butterfield to mr. power, gave warmth and emphasis to her words. the man sitting on the wall appreciated the compliment to his sex, and proved that he deserved his share of it by taking it exactly as she meant it, and saying heartily: "i like that, christie, and wish more women thought and spoke as you do." "if they had had my experience they would, and not be ashamed of it. i am so old now i can say these things and not be misjudged; for even some sensible people think this honest sort of fellowship impossible if not improper. i don't, and i never shall, so if i can ever do any thing for you, david, forget that i am a woman and tell me as freely as if i was a younger brother." "i wish you were!" "so do i; you'd make a splendid elder brother." "no, a very bad one." there was a sudden sharpness in david's voice that jarred on christie's ear and made her look up quickly. she only caught a glimpse of his face, and saw that it was strangely troubled, as he swung himself over the wall with little vic on his arm and went toward the house, saying abruptly: "baby 's sleepy: she must go in." christie sat some time longer, wondering what she had said to disturb him, and when the bell rang went in still perplexed. but david looked as usual, and the only trace of disquiet was an occasional hasty shaking back of the troublesome lock, and a slight knitting of the brows; two tokens, as she had learned to know, of impatience or pain. she was soon so absorbed in feeding the children, hungry and clamorous as young birds for their food, that she forgot every thing else. when dinner was done and cleared away, she devoted herself to mrs. wilkins for an hour or two, while mrs. sterling took her nap, the infants played riotously in the lane, and david was busy with orders. the arrival of mr. power drew every one to the porch to welcome him. as he handed christie a book, he asked with a significant smile: "have you found him yet?" she glanced at the title of the new gift, read "heroes and hero-worship," and answered merrily: "no, sir, but i'm looking hard." "success to your search," and mr. power turned to greet david, who approached. "now, what shall we play?" asked christie, as the children gathered about her demanding to be amused. george washington suggested leap-frog, and the others added equally impracticable requests; but mrs. wilkins settled the matter by saying: "let's have some play-actin', christie. that used to tickle the children amazin'ly, and i was never tired of hearin' them pieces, specially the solemn ones." "yes, yes! do the funny girl with the baby, and the old woman, and the lady that took pison and had fits!" shouted the children, charmed with the idea. christie felt ready for any thing just then, and gave them tilly slowboy, miss miggs, and mrs. gummage, in her best style, while the young folks rolled on the grass in ecstasies, and mrs. wilkins laughed till she cried. "now a touch of tragedy!" said mr. power, who sat under the elm, with david leaning on the back of his chair, both applauding heartily. "you insatiable people! do you expect me to give you low comedy and heavy tragedy all alone? i'm equal to melodrama i think, and i'll give you miss st. clair as juliet, if you wait a moment." christie stepped into the house, and soon reappeared with a white table-cloth draped about her, two dishevelled locks of hair on her shoulders, and the vinegar cruet in her hand, that being the first bottle she could find. she meant to burlesque the poison scene, and began in the usual ranting way; but she soon forgot st. clair in poor juliet, and did it as she had often longed to do it, with all the power and passion she possessed. very faulty was her rendering, but the earnestness she put into it made it most effective to her uncritical audience, who "brought down the house," when she fell upon the grass with her best stage drop, and lay there getting her breath after the mouthful of vinegar she had taken in the excitement of the moment. she was up again directly, and, inspired by this superb success, ran in and presently reappeared as lady macbeth with mrs. wilkins's scarlet shawl for royal robes, and the leafy chaplet of the morning for a crown. she took the stage with some difficulty, for the unevenness of the turf impaired the majesty of her tragic stride, and fixing her eyes on an invisible thane (who cut his part shamefully, and spoke in the gruffest of gruff voices) she gave them the dagger scene. david as the orchestra, had been performing a drum solo on the back of a chair with two of the corn-cobs victoria had been building houses with; but, when lady macbeth said, "give me the daggers," christie plucked the cobs suddenly from his hands, looking so fiercely scornful, and lowering upon him so wrathfully with her corked brows that he ejaculated an involuntary, "bless me!" as he stepped back quite daunted. being in the spirit of her part, christie closed with the sleep-walking scene, using the table-cloth again, while a towel composed the tragic nightcap of her ladyship. this was an imitation, and having a fine model and being a good mimic, she did well; for the children sat staring with round eyes, the gentlemen watched the woful face and gestures intently, and mrs. wilkins took a long breath at the end, exclaiming: "i never did see the beat of that for gastliness! my sister clarissy used to walk in her sleep, but she warn't half so kind of dreadful." "if she had had the murder of a few friends on her conscience, i dare say she would have been," said christie, going in to make herself tidy. "well, how do you like her as an actress?" asked mr. power of david, who stood looking, as if he still saw and heard the haunted lady. "very much; but better as a woman. i'd no idea she had it in her," answered david, in a wonder-stricken tone. "plenty of tragedy and comedy in all of us," began mr. power; but david said hastily: "yes, but few of us have passion and imagination enough to act shakspeare in that way." "very true: christie herself could not give a whole character in that style, and would not think of trying." "i think she could; and i'd like to see her try it," said david, much impressed by the dramatic ability which christie's usual quietude had most effectually hidden. he was still thinking about it, when she came out again. mr. power beckoned to her; saying, as she came and stood before him, flushed and kindled with her efforts: "now, you must give me a bit from the 'merchant of venice.' portia is a favorite character of mine, and i want to see if you can do any thing with it." "no, sir, i cannot. i used to study it, but it was too sober to suit me. i am not a judicial woman, so i gave it up," answered christie, much flattered by his request, and amused at the respectful way in which david looked at her. then, as if it just occurred to her, she added, "i remember one little speech that i can say to you, sir, with great truth, and i will, since you like that play." still standing before him, she bent her head a little, and with a graceful gesture of the hands, as if offering something, she delivered with heartfelt emphasis the first part of portia's pretty speech to her fortunate suitor: "you see me, lord bassanio, where i stand, such as i am: though, for myself alone, i would not be ambitious in my wish, to wish myself much better; yet for you, i would be trebled twenty times myself; a thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich; that, only to stand high in your account, i might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, exceed account: but the full sum of me is sum of something; which, to term in gross, is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd:-- happy in this, she is not yet so old but she may learn; happier than this, she is not bred so dull but she can learn; happiest of all, is that her willing spirit commits itself to yours to be directed, as from her lord, her governor, her king." david applauded vigorously; but mr. power rose silently, looking both touched and surprised; and, drawing christie's hand through his arm, led her away into the garden for one of the quiet talks that were so much to her. when they returned, the wilkinses were preparing to depart; and, after repeated leave-takings, finally got under way, were packed into the omnibus, and rumbled off with hats, hands, and handkerchiefs waving from every window. mr. power soon followed, and peace returned to the little house in the lane. later in the evening, when mrs. sterling was engaged with a neighbor, who had come to confide some affliction to the good lady, christie went into the porch, and found david sitting on the step, enjoying the mellow moonlight and the balmy air. as he did not speak, she sat down silently, folded her hands in her lap, and began to enjoy the beauty of the night in her own way. presently she became conscious that david's eyes had turned from the moon to her own face. he sat in the shade, she in the light, and he was looking at her with the new expression which amused her. "well, what is it? you look as if you never saw me before," she said, smiling. "i feel as if i never had," he answered, still regarding her as if she had been a picture. "what do i look like?" "a peaceful, pious nun, just now." "oh! that is owing to my pretty shawl. i put it on in honor of the day, though it is a trifle warm, i confess." and christie stroked the soft folds about her shoulders, and settled the corner that lay lightly on her hair. "i do feel peaceful to-night, but not pious. i am afraid i never shall do that," she added soberly. "why not?" "well, it does not seem to be my nature, and i don't know how to change it. i want something to keep me steady, but i can't find it. so i whiffle about this way and that, and sometimes think i am a most degenerate creature." "that is only human nature, so don't be troubled. we are all compasses pointing due north. we get shaken often, and the needle varies in spite of us; but the minute we are quiet, it points right, and we have only to follow it." "the keeping quiet is just what i cannot do. your mother shows me how lovely it is, and i try to imitate it; but this restless soul of mine will ask questions and doubt and fear, and worry me in many ways. what shall i do to keep it still?" asked christie, smiling, yet earnest. "let it alone: you cannot force these things, and the best way is to wait till the attraction is strong enough to keep the needle steady. some people get their ballast slowly, some don't need much, and some have to work hard for theirs." "did you?" asked christie; for david's voice fell a little, as he uttered the last words. "i have not got much yet." "i think you have. why, david, you are always cheerful and contented, good and generous. if that is not true piety, what is?" "you are very much deceived, and i am sorry for it," said david, with the impatient gesture of the head, and a troubled look. "prove it!" and christie looked at him with such sincere respect and regard, that his honest nature would not let him accept it, though it gratified him much. he made no answer for a minute. then he said slowly, as if feeling a modest man's hesitation to speak of himself, yet urged to it by some irresistible impulse: "i will prove it if you won't mind the unavoidable egotism; for i cannot let you think me so much better than i am. outwardly i seem to you 'cheerful, contented, generous, and good.' in reality i am sad, dissatisfied, bad, and selfish: see if i'm not. i often tire of this quiet life, hate my work, and long to break away, and follow my own wild and wilful impulses, no matter where they lead. nothing keeps me at such times but my mother and god's patience." david began quietly; but the latter part of this confession was made with a sudden impetuosity that startled christie, so utterly unlike his usual self-control was it. she could only look at him with the surprise she felt. his face was in the shadow; but she saw that it was flushed, his eyes excited, and in his voice she heard an undertone that made it sternly self-accusing. "i am not a hypocrite," he went on rapidly, as if driven to speak in spite of himself. "i try to be what i seem, but it is too hard sometimes and i despair. especially hard is it to feel that i have learned to feign happiness so well that others are entirely deceived. mr. power and mother know me as i am: other friends i have not, unless you will let me call you one. whether you do or not after this, i respect you too much to let you delude yourself about my virtues, so i tell you the truth and abide the consequences." he looked up at her as he paused, with a curious mixture of pride and humility in his face, and squared his broad shoulders as if he had thrown off a burden that had much oppressed him. christie offered him her hand, saying in a tone that did his heart good: "the consequences are that i respect, admire, and trust you more than ever, and feel proud to be your friend." david gave the hand a strong and grateful pressure, said, "thank you," in a moved tone, and then leaned back into the shadow, as if trying to recover from this unusual burst of confidence, won from him by the soft magic of time, place, and companionship. fearing he would regret the glimpse he had given her, and anxious to show how much she liked it, christie talked on to give him time to regain composure. "i always thought in reading the lives of saints or good men of any time, that their struggles were the most interesting and helpful things recorded. human imperfection only seems to make real piety more possible, and to me more beautiful; for where others have conquered i can conquer, having suffered as they suffer, and seen their hard-won success. that is the sort of religion i want; something to hold by, live in, and enjoy, if i can only get it." "i know you will." he said it heartily, and seemed quite calm again; so christie obeyed the instinct which told her that questions would be good for david, and that he was in the mood for answering them. "may i ask you something," she began a little timidly. "any thing, christie," he answered instantly. "that is a rash promise: i am a woman, and therefore curious; what shall you do if i take advantage of the privilege?" "try and see." "i will be discreet, and only ask one thing," she replied, charmed with her success. "you said just now that you had learned to feign happiness. i wish you would tell me how you do it, for it is such an excellent imitation i shall be quite content with it till i can learn the genuine thing." david fingered the troublesome forelock thoughtfully for a moment, then said, with something of the former impetuosity coming back into his voice and manner: "i will tell you all about it; that's the best way: i know i shall some day because i can't help it; so i may as well have done with it now, since i have begun. it is not interesting, mind you,--only a grim little history of one man's fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil: will you have it?" "oh, yes!" answered christie, so eagerly that david laughed, in spite of the bitter memories stirring at his heart. "so like a woman, always ready to hear and forgive sinners," he said, then took a long breath, and added rapidly: "i'll put it in as few words as possible and much good may it do you. some years ago i was desperately miserable; never mind why: i dare say i shall tell you all about it some day if i go on at this rate. well, being miserable, as i say, every thing looked black and bad to me: i hated all men, distrusted all women, doubted the existence of god, and was a forlorn wretch generally. why i did not go to the devil i can't say: i did start once or twice; but the thought of that dear old woman in there sitting all alone and waiting for me dragged me back, and kept me here till the first recklessness was over. people talk about duty being sweet; i have not found it so, but there it was: i should have been a brute to shirk it; so i took it up, and held on desperately till it grew bearable." "it has grovn sweet now, david, i am sure," said christie, very low. "no, not yet," he answered with the stern honesty that would not let him deceive himself or others, cost what it might to be true. "there is a certain solid satisfaction in it that i did not use to find. it is not a mere dogged persistence now, as it once was, and that is a step towards loving it perhaps." he spoke half to himself, and sat leaning his head on both hands propped on his knees, looking down as if the weight of the old trouble bent his shoulders again. "what more, david?" said christie. "only this. when i found i had got to live, and live manfully, i said to myself, 'i must have help or i cannot do it.' to no living soul could i tell my grief, not even to my mother, for she had her own to bear: no human being could help me, yet i must have help or give up shamefully. then i did what others do when all else fails to sustain them; i turned to god: not humbly, not devoutly or trustfully, but doubtfully, bitterly, and rebelliously; for i said in my despairing heart, 'if there is a god, let him help me, and i will believe.' he did help me, and i kept my word." "oh, david, how?" whispered christie after a moment's silence, for the last words were solemn in their earnestness. "the help did not come at once. no miracle answered me, and i thought my cry had not been heard. but it had, and slowly something like submission came to me. it was not cheerful nor pious: it was only a dumb, sad sort of patience without hope or faith. it was better than desperation; so i accepted it, and bore the inevitable as well as i could. presently, courage seemed to spring up again: i was ashamed to be beaten in the first battle, and some sort of blind instinct made me long to break away from the past and begin again. my father was dead; mother left all to me, and followed where i led. i sold the old place, bought this, and, shutting out the world as much as i could, i fell to work as if my life depended on it. that was five or six years ago: and for a long time i delved away without interest or pleasure, merely as a safety-valve for my energies, and a means of living; for i gave up all my earlier hopes and plans when the trouble came. "i did not love my work; but it was good for me, and helped cure my sick soul. i never guessed why i felt better, but dug on with indifference first, then felt pride in my garden, then interest in the plants i tended, and by and by i saw what they had done for me, and loved them like true friends." a broad woodbine leaf had been fluttering against david's head, as he leaned on the slender pillar of the porch where it grew. now, as if involuntarily, he laid his cheek against it with a caressing gesture, and sat looking over the garden lying dewy and still in the moonlight, with the grateful look of a man who has learned the healing miracles of nature and how near she is to god. "mr. power helped you: didn't he?" said christie, longing to hear more. "so much! i never can tell you what he was to me, nor how i thank him. to him, and to my work i owe the little i have won in the way of strength and comfort after years of effort. i see now the compensation that comes out of trouble, the lovely possibilities that exist for all of us, and the infinite patience of god, which is to me one of the greatest of his divine attributes. i have only got so far, but things grow easier as one goes on; and if i keep tugging i may yet be the cheerful, contented man i seem. that is all, christie, and a longer story than i meant to tell." "not long enough: some time you will tell me more perhaps, since you have once begun. it seems quite natural now, and i am so pleased and honored by your confidence. but i cannot help wondering what made you do it all at once," said christie presently, after they had listened to a whippoorwill, and watched the flight of a downy owl. "i do not think i quite know myself, unless it was because i have been on my good behavior since you came, and, being a humbug, as i tell you, was forced to unmask in spite of myself. there are limits to human endurance, and the proudest man longs to unpack his woes before a sympathizing friend now and then. i have been longing to do this for some time; but i never like to disturb mother's peace, or take mr. power from those who need him more. so to-day, when you so sweetly offered to help me if you could, it quite went to my heart, and seemed so friendly and comfortable, i could not resist trying it tonight, when you began about my imaginary virtues. that is the truth, i believe: now, what shall we do about it?" "just go on, and do it again whenever you feel like it. i know what loneliness is, and how telling worries often cures them. i meant every word i said this morning, and will prove it by doing any thing in the world i can for you. believe this, and let me be your friend." they had risen, as a stir within told them the guest was going; and as christie spoke she was looking up with the moonlight full upon her face. if there had been any hidden purpose in her mind, any false sentiment, or trace of coquetry in her manner, it would have spoiled that hearty little speech of hers. but in her heart was nothing but a sincere desire to prove gratitude and offer sympathy; in her manner the gentle frankness of a woman speaking to a brother; and in her face the earnestness of one who felt the value of friendship, and did not ask or give it lightly. "i will," was david's emphatic answer, and then, as if to seal the bargain, he stooped down, and gravely kissed her on the forehead. christie was a little startled, but neither offended nor confused; for there was no love in that quiet kiss,--only respect, affection, and much gratitude; an involuntary demonstration from the lonely man to the true-hearted woman who had dared to come and comfort him. out trotted neighbor miller, and that was the end of confidences in the porch; but david played melodiously on his flute that night, and christie fell asleep saying happily to herself: "now we are all right, friends for ever, and every thing will go beautifully." chapter xiii. waking up. every thing did "go beautifully" for a time; so much so, that christie began to think she really had "got religion." a delightful peace pervaded her soul, a new interest made the dullest task agreeable, and life grew so inexpressibly sweet that she felt as if she could forgive all her enemies, love her friends more than ever, and do any thing great, good, or glorious. she had known such moods before, but they had never lasted long, and were not so intense as this; therefore, she was sure some blessed power had come to uphold and cheer her. she sang like a lark as she swept and dusted; thought high and happy thoughts among the pots and kettles, and, when she sat sewing, smiled unconsciously as if some deep satisfaction made sunshine from within. heart and soul seemed to wake up and rejoice as naturally and beautifully as flowers in the spring. a soft brightness shone in her eyes, a fuller tone sounded in her voice, and her face grew young and blooming with the happiness that transfigures all it touches. "christie 's growing handsome," david would say to his mother, as if she was a flower in which he took pride. "thee is a good gardener, davy," the old lady would reply, and when he was busy would watch him with a tender sort of anxiety, as if to discover a like change in him. but no alteration appeared, except more cheerfulness and less silence; for now there was no need to hide his real self, and all the social virtues in him came out delightfully after their long solitude. in her present uplifted state, christie could no more help regarding david as a martyr and admiring him for it, than she could help mixing sentiment with her sympathy. by the light of the late confessions, his life and character looked very different to her now. his apparent contentment was resignation; his cheerfulness, a manly contempt for complaint; his reserve, the modest reticence of one who, having done a hard duty well, desires no praise for it. like all enthusiastic persons, christie had a hearty admiration for self-sacrifice and self-control; and, while she learned to see david's virtues, she also exaggerated them, and could not do enough to show the daily increasing esteem and respect she felt for him, and to atone for the injustice she once did him. she grubbed in the garden and green-house, and learned hard botanical names that she might be able to talk intelligently upon subjects that interested her comrade. then, as autumn ended out-of-door work, she tried to make home more comfortable and attractive than ever. david's room was her especial care; for now to her there was something pathetic in the place and its poor furnishing. he had fought many a silent battle there; won many a secret victory; and tried to cheer his solitude with the best thoughts the minds of the bravest, wisest men could give him. she did not smile at the dilapidated idols now, but touched them tenderly, and let no dust obscure their well-beloved faces. she set the books in order daily, taking many a sip of refreshment from them by the way, and respectfully regarded those in unknown tongues, full of admiration for david's learning. she covered the irruptive sofa neatly; saw that the little vase was always clear and freshly filled; cared for the nursery in the gable-window; and preserved an exquisite neatness everywhere, which delighted the soul of the room's order-loving occupant. she also--alas, for romance!--cooked the dishes david loved, and liked to see him enjoy them with the appetite which once had shocked her so. she watched over his buttons with a vigilance that would have softened the heart of the crustiest bachelor: she even gave herself the complexion of a lemon by wearing blue, because david liked the pretty contrast with his mother's drabs. after recording that last fact, it is unnecessary to explain what was the matter with christie. she honestly thought she had got religion; but it was piety's twin-sister, who produced this wonderful revival in her soul; and though she began in all good faith she presently discovered that she was "not the first maiden who came but for friendship, and took away love." after the birthnight confessions, david found it easier to go on with the humdrum life he had chosen from a sense of duty; for now he felt as if he had not only a fellow-worker, but a comrade and friend who understood, sympathized with, and encouraged him by an interest and good-will inexpressibly comfortable and inspiring. nothing disturbed the charm of the new league in those early days; for christie was thoroughly simple and sincere, and did her womanly work with no thought of reward or love or admiration. david saw this, and felt it more attractive than any gift of beauty or fascination of manner would have been. he had no desire to be a lover, having forbidden himself that hope; but he found it so easy and pleasant to be a friend that he reproached himself for not trying it before; and explained his neglect by the fact that christie was not an ordinary woman, since none of all the many he had known and helped, had ever been any thing to him but objects of pity and protection. mrs. sterling saw these changes with her wise, motherly eyes, but said nothing; for she influenced others by the silent power of character. speaking little, and unusually gifted with the meditative habits of age, she seemed to live in a more peaceful world than this. as george macdonald somewhere says, "her soul seemed to sit apart in a sunny little room, safe from dust and noise, serenely regarding passers-by through the clear muslin curtains of her window." yet, she was neither cold nor careless, stern nor selfish, but ready to share all the joys and sorrows of those about her; and when advice was asked she gave it gladly. christie had won her heart long ago, and now was as devoted as a daughter to her; lightening her cares so skilfully that many of them slipped naturally on to the young shoulders, and left the old lady much time for rest, or the lighter tasks fitted for feeble hands. christie often called her "mother," and felt herself rewarded for the hardest, humblest job she ever did when the sweet old voice said gratefully, "i thank thee, daughter." things were in this prosperous, not to say paradisiacal, state, when one member of the family began to make discoveries of an alarming nature. the first was that the sunday pilgrimages to church were seasons of great refreshment to soul and body when david went also, and utter failures if he did not. next, that the restless ambitions of all sorts were quite gone; for now christie's mission seemed to be sitting in a quiet corner and making shirts in the most exquisite manner, while thinking about--well, say botany, or any kindred subject. thirdly, that home was woman's sphere after all, and the perfect roasting of beef, brewing of tea, and concocting of delectable puddings, an end worth living for if masculine commendation rewarded the labor. fourthly, and worst of all, she discovered that she was not satisfied with half confidences, and quite pined to know all about "david's trouble." the little needle-book with the faded "letty" on it haunted her; and when, after a pleasant evening below, she heard him pace his room for hours, or play melancholy airs upon the flute, she was jealous of that unknown woman who had such power to disturb his peace, and felt a strong desire to smash the musical confidante into whose responsive breast he poured his woe. at this point christie paused; and, after evading any explanation of these phenomena in the most skilful manner for a time, suddenly faced the fact, saying to herself with great candor and decision: "i know what all this means: i'm beginning to like david more than is good for me. i see this clearly, and won't dodge any longer, but put a stop to it at once. of course i can if i choose, and now is the time to do it; for i understand myself perfectly, and if i reach a certain point it is all over with me. that point i will not reach: david's heart is in that letty's grave, and he only cares for me as a friend. i promised to be one to him, and i'll keep my word like an honest woman. it may not be easy; but all the sacrifices shall not be his, and i won't be a fool." with praiseworthy resolution christie set about the reformation without delay; not an easy task and one that taxed all her wit and wisdom to execute without betraying the motive for it. she decided that mrs. sterling must not be left alone on sunday, so the young people took turns to go to church, and such dismal trips christie had never known; for all her sundays were bad weather, and mr. power seemed to hit on unusually uninteresting texts. she talked while she sewed instead of indulging in dangerous thoughts, and mrs. sterling was surprised and entertained by this new loquacity. in the evening she read and studied with a diligence that amazed and rather disgusted david; since she kept all her lively chat for his mother, and pored over her books when he wanted her for other things. "i'm trying to brighten up my wits," she said, and went on trying to stifle her affections. but though "the absurdity," as she called the new revelation, was stopped externally, it continued with redoubled vigor internally. each night she said, "this must be conquered," yet each morning it rose fair and strong to make the light and beauty of her day, and conquer her again. she did her best and bravest, but was forced at last to own that she could not "put a stop to it," because she had already reached the point where "it was all over with her." just at this critical moment an event occurred which completed christie's defeat, and made her feel that her only safety lay in flight. one evening she sat studying ferns, and heroically saying over and over, "andiantum, aspidium, and asplenium, trichomanes," while longing to go and talk delightfully to david, who sat musing by the fire. "i can't go on so much longer," she thought despairingly. "polypodium aureum, a native of florida," is all very interesting in its place; but it doesn't help me to gain self-control a bit, and i shall disgrace myself if something doesn't happen very soon." something did happen almost instantly; for as she shut the cover sharply on the poor polypods, a knock was heard, and before david could answer it the door flew open and a girl ran in. straight to him she went, and clinging to his arm said excitedly: "oh, do take care of me: i 've run away again!" "why, kitty, what's the matter now?" asked david, putting back her hood, and looking down at her with the paternal expression christie had not seen for a long time, and missed very much. "father found me, and took me home, and wanted me to marry a dreadful man, and i wouldn't, so i ran away to you. he didn't know i came here before, and i'm safe if you'll let me stay," cried kitty, still clinging and imploring. "of course i will, and glad to see you back again," answered david, adding pitifully, as he put her in his easy-chair, took her cloak and hood off and stood stroking her curly hair: "poor little girl! it is hard to have to run away so much: isn't it?" "not if i come here; it's so pleasant i'd like to stay all my life," and kitty took a long breath, as if her troubles were over now. "who's that?" she asked suddenly, as her eye fell on christie, who sat watching her with interest: "that is our good friend miss devon. she came to take your place, and we got so fond of her we could not let her go," answered david with a gesture of introduction, quite unconscious that his position just then was about as safe and pleasant as that of a man between a lighted candle and an open powder barrel. the two young women nodded to each other, took a swift survey, and made up their minds before david had poked the fire. christie saw a pretty face with rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and brown rings of hair lying on the smooth, low forehead; a young face, but not childlike, for it was conscious of its own prettiness, and betrayed the fact by little airs and graces that reminded one of a coquettish kitten. short and slender, she looked more youthful than she was; while a gay dress, with gilt ear-rings, locket at the throat, and a cherry ribbon in her hair made her a bright little figure in that plain room. christie suddenly felt as if ten years had been added to her age, as she eyed the new-comer, who leaned back in the great chair talking to david, who stood on the rug, evidently finding it pleasanter to look at the vivacious face before him than at the fire. "just the pretty, lively sort of girl sensible men often marry, and then discover how silly they are," thought christie, taking up her work and assuming an indifferent air. "she's a lady and nice looking, but i know i shan't like her," was kitty's decision, as she turned away and devoted herself to david, hoping he would perceive how much she had improved and admire her accordingly. "so you don't want to marry this miles because he is not handsome. you'd better think again before you make up your mind. he is respectable, well off, and fond of you, it seems. why not try it, kitty? you need some one to take care of you sadly," david said, when her story had been told. "if father plagues me much i may take the man; but i'd rather have the other one if he wasn't poor," answered kitty with a side-long glance of the blue eyes, and a conscious smile on the red lips. "oh, there's another lover, is there?" "lots of 'em." david laughed and looked at christie as if inviting her to be amused with the freaks and prattle of a child. but christie sewed away without a sign of interest. "that won't do, kitty: you are too young for much of such nonsense. i shall keep you here a while, and see if we can't settle matters both wisely and pleasantly," he said, shaking his head as sagely as a grandfather. "i'm sure i wish you would: i love to stay here, you are always so good to me. i'm in no hurry to be married; and you won't make me: will you?" kitty rose as she spoke, and stood before him with a beseeching little gesture, and a confiding air quite captivating to behold. christie was suddenly seized with a strong desire to shake the girl and call her an "artful little hussy," but crushed this unaccountable impulse, and hemmed a pocket-handkerchief with reckless rapidity, while she stole covert glances at the tableau by the fire. david put his finger under kitty's round chin, and lifting her face looked into it, trying to discover if she really cared for this suitor who seemed so providentially provided for her. kitty smiled and blushed, and dimpled under that grave look so prettily that it soon changed, and david let her go, saying indulgently: "you shall not be troubled, for you are only a child after all. let the lovers go, and stay and play with me, for i've been rather lonely lately." "that's a reproach for me," thought christie, longing to cry out: "no, no; send the girl away and let me be all in all to you." but she only turned up the lamp and pretended to be looking for a spool, while her heart ached and her eyes were too dim for seeing. "i'm too old to play, but i'll stay and tease you as i used to, if miles don't come and carry me off as he said he would," answered kitty, with a toss of the head which showed she was not so childlike as david fancied. but the next minute she was sitting on a stool at his feet petting the cat, while she told her adventures with girlish volubility. christie could not bear to sit and look on any longer, so she left the room, saying she would see if mrs. sterling wanted any thing, for the old lady kept her room with a touch of rheumatism. as she shut the door, christie heard kitty say softly: "now we'll be comfortable as we used to be: won't we?" what david answered christie did not stay to hear, but went into the kitchen, and had her first pang of jealousy out alone, while she beat up the buckwheats for breakfast with an energy that made them miracles of lightness on the morrow. when she told mrs. sterling of the new arrival, the placid little lady gave a cluck of regret and said with unusual emphasis: "i'm sorry for it." "why?" asked christie, feeling as if she could embrace the speaker for the words. "she is a giddy little thing, and much care to whoever befriends her." mrs. sterling would say no more, but, as christie bade her good-night, she held her hand, saying with a kiss: "no one will take thy place with me, my daughter." for a week christie suffered constant pin-pricks of jealousy, despising herself all the time, and trying to be friendly with the disturber of her peace. as if prompted by an evil spirit, kitty unconsciously tried and tormented her from morning to night, and no one saw or guessed it unless mrs. sterling's motherly heart divined the truth. david seemed to enjoy the girl's lively chat, her openly expressed affection, and the fresh young face that always brightened when he came. presently, however, christie saw a change in him, and suspected that he had discovered that kitty was a child no longer, but a young girl with her head full of love and lovers. the blue eyes grew shy, the pretty face grew eloquent with blushes now and then, as he looked at it, and the lively tongue faltered sometimes in speaking to him. a thousand little coquetries were played off for his benefit, and frequent appeals for advice in her heart affairs kept tender subjects uppermost in their conversations. at first all this seemed to amuse david as much as if kitty were a small child playing at sweethearts; but soon his manner changed, growing respectful, and a little cool when kitty was most confiding. he no longer laughed about miles, stopped calling her "little girl," and dropped his paternal ways as he had done with christie. by many indescribable but significant signs he showed that he considered kitty a woman now and treated her as such, being all the more scrupulous in the respect he paid her, because she was so unprotected, and so wanting in the natural dignity and refinement which are a woman's best protection. christie admired him for this, but saw in it the beginning of a tenderer feeling than pity, and felt each day that she was one too many now. kitty was puzzled and piqued by these changes, and being a born flirt tried all her powers on david, veiled under guileless girlishness. she was very pretty, very charming, and at times most lovable and sweet when all that was best in her shallow little heart was touched. but it was evident to all that her early acquaintance with the hard and sordid side of life had brushed the bloom from her nature, and filled her mind with thoughts and feelings unfitted to her years. mrs. sterling was very kind to her, but never treated her as she did christie; and though not a word was spoken between them the elder women knew that they quite agreed in their opinion of kitty. she evidently was rather afraid of the old lady, who said so little and saw so much. christie also she shunned without appearing to do so, and when alone with her put on airs that half amused, half irritated the other. "david is my friend, and i don't care for any one else," her manner said as plainly as words; and to him she devoted herself so entirely, and apparently so successfully, that christie made up her mind he had at last begun to forget his letty, and think of filling the void her loss had left. a few words which she accidentally overheard confirmed this idea, and showed her what she must do. as she came quietly in one evening from a stroll in the lane, and stood taking off cloak and hood, she caught a glimpse through the half-open parlor door of david pacing to and fro with a curiously excited expression on his face, and heard mrs. sterling say with unusual warmth: "thee is too hard upon thyself, davy. forget the past and be happy as other men are. thee has atoned for thy fault long ago, so let me see thee at peace before i die, my son." "not yet, mother, not yet. i have no right to hope or ask for any woman's love till i am worthier of it," answered david in a tone that thrilled christie's heart: it was so full of love and longing. here kitty came running in from the green-house with her hands full of flowers, and passing christie, who was fumbling among the cloaks in the passage, she went to show david some new blossom. he had no time to alter the expression of his face for its usual grave serenity: kitty saw the change at once, and spoke of it with her accustomed want of tact. "how handsome you look! what are you thinking about?" she said, gazing up at him with her own eyes bright with wonder, and her cheeks glowing with the delicate carmine of the frosty air. "i am thinking that you look more like a rose than ever," answered david turning her attention from himself by a compliment, and beginning to admire the flowers, still with that flushed and kindled look on his own face. christie crept upstairs, and, sitting in the dark, decided with the firmness of despair to go away, lest she should betray the secret that possessed her, a dead hope now, but still too dear to be concealed. "mr. power told me to come to him when i got tired of this. i'll say i am tired and try something else, no matter what: i can bear any thing, but to stand quietly by and see david marry that empty-hearted girl, who dares to show that she desires to win him. out of sight of all this, i can conquer my love, at least hide it; but if i stay i know i shall betray myself in some bitter minute, and i'd rather die than do that." armed with this resolution, christie went the next day to mr. power, and simply said: "i am not needed at the sterlings any more: can you give me other work to do?" mr. power's keen eye searched her face for a moment, as if to discover the real motive for her wish. but christie had nerved herself to bear that look, and showed no sign of her real trouble, unless the set expression of her lips, and the unnatural steadiness of her eyes betrayed it to that experienced reader of human hearts. whatever he suspected or saw, mr. power kept to himself, and answered in his cordial way: "well, i've been expecting you would tire of that quiet life, and have plenty of work ready for you. one of my good dorcases is tired out and must rest; so you shall take her place and visit my poor, report their needs, and supply them as fast as we can. does that suit you?" "entirely, sir. where shall i live?" asked christie, with an expression of relief that said much. "here for the present. i want a secretary to put my papers in order, write some of my letters, and do a thousand things to help a busy man. my old housekeeper likes you, and will let you take a duster now and then if you don't find enough other work to do. when can you come?" christie answered with a long breath of satisfaction: "to-morrow, if you like." "i do: can you be spared so soon?" "oh, yes! they don't want me now at all, or i would not leave them. kitty can take my place: she needs protection more than i; and there is not room for two." she checked herself there, conscious that a tone of bitterness had crept into her voice. then quite steadily she added: "will you be kind enough to write, and ask mrs. sterling if she can spare me? i shall find it hard to tell her myself, for i fear she may think me ungrateful after all her kindness." "no: she is used to parting with those whom she has helped, and is always glad to set them on their way toward better things. i will write to-morrow, and you can come whenever you will, sure of a welcome, my child." something in the tone of those last words, and the pressure of the strong, kind hand, touched christie's sore heart, and made it impossible for her to hide the truth entirely. she only said: "thank you, sir. i shall be very glad to come;" but her eyes were full, and she held his hand an instant, as if she clung to it sure of succor and support. then she went home so pale and quiet; so helpful, patient, and affectionate, that mrs. sterling watched her anxiously; david looked amazed; and, even self-absorbed kitty saw the change, and was touched by it. on the morrow, mr. power's note came, and christie fled upstairs while it was read and discussed. "if i get through this parting without disgracing myself, i don't care what happens to me afterward," she said; and, in order that she might do so, she assumed a cheerful air, and determined to depart with all the honors of war, if she died in the attempt. so, when mrs. sterling called her down, she went humming into the parlor, smiled as she read the note silently given her, and then said with an effort greater than any she had ever made in her most arduous part on the stage: "yes, i did say to mr. power that i thought i'd better be moving on. i'm a restless creature as you know; and, now that you don't need me, i've a fancy to see more of the world. if you want me back again in the spring, i'll come." "i shall want thee, my dear, but will not say a word to keep thee now, for thee does need a change, and mr. power can give thee work better suited to thy taste than any here. we shall see thee sometimes, and spring will make thee long for the flowers, i hope," was mrs. sterling's answer, as christie gave back the note at the end of her difficult speech. "don't think me ungrateful. i have been very happy here, and never shall forget how motherly kind you have been to me. you will believe this and love me still, though i go away and leave you for a little while?" prayed christie, with a face full of treacherous emotion. mrs. sterling laid her hand on christie's head, as she knelt down impulsively before her, and with a soft solemnity that made the words both an assurance and a blessing, she said: "i believe and love and honor thee, my child. my heart warmed to thee from the first: it has taken thee to itself now; and nothing can ever come between us, unless thee wills it. remember that, and go in peace with an old friend's thanks, and good wishes in return for faithful service, which no money can repay." christie laid her cheek against that wrinkled one, and, for a moment, was held close to that peaceful old heart which felt so tenderly for her, yet never wounded her by a word of pity. infinitely comforting was that little instant of time, when the venerable woman consoled the young one with a touch, and strengthened her by the mute eloquence of sympathy. this made the hardest task of all easier to perform; and, when david met her in the evening, christie was ready to play out her part, feeling that mrs. sterling would help her, if need be. but david took it very quietly; at least, he showed no very poignant regret at her departure, though he lamented it, and hoped it would not be a very long absence. this wounded christie terribly; for all of a sudden a barrier seemed to rise between them, and the old friendliness grew chilled. "he thinks i am ungrateful, and is offended," she said to herself. "well, i can bear coldness better than kindness now, and it will make it easier to go." kitty was pleased at the prospect of reigning alone, and did not disguise her satisfaction; so christie's last day was any thing but pleasant. mr. power would send for her on the morrow, and she busied herself in packing her own possessions, setting every thing in order, and making various little arrangements for mrs. sterling's comfort, as kitty was a heedless creature; willing enough, but very forgetful. in the evening some neighbors came in; so that dangerous time was safely passed, and christie escaped to her own room with her usual quiet good-night all round. "we won't have any sentimental demonstrations; no wailing, or tender adieux. if i'm weak enough to break my heart, no one need know it,--least of all, that little fool," thought christie, grimly, as she burnt up several long-cherished relics of her love. she was up early, and went about her usual work with the sad pleasure with which one performs a task for the last time. lazy little kitty never appeared till the bell rang; and christie was fond of that early hour, busy though it was, for david was always before her with blazing fires; and, while she got breakfast, he came and went with wood and water, milk and marketing; often stopping to talk, and always in his happiest mood. the first snow-fall had made the world wonderfully lovely that morning; and christie stood at the window admiring the bridal look of the earth, as it lay dazzlingly white in the early sunshine. the little parlor was fresh and clean, with no speck of dust anywhere; the fire burned on the bright andirons; the flowers were rejoicing in their morning bath; and the table was set out with dainty care. so homelike, so pleasant, so very dear to her, that christie yearned to stay, yet dared not, and had barely time to steady face and voice, when david came in with the little posies he always had ready for his mother and christie at breakfast time. only a flower by their plates; but it meant much to them: for, in these lives of ours, tender little acts do more to bind hearts together than great, deeds or heroic words; since the first are like the dear daily bread that none can live without; the latter but occasional feasts, beautiful and memorable, but not possible to all. this morning david laid a sprig of sweet-scented balm at his mother's place, two or three rosy daisies at kitty's, and a bunch of christie's favorite violets at hers. she smiled as her eye went from the scentless daisies, so pertly pretty, to her own posy full of perfume, and the half sad, half sweet associations that haunt these blue-eyed flowers. "i wanted pansies for you, but not one would bloom; so i did the next best, since you don't like roses," said david, as christie stood looking at the violets with a thoughtful face, for something in the peculiarly graceful arrangement of the heart-shaped leaves recalled another nosegay to her mind. "i like these very much, because they came to me in the beginning of this, the happiest year of my life;" and scarcely knowing why, except that it was very sweet to talk with david in the early sunshine, she told about the flowers some one had given her at church. as she finished she looked up at him; and, though his face was perfectly grave, his eyes laughed, and with a sudden conviction of the truth, christie exclaimed! "david, i do believe it was you!" "i couldn't help it: you seemed so touched and troubled. i longed to speak to you, but didn't dare, so dropped the flowers and got away as fast as possible. did you think it very rude?" "i thought it the sweetest thing that ever happened to me. that was my first step along a road that you have strewn with flowers ever since. i can't thank you, but i never shall forget it." christie spoke out fervently, and for an instant her heart shone in her face. then she checked herself, and, fearing she had said too much, fell to slicing bread with an energetic rapidity which resulted in a cut finger. dropping the knife, she tried to get her handkerchief, but the blood flowed fast, and the pain of a deep gash made her a little faint. david sprung to help her, tied up the wound, put her in the big chair, held water to her lips, and bathed her temples with a wet napkin; silently, but so tenderly, that it was almost too much for poor christie. for one happy moment her head lay on his arm, and his hand brushed back her hair with a touch that was a caress: she heard his heart beat fast with anxiety; felt his breath on her cheek, and wished that she might die then and there, though a bread-knife was not a romantic weapon, nor a cut finger as interesting as a broken heart. kitty's voice made her start up, and the blissful vision of life, with david in the little house alone, vanished like a bright bubble, leaving the hard reality to be lived out with nothing but a woman's pride to conceal a woman's most passionate pain. "it's nothing: i'm all right now. don't say any thing to worry your mother; i'll put on a bit of court-plaster, and no one will be the wiser," she said, hastily removing all traces of the accident but her own pale face. "one happy moment." "poor christie, it's hard that you should go away with a wound like this on the hand that has done so much for us," said david, as he carefully adjusted the black strip on that forefinger, roughened by many stitches set for him. "i loved to do it," was all christie trusted herself to say. "i know you did; and in your own words i can only answer: 'i don't know how to thank you, but i never shall forget it.'" and david kissed the wounded hand as gratefully and reverently as if its palm was not hardened by the humblest tasks. if he had only known--ah, if he had only known!--how easily he might repay that debt, and heal the deeper wound in christie's heart. as it was, she could only say, "you are too kind," and begin to shovel tea into the pot, as kitty came in, as rosy and fresh as the daisies she put in her hair. "ain't they becoming?" she asked, turning to david for admiration. "no, thank you," he answered absently, looking out over her head, as he stood upon the rug in the attitude which the best men will assume in the bosoms of their families. kitty looked offended, and turned to the mirror for comfort; while christie went on shovelling tea, quite unconscious what she was about till david said gravely: "won't that be rather strong?" "how stupid of me! i always forget that kitty does not drink tea," and christie rectified her mistake with all speed. kitty laughed, and said in her pert little way: "getting up early don't seem to agree with either of you this morning: i wonder what you've been doing?" "your work. suppose you bring in the kettle: christie has hurt her hand." david spoke quietly; but kitty looked as much surprised as if he had boxed her ears, for he had never used that tone to her before. she meekly obeyed; and david added with a smile to christie: "mother is coming down, and you'll have to get more color into your checks if you mean to hide your accident from her." "that is easily done;" and christie rubbed her pale cheeks till they rivalled kitty's in their bloom. "how well you women know how to conceal your wounds," said david, half to himself. "it is an invaluable accomplishment for us sometimes: you forget that i have been an actress," answered christie, with a bitter sort of smile. "i wish i could forget what i have been!" muttered david, turning his back to her and kicking a log that had rolled out of place. in came mrs. sterling, and every one brightened up to meet her. kitty was silent, and wore an injured air which nobody minded; christie was very lively; and david did his best to help her through that last meal, which was a hard one to three out of the four. at noon a carriage came for christie, and she said good-by, as she had drilled herself to say it, cheerfully and steadily. "it is only for a time, else i couldn't let thee go, my dear," said mrs. sterling, with a close embrace. "i shall see you at church, and tuesday evenings, even if you don't find time to come to us, so i shall not say good-by at all;" and david shook hands warmly, as he put her into the carriage. "i'll invite you to my wedding when i make up my mind," said kitty, with feminine malice; for in her eyes christie was an old maid who doubtless envied her her "lots of lovers." "i hope you will be very happy. in the mean time try to save dear mrs. sterling all you can, and let her make you worthy a good husband," was christie's answer to a speech she was too noble to resent by a sharp word, or even a contemptuous look. then she drove away, smiling and waving her hand to the old lady at her window; but the last thing she saw as she left the well-beloved lane, was david going slowly up the path, with kitty close beside him, talking busily. if she had heard the short dialogue between them, the sight would have been less bitter, for kitty said: "she's dreadful good; but i'm glad she's gone: ain't you?" "no." "had you rather have her here than me?" "yes." "then why don't you ask her to come back." "i would if i could!" "i never did see any thing like it; every one is so queer and cross to-day i get snubbed all round. if folks ain't good to me, i'll go and marry miles! i declare i will." "you'd better," and with that david left her frowning and pouting in the porch, and went to shovelling snow with unusual vigor. chapter xiv. which? david. mr. power received christie so hospitably that she felt at home at once, and took up her new duties with the energy of one anxious to repay a favor. her friend knew well the saving power of work, and gave her plenty of it; but it was a sort that at once interested and absorbed her, so that she had little time for dangerous thoughts or vain regrets. as he once said, mr. power made her own troubles seem light by showing her others so terribly real and great that she was ashamed to repine at her own lot. her gift of sympathy served her well, past experience gave her a quick eye to read the truth in others, and the earnest desire to help and comfort made her an excellent almoner for the rich, a welcome friend to the poor. she was in just the right mood to give herself gladly to any sort of sacrifice, and labored with a quiet energy, painful to witness had any one known the hidden suffering that would not let her rest. if she had been a regular novel heroine at this crisis, she would have grown gray in a single night, had a dangerous illness, gone mad, or at least taken to pervading the house at unseasonable hours with her back hair down and much wringing of the hands. being only a commonplace woman she did nothing so romantic, but instinctively tried to sustain and comfort herself with the humble, wholesome duties and affections which seldom fail to keep heads sane and hearts safe. yet, though her days seemed to pass so busily and cheerfully, it must be confessed that there were lonely vigils in the night; and sometimes in the morning christie's eyes were very heavy, christie's pillow wet with tears. but life never is all work or sorrow; and happy hours, helpful pleasures, are mercifully given like wayside springs to pilgrims trudging wearily along. mr. power showed christie many such, and silently provided her with better consolation than pity or advice. "deeds not words," was his motto; and he lived it out most faithfully. "books and work" he gave his new charge; and then followed up that prescription with "healthful play" of a sort she liked, and had longed for all her life. sitting at his table christie saw the best and bravest men and women of our times; for mr. power was a magnet that drew them from all parts of the world. she saw and heard, admired and loved them; felt her soul kindle with the desire to follow in their steps, share their great tasks, know their difficulties and dangers, and in the end taste the immortal satisfactions given to those who live and labor for their fellow-men. in such society all other aims seemed poor and petty; for they appeared to live in a nobler world than any she had known, and she felt as if they belonged to another race; not men nor angels, but a delightful mixture of the two; more as she imagined the gods and heroes of old; not perfect, but wonderfully strong and brave and good; each gifted with a separate virtue, and each bent on a mission that should benefit mankind. nor was this the only pleasure given her. one evening of each week was set apart by mr. power for the reception of whomsoever chose to visit him; for his parish was a large one, and his house a safe haunt for refugees from all countries, all oppressions. christie enjoyed these evenings heartily, for there was no ceremony; each comer brought his mission, idea, or need, and genuine hospitality made the visit profitable or memorable to all, for entire freedom prevailed, and there was stabling for every one's hobby. christie felt that she was now receiving the best culture, acquiring the polish that society gives, and makes truly admirable when character adds warmth and power to its charm. the presence of her bosom-care calmed the old unrest, softened her manners, and at times touched her face with an expression more beautiful than beauty. she was quite unconscious of the changes passing over her; and if any one had told her she was fast becoming a most attractive woman, she would have been utterly incredulous. but others saw and felt the new charm; for no deep experience bravely borne can fail to leave its mark, often giving power in return for patience, and lending a subtle loveliness to faces whose bloom it has destroyed. this fact was made apparent to christie one evening when she went down to the weekly gathering in one of the melancholy moods which sometimes oppressed her. she felt dissatisfied with herself because her interest in all things began to flag, and a restless longing for some new excitement to break up the monotonous pain of her inner life possessed her. being still a little shy in company, she slipped quietly into a recess which commanded a view of both rooms, and sat looking listlessly about her while waiting for david, who seldom failed to come. a curious collection of fellow-beings was before her, and at another time she would have found much to interest and amuse her. in one corner a newly imported german with an orson-like head, thumb-ring, and the fragrance of many meerschaums still hovering about him, was hammering away upon some disputed point with a scientific frenchman, whose national politeness was only equalled by his national volubility. a prominent statesman was talking with a fugitive slave; a young poet getting inspiration from the face and voice of a handsome girl who had earned the right to put m. d. to her name. an old philosopher was calming the ardor of several rampant radicals, and a famous singer was comforting the heart of an italian exile by talking politics in his own melodious tongue. there were plenty of reformers: some as truculent as martin luther; others as beaming and benevolent as if the pelting of the world had only mellowed them, and no amount of denunciatory thunder could sour the milk of human kindness creaming in their happy hearts. there were eager women just beginning their protest against the wrongs that had wrecked their peace; subdued women who had been worsted in the unequal conflict and given it up; resolute women with "no surrender" written all over their strong-minded countenances; and sweet, hopeful women, whose faith in god and man nothing could shake or sadden. but to christie there was only one face worth looking at till david came, and that was mr. power's; for he was a perfect host, and pervaded the rooms like a genial atmosphere, using the welcome of eye and hand which needs no language to interpret it, giving to each guest the intellectual fare he loved, and making their enjoyment his own. "bless the dear man! what should we all do without him?" thought christie, following him with grateful eyes, as he led an awkward youth in rusty black to the statesman whom it had been the desire of his ambitious soul to meet. the next minute she proved that she at least could do without the "dear man;" for david entered the room, and she forgot all about him. here and at church were the only places where the friends had met during these months, except one or two short visits to the little house in the lane when christie devoted herself to mrs. sterling. david was quite unchanged, though once or twice christie fancied he seemed ill at ease with her, and immediately tormented herself with the idea that some alteration in her own manner had perplexed or offended him. she did her best to be as frank and cordial as in the happy old days; but it was impossible, and she soon gave it up, assuming in the place of that former friendliness, a grave and quiet manner which would have led a wiser man than david to believe her busied with her own affairs and rather indifferent to every thing else. if he had known how her heart danced in her bosom, her eyes brightened, and all the world became endurable, the moment he appeared, he would not have been so long in joining her, nor have doubted what welcome awaited him. as it was, he stopped to speak to his host; and, before he reappeared, christie had found the excitement she had been longing for. "now some bore will keep him an hour, and the evening is so short," she thought, with a pang of disappointment; and, turning her eyes away from the crowd which had swallowed up her heart's desire, they fell upon a gentleman just entering, and remained fixed with an expression of unutterable surprise; for there, elegant, calm, and cool as ever, stood mr. fletcher. "how came he here?" was her first question; "how will he behave to me?" her second. as she could answer neither, she composed herself as fast as possible, resolving to let matters take their own course, and feeling in the mood for an encounter with a discarded lover, as she took a womanish satisfaction in remembering that the very personable gentleman before her had once been. mr. fletcher and his companion passed on to find their host; and, with a glance at the mirror opposite, which showed her that the surprise of the moment had given her the color she lacked before, christie occupied herself with a portfolio of engravings, feeling very much as she used to feel when waiting at a side scene for her cue. she had not long to wait before mr. power came up, and presented the stranger; for such he fancied him, never having heard a certain episode in christie's life. mr. fletcher bowed, with no sign of recognition in his face, and began to talk in the smooth, low voice she remembered so well. for the moment, through sheer surprise, christie listened and replied as any young lady might have done to a new-made acquaintance. but very soon she felt sure that mr. fletcher intended to ignore the past; and, finding her on a higher round of the social ladder, to accept the fact and begin again. at first she was angry, then amused, then interested in the somewhat dramatic turn affairs were taking, and very wisely decided to meet him on his own ground, and see what came of it. in the midst of an apparently absorbing discussion of one of raphael's most insipid madonnas, she was conscious that david had approached, paused, and was scrutinizing her companion with unusual interest. seized with a sudden desire to see the two men together, christie beckoned; and when he obeyed, she introduced him, drew him into the conversation, and then left him in the lurch by falling silent and taking notes while they talked. if she wished to wean her heart from david by seeing him at a disadvantage, she could have devised no better way; for, though a very feminine test, it answered the purpose excellently. mr. fletcher was a handsome man, and just then looked his best. improved health gave energy and color to his formerly sallow, listless face: the cold eyes were softer, the hard mouth suave and smiling, and about the whole man there was that indescribable something which often proves more attractive than worth or wisdom to keener-sighted women than christie. never had he talked better; for, as if he suspected what was in the mind of one hearer, he exerted himself to be as brilliant as possible, and succeeded admirably. david never appeared so ill, for he had no clew to the little comedy being played before him; and long seclusion and natural reserve unfitted him to shine beside a man of the world like mr. fletcher. his simple english sounded harsh, after the foreign phrases that slipped so easily over the other's tongue. he had visited no galleries, seen few of the world's wonders, and could only listen when they were discussed. more than once he was right, but failed to prove it, for mr. fletcher skilfully changed the subject or quenched him with a politely incredulous shrug. even in the matter of costume, poor david was worsted; for, in a woman's eyes, dress has wonderful significance. christie used to think his suit of sober gray the most becoming man could wear; but now it looked shapeless and shabby, beside garments which bore the stamp of paris in the gloss and grace of broadcloth and fine linen. david wore no gloves: mr. fletcher's were immaculate. david's tie was so plain no one observed it: mr. fletcher's, elegant and faultless enough for a modern beau brummel. david's handkerchief was of the commonest sort (she knew that, for she hemmed it herself): mr. fletcher's was the finest cambric, and a delicate breath of perfume refreshed the aristocratic nose to which the article belonged. christie despised herself as she made these comparisons, and felt how superficial they were; but, having resolved to exalt one man at the expense of the other for her own good, she did not relent till david took advantage of a pause, and left them with a reproachful look that made her wish mr. fletcher at the bottom of the sea. when they were alone a subtle change in his face and manner convinced her that he also had been taking notes, and had arrived at a favorable decision regarding herself. women are quick at making such discoveries; and, even while she talked with him as a stranger, she felt assured that, if she chose, she might make him again her lover. here was a temptation! she had longed for some new excitement, and fate seemed to have put one of the most dangerous within her reach. it was natural to find comfort in the knowledge that somebody loved her, and to take pride in her power over one man, because another did not own it. in spite of her better self she felt the fascination of the hour, and yielded to it, half unconsciously assuming something of the "dash and daring" which mr. fletcher had once confessed to finding so captivating in the demure governess. he evidently thought so still, and played his part with spirit; for, while apparently enjoying a conversation which contained no allusion to the past, the memory of it gave piquancy to that long tete-a-tete. as the first guests began to go, mr. fletcher's friend beckoned to him; and he rose, saying with an accent of regret which changed to one of entreaty, as he put his question: "i, too, must go. may i come again, miss devon?" "i am scarcely more than a guest myself; but mr. power is always glad to see whoever cares to come," replied christie rather primly, though her eyes were dancing with amusement at the recollection of those love passages upon the beach. "next time, i shall come not as a stranger, but as a former--may i say friend?" he added quickly, as if emboldened by the mirthful eyes that so belied the demure lips. "now you forget your part," and christie's primness vanished in a laugh. "i am glad of it, for i want to ask about mrs. saltonstall and the children. i've often thought of the little dears, and longed to see them." "they are in paris with their father." "mrs. saltonstall is well, i hope?" "she died six months ago." an expression of genuine sorrow came over mr. fletcher's face as he spoke; and, remembering that the silly little woman was his sister, christie put out her hand with a look and gesture so full of sympathy that words were unnecessary. taking advantage of this propitious moment, he said, with an expressive glance and effective tone: "i am all alone now. you will let me come again?" "certainly, if it can give you pleasure," she answered heartily, forgetting herself in pity for his sorrow. mr. fletcher pressed her hand with a grateful, "thank you!" and wisely went away at once, leaving compassion to plead for him better than he could have done it for himself. leaning back in her chair, christie was thinking over this interview so intently that she started when david's voice said close beside her: "shall i disturb you if i say, 'good-night'?" "i thought you were not going to say it at all," she answered rather sharply. "i've been looking for a chance; but you were so absorbed with that man i had to wait." "considering the elegance of 'that man,' you don't treat him with much respect." "i don't feel much. what brought him here, i wonder. a french salon is more in his line." "he came to see mr. power, as every one else does, of course." "don't dodge, christie: you know he came to see you." "how do you like him?" she asked, with treacherous abruptness. "not particularly, so far. but if i knew him, i dare say i should find many good traits in him." "i know you would!" said christie, warmly, not thinking of fletcher, but of david's kindly way of finding good in every one. "he must have improved since you saw him last; for then, if i remember rightly, you found him 'lazy, cross, selfish, and conceited.'" "now, david, i never said any thing of the sort," began christie, wondering what possessed him to be so satirical and short with her. "yes, you did, last september, sitting on the old apple-tree the morning of your birthday." "what an inconvenient memory you have! well, he was all that then; but he is not an invalid now, and so we see his real self." "i also remember that you gave me the impression that he was an elderly man." "isn't forty elderly?" "he wasn't forty when you taught his sister's children." "no; but he looked older than he does now, being so ill. i used to think he would be very handsome with good health; and now i see i was right," said christie, with feigned enthusiasm; for it was a new thing to tease david, and she liked it. but she got no more of it; for, just then, the singer began to sing to the select few who remained, and every one was silent. leaning on the high back of christie's chair, david watched the reflection of her face in the long mirror; for she listened to the music with downcast eyes, unconscious what eloquent expressions were passing over her countenance. she seemed a new christie to david, in that excited mood; and, as he watched her, he thought: "she loved this man once, or he loved her; and tonight it all comes back to her. how will it end?" so earnestly did he try to read that altered face that christie felt the intentness of his gaze, looked up suddenly, and met his eyes in the glass. something in the expression of those usually serene eyes, now darkened and dilated with the intensity of that long scrutiny, surprised and troubled her; and, scarcely knowing what she said, she asked quickly: "who are you admiring?" "not myself." "i wonder if you'd think me vain if i asked you something that i want to know?" she said, obeying a sudden impulse. "ask it, and i'll tell you." "am i much changed since you first knew me?" "very much." "for the better or the worse?" "the better, decidedly." "thank you, i hoped so; but one never knows how one seems to other people. i was wondering what you saw in the glass." "a good and lovely woman, christie." how sweet it sounded to hear david say that! so simply and sincerely that it was far more than a mere compliment. she did not thank him, but said softly as if to herself: "so let me seem until i be"-- and then sat silent, so full of satisfaction in the thought that david found her "good and lovely," she could not resist stealing a glance at the tell-tale mirror to see if she might believe him. she forgot herself, however; for he was off guard now, and stood looking away with brows knit, lips tightly set, and eyes fixed, yet full of fire; his whole attitude and expression that of a man intent on subduing some strong impulse by a yet stronger will. it startled christie; and she leaned forward, watching him with breathless interest till the song ceased, and, with the old impatient gesture, david seemed to relapse into his accustomed quietude. "it was the wonderful music that excited him: that was all;" thought christie; yet, when he came round to say good-night, the strange expression was not gone, and his manner was not his own. "shall i ask if i may come again," he said, imitating mr. fletcher's graceful bow with an odd smile. "i let him come because he has lost his sister, and is lonely," began christie, but got no further, for david said, "good-night!" abruptly, and was gone without a word to mr. power. "he's in a hurry to get back to his kitty," she thought, tormenting herself with feminine skill. "never mind," she added, with a defiant sort of smile; "i 've got my philip, handsomer and more in love than ever, if i'm not deceived. i wonder if he will come again?" mr. fletcher did come again, and with flattering regularity, for several weeks, evidently finding something very attractive in those novel gatherings. mr. power soon saw why he came; and, as christie seemed to enjoy his presence, the good man said nothing to disturb her, though he sometimes cast an anxious glance toward the recess where the two usually sat, apparently busy with books or pictures; yet, by their faces, showing that an under current of deeper interest than art or literature flowed through their intercourse. christie had not deceived herself, and it was evident that her old lover meant to try his fate again, if she continued to smile upon him as she had done of late. he showed her his sunny side now, and very pleasant she found it. the loss of his sister had touched his heart, and made him long to fill the place her death left vacant. better health sweetened his temper, and woke the desire to do something worth the doing; and the sight of the only woman he had ever really loved, reawakened the sentiment that had not died, and made it doubly sweet. why he cared for christie he could not tell, but he never had forgotten her; and, when he met her again with that new beauty in her face, he felt that time had only ripened the blithe girl into a deep-hearted woman, and he loved her with a better love than before. his whole manner showed this; for the half-careless, half-condescending air of former times was replaced by the most courteous respect, a sincere desire to win her favor, and at times the tender sort of devotion women find so charming. christie felt all this, enjoyed it, and tried to be grateful for it in the way he wished, thinking that hearts could be managed like children, and when one toy is unattainable, be appeased by a bigger or a brighter one of another sort. "i must love some one," she said, as she leaned over a basket of magnificent flowers just left for her by mr. fletcher's servant, a thing which often happened now. "philip has loved me with a fidelity that ought to touch my heart. why not accept him, and enjoy a new life of luxury, novelty, and pleasure? all these things he can give me: all these things are valued, admired, and sought for: and who would appreciate them more than i? i could travel, cultivate myself in many delightful ways, and do so much good. no matter if i was not very happy: i should make philip so, and have it in my power to comfort many poor souls. that ought to satisfy me; for what is nobler than to live for others?" this idea attracted her, as it does all generous natures; she became enamoured of self-sacrifice, and almost persuaded herself that it was her duty to marry mr. fletcher, whether she loved him or not, in order that she might dedicate her life to the service of poorer, sadder creatures than herself. but in spite of this amiable delusion, in spite of the desire to forget the love she would have in the love she might have, and in spite of the great improvement in her faithful philip, christie could not blind herself to the fact that her head, rather than her heart, advised the match; she could not conquer a suspicion that, however much mr. fletcher might love his wife, he would be something of a tyrant, and she was very sure she never would make a good slave. in her cooler moments she remembered that men are not puppets, to be moved as a woman's will commands, and the uncertainty of being able to carry out her charitable plans made her pause to consider whether she would not be selling her liberty too cheaply, if in return she got only dependence and bondage along with fortune and a home. so tempted and perplexed, self-deluded and self-warned, attracted and repelled, was poor christie, that she began to feel as if she had got into a labyrinth without any clew to bring her safely out. she longed to ask advice of some one, but could not turn to mrs. sterling; and what other woman friend had she except rachel, from whom she had not heard for months? as she asked herself this question one day, feeling sure that mr. fletcher would come in the evening, and would soon put his fortune to the touch again, the thought of mrs. wilkins seemed to answer her. "why not?" said christie: "she is sensible, kind, and discreet; she may put me right, for i'm all in a tangle now with doubts and fears, feelings and fancies. i'll go and see her: that will do me good, even if i don't say a word about my 'werryments,' as the dear soul would call them." away she went, and fortunately found her friend alone in the "settin'-room," darning away at a perfect stack of socks, as she creaked comfortably to and fro in her old rocking-chair. "i was jest wishin' somebody would drop in: it's so kinder lonesome with the children to school and adelaide asleep. how be you, dear?" said mrs. wilkins, with a hospitable hug and a beaming smile. "i'm worried in my mind, so i came to see you," answered christie, sitting down with a sigh. "bless your dear heart, what is to pay. free your mind, and i'll do my best to lend a hand." the mere sound of that hearty voice comforted christie, and gave her courage to introduce the little fiction under which she had decided to defraud mrs. wilkins of her advice. so she helped herself to a very fragmentary blue sock and a big needle, that she might have employment for her eyes, as they were not so obedient as her tongue, and then began in as easy a tone as she could assume. "well, you see a friend of mine wants my advice on a very serious matter, and i really don't know what to give her. it is strictly confidential, you know, so i won't mention any names, but just set the case before you and get your opinion, for i've great faith in your sensible way of looking at things." "thanky, dear, you'r welcome to my 'pinion ef it's wuth any thing. be these folks you tell of young?" asked mrs. wilkins, with evident relish for the mystery. "no, the woman is past thirty, and the man 'most forty, i believe," said christie, darning away in some trepidation at having taken the first plunge. "my patience! ain't the creater old enough to know her own mind? for i s'pose she's the one in the quanderry?" exclaimed mrs. wilkins, looking over her spectacles with dangerously keen eyes. "the case is this," said christie, in guilty haste. "the 'creature' is poor and nobody, the man rich and of good family, so you see it's rather hard for her to decide." "no, i don't see nothin' of the sort," returned blunt mrs. wilkins. "ef she loves the man, take him: ef she don't, give him the mittin and done with it. money and friends and family ain't much to do with the matter accordin' to my view. it's jest a plain question betwixt them two. ef it takes much settlin' they 'd better let it alone." "she doesn't love him as much as she might, i fancy, but she is tired of grubbing along alone. he is very fond of her, and very rich; and it would be a fine thing for her in a worldly way, i'm sure." "oh, she's goin' to marry for a livin' is she? wal, now i'd ruther one of my girls should grub the wust kind all their days than do that. hows'ever, it may suit some folks ef they ain't got much heart, and is contented with fine clothes, nice vittles, and handsome furnitoor. selfish, cold, silly kinder women might git on, i dare say; but i shouldn't think any friend of your'n would be one of that sort." "but she might do a great deal of good, and make others happy even if she was not so herself." "she might, but i doubt it, for money got that way wouldn't prosper wal. mis'able folks ain't half so charitable as happy ones; and i don't believe five dollars from one of 'em would go half so fur, or be half so comfortin' as a kind word straight out of a cheerful heart. i know some thinks that is a dreadful smart thing to do; but i don't, and ef any one wants to go a sacrificin' herself for the good of others, there's better ways of doin' it than startin' with a lie in her mouth." mrs. wilkins spoke warmly; for christie's face made her fiction perfectly transparent, though the good woman with true delicacy showed no sign of intelligence on that point. "then you wouldn't advise my friend to say yes?" "sakes alive, no! i'd say to her as i did to my younger sisters when their courtin' time come: 'jest be sure you're right as to there bein' love enough, then go ahead, and the lord will bless you.'" "did they follow your advice?" "they did, and both is prosperin' in different ways. gusty, she found she was well on't for love, so she married, though samuel buck was poor, and they're happy as can be a workin' up together, same as lisha and me did. addy, she calc'lated she wan't satisfied somehow, so she didn't marry, though james miller was wal off; and she's kep stiddy to her trade, and ain't never repented. there's a sight said and writ about such things," continued mrs. wilkins, rambling on to give christie time to think; "but i've an idee that women's hearts is to be trusted ef they ain't been taught all wrong. jest let 'em remember that they take a husband for wuss as well as better (and there's a sight of wuss in this tryin' world for some on us), and be ready to do their part patient and faithful, and i ain't a grain afraid but what they'll be fetched through, always pervidin' they love the man and not his money." there was a pause after that last speech, and christie felt as if her perplexity was clearing away very fast; for mrs. wilkins's plain talk seemed to show her things in their true light, with all the illusions of false sentiment and false reasoning stripped away. she felt clearer and stronger already, and as if she could make up her mind very soon when one other point had been discussed. "i fancy my friend is somewhat influenced by the fact that this man loved and asked her to marry him some years ago. he has not forgotten her, and this touches her heart more than any thing else. it seems as if his love must be genuine to last so long, and not to mind her poverty, want of beauty, and accomplishments; for he is a proud and fastidious man." "i think wal of him for that!" said mrs. wilkins, approvingly; "but i guess she's wuth all he gives her, for there must be somethin' pretty gennywin' in her to make him overlook her lacks and hold on so stiddy. it don't alter her side of the case one mite though; for love is love, and ef she ain't got it, he'd better not take gratitude instid, but sheer off and leave her for somebody else." "nobody else wants her!" broke from christie like an involuntary cry of pain; then she hid her face by stooping to gather up the avalanche of hosiery which fell from her lap to the floor. "she can't be sure of that," said mrs. wilkins cheerily, though her spectacles were dim with sudden mist. "i know there's a mate for her somewheres, so she'd better wait a spell and trust in providence. it wouldn't be so pleasant to see the right one come along after she'd went and took the wrong one in a hurry: would it? waitin' is always safe, and time needn't be wasted in frettin' or bewailin'; for the lord knows there's a sight of good works sufferin' to be done, and single women has the best chance at 'em." "i've accomplished one good work at any rate; and, small as it is, i feel better for it. give this sock to your husband, and tell him his wife sets a good example both by precept and practice to other women, married or single. thank you very much, both for myself and my friend, who shall profit by your advice," said christie, feeling that she had better go before she told every thing. "i hope she will," returned mrs. wilkins, as her guest went away with a much happier face than the one she brought. "and ef i know her, which i think i do, she'll find that cinthy wilkins ain't fur from right, ef her experience is good for any thing," added the matron with a sigh, and a glance at a dingy photograph of her lisha on the wall, a sigh that seemed to say there had been a good deal of "wuss" in her bargain, though she was too loyal to confess it. something in christie's face struck mr. fletcher at once when he appeared that evening. he had sometimes found her cold and quiet, often gay and capricious, usually earnest and cordial, with a wistful look that searched his face and both won and checked him by its mute appeal, seeming to say, "wait a little till i have taught my heart to answer as you wish." to-night her eyes shunned his, and when he caught a glimpse of them they were full of a soft trouble; her manner was kinder than ever before, and yet it made him anxious, for there was a resolute expression about her lips even when she smiled, and though he ventured upon allusions to the past hitherto tacitly avoided, she listened as if it had no tender charm for her. being thoroughly in earnest now, mr. fletcher resolved to ask the momentous question again without delay. david was not there, and had not been for several weeks, another thorn in christie's heart, though she showed no sign of regret, and said to herself, "it is better so." his absence left fletcher master of the field, and he seized the propitious moment. "will you show me the new picture? mr. power spoke of it, but i do not like to trouble him." "with pleasure," and christie led the way to a little room where the newly arrived gift was placed. she knew what was coming, but was ready, and felt a tragic sort of satisfaction in the thought of all she was relinquishing for love of david. no one was in the room, but a fine copy of michael angelo's fates hung on the wall, looking down at them with weird significance. "they look as if they would give a stern answer to any questioning of ours," mr. fletcher said, after a glance of affected interest. "they would give a true one i fancy," answered christie, shading her eyes as if to see the better. "i 'd rather question a younger, fairer fate, hoping that she will give me an answer both true and kind. may i, christie?" "i will be true but--i cannot be kind." it cost her much to say that; yet she did it steadily, though he held her hand in both his own, and waited for her words with ardent expectation. "not yet perhaps,--but in time, when i have proved how sincere my love is, how entire my repentance for the ungenerous words you have not forgotten. i wanted you then for my own sake, now i want you for yourself, because i love and honor you above all women. i tried to forget you, but i could not; and all these years have carried in my heart a very tender memory of the girl who dared to tell me that all i could offer her was not worth her love." "i was mistaken," began christie, finding this wooing much harder to withstand than the other. "no, you were right: i felt it then and resented it, but i owned it later, and regretted it more bitterly than i can tell. i'm not worthy of you; i never shall be: but i've loved you for five years without hope, and i'll wait five more if in the end you will come to me. christie, i need you very much!" if mr. fletcher had gone down upon his knees and poured out the most ardent protestations that ever left a lover's lips, it would not have touched her as did that last little appeal, uttered with a break in the voice that once was so proud and was so humble now. "forgive me!" she cried, looking up at him with real respect in her face, and real remorse smiting her conscience. "forgive me! i have misled you and myself. i tried to love you: i was grateful for your regard, touched by your fidelity, and i hoped i might repay it; but i cannot! i cannot!" "why?" such a hard question! she owed him all the truth, yet how could she tell it? she could not in words, but her face did, for the color rose and burned on cheeks and forehead with painful fervor; her eyes fell, and her lips trembled as if endeavoring to keep down the secret that was escaping against her will. a moment of silence as mr. fletcher searched for the truth and found it; then he said with such sharp pain in his voice that christie's heart ached at the sound: "i see: i am too late?" "yes." "and there is no hope?" "none." "then there is nothing more for me to say but good-by. may you be happy." "i shall not be;--i have no hope;--i only try to be true to you and to myself. oh, believe it, and pity me as i do you!" as the words broke from christie, she covered up her face, bowed down with the weight of remorse that made her long to atone for what she had done by any self-humiliation. mr. fletcher was at his best at that moment; for real love ennobles the worst and weakest while it lasts: but he could not resist the temptation that confession offered him. he tried to be generous, but the genuine virtue was not in him; he did want christie very much, and the knowledge of a rival in her heart only made her the dearer. "i'm not content with your pity, sweet as it is: i want your love, and i believe that i might earn it if you would let me try. you are all alone, and life is hard to you: come to me and let me make it happier. i'll be satisfied with friendship till you can give me more." he said this very tenderly, caressing the bent head while he spoke, and trying to express by tone and gesture how eagerly he longed to receive and cherish what that other man neglected. christie felt this to her heart's core, and for a moment longed to end the struggle, say, "take me," and accept the shadow for the substance. but those last words of his vividly recalled the compact made with david that happy birthday night. how could she be his friend if she was mr. fletcher's wife? she knew she could not be true to both, while her heart reversed the sentiment she then would owe them: david's friendship was dearer than philip's love, and she would keep it at all costs. these thoughts flashed through her mind in the drawing of a breath, and she looked up, saying steadily in spite of wet eyes and still burning cheeks: "hope nothing; wait for nothing from me. i will have no more delusions for either of us: it is weak and wicked, for i know i shall not change. some time we may venture to be friends perhaps, but not now. forgive me, and be sure i shall suffer more than you for this mistake of mine." when she had denied his suit before he had been ungenerous and angry; for his pride was hurt and his will thwarted: now his heart bled and hope died hard; but all that was manliest in him rose to help him bear the loss, for this love was genuine, and made him both just and kind. his face was pale with the pain of that fruitless passion, and his voice betrayed how hard he strove for self-control, as he said hurriedly: "you need not suffer: this mistake has given me the happiest hours of my life, and i am better for having known so sweet and true a woman. god bless you, christie!" and with a quick embrace that startled her by its suddenness and strength he left her, standing there alone before the three grim fates. chapter xv. midsummer. "now it is all over. i shall never have another chance like that, and must make up my mind to be a lonely and laborious spinster all my life. youth is going fast, and i have little in myself to attract or win, though david did call me 'good and lovely.' ah, well, i'll try to deserve his praise, and not let disappointment sour or sadden me. better to hope and wait all my life than marry without love." christie often said this to herself during the hard days that followed mr. fletcher's disappearance; a disappearance, by the way, which caused mr. power much satisfaction, though he only betrayed it by added kindness to christie, and in his manner an increased respect very comforting to her. but she missed her lover, for nothing now broke up the monotony of a useful life. she had enjoyed that little episode; for it had lent romance to every thing while it lasted, even the charity basket with which she went her rounds; for mr. fletcher often met her by accident apparently, and carried it as if to prove the sincerity of his devotion. no bouquets came now; no graceful little notes with books or invitations to some coveted pleasure; no dangerously delightful evenings in the recess, where, for a time, she felt and used the power which to a woman is so full of subtle satisfaction; no bitter-sweet hopes; no exciting dreams of what might be with the utterance of a word; no soft uncertainty to give a charm to every hour that passed. nothing but daily duties, a little leisure that hung heavy on her hands with no hope to stimulate, no lover to lighten it, and a sore, sad heart that would clamor for its right; and even when pride silenced it ached on with the dull pain which only time and patience have the power to heal. but as those weeks went slowly by, she began to discover some of the miracles true love can work. she thought she had laid it in its grave; but an angel rolled the stone away, and the lost passion rose stronger, purer, and more beautiful than when she buried it with bitter tears. a spirit now, fed by no hope, warmed by no tenderness, clothed in no fond delusion; the vital soul of love which outlives the fairest, noblest form humanity can give it, and sits among the ruins singing the immortal hymn of consolation the great musician taught. christie felt this strange comfort resting like a baby in her lonely bosom, cherished and blessed it; wondering while she rejoiced, and soon perceiving with the swift instinct of a woman, that this was a lesson, hard to learn, but infinitely precious, helpful, and sustaining when once gained. she was not happy, only patient; not hopeful, but trusting; and when life looked dark and barren without, she went away into that inner world of deep feeling, high thought, and earnest aspiration; which is a never-failing refuge to those whose experience has built within them "the nunnery of a chaste heart and quiet mind." some women live fast; and christie fought her battle, won her victory, and found peace declared during that winter: for her loyalty to love brought its own reward in time, giving her the tranquil steadfastness which comes to those who submit and ask nothing but fortitude. she had seen little of david, except at church, and began to regard him almost as one might a statue on a tomb, the marble effigy of the beloved dead below; for the sweet old friendship was only a pale shadow now. he always found her out, gave her the posy she best liked, said cheerfully, "how goes it, christie?" and she always answered, "good-morning, david. i am well and busy, thank you." then they sat together listening to mr. power, sung from the same book, walked a little way together, and parted for another week with a hand-shake for good-by. christie often wondered what prayers david prayed when he sat so still with his face hidden by his hand, and looked up with such a clear and steady look when he had done. she tried to do the same; but her thoughts would wander to the motionless gray figure beside her, and she felt as if peace and strength unconsciously flowed from it to sustain and comfort her. some of her happiest moments were those she spent sitting there, pale and silent, with absent eyes, and lips that trembled now and then, hidden by the flowers held before them, kissed covertly, and kept like relics long after they were dead. one bitter drop always marred the pleasure of that hour; for when she had asked for mrs. sterling, and sent her love, she forced herself to say kindly: "and kitty, is she doing well?" "capitally; come and see how she has improved; we are quite proud of her." "i will if i can find time. it's a hard winter and we have so much to do," she would answer smiling, and then go home to struggle back into the patient mood she tried to make habitual. but she seldom made time to go and see kitty's improvement; and, when she did run out for an hour she failed to discover any thing, except that the girl was prettier and more coquettish than ever, and assumed airs of superiority that tried christie very much. "i am ready for any thing," she always said with a resolute air after one of these visits; but, when the time seemed to have come she was not so ready as she fancied. passing out of a store one day, she saw kitty all in her best, buying white gloves with a most important air. "that looks suspicious," she thought, and could not resist speaking. "all well at home?" she asked. "grandma and i have been alone for nearly a week; david went off on business; but he's back now and--oh, my goodness! i forgot: i'm not to tell a soul yet;" and kitty pursed up her lips, looking quite oppressed with some great secret. "bless me, how mysterious! well, i won't ask any dangerous questions, only tell me if the dear old lady is well," said christie, desperately curious, but too proud to show it. "she's well, but dreadfully upset by what's happened; well she may be." and kitty shook her head with a look of mingled mystery and malicious merriment. "mr. sterling is all right i hope?" christie never called him david to kitty; so that impertinent little person took especial pains to speak familiarly, sometimes even fondly of him to christie. "dear fellow! he's so happy he don't know what to do with himself. i just wish you could see him go round smiling, and singing, and looking as if he'd like to dance." "that looks as if he was going to get a chance to do it," said christie, with a glance at the gloves, as kitty turned from the counter. "so he is!" laughed kitty, patting the little parcel with a joyful face. "i do believe you are going to be married:" exclaimed christie, half distracted with curiosity. "i am, but not to miles. now don't you say another word, for i'm dying to tell, and i promised i wouldn't. david wants to do it himself. by-by." and kitty hurried away, leaving christie as pale as if she had seen a ghost at noonday. she had; for the thought of david's marrying kitty had haunted her all those months, and now she was quite sure the blow had come. "if she was only a nobler woman i could bear it better; but i am sure he will regret it when the first illusion is past. i fancy she reminds him of his lost letty, and so he thinks he loves her. i pray he may be happy, and i hope it will be over soon," thought christie, with a groan, as she trudged away to carry comfort to those whose woes could be relieved by tea and sugar, flannel petticoats, and orders for a ton of coal. it was over soon, but not as christie had expected. that evening mr. power was called away, and she sat alone, bravely trying to forget suspense and grief in copying the record of her last month's labor. but she made sad work of it; for her mind was full of david and his wife, so happy in the little home which had grown doubly dear to her since she left it. no wonder then that she put down "two dozen children" to mrs. flanagan, and "four knit hoods" with the measles; or that a great blot fell upon "twenty yards red flannel," as the pen dropped from the hands she clasped together; saying with all the fervor of true self-abnegation: "i hope he will be happy; oh, i hope he will be happy!" if ever woman deserved reward for patient endeavor, hard-won submission, and unselfish love, christie did then. and she received it in full measure; for the dear lord requites some faithful hearts, blesses some lives that seem set apart for silent pain and solitary labor. snow was falling fast, and a bitter wind moaned without; the house was very still, and nothing stirred in the room but the flames dancing on the hearth, and the thin hand moving to and fro among the records of a useful life. suddenly the bell rang loudly and repeatedly, as if the new-comer was impatient of delay. christie paused to listen. it was not mr. power's ring, not his voice in the hall below, not his step that came leaping up the stairs, nor his hand that threw wide the door. she knew them all, and her heart stood still an instant; then she gathered up her strength, said low to herself, "now it is coming," and was ready for the truth, with a colorless face; eyes unnaturally bright and fixed; and one hand on her breast, as if to hold in check the rebellious heart that would throb so fast. it was david who came in with such impetuosity. snow-flakes shone in his hair; the glow of the keen wind was on his cheek, a smile on his lips, and in his eyes an expression she had never seen before. happiness, touched with the shadow of some past pain; doubt and desire; gratitude and love,--all seemed to meet and mingle in it; while, about the whole man, was the free and ardent air of one relieved from some heavy burden, released from some long captivity. "o david, what is it?" cried christie, as he stood looking at her with this strange look. "news, christie! such happy news i can't find words to tell them," he answered, coming nearer, but too absorbed in his own emotion to heed hers. she drew a long breath and pressed her hand a little heavier on her breast, as she said, with the ghost of a smile, more pathetic than the saddest tears: "i guess it, david." "how?" he demanded, as if defrauded of a joy he had set his heart upon. "i met kitty,--she told me nothing,--but her face betrayed what i have long suspected." david laughed, such a glad yet scornful laugh, and, snatching a little miniature from his pocket, offered it, saying, with the new impetuosity that changed him so: "that is the daughter i have found for my mother. you know her,--you love her; and you will not be ashamed to welcome her, i think." christie took it; saw a faded, time-worn likeness of a young girl's happy face; a face strangely familiar, yet, for a moment, she groped to find the name belonging to it. then memory helped her; and she said, half incredulously, half joyfully: "is it my rachel?" "it is my letty!" cried david, with an accent of such mingled love and sorrow, remorse and joy, that christie seemed to hear in it the death-knell of her faith in him. the picture fell from the hands she put up, as if to ward off some heavy blow, and her voice was sharp with reproachful anguish, as she cried: "o david, david, any thing but that!" an instant he seemed bewildered, then the meaning of the grief in her face flashed on him, and his own grew white with indignant repudiation of the thought that daunted her; but he only said with the stern brevity of truth: "letty is my sister." "forgive me,--how could i know? oh, thank god! thank god!" and, dropping down upon a chair, christie broke into a passion of the happiest tears she ever shed. david stood beside her silent, till the first irrepressible paroxysm was over; then, while she sat weeping softly, quite bowed down by emotion, he said, sadly now, not sternly: "you could not know, because we hid the truth so carefully. i have no right to resent that belief of yours, for i did wrong my poor letty, almost as much as that lover of hers, who, being dead, i do not curse. let me tell you every thing, christie, before i ask your respect and confidence again. i never deserved them, but i tried to; for they were very precious to me." he paused a moment, then went on rapidly, as if anxious to accomplish a hard task; and christie forgot to weep while listening breathlessly. "letty was the pride of my heart; and i loved her very dearly, for she was all i had. such a pretty child; such a gay, sweet girl; how could i help it, when she was so fond of me? we were poor then,--poorer than now,--and she grew restless; tired of hard work; longed for a little pleasure, and could not bear to waste her youth and beauty in that dull town. i did not blame my little girl; but i could not help her, for i was tugging away to fill father's place, he being broken down and helpless. she wanted to go away and support herself. you know the feeling; and i need not tell you how the proud, high-hearted creature hated dependence, even on a brother who would have worked his soul out for her. she would go, and we had faith in her. for a time she did bravely; but life was too hard for her; pleasure too alluring, and, when temptation came in the guise of love, she could not resist. one dreadful day, news came that she was gone, never to come back, my innocent little letty, any more." his voice failed there, and he walked fast through the room, as if the memory of that bitter day was still unbearable. christie could not speak for very pity; and he soon continued, pacing restlessly before her, as he had often done when she sat by, wondering what unquiet spirit drove him to and fro: "that was the beginning of my trouble; but not the worst of it: god forgive me, not the worst! father was very feeble, and the shock killed him; mother's heart was nearly broken, and all the happiness was taken out of life for me. but i could bear it, heavy as the blow was, for i had no part in that sin and sorrow. a year later, there came a letter from letty,--a penitent, imploring, little letter, asking to be forgiven and taken home, for her lover was dead, and she alone in a foreign land. how would you answer such a letter, christie?" "as you did; saying: 'come home and let us comfort you.'" "i said: 'you have killed your father; broken your mother's heart; ruined your brother's hopes, and disgraced your family. you no longer have a home with us; and we never want to see your face again.'" "o david, that was cruel!" "i said you did not know me; now you see how deceived you have been. a stern, resentful devil possessed me then, and i obeyed it. i was very proud; full of ambitious plans and jealous love for the few i took into my heart. letty had brought a stain upon our honest name that time could never wash away; had quenched my hopes in despair and shame; had made home desolate, and destroyed my faith in every thing; for whom could i trust, when she, the nearest and dearest creature in the world, deceived and deserted me. i could not forgive; wrath burned hot within me, and the desire for retribution would not be appeased till those cruel words were said. the retribution and remorse came swift and sure; but they came most heavily to me." still standing where he had paused abruptly as he asked his question, david wrung his strong hands together with a gesture of passionate regret, while his face grew sharp with the remembered suffering of the years he had given to the atonement of that wrong. christie put her own hand on those clenched ones, and whispered softly: "don't tell me any more now: i can wait." "i must, and you must listen! i've longed to tell you, but i was afraid; now, you shall know every thing, and then decide if you can forgive me for letty's sake," he said, so resolutely that she listened with a face full of mute compassion. "that little letter came to me; i never told my mother, but answered it, and kept silent till news arrived that the ship in which letty had taken passage was lost. remorse had been tugging at my heart; and, when i knew that she was dead, i forgave her with a vain forgiveness, and mourned for my darling, as if she had never left me. i told my mother then, and she did not utter one reproach; but age seemed to fall upon her all at once, and the pathetic quietude you see. "then, but for her, i should have been desperate; for day and night letty's face haunted me; letty's voice cried: 'take me home!' and every word of that imploring letter burned before my eyes as if written in fire. do you wonder now that i hid myself; that i had no heart to try for any honorable place in the world, and only struggled to forget, only hoped to expiate my sin?" with his head bowed down upon his breast, david stood silent, asking himself if he had even now done enough to win the reward he coveted. christie's voice seemed to answer him; for she said, with heartfelt gratitude and respect: "surely you have atoned for that harshness to one woman by years of devotion to many. was it this that made you 'a brother of girls,' as mr. power once called you? and, when i asked what he meant, he said the arabs call a man that who has 'a clean heart to love all women as his sisters, and strength and courage to fight for their protection!'" she hoped to lighten his trouble a little, and spoke with a smile that was like cordial to poor david. "yes," he said, lifting his head again. "i tried to be that, and, for letty's sake, had pity on the most forlorn, patience with the most abandoned; always remembering that she might have been what they were, if death had not been more merciful than i." "but she was not dead: she was alive and working as bravely as you. ah, how little i thought, when i loved rachel, and she loved me, that we should ever meet so happily as we soon shall. tell me how you found her? does she know i am the woman she once saved? tell me all about her; and tell it fast," prayed christie, getting excited, as she more fully grasped the happy fact that rachel and letty were one. david came nearer, and his face kindled as he spoke. "the ship sailed without her; she came later; and, finding that her name was among the lost, she did not deny it, for she was dead to us, and decided to remain so till she had earned the right to be forgiven. you know how she lived and worked, stood firm with no one to befriend her till you came, and, by years of patient well-doing, washed away her single sin. if any one dares think i am ashamed to own her now, let him know what cause i have to be proud of her; let him come and see how tenderly i love her; how devoutly i thank god for permitting me to find and bring my little letty home." only the snow-flakes drifting against the window-pane, and the wailing of the wind, was heard for a moment; then david added, with brightening eyes and a glad voice: "i went into a hospital while away, to look after one of my poor girls who had been doing well till illness brought her there. as i was passing out i saw a sleeping face, and stopped involuntarily: it was so like letty's. i never doubted she was dead; the name over the bed was not hers; the face was sadly altered from the happy, rosy one i knew, but it held me fast; and as i paused the eyes opened,--letty's own soft eyes,--they saw me, and, as if i was the figure of a dream, she smiled, put up her arms and said, just as she used to say, a child, when i woke her in her little bed--'why, davy!'--i can't tell any more,--only that when i brought her home and put her in mother's arms, i felt as if i was forgiven at last." he broke down there, and went and stood behind the window curtains, letting no one see the grateful tears that washed away the bitterness of those long years. christie had taken up the miniature and was looking at it, while her heart sang for joy that the lost was found, when david came back to her, wearing the same look she had seen the night she listened among the cloaks. moved and happy, with eager eyes and ardent manner, yet behind it all a pale expectancy as if some great crisis was at hand: "christie, i never can forget that when all others, even i, cast letty off, you comforted and saved her. what can i do to thank you for it?" "be my friend, and let me be hers again," she answered, too deeply moved to think of any private hope or pain. "then the past, now that you know it all, does not change your heart to us?" "it only makes you dearer." "and if i asked you to come back to the home that has been desolate since you went, would you come?" "gladly, david." "and if i dared to say i loved you?" she only looked at him with a quick rising light and warmth over her whole face; he stretched both arms to her, and, going to him, christie gave her answer silently. lovers usually ascend straight into the seventh heaven for a time: unfortunately they cannot stay long; the air is too rarefied, the light too brilliant, the fare too ethereal, and they are forced to come down to mundane things, as larks drop from heaven's gate into their grassy nests. david was summoned from that blissful region, after a brief enjoyment of its divine delights, by christie, who looked up from her new refuge with the abrupt question: "what becomes of kitty?" he regarded her with a dazed expression for an instant, for she had been speaking the delightful language of lips and eyes that lovers use, and the old tongue sounded harsh to him. "she is safe with her father, and is to marry the 'other one' next week." "heaven be praised!" ejaculated christie, so fervently that david looked suddenly enlightened and much amused, as he said quickly: "what becomes of fletcher?" "he's safely out of the way, and i sincerely hope he will marry some 'other one' as soon as possible." "christie, you were jealous of that girl." "david, you were jealous of that man." then they both burst out laughing like two children, for heavy burdens had been lifted off their hearts and they were bubbling over with happiness. "but truly, david, weren't you a little jealous of p. f.?" persisted christie, feeling an intense desire to ask all manner of harassing questions, with the agreeable certainty that they would be fully answered. "desperately jealous. you were so kind, so gay, so altogether charming when with him, that i could not stand by and see it, so i kept away. why were you never so to me?" "because you never showed that you cared for me, and he did. but it was wrong in me to do it, and i repent of it heartily; for it hurt him more than i thought it would when the experiment failed. i truly tried to love him, but i couldn't." "yet he had so much to offer, and could give you all you most enjoy. it is very singular that you failed to care for him, and preferred a poor old fellow like me," said david, beaming at her like a beatified man. "i do love luxury and pleasure, but i love independence more. i'm happier poking in the dirt with you than i should be driving in a fine carriage with 'that piece of elegance' as mr. power called him; prouder of being your wife than his; and none of the costly things he offered me were half so precious in my sight as your little nosegays, now mouldering away in my treasure-box upstairs. why, davy, i've longed more intensely for the right to push up the curly lock that is always tumbling into your eyes, than for philip's whole fortune. may i do it now?" "you may," and christie did it with a tender satisfaction that made david love her the more, though he laughed like a boy at the womanly whim. "and so you thought i cared for kitty?" he said presently, taking his turn at the new game. "how could i help it when she was so young and pretty and fond of you?" "was she?" innocently. "didn't you see it? how blind men are!" "not always." "david, did you see that i cared for you?" asked christie, turning crimson under the significant glance he gave her. "i wish i had; i confess i once or twice fancied that i caught glimpses of bliss round the corner, as it were; but, before i could decide, the glimpses vanished, and i was very sure i was a conceited coxcomb to think it for a moment. it was very hard, and yet i was glad." "glad!" "yes, because i had made a sort of vow that i'd never love or marry as a punishment for my cruelty to letty." "that was wrong, david." "i see it now; but it was not hard to keep that foolish vow till you came; and you see i've broken it without a shadow of regret to-night." "you might have done it months ago and saved me so much woe if you had not been a dear, modest, morbidly conscientious bat," sighed christie, pleased and proud to learn her power, yet sorry for the long delay. "thank you, love. you see i didn't find out why i liked my friend so well till i lost her. i had just begun to feel that you were very dear,--for after the birthday you were like an angel in the house, christie,--when you changed all at once, and i thought you suspected me, and didn't like it. your running away when kitty came confirmed my fear; then in came that--would you mind if i said--confounded fletcher?" "not in the least." "well, as he didn't win, i won't be hard on him; but i gave up then and had a tough time of it; especially that first night when this splendid lover appeared and received such a kind welcome." christie saw the strong hand that lay on david's knee clenched slowly, as he knit his brows with a grim look, plainly showing that he was not what she was inclined to think him, a perfect saint. "oh, my heart! and there i was loving you so dearly all the time, and you wouldn't see or speak or understand, but went away, left me to torment all three of us," cried christie with a tragic gesture. "my dearest girl, did you ever know a man in love do, say, or think the right thing at the right time? i never did," said david, so penitently that she forgave him on the spot. "never mind, dear. it has taught us the worth of love, and perhaps we are the better for the seeming waste of precious time. now i've not only got you but letty also, and your mother is mine in very truth. ah, how rich i am!" "but i thought it was all over with me when i found letty, because, seeing no more of fletcher, i had begun to hope again, and when she came back to me i knew my home must be hers, yet feared you would refuse to share it if you knew all. you are very proud, and the purest-hearted woman i ever knew." "and if i had refused, you would have let me go and held fast to letty?" "yes, for i owe her every thing." "you should have known me better, david. but i don't refuse, and there is no need to choose between us." "no, thank heaven, and you, my christie! imagine what i felt when letty told me all you had been to her. if any thing could make me love you more than i now do, it would be that! no, don't hide your face; i like to see it blush and smile and turn to me confidingly, as it has not done all these long months." "did letty tell you what she had done for me?" asked christie, looking more like a rose than ever kitty did. "she told me every thing, and wished me to tell you all her story, even the saddest part of it. i'd better do it now before you meet again." he paused as if the tale was hard to tell; but christie put her hand on his lips saying softly: "never tell it; let her past be as sacred as if she were dead. she was my friend when i had no other: she is my dear sister now, and nothing can ever change the love between us." if she had thought david's face beautiful with gratitude when he told the happier portions of that history, she found it doubly so when she spared him the recital of its darkest chapter, and bade him "leave the rest to silence." "now you will come home? mother wants you, letty longs for you, and i have got and mean to keep you all my life, god willing!" "i'd better die to-night and make a blessed end, for so much happiness is hardly possible in a world of woe," answered christie to that fervent invitation. "we shall be married very soon, take a wedding trip to any part of the world you like, and our honeymoon will last for ever, mrs. sterling, jr.," said david, soaring away into the future with sublime disregard of obstacles. before christie could get her breath after that somewhat startling announcement, mr. power appeared, took in the situation at a glance, gave them a smile that was a benediction, and said heartily as he offered a hand to each: "now i'm satisfied; i've watched and waited patiently, and after many tribulations you have found each other in good time;" then with a meaning look at christie he added slyly: "but david is 'no hero' you know." she remembered the chat in the strawberry bed, laughed, and colored brightly, as she answered with her hand trustfully in david's, her eyes full of loving pride and reverence lifted to his face: "i've seen both sides of the medal now, and found it 'sterling gold.' hero or not i'm content; for, though he 'loves his mother much,' there is room in his heart for me too; his 'old books' have given him something better than learning, and he has convinced me that 'double flowers' are loveliest and best." chapter xvi. mustered in. christie's return was a very happy one, and could not well be otherwise with a mother, sister, and lover to welcome her back. her meeting with letty was indescribably tender, and the days that followed were pretty equally divided between her and her brother, in nursing the one and loving the other. there was no cloud now in christie's sky, and all the world seemed in bloom. but even while she enjoyed every hour of life, and begrudged the time given to sleep, she felt as if the dream was too beautiful to last, and often said: "something will happen: such perfect happiness is not possible in this world." "then let us make the most of it," david would reply, wisely bent on getting his honey while he could, and not borrowing trouble for the morrow. so christie turned a deaf ear to her "prophetic soul," and gave herself up to the blissful holiday that had come at last. even while march winds were howling outside, she blissfully "poked in the dirt" with david in the green-house, put up the curly lock as often as she liked, and told him she loved him a dozen times a day, not in words, but in silent ways, that touched him to the heart, and made his future look so bright he hardly dared believe in it. a happier man it would have been difficult to find just then; all his burdens seemed to have fallen off, and his spirits rose again with an elasticity which surprised even those who knew him best. christie often stopped to watch and wonder if the blithe young man who went whistling and singing about the house, often stopping to kiss somebody, to joke, or to exclaim with a beaming face like a child at a party: "isn't every thing beautiful?" could be the sober, steady david, who used to plod to and fro with his shoulders a little bent, and the absent look in his eyes that told of thoughts above or beyond the daily task. it was good to see his mother rejoice over him with an exceeding great joy; it was better still to see letty's eyes follow him with unspeakable love and gratitude in their soft depths; but it was best of all to see christie marvel and exult over the discoveries she made: for, though she had known david for a year, she had never seen the real man till now. "davy, you are a humbug," she said one day when they were making up a bridal order in the greenhouse. "i told you so, but you wouldn't believe it," he answered, using long stemmed rose-buds with as prodigal a hand as if the wedding was to be his own. "i thought i was going to marry a quiet, studious, steady-going man; and here i find myself engaged to a romantic youth who flies about in the most undignified manner, embraces people behind doors, sings opera airs,--very much out of tune by the way,--and conducts himself more like an infatuated claude melnotte, than a respectable gentleman on the awful verge of matrimony. nothing can surprise me now: i'm prepared for any thing, even the sight of my quakerish lover dancing a jig." "just what i've been longing to do! come and take a turn: it will do you good;" and, to christie's utter amazement, david caught her round the waist and waltzed her down the boarded walk with a speed and skill that caused less havoc among the flower-pots than one would imagine, and seemed to delight the plants, who rustled and nodded as if applauding the dance of the finest double flower that had ever blossomed in their midst. "i can't help it, christie," he said, when he had landed her breathless and laughing at the other end. "i feel like a boy out of school, or rather a man out of prison, and must enjoy my liberty in some way. i'm not a talker, you know; and, as the laws of gravitation forbid my soaring aloft anywhere, i can only express my joyfully uplifted state of mind by 'prancing,' as you call it. never mind dignity: let's be happy, and by and by i'll sober down." "i don't want you to; i love to see you so young and happy, only you are not the old david, and i've got to get acquainted with the new one." "i hope you'll like him better than the frost-bitten 'old david' you first knew and were kind enough to love. mother says i've gone back to the time before we lost letty, and i sometimes feel as if i had. in that case you will find me a proud, impetuous, ambitious fellow, christie, and how will that suit?" "excellently; i like pride of your sort; impetuosity becomes you, for you have learned to control it if need be; and the ambition is best of all. i always wondered at your want of it, and longed to stir you up; for you did not seem the sort of man to be contented with mere creature comforts when there are so many fine things men may do. what shall you choose, davy?" "i shall wait for time to show. the sap is all astir in me, and i'm ready for my chance. i don't know what it is, but i feel very sure that some work will be given me into which i can put my whole heart and soul and strength. i spoilt my first chance; but i know i shall have another, and, whatever it is, i am ready to do my best, and live or die for it as god wills." "so am i," answered christie, with a voice as earnest and a face as full of hopeful resolution as his own. then they went back to their work, little dreaming as they tied roses and twined smilax wreaths, how near that other chance was; how soon they were to be called upon to keep their promise, and how well each was to perform the part given them in life and death. the gun fired one april morning at fort sumter told many men like david what their work was to be, and showed many women like christie a new right to claim and bravely prove their fitness to possess. no need to repeat the story of the war begun that day; it has been so often told that it will only be touched upon here as one of the experiences of christie's life, an experience which did for her what it did for all who took a share in it, and loyally acted their part. the north woke up from its prosperous lethargy, and began to stir with the ominous hum of bees when rude hands shake the hive. rich and poor were proud to prove that they loved their liberty better than their money or their lives, and the descendants of the brave old puritans were worthy of their race. many said: "it will soon be over;" but the wise men, who had warned in vain, shook their heads, as that first disastrous summer showed that the time for compromise was past, and the stern reckoning day of eternal justice was at hand. to no home in the land did the great trouble bring a more sudden change than the little cottage in the lane. all its happy peace was broken; excitement and anxiety, grief and indignation, banished the sweet home joys and darkened the future that had seemed so clear. david was sober enough now, and went about his work with a grim set to his lips, and a spark in his eyes that made the three women look at one another pale with unspoken apprehension. as they sat together, picking lint or rolling bandages while david read aloud some dismal tale of a lost battle that chilled their blood and made their hearts ache with pity, each woman, listening to the voice that stirred her like martial music, said within herself: "sooner or later he will go, and i have no right to keep him." each tried to be ready to make her sacrifice bravely when the time came, and each prayed that it might not be required of her. david said little, but they knew by the way he neglected his garden and worked for the soldiers, that his heart was in the war. day after day he left christie and his sister to fill the orders that came so often now for flowers to lay on the grave of some dear, dead boy brought home to his mother in a shroud. day after day he hurried away to help mr. power in the sanitary work that soon claimed all hearts and hands; and, day after day, he came home with what christie called the "heroic look" more plainly written on his face. all that first summer, so short and strange; all that first winter, so long and hard to those who went and those who stayed, david worked and waited, and the women waxed strong in the new atmosphere of self-sacrifice which pervaded the air, bringing out the sturdy virtues of the north. "how terrible! oh, when will it be over!" sighed letty one day, after hearing a long list of the dead and wounded in one of the great battles of that second summer. "never till we have beaten!" cried david, throwing down the paper and walking about the room with his head up like a war-horse who smells powder. "it is terrible and yet glorious. i thank heaven i live to see this great wrong righted, and only wish i could do my share like a man." "that is natural; but there are plenty of men who have fewer ties than you, who can fight better, and whose places are easier to fill than yours if they die," said christie, hastily. "but the men who have most to lose fight best they say; and to my thinking a soldier needs a principle as well as a weapon, if he is to do real service." "as the only son of a widow, you can't be drafted: that's one comfort," said letty, who could not bear to give up the brother lost to her for so many years. "i should not wait for that, and i know mother would give her widow's mite if she saw that it was needed." "yes, davy." the soft, old voice answered steadily; but the feeble hand closed instinctively on the arm of this only son, who was so dear to her. david held it close in both of his, saying gratefully: "thank you, mother;" then, fixing his eyes on the younger yet not dearer women, he added with a ring in his voice that made their hearts answer with a prompt "ay, ay!" in spite of love or fear: "now listen, you dear souls, and understand that, if i do this thing, i shall not do it hastily, nor without counting well the cost. my first and most natural impulse was to go in the beginning; but i stayed for your sakes. i saw i was not really needed: i thought the war would soon be over, and those who went then could do the work. you see how mistaken we were, and god only knows when the end will come. the boys--bless their brave hearts!--have done nobly, but older men are needed now. we cannot sacrifice all the gallant lads; and we who have more to lose than they must take our turn and try to do as well. you own this; i see it in your faces: then don't hold me back when the time comes for me to go. i must do my part, however small it is, or i shall never feel as if i deserved the love you give me. you will let me go, i am sure, and not regret that i did what seemed to me a solemn duty, leaving the consequences to the lord!" "yes, david," sister and sweetheart answered, bravely forgetting in the fervor of the moment what heavy consequences god might see fit to send. "good! i knew my spartans would be ready, and i won't disgrace them. i've waited more than a year, and done what i could. but all the while i felt that i was going to get a chance at the hard work, and i've been preparing for it. bennet will take the garden and green-house off my hands this autumn for a year or longer, if i like. he's a kind, neighborly man, and his boy will take my place about the house and protect you faithfully. mr. power cannot be spared to go as chaplain, though he longs to desperately; so he is near in case of need, and with your two devoted daughters by you, mother, i surely can be spared for a little while." "only one daughter near her, david: i shall enlist when you do," said christie, resolutely. "you mean it?" "i mean it as honestly as you do. i knew you would go: i saw you getting ready, and i made up my mind to follow. i, too, have prepared for it, and even spoken to mrs. amory. she has gone as matron of a hospital, and promised to find a place for me when i was ready. the day you enlist i shall write and tell her i am ready." there was fire in christie's eyes and a flush on her cheek now, as she stood up with the look of a woman bent on doing well her part. david caught her hands in his, regardless of the ominous bandages they held, and said, with tender admiration and reproach in his voice: "you wouldn't marry me when i asked you this summer, fearing you would be a burden to me; but now you want to share hardship and danger with me, and support me by the knowledge of your nearness. dear, ought i to let you do it?" "you will let me do it, and in return i will marry you whenever you ask me," answered christie, sealing the promise with a kiss that silenced him. he had been anxious to be married long ago, but when he asked mr. power to make him happy, a month after his engagement, that wise friend said to them: "i don't advise it yet. you have tried and proved one another as friends, now try and prove one another as lovers; then, if you feel that all is safe and happy, you will be ready for the greatest of the three experiments, and then in god's name marry." "we will," they said, and for a year had been content, studying one another, finding much to love, and something to learn in the art of bearing and forbearing. david had begun to think they had waited long enough, but christie still delayed, fearing she was not worthy, and secretly afflicted by the thought of her poverty. she had so little to give in return for all she received that it troubled her, and she was sometimes tempted to ask uncle enos for a modest marriage portion. she never had yet, and now resolved to ask nothing, but to earn her blessing by doing her share in the great work. "i shall remember that," was all david answered to that last promise of hers, and three months later he took her at her word. for a week or two they went on in the old way; christie did her housework with her head full of new plans, read books on nursing, made gruel, plasters, and poultices, till mrs. sterling pronounced her perfect; and dreamed dreams of a happy time to come when peace had returned, and david was safe at home with all the stars and bars a man could win without dying for them. david set things in order, conferred with bennet, petted his womankind, and then hurried away to pack boxes of stores, visit camps, and watch departing regiments with a daily increasing certainty that his time had come. one september day he went slowly home, and, seeing christie in the garden, joined her, helped her finish matting up some delicate shrubs, put by the tools, and when all was done said with unusual gentleness: "come and walk a little in the lane." she put her arm in his, and answered quickly: "you've something to tell me: i see it in your face." "dear, i must go." "yes, david." "and you?" "i go too." "yes, christie." that was all: she did not offer to detain him now; he did not deny her right to follow. they looked each other bravely in the face a moment, seeing, acknowledging the duty and the danger, yet ready to do the one and dare the other, since they went together. then shoulder to shoulder, as if already mustered in, these faithful comrades marched to and fro, planning their campaign. next evening, as mrs. sterling sat alone in the twilight, a tall man in army blue entered quietly, stood watching the tranquil figure for a moment, then went and knelt down beside it, saying, with a most unsoldierly choke in the voice: "i've done it, mother: tell me you're not sorry." but the little quaker cap went down on the broad shoulder, and the only answer he heard was a sob that stirred the soft folds over the tender old heart that clung so closely to the son who had lived for her so long. what happened in the twilight no one ever knew; but david received promotion for bravery in a harder battle than any he was going to, and from his mother's breast a decoration more precious to him than the cross of the legion of honor from a royal hand. when mr. power presently came in, followed by the others, they found their soldier standing very erect in his old place on the rug, with the firelight gleaming on his bright buttons, and bran staring at him with a perplexed aspect; for the uniform, shorn hair, trimmed beard, and a certain lofty carriage of the head so changed his master that the sagacious beast was disturbed. letty smiled at him approvingly, then went to comfort her mother who could not recover her tranquillity so soon. but christie stood aloof, looking at her lover with something more than admiration in the face that kindled beautifully as she exclaimed: "o david, you are splendid! once i was so blind i thought you plain; but now my 'boy in blue' is the noblest looking man i ever saw. yes, mr. power, i've found my hero at last! here he is, my knight without reproach or fear, going out to take his part in the grandest battle ever fought. i wouldn't keep him if i could; i'm glad and proud to have him go; and if he never should come back to me i can bear it better for knowing that he dutifully did his best, and left the consequences to the lord." then, having poured out the love and pride and confidence that enriched her sacrifice, she broke down and clung to him, weeping as so many clung and wept in those hard days when men and women gave their dearest, and those who prayed and waited suffered almost as much as those who fought and died. when the deed was once done, it was astonishing what satisfaction they all took in it, how soon they got accustomed to the change, and what pride they felt in "our soldier." the loyal frenzy fell upon the three quiet women, and they could not do too much for their country. mrs. sterling cut up her treasured old linen without a murmur; letty made "comfort bags" by the dozen, put up jelly, and sewed on blue jackets with tireless industry; while christie proclaimed that if she had twenty lovers she would send them all; and then made preparations enough to nurse the entire party. david meantime was in camp, getting his first taste of martial life, and not liking it any better than he thought he should; but no one heard a complaint, and he never regretted his "love among the roses," for he was one of the men who had a "principle as well as a weapon," and meant to do good service with both. it would have taken many knapsacks to hold all the gifts showered upon him by his friends and neighbors. he accepted all that came, and furnished forth those of his company who were less favored. among these was elisha wilkins, and how he got there should be told. elisha had not the slightest intention of enlisting, but mrs. wilkins was a loyal soul, and could not rest till she had sent a substitute, since she could not go herself. finding that lisha showed little enthusiasm on the subject, she tried to rouse him by patriotic appeals of various sorts. she read stirring accounts of battles, carefully omitting the dead and wounded; she turned out, baby and all if possible, to cheer every regiment that left; and was never tired of telling wash how she wished she could add ten years to his age and send him off to fight for his country like a man. but nothing seemed to rouse the supine elisha, who chewed his quid like a placid beast of the field, and showed no sign of a proper spirit. "very well," said mrs. wilkins resolutely to herself, "ef i can't make no impression on his soul i will on his stommick, and see how that'll work." which threat she carried out with such skill and force that lisha was effectually waked up, for he was "partial to good vittles," and cynthy was a capital cook. poor rations did not suit him, and he demanded why his favorite dishes were not forthcoming. "we can't afford no nice vittles now when our men are sufferin' so. i should be ashamed to cook 'em, and expect to choke tryin' to eat 'em. every one is sacrificin' somethin', and we mustn't be slack in doin' our part,--the lord knows it's precious little,--and there won't be no stuffin' in this house for a consid'able spell. ef i could save up enough to send a man to do my share of the fightin', i should be proud to do it. anyway i shall stint the family and send them dear brave fellers every cent i can git without starvin' the children." "now, cynthy, don't be ferce. things will come out all right, and it ain't no use upsettin' every thing and bein' so darned uncomfortable," answered mr. wilkins with unusual energy. "yes it is, lisha. no one has a right to be comfortable in such times as these, and this family ain't goin' to be ef i can help it," and mrs. wilkins set down her flat-iron with a slam which plainly told her lisha war was declared. he said no more but fell a thinking. he was not as unmoved as he seemed by the general excitement, and had felt sundry manly impulses to "up and at 'em," when his comrades in the shop discussed the crisis with ireful brandishing of awls, and vengeful pounding of sole leather, as if the rebels were under the hammer. but the selfish, slothful little man could not make up his mind to brave hardship and danger, and fell back on his duty to his family as a reason for keeping safe at home. but now that home was no longer comfortable, now that cynthy had sharpened her tongue, and turned "ferce," and now--hardest blow of all--that he was kept on short commons, he began to think he might as well be on the tented field, and get a little glory along with the discomfort if that was inevitable. nature abhors a vacuum, and when food fell short patriotism had a chance to fill the aching void. lisha had about made up his mind, for he knew the value of peace and quietness; and, though his wife was no scold, she was the ruling power, and in his secret soul he considered her a very remarkable woman. he knew what she wanted, but was not going to be hurried for anybody; so he still kept silent, and mrs. wilkins began to think she must give it up. an unexpected ally appeared however, and the good woman took advantage of it to strike one last blow. lisha sat eating a late breakfast one morning, with a small son at either elbow, waiting for stray mouthfuls and committing petty larcenies right and left, for pa was in a brown study. mrs. wilkins was frying flap-jacks, and though this is not considered an heroical employment she made it so that day. this was a favorite dish of lisha's, and she had prepared it as a bait for this cautious fish. to say that the fish rose at once and swallowed the bait, hook and all, but feebly expresses the justice done to the cakes by that long-suffering man. waiting till he had a tempting pile of the lightest, brownest flapjacks ever seen upon his plate, and was watching an extra big bit of butter melt luxuriously into the warm bosom of the upper one, with a face as benign as if some of the molasses he was trickling over them had been absorbed into his nature, mrs. wilkins seized the propitious moment to say impressively: "david sterlin' has enlisted!" "sho! has he, though?" "of course he has! any man with the spirit of a muskeeter would." "well, he ain't got a family, you see." "he's got his old mother, that sister home from furrin' parts somewheres, and christie just going to be married. i should like to know who's got a harder family to leave than that?" "six young children is harder: ef i went fifin' and drummin' off, who 'd take care of them i'd like to know?" "i guess i could support the family ef i give my mind to it;" and mrs. wilkins turned a flapjack with an emphasis that caused her lord to bolt a hot triangle with dangerous rapidity; for well he knew very little of his money went into the common purse. she never reproached him, but the fact nettled him now; and something in the tone of her voice made that sweet morsel hard to swallow. "'pears to me you 're in ruther a hurry to be a widder, cynthy, shovin' me off to git shot in this kind of a way," growled lisha, ill at ease. "i'd ruther be a brave man's widder than a coward's wife, any day!" cried the rebellious cynthy: then she relented, and softly slid two hot cakes into his plate; adding, with her hand upon his shoulder, "lisha, dear, i want to be proud of my husband as other women be of theirs. every one gives somethin', i've only got you, and i want to do my share, and do it hearty." she went back to her work, and mr. wilkins sat thoughtfully stroking the curly heads beside him, while the boys ravaged his plate, with no reproof, but a half audible, "my little chaps, my little chaps!" she thought she had got him, and smiled to herself, even while a great tear sputtered on the griddle at those last words of his. imagine her dismay, when, having consumed the bait, her fish gave signs of breaking the line, and escaping after all; for mr. wilkins pushed back his chair, and said slowly, as he filled his pipe: "i'm blest ef i can see the sense of a lot of decent men going off to be froze, and starved, and blowed up jest for them confounded niggers." he got no further, for his wife's patience gave out; and, leaving her cakes to burn black, she turned to him with a face glowing like her stove, and cried out: "lisha, ain't you got no heart? can you remember what hepsey told us, and call them poor, long-sufferin' creeters names? can you think of them wretched wives sold from their husbands; them children as dear as ourn tore from their mothers; and old folks kep slavin eighty long, hard years with no pay, no help, no pity, when they git past work? lisha wilkins, look at that, and say no ef you darst!" mrs. wilkins was a homely woman in an old calico gown, but her face, her voice, her attitude were grand, as she flung wide the door of the little back bedroom. and pointed with her tin spatula to the sight beyond. only hepsey sitting by a bed where lay what looked more like a shrivelled mummy than a woman. ah! but it was that old mother worked and waited for so long: blind now, and deaf; childish, and half dead with many hardships, but safe and free at last; and hepsey's black face was full of a pride, a peace, and happiness more eloquent and touching than any speech or sermon ever uttered. mr. wilkins had heard her story, and been more affected by it than he would confess: now it came home to him with sudden force; the thought of his own mother, wife, or babies torn from him stirred him to the heart, and the manliest emotion he had ever known caused him to cast his pipe at his feet, put on his hat with an energetic slap, and walk out of the house, wearing an expression on his usually wooden face that caused his wife to clap her hands and cry exultingly: "i thought that would fetch him!" then she fell to work like an inspired woman; and at noon a sumptuous dinner "smoked upon the board;" the children were scrubbed till their faces shone; and the room was as fresh and neat as any apartment could be with the penetrating perfume of burnt flapjacks still pervading the air, and three dozen ruffled nightcaps decorating the clothes-lines overhead. "tell me the instant minute you see pa a comin', and i'll dish up the gravy," was mrs. wilkins's command, as she stepped in with a cup of tea for old "harm," as she called hepsey's mother. "he's a comin', ma!" called gusty, presently. "no, he ain't: it's a trainer," added ann lizy. "yes, 'tis pa! oh, my eye! ain't he stunnin'!" cried wash, stricken for the first time with admiration of his sire. before mrs. wilkins could reply to these conflicting rumors her husband walked in, looking as martial as his hollow chest and thin legs permitted, and, turning his cap nervously in his hands, said half-proudly, half-reproachfully: "now, cynthy, be you satisfied?" "oh, my lisha! i be, i be!" and the inconsistent woman fell upon his buttony breast weeping copiously. if ever a man was praised and petted, admired and caressed, it was elisha wilkins that day. his wife fed him with the fat of the land, regardless of consequences; his children revolved about him with tireless curiosity and wonder; his neighbors flocked in to applaud, advise, and admire; every one treated him with a respect most grateful to his feelings; he was an object of interest, and with every hour his importance increased, so that by night he felt like a commander-in-chief, and bore himself accordingly. he had enlisted in david's regiment, which was a great comfort to his wife; for though her stout heart never failed her, it grew very heavy at times; and when lisha was gone, she often dropped a private tear over the broken pipe that always lay in its old place, and vented her emotions by sending baskets of nourishment to private wilkins, which caused that bandy-legged warrior to be much envied and cherished by his mates. "i'm glad i done it; for it will make a man of lisha; and, if i've sent him to his death, god knows he'll be fitter to die than if he stayed here idlin' his life away." then the good soul openly shouldered the burden she had borne so long in secret, and bravely trudged on alone. "another great battle!" screamed the excited news-boys in the streets. "another great battle!" read letty in the cottage parlor. "another great battle!" cried david, coming in with the war-horse expression on his face a month or two after he enlisted. the women dropped their work to look and listen; for his visits were few and short, and every instant was precious. when the first greetings were over, david stood silent an instant, and a sudden mist came over his eyes as he glanced from one beloved face to another; then he threw back his head with the old impatient gesture, squared his shoulders, and said in a loud, cheerful voice, with a suspicious undertone of emotion in it, however: "my precious people, i've got something to tell you: are you ready?" they knew what it was without a word. mrs. sterling clasped her hands and bowed her head. letty turned pale and dropped her work; but christie's eyes kindled, as she answered with a salute: "ready, my general." "we are ordered off at once, and go at four this afternoon. i've got a three hours' leave to say good-by in. now, let's be brave and enjoy every minute of it." "we will: what can i do for you, davy?" asked christie, wonderfully supported by the thought that she was going too. "keep your promise, dear," he answered, while the warlike expression changed to one of infinite tenderness. "what promise?" "this;" and he held out his hand with a little paper in it. she saw it was a marriage license, and on it lay a wedding-ring. she did not hesitate an instant, but laid her own hand in his, and answered with her heart in her face: "i'll keep it, david." "i knew you would!" then holding her close he said in a tone that made it very hard for her to keep steady, as she had vowed she would do to the last: "i know it is much to ask, but i want to feel that you are mine before i go. not only that, but it will be a help and protection to you, dear, when you follow. as a married woman you will get on better, as my wife you will be allowed to come to me if i need you, and as my"--he stopped there, for he could not add--"as my widow you will have my pension to support you." she understood, put both arms about his neck as if to keep him safe, and whispered fervently: "nothing can part us any more, not even death; for love like ours will last for ever." "then you are quite willing to try the third great experiment?" "glad and proud to do it." "with no doubt, no fear, to mar your consent." "not one, david." "that's true love, christie!" then they stood quite still for a time, and in the silence the two hearts talked together in the sweet language no tongue can utter. presently david said regretfully: "i meant it should be so different. i always planned that we'd be married some bright summer day, with many friends about us; then take a happy little journey somewhere together, and come back to settle down at home in the dear old way. now it's all so hurried, sorrowful, and strange. a dull november day; no friends but mr. power, who will be here soon; no journey but my march to washington alone; and no happy coming home together in this world perhaps. can you bear it, love?" "have no fear for me: i feel as if i could bear any thing just now; for i've got into a heroic mood and i mean to keep so as long as i can. i've always wanted to live in stirring times, to have a part in great deeds, to sacrifice and suffer something for a principle or a person; and now i have my wish. i like it, david: it's a grand time to live, a splendid chance to do and suffer; and i want to be in it heart and soul, and earn a little of the glory or the martyrdom that will come in the end. surely i shall if i give you and myself to the cause; and i do it gladly, though i know that my heart has got to ache as it never has ached yet, when my courage fails, as it will by and by, and my selfish soul counts the cost of my offering after the excitement is over. help me to be brave and strong, david: don't let me complain or regret, but show me what lies beyond, and teach me to believe that simply doing the right is reward and happiness enough." christie was lifted out of herself for the moment, and looked inspired by the high mood which was but the beginning of a nobler life for her. david caught the exaltation, and gave no further thought to any thing but the duty of the hour, finding himself stronger and braver for that long look into the illuminated face of the woman he loved. "i'll try," was all his answer to her appeal; then proved that he meant it by adding, with his lips against her cheek: "i must go to mother and letty. we leave them behind, and they must be comforted." he went, and christie vanished to make ready for her wedding, conscious, in spite of her exalted state of mind, that every thing was very hurried, sad, and strange, and very different from the happy day she had so often planned. "no matter, we are 'well on't for love,' and that is all we really need," she thought, recalling with a smile mrs. wilkins's advice. "david sends you these, dear. can i help in any way?" asked letty, coming with a cluster of lovely white roses in her hand, and a world of affection in her eyes. "i thought he'd give me violets," and a shadow came over christie's face. "but they are mourning flowers, you know." "not to me. the roses are, for they remind me of poor helen, and the first work i did with david was arranging flowers like these for a dead baby's little coffin." "my dearest christie, don't be superstitious: all brides wear roses, and davy thought you'd like them," said letty, troubled at her words. "then i'll wear them, and i won't have fancies if i can help it. but i think few brides dress with a braver, happier heart than mine, though i do choose a sober wedding-gown," answered christie, smiling again, as she took from a half-packed trunk her new hospital suit of soft, gray, woollen stuff. "won't you wear the pretty silvery silk we like so well?" asked letty timidly, for something in christie's face and manner impressed her very much. "no, i will be married in my uniform as david is," she answered with a look letty long remembered. "mr. power has come," she said softly a few minutes later, with an anxious glance at the clock. "go dear, i'll come directly. but first"--and christie held her friend close a moment, kissed her tenderly, and whispered in a broken voice: "remember, i don't take his heart from you, i only share it with my sister and my mother." "i'm glad to give him to you, christie; for now i feel as if i had partly paid the great debt i've owed so long," answered letty through her tears. then she went away, and christie soon followed, looking very like a quaker bride in her gray gown with no ornament but delicate frills at neck and wrist, and the roses in her bosom. "no bridal white, dear?" said david, going to her. "only this," and she touched the flowers, adding with her hand on the blue coat sleeve that embraced her: "i want to consecrate my uniform as you do yours by being married in it. isn't it fitter for a soldier's wife than lace and silk at such a time as this?" "much fitter: i like it; and i find you beautiful, my christie," whispered david, as she put one of her roses in his button-hole. "then i'm satisfied." "mr. power is waiting: are you ready, love?" "quite ready." then they were married, with letty and her mother standing beside them, bennet and his wife dimly visible in the door-way, and poor bran at his master's feet, looking up with wistful eyes, half human in the anxious affection they expressed. christie never forgot that service, so simple, sweet, and solemn; nor the look her husband gave her at the end, when he kissed her on lips and forehead, saying fervently, "god bless my wife!" a tender little scene followed that can better be imagined than described; then mr. power said cheerily: "one hour more is all you have, so make the most of it, dearly beloved. you young folks take a wedding-trip to the green-house, while we see how well we can get on without you." "then they were married." david and christie went smiling away together, and if they shed any tears over the brief happiness no one saw them but the flowers, and they loyally kept the secret folded up in their tender hearts. mr. power cheered the old lady, while letty, always glad to serve, made ready the last meal david might ever take at home. a very simple little marriage feast, but more love, good-will, and tender wishes adorned the plain table than is often found at wedding breakfasts; and better than any speech or song was letty's broken whisper, as she folded her arms round david's empty chair when no one saw her, "heaven bless and keep and bring him back to us." how time went that day! the inexorable clock would strike twelve so soon, and then the minutes flew till one was at hand, and the last words were still half said, the last good-byes still unuttered. "i must go!" cried david with a sort of desperation, as letty clung to one arm, christie to the other. "i shall see you soon: good-by, my husband," whispered christie, setting him free. "give the last kiss to mother," added letty, following her example, and in another minute david was gone. at the turn of the lane, he looked back and swung his cap; all waved their hands to him; and then he marched away to the great work before him, leaving those loving hearts to ask the unanswerable question: "how will he come home?" christie was going to town to see the regiment off, and soon followed with mr. power. they went early to a certain favorable spot, and there found mrs. wilkins, with her entire family perched upon a fence, on the spikes of which they impaled themselves at intervals, and had to be plucked off by the stout girl engaged to assist in this memorable expedition. "yes, lisha 's goin', and i was bound he should see every one of his blessed children the last thing, ef i took 'em all on my back. he knows where to look, and he's a goin' to see seven cheerful faces as he goes by. time enough to cry byme by; so set stiddy, boys, and cheer loud when you see pa," said mrs. wilkins, fanning her hot face, and utterly forgetting her cherished bonnet in the excitement of the moment. "i hear drums! they're comin'!" cried wash, after a long half hour's waiting had nearly driven him frantic. the two younger boys immediately tumbled off the fence, and were with difficulty restored to their perches. gusty began to cry, ann elizy to wave a minute red cotton handkerchief, and adelaide to kick delightedly in her mother's arms. "jane carter, take this child for massy sake: my legs do tremble so i can't h'ist her another minute. hold on to me behind, somebody, for i must see ef i do pitch into the gutter," cried mrs. wilkins, with a gasp, as she wiped her eyes on her shawl, clutched the railing, and stood ready to cheer bravely when her conquering hero came. wash had heard drums every five minutes since he arrived, but this time he was right, and began to cheer the instant a red cockade appeared at the other end of the long street. it was a different scene now than in the first enthusiastic, hopeful days. young men and ardent boys filled the ranks then, brave by instinct, burning with loyal zeal, and blissfully ignorant of all that lay before them. now the blue coats were worn by mature men, some gray, all grave and resolute; husbands and fathers with the memory of wives and children tugging at their heart-strings; homes left desolate behind them, and before them the grim certainty of danger, hardship, and perhaps a captivity worse than death. little of the glamour of romance about the war now: they saw what it was, a long, hard task; and here were the men to do it well. even the lookers-on were different. once all was wild enthusiasm and glad uproar; now men's lips were set, and women's smileless even as they cheered; fewer handkerchiefs whitened the air, for wet eyes needed them; and sudden lulls, almost solemn in their stillness, followed the acclamations of the crowd. all watched with quickened breath and proud souls that living wave, blue below, and bright with a steely glitter above, as it flowed down the street and away to join the sea of dauntless hearts that for months had rolled up against the south, and ebbed back reddened with the blood of men like these. as the inspiring music, the grand tramp drew near, christie felt the old thrill and longed to fall in and follow the flag anywhere. then she saw david, and the regiment became one man to her. he was pale, but his eyes shone, and his whole face expressed that two of the best and bravest emotions of a man, love and loyalty, were at their height as he gave his new-made wife a long, lingering look that seemed to say: "i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honor more." christie smiled and waved her hand to him, showed him his wedding roses still on her breast, and bore up as gallantly as he, resolved that his last impression of her should be a cheerful one. but when it was all over, and nothing remained but the trampled street, the hurrying crowd, the bleak november sky, when mrs. wilkins sat sobbing on the steps like niobe with her children scattered about her, then christie's heart gave way, and she hid her face on mr. power's shoulder for a moment, all her ardor quenched in tears as she cried within herself: "no, i could not bear it if i was not going too!" chapter xvii. the colonel. ten years earlier christie made her début as an amazon, now she had a braver part to play on a larger stage, with a nation for audience, martial music and the boom of cannon for orchestra; the glare of battle-fields was the "red light;" danger, disease, and death, the foes she was to contend against; and the troupe she joined, not timid girls, but high-hearted women, who fought gallantly till the "demon" lay dead, and sang their song of exultation with bleeding hearts, for this great spectacle was a dire tragedy to them. christie followed david in a week, and soon proved herself so capable that mrs. amory rapidly promoted her from one important post to another, and bestowed upon her the only honors left the women, hard work, responsibility, and the gratitude of many men. "you are a treasure, my dear, for you can turn your hand to any thing and do well whatever you undertake. so many come with plenty of good-will, but not a particle of practical ability, and are offended because i decline their help. the boys don't want to be cried over, or have their brows 'everlastingly swabbed,' as old watkins calls it: they want to be well fed and nursed, and cheered up with creature comforts. your nice beef-tea and cheery ways are worth oceans of tears and cart-loads of tracts." mrs. amory said this, as christie stood waiting while she wrote an order for some extra delicacy for a very sick patient. mrs. sterling, jr., certainly did look like an efficient nurse, who thought more of "the boys" than of herself; for one hand bore a pitcher of gruel, the other a bag of oranges, clean shirts hung over the right arm, a rubber cushion under the left, and every pocket in the big apron was full of bottles and bandages, papers and letters. "i never discovered what an accomplished woman i was till i came here," answered christie, laughing. "i'm getting vain with so much praise, but i like it immensely, and never was so pleased in my life as i was yesterday when dr. harvey came for me to take care of poor dunbar, because no one else could manage him." "it's your firm yet pitiful way the men like so well. i can't describe it better than in big ben's words: 'mis sterlin' is the nuss for me, marm. she takes care of me as ef she was my own mother, and it's a comfort jest to see her round.' it's a gift, my dear, and you may thank heaven you have got it, for it works wonders in a place like this." "i only treat the poor fellows as i would have other women treat my david if he should be in their care. he may be any hour, you know." "and my boys, god keep them!" the pen lay idle, and the gruel cooled, as young wife and gray-haired mother forgot their duty for a moment in tender thoughts of the absent. only a moment, for in came an attendant with a troubled face, and an important young surgeon with the well-worn little case under his arm. "bartlett 's dying, marm: could you come and see to him?" says the man to mrs. amory. "we have got to amputate porter's arm this morning, and he won't consent unless you are with him. you will come, of course?" added the surgeon to christie, having tried and found her a woman with no "confounded nerves" to impair her usefulness. so matron and nurse go back to their duty, and dying bartlett and suffering porter are all the more tenderly served for that wasted minute. like david, christie had enlisted for the war, and in the two years that followed, she saw all sorts of service; for mrs. amory had influence, and her right-hand woman, after a few months' apprenticeship, was ready for any post. the gray gown and comforting face were known in many hospitals, seen on crowded transports, among the ambulances at the front, invalid cars, relief tents, and food depots up and down the land, and many men went out of life like tired children holding the hand that did its work so well. david meanwhile was doing his part manfully, not only in some of the great battles of those years, but among the hardships, temptations, and sacrifices of a soldiers' life. spite of his quaker ancestors, he was a good fighter, and, better still, a magnanimous enemy, hating slavery, but not the slave-holder, and often spared the master while he saved the chattel. he was soon promoted, and might have risen rapidly, but was content to remain as captain of his company; for his men loved him, and he was prouder of his influence over them than of any decoration he could win. his was the sort of courage that keeps a man faithful to death, and though he made no brilliant charge, uttered few protestations of loyalty, and was never heard to "damn the rebs," his comrades felt that his brave example had often kept them steady till a forlorn hope turned into a victory, knew that all the wealth of the world could not bribe him from his duty, and learned of him to treat with respect an enemy as brave and less fortunate than themselves. a noble nature soon takes its proper rank and exerts its purifying influence, and private sterling won confidence, affection, and respect, long before promotion came; for, though he had tended his flowers like a woman and loved his books like a student, he now proved that he could also do his duty and keep his honor stainless as a soldier and a gentleman. he and christie met as often as the one could get a brief furlough, or the other be spared from hospital duty; but when these meetings did come, they were wonderfully beautiful and rich, for into them was distilled a concentration of the love, happiness, and communion which many men and women only know through years of wedded life. christie liked romance, and now she had it, with a very sombre reality to give it an added charm. no juliet ever welcomed her romeo more joyfully than she welcomed david when he paid her a flying visit unexpectedly; no bayard ever had a more devoted lady in his tent than david, when his wife came through every obstacle to bring him comforts or to nurse the few wounds he received. love-letters, written beside watch-fires and sick-beds, flew to and fro like carrier-doves with wondrous speed; and nowhere in all the brave and busy land was there a fonder pair than this, although their honeymoon was spent apart in camp and hospital, and well they knew that there might never be for them a happy going home together. in her wanderings to and fro, christie not only made many new friends, but met some old ones; and among these one whose unexpected appearance much surprised and touched her. she was "scrabbling" eggs in a tin basin on board a crowded transport, going up the river with the echoes of a battle dying away behind her, and before her the prospect of passing the next day on a wharf serving out food to the wounded in an easterly storm. "o mrs. sterling, do go up and see what's to be done! we are all full below, and more poor fellows are lying about on deck in a dreadful state. i'll take your place here, but i can't stand that any longer," said one of her aids, coming in heart-sick and exhausted by the ghastly sights and terrible confusion of the day. "i'll go: keep scrabbling while the eggs last, then knock out the head of that barrel and make gruel till i pass the word to stop." forgetting her bonnet, and tying the ends of her shawl behind her, christie caught up a bottle of brandy and a canteen of water, and ran on deck. there a sight to daunt most any woman, met her eyes; for all about her, so thick that she could hardly step without treading on them, lay the sad wrecks of men: some moaning for help; some silent, with set, white faces turned up to the gray sky; all shelterless from the cold wind that blew, and the fog rising from the river. surgeons and nurses were doing their best; but the boat was loaded, and greater suffering reigned below. "heaven help us all!" sighed christie, and then she fell to work. bottle and canteen were both nearly empty by the time she came to the end of the long line, where lay a silent figure with a hidden face. "poor fellow, is he dead?" she said, kneeling down to lift a corner of the blanket lent by a neighbor. a familiar face looked up at her, and a well remembered voice said courteously, but feebly: "thanks, not yet. excuse my left hand. i'm very glad to see you." "mr. fletcher, can it be you!" she cried, looking at him with pitiful amazement. well she might ask, for any thing more unlike his former self can hardly be imagined. unshaven, haggard, and begrimed with powder, mud to the knees, coat half on, and, worst of all, the right arm gone, there lay the "piece of elegance" she had known, and answered with a smile she never saw before: "all that's left of me, and very much at your service. i must apologize for the dirt, but i've laid in a mud-puddle for two days; and, though it was much easier than a board, it doesn't improve one's appearance." "what can i do for you? where can i put you? i can't bear to see you here!" said christie, much afflicted by the spectacle before her. "why not? we are all alike when it comes to this pass. i shall do very well if i might trouble you for a draught of water." she poured her last drop into his parched mouth and hurried off for more. she was detained by the way, and, when she returned, fancied he was asleep, but soon discovered that he had fainted quietly away, utterly spent with two days of hunger, suffering, and exposure. he was himself again directly, and lay contentedly looking up at her as she fed him with hot soup, longing to talk, but refusing to listen to a word till he was refreshed. "that's very nice," he said gratefully, as he finished, adding with a pathetic sort of gayety, as he groped about with his one hand: "i don't expect napkins, but i should like a handkerchief. they took my coat off when they did my arm, and the gentleman who kindly lent me this doesn't seem to have possessed such an article." christie wiped his lips with the clean towel at her side, and smiled as she did it, at the idea of mr. fletcher's praising burnt soup, and her feeding him like a baby out of a tin cup. "i think it would comfort you if i washed your face: can you bear to have it done?" she asked. "if you can bear to do it," he answered, with an apologetic look, evidently troubled at receiving such services from her. yet as her hands moved gently about his face, he shut his eyes, and there was a little quiver of the lips now and then, as if he was remembering a time when he had hoped to have her near him in a tenderer capacity than that of nurse. she guessed the thought, and tried to banish it by saying cheerfully as she finished: "there, you look more like yourself after that. now the hands." "fortunately for you, there is but one," and he rather reluctantly surrendered a very dirty member. "forgive me, i forgot. it is a brave hand, and i am proud to wash it!" "how do you know that?" he asked, surprised at her little burst of enthusiasm, for as she spoke she pressed the grimy hand in both her own. "while i was recovering you from your faint, that man over there informed me that you were his colonel; that you 'fit like a tiger,' and when your right arm was disabled, you took your sword in the left and cheered them on as if you 'were bound to beat the whole rebel army.'" "that's drake's story," and mr. fletcher tried to give the old shrug, but gave an irrepressible groan instead, then endeavored to cover it, by saying in a careless tone, "i thought i might get a little excitement out of it, so i went soldiering like all the rest of you. i'm not good for much, but i can lead the way for the brave fellows who do the work. officers make good targets, and a rebel bullet would cause no sorrow in taking me out of the world." "don't say that! i should grieve sincerely; and yet i'm very glad you came, for it will always be a satisfaction to you in spite of your great loss." "there are greater losses than right arms," muttered mr. fletcher gloomily, then checked himself, and added with a pleasant change in voice and face, as he glanced at the wedding-ring she wore: "this is not exactly the place for congratulations, but i can't help offering mine; for if i'm not mistaken your left hand also has grown doubly precious since we met?" christie had been wondering if he knew, and was much relieved to find he took it so well. her face said more than her words, as she answered briefly: "thank you. yes, we were married the day david left, and have both been in the ranks ever since." "not wounded yet? your husband, i mean," he said, getting over the hard words bravely. "three times, but not badly. i think a special angel stands before him with a shield;" and christie smiled as she spoke. "i think a special angel stands behind him with prayers that avail much," added mr. fletcher, looking up at her with an expression of reverence that touched her heart. "now i must go to my work, and you to sleep: you need all the rest you can get before you have to knock about in the ambulances again," she said, marking the feverish color in his face, and knowing well that excitement was his only strength. "how can i sleep in such an inferno as this?" "try, you are so weak, you'll soon drop off;" and, laying the cool tips of her fingers on his eyelids, she kept them shut till he yielded with a long sigh of mingled weariness and pleasure, and was asleep before he knew it. when he woke it was late at night; but little of night's blessed rest was known on board that boat laden with a freight of suffering. cries still came up from below, and moans of pain still sounded from the deck, where shadowy figures with lanterns went to and fro among the beds that in the darkness looked like graves. weak with pain and fever, the poor man gazed about him half bewildered, and, conscious only of one desire, feebly called "christie!" "here i am;" and the dull light of a lantern showed him her face very worn arid tired, but full of friendliest compassion. "what can i do for you?" she asked, as he clutched her gown, and peered up at her with mingled doubt and satisfaction in his haggard eyes. "just speak to me; let me touch you: i thought it was a dream; thank god it isn't. how much longer will this last?" he added, falling back on the softest pillows she could find for him. "we shall soon land now; i believe there is an officers' hospital in the town, and you will be quite comfortable there." "i want to go to your hospital: where is it?" "i have none; and, unless the old hotel is ready, i shall stay on the wharf with the boys until it is." "then i shall stay also. don't send me away, christie: i shall not be a trouble long; surely david will let you help me die?" and poor fletcher stretched his one hand imploringly to her in the first terror of the delirium that was coming on. "i will not leave you: i'll take care of you, and no one can forbid it. drink this, philip, and trust to christie." he obeyed like a child, and soon fell again into a troubled sleep while she sat by him thinking about david. the old hotel was ready; but by the time he got there mr. fletcher was past caring where he went, and for a week was too ill to know any thing, except that christie nursed him. then he turned the corner and began to recover. she wanted him to go into more comfortable quarters; but he would not stir as long as she remained; so she put him in a little room by himself, got a man to wait on him, and gave him as much of her care and time as she could spare from her many duties. he was not an agreeable patient, i regret to say; he tried to bear his woes heroically, but did not succeed very well, not being used to any exertion of that sort; and, though in christie's presence he did his best, his man confided to her that the colonel was "as fractious as a teething baby, and the domineeringest party he ever nussed." some of mr. fletcher's attempts were comical, and some pathetic, for though the sacred circle of her wedding-ring was an effectual barrier against a look or word of love, christie knew that the old affection was not dead, and it showed itself in his desire to win her respect by all sorts of small sacrifices and efforts at self-control. he would not use many of the comforts sent him, but insisted on wearing an army dressing-gown, and slippers that cost him a secret pang every time his eye was affronted by their ugliness. always after an angry scene with his servant, he would be found going round among the men bestowing little luxuries and kind words; not condescendingly, but humbly, as if it was an atonement for his own shortcomings, and a tribute due to the brave fellows who bore their pains with a fortitude he could not imitate. "poor philip, he tries so hard i must pity, not despise him; for he was never taught the manly virtues that make david what he is," thought christie, as she went to him one day with an unusually happy heart. she found him sitting with a newly opened package before him, and a gloomy look upon his face. "see what rubbish one of my men has sent me, thinking i might value it," he said, pointing to a broken sword-hilt and offering her a badly written letter. she read it, and was touched by its affectionate respect and manly sympathy; for the good fellow had been one of those who saved the colonel when he fell, and had kept the broken sword as a trophy of his bravery, "thinking it might be precious in the eyes of them that loved him." "poor burny might have spared himself the trouble, for i've no one to give it to, and in my eyes it's nothing but a bit of old metal," said fletcher, pushing the parcel away with a half-irritated, half-melancholy look. "give it to me as a parting keepsake. i have a fine collection of relics of the brave men i have known; and this shall have a high place in my museum when i go home," said christie, taking up the "bit of old metal" with more interest than she had ever felt in the brightest blade. "parting keepsake! are you going away?" asked fletcher, catching at the words in anxious haste, yet looking pleased at her desire to keep the relic. "yes, i'm ordered to report in washington, and start to-morrow." "then i'll go as escort. the doctor has been wanting me to leave for a week, and now i 've no desire to stay," he said eagerly. but christie shook her head, and began to fold up paper and string with nervous industry as she answered: "i am not going directly to washington: i have a week's furlough first." "and what is to become of me?" asked mr. fletcher, as fretfully as a sick child; for he knew where her short holiday would be passed, and his temper got the upper-hand for a minute. "you should go home and be comfortably nursed: you'll need care for some time; and your friends will be glad of a chance to give it i've no doubt." "i have no home, as you know; and i don't believe i've got a friend in the world who cares whether i live or die." "this looks as if you were mistaken;" and christie glanced about the little room, which was full of comforts and luxuries accumulated during his stay. his face changed instantly, and he answered with the honest look and tone never given to any one but her. "i beg your pardon: i'm an ungrateful brute. but you see i'd just made up my mind to do something worth the doing, and now it is made impossible in a way that renders it hard to bear. you are very patient with me, and i owe my life to your care: i never can thank you for it; but i will take myself out of your way as soon as i can, and leave you free to enjoy your happy holiday. heaven knows you have earned it!" he said those last words so heartily that all the bitterness went out of his voice, and christie found it easy to reply with a cordial smile: "i shall stay and see you comfortably off before i go myself. as for thanks and reward i have had both; for you have done something worth the doing, and you give me this." she took up the broken blade as she spoke, and carried it away, looking proud of her new trophy. fletcher left next day, saying, while he pressed her hand as warmly as if the vigor of two had gone into his one: "you will let me come and see you by and by when you too get your discharge: won't you?" "so gladly that you shall never again say you have no home. but you must take care of yourself, or you will get the long discharge, and we can't spare you yet," she answered warmly. "no danger of that: the worthless ones are too often left to cumber the earth; it is the precious ones who are taken," he said, thinking of her as he looked into her tired face, and remembered all she had done for him. christie shivered involuntarily at those ominous words, but only said, "good-by, philip," as he went feebly away, leaning on his servant's arm, while all the men touched their caps and wished the colonel a pleasant journey. chapter xviii. sunrise. three months later the war seemed drawing toward an end, and christie was dreaming happy dreams of home and rest with david, when, as she sat one day writing a letter full of good news to the wife of a patient, a telegram was handed to her, and tearing it open she read: "captain sterling dangerously wounded. tell his wife to come at once. e. wilkins." "no bad news i hope, ma'am?" said the young fellow anxiously, as his half-written letter fluttered to the ground, and christie sat looking at that fateful strip of paper with all the strength and color stricken out of her face by the fear that fell upon her. "it might be worse. they told me he was dying once, and when i got to him he met me at the door. i'll hope for the best now as i did then, but i never felt like this before," and she hid her face as if daunted by ominous forebodings too strong to be controlled. in a moment she was up and doing as calm and steady as if her heart was not torn by an anxiety too keen for words. by the time the news had flown through the house, she was ready; and, coming down with no luggage but a basket of comforts on her arm, she found the hall full of wan and crippled creatures gathered there to see her off, for no nurse in the hospital was more beloved than mrs. sterling. many eyes followed her,--many lips blessed her, many hands were outstretched for a sympathetic grasp: and, as the ambulance went clattering away, many hearts echoed the words of one grateful ghost of a man, "the lord go with her and stand by her as she's stood by us." it was not a long journey that lay before her; but to christie it seemed interminable, for all the way one unanswerable question haunted her, "surely god will not be so cruel as to take david now when he has done his part so well and the reward is so near." it was dark when she arrived at the appointed spot; but elisha wilkins was there to receive her, and to her first breathless question, "how is david?" answered briskly: "asleep and doin' well, ma'am. at least i should say so, and i peeked at him the last thing before i started." "where is he?" "in the little hospital over yonder. camp warn't no place for him, and i fetched him here as the nighest, and the best thing i could do for him." "how is he wounded?" "shot in the shoulder, side, and arm." "dangerously you said?" "no, ma'am, that warn't and ain't my opinion. the sergeant sent that telegram, and i think he done wrong. the captain is hit pretty bad; but it ain't by no means desperate accordin' to my way of thinkin'," replied the hopeful wilkins, who seemed mercifully gifted with an unusual flow of language. "thank heaven! now go on and tell me all about it as fast as you can," commanded christie, walking along the rough road so rapidly that private wilkins would have been distressed both in wind and limb if discipline and hardship had not done much for him. "well, you see we've been skirmishin' round here for a week, for the woods are full of rebs waitin' to surprise some commissary stores that's expected along. contrabands is always comin' into camp, and we do the best we can for the poor devils, and send 'em along where they'll be safe. yesterday four women and a boy come: about as desperate a lot as i ever see; for they'd been two days and a night in the big swamp, wadin' up to their waists in mud and water, with nothin' to eat, and babies on their backs all the way. every woman had a child, one dead, but she'd fetched it, 'so it might be buried free,' the poor soul said." mr. wilkins stopped an instant as if for breath, but the thought of his own "little chaps" filled his heart with pity for that bereaved mother; and he understood now why decent men were willing to be shot and starved for "the confounded niggers," as he once called them. "go on," said christie, and he made haste to tell the little story that was so full of intense interest to his listener. "i never saw the captain so worked up as he was by the sight of them wretched women. he fed and warmed 'em, comforted their poor scared souls, give what clothes we could find, buried the dead baby with his own hands, and nussed the other little creeters as if they were his own. it warn't safe to keep 'em more 'n a day, so when night come the captain got 'em off down the river as quiet as he could. me and another man helped him, for he wouldn't trust no one but himself to boss the job. a boat was ready,--blest if i know how he got it,--and about midnight we led them women down to it. the boy was a strong lad, and any of 'em could help row, for the current would take 'em along rapid. this way, ma'am; be we goin' too fast for you?" "not fast enough. finish quick." "we got down the bank all right, the captain standing in the little path that led to the river to keep guard, while bates held the boat stiddy and i put the women in. things was goin' lovely when the poor gal who'd lost her baby must needs jump out and run up to thank the captain agin for all he'd done for her. some of them sly rascals was watchin' the river: they see her, heard bates call out, 'come back, wench; come back!' and they fired. she did come back like a shot, and we give that boat a push that sent it into the middle of the stream. then we run along below the bank, and come out further down to draw off the rebs. some followed us and we give it to 'em handsome. but some warn't deceived, and we heard 'em firin' away at the captain; so we got back to him as fast as we could, but it warn't soon enough.--take my arm, mis' sterlin': it's kinder rough here." "and you found him?"-- "lyin' right acrost the path with two dead men in front of him; for he'd kep 'em off like a lion till the firin' brought up a lot of our fellers and the rebs skedaddled. i thought he was dead, for by the starlight i see he was bleedin' awful,--hold on, my dear, hold on to me,--he warn't, thank god, and looked up at me and sez, sez he, 'are they safe?' 'they be, captain,' sez i. 'then it's all right,' sez he, smilin' in that bright way of his, and then dropped off as quiet as a lamb. we got him back to camp double quick, and when the surgeon see them three wounds he shook his head, and i mistrusted that it warn't no joke. so when the captain come to i asked him what i could do or git for him, and he answered in a whisper, 'my wife.'" for an instant christie did "hold on" to mr. wilkins's arm, for those two words seemed to take all her strength away. then the thought that david was waiting for her strung her nerves and gave her courage to bear any thing. "is he here?" she asked of her guide a moment later, as he stopped before a large, half-ruined house, through whose windows dim lights and figures were seen moving to and fro. "yes, ma'am; we've made a hospital of this; the captain's got the best room in it, and now he's got the best miss that's goin' anywheres. won't you have a drop of something jest as a stand-by before you see him?" "nothing; take me to him at once." "here we be then. still sleepin': that looks well." mr. wilkins softly led the way down a long hall, opened a door, and after one look fell back and saluted as the captain's wife passed in. a surgeon was bending over the low bed, and when a hoarse voice at his elbow asked: "how is he?" the doctor answered without looking up: "done for: this shot through the lungs will finish him before morning i'm afraid." "then leave him to me: i am his wife," said the voice, clear and sharp now with the anguish those hard words had brought. "good god, why did no one tell me! my dear lady, i thought you were a nurse!" cried the poor surgeon rent with remorse for what now seemed the brutal frankness of his answer, as he saw the white face of the woman at his side, with a look in her eyes harder to see than the bitterest tears that ever fell. "i am a nurse. if you can do nothing, please go and leave him to me the little while he has to live." without a word the surgeon vanished, and christie was alone with david. the instant she saw him she felt that there was no hope, for she had seen too many faces wear the look his wore to be deceived even by her love. lying with closed eyes already sunken by keen suffering, hair damp with the cold dew on his forehead, a scarlet spot on either cheek, gray lines about the mouth, and pale lips parted by the painful breaths that came in heavy gasps or fluttered fitfully. this was what christie saw, and after that long look she knew the truth, and sunk down beside the bed, crying with an exceeding bitter cry: "o david, o my husband, must i give you up so soon?" his eyes opened then, and he turned his cheek to hers, whispering with a look that tried to be a smile, but ended in a sigh of satisfaction: "i knew you'd come;" then, as a tearless sob shook her from head to foot, he added steadily, though each breath cost a pang, "'yes, dear, i must go first, but it won't be hard with you to help me do it bravely." in that supremely bitter moment there returned to christie's memory certain words of the marriage service that had seemed so beautiful when she took part in it: "for better for worse, till death us do part." she had known the better, so short, so sweet! this was the worse, and till death came she must keep faithfully the promise made with such a happy heart. the thought brought with it unexpected strength, and gave her courage to crush down her grief, seal up her tears, and show a brave and tender face as she took that feeble hand in hers ready to help her husband die. he saw and thanked her for the effort, felt the sustaining power of a true wife's heart, and seemed to have no other care, since she was by him steadfast to the end. he lay looking at her with such serene and happy eyes that she would not let a tear, a murmur, mar his peace; and for a little while she felt as if she had gone out of this turbulent world into a heavenly one, where love reigned supreme. but such hours are as brief as beautiful, and at midnight mortal suffering proved that immortal joy had not yet begun. christie had sat by many death-beds, but never one like this; for, through all the bitter pangs that tried his flesh, david's soul remained patient and strong, upheld by the faith that conquers pain and makes even death a friend. in the quiet time that went before, he had told his last wishes, given his last messages of love, and now had but one desire,--to go soon that christie might be spared the trial of seeing suffering she could neither lighten nor share. "go and rest, dear; go and rest," he whispered more than once. "let wilkins come: this is too much for you. i thought it would be easier, but i am so strong life fights for me inch by inch." but christie would not go, and for her sake david made haste to die. hour after hour the tide ebbed fast, hour after hour the man's patient soul sat waiting for release, and hour after hour the woman's passionate heart clung to the love that seemed drifting away leaving her alone upon the shore. once or twice she could not bear it, and cried out in her despair: "no, it is not just that you should suffer this for a creature whose whole life is not worth a day of your brave, useful, precious one! why did you pay such a price for that girl's liberty?" she said, as the thought of her own wrecked future fell upon her dark and heavy. "because i owed it;--she suffered more than this seeing her baby die;--i thought of you in her place, and i could not help doing it." the broken answer, the reproachful look, wrung christie's heart, and she was silent: for, in all the knightly tales she loved so well, what sir galahad had rescued a more wretched, wronged, and helpless woman than the poor soul whose dead baby david buried tenderly before he bought the mother's freedom with his life? only one regret escaped him as the end drew very near, and mortal weakness brought relief from mortal pain. the first red streaks of dawn shone in the east, and his dim eyes brightened at the sight; "such a beautiful world!" he whispered with the ghost of a smile, "and so much good work to do in it, i wish i could stay and help a little longer," he added, while the shadow deepened on his face. but soon he said, trying to press christie's hand, still holding his: "you will do my part, and do it better than i could. don't mourn, dear heart, but work; and by and by you will be comforted." "don't mourn, dear heart, but work." "i will try; but i think i shall soon follow you, and need no comfort here," answered christie, already finding consolation in the thought. "what is it, david?" she asked a little later, as she saw his eyes turn wistfully toward the window where the rosy glow was slowly creeping up the sky. "i want to see the sun rise;--that used to be our happy time;--turn my face toward the light, christie, and we'll wait for it together." an hour later when the first pale ray crept in at the low window, two faces lay upon the pillow; one full of the despairing grief for which there seems no balm; the other with lips and eyes of solemn peace, and that mysterious expression, lovelier than any smile, which death leaves as a tender token that all is well with the new-born soul. to christie that was the darkest hour of the dawn, but for david sunrise had already come. chapter xix. little heart's-ease. when it was all over, the long journey home, the quiet funeral, the first sad excitement, then came the bitter moment when life says to the bereaved: "take up your burden and go on alone." christie's had been the still, tearless grief hardest to bear, most impossible to comfort; and, while mrs. sterling bore her loss with the sweet patience of a pious heart, and letty mourned her brother with the tender sorrow that finds relief in natural ways, the widow sat among them, as tranquil, colorless, and mute, as if her soul had followed david, leaving the shadow of her former self behind. "he will not come to me, but i shall go to him," seemed to be the thought that sustained her, and those who loved her said despairingly to one another: "her heart is broken: she will not linger long." but one woman wise in her own motherliness always answered hopefully: "don't you be troubled; nater knows what's good for us, and works in her own way. hearts like this don't break, and sorrer only makes 'em stronger. you mark my words: the blessed baby that's a comin' in the summer will work a merrycle, and you'll see this poor dear a happy woman yet." few believed in the prophecy; but mrs. wilkins stoutly repeated it and watched over christie like a mother; often trudging up the lane in spite of wind or weather to bring some dainty mess, some remarkable puzzle in red or yellow calico to be used as a pattern for the little garments the three women sewed with such tender interest, consecrated with such tender tears; or news of the war fresh from lisha who "was goin' to see it through ef he come home without a leg to stand on." a cheery, hopeful, wholesome influence she brought with her, and all the house seemed to brighten as she sat there freeing her mind upon every subject that came up, from the delicate little shirts mrs. sterling knit in spite of failing eyesight, to the fall of richmond, which, the prophetic spirit being strong within her, mrs. wilkins foretold with sibylline precision. she alone could win a faint smile from christie with some odd saying, some shrewd opinion, and she alone brought tears to the melancholy eyes that sorely needed such healing dew; for she carried little adelaide, and without a word put her into christie's arms, there to cling and smile and babble till she had soothed the bitter pain and hunger of a suffering heart. she and mr. power held christie up through that hard time, ministering to soul and body with their hope and faith till life grew possible again, and from the dust of a great affliction rose the sustaining power she had sought so long. as spring came on, and victory after victory proclaimed that the war was drawing to an end, christie's sad resignation was broken, by gusts of grief so stormy, so inconsolable, that those about her trembled for her life. it was so hard to see the regiments come home proudly bearing the torn battle-flags, weary, wounded, but victorious, to be rapturously welcomed, thanked, and honored by the grateful country they had served so well; to see all this and think of david in his grave unknown, unrewarded, and forgotten by all but a faithful few. "i used to dream of a time like this, to hope and plan for it, and cheer myself with the assurance that, after all our hard work, our long separation, and the dangers we had faced, david would get some honor, receive some reward, at least be kept for me to love and serve and live with for a little while. but these men who have merely saved a banner, led a charge, or lost an arm, get all the glory, while he gave his life so nobly; yet few know it, no one thanked him, and i am left desolate when so many useless ones might have been taken in his place. oh, it is not just! i cannot forgive god for robbing him of all his honors, and me of all my happiness." so lamented christie with the rebellious protest of a strong nature learning submission through the stern discipline of grief. in vain mr. power told her that david had received a better reward than any human hand could give him, in the gratitude of many women, the respect of many men. that to do bravely the daily duties of an upright life was more heroic in god's sight, than to achieve in an enthusiastic moment a single deed that won the world's applause; and that the seeming incompleteness of his life was beautifully rounded by the act that caused his death, although no eulogy recorded it, no song embalmed it, and few knew it but those he saved, those he loved, and the great commander who promoted him to the higher rank he had won. christie could not be content with this invisible, intangible recompense for her hero: she wanted to see, to know beyond a doubt, that justice had been done; and beat herself against the barrier that baffles bereaved humanity till impatient despair was wearied out, and passionate heart gave up the struggle. then, when no help seemed possible, she found it where she least expected it, in herself. searching for religion, she had found love: now seeking to follow love she found religion. the desire for it had never left her, and, while serving others, she was earning this reward; for when her life seemed to lie in ashes, from their midst, this slender spire of flame, purifying while it burned, rose trembling toward heaven; showing her how great sacrifices turn to greater compensations; giving her light, warmth, and consolation, and teaching her the lesson all must learn. god was very patient with her, sending much help, and letting her climb up to him by all the tender ways in which aspiring souls can lead unhappy hearts. david's room had been her refuge when those dark hours came, and sitting there one day trying to understand the great mystery that parted her from david, she seemed to receive an answer to her many prayers for some sign that death had not estranged them. the house was very still, the window open, and a soft south wind was wandering through the room with hints of may-flowers on its wings. suddenly a breath of music startled her, so airy, sweet, and short-lived that no human voice or hand could have produced it. again and again it came, a fitful and melodious sigh, that to one made superstitious by much sorrow, seemed like a spirit's voice delivering some message from another world. christie looked and listened with hushed breath and expectant heart, believing that some special answer was to be given her. but in a moment she saw it was no supernatural sound, only the south wind whispering in david's flute that hung beside the window. disappointment came first, then warm over her sore heart flowed the tender recollection that she used to call the old flute "david's voice," for into it he poured the joy and sorrow, unrest and pain, he told no living soul. how often it had been her lullaby, before she learned to read its language; how gaily it had piped for others; how plaintively it had sung for him, alone and in the night; and now how full of pathetic music was that hymn of consolation fitfully whispered by the wind's soft breath. ah, yes! this was a better answer than any supernatural voice could have given her; a more helpful sign than any phantom face or hand; a surer confirmation of her hope than subtle argument or sacred promise: for it brought back the memory of the living, loving man so vividly, so tenderly, that christie felt as if the barrier was down, and welcomed a new sense of david's nearness with the softest tears that had flowed since she closed the serene eyes whose last look had been for her. after that hour she spent the long spring days lying on the old couch in his room, reading his books, thinking of his love and life, and listening to "david's voice." she always heard it now, whether the wind touched the flute with airy fingers or it hung mute; and it sung to her songs of patience, hope, and cheer, till a mysterious peace carne to her, and she discovered in herself the strength she had asked, yet never thought to find. under the snow, herbs of grace had been growing silently; and, when the heavy rains had melted all the frost away, they sprung up to blossom beautifully in the sun that shines for every spire of grass, and makes it perfect in its time and place. mrs. wilkins was right; for one june morning, when she laid "that blessed baby" in its mother's arms, christie's first words were: "don't let me die: i must live for baby now," and gathered david's little daughter to her breast, as if the soft touch of the fumbling hands had healed every wound and brightened all the world. "i told you so; god bless 'em both!" and mrs. wilkins retired precipitately to the hall, where she sat down upon the stairs and cried most comfortable tears; for her maternal heart was full of a thanksgiving too deep for words. a sweet, secluded time to christie, as she brooded over her little treasure and forgot there was a world outside. a fond and jealous mother, but a very happy one, for after the bitterest came the tenderest experience of her life. she felt its sacredness, its beauty, and its high responsibilities; accepted them prayerfully, and found unspeakable delight in fitting herself to bear them worthily, always remembering that she had a double duty to perform toward the fatherless little creature given to her care. it is hardly necessary to mention the changes one small individual made in that feminine household. the purring and clucking that went on; the panics over a pin-prick; the consultations over a pellet of chamomilla; the raptures at the dawn of a first smile; the solemn prophecies of future beauty, wit, and wisdom in the bud of a woman; the general adoration of the entire family at the wicker shrine wherein lay the idol, a mass of flannel and cambric with a bald head at one end, and a pair of microscopic blue socks at the other. mysterious little porringers sat unreproved upon the parlor fire, small garments aired at every window, lights burned at unholy hours, and three agitated nightcaps congregated at the faintest chirp of the restless bird in the maternal nest. of course grandma grew young again, and produced nursery reminiscences on every occasion; aunt letty trotted day and night to gratify the imaginary wants of the idol, and christie was so entirely absorbed that the whole south might have been swallowed up by an earthquake without causing her as much consternation as the appearance of a slight rash upon the baby. no flower in david's garden throve like his little june rose, for no wind was allowed to visit her too roughly; and when rain fell without, she took her daily airing in the green-house, where from her mother's arms she soon regarded the gay sight with such sprightly satisfaction that she seemed a little flower herself dancing on its stem. she was named ruth for grandma, but christie always called her "little heart's-ease," or "pansy," and those who smiled at first at the mother's fancy, came in time to see that there was an unusual fitness in the name. all the bitterness seemed taken out of christie's sorrow by the soft magic of the child: there was so much to live for now she spoke no more of dying; and, holding that little hand in hers, it grew easier to go on along the way that led to david. a prouder mother never lived; and, as baby waxed in beauty and in strength, christie longed for all the world to see her. a sweet, peculiar, little face she had, sunny and fair; but, under the broad forehead where the bright hair fell as david's used to do, there shone a pair of dark and solemn eyes, so large, so deep, and often so unchildlike, that her mother wondered where she got them. even when she smiled the shadow lingered in these eyes, and when she wept they filled and overflowed with great, quiet tears like flowers too full of dew. christie often said remorsefully: "my little pansy! i put my own sorrow into your baby soul, and now it looks back at me with this strange wistfulness, and these great drops are the unsubmissive tears i locked up in my heart because i would not be grateful for the good gift god gave me, even while he took that other one away. o baby, forgive your mother; and don't let her find that she has given you clouds instead of sunshine." this fear helped christie to keep her own face cheerful, her own heart tranquil, her own life as sunny, healthful, and hopeful as she wished her child's to be. for this reason she took garden and green-house into her own hands when bennet gave them up, and, with a stout lad to help her, did well this part of the work that david bequeathed to her. it was a pretty sight to see the mother with her year-old daughter out among the fresh, green things: the little golden head bobbing here and there like a stray sunbeam; the baby voice telling sweet, unintelligible stories to bird and bee and butterfly; or the small creature fast asleep in a basket under a rose-bush, swinging in a hammock from a tree, or in bran's keeping, rosy, vigorous, and sweet with sun and air, and the wholesome influence of a wise and tender love. while christie worked she planned her daughter's future, as mothers will, and had but one care concerning it. she did not fear poverty, but the thought of being straitened for the means of educating little ruth afflicted her. she meant to teach her to labor heartily and see no degradation in it, but she could not bear to feel that her child should be denied the harmless pleasures that make youth sweet, the opportunities that educate, the society that ripens character and gives a rank which money cannot buy. a little sum to put away for baby, safe from all risk, ready to draw from as each need came, and sacredly devoted to this end, was now christie's sole ambition. with this purpose at her heart, she watched her fruit and nursed her flowers; found no task too hard, no sun too hot, no weed too unconquerable; and soon the garden david planted when his life seemed barren, yielded lovely harvests to swell his little daughter's portion. one day christie received a letter from uncle enos expressing a wish to see her if she cared to come so far and "stop a spell." it both surprised and pleased her, and she resolved to go, glad that the old man remembered her, and proud to show him the great success of her life, as she considered baby. so she went, was hospitably received by the ancient cousin five times removed who kept house, and greeted with as much cordiality as uncle enos ever showed to any one. he looked askance at baby, as if he had not bargained for the honor of her presence; but he said nothing, and christie wisely refrained from mentioning that ruth was the most remarkable child ever born. she soon felt at home, and went about the old house visiting familiar nooks with the bitter, sweet satisfaction of such returns. it was sad to miss aunt betsey in the big kitchen, strange to see uncle enos sit all day in his arm-chair too helpless now to plod about the farm and carry terror to the souls of those who served him. he was still a crabbed, gruff, old man; but the narrow, hard, old heart was a little softer than it used to be; and he sometimes betrayed the longing for his kindred that the aged often feel when infirmity makes them desire tenderer props than any they can hire. christie saw this wish, and tried to gratify it with a dutiful affection which could not fail to win its way. baby unconsciously lent a hand, for uncle enos could not long withstand the sweet enticements of this little kinswoman. he did not own the conquest in words, but was seen to cuddle his small captivator in private; allowed all sorts of liberties with his spectacles, his pockets, and bald pate; and never seemed more comfortable than when she confiscated his newspaper, and sitting on his knee read it to him in a pretty language of her own. "she's a good little gal; looks consid'able like you; but you warn't never such a quiet puss as she is," he said one day, as the child was toddling about the room with an old doll of her mother's lately disinterred from its tomb in the garret. "she is like her father in that. but i get quieter as i grow old, uncle," answered christie, who sat sewing near him. "you be growing old, that's a fact; but somehow it's kind of becomin'. i never thought you'd be so much of a lady, and look so well after all you've ben through," added uncle enos, vainly trying to discover what made christie's manners so agreeable in spite of her plain dress, and her face so pleasant in spite of the gray hair at her temples and the lines about her mouth. it grew still pleasanter to see as she smiled and looked up at him with the soft yet bright expression that always made him think of her mother. "i'm glad you don't consider me an entire failure, uncle. you know you predicted it. but though i have gone through a good deal, i don't regret my attempt, and when i look at pansy i feel as if i'd made a grand success." "you haven't made much money, i guess. if you don't mind tellin', what have you got to live on?" asked the old man, unwilling to acknowledge any life a success, if dollars and cents were left out of it. "only david's pension and what i can make by my garden." "the old lady has to have some on't, don't she?" "she has a little money of her own; but i see that she and letty have two-thirds of all i make." "that ain't a fair bargain if you do all the work." "ah, but we don't make bargains, sir: we work for one another and share every thing together." "so like women!" grumbled uncle enos, longing to see that "the property was fixed up square." "she's a good little gal! looks consid'able like you." "how are you goin' to eddicate the little gal? i s'pose you think as much of culter and so on as ever you did," he presently added with a gruff laugh. "more," answered christie, smiling too, as she remembered the old quarrels. "i shall earn the money, sir. if the garden fails i can teach, nurse, sew, write, cook even, for i've half a dozen useful accomplishments at my fingers' ends, thanks to the education you and dear aunt betsey gave me, and i may have to use them all for pansy's sake." pleased by the compliment, yet a little conscience-stricken at the small share he deserved of it, uncle enos sat rubbing up his glasses a minute, before he led to the subject he had in his mind. "ef you fall sick or die, what then?" "i've thought of that," and christie caught up the child as if her love could keep even death at bay. but pansy soon struggled down again, for the dirty-faced doll was taking a walk and could not be detained. "if i am taken from her, then my little girl must do as her mother did. god has orphans in his special care, and he won't forget her i am sure." uncle enos had a coughing spell just then; and, when he got over it, he said with an effort, for even to talk of giving away his substance cost him a pang: "i'm gettin' into years now, and it's about time i fixed up matters in case i'm took suddin'. i always meant to give you a little suthing, but as you didn't ask for't, i took good care on 't, and it ain't none the worse for waitin' a spell. i jest speak on't, so you needn't be anxious about the little gal. it ain't much, but it will make things easy i reckon." "you are very kind, uncle; and i am more grateful than i can tell. i don't want a penny for myself, but i should love to know that my daughter was to have an easier life than mine." "i s'pose you thought of that when you come so quick?" said the old man, with a suspicious look, that made christie's eyes kindle as they used to years ago, but she answered honestly: "i did think of it and hope it, yet i should have come quicker if you had been in the poor-house." neither spoke for a minute; for, in spite of generosity and gratitude, the two natures struck fire when they met as inevitably as flint and steel. "what's your opinion of missionaries," asked uncle enos, after a spell of meditation. "if i had any money to leave them, i should bequeath it to those who help the heathen here at home, and should let the innocent feejee islanders worship their idols a little longer in benighted peace," answered christie, in her usual decided way. "that's my idee exactly; but it's uncommon hard to settle which of them that stays at home you'll trust your money to. you see betsey was always pesterin' me to give to charity things; but i told her it was better to save up and give it in a handsome lump that looked well, and was a credit to you. when she was dyin' she reminded me on't, and i promised i'd do suthing before i follered. i've been turnin' on't over in my mind for a number of months, and i don't seem to find any thing that's jest right. you've ben round among the charity folks lately accordin' to your tell, now what would you do if you had a tidy little sum to dispose on?" "help the freed people." the answer came so quick that it nearly took the old gentleman's breath away, and he looked at his niece with his mouth open after an involuntary, "sho!" had escaped him. "david helped give them their liberty, and i would so gladly help them to enjoy it!" cried christie, all the old enthusiasm blazing up, but with a clearer, steadier flame than in the days when she dreamed splendid dreams by the kitchen fire. "well, no, that wouldn't meet my views. what else is there?" asked the old man quite unwarmed by her benevolent ardor. "wounded soldiers, destitute children, ill-paid women, young people struggling for independence, homes, hospitals, schools, churches, and god's charity all over the world." "that's the pesky part on 't: there's such a lot to choose from; i don't know much about any of 'em," began uncle enos, looking like a perplexed raven with a treasure which it cannot decide where to hide. "whose fault is that, sir?" the question hit the old man full in the conscience, and he winced, remembering how many of betsey's charitable impulses he had nipped in the bud, and now all the accumulated alms she would have been so glad to scatter weighed upon him heavily. he rubbed his bald head with a yellow bandana, and moved uneasily in his chair, as if he wanted to get up and finish the neglected job that made his helplessness so burdensome. "i'll ponder on 't a spell, and make up my mind," was all he said, and never renewed the subject again. but he had very little time to ponder, and he never did make up his mind; for a few months after christie's long visit ended, uncle enos "was took suddin'," and left all he had to her. not an immense fortune, but far larger than she expected, and great was her anxiety to use wisely this unlooked-for benefaction. she was very grateful, but she kept nothing for herself, feeling that david's pension was enough, and preferring the small sum he earned so dearly to the thousands the old man had hoarded up for years. a good portion was put by for ruth, something for "mother and letty" that want might never touch them, and the rest she kept for david's work, believing that, so spent, the money would be blest. chapter xx. at forty. "nearly twenty years since i set out to seek my fortune. it has been a long search, but i think i have found it at last. i only asked to be a useful, happy woman, and my wish is granted: for, i believe i am useful; i know i am happy." christie looked so as she sat alone in the flowery parlor one september afternoon, thinking over her life with a grateful, cheerful spirit. forty to-day, and pausing at that half-way house between youth and age, she looked back into the past without bitter regret or unsubmissive grief, and forward into the future with courageous patience; for three good angels attended her, and with faith, hope, and charity to brighten life, no woman need lament lost youth or fear approaching age. christie did not, and though her eyes filled with quiet tears as they were raised to the faded cap and sheathed sword hanging on the wall, none fell; and in a moment tender sorrow changed to still tenderer joy as her glance wandered to rosy little ruth playing hospital with her dollies in the porch. then they shone with genuine satisfaction as they went from the letters and papers on her table to the garden, where several young women were at work with a healthful color in the cheeks that had been very pale and thin in the spring. "i think david is satisfied with me; for i have given all my heart and strength to his work, and it prospers well," she said to herself, and then her face grew thoughtful, as she recalled a late event which seemed to have opened a new field of labor for her if she chose to enter it. a few evenings before she had gone to one of the many meetings of working-women, which had made some stir of late. not a first visit, for she was much interested in the subject and full of sympathy for this class of workers. there were speeches of course, and of the most unparliamentary sort, for the meeting was composed almost entirely of women, each eager to tell her special grievance or theory. any one who chose got up and spoke; and whether wisely or foolishly each proved how great was the ferment now going on, and how difficult it was for the two classes to meet and help one another in spite of the utmost need on one side and the sincerest good-will on the other. the workers poured out their wrongs and hardships passionately or plaintively, demanding or imploring justice, sympathy, and help; displaying the ignorance, incapacity, and prejudice, which make their need all the more pitiful, their relief all the more imperative. the ladies did their part with kindliness, patience, and often unconscious condescension, showing in their turn how little they knew of the real trials of the women whom they longed to serve, how very narrow a sphere of usefulness they were fitted for in spite of culture and intelligence, and how rich they were in generous theories, how poor in practical methods of relief. one accomplished creature with learning radiating from every pore, delivered a charming little essay on the strong-minded women of antiquity; then, taking labor into the region of art, painted delightful pictures of the time when all would work harmoniously together in an ideal republic, where each did the task she liked, and was paid for it in liberty, equality, and fraternity. unfortunately she talked over the heads of her audience, and it was like telling fairy tales to hungry children to describe aspasia discussing greek politics with pericles and plato reposing upon ivory couches, or hypatia modestly delivering philosophical lectures to young men behind a tyrian purple curtain; and the ideal republic met with little favor from anxious seamstresses, type-setters, and shop-girls, who said ungratefully among themselves, "that's all very pretty, but i don't see how it's going to better wages among us now" another eloquent sister gave them a political oration which fired the revolutionary blood in their veins, and made them eager to rush to the state-house en masse, and demand the ballot before one-half of them were quite clear what it meant, and the other half were as unfit for it as any ignorant patrick bribed with a dollar and a sup of whiskey. a third well-wisher quenched their ardor like a wet blanket, by reading reports of sundry labor reforms in foreign parts; most interesting, but made entirely futile by differences of climate, needs, and customs. she closed with a cheerful budget of statistics, giving the exact number of needle-women who had starved, gone mad, or committed suicide during the past year; the enormous profits wrung by capitalists from the blood and muscles of their employes; and the alarming increase in the cost of living, which was about to plunge the nation into debt and famine, if not destruction generally. when she sat down despair was visible on many countenances, and immediate starvation seemed to be waiting at the door to clutch them as they went out; for the impressible creatures believed every word and saw no salvation anywhere. christie had listened intently to all this; had admired, regretted, or condemned as each spoke; and felt a steadily increasing sympathy for all, and a strong desire to bring the helpers and the helped into truer relations with each other. the dear ladies were so earnest, so hopeful, and so unpractically benevolent, that it grieved her to see so much breath wasted, so much good-will astray; while the expectant, despondent, or excited faces of the work-women touched her heart; for well she knew how much they needed help, how eager they were for light, how ready to be led if some one would only show a possible way. as the statistical extinguisher retired, beaming with satisfaction at having added her mite to the good cause, a sudden and uncontrollable impulse moved christie to rise in her place and ask leave to speak. it was readily granted, and a little stir of interest greeted her; for she was known to many as mr. power's friend, david sterling's wife, or an army nurse who had done well. whispers circulated quickly, and faces brightened as they turned toward her; for she had a helpful look, and her first words pleased them. when the president invited her to the platform she paused on the lowest step, saying with an expressive look and gesture: "i am better here, thank you; for i have been and mean to be a working-woman all my life." "hear! hear!" cried a stout matron in a gay bonnet, and the rest indorsed the sentiment with a hearty round. then they were very still, and then in a clear, steady voice, with the sympathetic undertone to it that is so magical in its effect, christie made her first speech in public since she left the stage. that early training stood her in good stead now, giving her self-possession, power of voice, and ease of gesture; while the purpose at her heart lent her the sort of simple eloquence that touches, persuades, and convinces better than logic, flattery, or oratory. what she said she hardly knew: words came faster than she could utter them, thoughts pressed upon her, and all the lessons of her life rose vividly before her to give weight to her arguments, value to her counsel, and the force of truth to every sentence she uttered. she had known so many of the same trials, troubles, and temptations that she could speak understandingly of them; and, better still, she had conquered or outlived so many of them, that she could not only pity but help others to do as she had done. having found in labor her best teacher, comforter, and friend, she could tell those who listened that, no matter how hard or humble the task at the beginning, if faithfully and bravely performed, it would surely prove a stepping-stone to something better, and with each honest effort they were fitting themselves for the nobler labor, and larger liberty god meant them to enjoy. the women felt that this speaker was one of them; for the same lines were on her face that they saw on their own, her hands were no fine lady's hands, her dress plainer than some of theirs, her speech simple enough for all to understand; cheerful, comforting, and full of practical suggestion, illustrations out of their own experience, and a spirit of companionship that uplifted their despondent hearts. yet more impressive than any thing she said was the subtle magnetism of character, for that has a universal language which all can understand. they saw and felt that a genuine woman stood down there among them like a sister, ready with head, heart, and hand to help them help themselves; not offering pity as an alms, but justice as a right. hardship and sorrow, long effort and late-won reward had been hers they knew; wifehood, motherhood, and widowhood brought her very near to them; and behind her was the background of an earnest life, against which this figure with health on the cheeks, hope in the eyes, courage on the lips, and the ardor of a wide benevolence warming the whole countenance stood out full of unconscious dignity and beauty; an example to comfort, touch, and inspire them. it was not a long speech, and in it there was no learning, no statistics, and no politics; yet it was the speech of the evening, and when it was over no one else seemed to have any thing to say. as the meeting broke up christie's hand was shaken by many roughened by the needle, stained with printer's ink, or hard with humbler toil; many faces smiled gratefully at her, and many voices thanked her heartily. but sweeter than any applause were the words of one woman who grasped her hand, and whispered with wet eyes: "i knew your blessed husband; he was very good to me, and i've been thanking the lord he had such a wife for his reward!" christie was thinking of all this as she sat alone that day, and asking herself if she should go on; for the ladies had been as grateful as the women; had begged her to come and speak again, saying they needed just such a mediator to bridge across the space that now divided them from those they wished to serve. she certainly seemed fitted to act as interpreter between the two classes; for, from the gentleman her father she had inherited the fine instincts, gracious manners, and unblemished name of an old and honorable race; from the farmer's daughter, her mother, came the equally valuable dower of practical virtues, a sturdy love of independence, and great respect for the skill and courage that can win it. such women were much needed and are not always easy to find; for even in democratic america the hand that earns its daily bread must wear some talent, name, or honor as an ornament, before it is very cordially shaken by those that wear white gloves. "perhaps this is the task my life has been fitting me for," she said. "a great and noble one which i should be proud to accept and help accomplish if i can. others have finished the emancipation work and done it splendidly, even at the cost of all this blood and sorrow. i came too late to do any thing but give my husband and behold the glorious end. this new task seems to offer me the chance of being among the pioneers, to do the hard work, share the persecution, and help lay the foundation of a new emancipation whose happy success i may never see. yet i had rather be remembered as those brave beginners are, though many of them missed the triumph, than as the late comers will be, who only beat the drums and wave the banners when the victory is won." just then the gate creaked on its hinges, a step sounded in the porch, and little ruth ran in to say in an audible whisper: "it's a lady, mamma, a very pretty lady: can you see her?" "yes, dear, ask her in." there was a rustle of sweeping silks through the narrow hall, a vision of a very lovely woman in the door-way, and two daintily gloved hands were extended as an eager voice asked: "dearest christie, don't you remember bella carrol?" christie did remember, and had her in her arms directly, utterly regardless of the imminent destruction of a marvellous hat, or the bad effect of tears on violet ribbons. presently they were sitting close together, talking with april faces, and telling their stories as women must when they meet after the lapse of years. a few letters had passed between them, but bella had been abroad, and christie too busy living her life to have much time to write about it. "your mother, bella? how is she, and where?" "still with augustine, and he you know is melancholy mad: very quiet, very patient, and very kind to every one but himself. his penances for the sins of his race would soon kill him if mother was not there to watch over him. and her penance is never to leave him." "dear child, don't tell me any more; it is too sad. talk of yourself and harry. now you smile, so i'm sure all is well with him." "yes, thank heaven! christie, i do believe fate means to spare us as dear old dr. shirley said. i never can be gay again, but i keep as cheerful and busy as i can, for harry's sake, and he does the same for mine. we shall always be together, and all in all to one another, for we can never marry and have homes apart you know. we have wandered over the face of the earth for several years, and now we mean to settle down and be as happy and as useful as we can." "that's brave! i am so glad to hear it, and so truly thankful it is possible. but tell me, bella, what harry means to do? you spoke in one of your first letters of his being hard at work studying medicine. is that to be his profession?" "yes; i don't know what made him choose it, unless it was the hope that he might spare other families from a curse like ours, or lighten it if it came. after helen's death he was a changed creature; no longer a wild boy, but a man. i told him what you said to me, and it gave him hope. dr. shirley confirmed it as far as he dared; and hal resolved to make the most of his one chance by interesting himself in some absorbing study, and leaving no room for fear, no time for dangerous recollections. i was so glad, and mother so comforted, for we both feared that sad trouble would destroy him. he studied hard, got on splendidly, and then went abroad to finish off. i went with him; for poor august was past hope, and mamma would not let me help her. the doctor said it was best for me to be away, and excellent for hal to have me with him, to cheer him up, and keep him steady with a little responsibility. we have been happy together in spite of our trouble, he in his profession, and i in him; now he is ready, so we have come home, and now the hardest part begins for me." "how, bella?" "he has his work and loves it: i have nothing after my duty to him is done. i find i've lost my taste for the old pleasures and pursuits, and though i have tried more sober, solid ones, there still remains much time to hang heavy on my hands, and such an empty place in my heart, that even harry's love cannot fill it. i'm afraid i shall get melancholy,--that is the beginning of the end for us, you know." as bella spoke the light died out of her eyes, and they grew despairing with the gloom of a tragic memory. christie drew the beautiful, pathetic face clown upon her bosom, longing to comfort, yet feeling very powerless to lighten bella's burden. but christie's little daughter did it for her. ruth had been standing near regarding the "pretty lady," with as much wonder and admiration as if she thought her a fairy princess, who might vanish before she got a good look at her. divining with a child's quick instinct that the princess was in trouble, ruth flew into the porch, caught up her latest and dearest treasure, and presented it as a sure consolation, with such sweet good-will, that bella could not refuse, although it was only a fuzzy caterpillar in a little box. "i give it to you because it is my nicest one and just ready to spin up. do you like pussy-pillars, and know how they do it?" asked ruth, emboldened by the kiss she got in return for her offering. "tell me all about it, darling," and bella could not help smiling, as the child fixed her great eyes upon her, and told her little story with such earnestness, that she was breathless by the time she ended. "at first they are only grubs you know, and stay down in the earth; then they are like this, nice and downy and humpy, when they walk; and when it's time they spin up and go to sleep. it's all dark in their little beds, and they don't know what may happen to 'em; but they are not afraid 'cause god takes care of 'em. so they wait and don't fret, and when it's right for 'em they come out splendid butterflies, all beautiful and shining like your gown. they are happy then, and fly away to eat honey, and live in the air, and never be creeping worms any more." "that's a pretty lesson for rne," said bella softly, "i accept and thank you for it, little teacher; i'll try to be a patient 'pussy-pillar' though it is dark, and i don't know what may happen to me; and i'll wait hopefully till it's time to float away a happy butterfly." "go and get the friend some flowers, the gayest and sweetest you can find, pansy," said christie, and, as the child ran off, she added to her friend: "now we must think of something pleasant for you to do. it may take a little time, but i know we shall find your niche if we give our minds to it." "that's one reason why i came. i heard some friends of mine talking about you yesterday, and they seemed to think you were equal to any thing in the way of good works. charity is the usual refuge for people like me, so i wish to try it. i don't mind doing or seeing sad or disagreeable things, if it only fills up my life and helps me to forget." "you will help more by giving of your abundance to those who know how to dispense it wisely, than by trying to do it yourself, my dear. i never advise pretty creatures like you to tuck up their silk gowns and go down into the sloughs with alms for the poor, who don't like it any better than you do, and so much pity and money are wasted in sentimental charity." "then what shall i do?" "if you choose you can find plenty of work in your own class; for, if you will allow me to say it, they need help quite as much as the paupers, though in a very different way." "oh, you mean i'm to be strong-minded, to cry aloud and spare not, to denounce their iniquities, and demand their money or their lives?" "now, bella, that's personal; for i made my first speech a night or two ago." "i know you did, and i wish i'd heard it. i'd make mine to-night if i could do it half as well as i'm told you did," interrupted bella, clapping her hands with a face full of approval. but christie was in earnest, and produced her new project with all speed. "i want you to try a little experiment for me, and if it succeeds you shall have all the glory; i've been waiting for some one to undertake it, and i fancy you are the woman. not every one could attempt it; for it needs wealth and position, beauty and accomplishments, much tact, and more than all a heart that has not been spoilt by the world, but taught through sorrow how to value and use life well." "christie, what is it? this experiment that needs so much, and yet which you think me capable of trying?" asked bella, interested and flattered by this opening. "i want you to set a new fashion: you know you can set almost any you choose in your own circle; for people are very like sheep, and will follow their leader if it happens to be one they fancy. i don't ask you to be a de staël, and have a brilliant salon: i only want you to provide employment and pleasure for others like yourself, who now are dying of frivolity or ennui." "i should love to do that if i could. tell me how." "well, dear, i want you to make harry's home as beautiful and attractive as you can; to keep all the elegance and refinement of former times, and to add to it a new charm by setting the fashion of common sense. invite all the old friends, and as many new ones as you choose; but have it understood that they are to come as intelligent men and women, not as pleasure-hunting beaux and belles; give them conversation instead of gossip; less food for the body and more for the mind; the healthy stimulus of the nobler pleasures they can command, instead of the harmful excitements of present dissipation. in short, show them the sort of society we need more of, and might so easily have if those who possess the means of culture cared for the best sort, and took pride in acquiring it. do you understand, bella?" "yes, but it's a great undertaking, and you could do it better than i." "bless you, no! i haven't a single qualification for it but the will to have it done. i'm 'strong-minded,' a radical, and a reformer. i've done all sorts of dreadful things to get my living, and i have neither youth, beauty, talent, or position to back me up; so i should only be politely ignored if i tried the experiment myself. i don't want you to break out and announce your purpose with a flourish; or try to reform society at large, but i do want you to devote yourself and your advantages to quietly insinuating a better state of things into one little circle. the very fact of your own want, your own weariness, proves how much such a reform is needed. there are so many fine young women longing for something to fill up the empty places that come when the first flush of youth is over, and the serious side of life appears; so many promising young men learning to conceal or condemn the high ideals and the noble purposes they started with, because they find no welcome for them. you might help both by simply creating a purer atmosphere for them to breathe, sunshine to foster instead of frost to nip their good aspirations, and so, even if you planted no seed, you might encourage a timid sprout or two that would one day be a lovely flower or a grand tree all would admire and enjoy." as christie ended with the figure suggested by her favorite work, bella said after a thoughtful pause: "but few of the women i know can talk about any thing but servants, dress, and gossip. here and there one knows something of music, art, or literature; but the superior ones are not favorites with the larger class of gentlemen." "then let the superior women cultivate the smaller class of men who do admire intelligence as well as beauty. there are plenty of them, and you had better introduce a few as samples, though their coats may not be of the finest broadcloth, nor their fathers 'solid men.' women lead in society, and when men find that they can not only dress with taste, but talk with sense, the lords of creation will be glad to drop mere twaddle and converse as with their equals. bless my heart!" cried christie, walking about the room as if she had mounted her hobby, and was off for a canter, "how people can go on in such an idiotic fashion passes my understanding. why keep up an endless clatter about gowns and dinners, your neighbors' affairs, and your own aches, when there is a world full of grand questions to settle, lovely things to see, wise things to study, and noble things to imitate. bella, you must try the experiment, and be the queen of a better society than any you can reign over now." "it looks inviting, and i will try it with you to help me. i know harry would like it, and i'll get him to recommend it to his patients. if he is as successful here as elsewhere they will swallow any dose he orders; for he knows how to manage people wonderfully well. he prescribed a silk dress to a despondent, dowdy patient once, telling her the electricity of silk was good for her nerves: she obeyed, and when well dressed felt so much better that she bestirred herself generally and recovered; but to this day she sings the praises of dr. carrol's electric cure." bella was laughing gaily as she spoke, and so was christie as she replied: "that's just what i want you to do with your patients. dress up their minds in their best; get them out into the air; and cure their ills by the magnetism of more active, earnest lives." they talked over the new plan with increasing interest; for christie did not mean that bella should be one of the brilliant women who shine for a little while, and then go out like a firework. and bella felt as if she had found something to do in her own sphere, a sort of charity she was fitted for, and with it a pleasant sense of power to give it zest. when letty and her mother came in, they found a much happier looking guest than the one christie had welcomed an hour before. scarcely had she introduced them when voices in the lane made all look up to see old hepsey and mrs. wilkins approaching. "two more of my dear friends, bella: a fugitive slave and a laundress. one has saved scores of her own people, and is my pet heroine. the other has the bravest, cheeriest soul i know, and is my private oracle." the words were hardly out of christie's mouth when in they came; hepsey's black face shining with affection, and mrs. wilkins as usual running over with kind words. "my dear creeter, the best of wishes and no end of happy birthdays. there 's a triflin' keepsake; tuck it away, and look at it byme by. mis' sterlin', i'm proper glad to see you lookin' so well. aunt letty, how's that darlin' child? i ain't the pleasure of your acquaintance, miss, but i'm pleased to see you. the children all sent love, likewise lisha, whose bones is better sense i tried the camfire and red flannel." then they settled down like a flock of birds of various plumage and power of song, but all amicably disposed, and ready to peck socially at any topic which might turn up. mrs. wilkins started one by exclaiming as she "laid off" her bonnet: "sakes alive, there's a new picter! ain't it beautiful?" "colonel fletcher brought it this morning. a great artist painted it for him, and he gave it to me in a way that added much to its value," answered christie, with both gratitude and affection in her face; for she was a woman who could change a lover to a friend, and keep him all her life. it was a quaint and lovely picture of mr. greatheart, leading the fugitives from the city of destruction. a dark wood lay behind; a wide river rolled before; mercy and christiana pressed close to their faithful guide, who went down the rough and narrow path bearing a cross-hilted sword in his right hand, and holding a sleeping baby with the left. the sun was just rising, and a long ray made a bright path athwart the river, turned greatheart's dinted armor to gold, and shone into the brave and tender face that seemed to look beyond the sunrise. "there's just a hint of davy in it that is very comforting to me," said mrs. sterling, as she laid her old hands softly together, and looked up with her devout eyes full of love. "dem women oughter bin black," murmured hepsey, tearfully; for she considered david worthy of a place with old john brown and colonel shaw. "the child looks like pansy, we all think," added letty, as the little girl brought her nosegay for aunty to tie up prettily. christie said nothing, because she felt too much; and bella was also silent because she knew too little. but mrs. wilkins with her kindly tact changed the subject before it grew painful, and asked with sudden interest: "when be you a goin' to hold forth agin, christie? jest let me know beforehand, and i'll wear my old gloves: i tore my best ones all to rags clappin' of you; it was so extra good." "i don't deserve any credit for the speech, because it spoke itself, and i couldn't help it. i had no thought of such a thing till it came over me all at once, and i was up before i knew it. i'm truly glad you liked it, but i shall never make another, unless you think i'd better. you know i always ask your advice, and what is more remarkable usually take it," said christie, glad to consult her oracle. "hadn't you better rest a little before you begin any new task, my daughter? you have done so much these last years you must be tired," interrupted mrs. sterling, with a look of tender anxiety. "you know i work for two, mother," answered christie, with the clear, sweet expression her face always wore when she spoke of david. "i am not tired yet: i hope i never shall be, for without my work i should fall into despair or ennui. there is so much to be done, and it is so delightful to help do it, that i never mean to fold my hands till they are useless. i owe all i can do, for in labor, and the efforts and experiences that grew out of it, i have found independence, education, happiness, and religion." "then, my dear, you are ready to help other folks into the same blessed state, and it's your duty to do it!" cried mrs. wilkins, her keen eyes full of sympathy and commendation as they rested on christie's cheerful, earnest face. "ef the sperrit moves you to speak, up and do it without no misgivin's. i think it was a special leadin' that night, and i hope you'll foller, for it ain't every one that can make folks laugh and cry with a few plain words that go right to a body's heart and stop there real comfortable and fillin'. i guess this is your next job, my dear, and you'd better ketch hold and give it the right turn; for it's goin' to take time, and women ain't stood alone for so long they'll need a sight of boostin'." there was a general laugh at the close of mrs. wilkins's remarks; but christie answered seriously: "i accept the task, and will do my share faithfully with words or work, as shall seem best. we all need much preparation for the good time that is coming to us, and can get it best by trying to know and help, love and educate one another,--as we do here." with an impulsive gesture christie stretched her hands to the friends about her, and with one accord they laid theirs on hers, a loving league of sisters, old and young, black and white, rich and poor, each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the happy end. "me too!" cried little ruth, and spread her chubby hand above the rest: a hopeful omen, seeming to promise that the coming generation of women will not only receive but deserve their liberty, by learning that the greatest of god's gifts to us is the privilege of sharing his great work. "each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the happy end." the precipice _a novel_ by elia w. peattie boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge _a fanfare of trumpets is blowing to which women the world over are listening. they listen even against their wills, and not all of them answer, though all are disturbed. shut their ears to it as they will, they cannot wholly keep out the clamor of those trumpets, but whether in thrall to love or to religion, to custom or to old ideals of self-obliterating duty, they are stirred. they move in their sleep, or spring to action, and they present to the world a new problem, a new force--or a new menace_.... the precipice i it was all over. kate barrington had her degree and her graduating honors; the banquets and breakfasts, the little intimate farewell gatherings, and the stirring convocation were through with. so now she was going home. with such reluctance had the chicago spring drawn to a close that, even in june, the campus looked poorly equipped for summer, and it was a pleasure, as she told her friend lena vroom, who had come with her to the station to see her off, to think how much further everything would be advanced "down-state." "to-morrow morning, the first thing," she declared, "i shall go in the side entry and take down the garden shears and cut the roses to put in the dresden vases on the marble mantelshelf in the front room." "don't try to make me think you're domestic," said miss vroom with unwonted raillery. "domestic, do you call it?" cried kate. "it isn't being domestic; it's turning in to make up to lady mother for the four years she's been deprived of my society. you may not believe it, but that's been a hardship for her. i say, lena, you'll be coming to see me one of these days?" miss vroom shook her head. "i haven't much feeling for a vacation," she said. "i don't seem to fit in anywhere except here at the university." "i've no patience with you," cried kate. "why you should hang around here doing graduate work year after year passes my understanding. i declare i believe you stay here because it's cheap and passes the time; but really, you know, it's a makeshift." "it's all very well to talk, kate, when you have a home waiting for you. you're the kind that always has a place. if it wasn't your father's house it would be some other man's--ray mccrea's, for example. as for me, i'm lucky to have acquired even a habit--and that's what college _is_ with me--since i've no home." kate barrington turned understanding and compassionate eyes upon her friend. she had seen her growing a little thinner and more tense everyday; had seen her putting on spectacles, and fighting anaemia with tonics, and yielding unresistingly to shabbiness. would she always be speeding breathlessly from one classroom to another, palpitantly yet sadly seeking for the knowledge with which she knew so little what to do? the train came thundering in--they were waiting for it at one of the suburban stations--and there was only a second in which to say good-bye. lena, however, failed to say even that much. she pecked at kate's cheek with her nervous, thin lips, and kate could only guess how much anguish was concealed beneath this aridity of manner. some sense of it made kate fling her arms about the girl and hold her in a warm embrace. "oh, lena," she cried, "i'll never forget you--never!" lena did not stop to watch the train pull out. she marched away on her heelless shoes, her eyes downcast, and kate, straining her eyes after her friend, smiled to think there had been only lena to speed her drearily on her way. ray mccrea had, of course, taken it for granted that he would be informed of the hour of her departure, but if she had allowed him to come she might have committed herself in some absurd way--said something she could not have lived up to. * * * * * as it was, she felt quite peaceful and more at leisure than she had for months. she was even at liberty to indulge in memories and it suited her mood deliberately to do so. she went back to the day when she had persuaded her father and mother to let her leave the silvertree academy for young ladies and go up to the university of chicago. she had been but eighteen then, but if she lived to be a hundred she never could forget the hour she streamed with five thousand others through hull gate and on to cobb hall to register as a student in that young, aggressive seat of learning. she had tried to hold herself in; not to be too "heady"; and she hoped the lank girl beside her--it had been lena vroom, delegated by the league of the young women's christian association--did not find her rawly enthusiastic. lena conducted her from chapel to hall, from office to woman's building, from registrar to dean, till at length kate stood before the door of cobb once more, fagged but not fretted, and able to look about her with appraising eyes. around her and beneath her were swarms, literally, of fresh-faced, purposeful youths and maidens, an astonishingly large number of whom were meeting after the manner of friends long separated. later kate discovered how great a proportion of that enthusiasm took itself out in mere gesture and vociferation; but it all seemed completely genuine to her that first day and she thought with almost ecstatic anticipation of the relationships which soon would be hers. almost she looked then to see the friend-who-was-to-be coming toward her with miraculous recognition in her eyes. but she was none the less interested in those who for one reason or another were alien to her--in the japanese boy, concealing his wistfulness beneath his rigid breeding; in the armenian girl with the sad, beautiful eyes; in the yiddish youth with his bashful earnestness. then there were the women past their first youth, abstracted, and obviously disdainful of their personal appearance; and the girls with heels too high and coiffures too elaborate, who laid themselves open to the suspicion of having come to college for social reasons. but all appealed to kate. she delighted in their variety--yes, and in all these forms of aspiration. the vital essence of their spirits seemed to materialize into visible ether, rose-red or violet-hued, and to rise about them in evanishing clouds. * * * * * she was recalled to the present by a brisk conductor who asked for her ticket. kate hunted it up in a little flurry. the man had broken into the choicest of her memories, and when he was gone and she returned to her retrospective occupation, she chanced upon the most irritating of her recollections. it concerned an episode of that same first day in chicago. she had grown weary with the standing and waiting, and when miss vroom left her for a moment to speak to a friend, kate had taken a seat upon a great, unoccupied stone bench which stood near cobb door. still under the influence of her high idealization of the scene she lost herself in happy reverie. then a widening ripple of laughter told her that something amusing was happening. what it was she failed to imagine, but it dawned upon her gradually that people were looking her way. knots of the older students were watching her; bewildered newcomers were trying, like herself, to discover the cause of mirth. at first she smiled sympathetically; then suddenly, with a thrill of mortification, she perceived that she was the object of derision. what was it? what had she done? she knew that she was growing pale and she could feel her heart pounding at her side, but she managed to rise, and, turning, faced a blond young man near at hand, who had protruding teeth and grinned at her like a sardonic rabbit. "oh, what is it, please?" she asked. "that bench isn't for freshmen," he said briefly. scarlet submerged the pallor in kate's face. "oh, i didn't know," she gasped. "excuse me." she moved away quickly, dropping her handbag and having to stoop for it. then she saw that she had left her gloves on the bench and she had to turn back for those. at that moment lena hastened to her. "i'm so sorry," she cried. "i ought to have warned you about that old senior bench." kate, disdaining a reply, strode on unheeding. her whole body was running fire, and she was furious with herself to think that she could suffer such an agony of embarrassment over a blunder which, after all, was trifling. struggling valiantly for self-command, she plunged toward another bench and dropped on it with the determination to look her world in the face and give it a fair chance to stare back. then she heard lena give a throaty little squeak. "oh, my!" she said. something apparently was very wrong this time, and kate was not to remain in ignorance of what it was. the bench on which she was now sitting had its custodian in the person of a tall youth, who lifted his hat and smiled upon her with commingled amusement and commiseration. "pardon," he said, "but--" kate already was on her feet and the little gusts of laughter that came from the onlookers hit her like so many stones. "isn't this seat for freshmen either?" she broke in, trying not to let her lips quiver and determined to show them all that she was, at any rate, no coward. the student, still holding his hat, smiled languidly as he shook his head. "i'm new, you see," she urged, begging him with her smile to be on her side,--"dreadfully new! must i wait three years before i sit here?" "i'm afraid you'll not want to do it even then," he said pleasantly. "you understand this bench--the c bench we call it--is for men; any man above a freshman." kate gathered the hardihood to ask:-- "but why is it for men, please?" "i don't know why. we men took it, i suppose." he wasn't inclined to apologize apparently; he seemed to think that if the men wanted it they had a right to it. "this bench was given to the men, perhaps?" she persisted, not knowing how to move away. "no," admitted the young man; "i don't believe it was. it was presented to the university by a senior class." "a class of men?" "naturally not. a graduating class is composed of men and women. c bench," he explained, "is the center of activities. it's where the drum is beaten to call a mass meeting, and the boys gather here when they've anything to talk over. there's no law against women sitting here, you know. only they never do. it isn't--oh, i hardly know how to put it--it isn't just the thing--" "can't you break away, mccrea?" some one called. the youth threw a withering glance in the direction of the speaker. "i can conduct my own affairs," he said coldly. but kate had at last found a way to bring the interview to an end. "i said i was new," she concluded, flinging a barbed shaft. "i thought it was share and share alike here--that no difference was made between men and women. you see--i didn't understand." the c bench came to be a sort of symbol to her from then on. it was the seat of privilege if not of honor, and the women were not to sit on it. not that she fretted about it. there was no time for that. she settled in foster hall, which was devoted to the women, and where she expected to make many friends. but she had been rather unfortunate in that. the women were not as coöperative as she had expected them to be. at table, for example, the conversation dragged heavily. she had expected to find it liberal, spirited, even gay, but the girls had a way of holding back. kate had to confess that she didn't think men would be like that. they would--most of them--have understood that the chief reason a man went to a university was to learn to get along with his fellow men and to hold his own in the world. the girls labored under the idea that one went to a university for the exclusive purpose of making high marks in their studies. they put in stolid hours of study and were quietly glad at their high averages; but it actually seemed as if many of them used college as a sort of shelter rather than an opportunity for the exercise of personality. however, there were plenty of the other sort--gallant, excursive spirits, and as soon as kate became acquainted she had pleasure in picking and choosing. she nibbled at this person and that like a cautious and discriminating mouse, venturing on a full taste if she liked the flavor, scampering if she didn't. of course she had her furores. now it was for settlement work, now for dramatics, now for dancing. subconsciously she was always looking about for some one who "needed" her, but there were few such. patronage would have been resented hotly, and kate learned by a series of discountenancing experiences that friendship would not come--any more than love--at beck and call. love! that gave her pause. love had not come her way. of course there was ray mccrea. but he was only a possibility. she wondered if she would turn to him in trouble. of that she was not yet certain. it was pleasant to be with him, but even for a gala occasion she was not sure but that she was happier with honora daley than with him. honora daley was honora fulham now--married to a "dark man" as the gypsy fortune-tellers would have called him. he seemed very dark to kate, menacing even; but honora found it worth her while to shed her brightness on his tenebrosity, so that was, of course, honora's affair. kate smiled to think of how her mother would be questioning her about her "admirers," as she would phrase it in her mid-victorian parlance. there was really only ray to report upon. he would be the beau ideal "young gentleman,"--to recur again to her mother's phraseology,--the son of a member of a great state street dry-goods firm, an excellently mannered, ingratiating, traveled person with the most desirable social connections. kate would be able to tell of the two mansions, one on the lake shore drive, the other at lake forest, where ray lived with his parents. he had not gone to an eastern college because his father wished him to understand the city and the people among whom his life was to be spent. indeed, his father, richard mccrea, had made something of a concession to custom in giving his son four years of academic life. ray was now to be trained in every department of that vast departmental concern, the store, and was soon to go abroad as the promising cadet of a famous commercial establishment, to make the acquaintance of the foreign importers and agents of the house. oh, her mother would quite like all that, though she would be disappointed to learn that there had thus far been no rejected suitors. in her mother's day every fair damsel carried scalps at her belt, figuratively speaking--and after marriage, became herself a trophy of victory. dear "mummy" was that, kate thought tenderly--a willing and reverential parasite, "ladylike" at all costs, contented to have her husband provide for her, her pastor think for her, and martha underwood, the domineering "help" in the house at silvertree, do the rest. kate knew "mummy's" mind very well--knew how she looked on herself as sacred because she had been the mother to one child and a good wife to one husband. she was all swathed around in the chiffon-sentiment of good victoria's day. she didn't worry about being a "consumer" merely. none of the disturbing problems that were shaking femininity disturbed her calm. she was "a lady," the "wife of a professional man." it was proper that she should "be well cared for." she moved by her well-chosen phrases; they were like rules set in a copybook for her guidance. kate seemed to see a moving-picture show of her mother's days. now she was pouring the coffee from the urn, seasoning it scrupulously to suit her lord and master, now arranging the flowers, now feeding the goldfish; now polishing the glass with tissue paper. then she answered the telephone for her husband, the doctor,--answered the door, too, sometimes. she received calls and paid them, read the ladies' magazines, and knew all about what was "fitting for a lady." of course, she had her prejudices. she couldn't endure oriental rugs, and didn't believe that smuggling was wrong; at least, not when done by the people one knew and when the things smuggled were pretty. kate, who had the spirit of the liberal comedian, smiled many times remembering these things. then she sighed, for she realized that her ability to see these whimsicalities meant that she and her mother were, after all, creatures of diverse training and thought. ii what! silver tree? she hadn't realized how the time had been flying. but there was the sawmill. she could hear the whir and buzz! and there was the old livery-stable, and the place where farm implements were sold, and the little harness shop jammed in between;--and there, to convince her no mistake had been made, was the lozenge of grass with "silvertree" on it in white stones. then, in a second, the station appeared with the busses backed up against it, and beyond them the familiar surrey with a woman in it with yearning eyes. kate, the specialized student of psychology, the graduate with honors, who had learned to note contrasts and weigh values, forgot everything (even her umbrella) and leaped from the train while it was still in motion. forgotten the honors and degrees; the majors were mere minor affairs; and there remained only the things which were from the beginning. she and her mother sat very close together as they drove through the familiar village streets. when they did speak, it was incoherently. there was an odor of brier roses in the air and the sun was setting in a "bed of daffodil sky." kate felt waves of beauty and tenderness breaking over her and wanted to cry. her mother wanted to and did. neither trusted herself to speak, but when they were in the house mrs. barrington pulled the pins out of kate's hat and then kate took the faded, gentle woman in her strong arms and crushed her to her. "your father was afraid he wouldn't be home in time to meet you," said mrs. barrington when they were in the parlor, where the dresden vases stood on the marble mantel and the rose-jar decorated the three-sided table in the corner. "it was just his luck to be called into the country. if it had been a really sick person who wanted him, i wouldn't have minded, but it was only venie sampson." "still having fits?" asked kate cheerfully, as one glad to recognize even the chronic ailments of a familiar community. "well, she thinks she has them," said mrs. barrington in an easy, gossiping tone; "but my opinion is that she wouldn't be troubled with them if only there were some other way in which she could call attention to herself. you see, venie was a very pretty girl." "has that made her an invalid, mummy?" "well, it's had something to do with it. when she was young she received no end of attention, but some way she went through the woods and didn't even pick up a crooked stick. but she got so used to being the center of interest that when she found herself growing old and plain, she couldn't think of any way to keep attention fixed on her except by having these collapses. you know you mustn't call the attacks 'fits.' venie's far too refined for that." kate smiled broadly at her mother's distinctive brand of humor. she loved it all--miss sampson's fits, her mother's jokes; even the fact that when they went out to supper she sat where she used in the old days when she had worn a bib beneath her chin. "oh, the plates, the cups, the everything!" cried kate, ridiculously lifting a piece of the "best china" to her lips and kissing it. "absurdity!" reproved her mother, but she adored the girl's extravagances just the same. "everything's glorious," kate insisted. "cream cheese and parsley! did you make it, mummy? currant rolls--oh, the wonders! martha underwood, don't dare to die without showing me how to make those currant rolls. veal loaf--now, what do you think of that? why, at foster we went hungry sometimes--not for lack of quantity, of course, but because of the quality. i used to be dreadfully ashamed of the fact that there we were, dozens of us women in that fine hall, and not one of us with enough domestic initiative to secure a really good table. i tried to head an insurrection and to have now one girl and now another supervise the table, but the girls said they hadn't come to college to keep house." "yes, yes," chimed in her mother excitedly; "that's where the whole trouble with college for women comes in. they not only don't go to college to keep house, but most of them mean not to keep it when they come out. we allowed you to go merely because you overbore us. you used to be a terrible little tyrant, katie,--almost as bad as--" she brought herself up suddenly. "as bad as whom, mummy?" there was a step on the front porch and mrs. barrington was spared the need for answering. "there's your father," she said, signaling kate to meet him. * * * * * dr. barrington was tall, spare, and grizzled. the torpor of the little town had taken the light from his eyes and reduced the tempo of his movements, but, in spite of all, he had preserved certain vivid features of his personality. he had the long, educated hands of the surgeon and the tyrannical aspect of the physician who has struggled all his life with disobedience and perversity. he returned kate's ardent little storm of kisses with some embarrassment, but he was unfeignedly pleased at her appearance, and as the three of them sat about the table in their old juxtaposition, his face relaxed. however, kate had seen her mother look up wistfully as her husband passed her, as if she longed for some affectionate recognition of the occasion, but the man missed his opportunity and let it sink into the limbo of unimproved moments. "well, father, we have our girl home again," mrs. barrington said with pardonable sentiment. "well, we've been expecting her, haven't we?" dr. barrington replied, not ill-naturedly but with a marked determination to make the episode matter-of-fact. "indeed we have," smiled mrs. barrington. "but of course it couldn't mean to you, frederick, what it does to me. a mother's--" dr. barrington raised his hand. "never mind about a mother's love," he said decisively. "if you had seen it fail as often as i have, you'd think the less said on the subject the better. women are mammal, i admit; maternal they are not, save in a proportion of cases. did you have a pleasant journey down, kate?" he had the effect of shutting his wife out of the conversation; of definitely snubbing and discountenancing her. kate knew it had always been like that, though when she had been young and more passionately determined to believe her home the best and dearest in the world, as children will, she had overlooked the fact--had pretended that what was a habit was only a mood, and that if "father was cross" to-day, he would be pleasant to-morrow. now he began questioning kate about college, her instructors and her friends. there was conversation enough, but the man's wife sat silent, and she knew that kate knew that he expected her to do so. custard was brought on and mrs. barrington diffidently served it. her husband gave one glance at it. "curdled!" he said succinctly, pushing his plate from him. "it's a pity it couldn't have been right kate's first night home." kate thought there had been so much that was not right her first night home, that a spoiled confection was hardly worth comment. "i'm dreadfully sorry," mrs. barrington said. "i suppose i should have made it myself, but i went down to the train--" "that didn't take all the afternoon, did it?" the doctor asked. "i was doing things around the house--" "putting flowers in my room, i know, mummy," broke in kate, "and polishing up the silver toilet bottles, the beauties. you're one of those women who pet a home, and it shows, i can tell you. you don't see many homes like this, do you, dad,--so ladylike and brier-rosy?" she leaned smilingly across the table as she addressed her father, offering him not the ingratiating and seductive smile which he was accustomed to see women--his wife among the rest--employ when they wished to placate him. kate's was the bright smile of a comradely fellow creature who asked him to play a straight game. it made him take fresh stock of his girl. he noted her high oval brow around which the dark hair clustered engagingly; her flexible, rather large mouth, with lips well but not seductively arched, and her clear skin with its uniform tinting. such beauty as she had, and it was far from negligible, would endure. she was quite five feet ten inches, he estimated, with a good chest development and capable shoulders. her gestures were free and suggestive of strength, and her long body had the grace of flexibility and perfect unconsciousness. all of this was good; but what of the spirit that looked out of her eyes? it was a glance to which the man was not accustomed--feminine yet unafraid, beautiful but not related to sex. the physician was not able to analyze it, though where women were concerned he was a merciless analyst. gratified, yet unaccountably disturbed, he turned to his wife. "martha has forgotten to light up the parlor," he said testily. "can't you impress on her that she's to have the room ready for us when we've finished inhere?" "she's so excited over kate's coming home," said mrs. barrington with a placatory smile. "perhaps you'll light up to-night, frederick." "no, i won't. i began work at five this morning and i've been going all day. it's up to you and martha to run the house." "the truth is," said mrs. barrington, "neither martha nor i can reach the gasolier." dr. barrington had the effect of pouncing on this statement. "that's what's the matter, then," he said. "you forgot to get the tapers. i heard martha telling you last night that they were out." a flush spread over mrs. barrington's delicate face as she cast about her for the usual subterfuge and failed to find it. in that moment kate realized that it had been a long programme of subterfuges with her mother--subterfuges designed to protect her from the onslaughts of the irritable man who dominated her. "i'll light the gas, mummy," she said gently. "let that be one of my fixed duties from now on." "you'll spoil your mother, kate," said the doctor with a whimsical intonation. his jesting about what had so marred the hour of reunion brought a surge of anger to kate's brain. "that's precisely what i came home to do, sir," she said significantly. "what other reason could i have for coming back to silvertree? the town certainly isn't enticing. you've been doctoring here for forty years, but you havn't been able to cure the local sleeping-sickness yet." it stung and she had meant it to. to insult silvertree was to hurt the doctor in his most tender vanity. it was one of his most fervid beliefs that he had selected a growing town, conspicuous for its enterprise. in his young manhood he had meant to do fine things. he was public-spirited, charitable, a death-fighter of courage and persistence. though not a religious man, he had one holy passion, that of the physician. he respected himself and loved his wife, but he had from boyhood confused the ideas of masculinity and tyranny. he believed that women needed discipline, and he had little by little destroyed the integrity of the woman he would have most wished to venerate. that she could, in spite of her manifest cowardice and moral circumventions, still pray nightly and read the book that had been the light to countless faltering feet, furnished him with food for acrid sarcasm. he saw in this only the essential furtiveness, inconsistency, and superstition of the female. the evening dragged. the neighbors who would have liked to visit them refrained from doing so because they thought the reunited family would prefer to be alone that first evening. kate did her best to preserve some tattered fragments of the amenities. she told college stories, talked of lena vroom and of beautiful honora fulham,--hinted even at ray mccrea,--and by dint of much ingenuity wore the evening away. "in the morning," she said to her father as she bade him good-night, "we'll both be rested." she had meant it for an apology, not for herself any more than for him, but he assumed no share in it. up in her room her mother saw her bedded, and in kissing her whispered,-- "don't oppose your father, kate. you'll only make me unhappy. anything for peace, that's what i say." iii it was sweet to awaken in the old room. through the open window she could see the fork in the linden tree and the squirrels making free in the branches. the birds were at their opera, and now and then the shape of one outlined itself against the holland shade. kate had been commanded to take her breakfast in bed and she was more than willing to do so. the after-college lassitude was upon her and her thoughts moved drowsily through her weary brain. her mother, by an unwonted exercise of self-control, kept from the room that morning, stopping only now and then at the door for a question or a look. that was sweet, too. kate loved to have her hovering about like that, and yet the sight of her, so fragile, so fluttering, added to the sense of sadness that was creeping over her. after a time it began to rain softly, the drops slipping down into the shrubbery and falling like silver beads from the window-hood. at that kate began to weep, too, just as quietly, and then she slept again. her mother coming in on tiptoe saw tears on the girl's cheek, but she did not marvel. though her experience had been narrow she was blessed with certain perceptions. she knew that even women who called themselves happy sometimes had need to weep. * * * * * the little pensive pause was soon over. there was no use, as all the sturdier part of kate knew, in holding back from the future. that very afternoon the new life began forcing itself on her. the neighbors called, eager to meet this adventurous one who had turned her back on the pleasant conventions and had refused to content herself with the silvertree seminary for young ladies. they wanted to see what the new brand of young woman was like. moreover, there was no one who was not under obligations to be kind to her mother's daughter. so, presently the whole social life of silvertree, aroused from its midsummer torpor by this exciting event, was in full swing. kate wrote to honora a fortnight later:-- i am trying to be the perfect young lady according to dear mummy's definition. you should see me running baby ribbon in my _lingerie_ and combing out the fringe on tea-napkins. every afternoon we are 'entertained' or give an entertainment. of course we meet the same people over and over, but truly i like the cordiality. even the inquisitiveness has an affectionate quality to it. i'm determined to enjoy my village and i do appreciate the homely niceties of the life here. of course i have to 'pretend' rather hard at times--pretend, for example, that i care about certain things which are really of no moment to me whatever. to illustrate, mother and i have some recipes which nobody else has and it's our rôle to be secretive about them! and we have invented a new sort of 'ribbon sandwich.' did you ever hear of a ribbon sandwich? if not, you must be told that it consists of layers and layers of thin slices of bread all pressed down together, with ground nuts or dressed lettuce in between. each entertainer astonishes her guests with a new variety. that furnishes conversation for several minutes. "how long can i stand it, honora, my dear old defender of freedom? the classrooms are mine no more; the campus is a departed glory; i shall no longer sing the 'alma mater' with you when the chimes ring at ten. the whole challenge of the city is missing. nothing opposes me, there is no task for me to do. i must be supine, acquiescent, smiling, non-essential. i am like a runner who has trained for a race, and, ready for the speeding, finds that no race is on. but i've no business to be surprised. i knew it would be like this, didn't i? the one thing is to ¸make and keep mummy happy. she needs me _so_ much. and i am happy to be with her. write me often--write me everything. gods, how i'd like a walk and talk with you!" mrs. barrington did not attempt to conceal her interest in the letters which ray mccrea wrote her daughter. she was one of those women who thrill at a masculine superscription on a letter. perhaps she got more satisfaction out of these not too frequent missives than kate did herself. while the writer didn't precisely say that he counted on kate to supply the woof of the fabric of life, that expectation made itself evident between the lines to mrs. barrington's sentimental perspicacity. kate answered his letters, for it was pleasant to have a masculine correspondent. it provided a needed stimulation. moreover, in the back of her mind she knew that he presented an avenue of escape if silvertree and home became unendurable. it seemed piteous enough that her life with her parents should so soon have become a mere matter of duty and endurance, but there was a feeling of perpetually treading on eggs in the barrington house. kate could have screamed with exasperation as one eventless day after another dawned and the blight of caution and apprehension was never lifted from her mother and martha. she writhed with shame at the sight of her mother's cajolery of the tyrant she served--and loved. to have spoken out once, recklessly, to have entered a wordy combat without rancor and for the mere zest of tournament, to have let the winnowing winds of satire blow through the house with its stale sentimentalities and mental attitudes, would have reconciled her to any amount of difference in the point of view. but the hushed voice and covertly held position afflicted her like shame. were all women who became good wives asked to falsify themselves? was furtive diplomacy, or, at least, spiritual compromise, the miserable duty of woman? was it her business to placate her mate, and, by exercising the cunning of the weak, to keep out from under his heel? there was no one in all silvertree whom the discriminating would so quickly have mentioned as the ideal wife as mrs. barrington. she herself, no doubt, so kate concluded with her merciless young psychology, regarded herself as noble. but the people in silvertree had a passion for thinking of themselves as noble. they had, kate said to herself bitterly, so few charms that they had to fall back on their virtues. in the face of all this it became increasingly difficult to think of marriage as a goal for herself, and her letters to mccrea were further and further apart as the slow weeks passed. she had once read the expression, "the authentic voice of happiness," and it had lived hauntingly in her memory. could ray speak that? would she, reading his summons from across half the world, hasten to him, choose him from the millions, face any future with him? she knew she would not. no, no; union with the man of average congeniality was not her goal. there must be something more shining than that for her to speed toward it. however, one day she caught, opportunely, a hint of the further meanings of a woman's life. honora provided a great piece of news, and illuminated with a new understanding, kate wrote:-- "my dear, dear girl:-- "you write me that something beautiful is going to happen to you. i can guess what it is and i agree that it is glorious, though it does take my breath away. now there are two of you--and by and by there will be three, and the third will be part you and part david and all a miracle. i can see how it makes life worth living, honora, as nothing else could--nothing else! "mummy wouldn't like me to write like this. she doesn't approve of women whose understanding jumps ahead of their experiences. but what is the use of pretending that i don't encompass your miracle? i knew all about it from the beginning of the earth. "this will mean that you will have to give up your laboratory work with david, i suppose. will that be a hardship? or are you glad of the old womanly excuse for passing by the outside things, and will you now settle down to be as fine a mother as you were a chemist? will you go further, my dear, and make a fuss about your house and go all delicately bedizened after the manner of the professors' nice little wives--go in, i mean, for all the departments of the feminine profession? "i do hope you'll have a little son, honora, not so much on your account as on his. during childhood a girl's feet are as light as a boy's bounding over the earth; but when once childhood is over, a man's life seems so much more coherent than a woman's, though it is not really so important. but it takes precisely the experience you are going through to give it its great significance, doesn't it? "what other career is there for real women, i wonder? what, for example, am i to do, honora? there at the university i prepared myself for fine work, but i'm trapped here in this silly silvertree cage. if i had a talent i could make out very well, but i am talentless, and all i do now is to answer the telephone for father and help mummy embroider the towels. they won't let me do anything else. some one asked me the other day what colors i intended wearing this autumn. i wanted to tell them smoke-of-disappointment, ashes-of-dreams, and dull-as-wash-monday. but i only said ashes-of-roses. "'not all of your frocks, surely, kate,' one of the girls cried. 'all,' i declared; 'street frocks, evening gowns, all.' 'but you mustn't be odd,' my little friend warned. 'especially as people are a little suspicious that you will be because of your going to a co-educational college.' "i thought it would be so restful here, but it doesn't offer peace so much as shrinkage. silvertree isn't pastoral--it's merely small town. of course it is possible to imagine a small town that would be ideal--a community of quiet souls leading the simple life. but we aren't great or quiet souls here, and are just as far from simple as our purses and experience will let us be. "i dare say that you'll be advising me, as a student of psychology, to stop criticizing and to try to do something for the neighbors here--go in search of their submerged selves. but, honestly, it would require too much paraphernalia in the way of diving-bells and air-pumps. "i have, however, a reasonable cause of worry. dear little mummy isn't well. at first we thought her indisposition of little account, but she seems run down. she has been flurried and nervous ever since i came home; indeed, i may say she has been so for years. now she seems suddenly to have broken down. but i'm going to do everything i can for her, and i know father will, too; for he can't endure to have any one sick. it arouses his great virtue, his physicianship." * * * * * a week later kate mailed this:-- "i am turning to you in my terrible fear. mummy won't answer our questions and seems lost in a world of thought. father has called in other physicians to help him. i can't tell you how like a frightened child i feel. oh, my poor little bewildered mummy! what do you suppose she is thinking about?" * * * * * then, a week afterward, this--on black-bordered paper:-- "sister honora:-- "she's been gone three days. to the last we couldn't tell why she fell ill. we only knew she made no effort to get well. i am tormented by the fear that i had something to do with her breaking like that. she was appalled--shattered--at the idea of any friction between father and me. when i stood up for my own ideas against his, it was to her as sacrilegious as if i had lifted my hand against a king. i might have capitulated--ought, i suppose, to have foregone everything! "there is one thing, however, that gives me strange comfort. at the last she had such dignity! her silence seemed fine and brave. she looked at us from a deep still peace as if, after all her losing of the way, she had at last found it and herself. the search has carried her beyond our sight. "oh, we are so lonely, father and i. we silently accuse each other. he thinks my reckless truth-telling destroyed her timid spirit; i think his twenty-five years of tyranny did it. we both know how she hated our rasping, and we hate it ourselves. yet, even at that hour when we stood beside her bed and knew the end was coming, he and i were at sword's points. what a hackneyed expression, but how terrible! yes, the hateful swords of our spirits, my point toward his breast and his toward mine, gleamed there almost visibly above that little tired creature. he wanted her for himself even to the last: i wanted her for truth--wanted her to walk up to god dressed in her own soul-garments, not decked out in the rags and tags of those father had tossed to her. "she spoke only once. she had been dreaming, i suppose, and a wonderful illuminated smile broke over her face. in the midst of what seemed a sort of ecstasy, she looked up and saw father watching her. she shivered away from him with one of those apologetic gestures she so often used. 'it wasn't a heavenly vision,' she said--she knew he wouldn't have believed in that--'it was only that i thought my little brown baby was in my arms.' she meant me, honora,--think of it. she had gone back to those tender days when i had been dependent on her for all my well-being. my mummy! i gathered her close and held her till she was gone, my little, strange, frightened love. "now father and i hide our thoughts from each other. he wanted to know if i was going to keep house for him. i said i'd try, for six months. he flew in one of his rages because i admitted that it would be an experiment. he wanted to know what kind of a daughter i was, and i told him the kind he had made me. isn't that hideous? "i've no right to trouble you, but i must confide in some one or my heart will break. there's no one here i can talk to, though many are kind. and ray--perhaps you think i should have written all this to him. but i wasn't moved to do so, honora. try to forgive me for telling you these troubles now in the last few days before your baby comes. i suppose i turn to you because you are one of the blessed corporation of mothers--part and parcel of the mother-fact. it's like being a part of the good rolling earth, just as familiar and comforting. thinking of you mysteriously makes me good. i'm going to forget myself, the way you do, and 'make a home' for father. "your own kate." in september she sent honora a letter of congratulation. "so it's twins! girls! were you transported or amused? patience and patricia--very pretty. you'll stay at home with the treasures, won't you? you see, there's something about you i can't quite understand, if you'll forgive me for saying it. you were an exuberant girl, but after marriage you grew austere--put your lips together in a line that discouraged kissing. so i'm not sure of you even now that the babies have come. some day you'll have to explain yourself to me. "i'm one who needs explanations all along the road. why? why? why? that is what my soul keeps demanding. why couldn't i go back to chicago with ray mccrea? he was down here the other day, but i wouldn't let him say the things he obviously had come to say, and now he's on his way abroad and very likely we shall not meet again. i feel so numb since mummy died that i can't care about ray. i keep crying 'why?' about death among other things. and about that horrid gulf between father and me. if we try to get across we only fall in. he has me here ready to his need. he neither knows nor cares what my thoughts are. so long as i answer the telephone faithfully, sterilize the drinking-water, and see that he gets his favorite dishes, he is content. i have no liberty to leave the house and my restlessness is torture. the neighbors no longer flutter in as they used when mummy was here. they have given me over to my year of mourning--which means vacuity. "partly for lack of something better to do i have cleaned the old house from attic to cellar, and have been glad to creep to bed lame and sore from work, because then i could sleep. father won't let me read at night--watches for signs of the light under my door and calls out to me if it shows. it is golden weather without, dear friend, and within is order and system. but what good? i am stagnating, perishing. i can see no release--cannot even imagine in what form i would like it to come. in your great happiness remember my sorrow. and with your wonderful sweetness forgive my bitter egotism. but truly, honora, i die daily." the first letter honora fulham wrote after she was able to sit at her desk was to kate. no answer came. in november mrs. fulham telephoned to lena vroom to ask if she had heard, but lena had received no word. "go down to silvertree, lena, there's a dear," begged her old schoolmate. but lena was working for her doctor's degree and could not spare the time. the holidays came on, and mrs. fulham tried to imagine her friend as being at last broken to her galling harness. surely there must be compensations for any father and daughter who can dwell together. her own christmas was a very happy one, and she was annoyed with herself that her thoughts so continually turned to kate. she had an uneasy sense of apprehension in spite of all her verbal assurances to lena that kate could master any situation. * * * * * what really happened in silvertree that day changed, as it happened, the course of kate's life. sorrow came to her afterward, disappointment, struggle, but never so heavy and dragging a pain as she knew that christmas day. she had been trying in many unsuspected ways to relieve her father's grim misery,--a misery of which his gaunt face told the tale,--and although he had said that he wished for "no flubdub about christmas," she really could not resist making some recognition of a day which found all other homes happy. when the doctor came in for his midday meal, kate had a fire leaping in the old grate with the marble mantel and a turkey smoking on a table which was set forth with her choicest china and silver. she had even gone so far as to bring out a dish distinctly reminiscent of her mother,--the delicious preserved peaches, which had awaked unavailing envy in the breasts of good cooks in the village. there was pudding, too, and brandy sauce, and holly for decorations. it represented a very mild excursion into the land of festival, but it was too much for dr. barrington. he had come in cold, tired, hungry, and, no doubt, bitterly sorrowful at the bottom of his perverse heart. he discerned kate in white--it was the first time she had laid off her mourning--and with a chain of her mother's about her neck. beyond, he saw the little christmas feast and the old silver vase on the table, red with berries. "you didn't choose to obey my orders," he said coldly, turning his unhappy blue eyes on her. "your orders?" she faltered. "there was to be no fuss and feathers of any sort," he said. "christmas doesn't represent anything recognized in my philosophy, and you know it. we've had enough of pretense in this house. i've been working to get things on a sane basis and i believed you were sensible enough to help me. but you're just like the rest of them--you're like all of your sex. you've got to have your silly play-time. i may as well tell you now that you don't give me any treat when you give me turkey, for i don't like it." "oh, dad!" cried kate; "you do! i've seen you eat it many times! come, really it's a fine dinner. i helped to get it. let's have a good time for once." "i have plenty of good times, but i have them in my own way." "they don't include me!" cried kate, her lips quivering. "you're too hard on me, dad,--much too hard. i can't stand it, really." he sat down to the table and ran his finger over the edge of the carving-knife. "it wouldn't cut butter," he declared. "martha, bring me the steel!" "i sharpened it, sir," protested martha. "sharpened it, did you? i never saw a woman yet who could sharpen a knife." he began flashing the bright steel, and the women, their day already in ashes, watched him fascinatedly. he was waiting to pounce on them. they knew that well enough. the spirit of perversity had him by the throat and held him, writhing. he carved and served, and then turned again to his daughter. "so i'm too hard on you, am i?" he said, looking at her with a cold glint in his eye. "i provide you with a first-class education, i house you, clothe you, keep you in idleness, and i'm too hard on you. what do you expect?" "why, i want you to like me," cried kate, her face flushing. "i simply want to be your daughter. i want you to take me out with you, to give me things. i wanted you to give me a christmas present. i want other things, too,--things that are not favors." she paused and he looked at her with a tightening of the lips. "go on," he said. "i am not being kept in idleness, as i think you know very well. my time and energies are given to helping you. i look after your office and your house. my time is not my own. i devote it to you. i want some recognition of my services--i want some money." she leaned back in her chair, answering his exasperated frown with a straight look, which was, though he did not see it, only a different sort of anger from his own. "well, you won't get it," he said. "you won't get it. when you need things you can tell me and i'll get them for you. but there's been altogether too much money spent in this house in years gone by for trumpery. you know that well enough. what's in that chest out there in the hall? trumpery! what's in those bureau drawers upstairs? truck! hundreds of dollars, that might have been put out where it would be earning something, gone into mere flubdub." he paused to note the effect of his words and saw that he had scored. poor mrs. barrington, struggling vaguely and darkly in her own feminine way for some form of self-expression, had spent her household allowance many a time on futile odds and ends. she had haunted the bargain counter, and had found herself unable to get over the idea that a thing cheaply purchased was an economic triumph. so in drawers and chests and boxes she had packed her pathetic loot--odds and ends of embroidery, of dress goods, of passementerie, of chair coverings; dozens of spools of thread and crochet cotton; odd dishes; jars of cold cream; flotsam and jetsam of the shops, a mere wreckage of material. kate remembered it with vicarious shame and the blood that flowed to her face swept on into her brain. she flamed with loyalty to that little dead, bewildered woman, whose feet had walked so falteringly in her search for the roses of life. and she said-- but what matter what she said? her father and herself were at the antipodes, and they were separated no less by their similarities than by their differences. their wistful and inexpressive love for each other was as much of a blight upon them as their inherent antagonism. the sun went down that bleak christmas night on a house divided openly against itself. the next day kate told her father he might look for some one else to run his house for him. he said he had already done so. he made no inquiry where she was going. he would not offer her money, though he secretly wanted her to ask for it. but it was past that with her. the miserable, bitter drama--the tawdry tragedy, whose most desperate accent was its shameful approach to farce--wore itself to an end. kate took her mother's jewelry, which had been left to her, and sold it at the local jeweler's. all silvertree knew that kate barrington had left her home in anger and that her father had shown her the back of his hand. iv honora fulham, sitting in her upper room and jealously guarding the slumbers of patience and patricia, her tiny but already remarkable twin daughters, heard a familiar voice in the lower hallway. she dropped her book, "the psychological significance of the family group," and ran to the chamber door. a second later she was hanging over the banisters. "kate!" she called with a penetrating whisper. "you!" "yes, honora, it's bad kate. she's come to you--a penny nobody else wanted." honora fulham sailed down the stairs with the generous bearing of a ship answering a signal of distress. the women fell into each other's arms, and in that moment of communion dismissed all those little alien half-feelings which grow up between friends when their enlarging experience has driven them along different roads. honora led the way to her austere drawing-room, from which, with a rigorous desire to economize labor, she had excluded all that was superfluous, and there, in the bare, orderly room, the two women--their girlhood definitely behind them--faced each other. kate noted a curious retraction in honora, an indescribable retrenchment of her old-time self, as if her florescence had been clipped by trained hands, so that the bloom should not be too exuberant; and honora swiftly appraised kate's suggestion of freedom and force. "kate," she announced, "you look like a kind eagle." "a wounded one, then, honora." "you've a story for me, i see. sit down and tell it." so kate told it, compelling the history of her humiliating failure to stand out before the calm, adjudging mind of her friend. "but oughtn't we to forgive everything to the old?" cried honora at the conclusion of the recital. "oh, is father old?" responded kate in anguish. "he doesn't seem old--only formidable. if i'd thought i'd been wrong i never would have come up here to ask you to sustain me in my obstinacy. truly, honora, it isn't a question of age. he's hardly beyond his prime, and he has been using all of his will, which has grown strong with having his own way, to break me down the way most of the men in silvertree have broken their women down. i was getting to be just like the others, and to start when i heard him coming in at the door, and to hide things from him so that he wouldn't rage. i'd have been lying next." "kate!" "oh, you think it isn't decent for me to speak that way of my father! you can't think how it seems to me--how--how irreligious! but let me save my soul, honora! let me do that!" the girl's pallid face, sharpened and intensified, bore the imprint of genuine misery. honora fulham, strong of nerve and quick of understanding, embraced her with a full sisterly glance. "i always liked and trusted you, kate," she said. "i was sorry when our ways parted, and i'd be happy to have them joined again. i see it's to be a hazard of new fortune for you, and david and i will stand by. i don't know, of course, precisely what that may mean, but we're yours to command." a key turned in the front door. "there's david now," said his wife, her voice vibrating, and she summoned him. * * * * * david fulham entered with something almost like violence, although the violence did not lie in his gestures. it was rather in the manner in which his personality assailed those within the room. dark, with an attractive ugliness, arrogant, with restive and fathomless eyes, he seemed to unite the east and the west in his being. had his mother been a jewess of pride and intellect, and his father an adventurous american of the superman type? kate, looking at him with fresh interest, found her thoughts leaping to the surmise. she knew that he was, in a way, a great man--a man with a growing greatness. he had promulgated ideas so daring that his brother scientists were embarrassed to know where to place him. there were those who thought of him as a brilliant charlatan; but the convincing intelligence and self-control of his glance repudiated that idea. the faust-like aspect of the man might lay him open to the suspicion of having too experimental and inquisitive a mind. but he had, it would seem, no need for charlatanism. he came forward swiftly and grasped kate's hand. "i remember you quite well," he said in his deep, vibratory tones. "are you here for graduate work?" "no," said kate; "i'm not so humble." "not so humble?" he showed his magnificent teeth in a flashing but somewhat satiric smile. "i'm here for life--not for study." "not 'in for life,' but 'out' for it," he supplemented. "that's interesting. what is honora suggesting to you? she's sure to have a theory of what will be best. honora knows what will be best for almost everybody, but she sometimes has trouble in making others see it the same way." honora seemed not to mind his chaffing. "yes," she agreed, "i've already thought, but i haven't had time to tell kate. do you remember that mrs. goodrich said last night at dinner that her friend miss addams was looking about for some one to take the place of a young woman who was married the other day? she was an officer of the children's protective league, you remember." "oh, that--" broke in fulham. he turned toward kate and looked her over from head to foot, till the girl felt a hot wave of indignation sweep over her. but his glance was impersonal, apparently. he paid no attention to her embarrassment. he seemed merely to be getting at her qualities by the swiftest method. "well," he said finally, "i dare say you're right. but--" he hesitated. "well?" prompted his wife. "but won't it be rather a--a waste?" he asked. and again he smiled, this time with some hidden meaning. "of course it won't be a waste," declared honora. "aren't women to serve their city as well as men? it's a practical form of patriotism, according to my mind." kate broke into a nervous laugh. "i hope i'm to be of some use," she said. "work can't come a moment too soon for me. i was beginning to think--" she paused. "well?" supplied fulham, still with that watchful regard of her. "oh, that i had made a mistake about myself--that i wasn't going to be anything in particular, after all." * * * * * they were interrupted. a man sprang up the outside steps and rang the doorbell imperatively. "it's karl wander," announced fulham, who had glanced through the window. "it's your cousin, honora." he went to the door, and kate heard an emphatic and hearty voice making hurried greetings. "stopped between trains," it was saying. "can stay ten minutes precisely--not a second longer. came to see the babies." honora had arisen with a little cry and gone to the door. now she returned, hanging on to the arm of a weather-tanned man. "miss barrington," she said, "my cousin, mr. wander. oh, karl, you're not serious? you don't really mean that you can't stay--not even over night?" the man turned his warm brown eyes on kate and she looked at him expectantly, because he was honora's cousin. for the time it takes to draw a breath, they gazed at each other. oddly enough, kate thought of ray mccrea, who was across the water, and whose absence she had not regretted. she could not tell why her thoughts turned to him. this man was totally unlike ray. he was, indeed, unlike any one she ever had known. there was that about him which held her. it was not quite assertion; perhaps it was competence. but it was competence that seemed to go without tyranny, and that was something new in her experience of men. he looked at her on a level, spiritually, querying as to who she might be. the magical moment passed. honora and david were talking. they ran away up the stairs with their guest, inviting kate to follow. "i'll only be in the way now," she called. "by and by i'll have the babies all to myself." yet after she had said this, she followed, and looked into the nursery, which was at the rear of the house. honora had thrust the two children into her cousin's big arms and she and david stood laughing at him. another man might have appeared ridiculous in this position; but it did not, apparently, occur to karl wander to be self-conscious. he was wrapped in contemplation of the babies, and when he peered over their heads at kate, he was quite grave and at ease. then, before it could be realized, he was off again. he had kissed honora and congratulated her, and he and kate had again clasped hands. "sorry," he said, in his explosive way, "that we part so soon." he held her hand a second longer, gave it a sudden pressure, and was gone. honora shut the door behind him reluctantly. "so like karl!" she laughed. "it's the second time he's been in my house since i was married." "you'd think we had the plague, the way he runs from us," said david. "oh," responded honora, not at all disturbed, "karl is forever on important business. he's probably been to new york to some directors' meeting. now he's on his way to denver, he says--'men waiting.' that's karl's way. to think of his dashing up here between trains to see my babies!" the tears came to her eyes. "don't you think he's fine, kate?" the truth was, there seemed to be a sort of vacuum in the air since he had left--as if he had taken the vitality of it with him. "but where does he live?" she asked honora. "address him beyond the second divide, and he'll be reached. everybody knows him there. his post-office bears his own name--wander." "he's a miner?" "how did you know?" "oh, by process of elimination. what else could he be?" "nothing else in all the world," agreed david fulham. "i tell honora he's a bit mad." "no, no," honora laughed; "he's not mad; he's merely western. how startled you look, kate--as if you had seen an apparition." * * * * * it was decided that kate was to stay there at the fulhams', and to use one of their several unoccupied rooms. kate chose one that looked over the midway, and her young strength made nothing of the two flights of stairs which she had to climb to get to it. at first the severity of the apartment repelled her, but she had no money with which to make it more to her taste, and after a few hours its very barrenness made an appeal to her. it seemed to be like her own life, in need of decoration, and she was content to let things take their course. it seemed probable that roses would bloom in their time. no one, it transpired, ate in the house. "i found out," explained honora, "that i couldn't be elaborately domestic and have a career, too, so i went, with some others of similar convictions and circumstances, into a coöperative dining-room scheme." kate gave an involuntary shrug of her shoulders. "you think that sounds desolate? wait till you see us all together. this talk about 'home' is all very well, but i happen to know--and i fancy you do, too--that home can be a particularly stultifying place. when people work as hard as we do, a little contact with outsiders is stimulating. but you'll see for yourself. mrs. dennison, a very fine woman, a widow, looks after things for us. dr. von shierbrand, one of our number, got to calling the place 'the caravansary,' and now we've all fallen into the way of it." the caravansary was but a few doors from the fulhams'; an old-fashioned, hospitable affair, with high ceilings, white marble mantels, and narrow windows. mrs. dennison, the house-mother, suited the place well. her widow's cap and bands seemed to go with the grave pretentiousness of the rooms, to which she had succeeded in giving almost a personal atmosphere. there was room for her goldfish and her half-dozen canary cages as well as for her "coöperators"--no one there would permit himself to be called a boarder. kate, sensitive from her isolation and sore from her sorrows, had imagined that she would resent the familiarities of those she would be forced to meet on table terms. but what was the use in trying, to resent marna cartan, the young irish girl who meant to make a great singer of herself, and who evidently looked upon the world as a place of rare and radiant entertainment? as for mrs. barsaloux, marna's patron and benefactor, with her world-weary eyes and benevolent smile, who could turn a cold shoulder to her solicitudes? then there were wickersham and von shierbrand, members, like fulham, of the faculty of the university. the applegates and the goodriches were pleasant folk, rather settled in their aspect, and all of literary leanings. the applegates were identified--both husband and wife--with a magazine of literary criticism; mr. goodrich ran a denominational paper with an academic flavor; mrs. goodrich was president of an orphan asylum and spent her days in good works. then, intermittently, the company was joined by george fitzgerald, a preoccupied young physician, the nephew of mrs. dennison. they all greeted kate with potential friendship in their faces, and she could not keep back her feeling of involuntary surprise at the absence of anything like suspicion. down in silvertree if a new woman had come into a boarding-house, they would have wondered why. here they seemed tacitly to say, "why not?" mrs. dennison seated kate between dr. von shierbrand and marna cartan. opposite to her sat mrs. goodrich with her quiet smile. everyone had something pleasant to say; when kate spoke, all were inclined to listen. the atmosphere was quiet, urbane, gracious. even david fulham's exotic personality seemed to soften under the regard of mrs. dennison's gray eyes. "really," kate concluded, "i believe i can be happy here. all i need is a chance to earn my bread and butter." and what with the intervention of the goodriches and the recommendation of the fulhams, that opportunity soon came. v a fortnight later she was established as an officer of the children's protective association, an organization with a self-explanatory name, instituted by women, and chiefly supported by them. she was given an inexhaustible task, police powers, headquarters at hull house, and a vocation demanding enough to satisfy even her desire for spiritual adventure. it was her business to adjust the lives of children--which meant that she adjusted their parents' lives also. she arranged the disarranged; played the providential part, exercising the powers of intervention which in past times belonged to the priest, but which, in the days of commercial feudalism, devolve upon the social workers. her work carried her into the lowest strata of society, and her compassion, her efficiency, and her courage were daily called upon. perhaps she might have found herself lacking in the required measure of these qualities, being so young and inexperienced, had it not been that she was in a position to concentrate completely upon her task. she knew how to listen and to learn; she knew how to read and apply. she went into her new work with a humble spirit, and this humility offset whatever was aggressive and militant in her. the death of her mother and the aloofness of her father had turned all her ardors back upon herself. they found vent now in her new work, and she was not long in perceiving that she needed those whom she was called upon to serve quite as much as they needed her. mrs. barsaloux and marna carton, who had been shopping, met kate one day crossing the city with a baby in her arms and two miserable little children clinging to her skirts. hunger and neglect had given these poor small derelicts that indescribable appearance of depletion and shame which, once seen, is never to be confused with anything else. "my goodness!" cried mrs. barsaloux, glowering at kate through her veil; "what sort of work is this you are doing, miss barrington? aren't you afraid of becoming infected with some dreadful disease? wherever do you find the fortitude to be seen in the company of such wretched little creatures? i would like to help them myself, but i'd never be willing to carry such filthy little bags of misery around with me." kate smiled cheerfully. "we've just put their mother in the bridewell," she said, "and their father is in the police station awaiting trial. the poor dears are going to be clean for once in their lives and have a good supper in the bargain. maybe they'll be taken into good homes eventually. they're lovely children, really. you haven't looked at them closely enough, mrs. barsaloux." "i'm just as close to them as i want to be, thank you," said the lady, drawing back involuntarily. but she reached for her purse and gave kate a bill. "would this help toward getting them something?" she asked. marna laughed delightedly. "i'm sure they're treasures," she said. "mayn't i help miss barrington take them to wherever they're going, _tante_? i shan't catch a thing, and i love to know what becomes of homeless children." kate saw a look of acute distress on mrs. barsaloux's face. "this isn't your game just now, miss cartan," kate said in her downright manner. "it's mine. i'm moving my pawns here and there, trying to find the best places for them. it's quite exhilarating." her arms were aching and she moved the heavy baby from one shoulder to the other. "a game, is it?" asked the irish girl. "and who wins?" "the children, i hope. i'm on the side of the children first and last." "oh, so am i. i think it's just magnificent of you to help them." kate disclaimed the magnificence. "you mustn't forget that i'm doing it for money," she said. "it's my job. i hope i'll do it well enough to win the reputation of being honest, but you mustn't think there's anything saintly about me, because there isn't. good-bye. hold on tight, children!" she nodded cheerfully and moved on, fresh, strong, determined, along the crowded thoroughfare, the people making way for her smilingly. she saw nothing of the attention paid her. she was wondering if her arms would hold out or if, in some unguarded moment, the baby would slip from them. perhaps the baby was fearful, too, for it reached up its little clawlike hands and clasped her tight about the neck. kate liked the feeling of those little hands, and was sorry when they relaxed and the weary little one fell asleep. each day brought new problems. if she could have decided these by mere rule of common sense, her new vocation might not have puzzled her as much as it did. but it was uncommon, superfine, intuitive sense that was required. she discovered, for example, that not only was sin a virtue in disguise, but that a virtue might be degraded into a sin. she put this case to honora and david one evening as the three of them sat in honora's drawing-room. "it's the case of peggy dunn," she explained. "peggy likes life. she has brighter eyes than she knows what to do with and more smiles than she has a chance to distribute. she has finished her course at the parochial school and she's clerking in a downtown store. that is slow going for peggy, so she evens things up by attending the saturday night dances. when she's whirling around the hall on the tips of her toes, she really feels like herself. she gets home about two in the morning on these occasions and finds her mother waiting up for her and kneeling before a little statue of the virgin that stands in the corner of the sitting-room. as soon as the mother sees peggy, she pounces on her and weeps on her shoulder, and after peggy's in bed and dead with the tire in her legs, her mother gets down beside the bed and prays some more. 'what would you do, please,' says peggy to me, 'if you had a mother that kept crying and praying every time you had a bit of fun? wouldn't you run away from home and get where they took things aisier?'" david threw back his head and roared in sympathetic commendation of peggy's point of view. "poor little mother," sighed honora. "i suppose she'll send her girl straight on the road to perdition and never know what did it." "not if i can help it," said kate. "i don't believe in letting her go to perdition at all. i went around to see the mother and i put the responsibility on her. 'every time you make peggy laugh,' i said, 'you can count it for glory. every time you make her swear,--for she does swear,--you can know you've blundered. why don't you give her some parties if you don't want her to be going out to them?'" "how did she take that?" asked honora. "it bothered her a good deal at first, but when i went down to meet peggy the other day as she came out of the store, she told me her mother had had the little bisque virgin moved into her own bedroom and that she had put a talking-machine in the place where it had stood. i told peggy the talking-machine was just a new kind of prayer, meant to make her happy, and that it wouldn't do for her to let her mother's prayers go unanswered. 'any one with eyes like yours,' i said to her, 'is bound to have beaux in plenty, but you've only one mother and you'd better hang on to her.'" "then what did she say?" demanded the interested honora. "she's an impudent little piece. she said, 'you've some eyes yourself, miss barrington, but i suppose you know how to make them behave." "better marry that girl as soon as you can, miss barrington," counseled david; "that is, if any hymeneal authority is vested in you." "that's what peggy wanted to know," admitted kate. "she said to me the other day: 'ain't you cupid, miss barrington? i heard about a match you made up, and it was all right--the real thing, sure enough.' 'have you a job for me--supposing i was cupid?' i asked. that set her off in a gale. so i suppose there's something up peggy's very short sleeves." the fulhams liked to hear her stories, particularly as she kept the amusing or the merely pathetic ones for them, refraining from telling them of the unspeakable, obscene tragedies which daily came to her notice. it might have been supposed that scenes such as these would so have revolted her that she could not endure to deal with them; but this was far from being the case. the greater the need for her help, the more determined was she to meet the demand. she had plenty of superiors whom she could consult, and she suffered less from disgust or timidity than any one could have supposed possible. the truth was, she was grateful for whatever absorbed her and kept her from dwelling upon that dehumanized house at silvertree. her busy days enabled her to fight her sorrow very well, but in the night, like a wailing child, her longing for her mother awoke, and she nursed it, treasuring it as those freshly bereaved often do. the memory of that little frustrated soul made her tender of all women, and too prone, perhaps, to lay to some man the blame of their shortcomings. she had no realization that she had set herself in this subtle and subconscious way against men. but whether she admitted it or not, the fact remained that she stood with her sisters, whatever their estate, leagued secretly against the other sex. by way of emphasizing her devotion to her work, she ceased answering ray mccrea's letters. she studiously avoided the attentions of the men she met at the settlement house and at mrs. dennison's caravansary. sometimes, without her realizing it, her thoughts took on an almost morbid hue, so that, looking at honora with her chaste, kind, uplifted face, she resented her close association with her husband. it seemed offensive that he, with his curious, half-restrained excesses of temperament, should have domination over her friend who stood so obviously for abnegation. david manifestly was averse to bounds and limits. all that was wild and desirous of adventure, in kate informed her of like qualities in this man. but she held--and meant always to hold--the restless falcons of her spirit in leash. would david fulham do as much? she could not be quite sure, and instinctively she avoided anything approaching intimacy with him. he was her friend's husband. "friend's husband" was a sort of limbo into which men were dropped by scrupulous ladies; so kate decided, with a frown at herself for having even thought that david could wish to emerge from that nondescript place of spiritual residence. anyway, she did not completely like him, though she thought him extraordinary and stimulating, and when honora told her something of the great discovery which the two of them appeared to be upon the verge of making concerning the germination of life without parental interposition, she had little doubt that david was wizard enough to carry it through. he would have the daring, and honora the industry, and--she reflected--if renown came, that would be david's beyond all peradventure. no question about it, kate's thoughts were satiric these days. she was still bleeding from the wound which her father had inflicted, and she did not suspect that it was wounded affection rather than hurt self-respect which was tormenting her. she only knew that she shrank from men, and that at times she liked to imagine what sort of a world it would be if there were no men in it at all. meantime she met men every day, and whether she was willing to admit it or not, the facts were that they helped her on her way with brotherly good will, and as they saw her going about her singular and heavy tasks, they gave her their silent good wishes, and hoped that the world of pain and shame would not too soon destroy what was gallant and trustful in her. * * * * * but here has been much anticipation. to go back to the beginning, at the end of her first week in the city she had a friend. it was marna cartan. they had fallen into the way of talking together a few minutes before or after dinner, and kate would hasten her modest dinner toilet in order to have these few marginal moments with this palpitating young creature who moved to unheard rhythms, and whose laughter was the sweetest thing she had yet heard in a city of infinite dissonances. "you don't know how to account for me very well, do you?" taunted marna daringly, when they had indulged their inclination for each other's society for a few days. "you wonder about me because i'm so streaked. i suppose you see vestiges of the farm girl peeping through the operatic student. wouldn't you like me to explain myself?" she had an iridescent personality, made up of sudden shynesses, of bright flashes of bravado, of tenderness and hauteur, and she contrived to be fascinating in all of them. she held kate as the ancient mariner held the wedding-guest. "of course i'd love to know all about you," answered kate. "inquisitiveness is the most marked of my characteristics. but i don't want you to tell me any more than i deserve to hear." "you deserve everything," cried marna, seizing kate's firm hand in her own soft one, "because you understand friendship. why, i always said it could be as swift and surprising as love, and just as mysterious. you take it that way, too, so you deserve a great deal. well, to begin with, i'm irish." kate's laugh could be heard as far as the kitchen, where mrs. dennison was wishing the people would come so that she could dish up the soup. marna laughed, too. "you guessed it?" she cried. she didn't seem to think it so obvious as kate's laugh indicated. "you don't leave a thing to the imagination in that direction," kate cried. "irish? as irish as the shamrock! go on." "dear me, i want to begin so far back! you see, i don't merely belong to modern ireland. i'm--well, i'm traditional. at least, great-grandfather cartan, who came over to wisconsin with a company of immigrants, could tell you things about our ancestors that would make you feel as if we came up out of the irish hills. and great-grandfather, he actually looked legendary himself. why, do you know, he came over with these people to be their story-teller!" "their story-teller?" "yes, just that--their minstrel, you understand. and that's what my people were, 'way back, minstrels. all the way over on the ship, when the people were weeping for homesickness, or sitting dreaming about the new land, or falling sick, or getting wild and vicious, it was great-granddaddy's place to bring them to themselves with his stories. then when they all went on to wisconsin and took up their land, they selected a small beautiful piece for great-grandfather, and built him a log house, and helped him with his crops. he, for his part, went over the countryside and was welcomed everywhere, and carried all the friendly news and gossip he could gather, and sat about the fire nights, telling tales of the old times, and keeping the ancient stories and the ancient tongue alive for them." "you mean he used the gaelic?" "what else would he be using, and himself the descendant of minstrels? but after a time he learned the english, too, and he used that in his latter years because the understanding of the gaelic began to die out." "how wonderful he must have been!" "wonderful? for eighty years he held sway over the hearts of them, and was known as the best story-teller of them all. this was the more interesting, you see, because every year they gathered at a certain place to have a story-telling contest; and great-grandfather was voted the master of them until--" marna hesitated, and a flush spread over her face. "until--" urged kate. "until a young man came along. finnegan, his name was. he was no more than a commercial traveler who heard of the gathering and came up there, and he capped stories with great-grandfather, and it went on till all the people were thick about them like bees around a flower-pot. four days it lasted, and away into the night; and in the end they took the prize from great-grandfather and gave it to gerlie finnegan. and that broke great-granddad's heart." "he died?" "yes, he died. a hundred and ten he was, and for eighty years had been the king of them. when he was gone, it left me without anybody at all, you see. so that was how i happened to go down to baraboo to earn my living." "what were you doing?" marna looked at the tip of her slipper for a moment, reflectively. then she glanced up at kate, throwing a supplicating glance from the blue eyes which looked as if they were snared behind their long dark lashes. "i wouldn't be telling everybody that asked me," she said. "but i was singing at the moving-picture show, and mrs. barsaloux came in there and heard me. then she asked me to live with her and go to europe, and i did, and she paid for the best music lessons for me everywhere, and now--" she hesitated, drawing in a long breath; then she arose and stood before kate, breathing deep, and looking like a shining butterfly free of its chrysalis and ready to spread its emblazoned wings. "yes, bright one!" cried kate, glowing with admiration. "what now?" "why, now, you know, i'm to go in opera. the manager of the chicago opera company has been mrs. barsaloux's friend these many years, and she has had him try out my voice. and he likes it. he says he doesn't care if i haven't had the usual amount of training, because i'm really born to sing, you see. perhaps that's my inheritance from the old minstrels--for they chanted their ballads and epics, didn't they? anyway, i really can sing. and i'm to make my debut this winter in 'madame butterfly.' just think of that! oh, i love puccini! i can understand a musician like that--a man who makes music move like thoughts, flurrying this way and blowing that. it's to be very soon--my debut. and then i can make up to mrs. barsaloux for all she's done for me. oh, there come all the people! you mustn't let mrs. fulham know how i've chattered. i wouldn't dare talk about myself like that before her. this is just for you--i _knew_ you wanted to know about me. i want to know all about you, too." "oh," said kate, "you mustn't expect me to tell my story. i'm different from you. i'm not born for anything in particular--i've no talents to point out my destiny. i keep being surprised and frustrated. it looks to me as if i were bound to make mistakes. there's something wrong with me. sometimes i think that i'm not womanly enough--that there's too much of the man in my disposition, and that the two parts of me are always going to struggle and clash." chairs were being drawn up to the table. "come!" called dr. von shierbrand. "can't you young ladies take time enough off to eat?" he looked ready for conversation, and kate went smilingly to sit beside him. she knew he expected women to be amusing, and she found it agreeable to divert him. she understood the classroom fag from which he was suffering; and, moreover, after all those austere meals with her father, it really was an excitement and a pleasure to talk with an amiable and complimentary man. vi "we're to have a new member in the family, kate," honora said one morning, as she and kate made their way together to the caravansary. "it's my cousin, mary morrison. she's a californian, and very charming, i understand." "she's to attend the university?" "i don't quite know as to that," admitted honora, frowning slightly. "her father and mother have been dead for several years, and she has been living with her brother in santa barbara. but he is to go to the philippines on some legal work, and he's taking his family with him. mary begs to stay here with me during his absence." "is she the sort of a person who will need a chaperon? because i don't seem to see you in that capacity, honora." "no, i don't know that i should care to sit against the wall smiling complacently while other people were up and doing. i've always felt i wouldn't mind being a chaperon if they'd let me set up some sort of a workshop in the ballroom, or even if i could take my mending, or a book to read. but slow, long hours of vacuous smiling certainly would wear me out. however, i don't imagine that mary will call upon me for any such service." "but if your cousin isn't going to college, and doesn't intend to go into society, how will she amuse herself?" "i haven't an idea--not an idea. but i couldn't say no to her, could i? i've so few people belonging to me in this world that i can't, for merely selfish reasons, bear to turn one of my blood away. mary's mother and my mother were sisters, and i think we should be fond of each other. of course she is younger than i, but that is immaterial." "and david--does he like the idea? she may be rather a fixture, mayn't she? haven't you to think about that?" "oh, david probably won't notice her particularly. people come and go and it's all the same to him. he sees only his great problems." honora choked a sigh. "who wants him to do anything else!" defended kate quickly. "not you, surely! why, you're so proud of him that you're positively offensive! and to think that you are working beside him every day, and helping him--you know it's all just the way you would have it, honora." "yes, it is," agreed honora contritely, "and you should see him in the laboratory when we two are alone there, kate! he's a changed man. it almost seems as if he grew in stature. when he bends over those tanks where he is making his great experiments, all of my scientific training fails to keep me from seeing him as one with supernatural powers. and that wonderful idea of his, the finding out of the secret of life, the prying into this last hidden place of nature, almost overwhelms me. i can work at it with a matter-of-fact countenance, but when we begin to approach the results, i almost shudder away from it. but you must never let david know i said so. that's only my foolish, feminine, reverent mind. all the trained and scientific part of me repudiates such nonsense." they turned in at the door of the caravansary. "i don't want to see you repudiating any part of yourself," cried kate with sudden ardor. "it's so sweet of you, honora, to be a mere woman in spite of all your learning and your power." honora stopped and grasped kate's wrist in her strong hand. "but am i that?" she queried, searching her friend's face with her intense gaze. "you see, i've tried--i've tried--" she choked on the words. "i've tried not to be a woman!" she declared, drawing her breath sharply between her teeth. "it's a strange, strange story, kate." "i don't understand at all," kate declared. "i've tried not to be a woman because david is so completely and triumphantly a man." "still i don't understand." "no, i suppose not. it's a hidden history. sometimes i can't believe it myself. but let me ask you, am i the woman you thought i would be?" kate smiled slowly, as her vision of honora as she first saw her came back to her. "how soft and rosy you were!" she cried. "i believe i actually began my acquaintance with you by hugging you. at any rate, i wanted to. no, no; i never should have thought of you in a scientific career, wearing moshier gowns and having curtain-less windows. never!" honora stood a moment there in the dim hall, thinking. in her eyes brooded a curiously patient light. "do you remember all the trumpery i used to have on my toilet-table?" she demanded. "i sent it to mary morrison. they say she looks like me." she put her hand on the dining-room door and they entered. the others were there before them. there were growing primroses on the table, and the sunlight streamed in at the window. a fire crackled on the hearth; and mrs. dennison, in her old-fashioned widow's cap, sat smiling at the head of her table. kate knew it was not really home, but she had to admit that these busy undomestic moderns had found a good substitute for it: or, at least, that, taking their domesticity through the mediumship of mrs. dennison, they contrived to absorb enough of it to keep them going. but, no, it was not really home. kate could not feel that she, personally, ever had been "home." she thought of that song of songs, "the wanderer." "where art thou? where art thou, o home so dear?" she was thinking of this still as, her salutation over, she seated herself in the chair dr. von shierbrand placed for her. "busy thinking this morning, miss barrington?" mrs. dennison asked gently. "that tells me you're meaning to do some good thing to-day. i can't say how splendid you social workers seem to us common folks." "oh, my dear mrs. dennison!" kate protested. "you and your kind are the true social workers. if only women--all women--understood how to make true homes, there wouldn't be any need for people like us. we're only well-intentioned fools who go around putting plasters over the sores. we don't even reach down as far as the disease--though i suppose we think we do when we get a lot of statistics together. but the men and women who go about their business, doing their work well all of the time, are the preventers of social trouble. isn't that so, dr. von shierbrand?" that amiable german readjusted his glasses upon his handsome nose and began to talk about the second part of "faust." the provocation, though slight, had seemed to him sufficient. "my husband has already eaten and gone!" observed honora with some chagrin. "can't you use your influence, mrs. dennison, to make him spend a proper amount of time at the table?" "oh, he doesn't need to eat except once in a great while. he has the ways of genius, mrs. fulham. geniuses like to eat at odd times, and my own feeling is that they should be allowed to do as they please. it is very bad for geniuses to make them follow a set plan," said mrs. dennison earnestly. "that woman," observed dr. von shierbrand under his breath to kate, "has the true feminine wisdom. she should have been the wife of a great man. it was such qualities which goethe meant to indicate in his marguerite." honora, who had overheard, lifted her pensive gray eyes and interchanged a long look with dr. von shierbrand. each seemed to be upon the verge of some remark. "well," said kate briskly, "if you want to speak, why don't you? are your thoughts too deep for words?" von shierbrand achieved a laugh, but honora was silent. she seemed to want to say that there was more than one variety of feminine wisdom; while von shierbrand, kate felt quite sure, would have maintained that there was but one--the instinctive sort which "marguerite knew." * * * * * the day that mary morrison was to arrive conflicted with the visit of a very great frenchman to professor fulham's laboratory. "i really don't see how i'm to meet the child, kate," honora said anxiously to her friend. "do you think you could manage to get down to the station?" kate could and did go. this girl, like herself, was very much on her own resources, she imagined. she was coming, as kate had come only the other day, to a new and forbidding city, and kate's heart warmed to her. it seemed rather a tragedy, at best, to leave the bland californian skies and to readjust life amid the iron compulsion of chicago. kate pictured her as a little thing, depressed, weary with her long journey, and already homesick. the reality was therefore somewhat of a surprise. as kate stood waiting by the iron gate watching the outflowing stream of people with anxious eyes, she saw a little furore centered about the person of an opulent young woman who had, it appeared, many elaborate farewells to make to her fellow-passengers. two porters accompanied her, carrying her smart bags, and, even with so much assistance, she was draped with extra garments, which hung from her arms in varying and seductive shades of green. she herself was in green of a subtle olive shade, and her plumes and boa, her chains and chatelaine, her hand-bags and camera, marked her as the traveler triumphant and expectant. like an arabian princess, borne across the desert to the home of her future lord, she came panoplied with splendor. the consciousness of being a personage, by the mere right conferred by regal womanhood-in-flower, emanated from her. and the world accepted her smilingly at her own estimate. she wished to play at being queen. what more simple? let her have her game. on every hand she found those who were--or who delightedly pretended to be--her subjects. once beyond the gateway, this exuberant creature paused. "and now," she said to a gentleman more assiduous than the rest, who waited upon her and who was laden with her paraphernalia, "you must help me to identify my cousin. that will be easy enough, too, for they say we resemble each other." that gave kate her cue. she went forward with outstretched hand. "i am your cousin's emissary, miss morrison," she said. "i am kate barrington, and i came to greet you because your cousin was unable to get here, and is very, very sorry about it." miss morrison revealed two deep dimples when she smiled, and held out so much of a hand as she could disengage from her draperies. she presented her fellow-traveler; she sent a porter for a taxi. all was exhilaratingly in commotion about her; and kate found herself apportioning the camera and some of the other things to herself. they had quite a royal setting-forth. every one helped who could find any excuse for doing so; others looked on. miss morrison nodded and smiled; the chauffeur wheeled his machine splendidly, making dramatic gestures which had the effect of causing commerce to pause till the princess was under way. "be sure," warned miss morrison, "to drive through the pleasantest streets." then she turned to kate with a deliciously reproachful expression on her face. "why didn't you order blue skies for me?" she demanded. * * * * * kate never forgot the expression of miss morrison's face when she was ushered into honora's "sanitary drawing-room," as dr. von shierbrand had dubbed it. true, the towers of harper memorial library showed across the plaisance through the undraped windows, mitigating the gravity of the outlook, and the innumerable lights of the midway already began to render less austere the january twilight. but the brown walls, the brown rug, the mission furniture in weathered oak, the corner clock,--an excellent time-piece,--the fireplace with its bronze vases, the etchings of foreign architecture, and the bookcase with ruskin, eliot, dickens, and all the mid-victorian celebrities in sets, produced but a grave and unillumined interior. "oh!" cried miss morrison with ill-concealed dismay. and then, after a silence: "but where do you sit when you're sociable?" "here," said kate. she wasn't going to apologize for honora to a pair of exclamatory dimples! "but you can be intimate here?" miss morrison inquired. "we're not intimate," flashed kate. "we're too busy--and we respect each other too much." miss morrison sank into a chair and revealed the tint of her lettuce-green petticoat beneath her olive-green frock. "i'm making you cross with me," she said regretfully. "please don't dislike me at the outset. you see, out in california we're not so up and down as you are here. if you were used to spending your days in the shade of yellow walls, with your choice of hammocks, and with nothing to do but feed the parrot and play the piano, why, i guess you'd--" she broke off and stared about her. "why, there isn't any piano!" she cried. "do you mean honora has no piano?" "what would be the use? she doesn't play." "i must order one in the morning, then. honora wouldn't care, would she? oh, when do you suppose she'll be home? does she like to stay over in that queer place you told me of, fussing around with those frogs?" kate had been rash enough to endeavor to explain something of the fulhams' theories regarding the mechanistic conception of life. there was nothing to do but accord miss morrison the laugh which she appeared to think was coming to her. "i can see that i shouldn't have told you about anything like that," kate said. "i see how mussy you would think any scientific experiment to be. and, really, matters of greater importance engage your attention." she was quite serious. she had swiftly made up her mind that mary morrison, with her conscious seductions, was a much more important factor in the race than austere honora fulham. but miss morrison was suspicious of satire. "oh, i think science important!" she protested. "no, you don't," declared kate; "you only wish you did. come, we'll go to your room." it was the rear room on the second floor, and it presented a stern parallelogram occupied by the bare necessaries of a sleeping-apartment. the walls and rug were gray, the furniture of mahogany. mary morrison looked at it a moment with a slow smile. then she tossed her green coat and her hat with its sweeping veil upon the bed. she flung her camera and her magazines upon the table. she opened her traveling-bag, and, with hands that almost quivered with impatience, placed upon the toilet-table the silver implements that honora had sent her and scattered broadcast among them her necklaces and bracelets. "i'll have some flowering plants to-morrow," she told kate. "and when my trunks and boxes come, i'll make the wilderness blossom like a rose. how have you decorated your room?" "i haven't much money," said kate bluntly; "but i've--well, i've ventured on my own interpretations of what a bed-sitting-room should be." miss morrison threw her a bright glance. "i'll warrant you have," she said. "i should think you'd contrive a very original sort of a place. thank you so much for looking after me. i brought along a gown for dinner. naturally, i didn't want to make a dull impression at the outset. haven't i heard that you dine out at some sort of a place where geniuses congregate?" * * * * * years afterward, kate used to think about the moment when honora and her cousin met. honora had come home, breathless from the laboratory. it had been a stirring afternoon for her. she had heard words of significant appreciation spoken to david by the men whom, out of all the world, she would have chosen to have praise him. she looked at miss morrison, who had come trailing down in a cerise evening gown as if she were a bright creature of another species, somewhat, kate could not help whimsically thinking, as a philosophic beaver might have looked at a bird of paradise. then honora had kissed her cousin. "dear blue-eyed mary!" she had cried. "welcome to a dull and busy home." "how good of you to take me in," sighed miss morrison. "i hated to bother you, honora, but i thought you might keep me out of mischief." "have you been getting into mischief?" honora asked, still laughing. "not quite," answered her cousin, blushing bewitchingly. "but i'm always on the verge of it. it's the californian climate, i think." "so exuberant!" cried honora. "that's it!" agreed "blue-eyed mary." "i thought you'd understand. here, i'm sure, you're all busy and good." "some of us are," agreed honora. "there's my kate, for example. she's one of the most useful persons in town, and she's just as interesting as she is useful." miss morrison turned her smiling regard on kate. "but, honora, she's been quite abrupt with me. she doesn't approve of me. i suppose she discovered at once that i _wasn't_ useful." "i didn't," protested kate. "i think decorative things are of the utmost use." "there!" cried miss morrison; "you can see for yourself that she doesn't like me!" "nonsense," said kate, really irritated. "i shall like you if honora does. let me help you dress, honora dear. are you tired or happy that your cheeks are so flushed?" "i'm both tired and happy, kate. excuse me, mary, won't you? if david comes in you'll know him by instinct. believe me, you are very welcome." up in honora's bedroom, kate asked, as she helped her friend into the tidy neutral silk she wore to dinner: "is the blue-eyed one going to be a drain on you, girl? you oughtn't to carry any more burdens. are you disturbed? is she more of a proposition than you counted on?" honora turned her kind but troubled eyes on kate. "i can't explain," she said in _so_ low a voice that kate could hardly catch the words. "she's like me, isn't she? i seemed to see--" "what?" "ghosts--bright ghosts. never mind." "you're not thinking that you are old, are you?" cried kate. "because that's absurd. you're wonderful--wonderful." laughter arose to them--the mingled voices of david fulham and his newfound cousin by marriage. "good!" cried honora with evident relief. "they seem to be taking to each other. i didn't know how david would like her." he liked her very well, it transpired, and when the introductions had been made at the caravansary, it appeared that every one was delighted with her. if their reception of her differed from that they had given to kate, it was nevertheless kindly--almost gay. they leaped to the conclusion that miss morrison was designed to enliven them. and so it proved. she threw even the blithe marna cartan temporarily into the shade; and dr. von shierbrand, who was accustomed to talking with kate upon such matters as the national trait of incompetence, or the reprehensible modern tendency of coddling the unfit, turned his attention to miss morrison and to lighter subjects. * * * * * two days later a piano stood in honora's drawing-room, and miss morrison sat before it in what may be termed occult draperies, making lovely music. technically, perhaps, the music left something to be desired. mrs. barsaloux and marna cartan thought so, at any rate. but the habitués of mrs. dennison's near-home soon fell into the way of trailing over to the fulhams' in mary morrison's wake, and as they grouped themselves about on the ugly mission furniture, in a soft light produced by many candles, and an atmosphere drugged with highly scented flowers, they fell under the spell of many woven melodies. when mary morrison's tapering fingers touched the keys they brought forth a liquid and caressing sound like falling water in a fountain, and when she leaned over them as if to solicit them to yield their kind responses, her attitude, her subtle garments, the swift interrogative turns of her head, brought visions to those who watched and listened. kate dreamed of italian gardens--the gardens she never had seen; von shierbrand thought of dark german forests; honora, of a moonlit glade. these three confessed so much. the others did not tell their visions, but obviously they had them. blue-eyed mary was one of those women who inspire others. she was the quintessence of femininity, and she distilled upon the air something delicately intoxicating, like the odor of lotus-blossoms. it was significant that the fulhams' was no longer a house of suburban habits. ten o'clock and lights out had ceased to be the rule. after music there frequently was a little supper, and every one was pressed into service in the preparation of it. something a trifle fagged and hectic began to show in the faces of mrs. dennison's family, and that good woman ventured to offer some reproof. "you all are hard workers," she said, "and you ought to be hard resters, too. you're not acting sensibly. any one would think you were the idle rich." "well, we're entitled to all the pleasure we can get," mary morrison had retorted. "there are people who think that pleasure isn't for them. but i am just the other way--i take it for granted that pleasure is my right. i always take everything in the way of happiness that i can get my hands on." "you mean, of course, my dear child," said the gentle mrs. goodrich, "all that you can get which does not belong to some one else." blue-eyed mary laughed throatily. "fortunately," she said, "there's pleasure enough to go around. it's like air, every one can breathe it in." vii but though miss morrison had made herself so brightly, so almost universally at home, there was one place into which she did not venture to intrude. this was kate's room. mary had felt from the first a lack of encouragement there, and although she liked to talk to kate, and received answers in which there appeared to be no lack of zest and response, yet it seemed to be agreed that when miss barrington came tramping home from her hard day's work, she was to enjoy the solitude of her chamber. mary used to wonder what went on there. miss barrington could be very still. the hours would pass and not a sound would issue from that high upper room which looked across the midway and included the satisfactory sight of the harper memorial and the massed university buildings. kate would, indeed, have had difficulty in explaining that she was engaged in the mere operation of living. her life, though lonely, and to an extent undirected, seemed abundant. restless she undoubtedly was, but it was a restlessness which she succeeded in holding in restraint. at first when she came up to the city the daze of sorrow was upon her. but this was passing. a keen awareness of life suffused her now and made her observant of everything about her. she felt the tremendous incongruities of city life, and back of these incongruities, the great, hidden, passionate purpose which, ultimately, meant a city of immeasurable power. she rejoiced, as the young and gallant dare to do, that she was laboring in behalf of that city. not one bewildered, wavering, piteous life was adjusted through her efforts that she did not feel that her personal sum of happiness had received an addition. that deep and burning need for religion, or for love, or for some splendid and irresistible impetus, was satisfied in part by her present work. to start out each morning to answer the cry of distress, to understand the intricate yet effective machinery of benevolent organizations, so that she could call for aid here and there, and have instant and intelligent coöperation, to see broken lives mended, the friendless befriended, the tempted lifted up, the evil-doer set on safe paths, warmed and sustained her. that inquisitive nature of hers was now so occupied with the answering of practical and immediate questions that it had ceased to beat upon the hollow doors of the unknown with unavailing inquiries. so far as her own life was concerned, she seemed to have found, not a haven, but a broad sea upon which she could triumphantly sail. that shame at being merely a woman, with no task, no utility, no independence, had been lifted from her. so, in gratitude, everywhere, at all times, she essayed to help other women to a similar independence. she did not go so far as to say that it was the panacea for all ills, but she was convinced that more than half of the incoherent pain of women's lives could be avoided by the mere fact of financial independence. it became a religion with her to help the women with whom she came in contact, to find some unguessed ability or applicability which would enable them to put money in their purses. with liberty to leave a miserable condition, one often summoned courage to remain and face it. she pointed that out to her wistful constituents, the poor little wives who had found in marriage only a state of supine drudgery, and of unexpectant, monotonous days. she was trying to give them some game to play. that was the way she put it to them. if one had a game to play, there was use in living. if one had only to run after the balls of the players, there was not zest enough to carry one along. she began talking now and then at women's clubs and at meetings of welfare workers. her abrupt, picturesque way of saying things "carried," as an actor would put it. her sweet, clear contralto held the ear; her aquiline comeliness pleased the eye without enticing it; her capable, fit-looking clothes were so happily secondary to her personality that even the women could not tell how she was dressed. she was the least seductive person imaginable; and she looked so self-sufficient that it seldom occurred to any one to offer her help. yet she was in no sense bold or aggressive. no one ever thought of accusing her of being any of those things. many loved her--loved her wholesomely, with a love in which trust was a large element. children loved her, and the sick, and the bad. they looked to her to help them out of their helplessness. she was very young, but, after all, she was maternal. a psychologist would have said that there was much of the man about her, and her love of the fair chance, her appetite for freedom, her passion for using her own capabilities might, indeed, have seemed to be of the masculine variety of qualities; but all this was more than offset by this inherent impulse for maternity. she was born, apparently, to care for others, but she had to serve them freely. she had to be the dispenser of good. she was unconsciously on the outlook against those innumerable forms of slavishness which affection or religion gilded and made to seem like noble service. among those who loved her was august von shierbrand. he loved her apparently in spite of himself. she did not in the least accord with his romantic ideas of what a woman should be. he was something of a poet, and a specialized judge of poetry, and he liked women of the sort who inspired a man to write lyrics. he had tried unavailingly to write lyrics about kate, but they never would "go." he confessed his fiascoes to her. "nothing short of martial measures seems to suit you," he said laughingly. "but why write about me at all, dr. von shierbrand?" she inquired. "i don't want any one writing about me. what i want to do is to learn how to write myself--not because i feel impelled to be an author, but because i come across things almost every day which ought to be explained." "you are completely absorbed in this extraordinary life of yours!" he complained. "why not!" demanded kate. "aren't you completely absorbed in your life?" "of course i am. but teaching is my chosen profession." "well, life is my chosen profession. i want to see, feel, know, breathe, life. i thought i'd never be able to get at it. i used to feel like a person walking in a mist. but it's different now. everything has taken on a clear reality to me. i'm even beginning to understand that i myself am a reality and that my thoughts as well as my acts are entities. i'm getting so that i can define my own opinions. i don't believe there's anybody in the city who would so violently object to dying as i would, dr. von shierbrand." the sabre cut on von shierbrand's face gleamed. "you certainly seem at the antipodes of death, miss barrington," he said with a certain thickness in his utterance. "and i, personally, can think of nothing more exhilarating than in living beside you. i meant to wait--to wait a long time before asking you. but what is the use of waiting? i want you to marry me. i feel as if it must be--as if i couldn't get along without you to help me enjoy things." kate looked at him wonderingly. it was before the afternoon concert and they were sitting in honora's rejuvenated drawing-room while they waited for the others to come downstairs. "but, dr. von shierbrand!" she cried, "i don't like a city without suburbs!" "i beg your pardon!" "i like to see signs of my city of happiness as i approach--outlying villas, and gardens, and then straggling, pleasant neighborhoods, and finally town." "oh, i see. you mean i've been too unexpected. can't you overlook that? you're an abrupt person yourself, you know. i'm persuaded that we could be happy together." "but i'm not in love, dr. von shierbrand. i'm sorry. frankly, i'd like to be." "and have you never been? aren't you nursing a dream of--" "no, no; i haven't had a hopeless love if that's what you mean. i'm all lucid and clear and comfortable nowadays--partly because i've stopped thinking about some of the things to which i couldn't find answers, and partly because life is answering some of my questions." "how to be happy without being in love, perhaps." "well, i am happy--temperately so. perhaps that's the only degree of happiness i shall ever know. of course, when i was younger i thought i should get to some sort of a place where i could stand in swimming glory and rejoice forever, but i see now how stupid i was to think anything of the sort. i hoped to escape the commonplace by reaching some beatitude, but now i have found that nothing really is commonplace. it only seems so when you aren't understanding enough to get at the essential truth of things." "oh, that's true! that's true!" cried von shierbrand. "oh, kate, i do love you. you seem to complete me. when i'm with you i understand myself. please try to love me, dear. we'll get a little home and have a garden and a library--think how restful it will be. i can't tell you how i want a place i can call home." "there they come," warned kate as she heard footsteps on the stairs. "you must take 'no' for your answer, dear man. i feel just like a mother to you." dr. von shierbrand arose, obviously offended, and he allied himself with mary morrison on the way to the concert. kate walked with honora and david until they met with professor wickersham, who was also bound for mandel hall and the somewhat tempered classicism which the theodore thomas orchestra offered to "the university crowd." "please walk with me, miss barrington," said wickersham. "i want you to explain the universe to me." "i can do that nicely," retorted kate, "because dr. von shierbrand has already explained it to me." blue-eyed mary was pouting. she never liked any variety of amusement, conversational or otherwise, in which she was not the center. * * * * * so kate's life sped along. it was not very significant, perhaps, or it would not have seemed so to the casual onlooker, but life is measured by its inward rather than its outward processes, and kate felt herself being enriched by her experiences. she enjoyed being brought into contact with the people she met in her work--not alone the beneficiaries of her ministrations, but the policemen and the police matrons and the judges of the police court. she joined a society of "welfare workers," and attended their suppers and meetings, and tried to learn by their experience and to keep her own ideas in abeyance. she could not help noticing that she differed in some particulars from most of these laborers in behalf of the unfortunate. they brought practical, unimaginative, and direct minds to bear upon the problems before them, while she never could escape her theories or deny herself the pleasure of looking beyond the events to the causes which underlay them. this led her to jot down her impressions in a notebook, and to venture on comments concerning her experiences. moreover, not only was she deeply moved by the disarrangement and bewilderment which she saw around her, but she began to awaken to certain great events and developing powers in the world. she read the sardonic commentators upon modern life--ibsen, strindberg, and many others; and if she sometimes passionately repudiated them, at other times she listened as if she were finding the answers to her own inquiries. it moved her to discover that men, more often than women, had been the interpreters of women's hidden meanings, and that they had been the setters-forth of new visions of sacredness and fresh definitions of liberty. it was these men--these aloof and unsentimental ones--who had pointed out that the sin of sins committed by women had been the indifference to their own personalities. they had been echoers, conformers, imitators; even, in their own way, cowards. they had feared the conventions, and had been held in thrall by their own carefully nursed ideals of themselves. they had lacked the ability to utilize their powers of efficiency; had paid but feeble respect to their own ideals; had altogether measured themselves by too limited a standard. failing wifely joy, they had too often regarded themselves as unsuccessful, and had apologized tacitly to the world for using their abilities in any direction save one. they had not permitted themselves that strong, clean, robust joy of developing their own powers for mere delight in the exercise of power. but now, so kate believed,--so her great instructors informed her,--they were awakening to their privileges. an intenser awareness of life, of the right to expression, and of satisfaction in constructive performances was stirring in them. if they desired enfranchisement, they wanted it chiefly for spiritual reasons. this was a fact which the opponents of the advancing movement did not generally recognize. kate shrank from those fruitless arguments at the caravansary with the excellent men who gravely and kindly rejected suffrage for women upon the ground that they were protecting them by doing so. they did not seem to understand that women desired the ballot because it was a symbol as well as because it was an instrument and an argument. if it was to benefit the working woman in the same way in which it benefited the working man, by making individuality a thing to be considered; if it was to give the woman taxpayer certain rights which would put her on a par with the man taxpayer, a thousand times more it was to benefit all women by removing them from the class of the unconsidered, the superfluous, and the negligible. yes, women were wanting the ballot because it included potentiality, and in potentiality is happiness. no field seems fair if there is no gateway to it--no farther field toward which the steps may be turned. kate was getting hold of certain significant similes. she saw that it was past the time of walls and limits. walled cities were no longer endurable, and walled and limited possibilities were equally obsolete. if the departure of the "captains and the kings" was at hand, if the new forces of democracy had routed them, if liberty for all men was now an ethic need of civilization, so political recognition was necessary for women. women required the ballot because the need was upon them to perform great labors. their unutilized benevolence, their disregarded powers of organization, their instinctive sense of economy, their maternal-oversoul, all demanded exercise. women were the possessors of certain qualities so abundant, so ever-renewing, that the ordinary requirements of life did not give them adequate employment. with a divine instinct of high selfishness, of compassion, of realization, they were seeking the opportunity to exercise these powers. "the restlessness of women," "the unquiet sex," were terms which were becoming glorious in kate's ears. she saw no reason why women as well as men should not be allowed to "dance upon the floor of chance." all about her were women working for the advancement of their city, their country, and their race. they gave of their fortunes, of their time, of all the powers of their spirit. they warred with political machines, with base politicians, with public contumely, with custom. what would have crushed women of equally gentle birth a generation before, seemed now of little account to these workers. they looked beyond and above the irritation of the moment, holding to the realization that their labors were of vital worth. under their administration communities passed from shameless misery to self-respect; as the result of their generosity, courts were sustained in which little children could make their plea and wretched wives could have justice. servants, wantons, outcasts, the insane, the morally ill, all were given consideration in this new religion of compassion. it was amazing to kate to see light come to dull eyes--eyes which had hitherto been lit only with the fires of hate. as she walked the gray streets in the performance of her tasks, weary and bewildered though she often was, she was sustained by the new discovery of that ancient truth that nothing human can be foreign to the person of good will. neither dirt nor hate, distrust, fear, nor deceit should be permitted to blind her to the essential similarity of all who were "bound together in the bundle of life." it was not surprising that at this time she should begin writing short articles for the women's magazines on the subjects which presented themselves to her in her daily work. her brief, spontaneous, friendly articles, full of meat and free from the taint of bookishness, won favor from the first. she soon found her evenings occupied with her somewhat matter-of-fact literary labors. but this work was of such a different character from that which occupied her in the daytime that so far from fatiguing her it gave an added zest to her days. she was not fond of idle evenings. sitting alone meant thinking, and thought meant an unconquerable homesickness for that lonely man back in silvertree from whom she had parted peremptorily, and toward whom she dared not make any overtures. sometimes she sent him an article clipped from the magazines or newspapers dealing with some scientific subject, and once she mailed him a number of little photographs which she had taken with her own camera and which might reveal to him, if he were inclined to follow their suggestions, something of the life in which she was engaged. but no recognition of these wordless messages came from him. he had been unable to forgive her, and she beat down the question that would arise as to whether she also had been at fault. she was under the necessity of justifying herself if she would be happy. it was only after many months had passed that she learned how a heavy burden may become light by the confession of a fault. meantime, she was up early each morning; she breakfasted with the most alert residents of the caravansary; then she took the street-car to south chicago and reported at a dismal office. here the telephone served to put her into communication with her superior at settlement house. she reported what she had done the day before (though, to be sure, a written report was already on its way), she asked advice, she talked over ways and means. then she started upon her daily rounds. these might carry her to any one of half a dozen suburbs or to the court of domestic relations, or over on the west side of the city to the juvenile court. she appeared almost daily before some police magistrate, and not long after her position was assumed, she was called upon to give evidence before the grand jury. "however do you manage it all?" honora asked one evening when kate had been telling a tale of psychically sinister import. "how can you bring yourself to talk over such terrible and revolting subjects as you have to, before strange men in open court?" "a nice old man asked me that very question to-day as i was coming out of the courtroom," said kate. "he said he didn't like to see young women doing such work as i was doing. 'who will do it, then?' i asked. 'the men,' said he. 'do you think we can leave it to them?' i asked. 'perhaps not,' he admitted. 'but at least it could be left to older women.' 'they haven't the strength for it,' i told him, and then i gave him a notion of the number of miles i had ridden the day before in the street-car-it was nearly sixty, i believe. 'are you sure it's worth it?' he asked. he had been listening to the complaint i was making against a young man who has, to my knowledge, completely destroyed the self-respect of five girls--and i've known him but a short time. you can make an estimate of the probable number of crimes of his if it amuses you. 'don't you think it's worth while if that man is shut up where he can't do any more mischief?' i asked him. of course he thought it was; but he was still shaking his head over me when i left him. he still thought i ought to be at home making tidies. i can't imagine that it ever occurred to him that i was a disinterested economist in trying to save myself from waste." she laughed lightly in spite of her serious words. "anyway," she said, "i find this kind of life too amusing to resign. one of the settlement workers was complaining to me this morning about the inherent lack of morals among some of our children. it appears that the harrigans--there are seven of them--commandeered some old clothes that had been sent in for charitable distribution. they poked around in the trunks when no one was watching and helped themselves to what they wanted. the next day they came to a party at the settlement house togged up in their plunder. my friend reproved them, but they seemed to be impervious to her moral comments, so she went to the mother. 'faith,' said mrs. harrigan, 'i tould them not to be bringing home trash like that. "it ain't worth carryin' away," says i to them.'" about this time kate was invited to become a resident of hull house. she was touched and complimented, but, with a loyalty for which there was, perhaps, no demand, she remained faithful to her friends at the caravansary. she was loath to take up her residence with a group which would have too much community of interest. the ladies at mrs. dennison's offered variety. life was dramatizing itself for her there. in honora and marna and mrs. barsaloux and those quiet yet intelligent gentlewomen, mrs. goodrich and mrs. applegate, in the very servants whose pert individualism distressed the mid-victorian mrs. dennison, kate saw working those mysterious world forces concerning which she was so curious. the frequent futility of nature's effort to throw to the top this hitherto unutilized feminine force was no less absorbing than the success which sometimes attended the impulsion. to the general and widespread convulsion, the observer could no more be oblivious than to an earthquake or a tidal wave. viii kate had not seen lena vroom for a long time, and she had indefinitely missed her without realizing it until one afternoon, as she was searching for something in her trunk, she came across a package of lena's letters written to her while she was at silvertree. that night at the table she asked if any one had seen lena recently. "seen her?" echoed david fulham. "i've seen the shadow of her blowing across the campus. she's working for her doctor's degree, like a lot of other silly women. she's living by herself somewhere, on crackers and cheese, no doubt." "would she really be so foolish?" cried kate. "i know she's devoted to her work, but surely she has some sense of moderation." "not a bit of it," protested the scientist. "a person of mediocre attainments who gets the ph.d. bee in her bonnet has no sense of any sort. i see them daily, men and women,--but women particularly,--stalking about the grounds and in and out of classes, like grotesque ghosts. they're staggering under a mental load too heavy for them, and actually it might be a physical load from its effects. they get lop-sided, i swear they do, and they acquire all sorts of miserable little personal habits that make them both pitiable and ridiculous. for my part, i believe the day will come when no woman will be permitted to try for the higher degrees till her brain has been scientifically tested and found to be adequate for the work." "but as for lena," said kate, "i thought she was quite a wonder at her lessons." "up to a certain point," admitted fulham, "i've no doubt she does very well. but she hasn't the capacity for higher work, and she'll be the last one to realize it. my advice to you, miss barrington, is to look up your friend and see what she is doing with herself. you haven't any of you an idea of the tragedies of the classroom, and i'll not tell them to you. but they're serious enough, take my word for it." "yes, do look her up, kate," urged honora. "it's hard to manage anything extra during the day," said kate. "i must go some evening." "perhaps cousin mary could go with you," suggested honora. honora threw a glance of affectionate admiration at her young cousin, who had blossomed out in a bewitching little frock of baby blue, and whose eyes reflected the color. she was, indeed, an entrancing thing, was "blue-eyed mary." the tenderness of her lips, the softness of her complexion, the glamour of her glance increased day by day, and without apparent reason. she seemed to be more eloquent, with the sheer eloquence of womanly emotion. everything that made her winning was intensified, as if love, the master, had touched to vividness what hitherto had been no more than a mere promise. what was the secret of this exotic florescence? she went out only to university affairs with honora or kate, or to the city with marna cartan. her interests appeared to be few; and she was neither a writer nor a receiver of letters. altogether, the sources of that hidden joy which threw its enchantment over her were not to be guessed. but what did it all matter? she was an exhilarating companion--and what a contrast to poor lena! that night, lying in bed, kate reproached herself for her neglect of her once so faithful friend. lena might be going through some severe experience, alone and unaided. kate determined to find out the truth, and as she had a half-holiday on saturday, she started on her quest. lena, it transpired, had moved twice during the term and had neglected to register her latest address. so she was found only after much searching, and twilight was already gathering when kate reached the dingy apartment in which lena had secreted herself. it was a rear room up three flights of stairs, approached by a long, narrow corridor which the economical proprietor had left in darkness. kate rapped softly at first; then, as no one answered, most sharply. she was on the point of going away when the door was opened a bare crack and the white, pinched face of lena vroom peered out. "it's only kate, lena!" then, as there was no response: "aren't you going to let me in?" still lena did not fling wide the door. "oh, kate!" she said vaguely, in a voice that seemed to drift from a maeterlinckian mist. "how are you?" "pretty sulky, thank you. why don't you open the door, girl?" at that lena drew back; but she was obviously annoyed. kate stepped into the bare, unkempt room. remnants of a miserable makeshift meal were to be seen on a rickety cutting-table; the bed was unmade; and on the desk, in the center of the room, a drop-lamp with a leaking tube polluted the air. there was a formidable litter of papers on a great table, and before it stood a swivel chair where lena vroom had been sitting preparing for her degree. kate deliberately took this all in and then turned her gaze on her friend. "what's the use, girl?" she demanded with more than her usual abruptness. "what are you doing it all for?" lena threw a haggard glance at her. "we won't talk about that," she said in that remote, sunken voice. "i haven't the strength to discuss it. to be perfectly frank, kate, you mustn't visit me now. you see, i'm studying night and day for the inquisition." "the--" "yes, inquisition. you see, it isn't enough that my thesis should be finished. i can't get my degree without a last, terrible ordeal. oh, kate, you can't imagine what it is like! girls who have been through it have told me. you are asked into a room where the most important members of the faculty are gathered. they sit about you in a semicircle and for hours they hurl questions at you, not necessarily questions relating to anything you have studied, but inquiries to test your general intelligence. it's a fearful experience." she sank on her unmade cot, drawing a ragged sweater about her shoulders, and looked up at kate with an almost furtive gaze. she always had been a small, meagre creature, but now she seemed positively shriveled. the pride and plenitude of womanhood were as far from her realization as they could be from a daughter of eve. sexless, stranded, broken before an undertaking too great for her, she sat there in the throes of a sudden, nervous chill. then, after a moment or two, she began to weep and was rent and torn with long, shuddering sobs. "i'm so afraid," she moaned. "oh, kate, i'm so terribly, terribly afraid! i know i'll fail." kate strangled down, "the best thing that could happen to you"; and said instead, "you aren't going about the thing in the best way to succeed." "i've done all i could," moaned her friend. "i've only allowed myself four hours a night for sleep; and have hardly taken out time for meals. i've concentrated as it seems to me no one ever concentrated before." "oh, lena, lena!" kate cried compassionately. "can it really be that you have so little sense, after all? oh, you poor little drowned rat, you." she bent over her, pulled the worn slippers from her feet, and thrust her beneath the covers. "no, no!" protested lena. "you mustn't, kate! i've got to get at my books." "say another word and i'll throw them out of the window," cried kate, really aroused. "lie down there." lena began again to sob, but this time with helpless anger, for kate looked like a grenadier as she towered there in the small room and it was easy to see that she meant to be obeyed. she explored lena's cupboard for supplies, and found, after some searching, a can of soup and the inevitable crackers. she heated the soup, toasted the crackers, and forced lena to eat. then she extinguished the lamp, with its poisonous odor, and, wrapping herself in her cloak threw open the window and sat in the gloom, softly chatting about this and that. lena made no coherent answers. she lay in sullen torment, casting tearful glances at her benevolent oppressor. but kate had set her will to conquer that of her friend and lena's hysteric opposition was no match for it. little by little the tense form beneath the blankets relaxed. her stormily drawn breath became more even. at last she slept, which gave kate an opportunity to slip out to buy a new tube for the lamp and adjust it properly. she felt quite safe in lighting it, for lena lay in complete exhaustion, and she took the liberty of looking over the clothes which were bundled into an improvised closet on the back of the door. everything was in wretched condition. buttons and hooks were lacking; a heap of darning lay untouched; lena's veil, with which she attempted to hide the ruin of her hat, was crumpled into the semblance of a rain-soaked cobweb; and her shoes had gone long without the reassurance of a good blacking. kate put some irons over the stove which served lena as a cooking-range, and proceeded on a campaign of reconstruction. it was midnight when she finished, and she was weary and heartsick. the little, strained face on the pillow seemed to belong to one whom the furies were pursuing. yet nothing was pursuing her save her own fanatical desire for a thing which, once obtained, would avail her nothing. she had not personality enough to meet life on terms which would allow her one iota of leadership. she was discountenanced by her inherent drabness: beaten by the limits of her capacity. when kate had ordered the room,--scrupulously refraining from touching any of lena's papers,--she opened the window and, putting the catch on the door, closed it softly behind her. * * * * * kate's frequent visits to lena, though brief, were none too welcome. even the food she brought with her might better, in lena's estimation, be dispensed with than that the all-absorbing reading and research should be interrupted. finally kate called one night to find lena gone. she had taken her trunk and oil-stove and the overworked gas-lamp and had stolen away. to ferret her out would have been inexcusable. "it shows how changed she is," kate said to honora. "fancy the old-time lena hiding from me!" "you must think of her as having a run of fever, kate. whatever she does must be regarded as simply symptomatic," said honora, understandingly. "she's really half-mad. david says the graduates are often like that--the feminine ones." kate tried to look at it in a philosophic way, but her heart yearned and ached over the poor, infatuated fugitive. the february convocation was drawing near, and with it lena's dreaded day of examination. the night before its occurrence, the conversation at the caravansary turned to the candidates for the honors. "there are some who meet the quiz gallantly enough," david fulham remarked. "but the majority certainly come like galley slaves scourged to their dungeon. some of them would move a heart of stone with their sufferings. honora, why don't you and miss barrington look up your friend miss vroom once more? she's probably needing you pretty badly." "i don't mind being a special officer, mr. fulham," said kate, "and it's my pride and pleasure to make child-beaters tremble and to arrest brawny fathers,--i make rather a specialty of six-foot ones,--but really i'm timid about going to lena's again. she has given me to understand that she doesn't want me around, and i'm not enough of a pachyderm to get in the way of her arrows again." but david fulham couldn't take that view of it. "she's not sane," he declared. "couldn't be after such a course as she's been putting herself through. she needs help." however, neither kate nor honora ventured to offer it. they spent the evening together in honora's drawing-room. the hours passed more rapidly than they realized, and at midnight david came stamping in. his face was white. "you haven't been to the laboratory, david?" reproached his wife. "really, you mustn't. i thought it was agreed between us that we'd act like civilized householders in the evening." she was regarding him with an expression of affectionate reproof. "i've been doing laboratory work," he said shortly, "but it wasn't in the chemical laboratory. wickersham and i hunted up your friend--and we found her in a state of collapse." "no!" cried kate, starting to her feet. "i told you, didn't i?" returned david. "don't i know them, the geese? we had to break in her door, and there she was sitting at her study-table, staring at her books and seeing nothing. she couldn't talk to us--had a temporary attack of severe aphasia, i suppose. wickersham said he'd been anxious about her for weeks--she's been specializing with him, you know." "what did you do with her?" demanded honora. "bundled her up in her outside garments and dragged her out of doors between us and made her walk. she could hardly stand at first. we had to hold her up. but we kept right on hustling her along, and after a time when the fresh air and exercise had got in their work, she could find the right word when she tried to speak to us. then we took her to a restaurant and ordered a beefsteak and some other things. she wanted to go back to her room--said she had more studying to do; but we made it clear to her at last that it wasn't any use,--that she'd have to stand or fall on what she had. she promised us she wouldn't look at a book, but would go to bed and sleep, and anybody who has the hardihood to wish that she wins her degree may pray for a good night for her." honora was looking at her husband with a wide, shining gaze. "how did you come to go to her, david?" she asked admiringly. "she wasn't in any of your classes." "now, don't try to make out that i'm benevolent, honora," fulham said petulantly. "i went because i happened to meet wickersham on the midway. she's been hiding, but he had searched her out and appealed to me to go with him. what i did was at his request." "but she'll be refreshed in the morning," said honora. "she'll come out all right, won't she?" "how do i know?" demanded fulham. "i suppose she'll feel like a man going to execution when she enters that council-room. maybe she'll stand up to it and maybe she'll not. she'll spend as much nervous energy on the experience as would carry her through months of sane, reasonable living in the place she ought to be in--that is to say, in a millinery store or some plain man's kitchen." "oh, david!" said honora with gentle wifely reproach. but fulham was making no apologies. "if we men ill-treated women as they ill-treat themselves," he said, "we'd be called brutes of the worst sort." "of course!" cried kate. "a person may have some right to ill-treat himself, but he never has any right to ill-treat another." "if we hitched her up to a plough," went on fulham, not heeding, "we shouldn't be overtaxing her physical strength any more than she overtaxes her mental strength when she tries--the ordinary woman, i mean, like miss vroom--to keep up to the pace set by men of first-rate caliber." he went up to bed on this, still disturbed, and honora and kate, much depressed, talked the matter over. but they reached no conclusion. they wanted to go around the next morning and help lena,--get her breakfast and see that she was properly dressed,--but they knew they would be unwelcome. later they heard that she had come through the ordeal after a fashion. she had given indications of tremendous research. but her eyes, wickersham told kate privately, looked like diseased oysters, and it was easy to see that she was on the point of collapse. kate saw nothing of her until the day of convocation, though she tried several times to get into communication with her. there must have been quite two hundred figures in the line that wound before the president and the other dignitaries to receive their diplomas; and the great hall was thronged with interested spectators. kate could have thrilled with pride of her _alma mater_ had not her heart been torn with sympathy for her friend whose emaciated figure looked more pathetic than ever before. now and then a spasmodic movement shook her, causing her head to quiver like one with the palsy and her hands to make futile gestures. and although she was the most touching and the least joyous of those who went forward to victory, she was not, after all, so very exceptional. kate could not help noticing how jaded and how spent were many of the candidates for the higher degrees. they seemed to move in a tense dream, their eyes turning neither to right nor left, and the whole of them bent on the one idea of their dear achievement. although there were some stirring figures among them,--men and women who seemed to have come into the noble heritage which had been awaiting them,--there were more who looked depleted and unfit. it grew on kate, how superfluous scholarship was when superimposed on a feeble personality. the colleges could not make a man, try as they might. they could add to the capacity of an endowed and adventurous individual, but for the inept, the diffident, their learning availed nothing. they could cram bewildered heads with facts and theories, but they could not hold the mediocre back from their inevitable anticlimax. "a learned derelict is no better than any other kind," mused kate compassionately. she resolved that now, at last, she would command lena's obedience. she would compel her to take a vacation,--would find out what kind of a future she had planned. she would surround her with small, friendly offices; would help her to fit herself out in new garments, and would talk over ways and means with her. she went the next day to the room where lena's compassionate professors had found her that night of dread and terror before her examination. but she had disappeared again, and the landlady could give no information concerning her. ix the day was set. marna was to sing. it seemed to the little group of friends as if the whole city palpitated with the fact. at any rate, the caravansary did so. they talked of little else, and mary morrison wept for envy. not that it was mean envy. her weeping was a sort of tribute, and marna felt it to be so. "you're going to be wonderful," mary sobbed. "the rest of us are merely young, or just women, or men. we can't be anything more no matter how hard we try, though we keep feeling as if we were something more. but you're going to sing! oh, marna!" time wore on, and marna grew hectic with anticipation. her lips were too red, her breath came too quickly; she intensified herself; and she practiced her quivering, fitful, passionate songs with religious devotion. so many things centered around the girl that it was no wonder that she began to feel a disproportionate sense of responsibility. all of her friends were taking it for granted that she would make a success. mrs. barsaloux was giving a supper at the blackstone after the performance. the opera people were coming and a number of other distinguished ones; and marna was having a frock made of the color of a gold-of-ophir rose satin which was to clothe her like sunshine. honora brought out a necklace of yellow opals whimsically fashioned. "i no longer use such things, child," she said with a touch of emotion. "and i want you to wear them with your yellow dress." "why, they're like drops of water with the sun in them!" cried marna. "how good you all are to me! i can't imagine why." when the great night came, the audience left something to be desired, both as to numbers and fashion. although marna's appearance had been well advertised, it was evident that the public preferred to listen to the great stars. but the house was full enough and enthusiastic enough to awaken in the little irish girl's breast that form of elation which masks as self-obliteration, and which is the fuel that feeds the fires of art. kate had gone with the fulhams and they, with blue-eyed mary and dr. von shierbrand, sat together in the box which mrs. barsaloux had given them, and where, from time to time, she joined them. but chiefly she hovered around marna in that dim vast world back of the curtain. they said of marna afterward that she was like a spirit. she seemed less and more than a woman, an evanescent essence of feminine delight. her laughter, her tears, her swift emotions were all as something held for a moment before the eye and snatched away, to leave but the wavering eidolon of their loveliness. she sang with a young italian who responded exquisitely to the swift, bright, unsubstantial beauty of her acting, and whom she seemed fairly to bathe in the amber loveliness of her voice. kate, quivering for her, seeming indefinably to be a part of her, suffering at the hesitancies of the audience and shaken with their approval, was glad when it was all over. she hastened out to be with the crowd and to hear what they were saying. they were warm in their praise, but kate was dissatisfied. she longed for something more emphatic--some excess of acclaim. she wondered if they were waiting for more authoritative audiences to set the stamp of approval on marna. it did not occur to her that they had found the performance too opalescent and elusive. kate wondered if the girl would feel that anything had been missing, but marna seemed to be basking in the happiness of the hour. the great german prima donna had kissed her with tears in her eyes; the french baritone had spoken his compliments with convincing ardor; dozens had crowded about her with congratulations; and now, at the head of the glittering table in an opulent room, the little descendant of minstrels sat and smiled upon her friends. a gilded crown of laurel leaves rested on her dark hair; her white neck arose delicately from the yellowed lace and the shining silk; the sunny opals rested upon her shoulders. "i drink," cried the french baritone, "to a voice of honey and an ivory throat." "to a great career," supplemented david fulham. "and happiness," kate broke in, standing with the others and forgetting to be abashed by the presence of so many. then she called to marna:-- "i was afraid they would leave out happiness." kate might have been the belated fairy godmother who brought this gift in the nick of time. those at the table smiled at her indulgently,--she was so eager, so young, so almost fierce. she had dressed herself in white without frill or decoration, and the clinging folds of her gown draped her like a slender, chaste statue. she wore no jewels,--she had none, indeed,--and her dark coiled hair in no way disguised the shape of her fine head. the elaborate polish contralto across from her, splendid as a mediaeval queen, threw kate's simplicity into sharp contrast. marna turned adoring eyes upon her; mrs. barsaloux, that inveterate encourager of genius, grieved that the girl had no specialty for her to foster; the foreigners paid her frank tribute, and there was no question but that the appraisement upon her that night was high. as for mama's happiness, for which kate had put in her stipulation, it was coming post-haste, though by a circuitous road. mrs. dennison, who had received tickets from marna, and who had begged her nephew, george fitzgerald, to act as her escort, was, in her fashion, too, wondering about the question of happiness for the girl. she was an old-fashioned creature, mid-victorian in her sincerity. she had kissed one man and one only, and him had she married, and sorrowing over her childless estate she had become, when she laid her husband in his grave, "a widow indeed." her abundant affection, disused by this accident of fate, had spent itself in warm friendships, and in her devotion to her dead sister's child. she had worked for him till the silver came into her hair; had sent him through his classical course and through the medical college, and the day when she saw him win his title of doctor of medicine was the richest one of her middle life. he sat beside her now, strangely pale and disturbed. the opera, she was sorry to note, had not interested him as she had expected it would. he had, oddly enough, been reluctant to accompany her, and, as she was accustomed to his quick devotion, this distressed her not a little. was he growing tired of her? was he ashamed to be seen at the opera with a quiet woman in widow's dress, a touch shabby? was her much-tired heart to have a last cruel blow dealt it? accustomed to rather somber pathways of thought, she could not escape this one; yet she loyally endeavored to turn from it, and from time to time she stole a look at the stern, pale face beside her to discover, if she could, what had robbed him of his good cheer. for he had been a happy boy. his high spirits had constituted a large part of his attraction for her. when he had come to her orphaned, it had been with warm gratitude in his heart, and with the expectation of being loved. as he grew older, that policy of life had become accentuated. he was expectant in all that he did. his temperamental friendliness had carried him through college, winning for him a warm group of friends and the genuine regard of his professors. it was helping him to make his way in the place he had chosen for his field of action. he had not gone into the more fashionable part of town, but far over on the west side, where the slovenliness of the central part of the city shambles into a community of parks and boulevards, crude among their young trees surrounded by neat, self-respecting apartment houses. such communities are to be found in all american cities; communities which set little store by fashion, which prize education (always providing it does not prove exotic and breed genius or any form of disturbing beauty), live within their incomes and cultivate the manifest virtues. the environment suited george fitzgerald. he had an honest soul without a bohemian impulse in him. he recognized himself as being middle-class, and he was proud and glad of it. he liked to be among people who kept their feet on the earth--people whose yea was yea and whose nay was nay. what was celtic in him could do no more for him than lend a touch of almost flaring optimism to the puritan integrity of his character. sundays, as a matter of habit, and occasionally on other days, he was his aunt's guest at the caravansary. the intellectual coöperatives there liked him, as indeed everybody did, everywhere. invariably mrs. dennison was told after his departure that she was a fortunate woman to have such an adopted son. yet fitzgerald knew very well that he was unable to be completely himself among his aunt's patrons. their conversation was too glancing; they too often said what they did not mean, for mere conversation's sake; they played with ideas, tossing them about like juggler's balls; and they attached importance to matters which seemed to him of little account. of late he had been going to his aunt's but seldom, and he had stayed away because he wanted, above all things in the world, to go. it had become an agony to go--an anguish to absent himself. which being interpreted, means that he was in love. and whom should he love but marna? why should any man trouble himself to love another woman when this glancing, flashing, singing bird was winging it through the blue? were any other lips so tender, so tremulous, so arched, so sweet? the breath that came between them was perfumed with health; the little rows of gleaming teeth were indescribably provocative. actually, the little red tongue itself seemed to fold itself upward, at the edges, like a tender leaf. as for her nostrils, they were delicately flaring like those of some wood creature, and fashioned for the enjoyment of odorous banquets undreamed of by duller beings. her eyes, like pools in shade, breathing mystery and dreams, got between him and his sleep and held him intoxicated in his bed. yes, that was marna as she looked to the eye of love. she was made for one man's love and nothing else, yet she was about to become the well-loved of the great world! she was not for him--was not made for a man of his mould. she had flashed from obscurity to something rich and plenteous, obviously the child of destiny--a little princess waiting for her crown. he had not even talked to her many times, and she had no notion that when she entered the room he trembled; and that when she spoke to him and turned the swimming loveliness of her eyes upon him, he had trouble to keep his own from filling with tears. and this was the night of her dedication to the world; the world was seating her upon her throne, acclaiming her coronation. there was nothing for him but to go on through an interminably long life, bearing a brave front and hiding his wound. he loathed the incoherent music; detested the conductor; despised the orchestra; felt murderous toward the italian tenor; and could have slain the man who wrote the opera, since it made his bright girl a target for praise and blame. he feared his aunt's scrutiny, for she had sharp perceptions, and he could have endured anything better than that she should spy upon his sacred pain. so he sat by her side, passionately solitary amid a crowd and longing to hide himself from the society of all men. but he must be distrait, indeed, if he could forget the claim his good aunt had upon him. he knew how she loved gayety; and her daily life offered her little save labor and monotony. "supper next," he said with forced cheerfulness as they came out of the opera-house together. "i'll do the ordering. you'll enjoy a meal for once which is served independently of you." he tried to talk about this and that as they made their way on to a glaring below-stairs restaurant, where after-theater folk gathered. the showy company jarred hideously on fitzgerald, yet gave him a chance to save his face by pretending to watch it. he could tell his aunt who some of the people were, and she would transfer her curiosity from him to them. "they'll be having a glorious time at miss cartan's supper," mused mrs. dennison. "how she shines, doesn't she, george? and when you think of her beginnings there on that wisconsin farm, isn't it astonishing?" "those weren't her beginnings, i fancy," george said, venturing to taste of discussion concerning her as a brandy-lover may smell a glass he swears he will not drink. "her beginnings were very long ago. she's a celt, and she has the witchery of the celts. how i'd love to hear her recite some of the new irish poems!" "she'd do it beautifully, george. she does everything beautifully. if i'd had a daughter like that, boy, what a different thing my life would be! or if you were to give me--" george clicked his ice sharply in his glass. "see," he said, "there's hackett coming in--hackett the actor. handsome devil, isn't he?" "don't use that tone, george," said his aunt reprovingly. "handsome devil, indeed! he's a good-looking man. can't you say that in a proper way? i don't want you to be sporty in your talk, george. i always tried when you were a little boy to keep you from talking foolishly." "oh, there's no danger of my being foolish," he said. "i'm as staid and dull as ever you could wish me to be!" for the first time in her life she found him bitter, but she had the sense at last to keep silent. his eyes were full of pain, and as he looked about the crowded room with its suggestions of indulgent living, she saw something in his face leap to meet it--something that seemed to repudiate the ideals she had passed on to him. involuntarily, anne dennison reached out her firm warm hand and laid it on the quivering one of her boy. "a new thought has just come to you!" she said softly. "before you were through with your boast, lad, your temptation came. i saw it. are you lonely, george? are you wanting something that aunt anne can give you? won't you speak out to me?" he drew his hand away from hers. "no one in the world can give me what i want," he said painfully. "forgive me, auntie; and let's talk of other things." he had pushed her back into that lonely place where the old often must stand, and she shivered a little as if a cold wind blew over her. he saw it and bent toward her contritely. "you must help me," he said. "i am very unhappy. i suppose almost everybody has been unhappy like this sometime. just bear with me, aunt anne, dear, and help me to forget for an hour or two." anne dennison regarded him understandingly. "here comes our lobster," she said, "and while we eat it, i'll tell you the story of the first time i ever ate at a restaurant." he nodded gratefully. after all, while she lived, he could not be utterly bereft. x he had taken her home and was leaving, when a carriage passed him. he could hear the voices of the occupants--the brisk accents of mrs. barsaloux, and the slow, honey-rich tones of marna. he had never dreamed that he could do such a thing, but he ran forward with an almost frantic desire to rest his eyes upon the girl's face, and he was beside the curb when the carriage drew up at the door of the house where mrs. barsaloux and marna lodged. he flung open the door in spite of the protests of the driver, who was not sure of his right to offer such a service, and held out his hand to mrs. barsaloux. that lady accepted his politeness graciously, and, weary and abstracted, moved at once toward the house-steps, searching meantime for her key. fitzgerald had fifteen seconds alone with marna. she stood half-poised upon the carriage-steps, her hand in his, their eyes almost on a level. then he said an impossible and insane thing. it was wrung out of his misery, out of his knowledge of her loveliness. "i've lost you!" he whispered. "do you know that to-night ended my happiness?" mama's lips parted delicately; her eyes widened; her swift celtic spirit encompassed his grief. "oh!" she breathed. "don't speak so! don't spoil my beautiful time!" "not i," he retorted sharply, speaking aloud this time. "far be it from me! good-bye." mrs. barsaloux heard him vaguely above the jangling of coins and keys and the rushing of a distant train. "you're not going to leave town, are you, dr. fitzgerald?" she inquired casually. "i thought your good-bye had a final accent to it." she was laughing in her easy way, quite unconscious of what was taking place. she had made an art of laughing, and it carried her and others over many difficult places. but for once it was powerless to lessen the emotional strain. mysteriously, fitzgerald and marna were experiencing a sweet torment in their parting. it was not that she loved him or had thought of him in that way at all. she had seen him often and had liked his hearty ways, his gay spirits, and his fine upstanding figure, but he had been as one who passed by with salutations. now, suddenly, she was conscious that he was a man to be desired. she saw his wistful eyes, his avid lips, his great shoulders. the woman in her awoke to a knowledge of her needs. upon such a shoulder might a woman weep, from such eyes might a woman gather dreams; to allay such torment as his might a woman give all she had to give. it was incoherent, mad, but not unmeaning. it had, indeed, the ultimate meaning. he said nothing more; she spoke no word. each knew they would meet on the morrow. the next night, kate barrington, making her way swiftly down the midway in a misty gloom, saw the little figure of marna cartan fluttering before her. it was too early for dinner, and kate guessed that marna was on her way to pay her a visit--a not rare occurrence these last few weeks. she called to her, and marna waited, turning her face for a moment to the mist-bearing wind. "i was going to you," she said breathlessly. "so i imagined, bright one." "are you tired, kate, mavourneen?" "a little. it's been a hard day. i don't see why my heart isn't broken, considering the things i see and hear, marna! i don't so much mind about the grown-ups. if they succeed in making a mess of things, why, they can take the consequences. but the kiddies--they're the ones that torment me. try as i can to harden myself, and to say that after i've done my utmost my responsibility ends, i can't get them off my mind. but what's on _your_ mind, bright one?" "oh, kate, so much! but wait till we get to the house. it's not a thing to shriek out here on the street." the wind swept around the corner, buffeting them, and kate drew marna's arm in her own and fairly bore the little creature along with her. they entered the silent house, groped through the darkened hall and up the stairs to kate's own room. "honora isn't home, i fancy," she said, in apology for the pervading desolation. "she stays late at the laboratory these nights. she says she's on the verge of a wonderful discovery. it's something she and david have been working out together, but she's been making some experiments in secret, with which she means to surprise david. of course she'll give all the credit to him--that's her policy. she's his helpmate, she says, nothing more." "but the babies?" asked marna with that naïveté characteristic of her. "where are they?" "up in the nursery at the top of the house. it will be light and warm there, i think. honora had a fireplace put in so that it would be cheerful. i always feel sure it's pleasant up there, however forbidding the rest of the house may look." "mary has made a great difference with it since she came, hasn't she? of course honora couldn't do the wonderful things she's doing and be fussing around the house all the time. still, she might train her servants, mightn't she?" "well, there aren't really any to train," said kate. "there's mrs. hays, the nurse, a very good woman, but as we take our meals out, and are all so independent, there's no one else required, except occasionally. honora wouldn't think of such an extravagance as a parlor maid. we're a community of working folk, you see." marna had been lighting the candles which kate usually kept for company; and, moreover, since there was kindling at hand, she laid a fire and touched a match to it. "i must have it look homey, kate--for reasons." "do whatever it suits you to do, child." "but can i tell you what it suits me to do, kate?" "how do i know? are you referring to visible things or talking in parables? there's something very eerie about you to-night, marna. your eyes look phosphorescent. what's been happening to you? is it the glory of last night that's over you yet?" "no, not that. it's--it's a new glory, kate." "a new glory, is it? since last night? tell me, then." kate flung her long body into a morris chair and prepared to listen. marna looked about her as if seeking a chair to satisfy her whim, and, finding none, sank upon the floor before the blaze. she leaned back, resting on one slight arm, and turned her dream-haunted face glowing amid its dark maze of hair, till her eyes could hold those of her friend. "oh, kate!" she breathed, and made her great confession in those two words. "a man!" cried kate, alarmed. "now!" "now! last night. and to-day. it was like lightning out of a clear sky. i've seen him often, and now i remember it always warmed me to see him, and made me feel that i wasn't alone. for a long time, i believe, i've been counting him in, and being happier because he was near. but i didn't realize it at all--till last night." "you saw him after the opera?" "only for half a minute, at the door of my house. we only said a word or two. he whispered he had lost me--that i had killed him. oh, i don't remember what he said. but we looked straight at each other. i didn't sleep all night, and when i lay awake i tried to think of the wonderful fact that i had made my debut, and that it wasn't a failure, at any rate. but i couldn't think about that, or about my career. i couldn't hold to anything but the look in his eyes and the fact that i was to see him to-day. not that he said so. but we both knew. why, we couldn't have lived if we hadn't seen each other to-day." "and you did?" "oh, we did. he called me up on the telephone about two o'clock, and said he had waited as long as he could, and that he'd been walking the floor, not daring to ring till he was sure that i'd rested enough after last night. so i told him to come, and he must have been just around the corner, for he was there in a minute. i wanted him to come in and sit down, but he said he didn't believe a house could hold such audacity as his. so we went out on the street. it was cold and bleak. the midway was a long, gray blankness. i felt afraid of it, actually. all the world looked forbidding to me--except just the little place where i walked with him. it was as if there were a little warm beautiful radius in which we could keep together, and live for each other, and comfort each other, and keep harm away." "oh, marna! and you, with a career before you! what do you mean to do?" "i don't know what to do. we don't either of us know what to do. he says he'll go mad with me on the stage, wearing myself out, the object of the jealousy of other women and of love-making from the men. he--says it's a profanation. i tried to tell him it couldn't be a profanation to serve art; but, kate, he didn't seem to know what i meant. he has such different standards. he wanted to know what i was going to do when i was old. he said i'd have no real home, and no haven of love; and that i'd better be the queen of his home as long as i lived than to rule it a little while there on the stage and then--be forgotten. oh, it isn't what he said that counts. all that sounds flat enough as i repeat it. it's the wonder of being with some one that loves you like that and of feeling that there are two of you who belong--" "how do you know you belong?" asked kate with sharp good sense. "why, bright one, you've been swept off your feet by mere--forgive me--by mere sex." that glint of the eyes which kate called celtic flashed from marna. "mere sex!" she repeated. "mere sex! you're not trying to belittle that, are you? why, kate, that's the beginning and the end of things. what i've always liked about you is that you look big facts in the face and aren't afraid of truth. sex! why, that's home and happiness and all a woman really cares for, isn't it?" "no, it isn't all she cares for," declared kate valiantly. "she cares for a great many other things. and when i said mere sex i was trying to put it politely. is it really home and lifelong devotion that you two are thinking about, or are you just drunk with youth and--well, with infatuation?" marna turned from her to the fire. "kate," she said, "i don't know what you call it, but when i looked in his eyes i felt as if i had just seen the world for the first time. i have liked to live, of course, and to study, and it was tremendously stirring, singing there before all those people. but, honestly, i can see it would lead nowhere. a few years of faint celebrity, an empty heart, a homeless life--then weariness. oh, i know it. i have a trick of seeing things. oh, he's the man for me, kate. i realized it the moment he pointed it out. we could not be mistaken. i shall love him forever and he'll love me just as i love him." "by the way," said kate, "who is he? someone from the opera company?" "who is he? why, he's george fitzgerald, of course." "mrs. dennison's nephew?" "certainly. who else should it be?" "why, he's a pleasant enough young man--very cheerful and quite intelligent--but, marna--" marna leaped to her feet. "you're not in a position to pass judgment upon him, kate. how can you know what a wonderful soul he has? why, there's no one so brave, or so humble, or so sweet, or with such a worship for women--" "for you, you mean." "of course i mean for me. you don't suppose i'd endure it to have him worshiping anybody else, do you? oh, it's no use protesting. i only hope that mrs. barsaloux won't." "yes, doesn't that give you pause? think of all mrs. barsaloux has done for you; and she did it with the understanding that you were to go on the stage. she was going to get her reward in the contribution you made to art." marna burst into rippling laughter. "i'll give her something better than art, kate crosspatch. i'll give her a home--and i'll name my first girl after her." "marna!" gasped kate. "you do go pretty fast for a little thing." "oh, i'm irish," laughed marna. "we irish are a very old people. we always knew that if you loved a man, you had to have him or die, and that if you had him, you'd love to see the look of him coming out in your sons and daughters." suddenly the look of almost infantile blitheness left her face. the sadness which is inherent in the irish countenance spread over it, like sudden mist over a landscape. the ancient brooding aspect of the celts was upon her. "yes," she repeated, "we irish are very old, and there is nothing about life--or death--that we do not know." kate was not quite sure what she meant, but with a sudden impulse she held out her arms to the girl, who, with a low cry, fled to them. then her bright bravery melted in a torrent of tears. xi they had met like flame and wind. it was irrational and wonderful and conclusive. but after all, it might not have come to quite so swift a climax if marna, following kate's advice, had not confided the whole thing to mrs. barsaloux. now, mrs. barsaloux was a kind woman, and one with plenty of sentiment in her composition. but she believed that there were times when love should not be given the lead. naturally, it seemed to her that this was one of them. she had spent much money upon the education of this girl whom she had "assumed," as marna sometimes playfully put it. nothing but her large, active, and perhaps interfering benevolence and mama's winning and inexplicable charm held the two together, and the very slightness of their relationship placed them under peculiar obligations to each other. "it's ungrateful of you," mrs. barsaloux explained, "manifestly ungrateful! it's your rôle to love nothing but your career." she was not stern, merely argumentative. "but didn't you expect me ever to love any one?" queried marna. mrs. barsaloux contemplated a face and figure made for love from the beginning, and delicately ripened for it, like a peach in the sun. "but you could have waited, my dear girl. there's time for both the love and the career." marna shook her head slowly. "george says there isn't," she answered with an irritating sweetness. "he says i'm not to go on the stage at all. he says--" "don't 'he says' me like that, marna," cried her friend. "it sounds too unutterably silly. here you are with a beautiful talent--every one agrees about that--and a chance to develop it. i've made many sacrifices to give you that chance. very well; you've had your trial before the public. you've made good. you could repay yourself and me for all that has been involved in your development, and you meet a man and come smiling to me and say that we're to throw the whole thing over because 'he says' to." marna made no answer at all, but mrs. barsaloux saw her settle down in the deep chair in which she was sitting as if to huddle away from the storm about to break over her. "she isn't going to offer any resistance," thought the distressed patron with dismay. "her mind is completely made up and she's just crouching down to wait till i'm through with my private little hurricane." so, indeed, it proved. mrs. barsaloux felt she had the right to say much, and she said it. marna may or may not have listened. she sat shivering and smiling in her chair, and when it was fit for her to excuse herself, she did, and walked out bravely; but mrs. barsaloux noticed that she tottered a little as she reached the door. she did not go to her aid, however. "it's an infatuation," she concluded. "i must treat her as if she had a violent disease and take care of her. when people are delirious they must be protected against themselves. it's a delirium with her, and the best thing i can do is to run off to new york with her. she can make her next appearance when the opera company gets there. i'll arrange it this afternoon." she refrained from telling marna of her plans, but she went straight to the city and talked over the situation with her friend the impresario. he seemed anything but depressed. on the contrary, he was excited--even exalted. "spirit her away, madam," he advised. "of course she will miss her lover horribly, and that will be the best thing that can happen to her. why did not the public rise to her the other night? not because she could not sing: far from it. if a nightingale sings, then miss cartan does. but she left her audience a little cold. let us face the facts. you saw it. we all saw it. and why? because she was too happy, madam; too complaisant; too uninstructed in the emotions. now it will be different. we will take her away; we will be patient with her while she suffers; afterward she will bless us, for she will have discovered the secret of the artist, and then when she opens her little silver throat we shall have song." mrs. barsaloux, with many compunctions, and with some pangs of pure motherly sympathy, nevertheless agreed. "if only he had been a man above the average," she said, as she tearfully parted from the great man, "perhaps it would not have mattered so much." the impresario lifted his eyebrows and his mustaches at the same time and assumed the aspect of a benevolent mephistopheles. "the variety of man, madam," he said sententiously, "makes no manner of difference. it is the tumult in miss marna's soul which i hope we shall be able to utilize"--he interrupted himself with a smile and a bow as he opened the door for his departing friend--"for the purposes of art." mrs. barsaloux sat in the middle of her taxi seat all the way home, and saw neither street, edifice, nor human being. she was looking back into her own busy, confused, and frustrated life, and was remembering certain things which she had believed were buried deep. her heart misgave her horribly. yet to hand over this bright singing bird, so exquisite, so rare, so fitted for purposes of exposition, to the keeping of a mere male being of unfortunate contiguity, to permit him to carry her into the seclusion of an ordinary home to wait on him and regulate her life according to his whim, was really too fantastic for consideration. so she put her memories and her tendernesses out of sight and walked up the stairs with purpose in her tread. * * * * * she meant to "have it out" with the girl, who was, she believed, reasonable enough after all. "she's been without her mother for so long," she mused, "that it's no wonder she's lacking in self-control. i must have the firmness that a mother would have toward her. it would be the height of cruelty to let her have her own way in this." if the two could have met at that moment, it would have changed the course of both their lives. but a trifle had intervened. marna cartan had gone walking; and she never came back. only, the next day, radiantly beautiful, with fresh flowers in her hands, marna fitzgerald came running in begging to be forgiven. she tried to carry the situation with her impetuosity. she was laughing, crying, pleading. she got close to her old friend as if she would enwrap her in her influence. she had the veritable aspect of the bride. whatever others might think regarding her lost career, it was evident that she believed the great hour had just struck for her. her husband was with her. "haven't you any apology to make, sir?" poor mrs. barsaloux cried to him. he looked matter-of-fact, she thought, and as if he ought to be able to take a reasonable view of things. but she had misjudged. perhaps it was his plain, everyday, commercial garments which deceived her and made her think him open to week-day arguments; for at that moment he was really a knight of romance, and at mrs. barsaloux's question his eyes gleamed with unsuspected fires. "who could be so foolish as to apologize for happiness like ours?" he demanded. "aren't you going to forgive us, dear?" pleaded marna. but mrs. barsaloux couldn't quite stand that. "you sound like an old english comedy, marna," she said impatiently. "you're of age; i'm no relation to you; you've a perfect right to be married. better take advantage of being here to pack your things. you'll need them." "you mean that i'm not expected to come here again, _tante_?" "i shall sail for france in a week," said mrs. barsaloux wearily. "for france, _tante_? when did you decide?" "this minute," said the lady, and gave the married lovers to understand that the interview was at an end. marna went weeping down the street, holding on to her george's arm. "if she'd been irish, she'd have cursed me," she sobbed, "and then i'd have had something to go on, so to speak. perhaps i could have got her to take it off me in time. but what are you going to do with a snubbing like that?" "oh, leave it for the arctic explorers to explain. they're used to being in below-zero temperature," george said with a troubled laugh. "i'm sure i can't waste any time thinking about a woman who could stand out against you, marna, the way you are this day, and the way you're looking." "but, george, she thinks i'm a monster." "then there's something wrong with her zoology. you're an--" "don't call me an angel, dear, whatever you do! there are some things i hate to be called--they're so insipid. if any one called me an angel i'd know he didn't appreciate me. come, let's go to kate's. she's my court of last appeal. if kate can't forgive me, i'll know i've done wrong." * * * * * kate was never to forget that night. she had come in from a day of difficult and sordid work. for once, the purpose back of all her toil among the people there in the great mill town was lost sight of in the sheer repulsiveness of the tasks she had had to perform. the pathos of their temptations, the terrific disadvantages under which they labored, their gray tragedies, had some way lost their import. she was merely a dreadfully fagged woman, disgusted with evil, with dirt and poverty. she was at outs with her world and impatient with the suffering involved in the mere living of life. moreover, when she had come into the house, she had found it dark as usual. the furnace was down, and her own room was cold. but she had set her teeth together, determined not to give way to depression, and had made her rather severe toilet for dinner when word was brought to her by the children's nurse that dr. and mrs. fitzgerald desired to see her. for a moment she could not comprehend what that might mean; then the truth assailed her, took her by the hand, and ran her down the stairs into mama's arms. "but it's outrageous," she cried, hugging marna to her. "how could you be so willful?" "it's glorious," retorted marna. "and if i ever was going to be willful, now's the time." "right you are," broke in george. "what does stevenson say about that? 'youth is the time to be up and doing.' you're not going to be severe with us, miss barrington? we've been counting on you." "have you?" inquired kate, putting marna aside and taking her husband by the hand. "well, you are your own justification, you two. but haven't you been ungrateful?" marna startled her by a bit of dionysian philosophy. "is it ungrateful to be happy?" she demanded. "would anybody have been in the right who asked us to be unhappy? why don't you call us brave? do you imagine it isn't difficult to have people we love disapproving of us? but you know yourself, kate, if we'd waited forty-eight hours, i'd have been dragged off to live with my career." she laughed brightly, sinking back in her chair and throwing wide her coat. kate looked at her appraisingly, and warmed in the doing of it. "you don't look as if you were devoted to a career, she admitted. "oh," sighed fitzgerald, "i only just barely got her in time!" "and now what do you propose doing?" "why, to-morrow we shall look for a place to live--for a home." "do you mean a flat?" asked kate with a flick of satire. "a flat, or anything. it doesn't matter much what." "or where?" "it will be on the west side," said the matter-of-fact fitzgerald. "and who'll keep house for you? must you find servants?" "why, kate, we're dreadfully poor," cried marna excitedly, as if poverty were a mere adventure. "didn't you know that? i shall do my own work." "oh, we've both got to work," added fitzgerald. he didn't say he was sorry marna had to slave with her little white hands, or that he realized that he was doing a bold--perhaps an impious--thing in snatching a woman from her service to art to go into service for him. evidently he didn't think that way. neither minded any sacrifice apparently. the whole of it was, they were together. suddenly, they seemed to forget kate. they stood gazing at each other as if their sense of possession overwhelmed them. kate felt something like angry resentment stir in her. how dared they, when she was so alone, so weary, so homeless? "will you stay to dinner with me?" she asked with something like asperity. "to dinner?" they murmured in vague chorus. "no, thanks." "but where do you intend to have dinner?" "we--we haven't thought," confessed marna. "oh, anywhere," declared fitzgerald. marna rose and her husband buttoned her coat about her. they smiled at kate seraphically, and she saw that they wanted to be alone, and that it made little difference to them whether they were sitting in a warm room or walking the windy streets. she kissed them both, with tears, and said:-- "god bless you." that seemed to be what they wanted. they longed to be blessed. "that's what aunt dennison said," smiled fitzgerald. then kate realized that now the exotic marna would be calling the completely domesticated mrs. dennison "aunt." but marna looked as if she liked that, too. it was their hour for liking everything. as kate opened the outer door for them, the blast struck through her, but the lovers, laughing, ran down the stairs together. they were, in their way, outcasts; they were poor; the future might hold bitter disillusion. but now, borne by the sharp wind, their laughter drifted back like a song. kate wrapped her old coat about her and made her solitary way to mrs. dennison's depressed caravansary. xii there was no question about it. life was supplying kate barrington with a valuable amount of "data." on every hand the emergent or the reactionary woman offered herself for observation, although to say that kate was able to take a detached and objective view of it would be going altogether too far. the truth was, she threw herself into every friend's trouble, and she counted as friends all who turned to her, or all whom she was called upon to serve. a fortnight after mama's marriage, an interesting episode came kate's way. mrs. barsaloux had introduced to the caravansary a mrs. leger whom she had once met on the steamer on her way to brindisi, and she had invited her to join her during a stay in chicago. mrs. barsaloux, however, having gone off to france in a hot fit of indignation, mrs. leger presented herself with a letter from mrs. barsaloux to mrs. dennison. that hospitable woman consented to take in the somewhat enigmatic stranger. that she was enigmatic all were quick to perceive. she was beautiful, with a delicate, high-bred grace, and she had the manner of a woman who had been courted and flattered. as consciously beautiful as mary morrison, she bore herself with more discretion. taste governed all that she said and did. her gowns, her jewels, her speech were distinguished. she seemed by all tokens an accomplished worldling; yet it was not long before kate discovered that it was anything but worldly matters which were consuming her attention. she had come to chicago for the purpose of adjusting her fortune,--a large one, it appeared,--and of concluding her relations with the world. she had decided to go into a convent, and had chosen one of those numerous sisterhoods which pass their devotional days upon the bright hill-slopes without naples. she refrained from designating the particular sisterhood, and she permitted no discussion of her motives. she only said that she had not been born a catholic, but had turned to mother church when the other details of life ceased to interest her. she was a widow, but she seemed to regard her estate with quiet regret merely. if tragedy had entered her life, it must have been subsequent to widowhood. she had a son, but it appeared that he had no great need of her. he was in the care of his paternal grandparents, who were giving him an education. he was soon to enter oxford, and she felt confident that his life would be happy. she was leaving him an abundance; she had halved her fortune and was giving her share to the convent. if she had not been so exquisite, so skilled in the nuances of life, so swift and elusive in conversation, so well fitted for the finest forms of enjoyment, her renunciation of liberty would not have proved so exasperating to kate. a youthful enthusiasm for religion might have made her step understandable. but enthusiasm and she seemed far apart. intelligent as she unquestionably was, she nevertheless seemed to have given herself over supinely to a current of emotions which was sweeping her along. she looked both pious and piteous, for all of her sophisticated manner and her accomplishments and graces, and kate felt like throwing a rope to her. but mrs. leger was not in a mood to seize the rope. she had her curiously gentle mind quite made up. though she was still young,--not quite eighteen years older than her son,--she appeared to have no further concern for life. to the last, she was indulging in her delicate vanities--wore her pearls, walked in charming foot-gear, trailed after her the fascinating gowns of the initiate, and viewed with delight the portfolios of etchings which dr. von shierbrand chanced to be purchasing. she was glad, she said, to be at the caravansary, quite on a different side of the city from her friends. she made no attempt to renew old acquaintances or to say farewell to her former associates. her extravagant home on the lake shore drive was passed over to a self-congratulatory purchaser; the furnishings were sold at auction; and her other properties were disposed of in such a manner as to make the transfer of her wealth convenient for the recipients. she asked kate to go to the station with her. "i've given you my one last friendship," she said. "i shall speak with no one on the steamer. my journey must be spent in preparation for my great change. but it seems human and warm to have you see me off." "it seems inhuman to me, mrs. leger," kate cried explosively. "something terrible has happened to you, i suppose, and you're hiding away from it. you think you're going to drug yourself with prayer. but can you? it doesn't seem at all probable to me. dear mrs. leger, be brave and stay out in the world with the other living people." "you are talking of something which you do not understand," said mrs. leger gently. "there is a secret manna for the soul of which the chosen may eat." "oh!" cried kate, almost angrily. "are these your own words? i cannot understand a prepossession like this on your part. it doesn't seem to set well on you. isn't there some hideous mistake? aren't you under the influence of some emotional episode? might it not be that you were ill without realizing it? perhaps you are suffering from some hidden melancholy, and it is impelling you to do something out of keeping with the time and with your own disposition." "i can see how it might appear that way to you, miss barrington. but i am not ill, except in my soul, which i expect to be healed in the place to which i am going. try to understand that among the many kinds of human beings in this world there are the mystics. they have a right to their being and to their belief. their joys and sorrows are different from those of others, but they are just as existent. please do not worry about me." "but you understand so well how to handle the material things in the world," protested kate. "you seem so appreciative and so competent. if you have learned so much, what is the sense of shutting it all up in a cell?" "did you never read of purun bhagat," asked mrs. leger smilingly, "who was rich with the riches of a king; who was wise with the learning of calcutta and of oxford; who could have held as high an office as any that the government of england could have given him in india, and who took his beggar's bowl and sat upon a cavern's rim and contemplated the secret soul of things? you know your kipling. i have not such riches or such wisdom, but i have the longing upon me to go into silence." the lips from which these words fell were both tender and ardent; the little gesticulating hands were clad in modish, mouse-colored suede; orris root mixed with some faint, haunting odor, barely caressed the air with perfume. kate looked at her companion in despair. "i must be an outer barbarian!" she cried. "i can imagine religious ecstasy, but you are not ecstatic. i can imagine turning to a convent as a place of hiding from shame or despair. but you are not going into it that way. as for wishing to worship, i understand that perfectly. prayer is a sort of instinct with me, and all the reasoning in the world couldn't make me cast myself out of communion with the unknown something roundabout me that seems to answer me. but what you are doing seems, as i said, so obsolete." "i am looking forward to it," said mrs. leger, "as eagerly as a girl looks forward to her marriage. it is a beautiful romance to me. it is the completely beautiful thing that is going to make up to me for all the ugliness i have encountered in life." for the first time a look of passion disturbed the serenity of the high-bred, conventional face. kate threw out her hands with a repudiating gesture. "well," she said, "in the midst of my freedom i shall think of you often and wonder if you have found something that i have missed. you are leaving the world, and books, and friends, and your son for some pale white idea. it seems to me you are going to the embrace of a wraith." mrs. leger smiled slowly, and it was as if a lamp showed for a moment in a darkened house and then mysteriously vanished. "believe me," she reiterated, "you do not understand." kate helped her on the train, and left her surrounded by her fashionable bags, her flowers, fruit, and literature. she took these things as a matter of course. she had looked at her smart little boots as she adjusted them on a hassock and had smiled at kate almost teasingly. "in a month," she said, "i shall be walking with bared feet, or, if the weather demands, in sandals. i shall wear a rope about my waist over my brown robe. my hair will be cut, my head coiffed. when you are thinking of me, think of me as i really shall be." "so many things are going to happen that you will not see!" cried kate. "why, maybe in a little while we shall all be going up in flying-machines! you wouldn't like to miss that, would you? or your son will be growing into a fine man and you'll not see him--nor the woman he marries--nor his children." she stopped, breathing hard. "it is like the sound of the surf on a distant shore," smiled mrs. leger. "good-bye, miss barrington. don't grieve about me. i shall be happier than you can know or dream." the conductor swung kate off the train after it was in motion. * * * * * so, among other things, she had that to think of. she could explain it all merely upon the hypothesis that the sound of the awakening trumpets--the trumpets which were arousing woman from her long torpor--had not reached the place where this wistful woman dwelt, with her tender remorses, her delicate aversions, her hunger for the indefinite consolations of religion. moreover, she was beginning to understand that not all women were maternal. she had, indeed, come across many incidents in her work which emphasized this. good mothers were quite as rare as good fathers; and it was her growing belief that more than half of the parents in the world were undeserving of the children born to them. also, she realized that a child might be born of the body and not of the spirit, and a mother might minister well to a child's corporeal part without once ministering to its soul. it was possible that there never had been any bond save a physical one between mrs. leger and her son. perhaps they looked at each other with strange, uncomprehending eyes. that, she could imagine, would be a tantalization from which a sensitive woman might well wish to escape. it was within the realm of possibility that he was happier with his grandmother than with his mother. there might be temperamental as well as physical "throwbacks." kate remembered a scene she once had witnessed at a railway station. two meagre, hard-faced, work-worn women were superintending the removal of a pine-covered coffin from one train to another, and as the grim box was wheeled the length of a long platform, a little boy, wild-eyed, gold-haired, and set apart from all the throng by a tragic misery, ran after the truck calling in anguish:-- "grandmother! grandmother! don't leave me! i'm so lonesome, grandmother! i'm so afraid!" "stop your noise," commanded the woman who must have been his mother. "don't you know she can't hear you?" "oh, maybe she can! maybe she can," sobbed the boy. "oh, grandmother, don't you hear me calling? there's nobody left for me now." the woman caught him sharply by the arm. "i'm left, jimmy. what makes you say such a thing as that? stay with mother, that's a good boy." they were lifting the box into the baggage-car. the boy saw it. he straightened himself in the manner of one who tries to endure a mortal wound. "she's gone," he said. he looked at his mother once, as if measuring her value to him. then he turned away. there was no comfort for him there. often, since, kate had wondered concerning the child. she had imagined his grim home, his barren days; the plain food; the compulsory task; the kind, yet heavy-handed, coarse-voiced mother. she was convinced that the grandmother had been different. in the corner where she had sat, there must have been warmth and welcome for the child. perhaps there were mellow old tales, sweet old songs, soft strokings of the head, smuggled sweets--all the beautiful grandmotherly delights. xiii since kate had begun to write, a hundred--a thousand--half-forgotten experiences had come back to her. as they returned to her memory, they acquired significance. they related themselves with other incidents or with opinions. they illustrated life, and however negligible in themselves, they attained a value because of their relation to the whole. it was seldom that she felt lonely now. her newly acquired power of self-expression seemed to extend and supplement her personality. august von shierbrand had said that he wished to marry her because she completed him. it had occurred to her at the time--though she suppressed her inclination to say so--that she was born for other purposes than completing him, or indeed anybody. she wished to think of herself as an individual, not as an addendum. but, after all, she had sympathized with the man. she was beginning to understand that that "solitude of the soul," which one of her acquaintances, a sculptor, had put into passionate marble, was caused from that sense of incompletion. it was not alone that others failed one--it was self-failure, secret shame, all the inevitable reticences, which contributed most to that. she fell into the way of examining the men and women about her and of asking:-- "is he satisfied? is she companioned? has this one realized himself? is that one really living?" she remembered one person--one only--who had given her the impression of abounding physical, mental, and spiritual life. true, she had seen him but a moment--one swift, absurd, curiously haunting moment. that was karl wander, honora's cousin, and the cousin of mary morrison. they were the children of three sisters, and from what kate knew of their descendants' natures, she felt these sisters must have been palpitating creatures. yes, karl wander had seemed complete--a happy man, seething with plans, a wise man who took life as it came; a man of local qualities yet of cosmopolitan spirit--one who would not have fretted at his environment or counted it of much consequence, whatever it might have been. if she could have known him-- but honora seldom spoke of him. only sometimes she read a brief note from him, and added:-- "he wishes to be remembered to you, kate." she did not hint: "he saw you only a second." honora was not one of those persons who take pleasure in pricking bubbles. she perceived the beauty of iridescence. if her odd friend and her inexplicable cousin had any satisfaction in remembering a passing encounter, they could have their pleasure of it. kate, for her part, would not have confessed that she thought of him. but, curiously, she sometimes dreamed of him. at last ray mccrea was coming home. his frequent letters, full of good comment, announced the fact. "i've been winning my spurs, commercially speaking," he wrote. "the old department heads, whom my father taught me to respect, seem pleased with what i have done. i believe that when i come back they will have ceased to look on me as a cadet. and if they think i'm fit for responsibilities, perhaps you will think so, too, kate. at any rate, i know you'll let me say that i am horribly homesick. this being in a foreign land is all very well, but give me the good old american ways, crude though they may be. i want a straightforward confab with some one of my own sort; i want the feeling that i can move around without treading on somebody's toes. i want, above all, to have a comfortable entertaining evening with a nice american girl--a girl that takes herself and me for granted, and isn't shying off all the time as if i were a sort of bandit. what a relief to think that you'll not be accompanied by a chaperon! i shall get back my self-respect once i'm home again with you nice, self-confident young american women." "it will be good to see him, i believe," mused kate. "after all, he always looked after me. i can't seem to remember just how much pleasure i had in his society. at any rate, we'll have plenty of things to talk about. he'll tell me about europe, and i'll tell him about my work. that ought to carry us along quite a while." she set about making preparations for him. she induced honora to let her have an extra room, and she made her fine front chamber into a sitting-room, with a knocker on the door, and some cheerful brasses and old prints within. she came across oddities of this sort in her russian and italian neighborhoods, but until now she had not taken very much interest in what she was inclined to term "sublimated junk." mary morrison took an almost vicious amusement in kate's sudden efforts at aesthetic domestication, and marna fitzgerald--who was delighted--considered it as a frank confession of sentiment. kate let them think what they pleased. she presented to their inspection--even mary was invited up for the occasion--a cheerful room with a cream paper, a tawny-colored rug, some comfortable wicker chairs, an interesting plaster cast or two, and the previously mentioned "loot." mary, in a fit of friendliness, contributed a japanese wall-basket dripping with vines; honora proffered a lamp with a soft shade; and marna took pride in bestowing some delicately embroidered cushions, white, and beautiful with the beauty of belfast linen. it did not appear to occur to kate, however, that personal adornment would be desirable, and it took the united efforts of marna and mary to persuade her that a new frock or two might be needed. kate had a way of avoiding shabbiness, but of late her interest in decoration had been anything but keen. however, she ventured now on a rather beguiling dress for evening--a japanese crêpe which a returned missionary sold her for something more than a song. dr. von shierbrand said it was the color of rust, but marna affirmed that it had the hue of copper--copper that was not too bright. it was embroidered gloriously with chrysanthemums, and she had great pleasure in it. mary morrison drew from her rainbow collection a scarf which accentuated the charm of the frock, and when kate had contrived a monk's cape of brown, she was ready for possible entertainments--panoplied for sentiment. she would make no further concessions. her practical street clothes and her home-made frocks of white linen, with which she made herself dainty for dinner at mrs. dennison's, had to serve her. "i'm so poor," she said to marna, "that i feel like apologizing for my inefficiency. i'm getting something now for my talks at the clubs, and i'm paid for my writing, too. now that it's begun to be published, i ought to be opulent presently." "you're no poorer than we," marna said. "but of course there are two of us to be poor together; and that makes it more interesting." "love doesn't seem to be flying out of your window," smiled kate. "we've bars on the windows," laughed marna. "some former occupant of the flat put them on to keep the babies from dashing their brains out on the pavement below, and we haven't taken them off." she blushed. "no," responded kate with a _moue_; "what was the use?" * * * * * unfortunately mccrea, the much-expected, had not made it quite plain when he was to land in new york. to be sure, kate might have consulted the steamer arrivals, but she forgot to do that. so it happened that when a wire came from ray saying that he would be in chicago on a certain saturday night in mid-may, kate found herself under compulsion to march in a suffrage procession. david fulham thought the circumstance uproariously funny, and he told them about it at the caravansary. they made rather an annoying jest of it, but kate held to her promise. "it's an historic event to my mind," she said with all the dignity she could summon. "i wouldn't excuse myself if i could. and i can't. i've promised to march at the head of a division. we hope there'll be twenty thousand of us." perhaps there were. nobody knew. but all the city did know that down the broad boulevard, in the mild, damp air of the may night, regiment upon regiment of women marched to bear witness to their conviction and their hope. bands played, choruses sang, transparencies proclaimed watchwords, and every woman in the seemingly endless procession swung a yellow lantern. the onlookers crowded the sidewalks and hung from the towering office buildings, to watch that string of glowing amber beads reaching away to north and to south. college girls, working-girls, home-women, fine ladies, efficient business women, vague, non-producing, half-awakened women,--all sorts, all conditions, black, white, latin, slav, germanic, english, american, american, american,--they came marching on. they were proud and they were diffident; they were sad and they were merry; they were faltering and they were enthusiastic. some were there freely, splendidly, exultantly; more were there because some force greater than themselves impelled them. through bewilderment and hesitancy and doubt, they saw the lights of the future shining, and they fixed their eyes upon the amber lanterns as upon the visible symbols of their faith; they marched and marched. they were the members of a new revolution, and, as always, only a portion of the revolutionists knew completely what they desired. at the caravansary there had been sharp disapproval of the whole thing. the men had brought forth arguments to show kate her folly. mrs. dennison, mrs. goodrich, and mrs. applegate had spoken gentle words of warning; honora had vaguely suggested that the matter was immaterial; mary morrison had smiled as one who avoided ugliness; and kate had laughingly defied them. "i march!" she had declared. "and i'm not ashamed of my company." it was, indeed, a company of which she was proud. it included the names of the most distinguished, the most useful, the most talented, the most exclusive, and the most triumphantly inclusive women in the city. "poor mccrea," put in fulham. "aren't you making him ridiculous? he'll come dashing up here the moment he gets off the train. as a matter of fact, he'll be half expecting you to meet him. you're making a mistake, miss barrington, if you'll let a well-meaning fellow-being say so. you're leaving the substance for the shadow." "i've misled you about ray, i'm afraid," kate said with unexpected patience. "he hasn't really any right to expect me to be waiting, and i don't believe he will. come to think of it, i don't know that i want to be found waiting." "oh, well, of course--" said fulham with a shrug, leaving his sentence unfinished. "anyway," said kate flushing, "i march!" * * * * * they told her afterward how mccrea had come toof-toofing up to the door in a taxi, and how he had taken the steps two at a time. "he wrung my hand," said honora, "and got through the preliminary amenities with a dispatch i never have seen excelled. then he demanded you. 'is she upstairs?' he asked. 'may i go right up? she wrote me she had a parlor of her own.' 'she has a parlor,' i said, 'but she isn't in it.' he balanced on the end of a toe. 'where is she?' i thought he was going to fly. 'she's out with the suffragists,' i said. i didn't try to excuse you. i thought you deserved something pretty bad. but i did tell him you'd promised to go and that you hadn't known he was coming that day. 'she's in that mess?' he cried. 'i saw the amazon march as i came along. you don't mean kate's tramping the streets with those women!' 'yes, she is,' i said, 'and she's proud to do it. but she was sorry not to be here to welcome you.' 'sorry!' he said; 'why, mrs. fulham, i've been dreaming of this meeting for months.' honestly, kate, i was ashamed for you. i asked him in. i told him you'd be home before long. but he would not come in. 'tell her i--i came,' he said. then he went." it was late at night, and kate was both worn and exhilarated with her marching. honora's words let her down considerably. she sat with tears in her eyes staring at her friend. "but couldn't he see," she pleaded, "that i had to keep my word? didn't he understand how important it was? i can see him to-morrow just as well." "then you'll have to send for him," said honora decisively. "he'll not come without urging." she went up to bed with a stern aspect, and left kate sitting staring before her by the light of one of mary's foolish candles. "they seem to think i'm a very unnatural woman," said kate to herself. "but can't they see how much more important it was that the demonstration should be a success than that two lovers should meet at a certain hour?" the word "lovers" had slipped inadvertently into her mind; and no sooner had she really recognized it, looked at it, so to speak, fairly in the face, than she rejected it with scorn. "we're just friends," she protested. "one has many friends." but her little drawing-room, all gay and fresh, accused her of deceiving herself; and a glimpse of the embroidered frock reminded her that she was contemptibly shirking the truth. one did not make such preparations for a mere "friend." she sat down and wrote a note, put stamps on it to insure its immediate delivery, and ran out to the corner to mail it. then she fell asleep arguing with herself that she had been right, and that he ought to understand what it meant to give one's word, and that it could make no difference that they were to meet a few hours later instead of at the impetuous moment of his arrival. * * * * * she spent the next day at the juvenile court, and came home with the conviction that there ought to be no more children until all those now wandering the hard ways of the world were cared for. she was in no mood for sweethearting, yet she looked with some covert anxiety at the mail-box. there was an envelope addressed to her, but the superscription was not in ray's handwriting. the colorado stamp gave her a hint of whom it might have come from, and ridiculously she felt her heart quickening. yet why should karl wander write to her? she made herself walk slowly up the stairs, and insisted that her hat and gloves and jacket should be put scrupulously in their places before she opened her letter. it proved not to be a letter, after all, but only a number of photographs, taken evidently by the sender, who gave no word of himself. he let the snow-capped solitary peaks utter his meanings for him. the pictures were beautiful and, in some indescribable way, sad--cold and isolate. kate ran her fingers into the envelope again and again, but she could discover no note there. neither was there any name, save her own on the cover. "at least," said kate testily, "i might have been told whom to thank." but she knew whom to thank--and she knew with equal positiveness that she would send no thanks. for the gift had been a challenge. it seemed to say: "i dare you to open communication with me. i dare you to break the conscious silence between us!" kate did not lift the glove that had been thrown down. she hid the photographs in her clock and told no one about them. at the close of the third day a note came from ray. her line, he said, had followed him to lake forest and he had only then found time to answer it. he was seeing old friends and was very much occupied with business and with pleasure, but he hoped to see her before long. kate laughed aloud at the rebuff. it was, she thought, a sort of silvertree method of putting her in her place. but she was sorry, too,--sorry for his hurt; sorry, indefinitely and indescribably, for something missed. if it had been karl wander whom she had treated like that he would have waited on her doorstep till she came, and if he had felt himself entitled to a quarrel, he would have "had it out" before men and the high gods. at least, so she imagined he would have done; but upon consideration there were few persons in the world about whom she knew less than about karl wander. it seemed as if honora were actually perverse in the way she avoided his name. xiv the spring was coming. signs of it showed at the park edges, where the high willow hedges began to give forth shoots of yellowish-green; at times the lake was opalescent and the sky had moments of tenderness and warmth. even through the pavement one seemed to scent the earth; and the flower shops set up their out-of-door booths and solicited the passer-by with blossoms. when kate could spare the money, she bought flowers for marna--for it was flower-time with marna, and she had seen the angel of the annunciation. all that was celtic in her was coming uppermost. she dreamed and brooded and heard voices. kate liked to sit in the little west-side flat and be comforted of the happiness there. she was feeling very absurd herself, and she was ashamed of her excursion into the realms of feminine folly. that was the way she put her defection from "common sense," and her little flare of sentiment for ray, and all her breathless, ridiculous preparation for him. she had never worn the chrysanthemum dress, and she so loathed the sight of it that she boxed it and put it in the bottom of her trunk. no word came from ray. "sometime" had not materialized and he had failed to call. his name was much in the papers as "best man" or cotillion leader or host at club dinners. he moved in a world of which kate saw nothing--a rather competitive world, where money counted and where there was a brisk exchange of social amenities. kate's festivities consisted of settlement dinners and tea here and there, at odd, interesting places with fellow "welfare workers"; and now and then she went with honora to some university affair. a great many ladies sent her cards to their "afternoons"--ladies whom she met at the home of the president of the university, or with whom she came in contact at hull house or some of the other settlements. but such diversions she was obliged to deny herself. they would have taken time from her too-busy hours; and she had not the strength to do her work according to her conscience, and then to drag herself halfway across town, merely for the amiability of making her bow and eating an ice in a charming house. not but that she enjoyed the atmosphere of luxury--the elusive sense of opulence given her by the flowers, the distant music, the smiling, luxurious, complimentary women, the contrast between the glow within and the chill of twilight without--twilight sparkling with the lights of the waiting motors, and the glittering procession on the drive. but, after all, while others rode, she walked, and sometimes she was very weary. to be sure, she was too gallant, too much at ease in her entertaining world, too expectant of the future, to fret even for a moment about the fact that she was walking while others rode. she hardly gave it a thought. but her disadvantages made her unable to cope with other women socially. she was, as she often said, fond of playing a game; but the social game pushed the point of achievement a trifle too far. moreover, there was the mere bother of "dressing the part." her handsome heavy shoes, her strong, fashionable street gloves, her well-cared-for street frock, and becoming, practical hat she could obtain and maintain in freshness. she was "well-groomed" and made a sort of point of looking competent, as if she felt mistress of herself and her circumstances; she could even make herself dainty for a little dinner, but the silks and furs, the prodigality of yard-long gloves, the fetching boots and whimsical jewels of the ladies who made a fine art of feminine entertainments, were quite beyond her. so, sensibly, she counted it all out. that ray was at home in such surroundings, and that, had she been willing to give him the welcome he expected, she might have had a welcome at these as yet unopened doors through which he passed with conscious suavity, sometimes occurred to her. she was but human--and but woman--and she could not be completely oblivious to such things. but they did not, after all, wear a very alluring aspect. when she dreamed of being happy, as she often did, it was not amid such scenes. sometimes, when she was half-sleeping, and vague visions of joy haunted the farther chambers of her brain, she saw herself walking among mountains. the setting sun glittered on distant, splendid snows; the torrent rushed by her, filling the world with its clamor; beneath lay the valley, and through the gathering gloom she could see the light of homes. then, as sleep drew nearer and the actual world slipped farther away, she seemed to be treading the path--homeward--with some companion. which of those lights spelled home for her she did not know, and whenever she tried to see the face of her companion, the shadows grew deeper,--as deep as oblivion,--and she slept. she was lonely. she felt she had missed much in missing ray. she knew her friends disapproved of her; and she was profoundly ashamed that they should have seen her in that light, expectant hour in which she awaited this lover who appeared to be no lover, after all. but she deserved her humiliation. she had conducted herself like the expectant bride, and she had no right to any such attitude because her feelings were not those of a bride. the thing that she did desperately care about just now was the fitting-up of a home for mothers and babes in the wisconsin woods. it was to be a place where the young polish mothers of a part of her district could go and forget the belching horror of the steel mills, and the sultry nights in the crowded, vermin-haunted homes. she hoped for much from it--much more than the physical recuperation, though that was not to be belittled. there was some hitch, at the last, about the endowment. a benevolent spinster had promised to remember the prospective home in her will and neglected to do so and now there were several thousands to be collected from some unknown source. kate was absorbed with that when she was not engaged with her regular work. moreover, she made a point of being absorbed. she could not endure the thought that she might be going about with a love-lorn, he-cometh-not expression. * * * * * life has a way of ambling withal for a certain time, and then of breaking into a headlong gallop--bolting free--plunging to catastrophe or liberty. kate went her busy ways for a fortnight, somewhat chastened in spirit, secretly a little ashamed, and altogether very determined to make such a useful person of herself that she could forget her apparent lack of attractions (for she told herself mercilessly that if she had been very much desired by ray he would not have been able to leave her upon so slight a provocation). then, one day,--it was the last day of may and the world had rejuvenated itself,--she came across him. a more unlikely place hardly could have been chosen for their meeting than an "isle of safety" in mid-street, with motors hissing and toof-toofing round about, policemen gesticulating, and the crowd ceaselessly surging. the two were marooned with twenty others, and met face to face, squarely, like foes who set themselves to combat. at first he tried not to see her, and she, noting his impulse, thought it would be the part of propriety not to see him. then that struck her as so futile, so childish, so altogether a libel on the good-fellowship which they had enjoyed in the old days, that she held out her hand. he swept his hat from his head and grasped the extended hand in a violent yet tremulous clutch. "we seem to be going in opposite directions," she said. there was just a hint of a rising inflection in the accent. he laughed with nervous delight. "we are going the same way," he declared. "that's a well-established fact." an irritable policeman broke in on them with:-- "do you people want to get across the street or not?" "personally," said mccrea, smiling at him, "i'm not particular." the policeman was irish and he liked lovers. he thought he was looking at a pair of them. "well, it's not the place i'd be choosing for conversation, sir," he said. "right you are," agreed ray. "i suppose you'd prefer a lane in ballamacree?" "yes, sir. good luck to you, sir." "same to you," called back ray. he and kate swung into the procession on the boulevard. kate was smiling happily. "you haven't changed a bit!" she cried. "you keep right on enjoying yourself, don't you?" "not a bit of it," retorted ray indignantly. "i've been miserable! you know i have. the only satisfaction i got at all was in hoping i was making you miserable, too. was i?" "i wouldn't own to it if you had," said kate. "shall we forgive each other?" "do you want it to be as easy as that--after all we've been through? wouldn't it be more satisfactory to quarrel?" "you can if you want, of course," kate laughed. "but hadn't it better be with some other person? really, i wanted to see you dreadfully--or, at least, i wanted to see you pleasantly. i had made preparations. you didn't let me know when to expect you, and i had an engagement when you did come. weren't you foolish to get in a rage?" "but i was so frightfully disappointed. i expected so much and i had expected it so long." "ray!" her voice was almost stern, and he turned to look at her half with amusement, half with apprehension. "expect nothing. enjoy yourself to-day." "but how can i enjoy myself to-day unless i am made to understand that there is something i may expect from you? circumstances have kept us playing fast and loose long enough. can't we come to an understanding, kate?" kate stopped to look in a florist's window and fixed her eyes upon a vast bouquet of pale pink roses. "do say something," he said after a time. "shall i speak from the heart?" "oh, yes, please." he drew his breath in sharply between his teeth. "well, then, i'm not ready to give up my free life, ray. i can't seem to see my way to relinquishing any part of my liberty. i think you know why. i've told you everything in my letters. i feel too experimental to settle down." "you don't love me!" "did i ever say i did?" "you gave me to understand that you might." "you wanted me to try." "but you haven't succeeded? then, for heaven's sake, let me go and make out some other programme for myself. i've come back to you because i couldn't be satisfied away from you. i've seen women, if it comes to that,--cities of women. but there's no one like you, kate, to my mind; no one who so makes me enjoy the hour, or so plan for the future. ever since that day when you stood up by the c bench and fought for the right of women to sit on it,--that silly old c bench,--i've liked your warring spirit. and i come back, by jove, to find you marching with the militant women! well, i didn't know whether to laugh or swear! anyway, you do beat the world." "a pretty sweetheart i'd make," cried kate, disgusted with herself. "i'm only good to provide you with amusement, it seems." "you provide me with the breath of life! heavens, what a spring you have when you walk! and you 're as straight as a grenadier. i'm so sick of seeing slouching, die-away women! it's only you american women who know how to carry yourselves. oh, kate, if you can't answer me, don't, but let me see you once in a while. i'm a weak character, and i've got to enjoy your society a little longer." "you can enjoy as much of it as you please, only you mustn't be holding me up to some tremendous responsibility, and blaming me by and by for things i can't help." "i give you my word i'll not. oh, kate, is this a busy day with you? can't you come out into the country somewhere? we could take the electric and in an hour we'd be out where we could see orchards in bloom." "i _could_ go," mused kate. "i've a half-holiday coming to me, and really, if i were to take it to-day, no one would care." "the ayes have it! let us go to the station-i'll buy plenty of tickets and we can get off at any place where the climate seems mild and the natives kind." * * * * * it proved to be a day of encounters. they had traveled well beyond the city, past the straggling suburbs and the comfortable, friendly old villages, some of which antedated the city of which they were now the fringe, and had reached the wider sweeps of the prairie, with the fine country homes of those who sought privacy. at length they came to a junction of the road. "all out here for--" they could not catch the name. "isn't that where we're going?" laughed kate. "of course it is," ray responded. they hastened out and looked about them for the train they had supposed would be in waiting. it was not yet in, however, but was showing its dark nose a mile or two down the track. "i must see about our tickets," said ray. "perhaps we'll have to buy others." kate had been standing with her back to the ticket station window, but now she turned, and through the ticker-seller's window envisaged the pale, bitterly sullen face of lena vroom. it looked sunken and curiously alien, as if its possessor felt herself unfriended of all the world. "lena!" cried kate, too startled to use tact or to wait for lena to give the first sign of recognition. lena nodded coolly. "oh, is this where you are?" cried kate. "we've looked everywhere for you." "if i'd wanted to be found, i could have been, you know." the tone was muffled and pitifully insolent. "you are living out here?" "i live a few miles from here." "and you like the work? is it--is it well with you, lena?" "it will never be well with me, and you know it. i broke down, that's all. i can't stand anything now that takes thought. this just suits me--a little mechanical work like this. i'm not fit to talk, kate. you'll have to excuse me. it upsets me. i'm ordered to keep very quiet. if i get upset, i'll not be fit even for this." "i'll go," said kate contritely. "and i'll tell no one." she battled to keep the tears from her eyes. "only tell me, need you work at all? i thought you had enough to get along on, lena. you often told me so--forgive me, but we've _been_ close friends, you know, even if we aren't now." "my money's gone," said lena in a dead voice. "i used up my principal. it wasn't much. i'm in debt, too, and i've got to get that paid off. but i've a comfortable place to live, kate, with a good motherly german woman. i tell you for your peace of mind, because i know you--you always think you have to be affectionate and to care about what people are doing. but you'll serve me best by leaving me alone. understand?" "oh, lena, yes! i'll not come near you, but i can't help thinking about you. and i beg and pray you to write me if you need me at any time." "i can't talk about anything any more. it tires me. there's your train." ray bought his tickets to nowhere in particular. the little train came on like a shuttle through the blue loom of the air; they got on, and were shot forward through bright green fields, past expectant groves and flowering orchards, cheered by the elate singing of innumerable birds. ray had recognized lena, but kate refused to discuss her. "life has hurt her," she said, "and she's in hiding like a wounded animal. i couldn't talk about her. i--i love her. it's like that with me. once i've loved a person, i can't get it out of my system." she was staring from the window, trying to get back her happiness. ray snatched her hand and held it in a crushing grip. "for god's sake, kate, try to love me, then!" he whispered. it was spring all about them,--"the pretty ring-time,"--and she had just seen what it was to be a defeated and unloved woman. she felt a thrill go through her, and she turned an indiscreetly bright face upon her companion. "don't expect too much," she whispered back, "but i _will_ try." they went on, almost with the feeling that they were in arcadia, and drew up at a platform in the midst of woods, through which they could see a crooked trail winding. "here's our place!" cried ray. "don't you recognize it? not that you've ever seen it before." they dashed, laughing, from the train, and found themselves a minute later in a bird-haunted solitude, among flowers, at the beginning of the woodland walk. there seemed to be no need to comment upon the beauty of things. it was quite enough that the bland, caressing air beat upon their cheeks in playful gusts, that the robins gave no heed to them, and that "the little gray leaves were kind" to them. never was there a more capricious trail than the one they set themselves to follow. it skirted the edge of a little morass where the young flags were coming up; it followed the windings of a brook where the wild forget-me-not threw up its little azure buds; it crossed the stream a dozen times by means of shaking bridges, or fallen trees; it had magnificent gateways between twin oaks--gateways to yet pleasanter reaches of leaving woodland. "whatever can it lead to?" wondered kate. "to some new kind of paradise, perhaps," answered ray. "and see, some one has been before us! hush--" he drew her back into the bushes at the side, beneath a low-hanging willow. a man and a woman were coming toward them. the woman was walking first, treading proudly, her head thrown back, her body in splendid motion, like that of an advancing victory. the man, taller than she, was resting one hand upon her shoulder. he, too, looked like one who had mastered the elements and who felt the pangs of translation into some more ethereal and liberating world. as they came on, proud as adam and eve in the first days of their existence, kate had a blinding recognition of them. they were david fulham and mary morrison. she looked once, saw their faces shining with pagan joy, and, turning her gaze from them, sank on the earth behind the screen of bushes. ray perceived her desire to remain unseen, and stepped behind the wide-girthed oak. the two passed them, still treading that proud step. when they were gone, kate arose and led the way on along the path. she wished to turn back, but she dared not, fearing to meet the others on the station platform. ray had recognized fulham, but he did not know his companion, and kate would not tell him. "what a fool!" he said. "i thought he loved his wife. she's a fine woman." "he loves his wife," affirmed kate stalwartly. "but there's a hedonistic fervor in him. he's--" "he's a fool!" reaffirmed ray. "shall we talk of something else?" "by all means," agreed kate. they tried, but the glory of the day was slain. they had seen the serpent in their eden--and where there is one reptile there may always be another. when they thought it discreet, they went back to the junction. lena vroom was still there. she was nibbling at some dry-looking sandwiches. her glance forbade them to say anything personal to her, and kate, with a clutch at the heart, passed her by as if she had been any ticket-seller. she wondered if any one, seeing that gray-faced, heavy-eyed woman, would dream of her so dearly won ph.d. or of the phi beta kappa key which she had won but not claimed! she had not even dared to converse, lest lena's fragile self-possession should break. she evidently was in the clutches of nervous fatigue and was fighting it with her last remnant of courage. even the veriest layman could guess as much. kate hastened home, and as she opened the door she heard the voice of honora mingled with the happy cries of the twins. they were down in the drawing-room, and honora had bought some colored balloons for them, and was running to and fro with them in her hand, while patience and patricia shrieked with delight. "what a lovely day it's been, hasn't it?" honora queried, pausing in her play. "i've so longed to be in the country, but matters had reached such a critical point at the laboratory that i couldn't get away. do you know, kate, the great experiment that david and i are making is much further along than he surmises! i'm going to have a glorious surprise for him one of these days. business took him over to the academy of science to-day and i was so glad of it. it gave me the laboratory quite to myself. but really, i've got to get out into the country. i'm going to ask david if he won't take me next sunday." kate felt herself growing giddy. she dared not venture to reply. she kissed the babies and sped up to her room. but honora's happy laughter followed her even there. then suddenly there was a scurrying. kate guessed that david was coming. the babies were being carried up to the nursery lest they should annoy him. kate beat the wall with her fists. "fool! fool!" she cried. "why didn't she let him see her laughing and dancing like that? why didn't she? she'll come down all prim and staid for him and he'll never dream what she really is like. oh, how can she be so blind? i don't know how to stand it! and i don't know what to do! why isn't there some one to tell me what i ought to do?" mary morrison was late to dinner. she said she had run across an old californian friend and they had been having tea together and seeing the shops. she had no appetite for dinner, which seemed to carry out her story. her eyes were as brilliant as stars, and a magnetic atmosphere seemed to emanate from her. the men all talked to her. they seemed disturbed--not themselves. there was something in her glowing lips, in her swimming glance, in the slow beauty of her motions, that called to them like the pipes o' pan. she was as pagan and as beautiful as the spring, and she brought to them thoughts of elemental joys. it was as if, sailing a gray sea, they had come upon a palm-shaded isle, and glimpsed calypso lying on the sun-dappled grass. xv that night kate said she would warn honora; but in the morning she found herself doubtful of the wisdom of such a course. or perhaps she really lacked the courage for it. at any rate, she put it off. she contemplated talking to mary morrison, and of appealing to her honor, or her compassion, and of advising her to go away. but mary was much from home nowadays, and kate, who had discouraged an intimacy, did not know how to cultivate it at this late hour. several days went by with kate in a tumult of indecision. sometimes she decided that the romance between mary and david was a mere spring madness, which would wear itself out and do little damage. at other moments she felt it was laid upon her to speak and avert a catastrophe. then, in the midst of her indecision, she was commanded to go to washington to attend a national convention of social workers. she was to represent the children's protective agency, and to give an account of the method of its support and of its system of operation. she was surprised and gratified at this invitation, for she had had no idea that her club and settlement-house addresses had attracted attention to that extent. she made so little effort when she spoke that she could not feel much respect for her achievement. it was as if she were talking to a friend, and the size of her audience in no way affected her neighborly accent. she did not see that it was precisely this thing which was winning favor for her. her lack of self-consciousness, her way of telling people precisely what they wished to know about the subject in hand, her sense of values, which enabled her to see that a human fact is the most interesting thing in the world, were what counted for her. if she had been "better trained," and more skilled in the dreary and often meaningless science of statistics, or had become addicted to the benevolent jargon talked by many welfare workers, her array of facts would have fallen on more or less indifferent ears. but she offered not vital statistics, but vital documents. she talked in personalities--in personalities so full of meaning that, concrete as they were, they took on general significance--they had the effect of symbols. she furnished watchwords for her listeners, and she did it unconsciously. she would have been indignant if she had been told how large a part her education in silvertree played in her present aptitude. she had grown up in a town which feasted on dramatic gossip, and which thrived upon the specific personal episode. to the vast and terrific city, and to her portion of the huge task of mitigating the woe of its unfit, kate brought the quality which, undeveloped, would have made of her no more than an entertaining village gossip. what stories there were to tell! what stories of bravery in defeat, of faith in the midst of disaster, of family devotion in spite of squalor and subterfuges and all imaginable shiftlessness and shiftiness. kate had got hold of the idea of the universality of life--the universality of joy and pain and hope. she was finding it easy now to forgive "the little brothers" for all possible perversity, all defects, all ingratitude. wayward children they might be,--children uninstructed in the cult of goodness, happiness, serenity,--but outside the pale of human consideration they could not be. the greater their fault the greater their need. kate was learning, in spite of her native impatience and impulsiveness, to be very patient. she was becoming the defender of those who stumbled, the explainer of those who themselves lacked explanations or who were too defiant to give them. so she was going to washington. she was to talk on a proposed school for the instruction of mothers. she often had heard her father say that a good mother was an exception. she had not believed him--had taken it for granted that this idea of his was a part of his habitual pessimism. but since she had come up to the city and become an officer of the children's protective association, she had changed her mind, and a number of times she had been on the point of writing to her father to tell him that she was beginning to understand his point of view. this idea of a school for mothers had been her own, originally, and a development of the little summer home for polish mothers which she had helped to establish. she had proposed it, half in earnest, merely, at hull house on a certain occasion when there were a number of influential persons present. it had appealed to them, however, as a practical means of remedying certain difficulties daily encountered. just how large a part jane addams had played in the enlightenment of kate's mind and the dissolution of her inherent exclusiveness, kate could not say. sometimes she gave the whole credit to her. for here was a woman with a genius for inclusiveness. she was the sister of all men. if a youth sinned, she asked herself if she could have played any part in the prevention of that sin had she had more awareness, more solicitude. it was she who had, more than others,--though there was a great army of men and women of good will to sustain her,--promulgated this idea of responsibility. a city, she maintained, was a great home. she demanded, then, to know if the house was made attractive, instructive, protective. was it so conducted that the wayward sons and daughters, as well as the obedient ones, could find safety and happiness within it? were the privileges only for the rich, the effective, and the out-reaching? or were they for those who lacked the courage to put out their hands for joy and knowledge? were they for those who had not yet learned the tongue of the family into which they had newly entered? were they for those who fought the rules and shirked the cares and dug for themselves a pit of sorrow? she believed they were for all. she could not countenance disinheritance. yes, always, in high places and low, among friends and enemies, this sad, kind, patient, quiet woman, jane addams, of hull house, had preached the indissolubility of the civic family. kate had listened and learned. nay, more, she had added her own interpretations. she was young, strong, brave, untaught by rebuff, and she had the happy and beautiful insolence of those who have not known defeat. she said things jane addams would have hesitated to say. she lacked the fine courtesy of the elder woman; but she made, for that very reason, a more dramatic propaganda. * * * * * kate had known what it was to tramp the streets in rain and wind; she had known what it was to face infection and drunken rage; she had looked on sights both piteous and obscene; but she had now begun--and much, much sooner than was usual with workers in her field--to reap some of the rewards of toil. soon or late things in this life resolve themselves into a question of personality. history and art, success and splendor, plenitude and power, righteousness and immortal martyrdom, are all, in the last resolve, personality and nothing more. kate was having her swift rewards because of that same indescribable, incontestable thing. the friendship of remarkable women and men--women, particularly--was coming to her. fine things were being expected of her. she had a vitality which indicated genius--that is, if genius is intensity, as some hold. at any rate, she was vividly alert, naturally eloquent, physically capable of impressing her personality upon others. she thought little of this, however. she merely enjoyed the rewards as they came, and she was unfeignedly surprised when, on her way to washington, whither she traveled with many others, her society was sought by those whom she had long regarded with something akin to awe. she did not guess how her enthusiasm and fresh originality stimulated persons of lower vitality and more timid imagination. at washington she had a signal triumph. the day of her speech found the hall in which the convention was held crowded with a company including many distinguished persons--among them, the president of the united states. kate had expected to suffer rather badly from stage fright, but a sense of her opportunity gave her courage. she talked, in her direct "silvertree method," as marna called it, of the ignorance of mothers, the waste of children, the vast economic blunder which for one reason and another even the most progressive of states had been so slow to perceive. she said that if the commercial and agricultural interests of the country were fostered and protected, why should not the most valuable product of all interests, human creatures, be given at least an equal amount of consideration. in her own way, which by a happy instinct never included what was hackneyed, she drew a picture of the potentialities of the child considered merely from an economic point of view, and in impulsive words she made plain the need for a bureau, which she suggested should be virtually a part of the governmental structure, in which should be vested authority for the care of children,--the bureau of children, she denominated it,--a scientific extension of motherhood! it seemed a part of the whole stirring experience that she should be asked with several others to lunch at the white house with the president and his wife. the president, it appeared, was profoundly interested. a quiet man, with a judicial mind, he perceived the essential truth of kate's propaganda. he had, indeed, thought of something similar himself, though he had not formulated it. he went so far as to express a desire that this useful institution might attain realization while he was yet in the presidential chair. "i would like to ask you unofficially, miss barrington," he said at parting, "if you are one to whom responsibility is agreeable?" "oh," cried kate, taken aback, "how do i know? i am so young, mr. president, and so inexperienced!" "we must all be that at some time or other," smiled the president. "but it is in youth that the ideas come; and enthusiasm has a value which is often as great as experience." "ideas are accidents, mr. president," answered kate. "it doesn't follow that one can carry out a plan because she has seen a vision." "no," admitted the president, shaking hands with her. "but you don't look to me like a woman who would let a vision go to waste. you will follow it up with all the power that is in you." * * * * * it happened that kate's propaganda appealed to the popular imagination. the papers took it up; they made much of the president's interest in it; they wrote articles concerning the country girl who had come up to town, and who, with a simple faith and courage, had worked among the unfortunate and the delinquent, and whose native eloquence had made her a favorite with critical audiences. they printed her picture and idealized her in the interests of news. a lonely, gruff old man in silvertree read of it, and when the drawn curtains had shut him away from the scrutiny of his neighbors, he walked the floor, back and forth, following the worn track in the dingy carpet, thinking. they talked of it at the caravansary, and were proud; and many men and women who had met her by chance, or had watched her with interest, openly rejoiced. "they're coming on, the addams breed of citizens," said they. "here's a new one with the trick--whatever it is--of making us think and care and listen. she's getting at the roots of our disease, and it's partly because she's a woman. she sees that it has to be right with the children if it's to be right with the family. long live the addams breed!" friends wired their congratulations, and their comments were none the less acceptable because they were premature. many wrote her; ray mccrea, alone, of her intimate associates, was silent. kate guessed why, but she lacked time to worry. she only knew that her great scheme was afoot--that it went. but she would have been less than mortal if she had not felt a thrill of commingled apprehension and satisfaction at the fact that kate barrington, late of silvertree and its gossiping, hectoring, wistful circles, was in the foreground. she had had an idea which could be utilized in the high service of the world, and the most utilitarian and idealistic public in the world had seized upon it. so, naturally enough, the affairs of honora fulham became somewhat blurred to kate's perception. besides, she was unable to decide what to do. she had heard that one should never interfere between husband and wife. moreover, she was very young, and she believed in her friends. others might do wrong, but not one's chosen. people of her own sort had temptations, doubtless, but they overcame them. that was their business--that was their obligation. she might proclaim herself a democrat, but she was a moral aristocrat, at any rate. she depended upon those in her class to do right. she was a trifle chilled when she returned to find how little time honora had to give to her unfolding of the great new scheme. honora had her own excitement. her wonderful experiment was drawing to a culmination. honora could talk of nothing else. if kate wanted to promulgate a scheme for the caring for the born, very well. honora had a tremendous business with the unborn. so she talked kate down. xvi then came the day of honora's victory! it had been long expected, yet when it came it had the effect of a miracle. it was, however, a miracle which she realized. she was burningly aware that her great moment had come. she left the lights flaring in the laboratory, and, merely stopping to put the catch on the door, ran down the steps, fastening her linen coat over her working dress as she went. david would be at home. he would be resting, perhaps,--she hoped so. for days he had been feverish and strange, and she had wondered if he were tormented by that sense of world-stress which was forever driving him. was there no achievement that would satisfy him, she wondered. yes, yes, he must be satisfied now! moreover, he should have all the credit. to have found the origin of life, though only in a voiceless creature,--a reptile,--was not that an unheard-of victory? she would claim no credit; for without him and his daring to inspire her she would not have dreamed of such an experiment. of course, she might have telephoned to him, but it never so much as occurred to her to do that. she wanted to cry the words into his ear:-- "we have it! the secret is ours! there _is_ a hidden door into the house of life--and we've opened it!" oh, what treasured, ancient ideas fell with the development of this new fact! she did not want to think of that, because of those who, in the rearrangement of understanding, must suffer. but as for her, she would be bold to face it, as the mate and helper of a great scientist should be. she would set her face toward the sun and be unafraid of any glory. her thoughts spun in her head, her pulses throbbed. she did not know that she was thinking it, but really she was feeling that in a moment more she would be in david's arms. only some such gesture would serve to mark the climax of this great moment. though they so seldom caressed, though they had indulged so little in emotion, surely now, after their long and heavy task, they could have the sweet human comforts. they could be lovers because they were happy. perhaps, after all, she would only cry out to him:--"it will be yours, david--the norden prize!" that would tell the whole thing. people looked after her as she sped down the street. at first they thought she was in distress, but a glance at her shining face, its nobility accentuated by her elation, made that idea untenable. she was obviously the bearer of good tidings. dr. von shierbrand, passing on the other side of the street, called out:-- "carrying the good news from ghent to aix?" an old german woman, with a laden basket on her arm nodded cheerfully. "it's a baby," she said aloud to whoever might care to corroborate. but honora carried happiness greater than any dreamed,--a secret of the ages,--and the prize was her man's fame. she reached her own door, and with sure, swift hands, fitted the key in the lock. the house wore a welcoming aspect. the drawing-room was filled with blossoming plants, and the diaphanous curtains which blue-eyed mary had hung at the windows blew softly in the breeze. the piano, with its suggestive litter of music, stood open, and across the bench trailed one of mary's flowered chiffon scarfs. "david!" called honora. "david!" two blithe baby voices answered her from the rear porch. the little ones were there with mrs. hays, and they excitedly welcomed this variation in their day's programme. "in a minute, babies," called honora. "mamma will come in a minute." yes, she and david would go together to the babies, and they would "tell them," the way people "told the bees." "david!" she kept calling. "david!" she looked in the doors of the rooms she passed, and presently reached her own. as she entered, a large envelope addressed in david's writing, conspicuously placed before the face of her desk-clock, caught her eye. she imagined that it contained some bills or memoranda, and did not stop for it, but ran on. "oh, he's gone to town," she cried with exasperation, "and i haven't an idea where to reach him!" closing her ears to the calls of the little girls, she returned to her own room and shut herself in. she was completely exasperated with the need for patience. never had she so wanted david, and he was not there--he was not there to hear that the moment of triumph had come for both of them and that they were justified before their world. petulantly she snatched the envelope from the desk and opened it. it was neither bills nor memoranda which fell out, but a letter. surprised, she unfolded it. her eyes swept it, not gathering its meaning. it might have been written in some foreign language, so incomprehensible did it seem. but something deep down in her being trembled as if at approaching dissolution and sent up its wild messages of alarm. vaguely, afar off, like the shouts of a distant enemy on the hills, the import besieged her spirit. "i must read it again," she said simply. she went over it slowly, like one deciphering an ancient hieroglyph. "my dear honora:--" (it ran.) "i am off and away with mary morrison. will this come to you as a complete surprise? i hardly think so. you have been my good comrade and assistant; but mary morrison is my woman. i once thought you were, but there was a mistake somewhere. either i misjudged, or you changed. i hope you'll come across happiness, too, sometime. i never knew the meaning of the word till i met mary. you and i haven't been able to make each other out. you thought i was bound up heart and soul in the laboratory. i may as well tell you that only a fractional part of my nature was concerned with it. mary is an unlearned person compared with you, but she knew that, and it is the great fact for both of us. "it is too bad about the babies. we ought never to have had them. see that they have a good education and count on me to help you. you'll find an account at the bank in your name. there'll be more there for you when that is gone. "david." the old german woman was returning, her basket emptied of its load, when honora came down the steps and crossed the plaisance. "my god," said the old woman in her own tongue, "the child did not live!" honora walked as somnambulists walk, seeing nothing. but she found her way to the door of the laboratory. the white glare of the chemical lights was over everything--over all the significant, familiar litter of the place. the workmanlike room was alive and palpitating with the personality which had gone out from it--the flaming personality of david fulham. the woman who had sold her birthright of charm and seduction for his sake sat down to eat her mess of pottage. not that she thought even as far as that. thought appeared to be suspended. as a typhoon has its calm center, so the mad tumult of her spirit held a false peace. she rested there in it, torpid as to emotion, in a curious coma. yet she retained her powers of observation. she took her seat before the tanks in which she had demonstrated the correctness of david's amazing scientific assumption. yet now the creatures that he had burgeoned by his skill, usurping, as it might seem to a timid mind, the very function of the creator, looked absurd and futile--hateful even. for these things, bearing, as it was possible, after all, no relation to actual life, had she spent her days in desperate service. then, suddenly, it swept over her, like a blasting wave of ignited gas, that she never had had the pure scientific flame! she had not worked for truth, but that david might reap great rewards. with her as with the cave woman, the man's favor was the thing! if the cave woman won his approval with base service, she, the aspiring creature of modern times, was no less the slave of her own subservient instincts! and she had failed as the cave woman failed--as all women seemed eventually to fail. the ever-repeated tragedy of woman had merely been enacted once more, with herself for the sorry heroine. yet none of these thoughts was distinct. they passed from her mind like the spume puffed from the wave's crest. she knew nothing of time. around her blazed and sputtered the terrible white lights. the day waned; the darkness fell; and when night had long passed its dark meridian and the anticipatory cocks began to scent the dawn and to make their discovery known, there came a sharp knocking at the door. it shattered honora's horrible reverie as if it had been an explosion. the chambers of her ears quaked with the reverberations. she sprang to her feet with a scream which rang through the silent building. "let me in! let me in!" called a voice. "it's only kate. let me in, honora, or i'll call some one to break down the door." * * * * * kate had mercy on that distorted face which confronted her. it was not the part of loyalty or friendship to look at it. she turned out the spluttering, glaring lights, and quiet and shadow stole over the room. "well, honora, i found the note and i know the whole of your trouble. remember," she said quietly, "it's your great hour. you have a chance to show what you're made of now." "what i'm made of!" said honora brokenly. "i'm like all the women. i'm dying of jealousy, kate,--dying of it." "jealousy--you?" cried kate. "why, honora--" "you thought i couldn't feel it, i suppose,--thought i was above it? i'm not above anything--not anything--" her voice straggled off into a curious, shameless sob with a sound in it like the bleating of a lamb. "stop that!" said kate, sharply. "pull yourself together, woman. don't be a fool." "go away," sobbed honora. "don't stay here to watch me. my heart is broken, that's all. can't you let me alone?" "no, i can't--i won't. stand up and fight, woman. you can be magnificent, if you want to. it can't be that you'd grovel, honora." "you know very little of what you're talking about," cried honora, whipped into wholesome anger at last. "i've been a fool from the beginning. the whole thing's my fault." "i don't see how." kate was getting her to talk; was pulling her up out of the pit of shame and anguish into which she had fallen. she sat down in a deal chair which stood by the window, and honora, without realizing it, dropped into a chair, too. the neutral morning sky was beginning to flush and the rosiness reached across the lead-gray lake, illuminated the windows of the sleeping houses, and tinted even the haggard monochrome of the laboratory with a promise of day. "why, it's my fault because i wouldn't take what was coming to me. i wouldn't even be what i was born to be!" "i know," said kate, "that you underwent some sort of a transformation. what was it?" she hardly expected an answer, but honora developed a perfervid lucidity. "oh, kate, you've said yourself that i was a very different girl when you knew me first. i was a student then, and an ambitious one, too; but there wasn't a girl in this city more ready for a woman's rôle than i. i longed to be loved--i lived in the idea of it. no matter how hard i tried to devote myself to the notion of a career, i really was dreaming of the happiness that was going to come to me when--when life had done its duty by me." she spoke the words with a dramatic clearness. the terrific excitement she had undergone, and which she now held in hand, sharpened her faculties. the powers of memory and of expression were intensified. she fairly burned upon kate there in the beautiful, disguising light of the morning. her weary face was flushed; her eyes were luminous. her terrific sorrow put on the mask of joy. "you see, i loved david almost from the first--i mean from the beginning of my university work. the first time i saw him crossing the campus he held my attention. there was no one else in the least like him, so vivid, so exotic, so almost fierce. when i found out who he was, i confess that i directed my studies so that i should work with him. not that i really expected to know him personally, but i wanted to be near him and have him enlarge life for me. i felt that it would take on new meanings if i could only hear his interpretations of it." kate shivered with sympathy at the woman's passion, and something like envy stirred in her. here was a world of delight and torment of which she knew nothing, and beside it her own existence, restless and eager though it had been, seemed a meager affair. "well, the idea burned in me for months and years. but i hid it. no one guessed anything about it. certainly david knew nothing of it. then, when i was beginning on my graduate work, i was with him daily. but he never seemed to see me--he saw only my work, and he seldom praised that. he expected it to be well done. as for me, i was satisfied. the mere fact that we were comrades, forced to think of the same matters several hours of each day, contented me. i couldn't imagine what life would be away from him; and i was afraid to think of him in relation to myself." "afraid?" "afraid--i mean just that. i knew others thought him a genius in relation to his work. but i knew he was a genius in regard to life. i felt sure that, if he turned that intensity of his upon life instead of upon science, he would be a destructive force--a high explosive. this idea of mine was confirmed in time. it happened one evening when a number of us were over in the scammon garden listening to the out-of-door players. i grew tired of sitting and slipped from my seat to wander about a little in the darkness. i had reached the very outer edge of seats and was standing there enjoying the garden, when i overheard two persons talking together. a man said: 'fulham will go far if he doesn't meet a woman.' 'nonsense,' the woman said; 'he's an anchorite.' 'an inflammatory one,' the man returned. 'mind, i don't say he knows it. probably he thinks he's cast for the scientific rôle to the end of his days, but i know the fellow better than he does himself. i tell you, if a woman of power gets hold of him, he'll be as drunk as abélard with the madness of it. over in europe they allow for that sort of thing. they let a man make an art of loving. here they insist that it shall be incidental. but fulham won't care about conventionalities if the idea ever grips him. he's born for love, and it's a lucky thing for the university that he hasn't found it out.' 'we ought to plan a sane and reasonable marriage for him,' said the woman. 'wouldn't that be a good compromise?' 'it would be his salvation,' the man said." honora poured the words out with such rapidity that kate hardly could follow her. "how you remember it all!" broke in kate. "if i remember anything, wouldn't it be that? as i say, it confirmed me in what i already had guessed. i felt fierce to protect him. my jealousy was awake in me. i watched him more closely than ever. his daring in the laboratory grew daily. he talked openly about matters that other men were hardly daring to dream of, and his brain seemed to expand every day like some strange plant under calcium rays. i thought what a frightful loss to science it would be if the wilder qualities of his nature got the upper hand, and i wondered how i could endure it if--" she drew herself up with a horror of realization. the thing that so long ago she had thought she could not endure was at last upon her! her teeth began to chatter again, and her hands, which had been clasped, to twist themselves with the writhing motion of the mentally distraught. "go on!" commanded kate. "what happened next?" "i let him love me!" "i thought you said he hadn't noticed you." "he hadn't; and i didn't talk with him more than usual or coquette with him. but i let down the barriers in my mind. i never had been ashamed of loving him, but now i willed my love to stream out toward him like--like banners of light. if i had called him aloud, he couldn't have answered more quickly. he turned toward me, and i saw all his being set my way. oh, it was like a transfiguration! then, as soon as ever i saw that, i began holding him steady. i let him feel that we were to keep on working side by side, quietly using and increasing our knowledge. i made him scourge his love back; i made him keep his mind uppermost; i saved him from himself." "oh, honora! and then you were married?" "and then we were married. you remember how sudden it was, and how wonderful; but not wonderful in the way it might have been. i kept guard over myself. i wouldn't wear becoming dresses; i wouldn't even let him dream what i really was like--wouldn't let him see me with my hair down because i knew it was beautiful. i combed it plainly and dressed like a nurse or a nun, and every day i went to the laboratory with him and kept him at his work. he had got hold of this dazzling idea of the extraneous development of life, and he set himself to prove it. i worked early and late to help him. i let him go out and meet people and reap honors, and i stayed and did the drudgery. but don't imagine i was a martyr. i liked it. i belonged to him. it was my honor and delight to work for him. i wanted him to have all of the credit. the more important the result, the more satisfaction i should have in proclaiming him the victor. i was really at the old business of woman, subordinating myself to a man i loved. but i was doing it in a new way, do you see? i was setting aside the privilege of my womanhood for him, refraining from making any merely feminine appeal. you remember hearing dr. von shierbrand say there was but one way woman should serve man--the way in which marguerite served faust? it made me laugh. i knew a harder road than that to walk--a road of more complete abnegation." "but the babies came." "yes, the babies came. i was afraid even to let him be as happy in them as he wanted to be. i held him away. i wouldn't let him dwell on the thought of me as the mother of those darlings. i dared not even be as happy myself as i wished, but i had secret joys that i told him nothing about, because i was saving him for himself and his work. but at what a cost, kate!" "honora, it was sacrilegious!" honora leaped to her feet again. "yes, yes," she cried, "it was. and now all has happened according to prophecy, and he's gone with this woman! he thinks she's his mate, but, i--i was his mate. and i defrauded him. so now he's taken her because she was kind, because she loved him, because--she was beautiful!" "she looks like you." "don't i know it? it's my beauty that he's gone away with--the beauty i wouldn't let him see. of course, he doesn't realize it. he only knows life cheated him, and now he's trying to make up to himself for what he's lost." "oh, can you excuse him like that?" the daylight was hardening, and it threw honora's drawn face into repellent relief. "i don't excuse him at all!" she said. "i condemn him! i condemn him! with all his intellect, to be such a fool! and to be so cruel--so hideously cruel!" but she checked herself sharply. she looked around her with eyes that seemed to take in things visible and invisible--all that had been enacted in that curious room, all the paraphernalia, all the significance of those uncompleted, important experiments. then suddenly her face paled and yet burned with light. "but i know a great revenge," she said. "i know a revenge that will break his heart!" "don't say things like that," begged kate. "i don't recognize you when you're like that." "when you hear what the revenge is, you will," said honora proudly. "we're going now," kate told her with maternal decision. "here's your coat." "home?" she began trembling again and the haunted look crept back into her eyes. kate paid no heed. she marched honora swiftly along the awakened streets and into the bereaved house, past the desecrated chamber where david's bed stood beside his wife's, up to kate's quiet chamber. honora stretched herself out with an almost moribund gesture. then the weight of her sorrow covered her like a blanket. she slept the strange deep sleep of those who dare not face the waking truth. xvii kate, who _was_ facing it, telegraphed to karl wander. it was all she could think of to do. "can you come?" she asked. "david fulham has gone away with mary morrison. honora needs you. you are the cousin of both women. thought i had better turn to you." she was brutally frank, but it never occurred to her to mince matters there. however, where the public was concerned, her policy was one of secrecy. she called, for example, on the president of the university, who already knew the whole story. "can't we keep it from being blazoned abroad?" she appealed to him. "mrs. fulham will suffer more if he has to undergo public shame than she possibly could suffer from her own desertion. she's tragically angry, but that wouldn't keep her from wanting to protect him. we must try to prevent public exposure. it will save her the worst of torments." she brooded sadly over the idea, her aspect broken and pathetic. the president looked at her kindly. "did she say so?" "oh, she didn't need to say so!" cried kate. "any one would know that." "you mean, any good woman would know that. of course, i can give it out that fulham has been called abroad suddenly, but it places me in a bad position. i don't feel very much like lying for him, and i shan't be thought any too well of if i'm found out. i should like to place myself on record as befriending mrs. fulham, not her husband." "but don't you see that you are befriending her when you shield him?" "woman's logic," said the president. "it has too many turnings for my feeble masculine intellect. but i've great confidence in you, miss barrington. you seem to be rather a specialist in domestic relations. if you say mrs. fulham will be happier for having me bathe neck-deep in lies, i suppose i shall have to oblige you. shall it be the lie circumstantial? do you wish to specify the laboratory to which he has gone?" kate blushed with sudden contrition. "oh, i'll not ask you to do it!" she cried. "truth is best, of course. i'm not naturally a trimmer and a compromiser--but, poor honora! i pity her so!" her lips quivered like a child's and the tears stood in her eyes. she had arisen to go and the president shook hands with her without making any promise. however the next day a paragraph appeared in the university daily to the effect that professor fulham had been called to france upon important laboratory matters. at the caravansary they had scented tragedy, and kate faced them with the paragraph. she laid a marked copy of the paper at each place, and when all were assembled, she called attention to it. they looked at her with questioning eyes. "of course," said dr. von shierbrand, flicking his mustache, "this isn't true, miss barrington." "no," said kate, and faced them with her chin tilted high. "but you wish us to pretend to believe it?" "if you please, dear friends," kate pleaded. "we shall say that fulham is in france! and what are we to say about miss morrison?" "who will inquire? if any one should, say that a friend desired her as a traveling companion." "nothing," said von shierbrand, "is easier for me than truth." "please don't be witty," cried kate testily, "and don't sneer. remember that nothing is so terrible as temptation. i'm sure i see proof of that every day among my poor people. after all, doesn't the real surprise lie in the number that resist it?" "i beg your pardon," said the young german gently. "i shall not sneer. i shall not even be witty. i'm on your side,--that is to say, on mrs. fulham's side,--and i'll say anything you want me to say." "i beg you all," replied kate, sweeping the table with an imploring glance, "to say as little as possible. be matter-of-fact if any one questions you. and, whatever you do, shield honora." they gave their affirmation solemnly, and the next day honora appeared among them, pallid and courageous. they were simple folk for all of their learning. sorrow was sorrow to them. honora was widowed by an accident more terrible than death. no mockery, no affected solicitude detracted from the efficacy of their sympathy. if they saw torments of jealousy in this betrayed woman's eyes, they averted their gaze; if they saw shame, they gave it other interpretations. moreover, kate was constantly beside her, eagle-keen for slight or neglect. her fierce fealty guarded the stricken woman on every side. she had the imposing piano which mary had rented carted back to the warehouse to lie in deserved silence with mary's seductive harmonies choked in its recording fibre; she stripped from their poles the curtains mary had hung at the drawing-room windows and burned them in the furnace; the miniatures, the plaster casts, all the artistic rubbish which mary's exuberance had impelled her to collect, were tossed out for the waste wagons to cart away. the coquetry of the room gave way to its old-time austerity; once more honora's room possessed itself. * * * * * a wire came from karl wander addressed to kate. "fractured leg. can't go to you. honora and the children must come here at once. have written." that seemed to give honora a certain repose--it was at least a spar to which to cling. with kate's help she got over to the laboratory and put the finishing touches on things there. the president detailed two of fulham's most devoted disciples to make a record of their professor's experiments. "fulham shall have full credit," the president assured honora, calling on her and comforting her in the way in which he perceived she needed comfort. "he shall have credit for everything." "he should have the norden prize," honora cried, her hot eyes blazing above her hectic cheeks. "i want him to have the prize, and i want to be the means of getting it for him. i told miss barrington i meant to have my revenge, and that's it. how can he stand it to know he ruined my life and that i got the prize for him? a generous man would find that torture! you understand, i'm willing to torture him--in that way. he's subtle enough to feel the sting of it." the president looked at her compassionately. "it's a noble revenge--and a poignant one," he agreed. "it's not noble," repudiated honora. "it's terrible. for he'll remember who did the work." but shame overtook her and she sobbed deeply and rendingly. and the president, who had thought of himself as a mild man, left the house regretting that duels were out of fashion. * * * * * then the letter came from the west. kate carried it up to honora, who was in her room crouched before the window, peering out at the early summer cityscape with eyes which tried in vain to observe the passing motors, and the people hastening along the plaisance, but which registered little. "your cousin's letter, woman, dear," announced kate. honora looked up quickly, her vagueness momentarily dissipated. kate always had noticed that wander's name had power to claim honora's interest. he could make folk listen, even though he spoke by letter. she felt, herself, that whatever he said, she would listen to. honora tore open the envelope with untidy eagerness, and after she had read the letter she handed it silently to kate. it ran thus:-- "cousin honora, my dear and prized:-- "rather a knock-out blow, eh? i shan't waste my time in telling you how i feel about it. if you want me to follow david and kill him, i will--as soon as this damned leg gets well. not that the job appeals to me. i'm sensitive about family honor, but killing d. won't mend things. as i spell the matter out, there was a blunder somewhere. _perhaps you know where it was_. "of course you feel as if you'd gone into bankruptcy. women invest in happiness as men do in property, and to 'go broke' the way you have is disconcerting. it would overwhelm some women; but it won't you--not if you're the same honora i played with when i was a boy. you had pluck for two of us trousered animals--were the best of the lot. i want you to come here and stake out a new claim. you may get to be a millionaire yet--in good luck and happiness, i mean. "i'm taking it for granted that you and the babies will soon be on your way to me, and i'm putting everything in readiness. the fire is laid, the cupboard stored, the latchstring is hanging where you'll see it as you cross the state line. "you understand i'm being selfish in this. i not only want, but i need, you. you always seemed more like a sister than a cousin to me, and to have you come here and make a home out of my house seems too good to be true. "there are a lot of things to be learned out here, but i'll not give them a name. all i can say is, living with these mountains makes you different. they're like men and women, i take it. (the mountains, i mean.) the more they are ravaged by internal fires and scoured by snow-slides, the more interesting they become. "then it's so still it gives you a chance to think, and by the time you've had a good bout of it, you find out what is really important and what isn't. you'll understand after you've been here awhile. "i mean what i say, honora. i want you and the babies. come ahead. don't think. work--pack--and get out here where time can have a chance at your wounds. "am i making you understand how i feel for you? i guess you know your old playmate and coz, "karl wander. "p.s. my dried-up old bach heart jumps at the thought of having the kiddies in the house. i'll bet they're wonders." there was an inclosure for kate. it read:-- "my dear miss barrington:-- "i see that you're one of the folk who can be counted on. you help honora out of this and then tell me what i can do for you. i'd get to her some way even with this miserable plaster-of-paris leg of mine if you weren't there. but i know you'll play the cards right. can't you come with her and stay with her awhile till she's more used to the change? you'd be as welcome as sunlight. but i don't even need to say that. i saw you only a moment, yet i think you know that i'd count it a rich day if i could see you again. you are one of those who understand a thing without having it bellowed by megaphone. "don't mind my emphatic english. i'm upset. i feel like murdering a man, and the sensation isn't pleasant. using language is too common out here to attract attention--even on the part of the man who uses it. oh, my poor honora! look after her, miss barrington, and add all my pity and love to your own. it will make quite a sum. yours faithfully, "karl wander." "he wrote to you, too?" inquired honora when kate had perused her note. "yes, begging me to hasten you on your way." "shall i go?" "what else offers?" "nothing," said honora in her dead voice. "if i kept a diary, i would be like that sad king of france who recorded '_rien_' each day." kate made a practical answer. "we must pack," she said. "but the house--" "let it stand empty if the owner can't find a tenant. pay your rent till he does, if that's in the contract. what difference does all that make? get out where you'll have a chance to recuperate." "oh, kate, do you think i ever shall? how does a person recuperate from shame?" "there isn't really any shame to you in what others do," kate said. "but you--you'll have to go somewhere." "so i shall. don't worry about me. i shall take good care of myself." honora looked about her with the face of a spent runner. "i don't see how i'm going to go through with it all," she said, shuddering. so kate found packers and movers and the breaking-up of the home was begun. it was an ordeal--even a greater ordeal than they had thought it would be. every one who knew honora had supposed that she cared more for the laboratory than for her home, but when the packers came and tore the pictures from the walls, it might have been her heart-strings that were severed. just before the last things were taken out, kate found her in an agony of weeping on david's bed, which stood with an appalling emptiness beside honora's. honora always had wakened first in the morning, kate knew, and now she guessed at the memories that wrung that great, self-obliterating creature, writhing there under her torment. how often she must have raised herself on her arm and looked over at her man, so handsome, so strong, so completely, as she supposed, her own, and called to him, summoning him to another day's work at the great task they had undertaken for themselves. she had planned to be a wife upon an heroic model, and he had wanted mere blitheness, mere feminine allure. then, after all, as it turned out, here at hand were all the little qualities, he had desired, like violets hidden beneath their foliage. kate thought she never had seen anything more feminine than honora, shivering over the breaking-tip of the linen-closet, where her housewifely stores were kept. "i don't suppose you can understand, dear," she moaned to kate. "but it's a sort of symbol--a linen-closet is. see, i hemmed all these things with my own hands before i was married, and embroidered the initials!" how could any one have imagined that the masculine traits in her were getting the upper hand! she grew more feminine every hour. there was an increasing rhythm in her movements--a certain rich solemnity like that of niobe or hermione. her red-brown hair tumbled about her face and festooned her statuesque shoulders. the severity of her usual attire gave place to a negligence which enhanced her picturesqueness, and the heaving of her troubled bosom, the lifting of her wistful eyes gave her a tenderer beauty than she ever had had before. she was passionate enough now to have suited even that avid man who had proved himself so delinquent. "if only david could have seen her like this!" mused kate. "his 'blue-eyed one' would have seemed tepid in comparison. to think she submerged her splendor to so little purpose!" she wondered if honora knew how right karl wander had been in saying that some one had blundered, and if she had gained so much enlightenment that she could see that it was herself who had done so. she had renounced the mistress qualities which the successful wife requires to supplement her wifely character, and she had learned too late that love must have other elements than the rigidly sensible ones. honora was turning to the little girls now with a fierce sense of maternal possession. she performed personal services for them. she held them in her arms at twilight and breathed in their personality as if it were the one anaesthetic that could make her oblivious to her pain. kate hardly could keep from crying out:-- "too late! too late!" there was a bleak, attic-like room at the caravansary, airy enough, and glimpsing the lake from its eastern window, which kate took temporarily for her abiding-place. she had her things moved over there and camped amid the chaos till honora should be gone. the day came when the two women, with the little girls, stood on the porch of the house which had proved so ineffective a home. kate turned the key. "i hope never to come back to chicago, kate," honora said, lifting her ravaged face toward the staring blankness of the windows. "i'm not brave enough." "not foolish enough, you mean," corrected kate. "hold tight to the girlies, honora, and you'll come out all right." honora refrained from answering. her woe was epic, and she let her sunken eyes and haggard countenance speak for her. kate saw david fulham's deserted family off on the train. mrs. hays, the children's nurse, accompanied them. honora moved with a slow hauteur in her black gown, looking like a disenthroned queen, and as she walked down the train aisle kate thought of marie antoinette. there were plenty of friends, as both women knew, who would have been glad to give any encouragement their presence could have contributed, but it was generally understood that the truth of the situation was not to be recognized. when kate got back on the platform, honora became just honora again, thinking of and planning for others. she thrust her head from the window. "oh, kate," she said, "i do hope you'll get well settled somewhere and feel at home. don't stay in that attic, dear. it would make me feel as if i had put you into it." "trust me!" kate reassured her. she waved her hand with specious gayety. "give my love to mr. wander," she laughed. xviii kate was alone at last. she had time to think. there were still three days left of the vacation for which she had begged when she perceived honora's need of her, and these she spent in settling her room. it would not accommodate all of the furniture she had accumulated during those days of enthusiasm over ray mccrea's return, so she sold the superfluous things. truth to tell, however, she kept the more decorative ones. honora's fate had taught her an indelible lesson. she saw clearly that happiness for women did not lie along the road of austerity. was it humiliating to have to acknowledge that women were desired for their beauty, their charm, for the air of opulence which they gave to an otherwise barren world? her mind cast back over the ages--over the innumerable forms of seduction and subserviency which the instinct of women had induced them to assume, and she reddened to flame sitting alone in the twilight. yet, an hour later, still thinking of the subject, she realized that it was for men rather than for women that she had to blush. woman was what man had made her, she concluded. yet man was often better than woman--more generous, more just, more high-minded, possessed of a deeper faith. well, well, it was at best a confusing world! she seemed to be like a ship without a chart or a port of destination. but at least she could accept things as they were--even the fact that she herself was not "in commission," and was, philosophically speaking, a derelict. "other women seem to do things by instinct," she mused, "but i have, apparently, to do them from conviction. it must be the masculine traits in me. they say all women have masculine traits, that if they were purely feminine, they would be monstrous; and that all civilized men have much of the feminine in them or they would not be civilized. i suppose there's rather more of the masculine in me than in the majority of women." now mary morrison, she concluded, was almost pure feminine--she was the triumphant exposition of the feminine principle. some lines of arthur symons came to her notice--lines which she tried in vain not to memorize. "'i am the torch,' she saith; 'and what to me if the moth die of me? i am the flame of beauty, and i burn that all may see beauty, and i have neither joy nor shame, but live with that clear light of perfect fire which is to men the death of their desire. '"i am yseult and helen, i have seen troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead. the world has been my mirror, time has been my breath upon the glass; and men have said, age after age, in rapture and despair, love's few poor words before my mirror there. "'i live and am immortal; in my eyes the sorrow of the world, and on my lips the joy of life, mingle to make me wise!'" ... was it wisdom, then, that mary morrison possessed--the immemorial wisdom of women? oh, the shame of it! the shame of being a woman! kate denied herself to mccrea when he called. she plunged into the development of her scheme for an extension of motherhood. state motherhood it would be. should the movement become national, as she hoped, perhaps it had best be called the bureau of children. it was midsummer by now and there was some surcease of activity even in "welfare" circles. many of the social workers, having grubbed in unspeakable slums all winter, were now abroad among palaces and cathedrals, drinking their fill of beauty. many were in the country near at hand. for the most part, neophytes were in charge at the settlement houses. kate was again urged to domesticate herself with jane addams's corps of workers, but she had an aversion to being shut between walls. she had been trapped once,--back at the place she called home,--and she had not liked it. there was something free and adventurous in going from house to house, authoritatively rearranging the affairs of the disarranged. it suited her to be "a traveling bishop." moreover, it left her time for the development of her great idea. in a neighborhood house privacy and leisure were the two unattainable luxuries. she was still writing at odd times'; and now her articles were appearing. they were keen, simple, full of meat, and the public liked them. as kate read them over, she smiled to find them so emphatic. she was far from _feeling_ emphatic, but she seemed to have a trick of expressing herself in that way. she was still in need of great economy. her growing influence brought little to her in the way of monetary rewards, and it was hard for her to live within her income because she had a scattering hand. she liked to dispense good things and she liked to have them. a liberal programme suited her best--whatever gave free play to life. she was a wild creature in that she hated bars. of all the prison houses of life, poverty seemed one of the most hectoring. but poverty, to be completely itself, must exclude opportunity. kate had the key to opportunity, and she realized it. in the letters she received and wrote bringing her into association with men and women of force and aspiration, she had a privilege to which, for all of her youth, she could not be indifferent. she liked the way these purposeful persons put things, and felt a distinct pleasure in matching their ideas with her own. as the summer wore on, she was asked to country homes of charm and taste--homes where wealth, though great, was subordinated to more essential things. there she met those who could further her purposes--who could lend their influence to aid her idea, now shaping itself excellently. at the suggestion of miss addams, she prepared an article in which her plan unfolded itself in all its benevolent length and breadth--an article which it was suggested might yet form a portion of a speech made before a congressional committee. there was even talk of having kate deliver this address, but she had not yet reached the point where she could contemplate such an adventure with calmness. however, she was having training in her suffrage work, which was now assuming greater importance in her eyes. she addressed women audiences in various parts of the city, and had even gone on a few flying motor excursions with leading suffragists, speaking to the people in villages and at country schoolhouses. there was an ever-increasing conviction in this department of her work. she had learned to count the ballot as the best bulwark of liberty, and she could find no logic to inform her why, if it was a protection for man,--for the least and most insignificant of men,--it was not equally a weapon which women, searching now as never before for defined and enduring forms of liberty, should be permitted to use. she not only desired it for other women,--women who were supposed to "need it" more,--but she wished it for herself. she felt it to be merely consistent that she, in whom service to her community was becoming a necessity, should have this privilege. it never would be possible for her to exercise murderous powers of destruction in behalf of her country. she would not be allowed to shoot down innocent men whose opinions were opposed to her own, or to make widows and orphans. she would be forbidden to stand behind cannon or to sink submarine torpedoes. but it was within her reach to add to the sum total of peace and happiness. she would, if she could get her bureau of children established, exercise a constructive influence completely in accord with the spirit of the time. this being the case, she thought she ought to have the ballot. it would make her stand up straighter, spiritually speaking. it would give her the authority which would point her arguments; put a cap on the sheaf of her endeavors. she wanted it precisely as a writer wants a period to complete a sentence. it had a structural value, to use the term of an architect. without it her sentence was foolish, her building insecure. "why is it," she demanded of the women of lake geneva when, in company with a veteran suffragist, she addressed them there, "that you grow weary in working for your town? it is because you cannot demonstrate your meaning nor secure the continuation of your works by the ballot. your efforts are like pieces of metal which you cannot weld into useful form. you toil for deserted children, indigent mothers, for hospitals and asylums, starting movements which, when perfected, are absorbed by the city. what happens then to these benevolent enterprises? they are placed in the hands of politicians and perfunctorily administered. your disinterested services are lost sight of; the politicians smile at the manner in which you have toiled and they have reaped. you see sink into uselessness, institutions, which, in the compassionate hands of women, would be the promoters of good through the generations. the people you would benefit are treated with that insolent arrogance which only a cheap man in office can assume. causes you have labored to establish, and which no one denies are benefits, are capriciously overthrown. and there is one remedy and one only: for you to cast your vote--for you to have your say as you sit in your city council, on your county board, or in your state legislature and national congress. "you may shrink from it; you may dread these new responsibilities; but strength and courage will come with your need. you dare not turn aside from the road which opens before you, for to tread it is now the test of integrity." "ought you to have said that?" inquired the older suffragist, afterward looking at kate with earnest and burning eyes from her white spiritual face. "i dare say i care much more about suffrage than you. i have been interested in it since i was a child, and i am now no longer a young woman. yet i feel that integrity is not allied to this or that opinion. it is a question of sincerity--of steadfastness of purpose." "there, there," said kate, "don't expect me to be too moderate. how can i care about anything just now if i have to be moderate? i love suffrage because it gives me something to care about and to work for. the last generation has destroyed pretty much all of the theology, hasn't it? service of man is all there is left--particularly that branch of it known as the service of woman. isn't that what all of the poets and playwrights and novelists are writing about? isn't that the most interesting thing in the world at present? you've all urged me to go into it, haven't you? very well, i have. but i can't stay in it if i'm to be tepid. you mustn't expect me to modify my utterance and cut down my climaxes. i've got to make a hot propaganda of the thing. i want the exhilaration of martyrdom--though i'm not keen for the discomforts of it. in other words, dear lady, because you are judicious, don't expect me to be. i don't want to be judicious--yet. i want to be fervid." "you are a dear girl," said the elder woman, "but you are an egotist, as of course you know." "if i had been a modest violet by a mossy stone," laughed kate, "should i have taken up this work?" "i'm free to confess that you would not," said the other, checking a sigh as if she despaired of bringing this excited girl down to the earth. "yet i am bound to say--" she hesitated and kate took up the word. "i _do_ know--i really understand," she cried contritely. "you are not an egotist at all, dear lady. though you have held many positions of honor, you have never thought of yourself. your sacrifices have been _bona fide_. you who are so delicate and tender have done things which men might have shrunk from. i know what you mean by sincerity, and i am aware that you have it completely and steadily, whereas i have more enthusiasm than is good either for myself or the cause. but you wouldn't want me to form myself on you, would you now? temperament is just as much a fact as physique. i've got to dramatize woman's disadvantages if i am to preach on the subject. though i really think there are tragedies of womanhood which none could exaggerate." "oh, there are, there are, miss barrington." "how shall i make you understand that i am to be trusted!" kate cried. "i know i'm avid. i want both pain and joy. i want to suffer with the others and enjoy with the others. i want my cup of life full and running over with a brew of a thousand flavors, and i actually believe i want to taste of the cup each neighbor holds. i have to know how others feel and it's my nature to feel for them and with them. when i see this great wave of aspiration sweeping over women,--chinese and persian women as well as english and american,--i feel magnificent. i, too, am standing where the stream of influence blows over me. it thrills me magnificently, and i am meaning it when i say that i think the women who do not feel it are torpid or cowardly." the elder woman smiled patiently. after all, who was she that she should check her flaming disciple? xix whenever kate had a free sunday, she and mrs. dennison, the mistress of the caravansary, would go together to the west side to visit george and marna fitzgerald. it amused and enchanted kate to think that in the midst of so much that was commonplace, with dull apartment buildings stretching around for miles, such an arcadia should have located itself. it opened her eyes to the fact that there might be innumerable arcadians concealed in those monotonous rows of three-and four-story flat buildings, if only one had the wisdom and wit to find them. marna seemed to know of some. she had become acquainted with a number of these happy unknown little folk, to whom it never had occurred that celebrity was an essential of joy, and she liked them mightily. marna, indeed, liked high and low--always providing she didn't dislike them. if they were irish, her inclination toward them was accelerated. there were certain wonders of marna's ardent soul which were for "irish faces only"--irish eyes were the eyes she liked best to have upon her. but she forgave kate her anglo-saxon ancestry because of her talent for appreciating the irish character. time was passing beautifully with marna, and her bird of hope was fluttering nearer. she told kate that now she could see some sense in being a woman. "if you'd ask me," she said with childish audacity, "if such a foolish little thing as i could actually have a wonderful, dear little baby, i'd have said 'no' right at the start. i'm as flattered as i can be. and what pleases me so is that i don't have to be at all different from what i naturally am. i don't have to be learned or tremendously good; it isn't a question of deserts. it has just come to me--who never did deserve any such good!" next door to marna there was a young irishwoman of whom the fitzgeralds saw a good deal, the mother of five little children, with not more than sixteen months between the ages of any of them. mary finn had been beautiful--so much was evident at a glance. but she already wore a dragged expression; and work, far beyond her powers to accomplish, was making a sloven of her. she was petulant with the children, though she adored them--at least, sporadically. but her burden tired her patience out. timothy finn's income had not increased in proportion to his family. he was now in his young manhood, at the height of his earning capacity, and early middle-age might see him suffering a reduction. mrs. finn dropped in sunday afternoon to share the cup of tea which marna was offering her guests, and as she looked wistfully out of her tangle of dark hair,--in which lines of silver already were beginning to appear,--she impressed herself upon kate's mind as one of the innumerable army of martyrs to the fetish of fecundity which had borne down men and women through the centuries. she had her youngest child with her. "it was a terrible time before i could get up from the last one," she said, "me that was around as smart as could be with the first. i'm in living terror all the time for fear of what's coming to me. a mother has no business to die, that's what i tell tim. who'd look to the ones i have, with me taken? i'm sharp with them at times, but god knows i'd die for 'em. blessed be, they understand my scolding, the dears. it's a cuff and a kiss with me, and i declare i don't know which they like best. they may howl when i hurt them, but they know it's their own mother doing the cuffing, and in their hearts they don't care. it's that way with cubs, ye see. mother bear knows how hard to box the ears of 'em. but it's truth i'm saying, mrs. fitzgerald; there's little peace for women. they don't seem to belong to themselves at all, once they're married. it's very happy you are, looking forward to your first, and you have my good wishes. more than that, i'll be proud to be of any service to you i can when your time comes--it's myself has had experience enough! but, i tell you, the joy runs out when you're slaving from morning to night, and then never getting the half done that you ought; and when you don't know what it is to have two hours straight sleep at night; and maybe your husband scolding at the noise the young ones make. love 'em? of course, you love 'em. but you can stand only so much. after that, you're done for. and the agony of passing and leaving the children motherless is something i don't like to think about." she bared her thin breast to her nursing babe, rocking slowly, her blue eyes straining into the future with its menace. "but," said marna, blushing with embarrassment, "need there be such--such a burden? don't you think it right to--to--" "neither god nor man seems to have any mercy on me," cried the little woman passionately. "i say i'm in a trap--that's the truth of it. if i was a selfish, bad mother, i could get out of it; if i was a mean wife, i could, too, i suppose. i've tried to do what was right,--what other people told me was right,--and i pray it won't kill me--for i ought to live for the children's sake." the child was whining because of lack of nourishment, and mrs. finn put it to the other breast, but it fared little better there. mrs. dennison was looking on with her mild, benevolent aspect. "my dear," she said at last with an air of gentle authority, "i'm going out to get a bottle and good reliable infant food for that child. you haven't strength enough to more than keep yourself going, not to say anything about the baby." she took the child out of the woman's arms and gave it to kate. "but i don't think i ought to wean it when it's so young," cried mrs. finn, breaking down and wringing her thin hands with an immemorial hibernian gesture. "tim wouldn't like it, and his mother would rage at me." "they'll like it when they see the baby getting some flesh on its bones," insisted mrs. dennison. "there's more than one kind of a fight a mother has to put up for her children. they used to think it fine for a woman to kill herself for her children, but i don't think it's so much the fashion now. as you say, a mother has no business to die; it's the part of intelligence to live. so you just have a set-to with your old-fashioned mother-in-law if it's necessary." "yes," put in kate, "the new generation always has to fight the old in the interests of progress." marna broke into a rippling laugh. "that's her best platform manner," she cried. "just think, mrs. finn, my friend talks on suffrage." "oh!" gasped the little irishwoman, involuntarily putting out her hands as if she would snatch her infant from such a contaminating hold. but kate drew back smilingly. "yes," she said significantly, "i believe in woman's rights." she held on to the baby, and mrs. dennison, putting on her hat and coat, went in search of a nursing-bottle. on the way home, mrs. dennison, who was of the last generation, and kate, who was of the present one, talked the matter over. "she didn't seem to understand that she had been talking 'woman's rights,'" mused kate, referring to mrs. finn. "the word frightened the poor dear. she didn't see that fatal last word of her 'love, honor, and obey' had her where she might even have to give her life in keeping her word." "well, for my part," said mrs. dennison, in her mellow, flowing tones, "i always found it a pleasure to obey my husband. but, then, to be sure, i don't know that he ever asked anything inconsiderate of me." "you were a well-shielded woman, weren't you?" asked kate. "i didn't need to lift my hand unless i wished," said mrs. dennison in reminiscence. "and you had no children--" "but that was a great sorrow." "yes, but it wasn't a living vexation and drain. it didn't use up your vitality and suck up your brain power and make a slattern and a drudge of you as having five children in seven years has of little mrs. finn. it's all very well to talk of obeying when you aren't asked to obey--or, at least, when you aren't required to do anything difficult. but good tim finn, i'll warrant, tells his mary when she may go and where, and he'd be in a fury if she went somewhere against his desire. oh, she's playing the old medieval game, you can see that!" "dear kate," sighed mrs. dennison, "sometimes your expressions seem to me quite out of taste. i do hope you won't mind my saying so. you're so very emphatic." "i don't mind a bit, mrs. dennison. i dare say i am getting to be rather violent and careless in my way of talking. it's a reaction from the vagueness and prettiness of speech i used to hear down in silvertree, where they begin their remarks with an 'i'm not sure, but i think,' et cetera. but, really, you must overlook my vehemence. if i could spend my time with sweet souls like you, i'd be a different sort of woman." "i can't help looking forward, kate, to the time when you'll be in your own home. you think you're all bound up in this public work, but i can tell by the looks of you that you're just the one to make a good wife for some fine man. i hope you don't think it impertinent of me, but i can't make out why you haven't taken one or the other of the men who want you." "you think some one wants me?" asked kate provokingly. "oh, we all know that dr. von shierbrand would rather be taking you home to see his old german mother than to be made president of the university of chicago; and that nice mr. mccrea is nearly crazy over the way you treat him." "but it would seem so stale--life in a home with either of them! should i just have to sit at the window and watch for them to come home?" "you know you wouldn't," said mrs. dennison, almost crossly. "why do you tease me? what's good enough for other women ought to be good enough for you." "oh, what a bad one i am!" cried kate. "of course what is good enough for better women than i ought to be good enough for me. but yet--shall i tell the truth about myself?" "do," said mrs. dennison, placated. "i want you to confide in me, kate." "well, you see, dear lady, suppose that i marry one of the gentlemen of whom you have spoken. suppose i make a pleasant home for my husband, have two or three nice children, and live a happy and--well, a good life. then i die and there's the end." "well, of course i don't think that's the end," broke in mrs. dennison. kate evaded the point. "i mean, there's an end of my earthly existence. now, on the other hand, suppose i get this bureau for children through. suppose it becomes a fact. let us play that i am asked to become the head of it, or, if not that, at least to assist in carrying on its work. then, suppose that, as a result of my work, the unprotected children have protection; the education of all the children in the country is assured--even of the half-witted, and the blind and the deaf and the vicious. suppose that the care and development of children becomes a great and generally comprehended science, like sanitation, so that the men and women of future generations are more fitted to live than those we now see about us. don't you think that will be better worth while than my individual happiness? they think a woman heroic when she sacrifices herself for her children, but shouldn't i be much more heroic if i worked all my life for other people's children? for children yet to be born? i ask you that calmly. i don't wish you to answer me to-day. i'm in earnest now, dear mrs. dennison, and i'd like you to give me a true answer." there was a little pause. mrs. dennison was trifling nervously with the frogs on her black silk jacket. when she spoke, it was rather diffidently. "i could answer you so much better, my dear kate," she said at length, "if i only knew how much or how little vanity you have." "oh!" gasped kate. "or whether you are really an egotist--as some think." "oh!" breathed kate again. "as for me, i always say that a person can't get anywhere without egotism. the word never did scare me. egotism is a kind of yeast that makes the human bread rise. i don't see how we could get along without it. as you say, i'd better wait before answering you. you've asked me an important question, and i'd like to give it thought. i can see that you'd be a good and useful woman whichever thing you did. but the question is, would you be a happy one in a home? you've got the idea of a public life in your head, and very likely that influences you without your realizing it." "i don't say i'm not ambitious," cried kate, really stirred. "but that ought to be a credit to me! it's ridiculous using the word 'ambitious' as a credit to a man, and making it seem like a shame to a woman. ambition is personal force. why shouldn't i have force?" "there are things i can't put into words," said mrs. dennison, taking a folded handkerchief from her bead bag and delicately wiping her face, "and one of them is what i think about women. i'm a woman myself, and it doesn't seem becoming to me to say that i think they're sacred." "no more sacred than men!" interrupted kate hotly. "life is sacred--if it's good. i can't say i think it sacred when it's deleterious. it's that pale, twilight sort of a theory which has kept women from doing the things they were capable of doing. men kept thinking of them as sacred, and then they were miserably disappointed when they found they weren't. they talk about women's dreams, but i think men dream just as much as women, or more, and that they moon around with ideas about angel wives, and then are horribly shocked when they find they've married limited, commonplace, selfish creatures like themselves. i say let us train them both, make them comrades, give them a chance to share the burdens and the rewards, and see if we can't reduce the number of broken hearts in the world." "there are some burdens," put in mrs. dennison, "which men and women cannot share. the burden of child-bearing, which is the most important one there is, has to be borne by women alone. you yourself were talking about that only a little while ago. it's such a strange sort of a thing,--so sweet and _so_ terrible,--and it so often takes a woman to the verge of the grave, or over it, that i suppose it is that which gives a sacredness to women. then, too, they'll work all their lives long for some one they love with no thought of any return except love. that makes them sacred, too. most of them believe in god, even when they're bad, and they believe in those they love even when they ought not. maybe they're right in this and maybe they're not. perhaps you'll say that shows their lack of sense. but i say it helps the world on, just the same. it may not be sensible--but it makes them sacred." mrs. dennison's face was shining. she had pulled the gloves from her warm hands, and kate, looking down at them, saw how work-worn they now were, though they were softly rounded and delicate. she knew this woman might have married a second time; but she was toiling that she might keep faith with the man she had laid in his grave. she was expecting a reunion with him. her hope warmed her and kept her redolent of youth. she was still a bride, though she was a widow. she was of those who understood the things of the spirit. the essence of womanhood was in her--the elusive poetry of womanhood. to such implications of mystic beauty there was no retort. kate saw in that moment that when women got as far as emancipation they were going to lose something infinitely precious. the real question was, should not these beautiful, these evanishing joys be permitted to depart in the interests of progress? would not new, more robust satisfactions come to take the place of them? they rode on in silence, and kate's mind darted here and there--darted to lena vroom, that piteous little sister of icarus, with her scorched wings; darted to honora fulham with her shattered faith; to mary morrison with her wanton's wisdom; to mary finn, whose womanhood was her undoing; to marna, who had given fame for love and found the bargain good; to mrs. leger, who had turned to god; to her mother, the cringing wife, who could not keep faith with herself and her vows of obedience, and who had perished of the conflict; to mrs. dennison, happy in her mid-victorian creed. then from these, whom she knew, her mind swept on to the others--to all the restless, disturbed, questioning women the world over, who, clinging to beautiful old myths, yet reached out diffident hands to grasp new guidance. the violence and nurtured hatred of some of them offended her deeply; the egregious selfishness of others seemed to her as a flaming sin. militant, unrestrained, avid of coarse and obvious things, they presented a shameful contrast to this little, gentle, dreaming keeper of a boarding-house who sat beside her, her dove's eyes filled with the mist of memories. and yet--and yet-- xx the next day, as it happened, she was invited to lake forest to attend a "suffrage tea." a distinguished english suffragette was to be present, and the more fashionable group of chicago suffragists were gathering to pay her honor. it was a torrid day with a promise of storm, and kate would have preferred to go to the settlement house to do her usual work, which chanced just now to be chiefly clerical. but she was urged to meet the englishwoman and to discuss with her the matter of the children's bureau, in which the settlement house people were now taking the keenest interest. kate went, gowned in fresh linen, and well pleased, after all, to be with a holiday crowd riding through the summer woods. tea was being served on the lawn. it overlooked the lake, and here were gathered both men and women. it was a company of rather notable persons, as kate saw at a glance. almost every one there was distinguished for some social achievement, or as the advocate of some reform or theory, or perhaps as an opulent and fashionable patron. it was at once interesting and amusing. kate greeted her hostess, and looked about her for the guest of honor. it transpired that the affair was quite informal, after all. the englishwoman was sitting in a tea-tent discoursing with a number of gentlemen who hung over her with polite attentions. they were well-known bachelors of advanced ideas--men with honorary titles and personal ambitions. the great suffragist was very much at home with them. her deep, musical voice resounded like a bell as she uttered her dicta and her witticisms. she--like the men--was smoking a cigarette, a feat which she performed without coquetry or consciousness. she was smoking because she liked to smoke. it took no more than a glance to reveal the fact that she was further along in her pregnancy than marna--marna who started back from the door when a stranger appeared at it lest she should seem immodest. but the suffragette, having acquired an applauding and excellent husband, saw no reason why she should apologize to the world for the processes of nature. quite as unconscious of her condition as of her unconventionality in smoking, she discoursed with these diverted men, her transparent frock revealing the full beauties of her neck and bust, her handsome arms well displayed--frankly and insistently feminine, yet possessing herself without hesitation of what may be termed the masculine attitude toward life. for some reason which kate did not attempt to define, she refrained from discussing the bureau of children with the celebrated suffragette, although she did not doubt that the englishwoman would have been capable of keen and valuable criticism. instead, she returned to the city, sent a box of violets to marna, and then went on to her attic room. a letter was awaiting her from the west. it read: "my dear miss barrington:-- "honora and the kiddies are here. i have given my cousin a room where she can see the mountains on two sides, and i hope it will help. i've known the hills to help, even with pretty rough customers. it won't take a creature like honora long to get hold of the secret, will it? you know what i mean, i guess. "i wish you had come. i watched the turn in the drive to see if you wouldn't be in the station wagon. there were two women's heads. i recognized honora's, and i tried to think the second one was yours, but i really knew it wasn't. it was a low head--one of that patient sort of heads--and a flat, lid-like hat. the nurse's, of course! i suppose you wear helmet-shaped hats with wings on them--something like mercury's or diana's. or don't they sell that kind of millinery nowadays? "honora tells me you're trying to run the world and that you make up to all kinds of people--hold-up men as well as preachers. do you know, i'm something like that myself? i can't help it, but i do seem to enjoy folks. one of the pleasantest nights i ever spent was with a lot of bandits in a cave. i was their prisoner, too, which complicated matters. but we had such a bully time that they asked me to join them. i told them i'd like the life in some respects. i could see it was a sort of game not unlike some i'd played when i was a boy. but it would have made me nervous, so i had to refuse them. "well, i'm talking nonsense. what if you should think i counted it sense! that would be bad for me. i only thought you'd be having so may pious and proper letters that i'd have to give you a jog if i got you to answer this. and i do wish you would answer it. i'm a lonely man, though a busy one. of course it's going to be a tremendous comfort having honora here when once she gets to be herself. she's wild with pain now, and nothing she says means anything. we play chess a good deal, after a fashion. honora thinks she's amusing me, but as i like 'the rigor of the game,' i can't say that i'm amused at her plays. the first time she thinks before she moves i'll know she's over the worst of her trouble. she seems very weak, but i'm feeding her on cream and eggs. the kiddies are dears--just as cute as young owls. they're not afraid of me even when i pretend i'm a coyote and howl. "do write to me, miss barrington. i'm as crude as a cabbage, but when i say i'd rather have you write me than have any piece of good fortune befall me which your wildest imagination could depict, i mean it. perhaps that will scare you off. anyway, you can't say i didn't play fair. "i'm worn out sitting around with this fractured leg of mine in its miserable cast. (i know stronger words than 'miserable,' but i use it because i'm determined to behave myself.) honora says she thinks it would be all right for you to correspond with me. i asked her. "yours faithfully, "karl wander." "what a ridiculous boy," said kate to herself. she laughed aloud with a rippling merriment; and then, after a little silence, she laughed again. "the man certainly is naïf," she said. "can he really expect me to answer a letter like that?" she awoke several times that night, and each time she gave a fleeting thought to the letter. she seemed to see it before her eyes--a purple eidolon, a parallelogram in shape. it flickered up and down like an electric sign. when morning came she was quite surprised to find the letter was existent and stationary. she read it again, and she wished tremendously that she might answer it. it occurred to her that in a way she never had had any fun. she had been persistently earnest, passionately honest, absurdly grim. now to answer that letter would come under the head of mere frolic! yet would it? was not this curious, outspoken man--this gigantic, good-hearted, absurd boy--giving her notice that he was ready to turn into her lover at the slightest gesture of acquiescence on her part? no, the frolic would soon end. it would be another of those appalling games-for-life, those woman-trap affairs. and she liked freedom better than anything. she went off to her work in a defiant frame of mind, carrying, however, the letter with her in her handbag. what she did write--after several days' delay--was this:-- "my dear mr. wander:-- "i can see that honora is in the best place in the world for her. you must let me know when she has checkmated you. i quite agree that that will show the beginning of her recovery. she has had a terrible misfortune, and it was the outcome of a disease from which all of us 'advanced' women are suffering. her convictions and her instincts were at war. i can't imagine what is going to happen to us. we all feel very unsettled, and honora's tragedy is only one of several sorts which may come to any of us. but an instinct deeper than instinct, a conviction beyond conviction, tells me that we are right--that we must go on, studying, working, developing. we may have to pay a fearful price for our advancement, but i do not suppose we could turn back now if we would. "you ask if i will correspond with you. well, do you suppose we really have anything to say? what, for example, have you to tell me about? honora says you own a mine, or two or three; that you have a city of workmen; that you are a father to them. are they italians? i think she said so. they're grateful folk, the italians. i hope they like you. they are so sweet when they do, and so--sudden--when they don't. "i have had something to do with them, and they are very dear to me. they ask me to their christenings and to other festivals. i like their gayety because it contrasts with my own disposition, which is gloomy. "upon reflection, i think we'd better not write to each other. you were too explicit in your letter--too precautionary. you'd make me have a conscience about it, and i'd be watching myself. that's too much trouble. my business is to watch others, not myself. but i do thank you for giving such a welcome to honora and the babies. i hope you will soon be about again. i find it so much easier to imagine you riding over a mountain pass than sitting in the house with a leg in plaster. "yours sincerely, "kate barrington." he wrote back:-- "my dear miss barrington:-- "i admire your idea of gloom! not the spirit of gloom but of adventure moves you. i saw it in your eye. when i buy a horse, i always look at his eye. it's not so much viciousness that i'm afraid of as stupidity. i like a horse that is always pressing forward to see what is around the next turn. now, we humans are a good deal like horses. women are, anyway. and i saw your eye. my own opinion is that you are having the finest time of anybody i know. you're shaping your own life, at least,--and that's the best fun there is,--the best kind of good fortune. of course you'll get tired of it after a while. i don't say that because you are a woman, but i've seen it happen over and over again both with men and women. after a little while they get tired of roving and come home. "you may not believe it, but, after all, that's the great moment in their lives--you just take it from me who have seen more than you might think and who have had a good deal of time to think things out. i do wish you had seen your way to come out here. there are any number of matters i would like to talk over with you. "you mustn't think me impudent for writing in this familiar way. i write frankly because i'm sure you'll understand, and the conventionalities have been cast aside because in this case they seem so immaterial. i can assure you that i'm not impudent--not where women are concerned, at any rate. i'm a born lover of women, though i have been no woman's lover. i haven't seen much of them. sometimes i've gone a year without seeing one, not even a squaw. but i judge them by my mother, who made every one happy who came near her, and by some others i have known; i judge them by you, though i saw you only a minute. i suppose you will think me crazy or insincere in saying that. i'm both sane and honest--ask honora. "you speak of my italians. they are making me trouble. we have been good friends and they have been happy here. i gave them lots to build on if they would put up homes; and i advanced the capital for the cottages and let them pay me four per cent--the lowest possible interest. i got a school for their children and good teachers, and i interested the church down in denver to send a priest out here and establish a mission. i thought we understood each other, and that they comprehended that their prosperity and mine were bound up together. but an agitator came here the other day,--sent by the unions, of course,--and there's discontent. they have lost the friendly look from their eyes, and the men turn out of their way to avoid speaking to me. since i've been laid up here, things have been going badly. there have been meetings and a good deal of hard talk. i suppose i'm in for a fight, and i tell you it hurts. i feel like a man at war with his children. as i feel just now, i'd throw up the whole thing rather than row with them, but the money of other men is invested in these mines and i'm the custodian of it. so i've no choice in the matter. perhaps, too, it's for their own good that they should be made to see reason. what do you say? "faithfully, "wander." honora wrote the same day and to her quiet report of improved nights and endurable days she added:-- "i hope you will answer my cousin's letter. i can't tell you what a good man he is, and so boyish, in spite of his being strong and perfectly brave--oh, brave to the death! he's very lonely. he always has been. you'll have to make allowances for his being so western and going right to the point in such a reckless way. he hasn't told me what he's written you, but i know if he wants to be friends with you he'll say so without any preliminaries. he's very eager to have me talk of you, so i do. i'm eager to talk, too. i always loved you, kate, but now i put you and karl in a class by yourselves as the completely dependable ones. "the babies send kisses. don't worry about me. i'm beginning to see that it's not extraordinary for trouble to have come to me. why not to me as well as to another? i'm one of the great company of sad ones now. but i'm not going to be melancholy. i know how disappointed you'd be if i were. i'm beginning to sleep better, and for all of this still, dark cavern in my heart, so filled with voices of the past and with the horrible chill of the present, i am able to laugh a little at passing things. i find myself doing it involuntarily. so at least i've got where i can hear what the people about me are saying, and can make a fitting reply. yes, do write karl. for my sake." xxi meantime, ray mccrea had neglected to take his summer vacation. he was staying in the city, and twice a week he called on kate. kate liked him neither more nor less than at the beginning. he was clever and he was kind, and it was his delight to make her happy. but it was with the surface of her understanding that she listened to him and the skimmings of her thoughts that she passed to him. he had that light, acrid accent of well-to-do american men. reasonably contented himself, he failed to see why every one else should not be so, too. he was not religious for the same reason that he was not irreligious--because it seemed to him useless to think about such matters. public affairs and politics failed to interest him because he believed that the country was in the hands of a mob and that the "grafters would run things anyway." he called eloquence spell-binding, and sentiment slush,--sentiment, that is, in books and on the stage,--and he was indulgently inclined to suspect that there was something "in it" for whoever appeared to be essaying a benevolent enterprise. respectable, liberal-handed, habitually amused, slightly caustic, he looked out for the good of himself and those related to him and considered that he was justified in closing his corporate regards at that point. he had no cant and no hypocrisy, no pose and no fads. a sane, aggressive, self-centered, rational materialist of the american brand, it was not only his friends who thought him a fine fellow. he himself would have admitted so much and have been perfectly justified in so doing. kate received flowers, books, and sweets from him, and now and then he asked her why he had lost ground with her. sometimes he would say:-- "i can see a conservative policy is the one for me, kate, where you're concerned. i'm going to lie low so as not to give you a chance to send me whistling." once, when he grew picturesquely melancholy, she refused to receive his offerings. she told him he was making a villainess out of her, and that she'd end their meetings. but at that he promised so ardently not to be ardent that she forgave him and continued to read the novels and to tend the flowers he brought her. they went for walks together; sometimes she lunched with him in the city, and on pleasant evenings they attended open-air concerts. he tried to be discreet, but in august, with the full moon, he had a relapse. kate gave him warning; he persisted,--the moon really was quite wonderful that august,--and then, to his chagrin, he received a postcard from silvertree. kate had gone to see her father. * * * * * she would not have gone but for a chance word in one of wander's letters. "i hear your father is still living," he wrote. "that is so good! i have no parents now, but i like to remember how happy i was when i had them. i was young when my mother died, but father lived to a good age, and as long as he was alive i had some one to do things for. he always liked to hear of my exploits. i was a hero to him, if i never was to any one else. it kept my heart warmed up, and when he went he left me very lonely, indeed." kate reddened with shame when she read these words. had honora told him how she had deserted her father--how she had run from him and his tyranny to live her own life, and was he, wander, meaning this for a rebuke? but she knew that could not be. honora would have kept her counsel; she was not a tattler. karl was merely congratulating her on a piece of good fortune, apparently. it threw a new light on the declaration of independence that had seemed to her to be so fine. was old-time sentiment right, after all? the ancient law, "honor thy father and thy mother," did not put in the proviso, "if they are according to thy notion of what they should be." so kate was again at silvertree and in the old, familiar and now lifeless house. it was not now a caressed and pampered home; there was no longer any one there to trick it out in foolish affectionate adornments. in the first half-hour, while kate roamed from room to room, she could hardly endure the appalling blankness of the place. no stranger could have felt so unwelcomed as she did--so alien, so inconsolably homeless. she was waiting for her father when he came home, and she hoped to warm him a little by the surprise of her arrival. but it was his cue to be deeply offended with her. "hullo, kate," he said, nodding and holding out his hand with a deliberately indifferent gesture. "oh, see here, dad, you know you've got to kiss me!" she cried. so he did, rather shamefacedly, and they sat together on the dusty veranda and talked. he had been well, he said, but he was far from looking so. his face was gray and drawn, his lips were pale, and his long skillful surgeon's hands looked inert and weary. when he walked, he had the effect of dragging his feet after him. "aren't you going to take a vacation, dad?" kate demanded. "if ever a man appeared to be in need of it, you do." "what would i do with a vacation? and where could i go? i'd look fine at a summer resort, wouldn't i, sitting around with idle fools? if i could only go somewhere to get rid of this damned neurasthenia that all the fool women think they've got, i'd go; but i don't suppose there's such a place this side of the arctic circle." kate regarded him for a moment without answering. she saw he was almost at the end of his strength and a victim of the very malady against which he was railing. the constant wear and tear of country practice, year in and year out, had depleted him of a magnificent stock of energy and endurance. perhaps, too, she had had her share of responsibility in his decline, for she had been severe with him; had defied him when she might have comforted him. she forgot his insolence, his meanness, his conscienceless hectoring, as she saw how his temples seemed fallen in and how his gray hair straggled over his brow. it was she who assumed the voice of authority now. "there's going to be a vacation," she announced, "and it will be quite a long one. put your practice in the hands of some one else, let your housekeeper take a rest, and then you come away with me. i'll give you three days to get ready." he cast at her the old sharp, lance-like look of opposition, but she stood before him so strong, so kind, so daughterly (so motherly, too), that, for one of the few times in his life of senseless domination and obstinacy, he yielded. the tears came to his eyes. "all right, kate," he said with an accent of capitulation. he really was a broken old man. she passed a happy evening with him looking over advertisements of forest inns and fishing resorts, and though no decision was reached, both of them went to bed in a state of pleasant anticipation. the following day she took his affairs in hand. the housekeeper was delighted at her release; a young physician was pleased to take charge of dr. barrington's patients. kate made him buy new clothes,--he had been wearing winter ones,--and she set him out in picturesque gear suiting his lank length and old-time manner. then she induced him to select a place far north in the wisconsin woods, and the third day they were journeying there together. it seemed quite incredible that the dependent and affectionate man opposite her was the one who had filled her with fear and resentment such a short time ago. she found herself actually laughing aloud once at the absurdity of it all. had her dread of him been fortuitous, his tyranny a mere sham? had he really liked her all the time, and had she been a sensitive fool? she would have thought so, indeed, but for the memory of the perplexed and distracted face of her mother, the cringing and broken spirit of her who missed truth through an obsession of love. no, no, a tyrant he had been, one of a countless army of them! but now he leaned back on his seat very sad of eye, inert of gesture, without curiosity or much expectancy. he let her do everything for him. she felt her heart warming as she served him. she could hardly keep herself from stooping to kiss his great brow; the hollows of his eyes when he was sleeping moved her to a passion of pity. after all, he was her own; and now she had him again. the bitterness of years began to die, and with it much of that secret, instinctive aversion to men--that terror of being trapped and held to some uninspiring association or dragging task. for now, when her father awoke from one of his many naps, he would turn to her with: "have i slept long, kate?" or "we'll be going in to lunch soon, i suppose, daughter?" or "will it be very long now before we reach our destination?" it was reached at dawn of an early autumn day, and they drove ten miles into the pine woods. the scented silence took them. they were at "god's green caravansarie," and the rancor that had poisoned their hearts was gone. they turned toward each other in common trust, father and daughter, forgiving, if not all forgetting, the hurt and angry years. "it really was your cousin who brought it about," kate wrote honora. "he reminded me that i was fortunate to have a father. you see, i hadn't realized it! oh, honora, what a queer girl i am--always having to think things out! always making myself miserable in trying to be happy! always going wrong in striving to be right! i should think the gods would make olympus ring laughing at me! i once wrote your cousin that women of my sort were worn out with their struggle to reconcile their convictions and their instincts. and that's true. that's what is making them so restless and so strange and tumultuous. but of course i can't think it their fault--merely their destiny. something is happening to them, but neither they nor any one else can quite tell what it is." * * * * * dr. barrington was broken, no question about that. even the stimulation of the incomparable air of those northern woods could not charge him with vitality. he lay wrapped in blankets, on the bed improvised for him beneath the trees, or before the leaping fire in the inn, with the odors of the burning pine about him, and he let time slip by as it would. the people at the inn thought they never had seen a more devoted daughter than his. she sat beside him while he slept; she read or talked to him softly when he awakened; she was at hand with some light but sustaining refreshment whenever he seemed depressed or too relaxed. but there were certain things which the inn people could not make out. the sick man had the air of having forgiven this fine girl for something. he received her service like one who had the right to expect it. he was tender and he was happy, but he was, after all, the dominator. nor could they quite make out the girl, who smiled at his demands,--which were sometimes incessant,--and who obeyed with the perfect patience of the strong. they did not know that if he had once been an active tyrant, he was now a supine one. as he had been unable, for all of his intelligence, to perceive the meaning of justice from the old angle, so he was equally unable to get it from his present point of view. he had been harsh with his daughter in the old days; so much he would have admitted. that he would have frustrated her completely, absorbed and wasted her power, he could not perceive. he did not surmise that he was now doing in an amiable fashion what he hitherto had tried to do in a masterful and insolent one. he did not realize that the tyranny of the weak is a more destructive thing when levelled at the generous than the tyranny of the strong. had he been interrupted in mid-career--in those days when his surgery was sure and bold--to care for a feeble and complaining wife, he would have thought himself egregiously abused. that kate, whose mail each day exceeded by many times that which he had received in his most influential years, whose correspondence was with persons with whom he could not at any time have held communication, should be taken from her active duties appeared to him as nothing. he was a sick father. his daughter attended him in love and dutifulness. he was at peace--and he knew she was doing her duty. it really did not occur to him that she or any one else could have looked at the matter in a different light, or that any loving expression of regret was due her. such sacrifices were expected of women. they were not expected of men, although men sometimes magnificently performed them. to tell the truth, no such idea occurred to kate either. she was as happy as her father. at last, in circumstances sad enough, she had reached a degree of understanding with him. she had no thought for the inconvenience under which she worked. she was more than willing to sit till past the middle of the night answering her letters, postponing her engagements, sustaining her humbler and more unhappy friends--those who were under practical parole to her--with her encouragement, and always, day by day, extending the idea of the bureau of children. for daily it took shape; daily the system of organization became more apparent to her. she wrote to ray mccrea about it; she wrote to karl wander on the same subject. it seemed to suffice or almost to suffice her. it kept her from anticipating the details of the melancholy drama which was now being enacted before her eyes. for her father was passing. his weakness increased, and his attitude toward life became one of gentle indifference. he was homesick for his wife, too. though he had seemed to take so little satisfaction in her society, and had not scrupled when she was alive to show the contempt he felt for her opinions, now he liked to talk of her. he had made a great outcry against sentiment all of his life, but in his weakness he found his chief consolation in it. he had been a materialist, denying immortality for the soul, but now he reverted to the phrases of pious men of the past generation. "i shall be seeing your mother soon, kate," he would say wistfully, holding his daughter's hand. kate was involuntarily touched by such words, but she was ashamed for him, too. where was all his hard-won, bravely flaunted infidelity? where his scientific outlook? it was only slowly, and as the result of her daily and nightly association with him, that she began to see how his acquired convictions were slipping away from him, leaving the sentiments and predilections which had been his when he was a boy. had he never been a strong man, really, and had his violence of opinion and his arrogance of demeanor been the defences erected by a man of spiritual timidity and restless, excitable brain? had his assertiveness, like his compliance, been part and parcel of a mind not at peace, not grounded in a definite faith? perhaps he had been afraid of the domination of his gentle wife with her soft insistence, and had girded at her throughout the years because of mere fanatic self-esteem. but now that she had so long been beyond the reach of his whimsical commands, he turned to the thought of her like a yearning child to its mother. "if you hadn't come when you did, kate," he would say, weeping with self-pity, "i should have died alone. i wouldn't own to any one how sick i was. why, one night i was so weak, after being out thirty-six hours with a sick woman, that i had to creep upstairs on my hands and knees." he sobbed for a moment piteously, his nerves too tattered to permit him to retain any semblance of self-control. kate tried in vain to soothe him. "what would your mother have thought if you had let me die alone?" he demanded of her. it was useless for her to say that he had not told her he was ill. he was in no condition to face the truth. he was completely shattered--the victim of a country physician's practice and of an unrestrained irritability. her commiseration had been all that was needed to have him yield himself unreservedly to her care. it had been her intention to stay in the woods with him for a fortnight, but the end of that time found his lassitude increasing and his need for her greater than ever. she was obliged to ask for indefinite leave of absence. a physician came from milwaukee once a week to see him; and meantime quiet and comfort were his best medicines. the autumn began to deepen. the pines accentuated their solemnity, and out on the roadways the hazel bushes and the sumac changed to canary, to russet, and to crimson. for days together the sky would be cloudless, and even in the dead of night the vault seemed to retain its splendor. there are curious cloths woven on persian and on turkish looms which appear to the casual eye to be merely black, but which held in sunlight show green and blue, purple and bronze, like the shifting colors on a duck's back. kate, pacing back and forth in the night after hours of concentrated labor,--labor which could be performed only when her father was resting,--noted such mysterious and evasive hues in her northern sky. never had she seen heavens so triumphant. true, the stars shone with a remote glory, but she was more inspired by their enduring, their impersonal magnificence, than she could have been by anything relative to herself. a year ago, had she been so isolated, she might have found herself lonely, but it was quite different now. she possessed links with the active world. there were many who wanted her--some for small and some for great things. she felt herself in the stream of life; it poured about her, an invisible thing, but strong and deep. sympathy, understanding, encouragement, reached her even there in her solitude and heartened her. weary as she often was physically, drained as she could not but be mentally, her heart was warm and full. october came and went bringing little change in dr. barrington's condition. it did not seem advisable to move him. rest and care were the things required; and the constant ministrations of a physician would have been of little benefit. kate prayed for a change; and it came, but not as she had hoped. one morning she went to her father to find him terribly altered. it was as if some blight had fallen upon him in the night. his face was gray in hue, his pulse barely fluttering, though his eyes were keener than they had been, as if a sudden danger had brought back his old force and comprehension. even the tone in which he addressed her had more of its old-time quality. it was the accent of command, the voice he had used as a physician in the sick-room, though it was faint. "send for hudson," he said. "we'll be needing him, kate. the fight's on. don't feel badly if we fail. you've done your best." it was six hours before the physician arrived from milwaukee. "i couldn't have looked for anything like this," he said to kate. "i thought he was safe--that six months' rest would see him getting about again." they had a week's conflict with the last dread enemy of man, and they lost. dr. barrington was quite as much aware of the significance of his steady decline as any one. he had practical, quiet, encouraging talks with his daughter. he sent for an attorney and secured his property to her. once more, as in his brighter days, he talked of important matters, though no longer with his old arrogance. he seemed to comprehend at last, fully and proudly, that she was the inheritor of the best part of him. her excursive spirit, her inquisitive mind, were, after all, in spite of all differences, his gift to her. he gave her his good wishes and begged her to follow whatever forces had been leading her. it was as if, in his weakness, he had sunk for a period into something resembling childhood and had emerged from it into a newer, finer manhood. "i kept abreast of things in my profession," he said, "but in other matters i was obstinate. i liked the old way--a man at the helm, and the crew answering his commands. no matter how big a fool the man was, i still wanted him at the helm." he smiled at her brightly. there was, indeed, a sort of terrible brilliancy about him, the result, perhaps, of heroic artificial stimulation. but these false fires soon burned themselves out. one beautiful sunday morning they found him sinking. he himself informed his physician that it was his day of transition. "i've only an hour or two more, hudson," he whispered cheerfully. "feel that pulse!" "oh, we may manage to keep you with us some time yet, dr. barrington," said the other with a professional attempt at optimism. but the older man shook his head. "let's not bother with the stock phrases," he said. "ask my daughter to come. i'd like to look at her till the last." so kate sat where he could see her, and they coaxed the fluttering heart to yet a little further effort. dr. barrington supervised everything; counted his own pulse; noted its decline with his accustomed accuracy. the sunlight streamed into the room through the tall shafts of trees; outside the sighing of the pines was heard, rising now and then to a noble requiem. it lifted kate's soul on its deep harmonies, and she was able to bear herself with fortitude. "it's been so sweet to be with you, dear," she murmured in the ears which were growing dull to earthly sounds. "say that i've made up to you a little for my willfulness. i've always loved you--always." "i know," he whispered. "i understand--everything--now!" in fact, his glance answered hers with full comprehension. "the beat is getting very low now, doctor," he murmured, the fingers of his right hand on his left wrist; "very infrequent--fifteen minutes more--" dr. hudson tried to restrain him from his grim task of noting his own sinking vitality, but the old physician waved him off. "it's very interesting," he said. it seemed so, indeed. suddenly he said quite clearly and in a louder voice than he had used that day: "it has stopped. it is the end!" kate sprang to her feet incredulously. there was a moment of waiting so tense that the very trees seemed to cease their moaning to listen. in all the room there was no sound. the struggling breath had ceased. the old physician had been correct--he had achieved the thing he had set himself to do. he had announced his own demise. xxii kate had him buried beside the wife for whom he had so inconsistently longed. she sold the old house, selected a few keepsakes from it, disposed of all else, and came, late in november, back to the city. marna's baby had been born--a little bright boy, named for his father. mrs. barsaloux, relenting, had sent a layette of french workmanship, and marna was radiantly happy. "if only _tante_ will come over for christmas," marna lilted to kate, "i shall be almost too happy to live. how good she was to me, and how ungrateful i seemed to her! write her to come, kate, mavourneen. tell her the baby won't seem quite complete till she's kissed it." so kate wrote mrs. barsaloux, adding her solicitation to marna's. human love and sympathy were coming to seem to her of more value than anything else in the world. to be loved--to be companioned--to have the vast loneliness of life mitigated by fealty and laughter and tenderness--what was there to take the place of it? her heart swelled with a desire to lessen the pain of the world. all her egotism, her self-assertion, her formless ambitions had got up, or down, to that,--to comfort the comfortless, to keep evil away from little children, to let those who were in any sort of a prison go free. yet she knew very well that all of this would lack its perfect meaning unless there was some one to say to her--to her and to none other: "i understand." * * * * * mrs. barsaloux did not come to america at christmas time. karl wander did not--as he had thought he might--visit chicago. the holiday season seemed to bring little to kate except a press of duties. she aspired to go to bed christmas night with the conviction that not a child in her large territory had spent a neglected christmas. this meant a skilled coöperation with other societies, with the benevolently inclined newspapers, and with generous patrons. the correspondence involved was necessarily large, and the amount of detail to be attended to more than she should have undertaken, unaided, but she was spurred on by an almost consuming passion of pity and sisterliness. that sensible detachment which had marked her work at the outset had gradually and perhaps regrettably disappeared. so far from having outgrown emotional struggle, she seemed now, because of something that was taking place in her inner life, to be increasingly susceptible to it. her father's death had taken from her the last vestige of a home. she had now no place which she could call her own, or to which she would instinctively turn at christmas time. to be sure, there were many who bade her to their firesides, and some of these invitations she accepted with gratitude and joy. but she could, of course, only pause at the hearthstones of others. her thoughts winged on to other things--to the little poor homes where her wistful children dwelt, to the great scheme for their care and oversight which daily came nearer to realization. a number of benevolent women--rich in purse and in a passion for public service--desired her to lecture. she was to explain the meaning of the bureau of children at the state federations of women's clubs, in lyceum courses, and wherever receptive audiences could be found. they advised, among other things, her attendance at the biennial meeting of the general federation of women's clubs which was meeting that coming spring in southern california. the time had been not so far distant when she would have had difficulty in seeing herself in the rôle of a public lecturer, but now that she had something imperative to say, she did not see herself in any "rôle" at all. she ceased to think about herself save as the carrier of a message. her christmas letter from wander was at once a disappointment and a shock. * * * * * "i've made a mess of things," he wrote, "and do not intend to intrude on you until i have shown myself more worthy of consideration. i try to tell myself that my present fiasco is not my fault, but i've more than a suspicion that i'm playing the coward's part when i think that. you can be disappointed in me if you like. _i'm_ outrageously disappointed. i thought i was made of better stuff. "i don't know when i'll have time for writing again, for i shall be very busy. i suppose i'll think about you more than is good for me. but maybe not. maybe the thoughts of you will be crowded out. i'm rather curious to see. it would be better for me if they would, for i've come to a bad turn in the road, and when i get around it, maybe all of the old familiar scenes--the window out of which your face looked, for example--will be lost to me. i send my good wishes to you all the same. i shall do that as long as i have a brain and a heart. "faithfully, "wander." "that means trouble," reflected kate, and had a wild desire to rush to his aid. * * * * * that she did not was owing partly--only partly--to another letter which, bearing an english postmark, indicated that ray mccrea, who had been abroad for a month on business, was turning his face toward home. what he had to say was this:-- "dearest kate:-- "i'm sending you a warning. in a few days i'll be tossing on that black sea of which i have, in the last few days, caught some discouraging glimpses. it doesn't look as if it meant to let me see the statue of liberty again, but as surely as i do, i'm going to go into council with you. "i imagine you know mighty well what i'm going to say. for years you've kept me at your call--or, rather, for years i have kept myself there. you've discouraged me often, in a tolerant fashion, as if you thought me too young to be dangerous, or yourself too high up to be called to account. i've been patient, chiefly because i found your society, as a mere recipient of my awkward attentions, too satisfactory to be able to run the risk of foregoing it. but if i were to sit in the outer court any longer i would be pusillanimous. i'm coming home to force you to make up that strange mind of yours, which seems to be forever occupying itself with the thing far-off and to-be-hoped-for, rather than with what is near at hand. "you'll have time to think it over. you can't say i've been precipitate. "yours--always, "ray." at that she flashed a letter to colorado. "what is your cousin's trouble?" she asked honora. "is it at the mines?" "it's at the mines," honora replied. "karl's life has been and is in danger. friends have warned me of that again and again. there's no holding these people--these several hundred italians that poor karl insisted upon regarding as his wards, his 'adopted children.' they're preparing to leave their half-paid-for homes and their steady work, and to go threshing off across the country in the wave of a hard-drinking, hysterical labor leader. he has them inflamed to the explosive point. when they've done their worst, karl may be a poor man. not that he worries about that; but he's likely to carry down with him friends and business associates. of course this is not final. he may win out, but such a catastrophe threatens him. "but understand, all this is not what is tormenting him and turning him gaunt and haggard. no, as usual, the last twist of the knife is given by a woman. in this case it is an italian girl, elena cimiotti, the daughter of one of the strikers and of the woman who does our washing for us. she's a beautiful, wild creature, something as you might suppose the daughter of jorio to be. she has come for the washing and has brought it home again for months past, and karl, who is thoughtful of everybody, has assisted her with her burden when she was lifting it from her burro's back or packing it on the little beast. sometimes he would fetch her a glass of water, or give her a cup of tea, or put some fruit in her saddle-bags. you know what a way he has with all women! i suppose it would turn any foolish creature's head. and he has such an impressive way of saying things! what would be a casual speech on the tongue of another becomes significant, when he has given one of his original twists to it. i think, too, that in utter disregard of italian etiquette he has sometimes walked on the street with this girl for a few steps. he is like a child in some ways,--as trusting and unconventional,--and he wants to be friends with everybody. i can't tell whether it is because he is such an aristocrat that it doesn't occur to him that any one can suspect him of losing caste, or because he is such a democrat that he doesn't know it exists. "however that may be, the girl is in love with him. these italian girls are modest and well-behaved ordinarily, but when once their imagination is aroused they are like flaming meteors. they have no shame because they can't see why any one should be ashamed of love (and, to tell the truth, i can't either). but this girl believes karl has encouraged her. i suppose she honestly believed that he was sweethearting. he is astounded and dismayed. at first both he and i thought she would get over it, but she has twice been barely prevented from killing herself. of course her countrymen think her desperately ill-treated. she is the handsomest girl in the settlement, and she has a number of ardent admirers. to the hatred which they have come to bear karl as members of a strike directed against him, they now add the element of personal jealousy. "so you see what kind of a christmas we are having! i have had mrs. hays take the babies to colorado springs, and if anything happens to us here, i'll trust to you to see to them. you, who mean to look after little children, look after mine above all others, for their mother gave you, long since, her loving friendship. i would rather have you mother my babies, maiden though you are, than any woman i know, for i feel a great force in you, kate, and believe you are going on until you get an answer to some of the questions which the rest of us have found unanswerable. "karl wants me to leave, for there is danger that the ranch house may be blown up almost any time. these men play with dynamite as if it were wood, anyway, and they make fiery enemies. every act of ours is spied upon. our servants have left us, and karl and i, obstinate as mules and as proud as sheiks, after the fashion of our family, hold the fort. he wants me to go, but i tell him i am more interested in life than i ever dared hope i would be again. i have been bayoneted into a fighting mood, and i find it magnificent to really feel alive again, after crawling in the dust so long, with the taste of it in my mouth. so don't pity me. as for karl--he looks wild and strange, like the flying dutchman with his spectral hand on the helm. but i don't know that i want you to pity him either. he is a curious man, with a passionate soul, and if he flares out like a torch in the wind, it will be fitting enough. no, don't pity us. congratulate us rather." "now what," said kate aloud, "may that mean?" "congratulate us!" the letter had a note of reckless gayety. had honora and karl, though cousins, been finding a shining compensation there in the midst of many troubles? it sounded so, indeed. elena cimiotti might swing down the mountain roads wearing mountain flowers in her hair if she pleased, and kate would not have thought her dangerous to the peace of karl wander. if the wind were wild and the leaves driving, he might have kissed her in some mad mood. so much might be granted--and none, not even elena, be the worse for it. but to live side by side with honora fulham, to face danger with her, to have the exhilaration of conflict, they two together, the mountains above them, the treacherous foe below, a fortune lost or gained in a day, all the elements of colorado's gambling chances of life and fortune at hand, might mean--anything. well, she would congratulate them! if honora could forget a shattered heart so soon, if wander could take it on such easy terms, they were entitled to congratulations of a sort. and if they were killed some frantic night,--were blown to pieces with their ruined home, and so reached together whatever lies beyond this life,--why, then, they were to be congratulated, indeed! or if they evaded their enemies and swung their endangered craft into the smooth stream of life, still congratulations were to be theirs. she confessed to herself that she would rather be in that lonely beleaguered house facing death with karl wander than be the recipient of the greatest honor or the participant in the utmost gayety that life could offer. that the fact was fantastic made it none the less a fact. * * * * * should she write to honora: "i congratulate you?" or should she wire karl? she got out his letters, and his words were as a fresh wind blowing over her spirit. she realized afresh how this man, seen but once, known only through the medium of infrequent letters, had invigorated her. what had he not taught her of compassion, of "the glory of the commonplace," of duty eagerly fulfilled, of the abounding joy of life--even in life shadowed by care or sickness or poverty? no, she would write them nothing. they were her friends in fullness of sympathy. they, like herself, were of those to whom each day and night is a privilege, to whom sorrow is an enrichment, delight an unfoldment, opposition a spur. they were of the company of those who dared to speak the truth, who breathed deep, who partook of the banquet of life without fear. she had seen honora in the worst hour of tribulation that can come to a good woman, and she knew she had arisen from her overthrow, stronger for the trial; now karl was battling, and he had cried out to her in his pain--his shame of defeat. but it would not be his extinction. she was sure of that. they might, among them, slay his body, but she could not read his letters, so full of valiant contrasts, and doubt that his spirit must withstand all adversaries. no, sardonic with these two she could never be. like that poor elena, she might have mistaken wander's meanings. he was a man of too elaborate gestures; something grandiose, inherently his, made him enact the drama of life with too much fervor. it was easy, honora had insinuated, for a woman to mistake him! kate gripped her two strong hands together and clasped them about her head in the first attitude of despair in which she ever had indulged in her life. she was ashamed! honora had said there was nothing to be ashamed of in love. but kate would not call this meeting of her spirit with karl's by that name. she had no idea whether it was love or not. on the whole, she preferred to think that it was not. but when they faced each other, their glances had met. when they had parted, their thoughts had bridged the space. when she dreamed, she fancied that she was mounting great solitary peaks with him to look at sunsets that blazed like the end of the world; or that he and she were strong-winged birds seeking the crags of the andes. what girl's folly! the time had come to put such vagrant dreams from her and to become a woman, indeed. ray telephoned that he was home. "come up this evening, then," commanded kate. then, not being as courageous as her word, she wept brokenly for her mother--the mother who could, at best, have given her but such indeterminate advice. xxiii as she heard ray coming up the stairs, she tossed some more wood on the fire and lighted the candles in her russian candlesticks. "it's what any silly girl would do!" she admitted to herself disgustedly. well, there was his rap on the foolish imitation warwick knocker. kate flung wide the door. he stood in the dim light of the hall, hesitating, it would seem, to enter upon the evening's drama. tall, graceful as always, with a magnetic force behind his languor, he impressed kate as a man whom few women would be able to resist; whom, indeed, it was a sort of folly, perhaps even an impiety, to cast out of one's life. "kate!" he said, "kate!" the whole challenge of love was in the accent. but she held him off with the first method of opposition she could devise. "my name!" she admitted gayly. "i used to think i didn't like it, but i do." he came in and swung to the door behind him, flinging his coat and hat upon a chair. "do you mean you like to hear me say it?" he demanded. he stood by the fire which had begun to leap and crackle, drawing off his gloves with a decisive gesture. she saw that she was not going to be able to put him off. the hour had struck. so she faced him bravely. "sit down, ray," she said. he looked at her a moment as if measuring the value of this courtesy. "thank you," he said, almost resentfully, as he sank into the chair she placed for him. so they sat together before the fire gravely, like old married people, as kate could not help noticing. yet they were combatants; not as a married couple might have been, furtively and miserably, but with a frank, almost an exhilarating, sense of equally matched strength, and of their chance to conduct their struggle in the open. "it's come to this, kate," he said at length. "either i must have your promise or i stay away entirely." "i don't believe you need to do either," she retorted with the exasperating manner of an elder sister. "it's an obsession with you, that's all." "what man thinks he needs, he does need," ray responded sententiously. "it appears to me that without you i shall be a lost man. i mean precisely what i say. you wouldn't like me to give out that fact in an hysterical manner, and i don't see that i need to. i make the statement as i would make any other, and i expect to be believed, because i'm a truth-telling person. the fairest scene in the world or the most interesting circumstance becomes meaningless to me if you are not included in it. it isn't alone that you are my sweetheart--the lady of my dreams. it's much more than that. sometimes when i'm with you i feel like a boy with his mother, safe from all the dreadful things that might happen to a child. sometimes you seem like a sister, so really kind and so outwardly provoking. often you are my comrade, and we are completely congenial, neuter entities. the thing is we have a satisfaction when we are together that we never could apart. there it is, kate, the fact we can't get around. we're happier together than we are apart!" he seemed to hold the theory up in the air as if it were a shining jewel, and to expect her to look at it till it dazzled her. but her voice was dull as she said: "i know, ray. i know--now--but shall we stay so?" "why shouldn't we, woman? there's every reason to suppose that we'd grow happier. we want each other. more than that, we need each other. with me, it's such a deep need that it reaches to the very roots of my being. it's my groundwork, my foundation stone. i don't know how to put it to make you realize--" he caught a quizzical smile on her face, and after a moment of bewilderment he leaped from his chair and came toward her. "god!" he half breathed, "why do i waste time talking?" he had done what her look challenged him to do,--had substituted action for words,--yet now, as he stretched out his arms to her, she held him off, fearful that she would find herself weeping on his breast. it would be sweet to do it--like getting home after a long voyage. but dizzily, with a stark clinging to a rock of integrity in herself, she fought him off, more with her militant spirit than with her outspread, protesting hands. "no, no," she cried. "don't hypnotize me, ray! leave me my judgment, leave me my reason. if it's a partnership we're to enter into, i ought to know the terms." "the terms, kate? why, i'll love you as long as i live; i'll treasure you as the most precious thing in all the world." "and the winds of heaven shall not be allowed to visit my cheek too roughly," she managed to say tantalizingly. he paused, perplexed. "i know i bewilder you, dear man," she said. "but this is the point: i don't want to be protected. i mean i don't want to be made dependent; i don't want my interpretations of life at second-hand. i object to having life filter through anybody else to me; i want it, you see, on my own account." "why, kate!" it wasn't precisely a protest. he seemed rather to reproach her for hindering the onward sweep of their happiness--for opposing him with her ideas when they might together have attained a beautiful emotional climax. "i couldn't stand it," she went on, lifting her eyes to his, "to be given permission to do this, that, or the other thing; or to be put on an allowance; or made to ask a favor--" he sank down in his chair and folded across his breast the arms whose embrace she had not claimed. "you seem to mean," he said, "that you don't want to be a wife. you prefer your independence to love." "i want both," kate declared, rising and standing before him. "i want the most glorious and abounding love woman ever had. i want so much of it that it never could be computed or measured--so much it will lift me up above anything that i now am or that i know, and make me stronger and freer and braver." "well, that's what your love would do for me," broke in mccrea. "that's what the love of a good woman is expected to do for a man." "of course," cried kate; "but is that what the love of a good man is expected to do for a woman? or is it expected to reconcile her to obscurity, to the dimming of her personality, and to the endless petty sacrifices that ought to shame her--and don't--those immoral sacrifices about which she has contrived to throw so many deceiving, iridescent mists of religion? oh, yes, we are hypnotized into our foolish state of dependence easily enough! i know that. the mating instinct drugs us. i suppose the unborn generations reach out their shadowy multitudinous hands and drag us to our destiny!" "what a woman you are! how you put things!" he tried but failed to keep the offended look from his face, and kate knew perfectly well how hard he was striving not to think her indelicate. but she went on regardlessly. "you think that's the very thing i ought to want to be my destiny? well, perhaps i do. i want children--of course, i want them." she stopped for a moment because she saw him flushing with embarrassment. yet she couldn't apologize, and, anyway, an apology would avail nothing. if he thought her unwomanly because she talked about her woman's life,--the very life to which he was inviting her,--nothing she could say would change his mind. it wasn't a case for argument. she walked over to the fire and warmed her nervous hands at it. "i'm sorry, ray," she said finally. "sorry?" "sorry that i'm not the tender, trusting, maiden-creature who could fall trembling in your arms and love you forever, no matter what you did, and lie to you and for you the way good wives do. but i'm not--and, oh, i wish i were--or else--" "yes, kate--what?" "or else that you were the kind of a man i need, the mate i'm looking for!" "but, kate, i protest that i am. i love you. isn't that enough? i'm not worthy of you, maybe. yet if trying to earn you by being loyal makes me worthy, then i am. don't say no to me, kate. it will shatter me--like an earthquake. and i believe you'll regret it, too. we can make each other happy. i feel it! i'd stake my life on it. wait--" he arose and paced the floor back and forth. "do you remember the lines from tennyson's 'princess' where the prince pleads with ida? i thought i could repeat them, but i'm afraid i'll mar them. i don't want to do that; they're too applicable to my case." he knew where she kept her tennyson, and he found the volume and the page, and when he had handed the book to her, he snatched his coat and hat. "i'm coming for my answer a week from to-night," he said. "for god's sake, girl, don't make a mistake. life's so short that it ought to be happy. at best i'll only be able to live with you a few decades, and i'd like it to be centuries." he had not meant to do it, she could see, but suddenly he came to her, and leaning above her burned his kisses upon her eyes. then he flung himself out of the room, and by the light of her guttering candles she read:-- "come down, o maid, from yonder mountain height. what pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). in height and cold, the splendor of the hills? but cease to move so near the heavens, and cease to glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine, to sit a star upon the sparkling spire; and come, for love is of the valley, come thou down and find him; by the happy threshold, he or hand in hand with plenty in the maize, or red with spirted purple of the vats, or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk with death and morning on the silver horns, nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, nor find him dropped upon the firths of ice, that huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls to roll the torrent out of dusky doors; but follow; let the torrent dance thee down to find him in the valley; let the wild lean-headed eagles yelp alone, and leave the monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, that like a broken purpose waste in air; so waste not thou; but come; for all the vales await thee; azure pillars of the hearth arise to thee; the children call, and i thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, the moan of doves in immemorial elms, and murmuring of innumerable bees." she read it twice, soothed by its vague loveliness. she could hear, however, only the sound of the suburban trains crashing by in the distance, and the honking of the machines in the plaisance. none of those spirit sounds of which ray had dreamed penetrated through her vigorous materialism. but still, she knew that she was lonely; she knew ray's going left a gray vacancy. "i can't think it out," she said at last. "i'll go to sleep. perhaps there--" but neither voices nor visions came to her in sleep. she awoke the next morning as unillumined as when she went to her bed. and as she dressed and thought of the full day before her, she was indefinably glad that she was under no obligations to consult any one about her programme, either of work or play. xxiv kate had dreaded the expected solitude of the next night, and it was a relief to her when marna fitzgerald telephoned that she had been sent opera-tickets by one of her old friends in the opera company, and that she wanted kate to go with her. "george offers to stay home with the baby," she said. "so come over, dear, and have dinner with us; that will give you a chance to see george. then you and i will go to the opera by our two independent selves. i know you don't mind going home alone. 'butterfly' is on, you know--farrar sings." she said it without faltering, kate noticed, as she gave her enthusiastic acceptance, and when she had put down the telephone, she actually clapped her hands at the fortitude of the little woman she had once thought such a hummingbird--and a hummingbird with that one last added glory, a voice. marna had been able to put her dreams behind her; why should not her example be cheerfully followed? when kate reached the little apartment looking on garfield park, she entered an atmosphere in which, as she had long since proved, there appeared to be no room for regret. marna had, of course, prepared the dinner with her own hands. "i whipped up some mayonnaise," she said. "you remember how schumann-heink used to like my mayonnaise? and she knows good cooking when she tastes it, doesn't she? i've trifle for desert, too." "but it must have taken you all day, dear, to get up a dinner like that," protested kate, kissing the flushed face of her friend. "it took up the intervals," smiled marna. "you see, my days are made up of taking care of baby, _and_ of intervals. how fetching that black velvet bodice is, kate. i didn't know you had a low one." "low _and_ high," said kate. "that's the way we fool 'em--make 'em think we have a wardrobe. me--i'm glad i'm going to the opera. how good of you to think of me! so few do--at least in the way i want them to." marna threw her a quick glance. "ray?" she asked with a world of insinuation. to kate's disgust, her eyes flushed with hot tears. "he's waiting to know," she answered. "but i--i don't think i'm going to be able--" "oh, kate!" cried marna in despair. "how can you feel that way? just think--just think--" she didn't finish her sentence. instead, she seized little george and began undressing him, her hands lingering over the firm roundness of his body. he seemed to be anything but sleepy, and when his mother passed him over to her guest, kate let him clutch her fingers with those tenacious little hands which looked like rose-leaves and clung like briers. marna went out of the room to prepare his bedtime bottle, and kate took advantage of being alone with him to experiment in those joys which his mother had with difficulty refrained from descanting upon. she kissed him in the back of the neck, and again where his golden curls met his brow--a brow the color of a rose crystal. a delicious, indescribable baby odor came up from him, composed of perfumed breath, of clean flannels, and of general adorability. suddenly, not knowing she was going to do it, kate snatched him to her breast, and held him strained to her while he nestled there, eager and completely happy, and over the woman who could not make up her mind about life and her part in it, there swept, in wave after wave, like the south wind blowing over the bleak hills, billows of warm emotion. her very finger-tips tingled; soft, wistful, delightful tears flooded her eyes. her bosom seemed to lift as the tide lifts to the moon. she found herself murmuring inarticulate, melodious nothings. it was a moment of realization. she was learning what joys could be hers if only-- marna came back into the room and took the baby from kate's trembling hands. "why, dear, you're not afraid of him, are you?" his mother asked reproachfully. kate made no answer, but, dropping a farewell kiss in the crinkly palm of one dimpled hand, she went out to the kitchen, found an apron, and began drawing the water for dinner and dropping marna's mayonnaise on the salad. she must, however, have been sitting for several minutes in the baby's high chair, staring unseeingly at the wall, when the buzzing of the indicator brought her to her feet. "it's george!" cried marna; and tossing baby and bottle into the cradle, she ran to the door. kate hit the kitchen table sharply with a clenched hand. what was there in the return of a perfectly ordinary man to his home that should cause such excitement in a creature of flame and dew like marna? "marna with the trees' life in her veins a-stir! marna of the aspen heart--" george came into the kitchen with both hands outstretched. "well, it's good to see you here," he declared. "why don't you come oftener? you make marna so happy." that proved her worthy; she made marna happy! of what greater use could any person be in this world? george retired to prepare for dinner, and marna to settle the baby for the night, and kate went on with the preparations for the meal, while her thoughts revolved like a catherine wheel. there were the chops yet to cook, for george liked them blazing from the broiler, and there was the black coffee to set over. this latter was to fortify george at his post, for it was agreed that he was not to sleep lest he should fail to awaken at the need and demand of the beloved potentate in the cradle; and marna now needed a little stimulant if she was to keep comfortably awake during a long evening--she who used to light the little lamps in the windows of her mind sometime after midnight. they had one of those exclamatory dinners where every one talked about the incomparable quality of the cooking. the potatoes were after a new recipe,--something spanish,--and they tasted deliciously and smelled as if assailing an andalusian heaven. the salad was _piquante_; the trifle vivacious; kate's bonbons were regarded as unique, and as for the coffee, it provoked marna to quote the appreciative talleyrand:-- "noir comme le diable, chaud comme l'enfer, pur comme un ange, doux comme l'amour." other folk might think that marna had "dropped out," but kate could see it written across the heavens in letters of fire that neither george nor marna thought so. they regarded their table as witty, as blessed in such a guest as kate, as abounding in desirable food, as being, indeed, all that a dinner-table should be. they had the effect of shutting out a world which clamored to participate in their pleasures, and looked on themselves as being not forgotten, but too selfish in keeping to themselves. it kept little streams of mirth purling through kate's soul, and at each jest or supposed brilliancy she laughed twice--once with them and once at them. but they were unsuspicious--her friends. they were secretly sorry for her, that was all. after dinner there was marna to dress. "naturally i haven't thought much about evening clothes since i was married," she said to kate. "i don't see what i'm to put on unless it's my immemorial gold-of-ophir satin." she looked rather dubious, and kate couldn't help wondering why she hadn't made a decision before this. marna caught the expression in her eyes. "oh, yes, i know i ought to have seen to things, but you don't know what it is, mavourneen, to do all your own work and care for a baby. it makes everything you do so staccato! and, oh, kate, i do get so tired! my feet ache as if they'd come off, and sometimes my back aches so i just lie on the floor and roll and groan. of course, george doesn't know. he'd insist on our having a servant, and we can't begin to afford that. it isn't the wages alone; it's the waste and breakage and all." she said this solemnly, and kate could not conceal a smile at her "daughter of the air" using these time-worn domestic plaints. "you ought to lie down and sleep every day, marna. wouldn't that help?" "that's what george is always saying. he thinks i ought to sleep while the baby is taking his nap. but, mercy me, i just look forward to that time to get my work done." she turned her eager, weary face toward kate, and her friend marked the delicacy in it which comes with maternity. it was pallid and rather pinched; the lips hung a trifle too loosely; the veins at the temples showed blue and full. kate couldn't beat down the vision that would rise before her eyes of the marna she had known in the old days, who had arisen at noon, coming forth from her chamber like deirdre, fresh with the freshness of pagan delight. she remembered the crowd that had followed in her train, the manner in which people had looked after her on the street, and the little furore she had invariably awakened when she entered a shop or tea-room. as marna shook out the gold-of-ophir satin, dimmed now and definitely out of date, there surged up in her friend a rebellion against marna's complete acquiescence in the present scheme of things. but marna slipped cheerfully into her gown. "i shall keep my cloak on while we go down the aisle," she declared. "nobody notices what one has on when one is safely seated. particularly," she added, with one of her old-time flashes, "if one's neck is not half bad. now i'm ready to be fastened, mavourneen. dear me, it _is_ rather tight, isn't it? but never mind that. get the hooks together somehow. i'll hold my breath. now, see, with this scarf about me, i shan't look such a terrible dowd, shall i? only my gloves are unmistakably shabby and not any too clean, either. george won't let me use gasoline, you know, and it takes both money and thought to get them to the cleaners. do you remember the boxes of long white gloves i used to have in the days when _tante_ barsaloux was my fairy godmother? gloves were an immaterial incident then. 'nevermore, nevermore,' as our friend the raven remarked. come, we'll go. i won't wear my old opera cloak in the street-car; that would be too absurd, especially now that the bullion on it has tarnished. that long black coat of mine is just the thing--equally appropriate for market, mass, or levee. oh, george, dear, good-bye! good-bye, you sweetheart. i hate to leave you, truly i do. and i do hope and pray the baby won't wake. if he does--" "come along, marna," commanded kate. "we mustn't miss that next car." * * * * * they barely were in their seats when the lights went up, and before them glittered the auditorium, that vast and noble audience chamber identified with innumerable hours of artistic satisfaction. the receding arches of the ceiling glittered like incandescent nebulae; the pictured procession upon the proscenium arch spoke of the march of ideas--of the passionate onflow of man's dreams--of whatever he has held beautiful and good. kate yielded herself over to the deep and happy sense of completion which this vast chamber always gave her, and while she and marna sat there, silent, friendly, receptive, she felt her cares and frets slipping from her, and guessed that the drag of mama's innumerable petty responsibilities was disappearing, too. for here was the pride of life--the power of man expressed in architecture, and in the high entrancement of music. the rich folds of the great curtain satisfied her, the innumerable lights enchanted her, and the loveliness of the women in their fairest gowns and their jewels added one more element to that indescribable thing, compacted of so many elements,--all artificial, all curiously and brightly related,--which the civilized world calls opera, and in which man rejoices with an inconsistent and more or less indefensible joy. the lights dimmed; the curtain parted; the heights above nagasaki were revealed. below lay the city in purple haze; beyond dreamed the harbor where the battleships, the merchantmen and the little fishing-boats rode. the impossible, absurd, exquisite music-play of "madame butterfly" had begun. oh, the music that went whither it would, like wind or woman's hopes; that lifted like the song of a bird and sank like the whisper of waves. vague as reverie, fitful as thought, yearning as frustrate love, it fluttered about them. "the new music," whispered marna. "like flame leaping and dying," responded kate. they did not realize the passage of time. they passed from chamber to chamber in that gleaming house of song. "this was the best of all to me," breathed marna, as farrar's voice took up the first notes of that incomparable song of woven hopes and fears, "some day he'll come." the wild cadences of the singer's voice, inarticulate, of universal appeal, like the cry of a lost child or the bleating of a lamb on a windy hill,--were they mere singing? or were they singing at all? yes, the new singing, where music and drama insistently meet. the tale, heart-breaking for beauty and for pathos, neared its close. oh, the little heart of flame expiring at its loveliest! oh, the loyal feet that waited--eager to run on love's errands--till dawn brought the sight of faded flowers, the suddenly bleak apartment, the unpressed couch! then the brave, swift flight of the spirit's wings to other altitudes, above pain and shame! and like love and sorrow, refined to a poignant essence, still the music brooded and cried and aspired. what visions arose in marna's brain, kate wondered, quivering with vicarious anguish. glancing down at her companion's small, close-clasped hands, she thought of their almost ceaseless toil in those commonplace rooms which she called home, and for the two in it--the ordinary man, the usual baby. and she might have had all this brightness, this celebrity, this splendid reward for high labor! the curtain closed on the last act,--on the little dead cio-cio-san,--and the people stood on their feet to call farrar, giving her unstintedly of their _bravas_. kate and marna stood with the others, but they were silent. there were large, glistening tears on marna's cheeks, and kate refrained from adding to her silent singing-bird's distress by one word of appreciation of the evening's pleasure; but as they moved down the thronged aisle together, she caught marna's hand in her own, and felt her fingers close about it tenaciously. outside a bitter wind was blowing, and with such purpose that it had cleared the sky of the day's murk so that countless stars glittered with unwonted brilliancy from a purple-black heaven. crowded before the entrance were the motors, pouring on in a steady stream, their lamps half dazzling the pedestrians as they struggled against the wind that roared between the high buildings. though marna was to take the madison street car, they could not resist the temptation to turn upon the boulevard where the scene was even more exhilarating. the high standing lights that guarded the great drive offered a long and dazzling vista, and between them, sweeping steadily on, were the motor-cars. laughing, talking, shivering, the people hastened along--the men of fashion stimulated and alert, their women splendid in furs and cloaks of velvet while they waited for their conveyances; by them tripped the music students, who had been incomparably happy in the highest balcony, and who now cringed before the penetrating cold; among them marched sedately the phalanx of middle-class people who permitted themselves an opera or two a year, and who walked sedately, carrying their musical feast with a certain sense of indigestion;--all moved along together, thronging the wide pavement. the restaurants were awaiting those who had the courage for further dissipation; the suburban trains had arranged their schedules to convenience the crowd; and the lights burned low in the hallways of mansions, or apartments, or neat outlying houses, awaiting the return of these adventurers into another world--the world of music. all would talk of farrar. not alone that night, nor that week, but always, as long as they lived, at intervals, when they were happy, when their thoughts were uplifted, they would talk of her. and it might have been marna cartan instead of geraldine farrar of whom they spoke! "marna of the far quest" might have made this "flight unhazarded"; might have been the core of all this fine excitement. but she had put herself out of it. she had sold herself for a price--the usual price. kate would not go so far as to say that a birthright had been sold for a mess of pottage, but ray mccrea's stock was far below par at that moment. yet ray, as she admitted, would not doom her to a life of monotony and heavy toil. with him she would have the free and useful, the amusing and excursive life of an american woman married to a man of wealth. no, her programme would not be a petty one--and yet-- "do take a cab, marna," she urged. "my treat! please." "no, no," said marna in a strained voice. "i'll not do that. a five-cent ride in the car will take me almost to my door; and besides the cars are warm, which is an advantage." it was understood tacitly that kate was the protector, and the one who wouldn't mind being on the street alone. they had but a moment to wait for marna's car, but in that moment kate was thinking how terrible it would be for marna, in her worn evening gown, to be crowded into that common conveyance and tormented with those futile regrets which must be her so numerous companions. she was not surprised when marna snatched her hand, crying:-- "oh, kate!" "yes, yes, i know," murmured kate soothingly. "no, you don't," retorted marna. "how can you? it's--it's the milk." there was a catch in her voice. "the milk!" echoed kate blankly. "what milk? i thought--" "oh, i know," marna cried impatiently. "you thought i was worrying about that old opera, and that i wanted to be up there behind that screen stabbing myself. well, of course, knowing the score so well, and having hoped once to do so much with it, the notes did rather try to jump out of my throat. but, goodness, what does all that matter? it's the baby's milk that i'm carrying on about. i don't believe i told george to warm it." her voice ceased in a wail. the car swung around the corner, and kate half lifted marna up the huge step, and saw her go reeling down the aisle as the cumbersome vehicle lurched forward. then she turned her own steps toward the stairs of the elevated station. "the milk!" she ejaculated with commingled tenderness and impatience. "then that's why she didn't say anything about going behind the scenes. i thought it was because she couldn't endure the old surroundings and the pity of her associates of the opera-days. the milk! i wonder--" what she wondered she did not precisely say; but more than one person on the crowded elevated train noticed that the handsome woman in black velvet (it really was velveteen, purchased at a bargain) had something on her mind. xxv kate slept lightly that night. she had gone to bed with a sense of gentle happiness, which arose from the furtive conviction that she was going to surrender to ray and to his point of view. he could take all the responsibility if he liked and she would follow the old instincts of woman and let the causes of righteousness with which she had allied herself contrive to get along without her. it was nothing, she told herself, but sheer egotism for her to suppose that she was necessary to their prosperity. she half awoke many times, and each time she had a vague, sweet longing which refused to resolve itself into definite shape. but when the full morning came she knew it was ray she wanted. she couldn't wait out the long week he had prescribed as a season of fasting and prayer before she gave her answer, and she was shamelessly glad when her superior, over there at the settlement house, informed her that she would be required to go to a dance-hall at south chicago that night--a terrible place, which might well have been called "the girl trap." this gave kate a legitimate excuse to ask for ray's company, because he had besought her not to go to such places at night without his escort. "but ought i to be seeing you?" he asked over the telephone in answer to her request. "wouldn't it be better for my cause if i stayed away?" in spite of the fact that he laughed, she knew he was quite in earnest, and she wondered why he hadn't discerned her compliant mood from her intonations. "but i had to mind you, hadn't i?" she sent back. "you said i mustn't go to such places without you." from her tone she might have been the most betendriled feminine vine that ever wrapped a self-satisfied masculine oak. "oh, i'll come," he answered. "of course i'll come. you knew you had only to give me the chance." he was on time, impeccable, as always, in appearance. kate was glad that he was as tall as she. she knew, down in her inner consciousness, that they made a fine appearance together, that they stepped off gallantly. it came to her that perhaps they were to be envied, and that they weren't--or at least that she wasn't--giving their good fortune its full valuation. she told him about her dinner with the fitzgeralds and about the opera, but she held back her discovery, so to speak, of the baby, and the episode of marna's wistful tears when she heard the music, and her amazing _volte-face_ at remembering the baby's feeding-time. she would have loved to spin out the story to him--she could have deepened the colors just enough to make it all very telling. but she wasn't willing to give away the reason for her changed mood. it was enough, after all, that he was aware of it, and that when he drew her hand within his arm he held it in a clasp that asserted his right to keep it. they were happy to be in each other's company again. kate had to admit it. for the moment it seemed to both of them that it didn't matter much where they went so long as they could go together. they rode out to south chicago on the ill-smelling south deering cars, crowded with men and women with foreign faces. one of the men trod on kate's foot with his hobnailed shoe and gave an inarticulate grunt by way of apology. "he's crushed it, hasn't he?" asked ray anxiously, seeing the tears spring to her eyes. "what a brute!" "oh, it was an accident," kate protested. "any one might have done it." "but anyone except that unspeakable huniack would have done more than grunt!" "i dare say he doesn't know english," kate insisted. "he'll probably remember the incident longer and be sorrier about it than some who would have been able to make graceful apologies." "not he," declared ray. "don't you think it! bless me, kate, why you prefer these people to any others passes my comprehension. can't you leave these people to work out their own salvation--which to my notion is the only way they ever can get it--and content yourself with your own kind and class?" "not variety enough," retorted kate, feeling her tenderness evaporate and her tantalizing mood--her usual one when she was with ray--come back. "don't i know just what you, for example, are going to think and say about any given circumstances? don't i know your enthusiasms and reactions as if i'd invented 'em?" "well, i know yours, too, but that's because i love you, not because you're like everybody else. i wish you were rather more like other women, kate. i'd have an easier time." "if we were married," said kate, with that cheerful directness which showed how her sentimentality had taken flight, "you'd never give up till you'd made me precisely like mrs. brown, mrs. smith, and mrs. johnson. men fall in love with women because they're different from other women, and then put in the first years of their married life trying to make them like everybody else. i've noticed, however, that when they've finished the job, they're so bored with the result that they go and look up another 'different' woman. oh, i know!" he couldn't say what he wished in reply because the car filled up just then with a party of young people bound for a dance in russell square. it always made kate's heart glow to think of things like that--of what the city was trying to do for its people. these young people came from small, comfortable homes, quite capacious enough for happiness and self-respect, but not large enough for a dance. very well; all that was needed was a simple request for the use of the field-house and they could have at their disposal a fine, airy hall, well-warmed and lighted, with an excellent floor, charming decorations, and a room where they might prepare their refreshments. all they had to pay for was the music. proper chaperonage was required and the hall closed at midnight. kate descanted on the beauties of the system till ray yawned. "think how different it is at the dance-hall where we are going," she went on, not heeding his disinclination for the subject. "they'll keep it up till dawn and drink between every dance. there's not a party of the kind the whole winter through that doesn't see the steps of some young girl set toward destruction. oh, i can't see why it isn't stopped! if women had the management of things, it would be, i can tell you. it would take about one day to do it." "that's one of the reasons why the liquor men combine to kill suffrage," said ray. "they know it will be a sorry day for them when the women get in. positively, the women seem to think that's all there is to politics--some moral question; and the whole truth is they'd do a lot of damage to business with their slap-dash methods, as they'd learn to their cost. when they found their pin-money being cut down, they'd sing another tune, for they're the most reckless spenders in the world, american women are." "they're the purchasing agents for the most extravagant nation in the world, if you like," kate replied. "men seem to think that shopping is a mere feminine diversion. they forget that it's what supports their business and supplies their homes. not to speak of any place beyond our own town, think of the labor involved in buying food and clothing for the two million and a half human beings here in chicago. it's no joke, i assure you." "joke!" echoed ray. "a good deal of the shopping i've seen at my father's store seems to me to come under the head of vice. the look i've seen on some of those faces! it was ravaging greed, nothing less. why, we had a sale the other day of cheap jewelry, salesmen's samples, and the women swarmed and snatched and glared like savages. i declare, when i saw them like that, so indecently eager for their trumpery ornaments, i said to myself that you'd only to scratch the civilized woman to get at the squaw any day." kate kept a leash on her tongue. she supposed it was inevitable that they should get back to the old quarrel. deep down in ray, she felt, was an unconquerable contempt for women. he made an exception of her because he loved her; because she drew him with the mysterious sex attraction. it was that, and not any sense of spiritual or intellectual approval of her, which made him set her apart as worthy of admiration and of his devoted service. if ever their lives were joined, she would be his treasure to be kept close in his personal casket,--with the key to the golden padlock in his pocket,--and he would all but say his prayers to her. but all that would not keep him from openly discountenancing her judgment before people. she could imagine him putting off a suggestion of hers with that patient married tone which husbands assume when they discover too much independent cerebration on the part of their wives. "i couldn't stand that," she inwardly declared, as she let him think that he was assisting her from the car. "if any man ever used that patient tone to me, i'd murder him!" she couldn't keep back her sardonic chuckle. "what are you laughing at?" he asked irritatedly. "at the mad world, master," she answered. "where is this dance-hall?" he demanded, as if he suspected her of concealing it. the tone was precisely the "married" one she had been imagining, and she burst out with a laugh that made him stop and visibly wrap his dignity about him. nothing was more evident than that he thought her silly. but as she paused, too, standing beneath the street-lamp, and he saw her with her nonchalant tilt of her head,--that handsome head poised on her strong, erect body,--her force and value were so impressed upon him that he had to retract. but she was provoking, no getting around that. at that moment another sound than laughter cut the air--a terrible sound--the shriek of a tortured child. it rang out three times in quick succession, and kate's blood curdled. "oh, oh," she gasped; "she's being beaten! come, ray." "mix up in some family mess and get slugged for my pains? not i! but i'll call a policeman if you say." "oh, it might be too late! i'm a policeman, you know. get the patrol wagon if you like. but i can't stand that--" once more that agonized scream! kate flashed from him into the mesh of mean homes, standing three deep in each yard, flanking each other with only a narrow passage between, and was lost to him. he couldn't see where she had gone, but he knew that he must follow. he fell down a short flight of steps that led from the street to the lower level of the yard, and groped forward. he could hear people running, and when a large woman, draping her wrapper about her, floundered out of a basement door near him, he followed her. she seemed to know where to go. the squalid drama with the same actors evidently had been played before. mid-length of the building the woman turned up some stairs and came to a long hall which divided the front and rear stairs. at the end of it a light was burning, and kate's voice was ringing out like that of an officer excoriating his delinquent troops. "i'm glad you can't speak english," he heard her say, "for if you could i'd say things i'd be sorry for. i'd shrivel you up, you great brute. if you've got the devil in you, can't you take it out on some one else beside a little child? you're her father, are you? she has no mother, i suppose. well, you 're under arrest, do you understand? tell him, some of you who can talk english. he's to sit in that chair and never move from it till the patrol wagon comes. i shall care for the child myself, and she'll be placed where he can't treat her like that again. poor little thing! thank you, that's a good woman. just hold her awhile and comfort her. i can see you've children of your own." ray found the courage at length to peer above the heads of the others in that miserable, crowded room. the dark faces of weary men and women, heavy with old-world, inherited woe, showed in the gloom. the short, shaking man on the chair, dully contrite for his spasm of rage, was cringing before kate, who stood there, amazingly tall among these low-statured beings. never had she looked to ray so like an eagle, so keen, so fierce, so fit for braving either sun or tenebrous cavern. she dominated them all; had them, who only partly understood what she said, at her command. she had thrown back her cloak, and the star of the juvenile court officer which she wore carried meaning to them. though perhaps it had not needed that. ray tried to think her theatrical, to be angry at her, but the chagrin of knowing that she had forgotten him, and was not caring about his opinion, scourged his criticisms back. she had lifted from the floor the stick with its leathern thong with which the man had castigated the tender body of his motherless child. she held it in her hand, looking at it with the angry aversion that she might have turned upon a venomous serpent. then slowly, with unspeakable rebuke, she swung her gaze upon the wretch in the chair. for a moment she silently accused him. then he dropped his head in his hands and sobbed. he seemed in his voiceless way to say that he, too, had been castigated by a million invisible thongs held in dead men's hands, and that his soul, like his child's body, was hideous with welts. kate turned to ray. "is the patrol wagon on its way?" she inquired. "i--i--didn't call it," he stammered. "please do," she said simply. he went out of the room, silently raging, and was grateful that one of the men followed to show him the patrol box. he waited outside for the wagon to come, and when the officers brought out the shaking prisoner, he saw kate with them carrying the child in her arms. "i must go to the station," she said to ray, in a matter-of-fact tone that put him far away from her. "so i'll say good-night. it wouldn't be pleasant for you to ride in the wagon, you know. i'll be quite all right. one of the officers will see me safe home. anyway, i shall have to go to the dance-hall before the evening's over." "kate!" he protested. "oh, i know," she said to him apart softly while the others concerned themselves with assisting the blubbering huniack into the wagon, "you think it isn't nice of me to be going around like this, saving babies from beatings and young girls from much worse. you think it isn't ladylike. but it's what the coming lady is either going to do or see done. it's a new idea, you understand, ray. quite different from the squaw idea, isn't it? good-night!" an officer stood at the door of the wagon waiting for her. he touched his hat and smiled at her in a comradely fashion, and she responded with as courteous a bow as she ever had made to ray. the wagon drove off. "i've been given my answer," said ray aloud. he wondered if he were more relieved or disappointed at the outcome. but really he could neither feel nor think reasonably. he went home in a tumult, dismayed at his own sufferings, and in no condition to realize that the old ideas and the new were at death grips in his consciousness. xxvi karl wander rode wearily up the hill on his black mare. honora saw him coming and waved to him from the window. there was no one to put up his horse, and he drove her into the stables and fed her and spread her bed while honora watched what he and she had laughingly termed "the outposts." for she believed she had need to be on guard, and she thanked heaven that all of the approaches to the house were in the open and that there was nothing nearer than the rather remote grove of piñon trees which could shelter any creeping enemy. wander came on at last to the house, making his way deliberately and scorning, it would seem, all chance of attack. but honora's ears fairly reverberated with the pistol shot which did not come; the explosion which was now so long delayed. she ran to open the door for him and to drag him into the friendly kitchen, where, in the absence of any domestic help, she had spread their evening meal. there was a look in his face which she had not seen there before--a look of quietude, of finality. "well?" she asked. he flung his hat on a settle and sat down to loosen his leggings. "they've gone," he said, "bag and baggage." "the miners?" "yes, left this afternoon--confiscated some trains and made the crews haul them out of town. they shook their fists at the mines and the works as if they had been the haunt of the devil. i couldn't bring myself to skulk. i rode nell right down to the station and sat there till the last carload pulled out with the men and women standing together on the platform to curse me." "karl! how could you? it's a marvel you weren't shot." "too easy a mark, i reckon." "and elena?" "lifted on board by two rival suitors. she didn't even look at me." he drew a long breath. "i was guiltless in that, honora. you've stood by through everything, and you've made a cult of believing in me, and i want you to know that, so far as elena was concerned, you were right to do it. i may have been a fool--but not consciously--not consciously." "i know it. i believe you." a silence fell between them while honora set the hot supper on the table and put the tea to draw. "it's very still," he said finally. "but the stillness here is nothing to what it is down where my village stood. i've made a frightful mess of things, honora." "no," she said, "you built up; another has torn down. you must get more workmen. there may be a year or two of depression, but you're going to win out, karl." "i've fought a good many fights first and last, honora,--fights you know nothing about. some of them have been with men, some with ideas, some of the worst ones with myself. it would be a long story and a strange one if i were to tell it all." "i dare say it would." "i suppose i must seem very strange to a civilized woman like you, or--or your friend, kate barrington." "you seem very like a brave man, karl, and an interesting one." "but i'm tired, honora,--extraordinarily tired. i don't feel like fighting. quiet and rest are what i'm longing for, and i'm to begin all over again, it appears. i've got to struggle up again almost from the bottom." "come to supper, karl. never mind all that. we have food and we have shelter. no doubt we shall sleep. things like that deserve our gratitude. accept these blessings. there are many who lack them." suddenly he threw up his arms with a despairing gesture. "oh, it isn't myself, honora, that i'm grieving for! it's those hot-headed, misguided, wayward fellows of mine! they've left the homes i tried to help them win, they've followed a self-seeking, half-mad, wholly vicious agitator, and their lives, that i meant to have flow on so smoothly, will be troubled and wasted. i know so well what will happen! and then, their hate! it hangs over me like a cloud! i'm not supposed to be sensitive. i'm looked on as a swaggering, reckless, devil-may-care fellow with a pretty good heart and a mighty sure aim; but i tell you, cousin, among them, they've taken the life out of me." "it's your dark hour, karl. you're standing the worst of it right now. to-morrow things will look better." "i couldn't ask a woman to come out here and stand amid this ruin with me, honora. you know i couldn't. the only person who would be willing to share my present life with me would be some poor, devil-driven creature like elena--come to think of it, even she wouldn't! she's off and away with a lover at each elbow!" "here!" said honora imperatively. she held a plate toward him laden with steaming food. he arose, took it, seated himself, and tried a mouthful, but he had to wash it down with water. "i'm too tired," he said. "really, honora, you'll have to forgive me." she got up then and lighted the lamp in his bedroom. "thank you," he said. "rest is what i need. it was odd they didn't shoot, wasn't it? i thought every moment that they would." "you surely didn't wish that they would, karl?" "no." he paused for a moment at the door. "no--only everything appeared to be so futile. my bad deeds never turned on me as my good ones have done. it makes everything seem incoherent. what--what would a woman like miss barrington make of all that--of harm coming from good?" "i don't know," said honora, rather sharply. "she hasn't written. i told her all the trouble we were in,--the danger and the distress,--but she hasn't written a word." "why should she?" demanded wander. "it's none of her concern. i suppose she thinks a fool is best left with his folly. good-night, cousin. you're a good woman if ever there was one. what should i have done without you?" honora smiled wanly. he seemed to have forgotten that it was she who would have fared poorly without him. she closed up the house for the night, looking out in the bright moonlight to see that all was quiet. for many days and nights she had been continually on the outlook for lurking figures, but now she was inclined to believe that she had overestimated the animosity of the strikers. after all, try as they might, they could bring no accusations against the man who, hurt to the soul by their misunderstanding of him, was now laying his tired head upon his pillow. all was very still. the moonlight touched to silver the snow upon the mountains; the sound of the leaping river was like a distant flute; the wind was rising with long, wavelike sounds. honora lingered in the doorway, looking and listening. her heart was big with pity--pity for that disheartened man whose buoyancy and self-love had been so deeply wounded, pity for those wandering, angry, aimless men and women who might have rested secure in his guardianship; pity for all the hot, misguided hearts of men and women. pity, too, for the man with the most impetuous heart of them all, who wandered in some foreign land with a woman whose beauty had been his lure and his undoing. yes, she had been given grace in those days, when she seemed to stand face to face with death, to pity even david and mary! she walked with a slow firm step up to her room, holding her head high. she had learned trust as well as compassion. she trusted karl and the issue of his sorrow. she even trusted the issue of her own sorrow, which, a short time before, had seemed so shameful. she threw wide her great windows, and the wind and the moonlight filled her chamber. * * * * * two days later karl wander and honora fulham rode together to the village, now dismantled and desolate. "i remember," said karl, "what a boyish pride i took in the little town at first, honora, to have built it, and had it called after me and all. such silly fools as men are, trying to perpetuate themselves by such childish methods." "perpetuation is an instinct with us," said honora calmly, "immortality is our greatest hope. i'm so thankful i have my children, karl. they seem to carry one's personality on, you know, no matter how different they actually may be from one's self." "oh, yes," said karl, with a short sigh, "you're right there. you've a beautiful brace of babies, honora. i believe i'll have to ask you to appoint me their guardian. i must have some share in them. it will give me a fresh reason for going on." "are you a trifle short of reasons for going on, karl?" honora asked gently, averting her look so that she might not seem to be watching him. "yes, i am," he admitted frankly. "although, now that the worst of my chagrin is over at having failed so completely in the pet scheme of my life, i can feel my fighting blood getting up again. i'm going to make a success of the town of wander yet, my cousin, and those three mines that lie there so silently are going to hum in the old way. you'll see a string of men pouring in and out of those gates yet, take my word for it. but as for me, i proceed henceforth on a humbler policy." "humbler? isn't it humble to be kind, karl? that's what you were first and last--kind. you were forever thinking of the good of your people." "it was outrageously insolent of me to do it, my cousin. who am i that i should try to run another man's affairs? how should i know what is best for him--isn't he the one to be the judge of that? patronage, patronage, that's what they can't stand--that's what natural overmen like myself with amiable dispositions try to impose on those we think inferior to ourselves. we can't seem to comprehend that the way to make them grow is to leave them alone." "don't be bitter, karl." "i'm not bitter, honora. i'm rebuked. i'm literal. i'm instructed. i have brought you down here to talk the situation over with me. i can get men in plenty to advise me, but i want to know what you think about a number of things. moreover, i want you to tell me what you imagine miss barrington would think about them." "why don't you write and ask her?" asked honora. she herself was hurt at not having heard from kate. "i gave her notice that i wasn't going to write any more," said karl sharply. "i couldn't have her counting on me when i wasn't sure that i was a man to be counted on." "oh," cried honora, enlightened. "that's the trouble, is it? but still, i should think she'd write to me. i told her of all you and i were going through together--" she broke off suddenly. her words presented to her for the first time some hint of the idea she might have conveyed to kate. she smiled upon her cousin beautifully, while he stared at her, puzzled at her unexpected radiance. "kate loves him," she decided, looking at the man beside her with fresh appreciation of his power. she was the more conscious of it that she saw him now in his hour of defeat and perceived his hope and ingenuity, his courage and determination gathering together slowly but steadily for a fresh effort. "dear old kate," she mused. "karl rebuffed her in his misery, and i misled her. if she hadn't cared she'd have written anyway. as it is--" but karl was talking. "now there's the matter of the company store," he was saying. "what would miss barrington think about the ethical objections to that?" honora turned her attention to the matter in hand, and when, late that afternoon, the two rode their jaded horses home, a new campaign had been planned. within a week wander left for denver. honora heard nothing from him for a fortnight. then a wire came. he was returning to wander with five hundred men. "they're hoboes--pick-ups," he told honora that night as the two sat together at supper. "long-stake and short-stake men--down-and-outs--vagrants--drunkards, god knows what. i advertised for them. 'previous character not called into question,' was what i said. 'must open up my mines. come and work as long as you feel like it.' i haven't promised them anything and they haven't promised me anything, except that i give them wages for work. a few of them have women with them, but not more than one in twenty. i don't know what kind of a mess the town of wander will be now, but at any rate, it's sticking to its old programme of 'open shop.' any one who wants to take these fellows away from me is quite welcome to do it. no affection shall exist between them and me. there are no obligations on either side. but they seem a hearty, good-natured lot, and they said they liked my grit." something that was wild and reckless in all of the wanders flashed in honora's usually quiet eyes. "a band of brigands," she laughed. "really, karl, i think you'll make a good chief for them. there's one thing certain, they'll never let you patronize them." "i shan't try," declared karl. "they needn't look to me for benefits of any sort. i want miners." honora chuckled pleasantly and looked at her cousin from the corner of her eye. she had her own ideas about his ability to maintain such detachment. he amused her a little later by telling her how he had formed a town government and he described the men he had appointed to office. "they take it seriously, too," he declared. "we have a ragamuffin government and regulations that would commend themselves to the most judicious. 'pon my soul, honora, though it's only play, i swear some of these fellows begin to take on little affectations of self-respect. we're going to have a council meeting to-morrow. you ought to come down." that gave honora a cue. she was wanting something more to do than to look after the house, now that servants had again been secured. it occurred to her that it might be a good idea to call on the women down at wander. she was under no error as to their character. broken-down followers of weak men's fortunes,--some with the wedding ring and some without,--they nevertheless were there, flesh and blood, and possibly heart and soul. not the ideal but the actual commended itself to her these days. kate had taught her that lesson. so, quite simply, she went among them. "call on me when you want anything," she said to them. "i'm a woman who has seen trouble, and i'd like to be of use to any of you if trouble should come your way. anyhow, trouble or no trouble, let us be friends." in her simple dress, with her quiet, sad face and her deep eyes, she convinced them of sincerity as few women could have done. they bade her enter their doors and sit in their sloven homes amid the broken things the italians had left behind them. "why not start a furniture shop?" asked honora. "we could find some men here who could make plain furniture. i'll see mr. wander about it." that was a simple enough plan, and she had no trouble in carrying it out. she got the women to cooperate with her in other ways. among them they cleaned up the town, set out some gardens, and began spending their men's money for necessaries. "do watch out," warned karl; "you'll get to be a lady bountiful--" "and you a benevolent magnate--" "damned if i will! well, play with your hobo brides if you like, honora, but don't look for gratitude or rectitude or any beatitude." "not i," declared honora. "i'm only amusing myself." they kept insisting to each other that they had no higher intention. they were hilarious over their failures and they persisted in taking even their successes humorously. at first the "short-stake men" drifted away, but presently they began to drift back again. they liked it at wander,--liked being mildly and tolerantly controlled by men of their own sort,--men with some vested authority, however, and a reawakened perception of responsibility. wander was their town--the hoboes' own city. it was one of the few places where something was expected of the hobo. well, a hobo was a man, wasn't he? the point was provable. a number of karl wander's vagrants chose to prove that they were not reprobates. those who had been "down and out" by their own will, or lack of it, as well as those whom misfortune had dogged, began to see in this wild village, in the heart of these rich and terrific mountains, that wonderful thing, "another chance." "would miss barrington approve of us now?" karl would sometimes ask honora. "why should she?" honora would retort. "we're not in earnest. we're only fighting bankruptcy and ennui." "that's it," declared karl. "by the way, i must scrape up some more capital somewhere, honora. i've borrowed everything i could lay my hands on in denver. now i've written to some chicago capitalists about my affairs and they show a disposition to help me out. they'll meet in denver next week. perhaps i shall bring them here. i've told them frankly what my position was. you see, if i can swing things for six months more, the tide will turn. do you think my interesting rabble will stick to me?" "don't count on them," said honora. "don't count on anybody or anything. but if you like to take your chance, do it. it's no more of a gamble than anything else a colorado man is likely to invest in." "you don't think much of us colorado men, do you, my cousin?" "i don't think you are quite civilized," she said. then a twinge of memory twisted her face. "but i don't care for civilized men. i like glorious barbarians like you, karl." "men who are shot at from behind bushes, eh? if i ever have to hide in a cave, honora, will you go with me?" "yes, and load the guns." he flashed her a curious look; one which she could not quite interpret. was he thinking that he would like her to keep beside him? for a second, with a thrill of something like fear, this occurred to her. then by some mysterious process she read his mind, and she read it aright. he was really thinking how stirring a thing life would seem if he could hear words like that from the lips of kate barrington. xxvii it had been a busy day for honora. she had been superintending the house-cleaning and taking rather an aggressive part in it herself. she rejoiced that her strength had come back to her, and she felt a keen satisfaction in putting it forth in service of the man who had taken her into community of interest with him when, as he had once put it, she was bankrupted of all that had made her think herself rich. moreover, she loved the roomy, bare house, with its uncurtained windows facing the mountains, and revealing the spectacles of the day and night. because of them she had learned to make the most of her sleepless hours. the slow, majestic procession in the heavens, the hours of tumult when the moon struggled through the troubled sky, the dawns with their swift, wide-spreading clarity, were the finest diversions she ever had known. she remembered how, in the old days, she and david had patronized the unspeakably puerile musical comedies under the impression that they "rested" them. now, she was able to imagine nothing more fatiguing. they had an early supper, for karl was leaving for a day or two in denver and had to be driven ten miles to the station. he was unusually silent, and honora was well pleased that he should be so, for, though she had kept herself so busily occupied all the day, she had not been able to rid herself of the feeling that a storm of memories was waiting to burst upon her. the feeling had grown as the hours of the day went on, and she at once dreaded and longed for the solitude she should have when karl was gone. she was relieved to find that the little girls were weary and quite ready for their beds. she watched karl drive away, standing at the door for a few moments till she heard his clear voice calling a last good-bye as the station wagon swept around the piñon grove; then she locked the house and went to her own room. a fire had been laid for her, and she touched a match to the kindling, lighted her lamp, and took up some sewing. but she found herself too weary to sew, and, moreover, this assailant of recollection was upon her again. she had once seen the northern lights when the many-hued glory seemed to be poured from vast, invisible pitchers, till it spread over the floor of heaven and spilled earthward. her memories had come upon her like that. then she faced the fact she had been trying all day not to recognize. it was david's birthday! she admitted it now, and even had the courage to go back over the ways they had celebrated the day in former years; at first she held to the old idea that these recollections made her suffer, but presently she perceived that it was not so. had her help come from the hills, as karl had told her it would? she sat so still that she could hear the ashes falling in the fireplace--so still that the ticking of her watch on the dressing-table teased her ears. she seemed to be listening for something--for something beautiful and solemn. and by and by the thing she had been waiting for came. it swept into the house as if all the doors and windows had been thrown wide to receive it. it was as invisible as the wind, as scentless as a star, as complete as birth or death. it was peace--or forgiveness--or, in a white way, perhaps it was love. suddenly she sprang to her feet. "david!" she cried. "david! oh, i _believe i understand!_" she went to her desk, and, as if she were compelled, began to write. afterward she found she had written this:-- "dear david:-- "it is your birthday, and i, who am so used to sending you a present, cannot be deterred now. oh, david, my husband, you who fathered my children, you, who, in spite of all, belong to me, let me tell you how i have at last come, out of the storm of angers and torments of the past year, into a sheltered room where you seem to sit waiting to hear me say, 'i forgive you.' "that is my present to you--my forgiveness. take it from me with lifted hands as if it were a sacrament; feed on it, for it is holy bread. now we shall both be at peace, shall we not? you will forgive me, too, _for all i did not do_. "we are willful children, all of us, and night over-takes us before we have half learned our lessons. "oh, david--" she broke off suddenly. something cold seemed to envelop her--cold as a crevasse and black as death. she gave a strangled cry, wrenched the collar from her throat, fighting in vain against the mounting waves that overwhelmed her. long afterward, she shuddered up out of her unconsciousness. the fire had burned itself out; the lamp was sputtering for lack of oil. somewhere in the distance a coyote called. she was dripping with cold sweat, and had hardly strength to find the thing that would warm her and to get off her clothes and creep into bed. at first she was afraid to put out the light. it seemed as if, should she do so, the very form and substance of terror would come and grip her. but after a time, slowly, wave upon wave, the sea of peace rolled over her--submerging her. she reached out then and extinguished the light and let herself sink down, down, through the obliterating waters of sleep--waters as deep, as cold, as protecting as the sea. "into the eternal arms," she breathed, not knowing why. but when she awakened the next morning in response to the punctual gong, she remembered that she had said that. "into the eternal arms." she came down to breakfast with the face of one who has eaten of the sacred bread of the spirit. * * * * * the next two days passed vaguely. a gray veil appeared to hang between her and the realities, and she had the effect of merely going through the motions of life. the children caused her no trouble. they were, indeed, the most normal of children, and mrs. hays, their old-time nurse, had reduced their days to an agreeable system. honora derived that peculiar delight from them which a mother may have when she is not obliged to be the bodily servitor and constant attendant of her children. she was able to feel the poetry of their childhood, seeing them as she did at fortunate and picturesque moments; and though their lives were literally braided into her own,--were the golden threads in her otherwise dun fabric of existence,--she was thankful that she did not have the task of caring for them. it would have been torture to have been tied to their small needs all day and every day. she liked far better the heavier work she did about the house, her long walks, her rides to town, and, when karl was away, her supervision of the ranch. above all, there was her work at the village. she could return from that to the children for refreshment and for spiritual illumination. in the purity of their eyes, in the liquid sweetness of their voices, in their adorable grace and caprice, there was a healing force beyond her power to compute. during these days, however, her pleasure in them was dim, though sweet. she had been through a mystic experience which left a profound influence upon her, and she was too much under the spell of it even to make an effort to shake it off. she slept lightly and woke often, to peer into the velvet blackness of the night and to listen to the deep silence. she was as one who stands apart, the viewer of some tremendous but uncomprehended event. the third day she sent the horses for karl, and as twilight neared, he came driving home. she heard his approach and threw open the door for him. he saw her with a halo of light about her, curiously enlarged and glorified, and came slowly and heavily toward her, holding out both hands. at first she thought he was ill, but as his hands grasped hers, she saw that he was not bringing a personal sorrow to her but a brotherly compassion. and then she knew that something had happened to david. she read his mind so far, almost as if it had been a printed page, and she might have read further, perhaps, if she had waited, but she cried out:-- "what is it? you've news of david?" "yes," he said. "come in." "you've seen the papers?" he asked when they were within the house. she shook her head. "i haven't sent over for the mail since you left, karl. i seemed to like the silence." "there's silence enough in all patience!" he cried. "sixteen hundred voices have ceased." "i don't understand." "the cyclops has gone down--a new ship, the largest on the sea." "why, that seems impossible." "not when there are icebergs floating off the banks and when the bergs carry submerged knives of ice. one of them gored the ship. it was fatal." "how terrible!" for a second's space she had forgotten the possible application to her. then the knowledge came rushing back upon her. she put her hands over her heart with the gesture of one wounded. "david?" she gasped. karl nodded. "he was on it--with mary. they were coming back to america. he had been given the norden prize, as you know,--the prize you earned for him. i think he was to take a position in some eastern university. he and mary had gone to their room, the paper says, when the shock came. they ran out together, half-dressed, and mary asked a steward if there was anything the matter. 'yes, madam,' he said quietly, just like that, 'i believe we are sinking.' you'll read all about it there in those papers. mary was interviewed. well, they lowered the boats. there were enough for about a third of the passengers. they had made every provision for luxury, but not nearly enough for safety. the men helped the women into the boats and sent them away. then they sat down together, folded their arms, and died like gentlemen, with the good musicians heartening them with their music to the last. the captain went down with his ship, of course. all of the officers did that. almost all of the men did it, too. it was very gallant in its terrible way, and david was among the most gallant. the papers mention him particularly. he worked till the last helping the others off, and then he sat down and waited for the end." honora turned on her cousin a face in which all the candles of her soul were lit. "oh, karl, how wonderful! how beautiful!" he said nothing for amazement. "in that half-hour," she went on, speaking with such swiftness that he could hardly follow her, "all his thoughts streamed off across the miles of sea and land to me! i felt the warmth of them all about me. it was myself he was thinking of. he came back to me, his wife! i was alone, waiting for something, i couldn't tell what. then i remembered it was his birthday, and that i should be sending him a gift. so i sent him my forgiveness. i wrote a letter, but for some reason i have not sent it. it is here, the letter!" she drew it from her bosom. "see, the date and hour is upon it. read it." karl arose and held the letter in a shaking hand. he made a calculation. "the moments correspond," he said. "you are right; his spirit sought yours." "and then the--the drowning, karl. i felt it all, but i could not understand. i died and was dead for a long time, but i came up again, to live. only since then life has been very curious. i have felt like a ghost that missed its grave. i've been walking around, pretending to live, but really half hearing and half seeing, and waiting for you to come back and explain." "i have explained," said karl with infinite gentleness. "mary is saved. she was taken up with others by the urbania, and friends are caring for her in new york. she gave a very lucid interview; a feeling one, too. she lives, but the man she ruined went down, for her sake." "no," said honora, "he went down for my sake. he went down for the sake of his ideals, and his ideals were mine. oh, how beautiful that i have forgiven him--and how wonderful that he knew it, and that i--" she spoke as one to whom a great happiness had come. then she wavered, reached out groping hands, and fell forward in karl's arms. * * * * * for days she lay in her bed. she had no desire to arise. she seemed to dread interruption to her passionate drama of emotion, in which sorrow and joy were combined in indeterminate parts. from her window she could see the snow-capped peaks of the williston range, rising with immortal and changeful beauty into the purple heavens. as she watched them with incurious eyes, marking them in the first light of the day, when their iridescence made them seem as impalpable as a dream of heaven; eyeing them in the noon-height, when their sides were the hue of ruddy granite; watching them at sunset when they faded from swimming gold to rose, from rose to purple, they seemed less like mountains than like those fair and fatal bergs of the northern atlantic. she had read of them, though she had not seen them. she knew how they sloughed from the inexhaustible ice-cap of greenland's bleak continent and marched, stately as an army, down the mighty plain of the ocean. fair beyond word were they, with jeweled crevasses and mother-of-pearl changefulness, indomitable, treacherous, menacing. honora, closing weary eyes, still saw them sailing, sailing, white as angels, radiant as dawn, changing, changing, lovely and cold as death. mind and gaze were fixed upon their enchantment. she would not think of certain other things--of that incredible catastrophe, that rent ship, crashing to its doom, of that vast company tossed upon the sea, of those cries in the dark. no, she shut her eyes and her ears to those things! they seemed to be the servitors at the doors of madness, and she let them crook their fingers at her in vain. now and then, when she was not on guard, they swarmed upon her, whispering stories of black struggle, of heart-breaking separation of mother and child, of husband and wife. sometimes they told her how mary--so luxurious, so smiling, so avid of warmth and food and kisses--had shivered in that bleak wind, as she sat coatless, torn from david's sheltering embrace. they had given her elfish reminders of how soft, how pink, how perfumed was that woman's tender flesh. then as she looked the blue eyes glazed with agony, the supple body grew rigid with cold, and down, down, through miles of water, sank the man they both had loved. no, no, it was better to watch the bergs, those glistering, fair, white ships of death! yes, there from the window she seemed to see them! how the sun glorified them! was the sun setting, then? had there been another day? "to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow--" darkness was falling. but even in the darkness she saw the ice-ships slipping down from that great frozen waste, along the glacial rivers, past the bleak _lisière_, into the bitter sea, and on down, down to meet that other ship--that ship bearing its mighty burden of living men--and to break it in unequal combat. oh, could she never sleep! would those white ships never reach port! did she hear karl say he had telegraphed for kate barrington? but what did it matter? neither kate nor karl, strong and kind as they were, could stem the tide that bore those ships along the never-quiet seas. xxviii so kate was coming! he had cravenly rebuffed her, and she had borne the rebuff in silence. yet now that he needed her, she was coming. ah, that was what women meant to men. they were created for the comforting of them. he always had known it, but he had impiously doubted them--doubted her. because fortune had turned from him, he had turned from her--from kate barrington. he had imagined that she wanted more than he could give; whereas, evidently, all she ever had wanted was to be needed. he had called. she had answered. it had been as swift as telegraphy could make it. and now he was driving to the station to meet her. life, it appeared, was just as simple as that. a man, lost in the darkness, could cry for a star to guide him, and it would come. it would shine miraculously out of the heavens, and his path would be made plain. it seemed absurd that the horses should be jogging along at their usual pace over the familiar road. why had they not grown shining wings? why was the old station wagon not transformed, by the mere glory of its errand, into a crystal coach? but, no, the horses went no faster because they were going on this world-changing errand. the resuscitated village, with the american litter heaped on the italian dirt, looked none the less slovenly because she was coming into it in a few minutes. the clock kept its round; the sun showed its usual inclination toward the west. but notwithstanding this torpidity, she was coming, and that day stood apart from all other days. that it was honora's desperate need which she was answering, in no way lessened the value of her response to him. his need and honora's were indissoluble now; it was he who had called, and it was not to honora alone that she was coming with healing in her hands. he saw her as she leaped from the train,--tall, alert, green-clad,--and he ran forward, sweeping his stetson from his head. their hands met--clung. "you!" he said under his breath. she laughed into his eyes. "no, _you_!" she retorted. he took her bags and they walked side by side, looking at each other as if their eyes required the sight. "how is she?" asked kate. "very bad." "what is it?" "the doorway to madness." "you've had a specialist?" "yes. he wanted to take her to a sanatorium. i begged him to wait--to let you try. how could i let her go out from my door to be cast in with the lost?" "i suppose it was david's death that caused it." "oh, yes. what else could it be?" "then she loved him--to the end." "and after it, i am sure." he led the way to the station wagon and helped her in; then brought her luggage on his own shoulder. "oh," she cried in distress. "do you have to be your own stevedore? i don't like to have you doing that for me." "out here we wait on ourselves," he replied when he had tumbled the trunk into the wagon. he seated himself beside her as if he were doing an accustomed thing, and she, too, felt as if she had been there beside him many times before. as they entered the village, he said:-- "you must note my rowdy town. never was there such a place--such organized success built on so much individual failure. from boss to water-boy we were failures all; so we understood each other. we haven't sworn brotherhood, but we're pulling together. some of us had known no law, and most of us had a prejudice against it, but now we're making our own laws and we rather enjoy the process. we've made the town and the mines our own cause, so what is the use of playing the traitor? some of us are short-stake men habitually and constitutionally. very well, say we, let us look at the facts. since there are short-stake men in the world, why not make allowances for them? use their limited powers of endurance and concentration, then let 'em off to rest up. if there are enough short-stake men around, some one will always be working. we find it works well." "have you many women in your midst?" "at first we had very few. just some bedraggled wives and a few less responsible ladies with magenta feathers in their hats. at least, two of them had, and the magenta feather came to be a badge. but they've disappeared--the feathers, not the ladies. honora had a hand in it. i think she pulled off one marriage. she seemed to think there were arguments in favor of the wedding ceremony. but, mind you, she didn't want any of the poor women to go because they were bad. we are sinners all here. stay and take a chance, that's our motto. it isn't often you can get a good woman like honora to hang up a sign like that." "honora couldn't have done it once," said kate. "but think of all she's learned." "learned? yes. and i, too. i've been learning my lessons, too,--they were long and hard and i sulked at some of them, but i'm more tractable new." "i had my own hard conning," kate said softly. "you never could have done what i did, mr. wander. you couldn't have been cruel to an old father." "honora has made all that clear to me," said karl with compassion. "when we are fighting for liberty we forget the sufferings of the enemy." there was a little pause. then karl spoke. "but i forgot to begin at the beginning in telling you about my made-over mining town. yet you seemed to know about it." "oh, i read about it in the papers. your experiment is famous. all of the people i am associated with, the welfare workers and sociologists, are immensely interested in it. that's one of the problems now--how to use the hobo, how to get him back into an understanding of regulated communities." "put him in charge," laughed karl. "the answer's easy. treat him like a fellow-man. don't annoy him by an exhibition of your useless virtues." "i never thought of that," said kate. they turned their backs on the straggling town and faced the peaks. presently they skirted the williston river which thundered among boulders and raged on toward the low-lying valley. from above, the roar of the pines came to them, reverberant and melancholy. "what sounds! what sounds!" cried kate. "the mountains breathing," answered wander. he drove well, and he knew the road. it was a dangerous road, which, ever ascending, skirted sharp declivities and rounded buttressed rocks. kate, prairie-reared, could not "escape the inevitable thrill," but she showed, and perhaps felt, no fear. she let the matter rest with him--this man with great shoulders and firm hands, who knew the primitive art of "waiting on himself." their brief speech sufficed them for a time, and now they sat silent, well content. the old, tormenting question as to his relations with honora did not intrude itself. it was swept out of sight like flotsam in the plenteous stream of present content. they swung upon a purple mesa, and in the distance kate saw a light which she felt was shining from the window of his home. "it's just as i thought it would be," she said. "perhaps you are just the way it thought you would be," he replied. "perhaps the soul of a place waits and watches for the right person, just as we human beings wander about searching for the right spot." "_i'm_ suited," affirmed kate. "i hope the mesa is." "i know it well and i can answer for it." the road continued to mount; they entered the piñon grove and rode in aromatic dusk for a while, and when they emerged they were at the doorway. he lifted her down and held her with a gesture as if he had something to say. "it's about my letter," he ventured. "you knew very well it wasn't that i didn't want you to write. but my life was getting tangled--i wasn't willing to involve you in any way in the débris. i couldn't be sure that letters sent me would always reach my hands. worst of all, i accused myself of unworthiness. i do so still." "i'm not one who worries much about worthiness or unworthiness," she said. "each of us is worthy and unworthy. but i thought--" "what?" "i was confused. honora said i was to congratulate you--and her. i didn't know--" he stared incredulously. "you didn't know--" he broke off, too, then laughed shortly. "i wish you had known," he added. "i would like to think that you never could misunderstand." she felt herself rebuked. he opened the door for her and she stepped for the first time across the threshold of his house. * * * * * half an hour later, wander, sitting in his study at the end of the upper hall, saw his guest hastening toward honora's room. she wore a plain brown house dress and looked uniformed and ready for service. she did not speak to him, but hastened down the corridor and let herself into that solemn chamber where honora fulham lay with wide-staring eyes gazing mountain ward. that honora was in some cold, still, and appalling place it took kate but a moment to apprehend. she could hardly keep from springing to her as if to snatch her from impending doom, but she forced all panic from her manner. "kate's come," she said, leaning down and kissing those chilly lips with a passion of pity and reassurance. "she's come to stay, sister honora, and to drive everything bad away from you. give her a kiss if you are glad." did she feel an answering salute? she could not be sure. she moved aside and watched. those fixed, vision-seeing eyes were upon the snow-capped peaks purpling in the decline of the day. "what is it you see, sister?" she asked. "is there something out there that troubles you?" honora lifted a tragic hand and pointed to those darkening snows. "see how the bergs keep floating!" she whispered. "they float slowly, but they are on their way. by and by they will meet the ship. then everything will be crushed or frozen. i try to make them stay still, but they won't do it, and i'm so tired--oh, i'm so terribly tired, kate." kate's heart leaped. she had, at any rate, recognized her. "they really are still, honora," she cried. "truly they are. i am looking at them, and i can see that they are still. they are not bergs at all, but only your good mountains, and by and by all of that ice and snow will melt and flowers will be growing there." she pulled down the high-rolled shades at the windows with a decisive gesture. "but i must have them up," cried honora, beginning to sob. "i have to keep watching them." "it's time to have in the lamps," declared kate; and went to the door to ask for them. "and tea, too, please, mrs. hays," she called; "quite hot." "we've been keeping her very still," warned wander, rejoicing in kate's cheerful voice, yet dreading the effect of it on his cousin. "it's been too still where her soul has been dwelling," kate replied in a whisper. "can't you see she's on those bitter seas watching for the ice to crush david's ship? it's not yet madness, only a profound dream--a recurring hallucination. we must break it up--oh, we must!" she carried in the lamps when they came, placing them where their glow would not trouble those burning eyes; and when mrs. hays brought the tea and toast, whispering, "she'll take nothing," kate lifted her friend in her determined arms, and, having made her comfortable, placed the tray before her. "for old sake's sake, honora," she said. "come, let us play we are girls again, back at foster, drinking our tea!" mechanically, honora lifted the cup and sipped it. when kate broke pieces of the toast and set them before her, she ate them. "you are telling me nothing about the babies," kate reproached her finally. "mayn't we have them in for a moment?" "i don't think they ought to come here," said honora faintly. "it doesn't seem as if they ought to be brought to such a place as this." but kate commanded their presence, and, having softly fondled them, dropped them on honora's bed and let them crawl about there. they swarmed up to their mother and hung upon her, patting her cheeks, and investigating the use of eyelids and of ropes of hair. but when they could not provoke her to play, they began to whimper. "honora," said kate sharply, "you must laugh at them at once! they mustn't go away without a kiss." so honora dragged herself from those green waters beyond the fatal banks, half across the continent to the little children at her side, and held them for a moment--the two of them at once--in her embrace. "but i'm so tired, kate," she said wearily. "rest, then," said kate. "rest. but it wouldn't have been right to rest without saying good-night to the kiddies, would it? a mother has to think of that, hasn't she? they need you so dreadfully, you see." she slipped the extra pillows from beneath the heavy head, and stood a moment by the bedside in silence as if she would impress the fact of her protection upon that stricken heart and brain. "it is safe, here, honora," she said softly. "love and care are all about you. no harm shall come near you. do you believe that?" honora looked at her from beneath heavy lids, then slowly let her eyes close. kate walked to the window and waited. at first honora's body was convulsed with nervous spasms, but little by little they ceased. honora slept. kate threw wide the windows, extinguished the light, and crept from the room, not ill-satisfied with her first conflict with the dread enemy. * * * * * karl was waiting for her in the corridor when she came from honora's room, and he caught both of her hands in his. "you're cold with horror!" he said. "what a thing that is to see!" "but it isn't going to last," protested kate with a quivering accent. "we can't have it last." "come into the light," he urged. "supper is waiting." he led her down the stairs and into the simple dining-room. the table was laid for two before a leaping blaze. there was no other light save that of two great candles in sticks of wrought bronze. the room was bare but beautiful--so seemly were its proportions, so fitted to its use its quiet furnishings. he placed her chair where she could feel the glow and see, through the wide window, a crescent moon mounting delicately into the clear sky. there was game and salad, custard and coffee--a charming feast. mrs. hays came and went quietly serving them. karl said little. he was content with the essential richness of the moment. it was as if destiny had distilled this hour for him, giving it to him to quaff. he was grave, but he did not resent her sorrowfulness. sorrow, he observed, might have as sweet a flavor as joy. it did not matter by what name the present hour was called. it was there--he rested in it as in a state of being which had been appointed--a goal toward which he had been journeying. "what's to be done?" he asked. "i've been thinking," said kate, "that we had better move her from that room. is there none from which no mountains are visible? she ought not to have the continual reminder of those icebergs." "why didn't i think of that?" he cried with vexation. "that shows how stupid a man can be. certainly we have such a room as you wish. it looks over the barnyard. it's cheerful but noisy. you can hear the burros and the chickens and pigs and calves and babies all day long." "it's precisely what she needs. her thoughts are the things to fear, and i know of no way to break those up except by crowding others in. is the room pleasant--gay?" "no--hardly clean, i should say. but we can work on it like fiends." "let's do it, then,--put in chintz, pictures, flowers, books, a jar of goldfish, a cage of finches,--anything that will make her forget that terrible white procession of bergs." "you think it isn't too late? you think we can save her?" "i won't admit anything else," declared kate. the wind began to rise. it came rushing from far heights and moaned around the house. the silence yielded to this mournful sound, yet kept its essential quality. "it's a wild place," said kate; "wilder than any place i have been in before. but it seems secure. i find it hard to believe that you have been in danger here." "i am in danger now," said karl. "much worse danger than i was in when the poor excited dagoes were threatening me." "what is your danger?" asked kate. she was incapable of coquetry after that experience in honora's room; nor did the noble solitude of the place permit the thought of an excursion into the realms of any sort of dalliance. moreover, though karl's words might have led her to think of him as ready to play with a sentimental situation, the essential loftiness of his gaze forbade her to entertain the thought. "i am in danger," he said gravely, "of experiencing a happiness so great that i shall never again be satisfied with life under less perfect conditions. can you imagine how the fresh air seems to a man just released from prison? well, life has a tang like that for me now. i tell you, i have been a discouraged man. it looked to me as if all of the things i had been fighting for throughout my manhood were going to ruin. i saw my theories shattered, my fortune disappearing, my reputation, as the successful manipulator of other men's money, being lost. i've been looked upon as a lucky man and a reliable one out here in colorado. they swear by you or at you out in this part of the country, and i've been accustomed to having them count on me. i even had some political expectations, and was justified in them, i imagine. i had an idea i might go to the state legislature and then take a jump to washington. well, it was a soap-bubble dream, of course. i lost out. this tatterdemalion crew of mine is all there is left of my cohorts. i suppose i'm looked on now as a wild experimenter." "would it seem that way to men?" asked kate, surprised. "to take what lies at hand and make use of it--to win with a broken sword--that strikes me as magnificent." she forgot to put a guard on herself for a moment and let her admiration, her deep confidence in him, shine from her eyes. she saw him whiten, saw a look of almost terrible happiness in his eyes, and withdrew her gaze. she could hear him breathing deeply, but he said nothing. there fell upon them a profound and wonderful silence which held when they had arisen and were sitting before his hearth. they were alone with elemental things--night, silence, wind, and fire. they had the essentials, roof and food, clothing and companionship. back and forth between them flashed the mystic currents of understanding. a happiness such as neither had known suffused them. when they said "good-night," each made the discovery that the simple word has occult and beautiful meanings. xxix at the end of a week honora showed a decided change for the better. the horror had gone out of her face; she ate without persuasion; she slept briefly but often. the conclusion of a fortnight saw her still sad, but beyond immediate danger of melancholy. she began to assume some slight responsibility toward the children, and she loved to have them playing about her, although she soon wearied of them. kate had decided not to go back to chicago until her return from california. she was to speak to the federation of women's clubs which met at los angeles, and she proposed taking honora with her. honora was not averse if kate and karl thought it best for her. the babies were to remain safe at home. "i wouldn't dare experiment with babies," said kate. "at least, not with other people's." "you surely wouldn't experiment with your own, ma'am!" cried the privileged mrs. hays. "oh, i might," kate insisted. "if i had babies of my own, i'd like them to be hard, brown little savages--the sort you could put on donkey-back or camel-back and take anywhere." mrs. hays shook her head at the idea of camels. it hardly sounded christian, and certainly it in no way met her notion of the need of infants. "mrs. browning writes about taking her baby to a mountain-top not far from the stars," kate went on. "they rode donkey-back, i believe. personally, however, i should prefer the camel. for one thing, you could get more babies on his back." mrs. hays threw a glance at her mistress as if to say: "is it proper for a young woman to talk like this?" the young woman in question said many things which, according to the always discreet and sensible mrs. hays, were hardly to be commended. there was, for example, the evening she had stood in the westward end of the veranda and called:-- "archangels! come quick and see them!" the summons was so stirring that they all ran,--even honora, who was just beginning to move about the house,--but wander reached kate's side first. "she's right, honora," he announced. "it is archangels--a whole party of them. come, see!" but it had been nothing save a sunset rather brighter than usual, with wing-like radiations. "pshaw!" said mrs. hays confidentially to the cook. "shouldn't you think they'd burn up with all that flaming crimson on them?" kate cried. "and, oh, their golden hair! or does that belong to the damosel? probably she is leaning over the bar of heaven at this minute." in mrs. hays's estimation, the one good thing about all such talk was that mrs. fulham seemed to like it. sometimes she smiled; and she hung upon the arm of her friend and looked at her as if wondering how one could be so young and strong and gay. mr. wander, too, seemed never tired of listening; and the way that letters trailed after this young woman showed her that a number--quite an astonishingly large number--of persons were pleased to whet their ideas on her. clarinda hays decided that she would like to try it herself; so one morning when she sat on the veranda watching the slumbers of the little girls in their hammocks, and miss barrington sat near at hand fashioning a blouse for honora's journey, she ventured:-- "you're a suffragette, ain't you, miss?" "why, yes," admitted kate. "i suppose i am. i believe in suffrage for women, at any rate." "well, what do you make of all them carryings-on over there in england, ma'am? you don't approve of acid-throwing and window-breaking and cutting men's faces with knives, do you?" she looked at kate with an almost poignant anxiety, her face twitching a little with her excitement. "a decent woman couldn't put her stamp on that kind o' thing." "but the puzzling part of it all is, mrs. hays, that it appears to be decent women who are doing it. moreover, it's not an impulse with them but a plan. that rather sets one thinking, doesn't it? you see, it's a sort of revolution. revolutions have got us almost everything we have that is really worth while in the way of personal liberty; but i don't suppose any of them seemed very 'decent' to the non-combatants who were looking on. then, too, you have to realize that women are very much handicapped in conducting a fight." "what have they got to fight against, i should like to know?" demanded mrs. hays, dropping her sewing and grasping the arms of her chair in her indignation. "well," said kate, "i fancy we american women haven't much idea of all that the englishwomen are called upon to resent. i do know, though, that an english husband of whatever station thinks that he is the commander, and that he feels at liberty to address his wife as few american husbands would think of doing. it's quite allowed them to beat their wives if they are so minded. i hope that not many of them are minded to do anything of the kind, but i feel very sure that women are 'kept in their place' over there. so, as they've been hectored themselves, they've taken up hectoring tactics in retaliation. they demand a share in the government and the lawmaking. they want to have a say about the schools and the courts of justice. if men were fighting for some new form of liberty, we should think them heroic. why should we think women silly for doing the same thing?" "it won't get them anywhere," affirmed clarinda hays. "it won't do for them what the old way of behaving did for them, miss. now, who, i should like to know, does a young fellow, dying off in foreign parts, turn his thoughts to in his last moments? why, to his good mother or his nice sweetheart! you don't suppose that men are going to turn their dying thoughts to any such screaming, kicking harridans as them suffragettes over there in england, do you?" kate heard a chuckle beyond the door--the disrespectful chuckle, as she took it, of the master of the house. it armed her for the fray. "i don't think the militant women are doing these things to induce men to feel tenderly toward them, mrs. hays. i don't believe they care just now whether the men feel tenderly toward them or not. women have been low-voiced and sweet and docile for a good many centuries, but it hasn't gained them the right to claim their own children, or to stand up beside men and share their higher responsibilities and privileges. i don't like the manner of warfare, myself. while i could die at the stake if it would do any good, i couldn't break windows and throw acid. for one thing, it doesn't seem to me quite logical, as the damage is inflicted on the property of persons who have nothing to do with the case. but, of course, i can't be sure that, after the fight is won, future generations will not honor the women who forgot their personal preferences and who made the fight in the only way they could." "you're such a grand talker, miss, that it's hard running opposite to you, but i was brought up to think that a woman ought to be as near an angel as she could be. i never answered my husband back, no matter what he said to me, and i moved here and there to suit him. i was always waiting for him at home, and when he got there i stood ready to do for him in any way i could. we was happy together, miss, and when he was dying he said that i had been a good wife. them words repaid me, miss, as having my own way never could." clarinda hays had grown fervid. there were tears in her patient eyes, and her face was frankly broken with emotion. kate permitted a little silence to fall. then she said gently:-- "i can see it is very sweet to you--that memory--very sweet and sacred. i don't wonder you treasure it." she let the subject lie there and arose presently and, in passing, laid her firm brown hand on mrs. hays's work-worn one. wander was in the sitting-room and as she entered it he motioned her to get her hat and sweater. she did so silently and accepted from him the alpenstock he held out to her. "is it right to leave honora?" he asked when they were beyond hearing. "i had little or nothing to do down in town, and it occurred to me that we might slip away for once and go adventuring." "oh, honora's particularly well this morning. she's been reading a little, and after she has rested she is going to try to sew. not that she can do much, but it means that she's taking an interest again." "ah, that does me good! what a nightmare it's been! we seem to have had one nightmare after another, honora and i." they turned their steps up the trail that mounted westward. "it follows this foothill for a way," said wander, striding ahead, since they could not walk side by side. "then it takes that level up there and strikes the mountain. it goes on over the pass." "and where does it end? why was it made?" "i'm not quite sure where it ends. but it was made because men love to climb." she gave a throaty laugh, crying, "i might have known!" for answer, and he led on, stopping to assist her when the way was broken or unusually steep, and she, less accustomed but throbbing with the joy of it, followed. they reached an irregular "bench" of the mountain, and rested there on a great boulder. below them lay the ranch amid its little hills, dust-of-gold in hue. "i have dreamed countless times of trailing this path with you," he said. "then you have exhausted the best of the experience already. what equals a dream? doesn't it exceed all possible fact?" "i think you know very well," he answered, "that this is more to me than any dream." an eagle lifted from a tree near at hand and sailed away with confidence, the master of the air. "i don't wonder men die trying to imitate him," breathed kate, wrapt in the splendor of his flight. "they are the little brothers of icarus." "i always hope," replied wander, "when i hear of an aviator who has been killed, that he has had at least one perfect flight, when he soared as high as he wished and saw and felt all that a man in his circumstances could. since he has had to pay so great a price, i want him to have had full value." "it's a fine thing to be willing to pay the price," mused kate. "if you can face whatever-gods-there-be and say, 'i've had my adventure. what's due?' you're pretty well done with fears and flurries." "wise one!" laughed wander. "what do you know about paying?" "you think i don't know!" she cried. then she flushed and drew back. "the last folly of the braggart is to boast of misfortune," she said. "but, really, i have paid, if missing some precious things that might have been mine is a payment for pride and wilfullness." "i hope you haven't missed very much, then,--not anything that you'll be regretting in the years to come." "oh, regret is never going to be a specialty of mine," declared kate. "to-morrow's the chance! i shall never be able to do much with yesterday, no matter how wise i become." "right you are!" said wander sharply. "the only thing is that you don't know quite the full bearing of your remark--and i do." she laughed sympathetically. "truth is truth," she said. "yes." he hung over the obvious aphorism boyishly. "yes, truth is truth, no matter who utters it." "thanks, kind sir." "oh, i was thinking of the excellent clarinda hays. i listened to your conversation this morning and it seemed to me that she was giving you about all the truth you could find bins for. i couldn't help but take it in, it was so complacently offered. but clarinda was getting her 'sacred feelings' mixed up with the truth. however, i suppose there is an essential truth about sacred feelings even when they're founded on an error. i surmised that you were holding back vastly more than you were saying. now that we 're pretty well toward a mountain-top, with nobody listening, you might tell me what you _were_ thinking." kate smiled slowly. she looked at the man beside her as if appraising him. "i'm terribly afraid," she said at length, "that you are soul-kin to clarinda. you'll walk in a mist of sacred feelings, too, and truth will play hide and seek with you all over the place." "nonsense!" he cried. "why can't i hear what you have to say? you stand on platforms and tell it to hundreds. why should you grudge it to me?" she swept her hand toward the landscape around them. "it has to do with change," she said. "and with evolution. look at this scarred mountain-side, how confused and senseless the upheavals seem which have given it its grandeur! nor is it static yet. it is continually wearing down. erosion is diminishing it, that river is denuding it. eternal change is the only law." "i understand," said wander, his eyes glowing. "in the world of thought it is the same." "verily." "but i speak for women--and i am afraid that you'll not understand." "i should like to be given a chance to try," he answered. "clarinda," she said, after a moment's pause, "like the larger part of the world, is looking at a mirage. she sees these shining pictures on the hot sand of the world and she says: 'these are the real things. i will fix my gaze on them. what does the hot sand and the trackless waste matter so long as i have these beautiful mirages to look at?' when you say that mirages are insubstantial, evanishing, mere tricks of air and eye, the clarindas retort, 'but if you take away our mirages, where are we to turn? what will you give us in the place of them?' she thinks, for example, if a dying soldier calls on his mother or his sweetheart that they must be good women. this is not the case. he calls on them because confronts the great loneliness of death. he is quite as likely to call on a wicked woman if she is the one whose name comes to his flickering sense. but even supposing that one had to be sacrificial, subservient, and to possess all the other clarinda virtues in order to have a dying man call on one, still, would that burst of delirious wistfulness compensate one for years of servitude?" she let the statement hang in the air for a moment, while wander's color deepened yet more. he was being wounded in the place of his dreams and the pang was sharp. "if some one, dying, called you 'faithful slave,'" resumed kate, "would that make you proud? would it not rather be a humiliation? now, 'good wife' might be synonymous with 'faithful slave.' that's what i'd have to ascertain before i could be complimented as clarinda was complimented by those words. i'd have to have my own approval. no one else could comfort me with a 'well done' unless my own conscience echoed the words. 'good wife,' indeed!" "what would reconcile you to such commendations?" asked wander with a reproach that was almost personal. "the possession of those privileges and mediums by which liberty is sustained." "for example?" "my own independent powers of thought; my own religion, politics, taste, and direction of self-development--above all, my own money. by that i mean money for which i did not have to ask and which never was given to me as an indulgence. then i should want definite work commensurate with my powers; and the right to a voice in all matters affecting my life or the life of my family." "that is what you would take. but what would you give?" "i would not 'take' these things any more than my husband would 'take' them. nor could he bestow them upon me, for they are mine by inherent right." "could he give you nothing, then?" "love. yet it may not be correct to say that he could give that. he would not love me because he chose to do so, but because he could not help doing so. at least, that is my idea of love. he would love me as i was, with all my faults and follies, and i should love him the same way. i should be as proud of his personality as i would be defensive of my own. i should not ask him to be like me; i should only ask him to be truly himself and to let me be truly myself. if our personalities diverged, perhaps they would go around the circle and meet on the other side." "do you think, my dear woman, that you would be able to recognize each other after such a long journey?" "there would be distinguishing marks," laughed kate; "birthmarks of the soul. but i neglected to say that it would not satisfy me merely to be given a portion of the earnings of the family--that portion which i would require to conduct the household and which i might claim as my share of the result of labor. i should also wish, when there was a surplus, to be given half of it that i might make my own experiments." "a full partnership!" "that's the idea, precisely: a full partnership. there is an assumption that marriages are that now, but it is not so, as all frank persons must concede." "_i_ concede it, at any rate." "now, you must understand that we women are asking these things because we are acquiring new ideas of duty. a duty is like a command; it must be obeyed. it has been laid upon us to demand rights and privileges equal to those enjoyed by men, and we wish them to be extended to us not because we are young or beautiful or winning or chaste, but because we are members of a common humanity with men and are entitled to the same inheritance. we want our status established, so that when we make a marriage alliance we can do it for love and no other reason--not for a home, or support, or children or protection. marriage should be a privilege and a reward--not a necessity. it should be so that if we spinsters want a home, we can earn one; if we desire children, we can take to ourselves some of the motherless ones; and we should be able to entrust society with our protection. by society i mean, of course, the structure which civilized people have fashioned for themselves, the portals of which are personal rights and the law." "but what will all the lovers do? if everything is adjusted to such a nicety, what will they be able to sacrifice for each other?" "lovers," smiled kate, "will always be able to make their own paradise, and a jewelled sacrifice will be the keystone of each window in their house of love. but there are only a few lovers in the world compared with those who have come down through the realm of little morning clouds and are bearing the heat and burden of the day." "how do you know all of these things, wise woman? have you had so much experience?" "we each have all the accumulated experience of the centuries. we don't have to keep to the limits of our own little individual lives." "i often have dreamed of bringing you up on this trail," said wander whimsically, "but never for the purpose of hearing you make your declaration of independence." "why not?" demanded kate. "in what better place could i make it?" beside the clamorous waterfall was a huge boulder squared almost as if the hand of a mason had shaped it. kate stepped on it, before wander could prevent her, and stood laughing back at him, the wind blowing her garments about her and lifting strands of her loosened hair. "i declare my freedom!" she cried with grandiose mockery. "freedom to think my own thoughts, preach my own creeds, do my own work, and make the sacrifices of my own choosing. i declare that i will have no master and no mistress, no slave and no neophyte, but that i will strive to preserve my own personality and to help all of my brothers and sisters, the world over, to preserve theirs. i declare that i will let no superstition or prejudice set limits to my good will, my influence, or my ambition!" "you are standing on a precipice," he warned. "it's glorious!" "but it may be fatal." "but i have the head for it," she retorted. "i shall not fall!" "others may who try to emulate you." "that's fear--the most subtle of foes!" "oh, come back," he pleaded seriously, "i can't bear to see you standing there!" "very well," she said, giving him her hand with a gay gesture of capitulation. "but didn't you say that men liked to climb? well, women do, too." they were conscious of being late for dinner and they turned their faces toward home. "how ridiculous," remarked wander, "that we should think ourselves obliged to return for dinner!" "on the contrary," said kate, "i think it bears witness to both our health and our sanity. i've got over being afraid that i shall be injured by the commonplace. when i open your door and smell the roast or the turnips or whatever food has been provided, i shall like it just as well as if it were flowers." wander helped her down a jagged descent and laughed up in her face. "what a materialist!" he cried. "and i thought you were interested only in the ideal." "things aren't ideal because they have been labeled so," declared kate. "when people tell you they are clinging to old ideals, it's well to find out if they aren't napping in some musty old room beneath the cobwebs. i'm a materialist, very likely, but that's only incidental to my realism. i like to be allowed to realize the truth about things, and you know yourself that you men--who really are the sentimental sex--have tried as hard as you could not to let us." "you speak as if we had deliberately fooled you." "you haven't fooled us any more than we have fooled ourselves." they had reached the lower level now, and could walk side by side. "you've kept us supplemental, and we've thought we were noble when we played the supplemental part. but it doesn't look so to us any longer. we want to be ourselves and to justify ourselves. there's a good deal of complaint about women not having enough to do--about the factories and shops taking their work away from them and leaving them idle and inexpressive. well, in a way, that's true, and i'm a strong advocate of new vocations, so that women can have their own purses and all that. but i know in my heart all this is incidental. what we really need is a definite set of principles; if we can acquire an inner stability, we shall do very well whether our hands are perpetually occupied or not. but just at present we poor women are sitting in the ruins of our collapsed faiths, and we haven't decided what sort of architecture to use in erecting the new one." "there doesn't seem to be much peace left in the world," mused wander. "do you women think you will have peace when you get this new faith?" "oh, dear me," retorted kate, "what would you have us do with peace? you can get that in any garlanded sepulcher. peace is like perfection, it isn't desirable. we should perish of it. as long as there is life there is struggle and change. but when we have our inner faith, when we can see what the thing is for which we are to strive, then we shall cease to be so spasmodic in our efforts. we'll not be doing such grotesque things. we'll come into new dignity." "what you're trying to say," said wander, "is that it is ourselves who are to be our best achievement. it's what we make of ourselves that matters." "oh, that's it! that's it!" cried kate, beating her gloved hands together like a child. "you're getting it! you're getting it! it's what we make of ourselves that matters, and we must all have the right to find ourselves--to keep exploring till we find our highest selves. there mustn't be such a waste of ability and power and hope as there has been. we must all have our share in the essentials--our own relation to reality." "i see," he said, pausing at the door, and looking into her face as if he would spell out her incommunicable self. "that's what you mean by universal liberty." "that's what i mean." "and the man you marry must let you pick your own way, make your own blunders, grow by your own experience." "yes." honora opened the door and looked at them. she was weak and she leaned against the casing for her support, but her face was tender and calm, and she was regnant over her own mind. "what is the matter with you two?" she asked. "aren't you coming in to dinner? haven't you any appetites?" kate threw her arms about her. "oh, honora," she cried. "how lovely you look! appetites? we're famished." xxx another week went by, and though it went swiftly, still at the end of the time it seemed long, as very happy and significant times do. honora was still weak, but as every comfort had been provided for her journey, it seemed more than probable that she would be benefited in the long run by the change, however exhausting it might be temporarily. "it's the morning of the last day," said wander at breakfast. "honora is to treat herself as if she were the finest and most highly decorated bohemian glass, and save herself up for her journey. all preparations, i am told, are completed. very well, then. do you and i ride to-day, miss barrington?" "'here we ride,'" quoted kate. then she flushed, remembering the reference. did karl recognize it--or know it? she could not tell. he could, at will, show a superb inscrutability. whether he knew browning's poem or not, kate found to her irritation that she did. lines she thought she had forgotten, trooped--galloped--back into her brain. the thud of them fell like rhythmic hoofs upon the road. "then we began to ride. my soul smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll freshening and fluttering in the wind. past hopes already lay behind. what need to strive with a life awry? had i said that, had i done this, so might i gain, so might i miss." she wove her braids about her head to the measure; buckled her boots and buttoned her habit; and then, veiled and gauntleted she went down the stairs, still keeping time to the inaudible tune:-- "so might i gain, so might i miss." the mare wander held for her was one which she had ridden several times before and with which she was already on terms of good feeling. that subtle, quick understanding which goes from horse to rider, when all is well in their relations, and when both are eager to face the wind, passed now from lady bel to kate. she let the creature nose her for a moment, then accepted wander's hand and mounted. the fine animal quivered delicately, shook herself, pawed the dust with a motion as graceful as any lady could have made, threw a pleasant, sociable look over her shoulder, and at kate's vivacious lift of the rein was off. wander was mounted magnificently on nell, a mare of heavier build, a black animal, which made a good contrast to lady bel's shining roan coat. the animals were too fresh and impatient to permit much conversation between their riders. they were answering to the call of the road as much as were the humans who rode them. kate tried to think of the scenes which were flashing by, or of the village,--wander's "rowdy" village, teeming with its human stories; but, after all, it was browning's lines which had their way with her. they trumpeted themselves in her ear, changing a word here and there, impishly, to suit her case. "we rode; it seemed my spirit flew, saw other regions, cities new, as the world rushed by on either side. i thought, all labor, yet no less bear up beneath their unsuccess. look at the end of work, contrast the petty done, the undone vast, this present of theirs with the hopeful past! i hoped he would love me. here we ride." they were to the north of the village, heading for a cañon. the road was good, the day not too warm, and the passionate mountain springtime was bursting into flower and leaf. presently walls of rock began to rise about them. they were of innumerable, indefinable rock colors--grayish-yellows, dull olives, old rose, elusive purples, and browns as rich as prairie soil. coiling like a cobra, the little williston raced singing through the midst of the chasm, sun-mottled and bright as the trout that hid in its cold shallows. was all the world singing? were the invisible stars of heaven rhyming with one another? had a lost rhythm been recaptured, and did she hear the pulsations of a deep earth-harmony--or was it, after all, only the insistent beat of the poet's line? "what if we still ride on, we two, with life forever old, yet new, changed not in kind but in degree, the instant made eternity,-- and heaven just prove that i and he ride, ride together, forever ride?" what wander said, when he spoke, was, "walk," and the remark was made to his horse. lady bel slackened, too. they were in the midst of great beauty--complex, almost chaotic, beauty, such as the rocky mountains often display. wander drew his horse nearer to kate's, and as a turning of the road shut them in a solitary paradise where alders and willows fringed the way with fresh-born green, he laid his hand on her saddle. "kate," he said, "can you make up your mind to stay here with me?" kate drew in her breath sharply. then she laughed. "am i to understand that you are introducing or continuing a topic?" she asked. he laughed, too. they were as willing to play with the subject as children are to play with flowers. "i am continuing it," he affirmed. "really?" "and you know it." "do i?" "from the first moment that i laid eyes on you, all the time that i was writing to honora and really was trying to snare your interest, and after she came here,--even when i absurdly commanded you not to write to me,--and now, every moment since you set foot in my wild country, what have i done but say: 'kate, will you stay with me?'" "and will i?" mused kate. "what do you offer?" she once had asked the same question of mccrea. "a faulty man's unchanging love." "what makes you think it will not change--especially since you are a faulty man?" "i think it will not change because i am so faulty that i must have something perfect to which to cling." "nonsense! a clarinda dream! there's nothing perfect about me! the whole truth is that you don't know whether you'll change or not!" "well, say that i change! say that i pass from shimmering moonlight to common sunlight love! say that we walk a heavy road and carry burdens and that our throats are so parched we forget to turn our eyes toward each other. still we shall be side by side, and in the end the dust of us shall mingle in one earth. as for our spirits--if they have triumphed together, where is the logic in supposing that they will know separation?" "you will give me love," said kate, "changing, faulty, human love! i ask no better--in the way of love. i can match you in faultiness and in changefulness and in hope. but now what else can you give me--what work--what chance to justify myself, what exercise for my powers? you have your work laid out for you. where is mine?" wander stared at her a moment with a bewildered expression. then he leaped from his horse and caught kate's bridle. "where is your work, woman?" he thundered. "are you teasing me still or are you in earnest? your work is in your home! with all your wisdom, don't you know that yet? it is in your home, bearing and rearing your sons and your daughters, and adding to my sum of joy and your own. it is in learning secrets of happiness which only experience can teach. listen to me: if my back ached and my face dripped sweat because i was toiling for you and your children, i would count it a privilege. it would be the crown of my life. justify yourself? how can you justify yourself except by being of the earth, learning of her; her obedient and happy child? justify yourself? kate barrington, you'll have to justify yourself to me." "how dare you?" asked kate under her breath. "who has given you a right to take me to task?" "our love," he said, and looked her unflinchingly in the eye. "my love for you and your love for me. i demand the truth of you,--the deepest truth of your deepest soul,--because we are mates and can never escape each other as long as we live, though half the earth divides us and all our years. wherever we go, our thoughts will turn toward each other. when we meet, though we have striven to hate each other, yet our hands will long to clasp. we may be at war, but we will love it better than peace with others. i tell you, i march to the tune of your piping; you keep step to my drum-beats. what is the use of theorizing? i speak of a fact." "i am going to turn my horse," she said. "will you please stand aside?" he dropped her bridle. "is that all you have to say?" she looked at him haughtily for a moment and whirled her horse. then she drew the mare up. "karl!" she called. no answer. "i say--karl!" he came to her. "i am not angry. i know quite well what you mean. you were speaking of the fundamentals." "i was." "but how about me? am i to have no importance save in my relation to you?" "you cannot have your greatest importance save in your relation to me." she looked at him long. her eyes underwent a dozen changes. they taunted him, tempted him, comforted him, bade him hope, bade him fear. "we must ride home," she said at length. "and my question? i asked you if you were willing to stay here with me?" "the question," she said with a dry little smile, "is laid very respectfully on the knees of the gods." he turned from her and swung into his saddle. they pounded home in silence. the lines of "the last ride" were besetting her still. "who knows what's fit for us? had fate proposed bliss here should sublimate my being; had i signed the bond-- still one must lead some life beyond,-- have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. this foot once planted on the goal, this glory-garland round my soul, could i descry such? try and test?" she gave him no chance to help her dismount, but leaping to the ground, turned the good mare's head stableward, and ran to her room. he did not see her till dinner-time. honora was at the table, and occupied their care and thought. afterward there was the ten-mile ride to the station, but kate sat beside honora. there was a full moon--and the world ached for lovers. but if any touched lips, karl wander and kate barrington knew nothing of it. at the station they shook hands. "are you coming back?" asked wander. "will you bring honora back home?" in the moonlight kate turned a sudden smile on him. "of course i'm coming back," she said. "i always put a period to my sentences." "good!" he said. "but that's a very different matter from writing a 'finis' to your book." "i shall conclude on an interrupted sentence," laughed kate, "and i'll let some one else write 'finis.'" the great train labored in, paused for no more than a moment, and was off again. it left wander's world well denuded. the sense of aching loneliness was like an agony. she had evaded him. she belonged to him, and he had somehow let her go! what had he said, or failed to say? what had she desired that he had not given? he tried to assure himself that he had been guiltless, but as he passed his sleeping village and glimpsed the ever-increasing dumps before his mines, he knew in his heart that he had been asking her to play his game. of course, on the other hand-- but what was the use of running around in a squirrel cage! she was gone. he was alone. xxxi the federation of women's clubs! two thousand women gathered in the name of--what? why, of culture, of literature, of sisterhood, of benevolence, of music, art, town beautification, the abolition of child-labor, the abolition of sweat-shops, the extension of peace and opportunity. and run how? by politics, sharp and keen, far-seeing and combative. the results? the coöperation of forceful women, the encouragement of timid ones; the development of certain forms of talent, and the destruction of some old-time virtues. the balance? on the side of good, incontestably. "yes, it's on the side of good," said honora, who was, after all, like a nun (save that her laboratory had been her cell, and a man's fame her passion), and who therefore brought to this vast, highly energized, capable, various gathering a judgment unprejudiced, unworldly, and clear. as she saw these women of many types, from all of the states, united in great causes, united, too, in the cultivation of things not easy of definition, she felt that, in spite of drawbacks, it must be good. she listened to their papers, heard their earnest propaganda. a distinguished jewess from new york told of the work among the immigrants and the methods by which they were created into intelligent citizens; a beautiful kentuckian spoke of the work among the white mountaineers; a very venerable gentlewoman from chicago, exquisitely frail, talked on behalf of the children in factories; a crisp, curt, efficient woman from oregon advocated the dissemination of books among the "lumber-jacks." they were ingenious in their pursuit of benevolences, and their annual reports were the impersonal records of personal labors. they had started libraries, made little parks, inaugurated playgrounds, instituted exchanges for the sale of women's wares, secured women internes in hospitals, paid for truant officers, founded children's protective associations, installed branches of the associated charities, encouraged night schools, circulated art exhibits and traveling libraries; they had placed pictures in the public schools, founded kindergartens--the list seemed inexhaustible. "oh, decidedly," kate granted honora, "the thing seems to be good." moreover, there was good being done of a less assertive but equally commendable nature. the lines of section grew vague when the social georgian sat side by side with the genial woman from michigan. mrs. johnson of minnesota and mrs. cabot of massachusetts, mrs. hardin of kentucky and mrs. garcia of california, found no essential differences in each other. ladies, the world over, have a similarity of tastes. so, as they lunched, dined, and drove together they established relationships more intimate than their convention hall could have fostered. if they had dissensions, these were counterbalanced by the exchange of amenities. if their points of view diverged in lesser matters, they converged in great ones. and then the women of few opportunities--the farmers' wives representing their earnest clubs; the village women, wistful and rather shy; the emergent, onlooking company of few excursions, few indulgences--what of the federation for them? at first, perhaps, they feared it; but cautiously, like unskilled swimmers, they took their experimental strokes. they found themselves secure; heard themselves applauded. they acquired boldness, and presently were exhilarated by the consciousness of their own power. if the great federation could be cruel, it could be kind, too. one thing it had stood for from the first, and by that thing it still abided--the undeviating, disinterested determination to help women develop themselves. so the faltering voice was listened to, and the report of the eager, kind-eyed woman from the little-back-water-of-the-world was heard with interest. the federation knew the value of this woman who said what she meant, and did what she promised. they sent her home to her town to be an inspiration. she was a little torch, carrying light. day succeeded day. from early morning till late at night the great convention read its papers, ate its luncheons, held its committee meetings--talked, aspired, lobbied, schemed, prayed, sang, rejoiced! culture was splendidly on its way--progress was the watchword! it was wonderful and amusing and superb. the feminine mind, much in action, shooting back and forth like a shuttle, was weaving a curious and admirable fabric. there might be some trouble in discerning the design, but it was there, and if it was not arrestingly original, at least it was interesting. in places it was even beautiful. now and then it gave suggestions of the grotesque. it was shot through with the silver of talent, the gold of genius. and with all of its defects it was splendid because the warp thereof was purpose and the woof enthusiasm. * * * * * kate's day came. the great theater was packed--not a vacant seat remained. for it was mid-afternoon, the sun was shining, and the day was the last one of the convention. the president presided with easy authority. it became her--that seat. her keen eyes expressed themselves as being satisfied; her handsome head was carried proudly. her voice, of medium pitch, had an accent of gracious command. she presented to the eye a pleasing, nay, an artistic, picture, and the very gown she wore was a symbol of efficiency--sign to the initiate. kate's heart was fluttering, her mouth dry. she greeted her chairwoman somewhat tremulously, and then faced her audience. for a moment she faltered. then a face came before her--karl's face. she did not so much wish to succeed for him as in despite of him. he had said she would reach her greatest importance through her relationship to him. at that moment she thrilled to the belief that, independently of him, she was still important. the great assemblage had ears for her. the idea of an extension of motherhood, an organized, scientific supervision of children, made an appeal such as nothing else could. for, after all, persistently--almost irritatingly, at times--this great federation, which was supposed to concern itself with many fine abstractions, swung back to that concrete and essentially womanly idea of the care of children. women who had brought to it high messages of art and education had known what it was to be exasperated into speechlessness by what they were pleased to denominate the maternal obsession. kate swung them back to it now, by means of impersonal rather than personal arguments. she did not idealize paternity. she was bitterly well aware by this time that parents were no better than other folk, and that only a small proportion of those to whom the blessing came were qualified or willing to bear its responsibilities. she touched on eugenics--its advantages and its limitations; she referred to the inadequacy of present laws and protective measures. then she went on to describe what a bureau of children might be. "the business of this bureau," she said, "will be the removal of handicaps. "is the child blind, deaf, lame, tubercular, or possessed of any sorry inheritance? the bureau of children will devise some method of easing its way; some plan to save it from further degeneration. is the child talented, and in need of special training? has it genius, and should it, for the glory of the commonwealth and the enrichment of life, be given the right of way? then the bureau of children will see to it that such provision is made. it will not be the idea merely to aid the deficient and protect the vicious. nor shall its highest aspiration be to serve the average child, born of average parents. it would delight to reward successful and devoted parents by giving especial opportunity to their carefully trained and highly developed children. as the bureau of agriculture labors to propagate the best species of trees, fruit, and flowers, so we would labor to propagate the best examples of humanity--the finest, most sturdily reared, best intelligenced boys and girls. "we would endeavor to prevent illness and loss of life among babies and children. our circulars would be distributed in all languages among all of our citizens. we would employ specialists to direct the feeding, clothing, and general rearing of the children of all conditions. we would advocate the protection of children until they reached the age of sixteen; and would endeavor to assist in the supervision of these children until they were of legal age. my idea would be to have all young people under twenty-one remain in a sense the wards of schools. if they have had, at any early age, to leave school and take the burdens of bread-winning upon their young shoulders and their untried hearts, then i would advise an extension of school authority. the schools should be provided with assistant superintendents whose business it would be to help these young bread-winners find positions in keeping with their tastes and abilities, thus aiding them in the most practical and beneficent way, to hold their places in this struggling, modern world. "it is an economic measure of the loftiest type. it will provide against the waste of bodies and souls; it is a device for the conservation and the scientific development of human beings. it is part and parcel of the new, practical religion--a new prayer. "'prayer,' says the old hymn, 'is the soul's sincere desire.' "many of us have lost our belief in the old forms of prayer. we are beginning to realize that, to a great extent, the answer to prayer lies in our own hands. our answers come when we use the powers that have been bestowed upon us. more and more each year, those who employ their intellects for constructive purposes are turning their energies toward the betterment of the world. they have a new conception of 'the world to come.' it means to them our good brown mother earth, warm and fecund and laden with fruits for the consumption of her children as it may be under happier conditions. they wish to increase the happiness of those children, to elevate them physically and mentally, and to give their spirits, too often imprisoned and degraded by hard circumstance, a chance to grow. "when you let the sunlight in to a stunted tree, with what exultant gratitude it lifts itself toward the sun! how its branches greet the wind and sing in them, how its little leaves come dancing out to make a shelter for man and the birds and the furred brothers of the forest! but this, wonderful and beautiful as it is, is but a small thing compared with the way in which the soul of a stunted child--stunted by evil or by sunless environment--leaps and grows and sings when the great spiritual elements of love and liberty are permitted to reach it. "you have talked of the conservation of forests; and you speak of a great need--an imperative cause. i talk of the conservation of children--which is a greater need and a holier right. "mammalia are numerous in this world; real mothers are rare. can we lift the mammalia up into the high estate of motherhood? i believe so. can we grow superlative children, as we grow superlative fruits and animals? oh, a thousand times, yes. i beg for your support of this new idea. let the spirit of inspiration enter into your reflections concerning it. let that concentration of purpose which you have learned in your clubs and federations be your aid here. "most of you whom i see before me are no longer engaged actively in the tasks of motherhood. the children have gone out from your homes into homes of their own. you are left denuded and hungry for the old sweet vocation. your hands are too idle; your abilities lie unutilized. but here is a task at hand. i do not say that you are to use this extension to your motherhood for children alone, or merely in connection with this proposed bureau. i urge you, indeed, to employ it in all conceivable ways. be the mothers of men and women as well as of little children--the mothers of communities--the mothers of the state. and as a focus to these energies and disinterested activities, let us pray washington to give us the bureau of children." she turned from her responsive audience to the chairwoman, who handed her a yellow envelope. "a telegram, miss barrington. should i have given it to you before? i disliked interrupting." kate tore it open. it was from the president of the united states. it ran:-- "i have the honor to inform you that the bureau of children will become a feature of our government within a year. it is the desire of those most interested, myself included, that you should accept the superintendence of it. i hope this will reach you on the day of your address before the federation of women's clubs. accept my congratulations." it was signed by the chief executive. kate passed the message to the chairwoman. "may i read it?" the gratified president questioned. kate nodded. the gavel fell, and the vibrant, tremulous voice of the president was heard reading the significant message. the women listened for a moment with something like incredulity--for they were more used to delays and frustrations than to coöperation; then the house filled with the curious muffled sounds of gloved hands in applause. presently a voice shrilled out in inarticulate acclaim. kate could not catch its meaning, but two thousand women, robed like flowers, swayed to their feet. their handkerchiefs fluttered. the lovely californian blossoms were snatched from their belts and their bosoms and flung upon the platform with enthusiastic, uncertain aim. xxxii afterward kate took honora down to the sea. they found a little house that fairly bathed its feet in the surf, and here they passed the days very quietly, at least to outward seeming. the pacific thundered in upon them; they could hear the winds, calling and calling with an immemorial invitation; they knew of the little jewelled islands that lay out in the seas and of the lands of eld on the far, far shore; and they dreamed strange dreams. sitting in the twilight, watching the light reluctantly leave the sea, they spoke of many things. they spoke most of all of women, and it sometimes seemed, as they sat there,--one at the doorway of the house of life and one in a shaded inner chamber,--as if the rune of women came to them from their far sisters: from those in their harems, from others in the blare of commercial, occidental life; from those in chambers of pain; from those freighted with the poignant burdens which women bear in their bodies and in their souls. as the darkness deepened, they grew unashamed and then reticences fell from them. the eternally flowing sea, the ever-recurrent night gave them courage, though they were women, to speak the truth. "when i found how deeply i loved david," said honora, "and that i could serve him, too, by marrying him, i would no more have put the idea of marriage with him out of my mind than i would have cast away a hope of heaven if i had seen that shining before me. i would no more have turned from it than i would have turned from food, if i had been starving; or water after i had been thirsting in the desert. why, kate, to marry him was inevitable! the bird doesn't think when it sings or the bud when it flowers. it does what it was created to do. i married david the same way." "i understand," said kate. they sat on their little low, sand-swept balcony, facing the sea. the rising tide filled the world with its soft and indescribable cadence. the stars came out into the sky according to their rank--the greatest first, and after them the less, and the less no more lacking in beauty than the great. all was as it should be--all was ordered--all was fit and wonderful. "so," went on honora, after a silence which the sea filled in with its low harmonies, "if you loved karl--" "wait!" said kate. so honora waited. another silence fell. then kate spoke brokenly. "if to feel when i am with him that i have reached my home; if to suffer a strangeness even with myself, and to feel less familiar with myself than with him, is to love, then i love him, honora. if to want to work with him, and to feel there could be no exultation like overcoming difficulties with him, is love, then truly i love him. if just to see him, at a distance, enriches the world and makes the stream of time turn from lead to gold is anything in the nature of love, then i am his lover. if to long to house with him, to go by the same name that he does, to wear him, so to speak, carved on my brow, is to love, then i do." "then i foresee that you will be one of the happiest women in the world." "no! no; you mustn't say that. aren't there other things than love, honora,--better things than selfish delight?" "my dear, you have no call to distress yourself about the occult meanings of that word 'selfish.' unselfish people--or those who mean to be so--contrive, when they refuse to follow the instincts of their hearts, to cause more suffering even than the out-and-out selfish ones." "but i have an opportunity to serve thousands--maybe hundreds of thousands of human beings. i can set in motion a movement which may have a more lasting effect upon my country than any victory ever gained by it on a field of battle; and perhaps in time the example set by this land will be followed by others. dare i face that mystic, inner me and say: 'i choose my man, i give him all my life, and i resign my birthright of labor. for this personal joy i refuse to be the sister of the world; i let the dream perish; i hinder a great work'? oh, honora, i want him, i want him! but am i for that reason to be false to my destiny?" "you want celebrity!" said honora with sudden bitterness. "you want to go to washington, to have your name numbered among the leading ones of the nation; you are not willing to spend your days in the solitude of williston ranch as wife to its master." "i will not say that you are speaking falsely, but i think you know you are setting out only a little part of the truth. admit it, honora." honora sighed heavily. "oh, yes," she said at length, "i do admit it. you must forgive me, kate. it seems so easy for you two to be happy that i can't help feeling it blasphemous for you to be anything else. if it were an ordinary marriage or an ordinary separation, i shouldn't feel so agonized over it. but you and karl--such mates--the only free spirits i know! how you would love! it would be epic. and i should rejoice that you were living in that savage world instead of in a city. you two would need room--like great beautiful buildings. who would wish to see you in the jumble of a city? with you to aid him, karl may become a distinguished man. your lives would go on together, widening, widening--" "oh!" interrupted kate with a sharp ejaculation; "we'll not talk of it any more, honora. you must not think because i cannot marry him that he will always be unhappy. in time he will find another woman--" "kate! will you find another man?" "you know i shall not! after wander? any man would be an anticlimax to me after him." "can you suspect him of a passion or a fealty less than your own? if you refuse to marry him, i believe you will frustrate a great purpose of nature. why, kate, it will be a crime against love. the thought as i feel it means more--oh, infinitely more--than i can make the words convey to you; but you must think them over, kate,--i beg you to think them over!" in the darkness, kate heard honora stealing away to her room. so she was alone, and the hour had come for her decision. "'bitter, alas,'" she quoted to the rising trouble of the sea, '"the sorrow of lonely women.'" the distillation of that strange duplex soul, fiona macleod, was as a drop of poisoned truth upon her parched tongue. "we who love are those who suffer; we who suffer most are those who most do love." she went down upon the sands. the tongues of the sea came up and lapped her feet. the winds of the sea enfolded her in an embrace. for the first time in her life, freely, without restraint, bravely, as sometime she might face god, she confronted the idea of love. and a secret, wonderful knowledge came to her--the knowledge of lovely spiritual ecstasies, the realization of rich human delights. sorrow and cruel loss might be on their way, but joy was hers now. she feigned that karl was waiting for her a little way on in the warm darkness--on, around that scimitar-shaped bend of the beach. she chose to believe that he was running to meet her, his eyes aflame, his great arms outstretched; she thrilled to the rain of his kisses; she thought those stars might hear the voice with which he shouted, "kate!" then, calmer, yet as if she had run a race, panting, palpitant, she seated herself on the sands. she let her imagination roam through the years. she saw the road of life they would take together; how they would stand on peaks of lofty desire, in sunlight; how, unfaltering, they would pace tenebrous valleys. always they would be together. their laughter would chime and their tears would fall in unison. where one failed, the other would redeem; where one doubted, the other would hope. they would bear their children to be the vehicle of their ideals--these fresh new creatures, born of their love, would be trained to achieve what they, their parents, had somehow missed. then her bolder thought died. she, who had forced herself so relentlessly to face the world as a woman faces it, with the knowledge and the courage of maturity, felt her wisdom slip from her. she was a girl, very lonely, facing a task too large for her, needing the comfort of her lover's word. she stretched herself upon the sand, face downward, weeping, because she was afraid of life--because she was wishful for the joy of woman and dared not take it. * * * * * "have you decided?" asked honora in the morning. "i think so," answered kate. honora scrutinized the face of her friend. "accept," she said, "my profound commiseration." her tone seemed to imply that she included contempt. after this, there was a change in honora's attitude toward her. kate felt herself more alone than she ever had been in her life. it was as if she had been cast out into a desert--a sandy plain smitten with the relentless sun of life, and in it was no house of refuge, no comfortable tree, no waters of healing. no, nor any other soul. alone she walked there, and the only figures she saw were those of the mirage. it gave her a sort of relief to turn her face eastward and to feel that she must traverse the actual desert, and come at the end to literal combat. xxxiii two dragons, shedding fire, had paused midway of the desert. one was the overland express racing from los angeles to kansas city; its fellow was headed for the west. both had halted for fuel and water and the refreshment of the passengers. the dusk was gathering over the illimitable sandy plain, and the sun, setting behind wind-blown buttes, wore a sinister glow. by its fantastic light the men and women from the trains paced back and forth on the wide platform, or visited the luxurious eating-house, where palms and dripping waters, roses and inviting food bade them forget that they were on the desert. kate and honora had dined and were walking back and forth in the deep amber light. "such a world to live in," cried kate admiringly, pressing honora's arm to her side. "do you know, of all the places that i might have imagined as desirable for residence, i believe i like our old earth the best!" she was in an inconsequential mood, and honora indulged her with smiling silence. "i couldn't have thought of a finer desert than this if i had tried," she went on gayly. "and this wicked saffron glow is precisely the color to throw on it. what a mistake it would have been if some supernal electrician had dropped a green or a blue spot-light on the scene! now, just hear that fountain dripping and that ground-wind whispering! who wouldn't live in the arid lands? it's all as it should be. so are you, too, aren't you, honora? you've forgiven me, too, i know you have; and you're getting stronger every day, and making ready for happiness, aren't you?" she leaned forward to look in her companion's face. "oh, yes, kate," said honora. "it really is as it should be with me. i'm looking forward, now, to what is to come. to begin with, there are the children shining like little stars at the end of my journey; and there's the necessity of working for them. i'm glad of that--i'm glad i have to work for them. perhaps i shall be offered a place at the university of wisconsin. i think i should be if i gave any indication that i had such a desire. the president and i are old friends. oh, yes, indeed, i'm very thankful that i'm able to look forward again with something like expectancy--" the words died on her lips. she was arrested as if an angry god had halted her. kate, startled, looked up. before them, marble-faced and hideously abashed,--yet beautiful with an insistent beauty,--stood mary morrison, like honora, static with pain. it seemed as if it must be a part of that fantastic, dream-like scene. so many visions were born of the desert that this, not unreasonably, might be one. but, no, these two women who had played their parts in an appalling drama, were moving, involuntarily, as it seemed, nearer to each other. for a second kate thought of dragging honora away, till it came to her by some swift message of the spirit that honora did not wish to avoid this encounter. perhaps it seemed to her like a fulfillment--the last strain of a wild and dissonant symphony. it was the part of greater kindness to drop her arm and stand apart. "shall we speak, mary," said honora at length. "or shall we pass on in silence?" "it isn't for me to say," wavered the other. "any way, it's too late for words to matter." "yes," agreed honora. "quite too late." they continued to stare at each other--so like, yet so unlike. it was honora's face which was ravaged, though mary had sinned the sin. true, pallor and pain were visible in mary's face, even in the disguising light of that strange hour and place, but back of it kate perceived her indestructible frivolity. she surmised how rapidly the scenes of mary's drama would succeed each other; how remorse would yield to regret, regret to diminishing grief, grief to hope, hope to fresh adventures with life. here in all verity was "the eternal feminine," fugitive, provocative, unspiritualized, and shrinking the one quality, fecundity, which could have justified it. but honora was speaking, and her low tones, charged with a mortal grief, were audible above the tramping of many feet, the throbbing of the engines, and the talking and the laughter. "if you had stayed to die with him," she was saying, "i could have forgiven you everything, because i should have known then that you loved him as he hungered to be loved." "he wouldn't let me," mary wailed. "honestly, honora--" "wouldn't let you!" the scorn whipped mary's face scarlet. "nobody wants to die, honora!" pleaded the other. "you wouldn't yourself, when it came to it." a child might have spoken so. the puerility of the words caused honora to check her speech. she looked with a merciless scrutiny at that face in which the dimples would come and go even at such a moment as this. the long lashes curled on the cheeks with unconscious coquetry; the eyes, that had looked on horrors, held an intrinsic brilliance. the earth itself, with its perpetual renewals, was not more essentially expectant than this woman. honora's amazement at her cousin's hedonism gave way to contempt for it. "oh," she groaned, "to have had the power to destroy a great man and to have no knowledge of what you've done! to have lived through all that you have, and to have got no soul, after all!" she had stepped back as if to measure the luscious opulence of mary's form with an eye of passionate depreciation. "stop her, miss barrington," cried mary, seizing kate's arm. "there's no use in all this, and people will overhear. can't you take her away?" she might have gazed at the medusa's head as she gazed at honora's. "come," said kate to honora. "as miss morrison says, there's no use in all this." "if david and i did wrong, it was quite as much honora's fault as mine, really it was," urged "blue-eyed mary," her childish voice choking. kate shook her hand off and looked at her from a height. "don't dare to discuss that," she warned. "don't dare!" she threw her arm around honora. "do come," she pleaded. "all this will make you worse again." "i don't wish you ill," continued honora, seeming not to hear and still addressing herself to mary. "i know you will live on in luxury somehow or other, and that good men will fetch and carry for you. you exude an essence which they can no more resist than a bee can honey. i don't blame you. that's what you were born for. but don't think that makes a woman of you. you never can be a woman! women have souls; they suffer; they love and work and forget themselves; they know how to go down to the gates of death. you don't know how to do any of those things, now, do you?" she had grown terrible, and her questions had the effect of being spoken by some daemonic thing within her--something that made of her mouth a medium as the priestesses did of the mouths of the ancient oracles. "miss barrington," shuddered mary, "i'm trying to hold on to myself, but i don't think i can do it much longer. something is hammering at my throat. i feel as if i were being strangled--" she was choking in the grasp of hysteria. kate drew honora away with a determined violence. "she'll be screaming horribly in a minute," she said. "you don't want to hear that, do you?" honora gave one last look at the miserable girl. "of course, you know," she said, throwing into her words an intensity which burned like acid, "that he did not die for you, mary. he died to save his soul alive. he died to find himself--and me. just that much i have to have you know." at that kate forced her to go into the pullman, and seated her by the window where the rising wind, bringing its tale of eternal solitude, eternal barrenness, could fan her cheek. a gentleman who had been pacing the platform alone approached mary and seemed to offer her assistance with anxious solicitude. she drooped upon his arm, and as she passed beneath the window the odor of her perfumes stole to honora's nostrils. "how dare she walk beneath my window?" honora demanded of kate. "isn't she afraid i may kill her?" "no, i don't think she is, honora. why should she suspect anything ignoble of you?" silence fell. a dull golden star blossomed in the west. "all aboard! all aboard!" called the conductors. the people began straggling toward their trains, laughing their farewells. "hope i'll meet you again sometime!" "east or west, home's the best." "you're sure you're not going on my train?" "me for god's country! you'll find nothing but fleas and flubdub on the coast." "you'll be back again next year, just the same. everybody comes back." "all aboard! all aboard!" "god willing," said honora, "i shall never see her again." suddenly she ceased to be primitive and became a civilized woman with a trained conscience and artificial solicitude. "how do you suppose she's going to live, kate? she had no money. will david have made any arrangement for her? oughtn't i to see to that?" "you are neither to kill nor pension her," said kate angrily. "keep still, honora." the fiery worms became active, and threshed their way across the fast-chilling and silent plain. on the eastbound one two women sat in heavy reverie. on the westbound one a group of solicitous ladies and gentlemen gathered about a golden-haired daughter of california offering her sal volatile, claret, brandy-and-water. she chose the claret and sipped it tremblingly. its deep hue answered the glow in the great ruby in her ring. by a chance her eye caught it and she turned the jewel toward her palm. "a superb stone," commented one of the kindly group. "you purchased it abroad?" the inquiry was meant to distract her thoughts. it did not quite succeed. she put the wine from her and covered her face with her hands, for suddenly she was assailed by a memory of the burning kisses with which that gem had been placed upon her finger by lips now many fathoms beneath the surface of the sun-warmed world. xxxiv kate and honora left the train at the station of wander, and the man for whom it was named was there to meet them. if it was summer with the world, it was summer with him, too. some new plenitude had come to him since kate had seen him last. his full manhood seemed to be realized. a fine seriousness invested him--a seriousness which included, the observer felt sure, all imaginable fit forms of joy. clothed in gray, save for the inevitable sombrero, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, capable, renewed with hope, he took both women with a protecting gesture into his embrace. the three rejoiced together in that honest demonstration which seems permissible in the west, where social forms and fears have not much foothold. they talked as happily of little things as if great ones were not occupying their minds. to listen, one would have thought that only "little joys" and small vexations had come their way. it would be by looking into their faces that one could see the marks of passion--the passion of sorrow, of love, of sacrifice. as they came out of the piñon grove, honora discovered her babies. they were in white, fresh as lilies, or, perhaps, as little angels, well beloved of heavenly mothers; and they came running from the house, their golden hair shining like aureoles about their eager faces. their sandaled feet hardly touched the ground, and, indeed, could they have been weighed at that moment, it surely had been found that they had become almost imponderable because of the ethereal lightness of their spirits. their arms were outstretched; their eyes burning like the eyes of seraphs. "stop!" cried honora to karl in a choking voice. he drew up his restless, home-bound horses, and she leaped to the ground. as she ran toward her little ones on swift feet, the two who watched her were convinced that she had regained her old-time vigor, and had acquired an eloquence of personality which never before had been hers. she gathered her treasures in her arms and walked with them to the house. kate had not many minutes to wait in the living-room before wander joined her. it was a long room, with triplicate, lofty windows facing the mountains which wheeled in majestic semicircle from north to west. at this hour the purple shadows were gathering on them, and great peace and beauty lay over the world. there was but one door to this room and wander closed it. "i may as well know my fate now," he said. "i've waited for this from the moment i saw you last. are you going to be my wife, kate?" he stood facing her, breathing rather heavily, his face commanded to a tense repose. "my answer is 'no,'" cried kate, holding out her hands to him. "i love you as my life, and my answer is 'no.'" he took the hands she had extended. "kiss me!" he gathered her into his arms, and upon her welcoming lips he laid his own in such a kiss as a man places upon but one woman's lips. "now, what is your answer?" he breathed after a time. "tell me your answer now, you much-loved woman--tell it, beloved." she kissed his brow and his eyes; he felt her tears upon his cheeks. "you know all that i have thought and felt," she said; "you know--for i have written--what my life may be. do you ask me to let it go and to live here in this solitude with you?" "yes, by heaven," he said, his eyes blazing, "i ask it." some influence had gone out from them which seemed to create a palpitant atmosphere of delight in which they stood. it was as if the spiritual essence of them, mingling, had formed the perfect fluid of the soul, in which it was a privilege to live and breathe and dream. "i am so blessed in you," whispered karl, "so completed by you, that i cannot let you go, even though you go on to great usefulness and great goodness. i tell you, your place is here in my home. it is safe here. i have seen you standing on a precipice, kate, up there in the mountain. i warned you of its danger; you told me of its glory. but i repeat my warning now, for i see you venturing on to that precipice of loneliness and fame on which none but sad and lonely women stand." "oh, i know what you say is true, karl. i mean to do my work with all the power there is in me, and i shall be rejoicing in that and in life--it's in me to be glad merely that i'm living. but deep within my heart i shall, as you say, be both lonely and sad. if there's any comfort in that for you--" "no, there's no comfort at all for me in that, kate. stay with me, stay with me! be my wife. why, it's your destiny." kate crossed the room as if she would move beyond that aura which vibrated about him and in which she could not stand without a too dangerous delight. she was very pale, but she carried her head high still--almost defiantly. "i mean to be the mother to many, many children, karl," she said in a voice which thrilled with sorrow and pride and a strange joy. "to thousands and thousands of children. but for the idea i represent and the work i mean to do they would be trampled in the dust of the world. can't you see that i am called to this as men are called to honorable services for their country? this is a woman's form of patriotism. it's a higher one than the soldier's, i think. it's come my way to be the banner-carrier, and i'm glad of it. i take my chance and my honor just as you would take your chance and your honor. but i could resign the glory, karl, for your love, and count it worth while." "kate--" "but the thing to which i am faithful is my opportunity for great service. come with me, karl, my dear. think how we could work together in washington--think what such a brain and heart as yours would mean to a new cause. we'd lose ourselves--and find ourselves--laboring for one of the kindest, lovingest ideas the hard old world has yet devised. will you come and help me, karl, man?" he moved toward her, his hands outspread with a protesting gesture. "you know that all my work is here, kate. this is my home, these mines are mine, the town is mine. it is not only my own money which is invested, but the money of other men--friends who have trusted me and whose prosperity depends upon me." "oh, but, karl, aren't there ways of arranging such things? you say i am dear to you--transfer your interests and come with me--karl!" her voice was a pleader's, yet it kept its pride. "kate! how can i? do you want me to be a supplement to you--a hanger-on? don't you see that you would make me ridiculous?" "would i?" said kate. "does it seem that way to you? then you haven't learned to respect me, after all." "i worship you," he cried. kate smiled sadly. "i know," she said, "but worship passes--" "no--" he flung out, starting toward her. but she held him back with a gesture. "you have stolen my word," she said with an accent of finality. "'no'" is the word you force me to speak. i am going on to washington in the morning, karl. they heard the children running down the hall and pounding on the door with their soft fists. when kate opened to them, they clambered up her skirts. she lifted them in her arms, and karl saw their sunny heads nestling against her dark one. as she left the room, moving unseeingly, she heard the hard-wrung groan that came from his lips. a moment later, as she mounted the stairs, she saw him striding up the trail which they, together, had ascended once when the sun of their hope was still high. she did not meet him again that day. she and honora ate their meals in silence, honora dark with disapproval, kate clinging to her spar of spiritual integrity. if that "no" thundered in karl's ears the night through while he kept the company of his ancient comforters the mountains, no less did it beat shatteringly in the ears of the woman who had spoken it. "no," to the deep and mystic human joys; "no" to the most holy privilege of women; "no" to light laughter and a dancing heart; "no" to the lowly, satisfying labor of a home. for her the steep path, alone; for her the precipice. from it she might behold the sunrise and all the glory of the world, but no exalted sense of duty or of victory could blind her to its solitude and to its danger. yet now, if ever, women must be true to the cause of liberty. they had been, through all the ages, willing martyrs to the general good. now it was laid upon them to assume the responsibilities of a new crusade, to undertake a fresh martyrdom, and this time it was for themselves. leagued against them was half--quite half--of their sex. vanity and prettiness, dalliance and dependence were their characteristics. with a shrug of half-bared shoulders they dismissed all those who, painfully, nobly, gravely, were fighting to restore woman's connection with reality--to put her back, somehow, into the procession; to make, by new methods, the "coming lady" as essential to the commonwealth as was the old-time châtelaine before commercialism filched her vocations and left her the most cultivated and useless of parasites. oh, it was no little thing for which she was fighting! kate tried to console herself with that. if she passionately desired to create an organization which should exercise parental powers over orphaned or poorly guarded children, still more did she wish to set an example of efficiency for women, illustrating to them with how firm a step woman might tread the higher altitudes of public life, making an achievement, not a compromise, of labor. moreover, no other woman in the country had at present had an opportunity that equaled her own. look at it how she would, throb as she might with a woman's immemorial nostalgia for a true man's love, she could not escape the relentless logic of the situation. it was not the hour for her to choose her own pleasure. she must march to battle leaving love behind, as the heroic had done since love and combat were known to the world. xxxv morning came. she was called early that she might take the train for the east, and arising from her sleepless bed she summoned her courage imperatively. she determined that, however much she might suffer from the reproaches of her inner self,--that mystic and hidden self which so often refuses to abide by the decisions of the brain and the conscience,--she would not betray her falterings. so she was able to go down to the breakfast-room with an alert step and a sufficiently gallant carriage of the head. honora was there, as pale as kate herself, and she did not scruple to turn upon her departing guest a glance both regretful and forbidding. kate looked across the breakfast-table at her gloomy aspect. "honora," she said with some exasperation, "you've walked _your_ path, and it wasn't the usual one, now, was it? but i stood fast for your right to be unusual, didn't i? then, when the whole scheme of things went to pieces and you were suffering, i didn't lay your misfortune to the singularity of your life. i knew that thousands and thousands of women, who had done the usual thing and chosen the beaten way, had suffered just as much as you. i tried to give you a hand up--blunderingly, i suppose, but i did the best i could. of course, i'm a beast for reminding you of it. but what i want to know is, why you should be looking at me with the eyes of a stony-hearted critic because i'm taking the hardest road for myself. you don't suppose i'd do it without sufficient reason, do you? standing at the parting of the ways is a serious matter, however interesting it may be at the moment." honora's face flushed and her eyes filled. "oh," she cried, "i can't bear to see you putting happiness behind you. what's the use? don't you realize that men and women are little more than motes in the sunshine, here for an hour and to-morrow--nothing! i'm pretty well through with those theories that people call principles and convictions. why not be obedient to nature? she's the great teacher. doesn't she tell you to take love and joy when they come your way?" "we've threshed all that out, haven't we?" asked kate impatiently. "why go over the ground again? but i must say, if a woman of your intelligence--and my friend at that--can't see why i'm taking an uphill road, alone, instead of walking in a pleasant valley with the best of companions, then i can hardly expect any one else to sympathize with me. however, what does it matter? i said i was going alone so why should i complain?" her glance fell on the fireplace before which she and karl had sat the night when he first welcomed her beneath his roof. she remembered the wild silence of the hour, the sense she had had of the invisible presence of the mountains, and how karl's love had streamed about her like shafts of light. "i've seen nothing of karl," said honora abruptly. "he went up the trail yesterday morning, and hasn't been back to the house since." "he didn't come home last night? he didn't sleep in his bed?" "no, i tell you. he's had the door of life slammed in his face, and i suppose he's pretty badly humiliated. karl isn't cut out to be a beggar hanging about the gates, is he? pence and crumbs wouldn't interest him. i wonder if you have any idea how a man like that can suffer? do you imagine he is another ray mccrea?" "pour my coffee, please, honora," said kate. honora took the hint and said no more, while kate hastily ate her breakfast. when she had finished she said as she left the table:-- "i'd be glad if you'll tell the stable-man that i'll not take the morning train. i'm sorry to change my mind, but it's unavoidable." the smart traveling-suit she had purchased in los angeles was her equipment that morning. to this she added her hat and traveling-veil. "if you're going up the mountain," said the maladroit honora, "better not wear those things. they'll be ruined." "oh, things!" cried kate angrily. she stopped at the doorway. "that wasn't decent of you, honora. i _am_ going up the mountain--but what right had you to suppose it?" the whole household knew it a moment later--the maids, the men at the stables and the corral. they knew it, but they thought more of her. she went so proudly, so openly. the judgment they might have passed upon lesser folk, they set aside where wander and his resistant sweetheart were concerned. they did not know the theater, these western men and women, but they recognized drama when they saw it. their deep love of romance was satisfied by these lovers, so strong, so compelling, who moved like demigods in their unconcern for the opinions of others. kate climbed the trail which she and wander had taken together on the day when she had mockingly proclaimed her declaration of independence. she smiled bitterly now to think of the futility of it. independence? for whom did such a thing exist? karl wander was drawing her to him as that mountain of lode in the yellowstone drew the lightnings of heaven. in time she came to the bench beside the torrent where she and wander had rested that other, unforgettable day. she paused there now for a long time, for the path was steep and the altitude great. the day had turned gray and a cold wind was arising--crying wind, that wailed among the tumbled boulders and drove before it clouds of somber hue. after a time she went on, and as she mounted, encountering ever a steeper and more difficult way, she tore the leather of her shoes, rent the skirt of her traveling-frock, and ruined her gloves with soil and rock. "if i have to go back as i came, alone," she reflected, "all in tatters like this, to find that he is at the mines or the village, attending to his work, i shall cut a fine figure, shan't i? the very gods will laugh at me." she flamed scarlet at the thought, but she did not turn back. presently she came to a place where the path forked. a very narrow, appallingly deep gorge split the mountain at this point, each path skirting a side of this crevasse. "i choose the right path," said kate aloud. her heart and lungs were again rebelling at the altitude and the exertion, and she was forced to lie flat for a long time. she lay with her face to the sky watching the roll of the murky clouds. above her towered the crest of the mountain, below her stretched the abyss. it was a place where one might draw apart from all the world and contemplate the little thing that men call life. neither ecstasy nor despair came to her, though some such excesses might have been expected of one whose troubled mind contemplated such magnificence, such terrific beauty. instead, she seemed to face the great soul of truth--to arrive at a conclusion of perfect sanity, of fine reasonableness. conventions, pettiness, foolish pride, waywardness, secret egotism, fell away from her. the customs of society, with what was valuable in them and what was inadequate, assumed their true proportions. it was as if her house of life had been swept of fallacy by the besom of the mountain wind. a feeling of strength, courage, and clarity took possession of her. there was an expectation, too,--nay, the conviction,--that an event was at hand fraught for her with vast significance. the trail, almost perpendicular now, led up a mighty rock. she pulled herself up, and emerging upon the crown of the mountain, beheld the proud peaks of the rockies, bare or snow-capped, dripping with purple and gray mists, sweeping majestically into the distance. such solemnity, such dark and passionate beauty, she never yet had seen, though she was by this time no stranger to the rockies, and she had looked upon the wonders of the sierras. she envisaged as much of this sublimity as eye and brain might hold; then, at a noise, glanced at that tortuous trail--yet more difficult than the one she had taken--which skirted the other side of the continuing crevasse. on it stood karl wander, not as she had seen him last, impatient, racked with mental pain, and torn with pride and eager love. he was haggard, but he had arrived at peace. he was master over himself and no longer the creature of futile torments. to such a man a woman might well capitulate if capitulation was her intent. with such a chieftain might one well treat if one had a mind to maintain the suzerainty of one's soul. the wind assailed kate violently, and she caught at a spur of rock and clung, while her traveling-veil, escaped from bounds, flung out like a "home-going" pennant of a ship. "a flag of truce, kate?" thundered wander's voice. "will you receive it?" cried kate. now that she had sought and found him, she would not surrender without one glad glory of the hour. "name your conditions, beloved enemy." "how can we talk like this?" "we're not talking. we're shouting." "is there no way across?" "only for eagles." "what did you mean by staying up here? i was terrified. what if you had been dying alone--" "i came up to think things out." "have you?" "yes." "well?" "kate, we must be married." "yes," laughed kate. "i know it." "but--" "yes," called kate, "that's it. but--" "but you shall do your work: i shall do mine." "i know," said kate. "that's what i meant to¸ say to you. there's more than one way of being happy and good." "go your way, kate. go to your great undertaking. go as my wife. i stay with my task. it may carry me farther and bring me more honor than we yet know. i shall go to you when i can: you must come to me--when you will. what more exhilarating? a few years will bring changes. i hear they may send me to washington, after all. but they'll not need to send me. lead where you will, i will follow--on condition!" "the condition?" she stood laughing at him, shining at him, free and proud as the "victory" of a sculptor's dream. "that you follow my leadership in turn. we'll have a republic of souls, kate, with equal opportunity--none less, none greater--with high expediency for the watchword." "yes. oh, karl, i came to say all this!" "then some day we'll settle down beneath one roof--we'll have a hearthstone." "yes," cried kate again, this time with an accent that drowned forever the memory of her "no." "turn about, kate; turn about and go down the trail. you'll have to do it alone, i'm afraid. i can't get over there to help." "i don't need help," retorted kate. "it's fine doing it alone." "follow your path, and i will follow mine. we can keep in sight almost all the way, i think, and,¸ as you know, a little below this height, the paths converge." kate stood a moment longer, looking at him, measuring him. "how splendid to be a man," she called. "but i'm glad i'm a woman," she supplemented hastily. "not half so glad as i, kate, my mate,--not a thousandth part so glad as i." she held out her arms to him. he gave a great laugh and plunged down the path. kate swept her glance once more over the dark beauty of the mountain-tops--her splendid world, wrought with illimitable joy in achievement by the maker of worlds,--and turning, ran down the great rock that led to the trail. the end [illustration: book cover] the crux books by charlotte perkins gilman women and economics $ . concerning children . in this our world (verse) . the yellow wallpaper (story) . the home . human work . what diantha did (novel) . the man-made world; or, our androcentric culture . moving the mountain . the crux . suffrage songs . the crux a novel by charlotte perkins gilman charlton company new york copyright, by charlotte perkins gilman the co-operative press, spruce street, new york preface this story is, first, for young women to read; second, for young men to read; after that, for anybody who wants to. anyone who doubts its facts and figures is referred to "social diseases and marriage," by dr. prince morrow, or to "hygiene and morality," by miss lavinia dock, a trained nurse of long experience. some will hold that the painful facts disclosed are unfit for young girls to know. young girls are precisely the ones who must know them, in order that they may protect themselves and their children to come. the time to know of danger is before it is too late to avoid it. if some say "innocence is the greatest charm of young girls," the answer is, "what good does it do them?" contents chapter page i. the back way ii. bainville effects iii. the outbreak iv. transplanted v. contrasts vi. new friends and old vii. side lights viii. a mixture ix. consequences x. determination xi. thereafter xii. achievements _who should know but the woman?--the young wife-to-be? whose whole life hangs on the choice; to her the ruin, the misery; to her, the deciding voice._ _who should know but the woman?--the mother-to-be? guardian, giver, and guide; if she may not foreknow, forejudge and foresee, what safety has childhood beside?_ _who should know but the woman?--the girl in her youth? the hour of the warning is then, that, strong in her knowledge and free in her truth, she may build a new race of new men._ chapter i the back way along the same old garden path, sweet with the same old flowers; under the lilacs, darkly dense, the easy gate in the backyard fence-- those unforgotten hours! the "foote girls" were bustling along margate street with an air of united purpose that was unusual with them. miss rebecca wore her black silk cloak, by which it might be seen that "a call" was toward. miss jessie, the thin sister, and miss sallie, the fat one, were more hastily attired. they were persons of less impressiveness than miss rebecca, as was tacitly admitted by their more familiar nicknames, a concession never made by the older sister. even miss rebecca was hurrying a little, for her, but the others were swifter and more impatient. "do come on, rebecca. anybody'd think you were eighty instead of fifty!" said miss sallie. "there's mrs. williams going in! i wonder if she's heard already. do hurry!" urged miss josie. but miss rebecca, being concerned about her dignity, would not allow herself to be hustled, and the three proceeded in irregular order under the high-arched elms and fence-topping syringas of the small new england town toward the austere home of mr. samuel lane. it was a large, uncompromising, square, white house, planted starkly in the close-cut grass. it had no porch for summer lounging, no front gate for evening dalliance, no path-bordering beds of flowers from which to pluck a hasty offering or more redundant tribute. the fragrance which surrounded it came from the back yard, or over the fences of neighbors; the trees which waved greenly about it were the trees of other people. mr. lane had but two trees, one on each side of the straight and narrow path, evenly placed between house and sidewalk--evergreens. mrs. lane received them amiably; the minister's new wife, mrs. williams, was proving a little difficult to entertain. she was from cambridge, mass., and emanated a restrained consciousness of that fact. mr. lane rose stiffly and greeted them. he did not like the foote girls, not having the usual american's share of the sense of humor. he had no enjoyment of the town joke, as old as they were, that "the three of them made a full yard;" and had frowned down as a profane impertinent the man--a little sore under some effect of gossip--who had amended it with "make an 'ell, i say." safely seated in their several rocking chairs, and severally rocking them, the misses foote burst forth, as was their custom, in simultaneous, though by no means identical remarks. "i suppose you've heard about morton elder?" "what do you think mort elder's been doing now?" "we've got bad news for poor miss elder!" mrs. lane was intensely interested. even mr. lane showed signs of animation. "i'm not surprised," he said. "he's done it now," opined miss josie with conviction. "i always said rella elder was spoiling that boy." "it's too bad--after all she's done for him! he always was a scamp!" thus miss sallie. "i've been afraid of it all along," miss rebecca was saying, her voice booming through the lighter tones of her sisters. "i always said he'd never get through college." "but who is morton elder, and what has he done?" asked mrs. williams as soon as she could be heard. this lady now proved a most valuable asset. she was so new to the town, and had been so immersed in the suddenly widening range of her unsalaried duties as "minister's wife," that she had never even heard of morton elder. a new resident always fans the languishing flame of local conversation. the whole shopworn stock takes on a fresh lustre, topics long trampled flat in much discussion lift their heads anew, opinions one scarce dared to repeat again become almost authoritative, old stories flourish freshly, acquiring new detail and more vivid color. mrs. lane, seizing her opportunity while the sisters gasped a momentary amazement at anyone's not knowing the town scapegrace, and taking advantage of her position as old friend and near neighbor of the family under discussion, swept into the field under such headway that even the foote girls remained silent perforce; surcharged, however, and holding their breaths in readiness to burst forth at the first opening. "he's the nephew--orphan nephew--of miss elder--who lives right back of us--our yards touch--we've always been friends--went to school together, rella's never married--she teaches, you know--and her brother--he owned the home--it's all hers now, he died all of a sudden and left two children--morton and susie. mort was about seven years old and susie just a baby. he's been an awful cross--but she just idolizes him--she's spoiled him, i tell her." mrs. lane had to breathe, and even the briefest pause left her stranded to wait another chance. the three social benefactors proceeded to distribute their information in a clattering torrent. they sought to inform mrs. williams in especial, of numberless details of the early life and education of their subject, matters which would have been treated more appreciatively if they had not been blessed with the later news; and, at the same time, each was seeking for a more dramatic emphasis to give this last supply of incident with due effect. no regular record is possible where three persons pour forth statement and comment in a rapid, tumultuous stream, interrupted by cross currents of heated contradiction, and further varied by the exclamations and protests of three hearers, or at least, of two; for the one man present soon relapsed into disgusted silence. mrs. williams, turning a perplexed face from one to the other, inwardly condemning the darkening flood of talk, yet conscious of a sinful pleasure in it, and anxious as a guest, _and_ a minister's wife, to be most amiable, felt like one watching three kinetescopes at once. she saw, in confused pictures of blurred and varying outline, orella elder, the young new england girl, only eighteen, already a "school ma'am," suddenly left with two children to bring up, and doing it, as best she could. she saw the boy, momentarily changing, in his shuttlecock flight from mouth to mouth, through pale shades of open mischief to the black and scarlet of hinted sin, the terror of the neighborhood, the darling of his aunt, clever, audacious, scandalizing the quiet town. "boys are apt to be mischievous, aren't they?" she suggested when it was possible. "he's worse than mischievous," mr. lane assured her sourly. "there's a mean streak in that family." "that's on his mother's side," mrs. lane hastened to add. "she was a queer girl--came from new york." the foote girls began again, with rich profusion of detail, their voices rising shrill, one above the other, and playing together at their full height like emulous fountains. "we ought not to judge, you know;" urged mrs. williams. "what do you say he's really done?" being sifted, it appeared that this last and most terrible performance was to go to "the city" with a group of "the worst boys of college," to get undeniably drunk, to do some piece of mischief. (here was great licence in opinion, and in contradiction.) "_anyway_ he's to be suspended!" said miss rebecca with finality. "suspended!" miss josie's voice rose in scorn. "_expelled!_ they said he was expelled." "in disgrace!" added miss sallie. vivian lane sat in the back room at the window, studying in the lingering light of the long june evening. at least, she appeared to be studying. her tall figure was bent over her books, but the dark eyes blazed under their delicate level brows, and her face flushed and paled with changing feelings. she had heard--who, in the same house, could escape hearing the misses foote?--and had followed the torrent of description, hearsay, surmise and allegation with an interest that was painful in its intensity. "it's a _shame_!" she whispered under her breath. "a _shame_! and nobody to stand up for him!" she half rose to her feet as if to do it herself, but sank back irresolutely. a fresh wave of talk rolled forth. "it'll half kill his aunt." "poor miss elder! i don't know what she'll do!" "i don't know what _he'll_ do. he can't go back to college." "he'll have to go to work." "i'd like to know where--nobody'd hire him in this town." the girl could bear it no longer. she came to the door, and there, as they paused to speak to her, her purpose ebbed again. "my daughter, vivian, mrs. williams," said her mother; and the other callers greeted her familiarly. "you'd better finish your lessons, vivian," mr. lane suggested. "i have, father," said the girl, and took a chair by the minister's wife. she had a vague feeling that if she were there, they would not talk so about morton elder. mrs. williams hailed the interruption gratefully. she liked the slender girl with the thoughtful eyes and pretty, rather pathetic mouth, and sought to draw her out. but her questions soon led to unfortunate results. "you are going to college, i suppose?" she presently inquired; and vivian owned that it was the desire of her heart. "nonsense!" said her father. "stuff and nonsense, vivian! you're not going to college." the foote girls now burst forth in voluble agreement with mr. lane. his wife was evidently of the same mind; and mrs. williams plainly regretted her question. but vivian mustered courage enough to make a stand, strengthened perhaps by the depth of the feeling which had brought her into the room. "i don't know why you're all so down on a girl's going to college. eve marks has gone, and mary spring is going--and both the austin girls. everybody goes now." "i know one girl that won't," was her father's incisive comment, and her mother said quietly, "a girl's place is at home--'till she marries." "suppose i don't want to marry?" said vivian. "don't talk nonsense," her father answered. "marriage is a woman's duty." "what do you want to do?" asked miss josie in the interests of further combat. "do you want to be a doctor, like jane bellair?" "i should like to very much indeed," said the girl with quiet intensity. "i'd like to be a doctor in a babies' hospital." "more nonsense," said mr. lane. "don't talk to me about that woman! you attend to your studies, and then to your home duties, my dear." the talk rose anew, the three sisters contriving all to agree with mr. lane in his opinions about college, marriage and dr. bellair, yet to disagree violently among themselves. mrs. williams rose to go, and in the lull that followed the liquid note of a whippoorwill met the girl's quick ear. she quietly slipped out, unnoticed. the lane's home stood near the outer edge of the town, with an outlook across wide meadows and soft wooded hills. behind, their long garden backed on that of miss orella elder, with a connecting gate in the gray board fence. mrs. lane had grown up here. the house belonged to her mother, mrs. servilla pettigrew, though that able lady was seldom in it, preferring to make herself useful among two growing sets of grandchildren. miss elder was vivian's favorite teacher. she was a careful and conscientious instructor, and the girl was a careful and conscientious scholar; so they got on admirably together; indeed, there was a real affection between them. and just as the young laura pettigrew had played with the younger orella elder, so vivian had played with little susie elder, miss orella's orphan niece. susie regarded the older girl with worshipful affection, which was not at all unpleasant to an emotional young creature with unemotional parents, and no brothers or sisters of her own. moreover, susie was morton's sister. the whippoorwill's cry sounded again through the soft june night. vivian came quickly down the garden path between the bordering beds of sweet alyssum and mignonette. a dew-wet rose brushed against her hand. she broke it off, pricking her fingers, and hastily fastened it in the bosom of her white frock. large old lilac bushes hung over the dividing fence, a thick mass of honeysuckle climbed up by the gate and mingled with them, spreading over to a pear tree on the lane side. in this fragrant, hidden corner was a rough seat, and from it a boy's hand reached out and seized the girl's, drawing her down beside him. she drew away from him as far as the seat allowed. "oh morton!" she said. "what have you done?" morton was sulky. "now vivian, are you down on me too? i thought i had one friend." "you ought to tell me," she said more gently. "how can i be your friend if i don't know the facts? they are saying perfectly awful things." "who are?" "why--the foote girls--everybody." "oh those old maids aren't everybody, i assure you. you see, vivian, you live right here in this old oyster of a town--and you make mountains out of molehills like everybody else. a girl of your intelligence ought to know better." she drew a great breath of relief. "then you haven't--done it?" "done what? what's all this mysterious talk anyhow? the prisoner has a right to know what he's charged with before he commits himself." the girl was silent, finding it difficult to begin. "well, out with it. what do they say i did?" he picked up a long dry twig and broke it, gradually, into tiny, half-inch bits. "they say you--went to the city--with a lot of the worst boys in college----" "well? many persons go to the city every day. that's no crime, surely. as for 'the worst boys in college,'"--he laughed scornfully--"i suppose those old ladies think if a fellow smokes a cigarette or says 'darn' he's a tough. they're mighty nice fellows, that bunch--most of 'em. got some ginger in 'em, that's all. what else?" "they say--you drank." "o ho! said i got drunk, i warrant! well--we did have a skate on that time, i admit!" and he laughed as if this charge were but a familiar joke. "why morton elder! i think it is a--disgrace!" "pshaw, vivian!--you ought to have more sense. all the fellows get gay once in a while. a college isn't a young ladies' seminary." he reached out and got hold of her hand again, but she drew it away. "there was something else," she said. "what was it?" he questioned sharply. "what did they say?" but she would not satisfy him--perhaps could not. "i should think you'd be ashamed, to make your aunt so much trouble. they said you were suspended--or--_expelled_!" he shrugged his big shoulders and threw away the handful of broken twigs. "that's true enough--i might as well admit that." "oh, _morton_!--i didn't believe it. _expelled!_" "yes, expelled--turned down--thrown out--fired! and i'm glad of it." he leaned back against the fence and whistled very softly through his teeth. "sh! sh!" she urged. "please!" he was quiet. "but morton--what are you going to do?--won't it spoil your career?" "no, my dear little girl, it will not!" said he. "on the contrary, it will be the making of me. i tell you, vivian, i'm sick to death of this town of maiden ladies--and 'good family men.' i'm sick of being fussed over for ever and ever, and having wristers and mufflers knitted for me--and being told to put on my rubbers! there's no fun in this old clamshell--this kitchen-midden of a town--and i'm going to quit it." he stood up and stretched his long arms. "i'm going to quit it for good and all." the girl sat still, her hands gripping the seat on either side. "where are you going?" she asked in a low voice. "i'm going west--clear out west. i've been talking with aunt rella about it. dr. bellair'll help me to a job, she thinks. she's awful cut up, of course. i'm sorry she feels bad--but she needn't, i tell her. i shall do better there than i ever should have here. i know a fellow that left college--his father failed--and he went into business and made two thousand dollars in a year. i always wanted to take up business--you know that!" she knew it--he had talked of it freely before they had argued and persuaded him into the college life. she knew, too, how his aunt's hopes all centered in him, and in his academic honors and future professional life. "business," to his aunt's mind, was a necessary evil, which could at best be undertaken only after a "liberal education." "when are you going," she asked at length. "right off--to-morrow." she gave a little gasp. "that's what i was whippoorwilling about--i knew i'd get no other chance to talk to you--i wanted to say good-by, you know." the girl sat silent, struggling not to cry. he dropped beside her, stole an arm about her waist, and felt her tremble. "now, viva, don't you go and cry! i'm sorry--i really am sorry--to make _you_ feel bad." this was too much for her, and she sobbed frankly. "oh, morton! how could you! how could you!--and now you've got to go away!" "there now--don't cry--sh!--they'll hear you." she did hush at that. "and don't feel so bad--i'll come back some time--to see you." "no, you won't!" she answered with sudden fierceness. "you'll just go--and stay--and i never shall see you again!" he drew her closer to him. "and do you care--so much--viva?" "of course, i care!" she said, "haven't we always been friends, the best of friends?" "yes--you and aunt rella have been about all i had," he admitted with a cheerful laugh. "i hope i'll make more friends out yonder. but viva,"--his hand pressed closer--"is it only--friends?" she took fright at once and drew away from him. "you mustn't do that, morton!" "do what?" a shaft of moonlight shone on his teasing face. "what am i doing?" he said. it is difficult--it is well nigh impossible--for a girl to put a name to certain small cuddlings not in themselves terrifying, nor even unpleasant, but which she obscurely feels to be wrong. viva flushed and was silent--he could see the rich color flood her face. "come now--don't be hard on a fellow!" he urged. "i shan't see you again in ever so long. you'll forget all about me before a year's over." she shook her head, still silent. "won't you speak to me--viva?" "i wish----" she could not find the words she wanted. "oh, i wish you--wouldn't!" "wouldn't what, girlie? wouldn't go away? sorry to disoblige--but i have to. there's no place for me here." the girl felt the sad truth of that. "aunt rella will get used to it after a while. i'll write to her--i'll make lots of money--and come back in a few years--astonish you all!--meanwhile--kiss me good-by, viva!" she drew back shyly. she had never kissed him. she had never in her life kissed any man younger than an uncle. "no, morton--you mustn't----" she shrank away into the shadow. but, there was no great distance to shrink to, and his strong arms soon drew her close again. "suppose you never see me again," he said. "then you'll wish you hadn't been so stiff about it." she thought of this dread possibility with a sudden chill of horror, and while she hesitated, he took her face between her hands and kissed her on the mouth. steps were heard coming down the path. "they're on," he said with a little laugh. "good-by, viva!" he vaulted the fence and was gone. "what are you doing here, vivian?" demanded her father. "i was saying good-by to morton," she answered with a sob. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself--philandering out here in the middle of the night with that scapegrace! come in the house and go to bed at once--it's ten o'clock." bowing to this confused but almost equally incriminating chronology, she followed him in, meekly enough as to her outward seeming, but inwardly in a state of stormy tumult. she had been kissed! her father's stiff back before her could not blot out the radiant, melting moonlight, the rich sweetness of the flowers, the tender, soft, june night. "you go to bed," said he once more. "i'm ashamed of you." "yes, father," she answered. her little room, when at last she was safely in it and had shut the door and put a chair against it--she had no key--seemed somehow changed. she lit the lamp and stood looking at herself in the mirror. her eyes were star-bright. her cheeks flamed softly. her mouth looked guilty and yet glad. she put the light out and went to the window, kneeling there, leaning out in the fragrant stillness, trying to arrange in her mind this mixture of grief, disapproval, shame and triumph. when the episcopal church clock struck eleven, she went to bed in guilty haste, but not to sleep. for a long time she lay there watching the changing play of moonlight on the floor. she felt almost as if she were married. chapter ii. bainville effects. lockstep, handcuffs, ankle-ball-and-chain, dulltoil and dreary food and drink; small cell, cold cell, narrow bed and hard; high wall, thick wall, window iron-barred; stone-paved, stone-pent little prison yard-- young hearts weary of monotony and pain, young hearts weary of reiterant refrain: "they say--they do--what will people think?" at the two front windows of their rather crowded little parlor sat miss rebecca and miss josie foote, miss sallie being out on a foraging expedition--marketing, as it were, among their neighbors to collect fresh food for thought. a tall, slender girl in brown passed on the opposite walk. "i should think vivian lane would get tired of wearing brown," said miss rebecca. "i don't know why she should," her sister promptly protested, "it's a good enough wearing color, and becoming to her." "she could afford to have more variety," said miss rebecca. "the lanes are mean enough about some things, but i know they'd like to have her dress better. she'll never get married in the world." "i don't know why not. she's only twenty-five--and good-looking." "good-looking! that's not everything. plenty of girls marry that are not good-looking--and plenty of good-looking girls stay single." "plenty of homely ones, too. rebecca," said miss josie, with meaning. miss rebecca certainly was not handsome. "going to the library, of course!" she pursued presently. "that girl reads all the time." "so does her grandmother. i see her going and coming from that library every day almost." "oh, well--she reads stories and things like that. sallie goes pretty often and she notices. we use that library enough, goodness knows, but they are there every day. vivian lane reads the queerest things--doctor's books and works on pedagoggy." "godgy," said miss rebecca, "not goggy." and as her sister ignored this correction, she continued: "they might as well have let her go to college when she was so set on it." "college! i don't believe she'd have learned as much in any college, from what i hear of 'em, as she has in all this time at home." the foote girls had never entertained a high opinion of extensive culture. "i don't see any use in a girl's studying so much," said miss rebecca with decision. "nor i," agreed miss josie. "men don't like learned women." "they don't seem to always like those that aren't learned, either," remarked miss rebecca with a pleasant sense of retribution for that remark about "homely ones." the tall girl in brown had seen the two faces at the windows opposite, and had held her shoulders a little straighter as she turned the corner. "nine years this summer since morton elder went west," murmured miss josie, reminiscently. "i shouldn't wonder if vivian had stayed single on his account." "nonsense!" her sister answered sharply. "she's not that kind. she's not popular with men, that's all. she's too intellectual." "she ought to be in the library instead of sue elder," miss rebecca suggested. "she's far more competent. sue's a feather-headed little thing." "she seems to give satisfaction so far. if the trustees are pleased with her, there's no reason for you to complain that i see," said miss rebecca with decision. * * * * * vivian lane waited at the library desk with an armful of books to take home. she had her card, her mother's and her father's--all utilized. her grandmother kept her own card--and her own counsel. the pretty assistant librarian, withdrawing herself with some emphasis from the unnecessary questions of a too gallant old gentleman, came to attend her. "you _have_ got a load," she said, scribbling complex figures with one end of her hammer-headed pencil, and stamping violet dates with the other. she whisked out the pale blue slips from the lid pockets, dropped them into their proper openings in the desk and inserted the cards in their stead with delicate precision. "can't you wait a bit and go home with me?" she asked. "i'll help you carry them." "no, thanks. i'm not going right home." "you're going to see your saint--i know!" said miss susie, tossing her bright head. "i'm jealous, and you know it." "don't be a goose, susie! you know you're my very best friend, but--she's different." "i should think she was different!" susie sharply agreed. "and you've been 'different' ever since she came." "i hope so," said vivian gravely. "mrs. st. cloud brings out one's very best and highest. i wish you liked her better, susie." "i like you," susie answered. "you bring out my 'best and highest'--if i've got any. she don't. she's like a lovely, faint, bright--bubble! i want to prick it!" vivian smiled down upon her. "you bad little mouse!" she said. "come, give me the books." "leave them with me, and i'll bring them in the car." susie looked anxious to make amends for her bit of blasphemy. "all right, dear. thank you. i'll be home by that time, probably." * * * * * in the street she stopped before a little shop where papers and magazines were sold. "i believe father'd like the new centurion," she said to herself, and got it for him, chatting a little with the one-armed man who kept the place. she stopped again at a small florist's and bought a little bag of bulbs. "your mother's forgotten about those, i guess," said mrs. crothers, the florist's wife, "but they'll do just as well now. lucky you thought of them before it got too late in the season. bennie was awfully pleased with that red and blue pencil you gave him, miss lane." vivian walked on. a child ran out suddenly from a gate and seized upon her. "aren't you coming in to see me--ever?" she demanded. vivian stooped and kissed her. "yes, dear, but not to-night. how's that dear baby getting on?" "she's better," said the little girl. "mother said thank you--lots of times. wait a minute--" the child fumbled in vivian's coat pocket with a mischievous upward glance, fished out a handful of peanuts, and ran up the path laughing while the tall girl smiled down upon her lovingly. a long-legged boy was lounging along the wet sidewalk. vivian caught up with him and he joined her with eagerness. "good evening, miss lane. say--are you coming to the club to-morrow night?" she smiled cordially. "of course i am, johnny. i wouldn't disappoint my boys for anything--nor myself, either." they walked on together chatting until, at the minister's house, she bade him a cheery "good-night." mrs. st. cloud was at the window pensively watching the western sky. she saw the girl coming and let her in with a tender, radiant smile--a lovely being in a most unlovely room. there was a chill refinement above subdued confusion in that cambridge-bainville parlor, where the higher culture of the second mrs. williams, superimposed upon the lower culture of the first, as that upon the varying tastes of a combined ancestry, made the place somehow suggestive of excavations at abydos. it was much the kind of parlor vivian had been accustomed to from childhood, but mrs. st. cloud was of a type quite new to her. clothed in soft, clinging fabrics, always with a misty, veiled effect to them, wearing pale amber, large, dull stones of uncertain shapes, and slender chains that glittered here and there among her scarfs and laces, sinking gracefully among deep cushions, even able to sink gracefully into a common bainville chair--this beautiful woman had captured the girl's imagination from the first. clearly known, she was a sister of mrs. williams, visiting indefinitely. vaguely--and very frequently--hinted, her husband had "left her," and "she did not believe in divorce." against her background of dumb patience, he shone darkly forth as a brute of unknown cruelties. nothing against him would she ever say, and every young masculine heart yearned to make life brighter to the ideal woman, so strangely neglected; also some older ones. her young men's bible class was the pride of mr. williams' heart and joy of such young men as the town possessed; most of bainville's boys had gone. "a wonderful uplifting influence," mr. williams called her, and refused to say anything, even when directly approached, as to "the facts" of her trouble. "it is an old story," he would say. "she bears up wonderfully. she sacrifices her life rather than her principles." to vivian, sitting now on a hassock at the lady's feet and looking up at her with adoring eyes, she was indeed a star, a saint, a cloud of mystery. she reached out a soft hand, white, slender, delicately kept, wearing one thin gold ring, and stroked the girl's smooth hair. vivian seized the hand and kissed it, blushing as she did so. "you foolish child! don't waste your young affection on an old lady like me." "old! you! you don't look as old as i do this minute!" said the girl with hushed intensity. "life wears on you, i'm afraid, my dear.... do you ever hear from him?" to no one else, not even to susie, could vivian speak of what now seemed the tragedy of her lost youth. "no," said she. "never now. he did write once or twice--at first." "he writes to his aunt, of course?" "yes," said vivian. "but not often. and he never--says anything." "i understand. poor child! you must be true, and wait." and the lady turned the thin ring on her finger. vivian watched her in a passion of admiring tenderness. "oh, you understand!" she exclaimed. "you understand!" "i understand, my dear," said mrs. st. cloud. when vivian reached her own gate she leaned her arms upon it and looked first one way and then the other, down the long, still street. the country was in sight at both ends--the low, monotonous, wooded hills that shut them in. it was all familiar, wearingly familiar. she had known it continuously for such part of her lifetime as was sensitive to landscape effects, and had at times a mad wish for an earthquake to change the outlines a little. the infrequent trolley car passed just then and sue elder joined her, to take the short cut home through the lane's yard. "here you are," she said cheerfully, "and here are the books." vivian thanked her. "oh, say--come in after supper, can't you? aunt rella's had another letter from mort." vivian's sombre eyes lit up a little. "how's he getting on? in the same business he was last year?" she asked with an elaborately cheerful air. morton had seemed to change occupations oftener than he wrote letters. "yes, i believe so. i guess he's well. he never says much, you know. i don't think it's good for him out there--good for any boy." and susie looked quite the older sister. "what are they to do? they can't stay here." "no, i suppose not--but we have to." "dr. bellair didn't," remarked vivian. "i like her--tremendously, don't you?" in truth, dr. bellair was already a close second to mrs. st. cloud in the girl's hero-worshipping heart. "oh, yes; she's splendid! aunt rella is so glad to have her with us. they have great times recalling their school days together. aunty used to like her then, though she is five years older--but you'd never dream it. and i think she's real handsome." "she's not beautiful," said vivian, with decision, "but she's a lot better. sue elder, i wish----" "wish what?" asked her friend. sue put the books on the gate-post, and the two girls, arm in arm, walked slowly up and down. susie was a round, palely rosy little person, with a delicate face and soft, light hair waving fluffily about her small head. vivian's hair was twice the length, but so straight and fine that its mass had no effect. she wore it in smooth plaits wound like a wreath from brow to nape. after an understanding silence and a walk past three gates and back again, vivian answered her. "i wish i were in your shoes," she said. "what do you mean--having the doctor in the house?" "no--i'd like that too; but i mean work to do--your position." "oh, the library! you needn't; it's horrid. i wish i were in your shoes, and had a father and mother to take care of me. i can tell you, it's no fun--having to be there just on time or get fined, and having to poke away all day with those phooty old ladies and tiresome children." "but you're independent." "oh, yes, i'm independent. i have to be. aunt rella _could_ take care of me, i suppose, but of course i wouldn't let her. and i dare say library work is better than school-teaching." "what'll we be doing when we're forty, i wonder?" said vivian, after another turn. "forty! why i expect to be a grandma by that time," said sue. she was but twenty-one, and forty looked a long way off to her. "a grandma! and knit?" suggested vivian. "oh, yes--baby jackets--and blankets--and socks--and little shawls. i love to knit," said sue, cheerfully. "but suppose you don't marry?" pursued her friend. "oh, but i shall marry--you see if i don't. marriage"--here she carefully went inside the gate and latched it--"marriage is--a woman's duty!" and she ran up the path laughing. vivian laughed too, rather grimly, and slowly walked towards her own door. the little sitting-room was hot, very hot; but mr. lane sat with his carpet-slippered feet on its narrow hearth with a shawl around him. "shut the door, vivian!" he exclaimed irritably. "i'll never get over this cold if such draughts are let in on me." "why, it's not cold out, father--and it's very close in here." mrs. lane looked up from her darning. "you think it's close because you've come in from outdoors. sit down--and don't fret your father; i'm real worried about him." mr. lane coughed hollowly. he had become a little dry old man with gray, glassy eyes, and had been having colds in this fashion ever since vivian could remember. "dr. bellair says that the out-door air is the best medicine for a cold," remarked vivian, as she took off her things. "dr. bellair has not been consulted in this case," her father returned wheezingly. "i'm quite satisfied with my family physician. he's a man, at any rate." "save me from these women doctors!" exclaimed his wife. vivian set her lips patiently. she had long since learned how widely she differed from both father and mother, and preferred silence to dispute. mr. lane was a plain, ordinary person, who spent most of a moderately useful life in the shoe business, from which he had of late withdrawn. both he and his wife "had property" to a certain extent; and now lived peacefully on their income with neither fear nor hope, ambition nor responsibility to trouble them. the one thing they were yet anxious about was to see vivian married, but this wish seemed to be no nearer to fulfillment for the passing years. "i don't know what the women are thinking of, these days," went on the old gentleman, putting another shovelful of coal on the fire with a careful hand. "doctors and lawyers and even ministers, some of 'em! the lord certainly set down a woman's duty pretty plain--she was to cleave unto her husband!" "some women have no husbands to cleave to, father." "they'd have husbands fast enough if they'd behave themselves," he answered. "no man's going to want to marry one of these self-sufficient independent, professional women, of course." "i do hope, viva," said her mother, "that you're not letting that dr. bellair put foolish ideas into your head." "i want to do something to support myself--sometime, mother. i can't live on my parents forever." "you be patient, child. there's money enough for you to live on. it's a woman's place to wait," put in mr. lane. "how long?" inquired vivian. "i'm twenty-five. no man has asked me to marry him yet. some of the women in this town have waited thirty--forty--fifty--sixty years. no one has asked them." "i was married at sixteen," suddenly remarked vivian's grandmother. "and my mother wasn't but fifteen. huh!" a sudden little derisive noise she made; such as used to be written "humph!" for the past five years, mrs. pettigrew had made her home with the lanes. mrs. lane herself was but a feeble replica of her energetic parent. there was but seventeen years difference in their ages, and comparative idleness with some ill-health on the part of the daughter, had made the difference appear less. mrs. pettigrew had but a poor opinion of the present generation. in her active youth she had reared a large family on a small income; in her active middle-age, she had trotted about from daughter's house to son's house, helping with the grandchildren. and now she still trotted about in all weathers, visiting among the neighbors and vibrating as regularly as a pendulum between her daughter's house and the public library. the books she brought home were mainly novels, and if she perused anything else in the severe quiet of the reading-room, she did not talk about it. indeed, it was a striking characteristic of mrs. pettigrew that she talked very little, though she listened to all that went on with a bright and beady eye, as of a highly intelligent parrot. and now, having dropped her single remark into the conversation, she shut her lips tight as was her habit, and drew another ball of worsted from the black bag that always hung at her elbow. she was making one of those perennial knitted garments, which, in her young days, were called "cardigan jackets," later "jerseys," and now by the offensive name of "sweater." these she constructed in great numbers, and their probable expense was a source of discussion in the town. "how do you find friends enough to give them to?" they asked her, and she would smile enigmatically and reply, "good presents make good friends." "if a woman minds her p's and q's she can get a husband easy enough," insisted the invalid. "just shove that lamp nearer, vivian, will you." vivian moved the lamp. her mother moved her chair to follow it and dropped her darning egg, which the girl handed to her. "supper's ready," announced a hard-featured middle-aged woman, opening the dining-room door. at this moment the gate clicked, and a firm step was heard coming up the path. "gracious, that's the minister!" cried mrs. lane. "he said he'd be in this afternoon if he got time. i thought likely 'twould be to supper." she received him cordially, and insisted on his staying, slipping out presently to open a jar of quinces. the reverend otis williams was by no means loathe to take occasional meals with his parishioners. it was noted that, in making pastoral calls, he began with the poorer members of his flock, and frequently arrived about meal-time at the houses of those whose cooking he approved. "it is always a treat to take supper here," he said. "not feeling well, mr. lane? i'm sorry to hear it. ah! mrs. pettigrew! is that jacket for me, by any chance? a little sombre, isn't it? good evening, vivian. you are looking well--as you always do." vivian did not like him. he had married her mother, he had christened her, she had "sat under" him for long, dull, uninterrupted years; yet still she didn't like him. "a chilly evening, mr. lane," he pursued. "that's what i say," his host agreed. "vivian says it isn't; i say it is." "disagreement in the family! this won't do, vivian," said the minister jocosely. "duty to parents, you know! duty to parents!" "does duty to parents alter the temperature?" the girl asked, in a voice of quiet sweetness, yet with a rebellious spark in her soft eyes. "huh!" said her grandmother--and dropped her gray ball. vivian picked it up and the old lady surreptitiously patted her. "pardon me," said the reverend gentleman to mrs. pettigrew, "did you speak?" "no," said the old lady, "seldom do." "silence is golden, mrs. pettigrew. silence is golden. speech is silver, but silence is golden. it is a rare gift." mrs. pettigrew set her lips so tightly that they quite disappeared, leaving only a thin dented line in her smoothly pale face. she was called by the neighbors "wonderfully well preserved," a phrase she herself despised. some visitor, new to the town, had the hardihood to use it to her face once. "huh!" was the response. "i'm just sixty. henry haskins and george baker and stephen doolittle are all older'n i am--and still doing business, doing it better'n any of the young folks as far as i can see. you don't compare them to canned pears, do you?" mr. williams knew her value in church work, and took no umbrage at her somewhat inimical expression; particularly as just then mrs. lane appeared and asked them to walk out to supper. vivian sat among them, restrained and courteous, but inwardly at war with her surroundings. here was her mother, busy, responsible, serving creamed codfish and hot biscuit; her father, eating wheezily, and finding fault with the biscuit, also with the codfish; her grandmother, bright-eyed, thin-lipped and silent. vivian got on well with her grandmother, though neither of them talked much. "my mother used to say that the perfect supper was cake, preserves, hot bread, and a 'relish,'" said mr. williams genially. "you have the perfect supper, mrs. lane." "i'm glad if you enjoy it, i'm sure," said that lady. "i'm fond of a bit of salt myself." "and what are you reading now, vivian," he asked paternally. "ward," she answered, modestly and briefly. "ward? dr. ward of the _centurion_?" vivian smiled her gentlest. "oh, no," she replied; "lester f. ward, the sociologist." "poor stuff, i think!" said her father. "girls have no business to read such things." "i wish you'd speak to vivian about it, mr. williams. she's got beyond me," protested her mother. "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. "i'd like some more of that quince, laura." "my dear young lady, you are not reading books of which your parents disapprove, i hope?" urged the minister. "shouldn't i--ever?" asked the girl, in her soft, disarming manner. "i'm surely old enough!" "the duty of a daughter is not measured by years," he replied sonorously. "does parental duty cease? are you not yet a child in your father's house?" "is a daughter always a child if she lives at home?" inquired the girl, as one seeking instruction. he set down his cup and wiped his lips, flushing somewhat. "the duty of a daughter begins at the age when she can understand the distinction between right and wrong," he said, "and continues as long as she is blessed with parents." "and what is it?" she asked, large-eyed, attentive. "what is it?" he repeated, looking at her in some surprise. "it is submission, obedience--obedience." "i see. so mother ought to obey grandmother," she pursued meditatively, and mrs. pettigrew nearly choked in her tea. vivian was boiling with rebellion. to sit there and be lectured at the table, to have her father complain of her, her mother invite pastoral interference, the minister preach like that. she slapped her grandmother's shoulder, readjusted the little knit shawl on the straight back--and refrained from further speech. when mrs. pettigrew could talk, she demanded suddenly of the minister, "have you read campbell's new theology?" and from that on they were all occupied in listening to mr. williams' strong, clear and extensive views on the subject--which lasted into the parlor again. vivian sat for awhile in the chair nearest the window, where some thin thread of air might possibly leak in, and watched the minister with a curious expression. all her life he had been held up to her as a person to honor, as a man of irreproachable character, great learning and wisdom. of late she found with a sense of surprise that she did not honor him at all. he seemed to her suddenly like a relic of past ages, a piece of an old parchment--or papyrus. in the light of the studies she had been pursuing in the well-stored town library, the teachings of this worthy old gentleman appeared a jumble of age-old traditions, superimposed one upon another. "he's a palimpsest," she said to herself, "and a poor palimpsest at that." she sat with her shapely hands quiet in her lap while her grandmother's shining needles twinkled in the dark wool, and her mother's slim crochet hook ran along the widening spaces of some thin, white, fuzzy thing. the rich powers of her young womanhood longed for occupation, but she could never hypnotize herself with "fancywork." her work must be worth while. she felt the crushing cramp and loneliness of a young mind, really stronger than those about her, yet held in dumb subjection. she could not solace herself by loving them; her father would have none of it, and her mother had small use for what she called "sentiment." all her life vivian had longed for more loving, both to give and take; but no one ever imagined it of her, she was so quiet and repressed in manner. the local opinion was that if a woman had a head, she could not have a heart; and as to having a body--it was indelicate to consider such a thing. "i mean to have six children," vivian had planned when she was younger. "and they shall never be hungry for more loving." she meant to make up to her vaguely imagined future family for all that her own youth missed. even grandma, though far more sympathetic in temperament, was not given to demonstration, and vivian solaced her big, tender heart by cuddling all the babies she could reach, and petting cats and dogs when no children were to be found. presently she arose and bade a courteous goodnight to the still prolix parson. "i'm going over to sue's," she said, and went out. * * * * * there was a moon again--a low, large moon, hazily brilliant. the air was sweet with the odors of scarce-gone summer, of coming autumn. the girl stood still, half-way down the path, and looked steadily into that silver radiance. moonlight always filled her heart with a vague excitement, a feeling that something ought to happen--soon. this flat, narrow life, so long, so endlessly long--would nothing ever end it? nine years since morton went away! nine years since the strange, invading thrill of her first kiss! back of that was only childhood; these years really constituted life; and life, in the girl's eyes, was a dreary treadmill. she was externally quiet, and by conscience dutiful; so dutiful, so quiet, so without powers of expression, that the ache of an unsatisfied heart, the stir of young ambitions, were wholly unsuspected by those about her. a studious, earnest, thoughtful girl--but study alone does not supply life's needs, nor does such friendship as her life afforded. susie was "a dear"--susie was morton's sister, and she was very fond of her. but that bright-haired child did not understand--could not understand--all that she needed. then came mrs. st. cloud into her life, stirring the depths of romance, of the buried past, and of the unborn future. from her she learned to face a life of utter renunciation, to be true, true to her ideals, true to her principles, true to the past, to be patient; and to wait. so strengthened, she had turned a deaf ear to such possible voice of admiration as might have come from the scant membership of the young men's bible class, leaving them the more devoted to scripture study. there was no thin ring to turn upon her finger; but, for lack of better token, she had saved the rose she wore upon her breast that night, keeping it hidden among her precious things. and then, into the gray, flat current of her daily life, sharply across the trend of mrs. st. cloud's soft influence, had come a new force--dr. bellair. vivian liked her, yet felt afraid, a slight, shivering hesitancy as before a too cold bath, a subtle sense that this breezy woman, strong, cheerful, full of new ideas, if not ideals, and radiating actual power, power used and enjoyed, might in some way change the movement of her life. change she desired, she longed for, but dreaded the unknown. slowly she followed the long garden path, paused lingeringly by that rough garden seat, went through and closed the gate. chapter iii. the outbreak there comes a time after white months of ice-- slow months of ice--long months of ice-- there comes a time when the still floods below rise, lift, and overflow-- fast, far they go. miss orella sat in her low armless rocker, lifting perplexed, patient eyes to look up at dr. bellair. dr. bellair stood squarely before her, stood easily, on broad-soled, low-heeled shoes, and looked down at miss orella; her eyes were earnest, compelling, full of hope and cheer. "you are as pretty as a girl, orella," she observed irrelevantly. miss orella blushed. she was not used to compliments, even from a woman, and did not know how to take them. "how you talk!" she murmured shyly. "i mean to talk," continued the doctor, "until you listen to reason." reason in this case, to dr. bellair's mind, lay in her advice to miss elder to come west with her--to live. "i don't see how i can. it's--it's such a complete change." miss orella spoke as if change were equivalent to sin, or at least to danger. "do you good. as a physician, i can prescribe nothing better. you need a complete change if anybody ever did." "why, jane! i am quite well." "i didn't say you were sick. but you are in an advanced stage of _arthritis deformans_ of the soul. the whole town's got it!" the doctor tramped up and down the little room, freeing her mind. "i never saw such bed-ridden intellects in my life! i suppose it was so when i was a child--and i was too young to notice it. but surely it's worse now. the world goes faster and faster every day, the people who keep still get farther behind! i'm fond of you, rella. you've got an intellect, and a conscience, and a will--a will like iron. but you spend most of your strength in keeping yourself down. now, do wake up and use it to break loose! you don't have to stay here. come out to colorado with me--and grow." miss elder moved uneasily in her chair. she laid her small embroidery hoop on the table, and straightened out the loose threads of silk, the doctor watching her impatiently. "i'm too old," she said at length. jane bellair laughed aloud, shortly. "old!" she cried. "you're five years younger than i am. you're only thirty-six! old! why, child, your life's before you--to make." "you don't realize, jane. you struck out for yourself so young--and you've grown up out there--it seems to be so different--there." "it is. people aren't afraid to move. what have you got here you so hate to leave, rella?" "why, it's--home." "yes. it's home--now. are you happy in it?" "i'm--contented." "don't you deceive yourself, rella. you are not contented--not by a long chalk. you are doing your duty as you see it; and you've kept yourself down so long you've almost lost the power of motion. i'm trying to galvanize you awake--and i mean to do it." "you might as well sit down while you're doing it, anyway," miss elder suggested meekly. dr. bellair sat down, selecting a formidable fiddle-backed chair, the unflinching determination of its widely-placed feet being repeated by her own square toes. she placed herself in front of her friend and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her strong, intelligent hands clasped loosely. "what have you got to look forward to, rella?" "i want to see susie happily married--" "i said _you_--not susie." "oh--me? why, i hope some day morton will come back----" "i said _you_--not morton." "why i--you know i have friends, jane--and neighbors. and some day, perhaps--i mean to go abroad." "are you scolding aunt rella again, dr. bellair. i won't stand it." pretty susie stood in the door smiling. "come and help me then," the doctor said, "and it won't sound so much like scolding." "i want mort's letter--to show to viva," the girl answered, and slipped out with it. she sat with vivian on the stiff little sofa in the back room; the arms of the two girls were around one another, and they read the letter together. more than six months had passed since his last one. it was not much of a letter. vivian took it in her own hands and went through it again, carefully. the "remember me to viva--unless she's married," at the end did not seem at all satisfying. still it might mean more than appeared--far more. men were reticent and proud, she had read. it was perfectly possible that he might be concealing deep emotion under the open friendliness. he was in no condition to speak freely, to come back and claim her. he did not wish her to feel bound to him. she had discussed it with mrs. st. cloud, shrinkingly, tenderly, led on by tactful, delicate, questions, by the longing of her longing heart for expression and sympathy. "a man who cannot marry must speak of marriage--it is not honorable," her friend had told her. "couldn't he--write to me--as a friend?" and the low-voiced lady had explained with a little sigh that men thought little of friendship with women. "i have tried, all my life, to be a true and helpful friend to men, to such men as seemed worthy, and they so often--misunderstood." the girl, sympathetic and admiring, thought hotly of how other people misunderstood this noble, lovely soul; how they even hinted that she "tried to attract men," a deadly charge in bainville. "no," mrs. st. cloud had told her, "he might love you better than all the world--yet not write to you--till he was ready to say 'come.' and, of course, he wouldn't say anything in his letters to his aunt." so vivian sat there, silent, weaving frail dreams out of "remember me to viva--unless she's married." that last clause might mean much. dr. bellair's voice sounded clear and insistent in the next room. "she's trying to persuade aunt rella to go west!" said susie. "wouldn't it be funny if she did!" in susie's eyes her aunt's age was as the age of mountains, and also her fixity. since she could remember, aunt rella, always palely pretty and neat, like the delicate, faintly-colored spring flowers of new england, had presided over the small white house, the small green garden and the large black and white school-room. in her vacation she sewed, keeping that quiet wardrobe of hers in exquisite order--and also making susie's pretty dresses. to think of aunt orella actually "breaking up housekeeping," giving up her school, leaving bainville, was like a vision of trees walking. to dr. jane bellair, forty-one, vigorous, successful, full of new plans and purposes, miss elder's life appeared as an arrested girlhood, stagnating unnecessarily in this quiet town, while all the world was open to her. "i couldn't think of leaving susie!" protested miss orella. "bring her along," said the doctor. "best thing in the world for her!" she rose and came to the door. the two girls make a pretty picture. vivian's oval face, with its smooth madonna curves under the encircling wreath of soft, dark plaits, and the long grace of her figure, delicately built, yet strong, beside the pink, plump little susie, roguish and pretty, with the look that made everyone want to take care of her. "come in here, girls," said the doctor. "i want you to help me. you're young enough to be movable, i hope." they cheerfully joined the controversy, but miss orella found small support in them. "why don't you do it, auntie!" susie thought it an excellent joke. "i suppose you could teach school in denver as well as here. and you could vote! oh, auntie--to think of your voting!" miss elder, too modestly feminine, too inherently conservative even to be an outspoken "anti," fairly blushed at the idea. "she's hesitating on your account," dr. bellair explained to the girl. "wants to see you safely married! i tell her you'll have a thousandfold better opportunities in colorado than you ever will here." vivian was grieved. she had heard enough of this getting married, and had expected dr. bellair to hold a different position. "surely, that's not the only thing to do," she protested. "no, but it's a very important thing to do--and to do right. it's a woman's duty." vivian groaned in spirit. that again! the doctor watched her understandingly. "if women only did their duty in that line there wouldn't be so much unhappiness in the world," she said. "all you new england girls sit here and cut one another's throats. you can't possible marry, your boys go west, you overcrowd the labor market, lower wages, steadily drive the weakest sisters down till they--drop." they heard the back door latch lift and close again, a quick, decided step--and mrs. pettigrew joined them. miss elder greeted her cordially, and the old lady seated herself in the halo of the big lamp, as one well accustomed to the chair. "go right on," she said--and knitted briskly. "do take my side, mrs. pettigrew," miss orella implored her. "jane bellair is trying to pull me up by the roots and transplant me to colorado." "and she says i shall have a better chance to marry out there--and ought to do it!" said susie, very solemnly. "and vivian objects to being shown the path of duty." vivian smiled. her quiet, rather sad face lit with sudden sparkling beauty when she smiled. "grandma knows i hate that--point of view," she said. "i think men and women ought to be friends, and not always be thinking about--that." "i have some real good friends--boys, i mean," susie agreed, looking so serious in her platonic boast that even vivian was a little amused, and dr. bellair laughed outright. "you won't have a 'friend' in that sense till you're fifty, miss susan--if you ever do. there can be, there are, real friendships between men and women, but most of that talk is--talk, sometimes worse. "i knew a woman once, ever so long ago," the doctor continued musingly, clasping her hands behind her head, "a long way from here--in a college town--who talked about 'friends.' she was married. she was a 'good' woman--perfectly 'good' woman. her husband was not a very good man, i've heard, and strangely impatient of her virtues. she had a string of boys--college boys--always at her heels. quite too young and too charming she was for this friendship game. she said that such a friendship was 'an ennobling influence' for the boys. she called them her 'acolytes.' lots of them were fairly mad about her--one young chap was so desperate over it that he shot himself." there was a pained silence. "i don't see what this has to do with going to colorado," said mrs. pettigrew, looking from one to the other with a keen, observing eye. "what's your plan, dr. bellair?" "why, i'm trying to persuade my old friend here to leave this place, change her occupation, come out to colorado with me, and grow up. she's a case of arrested development." "she wants me to keep boarders!" miss elder plaintively protested to mrs. pettigrew. that lady was not impressed. "it's quite a different matter out there, mrs. pettigrew," the doctor explained. "'keeping boarders' in this country goes to the tune of 'come ye disconsolate!' it's a doubtful refuge for women who are widows or would be better off if they were. where i live it's a sure thing if well managed--it's a good business." mrs. pettigrew wore an unconvinced aspect. "what do you call 'a good business?'" she asked. "the house i have in mind cleared a thousand a year when it was in right hands. that's not bad, over and above one's board and lodging. that house is in the market now. i've just had a letter from a friend about it. orella could go out with me, and step right into mrs. annerly's shoes--she's just giving up." "what'd she give up for?" mrs. pettigrew inquired suspiciously. "oh--she got married; they all do. there are three men to one woman in that town, you see." "i didn't know there was such a place in the world--unless it was a man-of-war," remarked susie, looking much interested. dr. bellair went on more quietly. "it's not even a risk, mrs. pettigrew. rella has a cousin who would gladly run this house for her. she's admitted that much. so there's no loss here, and she's got her home to come back to. i can write to dick hale to nail the proposition at once. she can go when i go, in about a fortnight, and i'll guarantee the first year definitely." "i wouldn't think of letting you do that, jane! and if it's as good as you say, there's no need. but a fortnight! to leave home--in a fortnight!" "what are the difficulties?" the old lady inquired. "there are always some difficulties." "you are right, there," agreed the doctor. "the difficulties in this place are servants. but just now there's a special chance in that line. dick says the best cook in town is going begging. i'll read you his letter." she produced it, promptly, from the breast pocket of her neat coat. dr. bellair wore rather short, tailored skirts of first-class material; natty, starched blouses--silk ones for "dress," and perfectly fitting light coats. their color and texture might vary with the season, but their pockets, never. "'my dear jane' (this is my best friend out there--a doctor, too. we were in the same class, both college and medical school. we fight--he's a misogynist of the worst type--but we're good friends all the same.) 'why don't you come back? my boys are lonesome without you, and i am overworked--you left so many mishandled invalids for me to struggle with. your boarding house is going to the dogs. mrs. annerly got worse and worse, failed completely and has cleared out, with a species of husband, i believe. the owner has put in a sort of caretaker, and the roomers get board outside--it's better than what they were having. moreover, the best cook in town is hunting a job. wire me and i'll nail her. you know the place pays well. now, why don't you give up your unnatural attempt to be a doctor and assume woman's proper sphere? come back and keep house!' "he's a great tease, but he tells the truth. the house is there, crying to be kept. the boarders are there--unfed. now, orella elder, why don't you wake up and seize the opportunity?" miss orella was thinking. "where's that last letter of morton's?" susie looked for it. vivian handed it to her, and miss elder read it once more. "there's plenty of homeless boys out there besides yours, orella," the doctor assured her. "come on--and bring both these girls with you. it's a chance for any girl, miss lane." but her friend did not hear her. she found what she was looking for in the letter and read it aloud. "i'm on the road again now, likely to be doing colorado most of the year if things go right. it's a fine country." susie hopped up with a little cry. "just the thing, aunt rella! let's go out and surprise mort. he thinks we are just built into the ground here. won't it be fun, viva?" vivian had risen from her seat and stood at the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes at the shadowy little front yard. morton might be there. she might see him. but--was it womanly to go there--for that? there were other reasons, surely. she had longed for freedom, for a chance to grow, to do something in life--something great and beautiful! perhaps this was the opening of the gate, the opportunity of a lifetime. "you folks are so strong on duty," the doctor was saying, "why can't you see a real duty in this? i tell you, the place is full of men that need mothering, and sistering--good honest sweethearting and marrying, too. come on, rella. do bigger work than you've ever done yet--and, as i said, bring both these nice girls with you. what do you say, miss lane?" vivian turned to her, her fine face flushed with hope, yet with a small greek fret on the broad forehead. "i'd like to, very much, dr. bellair--on some accounts. but----" she could not quite voice her dim objections, her obscure withdrawals; and so fell back on the excuse of childhood--"i'm sure mother wouldn't let me." dr. bellair smiled broadly. "aren't you over twenty-one?" she asked. "i'm twenty-five," the girl replied, with proud acceptance of a life long done--as one who owned to ninety-seven. "and self-supporting?" pursued the doctor. vivian flushed. "no--not yet," she answered; "but i mean to be." "exactly! now's your chance. break away now, my dear, and come west. you can get work--start a kindergarten, or something. i know you love children." the girl's heart rose within her in a great throb of hope. "oh--if i _could_!" she exclaimed, and even as she said it, rose half-conscious memories of the low, sweet tones of mrs. st. cloud. "it is a woman's place to wait--and to endure." she heard a step on the walk outside--looked out. "why, here is mrs. st. cloud!" she cried. "guess i'll clear out," said the doctor, as susie ran to the door. she was shy, socially. "nonsense, jane," said her hostess, whispering. "mrs. st. cloud is no stranger. she's mrs. williams' sister--been here for years." she came in at the word, her head and shoulders wreathed in a pearl gray shining veil, her soft long robe held up. "i saw your light, miss elder, and thought i'd stop in for a moment. good evening, mrs. pettigrew--and miss susie. ah! vivian!" "this is my friend, dr. bellair--mrs. st. cloud," miss elder was saying. but dr. bellair bowed a little stiffly, not coming forward. "i've met mrs. st. cloud before, i think--when she was 'mrs. james.'" the lady's face grew sad. "ah, you knew my first husband! i lost him--many years ago--typhoid fever." "i think i heard," said the doctor. and then, feeling that some expression of sympathy was called for, she added, "too bad." not all miss elder's gentle hospitality, mrs. pettigrew's bright-eyed interest, susie's efforts at polite attention, and vivian's visible sympathy could compensate mrs. st. cloud for one inimical presence. "you must have been a mere girl in those days," she said sweetly. "what a lovely little town it was--under the big trees." "it certainly was," the doctor answered dryly. "there is such a fine atmosphere in a college town, i think," pursued the lady. "especially in a co-educational town--don't you think so?" vivian was a little surprised. she had had an idea that her admired friend did not approve of co-education. she must have been mistaken. "such a world of old memories as you call up, dr. bellair," their visitor pursued. "those quiet, fruitful days! you remember dr. black's lectures? of course you do, better than i. what a fine man he was! and the beautiful music club we had one winter--and my little private dancing class--do you remember that? such nice boys, miss elder! i used to call them my acolytes." susie gave a little gulp, and coughed to cover it. "i guess you'll have to excuse me, ladies," said dr. bellair. "good-night." and she walked upstairs. vivian's face flushed and paled and flushed again. a cold pain was trying to enter her heart, and she was trying to keep it out. her grandmother glanced sharply from one face to the other. "glad to've met you, mrs. st. cloud," she said, bobbing up with decision. "good-night, rella--and susie. come on child. it's a wonder your mother hasn't sent after us." for once vivian was glad to go. "that's a good scheme of jane bellair's, don't you think so?" asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them. "i--why yes--i don't see why not." vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart's idol. all the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. she could not return to it. the flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic-- "grandma," said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, "grandma, i believe i'll go." mrs. pettigrew nodded decisively. "i thought you would," she said. "do you blame me, grandma?" "not a mite, child. not a mite. but i'd sleep on it, if i were you." and vivian slept on it--so far as she slept at all. chapter iv transplanted sometimes a plant in its own habitat is overcrowded, starved, oppressed and daunted; a palely feeble thing; yet rises quickly, growing in height and vigor, blooming thickly, when far transplanted. the days between vivian's decision and her departure were harder than she had foreseen. it took some courage to make the choice. had she been alone, independent, quite free to change, the move would have been difficult enough; but to make her plan and hold to it in the face of a disapproving town, and the definite opposition of her parents, was a heavy undertaking. by habit she would have turned to mrs. st. cloud for advice; but between her and that lady now rose the vague image of a young boy, dead,--she could never feel the same to her again. dr. bellair proved a tower of strength. "my dear girl," she would say to her, patiently, but with repressed intensity, "do remember that you are _not_ a child! you are twenty-five years old. you are a grown woman, and have as much right to decide for yourself as a grown man. this isn't wicked--it is a wise move; a practical one. do you want to grow up like the rest of the useless single women in this little social cemetery?" her mother took it very hard. "i don't see how you can think of leaving us. we're getting old now--and here's grandma to take care of----" "huh!" said that lady, with such marked emphasis that mrs. lane hastily changed the phrase to "i mean to _be with_--you do like to have vivian with you, you can't deny that, mother." "but mama," said the girl, "you are not old; you are only forty-three. i am sorry to leave you--i am really; but it isn't forever! i can come back. and you don't really need me. sarah runs the house exactly as you like; you don't depend on me for a thing, and never did. as to grandma!"--and she looked affectionately at the old lady--"she don't need me nor anybody else. she's independent if ever anybody was. she won't miss me a mite--will you grandma?" mrs. pettigrew looked at her for a moment, the corners of her mouth tucked in tightly. "no," she said, "i shan't miss you a mite!" vivian was a little grieved at the prompt acquiescence. she felt nearer to her grandmother in many ways than to either parent. "well, i'll miss you!" said she, going to her and kissing her smooth pale cheek, "i'll miss you awfully!" mr. lane expressed his disapproval most thoroughly, and more than once; then retired into gloomy silence, alternated with violent dissuasion; but since a woman of twenty-five is certainly free to choose her way of life, and there was no real objection to this change, except that it _was_ a change, and therefore dreaded, his opposition, though unpleasant, was not prohibitive. vivian's independent fortune of $ . , the savings of many years, made the step possible, even without his assistance. there were two weeks of exceeding disagreeableness in the household, but vivian kept her temper and her determination under a rain of tears, a hail of criticism, and heavy wind of argument and exhortation. all her friends and neighbors, and many who were neither, joined in the effort to dissuade her; but she stood firm as the martyrs of old. heredity plays strange tricks with us. somewhere under the girl's dumb gentleness and patience lay a store of quiet strength from some pilgrim father or mother. never before had she set her will against her parents; conscience had always told her to submit. now conscience told her to rebel, and she did. she made her personal arrangements, said goodbye to her friends, declined to discuss with anyone, was sweet and quiet and kind at home, and finally appeared at the appointed hour on the platform of the little station. numbers of curious neighbors were there to see them off, all who knew them and could spare the time seemed to be on hand. vivian's mother came, but her father did not. at the last moment, just as the train drew in, grandma appeared, serene and brisk, descending, with an impressive amount of hand baggage, from "the hack." "goodbye, laura," she said. "i think these girls need a chaperon. i'm going too." so blasting was the astonishment caused by this proclamation, and so short a time remained to express it, that they presently found themselves gliding off in the big pullman, all staring at one another in silent amazement. "i hate discussion," said mrs. pettigrew. * * * * * none of these ladies were used to traveling, save dr. bellair, who had made the cross continent trip often enough to think nothing of it. the unaccustomed travelers found much excitement in the journey. as women, embarking on a new, and, in the eyes of their friends, highly doubtful enterprise, they had emotion to spare; and to be confronted at the outset by a totally unexpected grandmother was too much for immediate comprehension. she looked from one to the other, sparkling, triumphant. "i made up my mind, same as you did, hearing jane bellair talk," she explained. "sounded like good sense. i always wanted to travel, always, and never had the opportunity. this was a real good chance." her mouth shut, tightened, widened, drew into a crinkly delighted smile. they sat still staring at her. "you needn't look at me like that! i guess it's a free country! i bought my ticket--sent for it same as you did. and i didn't have to ask _anybody_--i'm no daughter. my duty, as far as i know it, is _done_! this is a pleasure trip!" she was triumph incarnate. "and you never said a word!" this from vivian. "not a word. saved lots of trouble. take care of me indeed! laura needn't think i'm dependent on her _yet_!" vivian's heart rather yearned over her mother, thus doubly bereft. "the truth is," her grandmother went on, "samuel wants to go to florida the worst way; i heard 'em talking about it! he wasn't willing to go alone--not he! wants somebody to hear him cough, i say! and laura couldn't go--'mother was so dependent'--_huh!_" vivian began to smile. she knew this had been talked over, and given up on that account. she herself could have been easily disposed of, but mrs. lane chose to think her mother a lifelong charge. "act as if i was ninety!" the old lady burst forth again. "i'll show 'em!" "i think you're dead right, mrs. pettigrew," said dr. bellair. "sixty isn't anything. you ought to have twenty years of enjoyable life yet, before they call you 'old'--maybe more." mrs. pettigrew cocked an eye at her. "my grandmother lived to be a hundred and four," said she, "and kept on working up to the last year. i don't know about enjoyin' life, but she was useful for pretty near a solid century. after she broke her hip the last time she sat still and sewed and knitted. after her eyes gave out she took to hooking rugs." "i hope it will be forty years, mrs. pettigrew," said sue, "and i'm real glad you're coming. it'll make it more like home." miss elder was a little slow in accommodating herself to this new accession. she liked mrs. pettigrew very much--but--a grandmother thus airily at large seemed to unsettle the foundations of things. she was polite, even cordial, but evidently found it difficult to accept the facts. "besides," said mrs. pettigrew, "you may not get all those boarders at once and i'll be one to count on. i stopped at the bank this morning and had 'em arrange for my account out in carston. they were some surprised, but there was no time to ask questions!" she relapsed into silence and gazed with keen interest at the whirling landscape. throughout the journey she proved the best of travelers; was never car-sick, slept well in the joggling berth, enjoyed the food, and continually astonished them by producing from her handbag the most diverse and unlooked for conveniences. an old-fashioned traveller had forgotten her watchkey--grandma produced an automatic one warranted to fit anything. "takes up mighty little room--and i thought maybe it would come in handy," she said. she had a small bottle of liquid court-plaster, and plenty of the solid kind. she had a delectable lotion for the hands, a real treasure on the dusty journey; also a tiny corkscrew, a strong pair of "pinchers," sewing materials, playing cards, string, safety-pins, elastic bands, lime drops, stamped envelopes, smelling salts, troches, needles and thread. "did you bring a trunk, grandma?" asked vivian. "two," said grandma, "excess baggage. all paid for and checked." "how did you ever learn to arrange things so well?" sue asked admiringly. "read about it," the old lady answered. "there's no end of directions nowadays. i've been studying up." she was so gleeful and triumphant, so variously useful, so steadily gay and stimulating, that they all grew to value her presence long before they reached carston; but they had no conception of the ultimate effect of a resident grandmother in that new and bustling town. to vivian the journey was a daily and nightly revelation. she had read much but traveled very little, never at night. the spreading beauty of the land was to her a new stimulus; she watched by the hour the endless panorama fly past her window, its countless shades of green, the brown and red soil, the fleeting dashes of color where wild flowers gathered thickly. she was repeatedly impressed by seeing suddenly beside her the name of some town which had only existed in her mind as "capital city" associated with "principal exports" and "bounded on the north." at night, sleeping little, she would raise her curtain and look out, sideways, at the stars. big shadowy trees ran by, steep cuttings rose like a wall of darkness, and the hilly curves of open country rose and fell against the sky line like a shaken carpet. she faced the long, bright vistas of the car and studied people's faces--such different people from any she had seen before. a heavy young man with small, light eyes, sat near by, and cast frequent glances at both the girls, going by their seat at intervals. vivian considered this distinctly rude, and sue did not like his looks, so he got nothing for his pains, yet even this added color to the day. the strange, new sense of freedom grew in her heart, a feeling of lightness and hope and unfolding purpose. there was continued discussion as to what the girls should do. "we can be waitresses for auntie till we get something else," sue practically insisted. "the doctor says it will be hard to get good service and i'm sure the boarders would like us." "you can both find work if you want it. what do you want to do, vivian?" asked dr. bellair, not for the first time. vivian was still uncertain. "i love children best," she said. "i could teach--but i haven't a certificate. i'd _love_ a kindergarten; i've studied that--at home." "shouldn't wonder if you could get up a kindergarten right off," the doctor assured her. "meantime, as this kitten says, you could help miss elder out and turn an honest penny while you're waiting." "wouldn't it--interfere with my teaching later?" the girl inquired. "not a bit, not a bit. we're not so foolish out here. we'll fix you up all right in no time." it was morning when they arrived at last and came out of the cindery, noisy crowded cars into the wide, clean, brilliant stillness of the high plateau. they drew deep breaths; the doctor squared her shoulders with a glad, homecoming smile. vivian lifted her head and faced the new surroundings as an unknown world. grandma gazed all ways, still cheerful, and their baggage accrued about them as a rampart. a big bearded man, carelessly dressed, whirled up in a dusty runabout, and stepped out smiling. he seized dr. bellair by both hands, and shook them warmly. "thought i'd catch you, johnny," he said. "glad to see you back. if you've got the landlady, i've got the cook!" "here we are," said she. "miss orella elder--dr. hale; mrs. pettigrew, miss susie elder, miss lane--dr. richard hale." he bowed deeply to mrs. pettigrew, shook hands with miss orella, and addressed himself to her, giving only a cold nod to the two girls, and quite turning away from them. susie, in quiet aside to vivian, made unfavorable comment. "this is your western chivalry, is it?" she said. "even bainville does better than that." "i don't know why we should mind," vivian answered. "it's dr. bellair's friend; he don't care anything about us." but she was rather of sue's opinion. the big man took dr. bellair in his car, and they followed in a station carriage, eagerly observing their new surroundings, and surprised, as most easterners are, by the broad beauty of the streets and the modern conveniences everywhere--electric cars, electric lights, telephones, soda fountains, where they had rather expected to find tents and wigwams. the house, when they were all safely within it, turned out to be "just like a real house," as sue said; and proved even more attractive than the doctor had described it. it was a big, rambling thing, at home they would have called it a hotel, with its neat little sign, "the cottonwoods," and vivian finally concluded that it looked like a seaside boarding house, built for the purpose. a broad piazza ran all across the front, the door opening into a big square hall, a sort of general sitting-room; on either side were four good rooms, opening on a transverse passage. the long dining-room and kitchen were in the rear of the hall. dr. bellair had two, her office fronting on the side street, with a bedroom behind it. they gave mrs. pettigrew the front corner room on that side and kept the one opening from the hall as their own parlor. in the opposite wing was miss elder's room next the hall, and the girls in the outer back corner, while the two front ones on that side were kept for the most impressive and high-priced boarders. mrs. pettigrew regarded her apartments with suspicion as being too "easy." "i don't mind stairs," she said. "dr. bellair has to be next her office--but why do i have to be next dr. bellair?" it was represented to her that she would be nearer to everything that went on and she agreed without more words. dr. hale exhibited the house as if he owned it. "the agent's out of town," he said, "and we don't need him anyway. he said he'd do anything you wanted, in reason." dr. bellair watched with keen interest the effect of her somewhat daring description, as miss orella stepped from room to room examining everything with a careful eye, with an expression of growing generalship. sue fluttered about delightedly, discovering advantages everywhere and making occasional disrespectful remarks to vivian about dr. hale's clothes. "looks as if he never saw a clothes brush!" she said. "a finger out on his glove, a button off his coat. no need to tell us there's no woman in his house!" "you can decide about your cook when you've tried her," he said to miss elder. "i engaged her for a week--on trial. she's in the kitchen now, and will have your dinner ready presently. i think you'll like her, if----" "good boy!" said dr. bellair. "sometimes you show as much sense as a woman--almost." "what's the 'if'" asked miss orella, looking worried. "question of character," he answered. "she's about forty-five, with a boy of sixteen or so. he's not over bright, but a willing worker. she's a good woman--from one standpoint. she won't leave that boy nor give him up to strangers; but she has a past!" "what is her present?" dr. bellair asked, "that's the main thing." dr. hale clapped her approvingly on the shoulder, but looked doubtingly toward miss orella. "and what's her future if somebody don't help her?" vivian urged. "can she cook?" asked grandma. "is she a safe person to have in the house?" inquired dr. bellair meaningly. "she can cook," he replied. "she's french, or of french parentage. she used to keep a little--place of entertainment. the food was excellent. she's been a patient of mine--off and on--for five years--and i should call her perfectly safe." miss orella still looked worried. "i'd like to help her and the boy, but would it--look well? i don't want to be mean about it, but this is a very serious venture with us, dr. hale, and i have these girls with me." "with you and dr. bellair and mrs. pettigrew the young ladies will be quite safe, miss elder. as to the woman's present character, she has suffered two changes of heart, she's become a religious devotee--and a man-hater! and from a business point of view, i assure you that if jeanne jeaune is in your kitchen you'll never have a room empty." "johnny jones! queer name for a woman!" said grandma. they repeated it to her carefully, but she only changed to "jennie june," and adhered to one or the other, thereafter. "what's the boy's name?" she asked further. "theophile," dr. hale replied. "huh!" said she. "why don't she keep an eating-house still?" asked dr. bellair rather suspiciously. "that's what i like best about her," he answered. "she is trying to break altogether with her past. she wants to give up 'public life'--and private life won't have her." they decided to try the experiment, and found it worked well. there were two bedrooms over the kitchen where "mrs. jones" as grandma generally called her, and her boy, could be quite comfortable and by themselves; and although of a somewhat sour and unsociable aspect, and fiercely watchful lest anyone offend her son, this questionable character proved an unquestionable advantage. with the boy's help, she cooked for the houseful, which grew to be a family of twenty-five. he also wiped dishes, helped in the laundry work, cleaned and scrubbed and carried coal; and miss elder, seeing his steady usefulness, insisted on paying wages for him too. this unlooked for praise and gain won the mother's heart, and as she grew more at home with them, and he less timid, she encouraged him to do the heavier cleaning in the rest of the house. "huh!" said grandma. "i wish more sane and moral persons would work like that!" vivian watched with amazement the swift filling of the house. there was no trouble at all about boarders, except in discriminating among them. "make them pay in advance, rella," dr. bellair advised, "it doesn't cost them any more, and it is a great convenience. 'references exchanged,' of course. there are a good many here that i know--you can always count on mr. dykeman and fordham grier, and john unwin." before a month was over the place was full to its limits with what sue called "assorted boarders," the work ran smoothly and the business end of miss elder's venture seemed quite safe. they had the twenty dr. bellair prophesied, and except for her, mrs. pettigrew, miss peeder, a teacher of dancing and music; mrs. jocelyn, who was interested in mining, and sarah hart, who described herself as a "journalist," all were men. fifteen men to eight women. miss elder sat at the head of her table, looked down it and across the other one, and marvelled continuously. never in her new england life had she been with so many men--except in church--and they were more scattered. this houseful of heavy feet and broad shoulders, these deep voices and loud laughs, the atmosphere of interchanging jests and tobacco smoke, was new to her. she hated the tobacco smoke, but that could not be helped. they did not smoke in her parlor, but the house was full of it none the less, in which constant presence she began to reverse the irishman's well known judgment of whiskey, allowing that while all tobacco was bad, some tobacco was much worse than others. chapter v contrasts old england thinks our country is a wilderness at best-- and small new england thinks the same of the large free-minded west. some people know the good old way is the only way to do, and find there must be something wrong in anything that's new. to vivian the new life offered a stimulus, a sense of stir and promise even beyond her expectations. she wrote dutiful letters to her mother, trying to describe the difference between this mountain town and bainville, but found the new england viewpoint an insurmountable obstacle. to bainville "out west" was a large blank space on the map, and the blank space in the mind which matched it was but sparsely dotted with a few disconnected ideas such as "cowboy," "blizzard," "prairie fire," "tornado," "border ruffian," and the like. the girl's painstaking description of the spreading, vigorous young town, with its fine, modern buildings, its banks and stores and theatres, its country club and parks, its pleasant social life, made small impression on the bainville mind. but the fact that miss elder's venture was successful from the first did impress old acquaintances, and mrs. lane read aloud to selected visitors her daughter's accounts of their new and agreeable friends. nothing was said of "chaps," "sombreros," or "shooting up the town," however, and therein a distinct sense of loss was felt. much of what was passing in vivian's mind she could not make clear to her mother had she wished to. the daily presence and very friendly advances of so many men, mostly young and all polite (with the exception of dr. hale, whose indifference was almost rude by contrast), gave a new life and color to the days. she could not help giving some thought to this varied assortment, and the carefully preserved image of morton, already nine years dim, waxed dimmer. but she had a vague consciousness of being untrue to her ideals, or to mrs. st. cloud's ideals, now somewhat discredited, and did not readily give herself up to the cheerful attractiveness of the position. susie found no such difficulty. her ideals were simple, and while quite within the bounds of decorum, left her plenty of room for amusement. so popular did she become, so constantly in demand for rides and walks and oft-recurring dances, that vivian felt called upon to give elder sisterly advice. but miss susan scouted her admonitions. "why shouldn't i have a good time?" she said. "think how we grew up! half a dozen boys to twenty girls, and when there was anything to go to--the lordly way they'd pick and choose! and after all our efforts and machinations most of us had to dance with each other. and the quarrels we had! here they stand around three deep asking for dances--and _they_ have to dance with each other, and _they_ do the quarreling. i've heard 'em." and sue giggled delightedly. "there's no reason we shouldn't enjoy ourselves, susie, of course, but aren't you--rather hard on them?" "oh, nonsense!" sue protested. "dr. bellair said i should get married out here! she says the same old thing--that it's 'a woman's duty,' and i propose to do it. that is--they'll propose, and i won't do it! not till i make up my mind. now see how you like this!" she had taken a fine large block of "legal cap" and set down their fifteen men thereon, with casual comment. . mr. unwin--too old, big, quiet. . mr. elmer skee--big, too old, funny. . jimmy saunders--middle-sized, amusing, nice. . p. r. gibbs--too little, too thin, too cocky. . george waterson--middling, pretty nice. . j. j. cuthbert--big, horrid. . fordham greer--big, pleasant. . w. s. horton--nothing much. . a. l. dykeman--interesting, too old. . professor toomey--little, horrid. . arthur fitzwilliam--ridiculous, too young. . howard winchester--too nice, distrust him. . lawson w. briggs--nothing much. . edward s. jenks--fair to middling. . mr. a. smith--minus. she held it up in triumph. "i got 'em all out of the book--quite correct. now, which'll you have." "susie elder! you little goose! do you imagine that all these fifteen men are going to propose to you?" "i'm sure i hope so!" said the cheerful damsel. "we've only been settled a fortnight and one of 'em has already!" vivian was impressed at once. "which?--you don't mean it!" sue pointed to the one marked "minus." "it was only 'a. smith.' i never should be willing to belong to 'a. smith,' it's too indefinite--unless it was a last resort. several more are--well, extremely friendly! now don't look so severe. you needn't worry about me. i'm not quite so foolish as i talk, you know." she was not. her words were light and saucy, but she was as demure and decorous a little new englander as need be desired; and she could not help it if the hearts of the unattached young men of whom the town was full, warmed towards her. dr. bellair astonished them at lunch one day in their first week. "dick hale wants us all to come over to tea this afternoon," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "tea? where?" asked mrs. pettigrew sharply. "at his house. he has 'a home of his own,' you know. and he particularly wants you, mrs. pettigrew--and miss elder--the girls, of course." "i'm sure i don't care to go," vivian remarked with serene indifference, but susie did. "oh, come on, vivian! it'll be so funny! a man's home!--and we may never get another chance. he's such a bear!" dr. hale's big house was only across the road from theirs, standing in a large lot with bushes and trees about it. "he's been here nine years," dr. bellair told them. "that's an old inhabitant for us. he boarded in that house for a while; then it was for sale and he bought it. he built that little office of his at the corner--says he doesn't like to live where he works, or work where he lives. he took his meals over here for a while--and then set up for himself." "i should think he'd be lonely," miss elder suggested. "oh, he has his boys, you know--always three or four young fellows about him. it's a mighty good thing for them, too." dr. hale's home proved a genuine surprise. they had regarded it as a big, neglected-looking place, and found on entering the gate that the inside view of that rampant shrubbery was extremely pleasant. though not close cut and swept of leaves and twigs, it still was beautiful; and the tennis court and tether-ball ring showed the ground well used. grandma looked about her with a keen interrogative eye, and was much impressed, as, indeed, were they all. she voiced their feelings justly when, the true inwardness of this pleasant home bursting fully upon them, she exclaimed: "well, of all things! a man keeping house!" "why not?" asked dr. hale with his dry smile. "is there any deficiency, mental or physical, about a man, to prevent his attempting this abstruse art?" she looked at him sharply. "i don't know about deficiency, but there seems to be somethin' about 'em that keeps 'em out of the business. i guess it's because women are so cheap." "no doubt you are right, mrs. pettigrew. and here women are scarce and high. hence my poor efforts." his poor efforts had bought or built a roomy pleasant house, and furnished it with a solid comfort and calm attractiveness that was most satisfying. two chinamen did the work; cooking, cleaning, washing, waiting on table, with silent efficiency. "they are as steady as eight-day clocks," said dr. hale. "i pay them good wages and they are worth it." "sun here had to go home once--to be married, also, to see his honored parents, i believe, and to leave a grand-'sun' to attend to the ancestors; but he brought in another chink first and trained him so well that i hardly noticed the difference. came back in a year or so, and resumed his place without a jar." miss elder watched with fascinated eyes these soft-footed servants with clean, white garments and shiny coils of long, braided hair. "i may have to come to it," she admitted, "but--dear me, it doesn't seem natural to have a man doing housework!" dr. hale smiled again. "you don't want men to escape from dependence, i see. perhaps, if more men knew how comfortably they could live without women, the world would be happier." there was a faint wire-edge to his tone, in spite of the courteous expression, but miss elder did not notice it and if mrs. pettigrew did, she made no comment. they noted the varied excellences of his housekeeping with high approval. "you certainly know how, dr. hale," said miss orella; "i particularly admire these beds--with the sheets buttoned down, german fashion, isn't it? what made you do that?" "i've slept so much in hotels," he answered; "and found the sheets always inadequate to cover the blankets--and the marks of other men's whiskers! i don't like blankets in my neck. besides it saves washing." mrs. pettigrew nodded vehemently. "you have sense," she said. the labor-saving devices were a real surprise to them. a "chute" for soiled clothing shot from the bathroom on each floor to the laundry in the basement; a dumbwaiter of construction large and strong enough to carry trunks, went from cellar to roof; the fireplaces dropped their ashes down mysterious inner holes; and for the big one in the living-room a special "lift" raised a box of wood up to the floor level, hidden by one of the "settles." "saves work--saves dirt--saves expense," said dr. hale. miss hale and her niece secretly thought the rooms rather bare, but dr. bellair was highly in favor of that very feature. "you see dick don't believe in jimcracks and dirt-catchers, and he likes sunlight. books all under glass--no curtains to wash and darn and fuss with--none of those fancy pincushions and embroidered thingummies--i quite envy him." "why don't you have one yourself, johnny?" he asked her. "because i don't like housekeeping," she said, "and you do. masculine instinct, i suppose!" "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew with her sudden one-syllable chuckle. the girls followed from room to room, scarce noticing these comments, or the eager politeness of the four pleasant-faced young fellows who formed the doctor's present family. she could not but note the intelligent efficiency of the place, but felt more deeply the underlying spirit, the big-brotherly kindness which prompted his hospitable care of these nice boys. it was delightful to hear them praise him. "o, he's simply great," whispered archie burns, a ruddy-cheeked young scotchman. "he pretends there's nothing to it--that he wants company--that we pay for all we get--and that sort of thing, you know; but this is no boarding house, i can tell you!" and then he flushed till his very hair grew redder--remembering that the guests came from one. "of course not!" vivian cordially agreed with him. "you must have lovely times here. i don't wonder you appreciate it!" and she smiled so sweetly that he felt at ease again. beneath all this cheery good will and the gay chatter of the group her quick sense caught an impression of something hidden and repressed. she felt the large and quiet beauty of the rooms; the smooth comfort, the rational, pleasant life; but still more she felt a deep keynote of loneliness. the pictures told her most. she noted one after another with inward comment. "there's 'persepolis,'" she said to herself--"loneliness incarnate; and that other lion-and-ruin thing,--loneliness and decay. gerome's 'lion in the desert,' too, the same thing. then daniel--more lions, more loneliness, but power. 'circe and the companions of ulysses'--cruel, but loneliness and power again--of a sort. there's that 'island of death' too--a beautiful thing--but o dear!--and young burne-jones' 'vampire' was in one of the bedrooms--that one he shut the door of!" while they ate and drank in the long, low-ceiled wide-windowed room below, she sought the bookcases and looked them over curiously. yes--there was marcus aurelius, epictetus, plato, emerson and carlisle--the great german philosophers, the french, the english--all showing signs of use. dr. hale observed her inspection. it seemed to vaguely annoy him, as if someone were asking too presuming questions. "interested in philosophy, miss lane?" he asked, drily, coming toward her. "yes--so far as i understand it," she answered. "and how far does that go?" she felt the inference, and raised her soft eyes to his rather reproachfully. "not far, i am afraid. but i do know that these books teach one how to bear trouble." he met her gaze steadily, but something seemed to shut, deep in his eyes. they looked as unassailable as a steel safe. he straightened his big shoulders with a defiant shrug, and returned to sit by mrs. pettigrew, to whom he made himself most agreeable. the four young men did the honors of the tea table, with devotion to all; and some especially intended for the younger ladies. miss elder cried out in delight at the tea. "where did you get it, dr. hale? can it be had here?" "i'm afraid not. that is a particular brand. sun brought me a chest of it when he came from his visit." when they went home each lady was given a present, chinese fashion--lychee nuts for sue, lily-bulbs for vivian, a large fan for mrs. pettigrew, and a package of the wonderful tea for miss orella. "that's a splendid thing for him to do," she said, as they walked back. "such a safe place for those boys!" "it's lovely of him," sue agreed. "i don't care if he is a woman-hater." vivian said nothing, but admitted, on being questioned, that "he was very interesting." mrs. pettigrew was delighted with their visit. "i like this country," she declared. "things are different. a man couldn't do that in bainville--he'd be talked out of town." that night she sought dr. bellair and questioned her. "tell me about that man," she demanded. "how old is he?" "not as old as he looks by ten years," said the doctor. "no, i can't tell you why his hair's gray." "what woman upset him?" asked the old lady. dr. bellair regarded her thoughtfully. "he has made me no confidences, mrs. pettigrew, but i think you are right. it must have been a severe shock--for he is very bitter against women. it is a shame, too, for he is one of the best of men. he prefers men patients--and gets them. the women he will treat if he must, but he is kindest to the 'fallen' ones, and inclined to sneer at the rest. and yet he's the straightest man i ever knew. i'm thankful to have him come here so much. he needs it." mrs. pettigrew marched off, nodding sagely. she felt a large and growing interest in her new surroundings, more especially in the numerous boys, but was somewhat amazed at her popularity among them. these young men were mainly exiles from home; the older ones, though more settled perhaps, had been even longer away from their early surroundings; and a real live grandma, as jimmy saunders said, was an "attraction." "if you were mine," he told her laughingly, "i'd get a pianist and some sort of little side show, and exhibit you all up and down the mountains!--for good money. why some of the boys never had a grandma, and those that did haven't seen one since they were kids!" "very complimentary, i'm sure--but impracticable," said the old lady. the young men came to her with confidences, they asked her advice, they kept her amused with tales of their adventures; some true, some greatly diversified; and she listened with a shrewd little smile and a wag of the head--so they never were quite sure whether they were "fooling" grandma or not. to her, as a general confidant, came miss peeder with a tale of woe. the little hall that she rented for her dancing classes had burned down on a windy sunday, and there was no other suitable and within her means. "there's sloan's; but it's over a barroom--it's really not possible. and baker's is too expensive. the church rooms they won't let for dancing--i don't know what i _am_ to do, mrs. pettigrew!" "why don't you ask orella elder to rent you her dining-room--it's big enough. they could move the tables----" miss peeder's eyes opened in hopeful surprise. "oh, if she _would_! do _you_ think she would? it would be ideal." miss elder being called upon, was quite fluttered by the proposition, and consulted dr. bellair. "why not?" said that lady. "dancing is first rate exercise--good for us all. might as well have the girls dance here under your eye as going out all the time--and it's some addition to the income. they'll pay extra for refreshments, too. i'd do it." with considerable trepidation miss orella consented, and their first "class night" was awaited by her in a state of suppressed excitement. to have music and dancing--"with refreshments"--twice a week--in her own house--this seemed to her like a career of furious dissipation. vivian, though with a subtle sense of withdrawal from a too general intimacy, was inwardly rather pleased; and susie bubbled over with delight. "oh what fun!" she cried. "i never had enough dancing! i don't believe anybody has!" "we don't belong to the class, you know," vivian reminded her. "oh yes! miss peeder says we must _all_ come--that she would feel _very_ badly if we didn't; and the boarders have all joined--to a man!" everyone seemed pleased except mrs. jeaune. dancing she considered immoral; music, almost as much so--and miss elder trembled lest she lose her. but the offer of extra payments for herself and son on these two nights each week proved sufficient to quell her scruples. theophile doubled up the tables, set chairs around the walls, waxed the floor, and was then sent to bed and locked in by his anxious mother. she labored, during the earlier hours of the evening, in the preparation of sandwiches and coffee, cake and lemonade--which viands were later shoved through the slide by the austere cook, and distributed as from a counter by miss peeder's assistant. mrs. jeaune would come no nearer, but peered darkly upon them through the peep-hole in the swinging door. it was a very large room, due to the time when many "mealers" had been accommodated. there were windows on each side, windows possessing the unusual merit of opening from the top; wide double doors made the big front hall a sort of anteroom, and the stairs and piazza furnished opportunities for occasional couples who felt the wish for retirement. in the right-angled passages, long hat-racks on either side were hung with "derbies," "kossuths" and "stetsons," and the ladies took off their wraps, and added finishing touches to their toilettes in miss elder's room. the house was full of stir and bustle, of pretty dresses, of giggles and whispers, and the subdued exchange of comments among the gentlemen. the men predominated, so that there was no lack of partners for any of the ladies. miss orella accepted her new position with a half-terrified enjoyment. not in many years had she found herself so in demand. her always neat and appropriate costume had blossomed suddenly for the occasion; her hair, arranged by the affectionate and admiring susie, seemed softer and more voluminous. her eyes grew brilliant, and the delicate color in her face warmed and deepened. miss peeder had installed a pianola to cover emergencies, but on this opening evening she had both piano and violin--good, lively, sole-stirring music. everyone was on the floor, save a few gentlemen who evidently wished they were. sue danced with the gaiety and lightness of a kitten among wind-blown leaves, vivian with gliding grace, smooth and harmonious, miss orella with skill and evident enjoyment, though still conscientious in every accurate step. presently mrs. pettigrew appeared, sedately glorious in black silk, jet-beaded, and with much fine old lace. she bore in front of her a small wicker rocking chair, and headed for a corner near the door. her burden was promptly taken from her by one of the latest comers, a tall person with a most devoted manner. "allow _me_, ma'am," he said, and placed the little chair at the point she indicated. "no lady ought to rustle for rockin' chairs with so many gentlemen present." he was a man of somewhat advanced age, but his hair was still more black than white and had a curly, wiggish effect save as its indigenous character was proven by three small bare patches of a conspicuous nature. he bowed so low before her that she could not help observing these distinctions, and then answered her startled look before she had time to question him. "yes'm," he explained, passing his hand over head; "scalped three several times and left for dead. but i'm here yet. mr. elmer skee, at your service." "i thought when an indian scalped you there wasn't enough hair left to make greeley whiskers," said grandma, rising to the occasion. "oh, no, ma'am, they ain't so efficacious as all that--not in these parts. i don't know what the ancient mohawks may have done, but the apaches only want a patch--smaller to carry and just as good to show off. they're collectors, you know--like a phil-e-a-to-lol-o-gist!" "skee, did you say?" pursued the old lady, regarding him with interest and convinced that there was something wrong with the name of that species of collector. "yes'm. skee--elmer skee. no'm, _not_ pronounced 'she.' do i look like it?" mr. skee was an interesting relic of that stormy past of the once wild west which has left so few surviving. he had crossed the plains as a child, he told her, in the days of the prairie schooner, had then and there lost his parents and his first bit of scalp, was picked up alive by a party of "movers," and had grown up in a playground of sixteen states and territories. grandma gazed upon him fascinated. "i judge you might be interesting to talk with," she said, after he had given her this brief sketch of his youth. "thank you, ma'am," said mr. skee. "may i have the pleasure of this dance?" "i haven't danced in thirty years," said she, dubitating. "the more reason for doing it now," he calmly insisted. "why not?" said mrs. pettigrew, and they forthwith executed a species of march, the gentleman pacing with the elaborate grace of a circus horse, and grandma stepping at his side with great decorum. later on, warming to the occasion, mr. skee frisked and high-stepped with the youngest and gayest, and found the supper so wholly to his liking that he promptly applied for a room, and as soon as one was vacant it was given to him. vivian danced to her heart's content and enjoyed the friendly merriment about her; but when fordham greer took her out on the long piazza to rest and breathe a little, she saw the dark bulk of the house across the street and the office with its half-lit window, and could not avoid thinking of the lonely man there. he had not come to the dance, no one expected that, of course; but all his boys had come and were having the best of times. "it's his own fault, of course; but it's a shame," she thought. the music sounded gaily from within, and young greer urged for another dance. she stood there for a moment, hesitating, her hand on his arm, when a tall figure came briskly up the street from the station, turned in at their gate, came up the steps---- the girl gave a little cry, and shrank back for an instant, then eagerly came forward and gave her hand to him. it was morton. chapter vi new friends and old 'twould be too bad to be true, my dear, and wonders never cease; twould be too bad to be true, my dear, if all one's swans were geese! vivian's startled cry of welcome was heard by susie, perched on the stairs with several eager youths gathered as close as might be about her, and several pairs of hands helped her swift descent to greet her brother. miss orella, dropping mr. dykeman's arm, came flying from the ball-room. "oh, morton! morton! when did you come? why didn't you let us know? oh, my _dear_ boy!" she haled him into their special parlor, took his hat away from him, pulled out the most comfortable chair. "have you had supper? and to think that we haven't a room for you! but there's to be one vacant--next week. i'll see that there is. you shall have my room, dear boy. oh, i am so glad to see you!" susie gave him a sisterly hug, while he kissed her, somewhat gingerly, on the cheek, and then she perched herself on the arm of a chair and gazed upon him with affectionate interest. vivian gazed also, busily engaged in fitting present facts to past memories. surely he had not looked just like that! the morton of her girlhood's dream had a clear complexion, a bright eye, a brave and gallant look--the voice only had not changed. but here was morton in present fact, something taller, it seemed, and a good deal heavier, well dressed in a rather vivid way, and making merry over his aunt's devotion. "well, if it doesn't seem like old times to have aunt 'rella running 'round like a hen with her head cut off, to wait on me." the simile was not unjust, though certainly ungracious, but his aunt was far too happy to resent it. "you sit right still!" she said. "i'll go and bring you some supper. you must be hungry." "now do sit down and hear to reason, auntie!" he said, reaching out a detaining hand and pulling her into a seat beside him. "i'm not hungry a little bit; had a good feed on the diner. never mind about the room--i don't know how long i can stay--and i left my grip at the allen house anyway. how well you're looking, auntie! i declare i'd hardly have known you! and here's little susie--a regular belle! and vivian--don't suppose i dare call you vivian now, miss lane?" vivian gave a little embarrassed laugh. if he had used her first name she would never have noticed it. now that he asked her, she hardly knew what answer to make, but presently said: "why, of course, i always call you morton." "well, i'll come when you call me," he cheerfully replied, leaning forward, elbows on knees, and looking around the pretty room. "how well you're fixed here. guess it was a wise move, aunt 'rella. but i'd never have dreamed you'd do it. your dr. bellair must have been a powerful promoter to get you all out here. i wouldn't have thought anybody in bainville could move--but me. why, there's grandma, as i live!" and he made a low bow. mrs. pettigrew, hearing of his arrival from the various would-be partners of the two girls, had come to the door and stood there regarding him with a non-committal expression. at this address she frowned perceptibly. "my name is mrs. pettigrew, young man. i've known you since you were a scallawag in short pants, but i'm no grandma of yours." "a thousand pardons! please excuse me, mrs. pettigrew," he said with exaggerated politeness. "won't you be seated?" and he set a chair for her with a flourish. "thanks, no," she said. "i'll go back," and went back forthwith, attended by mr. skee. "one of these happy family reunions, ma'am?" he asked with approving interest. "if there's one thing i do admire, it's a happy surprise." "'tis some of a surprise," mrs. pettigrew admitted, and became rather glum, in spite of mr. skee's undeniably entertaining conversation. "some sort of a fandango going on?" morton asked after a few rather stiff moments. "don't let me interrupt! on with the dance! let joy be unconfined! and if she must"--he looked at vivian, and went on somewhat lamely--"dance, why not dance with me? may i have the pleasure, miss lane?" "oh, no," cried miss orella, "we'd much rather be with you!" "but i'd rather dance than talk, any time," said he, and crooked his elbow to vivian with an impressive bow. somewhat uncertain in her own mind, and unwilling to again disappoint fordham greer, who had already lost one dance and was visibly waiting for her in the hall, the girl hesitated; but susie said, "go on, give him part of one. i'll tell mr. greer." so vivian took morton's proffered arm and returned to the floor. she had never danced with him in the old days; no special memory was here to contrast with the present; yet something seemed vaguely wrong. he danced well, but more actively than she admired, and during the rest of the evening devoted himself to the various ladies with an air of long usage. she was glad when the dancing was over and he had finally departed for his hotel, glad when susie had at last ceased chattering and dropped reluctantly to sleep. for a long time she lay awake trying to straighten out things in her mind and account to herself for the sense of vague confusion which oppressed her. morton had come back! that was the prominent thing, of which she repeatedly assured herself. how often she had looked forward to that moment, and felt in anticipation a vivid joy. she had thought of it in a hundred ways, always with pleasure, but never in this particular way--among so many strangers. it must be that which confused her, she thought, for she was extremely sensitive to the attitude of those about her. she felt an unspoken criticism of morton on the part of her new friends in the house, and resented it; yet in her own mind a faint comparison would obtrude itself between his manners and those of jimmie saunders or mr. greer, for instance. the young scotchman she had seen regarding morton with an undisguised dislike, and this she inwardly resented, even while herself disliking his bearing to his aunt--and to her grandmother. it was all contradictory and unsatisfying, and she fell asleep saying over to herself, "he has come back! he has come back!" and trying to feel happy. aunt orella was happy at any rate. she would not rest until her beloved nephew was installed in the house, practically turning out mr. gibbs in order to accommodate him. morton protested, talked of business and of having to go away at any time; and mr. gibbs, who still "mealed" with them, secretly wished he would. but morton did not go away. it was a long time since he had been petted and waited on, and he enjoyed it hugely, treating his aunt with a serio-comic affection that was sometimes funny, sometimes disagreeable. at least susie found it so. her first surprise over, she fell back on a fund of sound common sense, strengthened by present experience, and found a good deal to criticise in her returned brother. she was so young when he left, and he had teased her so unmercifully in those days, that her early memories of him were rather mixed in sentiment, and now he appeared, not as the unquestioned idol of a manless family in a well-nigh manless town, but as one among many; and of those many several were easily his superiors. he was her brother, and she loved him, of course; but there were so many wanting to be "brothers" if not more, and they were so much more polite! morton petted, patronized and teased her, and she took it all in good part, as after the manner of brothers, but his demeanor with other people was not to her mind. his adoring aunt, finding no fault whatever with this well-loved nephew, lavished upon him the affection of her unused motherhood, and he seemed to find it a patent joke, open to everyone, that she should be so fond. to this and, indeed, to his general walk and conversation, mrs. pettigrew took great exception. "fine boy--rella's nephew!" she said to dr. bellair late one night when, seeing a light over her neighbor's transom, she dropped in for a little chat. conversation seemed easier for her here than in the atmosphere of bainville. "fine boy--eh? nice complexion!" dr. bellair was reading a heavy-weight book by a heavier-weight specialist. she laid it down, took off her eyeglasses, and rubbed them. "better not kiss him," she said. "i thought as much!" said grandma. "i _thought_ as much! huh!" "nice world, isn't it?" the doctor suggested genially. "nothing the matter with the world, that i know of," her visitor answered. "nice people, then--how's that?" "nothing the matter with the people but foolishness--plain foolishness. good land! shall we _never_ learn anything!" "not till it's too late apparently," the doctor gloomily agreed, turning slowly in her swivel chair. "that boy never was taught anything to protect him. what did rella know? or for that matter, what do any boys' fathers and mothers know? nothing, you'd think. if they do, they won't teach it to their children." "time they did!" said the old lady decidedly. "high time they did! it's never too late to learn. i've learned a lot out of you and your books, jane bellair. interesting reading! i don't suppose you could give an absolute opinion now, could you?" "no," said dr. bellair gravely, "no, i couldn't; not yet, anyway." "well, we've got to keep our eyes open," mrs. pettigrew concluded. "when i think of that girl of mine----" "yes--or any girl," the doctor added. "you look out for any girl--that's your business; i'll look out for mine--if i can." mrs. pettigrew's were not the only eyes to scrutinize morton elder. through the peep-hole in the swing door to the kitchen, jeanne jeaune watched him darkly with one hand on her lean chest. she kept her watch on whatever went on in that dining-room, and on the two elderly waitresses whom she had helped miss elder to secure when the house filled up. they were rather painfully unattractive, but seemed likely to stay where no young and pretty damsel could be counted on for a year. morton joked with perseverance about their looks, and those who were most devoted to susie seemed to admire his wit, while vivian's special admirers found it pointless in the extreme. "your waitresses are the limit, auntie," he said, "but the cook is all to the good. is she a plain cook or a handsome one?" "handsome is as handsome does, young man," mrs. pettigrew pointedly replied. "mrs. jones is a first-class cook and her looks are neither here nor there." "you fill me with curiosity," he replied. "i must go out and make her acquaintance. i always get solid with the cook; it's worth while." the face at the peep-hole darkened and turned away with a bitter and determined look, and master theophile was hastened at his work till his dim intelligence wondered, and then blessed with an unexpected cookie. vivian, morton watched and followed assiduously. she was much changed from what he remembered--the young, frightened, slender girl he had kissed under the lilac bushes, a kiss long since forgotten among many. perhaps the very number of his subsequent acquaintances during a varied and not markedly successful career in the newer states made this type of new england womanhood more marked. girls he had known of various sorts, women old and young had been kind to him, for morton had the rough good looks and fluent manner which easily find their way to the good will of many female hearts; but this gentle refinement of manner and delicate beauty had a novel charm for him. sitting by his aunt at meals he studied vivian opposite, he watched her in their few quiet evenings together, under the soft lamplight on miss elder's beloved "center table;" and studied her continually in the stimulating presence of many equally devoted men. all that was best in him was stirred by her quiet grace, her reserved friendliness; and the spur of rivalry was by no means wanting. both the girls had their full share of masculine attention in that busy houseful, each having her own particular devotees, and the position of comforter to the others. morton became openly devoted to vivian, and followed her about, seeking every occasion to be alone with her, a thing difficult to accomplish. "i don't ever get a chance to see anything of you," he said. "come on, take a walk with me--won't you?" "you can see me all day, practically," she answered. "it seems to me that i never saw a man with so little to do." "now that's too bad, vivian! just because a fellow's out of a job for a while! it isn't the first time, either; in my business you work like--like anything, part of the time, and then get laid off. i work hard enough when i'm at it." "do you like it--that kind of work?" the girl asked. they were sitting in the family parlor, but the big hall was as usual well occupied, and some one or more of the boarders always eager to come in. miss elder at this moment had departed for special conference with her cook, and susie was at the theatre with jimmie saunders. fordham greer had asked vivian, as had morton also, but she declined both on the ground that she didn't like that kind of play. mrs. pettigrew, being joked too persistently about her fondness for "long whist," had retired to her room--but then, her room was divided from the parlor only by a thin partition and a door with a most inefficacious latch. "come over here by the fire," said morton, "and i'll tell you all about it." he seated himself on a sofa, comfortably adjacent to the fireplace, but vivian preferred a low rocker. "i suppose you mean travelling--and selling goods?" he pursued. "yes, i like it. there's lots of change--and you meet people. i'd hate to be shut up in an office." "but do you--get anywhere with it? is there any outlook for you? anything worth doing?" "there's a good bit of money to be made, if you mean that; that is, if a fellow's a good salesman. i'm no slouch myself, when i feel in the mood. but it's easy come, easy go, you see. and it's uncertain. there are times like this, with nothing doing." "i didn't mean money, altogether," said the girl meditatively, "but the work itself; i don't see any future for you." morton was pleased with her interest. reaching between his knees he seized the edge of the small sofa and dragged it a little nearer, quite unconscious that the act was distasteful to her. though twenty-five years old, vivian was extremely young in many ways, and her introspection had spent itself in tending the inner shrine of his early image. that ikon was now jarringly displaced by this insistent presence, and she could not satisfy herself yet as to whether the change pleased or displeased her. again and again his manner antagonized her, but his visible devotion carried an undeniable appeal, and his voice stirred the deep well of emotion in her heart. "look here, vivian," he said, "you've no idea how it goes through me to have you speak like that! you see i've been knocking around here for all this time, and i haven't had a soul to take an interest. a fellow needs the society of good women--like you." it is an old appeal, and always reaches the mark. to any women it is a compliment, and to a young girl, doubly alluring. as she looked at him, the very things she most disliked, his too free manner, his coarsened complexion, a certain look about the eyes, suddenly assumed a new interest as proofs of his loneliness and lack of right companionship. what mrs. st. cloud had told her of the ennobling influence of a true woman, flashed upon her mind. "you see, i had no mother," he said simply--"and aunt rella spoiled me--." he looked now like the boy she used to know. "of course i ought to have behaved better," he admitted. "i was ungrateful--i can see it now. but it did seem to me i couldn't stand that town a day longer!" she could sympathize with this feeling and showed it. "then when a fellow knocks around as i have so long, he gets to where he doesn't care a hang for anything. seeing you again makes a lot of difference, vivian. i think, perhaps--i could take a new start." "oh do! do!" she said eagerly. "you're young enough, morton. you can do anything if you'll make up your mind to it." "and you'll help me?" "of course i'll help you--if i can," said she. a feeling of sincere remorse for wasted opportunities rose in the young man's mind; also, in the presence of this pure-eyed girl, a sense of shame for his previous habits. he walked to the window, his hands in his pockets, and looked out blankly for a moment. "a fellow does a lot of things he shouldn't," he began, clearing his throat; she met him more than half way with the overflowing generosity of youth and ignorance: "never mind what you've done, morton--you're going to do differently now! susie'll be so proud of you--and aunt orella!" "and you?" he turned upon her suddenly. "oh--i? of course! i shall be very proud of my old friend." she met his eyes bravely, with a lovely look of hope and courage, and again his heart smote him. "i hope you will," he said and straightened his broad shoulders manfully. "morton elder!" cried his aunt, bustling in with deep concern in her voice, "what's this i hear about you're having a sore throat?" "nothing, i hope," said he cheerfully. "now, morton"--vivian showed new solicitude--"you know you have got a sore throat; susie told me." "well, i wish she'd hold her tongue," he protested. "it's nothing at all--be all right in a jiffy. no, i won't take any of your fixings, auntie." "i want dr. bellair to look at it anyhow," said his aunt, anxiously. "she'll know if it's diphtheritic or anything. she's coming in." "she can just go out again," he said with real annoyance. "if there's anything i've no use for it's a woman doctor!" "oh hush, hush!" cried vivian, too late. "don't apologize," said dr. bellair from her doorway. "i'm not in the least offended. indeed, i had rather surmised that that was your attitude; i didn't come in to prescribe, but to find mrs. pettigrew." "want me?" inquired the old lady from her doorway. "who's got a sore throat?" "morton has," vivian explained, "and he won't let aunt rella--why where is she?" miss elder had gone out as suddenly as she had entered. "camphor's good for sore throat," mrs. pettigrew volunteered. "three or four drops on a piece of sugar. is it the swelled kind, or the kind that smarts?" "oh--halifax!" exclaimed morton, disgustedly. "it isn't _any_ kind. i haven't a sore throat." "camphor's good for cold sores; you have one of them anyhow," the old lady persisted, producing a little bottle and urging it upon morton. "just keep it wet with camphor as often as you think of it, and it'll go away." vivian looked on, interested and sympathetic, but morton put his hand to his lip and backed away. "if you ladies don't stop trying to doctor me, i'll clear out to-morrow, so there!" this appalling threat was fortunately unheard by his aunt, who popped in again at this moment, dragging dr. hale with her. dr. bellair smiled quietly to herself. "i wouldn't tell him what i wanted him for, or he wouldn't have come, i'm sure--doctors are so funny," said miss elder, breathlessly, "but here he is. now, dr. hale, here's a foolish boy who won't listen to reason, and i'm real worried about him. i want you to look at his throat." dr. hale glanced briefly at morton's angry face. "the patient seems to be of age, miss elder; and, if you'll excuse me, does not seem to have authorized this call." "my affectionate family are bound to have me an invalid," morton explained. "i'm in imminent danger of hot baths, cold presses, mustard plasters, aconite, belladonna and quinine--and if i can once reach my hat--" he sidled to the door and fled in mock terror. "thank you for your good intentions, miss elder," dr. hale remarked drily. "you can bring water to the horse, but you can't make him drink it, you see." "now that that young man has gone we might have a game of whist," mrs. pettigrew suggested, looking not ill-pleased. "for which you do not need me in the least," and dr. hale was about to leave, but dr. bellair stopped him. "don't be an everlasting winter woodchuck, dick! sit down and play; do be good. i've got to see old mrs. graham yet; she refuses to go to sleep without it--knowing i'm so near. by by." mrs. pettigrew insisted on playing with miss elder, so vivian had the questionable pleasure of dr. hale as a partner. he was an expert, used to frequent and scientific play, and by no means patient with the girl's mistakes. he made no protest at a lost trick, but explained briefly between hands what she should have remembered and how the cards lay, till she grew quite discouraged. her game was but mediocre, played only to oblige; and she never could see why people cared so much about a mere pastime. pride came to her rescue at last; the more he criticised, the more determined she grew to profit by all this advice; but her mind would wander now and then to morton, to his young life so largely wasted, it appeared, and to what hope might lie before him. could she be the help and stimulus he seemed to think? how much did he mean by asking her to help him? "why waste a thirteenth trump on your partner's thirteenth card?" dr. hale was asking. she flushed a deep rose color and lifted appealing eyes to him. "do forgive me; my mind was elsewhere." "will you not invite it to return?" he suggested drily. he excused himself after a few games, and the girl at last was glad to have him go. she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. mrs. pettigrew, sitting unaccountably late at her front window, watched the light burn steadily in the small office at the opposite corner. presently she saw a familiar figure slip in there, and, after a considerable stay, come out quietly, cross the street, and let himself in at their door. "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. chapter vii. side lights. high shines the golden shield in front, to those who are not blind; and clear and bright in all men's sight, the silver shield behind. in breadth and sheen each face is seen; how tall it is, how wide; but its thinness shows to only those who stand on either side. theophile wept aloud in the dining-room, nursing one hand in the other, like a hurt monkey. most of the diners had departed, but professor toomey and mr. cuthbert still lingered about miss susie's corner, to the evident displeasure of mr. saunders, who lingered also. miss susie smiled upon them all; and mr. saunders speculated endlessly as to whether this was due to her general friendliness of disposition, to an interest in pleasing her aunt's boarders, to personal preference, or, as he sometimes imagined, to a desire to tease him. morton was talking earnestly with vivian at the other end of the table, from which the two angular waitresses had some time since removed the last plate. one of them opened the swing door a crack and thrust her head in. "he's burnt his hand," she said, "and his ma's out. we don't dare go near him." both of these damsels professed great terror of the poor boy, though he was invariably good natured, and as timid as a rabbit. "do get the doctor!" cried susie, nervously; she never felt at ease with theophile. "dr. bellair, i fear, is not in her office," professor toomey announced. "we might summon dr. hale." "nonsense!" said mr. cuthbert, rising heavily. "he's a great baby, that's all. here! quit that howling and show me your hand!" he advanced upon theophile, who fled toward vivian. morton rose in her defence. "get out!" he said, "go back to the kitchen. there's nothing the matter with you." "wait till you get burned, and see if you think it's nothing," jimmy saunders remarked with some acidity. he did not like mr. elder. "come here youngster, let me see it." but the boy was afraid of all of them, and cowered in a corner, still bawling. "stop your noise," mr. cuthbert shouted, "get out of this, or i'll put you out." vivian rose to her feet. "you will do nothing of the kind. if you, all of you, will go away, i can quiet theophile, myself." susie went promptly. she had every confidence in her friend's management. mr. cuthbert was sulky, but followed susie; and mr. saunders, after some hesitation, followed susie, too. morton lingered, distrustful. "please go, morton. i know how to manage him. just leave us alone," vivian urged. "you'd better let me put him out, and keep him out, till the old woman comes back," morton insisted. "you mean kindly, i don't doubt, but you're making me very angry," said the girl, flushing; and he reluctantly left the room. professor toomey had departed long since, to fulfill his suggestion of calling dr. hale, but when that gentleman appeared, he found that vivian had quieted the boy, stayed him with flagons and comforted him with apples, as it were, and bound up his hand in wet cooking soda. "it's not a very bad burn," she told the doctor, "but it hurt, and he was frightened. he is afraid of everybody but his mother, and the men were cross to him." "i see," said dr. hale, watching theophile as he munched his apple, keeping carefully behind vivian and very near her. "he does not seem much afraid of you, i notice, and he's used to me. the soda is all right. where did you learn first aid to the injured, and how to handle--persons of limited understanding?" "the former i studied. the latter comes by nature, i think," replied the girl, annoyed. he laughed, rather suddenly. "it's a good quality, often needed in this world." "what's all this rumpus?" demanded grandma, appearing at the door. "waking me up out of my nap!" grandma's smooth, fine, still dark hair, which she wore in "water waves," was somewhat disarranged, and she held a little shawl about her. "only the household baby, playing with fire," dr. hale answered. "miss lane resolved herself into a red cross society, and attended to the wounded. however i think i'll have a look at it now i'm here." then was vivian surprised, and compelled to admiration, to see with what wise gentleness the big man won the confidence of the frightened boy, examined the hurt hand, and bound it up again. "you'll do, all right, won't you theophile," he said, and offered him a shining nickel and a lozenge, "which will you have, old man?" after some cautious hesitation the boy chose the lozenge, and hastily applied it where it would do the most good. "where's mrs. jones all this time?" suddenly demanded grandma, who had gone back to her room and fetched forth three fat, pink gumdrops for the further consolation of the afflicted. "she had to go out to buy clothes for him, she hardly ever leaves him you know," vivian explained. "and the girls out there are so afraid that they won't take any care of him." this was true enough, but vivian did not know that "mrs. jones" had returned and, peering through her favorite peephole, had seen her send out the others, and attend to the boy's burn with her own hand. jeanne jeaune was not a sentimental person, and judged from her son's easy consolation that he was little hurt, but she watched the girl's prompt tenderness with tears in her eyes. "she regards him, as any other boy;" thought the mother. "his infirmity, she does not recall it." dr. hale had long since won her approval, and when theophile at last ran out, eager to share his gumdrops, he found her busy as usual in the kitchen. she was a silent woman, professionally civil to the waitresses, but never cordial. the place pleased her, she was saving money, and she knew that there must be _some_ waitresses--these were probably no worse than others. for her unfortunate son she expected little, and strove to keep him near her so far as possible; but vivian's real kindness touched her deeply. she kept a sharp eye on whatever went on in the dining-room, and what with the frequent dances and the little groups which used to hang about the table after meals, or fill a corner of the big room for quiet chats, she had good opportunities. morton's visible devotion she watched with deep disapproval; though she was not at all certain that her "young lady" was favorably disposed toward him. she could see and judge the feelings of the men, these many men who ate and drank and laughed and paid court to both the girls. dr. hale's brusque coldness she accepted, as from a higher order of being. susie's gay coquetries were transparent to her; but vivian she could not read so well. the girl's deep conscientiousness, her courtesy and patience with all, and the gentle way in which she evaded the attentions so persistently offered, were new to jeanne's experience. when morton hung about and tried always to talk with vivian exclusively, she saw her listen with kind attention, but somehow without any of that answering gleam which made susie's blue eyes so irresistible. "she has the lovers, but she has _no_ beauty--to compare with my young lady!" jeanne commented inwardly. if the sad-eyed jeanne had been of scotch extraction instead of french, she might have quoted the explanation of the homely widow of three husbands when questioned by the good-looking spinster, who closed her inquiry by saying aggrievedly, "and ye'r na sae bonny." "it's na the bonny that does it," explained the triple widow, "it's the come hither i' the een." susie's eyes sparkled with the "come hither," but those who came failed to make any marked progress. she was somewhat more cautious after the sudden approach and overthrow of mr. a. smith; yet more than one young gentleman boarder found business called him elsewhere, with marked suddenness; his place eagerly taken by another. the cottonwoods had a waiting list, now. vivian made friends first, lovers afterward. then if the love proved vain, the friendship had a way of lingering. hers was one of those involved and over-conscientious characters, keenly sensitive to the thought of duty and to others, pain. she could not play with hearts that might be hurt in the handling, nor could she find in herself a quick and simple response to the appeals made to her; there were so many things to be considered. morton studied her with more intensity than he had ever before devoted to another human being; his admiration and respect grew with acquaintance, and all that was best in him rose in response to her wise, sweet womanliness. he had the background of their childhood's common experiences and her early sentiment--how much he did not know, to aid him. then there was the unknown country of his years of changeful travel, many tales that he could tell her, many more which he found he could not. he pressed his advantage, cautiously, finding the fullest response when he used the appeal to her uplifting influence. when they talked in the dining-room the sombre eye at the peephole watched with growing disapproval. the kitchen was largely left to her and her son by her fellow workers, on account of their nervous dislike for theophile, and she utilized her opportunities. vivian had provided the boy with some big bright picture blocks, and he spent happy hours in matching them on the white scoured table, while his mother sewed, and watched. he had forgotten his burn by now, and she sewed contentedly for there was no one talking to her young lady but dr. hale, who lingered unaccountably. to be sure, vivian had brought him a plate of cakes from the pantry, and he seemed to find the little brown things efficiently seductive, or perhaps it was grandma who held him, sitting bolt upright in her usual place, at the head of one table, and asking a series of firm but friendly questions. this she found the only way of inducing dr. hale to talk at all. yes, he was going away--yes, he would be gone some time--a matter of weeks, perhaps--he could not say--his boys were all well--he did not wonder that they saw a good deal of them--it was a good place for them to come. "you might come oftener yourself," said grandma, "and play real whist with me. these young people play _bridge_!" she used this word with angry scorn, as symbol of all degeneracy; and also despised pinochle, refusing to learn it, though any one could induce her to play bezique. some of the more venturous and argumentative, strove to persuade her that the games were really the same. "you needn't tell me," mrs. pettigrew would say, "i don't want to play any of your foreign games." "but, madam, bezique is not an english word," professor toomey had insisted, on one occasion; to which she had promptly responded, "neither is 'bouquet!'" dr. hale shook his head with a smile. he had a very nice smile, even vivian admitted that. all the hard lines of his face curved and melted, and the light came into those deep-set eyes and shone warmly. "i should enjoy playing whist with you very often, mrs. pettigrew; but a doctor has no time to call his own. and a good game of whist must not be interrupted by telephones." "there's miss orella!" said grandma, as the front door was heard to open. "she's getting to be quite a gadder." "it does her good, i don't doubt," the doctor gravely remarked, rising to go. miss orella met him in the hall, and bade him good-bye with regret. "we do not see much of you, doctor; i hope you'll be back soon." "why it's only a little trip; you good people act as if i were going to alaska," he said, "it makes me feel as if i had a family!" "pity you haven't," remarked grandma with her usual definiteness. dykeman stood holding miss orella's wrap, with his dry smile. "good-bye, hale," he said. "i'll chaperon your orphan asylum for you. so long." "come out into the dining-room," said miss orella, after dr. hale had departed. "i know you must be hungry," and mr. dykeman did not deny it. in his quiet middle-aged way, he enjoyed this enlarged family circle as much as the younger fellows, and he and mr. unwin seemed to vie with one another to convince miss orella that life still held charms for her. mr. skee also hovered about her to a considerable extent, but most of his devotion was bestowed upon damsels of extreme youth. "here's one that's hungry, anyhow," remarked dr. bellair, coming out of her office at the moment, with her usual clean and clear-starched appearance. "i've been at it for eighteen hours, with only bites to eat. yes, all over; both doing well." it was a source of deep self-congratulation to dr. bellair to watch her friend grow young again in the new atmosphere. to susie it appeared somewhat preposterous, as her aunt seems to her mind a permanently elderly person; while to mrs. pettigrew it looked only natural. "rella's only a young thing anyway," was her comment. but jane bellair marked and approved the added grace of each new gown, the blossoming of lace and ribbon, the appearance of long-hoarded bits of family jewelry, things held "too showy to wear" in bainville, but somehow quite appropriate here. vivian and grandma made miss orella sit down at her own table head, and bustled about in the pantry, bringing cheese and crackers, cake and fruit; but the doctor poked her head through the swing door and demanded meat. "i don't want a refection, i want food," she said, and jeanne cheerfully brought her a plate of cold beef. she was much attached to dr. bellair, for reasons many and good. "what i like about this place," said mrs. pettigrew, surveying the scene from the head of her table, "is that there's always something going on." "what i like about it," remarked dr. bellair, between well-fletcherized mouthfuls, "is that people have a chance to grow and are growing." "what i like," mr. dykeman looked about him, and paused in the middle of a sentence, as was his wont; "is being beautifully taken care of and made comfortable--any man likes that." miss orella beamed upon him. emboldened, he went on: "and what i like most is the new, delightful"--he was gazing admiringly at her, and she looked so embarrassed that he concluded with a wide margin of safety--"friends i'm making." miss orella's rosy flush, which had risen under his steady gaze, ebbed again to her usual soft pink. even her coldest critics, in the most caustic bainvillian circles, could never deny that she had "a good complexion." new england, like old england, loves roses on the cheeks, and our dry western winds play havoc with them. but miss orella's bloomed brighter than at home. "it is pleasant," she said softly; "all this coming and going--and the nice people--who stay." she looked at no one in particular, yet mr. dykeman seemed pleased. "there's another coming, i guess," remarked grandma, as a carriage was heard to stop outside, the gate slammed, and trunk-burdened steps pounded heavily across the piazza. the bell rang sharply, mr. dykeman opened the door, and the trunk came in first--a huge one, dumped promptly on the hall floor. behind the trunk and the man beneath it entered a lady; slim, elegant, graceful, in a rich silk dust coat and soft floating veils. "my dear miss elder!" she said, coming forward; "and vivian! dear vivian! i thought you could put me up, somewhere, and told him to come right here. o--and please--i haven't a bit of change left in my purse--will you pay the man?" "well, if it isn't mrs. st. cloud," said grandma, without any note of welcome in her voice. mr. dykeman paid the man; looked at the trunk, and paid him some more. the man departed swearing softly at nothing in particular, and mr. dykeman departed also to his own room. miss orella's hospitable soul was much exercised. refuse shelter to an old acquaintance, a guest, however unexpected, she could not; yet she had no vacant room. vivian, flushed and excited, moved anew by her old attraction, eagerly helped the visitor take off her wraps, mrs. pettigrew standing the while, with her arms folded, in the doorway of her room, her thin lips drawn to a hard line, as one intending to repel boarders at any risk to life or limb. dr. bellair had returned to her apartments at the first sound of the visitor's voice. she, gracious and calm in the midst of confusion, sat in a wreath of down-dropped silken wrappings, and held vivian's hand. "you dear child!" she said, "how well you look! what a charming place this is. the doctors sent me west for my health; i'm on my way to california. but when i found the train stopped here--i didn't know that it did till i saw the name--i had them take my trunk right off, and here i am! it is such a pleasure to see you all." "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew, and disappeared completely, closing the door behind her. "anything will do, miss elder," the visitor went on. "i shall find a hall bedroom palatial after a sleeping car; or a garret--anything! it's only for a few days, you know." vivian was restraining herself from hospitable offers by remembering that her room was also susie's, and miss orella well knew that to give up hers meant sleeping on a hard, short sofa in that all-too-public parlor. she was hastily planning in her mind to take susie in with her and persuade mrs. pettigrew to harbor vivian, somewhat deterred by memories of the old lady's expression as she departed, when mr. dykeman appeared at the door, suitcase in hand. "i promised hale i'd keep house for those fatherless boys, you know," he said. "in the meantime, you're quite welcome to use my room, miss elder." and he departed, her blessing going with him. more light refreshments were now in order. mrs. st. cloud protesting that she wanted nothing, but finding much to praise in the delicacies set before her. several of the other boarders drifted in, always glad of an extra bite before going to bed. susie and mr. saunders returned from a walk, morton reappeared, and jeanne, peering sharply in, resentful of this new drain upon her pantry shelves, saw a fair, sweet-faced woman, seated at ease, eating daintily, while miss elder and vivian waited upon her, and the men all gathered admiringly about. jeanne jeaune wagged her head. "ah, ha, madame!" she muttered softly, "such as you i have met before!" theophile she had long since sent to bed, remaining up herself to keep an eye on the continued disturbance in the front of the house. vivian and susie brought the dishes out, and would have washed them or left them till morning for the maids. "truly, no," said jeanne jeaune; "go you to your beds; i will attend to these." one by one she heard them go upstairs, distant movement and soft dissuasion as two gentlemen insisted on bearing mrs. st. cloud's trunk into her room, receding voices and closing doors. there was no sound in the dining-room now, but still she waited; the night was not yet quiet. miss elder and susie, vivian also, hovered about, trying to make this new guest comfortable, in spite of her graceful protests that they must not concern themselves in the least about her, that she wanted nothing--absolutely nothing. at last they left her, and still later, after some brief exchange of surprised comment and warm appreciation of mr. dykeman's thoughtfulness, the family retired. vivian, when her long hair was smoothly braided for the night, felt an imperative need for water. "don't you want some, susie? i'll bring you a glass." but susie only huddled the bedclothes about her pretty shoulders and said: "don't bring me _anything_, until to-morrow morning!" so her room-mate stole out softly in her wrapper, remembering that a pitcher of cool water still stood on one of the tables. the windows to the street let in a flood of light from a big street lamp, and she found her way easily, but was a bit startled for a moment to find a man still sitting there, his head upon his arms. "why, morton," she said; "is that you? what are you sitting up for? it's awfully late. i'm just after some water." she poured a glassful. "don't you want some?" "no, thank you," he said. "yes, i will. give me some, please." the girl gave him a glass, drank from her own and set it down, turning to go, but he reached out and caught a flowing sleeve of her kimono. "don't go, vivian! do sit down and talk to a fellow. i've been trying to see you for days and days." "why, morton elder, how absurd! you have certainly seen me every day, and we've talked hours this very evening. this is no time for conversation, surely." "the best time in the world," he assured her. "all the other times there are people about--dozens--hundreds--swarms! i want to talk to just you." there were certainly no dozens or hundreds about now, but as certainly there was one, noting with keen and disapproving interest this midnight tête-à-tête. it did not last very long, and was harmless and impersonal enough while it lasted. vivian sat for a few moments, listening patiently while the young man talked of his discouragements, his hopes, his wishes to succeed in life, to be worthy of her; but when the personal note sounded, when he tried to take her hand in the semi-darkness, then her new england conscience sounded also, and she rose to her feet and left him. "we'll talk about that another time," she said. "now do be quiet and do not wake people up." he stole upstairs, dutifully, and she crept softly back to her room and got into bed, without eliciting more than a mild grunt from sleepy susie. silence reigned at last in the house. not for long, however. at about half past twelve dr. bellair was roused from a well-earned sleep by a light, insistent tap upon her door. she listened, believing it to be a wind-stirred twig; but no, it was a finger tap--quiet--repeated. she opened the door upon jeanne in her stocking feet. "your pardon, mrs. doctor," said the visitor, "but it is of importance. may i speak for a little? no, i'm not ill, and we need not a light." they sat in the clean little office, the swaying cottonwood boughs making a changeful pattern on the floor. "you are a doctor, and you can make an end to it--you must make an end to it," said jeanne, after a little hesitation. "this young man--this nephew--he must not marry my young lady." "what makes you think he wants to?" asked the doctor. "i have seen, i have heard--i know," said jeanne. "you know, all can see that he loves her. _he!_ not such as he for my young lady." "why do you object to him, jeanne?" "he has lived the bad life," said the woman, grimly. "most young men are open to criticism," said dr. bellair. "have you anything definite to tell me--anything that you could _prove_?--if it were necessary to save her?" she leaned forward, elbows on knees. jeanne sat in the flickering shadows, considering her words. "he has had the sickness," she said at last. "can you prove that?" "i can prove to you, a doctor, that coralie and anastasia and estelle--they have had it. they are still alive; but not so beautiful." "yes; but how can you prove it on him?" "i know he was with them. well, it was no secret. i myself have seen--he was there often." "how on earth have you managed not to be recognized?" dr. bellair inquired after a few moments. jeanne laughed bitterly. "that was eight years ago; he was but a boy--gay and foolish, with the others. what does a boy know?... also, at that time i was blonde, and--of a difference." "i see," said the doctor, "i see! that's pretty straight. you know personally of that time, and you know the record of those others. but that was a long time ago." "i have heard of him since, many times, in such company," said jeanne. they sat in silence for some time. a distant church clock struck a single deep low note. the woman rose, stood for a hushed moment, suddenly burst forth with hushed intensity: "you must save her, doctor--you will! i was young once," she went on. "i did not know--as she does not. i married, and--_that_ came to me! it made me a devil--for awhile. tell her, doctor--if you must; tell her about my boy!" she went away, weeping silently, and dr. bellair sat sternly thinking in her chair, and fell asleep in it from utter weariness. chapter viii. a mixture. in poetry and painting and fiction we see such praise for the dawn of the day, we've long since been convinced that a sunrise must be all glorious and golden and gay. but we find there are mornings quite foggy and drear, with the clouds in a low-hanging pall; till the grey light of daylight can hardly make clear that the sun has arisen at all. dr. richard hale left his brood of temporary orphans without really expecting for them any particular oversight from andrew dykeman; but the two were sufficiently close friends to well warrant the latter in moving over to the monastery--as jimmie saunders called it. mr. dykeman was sufficiently popular with the young men to be welcome, even if he had not had a good excuse, and when they found how super-excellent his excuse was they wholly approved. to accommodate miss orella was something--all the boys liked miss orella. they speculated among themselves on her increasing youth and good looks, and even exchanged sagacious theories as to the particular acting cause. but when they found that mr. dykeman's visit was to make room for the installation of mrs. st. cloud, they were more than pleased. all the unexpressed ideals of masculine youth seemed centered in this palely graceful lady; the low, sweet voice, the delicate hands, the subtle sympathy of manner, the nameless, quiet charm of dress. young burns became her slave on sight, lawson and peters fell on the second day; not one held out beyond the third. even susie's attractions paled, her very youth became a disadvantage; she lacked that large considering tenderness. "fact is," mr. peters informed his friends rather suddenly, "young women are selfish. naturally, of course. it takes some experience to--well, to understand a fellow." they all agreed with him. mr. dykeman, quiet and reserved as always, was gravely polite to the newcomer, and mr. skee revolved at a distance, making observations. occasionally he paid some court to her, at which times she was cold to him; and again he devoted himself to the other ladies with his impressive air, as of one bowing low and sweeping the floor with a plumed hat. mr. skee's stetson had, as a matter of fact, no sign of plumage, and his bows were of a somewhat jerky order; but his gallantry was sweeping and impressive, none the less. if he remained too far away mrs. st. cloud would draw him to her circle, which consisted of all the other gentlemen. there were two exceptions. mr. james saunders had reached the stage where any woman besides susie was but a skirted ghost, and morton was by this time so deeply devoted to vivian that he probably would not have wavered even if left alone. he was not wholly a free agent, however. adela st. cloud had reached an age when something must be done. her mysterious absent husband had mysteriously and absently died, and still she never breathed a word against him. but the bible class in bainville furnished no satisfactory material for further hopes, the place of her earlier dwelling seemed not wholly desirable now, and the west had called her. finding herself comfortably placed in mr. dykeman's room, and judging from the number of his shoe-trees and the quality of his remaining toilet articles that he might be considered "suitable," she decided to remain in the half-way house for a season. so settled, why, for a thousand reasons one must keep one's hand in. there were men in plenty, from twenty year old archie to the uncertain decades of mr. skee. idly amusing herself, she questioned that gentleman indirectly as to his age, drawing from him astounding memories of the previous century. when confronted with historic proof that the events he described were over a hundred years passed, he would apologize, admitting that he had no memory for dates. she owned one day, with gentle candor, to being thirty-three. "that must seem quite old to a man like you, mr. skee. i feel very old sometimes!" she lifted large eyes to him, and drew her filmy scarf around her shoulders. "your memory must be worse than mine, ma'am," he replied, "and work the same way. you've sure got ten or twenty years added on superfluous! now me!" he shook his head; "i don't remember when i was born at all. and losin' my folks so young, _and_ the family bible--i don't expect i ever shall. but i 'low i'm all of ninety-seven." this being palpably impossible, and as the only local incidents he could recall in his youth were quite dateless adventures among the indians, she gave it up. why mr. skee should have interested her at all was difficult to say, unless it was the appeal to his uncertainty--he was at least a game fish, if not edible. of the women she met, susie and vivian were far the most attractive, wherefore mrs. st. cloud, with subtle sympathy and engaging frankness, fairly cast mr. saunders in susie's arms, and vice versa, as opportunity occurred. morton she rather snubbed, treated him as a mere boy, told tales of his childhood that were in no way complimentary--so that he fled from her. with vivian she renewed her earlier influence to a great degree. with some inquiry and more intuition she discovered what it was that had chilled the girl's affection for her. "i don't wonder, my dear child," she said; "i never told you of that--i never speak of it to anyone.... it was one of the--" she shivered slightly--"darkest griefs of a very dark time.... he was a beautiful boy.... i never _dreamed_----" the slow tears rose in her beautiful eyes till they shone like shimmering stars. "heaven send no such tragedy may ever come into your life, dear!" she reached a tender hand to clasp the girl's. "i am so glad of your happiness!" vivian was silent. as a matter of fact, she was not happy enough to honestly accept sympathy. mrs. st. cloud mistook her attitude, or seemed to. "i suppose you still blame me. many people did. i often blame myself. one cannot be _too_ careful. it's a terrible responsibility, vivian--to have a man love you." the girl's face grew even more somber. that was one thing which was troubling her. "but your life is all before you," pursued the older woman. "your dream has come true! how happy--how wonderfully happy you must be!" "i am not, not _really_," said the girl. "at least----" "i know--i know; i understand," mrs. st. cloud nodded with tender wisdom. "you are not sure. is not that it?" that was distinctly "it," and vivian so agreed. "there is no other man?" "not the shadow of one!" said the girl firmly. and as her questioner had studied the field and made up her mind to the same end, she believed her. "then you must not mind this sense of uncertainty. it always happens. it is part of the morning clouds of maidenhood, my dear--it vanishes with the sunrise!" and she smiled beatifically. then the girl unburdened herself of her perplexities. she could always express herself so easily to this sympathetic friend. "there are so many things that i--dislike--about him," she said. "habits of speech--of manners. he is not--not what i----" she paused. "not all the dream! ah! my dear child, they never are! we are given these beautiful ideals to guard and guide us; but the real is never quite the same. but when a man's soul opens to you--when he loves--these small things vanish. they can be changed--you will change them." "yes--he says so," vivian admitted. "he says that he knows that he is--unworthy--and has done wrong things. but so have i, for that matter." mrs. st. cloud agreed with her. "i am glad you feel that, my dear. men have their temptations--their vices--and we good women are apt to be hard on them. but have we no faults? ah, my dear, i have seen good women--young girls, like yourself--ruin a man's whole life by--well, by heartlessness; by lack of understanding. most young men do things they become ashamed of when they really love. and in the case of a motherless boy like this--lonely, away from his home, no good woman's influence about--what else could we expect? but you can make a new man of him. a glorious work!" "that's what he says. i'm not so sure--" the girl hesitated. "not sure you can? oh, my child, it is the most beautiful work on earth! to see from year to year a strong, noble character grow under your helping hand! to be the guiding star, the inspiration of a man's life. to live to hear him say: "'ah, who am i that god should bow from heaven to choose a wife for me? what have i done he should endow my home with thee?'" there was a silence. vivian's dark eyes shone with appreciation for the tender beauty of the lines, the lovely thought. then she arose and walked nervously across the floor, returning presently. "mrs. st. cloud----" "call me adela, my dear." "adela--dear adela--you--you have been married. i have no mother. tell me, ought not there to be more--more love? i'm fond of morton, of course, and i do want to help him--but surely, if i loved him--i should feel happier--more sure!" "the first part of love is often very confusing, my dear. i'll tell you how it is: just because you are a woman grown and feel your responsibilities, especially here, where you have so many men friends, you keep morton at a distance. then the external sort of cousinly affection you have for him rather blinds you to other feelings. but i have not forgotten--and i'm sure you have not--the memory of that hot, sweet night so long ago; the world swimming in summer moonlight and syringa sweetness; the stillness everywhere--and your first kiss!" vivian started to her feet. she moved to the window and stood awhile; came back and kissed her friend warmly, and went away without another word. the lady betook herself to her toilet, and spent some time on it, for there was one of miss peeder's classes that night. mrs. st. cloud danced with many, but most with mr. dykeman; no woman in the room had her swimming grace of motion, and yet, with all the throng of partners about her she had time to see susie's bright head bobbing about beneath mr. saunders down-bent, happy face, and vivian, with her eyes cast down, dancing with morton, whose gaze never left her. he was attention itself, he brought her precisely the supper she liked, found her favorite corner to rest in, took her to sit on the broad piazza between dances, remained close to her, still talking earnestly, when all the outsiders had gone. vivian found it hard to sleep that night. all that he had said of his new hope, new power, new courage, bore out mrs. st. cloud's bright promise of a new-built life. and some way, as she had listened and did not forbid, the touch of his hand, the pressure of his arm, grew warmer and brought back the memories of that summer night so long ago. he had begged hard for a kiss before he left her, and she quite had to tear herself away, as susie drifted in, also late; and aunt orella said they must all go to bed right away--she was tired if they were not. she did look tired. this dance seemed somehow less agreeable to her than had others. she took off her new prettinesses and packed them away in a box in the lower drawer. "i'm an old fool!" she said. "trying to dress up like a girl. i'm ashamed of myself!" quite possibly she did not sleep well either, yet she had no room-mate to keep her awake by babbling on, as susie did to vivian. her discourse was first, last and always about jimmie saunders. he had said this, he had looked that, he had done so; and what did vivian think he meant? and wasn't he handsome--and _so_ clever! little susie cuddled close and finally dropped off asleep, her arms around vivian. but the older girl counted the hours; her head, or her heart, in a whirl. morton elder was wakeful, too. so much so that he arose with a whispered expletive, took his shoes in his hand, and let himself softly out for a tramp in the open. this was not the first of his love affairs, but with all his hot young heart he wished it was. he stood still, alone on the high stretches of moonlit mesa and looked up at the measureless, brilliant spaces above him. "i'll keep straight--if i can have her!" he repeated under his breath. "i will! i will!" it had never occurred to him before to be ashamed of the various escapades of his youth. he had done no more than others, many others. none of "the boys" he associated with intended to do what was wrong; they were quite harsh in judgment of those who did, according to their standards. none of them had been made acquainted with the social or pathological results of their amusements, and the mere "zutritt ist verboten" had never impressed them at all. but now the gentler influences of his childhood, even the narrow morality of bainville, rose in pleasant colors in his mind. he wished he had saved his money, instead of spending it faster than it came in. he wished he had kept out of poker and solo and barrooms generally. he wished, in a dumb, shamed way, that he could come to her as clean as she was. but he threw his shoulders back and lifted his head determinedly. "i'll be good to her," he determined; "i'll make her a good husband." in the days that followed his devotion was as constant as before, but more intelligent. his whole manner changed and softened. he began to read the books she liked, and to talk about them. he was gentler to everyone, more polite, even to the waitresses, tender and thoughtful of his aunt and sister. vivian began to feel a pride in him, and in her influence, deepening as time passed. mrs. pettigrew, visiting the library on one of her frequent errands, was encountered there and devotedly escorted home by mr. skee. "that is a most fascinating young lady who has mr. dykeman's room; don't you think so, ma'am?" quoth he. "i do not," said mrs. pettigrew. "young! she's not so young as you are--nothing like--never was!" he threw back his head and laughed his queer laugh, which looked so uproarious and made so little noise. "she certainly is a charmer, whatever her age may be," he continued. "glad you think so, mr. skee. it may be time you lost a fourth!" "lost a fourth? what in the--hesperides!" "if you can't guess what, you needn't ask me!" said the lady, with some tartness. "but for my own part i prefer the apaches. good afternoon, mr. skee." she betook herself to her room with unusual promptness, and refused to be baited forth by any kind of offered amusement. "it's right thoughtful of andy dykeman, gettin' up this entertainment for mrs. st. cloud, isn't it, mrs. elder?" thus mr. skee to miss orella a little later. "i don't think it is mr. dykeman's idea at all," she told him. "it's those boys over there. they are all wild about her, quite naturally." she gave a little short sigh. "if dr. hale were at home i doubt if he would encourage it." "i'm pretty sure he wouldn't, ma'am. he's certainly down on the fair sex, even such a peacherino as this one. but with andy, now, it's different. he is a man of excellent judgment." "i guess all men's judgment is pretty much alike in some ways," said miss orella, oracularly. she seemed busy and constrained, and mr. skee drifted off and paid court as best he might to dr. bellair. "charmed to find you at home, ma'am," he said; "or shall i say at office?" "call it what you like, mr. skee; it's been my home for a good many years now." "it's a mighty fine thing for a woman, livin' alone, to have a business, seems to me," remarked the visitor. "it's a fine thing for any woman, married or single, to my mind," she answered. "i wish i could get vivian lane started in that kindergarten she talks about." "there's kids enough, and goodness knows they need a gardener! what's lackin'? house room?" "she thinks she's not really competent. she has no regular certificate, you see. her parents would never let go of her long enough," the doctor explained. "some parents _are_ pretty graspin', ain't they? to my mind, miss vivian would be a better teacher than lots of the ticketed ones. she's got the natural love of children." "yes, and she has studied a great deal. she just needs an impetus." "perhaps if she thought there was 'a call' she might be willing. i doubt if the families here realize what they're missin'. aint there some among your patients who could be stirred up a little?" the doctor thought there were, and he suggested several names from his apparently unlimited acquaintance. "i believe in occupation for the young. it takes up their minds," said mr. skee, and departed with serenity. he strolled over to dr. hale's fence and leaned upon it, watching the preparations. mr. dykeman, in his shirt-sleeves, stood about offering suggestions, while the young men swarmed here and there with poles and stepladders, hanging chinese lanterns. "hello, elmer; come in and make yourself useful," called mr. dykeman. "i'll come in, but i'll be switched if i'll be useful," he replied, laying a large hand on the fence and vaulting his long legs over it with an agility amazing in one of his alleged years. "you all are sure putting yourself out for this occasion. is it somebody's birthday?" "no; it's a get-up of these youngsters. they began by wanting mrs. st. cloud to come over to tea--afternoon tea--and now look at this!" "did she misunderstand the invitation as bad as that?" "o, no; just a gradual change of plan. one thing leads to another, you know. here, archie! that bush won't hold the line. put it on the willow." "i see," said mr. skee; "and, as we're quotin' proverbs, i might remark that 'while the cat's away the mice will play.'" mr. dykeman smiled. "it's rather a good joke on hale, isn't it?" "would be if he should happen to come home--and find this hen-party on." they both chuckled. "i guess he's good for a week yet," said mr. dykeman. "those medical associations do a lot of talking. higher up there, george--a good deal higher." he ran over to direct the boys, and mr. skee, hands behind him, strolled up and down the garden, wearing a meditative smile. he and andrew dykeman had been friends for many long years. dr. bellair used her telephone freely after mr. skee's departure, making notes and lists of names. late in the afternoon she found vivian in the hall. "i don't see much of you these days, miss lane," she said. the girl flushed. since mrs. st. cloud's coming and their renewed intimacy she had rather avoided the doctor, and that lady had kept herself conspicuously out of the way. "don't call me miss lane; i'm vivian--to my friends." "i hope you count me a friend?" said dr. bellair, gravely. "i do, doctor, and i'm proud to. but so many things have been happening lately," she laughed, a little nervously. "the truth is, i'm really ashamed to talk to you; i'm so lazy." "that's exactly what i wanted to speak about. aren't you ready to begin that little school of yours?" "i'd like to--i should, really," said the girl. "but, somehow, i don't know how to set about it." "i've been making some inquiries," said the doctor. "there are six or eight among my patients that you could count on--about a dozen young ones. how many could you handle?" "oh, i oughtn't to have more than twenty in any case. a dozen would be plenty to begin with. do you think i _could_ count on them--really?" "i tell you what i'll do," her friend offered; "i'll take you around and introduce you to any of them you don't know. most of 'em come here to the dances. there's mrs. horsford and mrs. blake, and that little mary jackson with the twins. you'll find they are mostly friends." "you are awfully kind," said the girl. "i wish"--her voice took on a sudden note of intensity--"i do wish i were strong, like you, dr. bellair." "i wasn't very strong--at your age--my child. i did the weakest of weak things--" vivian was eager to ask her what it was, but a door opened down one side passage and the doctor quietly disappeared down the other, as mrs. st. cloud came out. "i thought i heard your voice," she said. "and miss elder's, wasn't it?" "no; it was dr. bellair." "a strong character, and a fine physician, i understand. i'm sorry she does not like me." mrs. st. cloud's smile made it seem impossible that anyone should dislike her. vivian could not, however, deny the fact, and was not diplomatic enough to smooth it over, which her more experienced friend proceeded to do. "it is temperamental," she said gently. "if we had gone to school together we would not have been friends. she is strong, downright, progressive; i am weaker, more sensitive, better able to bear than to do. you must find her so stimulating." "yes," the girl said. "she was talking to me about my school." "your school?" "didn't you know i meant to have a sort of kindergarten? we planned it even before starting; but miss elder seemed to need me at first, and since then--things--have happened----" "and other things will happen, dear child! quite other and different things." the lady's smile was bewitching. vivian flushed slowly under her gaze. "oh, my dear, i watched you dancing together! you don't mind my noticing, do you?" her voice was suddenly tender and respectful. "i do not wish to intrude, but you are very dear to me. come into my room--do--and tell me what to wear to-night." mrs. st. cloud's clothes had always been a delight to vivian. they were what she would have liked to wear--and never quite have dared, under the new england fear of being "too dressy." her own beauty was kept trimly neat, like a closed gentian. her friend was in the gayest mood. she showed her a trunkful of delicate garments and gave her a glittering embroidered scarf, which the girl rapturously admired, but declared she would never have the courage to wear. "you shall wear it this very night," declared the lady. "here--show me what you've got. you shall be as lovely as you _are_, for once!" so vivian brought out her modest wardrobe, and the older woman chose a gown of white, insisted on shortening the sleeves to fairy wings of lace, draped the scarf about her white neck, raised the soft, close-bound hair to a regal crown, and put a shining star in it, and added a string of pearls on the white throat. "look at yourself now, child!" she said. vivian looked, in the long depths of mr. dykeman's mirror. she knew that she had beauty, but had never seen herself so brilliantly attired. erect, slender, graceful, the long lines of her young body draped in soft white, and her dark head, crowned and shining, poised on its white column, rising from the shimmering lace. her color deepened as she looked, and added to the picture. "you shall wear it to-night! you shall!" cried her admiring friend. "to please me--if no one else!" whether to please her or someone else, vivian consented, the two arriving rather late at the garden party across the way. mr. dykeman, looking very tall and fine in his evening clothes, was a cordial host, ably seconded by the eager boys about him. the place was certainly a credit to their efforts, the bare rooms being turned to bowers by vines and branches brought from the mountains, and made fragrant by piled flowers. lights glimmered through colored shades among the leaves, and on the dining table young peters, who came from connecticut, had rigged a fountain by means of some rubber tubing and an auger hole in the floor. this he had made before mr. dykeman caught him, and vowed dr. hale would not mind. mr. peters' enjoyment of the evening, however, was a little dampened by his knowledge of the precarious nature of this arrangement. he danced attendance on mrs. st. cloud, with the others, but wore a preoccupied expression, and stole in once or twice from the lit paths outside to make sure that all was running well. it was well to and during supper time, and the young man was complimented on his ingenuity. "reminds me of the hanging gardens of babylon," said mr. skee, sentimentally. "why?" asked mrs. pettigrew. "oh, _why_, ma'am? how can a fellow say why?" he protested. "because it is so--so efflorescent, i suppose." "reminds me of a loose faucet," said she, _sotto voce_, to dr. bellair. mr. peters beamed triumphantly, but in the very hour of his glory young burns, hastening to get a cup of coffee for his fair one, tripped over the concealed pipe, and the fountain poured forth its contributions among the feet of the guests. this was a minor misadventure, however, hurting no one's feeling but mr. peters', and mrs. st. cloud was so kind to him in consequence that he was envied by all the others. mr. dykeman was attentive to his guests, old and young, but mrs. pettigrew had not her usual smile for him; miss orella declined to dance, alleging that she was too tired, and dr. bellair somewhat dryly told him that he need not bother with her. he was hardly to be blamed if he turned repeatedly to mrs. st. cloud, whose tactful sweetness was always ready. she had her swarm of young admirers about her, yet never failed to find a place for her host, a smile and a word of understanding. her eyes were everywhere. she watched mr. skee waltzing with the youngest, providing well-chosen refreshments for miss orella, gallantly escorting grandma to see the "lovers' lane" they had made at the end of the garden. its twin lines of lights were all outside; within was grateful shadow. mrs. st. cloud paced through this fragrant arbor with each and every one of the receiving party, uttering ever-fresh expressions of admiration and gratitude for their kind thoughtfulness, especially to mr. dykeman. when she saw susie and mr. saunders go in at the farther end, she constituted herself a sort of protective agency to keep every one else out, holding them in play with various pleasant arts. and vivian? when she arrived there was a little gasp from morton, who was waiting for her near the door. she was indeed a sight to make a lover's heart leap. he had then, as it were, surrounded her. vainly did the others ask for dances. morton had unblushingly filled out a card with his own name and substituted it for the one she handed him. she protested, but the music sounded and he whirled her away before she could expostulate to any avail. his eyes spoke his admiration, and for once his tongue did not spoil the impression. half laughing and half serious, she let him monopolize her, but quite drove him away when mr. dykeman claimed his dance. "all filled up!" said morton for her, showing his card. "mine was promised yesterday, was it not, miss lane?" said the big man, smiling. and she went with him. he took her about the garden later, gravely admiring and attentive, and when susie fairly rushed into her arms, begging her to come and talk with her, he left them both in a small rose-crowned summer-house and went back to mrs. st. cloud. "oh, vivian, vivian! what do you think!" susie's face was buried on vivian's shoulder. "i'm engaged!" vivian held her close and kissed her soft hair. her joyous excitement was contagious. "he's the nicest man in the world!" breathed susie, "and he loves me!" "we all supposed he did. didn't you know it before?" "oh, yes, in a way; but, vivian--he kissed me!" "well, child, have you never in all your little life been kissed before?" susie lifted a rosy, tearful face for a moment. "never, never, never!" she said. "i thought i had, but i haven't! oh, i am so happy!" "what's up?" inquired morton, appearing with a pink lantern in his hand, in impatient search for his adored one. "susie--crying?" "no, i'm _not_," she said, and ran forthwith back to the house, whence jimmy was bringing her ice cream. vivian started to follow her. "oh, no, vivian; don't go. wait." he dropped the lantern and took her hands. the paper cover flared up, showing her flushed cheeks and starry eyes. he stamped out the flame, and in the sudden darkness caught her in his arms. for a moment she allowed him, turning her head away. he kissed her white shoulder. "no! no, morton--don't! you mustn't!" she tried to withdraw herself, but he held her fast. she could feel the pounding of his heart. "oh, vivian, don't say no! you will marry me, won't you? some day, when i'm more worth while. say you will! some day--if not now. i love you so; i need you so! say yes, vivian." he was breathing heavily. his arms held her motionless. she still kept her face turned from him. "let me go, morton; let me go! you hurt me!" "say yes, dear, and i'll let you go--for a little while." "yes," said vivian. the ground jarred beside them, as a tall man jumped the hedge boundary. he stood a moment, staring. "well, is this my house, or coney island?" they heard him say. and then morton swore softly to himself as vivian left him and came out. "good evening, dr. hale," she said, a little breathlessly. "we weren't expecting you so soon." "i should judge not," he answered. "what's up, anyhow?" "the boys--and mr. dykeman--are giving a garden party for mrs. st. cloud." "for whom?" "for adela st. cloud. she is visiting us. aren't you coming in?" "not now," he said, and was gone without another word. chapter ix. consequences. you may have a fondness for grapes that are green, and the sourness that greenness beneath; you may have a right to a colic at night-- but consider your children's teeth! dr. hale retired from his gaily illuminated grounds in too much displeasure to consider the question of dignity. one suddenly acting cause was the news given him by vivian. the other was the sight of morton elder's face as he struck a match to light his cigarette. thus moved, and having entered and left his own grounds like a thief in the night, he proceeded to tramp in the high-lying outskirts of the town until every light in his house had gone out. then he returned, let himself into his office, and lay there on a lounge until morning. vivian had come out so quickly to greet the doctor from obscure motives. she felt a sudden deep objection to being found there with morton, a wish to appear as one walking about unconcernedly, and when that match glow made morton's face shine out prominently in the dark shelter, she, too, felt a sudden displeasure. without a word she went swiftly to the house, excused herself to her grandmother, who nodded understandingly, and returned to the cottonwoods, to her room. she felt that she must be alone and think; think of that irrevocable word she had uttered, and its consequences. she sat at her window, rather breathless, watching the rows of pink lanterns swaying softly on the other side of the street; hearing the lively music, seeing young couples leave the gate and stroll off homeward. susie's happiness came more vividly to mind than her own. it was so freshly joyous, so pure, so perfectly at rest. she could not feel that way, could not tell with decision exactly how she did feel. but if this was happiness, it was not as she had imagined it. she thought of that moonlit summer night so long ago, and the memory of its warm wonder seemed sweeter than the hasty tumult and compulsion of to-night. she was stirred through and through by morton's intense emotion, but with a sort of reaction, a wish to escape. he had been so madly anxious, he had held her so close; there seemed no other way but to yield to him--in order to get away. and then dr. hale had jarred the whole situation. she had to be polite to him, in his own grounds. if only morton had kept still--that grating match--his face, bent and puffing, dr. hale must have seen him. and again she thought of little susie with almost envy. even after that young lady had come in, bubbled over with confidences and raptures, and finally dropped to sleep without vivian's having been able to bring herself to return the confidences, she stole back to her window again to breathe. why had dr. hale started so at the name of mrs. st. cloud? that was puzzling her more than she cared to admit. by and by she saw his well-known figure, tall and erect, march by on the other side and go into the office. "o, well," she sighed at last, "i'm not young, like susie. perhaps it _is_ like this--" now morton had been in no special need of that cigarette at that special moment, but he did not wish to seem to hide in the dusky arbor, nor to emerge lamely as if he had hidden. so he lit the match, more from habit than anything else. when it was out, and the cigarette well lighted, he heard the doctor's sudden thump on the other side of the fence and came out to rejoin vivian. she was not there. he did not see her again that night, and his meditations were such that next day found him, as a lover, far more agreeable to vivian than the night before. he showed real understanding, no triumph, no airs of possession; took no liberties, only said: "when i am good enough i shall claim you--my darling!" and looked at her with such restrained longing that she quite warmed to him again. he held to this attitude, devoted, quietly affectionate; till her sense of rebellion passed away and her real pleasure in his improvement reasserted itself. as they read together, if now and then his arm stole around her waist, he always withdrew it when so commanded. still, one cannot put the same severity into a prohibition too often repeated. the constant, thoughtful attention of a man experienced in the art of pleasing women, the new and frankly inexperienced efforts he made to meet her highest thoughts, to learn and share her preferences, both pleased her. he was certainly good looking, certainly amusing, certainly had become a better man from her companionship. she grew to feel a sort of ownership in this newly arisen character; a sort of pride in it. then, she had always been fond of morton, since the time when he was only "susie's big brother." that counted. another thing counted, too, counted heavily, though vivian never dreamed of it and would have hotly repudiated the charge. she was a woman of full marriageable age, with all the unused powers of her woman's nature calling for expression, quite unrecognized. he was a man who loved her, loved her more deeply than he had ever loved before, than he had even known he could love; who quite recognized what called within him and meant to meet the call. and he was near her every day. after that one fierce outbreak he held himself well in check. he knew he had startled her then, almost lost her. and with every hour of their companionship he felt more and more how much she was to him. other women he had pursued, overtaken, left behind. he felt that there was something in vivian which was beyond him, giving a stir and lift of aspiration which he genuinely enjoyed. day by day he strove to win her full approval, and day by day he did not neglect the tiny, slow-lapping waves of little tendernesses, small affectionate liberties at well-chosen moments, always promptly withdrawing when forbidden, but always beginning again a little further on. dr. bellair went to dr. hale's office and sat herself down solidly in the patient's chair. "dick," she said, "are you going to stand for this?" "stand for what, my esteemed but cryptic fellow-practitioner?" she eyed his calm, reserved countenance with friendly admiration. "you are an awfully good fellow, dick, but dull. at the same time dull and transparent. are you going to sit still and let that dangerous patient of yours marry the finest girl in town?" "your admiration for girls is always stronger than mine, jane; and i have, if you will pardon the boast, more than one patient." "all right, dick--if you want it made perfectly clear to your understanding. do you mean to let morton elder marry vivian lane?" "what business is it of mine?" he demanded, more than brusquely--savagely. "you know what he's got." "i am a physician, not a detective. and i am not miss lane's father, brother, uncle or guardian." "or lover," added dr. bellair, eyeing him quietly. she thought she saw a second's flicker of light in the deep gray eyes, a possible tightening of set lips. "suppose you are not," she said; "nor even a humanitarian. you _are_ a member of society. do you mean to let a man whom you know has no right to marry, poison the life of that splendid girl?" he was quite silent for a moment, but she could see the hand on the farther arm of his chair grip it till the nails were white. "how do you know he--wishes to marry her?" "if you were about like other people, you old hermit, you'd know it as well as anybody. i think they are on the verge of an engagement, if they aren't over it already. once more, dick, shall you do anything?" "no," said he. then, as she did not add a word, he rose and walked up and down the office in big strides, turning upon her at last. "you know how i feel about this. it is a matter of honor--professional honor. you women don't seem to know what the word means. i've told that good-for-nothing young wreck that he has no right to marry for years yet, if ever. that is all i can do. i will not betray the confidence of a patient." "not if he had smallpox, or scarlet fever, or the bubonic plague? suppose a patient of yours had the leprosy, and wanted to marry your sister, would you betray his confidence?" "i might kill my sister," he said, glaring at her. "i refuse to argue with you." "yes, i think you'd better refuse," she said, rising. "and you don't have to kill vivian lane, either. a man's honor always seems to want to kill a woman to satisfy it. i'm glad i haven't got the feeling. well, dick, i thought i'd give you a chance to come to your senses, a real good chance. but i won't leave you to the pangs of unavailing remorse, you poor old goose. that young syphilitic is no patient of mine." and she marched off to perform a difficult duty. she was very fond of vivian. the girl's unselfish sweetness of character and the depth of courage and power she perceived behind the sensitive, almost timid exterior, appealed to her. if she had had a daughter, perhaps she would have been like that. if she had had a daughter would she not have thanked anyone who would try to save her from such a danger? from that worse than deadly peril, because of which she had no daughter. dr. bellair was not the only one who watched morton's growing devotion with keen interest. to his aunt it was a constant joy. from the time her boisterous little nephew had come to rejoice her heart and upset her immaculate household arrangements, and had played, pleasantly though tyrannically, with the little girl next door, miss orella had dreamed this romance for him. to have it fail was part of her grief when he left her, to have it now so visibly coming to completion was a deep delight. if she had been blind to his faults, she was at least vividly conscious of the present sudden growth of virtues. she beamed at him with affectionate pride, and her manner to mrs. pettigrew was one of barely subdued "i told you so." indeed, she could not restrain herself altogether, but spoke to that lady with tender triumph of how lovely it was to have morton so gentle and nice. "you never did like the boy, i know, but you must admit that he is behaving beautifully now." "i will," said the old lady; "i'll admit it without reservation. he's behaving beautifully--now. but i'm not going to talk about him--to you, orella." so she rolled up her knitting work and marched off. "too bad she's so prejudiced and opinionated," said miss elder to susie, rather warmly. "i'm real fond of mrs. pettigrew, but when she takes a dislike----" susie was so happy herself that she seemed to walk in an aura of rosy light. her jimmie was so evidently the incarnation of every masculine virtue and charm that he lent a reflected lustre to other men, even to her brother. because of her love for jimmie, she loved morton better--loved everybody better. to have her only brother marry her dearest friend was wholly pleasant to susie. it was not difficult to wring from vivian a fair knowledge of how things stood, for, though reserved by nature, she was utterly unused to concealing anything, and could not tell an efficient lie if she wanted to. "are you engaged or are you not, you dear old thing?" demanded susie. and vivian admitted that there was "an understanding." but susie absolutely must not speak of it. for a wonder she did not, except to jimmie. but people seemed to make up their minds on the subject with miraculous agreement. the general interest in the manifold successes of mrs. st. cloud gave way to this vivid personal interest, and it was discussed from two sides among their whole circle of acquaintance. one side thought that a splendid girl was being wasted, sacrificed, thrown away, on a disagreeable, good-for-nothing fellow. the other side thought the "interesting" mr. elder might have done better; they did not know what he could see in her. they, that vaguely important they, before whom we so deeply bow, were also much occupied in their mind by speculations concerning mr. dykeman and two possibilities. one quite patently possible, even probable, giving rise to the complacent "why, anybody could see that!" and the other a fascinatingly impossible possibility of a sort which allows the even more complacent "didn't you? why, i could see it from the first." mr. dykeman had been a leading citizen in that new-built town for some ten years, which constituted him almost the oldest inhabitant. he was reputed to be extremely wealthy, though he never said anything about it, and neither his clothing nor his cigars reeked of affluence. perhaps nomadic chambermaids had spread knowledge of those silver-backed appurtenances, and the long mirror. or perhaps it was not woman's gossip at all, but men's gossip, which has wider base, and wider circulation, too. mr. dykeman had certainly "paid attentions" to miss elder. miss elder had undeniably brightened and blossomed most becomingly under these attentions. he had danced with her, he had driven with her, he had played piquet with her when he might have played whist. to be sure, he did these things with other ladies, and had done them for years past, but this really looked as if there might be something in it. mr. skee, as mr. dykeman's oldest friend, was even questioned a little; but it was not very much use to question mr. skee. his manner was not repellant, and not in the least reserved. he poured forth floods of information so voluminous and so varied that the recipient was rather drowned than fed. so opinions wavered as to mr. dykeman's intentions. then came this lady of irresistible charm, and the unmarried citizens of the place fell at her feet as one man. even the married ones slanted over a little. mr. dykeman danced with her, more than he had with miss elder. mr. dykeman drove with her, more than he had with miss elder. mr. dykeman played piquet with her, and chess, which miss elder could not play. and miss elder's little opening petals of ribbon and lace curled up and withered away; while mrs. st. cloud's silken efflorescence, softly waving and jewel-starred, flourished apace. dr. bellair had asked vivian to take a walk with her; and they sat together, resting, on a high lonely hill, a few miles out of town. "it's a great pleasure to see this much of you, dr. bellair," said the girl, feeling really complimented. "i'm afraid you won't think so, my dear, when you hear what i have to say: what i _have_ to say." the girl flushed a little. "are you going to scold me about something? have i done anything wrong?" her eyes smiled bravely. "go on, doctor. i know it will be for my best good." "it will indeed, dear child," said the doctor, so earnestly that vivian felt a chill of apprehension. "i am going to talk to you 'as man to man' as the story books say; as woman to woman. when i was your age i had been married three years." vivian was silent, but stole out a soft sympathetic hand and slipped it into the older woman's. she had heard of this early-made marriage, also early broken; with various dark comments to which she had paid no attention. dr. bellair was dr. bellair, and she had a reverential affection for her. there was a little silence. the doctor evidently found it hard to begin. "you love children, don't you, vivian?" the girl's eyes kindled, and a heavenly smile broke over her face. "better than anything in the world," she said. "ever think about them?" asked her friend, her own face whitening as she spoke. "think about their lovely little soft helplessness--when you hold them in your arms and have to do _everything_ for them. have to go and turn them over--see that the little ear isn't crumpled--that the covers are all right. can't you see 'em, upside down on the bath apron, grabbing at things, perfectly happy, but prepared to howl when it comes to dressing? and when they are big enough to love you! little soft arms that will hardly go round your neck. little soft cheeks against yours, little soft mouths and little soft kisses,--ever think of them?" the girl's eyes were like stars. she was looking into the future; her breath came quickly; she sat quite still. the doctor swallowed hard, and went on. "we mostly don't go much farther than that at first. it's just the babies we want. but you can look farther--can follow up, year by year, the lovely changing growing bodies and minds, the confidence and love between you, the pride you have as health is established, strength and skill developed, and character unfolds and deepens. "then when they are grown, and sort of catch up, and you have those splendid young lives about you, intimate strong friends and tender lovers. and you feel as though you had indeed done something for the world." she stopped, saying no more for a little, watching the girl's awed shining face. suddenly that face was turned to her, full of exquisite sympathy, the dark eyes swimming with sudden tears; and two soft eager arms held her close. "oh, doctor! to care like that and not--!" "yes, my dear;" said the doctor, quietly. "and not have any. not be able to have any--ever." vivian caught her breath with pitying intensity, but her friend went on. "never be able to have a child, because i married a man who had gonorrhea. in place of happy love, lonely pain. in place of motherhood, disease. misery and shame, child. medicine and surgery, and never any possibility of any child for me." the girl was pale with horror. "i--i didn't know--" she tried to say something, but the doctor burst out impatiently: "no! you don't know. i didn't know. girls aren't taught a word of what's before them till it's too late--not _then_, sometimes! women lose every joy in life, every hope, every capacity for service or pleasure. they go down to their graves without anyone's telling them the cause of it all." "that was why you--left him?" asked vivian presently. "yes, i left him. when i found i could not be a mother i determined to be a doctor, and save other women, if i could." she said this with such slow, grave emphasis that vivian turned a sudden startled face to her, and went white to the lips. "i may be wrong," the doctor said, "you have not given me your confidence in this matter. but it is better, a thousand times better, that i should make this mistake than for you to make that. you must not marry morton elder." vivian did not admit nor deny. she still wore that look of horror. "you think he has--that?" "i do not know whether he has gonorrhea or not; it takes a long microscopic analysis to be sure; but there is every practical assurance that he's had it, and i know he's had syphilis." if vivian could have turned paler she would have, then. "i've heard of--that," she said, shuddering. "yes, the other is newer to our knowledge, far commoner, and really more dangerous. they are two of the most terrible diseases known to us; highly contagious, and in the case of syphilis, hereditary. nearly three-quarters of the men have one or the other, or both." but vivian was not listening. her face was buried in her hands. she crouched low in agonized weeping. "oh, come, come, my dear. don't take it so hard. there's no harm done you see, it's not too late." "oh, it _is_ too late! it is!" wailed the girl. "i have promised to marry him." "i don't care if you were at the altar, child; you _haven't_ married him, and you mustn't." "i have given my word!" said the girl dully. she was thinking of morton now. of his handsome face, with it's new expression of respectful tenderness; of all the hopes they had built together; of his life, so dependent upon hers for its higher interests. she turned to the doctor, her lips quivering. "he _loves_ me!" she said. "i--we--he says i am all that holds him up, that helps him to make a newer better life. and he has changed so--i can see it! he says he has loved me, really, since he was seventeen!" the older sterner face did not relax. "he told me he had--done wrong. he was honest about it. he said he wasn't--worthy." "he isn't," said dr. bellair. "but surely i owe some duty to him. he depends on me. and i have promised--" the doctor grew grimmer. "marriage is for motherhood," she said. "that is its initial purpose. i suppose you might deliberately forego motherhood, and undertake a sort of missionary relation to a man, but that is not marriage." "he loves me," said the girl with gentle stubbornness. she saw morton's eyes, as she had so often seen them lately; full of adoration and manly patience. she felt his hand, as she had felt it so often lately, holding hers, stealing about her waist, sometimes bringing her fingers to his lips for a strong slow kiss which she could not forget for hours. she raised her head. a new wave of feeling swept over her. she saw a vista of self-sacrificing devotion, foregoing much, forgiving much, but rejoicing in the companionship of a noble life, a soul rebuilt, a love that was passionately grateful. her eyes met those of her friend fairly. "and i love him!" she said. "will you tell that to your crippled children?" asked dr. bellair. "will they understand it if they are idiots? will they see it if they are blind? will it satisfy you when they are dead?" the girl shrank before her. "you _shall_ understand," said the doctor. "this is no case for idealism and exalted emotion. do you want a son like theophile?" "i thought you said--they didn't have any." "some don't--that is one result. another result--of gonorrhea--is to have children born blind. their eyes may be saved, with care. but it is not a motherly gift for one's babies--blindness. you may have years and years of suffering yourself--any or all of those diseases 'peculiar to women' as we used to call them! and we pitied the men who 'were so good to their invalid wives'! you may have any number of still-born children, year after year. and every little marred dead face would remind you that you allowed it! and they may be deformed and twisted, have all manner of terrible and loathsome afflictions, they and their children after them, if they have any. and many do! dear girl, don't you see that's wicked?" vivian was silent, her two hands wrung together; her whole form shivering with emotion. "don't think that you are 'ruining his life,'" said the doctor kindly. "he ruined it long ago--poor boy!" the girl turned quickly at the note of sympathy. "they don't know either," her friend went on. "what could miss orella do, poor little saint, to protect a lively young fellow like that! all they have in their scatter-brained heads is 'it's naughty but it's nice!' and so they rush off and ruin their whole lives--and their wives'--and their children's. a man don't have to be so very wicked, either, understand. just one mis-step may be enough for infection." "even if it did break his heart, and yours--even if you both lived single, he because it is the only decent thing he can do now, you because of a misguided sense of devotion; that would be better than to commit this plain sin. beware of a biological sin, my dear; for it there is no forgiveness." she waited a moment and went on, as firmly and steadily as she would have held the walls of a wound while she placed the stitches. "if you two love each other so nobly and devotedly that it is higher and truer and more lasting than the ordinary love of men and women, you might be 'true' to one another for a lifetime, you see. and all that friendship can do, exalted influence, noble inspiration--that is open to you." vivian's eyes were wide and shining. she saw a possible future, not wholly unbearable. "has he kissed you yet?" asked the doctor suddenly. "no," she said. "that is--except----" "don't let him. you might catch it. your friendship must be distant. well, shall we be going back? i'm sorry, my dear. i did hate awfully to do it. but i hated worse to see you go down those awful steps from which there is no returning." "yes," said vivian. "thank you. won't you go on, please? i'll come later." an hour the girl sat there, with the clear blue sky above her, the soft steady wind rustling the leaves, the little birds that hopped and pecked and flirted their tails so near her motionless figure. she thought and thought, and through all the tumult of ideas it grew clearer to her that the doctor was right. she might sacrifice herself. she had no right to sacrifice her children. a feeling of unreasoning horror at this sudden outlook into a field of unknown evil was met by her clear perception that if she was old enough to marry, to be a mother, she was surely old enough to know these things; and not only so, but ought to know them. shy, sensitive, delicate in feeling as the girl was, she had a fair and reasoning mind. chapter x. determination. you may shut your eyes with a bandage, the while world vanishes soon; you may open your eyes at a knothole and see the sun and moon. it must have grieved anyone who cared for andrew dykeman, to see mrs. st. cloud's manner toward him change with his changed circumstances--she had been so much with him, had been so kind to him; kinder than carston comment "knew for a fact," but not kinder than it surmised. then, though his dress remained as quietly correct, his face assumed a worn and anxious look, and he no longer offered her long auto rides or other expensive entertainment. she saw men on the piazza stop talking as he came by, and shake their heads as they looked after him; but no one would tell her anything definite till she questioned mr. skee. "i am worried about mr. dykeman," she said to this ever-willing confidant, beckoning him to a chair beside her. a chair, to the mind of mr. skee, seemed to be for pictorial uses, only valuable as part of the composition. he liked one to stand beside, to put a foot on, to lean over from behind, arms on the back; to tip up in front of him as if he needed a barricade; and when he was persuaded to sit in one, it was either facing the back, cross-saddle and bent forward, or--and this was the utmost decorum he was able to approach--tipped backward against the wall. "he does not look well," said the lady, "you are old friends--do tell me; if it is anything wherein a woman's sympathy would be of service?" "i'm afraid not, ma'am," replied mr. skee darkly. "andy's hard hit in a worse place than his heart. i wouldn't betray a friend's confidence for any money, ma'am; but this is all over town. it'll go hard with andy, i'm afraid, at his age." "oh, i'm so sorry!" she whispered. "so sorry! but surely with a man of his abilities it will be only a temporary reverse!--" "dunno 'bout the abilities--not in this case. unless he has ability enough to discover a mine bigger'n the one he's lost! you see, ma'am, it's this way," and he sunk his voice to a confidential rumble. "andy had a bang-up mine, galena ore--not gold, you understand, but often pays better. and he kept on putting the money it made back into it to make more. then, all of a sudden, it petered out! no more eggs in that basket. 'course he can't sell it--now. and last year he refused half a million. andy's sure down on his luck." "but he will recover! you western men are so wonderful! he will find another mine!" "o yes, he _may_! certainly he _may_, ma'am. not that he found this one--he just bought it." "well--he can buy another, there are more, aren't there?" "sure there are! there's as good mines in the earth as ever was salted--that's my motto! but andy's got no more money to buy any mines. what he had before he inherited. no, ma'am," said mr. skee, with a sigh. "i'm afraid its all up with andy dykeman financially!" this he said more audibly; and miss elder and miss pettigrew, sitting in their parlor, could not help hearing. miss elder gave a little gasp and clasped her hands tightly, but miss pettigrew arose, and came outside. "what's this about mr. dykeman?" she questioned abruptly. "has he had losses?" "there now," said mr. skee, remorsefully, "i never meant to give him away like that. mrs. pettigrew, ma'am, i must beg you not to mention it further. i was only satisfyin' this lady here, in answer to sympathetic anxiety, as to what was making andrew h. dykeman so down in the mouth. yes'm--he's lost every cent he had in the world, or is likely to have. of course, among friends, he'll get a job fast enough, bookkeepin', or something like that--though he's not a brilliant man, andy isn't. you needn't to feel worried, mrs. pettigrew; he'll draw a salary all right, to the end of time; but he's out of the game of hot finance." mrs. pettigrew regarded the speaker with a scintillating eye. he returned her look with unflinching seriousness. "have a chair, ma'am," he said. "let me bring out your rocker. sit down and chat with us." "no, thanks," said the old lady. "it seems to me a little--chilly, out here. i'll go in." she went in forthwith, to find miss orella furtively wiping her eyes. "what are you crying about, orella elder! just because a man's lost his money? that happens to most of 'em now and then." "yes, i know--but you heard what he said. oh, i can't believe it! to think of his having to be provided for by his friends--and having to take a small salary--after being so well off! i am so sorry for him!" miss elder's sorrow was increased to intensity by noting mrs. st. cloud's changed attitude. mr. dykeman made no complaint, uttered no protest, gave no confidences; but it soon appeared that he was working in an office; and furthermore that this position was given him by mr. skee. that gentleman, though discreetly reticent as to his own affairs, now appeared in far finer raiment than he had hitherto affected; developed a pronounced taste in fobs and sleeve buttons; and a striking harmony in socks and scarfs. men talked openly of him; no one seemed to know anything definite, but all were certain that "old skee must have struck it rich." mr. skee kept his own counsel; but became munificent in gifts and entertainments. he produced two imposing presents for susie; one a "betrothal gift," the other a conventional wedding present. "this is a new one to me," he said when he offered her the first; "but i understand it's the thing. in fact i'm sure of it--for i've consulted mrs. st. cloud and she helped me to buy 'em." he consulted mrs. st. cloud about a dinner he proposed giving to mr. saunders--"one of these farewell to egypt affairs," he said. "not that i imagine jim saunders ever was much of a--egyptian--but then----!" he consulted her also about vivian--did she not think the girl looked worn and ill? wouldn't it be a good thing to send her off for a trip somewhere? he consulted her about a library; said he had always wanted a library of his own, but the public ones were somewhat in his way. how many books did she think a man ought really to own--to spend his declining years among. also, and at considerable length he consulted her about the best possible place of residence. "i'm getting to be an old man, mrs. st. cloud," he remarked meditatively; "and i'm thinking of buying and building somewhere. but it's a ticklish job. lo! these many years i've been perfectly contented to live wherever i was at; and now that i'm considering a real home--blamed if i know where to put it! i'm distracted between a model farm, and a metropolitan residence. which would you recommend, ma'am?" the lady's sympathy and interest warmed to mr. skee as they cooled to mr. dykeman, not with any blameworthy or noticeable suddenness, but in soft graduations, steady and continuous. the one wore his new glories with an air of modest pride; making no boast of affluence; and the other accepted that which had befallen him without rebellion. miss orella's tender heart was deeply touched. as fast as mrs. st. cloud gave the cold shoulder to her friend, she extended a warm hand; when they chatted about mr. skee's visible success, she spoke bravely of the beauty of limited means; and when it was time to present her weekly bills to the boarders, she left none in mr. dykeman's room. this he took for an oversight at first; but when he found the omission repeated on the following week, he stood by his window smiling thoughtfully for some time, and then went in search of miss orella. she sat by her shaded lamp, alone, knitting a silk tie which was promptly hidden as he entered. he stood by the door looking at her in spite of her urging him to be seated, observing the warm color in her face, the graceful lines of her figure, the gentle smile that was so unfailingly attractive. then he came forward, calmly inquiring, "why haven't you sent me my board bill?" she lifted her eyes to his, and dropped them, flushing. "i--excuse me; but i thought----" "you thought i couldn't conveniently pay it?" "o please excuse me! i didn't mean to be--to do anything you wouldn't like. but i did hear that you were--temporarily embarrassed. and i want you to feel sure, mr. dykeman, that to your real friends it makes no difference in the _least_. and if--for a while that is--it should be a little more convenient to--to defer payment, please feel perfectly at liberty to wait!" she stood there blushing like a girl, her sweet eyes wet with shining tears that did not fall, full of tender sympathy for his misfortune. "have you heard that i've lost all my money?" he asked. she nodded softly. "and that i can't ever get it back--shall have to do clerk's work at a clerk's salary--as long as i live?" again she nodded. he took a step or two back and forth in the quiet parlor, and returned to her. "would you marry a poor man?" he asked in a low tender voice. "would you marry a man not young, not clever, not rich, but who loved you dearly? you are the sweetest woman i ever saw, orella elder--will you marry me?" she came to him, and he drew her close with a long sigh of utter satisfaction. "now i am rich indeed," he said softly. she held him off a little. "don't talk about being rich. it doesn't matter. if you like to live here--why this house will keep us both. if you'd rather have a little one--i can live _so_ happily--on _so_ little! and there is my own little home in bainville--perhaps you could find something to do there. i don't care the least in the world--so long as you love me!" "i've loved you since i first set eyes on you," he answered her. "to see the home you've made here for all of us was enough to make any man love you. but i thought awhile back that i hadn't any chance--you weren't jealous of that artificial fairy, were you?" and conscientiously miss orella lied. carston society was pleased, but not surprised at susie's engagement; it was both pleased and surprised when miss elder's was announced. some there were who protested that they had seen it from the beginning; but disputatious friends taxed them with having prophesied quite otherwise. some thought miss elder foolish to take up with a man of full middle age, and with no prospects; and others attributed the foolishness to mr. dykeman, in marrying an old maid. others again darkly hinted that he knew which side his bread was buttered--"and first-rate butter, too." adding that they "did hate to see a man sit around and let his wife keep boarders!" in bainville circles the event created high commotion. that one of their accumulated maidens, part of the virgin sacrifice of new england, which finds not even a minotaur--had thus triumphantly escaped from their ranks and achieved a husband; this was flatly heretical. the fact that he was a poor man was the only mitigating circumstance, leaving it open to the more captious to criticize the lady sharply. but the calm contentment of andrew dykeman's face, and the decorous bliss of miss elder's were untroubled by what anyone thought or said. little susie was delighted, and teased for a double wedding; without success. "one was enough to attend to, at one time," her aunt replied. * * * * * in all this atmosphere of wooings and weddings, vivian walked apart, as one in a bad dream that could never end. that day when dr. bellair left her on the hill, left her alone in a strange new horrible world, was still glaring across her consciousness, the end of one life, the bar to any other. its small events were as clear to her as those which stand out so painfully on a day of death; all that led up to the pleasant walk, when an eager girl mounted the breezy height, and a sad-faced woman came down from it. she had waited long and came home slowly, dreading to see a face she knew, dreading worst of all to see morton. the boy she had known so long, the man she was beginning to know, had changed to an unbelievable horror; and the love which had so lately seemed real to her recoiled upon her heart with a sense of hopeless shame. she wished--eagerly, desperately, she wished--she need never see him again. she thought of the man's resource of running away--if she could just _go_, go at once, and write to him from somewhere. distant bainville seemed like a haven of safety; even the decorous, narrow, monotony of its dim life had a new attraction. these terrors were not in bainville, surely. then the sickening thought crept in that perhaps they were--only they did not know it. besides, she had no money to go with. if only she had started that little school sooner! write to her father for money she would not. no, she must bear it here. the world was discolored in the girl's eyes. love had become a horror and marriage impossible. she pushed the idea from her, impotently, as one might push at a lava flow. in her wide reading she had learned in a vague way of "evil"--a distant undescribed evil which was in the world, and which must be avoided. she had known that there was such a thing as "sin," and abhorred the very thought of it. morton's penitential confessions had given no details; she had pictured him only as being "led astray," as being "fast," even perhaps "wicked." wickedness could be forgiven; and she had forgiven him, royally. but wickedness was one thing, disease was another. forgiveness was no cure. the burden of new knowledge so distressed her that she avoided the family entirely that evening, avoided susie, went to her grandmother and asked if she might come and sleep on the lounge in her room. "surely, my child, glad to have you," said mrs. pettigrew affectionately. "better try my bed--there's room a-plenty." the girl lay long with those old arms about her, crying quietly. her grandmother asked no questions, only patted her softly from time to time, and said, "there! there!" in a pleasantly soothing manner. after some time she remarked, "if you want to say things, my dear, say 'em--anything you please." in the still darkness they talked long and intimately; and the wise old head straightened things out somewhat for the younger one. "doctors don't realize how people feel about these matters," said mrs. pettigrew. "they are so used to all kinds of ghastly things they forget that other folks can't stand 'em. she was too hard on you, dearie." but vivian defended the doctor. "oh, no, grandma. she did it beautifully. and it hurt her so. she told me about her own--disappointment." "yes, i remember her as a girl, you see. a fine sweet girl she was too. it was an awful blow--and she took it hard. it has made her bitter, i think, perhaps; that and the number of similar cases she had to cope with." "but, grandma--is it--_can_ it be as bad as she said? seventy-five per cent! three-quarters of--of everybody!" "not everybody dear, thank goodness. our girls are mostly clean, and they save the race, i guess." "i don't even want to _see_ a man again!" said the girl with low intensity. "shouldn't think you would, at first. but, dear child--just brace yourself and look it fair in the face! the world's no worse than it was yesterday--just because you know more about it!" "no," vivian admitted, "but it's like uncovering a charnel house!" she shuddered. "never saw a charnel house myself," said the old lady, "even with the lid on. but now see here child; you mustn't feel as if all men were unspeakable villains. they are just ignorant boys--and nobody ever tells 'em the truth. nobody used to know it, for that matter. all this about gonorrhea is quite newly discovered--it has set the doctors all by the ears. having women doctors has made a difference too--lots of difference." "besides," she went on after a pause, "things are changing very fast now, since the general airing began. dr. prince morrow in new york, with that society of his--(i can never remember the name--makes me think of tooth brushes) has done much; and the popular magazines have taken it up. you must have seen some of those articles, vivian." "i have," the girl said, "but i couldn't bear to read them--ever." "that's it!" responded her grandmother, tartly; "we bring up girls to think it is not proper to know anything about the worst danger before them. proper!--why my dear child, the young girls are precisely the ones _to_ know! it's no use to tell a woman who has buried all her children--or wishes she had!--that it was all owing to her ignorance, and her husband's. you have to know beforehand if it's to do you any good." after awhile she continued: "women are waking up to this all over the country, now. nice women, old and young. the women's clubs and congresses are taking it up, as they should. some states have passed laws requiring a medical certificate--a clean bill of health--to go with a license to marry. you can see that's reasonable! a man has to be examined to enter the army or navy, even to get his life insured; marriage and parentage are more important than those things! and we are beginning to teach children and young people what they ought to know. there's hope for us!" "but grandma--it's so awful--about the children." "yes dear, yes. it's pretty awful. but don't feel as if we were all on the brink of perdition. remember that we've got a whole quarter of the men to bank on. that's a good many, in this country. we're not so bad as europe--not yet--in this line. then just think of this, child. we have lived, and done splendid things all these years, even with this load of disease on us. think what we can do when we're rid of it! and that's in the hands of woman, my dear--as soon as we know enough. don't be afraid of knowledge. when we all know about this we can stop it! think of that. we can religiously rid the world of all these--'undesirable citizens.'" "how, grandma?" "easy enough, my dear. by not marrying them." there was a lasting silence. grandma finally went to sleep, making a little soft whistling sound through her parted lips; but vivian lay awake for long slow hours. * * * * * it was one thing to make up her own mind, though not an easy one, by any means; it was quite another to tell morton. he gave her no good opportunity. he did not say again, "will you marry me?" so that she could say, "no," and be done with it. he did not even say, "when will you marry me?" to which she could answer "never!" he merely took it for granted that she was going to, and continued to monopolize her as far as possible, with all pleasant and comfortable attentions. she forced the situation even more sharply than she wished, by turning from him with a shiver when he met her on the stairs one night and leaned forward as if to kiss her. he stopped short. "what is the matter, vivian--are you ill?" "no--" she could say nothing further, but tried to pass him. "look here--there _is_ something. you've been--different--for several days. have i done anything you don't like?" "oh, morton!" his question was so exactly to the point; and so exquisitely inadequate! he had indeed. "i care too much for you to let anything stand between us now," he went on. "come, there's no one in the upper hall--come and 'tell me the worst.'" "as well now as ever." thought the girl. yet when they sat on the long window seat, and he turned his handsome face toward her, with that newer, better look on it, she could not believe that this awful thing was true. "now then--what is wrong between us?" he said. she answered only, "i will tell you the worst, morton. i cannot marry you--ever." he whitened to the lips, but asked quietly, "why?" "because you have--oh, i _cannot_ tell you!" "i have a right to know, vivian. you have made a man of me. i love you with my whole heart. what have i done--that i have not told you?" then she recalled his contrite confessions; and contrasted what he had told her with what he had not; with the unspeakable fate to which he would have consigned her--and those to come; and a sort of holy rage rose within her. "you never told me of the state of your health, morton." it was done. she looked to see him fall at her feet in utter abashment, but he did nothing of the kind. what he did do astonished her beyond measure. he rose to his feet, with clenched fists. "has that damned doctor been giving me away?" he demanded. "because if he has i'll kill him!" "he has not," said vivian. "not by the faintest hint, ever. and is _that_ all you think of?-- "good-bye." she rose to leave him, sick at heart. then he seemed to realize that she was going; that she meant it. "surely, surely!" he cried, "you won't throw me over now! oh, vivian! i told you i had been wild--that i wasn't fit to touch your little slippers! and i wasn't going to ask you to marry me till i felt sure this was all done with. all the rest of my life was yours, darling--is yours. you have made me over--surely you won't leave me now!" "i must," she said. he looked at her despairingly. if he lost her he lost not only a woman, but the hope of a life. things he had never thought about before had now grown dear to him; a home, a family, an honorable place in the world, long years of quiet happiness. "i can't lose you!" he said. "i _can't_!" she did not answer, only sat there with a white set face and her hands tight clenched in her lap. "where'd you get this idea anyhow?" he burst out again. "i believe it's that woman doctor! what does she know!" "look here, morton," said vivian firmly. "it is not a question of who told me. the important thing is that it's--true! and i cannot marry you." "but vivian--" he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of his feeling; "men get over these things. they do, really. it's not so awful as you seem to think. it's very common. and i'm nearly well. i was going to wait a year or two yet--to make sure--. vivian! i'd cut my hand off before i'd hurt you!" there was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but there was something besides her heart ruling the girl now. "i am sorry--i'm very sorry," she said dully. "but i will not marry you." "you'll throw me over--just for that! oh, vivian don't--you can't. i'm no worse than other men. it seems so terrible to you just because you're so pure and white. it's only what they call--wild oats, you know. most men do it." she shook her head. "and will you punish me--so cruelly--for that? i can't live without you, vivian--i won't!" "it is not a question of punishing you, morton," she said gently. "nor myself. it is not the sin i am considering. it is the consequences!" he felt a something high and implacable in the gentle girl; something he had never found in her before. he looked at her with despairing eyes. her white grace, her stately little ways, her delicate beauty, had never seemed so desirable. "good god, vivian. you can't mean it. give me time. wait for me. i'll be straight all the rest of my life--i mean it. i'll be true to you, absolutely. i'll do anything you say--only don't give me up!" she felt old, hundreds of years old, and as remote as far mountains. "it isn't anything you can do--in the rest of your life, my poor boy! it is what you have done--in the first of it!... oh, morton! it isn't right to let us grow up without knowing! you never would have done it _if_ you'd known--would you? can't you--can't we--do something to--stop this awfulness?" her tender heart suffered in the pain she was inflicting, suffered too in her own loss; for as she faced the thought of final separation she found that her grief ran back into the far-off years of childhood. but she had made up her mind with a finality only the more absolute because it hurt her. even what he said of possible recovery did not move her--the very thought of marriage had become impossible. "i shall never marry," she added, with a shiver; thinking that he might derive some comfort from the thought; but he replied with a bitter derisive little laugh. he did not rise to her appeal to "help the others." so far in life the happiness of morton elder had been his one engrossing care; and now the unhappiness of morton elder assumed even larger proportions. that bright and hallowed future to which he had been looking forward so earnestly had been suddenly withdrawn from him; his good resolutions, his "living straight" for the present, were wasted. "you women that are so superior," he said, "that'll turn a man down for things that are over and done with--that he's sorry for and ashamed of--do you know what you drive a man to! what do you think's going to become of me if you throw me over!" he reached out his hands to her in real agony. "vivian! i love you! i can't live without you! i can't be good without you! and you love me a little--don't you?" she did. she could not deny it. she loved to shut her eyes to the future, to forgive the past, to come to those outstretched arms and bury everything beneath that one overwhelming phrase--"i love you!" but she heard again dr. bellair's clear low accusing voice--"will you tell that to your crippled children?" she rose to her feet. "i cannot help it, morton. i am sorry--you will not believe how sorry i am! but i will never marry you." a look of swift despair swept over his face. it seemed to darken visibly as she watched. an expression of bitter hatred came upon him; of utter recklessness. all that the last few months had seemed to bring of higher better feeling fell from him; and even as she pitied him she thought with a flicker of fear of how this might have happened--after marriage. "oh, well!" he said, rising to his feet. "i wish you could have made up your mind sooner, that's all. i'll take myself off now." she reached out her hands to him. "morton! please!--don't go away feeling so hardly! i am--fond of you--i always was.--won't you let me help you--to bear it--! can't we be--friends?" again he laughed that bitter little laugh. "no, miss lane," he said. "we distinctly cannot. this is good-bye--you won't change your mind--again?" she shook her head in silence, and he left her. chapter xi. thereafter. if i do right, though heavens fall, and end all light and laughter; though black the night and ages long, bitter the cold--the tempest strong-- if i do right, and brave it all-- the sun shall rise thereafter! the inaccessibility of dr. hale gave him, in the eye of mrs. st. cloud, all the attractiveness of an unscaled peak to the true mountain climber. here was a man, an unattached man, living next door to her, whom she had not even seen. her pursuance of what mr. skee announced to his friends to be "one of these platonic friendships," did not falter; neither did her interest in other relations less philosophic. mr. dykeman's precipitate descent from the class of eligibles was more of a disappointment to her than she would admit even to herself; his firm, kind friendliness had given a sense of comfort, of achieved content that her restless spirit missed. but dr. hale, if he had been before inaccessible, had now become so heavily fortified, so empanoplied in armor offensive and defensive, that even mrs. pettigrew found it difficult to obtain speech with him. that his best friend, so long supporting him in cheerful bachelorhood, should have thus late laid down his arms, was bitterly resented. that mr. skee, free lance of years standing, and risen victor from several "stricken fields," should show signs of capitulation, annoyed him further. whether these feelings derived their intensity from another, which he entirely refused to acknowledge, is matter for the psychologist, and dr. hale avoided all psychologic self-examination. with the boys he was always a hero. they admired his quiet strength and the unbroken good nature that was always presented to those about him, whatever his inner feelings. mr. peters burst forth to the others one day, in tones of impassioned admiration. "by george, fellows," he said, "you know how nice doc was last night?" "never saw him when he wasn't," said archie. "don't interrupt mr. peters," drawled percy. "he's on the brink of a scientific discovery. strange how these secrets of nature can lie unrevealed about us so long--and then suddenly burst upon our ken!" mr. peters grinned affably. "that's all right, but i maintain my assertion; whatever the general attraction of our noble host, you'll admit that on the special occasion of yesterday evening, which we celebrated to a late hour by innocent games of cards--he was--as usual--the soul of--of----" "affability?" suggested percy. "precisely!" peters admitted. "if there is a well-chosen word which perfectly describes the manner of dr. richard hale--it is affable! thank you, sir, thank you. well, what i wish to announce, so that you can all of you get down on your knees at once and worship, is that all last evening he--had a toothache--a bad toothache!" "my word!" said archie, and remained silent. "oh, come now," percy protested, "that's against nature. have a toothache and not _mention_ it? not even mention it--without exaggeration! why archimedes couldn't do that! or--sandalphon--or any of them!" "how'd you learn the facts, my son? tell us that." "heard him on the 'phone making an appointment. 'yes;' 'since noon yesterday,' 'yes, pretty severe.' ' : ? you can't make it earlier? all right.' i'm just mentioning it to convince you fellows that you don't appreciate your opportunities. there was some exceptional female once--they said 'to know her was a liberal education.' what would you call it to live with dr. hale?" and they called it every fine thing they could think of; for these boys knew better than anyone else, the effect of that association. his patients knew him as wise, gentle, efficient, bringing a sense of hope and assurance by the mere touch of that strong hand; his professional associates in the town knew him as a good practitioner and friend, and wider medical circles, readers of his articles in the professional press had an even higher opinion of his powers. yet none of these knew richard hale. none saw him sitting late in his office, the pages of his book unturned, his eyes on the red spaces of the fire. no one was with him on those night tramps that left but an hour or two of sleep to the long night, and made that sleep irresistible from self-enforced fatigue. he had left the associations of his youth and deliberately selected this far-off mountain town to build the life he chose; and if he found it unsatisfying no one was the wiser. his successive relays of boys, young fellows fresh from the east, coming from year to year and going from year to year as business called them, could and did give good testimony as to the home side of his character, however. it was not in nature that they should speculate about him. as they fell in love and out again with the facility of so many romeos, they discoursed among themselves as to his misogyny. "he certainly has a grouch on women," they would admit. "that's the one thing you can't talk to him about--shuts up like a clam. of course, he'll let you talk about your own feelings and experiences, but you might as well talk to the side of a hill. i wonder what did happen to him?" they made no inquiry, however. it was reported that a minister's wife, a person of determined character, had had the courage of her inquisitiveness, and asked him once, "why is it that you have never married, dr. hale?" and that he had replied, "it is owing to my dislike of the meddlesomeness of women." he lived his own life, unquestioned, now more markedly withdrawn than ever, coming no more to the cottonwoods. even when morton elder left, suddenly and without warning, to the great grief of his aunt and astonishment of his sister, their medical neighbor still "sulked in his tent"--or at least in his office. morton's departure had but one explanation; it must be that vivian had refused him, and she did not deny it. "but why, vivian, why? he has improved so--it was just getting lovely to see how nice he was getting. and we all thought you were so happy." thus the perplexed susie. and vivian found herself utterly unable to explain to that happy little heart, on the brink of marriage, why she had refused her brother. miss orella was even harder to satisfy. "it's not as if you were a foolish changeable young girl, my dear. and you've known morton all your life--he was no stranger to you. it breaks my heart, vivian. can't you reconsider?" the girl shook her head. "i'm awfully sorry, miss orella. please believe that i did it for the best--and that it was very hard for me, too." "but, vivian! what can be the reason? i don't think you understand what a beautiful influence you have on the boy. he has improved so, since he has been here. and he was going to get a position here in town--he told me so himself--and really settle down. and now he's _gone_. just off and away, as he used to be--and i never shall feel easy about him again." miss orella was frankly crying; and it wrung the girl's heart to know the pain she was causing; not only to morton, and to herself, but to these others. susie criticised her with frankness. "i know you think you are right, vivian, you always do--you and that conscience of yours. but i really think you had gone too far to draw back, jimmie saw him that night he went away--and he said he looked awfully. and he really was changed so--beginning to be so thoroughly nice. whatever was the matter? i think you ought to tell me, vivian, i'm his sister, and--being engaged and all--perhaps i could straighten it out." and she was as nearly angry as her sunny nature allowed, when her friend refused to give any reason, beyond that she thought it right. her aunt did not criticise, but pleaded. "it's not too late, i'm sure, vivian. a word from you would bring him back in a moment. do speak it, vivian--do! put your pride in your pocket, child, and don't lose a lifetime's happiness for some foolish quarrel." miss orella, like susie, was at present sure that marriage must mean a lifetime's happiness. and vivian looked miserably from one to the other of these loving women-folk, and could not defend herself with the truth. mrs. pettigrew took up the cudgels for her. she was not going to have her favorite grandchild thus condemned and keep silence. "anybody'd think vivian had married the man and then run away with another one!" she said tartly. "pity if a girl can't change her mind before marrying--she's held down pretty close afterward. an engagement isn't a wedding, orella elder." "but you don't consider the poor boy's feelings in the least, mrs. pettigrew." "no, i don't," snapped the old lady. "i consider the poor girl's. i'm willing to bet as much as you will that his feelings aren't any worse than hers. if _he'd_ changed his mind and run off and left _her_, i warrant you two wouldn't have been so hard on him." evading this issue, miss orella wiped her eyes, and said: "heaven knows where he is now. and i'm afraid he won't write--he never did write much, and now he's just heartbroken. i don't know as i'd have seen him at all if i hadn't been awake and heard him rushing downstairs. you've no idea how he suffers." "i don't see as the girl's to blame that he hadn't decency enough to say good-bye to the aunt that's been a mother to him; or to write to her, as he ought to. a person don't need to forget _all_ their duty because they've got the mitten." vivian shrank away from them all. her heart ached intolerably. she had not realized how large a part in her life this constant admiration and attention had become. she missed the outward agreeableness, and the soft tide of affection, which had risen more and more warmly about her. from her earliest memories she had wished for affection--affection deep and continuous, tender and with full expression. she had been too reserved to show her feeling, too proud by far to express it, but under that delicate reticence of hers lay always that deep longing to love and to be loved wholly. susie had been a comfort always, in her kittenish affection and caressing ways, but susie was doubly lost, both in her new absorption and now in this estrangement. then, to bring pain to miss orella, who had been so kind and sweet to her from earliest childhood, to hurt her so deeply, now, to mingle in her cup of happiness this grief and anxiety, made the girl suffer keenly. jimmie, of course, was able to comfort susie. he told her it was no killing matter anyhow, and that morton would inevitably console himself elsewhere. "he'll never wear the willow for any girl, my dear. don't you worry about him." also, mr. dykeman comforted miss orella, not only with wise words, but with his tender sympathy and hopefulness. but no one could comfort vivian. even dr. bellair seemed to her present sensitiveness an alien, cruel power. she had come like the angel with the flaming sword to stand between her and what, now that it was gone, began to look like paradise. she quite forgot that she had always shrunk from morton when he made love too warmly, that she had been far from wholly pleased with him when he made his appearance there, that their engagement, so far as they had one, was tentative--"sometime, when i am good enough" not having arrived. the unreasoning voice of the woman's nature within her had answered, though but partially, to the deep call of the man's; and now she missed more than she would admit to herself the tenderness that was gone. she had her intervals of sharp withdrawal from the memory of that tenderness, of deep thanksgiving for her escape; but fear of a danger only prophesied, does not obliterate memory of joys experienced. her grandmother watched her carefully, saying little. she forced no confidence, made no comment, was not obtrusively affectionate, but formed a definite decision and conveyed it clearly to dr. bellair. "look here, jane bellair, you've upset vivian's dish, and quite right; it's a good thing you did, and i don't know as you could have done it easier." "i couldn't have done it harder--that i know of," the doctor answered. "i'd sooner operate on a baby--without an anæsthetic--than tell a thing like that--to a girl like that. but it had to be done; and nobody else would." "you did perfectly right. i'm thankful enough, i promise you; if you hadn't i should have had to--and goodness knows what a mess i'd have made. but look here, the girl's going all to pieces. now we've got to do something for her, and do it quick." "i know that well enough," answered her friend, "and i set about it even before i made the incision. you've seen that little building going up on the corner of high and stone streets?" "that pretty little thing with the grass and flowers round it?" "yes--they got the flowers growing while the decorators finished inside. it's a first-rate little kindergarten. i've got a list of scholars all arranged for, and am going to pop the girl into it so fast she can't refuse. not that i think she will." "who did it?" demanded mrs. pettigrew. "that man skee?" "mr. skee has had something to do with it," replied the doctor, guardedly; "but he doesn't want his name mentioned." "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. vivian made no objection, though she was too listless to take up work with enthusiasm. as a prescription nothing could have worked better. enough small pupils were collected to pay the rent of the pretty place, and leave a modest income for her. dr. bellair gathered together the mothers and aunts for a series of afternoon talks in the convenient building, vivian assisting, and roused much interest among them. the loving touch of little hands, the pleasure of seeing the gay contentment of her well-ordered charges, began to lighten the girl's heart at last. they grew so fond of her that the mothers were jealous, but she played with and taught them so wisely, and the youngsters were so much improved by it, that no parent withdrew her darling. further than that, the new interest, the necessary reading and study, above all the study hours of occupation acted most beneficently, slowly, but surely steadying the nerves and comforting the heart. there is a telling oriental phrase describing sorrow: "and the whole world became strait unto him." the sense of final closing down of life, of a dull, long, narrow path between her and the grave, which had so oppressed the girl's spirit, now changed rapidly. here was room to love at least, and she radiated a happy and unselfish affection among the little ones. here was love in return, very sweet and honest, if shallow. here was work; something to do, something to think about; both in her hours with the children and those spent in study. her work took her out of the house, too; away from susie and her aunt, with their happy chatter and endless white needlework, and the gleeful examination of presents. never before had she known the blessed relief of another place to go to. when she left the cottonwoods, as early as possible, and placed her key in the door of the little gray house sitting among the roses, she felt a distinct lightening of the heart. this was hers. not her father's, not miss elder's; not anybody's but hers--as long as she could earn the rent. she paid her board, too, in spite of deep and pained remonstrance, forcing miss elder to accept it by the ultimatum "would you rather make me go away and board somewhere else?" she could not accept favors where she was condemned. this, too, gave her a feeling hitherto inexperienced, deep and inspiring. she began to hold her graceful head insensibly higher, to walk with a freer step. life was not ended after all, though love had gone. she might not be happy, but she might be useful and independent. then dr. bellair, who had by quiet friendliness and wise waiting, regained much of her former place with the girl, asked her to undertake, as a special favor to her, the care of a class of rather delicate children and young girls, in physical culture. "of course, johanna johnson is perfectly reliable and an excellent teacher. i don't know a better; but their mothers will feel easier if there's someone they know on the spot. you keep order and see that they don't overdo. you'll have to go through their little exercises with them, you see. i can't pay you anything for it; but it's only part of two afternoons in the week--and it won't hurt you at any rate." vivian was more than glad to do something for the doctor, as well as to extend her friendship among older children; also glad of anything to further fill her time. to be alone and idle was to think and suffer. mrs. pettigrew came in with dr. bellair one afternoon to watch the exercises. "i don't see but what vivian does the tricks as well as any of them," said her grandmother. "she does beautifully," the doctor answered. "and her influence with the children is just what they needed. you see there's no romping and foolishness, and she sets the pace--starts them off when they're shy. i'm extremely obliged to her." mrs. pettigrew watched vivian's rhythmic movements, her erect carriage and swinging step, her warm color and sparkling eyes, as she led the line of happy youngsters and then turned upon the doctor. "huh!" she said. at susie's wedding, her childhood's friend was so far forgiven as to be chief bridesmaid, but seeing the happiness before her opened again the gates of her own pain. when it was all over, and the glad young things were safely despatched upon their ribboned way, when all the guests had gone, when mrs. st. cloud felt the need of air and with the ever-gallant mr. skee set forth in search of it, when dr. bellair had returned to her patients, and miss orella to her own parlor, and was there consoled by mr. dykeman for the loss of her niece, then vivian went to her room--all hers now, looking strangely large and empty--and set down among the drifts of white tissue paper and scattered pins--alone. she sank down on the bed, weary and sad at heart, for an hour of full surrender long refused; meaning for once to let her grief have its full way with her. but, just as on the night of her hurried engagement she had been unable to taste to the full the happiness expected, so now, surrender as she might, she could not feel the intensity of expected pain. she was lonely, unquestionably. she faced a lonely life. six long, heavy months had passed since she had made her decision. "i am nearly twenty-seven now," she thought, resignedly. "i shall never marry," and she felt a little shiver of the horror of last year. but, having got this far in melancholy contemplation, her mind refused to dwell upon it, but filled in spite of her with visions of merry little ones, prancing in wavering circles, and singing their more wavering songs. she was lonely and a single woman--but she had something to do; and far more power to do it, more interest, enthusiasm, and skill, than at the season's beginning. she thought of morton--of what little they had heard since his hurried departure. he had gone farther west; they had heard of him in san francisco, they had heard of him, after some months, in the klondike region, then they had heard no more. he did not write. it seemed hard to so deeply hurt his aunt for what was no fault of hers; but morton had never considered her feelings very deeply, his bitter anger, his hopelessness, his desperate disappointment, blinding him to any pain but his own. but her thoughts of him failed to rouse any keen distinctive sorrow. they rambled backward and forward, from the boy who had been such a trouble to his aunt, such a continuous disappointment and mortification; to the man whose wooing, looked back upon at this distance, seemed far less attractive to the memory than it had been at the time. even his honest attempt at improvement gave her but a feeling of pity, and though pity is akin to love it is not always a near relation. from her unresisting descent into wells of pain, which proved unexpectedly shallow, the girl arose presently and quietly set to work arranging the room in its new capacity as hers only. from black and bitter agony to the gray tastelessness of her present life was not an exciting change, but vivian had more power in quiet endurance than in immediate resistance, and set herself now in earnest to fulfill the tasks before her. this was march. she was planning an extension of her classes, the employment of an assistant. her work was appreciated, her school increased. patiently and steadily she faced her task, and found a growing comfort in it. when summer came, dr. bellair again begged her to help out in the plan of a girls' camp she was developing. this was new work for vivian, but her season in mrs. johnson's gymnastic class had given her a fresh interest in her own body and the use of it. that stalwart instructress, a large-boned, calm-eyed swedish woman, was to be the manager of the camp, and vivian this time, with a small salary attached, was to act as assistant. "it's a wonderful thing the way people take to these camps," said dr. bellair. "they are springing up everywhere. magnificent for children and young people." "it is a wonderful thing to me," observed mrs. pettigrew. "you go to a wild place that costs no rent; you run a summer hotel without any accommodations; you get a lot of parents to pay handsomely for letting their children be uncomfortable--and there you are." "they are not uncomfortable!" protested her friend, a little ruffled. "they like it. and besides liking it, it's good for them. it's precisely the roughing it that does them good." it did do them good; the group of young women and girls who went to the high-lying mountain lake where dr. bellair had bought a piece of wild, rough country for her own future use, and none of them profited by it more than vivian. she had been, from time to time, to decorous "shore places," where one could do nothing but swim and lie on the sand; or to the "mountains," those trim, green, modest, pretty-picture mountains, of which new england is so proud; but she had never before been in an untouched wilderness. often in the earliest dawn she would rise from the springy, odorous bed of balsam boughs and slip out alone for her morning swim. a run through the pines to a little rocky cape, with a small cave she knew, and to glide, naked, into that glass-smooth water, warmer than the sunless air, and swim out softly, silently, making hardly a ripple, turn on her back and lie there--alone with the sky--this brought peace to her heart. she felt so free from every tie to earth, so like a soul in space, floating there with the clean, dark water beneath her, and the clear, bright heaven above her; and when the pale glow in the east brightened to saffron, warmed to rose, burst into a level blaze of gold, the lake laughed in the light, and vivian laughed, too, in pure joy of being alive and out in all that glittering beauty. she tramped the hills with the girls; picked heaping pails of wild berries, learned to cook in primitive fashion, slept as she had never slept in her life, from dark to dawn, grew brown and hungry and cheerful. after all, twenty-seven was not an old age. she came back at the summer-end, and dr. bellair clapped her warmly on the shoulder, declaring, "i'm proud of you, vivian! simply proud of you!" her grandmother, after a judicious embrace, held her at arm's length and examined her critically. "i don't see but what you've stood it first rate," she admitted. "and if you _like_ that color--why, you certainly are looking well." she was well, and began her second year of teaching with a serene spirit. in all this time of slow rebuilding vivian would not have been left comfortless if masculine admiration could have pleased her. the young men at the cottonwoods, now undistracted by susie's gay presence, concentrated much devotion upon vivian, as did also the youths across the way. she turned from them all, gently, but with absolute decision. among her most faithful devotees was young percy watson, who loved her almost as much as he loved dr. hale, and could never understand, in his guileless, boyish heart, why neither of them would talk about the other. they did not forbid his talking, however, and the earnest youth, sitting in the quiet parlor at the cottonwoods, would free his heart to vivian about how the doctor worked too hard--sat up all hours to study--didn't give himself any rest--nor any fun. "he'll break down some time--i tell him so. it's not natural for any man to work that way, and i don't see any real need of it. he says he's working on a book--some big medical book, i suppose; but what's the hurry? i wish you'd have him over here oftener, and make him amuse himself a little, miss vivian." "dr. hale is quite welcome to come at any time--he knows that," said she. again the candid percy, sitting on the doctor's shadowy piazza, poured out his devoted admiration for her to his silent host. "she's the finest woman i ever knew!" the boy would say. "she's so beautiful and so clever, and so pleasant to everybody. she's _square_--like a man. and she's kind--like a woman, only kinder; a sort of motherliness about her. i don't see how she ever lived so long without being married. i'd marry her in a minute if i was good enough--and if she'd have me." dr. hale tousled the ears of balzac, the big, brown dog whose head was so often on his knee, and said nothing. he had not seen the girl since that night by the arbor. later in the season he learned, perforce, to know her better, and to admire her more. susie's baby came with the new year, and brought danger and anxiety. they hardly hoped to save the life of the child. the little mother was long unable to leave her bed. since her aunt was not there, but gone, as mrs. dykeman, on an extended tour--"part business and part honeymoon," her husband told her--and since mrs. pettigrew now ruled alone at the cottonwoods, with every evidence of ability and enjoyment, vivian promptly installed herself in the saunders home, as general housekeeper and nurse. she was glad then of her strength, and used it royally, comforting the wretched jim, keeping up susie's spirits, and mothering the frail tiny baby with exquisite devotion. day after day the doctor saw her, sweet and strong and patient, leaving her school to the assistant, regardless of losses, showing the virtues he admired most in women. he made his calls as short as possible; but even so, vivian could not but note how his sternness gave way to brusque good cheer for the sick mother, and to a lovely gentleness with the child. when that siege was over and the girl returned to her own work, she carried pleasant pictures in her mind, and began to wonder, as had so many others, why this man, who seemed so fitted to enjoy a family, had none. she missed his daily call, and wondered further why he avoided them more assiduously than at first. chapter xii. achievements. there are some folk born to beauty, and some to plenteous gold, some who are proud of being young, some proud of being old. some who are glad of happy love, enduring, deep and true, and some who thoroughly enjoy the little things they do. upon all this grandma pettigrew cast an observant eye, and meditated sagely thereupon. coming to a decision, she first took a course of reading in some of dr. bellair's big books, and then developed a series of perplexing symptoms, not of a too poignant or perilous nature, that took her to dr. hale's office frequently. "you haven't repudiated dr. bellair, have you?" he asked her. "i have never consulted jane bellair as a physician," she replied, "though i esteem her much as a friend." the old lady's company was always welcome to him; he liked her penetrating eye, her close-lipped, sharp remarks, and appreciated the real kindness of her heart. if he had known how closely she was peering into the locked recesses of his own, and how much she saw there, he would perhaps have avoided her as he did vivian, and if he had known further that this ingenious old lady, pursuing long genealogical discussions with him, had finally unearthed a mutual old-time friend, and had forthwith started a correspondence with that friend, based on this common acquaintance in carston, he might have left that city. the old-time friend, baited by mrs. pettigrew's innocent comment on dr. hale's persistence in single blessedness, poured forth what she knew of the cause with no more embellishment than time is sure to give. "i know why he won't marry," wrote she. "he had reason good to begin with, but i never dreamed he'd be obstinate enough to keep it up sixteen years. when he was a boy in college here i knew him well--he was a splendid fellow, one of the very finest. but he fell desperately in love with that beautiful mrs. james--don't you remember about her? she married a st. cloud later, and he left her, i think. she was as lovely as a cameo--and as hard and flat. that woman was the saintliest thing that ever breathed. she wouldn't live with her husband because he had done something wrong; she wouldn't get a divorce, nor let him, because that was wicked--and she always had a string of boys round her, and talked about the moral influence she had on them. "young hale worshipped her--simply worshipped her--and she let him. she let them all. she had that much that was god-like about her--she loved incense. you need not ask for particulars. she was far too 'particular' for that. but one light-headed chap went and drowned himself--that was all hushed up, of course, but some of us felt pretty sure why. he was a half-brother to dick hale, and dick was awfully fond of him. then he turned hard and hateful all at once--used to talk horrid about women. he kept straight enough--that's easy for a mysogynist, and studying medicine didn't help him any--doctors and ministers know too much about women. so there you are. but i'm astonished to hear he's never gotten over it; he always was obstinate--it's his only fault. they say he swore never to marry--if he did, that accounts. do give my regards if you see him again." mrs. pettigrew considered long and deeply over this information, as she slowly produced a jersey striped with roman vividness. it was noticeable in this new life in carston that mrs. pettigrew's knitted jackets had grown steadily brighter in hue from month to month. whereas, in bainville, purple and brown were the high lights, and black, slate and navy blue the main colors; now her worsteds were as a painter's palette, and the result not only cheered, but bade fair to inebriate. "a pig-headed man," she said to herself, as her needle prodded steadily in and out; "a pig-headed man, with a pig-headedness of sixteen years' standing. his hair must 'a turned gray from the strain of it. and there's vivian, biddin' fair to be an old maid after all. what on _earth_!" she appeared to have forgotten that marriages are made in heaven, or to disregard that saying. "the lord helps those that help themselves," was one of her favorite mottoes. "and much more those that help other people!" she used to add. flitting in and out of dr. hale's at all hours, she noted that he had a fondness for music, with a phenomenal incapacity to produce any. he encouraged his boys to play on any and every instrument the town afforded, and to sing, whether they could or not; and seemed never to weary of their attempts, though far from satisfied with the product. "huh!" said mrs. pettigrew. vivian could play, "well enough to know better," she said, and seldom touched the piano. she had a deep, full, contralto voice, and a fair degree of training. but she would never make music unless she felt like it--and in this busy life, with so many people about her, she had always refused. grandma meditated. she selected an evening when most of the boarders were out at some entertainment, and selfishly begged vivian to stay at home with her--said she was feeling badly and wanted company. grandma so seldom wanted anything that vivian readily acquiesced; in fact, she was quite worried about her, and asked dr. bellair if she thought anything was the matter. "she has seemed more quiet lately," said that astute lady, "and i've noticed her going in to dr. hale's during office hours. but perhaps it's only to visit with him." "are you in any pain, grandma?" asked the girl, affectionately. "you're not sick, are you?" "o, no--i'm not sick," said the old lady, stoutly. "i'm just--well, i felt sort of lonesome to-night--perhaps i'm homesick." as she had never shown the faintest sign of any feeling for their deserted home, except caustic criticism and unfavorable comparison, vivian rather questioned this theory, but she began to think there was something in it when her grandmother, sitting by the window in the spring twilight, began to talk of how this time of year always made her think of her girlhood. "time for the march peepers at home. it's early here, and no peepers anywhere that i've heard. 'bout this time we'd be going to evening meeting. seems as if i could hear that little old organ--and the singing!" "hadn't i better shut that window," asked vivian. "won't you get cold?" "no, indeed," said her grandmother, promptly. "i'm plenty warm--i've got this little shawl around me. and it's so soft and pleasant out." it was soft and pleasant, a delicious may-like night in march, full of spring scents and hints of coming flowers. on the dark piazza across the way she could make out a still figure sitting alone, and the thump of balzac's heel as he struggled with his intimate enemies told her who it was. "come ye disconsolate," she began to hum, most erroneously. "how does that go, vivian? i was always fond of it, even if i can't sing any more'n a peacock." vivian hummed it and gave the words in a low voice. "that's good!" said the old lady. "i declare, i'm kinder hungry for some of those old hymns. i wish you'd play me some of 'em, vivian." so vivian, glad to please her, woke the yellow keys to softer music than they were accustomed to, and presently her rich, low voice, sure, easy, full of quiet feeling, flowed out on the soft night air. grandma was not long content with the hymns. "i want some of those old-fashioned songs--you used to know a lot of 'em. can't you do that 'kerry dance' of molloy's, and 'twickenham ferry'--and 'lauriger horatius?'" vivian gave her those, and many another, scotch ballads, english songs and german lieder--glad to please her grandmother so easily, and quite unconscious of a dark figure which had crossed the street and come silently to sit on the farthest corner of their piazza. grandma, meanwhile, watched him, and vivian as well, and then, with the most unsuspected suddenness, took to her bed. sciatica, she said. an intermittent pain that came upon her so suddenly she couldn't stand up. she felt much better lying down. and dr. hale must attend her unceasingly. this unlooked for overthrow of the phenomenally active old lady was a great blow to mr. skee; he showed real concern and begged to be allowed to see her. "why not?" said mrs. pettigrew. "it's nothing catching." she lay, high-pillowed, as stiff and well arranged as a knight templar on a tombstone, arrayed for the occasion in a most decorative little dressing sack and ribbony night-cap. "why, ma'am," said mr. skee, "it's highly becomin' to you to be sick. it leads me to hope it's nothin' serious." she regarded him enigmatically. "is dr. hale out there, or vivian?" she inquired in a low voice. "no, ma'am--they ain't," he replied, after a glance in the next room. then he bent a penetrating eye upon her. she met it unflinchingly, but as his smile appeared and grew, its limitless widening spread contagion, and her calm front was broken. "elmer skee," said she, with sudden fury, "you hold your tongue!" "ma'am!" he replied, "i have said nothin'--and i don't intend to. but if the throne of europe was occupied by you, mrs. pettigrew, we would have a better managed world." he proved a most agreeable and steady visitor during this period of confinement, and gave her full accounts of all that went on outside, with occasional irrelevant bursts of merriment which no rebuke from mrs. pettigrew seemed wholly to check. he regaled her with accounts of his continuous consultations with mrs. st. cloud, and the wisdom and good taste with which she invariably advised him. "don't you admire a platonic friendship, mrs. pettigrew?" "i do not!" said the old lady, sharply. "and what's more i don't believe you do." "well, ma'am," he answered, swaying backward and forward on the hind legs of his chair, "there are moments when i confess it looks improbable." mrs. pettigrew cocked her head on one side and turned a gimlet eye upon him. "look here, elmer skee," she said suddenly, "how much money have you really got?" he brought down his chair on four legs and regarded her for a few moments, his smile widening slowly. "well, ma'am, if i live through the necessary expenses involved on my present undertaking, i shall have about two thousand a year--if rents are steady." "which i judge you do not wish to be known?" "if there's one thing more than another i have always admired in you, ma'am, it is the excellence of your judgment. in it i have absolute confidence." mrs. st. cloud had some time since summoned dr. hale to her side for a severe headache, but he had merely sent word that his time was fully occupied, and recommended dr. bellair. now, observing mrs. pettigrew's tactics, the fair invalid resolved to take the bull by the horns and go herself to his office. she found him easily enough. he lifted his eyes as she entered, rose and stood with folded arms regarding her silently. the tall, heavy figure, the full beard, the glasses, confused even her excellent memory. after all it was many years since they had met, and he had been but one of a multitude. she was all sweetness and gentle apology for forcing herself upon him, but really she had a little prejudice against women doctors--his reputation was so great--he was so temptingly near--she was in such pain--she had such perfect confidence in him-- he sat down quietly and listened, watching her from under his bent brows. her eyes were dropped, her voice very weak and appealing; her words most perfectly chosen. "i have told you," he said at length, "that i never treat women for their petty ailments, if i can avoid it." she shook her head in grieved acceptance, and lifted large eyes for one of those penetrating sympathetic glances so frequently successful. "how you must have suffered!" she said. "i have," he replied grimly. "i have suffered a long time from having my eyes opened too suddenly to the brainless cruelty of women, mrs. james." she looked at him again, searchingly, and gave a little cry. "dick hale!" she said. "yes, dick hale. brother to poor little joe medway, whose foolish young heart you broke, among others; whose death you are responsible for." she was looking at him with widening wet eyes. "ah! if you only knew how i, too, have suffered over that!" she said. "i was scarce more than a girl myself, then. i was careless, not heartless. no one knew what pain i was bearing, then. i liked the admiration of those nice boys--i never realized any of them would take it seriously. that has been a heavy shadow on my life, dr. hale--the fear that i was the thoughtless cause of that terrible thing. and you have never forgiven me. i do not wonder." he was looking at her in grim silence again, wishing he had not spoken. "so that is why you have never been to the cottonwoods since i came," she pursued. "and i am responsible for all your loneliness. o, how dreadful!" again he rose to his feet. "no, madam, you mistake. you were responsible for my brother's death, and for a bitter awakening on my part, but you are in no way responsible for my attitude since. that is wholly due to myself. allow me again to recommend dr. jane bellair, an excellent physician and even more accessible." he held the door for her, and she went out, not wholly dissatisfied with her visit. she would have been far more displeased could she have followed his thoughts afterward. "what a consummate ass i have been all my life!" he was meditating. "because i met this particular type of sex parasite, to deliberately go sour--and forego all chance of happiness. like a silly girl. a fool girl who says, 'i will never marry!' just because of some quarrel * * * but the girl never keeps her word. a man must." the days were long to vivian now, and dragged a little, for all her industry. mrs. st. cloud tried to revive their former intimacy, but the girl could not renew it on the same basis. she, too, had sympathized with mr. dykeman, and now sympathized somewhat with mr. skee. but since that worthy man still volubly discoursed on platonism, and his fair friend openly agreed in this view, there seemed no real ground for distress. mrs. pettigrew remained ailing and rather captious. she had a telephone put at her bedside, and ran her household affairs efficiently, with vivian as lieutenant, and the ever-faithful jeanne to uphold the honor of the cuisine. also she could consult her physician, and demanded his presence at all hours. he openly ignored mrs. st. cloud now, who met his rude treatment with secret, uncomplaining patience. vivian spoke of this. "i do not see why he need be so rude, grandma. he may hate women, but i don't see why he should treat her so shamefully." "well, i do," replied the invalid, "and what's more i'm going to show you; i've always disliked that woman, and now i know why. i'd turn her out of the house if it wasn't for elmer skee. that man's as good as gold under all his foolishness, and if he can get any satisfaction out of that meringue he's welcome. dr. hale doesn't hate women, child, but a woman broke his heart once--and then he made an idiot of himself by vowing never to marry." she showed her friend's letter, and vivian read it with rising color. "o, grandma! why that's worse than i ever thought--even after what dr. bellair told us. and it was his brother! no wonder he's so fond of boys. he tries to warn them, i suppose." "yes, and the worst of it is that he's really got over his grouch; and he's in love--but tied down by that foolish oath, poor man." "is he, grandma? how do you know? with whom?" "you dear, blind child!" said the old lady, "with you, of course. has been ever since we came." the girl sat silent, a strange feeling of joy rising in her heart, as she reviewed the events of the last two years. so that was why he would not stay that night. and that was why. "no wonder he wouldn't come here!" she said at length. "it's on account of that woman. but why did he change?" "because she went over there to see him. he wouldn't come to her. i heard her 'phone to him one evening." the old lady chuckled. "so she marched herself over there--i saw her, and i guess she got her needin's. she didn't stay long. and his light burned till morning." "do you think he cares for her, still?" "cares for her!" the old lady fairly snorted her derision. "he can't bear the sight of her--treats her as if she wasn't there. no, indeed. if he did she'd have him fast enough, now. well! i suppose he'll repent of that foolishness of his all the days of his life--and stick it out! poor man." mrs. pettigrew sighed, and vivian echoed the sigh. she began to observe dr. hale with new eyes; to study little matters of tone and manner--and could not deny her grandmother's statement. nor would she admit it--yet. the old lady seemed weaker and more irritable, but positively forbade any word of this being sent to her family. "there's nothing on earth ails me," she said. "dr. hale says there's not a thing the matter that he can see--that if i'd only eat more i'd get stronger. i'll be all right soon, my dear. i'll get my appetite and get well, i have faith to believe." she insisted on his coming over in the evening, when not too busy, and staying till she dropped asleep, and he seemed strangely willing to humor her; sitting for hours in the quiet parlor, while vivian played softly, and sang her low-toned hymns. so sitting, one still evening, when for some time no fretful "not so loud" had come from the next room, he turned suddenly to vivian and asked, almost roughly--"do you hold a promise binding?--an oath, a vow--to oneself?" she met his eyes, saw the deep pain there, the long combat, the irrepressible hope and longing. "did you swear to keep your oath secret?" she asked. "why, no," he said, "i did not. i will tell you. i did not swear never to tell a woman i loved her. i never dreamed i should love again. vivian, i was fool enough to love a shallow, cruel woman, once, and nearly broke my heart in consequence. that was long years ago. i have never cared for a woman since--till i met you. and now i must pay double for that boy folly." he came to her and took her hand. "i love you," he said, his tense grip hurting her. "i shall love you as long as i live--day and night--forever! you shall know that at any rate!" she could not raise her eyes. a rich bright color rose to the soft border of her hair. he caught her face in his hands and made her look at him; saw those dark, brilliant eyes softened, tear-filled, asking, and turned sharply away with a muffled cry. "i have taken a solemn oath," he said in a strained, hard voice, "never to ask a woman to marry me." he heard a little gasping laugh, and turned upon her. she stood there smiling, her hands reached out to him. "you don't have to," she said. * * * * * a long time later, upon their happy stillness broke a faint voice from the other room: "vivian, i think if you'd bring me some bread and butter--and a cup of tea--and some cold beef and a piece of pie--i could eat it." * * * * * upon the rapid and complete recovery of her grandmother's health, and the announcement of vivian's engagement, mr. and mrs. lane decided to make a visit to their distant mother and daughter, hoping as well that mr. lane's cough might be better for a visit in that altitude. mr. and mrs. dykeman also sent word of their immediate return. jeanne, using subtle powers of suggestion, caused mrs. pettigrew to decide upon giving a dinner, in honor of these events. there was the betrothed couple, there were the honored guests; there were jimmie and susie, with or without the baby; there were the dykemans; there was dr. bellair, of course; there was mr. skee, an even number. "i'm sorry to spoil that table, but i've got to take in mrs. st. cloud," said the old lady. "o, grandma! why! it'll spoil it for dick." "huh!" said her grandmother. "he's so happy you couldn't spoil it with a mummy. if i don't ask her it'll spoil it for mr. skee." so mrs. st. cloud made an eleventh at the feast, and neither mr. dykeman nor vivian could find it in their happy hearts to care. mr. skee arose, looking unusually tall and shapely in immaculate every-day dress, his well-brushed hair curling vigorously around the little bald spots; his smile wide and benevolent. "ladies and gentlemen, both domestic and foreign, friends and fellowtownsmen and women--ladies, god bless 'em; also children, if any: i feel friendly enough to-night to include the beasts of the fields--but such would be inappropriate at this convivial board--among these convivial boarders. "this is an occasion of great rejoicing. we have many things to rejoice over, both great _and_ small. we have our healths; all of us, apparently. we are experiencing the joys of reunion--in the matter of visiting parents that is, and long absent daughters. "we have also the return of the native, in the shape of my old friend andy--now become a benedict--and seeming to enjoy it. about this same andy i have a piece of news to give you which will cause you astonishment and gratification, but which involves me in a profuse apology--a most sincere and general apology. "you know how a year or more ago it was put about in this town that andrew dykeman was a ruined man?" mrs. st. cloud darted a swift glance at mr. dykeman, but his eyes rested calmly on his wife; then at mr. skee--but he was pursuing his remorseful way. "i do not wish to blame my friend andy for his reticence--but he certainly did exhibit reticence on this occasion--to beat the band! he never contradicted this rumor--not once. _he_ just went about looking kind o' down in the mouth for some reason or other, and when for the sake o' auld lang syne i offered him a job in my office--the cuss took it! i won't call this deceitful, but it sure was reticent to a degree. "well, ladies--and gentlemen--the best of us are liable to mistakes, and i have to admit--i am glad to humble myself and make this public admission--i was entirely in error in this matter. "it wasn't so. there was nothing in it. it was rumor, pure and simple. andy dykeman never lost no mine, it appears; or else he had another up his sleeve concealed from his best friends. anyhow, the facts are these; not only that a. dykeman as he sits before you is a prosperous and wealthy citizen, but that he has been, for these ten years back, and we were all misled by a mixture of rumor and reticence. if he has concealed these facts from the wife of his bosom i submit that that is carrying reticence too far!" again mrs. st. cloud sent a swift glance at the reticent one, and again caught only his tender apologetic look toward his wife, and her utter amazement. mr. dykeman rose to his feet. "i make no apologies for interrupting my friend," he said. "it is necessary at times. he at least can never be accused of reticence. neither do i make apologies for letting rumor take its course--a course often interesting to observe. but i do apologize--in this heartfelt and public manner, to my wife, for marrying her under false pretenses. but any of you gentlemen who have ever had any experience in the attitude of," he hesitated mercifully, and said, "the world, toward a man with money, may understand what it meant to me, after many years of bachelorhood, to find a heart that not only loved me for myself alone, but absolutely loved me better because i'd lost my money--or she thought i had. i have hated to break the charm. but now my unreticent friend here has stated the facts, and i make my confession. will you forgive me, orella?" "speech! speech!" cried mr. skee. but mrs. dykeman could not be persuaded to do anything but blush and smile and squeeze her husband's hand under the table, and mr. skee arose once more. "this revelation being accomplished," he continued cheerfully; "and no one any the worse for it, as i see," he was not looking in the direction of mrs. st. cloud, whose slippered foot beat softly under the table, though her face wore its usual sweet expression, possibly a trifle strained; "i now proceed to a proclamation of that happy event to celebrate which we are here gathered together. i allude to the betrothal of our esteemed friend, dr. richard hale, and the fairest of the fair! regarding the fair, we think he has chosen well. but regarding dick hale, his good fortune is so clear, so evidently undeserved, and his pride and enjoyment thereof so ostentatious, as to leave us some leeway to make remarks. "natural remarks, irresistible remarks, as you might say, and not intended to be acrimonious. namely, such as these: it's a long lane that has no turning; there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip; the worm will turn; the pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken at last; better late than never. and so on and so forth. any other gentleman like to make remarks on this topic?" dr. hale rose, towering to his feet. "i think i'd better make them," he said. "no one else could so fully, so heartily, with such perfect knowledge point out how many kinds of a fool i've been for all these years. and yet of them all there are only two that i regret--this last two in which if i had been wiser, perhaps i might have found my happiness sooner. as that cannot be proven, however, i will content myself with the general acknowledgment that bachelors are misguided bats, i myself having long been the worst instance; women, in general, are to be loved and honored; and that i am proud and glad to accept your congratulations because the sweetest and noblest woman in the world has honored me with her love." "i never dreamed you could put so many words together, doc--and really make sense!" said mr. skee, genially, as he rose once more. "you certainly show a proper spirit at last, and all is forgiven. but now, my friends; now if your attention is not exhausted, i have yet another event to confide to you." mr. and mrs. lane wore an aspect of polite interest. susie and jim looked at each other with a sad but resigned expression. so did mrs. dykeman and her husband. vivian's hand was in her lover's and she could not look unhappy, but they, too, deprecated this last announcement, only too well anticipated. only mrs. st. cloud, her fair face bowed in gentle confusion, showed anticipating pleasure. mr. skee waved his hand toward her with a large and graceful gesture. "you must all of you have noticed the amount of platonic friendship which has been going on for some time between my undeserving self and this lovely lady here. among so many lovely ladies perhaps i'd better specify that i refer to the one on my left. "what she has been to me, in my lonely old age, none of you perhaps realize." he wore an expression as of one long exiled, knowing no one who could speak his language. "she has been my guide, counsellor and friend; she has assisted me with advice most wise and judicious; she has not interfered with my habits, but has allowed me to enjoy life in my own way, with the added attraction of her companionship. "now, i dare say, there may have been some of you who have questioned my assertion that this friendship was purely platonic. perhaps even the lady herself, knowing the heart of man, may have doubted if my feeling toward her was really friendship." mr. skee turned his head a little to one side and regarded her with a tender inquiring smile. to this she responded sweetly: "why no, mr. skee, of course, i believed what you said." "there, now," said he, admiringly. "what is so noble as the soul of woman? it is to this noble soul in particular, and to all my friends here in general, that i now confide the crowning glory of a long and checkered career, namely, and to wit, that i am engaged to be married to that peerless lady, mrs. servilla pettigrew, of whose remarkable capacities and achievements i can never sufficiently express my admiration." a silence fell upon the table. mr. skee sat down smiling, evidently in cheerful expectation of congratulations. mrs. pettigrew wore an alert expression, as of a skilled fencer preparing to turn any offered thrusts. mrs. st. cloud seemed to be struggling with some emotion, which shook her usual sweet serenity. the others, too, were visibly affected, and not quick to respond. then did mr. saunders arise with real good nature and ever-ready wit; and pour forth good-humored nonsense with congratulations all around, till a pleasant atmosphere was established, in which mrs. st. cloud could so far recover as to say many proper and pretty things; sadly adding that she regretted her imminent return to the east would end so many pleasant friendships. * * * * * books by charlotte perkins gilman moving the mountain. a utopia at short range. how we might change this country in thirty years, if we changed our minds first. mrs. gilman's latest book, like her earliest verse, is a protest against the parrot cry that "you can't alter human nature." by mail of charlton co., $ . what diantha did. a novel. "what she did was to solve the domestic service problem for both mistress and maid in a southern california town." "_the survey._" "a sensible book, it gives a new and deserved comprehension of the importance and complexity of housekeeping." "_the independent._" "mrs. perkins gilman is as full of ideas as ever, and her diantha is a model for all young women." "_the englishwoman._" by mail of charlton co., $ . the man-made world. "we defy any thoughtful person to read this book of mrs. gilman, and not be moved to or towards conviction, whether he acknowledges it or not." "_san francisco star._" "mrs. gilman has presented in this work the results of her thought, study, and observation of the much debated question of the relation of man to woman and of woman to man. the subject is developed with much wise argument and wholesome sense of humor." "_the craftsman._" "mrs. gilman has applied her theory with much cleverness, consistency and logical thinking." "_chicago evening post._" by mail of charlton co., $ . "in this our world" there is a joyous superabundance of life, of strength, of health, in mrs. gilman's verse, which seems born of the glorious sunshine and rich gardens of california. --_washington times._ the freshness, charm and geniality of her satire temporarily convert us to her most advanced views. --_boston journal._ the poet of women and for women, a new and prophetic voice in the world. montaigne would have rejoiced in her. --_mexican herald._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "the home" indeed, mrs. gilman has not intended her book so much as a treatise for scholars as a surgical operation on the popular mind. --_the critic, new york._ whatever mrs. gilman writes, people read--approving or protesting, still they read. --_republican, springfield, mass._ full of thought and of new and striking suggestions. tells what the average woman has and ought not keep, what she is and ought not be. --_literature world._ but it is safe to say that no more stimulating arraignment has ever before taken shape and that the argument of the book is noble, and, on the whole, convincing. --_congregationalist, boston._ the name of this author is a guarantee of logical reasoning, sound economical principles and progressive thought. --_the craftsman, syracuse._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "the home" has been translated into swedish. "women and economics" since john stuart mill's essay there has been no book dealing with the whole position of women to approach it in originality of conception and brilliancy of exposition. --_london chronicle._ the most significant utterance on the subject since mill's "subjection of women." --_the nation._ it is the strongest book on the woman question that has yet been published. --_minneapolis journal._ a remarkable book. a work on economics that has not a dull page,--the work of a woman about women that has not a flippant word. --_boston transcript._ this book unites in a remarkable degree the charm of a brilliantly written essay with the inevitable logic of a proposition of euclid. nothing that we have read for many a long day can approach in clearness of conception, in power of arrangement, and in lucidity of expression the argument developed in the first seven chapters of this remarkable book. --_westminster gazette, london._ will be widely read and discussed as the cleverest, fairest, most forcible presentation of the view of the rapidly increasing group who look with favor on the extension of industrial employment to women. --_political science quarterly._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "women and economics" has been translated into german, dutch, italian, hungarian, russian and japanese. "concerning children" wanted:--a philanthropist, to give a copy to every english-speaking parent. --_the times, new york._ should be read by every mother in the land. --_the press, new york._ wholesomely disturbing book that deserves to be read for its own sake. --_chicago dial._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "concerning children" has been translated into german, dutch and yiddish. "the yellow wallpaper" worthy of a place beside some of the weird masterpieces of hawthorne and poe. --_literature._ as a short story it stands among the most powerful produced in america. --_chicago news._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. "human work" charlotte perkins gilman has added a third to her great trilogy of books on economic subjects as they affect our daily life, particularly in the home. mrs. gilman is by far the most brilliant woman writer of our day, and this new volume, which she calls "human work," is a glorification of labor. --_new orleans picayune._ charlotte perkins gilman has been writing a new book, entitled "human work." it is the best thing that mrs. gilman has done, and it is meant to focus all of her previous work, so to speak. --_tribune, chicago._ in her latest volume, "human work," charlotte perkins gilman places herself among the foremost students and elucidators of the problem of social economics. --_san francisco star._ it is impossible to overestimate the value of the insistence on the social aspect of human affairs as mrs. gilman has outlined it. --_public opinion._ by mail of charlton co., =$ . =. charlton company, wall st., new york the forerunner a monthly magazine, written, edited, owned and published by charlotte perkins gilman wall street, new york city u. s. a. subscription per year domestic $ . canadian . foreign . bound volumes, each year $ . post paid this magazine carries mrs. gilman's best and newest work, her social philosophy, verse, satire, fiction, ethical teaching, humor and opinion. it stands for humanness in women and men; for better methods in child culture; for the new ethics, the better economics--the new world we are to make, are making. the breadth of mrs. gilman's thought and her power of expressing it have made her well-known in america and europe as a leader along lines of human improvement and a champion of woman. the forerunner voices her thought and its messages are not only many, but strong, true and vital. * * * * * transcription notes: text in bold has been marked with equal signs (=text=). text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_). the original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been retained. minor punctuation . , ; " ' changes have been made without annotation. other changes to the original text are listed as follows: page man-made/man-made: the man-made world page evclaimed/exclaimed: exclaimed his wife page removed repeated word a: were a real page who/why: why his hair's page though/thought: i thought as much page mr./my: my dear miss page removed repeated word and: her own and set it page removed redundant word a: he had not had page though/thought: i thought i heard page litle/little: a little dampened page weedings/weddings: wooings and weddings page irrestible/irresistible: sleep irresistible from page cottonwood/cottonwoods: to the cottonwoods page busband/husband: live with her husband page massages/messages: its messages are not only secresy or the ruin on the rock by eliza fenwick disguise! i see thou art a wickedness, wherein the pregnant enemy does much. _shakespeare_ contents dedication xi volume i volume ii volume iii to eliza b---- what does the world care about either you or me? nothing. but we care for each other, and i grasp at every opportunity of telling it. a letter, they may say, would do as well for that purpose as a dedication. i say no; for a letter is a sort of corruptible substance, and these volumes _may_ be immortal. beside, it is perhaps my pride to write a dedication and your pride to receive one. i desire the world then to let it pass; for, to tell them a truth--you have paid me for it before-hand. volume i letter i from caroline ashburn to the honourable george valmont sir, i am by no means indifferent as to the opinion you may form of me, in consequence of my abrupt, and, in a degree, rude conduct, when you so peremptorily denied the boon i would have begged on quitting your castle. if the reasons which guided your refusal were such as fully satisfied yourself, however incompetent they might be in my judgment, i was wrong in being offended, and in showing my resentment by something like invective. ere we had travelled two miles i became sensible of my pride and injustice; and it is from our first resting place i thus present myself to acknowledge my fault, to ask other favors, and to tell you that i have no pleasure in view equal to that i expected to enjoy in the society of miss valmont. but though you denied me the charm of associating with your niece, you will not also refuse me her correspondence? a letter, sir, cannot waft down your draw-bridges; the spirit of my affection breathed therein cannot disenchant her from the all-powerful spell of your authority. no. and you surely will not forbid an indulgence so endearing to us, while unimportant to yourself. already i feel assured of your consent; and, with my thanks, dismiss the subject. as your seclusion of miss valmont from the world is not a plan of yesterday, i imagine you are persuaded of its value and propriety, and i therefore see nothing which should deter me from indulging the strong propensity i feel to enquire into the nature of your system; a system so opposite to the general practice of mankind, and which i am inclined to think is not as perfect as you are willing to suppose. remembering your contempt of the female character, i am aware that you may possibly treat this part of my letter only with neglect or disdain. gladly would i devise a means by which to induce you to lay aside this prejudice against us, and in the language of reason, as from one being to another, discuss with me the merits or defects of your plan; which from its singularity, on the first view, excited my curiosity; and has since, from my observation of some of its consequences, interested me by worthier feelings than that of mere curiosity. if miss valmont's education, treatment, and utter seclusion were most valuable for her, why should she, yet so young, and removed from the common misfortunes of life, why should she be unhappy. you, sir, may not have perceived this effect of your system; for, although shut within the same boundary and resident under one roof, you seldom see her, and when you do see, you do not study her. i believe i know more of her mental temperament in our seven days intercourse than you have learned in seven years, and i affirm that she is unhappy. yet it is only from her sudden wanderings in conversation, and that apparent restlessness of dissatisfaction in her, which seeks change of place because of all places alike are irksome, that i ground my opinion, for having flattered myself that you would permit her to accompany me from your castle, i passed the days of my abode there, in closely observing miss valmont, rather than in endeavouring to gain her entire confidence; and have perhaps made but little progress toward obtaining a friendship, to which my heart aspires with zeal and affection. in the hope of a speedy and candid answer from you, i remain, sir, your well wisher, and humble servant, caroline ashburn letter ii from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn i am come from mr. valmont's study.--can it be?--oh yes! i am come from mr. valmont's presence, to write a letter--a letter to you!--ah, miss ashburn!--to write a letter to you by my uncle's----can command ever be indulgence?--no, no. i will not believe that:--no, not even would i believe it, though, when my heart expands with swelling emotion, he were then also to command me to----. miss ashburn, the command of mr. valmont in this, as in all other instances, is stern and repulsive, but, as his commands are odious to my acceptation, so, in equal degree, is the action of writing a letter to you grateful, delightful, overwhelming! how came it?--how have you prevailed?--oh teach me your art to soften his power, to unloose the grasp of his authority, and i will love you as----i believe i cannot love you better than i do; for have you not cast a ray of cheering light upon my dungeon?--have you not bestowed upon me the only charm of existence that i have known for many and many a tedious day? but why did you do so? do you love me as i love you? you never told me so. seven days and seven nights you lived in our castle; and you walked with me by day, you wandered with me by night. i talked to you almost without ceasing.--you spoke infinitely less than i did.--you pressed my hand as it held yours: but you never said, _i love you!--i love you, sibella, with all my soul._--nor did you ever quit your rest, amidst the darkness of the night, to hover near my chamber, as i have done near yours.--yes, miss ashburn, when at night you had retired from me, i beheld only solitude and imprisonment; and i have waited hours in that forlorn gallery, that i might catch the whisper of your breathings, that the consciousness of being near a friend might restore me to hope, to hilarity, to confidence. yet now i recollect it, and you do love me; for you asked the imperious, the denying mr. valmont, to let you take me from the castle. oh, you did urge--you did intreat.--you do love me.--i am writing a letter to you; and perhaps, one day, i shall have all my happiness. * * * * * i wish mr. valmont would show me the letter you wrote to him. he has charged me to answer it, and i have been obliged to walk a great while, and to think a great deal, before i could remember a word of what he said i was to repeat to you; and now i do not think i recollect the whole. i would return to his study and ask him to tell it me again; but he has an aversion to trouble, and perhaps, irritated by my forgetfulness, might say, i should not write to you at all.--ah, if he were to say that, miss ashburn, and if it were possible for me to send a letter out of the castle in defiance of his commands, do you think i would obey him?--no, no. andrew came to me in the wood, to bid me attend my uncle in his library; and i went thither immediately. he was but just risen; and a letter, which i suppose was your letter, and which must have arrived yesterday, was laying open on the table beside him; and when he spoke to me he laid his right hand upon the letter. 'numberless are the hours, child,' mr. valmont said to me soon after i entered, 'that i have employed in pondering on your welfare:--yet you are not the docile and grateful creature i expected to find you.' 'sir,' i said, 'if in all those hours of pondering you never thought of the only means by which my welfare can be effected, am i therefore forbidden to be happy?--am i to be unhappy, because i and not you discovered how i might be very, very happy?' mr. valmont raised himself more erect on his chair; and he frowned too. 'always reasoning,' he said: 'i tell you, child, you cannot, you shall not reason. repine in secret as much as you please, but no reasonings. no matter how sullen the submission, if it is submission.' i replied, 'i do not think as you do.' 'child, you are not born to think; you were not made to think.' he turned the letter on the table, as he spoke, and took a leaning attitude. 'but i cannot----.' 'silence, sibella!' cried my uncle. he fiercely recovered his upright posture; and then, for i was effectually silenced, he gradually and slowly fell back into his reclining station. indeed, miss ashburn, i am in some instances still a mere child, as mr. valmont calls me; and yet, i wish you would account for it, for i do not know how, i feel every day bolder and bolder. i can speak to him when i first meet him, as calmly as i can to andrew; and i can oppose him a little. and when i have not opposed him as much as i wish to do, and have ran away from the fight of his face, and the sound of his voice, i take myself to talk, and say, foolish sibella! can a frown kill you?--can your uncle, though he should be tenfold angry with you, do more to you than he has already done? and, when my throbbing heart denies the possibility of that, i resolve the next time to tell him every thing i feel: and then i wait, and long, and wish that the next time would arrive. when it does arrive, i begin without fear; or, at least, i have only a weak trembling, which i should soon lose, if he did not call up one of those frowns which infallibly condemn me to silence and to terror. but i know, and he knows too if he would but own it, that i do think; that i was born to think:--and i will think. oh dear, dear miss ashburn, i am writing a letter to you! and what was it but my power of thought, which gave birth to that affection which would impel me on with a rapidity that my pen cannot follow? it seems to me that my thought dictates volumes in an instant; and that, in an instant, i have said volumes. yet i have only a few pages of paper under my eye and my hand. if mr. valmont tells me, i cannot cut the air with wings, i will answer--'tis true: but in imagination, i can encompass the vast globe in a second. hail thought! thought the soul of existence!--not think!--why do not all forms in which the pulse of life vibrates, possess the power of thought?--have i not seen the worm, crawling from his earthy bed to drink the new-fallen dew from the grass, swiftly shrink back to his shelter, his attentive ear alarmed by my approach?--the very insect, while sporting in the rapture of a sun-beam on my habit, is yet wary and vigilant, and will rather leave his half-tasted enjoyment, if apprehension seize him, than hazard the possibility of my inflicting injury upon him. and what but thought, imperceptible yet mighty thought, could make a creature so infinitely diminutive in its proportions, so apparently valueless in the creation, shun the hand of power, and seek for itself sources of enjoyment?--i could tell you, miss ashburn, how i have imagined i met sympathy and reflection in that flower which enamoured of the sun mourns throughout the term of his absence, droops on her stalk, and shuts her bosom to the gloom and darkness which succeeds, nor bursts again into vigour and beauty till cheered by his all inspiring return. it is not for you, happy you, who live with liberty, live as free to indulge as to form your wishes, i say it is not for you to find tongues in the wind. it is for the imprisoned sibella to feed on such illusions, to waft herself on the pinions of fancy beyond mr. valmont's barriers, within which, for the two last years, her fetters have been insupportable:--for two years, except when she saw you, has she been joyless. i could talk of those two years: but then i should want also to tell you, miss ashburn, of the previous hours, the days, the months, the years that came, that smiled, and passed away. i wonder if i should tire you? surely i think not: yet i have already written much, and i have also my uncle's words to deliver.----ah! to quit such a theme for my uncle! i told you, mr. valmont silenced me by his frowns. he was some time silent himself. he took the letter from off the table, and appeared to read parts of it at length he said, 'miss ashburn has very properly apologized for her behaviour to me the morning she went hence. doubtless, child, you also were much disappointed, that i did not consent to your going with her and her mother.' 'no, sir.' 'no!' my uncle said, seemingly surprised; 'and why not?' 'because i did not expect you would suffer me to go.' 'methinks it was a mighty natural expectation.' my uncle looked angry. he presently added. 'did you wish to go with them, child?' 'o yes, sir, i did indeed wish!' 'it was natural enough, sibella, that you should wish for such an indulgence;' and he said this very mildly: 'but i alone am capable of judging of its propriety. miss ashburn, i believe, has been little used to disappointment. i pity her. perhaps a miserable old age is in store for her.' 'impossible!' i exclaimed; but the exclamation was swift and low; and my uncle, absorbed in contemplating his own designs, did not hear me. and at last he told me, after many pauses, many slow speeches, that you may write letters to me, and that i shall write letters to you. i would have kissed him, for i had seized his hand, but his eye spoke no encouragement; and i sat down again to glow, and to tremble. part of what followed has escaped me, as i feared it would. i remember that my uncle said, 'tell miss ashburn from me, sibella, that, like all other females, she has decided with more haste than judgment.' thus much for mr. valmont. and now for myself, miss ashburn;--no, dear caroline, adieu! sibella valmont letter iii from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont thankful to mr. valmont for his consent to my request, and more and more endeared to you, my sibella, by the joy with which you receive his consent, i am impatient till i have explained the motives that withheld me, while in the woods of valmont, from saying--'_i love you:--i love you, sibella, with all my soul._' to have these motives fully understood by you, it is necessary i should made a sketch of my education, the incidents of my life, and their consequent effect upon my character. yet i know you will continue to read with avidity. ask yourself if the ear of affection is easily satiated with the communications of a friend, and wonder that you should have repressed your wishes, when they incited you to unfold to me, with minute attention, the feelings of your heart. the breaks, the allusions in your letter, led me for a time into the tormenting and silly practice of forming conjectures. now i have ceased to conjecture; but i have not ceased to be desirous of being admitted to your utmost confidence, to the full participation of your remembrances, whether of joy or of sorrow. you have seen my mother, sibella, but people of a superior class must have superior forms; and the endearing name of mother is banished for the cold title of ceremony. mrs. ashburn, as i am now tutored to call her, was the very fashionable daughter of very fashionable parents, who died when she had attained the age of twenty-three, and left her in possession of the most aspiring longings after splendor and dissipation, but destitute of every means for their gratification. among the many friends who came to pity or advise, one offered her his assistance. his proposal was abrupt and disgusting, but there was no alternative. he would equip her to go in search of a wealthy marriage among the luxurious inhabitants of india; or, with her other professing friends, he would leave her to the poverty which lay immediately before her. the offer, after little deliberation, was accepted. rather than be poor, she humbled the pride of her birth and pretensions; she strengthened her nerves for the voyage; and, having safely arrived in india, her recommendations, but above all her personal charms, secured her the addresses of mr. ashburn, who, though he was neither young nor attractive, had gold and diamonds in abundance. a very short interval elapsed between the commencement of their acquaintance with each other, and the celebration of their marriage. after my birth my father bowed to no other idol than me; for, although my father had gained a very handsome wife, and my mother almost the wealthiest of husbands, yet happiness was still at a distance from them. indolent in the extreme, he abhorred every species of pleasure which required a portion of activity in its pursuit: he equally abhorred solitude; and expected to find, in his wife, a lounging companion; a partaker of his habits; something little differing from a mere automaton. she, on the contrary, was laborious in the pursuits of pleasure and dissipation. she had pride and spirit to maintain her resolution of gratifying her own wishes. he was too idle to remonstrate: and theirs was an union as widely removed from the interruptions of bickerings and jealousies, as from the confidence, esteem, and endearments of affection. from me then my father expected to gain the satisfaction his marriage had failed to afford; nor were his hopes better founded than heretofore. admired, adored by him, flattered by his slaves, incited by indulgencies showered upon me without distinction to make demands the most extravagant and unattainable, i oftener tormented my father by my caprice than delighted him by my fondness. but still every species of advice or of restraint was withheld; and i continued fruitful in expedients for the exercise of my power, continued the discontented slave of my own tyranny. happily for me, i met with an adventure when i was little more than thirteen years of age that wrought miracles upon me. near to a seat of my father's, as near as the cottage of poverty dare rise to the palace of opulence, lived the wife and family of a poor industrious european. the blue eyes of one of their children had spoken so submissively once or twice, as she viewed me passing, that i became enamoured of her interesting countenance, and demanded to have her for a playmate. day after day nancy came, and my fondness for her increased daily. if the turbulence of my temper sometimes broke loose in the course of our amusements, i afterward endeavoured, by increased efforts of condescension, to relieve nancy from the terror my pride or violence had excited; and, to impress her with a strong sense of my attachment to herself, in her presence i affected to be more than commonly overbearing and insolent to those around us, while to her i was attentive and obliging. at length i became resolved to have her wholly at my command; and, without troubling myself to enquire whether or not my father would object to my plan, i rose earlier than usual one morning, and dispatched a messenger for nancy; and, while he was absent, pleased myself with anticipating what answers she would make, and what joy she would evince, when i should tell her that henceforward she should live with me, and should have as fine clothes, as fine apartments, and as many slaves to obey her as i myself possessed. my messenger returned alone. he told me nancy was ill. what a disappointment! how insolent, methought, to be ill, when i wanted her more than i had ever wanted her before. and so much did she appear to merit my resentment, that i gave orders she should be forbidden to see me again, and that all the valuable trinkets i had heaped upon her should be taken from her by force, if she would not yield them when demanded. but no sooner were the toys brought into my presence than i relented, sent them back with many additions, and wept while i delivered messages, intreating--that she would be well by the next day. on the morrow, still no nancy came; and i passed the day in alternate paroxysms of rage and sorrow. the third morning i hastened to the cottage; and the first object i beheld was nancy blooming as health could make her. the insolence with which i reproached the mother of nancy on this occasion may be easily imagined; but i shall relate minutely to you, sibella, the good woman's answer; i have never forgotten it. 'miss,' she said, 'i might as well have told the truth at once, for out it must. nancy is not sick in body, miss; and if i can help it, she shan't be sick in mind. your papa is a great rich man, and you will be a great rich lady. you, miss, who are so high born and so rich, need not care if people do hate you; but my nancy is a poor child, and will never have a penny that an't of her own earning--she never used to fleer, and flout, and stamp at her little brothers and sisters, as she does since she came to your house, miss. and so, miss, as she will never be able to pay folks for saying she is good when she is bad, i, who am her mother, must make her as good as i can. you may be good enough for a great lady; but nancy will never be a great lady; and, be as angry as you will, miss, indeed she can't come to your fine house any more.' yes, sibella; she persisted, in defiance of my resentment and its probable consequences, the worthy woman persisted in preserving her child from the infectious example of my vices. her lesson had awakened in my mind a true sense of my situation; nor could anger or disdain once force me from the painful conviction that people were hired and paid to lavish on me their insincere encomiums. all the instances of attention or kindness i could recollect i believed had been mine only because i was rich and powerful. i imagined i saw lurking hatred and loathing in every eye; and, though i ceased to command, i resented with an acrimony almost past description every effort that was directed towards increasing my pleasures or convenience. these ebulitions of a wounded vanity insensibly wore away, while i considered how much of amendment and happiness was yet in my power; and, at length, i began seriously to remedy the defects which had made me unworthy to be the companion of nancy; but, ere i had courage to demand again the society of my little friend, her parents had removed to a distant part of the country, and in this instance frustrated the end of my labours. yet the labour itself had become delightful, and was amply rewarded by the satisfaction betrayed in the eyes of my numerous attendants; but who, however, as i was a great lady and a rich lady, durst not openly rejoice in my amendment. i longed to hear them burst into praises. i almost sickened for the accents of well-earned commendation; but shame of my former unworthiness, and perhaps a remaining degree of pride, withheld me from encouraging such an explanation: and they continued silently to receive the benefits of my reformation. and now, sibella, i must bring you back again to my mother, with whom in these years of childhood i have been but little acquainted. she hated children; their noise and prattle and monkey tricks threw her into hysterics. for a few minutes after dinner, i was sometimes admitted, hushed to silence with a profusion of sweetmeats, and dismissed with a kiss or a frown, just as the avocations and pleasures of the day happened to fix her disposition. as i grew older, i was occasionally allowed to sit in her dressing-room, or to take the air with her in the same carriage; and on those occasions i reached the highest pinnacle of her confidence, and used to listen while she poured forth her longing desires to return to england. as i had been frequently disgusted at witnessing the malignant feuds existing among the europeans resident in the east-indies, it was easy for her to interest me in the first of her wishes, namely, that my father would return to england. she spoke of this island as of the abode of pleasure. she described an almost innumerable circle of friends, amidst whose society delights would abound. my imagination gave a stronger colouring to her pictures: i indulged the visionary theme till i also panted to become an inhabitant of this climate of peace, joy and felicity. no sooner had i adopted the project than my father's lethargic indolence gave way to his desire of gratifying my wishes. he vigorously completed the necessary arrangement of his affairs; and we were in daily expectation of quitting india, when he was attacked by the malignant disease of which he died. my mother was now the uncontrouled mistress of a world of wealth; and, placing her remittances in a proper train, we speedily set sail for our land of promise. safely arrived in london, i expected mrs. ashburn would instantly fly to the embraces of her friends. but no: a sumptuous house and equipage were first to be prepared; and, while she exulted in preparation, i repined at her want of sympathy for the feelings of those who i imagined were expecting her with fondness and impatience. alas, sibella, i had not followed my mother three times into her circles of friendship, ere i discovered that the enjoyments she had looked forward to, during so many years, consisted only of triumphing with superiority of splendor over those who formerly with the same motives had triumphed over her. here my enthusiasm in the search of sincere and uniform friendship would have been extinguished; but that my hopes yet rested on mrs. valmont. of mrs. valmont my mother had spoken as playmate, schoolmate, and the confidant of juvenile secrets. separated, said i to myself, near twenty years, what emotions must a first interview produce! the fire of youth in mrs. valmont and mrs. ashburn will be, for some moments, renewed; and i shall anticipate the effusions of my own heart when it finds a friend. after exhibiting our pomp at every place of resort in the metropolis, we began our tour; and passed by several invitations to pay our first visit at valmont castle. what a freezing sensation crept in my veins, as we waited for the raising of your uncle's draw-bridges, as we rolled along his dark avenues! such gloom, such menacing grandeur brought into my mind a feeling totally opposite to the hilarity, the glow of expectation i had cherished on the journey. many persons had spoken in my hearing of mr. valmont as the most absurd ridiculous misanthrope of his age; but i had not the highest respect for the authorities from which the information was derived, and i had also conceived with much more fancy than judgment of the delights of a life of solitude. i, in my dream, had forgotten the name of castle, and the ideas associating with the name; my imagination in its reveries had blended elegance and simplicity, nature and art with their most fascinating productions; when, instead of smiling lawns and gay parterres, without, i found moats, walls, and draw-bridges, frowning battlements that looked as uninviting on the friend as threatening on the enemy, turrets all cheerless, all hostile, and discouraging to the wandering stranger. the castle's gothic magnificence within reminded us at every step of the dignity of the valmont race; the apartments received their guests without welcome; the domestics were obedient, but neither cheerful nor attentive. through carved saloons and arched galleries, into which the bright sun of spring can only cast an oblique ray, we were conducted to mrs. valmont's dressing-room. my sibella, can you not imagine, you hear your aunt mingling complaint and compliment, languor and restlessness, and labouring to interest real sensibility by moans of imaginary disease? can you not imagine my mother secretly urging her triumphs over the immured mrs. valmont, by lamenting the slavery of pleasure to which she herself is perpetually compelled? and can you not see your disappointed, disgusted caroline ashburn viewing caresses without warmth, hearkening to professions without sincerity? your uncle entered the room for a moment. appearing to act, to speak, to look according to some rule settled for the hour, i deemed his character too much assumed to be quickly understood. from the solemn pride which sat on his brow, i judged, however, that he was fitted for his castle, and his castle fitted for him. here, thought i, in this place and with these people have we promised to remain for seven long days; and i quitted mrs. valmont's dressing-room, to search for amusement and variety in the park and surrounding woods. i must have been devoid of taste and feeling, if in viewing the exquisite scenery of the park, i had not forgotten the gloomy entrance and the dreary building. i found a seat on the margin of that fine sheet of water which is skirted by _your_ majestic wood; and i rested there till twilight began to spread itself over the horizon. who would not, sibella, although evening had cast its misty shade over the tall trees and impressed an awful serenity on every surrounding object, who would not, i say, like me have ventured into the wood rather than have returned to mr. and mrs. valmont and their castle. i found the paths so admirably contrived in their breaks and windings, that i could not forbid myself to proceed. every now and then i had an imperfect view of something dark, rugged, and mountainous. on a sudden, i caught a glimpse of a rude pile of stones, seemingly carried to a tremendous height, which as suddenly vanished from my sight, amidst the intercepting branches; a few steps further, it was again before me as a wild ruin tottering on the projecting point of a rock. silence, solitude, the twilight, the objects filled my mind with a species of melancholy. fancy had become more predominant than judgment. i slackened my pace: i breathed heavily: when, suddenly turning into a new path that i expected would bring me to the foot of the rock, i beheld a female form, clothed in white, seated at the foot of a large oak. her hair, unrestrained by either hat or cap, entirely shaded her face as she bowed her head to look on a little fawn, who in the attitude of confidence and affection was laying across her lap. the names of wood nymph, dryad and hymadriad, with a confused number of images, arose in my memory; and i was on the point of reverently retreating, but a moment's pause prevented the romance of the fence from thus imposing on my reason, and i resolved to examine whether the face like the form bespoke more of divinity than of mortal. as i approached nearer, away bounded the fawn--up sprang the nymph. again, sibella, i stood still, unknowing whether to fall at your feet or to clasp you in my arms. such was our first romantic interview. there was something wild in your air; your language was simple and concise, yet delivered with an impressive eloquence, and i thought you altogether a phenomenon. my heart could not help partaking the transport with which you received my promise of staying with you in the wood. yet it was to me incomprehensible how you could talk so familiarly of roaming in woods at night, without seeming to know any thing of the ideas of loneliness and apprehension generally supposed to belong to such situations. but my habits would not so suddenly yield to your's. you saw that the damp and darkness affected me, and you instantly led the way to the castle: but you became silent: you sighed: you walked at a greater distance from me: and i began to fear lest you could only submit to be pleased in your own way. the instant we entered the outer court of the castle you seized my hand; and, having pressed it forcibly to your bosom, you darted through a small side door in the building, and closed it after you. i was going to follow--'this way, if you please, madam,' said the servant who had been sent to search for me in the park. 'i will accompany miss valmont,' said i. 'miss valmont does not see company, madam,' replied the man, 'her uncle does not permit it.' i suffered myself to be conducted to the supper room, where i related the manner of our meeting, the information you had given me of your relationship to mr. valmont; and finally i spoke of the singular way in which you had quitted me, and expressed my surprise at not finding you of the supper party. mrs. valmont said, you were a strange unformed child. mr. valmont would gladly have been silent; but, as i continually addressed myself to him, he could not rid himself, without gross rudeness, of the necessity of answering me. he spoke mysteriously of his systems, and his plans, of his authority, his wisdom, and your dependence, of his right of choosing for you, and your positive duty of obeying him without reserve or discussion. at last, with tones and gestures, by which i was to understand that he went to the extreme of condescension in my favour, he consented that, provided no other company came to visit him in the time, you should associate with us while we remained at valmont castle. your very extraordinary seclusion and your extraordinary self, occupied my mind during the greatest part of that night. i had found you highly interesting; and i believed you to be infinitely amiable. i thought i might embrace you as the first choice of my affections; but i doubted whether you might not, if now exposed to the glitter of the world, lose that vigour of feeling which in solitude made you appear so singular, so attractive. i longed to make the experiment, for my hopes of you were stronger than my fears; and, as i had so far prevailed on mr. valmont, i flattered myself i should also prevail on him to suffer me to conduct you from the castle. and these were the motives, this the expectation, dearest sibella, that withheld me from confessing in valmont woods--_that i loved you with all my soul_. the seven days i remained at the castle i forbore, although with difficulty, to ask you questions, that i might gradually develope your character, as surrounding circumstances should operate on your feelings. sometimes, i saw you devoted to me; sometimes, i saw your imagination soaring as it were beyond the bounds prescribed to your person, in search of a remoter object. why, dear sibella, are you so pensive? why do you gaze on that portrait of yourself with so much earnestness? and why do you caress that little fawn, who wears a collar inscribed with the initials--c. m.--till your eyes fill with tears? let me be the partaker of your unrestrained emotions; while i, who have a wider range of observation, will place my opinions before you without check or limit. our next resting place is to be the seat of a nabob: sir thomas barlowe's, amongst whose laboured pleasures i shall wish to return to gloomy valmont, where i found a felicity of which i have no promise in the scenes i am now destined to partake. adieu! adieu! caroline ashburn letter iv from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn was i pensive, did i gaze, did i sigh, did i weep, when you miss ashburn were with me--what do i know when i have only for companion the faithful, the exquisite, but torturing representation of memory? can i do more than gaze, and sigh, and weep? o yes, i can: for, miss ashburn, i can raise altars on a thousand spots in these woods, which were once hallowed by the footsteps of him i love! two years have elapsed since he bade me farewel: therefore did you see me pensive. that picture of me was painted by himself: therefore do i gaze on it. the fawn he took from a dying mother; by him she was nourished into familiarity. nina has ceased to mourn the absence of her benefactor; she is satisfied with my caresses; but the heart of sibella valmont, nor now, nor ever, can find any substitute for her clement montgomery. i was nearly six years old when they told me that i had lost my father. he had travelled a twelvemonth before to foreign countries, for the benefit of his health; and i knew not that his death more than his absence would deprive me of my happiness, till my uncle valmont came and carried me away in his coach from my governess, my maid, and all the domestics who loved me and whom i loved, of my father's household. then, indeed, i mourned; and my uncle attempted to soothe me. he said, i must be happy, for i was now dependent upon him; and it was my duty to love him, obey him, and be satisfied. my swelling heart revolted against being commanded to be happy; and i found not one person at the castle who could supply to me the want of my kind governess and kind maid, except a little dog that on my first entrance had fawned on me as if he wished to make me happier. him i carried incessantly in my arms; and i told him, whenever we were alone, how i longed to get back to my father's house and to carry him along with me. in a fortnight after i arrived at valmont, the affectionate little animal died; and i remained inconsolable. i was sitting weeping on the hall steps when my uncle came to me. he wiped away my tears; bade me be cheerful; and said he had procured me a better play-fellow than fidelle. my uncle led me with him into the library; and presented me to a boy three years older than myself, blooming, blushing, beautiful. 'clement is my adopted son, sibella,' said my uncle. he will henceforth live with you in the castle. take him out child; and show him where you find the prettiest flowers and the ripest fruit.' ah! need i tell you how we advanced from shyness to familiarity, from familiarity to kindness, from kindness to love, all powerful, all potent! the castle then seemed no prison; the moat seemed no barrier. sometimes my uncle carried clement abroad to visit him, but then i was sure of his return. even the hours of instruction i shared with him. he had a good, an amiable tutor, who delighted in teaching to me also every science he taught to clement; and if mr. valmont frowned upon me or checked my industry, clement was still at my side and i smiled through my tears. thus passed away the years from six till sixteen. on the day that i became sixteen, we had run races with our little fawn; and, having wearied ourselves with exertion, we had lain down to rest in each other's arms, at the foot of that oak where you, miss ashburn, first beheld me. my uncle broke our happy slumbers. he came to the oak; and sternly commanded clement to rise and follow him. i followed too. my uncle sat down in his library; and appeared to meditate; while we looked on each other with love and pity, and on him we looked with suspicion and affright. when my uncle began to speak, clement trembled; but all my emotions were chained up in astonishment: for i heard him say that clement should that day quit the castle, that he should seek new companions, new countries, new climates. 'never! never!' i cried. i folded my arms round my lover--'thou shalt not go, clement,' i said. 'we have world enough. no: thou shalt not go, my clement!' mr. valmont furiously bade me desist; but he had awakened a dread in my mind more powerful than my dread of him. for a time, i expostulated with vehemence and courage; but i could not repress my tears--and, while i was compelled to listen to my uncle, his tone, his words impressed me with my former awe of him and rendered my remonstrance timid and useless. to clement he said, 'you are now to leave these boyish follies, and learn the duties of a man. you shall mix with society; but remember that you are not to be attracted by its specious appearances. scrutinize into its follies and enormities, as i have done; and let my precepts and instructions be your guide and law. remember, clement, that i took you from poverty and obscurity. remember too that, on your duty and gratitude depends your security. that child,' he pointed to me, 'mind me, sir, that child is in future to be considered only as your sister.' 'as for you, sibella,' he said to me, 'your duties in life are easily performed. i have chosen a part for you: and nothing is required of you but obedience. you have heard me declare to clement, and i now repeat it to you, that to clement montgomery you are to be no more than a sister.' this day he quits us. when he shall return, i have not determined.' yes, caroline, my clement went. two years has he roamed in a world which i am forbidden to know. but, alike in viewing the palace or the cottage, the burning mountain or the fertile plain, must the idea of sibella accompany him. our minds, our principles, our affections are the same; and, while i trace his never to be forgotten image within my breast, i know how fondly he cherishes the remembrance of mine. caroline, adieu! i go to the oak. on that consecrated spot, mountains, seas, continents dissolve, and my spirit unites with his! sibella valmont letter v from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont yes, dearest sibella, charming sibella, in that one short but rapid sentence, you have taught me to understand your progress, _from shyness to familiarity, from familiarity to kindness, from kindness to love, all powerful, all potent_. oh! be that love happy in its continuance, as at its commencement! be it the pure garb of your clement's soul, upon which vice shall leave no spot nor wrinkle! be it, as you say, that _your hearts, your affections, your principles are the same_; and i would trust this lover amidst allurements such as virtue held seldom rejected, had seldom turned from without contamination. your uncle, my sibella, i perceive, intended you for your lover, and your lover for you. his project, then, was to place a second adam and eve in the garden of eden. well, sibella, innocence remains with you. your eden will yet bloom; for, trust me, innocence and happiness cannot long be separated. why will that uncle of your's so strenuously uphold his mysterious reserve and silence? i long to ask him a million of questions; and he knows that i do, and he wishes that i should. it is not because he is altogether convinced of the wisdom and utility of his plans, that he does plan; it is, that he will oppose himself to general customs and general experience. it is singularity and not perfection that he is in search of; and, since experience formerly taught him, that even the renowned name of valmont might mix undistinguished with a herd of less illustrious names, he now bravely resolves to enforce the wonder of his compeers, if he cannot claim their reverence. perhaps, with the flattering promises of success, he sometimes soothes the rancour of his solitude. and occasionally, indeed, his existence is remembered, and his whimsies are made the subject of ridicule, contempt, and laughter; but some novel circumstance, such as the gay mrs. ashburn's visit to his gloomy retirement, must call them into this remembrance, or the name of mr. valmont would rest as undisturbed as does, in every memory but his own, the deeds of his forefathers. it is to my mother's excursion to valmont castle, that i owe the felicity of calling you my friend, it is to her escape from thence, as she herself terms it, that i owe my knowledge of mr. valmont's history. surrounded, on her arrival at the house of sir thomas barlowe, by a crowd of visitors, as gay, profuse, and dissipated as herself, she hastens to communicate her joy at the agreeable change, and to inveigh against the morose mr. valmont and his insipid wife. a conversation ensued of some length for such a subject, during which i discovered that two of the party, the earl of ulson and colonel ridson were once the intimate companions of mr. valmont. the former of these gentlemen appeared eager to place his defects in the strongest point of view; while the latter, with less zeal, to be sure, but with a sweetness of temper infinitely endearing, was willing to smooth the rugged parts of mr. valmont's character, and to place a vice behind the glare of a virtue. by setting aside, to the best of my judgment, the earl's exaggerations, and making also some allowance for the palliative temper of colonel ridson, i had succeeded in learning as much of mr. valmont's history as enables me to form some, and i believe no inaccurate estimate of his worth, abilities, and character. your grandfather, sibella, a being quite as eccentric tho' less whimsical than your uncle, lived in the castle you now inhabit. nor would he, of his own free will, have quitted that castle for heaven itself. every stone of the building that had kept its station in times of turbulence and discord against the attack of an enemy was to him an idol. if he was thoughtful, it was in recalling the great deeds of his ancestors; if he was talkative, it was on the same theme; if he had wishes, they were that he had lived in those glorious days when fighting well was the most eminent of virtues, and a strong fortified castle and obedient vassals the most valuable of possessions. as is the established practice in families of such renown and dignity, as that to which you, my friend, appertain, the first born son of your grandfather was the only hope, the only joy, the only object of the careful solitude of his anxious parents; while your father, coming into the world two years after his brother, was adored, flattered and spoiled by no creature but his nurse. your uncle, i understand, received a stately kind of education within the castle walls; and your father, happier because of less consequence, passed his early years with other young men of fashion at school and at college. mr. valmont was not a whit behind his father in his veneration for high birth, but he could not boast so unqualified a love of fruits of armour; nor did he think that civil war was the only time when a man could gather honours worthy of a distinguished name. no sooner was your uncle emancipated from the fetters of his minority, than he resolved to repair to court, where he expected to find only his equals, and those equals alive to and exact in the observance of all that haughty decorum, which mr. valmont deemed indispensably necessary to the well being of social institutions. poor man! he feels himself lost in the motley multitude, sees his high-born pretensions to notice and deference pushed aside by individuals obscure in their origin, but renowned for artful intrigues, for bold perseverance, and dazzling success! shocked at the contaminating mixture, he had fled back with precipitancy to his castle, but love detained him, for he had made an offering of his heart to a woman of rank and fashion. nothing could be more unfortunate than this passion. nothing further from congeniality than the minds and manners of lady margaret b---- and mr. valmont: he, just risen, as it were, from the tomb of his progenitors, loaded with the punctilio of the last age, recoiling from the salute of every man who could not boast an unblemished pedigree, and lastly, and most worthily, possessing refined ideas of female delicacy, of honourable love, and of unchanging fidelity; and she, on the contrary, a graceful coquette, without an atom of real tenderness in her heart, and valuing her rank merely as it gave her opportunities of extending her conquest. lady margaret b---- was highly diverted with mr. valmont's formalities; and, in spite of the torture her dissipated coquettish manners inflicted on him, she had sufficient power to make him the most ardent of her lovers. in fine, she rejected him, laughed at him, despised him. i could not hear this anecdote, nor can i repeat it, without a sensation of pain, so strongly do i enter into the irritable feelings of your uncle, when, hitherto accustomed only to receive homage and obedience, he is at once foiled in his ambition by low born courtiers, and betrayed in his love by a high born jilt. mr. valmont consulted no other guide than his passions; and instantly drew an angry and false picture of mankind. with such people as i have spoken of he could not associate; for their vices he abhorred; but his mind had not fortitude enough, had not comprehension enough, to cast aside his own prejudices; and, instead of attempting to reform mankind, he retires to rail at them; and carries with him the pride, selfishness, and love of power, in which all the vices of society originate. wrapped in the impenetrable selfishness of high birth, mr. valmont denies the possibility of eminent virtue existing without rank. who shall presume to arraign his principles, to sit in judgment upon his actions, to teach him his duty? i stand, cries mr. valmont, within the sacred verge of nobility! look on that coat of arms! i derive from the normans! wisdom in rags--keep off! true: his ancestors conquered, that he should be wise!--oh, cede to him the palm! bind his brows with the laurel! after a few months retirement, mr. valmont ventured once more into the heterogeneous multitude, in search of a wife: for, i suspect he found himself as ill qualified for solitude as society. beside, he had formed the virtuous project of instructing a new race, to put the old world out of countenance. i cannot but pause, to reflect upon your uncle's toils in search of his help mate. he must have a wife, whose pedigree his future sons might place beside his own; and he must have one, of a temperament and character opposite to that of lady margaret b----; and his good stars, his ill stars, or whatever else you please, led him to the feet of mrs. valmont. it is true, your aunt was neither as coquettish nor had she the sprightly wit nor the mischievous gaiety of lady margaret, but she loved crowds, detested solitude, and was a votary of dissipation; to convince her how much he had studied her inclinations, and how much he meant to gratify them, no sooner was mr. valmont in possession of his bride then he snatched her from the scenes where her existence was alone valuable to her, and buried her amidst obscurity and horror at valmont castle. what is the consequence? she had no mental accomplishments in reserve for their mutual benefit and delight; nor had he mind enough to steal fire from heaven and animate with life the marble. from the struggle of tempers, and the warfare of words, she droops into an hypocondriac; he degenerates into a cynic, proud of himself alone. among the disappointments produced by this marriage, the want of children was the most offensive to mr. valmont. your father, who had pursued a course of life quite different from his brother, tasting all the excesses of dissipation; died; and, very improperly in my opinion, left you to the guardianship of your uncle. that mr. valmont should adopt a son from the lowly condition of a cottager's child, has occasioned much wonder and many surmises; however, as i do not find any thing material either to you or me in the conjectures, i have listened to on this occasion, i shall not be at the pains of relating them. but how comes it to pass, my dearest sibella, that when your uncle had the means of gratifying his darling wish in educating two children, and one of them a female, to whom according to his creed, nothing should be granted beyond what the instinct of appetite demands, how comes it, i say, that you possess the comprehensive powers of intellect? from what sources did you derive that eager desire of knowledge of which i find you possessed; and how came you to be learned on subjects, which, in the education of females, are strictly withheld, to make room for trifling gaudy and useless acomplishments? tell me by what miracle i find you such as you are, and let me cease to wonder at you, but never let me cease to love you. tell me too, how came you to be dependent on your uncle? does your dependence only mean the protection due from him who stands in the place of a parent to you? i wish to be informed what explanation mr. valmont and yourself affix to the term of dependent, when it is applied to you; for colonel ridson talks so familiarly of the fortune you must possess from your mother, and also the wealth of the valmont family which he says is yours by heirship, that i must own i am puzzled. i care little about your being rich, but is seems unnatural and unjust to have you a dependent on your haughty uncle. ah, my dear sibella, how often in a day do i feast my imagination by allowing it to bear me back to you; and yet perhaps, our separation gives a spur, a stimulus to our friendship. i am not convinced, indeed, but that temporary separations are even useful between lovers; and that mr. valmont may have acted rather wisely than otherwise, in parting you and your clement for a season. why he should bid you remember him only as a brother, is really too far plunged into obscurity for me to discover. do not, however, suppose for an instant that my affection for you would decay were i at liberty to enjoy your society as i wish; on the contrary, i am persuaded that every hour i should pass with you would add something to my improvement, and render us more valuable to each other. my expression arose from my being at that moment in idea a partner of your seclusion, and feeling that i should want in the same situation that energy and activity which is the support of your solitude. i am fond of society; and, indeed, i find myself most excited when i have most opportunities of observing the various characters and pursuits of those around me. gladly would i possess the power of selecting my society. from that happy privilege i am debarred. but i seldom make one of a circle in which i do not find some novelty of character, and something either of excellence or absurdity from which i may draw improvement. yet, a two month's visit at the villa of sir thomas barlowe is rather a hard trial of my patience; and, unless we are enlivened by new visitors, i fear the company here will afford me but a trifling harvest of observation. i shall soon be glad to turn from them to my own resources; and fly, even oftener than i now do, to the ever vivifying remembrance of my sibella. sir thomas barlowe has risen from some very obscure station to the wealth and dignity of a nabob. he has risen too, i greatly fear, by the same depredating practices which the unfortunate natives of india seem destined constantly to suffer from those who perfidiously call themselves the protectors of the country. sir thomas barlowe's riches have become his punishment. each morning, his fears awaken with his faculties, lest that day should bring tidings of the dreaded scrutiny; and, when evening arrives, and he struggles to yield himself to mirth and wine amidst the circle he has assiduously gathered round him, a word, a look, or the most remote hint or allusion gives his watchful terrors an alarm. a sudden turn of his head, perchance, discovers his shadow on the wall. legions of threatening phantoms then crowd upon his apprehension; and the evening, yet more miserable than the day, concludes with an opiate, administered to lull the feeble body into lethargy, and hush the perturbed conscience into silence. and my mother can look on this existing fact with indifference, while i shudder. those enormous sums of wealth she lavishes away, that cluster of pearls she triumphantly places in her hair, those diamonds heaped into different ornaments, how were they obtained? thousands perhaps----oh, sibella! i have laid aside my ornaments! a dress plain as your's supersedes them. lady barlowe is a composition of a very curious kind. she is about forty years younger than her husband, is tolerably pretty, and has a showy talent of repartee that she mistakes for a sublime genius; and her inclinations are perpetually at warfare, without being able to decide whether she shall be most renowned as a wit or a beauty. she is extravagantly fond of admiration, which she formerly enjoyed unlimitedly, being the head toast of a small county town, till she became the wife of a nabob. prosperity has not increased her happiness; for in the great and gay world she has found rivals of such magnitude that malice and envy have strung up within that bosom which till now owned no inmate but vanity. these are our host and hostess. the first in precedency among the visitors ranks the earl of ulson: an antiquated gallant, who, in public, affects not to feel the approaches of age; and, in private, broods over the consciousness of its effects till he sickens with ill nature. the countess of ulson hates her husband; nor has she over much charity and good-will towards other men. she talks largely, indeed, of her piety, and the strict performance of her manifold duties. this amiable pair are attended by their son and two daughters. lord bowden is so perfectly satisfied within himself, that, if you will take his word for it, there is not a more amiable and accomplished young man in england. his eldest sister, lady mary bowden claims no praise beyond what is justly due to the complacency of her temper; she is at once too giddy and too indolent to aim at meriting a more enlarged praise; she loves dress, company, cards, and scandal; and indulges herself in the use of the latter as a mere matter of course, without entertaining the smallest particle of ill-will towards the very persons she helps to vilify. i have endeavoured to convince lady mary of the folly of this practice, and she acknowledges, that what i say appears very much to the purpose, but then how can she cease to do what every body does. all the beauty that exact regularity of feature, and transparency of complexion can bestow, is in the possession of the earl of ulson's youngest daughter, lady laura bowden. beyond this description, i hardly know what to say of her. i can perceive she entertains a very hearty contempt for her sister; and perhaps, she may hold me in as little estimation; but a woman so perfectly well bred as lady laura does not display such sentiments if she entertains them, unless some species of rivalship should unfortunately call her passions into action. i do not think her either witty or wise, yet i have been told she bears the reputation of the former, and is poet enough occasionally to pen a rebus or an acrostic. it may be so. i have not been favoured with her confidence. a delicate languor pervades her manners, and this is generally honoured with the name of sensibility. i am apt to call it affectation; for the sensibility that i understand and admire, is extreme only in proportion to the greatness of the occasion; it does not waste itself in vapours, nor is it ever on the watch for wasps and spiders. colonel ridson assures me that lady laura bowden is admired by the whole world, and that he must be the happiest of men on whom her ladyship bestows a preference. colonel ridson loves his white teeth, and his epaulet. he likes every body, praises every body, is attentive to every body; lives without attachment; and will probably die in the same torpid state, without ever knowing felicity, or ordinary misfortune. the colonel hitherto has been the only unmarried man amongst us, except lord bowden, who really is so assiduous in remembering his own recommendations that no one else finds it necessary to remember him or them at all. but we are now to be enlivened. it seems we damsels are to be excited to call forth our charms, for the conquest of a youth of no common value, as his fame goes here. sir thomas barlowe's nephew, mr. murden, arrived at the villa this very day. i know not why i should be particularly selected from the party, by sir thomas barlowe, to listen to his encomiums on this nephew. from the most insignificant occurrences, the baronet has constantly occasion to say--'ha! ha! miss ashburn, if my nephew arthur was but come!' if i praised a dish of fruit at table, the nabob's nephew arthur had certainly done the same thing. let me speak of walking or riding, let me complain of hail, rain or sunshine, arthur was still my promised chaperon, the future knight-errant of all my grievances. 'tell me something,' said i one day to colonel ridson, 'of this mr. murden, this hope of the family.' 'he is very handsome,' replied the colonel. 'but is he good?' 'assuredly.' 'and amiable?' 'infinitely!' 'and wise?' 'to a miracle, madam,' replied the colonel. good! amiable! wise!--who could desire more? lady mary bowden stood beside me one afternoon, while the baronet was reminding me of his dear arthur. 'sir thomas i believe intends,' said i to her, 'that i shall be in love by anticipation. you know mr. murden. what is he?' 'oh!' cried lady mary, lifting up her right hand, to enforce the spirit of her emphasis, 'he is the most abominable rake in the universe!' i absolutely started. 'it is possible, lady mary, you should mean what you say?' i asked after a moment's pause. 'yes! certainly!' replied her ladyship, quite gaily; 'every body knows of hundreds with whom he has been a very happy man.' 'i do not want,' said i, 'to hear what every body says. i want, lady mary, to know your own sincere opinion of mr. murden. if you have already told me a fact, my situation to be sure will oblige me to be sometimes in his company; but, in that case, there exists not a reptile, however noxious or despicable, from whom i should shrink with more abhorrence than from this boasted nephew of the nabob.' 'good god!' cried lady mary: 'why! what did i say? i protest i have forgotten, already. i am sure i know no harm in the world of mr. murden.' 'did not you tell me he was an abominable rake?' 'they say so,' replied lady mary. 'he certainly is very engaging. he admires fine women. but i don't know whether he has ever made serious addresses to any one. miss ashburn, i'll tell you a secret.' 'you had better not. i don't keep secrets.' 'oh, all the world knows it, already. lady laura is quite fond of murden. you would have laughed to have seen her last winter, as i did, plunged over head and ears in sentiment and sensibility. well, i do hate affectation.' 'and you do love good nature.' 'so i do,' said she smiling; 'and i hope with all my heart that my poor sister may now secure her conquest, unless indeed, miss ashburn, it should interfere with you.' neither the baronet's hints, the colonel's all good, all wise, nor the motley dubious character given by lady mary bowden of mr. murden, would have tempted me to devote thus much of my paper to him. i have other inducements. i have heard that the domestics of barlowe hall anxiously expected the day of his coming. a gardener, who has been discharged for no worse fault, i believe, than his being too old, assures himself, that the prosperity of him and his family will be restored when mr. murden arrives. i have heard also, that the neighbouring cottagers bless him. such a man must have worth. agnes, who is zealous to tell me all the good she can of any one, has related several anecdotes of mr. murden, from which i learn, that he possesses sympathy and benevolence. i cannot tell how such qualities can exist in the mind of a man who is, either in principle or practice, a libertine. yet, agnes also had been told that mr. murden was a libertine. i bade her enquire more; and she could hear of no particular instances wherein the peace of individuals or families had been injured by him. still those with whom agnes conversed, bestowed on him this hateful title. i fear the reproach may belong to him. young men are frequently carried into these excesses, from the pernicious effect of example, sometimes from vanity, and from a variety of other causes, all which tend to one uniform effect, to destroy the understanding, deprave the heart, corrupt the disposition, and render loathsome and detestable a being that might have lived an honour and a blessing to his species. if mr. murden is indeed devoted to this error, farewel to his benevolent virtues, to his sense of justice; and farewel to the pleasure and instruction i might have gained in the society of a virtuous man. i said mr. murden was already arrived; but i have not seen him. he paid his duty to his uncle, in the baronet's own apartment; and then retired to dress before he would present himself in the breakfast parlour. lady laura appeared impatient; she was adorned in a new morning dress, perfectly graceful and becoming. the hour came in which i was to write to my sibella; and i would not sacrifice that employment for twenty such introductions. farewel, my friend! close to your altar of love, raise one of friendship, and i also will meet you at the oak. caroline ashburn letter vi from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn a confused recollection sprang up in my mind when you questioned me concerning my dependence. on the day of his last departure, my father caressed me fondly; he held me a long time in his arms; and he shed tears over me. he spoke, likewise, at intervals; not, perhaps, with any expectation of being understood by me, but to relieve the weighty pressure of his thoughts. i well remember that he named my uncle. he had many papers on a table before him; and i think there was a connection in his discourse between them and me. i believe he spoke of some disposition of his fortune; but the time is now remote, and the idea is indistinct. i cannot cloathe it in expression. i do not possess a fortune; for my uncle calls me dependent, talks of obligations i owe to him for the gratification of my wants. he talks of obligations, who denies me instruction, equality, and my clement. he provides me food and raiment. are there not thousands in the world, where you and clement live, who supply such wants by labour? and i too could labour. let mr. valmont retire to the shelter of his canopy, and the luxury of down! i can make the tree my shade, and the moss my pillow. mr. valmont calls himself my father; and _calling_ himself such, he there rests satisfied. cold in his temperament, stern from his education, he imagines kindness would be indulgence, and indulgence folly. ever on the watch for faults, the accent of reproof mingles with his best commendations. he demands my obedience, too! what obedience? the grateful tribute to duty, authorised by reason, and sanctioned by the affections? no. mr. valmont, here at least, ceases to be inconsistent. he never enlightened my understanding, nor conciliated my affections; and he demands only the obedience of a fettered slave. i am held in the bondage of slavery. and still may mr. valmont's power constrain the forces of this body. but where, miss ashburn, is the tyrant that could ever chain thought, or put fetters on the fancy? i charge you, cease to repeat my uncle's useless prohibition, that i should remember clement otherwise than as a brother. let him give his barrier to the waves, arrest the strong air in its current, but dream not of placing limits to the love of clement and sibella! do i weary you with this endless topic? you read the world: i, my own heart. imprisoned, during so many years, within the narrow boundary of this castle and its parks, the same objects eternally before me, i look with disgust from their perpetual round of succession. nature herself, spring, summer, autumn, degenerate into sameness. where must i turn me then, but to the resources of my own heart? love has enriched it; and friendship will not reject its offerings. yes: they are many, my caroline; various and increasing. shall my uncle tell me that my actions are confined to the mechanical operations of the body, that i am an imbecile creature, but a reptile of more graceful form, the half finished work of nature, and destitute of the noblest ornament of humanity? blind to conviction, grown old in error, he would degrade me to the subordinate station he describes. he daringly asserts that i am born to the exercise of no will; to the exercise of no duties but submission; that wisdom owns me not, knows me not, could not find in me a resting place. 'tis false, caroline! i feel within the vivifying principle of intellectual life. my expanding faculties are nurtured by the passing hours! and want but the beams of instruction, to ripen into power and energy that would steep my present inactive life in forgetfulness. bonneville, when shall i cease to love thy memory, to recal thy lessons? it was thou, bonneville, who first bade me cherish this stimulating principle; who called the powers of my mind forth from the chaos, wherewith mr. valmont had enveloped them. thou, bonneville, taught me that i make an unimpaired _one_ of the vast brotherhood of human kind; that i am a being whose mistakes demand the conviction of reason, but whose mind ought not to bow down under power and prejudice. he of whom i speak, miss ashburn, was chosen to be clement's tutor. can you conceive the sensations which swell within my breast while i recal the memory of this friend of my infancy? my friend, ere i lost clement, ere i knew you, caroline. methinks i hear his voice; i see his gestures. again, he enters the wood path. again, i behold that countenance beautiful in age, radiant in wisdom.--he speaks. my soul hangs on his utterance. all my lesser affections fade away. ah, no! no! no! bonneville is gone for ever! clement is torn from me! you are interdicted! and i am alone in the wood path! i hailed him by the name of father. he called me his child. he was enervated with disease. the chill damps of evening pierced him. the wintry blast shook his feeble frame. still, would he endure the damps of evening, and tremble under the cold blast, rather than sibella should be sunk in ignorance and sloth; for her cruel uncle had forbidden her an entrance into that apartment where bonneville gave clement his daily instruction. five days passed away, and clement had not met his tutor in the library. five long evenings, clement had taken his usual rides with mr. valmont, yet no bonneville had visited the oak. my mind anticipated the hour of his approach, and mourned its disappointment. my questions accumulated; i stored up demand upon demand; i recalled the subject of all our conversations; i carefully selected for another investigation, those parts which i had not fully comprehended; i arranged my doubts; and, perhaps, had never so prepared my mind for improvement, as when i heard that bonneville was in bed, ill, dying. i flew to his apartment. clement followed me. we saw him die. 'my father! my father!' i cried. 'you will not leave us! we are your children! better were it that we should die with you than be left without you. my father! my father!' sobs and tears could not delay the inexorable moment; and my life seemed to fade from me, when i found that his lips were closed for _ever_. would you believe that my uncle----yes, you would believe, for you know his haughty sternness,--but no matter, 'tis past, and ought to be forgotten. but a few days, and not an eye save mine, wept for the absence of bonneville. clement was satisfied with a new tutor. the new tutor was wise, good, and kind; for clement said so; but he strictly obeyed mr. valmont, and sibella was abandoned of guide, of father. death, an object new, hideous, and awfully mysterious was now ever before me. multitudes of dark perplexing ideas succeeded each other in my mind, with a rapidity which doubt and dissatisfaction created. 'why is it?' said i to myself, 'and what cause can produce an effect so overwhelming? throughout life, the mind invariably rules the functions of the body. it transports itself from, and returns to its abode at pleasure; it can look back on the past, or fly forward to the future; it passes all boundary of place; creates or annihilates; and soars or dives into other worlds. yet, in one moment, its wearied tool, the body, had extinguished these omnipotent powers, and to me quenched its vast energies for ever.' i wrung my hands in bitterness, and in anguish of heart; and i called loudly on the name of my lost instructor, for i had now no instructor. caroline, do not expect me to speak again of bonneville. the tumult, the perplexity returns; and no solution is at hand to soothe or to cheer me. * * * * * seventeen days, mr. valmont, his steward, and their labourers have occupied my wood. my uncle himself gave me a command not to appear there during the day.--i said, 'at night, sir, i am i hope at liberty.' 'you are, child,' my uncle replied; and i failed not to avail myself of the privilege. on the rising ground of the broad wood path, and nearly opposite to my oak, i found the earth dug away, and preparations made, of which i could not give an explanation; but from the progress of a few days labour, a small beautiful edifice of white marble gradually rose under the shade of a clump of yew trees, whose branches were reflected on the polished surface as in a mirror. its structure appeared to me beautiful. i was charmed with it as a novel object. i rejoiced that it was so near my oak. but i stood utterly at a loss, when i attempted to form an opinion of its design or utility. perhaps when you were at the castle, you became acquainted with the defects and singularities of the two attendants whom my uncle assigned me. andrew, almost inflexible in silence, attempts (when i put him to the trial) to explain himself by signs. while his daughter possesses not, that i could ever discover, in the smallest degree the faculty of hearing. andrew often looks on me with affection; but margaret, who has a most repulsive countenance and demeanour, appears, even while i endeavour to conciliate her by kind looks, to be scarcely conscious that i am in existence. with such companions intercourse is rigorously excluded. in cases of peculiar uncertainty, i sometimes venture to apply to andrew, as i did on the morning after i had seen the beautiful edifice in the wood path completed. andrew said, 'tis a tomb.' shortly after, i called at mrs. valmont's door to inquire of her health, for she is now recovering slowly from a severe indisposition. very unusually, she desired i might be admitted. i stood while i spoke to her, for the wood was at liberty, and i was impatient to be gone. the surprise of andrew's concise information was new in my mind, and i began to describe the structure in the wood path. i perceived mrs. valmont's attendant directing strange looks and gestures to me, and i paused to ask her meaning. she positively denied the circumstance, and i proceeded. when i mentioned the name of _tomb_, mrs. valmont started forward on the couch where she sat. 'raised a tomb!' cried she. 'for whom?' and then, again falling back in seeming agony, she added without waiting for my reply, 'yes, i know it well, he has opened a tomb for me.' 'for you, madam?' i said, 'you are not yet dead.' 'barbarian!' exclaimed mrs. valmont, looking fiercely on me, 'not yet dead!--insolent!--be gone, i shall be dead but too soon. be gone, i say, the very sight of any of your hated infidel race destroys me.' i wished to understand how mrs. valmont's anger and agitations were thus excited, for she began to utter strange assertions, that my uncle intended to murder her, and that he had made me his instrument. she groaned and wept. one of her attendants urged me to withdraw; and i complied. from thence, i visited the tomb. again i admired its structure and its situation; but i could not devise why a receptacle for the dead should be reared amidst the living. at this time mr. valmont himself, followed by his steward and by andrew, came to inspect the tomb. methought he looked pleased, when he saw me resting upon it. he viewed it round and round, walked to the foot of the rock, and contemplated it at that distance. mr. ross did the same, but andrew stood still some yards on the other side. my uncle spoke thus at intervals. 'no doubt strange reports will circulate, throughout the neighbourhood, of this monument.' 'the vulgar fools, who lend so ready a belief to the ridiculous tales of that ruin, will now have another hinge on which to turn their credulity.' 'sibella, take again the attitude i saw you in when i entered the wood. there, child; keep that posture a short time, your figure improves the scene.' 'does the monument excite much wonder, ross?' 'it does indeed, sir,' the steward replied. 'they wonder at the expence, they wonder more at the object; and, still more than that, they wonder at the unconsecrated ground.' 'and my impiety is, i imagine, the topic of the country.' the steward remained silent. 'andrew remember my orders, and repeat them to your fellows: i will have no idle tales fabricated in the servant's hall.' 'what are the opinions of other men, concerning holy and unholy, to me? it belongs to men of rank to spurn the prejudices of the multitude.' shortly after, my uncle addressed himself to me. 'a strange message, child, has been sent me from mrs. valmont, which you it seems have caused. what have you been saying to her?' i repeated the conversation. my uncle smiled in scorn. 'contemptible folly!' said he, 'the vicinity of a tomb becomes a mortal disease. it is hard to judge whether the understanding or the frame of such animals is of the weaker texture. child, you have killed your aunt, by reminding her that she may one day happen to be buried.' i was startled with the phrase of, _i had killed my aunt_; and i began eagerly to speak. my uncle interrupted me with saying: 'there is no real harm done, child. these nervous affections are tremendous in representation, but trifling in reality. you will, however, do well to remember, that i do not approve of your frequenting mrs. valmont's apartments.' my uncle then left me, not quite satisfied with myself nor with his representation of mrs. valmont's case. yet, on a careful review of the past, i did not feel that my words, my manner, or my information could justly tend to produce uneasiness either to her or me. yet mrs. valmont persists in holding me culpable; and has twice rejected the messages i have sent by andrew. still, caroline, i do not understand why my uncle should have expended money to rear a marble tomb, when any spot of waste ground might serve for the receptacle of a lifeless body; nor can i understand how mrs. valmont is injured by the knowledge of the circumstance. my uncle's conversation with mr. ross is for the most part beyond my comprehension. i observe too, that every part of the family, more carefully even than before, now shun the wood. last night, when nina and i had held our evening converse at the oak, till the moon shone at her height, andrew came in search of me; he stood at an unusual distance; and, having beckoned me to return, he with a soft quick step, hastened before me to the castle. thus, dearest caroline, i pass from the weight of a tedious uniformity, to view and wonder at the mysterious actions of mysterious people. oh, speak to me then, my friend. you i can understand. you i love, admire, revere. speak to me often, caroline. bring the varieties of your life before me. awaken my feelings with your's, and let my judgment strengthen in your experience. sibella valmont letter vii from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont my dearest sibella, to all that i yet know of you, i give unmixed praise. your own rectitude, your own discernment, and your reliance on my sincerity, satisfies you of this truth; and i am assured that i have your sanction when i speak less of yourself than of frailer mortals. on casting my eye over the foregoing lines, i smile to perceive that i felt as if it were necessary to apologize for the strong propensity i have to begin this letter as i concluded my last, namely, with mr. murden; whom, in the moments of my best opinion, i cannot wholly admire, nor, at the worst of times, can i altogether condemn. as he is, then, or as i think he is, take him. colonel ridson, you know, said mr. murden was handsome. so say i. at times, divinely handsome; but only at times. his figure, it is true, never loses its symmetry and grace; but his features, strongly influenced by their governing power the mind, vary from beauty to deformity; that is, deformity of expression. what would lady mary, lady laura, or the two miss winderhams, who are lately added to our party, say to hear me connect the ideas of murden and deformity? yet in their hearing, incurring the terrible certainty of being arraigned in their judgments for want of taste, of being charged with prudery, affectation, and i know not what besides, i shall dare repeat, that i have looked on murden, and looked from him again, because he appeared deformed and disgusting. the libertine is ever deformed; the flatterer is ever disgusting. his daily practice in this house justifies me in bestowing on him the latter epithet. i own, and i rejoice to own, that of the justice of the former i have my doubts. vain he is. that he is gratified by, encourages, even stimulates the attention of fools and coquettes, i cannot deny; and when i view him indulging a weakness so contemptible, so dangerous, i am almost ready to believe he may be any thing that is vicious; and that, having taken vanity and flattery for his guides, he may attain to the horrid perfection of a successful debauchee. yet, what man, plunged in the whirlpool of debauchery, ever retained delicacy of sentiment and pungency of feeling? i think murden possesses both. what man of debased inclinations would preserve that perpetual delicacy, that happy medium between neglect and encouragement, by which murden regulates his conduct to lady laura bowden? lady laura, celebrated as a wit and beauty, betrays to every observer her passion for mr. murden. i dreaded, on such an occasion, to see a vain young man, insolent in pity, or barbarous in neglect; but lady laura has not a particle more or less of his admiration, his flattery, and his services than any other lady of the circle. ah, i feel already that my description languishes. the murden before me is a being of more vigour and more interest than the murden on my paper. i have failed in discriminating the contradictory parts of his character; and i give up description; leaving those circumstances i may, on further acquaintance, select from the round of his actions to speak for him. these insatiable devourers of amusement tear me from my pen. the morning, which in my mother's house in town i possessed uncontrouled, is no longer my own. the days are wasted in the execution of projects that promise much and perform nothing; and i made a whimsical attempt the other day, to convince my good friends here that we ought at least to be rational one half of one's time, if we would find any pleasure in being foolish the other half. but while i am complaining to you, sibella, the party are perhaps complaining of me. adieu for a short time. i go to taste _simplicity_. not the simplicity of a golden age; but the simplicity of gold and tinsel. on the banks of a charming piece of water we fish, under a silken awning. horns, clarionets, and bassoons are stationed in a neighbouring grove, with their sweet concords occasionally to soothe our fatigues. ices, the choicest fruits, and other delicate preparations for the refreshment of the palate are at hand; and, notwithstanding all this costly care, it is very possible we shall pass a listless morning, return without any increase of appetite, or animal spirits, and be mighty ready to bestow loud commendations on the pleasures of a morning, from which we derive no other secret satisfaction than the certainty of its being at an end. a summons! the carriages are at the door. you understand, i hope, that this is a _rural_ expedition therefore a coach and a chariot attends, mr. murden drives one phaeton, colonel ridson another, and mrs. ashburn, who has arisen from the voluptuous luxury of the palanquin, and eight slaves, to the more active triumph of a high seat, reins, and long whip, will drive lady laura bowden in her curricle. * * * * * it would be vain for me to attempt to sleep, for i endure at present a very considerable portion, though from a different cause, of those restless feelings which so often, my sibella, urge you from your bed. i believe i shall not go to bed this night, yet i have not to tell you, that i am roused to this wakefulness by events strikingly removed from the ordinary course of our lives. on the contrary, the accidents of the day, though new in their form, are by no means of an uncommon character. it is, alas, no novelty for some people to be inconsistent, and for others to imagine that rank and riches, as it places them beyond the reach of the common misfortunes of life, gives them full privilege to censure the weak and contemn the unfortunate. i hope benevolence is not a novelty. i would not subtract from the due praise of any individual; but i feel it as it were a tacit reproach upon human nature, or rather upon human manners, when we loudly vaunt the benevolent actions of any single man. i love the man, be he whom he may, who will perform the offices of a brother to the weakest, the most despised of his fellow creatures; but i lament that the example should be so unusual; and, when seen, rather vaunted than valued; and speedily forgotten. i have no reason to accuse myself of a want of penetration. our morning was any thing but pleasant. the air from the water chilled sir thomas. lady barlowe could find no scope amidst the very small talk for one single repartee. the earl of ulson had the tooth-ache. the countess detests the music of wind instruments; and my mother found out that she hated fishing. the young ladies lost their spirits and temper, by losing mr. murden, whose absence occurred in such a way as put me out of temper, and out of spirits also. as we were on the road to the destined spot of diversion, a pretty country girl on a horse loaded with paniers drew up to the hedge-side, while the cavalcade passed her. i was in mr. murden's phaeton; and we were the last carriage but one. the girl, in making her awkward obeisance to the company, no sooner lifted her eyes to mr. murden, than she blushed deeper than scarlet. it was a blush of such deep shame, of such anguish, that i felt a sudden pain like a shock of electricity. the time of passing was so instantaneous, that i could not see what effect the blush had at the moment on murden's countenance; but when i did look on him, i found him lost in thought, from which he presently started, to gaze back upon the girl, while she continued in sight. it was palpably obvious, that in this incident murden had a concern more powerful than any interest he took in the party, for he remained dispirited and absent; and, after refusing to angle, and walking a few turns to and fro on the banks of the water, he said he should join us again before we returned to dinner, mounted his servant's horse, and disappeared. thus were we left without one satisfied person of the party, except the ever-satisfied colonel ridson, and the self-satisfied lord bowden. we saw no more of mr. murden, till late in the afternoon. i must now, my dear sibella, call your attention to the history of an unfortunate woman, who, in occupying the greatest part of this afternoon, gave scope to the display of that hard-heartedness, and that benevolence to which i alluded in a former passage of this letter. when sir thomas barlowe left the east indies, he retained in his service a young creole as secretary. at that time, the youth, who was sanguine enough, and young enough to believe that his situation would increase in gain, and be permanent in favour, wrote to his mother, whom he contributed to support, saying it was his wish she should come to england. he expected she would wait for a remittance from him to pay her passage; but the mother, impatient to join her only child, sold her little property, borrowed on her son's credit the remainder of the money for her passage, and set sail from bengal much about the time that her son, with whom the climate had disagreed, and whom sir thomas had discharged, set sail from england. arrived in london, she hastens to sir thomas barlowe's house, to meet this beloved son. the family are in the country; the porter surlily assures her that her son is gone. she will not believe him; demands the name of sir thomas barlowe's country seat; returns to her lodging with trembling limbs and an aching heart; writes a letter to barlowe hall, which probably was never sent; and falls ill of an ague and fever. eight weeks the unhappy woman languished in the extreme of misery and disease; receiving no tidings from her son, having no friend, no acquaintance, either to pity or relieve her. her money all spent, her clothes almost all sold, she availed herself of a small recruit of strength, and begged her way, half naked, to sir thomas barlowe's seat, kept alive, no doubt, by the feeble hope that she should yet find her son. at barlowe hall, the tidings of her son's departure was confirmed. despair gave her strength. in spite of the servants' opposition, she forced her way into the dining parlour, ere the dessert was yet removed. she designed to have thrown herself at the feet of sir thomas; but on whom did her eye first fix? on no other than mrs. ashburn, whom, in her own land, in her happiest days, she had served in the capacity of housekeeper. had the apartment held the first potentates of the earth, i firmly believe they would have been as so many straws in the poor woman's way when she rushed forward to mrs. ashburn. she clasped her knees, kissed her hands, her gown, the very chair on which she sat, and was so wild and extravagant in her joy, that i do not wonder at the result. i only wonder that her intellects survived. it was in vain the company expressed their disgust at so miserable an object; in vain my mother and sir thomas commanded her to rise and withdraw. she would, in her imperfect language, curse the climate of britain. she would intreat them to send her back to her own country. she would relate the history of her griefs, till combined recollections, or perhaps the frigid countenances of those around her, wrought a passionate flood of tears; and she then quietly suffered the footman to conduct her from the room. the rigid countess of ulson instantly began a severe investigation of the folly of the young indian, who sent so far for his mother, while his own prosperity was yet wavering and uncertain. lady barlowe and the young ladies appeared disconcerted. the earl of ulson had dined in his own chamber. colonel ridson often shifted his seat. mrs. ashburn and sir thomas barlowe gave their assent to the invective of lady ulson, adding at the same time all the shades of imprudence in the mother's enterprise. they agreed, however, in the necessity of affording her some relief. two guineas from sir thomas, and two from mrs. ashburn was the _vast_ sum contributed; and, with this four guineas, the servant was ordered to deliver the following commands: that she should immediately go back to london, where she might easily find employment for her support, till her son should know she was in england, and remit money for her return to india. colonel ridson stole to the door after the servant, and gave into his hand a benefaction for the widow. i had only waited the conclusion of the nabob's and my mother's determination; and i now left them. the indian did not, as before, attempt to rush into the parlour; but in the hall, she wrung her hands, gnashed her teeth, tore her hair, exclaiming, she must go back, she could not work, she could not live in a climate that would kill a dog. my remonstrances she could not hear. i might as well have spoken to the dead. it was then that mr. murden returned home. astonished at the frantic agonies of the poor distressed woman, he enquired the cause from the servants, whom pity had drawn around her. he threw his whip out of his hand, and coming up to the indian--yes, sibella, this _seducer_ perhaps, this very elegant, fashionable, handsome, and admired murden immediately lifted in his arms the poor miserable despised object, from whose touch others had revolted, carried her into an apartment, and seated her by himself on a sopha, still holding his arm round her to prevent her relapsing into those violent excesses. 'you shall go back,' cried murden. 'i swear by the god that made me, you shall go back to-morrow, to-day, this very hour, if you will but be calm.' she looked on him steadily--it was such a look, sibella! 'see,' said murden, 'miss ashburn says, you shall go back. you know miss ashburn? ay, and you love her too. i know you do.' in a fainting voice, she said,--'then i shall die with my poor joseph at last.' her head fell upon murden's breast; and he suffered it to remain there, till he found she had become insensible; he then requested the housekeeper to see a bed prepared for her; and, by his kind speeches and charming tones, he rendered every servant as eager to do the poor woman service as he himself had been. all this time, i forgot the country girl. while i attended the indian to her bed, mr. murden visited the drawing room and when i also went thither, i found murden's face in a glow. he was debating with his uncle on the danger that might befal his sick patient, by removing her from barlowe hall to the next village, and the danger sir thomas might incur by allowing her to remain where she was. the nabob recollected she had spoken of her fever in london; and, already, he saw himself in the utmost danger, and half his family dead or dying of the mortal disease. any sum of money, any thing in his house that could tend to her accommodation she might have, so that she was but removed. he absolutely shook with apprehension; and murden was at length compelled to yield the point. a post chaise was accordingly got ready; two maids went in it with her, to support her, for successive faintings had reduced her to the weakness of an infant. murden, although it was a rainy evening, walked by the side of the chaise to the village, to see that she was there taken proper care of. in the drawing room, the interval between this arrangement and the time of murden's return from the village was passed in a most irksome state. the weather would not allow of walking, or riding. no casual visitors arrived. every common topic of conversation languished; and each individual dreaded lest some other of the party should begin to speak of the indian, whom they were one and all laboriously urgent to forget. the entrance of tea and coffee was an immense relief. their cups were received with unusual complacency, and their drooping spirits revived. the card-tables were just arranged, when murden entered. good god, what a charm was diffused over his countenance! he was pale with fatigue, and want of food; his linen soiled; and his hair disordered with the wind and rain; but there was such a sweetness in his eyes, that no heart could resist it. every one pronounced his name at once. 'dear murden!' breathed lady laura in the melting voice of love: then, covered with confusion, she added, 'dear _mr._ murden, you will kill yourself!' at the same time, she made an involuntary motion for him to seat himself between her and her sister. he did so, his heart was open to the reception of all tenderness. he could not reject lady laura's tone. he took her hand. i saw him press it. he said something low and soft, and her cheeks were instantly suffused with a burning colour. _ah that country girl!_ thought i. i could not help sighing for her. i sighed too for murden. 'would,' said i to myself, 'that he could suffer me to possess his confidence, would suffer me to advise, exhort, and intreat him to be worthy of himself!' perhaps, while these and other such reflections occupied my mind, my eyes were fixed upon murden, for suddenly i perceived that his cheek took a stronger glow than even lady laura's; and he sprang up from his seat. 'james, bring me some biscuits and a jelly,' said he carelessly; 'egad! i believe i have not dined to-day.' this was enough to rouse sir thomas. 'there now!' cried the nabob. 'was ever any thing like it? you have had no dinner! and here you are all this time in wet clothes! lord, have mercy upon me! call your valet!' and he began to ring the bell furiously. 'i am sure, arthur, you will be ill. you will have a fever. you will certainly kill yourself, as lady laura says.' i had too much compassion to look at lady laura; and so had murden, for he crossed the other side of the room, and immediately withdrew. as murden shut one door, a servant opened another, and gave into my hands your last dear letter. i retired to my own chamber to read it. you are a glorious girl, sibella, you elevate, you excite me! you awaken my mind to more and more love of those fervid qualities that shine so eminent in you. had your bonneville lived--well, fear not my love. the day of your liberty will come. there are perhaps other bonnevilles in the world, who will like him delight to give you that instruction for which your mind pants. already, you possess energy, fortitude, and feeling; and those qualities, now kept alive and fostered by your love, may one day be called into action by objects of higher magnitude, of far higher value, (forgive me) than love, though it were the love of a sibella. i stood at my window to read your letter. the rain and wind had ceased; there was not even breeze enough to shake away the drops that yet rested upon the leaves. the dim, grey, melancholy remains of day, just afforded sufficient light to read by; and, when i had finished your letter, i threw up the sash and leaned out, thinking of you, my sibella, in my imagination seeing you, seeing your fawn, your wood, your oak, your black angry looking rock, your solemn ruin, your clumps of yew trees, your white marble tomb. and these objects engrossed my whole attention, while those which surrounded me became hid in darkness. footsteps passed underneath my window through a path leading to the stables. one voice said, 'many and many a hard day's work have my poor dame and i done since, and have gone to bed to cry and moan all night for peggy's naughtiness. we were ashamed to show our faces in our own parish. but your honour assures me you won't forget her.' another voice answered, 'all that i have promised i will perform, depend on it.' the latter voice was murden's. now i felt the chill air of evening, and i shut down my window. 'won't you have candles brought, ma'am?' asked agnes, entering my chamber. 'only think, ma'am,' continued she, 'if that good mr. murden is not going to send one of the grooms eight miles for a physician to come to the poor indian, because the laundry maid, who is just returned from her, told him she is not any better. i believe there never was such a young gentleman.' 'do you know where he is now?' said i. 'gone to the stables, ma'am, to hurry away the groom.' 'is any one with him?' 'only an old farmer, who has been in his dressing room while he dined. i dare say mr. murden has been doing some good thing or other for him too.' 'i hope he has,' replied i. _all that i have promised, i will perform, depend on it_,--i repeated to myself. 'light me down stairs, agnes,' said i. 'i hope, indeed, mr. murden has done him some kindness.' agnes looked at me attentively, and did not reply to me. i returned to the drawing room, divested of that pleasurable glow of feeling which i enjoyed before the voices spoke underneath my window. as i entered the room, lord ulson was saying to my mother, 'such a reference as you propose, madam, would be unpardonable from me, nor can we possibly expect the lady will be sincere.' i was surprised to understand, from the earl's bow, that i was the subject of their conversation; and i requested, that, if his lordship meant me, he would hereafter never expect to find me insincere; and i begged to know i had merited the accusation. mrs. ashburn and the earl mutually explained. his lordship was persuaded, it seems, that a letter exciting such visible pleasure as that did which the servant delivered to me must be from a favoured lover. my mother was certain the effect was produced by my _romantic friendship_, to use her own expression; and, as the earl was incredulous, she was desirous of referring the decision to me. lady laura affectedly begged i would defend the _sweet powers_ of friendship; and my mother sneeringly observed, that i had a fine scope for my talents in the present instance. i took your letter from my pocket. i unfolded and spread it open in my lap. 'this is the letter,' said i. 'a pretty hand,' said colonel ridson. 'nay, it is not a female character, miss ashburn,' the earl said. i asked if i should read it; the earl professed to admire my condescension, but my mother yawned. i selected two passages from your letter, and read them. lord ulson, who had only chosen this subject for want of something to do, was now perfectly satisfied and convinced; for sir thomas had invited him to piquet. the colonel thought your stile very charming. lady barlowe thought it very dull; and, as no one contradicted her ladyship's opinion, the subject would here have ended, had i not as i put the letter again into my pocket, told my mother that her friend mrs. valmont had lately been ill. a poor inanimate vapoured being, mrs. ashburn called her friend; dying, she said, of diseases whose slightest symptom had never reached her, a burden to herself, and a torment to every one else; nevertheless her fate to be pitied, lamented, and deplored without bounds. then it became your uncle's turn; and his sum of enormities was divided and subdivided into multitudes of sins, so that i was ready to ask myself if i had really ever known this mr. valmont. no one spark of pity remained for him. no: he was neither pitied by mrs. ashburn, nor prayed for by the countess of ulson. when my mother had exhausted her topic, i said to her, 'your pictures are vivid to-night, madam. suppose you finish the family. miss valmont, what say you of her?' 'i leave her to you,' replied mrs. ashburn; 'i only think her a little handsome, a little proud, a little ignorant, and half insane. you can tell the rest.' 'pray do, miss ashburn,' cried lady mary bowden. 'i dearly love to hear of queer creatures.' 'i am to add,' said i, 'all that remains of a _queer creature_, already declared to be proud, ignorant, and half mad.--to the best of my judgment, i will. this----' the door opened, and in came mr. murden; and the poor indian, the country girl, and the old farmer who had wept sleepless nights for _peggy's naughtiness_, together rushed upon my imagination. again, lady laura made room for murden; and again, he took his seat on the same sopha. i said to myself, as i looked at him, where are the signs of remorse? there are none. not even the softened eye of new-born virtuous resolutions. strange, that i read of nothing in that face but inward peace and freedom! 'do go on, miss ashburn,' cried lady mary. i did, sibella, i began once more to speak of you; and, in a little time, i called back a part at least of the vigour and warmth which murden's entrance and a train of fugitive thought had chased from me. i began with your beauty: i omitted nothing which i could devise to make the picture worthy of the original. i spoke of the first sight i had of you; the impressive effect at that moment of your face, your form, your attitude, your simple attire. i appealed to my mother, to testify the singular beauty of your eyes, your forehead, your mouth, your hair. i told them that your hair had never been distorted by fashion; that, parted from the top of the head and always uncovered, it fell around your shoulder, displaying at once its profusion and its colour, and ornamenting, as well by its shade as its contrast, one of the finest necks that ever belonged to a human figure. lady laura now grew restless in her seat; for murden listened, he had even dropped a shuttle he had taken out of lady laura's hand, and either inattentively, or quite unconsciously, had allowed her ladyship to stoop to the ground for it herself. still he listened. 'thus adorned by nature,' said i, 'in what way shall i further recommend her? art has disclaimed her. this _queer creature_, lady mary, never out of her uncle's castle since she was six years old, has been left utterly without the skill of the governess and waiting maid. an old tutor, indeed, gave her some singular lessons on the value of sincerity, independence, courage, and capacity; and she, a worthy scholar of such a teacher, as indeed you may judge from the specimen i read of her letter, has odd notions and practices; and, half insane, as mrs. ashburn says, would rather think herself born to navigate ships and build edifices, than to come into a world for no other purpose, than to twist her hair into ringlets, learn to be feeble, and to find her feet too hallowed to tread on the ground beneath her.' 'stop!' cries murden, bending eagerly forward, 'tell me, miss ashburn, of whom you speak.' 'of a miss valmont,' said lady laura, peevishly. 'miss valmont!' rejoined murden, 'miss ashburn, do you really speak of miss valmont?' 'i really do, mr. murden.' he did not reply again; but, folding his arms, he leaned thoughtfully on the back of the sopha. lady laura, now quite out of temper, began to complain that he was an encumbrance; and, forgetting to offer the least apology, he instantly sprang up, and took a distant chair. i should tell you that, by this time, my mother, sir thomas, the earl, and the colonel, were at cards, so that i had only lady barlowe and the younger part of the company for my auditors. 'and how,' asked lady mary, does this odd young lady (i must not again say queer creature) employ her time?' 'playing with cats and dogs, and chattering with servants, i suppose,' said lady barlowe. 'no, lady barlowe,' i replied, 'the resources of her mind, _various_ and _increasing_, to use her own description, furnish better expedients. she wishes for communication, for intercourse, for society; but she is too sincere to purchase any pleasure, by artifice and concealment; she is too proud to tempt the servants from their duty, all of whom, except two, are forbidden to approach her. a grey-headed unpolished footman, brings her breakfast and supper to her apartment. if she is there, it is well; if not, he leaves it, be the time longer or shorter till she does come. her female domestic, deaf and deformed, would attend if summoned; but miss valmont finds her dress simple enough, and her limbs robust enough, to enable her to perform all the functions of her toilet. a true child of nature, bold in innocence, day or night is equally propitious to her rambles; and always mentally alive, she has the glow of animation on her cheeks, the fire of vivacity in her eye, alone in a solitary wood at noon-day or at midnight.' 'at midnight!' lady laura exclaimed, 'surely you did not go alone into the woods at midnight?' i removed the idea her ladyship and others perhaps had of its impropriety, by informing them your wood was of small extent, not distant from the castle, and inclosed within the moat, which, by means of a canal, had been carried round the park as well as castle. 'no human foot,' said i, 'but those admitted over the draw-bridge, can enter this wood, which though small is romantic, and though gloomy has its beauties. it rises on the side of the canal, and terminates at the foot of a rock. it contains a tomb. on one part of the rock are spread the tottering ruins of a small chapel and hermitage, and these objects serve to invite miss valmont to her wood, while they check the approach of diseased imaginations.' i spoke further, sibella, of your favourite lonely haunt, the flying speed with which i have seen you bound there, the affectionate caresses of your little fawn, and numberless other circumstances. lady laura was resolved neither to be amused by the novelty, nor seduced by the merit i had attributed to you. she found you more whimsical than pleasing; more daring than delicate. she wished you all manner of good things; and, among the rest, that you might not at last fall in love with one of your uncle's footmen. i smiled and replied to her ladyship, that your uncle's wisdom and foresight had provided against that misfortune. you already had a lover worthy of you. 'good god! are you acquainted with clement montgomery?' it was murden from whom this exclamation burst; and i looked at him without power to reply. it almost appeared miraculous, to hear any one in that room name clement montgomery. 'is that the mr. montgomery,' lady barlowe asked, 'you went abroad with, murden?' 'yes, madam.' 'then,' said i, 'you know clement montgomery intimately.' he replied that he did. 'how could you be so cruel,' said i; 'why did you not interrupt me long since? you, who know miss valmont's lover, must know miss valmont also. why did you not take the voice of that lover, and paint, as you must have heard him paint, her attractive graces, her noble qualities? oh it was barbarous to leave that to be done by monotonous friendship, to which the spirit of love could alone do justice!' methinks his answer was a very strange one; so cold, so abrupt! i felt displeased at the moment; and checked myself in some eager question i was about to ask respecting clement montgomery. murden's reply, sibella, was,--that i had done enough: and he withdrew, too--immediately withdrew, as if weary of me and my subject. at supper, his place at table was vacant. his valet alledged he was writing letters. sir thomas would be positive he was ill; we heard of nothing but _the fever_, and it is highly probable the house would have been presently half filled with physicians, and sir thomas really in need of them, if murden had not come smiling and languishing into the supper room. this time i had the honour of his choosing his seat next me; and, as i saw that he only pretended to eat in order to appease his uncle, i told him in a low voice i believed he was ill. 'my mind is my disease,' he said. ah, then, thought i, he does perhaps repent! i longed to talk to him, but i could think of no subject, no name but _peggy_; and peggy i had not courage to mention. i made an awkward remark upon our ride to the water side; then i introduced as awkwardly, and to as little purpose, the time of my leaning out of my chamber window. murden, unconscious of my meaning and allusions, heard me composedly; and i ended only where i began. he found me absent and embarrassed; and, though little suspecting that _his mind was_ also _my disease_, his attentions were more exclusively mine, than i had ever before experienced them to have been. a few minutes before the company separated, murden said to me, 'i am informed, miss ashburn, that you intend visiting our poor indian to-morrow morning.' 'yes,' i said, 'i had ordered my horse early for that purpose.' 'i should request your permission to attend you, madam; but i am in some sort engaged to eat my breakfast on brown bread and new milk at a farm-house.' 'a farm-house!' said i. 'yes, madam,' rejoined murden, as calmly as though he had carried content and joy into that farm-house, instead of remorse and misery; 'yes, madam, the most charming spot in this country. my constant house of call in the shooting season. many pleasant brown bread breakfasts and suppers have i eaten there.' so unblushing, so hard-hearted a confession absolutely startled me. i had already risen to retire, he rose also, and said, 'will you, miss ashburn, allow me to ride with you in the morning?' 'and neglect the farm-house, mr. murden.' he replied, 'the time is of little consequence, i can go there afterward.' 'oh, but it is,' said i, '_now_ of infinite consequence. not for the world would i be the means of your dispensing with one title of your promises to that farm-house. pray,' said i, turning back, after having bade him good night, 'mr. murden, do you correspond with clement montgomery?' again i became reconciled to him; again i was persuaded, that he repented of his error, and that he is not hardened in his transgressions, for he understood the fullest tendency of my question. his countenance instantly expressed shame, surprise, and sorrow too; and his voice faultered while he said-- 'why, miss ashburn, why should you wish to know that?' and when he added, 'i do indeed, madam, correspond with mr. montgomery,' he looked from me. my _good night_ was more cordial than the former one; and i hope, that, if murden finds his breakfast at the farm-house less pleasant than heretofore, its usefulness will increase, as its pleasure ceases. day-light bursts into my chamber. in another hour, i shall prepare to visit the indian. my sibella, farewel! caroline ashburn letter viii from clement montgomery to arthur murden infidel as thou art toward beauty, and indolent as thou art in friendship, whence dost thou still derive the power to attract the homage of beauty, and the zeal of friendship. that janetta, the empress of all hearts, but callous thine, possessed sensibility, susceptibility, or even animation, thou, infidel arthur, didst deny. yet janetta can sometimes torture her admiring clement by the repetition of thy praises. four letters of mine, long letters, letters to which i yielded hours that might have been rapturous in enjoyments, those letters lie, the last as the first, unanswered, unheeded in thy possession. i devoutly thank the star that shed its influence over the hour of my birth, that it gave me a temperament opposite to thine, arthur: for, have i not seen thee more than insensible, even averse to the offered favours of the fair? have i not seen thee yawn with listlessness at an assembly, where rank and splendor, the delights of harmony, and the fascinations of beauty, filled my every sense with exstacy? give me the sphere of fashion, and its delights! fix me in the regions of ever varying novelty! mine is life. i sail on an ocean of pleasure. where are its rocks, its sands, its secret whirlpools, or its daring tempests? fables all! fables invented by the envious impotence of snarling cynics, to crush the aspiring fancy of glowing youth! thy apathy, murden, i detest. nay, i pity thee. and i swear by that pity, i would sacrifice some portion of my pleasures, to awaken thee to the knowledge of one hour's rapture. soul-less arthur, how couldst thou slight the accomplished l----? how could thou acknowledge that she was beautiful, yet tell me of her defects?--defects! good heaven! defects, in a beautiful, kind, and yielding woman!--arthur, arthur, in compassion to thy passing youth, thy graceful figure, and all those manly charms with which thou art formed to captivate, forget thy wild chimeras, thy absurd dreams of romantic useless perfections; and make it thy future creed, that in woman there can be no crime but ugliness, no weakness nor defect but cruelty. every day, every hour, janetta brings me new proof that thy judgment is worthless. she has tenderness, she has sensibility; she does not, as thou didst assert, receive my love merely to enrich herself with its offerings; and constancy she has, even more boundless than i (except for a time) could desire; for she talks of being mine for ever, and says, wherever i go thither will she go also. and i will soothe her with the flattering hope. why should i damp our present ardors, by anticipating the hour when we must part? why should i suffuse those brilliant eyes with the tears of sorrow; or wound that fondly palpitating heart, by allowing her to suspect that she but supplies the absence of an all-triumphant rival? ah, let not my thoughts glance that way! let not imagination bring before me the etherial beauty of my sibella! let it not transport me to her arms, within the heaven of valmont wood! or i shall be left a form without a soul; and be excluded from the enjoyment that i now admire, as being in absence my solace, my happiness. i expected i should have been dull without thee, murden; but i hardly know, except when i am writing, that thou hast left me. i dress, i dance, i ride, i visit, i am visited. my remittances bring me all i wish, in their profusion. i adore, and am adored; the nights and days are alike devoted to an eternal round of pleasures; and lassitude and i are unacquainted. 'read the hearts of men,' says mr. valmont. i cannot. i am fascinated with their manners. i pant to acquire the same soft polish; and their endearing complaisance to my endeavours. that graceful polish is already thine; and, there, i envy thee. i envy too thy reputation; but i hate thy cold reserve. why, if these triumphs which are attributed to thee be really thine, why conceal them? others can tell me of thy successes, can show me the very objects for whom thou hast sighed, whom thou hast obtained. when i alledge that i found thee constantly dissatisfied, contemplating some imaginary being, complaining that too much or too little pride, defective manners, or a defective mind, gave thee an antidote against love, i am assured that it was the mere effect of an overweening vanity. seymour, who pretends to know thee much better than i do, declares thou art vain beyond man's belief or woman's example. he is thy sworn enemy; and well he may, provided his charges against thee be true, for the other night in the confidence of wine, he assured me, that thou art the seducer of his mistress. a mistress, fond and faithful, till she listened to thy seductions. is it possible, murden, thou canst have been thus dishonourably cruel? i doubt the veracity of seymour's representation; for, i think thou are not only too strict for the transaction, but too inanimate to be assailed by the temptation. prithee, arthur, banish this thy ever impenetrable reserve; and tell me truly, whether thou art inflated with victory; fastidious from change; or, whether, as i deem thee, thou are not really too cold to love; whether thou hast not cherished the indolent caprice of thy temper, till it has deadened thee into marble? once more, i thank heaven i am not like thee. ever may i thrill at the glance, the smile of beauty! ever may i live, to know no business but pleasure; and may my resources ever be as unconfined as my wishes! clement montgomery letter ix from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn it is now a week since, one evening at sunset, i carried your letters, and that portrait painted by clement in the days when we knew no sorrow, into the wood; where, shutting out every remembrance, save those of love and friendship, i was for a time wrapped in the sublimity of happiness. is the mind so much fettered by its earthly clog the body, that it cannot long sustain these lofty flights, soaring as it were into divinity, but must ever sink back to its portion of pains and penalties? for, this i have before experienced; and, at the time of which i speak, pain and grief suddenly burst in upon me. i rushed from the foot of my oak to the monument; and, resting there, wept with a bitterness equal in degree to my former pleasure. nina was at my side--and her flying from me into the wood, was a signal that some one approached. i raised my head; and beheld, descending from the ruin on the rock, the tall figure of a venerable man, with a white and flowing beard. he was wrapped in a sort of loose gown; a broad hat shaded part of his face; his step was feeble; he frequently tottered; and, when he had come near to me, he leaned both hands on his staff, and addressed me thus. 'fair virgin, weep not! the spirits of the air gather round you; and form a band so sacred, that the malignant demons hover at a distance, hopeless of approach. your guardian angel presides over this grove. here, mildew, mischief, and mischance, cannot harm you. fair virgin weep not!' he paused, i said, 'who are you?' 'once,' he continued, 'i was the hallowed tenant of yon ruined mansion; once, an inhabitant of earth, it was my lot to warn the guilty, and to soothe the mourner. well may such tears as thine draw me back to earth. i come, the spirit of consolation. fair virgin, why weepest thou?' 'i know,' i said, 'that the sleep of death is eternal. that the grave never gives back, to form and substance, the mouldering body; and it indeed matters little to me who or what you are, since i well know you cannot be what you would seem.' i stepped down from the monument; and turned up the wood path, leading to the castle. 'stay,' cried he. 'do you doubt my supernatural mission?--view my testimony. behold, i can renovate old age!' i looked back, the beard, the hat, the mantle were cast aside; and a young man of graceful form and fine physiognomy appeared before me. i stood, an instant, in surprise; and then, i again turned toward the castle. he stepped forward, and intercepted my path with outspread arms. 'fear me not,' said he. 'i----' 'no,' i answered. 'i do not fear you, though i know of no guardian angels but my innocence and fortitude.' he folded his arms, fixed his eyes upon the ground, and i passed on without further interruption. when andrew brought supper into my apartment, i asked if there were strangers in the castle; and andrew shook his head, by which i understood that he did not know if there were any. the following morning, i expected my uncle's commands to absent myself from the wood; and though no message came, i did absent myself, both on that day and on the succeeding day and their nights, confining all my walks to the open ground behind the castle and the lawn. during these two days, i was attended only by margaret. poor andrew was indisposed. banished from my oak, deprived of my nina's society, excluded even from the slight intercourse the table afforded with mr. and mrs. valmont (for my uncle has lately determined, that it is an indelicate custom to meet together at stated times for the sole purpose of eating; and refreshment is now served up to each in our separate apartments) it is nearly impossible to tell you, caroline, how much _alone_ i felt myself, while these two days and two nights lasted. the third day was bleak and stormy; the wind roared; and showers fell frequently. every one of this household seems at all times loath to encounter such inclemencies, and i imagined that to me alone these were things of little moment. i went, therefore, to the wood; but, ere nina had expressed half her joy, the stranger appeared. 'why fly me,' he said, 'if you do not fear me?' 'i shun you,' replied i, 'because i do not understand you.' 'but, if you shun me, you cannot understand me.' 'i do not deem you worthy of enquiry,' i said; 'for you came with pretences of falsehood and guile, and those are coverings that virtue ever scorns.' 'fair philosopher,' he exclaimed, 'teach me how you preserve such vigour, such animation, where you have neither rivalship to sustain, nor admiration to excite? are you secluded by injustice from the world? or, do you willingly forsake its delights, to live the life of hopeless recollection? say, does the beloved of your soul sleep in that monument?' the supposition, caroline, was for an instant too agonizing; and i called twice on the name of clement, with a vehemence that made this man start. his face flushed with colour; he retreated a few steps, and looked every way around him. 'no,' said i, as he again approached, 'my beloved lives. our beings are incorporate as our wishes. the sepulchre need not open twice. no tyranny could separate us in death. but who are you,' i added, 'that come hither to snatch from me the moments i would dedicate to remembrances of past pleasure, and to promising expectation?' 'is then your heart so narrowed by love, that it can admit neither friendship nor benevolence?' i answered, 'to my friendship you have no claim; for, we are not equal. you wear a mask. esteem and unreserved confidence are the only foundations of friendship.' as he had done on the former day, he again intercepted my path; for i was going to quit the wood. 'stay,' he said, 'and hear me patiently; or i may cast a spell around you!' he interrupted the reply i was beginning to make, thus--'i do not bid you fear me. my power is not terrible, but it is mighty. tell me, then,' he added, 'have you no sense of the blessings of intercourse? have you never reflected on the selfishness of solitude, on the negative virtues of the recluse?' 'i find you here,' said i, 'in mr. valmont's wood; and i expect, therefore, that you already know my seclusion is not the effect of my choice.' 'but from whom, other than yourself, am i to learn why it is the effect of your submission?' this was a question, caroline, which i had never steadily put to myself; and i stood silent some moments before i found my answer. i said, 'i am not yet convinced that the time is arrived when my submission ought to cease.' 'ah, rather, honestly confess,' he replied, 'that you shun a stern contention with that power which here detains you. but there are other means. a secret escape. if you resolve to exert yourself for that purpose----' 'no,' i said, 'i am not weak enough to descend to artifice. did i think it right to go, i should go openly. then might mr. valmont try his opposing strength. but he would find, i could leap, swim, or dive; and that moats and walls are feeble barriers to a determined will.' 'oh, stay, stay in these woods for ever!' he vehemently exclaimed. 'go not into the world, where artifice might assail and example corrupt that noble sincerity. or if, as i think, your courage, your integrity, are incorruptible. oh yet, go not into the world! view not its disgusting follies! taste not its chilling disappointments!' my answer was: 'i am accustomed to listen to inconsistencies. you just now, spoke of the pleasures and blessings of society.' as he did not reply, but stood as though he was musing, i thought i could pass him, which i attempted to do. he immediately knelt on one knee before me; spread one hand on his bosom, and said-- 'you are above my controul. i would not dare profane you, by the single touch of my finger. but i beseech you, by that firmness, that innocence which holds distrust and danger at defiance, i beseech you listen to me a few short moments longer.' 'have you any thing to impart which can interest me?' i asked him. 'i have that which ought to interest you.'--he rose from his kneeling posture, and appeared to hesitate. 'alas,' he then added, 'i have many many faults! i am unstable in wise resolutions; and yielding, as childhood, to temptation. i wanted a guide, a monitor. i sought one in the world, and found only tempters. i have quitted the world. i have chosen my abode in that ruin. there i would fain learn to amend myself. i want to learn to be happy. but i come not to that ruin, to banish you from this wood. this is your selected spot; and that is mine. only a few paces divides them. yet, if you say it must be so, the distance shall be as impassable as though entire kingdoms lay between us. ah, reflect a moment before your single word forms this immense barrier!--a moment did i say?--no: reflect a day. leave me now in silence; and return to-morrow, the next day, when you will, and then tell me, if you could not sometimes find me a more sympathizing auditor than trees and marble, when you would breathe complaint, or utter joy. go then. but----' a second time he hesitated; and, when he spoke again, his articulation was changed from its clear decisive character to a thicker lower utterance. 'be aware,' he said, 'that there are certain requisites necessary to form the utility of my solitude: uninterrupted retirement, and perfect secresy.' was i unjust, caroline? but his mention of secresy instantly filled my mind with a supposition that his words wore one form, and his intentions another. i warned him to depart. i told him, i despised concealment; that i had ever scorned to separate my wishes from my acts, or my actions from my words. i said, his caution pointed out my duty. i bade him, as i then thought a final adieu. i proceeded immediately to the library, to relate this conversation to my uncle. there i was told, that my uncle was gone from the castle, not to return till four days were past. i then requested to be admitted into mrs. valmont's dressing room, and she received me. her conduct disgusted me extremely at the time; and i have since thought it very extraordinary, that mrs. valmont should doubt my veracity. scarcely had i described the manner in which the person in the wood first came to me, than mrs. valmont broke my narration by asking me over and over again, i know not how many times--'had i indeed seen a hermit come out of the ruin?--was i quite sure i had seen him?--could it really be true!' not disposed to hear such offensive repetitions, i declined entering any further into the story; and merely said, that, if the person was a visitor in the castle, it might be proper for her to signify to him that his intrusion in the rock and wood would be displeasing to my uncle, and highly inconvenient to me. i went to my own apartments. on the next morning, i rose as i frequently do, at the first dawn of day--do you recollect the situation of my apartments? you will certainly remember, that the south-west wing is rather distant from that part of the body of the castle where most of the family inhabit. you know too that my rooms open into a long gallery; but you never explored this gallery. my hours with you were rich in pleasure and variety; and i thought not then of the solitary haunts to which i fly, when i seek amusement and find none. this gallery, at the remote end from the body of the castle, closes with a stair case. these stairs descend into a narrow and winding passage of the west tower, and lead to the door of the armoury. it is probable you never saw either the west tower or the armoury. they are both out of repair, and altogether out of use; nor do i recollect any that i ever saw one of the family enter them but clement and myself. in very tempestuous weather, the armoury was a favourite place of resort for us. the various implements and cases of steel with which it is furnished, were subjects of wonder and conjecture; besides, it is a hall of large dimensions, and we possessed it so free of interruptions, that it served better for play and recreation than any other apartment we were allowed to frequent within the castle. at a very early hour on the succeeding morning, as i before said, i rose and left my chamber, to walk in the armoury. after i had gone down the stairs, and as i had nearly reached the end of the dark stone passage, i heard a sudden creaking noise; but whether or not it proceeded from the armoury i could not be certain. i entered the armoury. the door closed heavily after me. there was scarcely light enough to distinguish the surrounding objects.--i stood still.--but all was silent. i walked about; and other thoughts entirely effaced an impression of something unusual in the noise; till, again, and in a louder degree, it assailed me. i hastened toward the door, but the voice i had heard in the wood called me to stay. i turned round, and the same figure was before me. andrew interrupts me. my uncle is returned home; has something to communicate; and expects me now. i go. in continuation. farewel, thou precious resemblance i must part with thee. from yesterday, until the present hour, thou hast been mine. farewel, then, exquisite shadow! caroline, i left my letter unfinished, yesterday; and hastened to the library. 'come hither, child,' my uncle said as i entered; 'and tell me if this be a likeness.' he presented to me a small case, and i beheld the picture of clement. i folded both hands over it on my bosom. i had not words to thank mr. valmont; but the tears that rolled upon my cheeks were tears of gratitude. 'i ordered clement,' my uncle continued, 'to send me his portrait, done by an eminent artist; and his obedience has been as prompt as i could desire. you may retire, sibella, and take the picture with you; but you are to bring it back to the library to-morrow after my dinner hour.' only, conceive, caroline, how i flew back to my apartment. think how many fond avowals, how many rapturous caresses, i bestowed on the insensible image. while i eat, it lay before me; and while i slept, the little that i did sleep, it rested on my pillow. i have counted the stroke of five, from the great clock. now mr. valmont dines; and the picture is no longer mine. i have placed it in its case, ready for the hand of mr. valmont. i become dispirited. farewel, precious shadow! farewel, also, caroline to you! sibella valmont i have torn the seal away from this letter! i am breathless with the tidings! clement, my clement, is to return! oh, caroline, caroline, did you ever weep for joy? letter x from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont certainly, a picture is at all times a very pretty toy; and i can readily imagine, that the picture of an absent lover must be indeed a precious blessing; but you will forgive me, sibella, if i honestly confess that i have a hundred times, since the receipt of your letter, wished clement had not been so willing, or his artist not so ready. oh, that mr. valmont had withheld the picture but one hour longer! then would the womanish curiosity of caroline ashburn have been gratified. for, trust me, sibella, your surprise at finding your enigmatical hermit in the armoury could not exceed my disappointment at leaving him and you there without further explanation. i have imagined and imagined; returned to the subject; and quitted it again, more wearied than before; and, though i did, after a time, discover that i never should, by the mere aid of suppositions, find of what materials your hermit is composed, yet i have persisted in comparing accidents, and combining circumstances perhaps totally remote from each other, with the vain hope of tracing him. knowing how much your uncle worships mystery, i sometimes think it may be one of his stratagems;--sometimes that----psha! the folly of conjecture grows with me. pardon me, sibella, you are above these things. uniform in rectitude, you steadily pursue the path before you; nor mislead yourself to follow the swervings of others. in compassion, however, to the longings of your friend, hasten to communicate the remainder of this your adventure. our poor indian is dead. she survived her reception at barlowe hall only about ten days; and, during the visits i made her, i never found her capable of sustaining any conversation with me. from her, as she was long a resident in the family, i hoped and expected to have been informed by what means my father amassed his fortune: for, the suspicions which i find generally attached to east indian riches sit heavy on my mind. i do not love to encourage suspicion, for it is cowardly; nor can i indeed fairly give my opinions the name of suspicions, for i am persuaded, that in whatever clime or country it be found, the mind that grasps at such inordinate wealth must be vicious, and that there can be but little to choose among the degrees of vice wherewith it is obtained. yet, being convinced as to that point, i still wish to know the employments of my father's life: for it is possible there may be some retribution to make to individuals. a voyage to india for such a purpose, sibella, would be but as a pleasant summer day's excursion. your letter has been sent after me to bath, for barlowe hall no longer retains her circle of gay visitors. the ulson family have gone i forget where, and taken the winderhams with them, while we, together with sir thomas, lady barlowe, and colonel ridson, arrived at bath last week. the season is crowded, and my mother and the nabob think themselves fortunate in having been able to secure one large and commodious house for the reception of both families. this arrangement lady barlowe and mrs. ashburn profess to find very pleasing. they declare a violent friendship for each other; and use it as a cloak for the workings of their secret malignities. my mother is the object of lady barlowe's envy: for the nabob's fears have made him covetous; he hoards his diamonds in their cases; and lady barlowe's glitter is out-glared by the happier uncontrouled mrs. ashburn. on the other hand, lady barlowe has youth, and has beauty; and these attractions mrs. ashburn finds the lustre of the diamond will not altogether outshine, though there are many among the venal crowd, who daily offer up at the shrine of wealth the incense due to merit, wit, and beauty. sir thomas, i believe, considers himself as bound to play both his own part and his nephew's; and to overwhelm us with the attentions and kindnesses, his ungracious arthur withheld. did i not tell you, or rather did i not intimate, that before mr. murden made his appearance amongst us, the baronet evidently bestowed him upon me? but, alas, scarcely had he arrived, when his uncle, remembering the value of a certain old proverb, left me to seek another lover; and gave or would have given his all-prized nephew to my mother. it was highly whimsical to see the baronet's labours to promote this end. he dared not be quite certain, that murden, although dependent on him, would yield him an implicit obedience; and yet, according to his understanding, the scheme had so many and such important recommendations, that they were not to be hastily rejected. fearing to be out-talked, if not convinced, should he at once resort to his nephew's opinion, the baronet would not venture to do so; but, secure in the presence of numbers, he grew bold at hint, and soon made his plan fully comprehended by every person present; and put his nephew's ingenuity to the trial to find methods how to express his disapprobation, without being rude and offensive to the feelings of any one. i cannot say that mrs. ashburn appeared to think sir thomas very absurd in his designs. after playing this game of hint, till the party talked of separating, the baronet then acquired courage enough to make a direct attack on his nephew; the latter gave an explicit refusal to the proposal; and the former for some days lost his good humour and his patience. it was, i suppose, in consequence of this marked displeasure from his uncle, that murden thought of paying a visit to a friend at some distance from barlowe hall. at first, sir thomas opposed it not; but when murden was actually on the point of going, the nabob relaxed his solemn displeasure, and earnestly requested arthur not to leave him. arthur, in his turn, became inflexible, and would not be intreated. he had written, he said to his friend, and go he must. at length, however, he condescendingly offered to hasten to join us at bath; and, having thus accommodated their difference, the nabob and his nephew parted very good friends. this serious altercation on the subject of mr. murden's quitting our party, took place in the breakfast parlour. lady mary bowden invited me soon after to walk with her. 'don't you think,' said she, putting her arm through mine, as soon as we had crossed the threshold of the hall door, 'that murden is very obstinately bent on making this excursion?' 'i think him determined,' answered i; 'and perhaps very properly so.' 'thereby hangs a tale,' said lady mary. 'i don't love tales, lady mary.' she looked at me, and smiled. 'yet, i believe you are willing to hear this,' she said, 'and i am resolved to tell it you.' lady mary certainly did not lay that to my charge, of which i was undeserving; for i quietly suffered her to proceed in her story. it was an accusation against murden, that his pretended visit of friendship to mr. villier was in fact a visit of a different kind, to a female in mr. villier's neighbourhood, of whom lady mary said murden had not been the original seducer; that she had been lured from her friends by another person, and that having preferred the attractions of murden, she made a pretence of returning to her friends, in order to be the more conveniently under his protection. lady mary added a number of little corroborating anecdotes, which gave the affair a striking appearance of matter of fact; and i was inclined to believe it, till i recollected how much my opinion had been misled by appearances in the affair of peggy, of which i spoke to you in my last letter. warned by that example, i began to doubt the representations of her ladyship; and begged she would join with me in having better hopes of murden, and endeavouring to discountenance the unsupported assertions that were spread abroad concerning him. lady mary willingly promised, and i dare say as readily forgot it the very next instant. as i told you, sibella, my suspicions of peggy, i will now tell you her history at once, without going through the round of circumstances that brought me acquainted with it. in murden's own words, you have learned, that the pleasant farm was his house of call in the shooting season. the farmer is an industrious and worthy man; and his daughter peggy is, or rather was, ere disappointment fed upon her bloom, a very pretty girl. joseph, murden's servant, fell in love with peggy, and peggy with joseph. he was sober; he had some expectations from friends; and his master thought very well of him; and all this together induced the father of peggy to consent. the marriage was settled as a certain thing; but a delay of time was agreed on among all parties; and joseph went to london with his master. it so happened, that at christmas joseph's father died; and, as he was a shopkeeper in a country town, joseph might, if he chose, succeed him, and marry peggy directly. he consulted murden, who approved much of his designs, and likewise gave him thirty pound to assist in forwarding them. thus, rich in pocket and in expectation, ere he commenced shopkeeper, joseph went first to stay a week at peggy's farm, to settle the time of marriage, &c. &c. alas, the week began with much happiness, and laid the foundation for much sorrow. peggy became too indulgent to her lover; and, in consequence, her lover cruelly forgot to come back, as he had promised, at six weeks end and marry her. peggy's father had a strong sense of honest pride; he disdained to solicit an ungenerous man. on the contrary, he exhorted peggy to forget him, be industrious, and hereafter irreproachable. but while he was thus daily kind to peggy, the poor old man, as he told murden underneath my window, wept through sleepless nights for peggy's naughtiness. murden knew nothing of these transactions. he had not called at the farm-house since he arrived at barlowe hall, when we met peggy in the narrow lane. i can now well account for her blushes, and his surprise. he, struck with her appearance and her manner, left us to fish, and went to inform himself at the farm why peggy was still in that part of the world. the father was absent; but the mother told him the whole story, and he promised to do all that lay within his power to restore the peace of the family. it was peggy's earnest longing to save herself from present pain at any future risk; and murden thought it right to forward her wishes. he sent for joseph, who was growing rich at five and twenty miles distance, but who not having more vices than his neighbours was willing enough to be ruled by a greater man than himself, and accordingly became either really or seemingly very penitent. the end of the whole is, that peggy's present disgrace is salved by marriage. a foolish and impotent remedy, in my opinion; removing a partial evil, most probably to begin a lasting one. how i misjudged murden in this affair!--others too may have misjudged him. i persuade myself they have. men, my dear sibella, have not that enthusiasm and vigour in their friendships that we possess. i never could get murden to talk much of clement montgomery, though i urged him to it repeatedly. as an incentive thereto, as well as to gratify my own feelings, i made you and your manners a perpetual theme of conversation when i held conversations with murden. perhaps my descriptions interested him, for he was never unwilling to listen to me, though he uniformly persisted in repressing my enquiries, if they led to the subject of his friendship for clement, with an insuperable coldness.--too vain, possibly, to praise the perfections of another; yet too honest, to deny their existence. inconsistent being! inconsistent in all things that i know of him, except in his conduct to his uncle. there he is firm, settled and manly, respectful, but never fawning; he opposes sir thomas without petulance, and obeys him without humiliation. such conduct will ever secure its proper reward. the nabob feels his superiority, and still loves him. sir thomas barlowe rejoices, i am glad, while mrs. ashburn and lady barlowe are neither pleased nor displeased, that to-morrow is the day of murden's arrival. the other ladies of his acquaintance here, to whom i have been introduced, are not so indifferent as the two last mentioned to murden's appearance; for, i have already heard some praise him indiscriminately as lady laura bowden would, and others comment upon his attractions and his vices with as little true feeling of either as lady mary did. i am glad he comes to bath, for i shall now see him amidst a multitude, where new faces, new forms will continually present themselves; where temptations will rush in crowds, and where the sober pace of reflection is outstripped by the flying speed of pleasure. if i do not now learn to appreciate his character, it will be owing rather to the idleness of my discernment than its want of space enough to practice in. do not imagine, dear sibella, that because i have run through so many lines without a word of congratulation i am insensible to the joy which swells in your bosom on the expected return of your lover. i do indeed congratulate you. your uncle becomes reasonable. his mysteries and his contradictions vanish. sibella expects her clement; and the heavy gates of valmont castle will fly back, that peace and liberty may enter. nevertheless, in the prosperity of your expectations, forget not the hermit in the armoury, and the longings of your caroline ashburn letter xi from clement montgomery to arthur murden dear arthur, precisely such a command to return home, so sudden, and so unexpected as you received five months past from sir thomas barlowe, have i received from mr. valmont; but the speed of your obedience bore no proportion to mine, for hither have i come with a rapidity which scarcely yielded to rest and refreshment. here i am already arrived almost within sight of the castle's prison like towers, and here have i been traversing the paltry room of an inn for one hour and three quarters. how much longer i shall stay here i know not, but by heaven were i to depart with a thorough good will, it would be to take the road back to the continent. arthur, arthur, what a lesson it is that i have to get by rote! 'fully assured, clement,' says mr. valmont in his letter, 'that you cannot have departed from the rule of conduct i desired you to pursue, i do not doubt but that you will joyfully quit the haunts of treacherous sordid men, to enjoy with me the pleasant solitude of valmont castle, &c. &c.' no one knows better than yourself, dear murden, how closely i have pursued mr. valmont's _rule of conduct_, and i think you can guess also how greatly i shall now _enjoy the pleasant solitude of valmont castle_. for a week, a month, perchance, the blooming sibella will render the wilderness a world. could i flatter myself, that mr. valmont recals me to give her to my arms, how i should bound over the distance which now separates us? no, arthur, no such blessing awaits your luckless friend; i am to look on her as a sister, says mr. valmont. good heaven! and he recals me to stand perpetually on the brink of a precipice! for how can i hear her, look on her, touch her, and be a brother? nay, the very first moment of my entrance into that castle may undo me, for she will rush to my embrace, she will cover me with kisses, and his chilling eye will be on me. had mr. valmont left me with the cottagers my parents, i had never seen sibella; then i had dreamed through a stupid existence, without knowing life and love. had he kept me the recluse of his woods, she had by this time infused her wild untamed spirit unto me, and i should have torn her from him, imagining we could live on berries, and drink water. no more of that, arthur. no! no! i now see the full value of my obedience to mr. valmont's commands; for i would, by heaven, rather this moment endure the rack, than be blasted to a life of hateful indigence, abhorred poverty! ay, ay, i must obey, must obey, murden. must, while my heart, my desires, my wishes, are still the same, must cloak them to please mr. valmont's eye; to fit his fashion i must be _a brother_ to my charming sibella; must abjure a world i adore, rail at men, curse women.--i invite you to the castle, arthur, come and visit me in my disguise; come and by reminding me of times past, keep alive my hopes and expectations of times that may come. here, while i stay in this inn, i prepare for the first essay of my practice in the cynical science. i have been recollecting, as well as i could, the scraps and remnants of mr. valmont's harangue of man and womankind; and i think i have made of my memory a sort of common place book of this delectable jargon, from which i can pick and cull for all mr. valmont's occasions. half an hour or so, i stood before the looking-glass, to find what face was fittest to carry to the castle. the glances i have of late been used to, may do for the wood when mr. valmont is out of sight, but they will not suit the library. they speak a promptitude for pleasure. i must hide them under my cloak, and borrow something, if i can, of mr. valmont's sallow hues. yet these prudent necessary considerations found not an entrance into my mind till i came within six miles of valmont castle. i was engrossed by a circumstance that hastened me to fly from the scene where i had known so much of joy and pleasure. abandoned, artful, cursed deceiver! i speak, arthur, of janetta, who has plundered, duped, and jilted me. how well she feigned her passion! how artfully she drew me on continually to sacrifice to her avarice and vanity, till i was almost beggared; and with what management did she evade my first suspicions, and elude my enquiries, till at length an accident gave me proof too strong to be doubted or evaded, that she was falser than falsehood; that she was at once mine, and the mistress of her friend's husband! i would not trust myself to hear her plead in her defence; i would not stand the fascinations of her divine face; but having received mr. valmont's letter an hour before, i ordered my clothes to be packed up, and without taking leave of one single acquaintance, i set off post for england--ha! was ever any thing more unfortunate than this. ross, mr. valmont's steward, and one of the grooms from the castle have come into this inn, and know i am here. the groom i could manage, but ross is not to be tampered with; and as sure as i live, he will inform mr. valmont of my passing half a day so near the castle. had i possessed an atom of common understanding, i might have foreseen such an accident; and now, for want of this small share of foresight, i am panic struck. ross was going from, not to the castle, therefore i will take one quarter of an hour to chill my looks into brotherhood, and then brave the worst. clement montgomery letter xii from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn hail, dearest caroline!--yes, peace and liberty, with every blessing for which sibella pants, will enter when the 'heavy gates of valmont castle fly back' to receive her clement. i do not count the minutes, for that would be to make time more tedious, but i walk with a quicker step, with a firmer mien. i am ever seeking change of place, and sleep and i are almost unacquainted. yet other countenances wear the uniformity they did before. no matter!--but a short time; and, when i went to compare my own transports, i can look on the eye, or read the heart of clement, and find them more than equalled. my thoughts haste so pressingly to the future, that it requires an effort stronger than you can conceive, (you who expect no clement) to turn them back to the detail you require. i cannot be minute as to a conversation in which the hermit (as you call him) was chief speaker; for some parts of it i have forgotten, and others i did not understand. he spoke with a rapidity which made him almost unintelligible; and his pauses seemed rather the effect of sudden anxiety, than of attention to my answers; he talked of escapes and accidents in a disjointed manner; so that, from his broken sentences, one might have supposed he meant i had placed him in hazard, and that i had conducted him to the armoury. that which i remember most clearly was, the earnestness with which he urged me to lay no future restraint on myself. he said his interruptions were now ended--but, he added, and several times repeated, we should one day or other meet again; he then spoke something of dangers, but i know not whether they related to himself or me. he was very pale, wildness and apprehension were marked on his features. he wore his hermit's hat and cloak, but the former was quite mis-shapen, and both disfigured by dust and cobwebs. once, in the vehemence of his speech, he raised his arm, the folds of his cloak became loosened, and i saw a sword glitter beneath it. i left him in the armoury, nor have i entered it since. the wood is all my own again. no figure glides upon me but that my imagination loves to form. on the day succeeding that in which i found the hermit in the armoury, i saw mrs. valmont walking on the terrace. i went to her, and spoke of the circumstance. she appeared agitated by my words; she grasped my hand, and said the finger of heaven was in it; and she talked further in a strange way, of something that she called _it_, and _it_. she would not be me, she said, for worlds. i do fear the disorder has affected her intellects. but a little interval between me and perfect happiness! i cannot write. you know, caroline, i love you, but now, indeed, i cannot write. dearest caroline, adieu. sibella valmont letter xiii from clement montgomery to arthur murden 'tis all gone, murden. the pinnacle of my hopes and expectations is crumbled to the dust. where shall i turn me, or what consolation shall i ask? arthur, do not bestow on me that insolent pity which only augments misfortune. i am not the same clement montgomery you formerly knew, brought up in the castle, with homage and respect, afterward introduced into the circles of fashion, as mr. valmont's heir, and supported with an allowance equal to that expectation; no, i am only one to whom he gave an accidental kindness, on whom he bestowed temporary favours, and whom he now condemns to the abhorred life of care, and plodding with the lower orders of mankind. cursed be the hour in which i entered that inn, from whence i wrote you my last letter! in that hour my misfortunes began. when i arrived at the castle, mr. valmont was from home. every creature rejoiced in my arrival. even the insensible mrs. valmont lavished caresses on me, and praised the improvements of my person. ah! but how can i tell you of sibella's joy? i know nothing that describes it: so unrestrained, so exquisitely soft and tender, exquisitely delicate in all its effusions! she appeared to me quite a new creature. i could not but acknowledge to myself, that her charms surpassed even the faithless janetta's charms. i loved her the first moment i beheld her better than i had ever loved her before; and i in secret cursed myself for having sacrificed my innocence, and cursed you also, arthur, who once said, _forget her in other arms_. one hour i passed in heaven, and then mr. valmont returned home. ross came with him. i saw them ride over the bridge, and i trembled with apprehension. mr. valmont did not leave me long in doubt; for, when i would have hastened to the library, i was stopped by his gentleman who denied me admittance. three days mr. valmont preserved his inflexible resentment; and these three days were passed with sibella. she knew not why her uncle was in anger with me, and she reviled him and cheered me with her smiles, and sweet sounds of love, that i might not droop at my reception. she bade me talk of the world. alas, it was an alluring theme, and i talked with more ardor than discretion of its abounding delights. i did not tell her though, arthur, of all the delights i had tasted there. on the fourth morning, a messenger came to summon me to the library. i turned pale, i loitered. 'go! fly, clement!' said sibella: 'cast away these apprehensions. recollect, my dear, dear clement, that my uncle's favourite maxim is, that disappointment should be always the forerunner of pleasure. who knows but mr. valmont at this moment waits to bestow happiness on us?' i went. with very different forebodings from sibella's i entered mr. valmont's presence. he received me like a stern haughty judge; i stood an abashed fearful culprit. he bitterly inveighed against my want of duty, in resting so long in that inn so near his castle, after two years absence. he demanded the reasons of my conduct; and i stammered an incoherent something about want of horses, and having had letters to write. he saw i lied. he knew i lied. 'well, sir,' said he, after a pause, 'we will pass that by for the present. now give me an account of your travels, and their effect upon your opinions.' no matter what i said, arthur. 'tis enough to tell you of the manner. it seems i had not rancour enough for mr. valmont; i could not belie my feelings with sufficient warmth. i could not renounce enormities i had never known, and which have no existence but in his own inflated imagination. sensible, that the manner of my description, and mr. valmont's expectations, bore no sort of affinity, i became more and more confused; until one of those frowns and gestures, which at nine years old made me tremble for my life, now imposed on me a sudden silence. my sentence remained unfinished, and mr. valmont leaning upon the table, beat an angry tattoo with the fingers of his right hand. his eyes rolled from one object to another, without resting upon any thing. it might be a minute or more, perhaps, in my estimation it was an age, that we remained thus. suddenly sibella opened the door and entered a little way, in a light and cheerful manner; but seeing the state we were in, she hesitated, turned an enquiring look upon me, and then made a graceful bend to mr. valmont. 'how now, sibella?' said he, 'who bid you come hither?' 'i came, sir----' she replied, in a sweet but irresolute accent, and then she again looked at me. 'i say, by what authority do you come, since you have not mine?' while mr. valmont sternly asked that question, she kept her eyes fixed on my pale perplexed countenance. 'ah, sir,' said she anxiously, 'don't you love clement now?' mr. valmont made no reply for two or three seconds. i dared not look up to see whether he was more, or less angry. 'tell me, child,' said he presently, to sibella, 'what has that boy said to you, since he returned so _affectionately_, _so dutifully_, _so speedily_, to valmont castle?' sibella paused: 'tell me no falsehoods,' said he still more sternly. 'falsehoods!' she repeated in a forcible tone, the colour mounting higher in her cheeks, 'sir, i have nothing to do with falsehoods. i paused, because i thought i could not readily collect the matter of our conversations into the compass of one answer. i might, indeed have done it, for they have been uniform. we have talked, sir, of our unchanging truth. of times past, and times to come. of the world, of its pleasures, and its virtues. of----' 'enough of it.' cried mr. valmont, darting on me a glance of extreme wrath; 'you talked, you say, of times that are to come. pray, who endowed you with the gift of foretelling what times are to come?' 'sir, our endowments are perfectly natural. we do not presume to tell of the future, except as far as it is confined to the feelings of our own hearts. we know, fully and entirely know, that our hearts must cease to throb with life, when that love is extinguished, which was born and nurtured to its growth, under the encouragement of your approbation--do not frown on me, sir,--i--i----' mr. valmont did not speak while sibella made a faultering stop. she shortly went on again thus: 'i confess, sir, that i do fear you. habit is prevalent with me, and i still tremble at your frowns. i would not offend you, but i must expostulate. oh be not, i intreat you, be not angry with clement for loving me! he must love me. our love is the very soul of our being. give us then, sir, new life! unalloyed felicity! say----' she seized my hand, and leading me close up to mr. valmont, she added, with rapid vehemence: 'say now, that he is mine, and i am his for ever!' her emphasis made me tremble. i had neither power to brave him, and speak with her, nor attempt conciliating him, by withdrawing my hand from her's. in a much less angry tone, although she had been so much more bold, than he had used to me, mr. valmont said, 'you are strangely presumptuous, child. have i not told you, i have other designs. have i not a right over you?' 'no, you have none!' replied sibella, abruptly: 'no right to the exercise of an unjust power over me! why dream of impossibilities, and talk of other designs? i tell you, sir, i have looked on every side, and i find it is your caprice, and no principle of reason in you, that forbids our union.' had you seen him, arthur, you could alone judge of the rage into which this daring speech threw mr. valmont. he sprang up, _my caprice!_ he vociferated, and after bestowing on sibella an execration, he rushed past us out of the library. sibella, neither abashed nor terrified, would have me go with her into the park, but i dared not; fearing that mr. valmont might think i joined in braving him if he saw us together. i endeavoured to persuade her it was necessary i should remain in the library, and proper that she should leave me. the lovely romantic girl called me weakly timid, and left me somewhat displeased. i sat out the time of mr. valmont's absence from the library, full two hours, arthur. when he came in, he said, 'go, sir. i shall have occasion for you by and by.' so much prudence had i, that i did not go near sibella, but shut myself, for the rest of the day, in my chamber, and sent her word it was by mr. valmont's order. my servant found her weeping, with her little favourite fawn in her arms. at six o'clock in the evening, i was again commanded to appear before mr. valmont, which i did with the most humble and submissive deportment i could possibly assume. before he spoke to me, he ordered andrew to stand without the door, to oppose sibella, if she attempted to enter the library. thus he began. 'little did i expect, clement, when i sent you from valmont castle, guarded by the lessons of my wisdom and experience, that you would return with inclinations so different to those i would have had you possess. your folly is excessive, and it will work its own punishment.' and on this theme he laboured most abundantly; it would weary you were i to repeat it all. the second part of his subject commenced thus. 'you know, young man, (i am young man now, arthur), that i have been a friend to you, a more than common friend. such a one as you will not readily find among those people you admire, with equal mischief to yourself, and ingratitude to me. you----' pshaw! i have not patience to recount the dull monotony of his charges, let me at once proceed to the distracting summing up of the whole. he told me, arthur, that he was about to send me again from valmont castle. ay, but how? not with affluence at my command, and honours in my possession, no, like a poor discarded wretch, condemned to disgrace and slavery. yes, by heaven! mr. valmont, with a brow and heart of marble, told me, he had determined, as the best means of promoting my happiness that i should go to london; and there choose for myself a profession, hereafter to live by it; and that his friendship and assistance would always be mine, according to the decency and propriety of my deportment. i thought i should have sunk upon the floor, arthur. the barbarian went on to torture me: in my castle you remain but one month from this day. and then i shall give you l. which will be sufficient for you, while you prepare your plans, and what future services you require, must be regulated by your deserts, young man.' 'i think,' continued mr. valmont, 'it is my lot to receive nothing but disobedience and ingratitude from those to whom i have shown most kindness. you heard the insolence with which sibella, to-day dared to arraign my conduct. tell her from me, clement, that she almost urged me to counteract the great good i intend her. but i will not be rash. tell her, that implicit obedience, and humble submission may expiate her offence. i declare solemnly, that if she dares enter into my presence to plead for you, while you stay in the castle, she shall that instant be confined close prisoner in her chamber, and shall see you no more. if she becomes modest, temperate, and submissive, and things turn out as i expect, she will live yet to be very happy with the husband i intend her.' much longer did he enlarge upon sibella's offence, his anger, her expected penitence, and his future designs for her. i heard him but imperfectly. the other part of his harangue had conjured up a horrible fiend. dead-eyed poverty glared before me. at length, he stumbled on a supposition, that sibella would attempt to leave the castle with me; and i readily promised, as he desired, that i would neither make, nor assist in the attempt, but would inform him if she resolved on so dangerous and mad an enterprise. not one consolating hint did my ready obedience purchase. he said, indeed, that the propriety of my present deportment merited commendation. and he dismissed me. after four hours of this cruel interviews' duration, he permitted me to stagger, sick, oppressed, drooping, dying, to my chamber, and seek rest, if i could find it. i number the moments with more exactness than the sands of an hour-glass. one month is wasted now to one fortnight, and the end of that fortnight is wretchedness certain and endless. i have not told sibella, yet she sees misery in my looks. she hears it in my sighs, and the contagion has reached her. we meet but seldom. complaint and remonstrance have usurped the place of transport and endearment. to her i attribute my sorrows to my jealousy of this rival, to whom mr. valmont dooms her. alas, my jealousy has but a small share in them. two years back, but to have dreamed another had gained possession of her charms would have driven me mad. now i know it an inevitable certainty, and my feeble jealousy has none of the fierce characteristics of that raging passion: no, it is just fitting the groveling lover who is condemned to earn his abject livelihood. she has seen him too. mr. valmont, in his own inexplicable way, has contrived two whimsical meetings for them. she does not conjecture this. having related the circumstance, it is removed from her thoughts, and she mourns my supposed jealousy, as a cruel misfortune. my impending fate she must know sooner or later, and this very morning, when she quits her apartments to go to the wood, i am resolved to follow, and tell her my despair. perhaps she will join in seeming to renounce me, and thus so far conciliate mr. valmont, that some pity may arise for me in his obdurate breast. you, arthur, may perhaps be as insensible to the calamities of your friend as you have hitherto appeared to his pleasures. i have seen some letters that speak of you, and by them, i learn you are not less inexplicable to others than to me. who is this miss ashburn that sibella rapturously speaks of? i think i should not like her. she appears to have far-fetched ideas. i wonder mr. valmont should have suffered her and sibella's intercourse. are you, murden, in love with this lady? answer me these questions, and above all, assure me that you will not breathe a whisper of this change in my affairs to any living creature. sibella this instant crosses the lawn, i depart on my desperate errand. * * * * * i have performed my task, and gained nothing by it. no nothing. she will not, cruel as she is, she will not soothe mr. valmont, by pretending to renounce me. by heaven, i do not believe she loves me! scarcely did she betray a particle of surprise, not one of grief. when i declared myself disinherited, i expected to have seen her frantic. well, then, it is all at an end! ay, ay, she is wise. she talks of love to amuse me, and already prepares to yield herself to the wealthy lover mr. valmont provides. oh, distraction! they will live in splendor and happiness, while i, an outcast, the contemned, unpitied, and forgotten. farewel! would i could say for ever! clement montgomery letter xiv from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn why in that moment should i turn coward, and rush from my purposes? why did imagination cast an unusual gloom around me? why did i sigh and tremble? such alone ought to be the emotions of a guilty mind, and surely i am blameless. i am about to do nothing rash, i obey no impulse of passion, i have not separated duty and pleasure. i have examined the value of the object i would obtain with calmness; and whatever view i take of the means, still duty points to the part i have chosen. oh, caroline, could i once have imagined that i should require hours to deliberate whether i ought to become the bride of clement! no longer the animated noble clement, whose love, the very essence of his existence, soared beyond murmurs, jealousies, and fears, whose eye ever spoke the fulness of content, he is now wan, desponding, as ardent, yet less chaste, misled by the wild creations of his distempered fancy, ashamed of poverty, brooding over imaginary evils; over doubts, fears, jealousies! what a dark and fatal cloud must have overspread the mind of clement, ere he could fear sibella, for her love is not a mutable passion, it is incorporate with her nature. my love and reason have become one, my fancy only subservient to its predominant command. clement still loves, and i know he would view the fairest beauty, the brightest grace, with an unmoved look, with an unpalpitating heart, for who that loved could be faithless! but 'tis this cold, this cruel uncle has done it all. he heaps secret on secret, uncertainty on uncertainty, till the poor youth, bewildered, surrounded, overwhelmed, sinks the victim of conjecture. he is no longer mr. valmont's heir, and he shudders at the prospect of earning his future subsistence. mr. valmont tells him we shall not be united, and forgetting that we are not the puppets of his power, even this useless threat, clement loads with terror. another separation too is about to take place, and he has not once looked forward to the hour, when we shall wash away the remembrance in tears of joy at our re-union. and shall i be content merely to deplore my former clement, giving nothing, to restore him? oh, no!--i had written to him, i had even ascended the stairs to his apartment, when a sudden terror seized upon me. i hastily hid the billet from my view, and with the restlessness of an anxious mind, first sought the wood, and then my chamber. the billet lies before me, i have examined its purport. it calls on clement to become my husband. for ought i to withhold myself from giving him the fullest proof of my affection, from renovating him by this proof, because mr. valmont cruelly commands it? surely i ought not. mr. valmont's presence and benediction might adorn with one more smile the nuptial hour, but 'tis our hearts alone that can bind the vow. if clement's is not in unison with mine, if he feels the necessity of other ties, he will refuse the offer, and point out to me that i have erred. my courage rises. the paleness of fear on my cheek gives way to the glow of hope. i shall forget that absence, misfortune, and pain, have intervened and live over again those hours of joy and peace, when our bosoms heaved no sigh, save the rich sigh of transport and confidence. i go; and to-morrow will i, though now forbidden his presence, go to my uncle, and conjure him to convince himself that power and command are useless, when reason and conviction oppose them. adieu. sibella valmont letter xv from clement montgomery to arthur murden read the inclosed, dear arthur, and imagine my sudden transition from despair to rapture. i was sitting, mute in anguish, when the divine form of my sibella appeared at my chamber door. she held to me a paper, and as i took it, she turned away sighing deeply. read, read, i say, and partake if you can my feelings. but though i tell you, i have just arisen from her arms, with your cold killing indifference it is impossible you can form the shadow of a resemblance to those transports which wrap my senses in delirium. did you think i had not dared to follow? o, yes! it was not to face the stern mr. valmont; no, it was in secret to receive sibella to my arms, whom i love more than life. it was to outplot mr. valmont. to enjoy a glorious though secret triumph over this rival, this chosen, this elected of mr. valmont's favour. how could i, with youth glowing in my veins, love throbbing in my heart, reject the tempting offer, though multitudes of dangers threatened at a distance. avaunt, ye dark forebodings! ye gloomy horrors assail not now the enraptured clement! the hours cannot move backwards. the deed cannot be undone. the moon and stars shone sole witnesses of our contract! but read, murden. write to me instantly, and say you have for once warmed yourself into delight, to find something like the state of clement montgomery _n.b._ exquisite, but misjudging charmer! she would have told mr. valmont, that she had given herself to me. my arms my prayers could hardly restrain her from her wild purpose. billet from sibella to clement _inclosed in the preceding letter_ when i would speak, i weep. new feelings, new ideas agitate my mind. a tremor that i cannot banish gives confusion to my thoughts, and all i now wish to express should be regular, forcible. once, had my heart conceived the design with which it now vibrates under a weight of apprehensions, it had been uttered without preparation: but you are not the same. mr. valmont's mysteries have acted on you in their full effect. you teach your brow caution. you learn concealments. you fear rivals! rivals in sibella's love! oh, no! no! no! but force you say. mr. valmont's power--ah, clement, clement, turn your thoughts back, and find its importance. but you cannot, dread has seized up on you, and mr. valmont heightens the threatened evil, till it appears already arrived: it overwhelms you with its terrors, and there is nought left to sibella but remembrance to paint her clement. let mr. valmont dismiss you; that bears not the semblance of misfortune. but you shall not go to have your efforts chained down by despair, your vigour shall not be impaired by corroding doubts. when you seek delight, you shall remember your love, and the present short absence shall be the only pang her idea can inflict. come to my apartments. with pure hearts and hands, we will plight our fervent unspotted faith. say i am your's, and you are mine, and sorrow and jealousy will vanish as a mist. you shall go the transported confiding husband. letter xvi from arthur murden to clement montgomery sir your letters, one and all, i suppose, have come in safety to my hands. in your last you are urgent for my answer. it is this. although you, mr. montgomery, amuse your spleen or your fancy, by talking of my _cold killing indifference_, i have such _feelings_ as tell me your conduct is neither that of a lover nor a man. farewel, sir. i renounce your friendship. i desire only to remain a stranger to your name and remembrance. arthur murden letter xvii from arthur murden to clement montgomery montgomery call me mad, possessed. curse me, reproach me, do anything, only that when you have had your revenge, forget such a letter as i wrote you last ever had existence. say it was strange, i say so too. call it insolent, i will confess it; unaccountable, i still join with you. it was one of the sudden whirls of this vertigo brain of mine, almost as incomprehensible to myself as to you. i have no excuses to offer, for the fit may come again upon me. promise has no power with me, i am the creature of impulse. alas! alas! that reason and consistency should thus become the shuttlecocks of fancy! now taking it for granted, that i gain your pardon, next have i a long account to settle with myself. i would not partake of happiness of a common mould; lay it before me, and i disdained the petty prize, stalked proudly over it, and stalked on, prying, and watching, to seize hold on some hidden blessing, that reserved itself to be the reward of a deserving venturous hero like myself--oh! i have embraced a cloud, and the tormenting wheel rolls round with a rapid motion! i know i am talking algebra to you, and if you take me for a companion, you must even be content to travel on in the dark. it is so, but why it is, i think your best discernment will not aid you to discover. enquiry is useless, expostulation, a farce. be patient, and forgive me this, and other transgressions, for i tell you, montgomery, you have a potent revenge. there is little probability that you and i should meet each other, as london will be the scene of your action, while i condemn myself to wander north and south, in search of a few grains of that content i so wantonly gave the winds to scatter. i must have room to vent my suffocating thoughts. i cannot be pinioned in the crowd; and i would rather seek converse with myself in a charnel house, than enter the brightest circles of fashion. i hate to be the wonder of fools. already is my reputation raised, and i have now just sense enough in madness to play my antics alone. driven by winds and storms, i may seek an occasional shelter at barlowe hall. whither, if you are so disposed, you may direct to arthur murden * * * * * i believe, montgomery, it is necessary that i say something more to you. the above conclusion is abrupt and harsh. that i feel inclined to treat you thus is the consequence of my own folly, rather than your deservings of me. let it pass then. i wish you no ill, but as i told you before, i am become the tool of every changing impulse. i sympathize in your change of fortune; or rather, i feel a concern that you should colour with such darkened hues, so unimportant a circumstance. i too have counted upon heirship. but let my uncle the nabob put five hundred pound in my pocket, and set me down in london, petersburg, or pekin, and if i did not walk my own pace through the world, let me die like a dog, and have no better burial. five hundred pound! 'tis a mine. ah, sigh not to be foremost of the throng! independence, peace, and self approving reflection may be, if you will, the companions of your new destiny. certainly mr. valmont managed his plan of making you a hermit with wonderful ingenuity, to send you forth from your cave at that very age when the fancy runs gadding after novelty, and shadow passes for substance. he decked you too with the trappings of wealth, and expected every man to appear before you, with a label written on his forehead, of his souls most secret vice.--he had better have driven you out to beg with an empty wallet, and then perhaps when one had said--_go work_--another had hinted--_go steal_--and a third had passed you and said nothing, you might possibly have returned to a leopard's skin, and a hut of branches, the man after mr. valmont's own heart. be wiser and happier, montgomery, than this man has been; shun his weaknesses and your own; you also have your portion of weaknesses follies, vices. yes montgomery the latter word is not too harsh, or i should not have had now to pity you for being duped by the contemptible janetta l----. other instances there are for me to cite: they press upon my feelings--they wound--they torture me! * * * * * judge for yourself, montgomery, upon the right and wrong of your conduct and intentions. i am ill fitted to become your adviser. how could you so far mistake my character as to suppose i was the seducer of seymour's mistress: i think one of your letters asserted so much. if to persuade a deceived girl to quit her profligate companion (i will not say lover, i should disgrace the name) and return to console the latter days of an aged grandmother be seduction, i am guilty. this i did to seymour, and his invectives or the rumours he may spread are as unimportant and as little troublesome to my repose as the insects that are buzzing around me. montgomery, no more of your phrases, nor his accusations. be assured i am neither your _soul-less_ marble, nor seymour's _libertine_. at a boyish age from boyish vanity i aimed to be called a man of pleasure. it was easy to imitate the air and manners of such a man, and not less by such imitation alone to arrive at the contemptible fame among persons equally ready to encourage the practice and accuse the practitioner. i renounce the loathsome labours of the flatterers, the despicable renown of the libertine. miss ashburn is my monitress, she began her lessons at barlowe hall, and now continues the instruction at bath. do not imagine it was done in devout lectures or pious declamations. no, it was the stedfast modesty of her eye, her intelligent condemning mien, which said, here shall thy proud boast be stayed. she was the finest woman of our party; and all the rest prepared to meet me with the glance of approbations and the smile of encouragement; yet she having been forewarned of my renown preferred the hand or arm or speech of a silly old colonel of sixty.--now she knows me better. no, she does not, i evade, i fly her penetration. montgomery, the worthiest feeling i know of you is, that you lament your having made your truth and innocence a sacrifice. i am not in love with miss ashburn. i would give an ear, an eye, any thing i have on earth, except the full confidence of my heart, to call her my sister, my friend. i admire, seek, venerate her; but, montgomery, i am not in love with miss ashburn. end of the first volume volume ii letter i from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont i have not answered your letter, my dear sibella, as soon as you perhaps may have expected, because i was willing to dwell on the circumstances it contained, till the minutest shade was present with me, and till i discovered exactly wherein to praise, or wherein to blame. the time i have taken to deliberate has not been thrown away, for it has excited ideas in my mind that may prove of infinite service to us both: and should i in future find aught to add or diminish from my sentiments, i shall offer it as frankly as i now do my present decision. sibella, well might you, even at the door of clement's apartment, retreat from your enterprise: for then, at that moment, you wandered the first step from your rectitude; and had you, instead of sitting down to detail your reasons to me, enquired narrowly into the cause of your sensations, you must have discovered that error was creeping in upon you, and that your native frankness and stedfast sincerity were making a vigorous effort to repel _secresy_, that canker-worm of virtue. have you forgotten, my sibella, when you said--'i am not weak enough to descend to artifice. did i believe it right to go, i should go openly. then might he try his opposing strength: but he would find that i could leap, swim or dive, and that walls or moats are feeble barriers to a determined will.' this was noble; and i promised myself that, in you, i should find the one rare instance wherein no temptation could incline, or terror affright, into any species of concealment. i grant nothing could bring the temptation more strongly forward than the state into which clement and you were forced: but still you should have resisted. your every thought should still have flown to your lips. your every intention should have been as public to those by whom you were surrounded as to yourself. no matter though it should dash aside a present project. be openly firm in the resolution to do right, and, my life for it, the opposition of mistake and prejudice will bear no proportion in strength to your perseverance. it is evident that this plain and necessary truth mixed itself with your ideas, although the tumults of hope and fear, and the crowd of images that were then rushing on your mind, dazzled your perception; for you saw it in part, when you resolved to declare to mr. valmont in the morning all that you had done. would you had previously declared it! i know how useless it is to wish over the past: yet i must again say--would you had previously declared it! you pause, sibella--you are convinced: but you instantaneously quit the regret of that error for selfcongratulation. i can enter into all your feelings; and i find you now dwelling with pleasure on the supposition that i condemn only the concealment, that i look on the contract itself as an act of justice, and that i am about to applaud you for the fulfillment of a duty. and herein it is that i have doubted. to this one point have i called every present and remote circumstance; and it is from the combination of circumstances alone that i have been able to decide. the distinction becomes nice between praise and blame, for i have both to offer: yet, if i judge aright, some praise belongs to you--to the blame mr. valmont has an incontestible title. with such an education as he has given you, unless you had been a mere block without ideas, it was impossible you should not become a romantic enthusiast in whatever species of passion first engaged your feelings: and mr. valmont took care to make that first passion _love_. whatever cause can have led him to his present inconsistency, it is as evident to me as light and sensation--that it was his settled plan to render love for each other the ruling feature of your's and clement's character. the contrivance was worthless; but the performance was admirable. thus you and clement loved from habit. youth is always ardent and lively; it inclines to fondness; and you had none of the constraints which society lays on the first expansions of tenderness. you had no claimants, from kindred or family, on your affections: for the forbidding mr. valmont excited only fear; and you sought shelter in each other's arms, from the terrors of his frown. it was not more natural to breathe, than to love--it was not more natural to love, than to obey its dictates. thus you and clement, secluded from the world with your every pleasure arising only from mutual efforts to please, could not fail to love from habit. had clement and you been educated in the world, clement would still have loved from habit: because i suspect he possesses more of softness than of strength. he would have loved often; and it would have been a trivial love: neither arising to any height, nor directed by any excellence. you, sibella, would have loved from reflection, from a more intimate knowledge of increasing virtues, from the intercourse of mind: then call it friendship, or call it love, it would indeed possess those predominant and absorbing qualities you describe, and which you now feel. but, sibella, depend on it clement had never been the object. pardon me, i do not mean to wound you. i know you will not shrink from truth; and i must therefore tell you, that the alteration in clement which you ascribe wholly to mr. valmont's mysteries i ascribe to feebleness of character. wherever your's rises to superiority his sinks. had he been equal, and had there been no secresy in the case, i would have hailed your _marriage_. i well know, my friend, that you did not mean to separate duty and pleasure. motives the most chaste and holy guided you. no forms or ceremonies could add an atom to your purity, or make your's in the sight of heaven more a marriage--yet do i wish, with all the fervency of my soul, this marriage had been deferred--that you had previously informed mr. valmont. 'tis past: and repentance is only of value as it guides us in our future actions. we must endeavour to rouse clement from his inactivity. i do believe he is not vicious, though your uncle's conduct respecting him has the worst of tendencies: my sibella's excellence must have placed a talisman around him from which vice retires hopeless of influence. this is one great step: and, as i understand from mr. murden he is to be in london, i will seek his friendship; give a spur to every lurking talent; endeavour to preserve him free from taint; and if i had judged too hastily, if he is beyond what i expect, with what delight shall i contemplate the merits of him whose fate you have interwoven with your own!--ah, how close is the texture--with what firmness can you think--to what excess can you love! the dark season of the year is arrived. the fashionable world haste to the capital. we are never hindmost of the throng; yet this once have i urged forward our removal to london with all my influence; for i apprehend the succession of its gay diversions, and the multiplicity of varied engagements which must then occupy my mother, will remove from her mind any inclination towards a second marriage. here, opportunity is always at hand for that despicable race of young men who are ever on the watch to sell their persons and liberty to the highest bidder; and, as mrs. ashburn's immensity of wealth is the general topic, her splendor the general gaze, and her vanity not a whit more concealed from observation, the fortune hunters crowd around her. at first the love of flattery appeared wholly to engage her and each was acceptable in his turn; till, at length, the elegant person of one youth became distinguished in a manner that alarmed me. not but i should rejoice to see my mother yield herself to the guardianship of some good man, who had sense enough to advise, and resolution to restrain her lavish follies. of such an union i have not any hope; and i must, if possible, prevent her being the dupe and victim of a misguided choice. this young man possessed in a very emminent degree the advantages of person, air, and address; yet, when he directed his attentions wholly towards mrs. ashburn, there was such evident constraint in his manner, and his professions were so laboured, that almost any other woman would have condemned him. mrs. ashburn did not. she received, she encouraged him, she led him into every circle in open triumph, as her devoted lover: while his forced levity, at one time, and at another, his pale cheek, absence of mind, and half uttered sighs, told to every observer that he was a sacrifice but not a lover. i could not believe that the affair would ever be brought to so absurd a conclusion, till i found that the day of marriage was actually fixed on. i ought to have interfered before; for my interference has now saved them from the commission of such a folly. i must, sibella, reserve the history of this young man till another letter. i am called from the pleasing occupation of writing to you, by an engagement with a being more variable, more inexplicable, than any being within my knowledge, yet to me not less interesting than any. i mean mr. murden. never need i be wearied with the sameness of my thoughts, while i reside under one roof with murden; for, let me turn them on the caprices of his conduct, and i shall find puzzling varieties without end. ever your's caroline ashburn letter ii the same--to the same henry davenport is the young man of whom i am to speak. it was publicly mentioned here that he was related to several noble families; and at the same time was always hinted that he possessed no fortune. this i was ready to believe, from his addressing my mother. constantly surrounded with parties, and studious to avoid me, it was useless to attempt reasoning with my mother. i therefore wrote a card to mr. davenport, requesting an hour's conversation with him the succeeding morning. he came. he was light and gay in his habit and address. his voice possessed an unusual softness; and his cheek was flushed with an hectic colour, equally proceeding, i thought, from want of rest and intemperance. 'mr. davenport,' said i, interrupting his compliments, 'you will convince me most that you are pleased with this interview by answering the questions i shall propose with seriousness and sincerity.' he folded his hands and ludicrously lengthened his visage; but of this i took no notice. 'tell me,' continued i, 'frankly and truly, what is your opinion of my mother?' his levity instantly disappeared; and he replied in a hurrying manner--'i think mrs. ashburn a very charming--a very fine woman indeed.' 'what are your motives, sir, for marrying her?' 'miss ashburn,' said he, with great quickness and removing from the opposite side of the room to a chair next me, 'i do respect and admire you as much or perhaps more than any woman on the face of the earth. i would eat my flesh rather than injure you; and if mrs. ashburn give me her hand, i swear your interest in her fortune shall not be affected. i do not wish to be master of the principal. i only want to share some of that income which is lavished on superfluities.--o god! o god! how happy would the uncontrouled, independent, present possession of some of those hundreds make me!' you cannot conceive the force with which he uttered this; and it seemed to recal a world of pressing ideas to his mind: for i found it necessary to wait till his attention returned of itself. 'and the enjoyment of this income in marriage will make you happy, year after year, all your life, mr. davenport?' 'surely, miss ashburn,' and he looked at me stedfastly, 'you cannot think i would ever use your mother ill.' 'do you love her, sir?' 'i have told you, miss ashburn, i admire her--i think her a fine spirited woman.' 'do you love her, sir?' rejoined i with more emphasis. 'love! why yes--no!--i have a great friendship for her, madam.--but as to love 'tis out of fashion--it is exploded.' he rose; and walked towards the window. 'love is a romance; a cant; a whine; a delirium; a poison; a rankling wound that festers here, here!' he laid his hand on his heart, and leaned against the wainscot. i sighed too: for the under tone of voice in which he pronounced the last few words was in scribably affecting. he quickly started from this posture, and threw himself on his knees before me. 'i confess it all,' said he, 'i am not more wretched than desperate. this marriage is my resource from worse evils. oh, miss ashburn! by that benignity which irradiates your every action i conjure you suffer it to proceed!--i will be grateful.--i will honor and revere your mother.--more i cannot promise--i cannot. allow me to depart, madam, i cannot endure to be questioned.' and thus saying, he would have quitted the room, had i not held him by the arm, and with difficulty prevailed on him again to take his seat, and to listen to me patiently while i pourtrayed the evils of such a marriage, and the cruel injustice he was guilty of towards a woman so chosen. 'i know all that,' replied davenport. 'i have foreseen it a thousand and a thousand times. i know i am a villain; but mrs. ashburn shall never suspect me. i will be the obedient slave of her will. she shall mould me to whatever shape her pleasure inclines. i will be more docile than infancy. i will forego my very nature, at her command.' 'but you have not foreseen, mr. davenport, that the time must arrive when her volatility and incessant eagerness after pleasure will cease to relieve you. it is in the hours of age and infirmity that she will call on you for aid, will seek in your soothing voice, in your cheering smile a relief from pain: and how will you perform your task in those multiplied moments? my mother does not want discernment: and what will be your torture to see her dying perhaps under the agonizing reflection that the man on whose honour she relied, on whose faith and sincerity her hopes had towered to felicity, that, her husband had deceived her, perhaps had loved another.' he became pale as death. i continued. 'but you shall not hasten to this destruction. i will prevent this marriage.' 'miss ashburn, for heaven's sake!' cried he: 'i have no other means--i must--marry.' i took hold of his hand, for he trembled. 'i wish to be your friend, mr. davenport; indeed i am your friend, at this moment; it is far from my intention to tear from you this fallacious hope, without placing some certain and honourable advantage in its stead. let me know your history. neither conceal from me your wants nor your feelings, nor the situations they have throw you into; and i will undertake to do you every service that reason and humanity suggest.' he attempted in vain to answer. throwing himself back in the chair, he covered his face with an handkerchief, and shed tears. i believe it was near a quarter of an hour ere he recovered from his agitation, and was able to speak as follows. 'my father was himself so enamoured of pomp that, although he allowed me, an only son, to share the magnificence of his town residence, yet he confined my sisters with their governess and two servants to a small house he possessed in a cheap country. i saw them only once a year; and the solitude of their abode was so irksome to me, that i was always eager to quit and unwilling to return at the usual period. however, about the time i was to set out on my travels, it was judged decent and necessary that i should pay them a visit of unusual length, as they were now almost women; and to my great surprise i found their old governess removed, and a young person with them as companion whom alas i did love to distraction. 'weeks only were allotted to my stay, but i staid months. my father's mandates for my return were no sooner read than forgotten. all was enchantment and happiness. my sisters loved arabella affectionately; and had so little knowledge of the world as to imagine our union altogether proper and probable. at length, either surprised or alarmed at my continuance in the country, or having certain intelligence of my engagements, my father arrived one evening secretly and altogether unexpectedly. and, while we imagined our joys secure from interruption, he listened behind the little summer-house in which arabella and i were interchanging vows of eternal constancy, till rage would not permit him to hear us longer. then he burst upon us; and, as i defended my love with vehemence, he deprived me of present sensation by a blow. 'when i recovered i was confined to one room, and could obtain no tidings of arabella, no intercourse with my sisters nor any intermission of the rigours of my imprisonment: although i obstinately refused all sustenance beyond the small quantity which irresistible hunger compelled me to eat against my will. in three weeks, one of my sisters found an expedient to let me know arabella had been turned out of the house, and had taken shelter at the farm-house of a relation about five and twenty miles distance; that my father gave her the character of an abandoned strumpet, and vowed i should die in prison if i did not swear to renounce her for ever. 'from this time, i laboured night and day in contriving my escape till i effected it; and travelled the five and twenty miles with such speed in my emaciated state that i had no sooner thrown myself into arabella's arms than i fell into fits. a fever succeeded; and, during this period, the people of the house, though excessively poor, strove with all their might to add comforts and conveniences to my situation. arabella was my nurse. to them i was bound by gratitude--to her my ties became strengthened till they excluded reason, reflection, and prudence. the moments of returning health were devoted to my affection. our days were passed alone. our former distresses and future prospects were alike forgotten; and we became as guilty as happy. 'scarcely had we begun to repent our error, when my father discovered my retreat; and once more tore me from my love. guarded, fettered, and enduring every species of brutal usage from those employed about me, i was conveyed first to london, and then sent abroad, where i remained above two years--refusing to give her up, and refused upon any other terms to be allowed to return. my father's death gave me liberty. i flew to england; and found my arabella pining under the accumulated distresses of extreme poverty, destroyed reputation, and a consumptive habit: all which miseries were rendered doubly poignant by the possession of an infant. 'i will not attempt, madam, to describe to you what i endured when i saw her and my child wanting absolute necessaries. all i could call my own was employed to procure medical advice for arabella; and that all was a trifle. my father, to the astonishment of every one, had died insolvent. my sisters were taken into dependence by different relations; and i was turned adrift on the world without knowledge or means to procure myself one penny. to assist those who have no power to assist themselves, who have no claims but on me, me the author of their calamity, i have plunged myself into debt. the man of whom i have borrowed money pointed out to me the plan of marrying your mother; and, when i revolted at the dishonourable action, he showed me the opposite picture--a jail.--what can i do, miss ashburn? can i see them die--and consent to linger out my wretched existence in a prison? no! i am driven by extremity of distress; and must go on, or perish.' 'does arabella know you intend to marry?' 'o yes.' 'where is she? may i see her?' 'she and her child reside at the distance of three miles from this place.' i prevailed on mr. davenport to ride with me to the village in which arabella resided; and, after introducing me to her, i also prevailed on him to leave us alone. arabella had beside her a tambour frame, at which she worked, when her cough and cold sweats would permit her. the little girl played on the floor. she received us with that sort of composure which seemed to denote the utter sacrifice of all her hopes and wishes, and that nothing was now left to excite agitation. i said, 'i am no stranger to your misfortunes, arabella. in what manner did you support yourself, while mr. davenport was abroad?' 'by fancy works,' replied she, pointing to the frame. 'i endeavoured also to teach a school; but mr. davenport's father had spread such reports of me, which the birth of my child but too well confirmed, that scarce any one would give me the least encouragement.' 'what were your parents?' 'poor shopkeepers, madam, who put themselves to numberless inconveniences to qualify me for earning my subsistence in a comfortable manner. could i regain my health, and be removed to some place where no one knew my faults, mr. davenport should not be burthened with either of us; he should not----' a tear rose, but quickly withdrew itself; and the serenity of a broken heart again took possession of her features. 'why have you not urged mr. davenport to engage in some trade or profession?' 'ah, madam, he has been brought up a gentleman. trade would appear to him an indelible disgrace. he thinks he ought to respect the honour of his family, although they will not assist him. and as to a profession he has not the means.' 'and can you consent to live in possession of his affection and endearments, when he is married?' 'no, madam, no!' replied arabella with firmness. 'the moment he becomes a husband, he is as dead to me as if the cold grave concealed him. he loves ease; he has been used to expence and pleasure--he will enjoy it all. i cannot live long, nor do i desire to live. i know he never will desert that poor babe--don't you, madam, allow that innocent creature fully entitled to a father's protection?' i had just taken the child on my lap. 'yes,' said i: 'and you arabella must live to see her possess it. my motives are not those of curiosity. i come to do you service; and i insist that you hope for better days. it shall be my part to devise better means than marriage for mr. davenport. i intend shortly to visit you again.' i could not converse with mr. davenport any more that day, for it was necessary i should return and prepare myself to be partaker of a very splendid entertainment given by sir thomas barlowe to all the fashionable people at bath. i therefore engaged him to visit me again the next morning, and we separated. making mention of the entertainment brings mr. murden to my remembrance; and, as he played a part that very evening which attracted much notice and gave rise to speculation, i shall here relate it before i return to the subject of mr. davenport. ever since mr. murden joined us at bath i have heard from his female acquaintance perpetual complaints of him. he was, they say, seducing, irresistible. no vivacity was ever so delicate as murden's. no flattery ever so dangerous as from him. his look, his air, his voice, his gestures, all had their own peculiar character of persuasion. thus captivating they say he was; and they lament, with all the energy of which they are capable, that he should now have become dull, lifeless and unbearable. i too, sibella, have found him transformed. i see him negligent and inattentive to me and others; but he is neither dull nor lifeless. some vision of imagination seems to possess him, to infuse into him as it were a new existence. i have seen his cheek glow, his eye beam. i have heard his breathings but half uttered; and, although at such moments i have suffered inconvenience from the want of his attention and assistance, i would rather have placed my safety in hazard than have disturbed his alluring dreams of fancy. so firmly has he become inaccessible to the temptations of dissipation and sensuality, that i revere his transformation and long for his confidence; but alas, i have to regret that he is secret and mysterious, and that while at bath he has avoided me almost as constantly as he has neglected those damsels of fashion who have been calling forth all their enchantments to attract or subdue him. to my great surprise, and some little satisfaction, no sooner was the nabob's ball in preparation than mr. murden requested to be my partner. he had never danced here, though he had been frequently at the rooms; and i did expect to be honoured on this occasion by my fair friends with some very scornful looks and important whispers.--hear the result. the company assembled, a numerous and brilliant party. i had caught a previous glimpse of mr. murden elegantly dressed, and i expected every moment his appearance in the ball-room. that i was engaged i answered to several invitations; but to whom was yet in embryo, for the first, second, third and fourth minuet had been danced, and yet no partner for me appeared. at length he came, but not with the smile of pleasure, not with the soft tread of politeness, the complacent mien of attention. no: he actually rushed upon us, his features almost distorted with some species of passion, his hair deranged, and the powder showered on his dress as if he had been dashing his head against some hard substance in a paroxysm of rage. and in this strange manner did he, with eager long strides, cross the saloon, and throw himself into the vacant seat beside me, uttering a deep groan. the eyes of every one were upon him; and astonishment imposed silence on every tongue. 'miss ashburn! miss ashburn!' repeated he twice very loud; then closed his teeth and murmured through them some words i could not understand, and several horrid imprecations. he sat thus a few minutes, his countenance varying from the deepest red to a most livid paleness, when sir thomas approached. 'why, nephew! why arthur! what, what, are you ill?--are you----?' and, without finishing his speech, the baronet retired abruptly; for murden gnashing his teeth at that instant his uncle conceived he was mad; and i believe the baronet was scarce assured he had escaped the infection. a bolder man now walked up. no less than the earl of ulson, of whom you have heard me speak. ''pon my soul, murden, this is superlatively unusual! the ladies are actually terrified. zounds! murden, you must----' we had not the good fortune to hear his lordship's advice to the end: for mr. murden, utterly inattentive to any thing but his own agitations, now snatched a crumpled letter from his pocket; and, tearing it into a thousand pieces, dashed the fragments on the floor. he there contemplated them a moment with a malignant smile; then carefully gathered up every fragment, and darted out of the room. the band continued playing quite composedly; but the company assembled in separate groups, to communicate their various conjectures on the very extraordinary gambol this extraordinary young man had been playing. sir thomas's gentleman and a valet were sent in search of him and ordered to enquire into his malady; but we were presently informed that he was writing in his own chamber, and had bitterly sworn to blow out the brains of whatever person should dare to interrupt him. brains not being a superfluity here, we e'en resolved to resume our dancing, and leave him alone to be as mad as he thought proper. on the succeeding morning, i met him early and alone in the breakfast room. i was agitated with the expectation of hearing something painful and astonishing. i even intreated to be admitted to his confidence. he referred me to some future period. he spoke with calmness and resolution, but he seldom looked up. when the rest of the family joined us, my mother amused herself with affecting a ridiculous pity for him, lady barlowe painted her astonishment, while his uncle with much more sincerity laboured to impress us with an adequate idea of the terror he had suffered the preceding evening. every syllable sunk into the soul of murden. he preserved an inflexible and haughty silence: but i saw, in his agitated countenance, that he was frequently on the point of bursting into rage and madness. sir thomas barlowe will on many occasions wind a shapeless circumstance round and round, till he has persuaded himself he has discovered something in it really insulting and injurious to him. he now conjectured, surmised, and talked of murden's behaviour, till he had assured himself it could have no other design than to afflict him, the most affectionate of uncles; and, having for a short time indulged in the pathos of lamentation, he began to weep. although i could scarcely forbear smiling at sir thomas barlowe's folly, yet i was considerably affected by the sudden transition the baronet's tears produced in murden. he forgot his anger and his dejection; he pressed his uncle's hand; soothed him with kind expressions: and, suddenly assuming an air of cheerfulness, began to hand the cups and arrange the tea-table. 'you are in love with some creature you are ashamed of, murden,' said my mother; 'i will swear it.' 'do, madam,' replied he. 'now do tell, me nephew arthur,' said the baronet, 'why you tore it to pieces so unmercifully--tell me, dear arthur, all about that letter.' why should he, sibella, have fixed his eyes on me, while the colour rushed from his cheek, at the mention of that letter? why did he groan? why did he appear no more during the whole of that day? why has he since been so uniformly pensive? why seek me as a companion, yet reject me as a friend? such are the enquiries constantly obtruding themselves upon me. adieu, dear sibella. the remainder of davenport's story must again be deferred till another opportunity. caroline ashburn letter iii from clement montgomery to arthur murden sweet enthusiast! i loveliest romancer! sustained by thee, i could boldly defy the maxims of the world, could bear unmoved its taunting scorns, its loudest reproaches. stimulated by thy visionary precepts, i could rush alone on its host of temptations, and attempt with the giant step of fortitude to tread their legions into nothingness! methinks, arthur, i see her now: and an increase of warmth glides through every vein till it reaches my heart, which glows and throbs more proudly and more proudly, that the arbitress of its every motion is sibella valmont. let imagination dress up her most airy forms, let fancy exhaust the riches of her invention, the vision thus created may dazzle, may delude in the absence of perfection; but bring the all-radiant charms of sibella in contrast, and it sinks into vapour. painting and language are alike incompetent to represent her.--ha! that thought again shoots across my brain--i--i was inconstant!--oh, i would give an eye, an ear, nay a limb, that i had never known other embraces!--then i might have been all soul too:--what she now is, what i can imagine but never shall experience.--yes, you gave the advice, murden; and i, deserving almost damnation for the deed, stooped to gross allurements, and obeyed the calls of appetite, and i ought to have braved death in support of my constancy. thank god! she cannot know it! and oh, may annihilation, or the worst of curses, fall on this head, rather than i again pollute myself, or entertain one thought within my breast that may not rank with her angelic purity! yes, murden, i say purity. ay, and she is as pure as angels, notwithstanding clement has been admitted to her embraces. for i am her husband. she never heard of ties more holy, more binding, than those of the heart. custom has not placed its sordid restraint on her feelings. nature forms her impulses. oh, she is nature's genuine child! more lovely than painting can trace: yet robust as the peasant who climbs yon hill to toil for his hourly subsistence--soft as her lover's bounding wishes can desire: yet stedfast, aspiring, brave enough to lead an army in the field. no cowardly apprehensions enter her mind. she shrinks not from the wintry blast. let the torrent descend, the wind howl, the lowering thunder roar: it affects not her peace. no trembling nerves has she! methinks i see her now: i hear again the harmony of that voice; now softening into the scarcely audible adieu; now rising into firmness, to instruct her clement how to bear his destiny. i had just quitted mr. valmont's study, where i underwent another torturing repetition of all the inconsistency of his designs for us. so freezing was his language, that it appeared to chill sensation; and when he presented me the l, which is to open my prospects in life, i was scarcely sensible either of its value or design.--i believe i never thanked him; and though i did not take his offered hand, its touch i dreaded more than the torpedo. languid, sunk, and overwhelmed, i crawled with feeble steps to my sibella.--what a change! her vigour awakened mine; and as though hope, perseverance and courage had resigned themselves to her guidance, she commanded them to possess me wholly--commanded me to receive the noble inmates, and to vow i would be bravely independent, though a bed of straw were my portion and crumbs my fare. i write this letter at my first resting place since i quitted valmont castle; and the benignancy of my lovely sibella has even chased my resentment towards you, but should an hour of lassitude perchance creep on me in my banishment, i may be tempted to enquire narrowly into the nature of your very mysterious epistles. clement montgomery letter iv from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn clement--my clement is gone! all is silence around me. the trees have dropped their leafy ornaments; the wind sweeps through them in mournful cadence. their foliage no longer intercepts my eye when it would extend itself around the vast horizon. i, now seated on the ivy-covered ruins of the hermitage, view this space; and tell myself it contains not one being to whom sibella is the object of esteem, tenderness, or concern. oh caroline, caroline! i am weary of this solitude. my mind bursts the bounds prescribed to my person, and impels itself forward to share the advantages of society. compelled to return to its prison, it is disgusted with its own conceptions, and sinks into languor and dissatisfaction. could it be my parents who doomed me to this slavery? did they deem the benefits of intercourse a blessing too great for their innocent offspring? no: it must be mr. valmont's own plan; 'tis he alone who could wish to rob me of the faculties of my soul; and, finding i dare think, dare aim to extend them, dare seek to be happy, he shuns me with aversion or loads me with reproach. why, if he meant me to degenerate into the mere brute, did he not chain me in a cave, shut out the light of the glorious sun, forbid me to converse with intelligent nature? then i might have expressed my wants in a savage way; have ravenously satisfied the calls of hunger or thirst; and, lying down to enjoy the sleep of apathy, have thought, if i could have thought at all, that this was to be happy. a being superior to this only in a little craft, did mr. valmont design to make me: a timid, docile slave, whose thoughts, will, passions, wishes, should have no standard of their own, but rise, change or die as the will of a master should require! such is the height of virtues i have heard mr. valmont describe as my zenith of perfection. he laments that he suffered me to share in clement's education. happy mistake! then i found i was to be the friend and companion of man--man the image of divinity!--where, then, are the boundaries placed that are to restrain my thought?--to be the companion, i must be equal--to be the friend, i must have comprehension and judgment: must be able to assist, or willing to be taught. in the little intercourse i have had with mrs. valmont, she also has placed before me her picture of females: a picture as absurd and much more unintelligible to me than the other. she represents beauty as the supreme good; ascribes to it the most fabulous effects of power, conquest, and dominion. she represented me to myself as entering your world; and transformed me into a being so totally without description, that i ran from her to seek again my own nature: to find the friend and companion of man. you, caroline, are not such as either of these people describe. no: nor am i. then shall i--but let me be content--a very short time and i shall join my clement: shall aid his labour with my exertions. oh, my clement, my love, my lover, speed forward to the accomplishment of thy talk! oh, be thy desires as bounded as my wishes! thy sibella covets no castles, no palaces. seek for her but a shelter from inclemency, and take her therein to liberty, to thee! often, caroline, have i imagined the useless parts of that vast building converted into little cottages such as i have seen from the top of its turrets. fancy has instantly peopled the desert. i have believed myself surrounded by an active hardy race. i have arisen to enjoy the delights of communication: when, perchance, the rushing of a silent fawn through the thicket has awakened me from my trance; has reminded me that i too was one of the solitary herd; that the castle with its moats, walls, and battlements yet stood where gloom and silence hold their court, where mr. valmont presides and denies sibella his presence, and where the inexorable key is turned on that library lest she should think too often or too well. andrew comes through the wood--he beckons--holds up a letter.--'tis your's, caroline. * * * * * i have pondered on the contents of your letter three days. what shall i say for myself more than you have already said for me? i feel, i confess, that in being secret i have deceived mr. valmont, have been guilty of vice. but how could i, tell me, caroline; for my future benefit tell if you can, how could i devise a means by which i might have preserved my sincerity and saved my lover?--i can not. remember it was my clement's peace, happiness, and welfare, for which i made the sacrifice. yet now i feel it forcibly; for i hesitate to declare the rest; i, who knew no concealment, have by one deviation from my sincerity even become cowardly and irresolute in friendship. i fear your censures, caroline; and dare think of eluding them, because too conscious that i cannot refute them.--i persevere in secresy, in deception! mr. valmont is still unacquainted with our marriage. for myself, i had not done this--for myself, i could not perceive its value or necessity. i yielded to the ardent remonstrances of clement; and promised to conceal our union, till his independence should have placed him beyond the mischief of my uncle's resentment. ah! let me turn, to seek solace, in the end, for the means! be the means what they may, the end is effected. my clement is restored. the energies of his mind are renovated. you will see him, caroline: but you will see no feebleness in his character. you will find his love could never be _a trifling effervescence_; you will discover that we mutually love, from the _intimate knowledge of increasing virtues_; and no fabled or real oblivion can shed its influence on a love so elevated, so entire, so utterly beyond the reach of annihilation. i conjure you, my friend, by your own words, to watch over my clement--to preserve him free from taint; and to restore him, just such as he so lately quitted the arms of his, and your. letter v from arthur murden to caroline ashburn madam that i most ardently desire to possess your esteem is, whether you believe it or not, a fact i avow with all possible sincerity. nor is it less a fact, that i quitted bath so abruptly to avoid giving you my confidence: the only thing in the world by which i could be entitled to ask your esteem. 'why do i then write to you?'--you are about to demand--ah! madam: i have by me a long catalogue of such unanswered questions--why do i do this?--and why do i do that? insolently treads on the heel of my almost every action. can you find a name more despicable than folly for the will that acts in opposition to acknowledged reason? if you can--apply that worst of names to me--to my incomprehensible conduct. oh, miss ashburn, almost without a motive have i pursued a dream, a phantasy! the offspring of my heated imagination.--fancy lent her utmost delusions, and dressed the vision in such glowing charms that neither prudence, honour, friendship, nor aught else could stay me in my course--not even the heavenly-- whither am i running!--i would give a world that i could tell you--when! where! why! i dreamt and was awakened--not for a world's wealth though would i tell you. 'tis past! 'tis done! the mischief is irretrievable.--the phantom remains; but the gilded hope that illumined her path is gone--despair casts its length of shade around me; and sunshine is no more. let me recollect myself.--when i began to write, i meant to request you would say something conciliating for me to sir thomas. the letter i left for him was written in haste and from a sudden impulse, and probably expressed nothing i either meant or ought to have said--i beseech you, madam, do this for me. i know my uncle looks on me with affection; and i do not consider myself entitled to make so free with the happiness of others as i have done with my own. if he has any expostulations to offer, any reproaches to make me, let him send them to barlowe hall. there i shall be some time. but let him not ask me to come to london.----no: miss ashburn, the _ignis fatuus_ is still in view; and, though i perfectly understand its nature and have no hope nor scarce a wish to overtake it, yet am i, lunatic-like, galloping after it over hedge, bog, and briar. from this assurance, and from the many other things you know of me, you will believe i am in the right to subscribe myself the infatuated, miserable, a. murden letter vi from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont for the first time of my life, have i become the assiduous watcher of windows, the listener after footsteps; and have lived eternally in the drawing room. yet has no clement montgomery appeared; and i have just now recollected that my desire of knowing him will not accelerate his approach, that so much time given to expectation is so much thrown away, and that to employ the same quantity of time in endeavouring to amuse you would be more friendly and of course more laudable. once more then, sibella, we are in london, this great metropolis, alike the resort of him who possesses wealth and him who seeks to attain it. here merit comes, hoping in the vast concourse to find the protector of talent; and hither the deliberating villain hastens, expecting the crowd will be at once favourable to the practice of his crimes, and the means of escaping their punishment. what a field here is opened for the speculator, and the moralist! and often, sibella, do i anticipate the time when we shall look on the chequered scenes of life together. when--but let me give you the remainder of davenport's history while is is yet fresh in my memory. punctual to the minute i had named, davenport entered my apartment. the same species of settled gloom i observed the preceding day in arabella, marked his voice and gesture. he looked so familiarized, so wedded to sadness and misfortune that, desirous of expressing in my demeanour the kindness my heart felt for him, i approached and held out my hand to receive his. he lightly pressed it; and coldly bowing, retreated to a seat on the other side of the room. from that motion, i perceived he now viewed me as one who had saved him from the commission of an action which, although of evil and dangerous tendency, would have produced to him a benefit he knew not how, in any other way to procure; and that after rendering it impossible for him to marry, i was about to leave him with some general advice to the horrors of his situation. this he imagined was the utmost of my ability; he had convinced himself of the goodness of my intentions, and could not altogether call me his enemy; but he was now looking round, hopeless and despairing, for the almost supernatural means which could extricate him from his poverty and distress. the power was mine; and i hastened to relieve him from the anguish he endured. i told him, he should render himself independent and happy; that my pecuniary assistance should go hand and hand with his endeavours; and enquired if he had any friends who could advise him in the choice of a profession. 'not a creature in the world who would not rather advise him to end his miseries and disgrace with a pistol.' this was davenport's answer. i recollected that i had noticed some little intimacy between him and mr. murden; and, supposing the precariousness of dependence must have occasionally led murden's thoughts to the same views, i concluded his judgment would be useful. 'let us consult mr. murden,' said i. 'no: miss ashburn!' cried davenport, reddening violently. 'contrive it all yourself; i will obey you wherever i can; but do not command me to the revolting task of declaring to all the world that i am--a beggar. when murden and i first knew each other, i was the expected heir to a good fortune; and, as i was descended from some of the first families in the kingdom, murden moved in a sphere below me. he stands where he did; but i alas am fallen.--yet i won't hear him exult and triumph in affected pity.--no: no! i could tell him that even a nabob's wealth cannot blazen him with the honours that cling to the name of davenport.' he spoke this with surprising bitterness. 'for pity's sake, mr. davenport,' said i, 'do not lay on high birth more infirmities than, from its nature, it unavoidably possesses. were you ten times more honourably descended it could not alter murden's ability to advise you, it could not degrade him or exalt you. i have seen you court his conversation: and did you imagine your poverty was then a secret? oh, no! who could mistake the cause of your seeking to become mrs. ashburn's husband? in defiance of his uncle's displeasure, murden refused this very marriage. at the same time, i must acknowledge, his firmness has not undergone the trial you have suffered; for he had no arabella, i believe.' davenport threw his arms across upon the table by which he sat, laying his head upon them. the attitude prevented my seeing his face; but i thought he wept. a half supressed sob rose at intervals. thus he remained; for unwilling to press too hard on his prejudices, i relinquished the idea of consulting any other person, and sat silently examining plans for his future service. his age, his quickness of apprehension, and his manners which are pleasing to persons of every station, inclined me to think the study of physic would be well adapted to his capacity and talents. i made the proposal; named the sum i would give him yearly till he should be qualified to provide for himself; and his gratitude was expressed with the same vehemence which alike attends him on trivial or important occasions. you will perhaps wonder, sibella, that is, if the value of money is at all known to you, and if its importance ever occupies your thoughts, how am i enabled to make so lavish a use of it. on our first arrival in england, my mother assigned me an annual income proportioned to the splendour of her appearance, and the immense fortune that i am destined to possess when her advantages in it shall be eternally proscribed. that i do not employ this allowance in keeping pace with her elegance, that i do not blaze in jewels, and riot in the luxury of dress, displeases my mother; yet she continues me the stated income, flattering herself daily though daily disappointed that i will secure my own indulgencies by overlooking the errors reason tells me i am to condemn in her. but to return to davenport: on the subsequent morning, i ordered my horse very early intending to pass an hour with arabella, when a servant informed me mr. davenport and a lady requested to see me. i hurried down stairs, to chide mr. davenport for suffering arabella (supposing it must be her) to hazard an increase of her disorder, by coming out while the air was raw and cold, and the morning fog not yet dispelled. i opened the parlour door with the reproof almost ready on my lips, when davenport, with his eyes glistening, his cheeks glowing, seized my hand and placed it within that of a young lady, who kissed it, and with mingled ardour and pleasure pressed it to her bosom. surprised, i stepped back; and, looking alternately at her and at davenport, a strong resemblance anticipated his introduction of a sister. this sister, whom davenport had forgotten in his misfortunes, was newly married; and had arrived at bath the preceding evening, with her husband, a merchant of the name of beville. davenport had related the scenes he had passed through in those glowing colours whose use is so familiar to him; and the whole family were disposed to think i had rendered them an important service. accepting mrs. beville's invitation to dinner, i was that day introduced also to mr. beville and miss harriot davenport. davenport's feelings are ever alive to extremes. he was now in the bosom of his family. he saw his sister no longer the humble dependent of a proud relation, but the wife of an affectionate opulent husband, sharing her advantages too with his other sister. then, how could davenport look at them and remember either what he had been or might yet be. he was extravagant; sometimes brilliant, but always fanciful; and the incoherencies of his conversation formed an amusing contrast with the steady uniform bluntness of mr. beville. he was even too gay to be grateful; for, instead of thanking his brother-in-law for an offer of taking him into immediate partnership, in preference to the plan i had proposed, on terms so liberal as brought tears from his sister's eyes, davenport began to ridicule and burlesque trade. he was determined for this afternoon at least to enjoy his mirth in defiance of the checks, instigations, or reproaches of the better inmates sincerity and common sense. poor fellow! the grimace, the laugh, the jest reign no longer; for arabella cannot live! perfectly satisfied with the prospects of her henry, with his affection for her child, and the present attentions of his family to her, she calmly looks forward to that abode where the _wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest_; while he suffers ten thousand agonies in anticipating their eternal separation. with mrs. beville and harriot davenport the remembrance of arabella's former transgression now lies dormant, their former affection revives, gains new strength from the aid of pity, and instigates them to attend the dying arabella as a sister. but i suspect from accidental hints they are yet infected with the worldly maxim that the guilt of such a sailing remains wholly with the female, from whom in every other instance of life we look for nothing but weakness and defect. love more perhaps than reason has taught davenport a better lesson; he would certainly have married arabella, and mr. beville would have supported him in the resolution, knowing it to be now as much his duty as it was before their mutual duty to abstain from the transgression. thus have i saved davenport. but not my mother. no--she will assuredly marry to prove to me her power and pre-eminence. she will pique herself also on choosing a husband, as handsome as engaging as the fugitive davenport. in the mean time flattery is flattery; and the dose being doubled from a female tongue approaches so near to an equivalent that the immediate necessity of a lover becomes less urgent. the happy mrs. ashburn--happy in her acquisitions--has lately gained a companion who can treble the quantity on occasion. in good english language, with the animation of french vivacity and french action, mademoiselle laundy deals out her bursts of admiration and exstacies of rapture from one of the prettiest mouths in the world. shaping herself, most proteus-like, to the whim of the moment, my mother sees not that she is young and handsome; and, could a painting be shown to mrs. ashburn the exact but silent representation of mademoiselle laundy, unless previously instructed to look for the likeness, i am positive she would not recognize one feature of her companion. this young person was born of english parents who were settled in france. her father, being deprived of an enormous pension, by the change of government, chose rather to break his heart than live upon a contracted income, which could only furnish him with the necessaries of life; and such worthless accommodations as are beneath the enjoyment of a courtier. after his decease, a ci-devant dutchess brought mademoiselle laundy to england, to try her fortune; and, most opportunely, chance threw her in our way at the very same time when my mother was seized with the rage of entertaining a companion. money was an object with mademoiselle laundy, but none to mrs. ashburn; and the former knew how to hold off from the bargain till the latter's wishes and expectations were wound up to the highest. the pride also of enabling her companion to outdress half the fashionable young women about town was doubtless an additional motive with mrs. ashburn; and the enormous salary demanded was to me the first unfavourable specimen of mademoiselle laundy's principles. nor has the young lady improved on farther acquaintance. supple as she is, she cannot accommodate the feigned artlessness of her countenance to the examination of my eye. native simplicity would neither court nor retire; but mademoiselle laundy invites my favour, while she evades my scrutiny. resigning her personal pretensions to charm, and labouring incessantly to acknowledge the already inflated superiority of the people around her, she becomes the universal favourite; and 'tis hard to say whether the _dear, unfortunate, amiable_, mademoiselle laundy is more necessary to mrs. ashburn or to mrs. ashburn's acquaintance. to her establishment here, however, i cannot object, because i should not be understood. picking and stealing to be sure are very atrocious things; but who ever thought of calling selfishness, art, and insincerity by the name of vice?--oh no! garret-lodgings philosophers may speculate, and dream over their airy systems; but we people of fashion know better things. we know self-love and insincerity to be useful and important qualities, the grand cement which binds our intercourse with each other. born a superior race, we can bid truth and plain honesty depart; and, having dressed falsehood and guile in all the fascination of the senses, can bow down before the idol of our own creation. 'tis all true, sibella: although, in rambling about your woods, and looking into your own heart, and arranging the matter of your former studies, you may find what ought to be, you cannot discover one trait of what really exists. sir thomas barlowe is ill of the gout, and almost pines in his confinement for the society of his nephew; while the whimsical murden, in defiance of command or intreaty, is capering about the country nobody knows why, nor nobody knows where. murden! why cannot i name murden without feeling a portion of that anxiety which so visibly preys on the happiness, and throws a veil of mystery over the actions of that inconsistent young man? various have been the endeavours i have used to understand the nature of his mind's disease; but he has wrapped an impenetrable fold of secresy around his heart. at times, i imagined that acknowledgment was ready to burst from his lips; nay i even imagined at times i had caught some remote allusions that i thought i understood; yet in attempting to trace them to a source, i lost their original form, and became more and more entangled in the labyrinths of surmise. as sir thomas and lady barlowe regulate all their jaunts and expeditions by ours, and as we have together made one household at bath, it was natural enough that we should journey together to london. mr. murden of course was included in the arrangements; and he neither breathed a syllable of doubt or objection to the plan. the evening before we quitted bath, our party included only four or five visitors, but had there been twenty i must have directed all my attention towards murden. the preceding day i had seen him petulant; and the preceding part of that day, i had observed him to be more than commonly pensive and absent. he did not appear at dinner; but joined us early in the evening, with smiles and gaiety. so sudden and so singular a change excited my wonder and curiosity! i perceived it was not the gaiety of force; yet it had a tinge of complacent melancholy; and, from his subsequent conduct, i am convinced it had its origin in some determination he had taken, whether for himself, fortunate or unfortunate, the sequel alone can explain. he shook my hand affectionately, when he bade us good night; and, at breakfast the following morning, we learned that he had galloped away at day break. he had left a letter for his uncle, not filled with flattering apologies, never fear it, but containing a short harangue on the impossibility of his going at present to london, and a few cold wishes for the general safety of the party at large. since that time, i also have been favoured with a letter from him which, although it is not intended to elucidate any part of his conduct, has brought back to my mind, with additional force, a surmise i formerly dismissed as too improbable. what a length of letter! you see, sibella, how closely i consider our feelings as united; for, while i endure no weariness myself, i fear not the chance of inflicting it upon you. adieu, my sweet friend: may principle alone, not personal fatal experience, teach you, that your present system of secresy is erroneous. caroline ashburn letter vii from lord filmar to sir walter boyer what a life have i led these three days! an old house my habitation, built according to old customs, with its casements staring at one another across a narrow court, and the very offices turning their backs on noble prospects; two old men and one ugly old woman my companions. no young nor pretty face abides within these walls, for thy poor friend's amusement. called up at nine! and, what is still worse, sent to bed at eleven! did you ever go to bed at eleven, boyer?--there i wake, and dose, and dream--dream i hear the inspiring rattle of dice boxes--wake, and curse myself for ever having known their enticements, and then curse them for not being now beside me. what, in the name of wonder, could have become of you the day i left london! your valet was drunk when i stopped full of intelligence at your lodgings. uc--and hic--was all i could get from the fellow for a time--and then followed 'yes, sir,--to be sure, my lord--i'll tell you at once--my lord is gone, sir,--in a post-chaise and four, my lord.'-- 'where is sir walter gone, puppy?' 'sir walter, my lord!--oh yes--sir walter is gone--i don't know where he is gone, sir walter.' drive on, cried i; and home i went, to step from my carriage to the travelling chaise, in which with my dear father i was gently whirled down to monkton hall. what a life have i led these three days!--a pestilence on your throat, i say!--there he sits, walter, the bird of night and wisdom; and, with his quavering hoo----oo----oo, calls on me to be solemn if i can't be wise. i hate wisdom; and, had i not a story to tell you, would sit down and rail at it. every clock from every steeple last wednesday morning sounded seven as i with pledged honour and empty pockets drove home from ----. the memento was insolent; and i was splenetic. i longed to throw stones at the steeples; and to knock down each sturdy porter who looked into the chariot, to inform me by his clear eye and vigorous step that he has passed the night in rest, and had arisen poor indeed but happy. impudent scoundrel! he, a porter! i, a viscount! i undressed and went to bed; where i had the felicity of ruminating till ten o'clock upon the vast increase of my knowledge and happiness since i became so intimately connected with spellman and his associates. at which hour of ten, the earl sent a servant to request i would breakfast with him. qualms of apprehension stole upon me. i foreboded strange discoveries and severe remonstrances; and, as i felt too humbled in my own opinion to be insolent even to my father, i considered how to avoid the interview, till i had mechanically staggered into the earl's dressing-room, where i was received with 'good morning to your lordship.' 'i hope you are well, my lord,' said i; and throwing myself across the sopha we sipped a cup of chocolate in silence. 'i enquired for you last evening,' said the earl. 'i believe, lord filmar, it was extremely late ere you came home.' 'it was extremely late my lord,' replied i. as i so readily agreed in his opinion, the earl was at a loss how to proceed. twice he removed his chair, played with a tea-spoon, and we finished our chocolate. after the breakfast things were removed, the earl turned his chair more toward me. 'hem,' said he,--'hem!' i arose and wished his lordship a good morning. 'stay, lord filmar, a moment--pray sit down. hem! i understand but too well--that is i suspect--i am fearful, the company you keep will do you harm.' now, walter, this man, the earl of elsings! a peer of the realm of great britain! had not courage to say to his own son--'dick, thou art a fool, and wilt be a beggar. thy companions are gamblers, sharpers, and knaves; and henceforward i command thee to abstain from their society.' 'you astonish me, my lord,' answered i, with great apparent simplicity; 'i could not suppose i should displease you by associating with men of rank.' 'oh certainly, not! by no means! only i would insinuate that play is dangerous, and your income small.' small indeed, thought i. a considerable pause succeeded; and then my father's countenance brightened. 'i purpose going down this day to sir gilbert monkton's,' said he. i wished him an agreeable journey. 'you must go with me, lord filmar.' 'nay, pray excuse me, sir. consider the season, the place, and the society. how can your lordship plan such an expedition at this part of the year? you will inevitably bring on an ague, or a nervous fever. dear, my lord, don't think of it!' 'indeed,' replied the earl, 'nothing but a view to your interest could have determined me to make sir gilbert a visit now. your interest, lord filmar, has strong claims upon me. your present income scarcely exceeds l. a-year; and you well know that, with all my care and prudence, i have not so far recovered former encumbrances as to be able to leave with the title of elsings more than a clear , l. per annum.'--the earl paused, hemmed, picked up a scrap of paper, then hemmed again, and proceeded. 'you know, i think you know, mr. valmont.' i bowed assent; and the earl looked as if he wished i had spoken; but i was resolved to hear him to the end. 'yes, you do know, mr. valmont: a very singular man. he has strange ideas of education. in all our conversations on the topic, i never could be brought to coincide with him. yet he is a worthy man too. he has a prodigious fine estate at moor down; and that estate round the castle is in excellent order. a strange gothic dismal place that castle of his to be sure. i cannot remember how long it is since it was built; but it was a valmont built it i know. it has never been out of the family. yet i wonder he should choose always to reside in it; and to keep his niece in it also. his niece--hem!--you know, lord filmar, i am one of miss valmont's guardians.' i bowed again. 'i am told she is very handsome. she was a beautiful child. i have not seen her these ten years. it was very singular, indeed, i think to guard her so closely from every one's observation. yes, lord filmar, mr. valmont's mode of thinking is certainly very singular. miss valmont's father was a most accomplished man; and one of my most intimate friends. he built a seat after the italian manner, tasty and elegant as you can possibly suppose. he was very fond of italy. poor man, he died there. i wish i could have prevailed on mr. valmont to allow his niece a more enlarged education; her manners, i think, must be constrained and ungraceful: but certainly, as her father's brother, mr. valmont had a right to claim the sole protection of her person, and to bring her up as he thought proper.' my father paused; and, though i could not immediately perceive the tendency of this ratiocination, i was resolved not to assist him, and remained silent. 'i was telling you, lord filmar, how much care and pains i have taken to redeem the elsing estate. let me advise you to leave off play, and to think of settling yourself advantageously. would not a beautiful bride adorn the title of lady filmar?' 'i do not perceive,' answered i, 'that the title of filmar wants any other ornament than it already possesses. remember, dear sir, i am scarcely two and twenty.' now, walter, the earl was not content with the simple recollections i had urged to him, but he began also to remember my profusion, my--my follies, (if you please) and my inadequate provision for them. 'stop, my lord,' cried i; 'and pray inform me what fortune my poor lordship has a right to expect as an antidote for matrimonial poison?' 'i think,' replied my father, 'that a lady of honourable descent, of good expectations, and possessing an unentailed six or seven thousand a year would be a very proper match for you.' 'and that lady is miss valmont.' 'no such thing! no such thing!' cried the earl almost starting from his seat.--'will you dare, lord filmar, to assert that i said so?' 'indeed will i not, my lord. so far from it, i have heard you repeatedly declare she was left wholly dependent on her uncle. but why you should then be involved in the cares of guardianship, or why you should be inclined to saddle my encumbered estate with a wife without a fortune, i own appears a little mysterious.' be the true state of the case what it may (and we will talk of that hereafter) 'tis certain that every working muscle of the earl's countenance betrayed the insincerity of his assertions, while he point blank denied that he had any reference to valmont's niece when he proposed giving me a bride. i affected to be convinced; and, with a kind of lazy curiosity, played with my dog and asked questions about miss valmont, and wound my father round and round this dependent orphan, till i was nearly as assured as though it were on lawyer's deeds before me that six or seven thousand pounds a year is the lady's marriage portion. a saucy triumphant smile at length betrayed me. the earl reddened violently; and degenerated into such hints about certain affairs of mine that i suddenly jumped up, said i would attend him wherever he pleased, wished his lordship a hasty good morning, and drove away to deposit my burthen of confidence with you. well then, walter; here we are at monkton hall, and valmont's frowning fortress stands only at three miles distance; but still i am not one foot forwarder in the direct road of knowing why we came hither. in the bye-paths of windings and inuendo, indeed, i have made a little progress. i have discovered, walter, that the earl has a secret; but have not discovered the actual secret: only i can surmise a great deal. i surmise that the earl and mr. valmont have laid a trap for me: and i surmise that i shall tumble into the trap, and be almost smothered with gold: and i further surmise that the gold will infallibly find its way out of the trap, and leave poor me behind it. i am resolved to be perfectly obedient and resigned to my fate, and you may, if you please, wish me joy: for if the dear creature is but any thing like what her uncle intended to make her, with his wire-drawn principles about female weakness and female obedience, i shall be the least noosed of any married man in england. she will want no more than a cage, and a closet, and one smile a month from her sovereign lord and master. gloomy hall, or gloomy castle--some such name, i formerly gave that turret-crowned building.--oh, the profaner! why it is paradise! the court of cytherea! where loves and graces sport on sideboards of massive plate, and intrigue with wanton zephyrs upon every acre of valmont's rich domain! we are invited to dinner, walter. this is saturday. on tuesday down go the draw bridges to admit me: me, me. the 'squire and earl settle preliminaries. the wood-nymph is introduced. she gazes with awe and astonishment, on her polished lover: while i forget her, to remember her fortune. at some future period, i shall subscribe myself your very rich and happy humble servant, filmar letter viii from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn imagine me, dear caroline, sitting down to write to you in the dead of night, by an almost extinguished taper: somewhat chilled with cold; yet that sensation overpowered by the tremor of surprise, of curiosity, of emotions, in fine, which i cannot describe or explain. and shall i boast of my strength, yet suffer my heart to palpitate, the colour to vary on my cheek, because an incident appears extraordinary?--why did i not go back? perhaps imagination was on the stretch, and i am self-deceived. yet this writing! there must--but who would or could sigh with or for me, save one?--foolish, weak sibella! art thou turned coward then? how can'st thou brave dangers, who hast fled from a sound? perchance a fancied sound too!--yes, i will return. i will not wait till day-light renews my courage; but go now to the wood, and examine this--hark!--i hear a noise!--good god!--is it?--if it should be my clem---- * * * * * oh no! that is impossible!--it was only the sweeping of the wind through that long gallery. but i won't go to the wood to-night, caroline. i tremble more, and the cold increases. my taper too diminishes fast; but, while its light allows me, i will go over the events of the day and night, to discover if distinct recollection gives them a different appearance from what they now wear in the confusion of my ideas. to begin, then, with the morning. while yet at breakfast, andrew entered my room and intimated it was my uncle's orders that i should remain in my own appartments all day.--strange as appeared the command, i sought no explanation from andrew; but chose rather to submit to it in its present form, than encounter the teazing unintelligible signs of this silent old man. an hour had hardly passed, when i heard mr. valmont's footstep in the gallery; and as he approached nearer my door, i called up a firmness in my mien: for methought his visit to my chamber (a circumstance i never remembered to have taken place) foreboded something uncouth and unpleasant. 'so, sibella,' said he, entering in a cheerful manner, 'you look quite well. you will oblige me particularly by not going into the park to-day. there's the armoury if you want exercise only be sure you go and return by the narrow stair-case. i would not have you seen for a moment in any other part of the castle. perhaps i may bring a friend to visit you. a friend of your father's, child. you'll obey me, sibella. and andrew can inform you when you are at liberty to pursue your rambles.' he withdrew. an address so familiar, with a voice and countenance so complacent, from mr. valmont to me, was food for reflection. the friend too! the friend of my father!--i felt not the necessity of exercise. i approached not the narrow stair-case. i thought not of the armoury. i remained in one posture; and andrew's entrance, with my dinner, first broke in upon my reverie. the meal ended and andrew gone, it was resumed; and as long thinking will ever bring something home to the affections, i had left mr. valmont, his smiles, and his friend, to dwell on the image of my clement--when my uncle led into the room a man somewhat older in appearance than himself, of an unmeaning countenance, whose profusion of dress sat heavy on an insignificant form. i turned away scornfully; for i thought it a profanation of the term to call this being _the friend of my father_. how long he staid i cannot exactly tell--too long i thought then. he seemed to talk of me to mr. valmont; but to me he said little; and, owing perhaps to my dislike of the man, that little i did not rightly understand, and never attempted to answer. when i saw andrew in the evening, i ventured a few questions; and, with difficulty, learned there was company in the castle who were not expected to go away till late. i desired him to inform me as soon as they had departed; and, accordingly, a little, before twelve, andrew opened my door, gave three distinct nods, shut it after him, and departed. i understood his signal. never had i passed a day in the house before; and i almost panted for the enjoyment of fresh air. the night was calm and serene; and the moon shone with a frosty brightness in a clear unclouded sky. wrapping myself in a cloak, i descended with a quick and joyful step. neither light nor sound existed in the castle; and, unbarring the heavy doors, i sallied out in defiance of cold, to enjoy the lightness i then felt at my heart. the moonbeam directed my course; and i turned up the hill at the back part of the castle where no trees intercepted the partial light. standing on the summit, i looked around and my eye caught the glittering surface (made resplendent by the moon's reflection) of that small and beautiful lake which you may remember rises on the skirts of my wood. thither i hastened; and, seated on the bank, i became enraptured with the scene. all seemed in union with my mind; only, that an undisturbed serenity reigned through nature; and, with the peace in my breast, a tumult of delight claimed its share. i sang. i gave vent to my pleasure in words; in exclamations!--till at length the sound of two, from some very distant bell, floated through the air, and i rose to regain the castle. never in day time did i quit the park without visiting our oak; and now, when my heart bounded high with hope and pleasure, it would have been impious thus to have departed. as i passed the rock, its dark shade, with the gloom in which the tall trees inclosed me, gave a new colour to my emotions. a pensive, but not a painful, tenderness stole on me. my breast began to heave, my lip to tremble: and, having reached the oak, i threw myself on the ground and sobbed. still i felt no unhappiness. an impressive kind of awe took place of my former rapture, and dictated that i should dry my tears, and offer up a prayer for clement. at the foot of our oak, i knelt and audibly prayed. still was i kneeling: still were my clasped hands raised: i uttered a deep sigh: and, close behind me, reverberated a prolonged sigh, if possible more deep, more forcible. my taper emits its last rays. the moon is withdrawn; and total darkness compels me to seek rest--adieu! * * * * * the sigh was distinct. it struck upon my ear. it almost reached my heart, caroline. dizzy, benumbed, i could scarcely rise; and, as i walked slowly along the open path from the monument, i really tottered. i believe i had proceeded fifty yards, and i began to tread with firmness and to consider if the sound could be real, when something whizzed past me and i perceived a little white ball fall to the ground and roll back as it was on the descent till it stopped at my feet. equally surprised, but less affected, i turned quickly round. i looked every way: but the rock, the trees, the monument, and their respective yet mingling shadows, were the only objects i could discern. i do not remember stooping for the ball; yet i felt it in my hand as i returned to the castle. i had left my light burning in the hall; but did not attempt to examine my possession, till i had shut myself in my own chamber. the ball consisted of several folds of paper, with a small pebble in the middle, to give it weight i suppose. the inner fold contained lines, written with a pencil: the character neat, but uneven; and, in places, scarcely legible. these were the contents. 'art thou instructed, beauteous nymph, that those planets to which thou now liftest thine eyes contain worlds whose myriads of inhabitants differ in their degrees of perfection according to the orb to which they belong? some approach to immortality. others are, as yet, farther removed: but all are in a progressive state toward the angelic nature. even the lowest orb ranks above thy world.' 'from one of these latter planets, i descend--part mortal and part etherial. the former subjects me to pain and grief; but the latter can exalt me to bliss too ecstatic for the confined sense of mere mortality.--my spiritual nature places few bounds to my wishes, gives me invisibility, and brings the world before me at a view. i can see into the human bosom; and art cannot baffle me. in this world, i am permitted to seek a friend: and thee, hallowed inhabitant of this lower orb, i claim.' 'set thy desires before thee. if they be many, chose the essential: if they be few, name all. to-morrow, after sunset, place the paper wherein thou hast written thy wishes on the tomb, and retire. if another mortal claim a share of those wishes, my power ceases; but if they relate only to thyself, fair creature, some one i may gratify. thus may we communicate. to approach is forbidden. to be visible to thy eyes is denied me. fly not then from the spirit, which _will_ protect, but cannot harm, thee.' whither does recollection bear you, caroline?--to the hermit of the wood and armoury, doubtless. the mysterious and whimsical stile of this written paper corresponds with the first address of that hermit. i wonder i did not remember it last night: but clement's fears, and the mode to overcome them, have been objects of such magnitude in the heart of sibella that curiosity has ceased to intrude its train of remembrances and suppositions. clement was right. who, but through my uncle's means, could find entrance into this region of caution and confinement? yes; clement judged rightly! it is the man to whom mr. valmont says i must be united. will you, caroline, give the inclosed to my clement? read it also; and judge with him for me. i wait your decision--but i wait unwillingly. sibella letter ix to clement montgomery (inclosed in the preceding.) do we not create our own misery, my clement, by this submission?--mr. valmont separates our persons, because he cannot separate our hearts. oh! your reasonings were false, my love; and i was only misled when i thought i was convinced!--'but a short time,' you said, 'and mr. valmont shall know it all, and we will be again united.'--why not now? i cannot feel, i cannot understand these effects of his displeasure on which you dwell. why do you dream of future benefits, when he tells you, that you are to have none of them? when he declares to you his wealth shall not be your's? and what of that! will joy and felicity be less ours, because we are not rich?--we know it cannot. did you possess wealth beyond what i can name, i should share its advantages; then if poverty or disgrace be your's, i demand to participate therein. it is my right; and twenty mr. valmonts shall not deprive of the inestimable privilege. let me prove by actions the boundless love i bear you. words are feeble. where is the language that has energy enough to describe the crowd of pleasures which rush upon my mind, while i am retracing our past scenes of happiness; or that can give its true colouring to my regret, when i call up the present separation, which bids them depart for a season? clement, you are dismissed that another may be introduced. the man of mystery, he whom my uncle has chosen, appears again. say, my love! shall i tell them how useless are all their preparations?--that you and i have formed the indissoluble band? i am ready to do this. i wait but your consent. and then, if mr. valmont resents our conduct and will not yield me to you and your freedom, i must and shall find means to show him he has no more power over my person than my mind. i will escape him, and fly to thee. ever, ever, thy sibella letter x from lord filmar to sir walter boyer peaceful slumbers attend thee, wat! the richer promising waking visions of expectation be mine!--a very pretty apostrophe that for a young viscount! i wonder if my father ever forgot to go to sleep when in bed, and sprang up again to write to some contemporary in same of his stratagems, intrigues, and toils?--dear honest soul, no:--his sonorous breathings from the next chamber salute my ears in answer.--i certainly never was intended for the elder son of an earl. oh, i cry you mercy, dame nature! i read, i bow my head in obedience. a little twinkling star, boyer, darting his ray throw the window, traces my destiny on this paper. _'when the heyday of the blood is past_,' says the oracle, '_thou art to be a statesman._' so i will. yes, a prime minister of great britain: and the more mischief i do before-hand, the better shall i be qualified for the duties of that high and important station. the project i talked of in my last, have you not admired its tendency? have you not rejoiced that the honours of the elsing title is to have a fresh gilding from the valmont coffers. if you have not already done this, i charge you neglect not a moment the duties of congratulation; for your friend, your happy friend filmar, is assuredly, mind me _assuredly_, to be the husband of miss valmont. therefore i will read you a letter, or at least a part of a letter, which came from her uncle to my father. 'indeed, my lord, to pursue this subject a little farther, it is only with a man who is prepared by such opinions as i have laid down to keep his wife in seclusion, that sibella valmont can be happy. i have purposely educated her to be the tractable and obedient companion of a husband, who from early disappointment and a just detestation of the miserable state of society is willing to abandon the world entirely. and, not to mislead you in any way, such a one i hold in view.' 'you, my lord, have acted with consistent delicacy throughout our guardianship. you readily yielded to my plans, when our trust commenced; and you have never attempted to counteract them by any ill-judged interference; and i am therefore beholden to your prudence and politeness. of your lordship's understanding i have so good an opinion, that i cannot apprehend any offence will be taken on your part for my declining the proposed alliance of lord filmar for my niece. you must be aware, my lord, how very unfit her education has rendered her to be the wife of any person who does not in all respects think as i do. you must also suffer me to decline, for very good reasons, your request that lord filmar may see her. the child has beauty; and the interview for his sake is much better avoided. you, my lord, have a title to see her whenever you are so disposed; and i hope as a proof that we understand each other, that lord filmar will accompany you when you honour valmont castle with your visits. from your friend and servant, 'g. valmont' this letter, walter, the earl called me back to give me at his own chamber door, after i had bade him good night. do you not observe how artfully valmont had arranged the manner of his refusal; or are you, as i was on its first perusal, a little chilled by the contents? i perceive, by the earl's delivering the letter to me at a time which precluded all conversation on the subject, that he feels valmont's refusal to be unchangeable; now i dare not tell him that i have boldly resolved to take the niece of valmont whether her uncle pleases or not, because what he calls his honour would stand between me and my project. honour will not pay my debts, walter. so, _honour_, here you and i part. good by to you!--there: we have shaken hands: and the musty fellow has marched off on yon straight road, while i turn aside into this. invention aid me! stratagem be my guide! and do thou, walter, plot, contrive, and assist to make me matter of this prize. assuredly i will be the husband of miss valmont. this have i sworn to myself: and this have i repeated to you. i read valmont's freezing epistle and i went to bed. darkness and silence are admirable auxiliaries to reflection. first, past in array before me my mortgages, my debts, and the diabolical stake i lost to spellman for which i have given notes that extend to the uttermost penny i can raise. then, how gaily danced before me the visions i had indulged while i sounded my father about this hidden fortune of miss valmont, and while i reflected on the well-known wealth of her uncle. 'ah but,' said i, 'her uncle has refused me, has already selected a husband for her!' and i shut my eyes; and sighed, walter. that sigh proved my salvation: for it exhaled the dim vapour that had obstructed the operations of my confidence, my invention! then, how rapidly did my fancy teem with plan and project! how did i reject one, choose another! till, at length, i called for light and paper, that i might cool the fever of my hopes, by laying them bare to your inspection. i well know what you are, walter: a compound of contradictions. when you should believe, you are sceptical; where you should doubt, your faith is unshaken; and i expect when i tell you i am more and more convinced, by the recollection of many circumstances and by the earl's awkward evasions, that miss valmont is her father's heiress--i expect, i say, that you will assure me i am deceived: and, as to my resolution of stealing her, you will assert that it is a project idle, vain, and impracticable. yet, were i now to abandon the enterprise, you would wonder at my stupidity, would declare nothing could appear so certain as her fortune, and nothing so easy as its attainment. therefore, dear walter, i do not ask your advice; i only ask your attention. six or seven thousand a year! the lady a minor too from the age of six, and no expences incurred upon her education!--think of these circumstances, walter; and, if you love arithmetic, cast up the accumulations of all these years; and to make the sum total of my future possessions, add the , l. per ann. of her uncle who never had any other heir than this untutored sibella! would not such a sum convert even deformity into grace? but they say too she has beauty. her ignorance and barbarism i will forgive; for i can at all times escape from a wife, though i cannot escape from the debts which are hourly accumulating to my destruction. marry a fortune or fly my country: there's the alternative. i choose the former. as to flying one's country, i know of no country in which a man may drink, game, &c. &c. and spend his own and other people's money so easily as in that where, being born rather of one parent than another, the delightful privilege becomes as it were part of his legal inheritance. it must be done too, if possible, time enough to prevent the necessity of a last mortgage to pay the notes i gave to spellman. i was bubbled out of that money, but i was heated and the rascal so cool, i was unable to detect him; it becomes therefore a debt of honour and someway or other pay i must----pshaw! walter, thou wert always a dunce at school and at college. now art thou turning over the page to seek the parting scene 'twixt me and honour. foolish fellow! didst thou never hear there are two sorts of honour? honour of principle, and honour of fashion. honour of principle says--'do not steal miss valmont out of her uncle's castle; and pay thy poor tradesmen before thou payest the gambler spellman.'--here advances honour of fashion. what grace, what ease in her attitudes? how unlike is she to the awkward fellow who has just spoken, and who, without one bow, one smile, stood as upright as if he dared show his face to the gods. but hark her mellifluous accents steal upon mine ear. 'be,' says she, 'the accomplished nobleman for which nature in her happiest mood designed you. exercise the elegance of your taste in the disposal of miss valmont's wealth. above all, pay spellman; or you forego, among the higher circles, the rapture of staking thousands on the cast of a die.' it would be strange if a young man of my accomplishments did not know how much more useful and endearing a companion is honour of fashion than honour of principle! i will go and drink one bumper to the little solitary; then, i'll go dream. aye: i'll dream that we are married; for i am upon honour there too. adieu! filmar _p.s._ since i wrote the above i have given four hours to deliberation on the chances for and against my design; nor have i found any obstacle which may not be overcome, though i have not yet discovered the means. do not laugh at me, for i think it no inconsiderable step toward success to have divined all the probabilities which may oppose my success. to-morrow, i go to the castle. griffiths shall attend me. he was once your valet too. need i a more skilful engineer think you? who knows what opportunities may occur to-morrow? a sigh, a glance, a word--oh, but i forget! i am not even to look at her, says don distance. well! well! we will talk of that hereafter. twice have i perambulated around the park; but it is so walled and wooded and moated that the great mogul's army and elephants might be there invisible. a propos, in the second of these circuits, which was on yesterday evening, as i was leading my horse down a hill at the bottom of which valmont's moat forms a sudden angle, i perceived a young man walking hastily up the narrow lane towards the moat. hearing my horse's feet, he turned towards me; then, wheeling round, he fled out of sight in a moment. in one hand he held a long pole; and in the other a small basket. his figure was uncommonly elegant; and i imagined i had some knowledge of him, but there are no gentlemen's houses in this quarter, except the castle and monckton hall. the little valley where i saw him is unfrequented; and scarcely passable, it is so encumbered with brambles and underwood. woods rise immediately on the other side of the moat, whose shade, with that of the high barren and black, which shows its rugged side to the valley, spreads forbidding gloom over the whole. who could this youth be, i wonder; and where could he be going? adieu, walter! think of to-morrow. letter xi from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont i charge you, sibella, by the value you affix to my friendship, that you remain at present passive. it is a term of probation for clement on which the colouring of your future days depends.--more of this hereafter. i write now with a kind of restless eagerness. images, apprehensions, and even hopes, all finally resting on you, fill the place of soberer judgment.--this wood wanderer! this spirit--'part mortal and part etherial,'--fascinates my attention. i see him gliding through the paths you had trodden. the tree which screened him from your view cannot conceal him from mine. i see him listen almost breathless to your prayer. the new-born colour on his cheek hangs trembling, daring not then to depart; and the throbbings of his agonized bosom collect themselves while restrained, and give force to that sign whose utterance has echoed a thousand times in my imagination. i see him dart the ball forward to meet your feet; and then he rushes into the thickest gloom to hide himself, if possible, even from himself. this is no spirit of your uncle's choosing, sibella. no: it is one who has refined upon romance; who can give, i perceive, as much enthusiasm to the affections, and carve misery for himself as ingeniously, as though he had passed his days under the safeguard of mr. valmont's walls and draw-bridges. '_he will protect, but cannot harm thee._' in truth, i believe it. go to the wood then, sibella. see him, if possible; and tell me, did symmetry ever mould a statue in finer proportions than his form can boast? his eye in its passive state is a clear grey, its shape long; and the finest eye-brow and eye-lash that ever adorned mortal face, not excepting even your's sibella, belong to his. hold him in conversation and you will see that eye almost emit fire; it will dazzle you with its rays; or, if a softer subject engage him, it can speak so submissively to the heart that words become but the secondary medium of his theme. observe how his hair, bursting from confinement into natural ringlets around his temples, contrasts itself with the fairness of his complexion--fair without effeminacy. his colour is of a doubtful kind; for it retires as you perceive it, or suffuses the whole of his fine countenance, just as you had begun to lament that he was too pale. his nose and mouth, though somewhat large, and perhaps irregular, yet admirably correspond with the harmony of the whole face. you probably will think clement's glowing face handsomer: i do not. chase but by one smile and dissatisfaction of your spirit, and there will a radiance, if i may so call it, beam upon you, that my best art fails to delineate. i shall not underwrite the name till you have judged of my painting. cease your astonishment, my friend, for i am no sorceress, and the spright is too etherial, too imaginative, to hold counsel with a mere mortal like me. to the means of his being with you i confess i have no clue; but if you read my former letters you will perhaps find mention of some few of the reasons and circumstances which incline me to infer i have discovered him. you will find though what i am now about to tell you; for my heart only transmitted it to my understanding, where it remained to have its justice and propriety closely investigated.--yes, sibella, wild, variable, and inconsistent, as is this spirit of your woods, _i_ could have loved him if--'_he would have let me_.' but 'tis past: 'twas a trace on the sands. love shall never write its lasting characters on my mind, till my reason invites it: and where hopes rests not, reason cannot abide. clement's eagerness to cultivate our acquaintance is by no means flattering. i have known him but a week. it was at the opera that i observed laundy's eye stealing to the adjoining box with something more than mere inquisitiveness. mine followed. a party of young men occupied the box, all known to me except one: and from the position in which the stranger sat neither laundy nor i could gain more than an oblique view of his face. now i do acknowledge that even this oblique view gave promise of the whole being worthy of observation; yet my curiosity lulled itself to repose till the dutchess de n---- (constantly of our parties) arose at the end of another act, to gaze around with that confidence which women of a certain rank deem infinitely becoming in themselves, though if perceived in a shopkeeper's wife or daughter downright impudence alone would be called its proper description. 'ah!' screamed the dutchess, 'le chevalier montgomery!' clement, (for it was your clement) starting from his former posture, bowed hastily; and having carelessly looked on the rest of the party returned to his seat. poor i, all flutter and palpitation, eager to know if this montgomery was the identical montgomery, was almost in despair that he should not avail himself of the dutchess's recognition; but she was not to be so baffled. with some trouble, on account of the nabob's gouty toe, she displaced sir thomas and lady barlowe, and got close to the box. already had she raised her fan to accost him with the tap of familiarity, when i heard mr. hanway his companion say--'mrs. and miss ashburn.' clement's eye instantly met mine. a smile gathered round his mouth; and in two seconds he was in our box, regularly introduced by mr. hanway. for the first minute, i was sure he resembled you; in the next, the likeness became indistinct; and in two more, i lost it entirely. his face, with all its advantages of complexion, colour, brilliant eyes, and exquisite teeth, has not the variety which your's possesses; though to say here that he is less handsome than any creature upon earth is almost a crime, and the ladies scruple as little to tell him he is a phoenix as to think him one. we had scarcely any conversation that evening; for my mother and the dutchess vied with each other in their attention to montgomery. lady barlowe could not claim a share of him, though sir thomas immediately recollected clement and renewed their acquaintance with apparent pleasure. 'don't you remember, mr. montgomery,' said the nabob, 'the day you and arthur set out for the continent you dined with me? how much every body was delighted with my nephew's vivacity! that very day a gentleman said to me, sir thomas,--and a very great judge he was i assure you--sir thomas, said he, your nephew will make a figure in the world. if you bring him into parliament, what with his abilities and his relationship to you, sir thomas, he may stand almost any where in this country. well, mr. montgomery, when i sent for him home so much sooner than i first intended, it was because this gentleman's advice appeared to me very good, and because he further told me no time was to be lost. home arthur came, and i could have bought him a borough the next day.'--'no, indeed,' he said, he would neither buy votes or sell votes; nor did the conduct of parliament please him; nor could he--in short, he had so many faults to find and objections to make, that he out-talked me, and i couldn't tell what to say to him. but, thought i, he will think better of it; and i let the matter rest a while; and made another proposal in the mean time, and had he done as i wished he would now have been one of the richest men perhaps in the kingdom. yet, upon my soul, he point blank refuses this too; and talked as much of principle and integrity and i know not what, as in t'other case! 'twas damned insolent! and so i told him.--no, nor had he ever the modesty to ask my pardon; but took it all as coolly as you can imagine.--well, and when i forgave him of my own accord, and behaved to him more kindly than ever, he has taken some new freak into his brain, and playing so many odd tricks of late that i am actually afraid of him.' 'oh never was such an unaccountable!' said lady barlowe. 'the ball-night at bath!' added my mother laughing. 'his letters are algebra to me;' said clement, 'and i have been half tempted to forswear his correspondence.' 'last winter,' said mr. hanway; 'he made conquests by dozens. some cruel fair one is revenging, i suppose, her slighted sex.--in love, no doubt!' 'i believe not,' replied clement; and the conversation ended: for the dutchess now chose to talk; and, never having seen this incomprehensible irresistible murden, she could not talk of him, you know. the party adjourned to sup at sir thomas barlowe's: we and the dutchess de n----, by a previous engagement, clement and mr. hanway in consequence of the baronet's pressing invitations. mademoiselle laundy complained of indisposition, and returned home immediately from the opera. she, as well as her friend the dutchess, had been acquainted with clement in paris; but, after the first cold bow, mademoiselle laundy remained unnoticed by him. no man could be more gallant, more gay, or unrestrained, than your chevalier, as the dutchess persists in calling him. at the nabob's table we met several persons of fashion, to whom he was already known, and by whom he was treated with attention. his person and manners are no trivial recommendation; and the belief which every where prevails of his being heir to mr. valmont supports his consequence with its due proportion of power. i debated with myself to determine, whether or not this belief ought to pass without contradiction; and, foreseeing many injurious consequences that might arise to clement from the expences and dissipation which it encouraged, i resolved to seek an early opportunity of conversing with and encouraging him to disown the supposition. no opportunity occurred during that evening; but, ere we separated, clement was engaged to dine on the succeeding day in one of my mother's private parties. i very seldom breakfast with my mother, our hours of rising and morning avocations are so different; however, i went to her dressing room that morning, purposely to talk of your clement. i spoke much of your attachment to each other; and mrs. ashburn immediately declared she would take his constancy under her protection, as such elegance and accomplishments, she said, as those possessed by mr. montgomery would be assailed with more temptation than such charming candour and simplicity might be able to withstand. to miss laundy my mother appealed for her confirmation of clement's praise; and she either did, or i fancied she did, give her assent with a languor and inattention not usual to her. i had no reason, however, to accuse her of inattention when i hinted at the change in clement's expectations; for, although my mother suffered it to pass unnoticed, mademoiselle laundy thought proper to press questions on me relative to this subject. i resented her inquisitive curiosity on a point which could not in any way concern her; and, declining to answer her questions, i quitted the room. to join _a private party_, my mother had invited clement: that was fifteen visitors, placed at a table covered with the most luxurious delicacies served in gilt plate, and surrounded with attendants as numerous as the company. mrs. ashburn, less splendid, but more tasty than usual in her dress and ornaments, was studiously attentive to clement; declared herself his guardian; and spoke with rapturous admiration of you, sibella, but without naming you, clement blushed, bowed, returned compliment for compliment; and, graceful in all his changes, assumed an air and mien of exultation. sometimes he turned his eye toward mademoiselle laundy. the evening had far advanced before i could engage him in any conversation. he then showed me a letter from your uncle, wherein to my very great surprise mr. valmont desires clement to be cautious in confiding his prospects or intentions to any one; bids him study mankind and despise them; tells him he does not mean to limit him to the sum he has already in his possession if more should be necessary; and advises him to be speedy in his choice of a profession; talks of the value of disappointment, the blessings of solitude, the duty of obedience, of his own wisdom, his own prudence and power; begins with the kind of appellation of--'my dear adopted son;' concludes with the stern valmont-like phrase of--'your friend as you conduct yourself.' here my interference ends. henceforward, mr. valmont plans and clement executes each in his own way. your uncle has quite an original genius, sibella; following no common track, he labours only to make a glare by strong opposition of colours, and to surprise by contrariety of images. to clement's murmurs against mr. valmont, succeeded a little species of delirium: for i named you, and no impassioned lover-like epithet was omitted in the recital of your charms.--whatever, sibella, may be my own vanity and pretensions i could hear praises of your beauty from a thousand tongues without envy or weariness. yet, from clement, a slighter mention would have pleased me better. he is the chosen of your heart; and should prize the mind you possess equal to heaven. an angel's beauty might be forgotten, when the present and future contemplation of such a mind could be brought in view. alas, your lover is no philosopher! he laments the energy which i idolize.--allow me to indulge the percipient quality i suppose myself to possess, and sketch montgomery when my messenger, presents him the letter you inclosed to me. no sooner does he behold that writing, than sibella rises to his view in all her grace and loveliness. could he give existence to the vision, that moment would be too rich in transport. he trembles with an exquisite unsatisfied delight: and, while the senseless paper receives his eager kisses, he could fight dragons, or rush through fire to obtain you.--at length he reads.--well: the same sibella is there--she whom he calls the most perfect and lovely of all god's creatures!--the same sibella whose enchantments cast a magic illusion around the horror-nodding woods of valmont!--the same sibella, but poor and dependent, is now quitting those woods for ever and ever--she leaves behind her even the trace of wealth; and flies an outcast to clement, who, involved in the same ruin, has neither fortune, fame nor friend!--delightful expectations vanish. torture succeeds. and the agony of this prospect to clement could in no one instance be equalled, except perchance by the knowledge of your being in the possession of a rival and lost to him for ever. i suspect there are some latent shades in this picture which will displease you: but remember, my ever dear girl, that early, even at the commencement of our intimacy, we reciprocally laid it down as a solemn truth that without full and entire confidence friendship is of no value. i have said that clement and you love from habit. nor let it wound you that i say so still; for i am willing to seek conviction, and though i cannot be more candid than now, nor ever more worthy of your affection than while i am offending your heart to inform your judgment, yet if conviction meet me, i shall be more joyful by millions of degrees in owning i had mistaken. at all events, whether clement approves or disapproves the intention, your leaving your uncle and his castle now would be decidedly wrong. your education, constantly in opposition to that which a dependent should have had, unfits you for entering the world without protection. you have so much to learn of the manners of society, that perhaps any plan you might form would turn out the very reverse of your expectations.--stay, patiently if you can: at any rate, stay, till clement makes his final determination, and then i'll tell you more of my mind. be happy, my sweet my beloved friend! you have it largely in your power; and surely 'tis better to summons fortitude and walk boldly over a few thorns, than creep through miserable paths to avoid them, or sit down idly to bemoan their situation. caroline ashburn _p.s._ i have opened my letter, in consequence of a visit from clement montgomery. he came to me, sibella, agitated and trembling. your letter had conjured up a horrible train of fears and suppositions, and he was scarcely assured the evil he most dreaded had not already arrived. 'rash, cruel sibella!' he exclaimed, 'even now, perhaps, your have for ever undone me with mr. valmont!' i reminded him that you had said in the concluding lines of your letter to me that you waited, though unwillingly, for clement's determination. 'o that is true!' cried he--'and 'tis my salvation! dear miss ashburn, conjure her, by your love and my own, to guard our secret faithfully from her uncle. tell her, she cannot judge of the destruction she would hurl upon my head if she were now to betray me. tell her, i intreat, i insist, that she make not one attempt to quit the castle.--will you, dear miss ashburn, undertake this kind office? will you turn the adorable romantic girl from her mad enterprise?' 'certainly mr. montgomery,' i replied, 'i will deliver your own message exactly in your own words. as to my opinion, i have given it to sibella already: it is against her quitting the castle.' i should also have told clement what were my motives for wishing you to remain with your uncle, had not my mother and mademoiselle laundy, at that instant, entered the room. their presence, however, did not prevent clement from thanking me with great warmth; and, the worst of his fears being now removed, his countenance again brightened into smiles, and he readily acquiesced in my mother's wish of his attending her to convey him to his lodgings to dress, and, as he quitted us, i bade him remember the purpose for which he came to london. blushes covered his face, and he departed without speaking. once more, adieu! forget not the wood-haunter. letter xii from janettea laundy to clement montgomery wounded pride bids me forget the cold, cruel montgomery; but fatally for the peace of janetta, her love, betrayed injured and neglected as it is, still is more powerful than her pride. i have seen my family stripped of their honours and possessions by a band of ruffians. i have been left a destitute orphan: and compelled to seek subsistence in a strange country: compelled to descend even to a species of servitude! yet how trivial such misfortunes, compared with the loss of thee, montgomery! how could you leave me unjustified and unheard? how could you meet me as you did this night? do you never remember, montgomery, the sacrifices made to you by the undone janetta? do you never remember the hours of your solicitations, vows, and promises? and if you do remember them, can you thus kill with scorn and aversion her who solicits your return to your vows with tears of passion, love, and anguish? i did not feign when i pleaded indisposition to excuse my attendance on mrs. ashburn to sir thomas barlowe's; for, which in your presence and restrained by the presence of others from giving freedom to my emotions, i suffered indescribable torture. what dangers do i not incur by setting the messenger who shall give you this to watch your quitting the party? but you will not, montgomery, dear adored montgomery, if you do hate and despise me, you will not give me up to the contempt of others! my reputation is still sacred: and, but for you, the peace within my bosom had now been inviolate. i must see you, i will see you, montgomery! do not drive me to desperation! i have woes enough already. let me but once have an interview to explain that cruel mistake of your's, concerning the duke de n----; and, when i have proved my innocence, if you still bid me languish under your hatred, i will then suffer in silence. no complaint shall ever reach you. should you again smile on me--oh heavens! the rapture of that thought! be assured i can prove my innocence. be assured you were utterly mistaken. it was a scheme, a stratagem for purposes i can easily explain if you will but give me an interview. the dutchess de n---- is to this hour my very best friend; it was she who brought me to england. alas, what a sad reverse of situation is mine! thus to sue with tears and intreaty for one short hour's conversation to him who, but a few months past, languished for the slightest of my favours! think what a preference i gave you over the many who followed me with their sighs; think what i was; what i have endured; and drive not to rage and despair her who is ever your's and your's alone: janetta laundy letter xiii from the same to the same last night i obeyed the impulses of an unfortunate passion, renewed in its utmost violence and weakness by the unexpected sight of you. i now obey the dictates of prudence and reflection, and decline the interview i last night solicited. yes, montgomery! i see evidently that i am sacrificed to some rival. be it so. i am content to resign you. content to endure this penance for my past mistakes. we will henceforward meet only as strangers. i am resolved. never will i again trouble you in any way; nor ever again yield to that delusion which has brought upon me so much misfortune and misery. i have but one request to make; and that, sir, is a last request. remember that i am friendless and dependent. be generously silent. you are likely to be on terms of intimacy in this family, and miss ashburn is as severe as penetrating. guard carefully a secret that would ruin me in my situation; and every service that gratitude can inspire shall by your's from janetta laundy letter xiv from clement montgomery to arthur murden mr. valmont, dear arthur, has sent me to london with l. in my pocket to choose a profession. 'be not rash nor hasty in your determination, clement,' said he when we parted. 'associate with such persons as have already made their choice; and have from practice, from success, or disappointment, learned the exact value of their several professions. but associate with them as an independent man, one who seeks a variety of knowledge rather from inclination than necessity; and under these appearances, clement, they will court you to receive their confidence, even their envy of your independence will increase the freedom of their communications.' and do you dream, arthur, that i am practicing these grave maxims, and hearkening to the jargon of law, physic and divinity? no indeed, not i. the variety of knowledge i seek is variety in pleasures. my teachers are divinities whose oracles, more precious than wisdom, can lead the senses captive and enchain the will. 'be secret,' said mr. valmont. most readily can i be secret. i would have it remain a profound and everlasting secret, never to interrupt the delicious enjoyments which now again hover within my reach, which i must seize on. i have not the cold ability to chase from me the present smiling hour of offered delight, because a future hour may frown. pleasure beckons, and i follow. i tread the mazy round of her varieties. youth, vigour, and fancy conduct me to her shrine, the most indefatigable of her votaries. alike, i abjure retrospect and foreboding. as long as i can find means, will i elude the horrible change; and, if the fatal hour of darkness must arrive, why, arthur, it is but to exert a little manhood, it is but to remember that all the charms of life are passed by, and boldly to plunge into everlasting darkness. imagine not, dear arthur, by that doleful conclusion that i at all dread the possibility of its arrival; for, on the contrary, i believe my dismission is a mere farce, a something with mr. valmont to vary project and prolong inconsistency. i have compared his letters and his speeches; combined circumstances; and find them, though so various and contradictory, yet full of hope and promise. one cause of dread, indeed, will assail me. i dread the rashness of sibella. could you suppose, murden, that she has even talked of explaining the nature of our intimacy to her uncle, and of quitting his castle? was ever any thing so violent, so absurd, so pregnant with evil at this scheme? when i had read her letter, i thought every chair in my apartment was stuffed with thorns. nay, i endured for a time the torments of the rack. thank heaven! miss ashburn adopted my sense of the extravagant proposition, undertook to dissuade sibella, and restored me once more to gaiety, courage, and happiness. yes, arthur, established in my former lodgings, courted, surrounded, congratulated by my former friends, i want but your society and the embraces of my divine girl to be the happiest of the happy. thanks, murden, for your silence on the subject of mr. valmont's threatened disposal of me. i am every where received like my former self. oh! had i met one repulsive look, or supercilious brow, with--your servant, mr. montgomery--i surely should have run mad! miss ashburn knows it all, and i hate her most righteously. i allow that she is a fine woman, but her beauty is spoiled by her discernment. i wish mr. valmont would refuse sibella miss ashburn's correspondence. the dear girl is already too eccentric. yet could i now gaze on that lovely face, could i now clasp that enchanting unresisting form to my bosom! had she ten thousand faults, i should swear they were all perfections. murden! you never saw any one who can equal sibella valmont! her charms cannot pall in possession. ever a source of new desire, of fresh delight, adoration must ever be her lover's tribute!--arthur, i will make her my wife. whom would you suppose i have, to my very great astonishment, found here, in mrs. ashburn's family? no other than janetta laundy! i first saw her at the opera, where i overlooked her with the most studied neglect. she quitted the party abruptly; and then the dutchess de n---- informed me of the cruel reverse of fortune in the laundy family. janetta, with so much beauty, she, who lately shone conspicuous in fashion, taste, and elegance, is now absolutely reduced to the mortifying state of a humble companion. upon my soul i was shocked; and, notwithstanding certain recollections, i could not help feeling a strong degree of interest and pity for her. a brilliant party, whom we joined at the supper table of your uncle sir thomas barlowe, banished janetta and her misfortunes from my thoughts; but, as i was stepping into a chair to return home, after i had handed the dutchess and mrs. ashburn to their carriages, a man put a letter into my hand. the letter was from janetta, written in the true spirit of complaint and fondness. she implored that i would see her; asserted her innocence with respect to the duke de n----; and, recollecting the continued attachment of the dutchess to her, i was inclined to doubt the evidence of my senses, and half resolved to give her an opportunity of justifying herself. again the circumstances came rushing into my memory, and brought conviction with them. i determined to contemn and despise her; and steadily to refuse the interview. she spared me the trouble; for, on the next morning, while i was dressing to dine at mrs. ashburn's, a second letter was given me, in which janetta, with mingled love and resentment, bids me a final adieu. at mrs. ashburn's table janetta laundy had no rival in beauty. she enforced the homage of many eyes; but she received it with so graceful a reserve, that those who would otherwise have been jealous of her attractions were irresistibly impelled to own her worthy of admiration. toward me, her countenance expressed nothing but a frigid restraint. once i approached her seat, and she found an immediate pretence for withdrawing; and, shall i confess it to you, arthur, i was in a small degree mortified. it has not been merely one day, or two, or three, that janetta has upheld her determination. i have been astonished at her inflexibility and perseverance. i have almost doubted that she could really love me and be so firm. scarce a day passes in which we are not together, for mr. ashburn is extravagantly fond of janetta, and never moves without her. mrs. ashburn selects her parties as i best approve, and consults me on all her engagements. i attend her every where, and thus janetta and i are frequently in the same apartment, in the same carriage, side by side; and, considering former circumstances, you will not imagine these can be very desirable situations. it occurred to me one morning that i ought in justice to make janetta a present, notwithstanding her allowance from mrs. ashburn is really splendid. accordingly, i sent her a l. note, inclosed in a letter, written as i think with delicacy and propriety. the note was accepted, but the letter remained unanswered. two evenings after this, we were at ranelagh, where mrs. ashburn joining the ulson family, janetta and i walked a round or two alone. she then, with more coldness than i could have thought possible, thanked me for my present, and hoped my generosity would prove no inconvenience under the alteration of my affairs. by heaven, arthur, her speech was a thunderbolt! i was dumb for the space of many minutes; and then stammering, incoherent, blushing with shame, and anger, i protested her meaning was an enigma that i could not unravel. hanway at that instant came up, and every opportunity of further conversation was at an end. and how do you suppose i aimed to settle the business, to prevent the cruel supposition from being whispered from one to another around the circles of my friends? thus i did it. i took another bank note of l. and wrote another card, in which i alledged that i could only understand mademoiselle laundy's hint as a reproof for the smallness of the sum i had before sent her, and intreated she would now receive this as an atonement. i acknowledged the whole was scarcely worthy her acceptance, but i hoped she would consider i had less at command than in expectation. i added my fervent wishes for her happiness, but said not one word of love. still i have no answer. how wantonly cruel it is of miss ashburn to throw me thus in the way of torment and contempt! no one but herself could have told janetta of the alteration in my affairs. 'tis false! there is no alteration: for have i not four hundred pounds in my possession? where are you, and what are you doing, arthur? by heaven, i never think of you without astonishment! you whom fortune favours, you so highly gifted to charm, to be sacrificing the age of delights, in a barbarous solitude! what, upon earth, can be your inducement? your uncle pines for you. certainly you must be either immoderately sure of your power over him, or desperately careless of your interest. all who concern themselves in your fate, apply to me for the explanation of your mysterious conduct; and, finding i am no more informed than themselves, they teaze me with their conjectures. come, arthur! come! banish melancholy and misanthropy till age shall have cramped your vigour and palsied your faculties! then cast your dim sight upon the flying pleasures which you are no longer able to pursue, and rail, and be welcome! but now, while the power is your's, hasten to partake, to enjoy! the wealth of a nabob gilds the path before you! beauty spreads her allurements for you! come, insensible marble-hearted as you are, to the inticements of beauty--at least come to interest, if you cannot be interested; excite the sigh, the languor which you will not return! be again as formidable as you once were; and let the meaner candidates, who triumph in your absence, sink back to insignificance and neglect! does not the prospect fire you? i know it does--or, you are unfit to be the friend of clement montgomery letter xv from lord filmar to sir walter boyer one, two, three, or four pages, by jupiter! cried i, as i opened your packet, walter; and i ran over the first ten lines with a devouring greediness: for, would not any man have expected, as i expected when i had so lately written you two letters upon the projects and hopes that dance in gay attire before me, that your epistle must have contained comments innumerable, hints useful, and cautions sage. neither comment, hint, nor caution, could i find. nothing but four sides of paper covered with rhapsodies which have neither connection with nor likeness of any thing in heaven above, in the earth beneath, nor in the waters under the earth. yet, negligent as thou art, still must i write on. my fancy is overcharged with matter, for i have done wonders: wonders, walter! yesterday at ten o'clock i talked with lady monkton's housekeeper; who once was mrs. valmont's housekeeper; and yesterday at four o'clock i talked with mr. valmont himself. turn back to yesterday; and observe me, in sir gilbert's post coach, arrived with due state and precision before the venerable doors of valmont castle, accompanied only by my father, and attended by griffiths armed as all outward points like a beau valet, and like a skilful engineer within laying wait to spring a mine for his commanding officer. with measured steps, mr. valmont approached us three paces without the drawing room door. he conducted us to his lady; who, on a rich heavy and gilded sopha, sat in melancholy grandeur to receive us. 'but the niece,' i hear you cry, 'not a single glimpse of her, i suppose?' 'yes, sir walter boyer, i have seen her.' 'seen her! why, i thought----.' psha! what can a baronet have to do with thought? mark'd you her eye of heavenly blue! mark'd you her cheek of roseate hue! do you still doubt? then shall i proceed, and fire your imagination with the graces of my goddess. _all enchanting! nothing wanting!_ for i have gazed my fill--yes--on her picture.--why look you so, walter?--am i not her predestined lover, and has she not l. per annum? 'pray, madam, by what artist was this portrait done?' said i, to mrs. valmont, while the 'squire and earl were gone to visit the nymph of the south wing, with my imagination stealing after them on tiptoe. 'not by any artist, sir,' replied the lady. 'it was the performance of clement montgomery. it is drawn for my niece--.' 'then she must have the honour greatly to resemble you, madam. upon my soul the likeness is astonishing.' up rose mrs. valmont. 'why indeed, lord filmar, though i never observed it before, there is something of me in the turn of these features; but indisposition, sir, the cruel hand of sickness, has made sad havock with my face.'--and she pushed a little backward the hood which had almost hid her remnant of beauty. in short, dear walter, i dined at the castle. my father saw the lady and i saw her picture. my father says, and so says the picture, that she is very handsome. by the answers to a few questions artfully arranged to mrs. valmont, but more certainly from the result of griffiths' steady enquiries among the household, i learn that she is a mere savage, and loves her fellow savage clement as she ought only to love me. loves her fellow savage clement! you exclaim. not less strange than true, walter; and, if you would know more, listen as i did to the aforementioned housekeeper. 'of all the youths my eyes ever beheld,' said mrs. luxmere, 'i think master clement montgomery was the handsomest; and so affable, my lord!--he used to steal into my room once or twice every day to eat sweetmeats, when miss valmont or his tutor did not watch him.' 'but who does this master clement montgomery belong to?' said i. 'to mr. valmont, my lord. i'll tell you exactly how it was. nobody, as far as i know, had ever heard of this young gentleman till just after the 'squire's niece came to the castle; and then the 'squire took a journey, and brought home with him a fine handsome boy. and he gave a great entertainment; all the rooms were filled with company; and after dinner he led in clement montgomery, and bade every body look on him as his adopted son. some people think, indeed, that he is the 'squire's ----.' mrs. luxmere affected to titter. 'you are of that opinion?' said i.-- 'certainly,' replied mrs. luxmere. 'nothing can be more certain. old andrew has lived five and twenty years with mr. valmont; and he can't deny it. beside, if you were to see master clement, my lord, you would swear it. he is so handsome and so genteel!' 'and is miss valmont handsome, and genteel, and affable, mrs. luxmere?' 'i know very little about her, my lord, although i lived in the castle nine years,' said the housekeeper, with much abatement of her warmth. 'mr. valmont ordered both her and master clement not to speak to any one of the household, and she never came into my room in her life. master clement used to come so slily!--and many a nice bit has he been eating beside me, when miss valmont has been roaming the house and grounds in search of him! she has a suite of rooms entirely to herself in the south wing, and is waited on by silent andrew and his deaf daughter--' 'where is montgomery now?' said i. 'oh dear, my lord, you can't think what strange things have happened to him! the 'squire sent him abroad and he staid two years and he came home they say so grown and so improved, it was charming to think of it! yet that tyger-hearted mr. valmont has disinherited him, and sent him to london to work for his bread! poor dear youth! i know it's true, my lord.' enough of mrs. luxmere. it is true, walter, that this dear and handsome youth was brought up in the castle with miss valmont. every creature in it bears testimony to his good nature, for he would not only eat sweetmeats slily with mrs. luxmere, but he would slily ride with the grooms, tell stories with the butler, and so completely elude the vigilance of the 'squire and his tutor, that his contrivances are still a famous topic in the servants' hall. not so miss valmont. she never tempted the domestics from their obedience, nor invited them to familiarity, by that sacrifice of her integrity. i like this part of her character, nor am i at all inclined to give credit to the supposition which prevails among the servants of her being deranged in intellect. a little too hardy of nerve for a countess, i confess, she roams, they tell me, in defiance of storm or tempest, in the woods, nay even in the echoing galleries of the terrific castle, at and after midnight. some say she has conversed with apparitions, others only fear that she will one day or other encounter them; but all agree that, while he was here, she adored clement. and since he has been gone she, to an old oak, for his sake, pays her adorations. we talked of this montgomery yesterday, at dinner. his being disinherited is all stuff. he is valmont's idol. valmont praised him to the skies, not what he is, but what he is to be when all the 'squire's plans respecting him shall be completed. yet he has faults, it seems. wonderful! and cast in mr. valmont's mould too! what are his faults, think you, boyer? why, he admires the world. lack a day!--at one and twenty! but he is to be cured of this defect. oh, yes; mr. valmont possesses the grand secret! he is quack-royal to the human race; and possesses the only specific in nature to make a perfect man. were i in montgomery's place, i would wind valmont round and round my finger. care i for the nymph's loving her clement, think you? ne'er a whit! did he win her by caresses, i'll not be behind hand. or were sighs and flattery his engine, i can sigh and flatter too. aye, surely the practice-taught filmar may stand a competitorship with valmont's pupil. in two months or less, she shall herself decide upon our merits, and acknowledge me the victor. none of your croakings, walter. when did i fail of success where i chose to attempt it, even among beauties armed with cunning and caution? how then shall i fail with this unadvised, this inexperienced damsel, whom doubtless a man of less might than i could draw round the world after him in a cobweb. should uncle valmont rave when i have secured the prize, i'll send him among the tombs of my ancestors for consolation. he loves family; and there he may nose out a long list of worm-eaten rotten heroes, whose noble scent can inform him that even the blood of the valmonts may be enriched by uniting with the offspring of the dust of the filmars. my necessities are urgent, walter. the day of sealing my last mortgage draws near; and, if my invention is not more fertile on that account, at least my resolution is more undaunted. were time less pressing, i might grow coy with expedient. as it is, i must snatch at bare probabilities; and, in faith, be it the wildness of the design, be it ambition, avarice, or be the motive what it may, i grow more and more enamoured of the heiress of valmont castle, and more and more fearless of whatever risks i may encounter to obtain her. congratulate me, walter, on my firmness; and believe me, in a very considerable degree, thine, filmar letter xvi from clement montgomery to arthur murden i write again and again to you, arthur, and you remain silent. yet a fate so various as mine makes even communication enjoyment. various, did i say? no, it was but my apprehensions that were various. the fate was certain, established beyond the reach of change. mr. valmont ever designed to make me his heir, and designs it still. yesterday brought me a welcome letter, and a more welcome remittance. 'i am known to be your protector, clement,' says mr. valmont in his letter; 'and it is necessary for my honour that you should preserve a degree of consequence among men. moreover, money is the master key to the confidence of men. use it as such. gratify their wants, real or artificial; and they, in return, will soon display the sordidness the ingratitude of their hearts.' precious doctrines, these! and, arthur, i being wiser than the sender, have dismissed them, to keep their fellow maxims company in a close shut drawer in my secretary, where they shall rest in peace until i turn snarling cynic also. but the intimation, arthur!--the cash, arthur! i have not hoarded those in a drawer! you hear that it is necessary for mr. valmont's honor that i preserve consequence among men. ah! dear sir! leave me ever thus to the support of your honor among men! i will not complain though you preserve wholly to yourself the felicity of being locked within the walls of valmont's castle! i yield the building, and am content alone to aim at preserving your honour and dignity with the valued produce of its rich acres. this is the first time that mr. valmont's letters to me have failed to mention sibella. heaven avert the omen, if it be one! yet surely, for miss ashburn advised and i commanded, surely she will be silent. murden, 'twas one of the blind mistakes of fortune that sibella and i should love each other, directly in the teeth of mr. valmont's designs, and both so absolutely within his power. heigh-ho! i have been just taking a view of her picture.--what a divine face! some day i will make another copy of this miniature. the hair, beautiful as it is, falls too forward, and hides the exquisite turn of her neck. how can i endure to conceal the greater beauty, and display the less! ah! should those lips, lips promising eternal sweets, ever move to the destruction of my hopes, should they betray me to mr. valmont, then arthur, must they never again give joy to mine; for, however sibella's wild energy might inspire me, while reclined at the foot of a tree, to vow this and to promise that of fortitude and forbearance, here, in the centre of delights, i feel that sibella is as much a dreamer as her uncle. a thousand wants occur, that i knew not in her arms--wants which possibly her refinements might call artificial; yet, to me, is their gratification so endeared, as to become necessary to my existence. sooner would i quit life, than live unknown and unknowing. misled by the power of beauty, methought sibella spoke oracles while she talked to me of contentment and independence. whither might not the thraldom of her enslaving charms have led me! 'twas wonderful i escaped ruin! wonderful that i had strength to persevere in opposing her intent of declaring to her uncle the secret of that contract which crowned me with happiness, while it laid the foundation of a world of fears. could you see her, and could you taste the enticements of her caresses, you would wonder too. heavens! how will my happy years roll on, should i become securely the inheritor of the valmont estates, for then will i reward my fairest, then will i make her my wife! oh, that i could find some magic spell to charm her to silence, to deaden in her the memory of the past, so that i might peaceably enjoy the present without torturing apprehensions to assail me of mr. valmont's discoveries, of mr. valmont's resentments! but enough of the name of valmont. faith, murden, my thoughts are never so near the castle as when i write to you; and the reason is plain--i fly to my pen only when a cessation from pleasure threatens me with lassitude; and to such a cause, i am frank enough to tell you, you owe this my letter. it is now one hour past noon, and i went to bed at nine this morning. my limbs acknowledged a most unusual portion of weariness; but the gay shadows of the night's diversions flitted before me in tumultuous rotation. i had moments of insensibility on my pillow, but not of rest; and, after making a vain attempt of two hours to find sleep, i rose and ordered my breakfast. a thought of writing to you succeeded, for tempestuous weather will not let me ride, and haggard looks forbid me to visit. mrs. ashburn's fortune must be immense; and, on my soul, i adore her spirit. she does not suffer time to steal by her unnoticed; nor wealth to sleep in her possession. i believe her very dreams are occupied in forming variety of pleasures. their succession is endless and perpetual. yesterday and last night, i made one of a brilliant crowd of visitors who thronged to mrs. ashburn's. her new house was purposely prepared for this occasion; and no ornament that taste could devise and wealth approve was wanting to render it complete in elegant splendour.--a suite of rich apartments were yesterday morning thrown open for the reception of near persons. it was a breakfast worthy to be recorded among the enchantments of a persian tale; and every mouth was filled with applause; and still would the breakfast and concert have been the universal theme, had not the more novel and splendid entertainment of the evening deservedly claimed the superior praise. mrs. ashburn's cards had also invited the company of the morning to a masqued ball for the night. the masques began to assemble about eleven. mrs. ashburn had laid her commands on me not to appear till i judged the company would be assembled. no small tribute this her command to the vanity of your friend, arthur. she had chosen my habit. she had added to it some brilliant ornaments. i will be honest enough to confess that to the utmost it displayed my advantages of person, and mrs. ashburn believed the effect of the whole would be striking. i represented a winged mercury. my habit of pale blue sattin was fastened close around me with loops, buttons, and tassels of orient pearls, these, amounting to a value i dare hardly guess at, mrs. ashburn absolutely forced upon me for the occasion. thus resplendent i joined the throng. buzzing whispers of--_the mercury! the mercury! splendid! charming!_ &c. &c. ran round the walls; but, if the mercury excited their astonishment, his own surprise and delight was doubly triply excited by the enchantments which seemed to take his senses prisoner. methought in the morning i had quitted a palace. what name then could i devise to express the fanciful grandeur of the present scene? every thing was new. such dispositions had been made that the form of the apartments appeared changed. how the pillars, lights, music, refreshments were disposed, you may amuse yourself, if taste will so far aid you, in imagining. as for me, i have no power of description; my brain whirls from one dazzling object to another, and leaves me but an indistinct crowded recollection of the various beauties. mrs. ashburn was unmasked. janetta laundy had shone a bright star of the morning, but what cloud had now dimmed her rays i could not with the best of my endeavours discover. i detected the dutchess de d----; and essayed to gain some tidings of the recreant star, but she laughed me off without a tittle of information. suddenly the bands of music make an abrupt pause. every one looks round, silent, and surprised. a pair of folding doors fly open. streams of light burst upon the eye. the rich perfumes of the east pour forth their fragrance to the sense. the altar of taste appears, raised like a throne at the upper end of the temple. rows of silvered cupids present offerings, and point to the goddess, who presides at her own altar. i knew her form well: 'twas worthy of the goddess. her robe fell gracefully behind, loose from her shape, which a white vest sprinkled with golden stars admirably fitted. her plumes waved high over a coronet, of budding myrtle and the half blown rose. her cestus glittered of the diamond. diamond clasps confined the fulness of her robe sleeves a little above the elbow, and her fine arm borrowed no ornament beyond its own inestimable fairness. in short, arthur, who could look on unmoved. 'twas mrs. ashburn's triumph of wealth, but janetta laundy's uncontrollable triumph of beauty. i have many times wondered by what charm janetta could arrive at such unbounded influence over her benefactress, for certainly mrs. ashburn has a plentiful share of vanity, and is ever aiming to excite admiration. how then can she forgive the youth and charms of her companion? in vain janetta last night assumed a double portion of that cold haughtiness of demeanour with which she now receives my advances to familiarity. she personated the goddess of taste; and men would pay their loud and daring homage to the divinity. mrs. ashburn became piqued. she spoke pettishly to janetta, and endeavoured to disperse her admirers. at length she beckoned me from a distant seat, to which i had retired somewhat fatigued and dispirited, and delivered the goddess to my protection. we danced together. we did not separate during the rest of the entertainment. 'this is as it used to be,' whispered the dutchess de n---- coming up to the sopha on which we sat. 'but you, chevalier, are so faithless,' added she. 'oh,' said i, fixing my eyes on janetta, 'your grace misplaces that accusation! i am constancy itself. you ladies, indeed, who know the power of your charms, are not to be satisfied with the homage of a single lover.' 'your insinuation, sir,' replied janetta, 'is easily understood; and if i am happy enough to escape interruption from the company, i shall take the present opportunity of freeing myself from your charges. the dutchess will condescend to aid me. i believe mr. montgomery will scarcely doubt of the testimony of the dutchess de n----.' 'ah,' replied the dutchess, 'defend me from lovers' quarrels! for heaven's sake, my dear, do you suppose that you engross all the charms of to-night, and that poor i have no better employment than to shake my head, look grave, and bear a solemn burden to your serious speeches. tell the story yourself, child; and, if the chevalier can look on your face and mistrust you, make him a gay curtsy and follow me, my dear, into yonder circle.' when the dutchess was gone, janetta relapsed into her reserve; and, had i not become extremely urgent, would have deferred the explanation. yes, indeed, arthur, i have wronged her most shamefully in my suspicions, but the story is too long for me to relate in my present record. i drag through one heavy sentence after another, intending that each shall be the last. now, having by this effort brought on an increase of weariness, i'll e'en try what repose a couch will afford me; and then away to mrs. ashburn and janetta. clement montgomery letter xvii from lord filmar to sir walter boyer say, dear sir walter, to which of the gods shall my hecatomb blaze a burnt offering? behold, entering within those gates, i see the valmont coach!----i fly to greet the welcome visitants--more welcome to me than gold to the miser, than conquest to the warrior.----lie still, thou throbbing mischief, down, down, ye struggling expectations! and let the for once spiritless countenance of filmar conceal his hopes. tis true, boyer, as--as--as any thing that's most true. here, in this very monkton hall, is mr. valmont, ay, and mrs. valmont too; and here i mean to keep them:--only to-morrow though.----to-morrow! walter!----hail the dawn of to morrow!--whips cracking, horses flying, and thy friend driving as fast as four can carry him into l. a-year! if you want cash, call on me any day next week. you, being a _particular_ friend, i'll oblige. but to any one else--somerville now for instance or nugent--'it will be curst unfortunate, but i shall have had a hard run of late--or, i shall be building, and want to borrow myself--or, there will be great arrears on my estates not yet paid up.'--but see, here comes a bowing cringing tradesman, who in my days of worse fortune has buffeted me with his purse-proud looks many a time and often. 'really mr.----a--a--the amount of your bill seems a little enormous, but i can't fatigue myself with looking into these matters----the steward pays you,--ay, ay, be not troublesome, and (throwing myself along the sopha) i may probably still deal with you.--sibella, my dear, raise these cushions under my head--psha, child, you are devilishly awkward--there--. pooh!--throw that gauze shade of your's over me.----sit down, and watch, lest ponto or rosetta should leap upon or disturb me.' by the bye, walter, as i am determined to reform when i'm married, and become an obedient hopeful son and nephew, if uncle valmont should think (and pray heaven he may) my wife's---- oh, lord, what a shudder!----there! 'tis a radical cure, i assure you.--i seized a square piece of paper; and, writing thereon in large characters l. _per annum_, placed it exactly opposite me, and the qualm vanished.--walter, you shall see wife written on my page--_my wife!_--oh, i declare this scrap of paper is a charm of infinite value!-- if uncle valmont, i say, should deem my wife's education incomplete, and desires to have her longer under his tuition, i will yield her up for one year, or two, or twenty, if he pleases.--there's forbearance, there's magnanimity! dub me a hero, sir knight! and place me among the foremost!--talk of conquering a world, indeed! why philosophers of all ages have agreed that the truest heroism is to conquer self.--dub me a hero, i say! i grant you, this is all rattle (that is the manner not the matter, upon my honor), and poor forced rattle too; but i must be mad, for i cannot be merry, nor yet serious. my gadding spirits are whirling this enterprise round and round without ceasing. sometimes tossing the dark side toward me; and then, ere i can make one retracting reflection, smilingly presenting to me its advantages.--at that still time of night (if my plan fail not) when graves yield up the semblance of their dead, my courtship is to begin.--once begun, it must go on; and the second setting sun beholds me a bridegroom.--close your door, boyer; stir up your fire; and i'll tell you.----not now though, for--enter griffiths. 'the gentlemen have walked out to the grounds, my lord. mrs. valmont and lady monkton are alone.' 'right griffiths, i understand your hint.' 'my lord, it will certainly take,' returning shrugging his shoulders and laughing. 'the butler hates squire valmont, and enjoys the thought of playing him such a trick. the lads will have to strip and turn out to-morrow, i doubt not, for this day's frolic.' 'then, i must provide for them! 'tis our frolic, and not theirs, griffiths. 'should our plain fail----' 'it cannot fail, my lord,' 'well, well--go--mind you give me more water than wine at dinner.' and now, i steal from a back door, make a circuit round the house, and crossing the lawn join the dear good kind _informing_ souls in the drawing room.----you shall hear from me again presently, walter. * * * * * i am gone, in reputation i mean, to seek the earl, the baronet, and the simple squire, but, in propria persona, returned to my chamber to tell you a story--a story of stories. the ladies were in the very heart of it when i entered. luckily, i had waited a sentence or two outside the door, or i should have had no clue to bespeak a continuance of the subject. mrs. valmont was suspicious of me, but having persuaded her than i am a sober sort of youth, not at all given to hard-heartedness and infidelity, she proceeded, and i had the good fortune to listen with wondering eyes and gaping mouth to the particular account of how, where, and when, miss valmont (my wife that is to be) saw a--ghost.--stay, let me recollect--a ghost, is i believe a terrific animal, dressed in chains, howling, shrieking, and always withdrawing in a flash of fire; yes, that's a ghost. this was something more gentle and complacent. mrs. valmont makes nice distinctions. i remember she called it an apparition, of a spirit--first appearing in the shape of an old hermit--then in that of a young handsome beau--first walking, manlike, into a wood--next bouncing up, fiend-like, on a sudden in an armoury.--ay, it was a spirit sibella saw.--she, poor little barbarian, is no better acquainted with the qualities of an apparition than of a man; for, simply enough, she complained to mrs. valmont of the disturbance given by this said shifting phantom to her meditations. 'to be sure, lady monkton,' said mrs. valmont, 'one must laugh at most of these stories; but we all know from good authority such things have been seen. indeed, i did not altogether credit the very extraordinary accounts i had heard of the disturbance, the valmont family had many years ago received from some thing that they say inhabits the ruin on the rock; and even when my niece, who, in such affairs is ignorance itself, told me her story, i would not be convinced till i had sent three men servants to search the wood and the ruin. if any thing human had been there, it must have been discovered. the affair of the armoury i only mentioned to my own woman, for i well knew it was impossible that any substance of flesh and blood out of our own household could get into the armoury. what can be said lady monkton, but that it is to answer some wise purpose or other? 'does, mr. valmont know?' said i. 'surely, lord filmar, you must judge poorly of my discretion, to suppose that i would tell mr. valmont such an affair; for, besides that there is a shocking degree of impiety in people's disbelief when the thing is indisputably true, he would torment the servants incessantly, by sending them at night into those places, and perhaps he might abridge the poor child of her rambles around the park.' 'isn't miss valmont afraid of being alone?' asked lady monkton. 'afraid!--ha! ha! ha!--why, she has not one idea, lady monkton, belonging to a rational being i assure you: she is not afraid of any thing. well, really her want of understanding is not at all marvellous. shut up in that horrid abode.--i preserve a part of mine, only by reflecting on former days.' 'the young lady's conversation, then, is not much relief to you, madam?' said i. 'no, indeed, 'tis her absence is the relief, my lord. mr. valmont was much more kind than he intended, when he ordered his niece not to frequent my apartments.--it is a thousand pities; for the child has a fine person, and is--that is, had she any thing like manners, and were not such an absolute idiot, i do think she would be very handsome, &c. &c. &c.' some frolic of master clement montgomery's, i presume this apparition to be, walter. yet, surely she is not idiot enough to tell of herself in such a case!----ha!--woman! woman still! whether in solitude or society!--i well remember the fellow i saw tripping near valmont's moat.--yes, yes. he--montgomery contrives to find secret admittance into that well defended place; and she contrives a rare finely imagined tale to turn the people's wits the seamy-side without, and throw a veil impervious as darkness around themselves and their pleasures.----yet, hang it!--no!--montgomery, said mrs. valmont, was abroad on his travels when this affair happened. beside, there is a degree of invention in the story which must have been beyond the capacity of so ignorant a girl.--heyday!--why i am anticipating eight and forty hours, and already beginning to feel myself accountable for my wife's adventures! peace be, then, to the apparition's ashes!--after the knot is tied, and i and my bride are travelling homewards to receive forgiveness and _golden_ blessings, i shall probably want something to keep me awake, and the child must tell me the story in her own way. hark!--the dinner bell.--my part in the plot will soon commence.--be content, walter, to trace it in its several progressive steps toward the catastrophe. i have not patience to detail what is to be, and then sit down to relate what is.----adieu, for a few hours. so far, so good.--nay, better than good, the very elements have conspired to my success.--such a storm of hail, rain, and thunder, i never beheld at this season of the year. the darkness was tremendous, and mrs. valmont's shattered nerves felt its effects most powerfully, notwithstanding the pompous harangue delivered by her caro sposo against such terrors.--in the midst of this scene entered mr. valmont's gentleman; who, bowing reverently, in a low tone of voice begged to know if his lordly master would vouchsafe to be drawn home by one pair of horses, (he came, walter with six) for that unfortunately the postilion was very drunk. 'drunk!' exclaimed mr. valmont. 'did you say, drunk?' the man bowed and looked sorry; then ventured slowly to insinuate that he did not deem the coachman perfectly sober, though not absolutely drunk. he might be able to drive a pair of horses perhaps. 'i shall have my neck broken,' cried mrs. valmont, 'then all my sorrows will be at an end together; and you, sir, may be for once satisfied.' 'madam! what mean you?' said the frowning _dignitary_. the remedy was obvious. to remain at monkton hall for the night was proposed to mr. valmont with great earnestness by sir gilbert and my lady; and, at length, acceded to by him with due reluctant solemnity.----mrs. valmont smiled through her terrors. to you, walter, i give a sober straight forward history; but, in the opinions of my friends below stairs, i am fast approaching towards the honours which the squire's postilion and coachman have already purchased. i affected to grow very frolicksome, early after dinner; and am, at length, become, with the help of claret and burgundy, as properly intoxicated to all appearance as i find necessary to the carrying on of my plan. however, i am not yet retired for the night:--presently, i mean to descend, and give them such another specimen of my ability as shall make my departure so essential to their repose, that they will not attempt to recal or disturb me. a messenger, boyer, is gone to the castle, to give notice of its master's absence for the night. he carries other tidings there also:--tidings to me of great joy. the servants of valmont castle are held in such constraint by their proud master, that to enjoy the pleasures which are permitted in other households they are ever scheming. the squire's absence is a festive holiday; and griffiths was invited by the butler, with whom he has purposely scraped an intimacy, to partake of the joy of to day. why the invitation was neglected you may divine. by the messenger now sent to the castle, griffiths informs the butler that, as mr. valmont is safe at the hall, and lord filmar is safe in bed, the night is their own. he begs they will prepare for mirth and gaiety, bids the housekeeper and her damsels put on their dancing shoes, and promises to join them early, accompanied by his brother, who plays an excellent fiddle, and is the merriest fellow alive. such is the substance of griffiths' message to the domestics. doubt them not, walter; they will jump at the opportunity, and swallow my bait with all the greediness i can desire. it is now past nine. my pulse begins to beat riotously, as if i were drunk in earnest.--poor undiscerning souls!--i have looked in the glass, boyer.--all the uncertainty of my success trembles in my eye--all the tumult of hopes and fears sits on my countenance:--yet these animals cannot perceive it.----would it were over! * * * * * the scene is almost prepared to shift. i am dismissed from the parlour; and, as griffiths tells them, am at rest. now, i wait but his summons. he is gone to hint among the servants here the advantage he is about to take of his master's infirmity, and hypocritically to request some one will make an excuse for him should _i by chance awake and ring my bell before he returns_.--the coast securely clear, i quit the house; join griffiths at the lodge; and, at the corner of a little town, only a quarter of a mile from sir gilbert's, we are to find griffiths' brother waiting in a chaise. this brother, who would not have been here if we hadn't sent for him, was only a common footman a week ago, but the two days he has passed at the inn in our neighbourhood has transformed him into a man of property; and he does not choose to go four miles in the rain without a covered carriage. had it not rained, he would probably have received a sprain in his ancle, or his knee. the grand business over, for which his assistance is required, he puts on the filmar livery, and becomes my footman. i was going to say my wife's, but there's hazard in that. gratitude may beget love; and violently grateful will she be, no doubt, to the man that has helped to make--her fortune.----walter, i am no coward: yet, i say again, would it were over! i will put this paper in my pocket.----should i get undetected into the castle, i shall have many hours of waiting; and to write my thoughts will certainly relieve me during the tedious interval. i hear griffiths' signal.----i come.----adieu.----safe in the castle!----'tis just eleven o'clock.--two will be the earliest i dare attempt to seize my prize.----three hours! three ages, i may say, to undergo all the misery of expecting, in every blast of wind, the destruction of my project!----wind enough!----how it rolls!--floods of rain too!--a horrid and tempestuous night, this!----we must procure some covering, to shield her from the storm till we reach the chaise. i will mention it to griffiths, that he may be quite in readiness. i should be sorry were she to suffer by the storm's inclemency. does she go unwillingly, she suffers enough in going; goes she willingly, still she deserves not to suffer.----why, thou cold whining filmar, where is thy manhood?--only the last stroke wanting, and that the easiest to accomplish, and thy scheme--thy darling scheme is--perfect.--thy very valet claps the wings of exultation, and sings the song of triumph! shame! shame! rouse thyself! cast a look forward, filmar!---- yes, walter, i am here happily supplied with a lighted taper by the dexterity and contrivance of griffiths.--securely stationed in one of the best apartments where even the mirth of the servants cannot reach me in a buzzing murmur, there is no hazard that any one of them should quit his diversions to wander among the mazy recesses of this mansion; and i do rejoice abundantly in my security.--yet, walter, i may rejoice, and feel the benumbing effects of this cold gloomy dwellings, too.--these old buildings are admirably contrived to fix odd impressions on the mind.--i do not at all wonder that every ancient castle is haunted in report.--another such night, in another such place, and i could swear i perceived shapeless forms gliding around me.----i listen one minute to the variety of sound produced by the gathering winds; and, the next, find it hushed to so dead a calm, that the sound of my breathings alone interrupts the silence. such--think of it, think of it, walter--such are my employments! i wonder whereabouts this armoury lays. griffiths could tell.--the castle is amazing large, yet griffiths is perfectly skilled in its geography.--he described to me, as we came hither, the situation of miss valmont's apartments.--they are nearer to where i am now stationed than to any other habitable part of the building. the spacious gallery into which this room opens, runs the length of the whole front, excepting the wings and the towers. narrow long passages connect the wings with the main building; and the passage nearest my side of the gallery, conducts you by a short flight of steps immediately up to miss valmont's abode. but this is not the road we are to take, because in a little room within that passage sleeps her attendant, silent andrew; and we choose not to pass so near him, lest perhaps these resounding walls tell him of our footsteps.--our's is a more intricate path. the adjoining antichamber will lead us to a narrower stair-case; descending this, we shall cross some of the lower apartments; and, making a circuit, gain the bottom of the west tower; from whence, alleys and winding stone stairs will introduce us to the end of miss valmont's gallery, opposite to that we must have entered had we gone in the straight forward direction. we deem it advisable to descend with our charge the same way, and to leave the castle by a little door in the west tower. it is, to be sure, on the wrong side, and will oblige us to carry our burthen, if the young lady should not be disposed just then to make use of her limbs, so much the further. griffiths' brother is a strong, bony, dark-looking fellow. strength will be necessary, if persuasion should fail; and i cannot spare more than ten minutes to try the effects of my rhetoric. i will enter first; and, should a shriek of surprise or shriek of rapture (remember my person, walter) escape her, the closed doors, distance of situation, and sleep of security, will prevent andrew from hearing. indeed, should he, mal-a-propos, interfere, it is only the extra trouble of _binding_ him to good behaviour. it did once enter my thoughts to bribe this old fellow to our purposes, but the attempt might have wrought a discovery. fearing nothing, he suspects nothing; absence of all care and a warm night-cap lull him to repose:--and pleasant be his dreams.--ours all the hazard! ours the reward! i have promised l. to griffiths, and l. to his brother. my share of the plunder is to them a secret. now, though i allow the damsel one squall, yet i positively interdict any repetitions of the sort; and as, you know, i immediately became the arbiter of her fate, the sooner i accustom her to implicit obedience, the easier it will be to both in future. walter, i mend! my flagging spirits begin to bound and curvet. oh! when we are once seated in that chaise and four, which now waits our coming in a retired corner, not above a hundred yards from the other side of the moat, how will my imagination outstrip the speed of the horses! dost thou talk of pursuit, walter.--no! no! i mock pursuit! supposing we get not away till three or four, we still shall have six or seven hours advantage in point of time. then the old dons won't dream which way we are gone.--they do not know, what you and i do know, the great reward attendant on my deed; and, sorrowfully remembering the wickedness and sinfulness of their own youthful hearts, they will unrighteously judge of me, and sit down piteously to lament the loss of the lady's honour, whilst i, like a good christian and worthy member of society, so far from diminishing am increasing her stock of honour, for the honour of a virgin is but a single portion, whereas, according to wise institutions, the honour of a wife is twofold--she bearing her husband's honour and her own. pray heaven the cargo be not too mighty! 'where is lord filmar?' says one of the party assembled at ten to-morrow morning to breakfast in monkton hall parlour. 'tell griffiths to let his lordship know we expect him at breakfast,'--says the earl. 'i told mr. griffiths, my lord,' replies the footman (one servant will always lie for another), 'but he says his lordship is asleep.' this produces many pleasant allusions to last night's intemperance among the good souls; and they go to breakfast without me. now, in the steward's room, one wonders mr. griffiths is not come home, a second wonders at my good nature and his faults, and a fourth wonders i do not awake. amidst all this wit and wonder, another hour or two passes; and then two or three more probably in the surmises occasioned by the discovery of my absence. the servants of the castle in the mean time are employed in their usual occupations, not at all surprised that their visitors had quitted them early unseen, because it had been so intended by them. andrew, indeed, waits miss valmont's summons for breakfast, and deems it somewhat tardy. he concludes her walk to be unusually pleasing, and eats his own repast in peace and quietness. at length, his thoughts verge towards the extraordinary, and he inclines to seek further. no, andrew, 'tis in vain you search. no fair wood-nymph greets your eye. no voice answers to your call.----ay! ay! assemble them:--hold your convocations in the great hall:--crowd, closer and closer:--whisper your suspicions, lest the dread ear of valmont catch the tidings, that--_she is gone!_--who shall carry these tidings to mr. valmont?--not i! not i! not i! answers every voice at once; and up to the hall door drives his coach and six. away fly the pale culprits!--jostling against each other, confusion retards their speed, and the dreadful secret is in part betrayed. fye! mr. valmont, fye! don't swear! don't call hard names! can't you hear him, walter, declaring his rage, and threatening his vengeance?--i can. ill news fly fast. mr. valmont's horses are not unharnessed.--turn your eyes to monkton hall. see the squire enter--see the earl turn pale; the baronet attempt to look sorry; and see them, as i before observed, sitting in judgment on me, and putting their own black constructions on my innocent praise-worthy intentions. assuredly, walter, could i have commanded every circumstance in my own way, it could not have happened more favourably. mr. valmont's porter is ill, and has been removed from the lodge into the house to be better nursed. two grooms were deputed to take care of the draw-bridge. mr. valmont absent, we found it down; and down it remains now.--with what art griffiths drew off the postilion, while i got into the chaise! the lad had not a suspicion he carried more than two--i crouched to the bottom, as they got out; and griffiths whip'd up the blinds in an instant. he gave me one complete fright, for we had agreed the postilion should follow them into the house to be paid, while i freed myself; imagine how i trembled to hear them discharging him on the spot, and he thanking and wishing their honours good night. 'stop my boy,' at length, cried griffiths; 'hasn't thou got a wet jacket?' 'yes, indeed, master,' replied the postilion, ''tis well soaked.' 'why you griping old fellow,' this was addressed to the butler, who had come out to meet them, 'you grow as stingy as your master!--why don't you offer the lad a little inside clothing? come, postilion, come, you shall go in and drink my health in a bumper. but first, my boy, lead your horses under that arch, and they escape being wetter.' then singing, he led the whole train into the back part of the castle. now this thought of the arch was the luckiest imaginable; for, had any of the grooms by chance staid loitering about the yard, the chaise was then so effectually screened, they could not have seen me descend from it. turning on the right side of the arch, i crept along the front of the castle, crossed the inner court, and the hall door, with one gentle push, gave me admittance. had the door been fastened, i must have waited there till griffiths could steal an opportunity to let me in. in this part of the castle 'twas dark, as darkness itself; but as i had been in this apartment before, and came by the great stair-case, i found my way hither without trip or stumble. griff----i fancied,--nay, i'm sure, i heard a noise!--yet, all is silent again.--it was like the creaking of a door, and like something falling.----rat's probably; the midnight tenants of the mansion. good god, how slowly the minutes move! only seventeen minutes and a half after twelve!--astonishing!--that must be hail surely! i never heard rain drive with such impetuosity.--the casements tremble. i could almost fancy the building rocks with the tempest's violence. what wonders will not education, custom, and habit accomplish! miss valmont, i dare say, feels no horror in listening to such sounds, nor tracing these murmuring galleries, lonely staircases, &c. i should not exist six months in this castle.--she must, indeed, be a strange unformed being!--her portrait, that i told you of, hangs in this very room; and on my conscience it would persuade me she is an animated intelligent creature; but i know 'tis impossible; and now and then, when the l. per annum gets a little into the shade, i anticipate fearful things. it is fortunate, walter, that she has the advantages of person, for, on that account, i shall have a little the less reluctance in showing her to the world, and a little more pleasure in attempting to humanize her.--yet, i fear, it will be but gawky beauty neither, and that i abominate.--robust health, no doubt; strong limbs; hanging arms; a gigantic stride; and the open-mouthed stare of a savage!--oh, dear! i must be fond too, i suppose, as we travel towards matrimony; but i don't feel the least inclined to fondness!--no! although i shall seize her unattired in bed, perhaps.--no: not one wild wish or mischievous thought will enter my bosom.--my pulse will continue to beat evenly.--my blood keep in its temperate course. i shall be a perfect anchorite. for me, she can have no enticements.----my----merciful! do i dream?----or---- * * * * * boyer, am i not in valmont castle?--did i not come hither to carry off the niece of valmont? and was that bright vision the sibella valmont whom i have so traduced?--hush! walter! repeat not my crime, if thou hopest for peace in this world, or happiness in the next! it could not be her, her that i came in search of!--yes, but it was her. angel as she is in form, her heart is the heart of a mortal still. 'oh, clement!' said she, and, spreading one hand upon her heaving bosom, sighed deeply.--she addressed herself to that picture. 'art thou safe, my love?--terrifying dreams disturb my rest!' she saw me not, for her back was toward me as she entered. 'heaven preserve my clement!' said she again after a pause. she would have continued thus soliloquizing, but i, to gain a view of her face, attempted to change my attitude. my cursed coat had somehow got entangled in the chair, and threw it against the table as i moved. she turned around; and i, as in the presence of a goddess, bowed lowly to the very ground. she then approached nearer; and my eyes retreated from the scrutiny with which she viewed me. the examination lasted more than a minute; and all that time i was racking my invention to find words to address her, but i might as well have been born dumb: i had neither articulation, nor sounds to articulate. 'mark me, sir,' said she, and i, like the idiot i had been describing her, bowed again: 'mr. valmont may bring you here; may make this castle my prison; but my will is free. i tell you, sir, i am beyond your reach. remember it, i am beyond your reach.'--and away she glided. '_mr. valmont may bring you here._' why, who the devil could she take me for? i thought mr. valmont brought nobody here!--'_i am beyond your reach._' say not so, sweet saint!--i would not have you now beyond my reach for a king's ransom. if she should alarm the house, walter.----hark!----no.--'tis nothing.--she knew me: yet knew me not.--defied me: yet is a stranger to my purpose.--what can all this mean?--ha! then it may be true, that this frightful place has deranged her intellects!--certainly that is the case. she looked a lovely lunatic, wrapped up in a loose gown, her hair streaming at its length; and arisen, in the dead of night, to apostrophize to her own picture! yet i am not deterred, walter. i'll undertake her restoration. expect me in london immediately. i unsay all. i would not yield her up to her uncle, no not for an hour! is she returned to her bed, i wonder?--oh! my moderation is given to the wind!--the time draws near!--i heard the clapping of distant doors.----i cannot write.--i can hardly breathe. * * * * * boyer, they shall neither of them touch her.--i will carry her myself.----i could not bear to see their arms encircle the sweet girl.--i'll enter her chamber first.--her face they must behold; but, with the same zeal that i would feast mine own senses upon her other charms, will i hide them from the profanation of vulgar eyes. * * * * * the great clock striking two has just filled the turrets with its sound.--griffiths has been with me. their gayer sports have ceased. punch bowls and story telling succeed the dance and song. their animal spirits drooping with excess and fatigue, their old midnight habits return.--mysterious tales of ghosts go round the circle; and each becomes desirous of seeking rest, though fearful to separate. a few more bumpers griffiths says will at once bring them courage and sleep. he bids me assure myself of success. griffiths and his brother are to have a chamber in the front of the north wing. all the domestics, he says, except andrew and his daughter, lie in the back part of the building. 'within two hours, my lord,' said griffiths as he quitted me, 'your triumph is complete.' two hours! walter, two hours of yesterday were nothing: but two hours of this night!--now!--you do not know the length of hours, boyer! how should you? * * * * * when you come to this line, my dear walter, fill to your friend's prosperity.--my two agents are here. the light is already placed in the dark lanterns.--not a sleepless eye in the castle but our own. all, even old andrew, partook of the libations; and resigned their senses, to seal my triumph. griffiths has shown me a gagg. it will not sure be necessary. should it, i will heal those lips with kisses! my lines stagger.--no wonder!--i'm on the summit!--now, i only stay to seal this letter. in the first town we arrive at after day-break, it shall be committed to the post. go or send instantly, and stop all proceedings on the mortgage. adieu! adieu! rejoice with filmar end of the second volume volume iii letter i from lord filmar to sir walter boyer dear walter, two days have i allowed you to wear out your astonishment at my ingenuity, address, and perseverance, and to exercise your imagination in following me and my bride from stage to stage of this admirably contrived journey.--does the novelty of the adventure wear off?--happy knight!--to have for thy chosen friend and bosom confidant, one who can ever open the field of variety before thee; and who, to cheer thy languid fancy, removes the pleasure on which thou hadst feasted to satiety, and places the pride-correcting view of disappointment in its stead. yes, indeed: old andrew will find miss valmont where he left her; and i shall not be hanged for heiress-stealing. don valmont need not swear; and the trio will not sit in judgment on my deeds.--i have had my day of rage; and my day of sullens; and now, in the calmness of grief, i sit down to tell thee that, instead of being circled in my fair one's arms lord of her wealth, i am yet a poor broken-down gamester, and the guest of sir gilbert monckton. heigh ho!--had my plan been over turned when but half advanced, or had this family or that, even my father, or her uncle, detected me and torn her from my gripe i had forgiven it. but to be defeated in the moment of success by my own agents, my tools, tools for whose conscience and courage i had bargained--such tools i say, to be frightened by a black-gowned, bearded, nobody knows what--oh 'tis too much! i swear when i wrote you that letter i would not have abated l. of my utmost expectations for the chances against me. how could i foresee i should have to deal with a knavish sort of a nameless something?--who upon earth would imagine, in a seclusion so perfect, this girl could baffle a vigilant guardian, dupe a whole family, and with an art the most refined intrigue under circumstances and forms which sets discovery at defiance?--nature-taught too! but, my story.--well: i described our intended route; and, in due process, we had crossed the antichamber, gone down the winding stairs, traversed the range of apartments below, and arrived at the west tower, without the single creaking of a shoe to tell our progress. but, mind me: these brave fellows, who had so amply ridiculed the believing souls of the castle for their stories and their ghosts, now began to creep closer to each other.--and at every puff of wind that whizzed past us, they shrunk in circumference. thus i tell you we reached the west tower: a tower long haunted in renown, and of which no apartment is either in use or preservation. we entered a rude kind of saloon, where we dimly saw mouldering walls, and unoccupied pedestals; scraps of its former carved ornaments were strewed upon the pavements; and here and there the faint rays of our lanthern glanced upon an headless hero. the saloon was cold and dreary; a wintry blast crept round us, with the hollow murmur of emptiness. we were treading ground, of which the apparitions of the castle had for time immemorial claimed the undisturbed possession; and the panic struck hearts of my companions were doubtless anticipating supernatural disasters, when slam went some door at no great distance. 'lord, lord have mercy on us!' cried griffiths, seizing on my arm; while his yet paler brother, envying him the supposed protection, forced himself between us, and i have still the misfortune to bear tokens of his cowardly gripe. enraged with the pain of this fellow's pinch, and the terror of being surprised, i shook him off like a fly; and, closing up the lanthern, i listened attentively at each door of the saloon, and became convinced we had heard only one of the accidental noises of an old and shattered building. 'follow me, ye frightened fools,' said i, 'and at your peril----' 'indeed, my lord,' whispered both cowards together, 'we were not at all frightened, and----' with a look expressive enough i believe, for i was then mad with apprehension least their ignorance and credulity should ruin my project, i awed them into silence. i again bade them follow with the tone of authoritative command, and cowards are at all times most ready to obey. our next stage, and last except the stairs, was a winding, narrow, damp, stone passage.----the devil certainly owed me a grudge, since he incited me to enter it at that moment.----ten minutes sooner, and i had probably secured the damsel, and had left the invisible night-walking inamorato to sigh, as it is now alass, walter, my fate and fortune. this passage was barely wide enough for three to walk abreast. i placed myself in the middle; and they clung to me with infinite zeal. i carried the lanthern; and our step was soft as secresy on my part and terror on their's could make it.--turning an angle of this infernal passage, behold there came sweeping towards us a tall long bearded figure, in a black cloak, and carrying a dark lanthern likewise. zounds! what a howl from griffiths and his brother!--the phantom fled. i pursued.--that beard never, never, grew on his chin, walter.--he out-ran me; and i could only keep him in sight till, like a flash of lightning, he darted through a pair of heavy folding doors.--i expected nothing so surely as that he had secured them on the inside; and, now grown desperate, i resolved on a trial of strength. but the doors gave me admission as readily as they had done to him: and the long swords, helmets, truncheons, and other rusty weapons, and accoutrements, taught me i was in the _famed_ armoury. now, walter, heaven and himself only know to this hour what became of him. these eyes saw him enter, but neither eyes or hands could find him there. four narrow casements gave light to the armoury; and these were most amply defended by cross bars of iron. that way he could not vanish. you and others may talk of nursery prejudices till ye are hoarse with discussion, and i will still maintain it was not in the nature of man to witness the unaccountable escape of this spright without feeling his blood change its course. i honestly confess, drops of cold dew stood on my forehead, as i paced round and round this vast hall, holding up my lanthern at every fifth step to discover, and endeavouring from each crack and crevice to force, an opening into some other apartment.--none could i find.--a fearful awe crept to my heart.--i looked behind me and around me--even the void seemed to threaten me with something undefined and horrible. baffled in my search, i turned my thoughts from the phantom to miss valmont; and remembered with renewed courage that, as the spright declined giving me an interview, there sprang no apparent hindrance to my plan.--'take heart, filmar,' said i to myself, 'haste seek thy agents and complete thy bold undertaking.' no sooner were the hinges of the closing armoury door silenced, than i heard the passage resound with the audible voice of griffiths' brother, repeating as follows:-- 'unto the third and fourth generation--i believe in the holy ghost born of the virgin mary, and in pontius pilate, crucified dead and buried--but deliver us from all evil, the holy catholic church and communion of saints, and lead us not into temptation, to be a light to lighten the gentiles, father, son, and holy ghost, as it was in the beginning amen.--i believe in--.' charming! thought i--this will do exactly. these echoing vaults will bear the tidings to miss valmont's chamber; and, presently, we shall be all at prayers together. there was he kneeling when i came up, his face close to the wall: nor would he open his eyes, nor cease his unnatural jargon, till i had shaken, cuffed him, and actually stamped and swore aloud for vexation. verily knight, the saddest of sorrow's sons must have yielded to laughter had he viewed the ghastly countenance this poor wretch exhibited, and had likewise seen the half raised eye-lid, under which he scowled a fearful examination of my whole person.--perceiving i had neither saucer-eye, nor cloven foot, cautiously and tremblingly he ventured to lay three fingers on my arm--i did not vanish into air, as doubtless he expected; and the fool, overjoyed to find me a real man of flesh and blood, sprang up with open arms to embrace me. desirous to elude the kindness, i stepped aside. his clumsy elbow came in contact with the lanthern, dashed it from my hand, and left us in total darkness. with the extinguished light expired my last hope. to go on was impossible; and who would not, like me, have endeavoured to wreak some little vengeance on the stupid destroyers of my scheme. fortunately for them, and perhaps in the end for myself, griffiths' brother, fearing my escape, had seized me behind; and gaining strength from his terror, pinioned me in spite of all my struggles and threats till, as the price of my own freedom, i engaged to assist them in getting safe from this asylum of accidents, apparitions, and harms. do not suppose, walter, that here ended my provocations. no, indeed; for griffiths who had lain extended on the ground since the black-gowned apparition first appeared, venting sighs, groans, and tears in abundance, doubled his share of my torments, by refusing for a full hour at least either to be soothed or scolded into the use of his legs. be assured i had left him to his repose, but the brother would not take of his embargo, till all the conditions on my part were fulfilled. the door which led to the terrace we had opened ready on leaving the saloon, and thither i rather dragged than conducted them.--we closed it after us. and then with a bitter curse, i bade them aid themselves; and walked on before, ruminating on my fatal disappointment, and its more fatal consequences. imagine what i felt when we came up to the waiting chaise, horses, &c.--money expended which i want; demands increased which i cannot pay.--and so near, so very near to--well: i will not think. it was past five when we got back to sir gilbert's--i threw myself on the bed; but slept not, walter. at breakfast they, particularly valmont and my father, wondered at the alteration in my countenance. i muttered curses at their inquisitiveness. they, doubtless, thought it was blessings for their consolations; and kindly increased them. not one syllable has griffiths breathed on the adventure. we dress and undress as mute as mourners at a funeral. the brother is too much humbled by the affair of the lanthern, to appear before me at present. eat he must, be my disappointment what it may. do take him into your household, walter. then, if i catch a glimpse of future operations and find his aid needful, he would doubtless double his diligence, and call up his valour to retrieve a lost reputation. order steele to go on again with the writings. i will be in town to sign by the twenty-eighth. heigh ho!--one last sigh to the memory of my departing estate.--i-- why, walter, these fashionable damsels beat us hollow in the ease and gaiety of impudence. miss monckton (who arrived here the day following my disaster,) just now entered the library; and, coming up to the writing table, familiarly peered over my shoulder. 'a _lost reputation_!--oh you wretch,' cried she, snatching the paper from under my hand, 'it is the volume of your sins!--nay:--i protest, i'll read it.' and she actually crammed it into her pocket. 'madam,' said i passionately, 'i insist on your giving me the letter.' 'and i insist on keeping it.' is not a lady's _insist_ equal to that of a lord?' 'madam--' 'sir--come hither.' she pulled me toward the glass. 'look at yourself.--guilty or not guilty?--ah, filmar, filmar, from whom did you take your lesson of blushing?--but let me go, let me go.--i die to read the story, that i may know whether you have yet any chance for heaven!' i don't perceive, walter, why sex should be a security against horse-whipping. such a revenge i could have bestowed with a warm good-will on miss monckton.--i took the next best, in my power; and had just forced the paper from her, when in walked my father, and the lady withdrew. would you believe it? the earl solemnly asked how i dared treat with such impertinence a woman of miss monckton's rank?--did i think i was romping with some chambermaid? 'be assured, my lord', answered i 'if i made a respectful distinction in this case, it is on the side of the chambermaid.' my father looked his reply, (as well as he could walter) and walked away. miss monckton is a coquette, with all the finish of high breeding. she is elegant, though diminutive; highly accomplished in exterior: the rest a blank.--yet her ease, grace, and vivacity, would have claimed more moments of admiration from me, were not my thoughts perpetually gadding after this sibella valmont: sometimes arraigning, sometimes acquitting, her. but my heart has no interest in the motive, boyer.--no; she is quite an original, formed rather to constitute the business of a life, than the casual pleasure of a moment. i should hate uniformity even of happiness. give me the zest of an occasional hour of rapture, snatched from a vortex of novelty, whim, and folly. a blessed portion has miss monckton of these latter recommendations. but seven thousand pounds can't buy me. six thousand pounds per annum! there's the bribe, walter. and if i must have a counter-balancing evil, why e'en let it be the vice of nature, rather than a vice of education and art.--ay: but i forgot. miss valmont has her art too; and a devilish deep-rooted art it is.--and now dare i not, with all my zealous wishes perpetually impelling me to the discovery, yet dare i not spoil their pleasures. to blast montgomery is to betray myself. by my soul, walter, she is a most lovely creature.--'_oh clement! clement! art thou safe, my love?_'--what! the hour of assignation was past, no doubt! happy fellow! favoured montgomery! who nightly turns the dwelling of horror into mahomet's paradise with this houri. be in london, to meet me by the twenty-eighth. filmar this instant has it shot across my mind to ask valmont for letters to his pupil. the lad can't be here and there too. it will afford me a fine and safe opportunity of setting scrutiny on foot. adieu. letter ii from arthur murden to clement montgomery '_thou wilt make her thy wife._'--good god what an implication! and is her claim yet to be enforced!--'_i will make her my wife._'--how often, since i read thy letter, have i repeated those words--those despicable words! trust me, clement, i have no settled ill will towards thee. no: by heaven, have i not--yet, there are moments when i hate thee heartily. the severity with which i speak may dissolve the bond of our intimacy:--was it ever a bond of friendship?--carry me back to its origin.--'mr. murden,' said the good natured du bois, 'i have a young gentleman committed to my care whom i wish to make known to you.'--and then he expatiated on the greatness of your expectations, the astonishing privacy of your education, and the singular naiveté of your manners. such as he described, you were; and i neglected all my former acquaintance, to run with you through the round of town amusements:--with what enthusiasm did you enjoy! with what fire did you describe! no moment of disgust or lassitude assailed you. the existing pleasure was still the best, the greatest. all to you, was rapture, fascination, enchantment. what a novelty, methought! how enviable and extraordinary!--for, i had partaken of these pleasures without a particle of enjoyment. frequenting the resorts of dissipation from custom, labouring to compel my revolting senses to the gratifications of pleasure, struggling to wear a character opposite to my inclination, seeking in public to seduce the attentions of women, from whose hours of private yielding i fled with disgust, effectually removed from society which would have taught me the importance of mental pursuits, and living in the profusion of splendor, i almost prayed for wants, for a something, any thing, that could interrupt the routine of sameness, that could make me cease to be as it were the mere automaton of habit. you charmed me. i longed to investigate the source of your never-failing satisfactions. you did not inform my understanding, but you greatly interested my curiosity. my uncle talked of my making the grand tour; and that was your destiny likewise. it must be amusing, thought i, to travel with one so volatile yet energetic; and such an arrangement was speedily resolved on. we travelled. sometimes you complained of my indifference, of the cold reserve that hung upon my character; but the avidity with which you perpetually hunted after variety, and the readiness wherewith i listened to your descriptions, reconciled you to whatever discordance you chanced to perceive between my feelings and your own.--am i not right, clement? was not this rather intimacy than friendship? while we viewed the alps and pyrenees, their sublimity poured into my mind a flood of enthusiasm. the laughing (as the french emphatically call it) country of italy filled me with delight. but memory can often present such scenes with the warmth and vigour they first bestow; and even her attempts were repressed by the multitudes of follies that perpetually assailed us. i saw on every hand oppression, priestcraft, and blindness. neither my tutor nor my companions were capable of stimulating me to inquire into the moral and physical causes of the evils i lamented; and, perceiving only the effect, i concluded they were without remedy, and dismissed the subject. to one point, then, i chained my expectations; and that one point was love. and here, i quixoted my fancy into the wildest hopes. i wanted beauty without vanity, talent without ostentation, delicacy without timidity, and courage without boast. if i saw the semblance of any of these qualities, i hastened to search for the rest. disappointment succeeded disappointment, without producing any other effect than to bring the visions of my brain before me with fresh allurements, with increase of attributes. you, montgomery, perhaps happily for yourself, have been a stranger to this species of refinement. you could have loved any where; and the utmost stretch of your powers of imagination, will not produce even a faint picture of that life of never-fading bliss i expected to enjoy, when i should have found my ideal fair one, for whose tenderness i preserved my heart a sanctuary, sacred, and inviolate. what, then, had been my faith, if, when the prototype of the ideal form did burst upon me in existence, i had been the chosen above all mankind of a heart corresponding in all things with my own. sir thomas commanded me home. you i left without pain. to him i returned without pleasure.--yes: i returned home--and soon--it was men, clement--ay then it was-- you say i advised you to forget her in other arms. montgomery, why did i advise?--and wherein was i competent to judge?--had you not already prepared other arms to open for your reception? how could i divine that she whom you loved was not of the race of those beings to whom you were constantly lending the epithets of charming, lovely, exquisite angelic? nought beyond a glance of transient admiration, or a temporary delirium of the senses, could they excite in me. i sighed to find something worthy of remembrance. you sighed to forget the worth, the inestimable worth you had known! wearied with the importunity of--'would to god i could forget her!'--forget her in other arms, i said.--most readily did you yield to the advice; for which, as you have justly said in one of your letters, you deserved--'tis your own words, clement--you deserved damnation. and what art thou doing now?--now, even that she has sacrificed herself to save thee from despair?--that she has--let thy heart tell thee her deserts--let it remind thee, that she is sorrowing for thy safety--preparing in mind and affection against thy return ages of joy, of felicity, such as never--merciful heaven!--and thou art--seeking reconciliation with janetta laundy. rememberest thou, montgomery, the terrific and awful minutes we past on vesuvius! was not that a scene which, while it gratified curiosity and exhausted wonder, made nature shrink with repugnance from the situation?--yet, in all the horrors of a night worse than that hour, lighted only by the flame of destruction, with showers of thundering dangers obstructing my footsteps, yet, had i been _thee_ clement! would i have climbed that summit--aye and precipitated myself into the gulph of ruin, rather than forever blacken the fair sheet of love, by sinking to the embraces of a prostitute! oh 'tis a stain indelible! will all great neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? no; this my hand will rather the multitudinous sea incarnadine, making the green, one red. i seek not to quarrel with you, montgomery. careless as to your resentment, but willing still to possess your esteem, i am not more ready to declaim against your errors than to confess my own. your's are recoverable. make peace with yourself and heaven; while i go, not to expiate, but patiently to abide the punishment of mine. this is the last time, clement, that mystery shall cloud my words and actions.--in this very letter i meant to have cast it off. i thought i had torn myself for ever from the enchantment; and that reserve and secresy were at an end. but a strange unexpected circumstance, perchance productive of benefit to those for whom i would if possible sacrifice more than self, leads me once more to that scene where my dearest wishes lie buried--where i raised a funeral pile of all my hopes of happiness in this world--'twas i conducted the fatal torch--i stood passive and witnessed their annihilation! one day longer shall i remain at barlowe hall. i only arrived here yesterday. i may be absent a week; then i return again for a short time, to seek in solitude, a temporary recruit of spirits and resolution. much indeed do i need them. you i have to meet. my uncle too. all who call themselves my friends: for, with this emaciated form, and mere emaciated mind, am i coming to london. and what is my business there?--to take an everlasting leave of ye all.--to implore sir thomas barlowe that he will allow me but a pat of the ample provision he has given me here, to supply nature's necessities in a foreign land.--i go abroad. opposition and remonstrances are a feather in the balance.--i go, montgomery, to find a grave.--life and i are already separated!--i breathe: but i do not live!--sleep and peace are vanished from me!--how swift are the ravages of an unhealthy mind, and who would not rejoice when the vague and fleeting scene shall have finally closed!--but a little time montgomery and rumour will say, or perhaps some stranger affected into sympathy by my youth, will, as the least office of humanity, charge himself particularly to inform thee, that it was a sigh of resignation which liberated the agonized soul and, forever sealed the lips of a. murden letter iii from sibella valmont to caroline ashburn not write me one line!--did you, caroline, forbid him?--prudence and safety required no such sacrifice!--last night i dreamt--but why talk of dreams? when waking miseries surround us, why need we recur to those of imagination! tell clement, if he meant a triumph, tell him he may congratulate himself. i would neither conceal nor deny, he has it most completely.--here then i remain.--in full conviction that clement has already learned a part of mr. valmont's lesson, i obey.--yes: i suffer myself to be commanded into acquiescence, against which every fond affection of my soul revolts. tell clement that--yet stay--ask thy heart, sibella, that heart in which love and disappointment mingle the bitter poison which corrodes the very vitals of thy peace, whether this is not the momentary effusion of a perhaps unfounded resentment?--tell him not, caroline: or, if thou tellest him aught, and i do commit an error, oh may the tear which accompanies prove its atonement! * * * * * caroline, i am incompetent to judge of his situation. cares and tumults may surround him, and add to the anguish of separation.--and you, my friend, ah beware how you judge him rashly! the tender heart of clement repels every approach of harshness.--while you seek to investigate, you forgot to soothe.--i detest your picture of my clement's mind.--oh! how ill do you appreciate that soul, wherein the image of sibella lives immoveably, and eternally, undivested of her sway by any outward form or circumstance!--'tis true, indeed, clement does attach to success and fortune in the world a value unfelt by me who know it not at all, and prized by you, only perhaps from its more intimate knowledge. but for whose sake is it, caroline, that he dreads my uncle's resentment, that he would shrink to see me a pennyless outcast from mr. valmont's favour--is it not _mine_?--'tis i, that am, however distantly removed its effects from all but the discerning eye of love, i am his actuating principle!--does he ever dismiss this one dear ultimate object from his thought?--'tis because a lesser theme mixing therewith would degrade the loved idea.--again undisturbed, self-possessed, his ardent mind returns to the dear remembrance of past, the still dearer anticipation of future, joys--when hourly, momentarily, they shall augment with the increase of years. oh clement, that love at one and the same instant created on our sympathizing hearts!--sustained, with mutual ardor, through the uniform but interesting years of childhood!--at length spurred on by dangers and denial to form its firmest, chastest tie!--is there a temptation on earth, or a horror in futurity, which could bribe or bid that love seek to extinguish its smallest hope, its least particle of enjoyment?--no! no! never!--an impassable gulph is placed between that love and diminution.--a chasm wide, deep, immeasurable, as eternity! * * * * * how dared i reproach my love!--how dared i decide, i whose mind is almost subdued by my situation!--think caroline! one hour heavily creeps after its fellowed hour;--day slowly succeeds to day, barely distinguished by another name;--the sun shines one morning, and hides his beam the next;--yon tall trees who bow their heads to the wind on this side to-day may to-morrow wave them on the other: and here ends the chapter of my varieties.--night, indeed, brings variety amidst endless confusions! broken sleep and apalling visions create debility of mind and body for the ensuing dawn!--it is but the fainting embers of my former animation that sometimes gleam upon the darkness of my soul. and, even now, now, while i acknowledge and reprobate my folly, i could return to the horrors of apprehension, could run through volumes of dire presages affirming while i disbelieved, creating as if to be interwoven in my fate fantastic, shapeless evils from which my better reason would turn, and would pronounce the worthless offspring of misrepresentation and falsehood. and why, caroline, should i be thus?--there is the question, that, as often as i impose on myself, as often returns unanswered.--i knew clement was to go; and i know he _will_ come again. what is new in my destiny is delightful to remembrance: it is the sacred union plighted by our willing hearts in the sight of heaven, the confirmation the everlasting bond of affection, which renders every blessing of this life subordinate, from which no change of circumstance could release us, nor not even death itself shall cancel. i heard clement speak one day of some ceremonials which would be deemed necessary to the ratification of this covenant, when we should enter the world.--methinks i shall be loath to submit to them. the vow of the heart is of sacred dignity. forms and ceremonies seem too trifling for its nature. but of the customs of your world, caroline, i am ignorant. * * * * * i write at intervals--a giddiness returns upon me continually, and air is the only remedy. the last time i quitted my pen, i was almost overpowered, and could proceed no further than the great hall door. i sat on the step and leaned my head against a pillar of the portico.--it was not swooning, for i knew i was there.--i felt the cold wind blow on my face, but my limbs had lost their faculty, and my eye-sight its power.--a chill oppressive gripe seemed to fasten on my heart.--my uncle happened to pass in from the park.--he spoke, but i could not reply. i waved my hand, which he took in his; but, while he pressed it, he reproved me in an ungentle manner, for sitting on the damp stone, and exposed to the raw air--tears unbidden and almost unexcited, roll down my cheeks. he called andrew; and i was borne in, and laid on a sopha in the breakfast parlour. after i recovered, my uncle, with a kinder tone of voice, noticed an appearance of ill health in my looks, and enquired into the nature of my indisposition.--'you are too much in the cold, child,' said he.--'go; i give you permission to sit with mrs. valmont. i will join you there presently.' i replied i was engaged in my most interesting employment, that of writing to you?--'ah! child!' said my uncle, 'how much do you stand indebted to my indulgence for that liberty?--i rely on your integrity that you do not in any one instance, sibella, abuse my confidence.'--i was going to answer, and began with your name. 'i know,' said my uncle, 'what miss ashburn is very well! your friendship to her was formed by accident, and without my concurrence; but i had never suffered it to continue, had i not found something to approve in miss ashburn. she has sensibility and affection; that is all you ought to learn. the rest is the sad licentiousness of her education. i could have made her a charming woman. and as it is, she has too much feeling, for the companion of women of fashion; and too little reserve, for the wife of a man of delicacy. i am giving orders to ross, sibella. he is sending a packet to clement. have you any remembrances for your friend and play-fellow?' 'such, sir, as most befits a wife to a husband.' encouraged by the complacency of his eye, i threw myself at his feet; and assuredly reserve and concealment would in that moment have vanished, had not mr. valmont placed his hand on my mouth. 'hush, hush, child!--you know i will be obeyed.--happiness ceases to be a blessing, if disappointment does not precede, to stamp its value. go, sibella. your fate in the husband i ordain for you may not be as desperate as you, at present, perhaps, imagine.' repeat this to clement, caroline, a thousand times. let him fix his comment, and then judge of the throbbing expectation of my heart by his own. how insensibly my pen glides into this dear engrossing subject! i began this letter almost for the sole purpose of telling you i am no longer a stranger to the '_wood-haunter_,' as you call him; and i have travelled through these number of lines without his idea having recurred to my memory. from the night of the sigh and little ball, i sacrificed the first of my present enjoyments; and entered the wood no more. the opposite hill, from whence issues the parent spring of the lake, forms a shelter to the little park, a spot of ground left in its rude state to produce furze, &c. for the accommodation of our deer. twice a day, for nina's sake, i ascended the hill. sometimes she appeared instantly, from the little park.--oftner, after i had called loud, and long, she would come panting from the wood. but our meetings were less congenial than at the foot of our oak.--nina would bound that way, suddenly stop, and look wistfully from me to the wood, thus as it were conjuring my return to that beloved spot where she used to share her fond caresses between clement and myself, and spring from one embrace to be received in the other. one afternoon nina appeared on my first call; and, as i stooped to embrace her, i observed a folded paper tied to the plate of her collar. it contained only, 'your wood is free: farewel for ever.' that nina should become such a messenger must be, i concluded, by the order of mr. valmont, and the contrivance of a servant; for you, caroline, experienced how inflexibly averse nina is to strangers. even to the domestics of the castle i never saw her more complacent. i felt grateful for the tidings; though i smiled to think my uncle should thus continually strive to perplex and mislead my imagination. it was now near the close of evening.--gathering clouds and fierce gusts of wind foretold a tempest. instead of going to the wood, i returned to the castle; and scarcely was i housed, when the storm burst in its most tremendous violence. you remember the apartment where my portrait hangs; and you have remarked the attractions of that picture for me. as the work of clement, it is rather his image than my own. there i can vent the swelling sentiment of my heart, and find an auditor more interested than the dispersing winds. to this room and picture i resorted in the dead of that night, to harmonize my feelings and collect my thoughts, alarmed and scattered by a twice repeated dream full of terror and dismay. there i met a stranger. i looked on him intensely; for i sought to discover the likeness of _the spirit_, whom you describe, i sought to recollect the features i had seen in the wood, and armoury: height and form agreed with your description, and my remembrance; but the countenance of this young man was devoid of softness and i thought possessed little interest. he had vivacious dark eyes, dark hair, and a full decided bloom. the impression of former circumstances was still powerful in my mind; i remembered the paper i had found on nina's collar; and i concluded that this person could be no other than mr. valmont's chosen. i addressed him accordingly. i spoke of the weakness of his endeavours. i defied his utmost power. twice the stranger bowed in silence; but he never attempted to answer me. early the succeeding morning, i decided on going to the wood. should it be free--what a pleasure! should the stranger be there--i had only to repeat, in a fuller manner, the sense of my last night's words and quit him. oh, caroline, had you ever loved!--but love itself without separation could not have taught you the omnipotent value a lover's heart affixes to time, place, and memory! who, in revisiting the hallowed ground of affection, can describe that slow eagerness of step, that still tumult of delight, which restrains while it impels, purchasing delay?--if these are not the happiest moments of life, at least, they are most worthy living for. the soul expands into a new existence. the body's encumbering mass seems no longer her organ. even now, caroline, the charm returns, infusing itself through every vein, sending life's best blood in thrills to the heart, enkindling pleasure into agony! i cannot proceed.--will not clement write me one line?--another letter shall inform you, in what manner i discovered him; for the personated hermit is your mr. murden. sibella letter iv from the same to the same i know not precisely where to begin, nor how much of the adventure i told you in my last. did i not say, that, while yet at my oak, nina entered the wood a little below the tomb and without observing me began to climb the rock? but i think i broke off before i had mentioned her swift return at my call, and the irresolution she betrayed by running backward and forward from me to the rock, and from the rock back again to me. desirous to know what her manner portended, i arose as if to follow, and away she bounded, taking the path up to the hermitage. as she ascended much swifter than i could, she waited on the outer side of the ruin till i also arrived; and then bent her course round to the farther part, which being the most perfect of the building i imagined she had chosen for the purpose of sheltering her young ones. it is called the chapel. standing on a projecting point of the rock, it is difficult of access, for the path is cumbered with loose stones, from one to the other of which runs in perplexing branches the twining ivy. high grass and clusters of bramble choak the wild flowers that shed their inviting fragrance on part of the lower side of the rock, nor do i remember ever but twice before to have gone beyond the unroofed cell, where clement and i, one happy spring morning, raised a seat of stone, and plucked away the weeds that new springing grass might mingle with our mossy foot-stool. there too we planted a woodbine, rose, and jassamine, but the cell refused nourishment to our favorites. foiled in our attempt to make the ruin bloom a garden, it had no longer for us any attractions. nina's wistful look as she again stopped at the chapel's entrance now tempted me on, but it could tempt me no farther. at the stairs my curiosity or at least all inclination to gratify it terminated. in one corner of this small chapel where the wall is yet undecayed, remains a kind of altar. some stones in front have falled away and discover a flight of dark narrow steps, i concluded nina had concealed her young in the vault below, for she would not return when i called: but i could not think of encountering i knew not what damp and darkness in the hope of finding them. both suppositions were erroneous. the cell is superior in dimensions and dryness to those above ground, nor had my fawn any offspring there. this place, caroline, was mr. murden's abode. thence he ascended followed by nina, and stood before me the original of your painting, and the same who once in the wood started from every appearance of feeble age into youth and vigour. he named himself. 'miss valmont,' said he, 'i no longer bear a borrowed character. henceforward, should you ever think of me, know i am murden, the friend of clement montgomery, and the acquaintance (i dare not say more) of your miss ashburn. already the victim of unsuccessful love, by all my hopes of heaven, i came hither only to seek your consolations. the world cannot find time to sooth a breaking heart. you in solitude might. but you have no pity, no friendship. an accident keeps me here this day, or i had now been gone for ever. do not miss valmont, do not set your people of the castle to hunt me; for i am desperate.' 'whose victim are you?' said i. 'whose?' repeated he loudly and wildly. 'did you say whose, miss valmont?' then turning away and sinking his voice, he said, 'ay whose, indeed! do you know,' added he, approaching nearer to me, 'that death is of icy coldness! the eye beams no tidings, for the heart feels no warmth! such is my love to me!--tell me, miss valmont, what would you do were clement thus?' 'alas! die also!' 'oh brave!' said murden with a strange kind of smile:--'bear witness, thou unhallowed gloomy mansion, for one, one moment of our lives are we agreed!--miss valmont, i shall never see you more. if i have created uneasiness in your breast, by my strange visits to this spot, forgive and forget it. ask me no questions. in some hour of less anguish than the present, i will tell miss ashburn how and why i came hither. another person there is also to whom i shall owe the detail.--hold'--for i was going to speak. 'do not name him. your last words were, _die also!_ to me your last, choicest blessing. no! no! i will not hear you speak again. this is our final interview.--in peace and safety, miss valmont, return to your wood; and when remembrances of love shall be no longer remembrances of happiness, then--_die also._ and who, caroline, could outlive their remembrances of happiness? i have placed myself one minute in the situation of this unfortunate young man: i beheld the tomb close upon the lifeless form of clement, and in the wide world there was no longer room for me. murden descended to his cell; and i went home to weep for him. will not you weep for him, my friend? and clement too? i feel you will. clement knows full well the value of requited affection; he will sooth his friend, but he will not ask him to live. it would be cruelty. nina looked kindly at me, but she followed murden; and, since he quitted that ill-chosen abode, i often see her descending the rock. she even appears to mourn his absence; and she looks around expectingly, and starts at every gust of wind, as she used when clement first bade us adieu. either to you or clement i appeal for the further history of your drooping friend. bid clement write: be it only three words, '_bless my sibella_;' and i will wear it next my heart--a charm to hold disease and foreboding at defiance. my dearest friend, farewel! sibella valmont letter v from arthur murden to caroline ashburn when friendship and advice can no longer avail him, murden intreats a patient ear to the history of his misfortunes. intreat! did he say?--no, madam; he intreats nothing of you: he demands your ear, demands your attention, your sighs, your sorrow: and little indeed is that, though your all of reparation, for the mischievous eloquence, which first instigated him to become the poor valueless object of pity, sighs, and sorrow. to tell you that i love sibella valmont, is no more than montgomery will tell you. but he loves her, in his way.--i, in mine. when present, her supreme and every varying beauty, makes his rapture; and, till he has been a day without her, he imagines absence would be insupportable.--absent or present, alike she fills my every vein. i love her, miss ashburn, as--oh misery!--as she loves clement! judge me not so absurd as to entertain hope, although i tell you i am again returned to the hermit's cell. offer hope in its most seducing form; and still would i renounce it. yes, madam: possession of sibella, were i an atom less to her than she is to me, must inflict torture worse than the present. nor deem, that i would dare assail her ears with my unauspicious love. i have spoken in mystery; and she thinks i mourn a buried mistress.--alas! and so i do! montgomery, what dost thou owe me? yet 'twas not thee i meant to serve; therefore thou owest me nothing. thou canst find happiness any where: but, in the circle of thy arms and heart, centres the full measure of sibella's wishes. i would almost, miss ashburn, as soon have rushed into the fire, as again sustained the chilling beam of her eye. yet i have come hither again, have endured this and more, to check the carniverous meal of anxiety already begun on her cheek's bloom. i have been told, and have told sibella, that instead of being a dependent on her uncle, she is mistress of fifty thousand pounds: with infinite astonishment she heard me, and is gone to demand an explanation of mrs. valmont. i requested her to forbear naming me, till i had made a safe retreat from the park; for valmont is proud, insolent and cruel. and she bade me wait her return here, that according to mr. valmont's reception of the tidings, i, as clement's friend, might yield her my prompt advice. yes! as clement's friend, she said. ah well may i talk of endurance! when i first knew you, madam, at barlowe hall, you won my admiration and esteem, by the uniform reserve, or i may say repugnance of your manners toward me. i adored your disdain of a character i equally disdained, while i contemptibly descended to wear it; and, though i could not instantly resolve to cast aside the unmerited fame of my licentiousness, yet you never moved or spoke, that i was not all eye and ear, however, you might contemn the abettor of impertinence and folly in lady margaret and lady laura bowden. one evening, you may remember, i abruptly shook off those interrupters, who wore gorgon-heads in my view, while they delivered their invidious suppositions concerning the lovely being, whose picture you had so animatedly given.--when your eulogium on sibella valmont ceased, i withdrew; flew to my chamber; and hastily locked the door, as if i had newly found treasure to deposit there in secresy. i threw myself into a chair. 'and is not all this familiar to thee, murden?' said i, after a pause. 'hast thou not a thousand and a thousand times, in thy waking and sleeping visions, described a being thus artless, thus feminine, yet firm, such an all-attractive daughter of wisdom?--ay: but i had never personified her in sibella valmont, though clement had sworn ten thousand fathom deeper to her beauty.' i could make no more nor less of it. my head ached; and my soul was burthened. i went to bed, and dreamt of a wilderness, and an angel; and the vision followed me through the engagements of the succeeding day. whether it was that i more industriously fought it than formerly, i know not, but soon an opportunity arose of conversing with you alone. it was easy to lead to a theme wherein your affections were as much engaged as my curiosity; and i heard every interesting particular of her mind, manners, and seclusion. her love of clement montgomery, was also remembered. to me, his love of her never bore any striking features; and, somehow, her's to him seldom intruded amidst my chimeras. strange wishes arose--tremulous expectations. 'it is all curiosity,' said i; 'and to overcome the obstacles that forbid thy knowledge of this phoenix, is worthy the labour of ingenuity.' when you, madam, took the road to bath, i unattended crossed the country to valmont castle. three days i passed in reviving and rejecting the scheme; and during that time, had stationed myself at a farm-house within a mile of valmont. in the farmer, i recognized an old school-fellow of my day's of humility; and one whom i loved dearly too, before my uncle was a nabob. we met each other with an appearance of restraint and embarrassment. i, certainly conscious of an unjust neglect of him: he, perhaps secretly despising the man who preferred wealth to honesty. but reparation was then in my power; and the very critical moment at hand. farmer richardson is rather given to endure than to complain. his simple statement of a few facts, which led to the service i rendered him, contained no invective. 'he told me he was an unfortunate man, to be sure; but mr. valmont was not obliged to know that.'--as to family concerns at the castle, after which i enquired, he said, 'he had occasionally heard more than he chose to relate. that the 'squire was perhaps proud and capricious, but he might have reasons for his conduct. let every man act according to his own conscience, and the lord have mercy on the greatest sinner.' such is honest richardson's creed. the farmer's taciturnity was amply contrasted by the loquacity of his hind, formerly a domestic at the castle, and suddenly discharged with that pride and petulance for which its owner is famed.--john thomas dwelt at valmont-castle when clement montgomery was adopted; when miss valmont was brought thither--and though i always made him begin there, he constantly found means to shift his ground to the ancient mysteries of the domain. 'a sinful lord, turned penitent, enjoined to find money and materials for the structure, it pleased a neighbouring society of devout fathers to erect on the rock within the park. it was further necessary to his salvation, that this hermitage should be endowed on two of the most holy monks of the brotherhood, who would undertake to live longest by prayer and fasting. the event proved the choice admirably founded. without the adventitious aid of victuals and drink, they dwelt i know not what number of years in this practice of piety, saw the society from whence they came broken and dispersed, and peaceably ended their days in the hermitage.'--selfish fellows though these saints, according to john thomas; for, dead, they will not yield possession to the living, but revisit still the glimpses of the moon making night horrible. i essayed to gain information concerning miss valmont; and john thomas's deduction from the little he had seen and the more he had heard was, that miss had not a right understanding. he always thought master montgomery better natured of the two, and he would be a fine fortune when he came back from foreign countries. legends of the haunted ruin, on which john thomas delighted to dwell, first suggested to me a hermit's disguise. already, miss ashburn, you contemn the romance of my scheme; and its practicability seems impossible in expectation. experience taught me how much a little ingenuity and great perseverance will effect. in all cases, whether of right or wrong, jointly they can almost work miracles. early misfortunes, a life of hard labour and little profit, had blunted that quickness of sensation in farmer richardson, which might have led him to conjecture something mysterious of me. if i was there to claim my meals, it was well; if not, 'twas the same. i contrived to evade all enquiries into my absence, whether it were of the night or day, by fixing on myself the character of an eccentric whimsical solitary. ah, miss ashburn! i smile to observe the precaution, and industry, wherewith i wrought my wretchedness! you allow me to be minute i know, for i know your sympathy and sincerity. * * * * * how this recapitulation of events has beguiled from me the consciousness of passing time! in this under-ground cell, where no ray of the sun's light ever penetrated, have i by my solitary lamp counted the lagging moments throughout a day. yet now living over again in remembrance that preparatory fortnight when i was at farmer richardson's was only restless, i have suffered hours to go by, without any additional torment of suspended expectation. sibella is not returned. i thought i heard the sound of her feet in the chapel above; but, when i ascended, she was not there. i went on to the other side, but darkness has enveloped the castle, wood, and park. i shall not see her to-night then. mr. valmont may be from home, occupied or engaged; and she cannot gain an hearing. nina too has quitted me; yet i am less alone than heretofore. the spirit of your friendship hovers round me. be my friend, miss ashburn, while existence cleaves to me; and, when i am gone, double the portion of your love to sibella.--ah me! my heart has strange forebodings that she will greatly need it. a continuation of my narrative shall amuse the sleepless night. who will dispute that my claim to saintship is not more incontestible than that of the former fasting inhabitants of this mansion? the holy monks by their mysterious passages into the castle, could and assuredly did indemnify themselves at night for the forbearance of the day. but i, who have learned in this cell and its invirons to banish sleep, one of nature's greatest wants, where shall i seek the lulling medicine which can steal me from self?--can anticipate the tomb? during the fortnight previous to my first seeing miss valmont, i reconnoitred day after day every inch of ground around the moat, and a first circuit showed me that immediately beside the rock the moat, forming an angle, is not above a third part as broad as in any other place. this of course rendered it much easier to cross, but that facility was more than counterbalanced by the abruptness of the bank on the side next the lane, and the slippery steepness of the rock on the park side. still this seemed the place, from its great privacy and difficulty of access, by which i must enter. never but once did i see any creature approach it; and then i saw a gentleman on the opposite hill, who seemed to have lost his way. the exactness and solicitude of my observations at length pointed out a tolerable and easy method of descending the bank; for i perceived stumps of trees irregularly but artfully disposed, which i dare believe had been either purposely placed or purposely left there for the climber's assistance. at first, this surprised me: however, the whole business was fully explained, when measuring the depth of the moat in separate places, i discovered (and blessed the saintly contrivance of the starving monks) a mound raised across the moat, about two feet below its surface, on which large pieces of the rock were thrown, their edges just covered with water, so that with the assistance of my pole, i could pass from one to the other, suffering little more inconvenience than a wet shoe. 'forerunners of your worthy successor,' exclaimed i, 'thankfully i receive the benefit of your labours! your work, no doubt, is perfect in ingenuity; i shall tread in your steps up the mountain's rugged side, and nightly visit my shrine as you nightly deserted yours.' yes, miss ashburn, the ascent was attainable; and, though time has destroyed some of the useful works of the holy fathers, yet here and there, particularly in the more abrupt parts of the rock, i found steps formed. by diligent heed of these, and other aids, i certainly gained the only path by which i could have reached my destination. it brought me on the back of the hermitage to the chapel's entrance, which if you have at all noticed its situation, you will recollect to be so placed, that any one may enter it without being discovered from the wood, or even from the park side of the rock. i will not tell--no, i cannot tell you the swelling joy with which i hailed myself master of the ruin. it commands no prospect, save of the wood-path where stands valmont's monument, and, a dearer object, sibella's oak; yet, i bent my eager view through the chapel's cracked wall, and bade the winds bear to the castle's owner my proud defiance. this my first visit, performed at twilight, was only a visit of inspection. i discovered the stairs under the altar; but deemed it, at least improper, if not dangerous, to explore them without light. all my apparatus were forthwith conveyed to the moat's-edge, where rushes afforded them an hiding place, till i had carried them to my station. a few biskets alone was my provender; but for the supply of my dark lantern i was abundantly careful. no monarch ever ascended a throne with more bounding exultation than that which filled my breast, when i took possession of this lower cell. the next day, i saw her.--good god! and you have seen her too--at the foot of her oak--her flowing hair--her modest drapery--a model for the sculptor!--a vision for the poet!----i became neither!-- * * * * * were i to live ages, i could never describe her, for when her image is most perfect with me i have neither powers of mind, nor the common faculties of nature. the overwhelming sensation sinks me to the earth. montgomery!--she may live in thy imagination, but not in thy heart, as in mine! surely i grow tedious in detail. these occurrences were few; yet they swell in relation. three days elapsed ere she came again to her wood. doubtless, madam, you have already heard of our conversation.--'she feared me not'--she left me to inform mr. valmont.--in the first moment of our intercourse, i saw the firmness of her character. i saw she knew not how to threaten; she could only reason and resolve. i dared not quit the hermitage in day light, but i could provide for my safety within it. walking backward and forward in my cell for exercise, one stone of the flooring had constantly resounded under my footsteps, and as i trod harder it appeared loosened from the rest. 'a grave or a treasure?' said i, and i raised the stone. there was only a flight of steps, three times as wide as those descending from the chapel. as i now trod the ground of mystery, this discovery excited no surprise; and, imagining myself securely and conveniently stationed in the cell, i had not the smallest inclination to explore further, till hearing the voices of people on the rock, who i doubted not were coming in search of me, i committed myself with my lantern to the subterraneous passage. finding it well arched, dry, and wide, curiosity led me on; for i no sooner discovered it, than i conjectured its secret communication with some apartment of the castle. it is unnecessary, miss ashburn, to dwell on the construction of this passage, its ascents, and descents, windings, &c.--suffice it to say, that it seemed a journey of infinite length; that the crumbling fragments of one broken arch had nigh forbidden my progress; and finally that, this difficulty overcome, a sliding pannel of oak incomparably fitted, gave me admission into the armoury. from amidst the surrounding trophies of honour i snatched a sword, determined therewith to defend myself against any direct attack. in the armoury i remained all that night; for i thought it possible that someone might be stationed to watch for me in the cell. shall i not tell you that a feeling which surmounted my apprehensions of discovery chained me to the armoury?--i was under the same roof with sibella! the first dawnings of morn burst imperfectly through the high and grated casements; and i heard the creaking door of the armoury begin to open; i darted through my pannel, but the pannel shut heavily and with noise. some person had already entered the armoury ere the pannel was quite closed. i shuddered for the consequences that might ensue; and i retreated a few steps, and grasped my sword. i heard the person in the armoury walk, and several times pass the pannel. the step was light and gentle. i heard a sigh. my heart took the prompt alarm. i looked through the crevice. it was--i had almost said--my sibella--no: _montgomery's_ sibella! i forced back the panel--flew to her--trembled--spoke--was wild, vehement, and perhaps utterly unintelligible. and here let me pause, miss ashburn, to remark how strongly i discovered in her mind i had pictured and panted to possess. when i first approached her in the wood, tottering under a hermit's disguise, i could perceive, as it were, her collecting spirits embody themselves to repel my fraud. 'it matters little to me,' said she, 'who or what you are, since i well know you cannot be what you would seem.' conscious rectitude forbade her to fear me,--it forbade her to mix me with her ideas in one shape--all her all prevalent love forbade it in another.--i saw her once--when the time, the place, the circumstance would have appalled me into agony! when, unseen, i echoed her bursting sigh, from behind the monument, i saw her a moment mute with surprise, then, call into her mien a dignity so firm so undaunted, that it might have spoken lessons to a hero. after miss valmont left me in the armoury, i waited another hour; and assuring myself, from the still silence that prevailed, my passage was undiscovered, i returned to my cell, which i believe none had entered since i quitted. the succeeding night i revisited farmer richardson's. john thomas, ever delighted to talk, came on me open-mouthed, with a tale newly brought from the castle: namely, that miss valmont had seen and spoken with the hermit's ghost in the wood. and next, madam, to prevent suspicion and enquiry, i deemed it proper to join you and my uncle's party at bath. there, in the midst of the crowds, was i alone. i saw but one form. i heard but one voice. i began to despise montgomery; to assure myself, against conviction, that she did not could not love him; and had promised my heart i know not what of success and felicity when--the contrast past; his letter came; and i, in the saloon, in your presence, before a crowd of witnesses, behaved like a fool and a madman. pardon, miss ashburn, in consideration of my despair, any surprise or shock my conduct gave you. never can you know what were the feelings of that night. love had no concern therewith. it was a night of hatred, revenge and rage. adieu, madam. i have filled up the last space of my paper, and my narrative must rest till i return to the farm. the blessings of an uncorrupted mind ever, ever, be your possession. a. murden letter vi from the same--to the same in continuation four and twenty hours longer of fruitless expectation did i endure in that cell. no sibella appeared. did she then forget her request? painting her future delights with montgomery, has she forgotten the unblessed wretch, who for her sake could sustain hunger and cold, watching and weariness, who to hail the same breeze that had saluted her, quitted every indulgence of luxury for an abode that held comfort at defiance, who stretched himself along the bare stone rather than on a bed of down, because from that sleepless couch he could spring, to gain an indistinct view of her bewitching form? ay, pour your contempt upon me, ye whose smiles i have beguiled you of!--view him who bought your unprized tenderness with the empty breath of flattery, view him, stealing slave-like into forbidden paths only to gaze at humble distance, only to catch the echo of a sigh, a sigh breathed to another!----he, miss ashburn, who lives without hope--must _die_ for consolation. yet, surely this her absence cannot arise from so more than common an instance of insensibility; some accident may have prevented her return; and i am capricious and cruel, while i dare to accuse her of insensibility. john thomas met me, as i returned to the farm. he was carrying malt to the castle. i will throw myself in his way when he comes home; and probably, amidst the abundance of information he will be eager to communicate, i may find something which will elucidate this strange absence of miss valmont. little remains, madam, for me to add to my confessions. sibella's tender but romantic contract placed an eternal barrier between me and the flattering illusions wherewith fancy fled my flame. i saw she loved as i had wished her to love: had i been the object!--in the first moments of phrenzy, i wrote montgomery a mad letter; and no sooner recovered a better frame of mind, than i dispatched one of apology, which both made my peace, and quieted his astonishment, for he is not given to look beyond the surface. hours, miss ashburn, have i spent in wishing montgomery worthier of his fate. sometimes, have i calmed my swelling agony by reproaching her for loving him, then have humbled my proud heart to dust, to obtain her ideal pardon. her seclusion, her enthusiasm, his reducing countenance, his vivacity of spirit, and above all his well expressed vehemence of love! oh it could not be otherwise! she saw an outline: her imagination formed the rest. no, not one single instance of self-reproach on clement's account ever assailed me. when i first discovered that montgomery's beloved was the selected friend of miss ashburn, i then knew they might be paired, but never mated. to rival him with one woman, methought could be little injury, when in her absence twenty others equally could charm. after miss valmont had irrevocably given herself to clement, i resolved to travel, for to the antipodes would i have journeyed, rather than met montgomery. yet i tutored my heart into the supposition that i still had a friendship for _him_, that sibella had injured me, and was now not a jot beyond my friend, or my friend's wife. dwelling on the delusion, it insensibly produced a desire, when clement went to london, of returning to my hermitage, to her park, in order to behold her with firm composure, with almost indifference.--self-devoted victim that i am. 'i can do her service,' said i to myself; 'and i can prevent her suspecting aught of the former intruder. wishes she must have; something to alleviate the tedious uniformity of her existence.' and numberless plans to gratify and amuse her, without my having any apparent concern therein, i quickly resolved upon. you recollect madam, (perchance with disdain) my abrupt departure from bath.--farmer richardson rejoiced to see me. john thomas was yet brimful of miss valmont and the ghost. when these industrious labourers of the day retired to early rest, i betook myself to the now bleak and desolate hermitage. no sooner had i deposited my lanthorn and little basket, than i left my cell intending to revisit, not with rapture but regret, her selected paths. it was i think one of the finest nights i ever beheld; and i must have wanted that fervour of soul which gave birth to my love, had i not been enchanted with the scene. the resplendent moon, now at the summit of her growth, silvered the wide spreading branches of sibella's oak, the fairest tree of the forest; her steady beam glittered over one half the tomb; the bending bough of a cypress on the other half, shed irregular darkness; the rock cast its pointed shadow up the path-way; light and shade no longer blended but were abruptly contrasted. no cloud glided into motion, no zephyr into sound. on the broken-down porch, i leaned. imagination was alive. i will not conceal aught from you, miss ashburn, an excess of tenderness, even produced tears. and why need i be ashamed of that emotion? 'tis not a property of guilt. and while i wept, i made a vow at the shrine of reason to abandon my mad enterprise, to quit for ever and ever this seductive rock. alas reason and resolution were instantaneously torn from me, by the sweetest sound that ever stole on the listening ear of night. you know the rest. enraptured, i listened to her effusions; unobserved, was her shadow; scrawled with my pencil that inconsistent address; sighed to her sigh; and was more delirious than ever. prudent, cool, and considerate, she came no more. i enticed her fawn into the utmost degree of fondness; and when nina returned to my cell from the caresses of sibella, she brought me a pleasure which the universe to me cannot equal. it must require all your faith, madam, to believe that i lived thus without the shadow of a motive beyond sometimes seeing and sometimes hearing her: in the strictest sincerity, i assure you i had no other. although i loved her to dotage, although i feel an internal testimony that i cannot live without her, yet was she, and is to this moment, more effectually banished from my wishes by her contract with montgomery, than she could have been by age, disease, or any possible deformity, circumstance or accident might inflict. the sweetly soothing promise of speedy dissolution, produced temporary vigour. it enabled me to quit that vague and idle mode of life, unsatisfactory to myself and cruel to sibella; to brave the censures of montgomery; to ask your pity; and finally determined me to retire to a romantic and fit retreat for sorrow i once saw on the banks of the danube. one absurdity more, and i have done. by the little fawn i sent my farewel to your friend, and waited only for darkness to revisit farmer richardson's. night came and with it rain and such an impervious mist that i could not see my hand when i stretched it out, nor was i so lost to common prudence as not to foresee the danger of attempting my descent under such circumstance. morning might afford me opportunity. the sword i brought from valmont's armoury still lay on the floor of my cell; and a temptation arose of bearing it back to its original station: to be a last time under the same roof with sibella, to offer a farewel prayer as near her as i dared approach.--things so apparently unsatisfactory of themselves as these acquire an infinity of importance when the heart is assured they never, never can be reacted. the hour of night made me bold. i ventured beyond the armoury. i even intended seeking the room you once spoke of, and stealing from it her portrait. my beard and gown gave me the privilege of spirits, i thought to walk undisturbed; but hardly had i trodden ten paces beyond the armoury door when i met three men, and, what was still worse, considering the imagined security of my disguise, one of them pursued me. apprehension gave me wings. i flew back; and had secured the pannel before he entered the armoury; then regained my cell with all possible expedition. this accident prevented my quitting the park by day-light, least i should be watched. on the next morning, when nina came panting down to my cell, i heard a voice calling her back, to which every nerve vibrated throughout my frame. i went up into the chapel. sibella was there. i was shocked to see her pale and wan.--she heard me with patience, she looked on me with pity. above all, she gave me very good advice. in the dusk of that evening, i left valmont park. as eager now to quit this place as i had formerly been to seek it, i would not even allow myself to rest one night at the farm; but, although the evening was dark and chilling, i mounted my horse and bade richardson farewel. my strength failed me, my head became dizzy, and the bridle frequently dropped from my hand. when i reached the first village on my road, i stopped at an inn, and ordered a chaise to be got ready for me. they showed me into a room where three or four other persons were seated at a table drinking. i drew a chair close to the fire and turned my face from them. for a minute after my entrance they remained silent; but observing, i imagine, that i did not appear disposed to give them any attention they resumed their conversation, and little should i have known of their subject had not the name of miss valmont struck upon my ear. i turned round involuntarily and found the speaker was a dark young man, smartly dressed; he was evidently in a state of intoxication, and his auditors not more sober than himself were the landlord of the inn and two countrymen. 'if i was to tell you all i know about it,' said the man, 'you would stare sure enough. and it is all true as the gospel--it is. my friend, the nobleman i told you of, knows all the business as well as i do--ay, ay, and he'll marry her too. such a devilish fine girl deserves a lord for her husband.' this speech, interlarded with many oaths, had also frequent interruptions from the effects of his inebriety, so that my chaise was announced just as he spoke the last word. i sat still, and called for wine. they again recollected the presence of a stranger; another silence ensued; and, while i lingered over my wine, the young man and one other of the company dropped asleep. my interest in that name would not suffer me to depart. i grew restless and uneasy, i shifted my chair, stirred the fire; and in so doing doubtless roused the sleeper, for he started up and vociferated a great oath. 'not see it,' added he, 'why i saw it myself, with my own eyes, the lord defend us!--no wonder! no wonder! i wouldn't sleep in old valmont's skin to have twenty fine castles. to cheat his own brother's daughter out of such a fine fortune! 'tis enough to make the ghosts of all her grandfather's walk out of their graves. forty thousand is the least penny.--well, well,' said he rising, 'i shall see the day yet when a certain lord that i know will have her and her fifty thousand pounds too. come, landlord, here's a safe deliverance to miss valmont and her money out of the claws of her old griping uncle.' having swallowed his bumper, he staggered out of the room, and the landlord was instantly summoned to assist him to bed. from one of the remaining guests, i learned that this man had lately come from london; but his name was unknown to them. finding my intelligence at an end, i stepped into my chaise and proceeded towards barlowe hall. during my journey, i often, almost indeed perpetually, thought of the conversation i had heard in the inn. and when i had arrived at barlowe hall, and sat in the same apartment where i first heard you speak of sibella, i also recollected that colonel ridson, who had been in habits of intimacy with her father, expressed both doubt and surprise when you said miss valmont was dependent on her uncle. this recollection added new force to the assertions of the young man in the village. i became persuaded that some injury was intended to miss valmont; and resolved if possible to develop the mystery. i journeyed back again to the village, where my suspicions had first been excited. the young man had departed the day before; and no one could tell me of his route. i now determined to put it in sibella's own power to demand an explanation of her uncle. again, but without my hermit's disguise, i crossed the moat and ascended the rock. when i approached her in the wood, she looked on me sorrowfully; but, miss ashburn, there was no welcome in her eye. i had neither power nor inclination to hold her long in conversation. i briefly related to her my suspicions: and as i told you before, she bade me wait her return in the cell. she returned no more. have i then seen her for the last time?--i sicken. never, never, never, to behold her!--oh for a potion, powerful in its nature, rapid in its effect, that would overwhelm these dregs of existence, giving me but time to know the relief of dying when life has become hateful! * * * * * in continuation the carriage, in which i instantly return to barlowe hall, stands waiting before my window. i do not fly through fear; but if mr. valmont knows my secret visits, and punishes her for my faults, he may release her when i am gone. write to me, i beseech you, miss ashburn, and say why sibella suffers. she is a prisoner, madam. she has quarrelled with her uncle. it is said he struck her.--heaven forbid! it is said she attempted suicide!--but she will tell you all; and for pity's sake relieve my suspence, though you cannot quell my anxiety! respectfully your's a. murden _p.s._ my authority is derived from john thomas.--he was not, nor is any person but the family, suffered to cross the draw-bridge. all the servants have been interrogated, and some discharged, for the supposed admission of a stranger. sibella is not allowed to quit her apartment. letter vii from lord filmar to sir walter boyer to the last hour i have lingered here, sometimes in hope, sometimes in fear, still bold in plan, but irresolute in attempt; and now, when the sun of my success begins to beam upon me, now must i come to london, to sign deeds to my shame and to pay money for my folly. yet, walter, though i _must_ come to london, hither i mean to return again; for, as i told you before, the sun of my success begins to shine. know, dear knight, that things are all _en train_. we are in great alarm, great inquietude, and considerable trepidation: but as you may not be perfectly able of yourself to reconcile these assertions, be patient while i lend you my assistance. yesterday (being about to quit the country to-day) i thought proper to pay a visit of duty to my uncle elect. my footman rode up, and sounded the bell of approach.--roar, said the shaggy cerberus on the other side of the moat; while the leaden-headed porter, crawling out of his den, bawled out for our business. 'my lord filmar to visit mr. valmont,' answered george. the porter walked away.--'d--n the fellow,' said i, 'he has not let down the bridge!'--'no, my lord,'--replied george: and then i swore again. in a quarter of an hour or something less the porter came back--'mr. valmont's compliments to lord filmar, and he is engaged.' now, walter, as you dote on discoveries, tell me what does your algebraic head make out of this?----'that he----.' no indeed, walter.----'then he----.' nor that neither, walter. now i discovered it in an instant: keen-eyed, cool and penetrating, i saw at once that mr. valmont--did not choose to see me.--'ay: but why?'--that's quite another matter. 'lord filmar,' said my father, 'you are the most impertinent prevaricating puppy i ever knew in my life.' 'my lord,' replied i bowing modestly, 'i am told i have the honour greatly to resemble your lordship.' 'sir, you--this is all going from the point, sir.----did--you--ever----.' beating time on one hand with a letter he held in the other,--'directly or indirectly talk to any one about miss valmont?' 'yes, sir.' 'you did, sir!'--fierce attitude--'and pray what did you say?' 'i said, my lord--that miss valmont--was a young lady.' 'mighty well, lord filmar!--'tis mighty well!--go on, sir,--ridicule your father for all his acts of kindness to you!' 'ridicule, my lord, is out of the question; but indeed i never shall be serious without knowing why, and your interrogatories of the last half hour are so vague, i cannot understand them. you ask me if i did ever talk of miss valmont?--as a young man naturally talks of a young woman, so may i have talked of miss valmont. the other day, for instance, i was riding with miss monckton--'_i should like of all things_,' said she, '_to see the wild girl of the castle.--twice i have visited there with my mother; but valmont won't suffer her to be introduced._' 'the earl,' replied i, 'declares she is handsome, and i too should be charmed to see her.--perhaps, my lord, i may have made a score such speeches, and if they are any thing to the purpose, i will endeavour to recollect them in form, and circumstance.--let me see--last friday se'night----.' 'psha,' cried the earl, 'they are nothing to my purpose.' 'why then, will you be pleased, my lord, to tell me what is?' a pause succeeded, during which he appeared to seek instruction from the contents of the letter in his hand. 'if there is any thing in that letter, my lord,' said i, stretching out my hand to receive it, 'which relates to me, suffer me to read it; then i can answer straight forward to the charge.' it was not enough simply to refuse, walter.--the earl crammed the letter into his pocket. 'hem! hem!' said the earl. 'before we came to sir gilbert's i remember, lord filmar, you thought fit to wind, and pry into the state of miss valmont's fortune. now if you took upon you to assert any thing to any one, from that conversation, remember you told a falsehood, sir,--an absolute falsehood.--she has no fortune whatever, sir--not a penny.' 'no fortune whatever, sir!--not a penny!' repeated i, slowly, and fixing my eyes on his. he had the grace almost to blush.--'be that as it may, i never told any falsehoods in consequence of that conversation, my lord.--i might have said, if i had thought proper, that you deemed or l. a year a suitable portion for me, and meant to propose me to miss valmont.' 'oh, sir, if you mean to put your own construction on every unguarded disjointed expression a man drops in conversation, you may make something out of nothing, at any time.' 'true, sir, the discourse was disjointed and unguarded enough; but the design was, i believe, perfectly regular.--i am sorry, truly sorry, the plan failed.--has your lordship any further commands for me?' said i, rising. 'you are piqued, my lord,' replied my father drawing the letter out of his pocket.--'i have cause enough to be irritated, i am sure. my character as a gentleman is at stake. mr. valmont here makes charges against me which i don't quite understand.' i held out my hand again for the letter, and he again drew it away. 'nay, my lord,' said i:--'but perhaps you would rather read it to me. the best information and advice in my power is altogether at your lordship's devotion; and, if it is secresy you require, i am dumb as the grave.' the earl looked somewhat doubtful. at length he suffered me to take the letter. now, walter, read this letter, with attention. to the earl of elsings my lord, as i took you to be a man of honour, i fully relied on your word, and never for an instant supposed you could depart from the strict performance of the promise you gave with so much readiness and solemnity of concealing from all the world the real situation of miss valmont's circumstances till the time when i, her uncle, guardian, and her only surviving relation, should no longer deem such a concealment necessary. you knew, my lord, i could have no sinister design in teaching miss valmont to believe herself dependent upon me. my well-known integrity forbids the possibility of such a surmise: and, my lord, at once, in compliance alone with my own opinion of its propriety did i resign to you the entire care of her estate, reserving to myself the guardianship of her person and the direction of her education, to which cares the brother of her father had the most undoubted claim. to the period when miss valmont should have attained the age of twenty, i limited your secresy, my lord; and this adds another proof, if another could be necessary, to the goodness of my intentions. by her father's will, she becomes independent of her guardians at twenty-one. at twenty, i intended that herself and her possessions should be given to the husband for whom i have purposely educated her; and from whom, for the security of their future happiness, i would carefully have hidden the knowledge of her fortune till that period. my precautions were taken with such order and contrivance, that i have reason to believe it has not even been suspected by any creature that miss valmont is an heiress. _do not slumber, dear walter; read that line again--miss valmont is an heiress._ yet now, my lord, my niece herself is apprized of it; and has with more zeal than either judgment or duty demanded an explanation of my motives for treating her as my dependent. it is you only who can have conveyed this intelligence to her: you, my lord, who, i am sorry to say, since you formed the design of uniting miss valmont to your son have forgotten honour and integrity. i believe your son has found entrance into my castle by means a gentleman should scorn to use; but, neither in his own nor in his feigned name, shall he gain another admission. my vigilance is awakened; and, in his behalf, it shall not slumber a second time. my lord, i have returned the accounts you sent for my inspection, together with the necessary acquittals; and i request we may not meet any more, as the business till miss valmont is of age may be transacted by any agent you choose to appoint. i remain, my lord, henceforth a stranger to you and your's george valmont 'is there not,' said i, and in truth, walter, i did not very well know what to say, so dizzy had i become in reading mr. valmont's incontrovertible acknowledgement of his niece's fortune, together with the unlooked for charge against me of having stolen into his castle--'is there not,' said i, 'something like a challenge implied here, my lord?' 'no indeed,' replied my father with sufficient eagerness. 'don't you see he desires we may not meet again.--but i am rather in doubt, filmar, whether we ought or ought not to send mr. valmont a challenge?' 'so am i, my lord; but if your will allow me an hour to consider the case i will settle it if possible.' 'do--do!' said the earl. 'but what can he mean about you and the castle?' 'no one, sir, but himself can decide that matter, i believe.' the problem i had now to solve, consisted, walter, of three parts. first, how miss valmont could have arrived at the knowledge of her fortune?--secondly, how mr. valmont could know i had been in the castle?--lastly, and of most importance, whether all circumstances duly considered it would be proper that i or my father should challenge mr. valmont? my researches on the first part of my problem showed me that it is highly probable i shall never know how miss valmont came by her information till she herself shall be in my power to tell me; and further that her knowledge of the affair will greatly tend to forward my projects, for no longer a dependent but a prisoner she will be rejoiced to free herself at any hazard from her uncle's galling tyranny.--do you not perceive, walter, how much my prospects are amended by this disaster? on the second part, i discovered that mr. valmont can have but an obscure and imperfect idea of my being in the castle, from his mention of a feigned name. i bore no name at all. certainly my agents would not betray me. and valmont must have spoken at random as to the means. out of the foregone conclusions arises the answer to the third part of my problems. it would be highly improper for either me or my father to challenge mr. valmont. what a blessing it is, sir knight, to find sympathy in our griefs!--from the moment my father confided to me this important business, he seemed to have forgotten its nature and my apparent concern therein.--he was lighter than gossamer.--and valiant too!--talked big and bluff about honour,--and satisfaction--and could but just be prevailed on by my intreaties only to write the following pacific answer, in which, were he not a gentleman, the earl of elsings, and my honoured father, you or i might be bold enough to say--he tells _a falsehood_, _an absolute falsehood_. to george valmont esq. sir, the charge you are pleased to make against me reflects infinitely more disgrace on yourself by its injustice than on me. such an imputation deserves nothing but scorn, yet i will answer it so far as to say that neither my son, nor any person breathing has received from me the smallest intimation of miss valmont's fortune. my son never was in valmont castle under any other name than that of lord filmar, where his behaviour kept pace with the dignity of his name, which will never suffer him to intrude himself or his alliance where it will not be rather courted than accepted. i am quite as desirous as you, sir, can be of dropping the acquaintance; and till the time you mention i shall (as i have ever done) sacredly guard my trust--wishing you may do the same, i remain, sir, your humble servant, elsings * * * * * didst thou never, dear walter, see two curs pop unexpectedly on one another within a yard and half of a bone?--er-er-rar--says one, softly setting down his lifted fore foot.--er-er-rar, replies t'other; and each clapping his cowardly tail between his legs slinks backward a little way; then ventures to turn round, and scampers off like a hero.--if thou has wit to find the moral, thou mayst also apply it.--as for me, having reached the top round of my information, i beg leave to resign you to your cogitations and am as i am. filmar _p.s._ she is a girl of spirit! and, on my soul, 'tis infamous she should be thus treated!--had the earl a grain of kindness, he would rescue her; but no; he asserts he cannot possibly think of interfering. in two years, she will be of age; and then, if she should demand his protection, it will be a different matter.--ah!--but i won't say what.--you are to know, boyer, that griffiths has accidentally met his dear friend the butler. it was she herself spoke to her uncle of having seen a stranger; and what she further told him (which the butler does not know) irritated him to strike her.--instantly, she rushed from his presence into the park; but, finding herself pursued, changed her direction which was toward her favourite wood, and flew to the other side of the park, where the wall not being very perfect she climbed it rapidly, and in sight of her pursuers threw herself headlong into the moat. she was taken up unhurt; and is locked within her own apartments. either from disappointment, terror, or real indisposition, she confines herself to her bed, and preserves a perfect silence whenever andrew or her female domestic approaches. mr. valmont has not seen her since. the prevaricating confusion of some of the servants made mr. valmont suspect them of being bribed to admit a stranger; but the butler, being _quite positive no one living soul more than he knows of_ has been within the walls, he and others think miss valmont has seen the spirit again and is disordered in her intellects. i am completely puzzled.--that hermit!--miss monckton has seen montgomery, and calls him a fine elegant fellow, who makes love to every pretty woman he meets. if that's his forte, he would scarcely be content to creep like a snail out of his shell for a few stolen moments at midnight.--but what has set me to doubt and conjecture is, that griffiths has heard of a very handsome man who lodges at a farm hard by, and wanders about the country night and day. the people say it is a pity such a sweet gentleman should go mad for love. yet is it possible any one should know so well how to enter and escape, but those who had lived in the secrets of the castle?--psha!-- in ten hours after you receive this letter, i hope to sup in your new lodgings. letter viii from george valmont to clement montgomery what does this mean, clement montgomery? sibella talks of a marriage with you.--have you dared, sir, to form a marriage without my concurrence? i should dispute the possibility; but i find, from the avarice and ignorance of the wretches; in my household, people have been admitted for one purpose, and perhaps others may have been admitted for another purpose. i command you instantly to tell me how far you have proceeded, sir, against the obedience due to g. valmont letter ix from clement montgomery to george valmont dear sir, an attempt would be vain to express my astonishment at the contents of your last favour, or my concern at your supposing me guilty of so flagrant a commission of ingratitude to him, who has been my more than father. miss valmont's mode of expression is strong and vehement. she may call the early union of our affections a marriage, for _i know of none other_.--no, sir; however my wishes might urge me forward, however painful the struggle might be and was betwixt my love of her and my duty to you, i sacrificed my hopes in my obedience. i flatter myself you will rely on this assurance, and consider the assertions of your lovely niece as romantic as they really are. my time, sir, had not probably been spent to as much advantage as it might have been, but i dare venture to pronounce it not totally thrown away. it is true, i have not yet attached myself to any particular profession, although you may expect i should tell you of my progress therein; but, without a guide or director, i feared rashly to engage lest i should afterwards discover my abilities unfitted to the part i had chosen. a general knowledge of the nature and professors of each, previously gained according to your advice, i deemed might hereafter save me the time at present expended. thus have i been employed, sir; and thus i plead my excuse for not having written to you sooner. may i not presume to expect a continuance of your favours whilst i continue to deserve them?--i beg my dutiful respects to mrs. valmont; and, as _my sister_, i hope i may offer my best wishes to sibella. to you, sir, i shall ever remain the most grateful and respectful of your servants. clement montgomery letter x from caroline ashburn to arthur murden yes, rash and inconsiderate young man, i do accept your confidence, your offered friendship; but remember i cannot profess myself the friend of any one, to gloss over follies or vices. a friend, not blindly partial, but active to amend you, is the friend you must at once receive or at once reject in me. i have heard myself called pedantic, inflexible, opinionated; i have been told, by some gentler people, that i am severe, misjudging, giving to those little foibles almost inseparable from human nature the name of vice, and this may be true; for you call yourself a foolish man--i call you vicious.--nay start not, murden; but lay your hand on your heart, and tell me, if you have well employed your time and talents? if you have done service to human kind, or if you have not in fraud and secresy bubbled away your happiness? and if it is the part of a virtuous man to sigh with black misanthropy in solitude a few passive years, and then lie down in the grave unblessing and unblessed? yet i do pity you, for i have neither a hard nor a cold heart, nor a heart that dare receive a sensation it will not for your example dare to acknowledge.--yes, i confess i have loved you! yet, because i could not possess myself of the strong holds in your heart, shall i sink down and die?--no! no!--i bade the vague hope begone.--i refused to be the worst of slaves, the slave of self; and now, my friend, more worthy than ever of your friendship, i am ready to do any thing in your behalf that reason can approve. that service is to gain sibella for you. again you retreat.--your false delicacy and false refinement fly to guard you with their sevenfold shield from the attack.--but hear me, murden:--i would not unite you as you are to the sibella valmont whom you have loved with all the fervour the most impassioned language can describe, the erring sibella while she sees neither spot nor stain in him with whom she has pledged herself in union:--no! i would first subdue the fermentation of your senses, teach you to esteem sibella's worth, pity her errors, and love her with infinite sincerity, but not so as to absorb your active virtues, to transform you from a man into a baby.--you are but two beings in the great brotherhood of mankind, and what right have you to separate your benevolence from your fellow-creatures and make a world between you, when you cannot separate your wants also?--you must be dependent for your blessings on the great mass of mankind, as they in part also depend on you.--when you can thus love, i would unite you to sibella, who in turn shall be roused from the present mistaken zeal of her affections. her soul will renounce the union her mistakes have formed, when she knows clement as unworthy of her as he really is. from a struggle perhaps worse than death, she will rise dignified into superior happiness:--claim you as her friend, her monitor, her guide; and devote her life, her love to your virtues! o yes, i know it well!--your imagination teems with the rhapsodies of passion!--i hear your high-wrought declamation, the dictates of a fevered fancy. i do pity you, murden, from my soul; and if i did not believe you able to overcome all the misery you deplore i should not pity you at all. i can scarcely picture to myself a life more negative, less energetic, notwithstanding your fervor, than that you would have led with sibella had fortune placed you in the situation clement stood with her. do not let your burning brain consume you at the supposition; for, highly gifted as you both are, mind cannot always feel in that extreme:--the tight drawn wire must either snap or slacken.--too happy, banished in rapture, age would have come upon you without preparation for its arrival, without proper nourishment for its abode. in vain you then turn to each other for consolation.--the spell that guarded you from every intruding care is broken: and you have lessons, wearisome tasks to learn, which would only have been pleasant relaxations intermixed with the abounding delights of youth. you are both at present the victims of erroneous educations, but your artificial refinements being so admirably checked in their growth, now i know not two people upon earth so calculated, so fitted for each other as murden and sibella.--my resolution envigorates with the prospect!--be ye but what ye may, and the first vaunted pair of paradise were not more happy! i perceive not only the value of the work i undertake, but the labour also; nor am i deterred by the firmness wherewith you hold your resolutions, not by the tedious scarcely perceptible degrees with which i must sap the foundation of sibella's error.--ah, murden, i suspect, had she possessed equal advantages with yourself, she would have soared far beyond what you are as yet! by her last letter, i find she discovers a deficiency in clement's conduct which she struggles to hide from her own penetration.--he is my best auxiliary. i once thought him only a negative character, drawn this way or that by a thread. now, i see he has an incessant restlessness after pomp and pleasure which nothing can subdue, and to which every thing must yield: sibella in her turn--indeed, half her hold at least is gone already.--if he speaks of her now to me, she is not as before--his adored--an angel--superior to every thing in heaven or on earth--but one lady has an eye almost as intelligent as sibella's--another, a bloom of complexion scarcely less exquisite--and a third, in form in graces moves a counterpart goddess!----as you say, there is a vehemency and energy in his expressions, that, in the general apprehension, cloathe him with attributes which never did and never can belong to him. it is but very rarely that i partake of his effusions, for i am not to his taste. my mother is his confidante; and she is quite fascinated with the descriptions of his love. when he was first introduced to us, i thought it necessary, for a reason you perhaps divine, to mention the mutual attachment subsisting between clement and sibella.--mrs. ashburn declared she would take his constancy under her protection: yes, she would guard him from folly and temptation. alas, murden, i am sick of the scenes that surround me! formerly, we were moderate and retired to what we are now. our house is the palace of luxury. every varying effort of novelty is exerted to fill the vacant mind with pleasure. useless are my remonstrances. eastern magnificence and eastern voluptuousness here hold their court, and my mother, borrowing from her splendor every other pretension to charm, plunges deeper and deeper in the vortex of vanity. fain would i leave it all, but i dare not proscribe my little power of doing good.----come then, my friends, you who have already taken your station in my heart!--murden and sibella--live for each other--live that i may sometimes quit the drudgery of dissipation to participate of happiness with you! if it really was mr. valmont's design (which i very much doubt) to give clement up to a profession, nothing could be more unfortunate than his introduction here--where, with his natural inclination to do the same, he sees wealth lavished without check or restraint. so highly does he stand in my mother's opinion for taste, and so animated are his bursts of applause, that no overstrained variety is received or rejected without his sanction.--to be the confidante of a heart is a novelty with mrs. ashburn, who has had little concern in affairs of the heart; and perhaps to preserve him from sacrificing in her presence to the vanity of others may be her motive for encouraging him to speak of his passion for sibella.--i have watched him narrowly; and, if he has any lurking wishes here, i am persuaded they fix on mademoiselle laundy. i believe you never saw this companion of mrs. ashburn. she, or i greatly mistake, has of all persons i know most command over herself. i had almost forgotten to tell you that clement read me a few concluding lines of your last letter to him. what a decided melancholy have you displayed therein!--no, my dear friend, you must not, shall not die.--clement was considerably affected by the representation of your feelings; yet he said you had used him ill in the foregoing part, and he believed he should never write to you again.--i find he has no suspicions of you; and i leave you to tell him at your own time, and in your own way. still i say nothing of sibella's present distress, you cry. i have had no information of it, except from yourself. i have written again to sibella, and look for an answer daily with respect to her fortune, i think it probable that she should be her father's heir; but of that we can judge better when we hear what her uncle says to the charge. alas, i know mr. valmont is vindictive, proud, and impatient of contradiction.--she resolute, daring to do aught she dare approve.--he might strike her.--as to suicide, i know her better: it would be as remote from her thoughts, under any suffering, as light from darkness. oh, murden, she is indeed a glorious girl! mr. valmont promised me an unrestrained correspondence with sibella; and, while he is satisfied in the exercise of his own power over her person, he will as usual suffer her to communicate to me the crowd of welcome and unwelcome strangers passing to and fro in her mind. i need scarcely assure you that, whatever intelligence i receive, you shall share the communication.--remain at barlowe hall; for, though your uncle is very desirous that you should come to london, i am certain, in your present frame of mind, you would find yourself still more removed from ease in the society which sir thomas would provide for you than in solitude.--i should be sorry to depend for my happiness on that heart which could invite pleasure and gaiety to quell those griefs it could not banish by reason and reflection. nor have i, murden, so supreme an idea of your prudence, as not to foresee the birth of a new folly, should montgomery and you meet each other. farewel! and may the blessing you bestowed on me rest also with yourself. caroline ashburn letter xi from lord filmar to janetta laundy in apartments opposite to sir walter boyer's, there lives an adonis.--a paris, rather, to whose wishes venus sends a beauteous helen. janetta, thou understandest me.--a chair--twilight----. as tradition tells us that the famed city was burned, and the famed family is i suppose extinct, i want to know from what troy this paris came, and what priam was his father. thine, whilst i had love and money, filmar letter xii answer my lord, janetta does not understand you, and yet in another sense she understands you but too well. once i thought you all tenderness, and generosity, but now you can both neglect and insult one whose love of you was her undoing. i neither know sir walter boyer, nor any one who lives opposite to him, nor can in the least imagine what you would insinuate by twilight and a chair. if your recollection of former fondness does not incline you to treat me with more respect, at least her sad change of situation might preserve from your contempt, the unfortunate janetta laundy letter xiii from lord filmar to janetta laundy undone! no charmer! carry that face to the looking-glass, and ask if any thing but age or small-pox could undo thee! if thy mirror does not say enough to thy satisfaction, consult montgomery.--ha! have i caught thee? it was no stroke of machiavelian policy amidst all thy profundity of practice, that the lodging opposite sir walter boyer's should be so suddenly vacated. but child, i do hold all my former fondness in my mind's eye; and thou art very ungrateful to refuse one little favour to him who has bestowed on thee so many. can i more evince my respect of thy situation than by refraining to interrupt its harmony by my presence? what but respect, thinkest thou, made me order the horses back to the stable, when i had them ready harnessed to come and throw myself at thy feet for the little boon of information thou hast refused my letter. i applaud helen's taste. the paris of old was a jew pedlar to the present paris of ---- street. grace was in all her steps. need i ask information of my eyes when my throbbing heart could tell me?--oh yes, i should know my helen's mien from a thousand. i tell you, his name's montgomery. now you must tell me, if 'tis montgomery of valmont castle. if it is, you are directly to introduce me to him.--remember, janetta, in this i am serious;--remember also i am--_an old acquaintance_--now i hope you understand me. filmar letter xiv from janetta laundy to lord filmar my lord, i did suppose, on the receipt of your first letter, that you alluded to my calling one evening on mr. montgomery; and had i not been withheld by the unwillingness i felt to disclose the secrets of another person i should certainly then have acknowledged that i paid a visit to mr. montgomery. but, my lord, you compel me notwithstanding my extreme reluctance to make this confession; at the same time i must, to prevent your surmises injurious to myself, own to you that i called on mr. montgomery the evening you named by the order of mrs. ashburn whose very particular friend he is. the commission, my lord, respected some business of a private nature; therefore you will perceive how necessary it is that you should keep secret your knowledge of this transaction. there is scarce any thing which mrs. ashburn would not sooner pardon in me than this breach of confidence. with respect to my introducing you, my lord, to mr. montgomery, a moment's consideration will convince you of its impropriety. in the unhappy and dependent situation which the misfortunes heaped upon my family have compelled me to seek, it is not the least of its afflicting circumstances that i am obliged to shape all my actions to the will or opinions of those by whom i am surrounded. that i should so suddenly claim an intimacy with a person of lord filmar's youth, graces, and accomplishments might appear suspicious to mrs. ashburn; beside, my lord, how do you suppose i am to conduct myself in your presence? for, although you may have forgotten the time when you could not approach me without trembling, i can neither cease to remember nor cease to feel. it is not possible for me to divine why you should insist so vehemently on my bringing you acquainted with mr. montgomery; nor is it easy to decline any request however hazardous the grant, when it is urged by one who has such claims, although now neglected, as you have, my lord, on me. i have studied in what way, with any probability of safety to myself, i can gratify your wish; and find no other than your renewing your acquaintance with the dutchess de n----, who is also at this time in london. mr. montgomery visits there frequently. i think, my lord, i need hardly remind you of the caution you ought to use, if by any accident it appears that we are acquainted. mr. montgomery was in paris a short time after you left it. he was, like you, intimate with my father; but he did not, gain the devoted heart of the daughter. to wound my reputation now would be barbarity. were you by any hint or jest to create a surmise in the breast of mr. montgomery, it would instantly be conveyed by him to mrs. ashburn; and my ruin would be certain. i intreat you will think of this with attention; and you would be well convinced of the attention it demands, could you know how scrupulously observant mrs. ashburn is of my conduct. janetta laundy letter xv from lord filmar to janetta laundy female friendship still so constant! what, if french folks did surmise and say strange things of janetta laundy and the duke de n----, the dutchess well understands the value of a certain old proverb, _keep my secret and i'll keep your's._ amiable pair! fear me not, janetta. filmar will not breathe a whisper that shall disturb thy peace; for he perfectly understands that montgomery was in paris after him. last night i supped with the dutchess; montgomery was there. no wonder mrs. ashburn is _observant of your conduct_, janetta; for she glared upon us last night in the fullness of her blaze, and i perceived in half an hour or less that she is tremblingly alive to every species of decorum. whenever this _scrupulous_ lady again chooses to _send_ her pretty ambassadress on _private business_ to _montgomery_, he will still i doubt not continue to receive her with all the respect due to her _commission_. do not be angry, janetta, but encourage the dimpling smile that so well becomes you. montgomery dines with me; and i am, with him, to have the felicity of basking in the sunshine of bright eyes at mrs. ashburn's route this evening. filmar letter xvi from caroline ashburn to arthur murden how strange an animal is man! how prone to fall into habits, and how difficult it is to prescribe bounds to the growth of absurdity! i did not imagine mr. valmont would extend his absurdities so much on the sudden, nor do i know how far you will be inclined to follow his example, when i tell you that sibella is so really a prisoner even my letters are denied access to her. yesterday i was honoured with a packet from mr. valmont containing my two last letters to sibella, one written in answer to her's previous to the receipt of your's and the other written in consequence of the information you gave me of her confinement. mr. valmont, in his way, treats me with unusual respect; and i can only account for it, by supposing he was pleased with the freedom i used when at valmont castle in speaking to him of his very improper seclusion of sibella. my letters were returned unopened; and with them the following madam, as long as my niece deserved the indulgence of your correspondence i, though against the principle upon which i formed her education continued to allow it. i herewith return your last letters. i would not open them, because i believe you to be incapable of abetting sibella in the atrocity of her conduct, but i shall hold myself justified therein if you send any more letters after you receive this interdiction. truly sorry am i to say that miss valmont proves herself unworthy of the long illustrious line from whom she claims her name, and of whom she is almost the only surviving descendant. unfortunate that house whose dignity is left to be supported by a female! whether in solitude or society, i find the female mind still a mere compound of folly and mischief: greatly do i now regret i ever undertook its guardianship. i have the honour to be, madam your humble servant, g. valmont mr. valmont scorns to flatter. would you have been so candid with respect to the female mind? though once, perhaps, you enrolled yourself among those who endeavour strictly to check the growth of every seed therein except mischief and folly. my patience exhausts itself when i see men of even tolerable talents aiding to sink lower than the brute in value the fairest of god's creatures.--a horse!--oh, a laborious horse deserves to be canonized in preference to the woman whose sole industry consists in the active destruction of her understanding, who smiles, moves, and speaks, as it were only to prove herself unlike every production of wisdom and nature. the principle which moves this mischief is the error males and females partake concerning softness.--bid them form a woman of an enlightened understanding, and with the learning of a scholar they never fail to associate the manners of a porter.--talk of one, who scorns to sink in apprehensions, who would rather protect herself than sacrifice herself, who can stand unpropped in the creation, they expect a giant in step and a monster in form.--if reason and coarseness were thus inseparable, it were better to take both than to abandon both. but it is the reverse. wherever coarseness exists with talent, it is because the talent is contracted; let it expand, and the dignified grace and softness of active virtue takes its place.--more of this hereafter. i wish rather to reason than declaim; and i have, at present, a heat of feeling that effectually precludes investigation, for the ebulitions of resentment. doubtless you have already exclaimed against my seeming unconcern for sibella's situation.--you, who cannot detach yourself a moment from the concerns of your heart, can you forgive such a lapse in another. of what avail, in our present darkness, to canvass it for an age? i must do something more. to-morrow morning, i set out for valmont castle; and if at my desire you keep your station, you may depend on the speediest information from, your sincere friend caroline ashburn letter xvii from lord filmar to sir walter boyer a pleasant journey be thine, walter; but if this sudden trip be meant to evade the consequences of my wrath it was unnecessary. truly i forgave you on the spot, in consequence of the very ridiculous situation you were in, turning with beseeching looks to me for pardon and stammering contradiction after contradiction to montgomery, which served only to confirm the suspicions in his mind your foolish audible whisper had occasioned. how guarded have i always been when montgomery spoke of the valmonts; and little did i suppose, though i knew your talent, when i urged him to show you the picture you could forget your caution. your shrug, your leer, your whisper struck montgomery dumb; and to my explanation he appeared no less deaf. yesterday he did not keep his appointment with me.--we accidentally met in the evening (where it had been better we had neither been) but he was distant and embarrassed. scarcely had griffiths begun the honours of my head this morning, than montgomery was announced and condescended to amuse himself with rosetta and ponto in the drawing-room till the business of my sitting was at an end. 'oh! by heaven,' he cried, as i entered the room, 'you would at this moment be irresistible!--health, vigour, proportion, and the face of an apollo! luckless be ever the youth who shall presume to rival you'--i'll give you ten guineas for rosetta, filmar. will you sell her?' 'no, i will not, montgomery; though you seem so well to understand our mutual value.' he drew from his pocket the very miniature in the shagreen case: your stumbling-block, walter. 'do me the honour, filmar, to accept this from me.' 'miss valmont's picture!--and of your painting!--you are delirious, montgomery!' 'faith, not i!--never more rational in my life, as this very action evinces. exquisitely divinely charming as she is, who would stand a competition against your person, rank, and happy influence with mr. valmont.' 'influence with mr. valmont!' 'inimitable!' cried he.--'you overwhelm me with your perfections this morning. how natural that start? nor do you forget the grace of the attitude, i perceive. it is too late, filmar. be candid. we will not quarrel; for, as you have so much the start of me in her uncle's approbation, i must resign with a good grace. can i do more than even yield to my rival that resemblance of her enchanting face? all i ask in return is to oblige me in kind offices with mr. valmont.--'tis a curst strange business to be sure, but, on my soul, mr. valmont sent me to town to study!--i have no time to spare, as yet.--mum! you know, as to my employments.--i shall reform ere long.' 'send you to london to study!--ha! ha! ha!' 'yes by heaven he did!--to this emporium of delight!--a strange being!' 'and so are you; for, montgomery, if i understand your meaning concerning mr. and miss valmont, may i--.' 's'death, my lord, sir walter's strange speech and your confusion kept me awake two hours! upon my soul, you have seen her! i know you have; and i am sure mr. valmont wouldn't suffer any man in the kingdom to look at her, except the one whom he designs for her husband. everything corroborates the fact. you told me the earl knew mr. valmont; but did you ever hint, in the most remote way, that you had been in the castle, till sir walter's question obliged you to have recourse to that portrait in the drawing room, to excuse the implication?--ah, filmar!--a divinity is destined for your arms, whilst i must sigh in secret over the remembrance of past hopes!' 'you won't sigh alone, montgomery. you don't profess anchorism. there are other divinities.' he smiled one of those enchanting smiles which will probably reduce many such divinities into frail mortals. and then he enumerated, in the way of exclamation, a number of his favourite beauties. 'no wonder you want to give up miss valmont,' said i, 'you that are the favoured of so many.' 'want to give up miss valmont! lord god, how can you talk so ridiculously, filmar? want to give up an angel, with whom it were life to die, to live from whom is death! is she not torn from my arms? am i not interdicted, and another elected? by heavens! my lord, your secresy was unkind, but this triumph is insulting!' and thus, walter, we passed away the morning:--he, affirming; i denying. i fairly overshot my mark in leading him to talk so often of sibella; for he has tacked together such a number of scraps and ends, that, with the aid of his colouring, make proofs as strong as _proofs of holy writ_.--well, and if he does speak of me in this way to mr. valmont? the man suspected me before, and all he can now do is to clap another padlock on his caution. there is something unmanly in montgomery's conduct. with studied vehemence of lamentation he recanted his many many former insinuations of his constant security in miss valmont's favour; and, unless it was a preconcerted plan between them, (which i do not think possible) his voluntary resignation of her picture stamps him a contemptible----. my fingers had a kind of tremulous impulse towards the picture; yet i positively refused to accept it; a double dose of prudence this morning made some amends for its total absence last evening. 'tis too true, walter; i left the club again without a penny. the earl will not be in town till next week; and till i am in cash i cannot invent or contrive a probable means of saving my friend montgomery the disgrace of being mistaken. this youth makes a rapid progress in the sciences. he was as completely inducted last night as your humble servant. his tutor, janetta laundy, also is most admirably chosen; and if valmont deems that to be a dupe with a beggared purse, and shattered constitution, is the antidote against society, montgomery is going the high road to answer all his wishes. your hint, dear knight, respecting mrs. ashburn, was not lost upon me; but, though i would not marry for aught but money, i should like to have a wife thrown into the bargain whom i could love now and then. i acknowledge the widow is as young as any woman (of her years) i ever saw in my life; and in wealth i should be an emperor. but indeed, walter, i could ruin myself as effectually, i feel i could, i have all the laudable inclinations necessary thereto, with a large fortune as with a moderate one; and then age will come, and gout, and bile, and ill tempers, and no sweet remembrances of smiles, of dimpling cheeks, of melting eyes, to cheer me!--were the widow once turned of eighty, the charms of youth and beauty should not tempt me from her.--as it is, i could like her daughter better.--ah, but miss ashburn's is a searching eye! she would enquire for thy passport of virtue and morality, filmar! you perceive plainly, don't you, walter, that i have no alternative but taking sibella valmont with her , l. per annum? you have now seen her picture, tell me, is she not unequalled? and may i not sometimes, without any violent effort of self-denial, condescend to toy away an hour or two with (though my own wife) a creature so perfect? walter! walter! could i drench in oblivion that youth with the flowing beard, i should be proud to acknowledge how often i dream of this little seducer!--as it certainly was not montgomery, who could it be?--and why came he there? this interrogation is constantly served up with my breakfast, it even attends my undressing, and has been, not unfrequently, my bedfellow--the very quintessence of politeness, however, it never intrudes further than the door of the tavern or gaming-house. for the former, i now leave it and thee. thine, filmar letter xviii from caroline ashburn to arthur murden can you, will you, my dear friend, undertake to rescue sibella from the tyranny at present exercised over her? if you will, write me instantly three lines to london, where i am now returning. from that place i will relate the particulars of my visit to valmont, which will also include my reasons for this request.--now, i only write while i change horses at b----. caroline ashburn letter xix from arthur murden to caroline ashburn madam, when you bid me live, and live for sibella, i shut my ears against the voice of the syren.--name the possibility of my rescuing sibella, and the light and sun again becomes of value to me! arthur murden letter xx from caroline ashburn to arthur murden inexorable as you would persuade me you are, still i hope to conquer you. yet, it must be a future work. sibella's release is our present employment; and, though i am not surprised at your readiness to undertake it, i am truly grateful. in this case, i know your heart and your benevolence are separated; for, determined as you are to live and die without hope, every step that carries you toward her increases your anguish.--the sacrifice is great. i wish you would trust me, that in the end it may find a reward. the inclosed letter you must yourself give to sibella. mr. valmont may lock up the doors of his castle; but your cell and pannel is not under his dominion. your hermit's cap and gown secure your own escape. be sure you do not escape alone. read the inclosed, and you will find i mean to join you on the road. you will there find also my reason for not being of your party, through the subterraneous passage and into the castle. to yourself i leave the conduct of the business. your brain is fertile in project; and on your faith and delicacy in execution i would rely as on my own soul. when i reached valmont park, mr. valmont sent an excuse for not admitting me. message after message flew from the moat to the castle; and i was compelled to stipulate for not seeing any one but himself, ere the word of command was given for me to pass. he received me with a demeanour cold, formal, and haughty. i assured him that a motive equal to the pleasure i had promised myself of seeing sibella, had induced me to take the journey. 'i perfectly understand you, madam,' said he; 'but once for all, to save you the trouble of useless discussion, i will not relax an atom of my severity, till miss valmont has in some measure expiated her fault.' 'what is her fault, sir?' 'her fault!' repeated he, starting. 'i perceive madam, you are a stranger to the cursed business; and may you remain so, for your own, for her's, and her family's sake.' 'is clement montgomery concerned?' he bit his lip, arose from his seat, stifled anger contracting his brow. 'i see he is,' said i--'and----.' 'madam' said mr. valmont sternly, 'your understanding should inform you, that affairs which concern the honour of a family are only to be canvassed by the individuals immediately belonging to it.' 'you forget, sir,' replied i, 'that i am a female; and, according to your creed, cannot possess understanding.--is it owing to this deficiency that i am of opinion, the honour of a family, as generally understood, is a matter quite opposite to the virtue of a family.--in the present case, i think you clasp your honour and turn your virtue and justice out of doors.--if, when you use such terms, in speaking of sibella, you allude to her contract with clement, i acknowledge her in the wrong. to ratify that contract, sir, would be a worse error: for he is undeserving of her. but all that, and the worst of errors she can commit, may ascribe their origin to yourself.' 'madam, you are obliging; but you have not yet convinced me i am under any necessity of explaining myself to you.--whatever offences clement has committed against me, he shall not fail of his proper punishment--trust me, he shall not.--i--i--will you take any refreshment, madam?'--rising--'i regret mrs. valmont is too much indisposed to receive you.--pardon me, our conference must end.--you will excuse me, but i cannot suffer you to see miss valmont.--it is indeed impossible.' i declined the refreshment, lamented for mrs. valmont, and objected to putting an end to the conference. and this last produced an altercation too diffuse and passionate to be related minutely. i mentioned sibella's fortune. he almost started with surprise. he said i could not have heard it from her, for he had refused her permission to write to me.--'no,' i replied, 'i believe my informant was her's.' he called some earl a lying scoundrel; and added, after a moment's pause, that now it was useless to keep it longer secret, that miss valmont was her father's heiress, since the object of its being concealed was utterly destroyed. he had planned the concealment for her benefit; and carried it into execution only to perfect her happiness. she had indeed a noble fortune, he said, ill bestowed. none of his should go the same way. and, as to the pragmatical puppy who took the pains to tell her of it, his scheme, by the disclosure, was effectually annihilated. as you, murden, have no striking characteristics of the puppy, i took the liberty of asking mr. valmont, if he knew the person to whom he alluded. 'very well,' he replied, 'too well.' it was the son of sibella's other guardian who wanted her wealth to amend his poverty. 'i believe not,' said i. 'madam, i am assured of it. he bribed some of the fools of my family to admit him.' 'did they confess the charge?' 'not absolutely; but they prevaricated and talked backwards and forwards in such a way as confirmed their guilt.' 'talking backwards and forwards, sir,' said i, 'sometimes proceeds from confusion and awe. i am very much inclined to believe your servants innocent in this affair, mr. valmont.' 'miss ashburn is extremely inclined to construe all i say or do in the way that best pleases her. but sibella herself saw this person and herself gave me the information.' 'that i know too. and----.' 'i know what you are going to advance, madam. she might tell you as she did me, of his feigned name. he called himself some mr. murden; a friend of clement's he persuaded her to believe him to be.' 'i, sir, have a friend called murden; and so had clement montgomery. might it not be him?' 'no, madam; it might not;' replied mr. valmont; 'for no person but her two guardians ever knew a whisper of sibella's fortune. i tell you the earl disclosed it to his son, because he wanted his son to marry her.--i refused their offer; and their residence lately in this neighbourhood confirms the rest.' 'once more, you are mistaken, mr. valmont. hear me out, sir,' for his fiery impatience was again blazing forth. 'how the secret was first unfolded i know not; but, in the immediate agency of conveying this intelligence to sibella, the guardian you speak of had no concern whatever. i am much better informed than you perhaps may imagine mr. valmont. you discharged your servants from passion not from conviction. i pledge myself to prove the truth of my affection, if you will let us make a compromise. liberate sibella. give her to my care one month, and i will tell you who the person was; and, for your future security, how he gained admission into your park.' 'cobwebs to catch eagles! i grant, madam, you are amazingly condescending; but as the days of enchantment are passed, i am as well instructed on the latter point as i wish to be. for my _future security_, i am also provided. the suspicious part of my household are gone; and i think i have secured the fidelity of the rest. your request concerning miss valmont's passing from my care to your's madam, is not worthy of an answer.' somewhat indignantly i reminded him, that an abuse of power might be the forfeiture of power; and that the law, useless as it is for the relief of general oppression, might reach this particular instance. 'i despise your threats, madam,' said mr. valmont, 'as i do your intreaties. the will of the hon. honorius valmont delegated to me the care of her person till the age of twenty-one. then, whoever aspires to the protection of a disgraced dishonoured woman may claim it; but till then, madam, i swear that, in the solitude and confinement of this castle, she shall weep for her errors. depend upon it, madam, whilst you favour us with your abode in any part of this country, the rigour of her imprisonment shall be tenfold.' and, so saying, he rang the bell furiously; and would have departed. 'hold, sir, one moment,' cried i--and then, after a pause, i promised to quit the country instantly if he would suffer me to converse one quarter of an hour with mrs. valmont. 'o! pray show this lady to your mistress's dressing room,' said he, sneeringly, to the servant that appeared. 'it would be well in your wisdom, madam, to make mrs. valmont's influence of consequence before you attempt to gain mrs. valmont's influence.' mrs. valmont, having worn out the variety of fancied indispositions, is now fairly dying of inanity. she was neither surprised at my visit, nor at all interested by that which she herself called the lamentable state of her niece. mrs. valmont was attended by her confidential servant, whom i requested to remain in the apartment, for i judged i should from her gain more information than from her lady. and i judged rightly. she was not only willing, but eager, to tell me all she knew. it seems mr. valmont has had two interviews with his niece. the first was on her leaving you in the ruin, when mr. valmont was irritated, by her persisting to declare herself married, to strike her. she did throw herself into the moat, but she received no injury. from that time, he ordered her to be confined. in the second interview, a painful circumstance, relating to sibella, transpired, in consequence of which her uncle abruptly commanded her from his presence. the discovery he had made wounded him almost to madness; and his first transports of rage have subsided into a constant gloomy moroseness. at times he has been seen to weep. the circumstance i speak of has been whispered from one to another throughout the family; and in this way alone travelled to mrs. valmont--for mortified pride would choak mr. valmont's attempt, were he inclined to give the secret utterance. i can trace the operations of his pride, but i am lost with respect to his tears; for sibella never possessed any of his affection. my tears flowed without restraint when i learned this distressing circumstance, and heard also that our sibella droops under her uncle's cruelty. she eats little, sighs deeply, but weeps seldom. 'twas unnecessary to enjoin silence to her domestics, for she never attempts to speak to them. they frequently hear her talk of some letter which she holds up between her clasped hands, as she traverses her apartment in extreme agitation; and then she exclaims--_he never never wrote it!_ once a day she is conducted to the terrace; but her wood and all her beloved haunts are forbidden. you, murden, could not have borne the apathy with which these and other particulars were repeated; nor could mrs. valmont with all my reasoning be prevailed on to suppose that she who had been so long governed should now infringe on her obedience, and endeavour to give aid and comfort to her ill treated niece. i had quitted mr. valmont in anger. i quitted mrs. valmont in sorrow. as i crossed the square court in front of the building, i stopped and looked up with an eye of tears to sibella's windows. no pale melancholy form appeared to my salute. 'does miss valmont,' said i to the servant attending me, 'inhabit the same apartments as formerly?' the man looked round every way, and replied in the affirmative. scarcely was i reseated in the carriage, when i began to accuse myself as wanting friendship and humanity when i foolishly promised mr. valmont to quit the country; murden would not have done this, thought i; then murden is the fittest person to repair the error; and before i arrived at b----, i had resolved to engage you to take her from this proud this cruel uncle. i have only now to tell you why i hastened on to london--to procure her an asylum. the very term proves to you that mrs. ashburn's house is out of the question. if you know mrs. beville, the sister of davenport, you know a very amiable woman, who will open her arms and heart for the reception of sibella. it is not my design to make either her retreat or the means used in her escape a secret; but, if it is possible to prevent clement montgomery's seeing her, that i will do. to shield her from mr. valmont, we must oppose authority. it was a strange over-sight in me not to learn the name of her other guardian. let me beseech you, my dear friend, to arm yourself with fortitude. if the circumstance to which i allude in a part of this letter betrays its own authenticity to you, i know your heart will be rent with agony. yet, persevere!--ah! i need not say that! in itself, it includes every incitement to her relief. use no speed on my account, for i shall be unknown in that obscure village seven miles the other side of b----, where you must stop for me. let me know when i may be there; and, in waiting for you, i can have no other impatience than of being assured you are in safety. caroline ashburn letter xxi from caroline ashburn to sibella valmont (_inclosed in the preceding._) your caroline ashburn, my sibella, your own caroline, who loves you with her whole heart, sends murden to your relief. need i add a stronger recommendation? ah, no! thus commissioned, you will instantly assure yourself he is benevolent, noble, just, and has not one fault in his nature, that counteracts the propriety of choosing him for your protector. i have lately been in the castle, sibella. i have seen your cruel uncle, your insensible aunt: but she for whose sake i encountered them was secluded from my view. i know every particular of your situation. yes, my love, _every particular_.--there, you have endured enough. come away! follow the footsteps of your guide! they will conduct you to liberty. happiness may overtake us by and by. my own hand should lead you to the dreary hermit's cell--my smiles should cheer you--for murden is not apt now to smile, yet, believe me, his heart will rejoice in your deliverance, though his eye may talk of nothing but woe--but i dare not come. your uncle has spied. were he to find me in the neighbourhood, he would suspect a plan to relieve you; and by some new manoeuvre counteract it. we have but this one means in our power, for your uncle is irreconcileable. when murden gives you this letter, commit yourself wholly to his direction. he will bring you, my sibella, with all convenient dispatch to a little village called croom, fifteen miles from your uncle's castle. there your caroline's arms will receive you; and my affection tells me we shall never again be separated. a short farewel, sibella. caroline ashburn letter xxii from george valmont to clement montgomery sir, on the very day i received your answer to my last letter, i discovered a circumstance which rendered that answer quite unnecessary, except to prove that you are not only a villain but a cowardly villain. i should have given to myself the satisfaction of telling you thus much before, but i delayed for two reasons; the first, till i had completely banished every struggling effort of the affection i once had for you, almost the only affection i ever had in my life; and the second, perhaps a very consoling one to you, until i had executed the deed which comes herewith, by which under certain annexed conditions you are entitled to the possession of l. for life. however you may be obliged by the action, you have but little obligation to the motive.--i hate and detest you cordially; but i would not, for my honour's sake, give up to absolute beggary, _my own--my only son_. yes, sir, _my son_. not legitimate, i confess, but _natural_ in the strongest acceptance of the term. i cared not ten straws for your mother; yet, from your birth, i felt a strange propensity to love you. i schemed and planned for your advantage. for your sake alone, i contrived a project by which all the united wealth of the valmont house would have been showered on your head. i intended, mark me, sir, _i determined_ you should marry my niece, and take my name, burying the disgrace of your birth in the nobleness of my possessions. and, as i abhorred that a man who bore my name should abandon himself to the love of society, i sent you into the world as poor and adopted, that you might experience its disappointments and know how to value your proper happiness.--amply have you rewarded my extreme love and constant labour! i patiently undergo this statement, because i would have you see exactly where you might have stood, and where you stand now.--the conditions of your present independence are, that you never come into my presence: if you once intrude by letter or otherwise i wipe away the allowance and every trace of consideration for you: also, the instant you form any species of intercourse with miss valmont, the deed is cancelled. even this paltry sum, as it is mine shall not help to support infamy, ingratitude, and treachery.--make the comparison, sir, between l. and , l. per annum!--ha! does it gall you?--so may it ever! may rest fly from your pillow and contentment from your heart; and men you will know what i have experienced, since i discovered the indelible stain you have fixed on my family. my equally worthless niece, perhaps, may, when she is her own mistress, be inclined to reward your conduct with her hand; for, if i may judge by her reception of your letter when i gave it her, she is not more the fool of inclination than of credulity.--remember, she never possesses one penny of mine. if you really have any friend of the name of murden, pray offer him my very sincere thanks. but for his timely interference, i might have given you a part of your intended inheritance before i discovered your scoundrel-like conduct. in the moment of acknowledging you my son, i renounce you for ever. i cast you from my affection and memory. and, should you henceforth think of me, know that you have an inveterate implacable enemy, in your father, g. valmont letter xxiii from arthur murden to caroline ashburn madam, i date my letter from the farm. richardson is my confidant. he has a sincere generous mind. i stood before him confessed in all my folly. he will give me his utmost aid. do not again call me inexorable, dear miss ashburn. i have yielded greatly indeed to you. i consulted a physician at barlowe-hall. as we are so speedily to meet, it would be useless to conceal from you that, wherever it had its beginning, the disorder is not now confined to my mind. youth, the physician said, was in my favour. the continent might do me service. he ordered some medicine; regulated my diet; and, when i told him of my leaving the hall immediately, he shook my hand:--conviction speaking from his countenance, that it was his last salute to me. a few restorative medicines furnished me with strength to reach the farm.--here my purpose nerves me.--but why do you bid me fortify my heart? oh, my dear madam, it has been long since fortified! from the fatal night when she gave herself to the arms of clement, my heart became callous, impenetrable to the dart of any new calamity. and sometimes too i smile, miss ashburn. it is amazing into what familiar habits of intimacy i and the misery that abides with me have fallen. fear me not, madam.--in this enterprise, i have all the determination of will--all the vigour of health.--everything is prepared--last night, accompanied by richardson, who from his zealous apprehensions for my safety, would not suffer me to go alone, i visited the rock.--no interrupters have been there. the cell, the stone, and the passage are still at our devotion.--richardson is too honest to make an improper use of the secret of this ruin; nay, he was the first to remind me, it would be just when our purpose was effected to give mr. valmont its description. again i repeat, every thing is prepared--i only wait for you to inform me of the nearest connection between her apartments and the armoury. a blunder might be fatal. when you have given me this necessary information, quit london to meet us instantly; for the night succeeding the receipt of your letter sibella shall bid adieu to her oppressor's dungeon. direct to richardson--stantorfarm, w----. a. murden _n.b._ you blame, with great justice, the little power i possess of detaching myself from the affairs of my heart.--last time i wrote, it escaped me till my letter was gone, and now i have torn open the seal to tell you that mademoiselle laundy is an abandoned woman, montgomery's mistress in paris; and, though i have no positive proof, i venture to assert she holds the same station in london. if it suits you to inform mrs. ashburn of her companion's principles, on the authority of my name, it is wholly at your service. letter xxiv from janetta laundy to clement montgomery i ought to reproach you; but, dear and irresistible as you are, your image, montgomery, banishes every thing but sensations of pleasure. what can be the reason of your sudden gloom and distraction? i am sure the loss of your money cannot be all, because you know how easily you may be supplied by mrs. ashburn till you have further remittances. why should you hesitate, when i assure you she would be obliged by your making the demand? recollect her own words the evening she compelled you to use her pocket-book at the faro table; and, if you will not allow me to urge you on another point, at least be persuaded to spare yourself fruitless anxiety about your losses at play. still i fear there is something else; and will you not tell it to janetta, to your own janetta, who has sacrificed her peace to you, what it is that thus distresses you? do you remember how you behaved last night? i was terrified to death at your appearance. i asked if you were ill. you struck your hand on your forehead, and said you were undone. 'is the beauteous sibella inconstant?' asked mrs. ashburn.--i shall never forget the manner of your answer. you spoke through your shut teeth. 'damnation, madam! she has ruined me!' then, whirling round, you caught my hand, and exclaimed, 'oh laundy! i am indeed undone!' how i trembled!--i tremble now to think of it. for god's sake, my dear beloved montgomery, be careful! the hated, the prying miss ashburn was by; and if she never suspected us before, i am sure she does now. you went up to lady barlowe and asked her fiercely for her nephew. 'mr. murden, sir,' said miss ashburn looking at you with such scorn i could have killed her, 'mr. murden, sir, is at present a sort of wandering knight errant. sometime within a fortnight you will hear certain tidings of him. he may be in london.' it seemed as if you came only to ask this question; for you went away soon after; and, though you strove to be gayer, you sighed so deeply i could scarcely contain myself. i wept all night; and now i am writing instead of dressing. how dear to me every employment that has a concern with my charming montgomery!--i know not what excuse i shall make at dinner for my melancholy appearance; but fears for my own safety are swallowed up in my apprehensions for you. luckily, the dutchess is confined with a cold.--i will visit her to-night; and, on my way, call on you. so prepare to confide all your griefs to the sympathizing bosom of your janetta. miss ashburn, two hours ago, received a letter which seemed to give her great pleasure; and, while she was reading it, lord filmar came in. when she had finished the letter, she turned to him. 'didn't i hear you speak of some one being ill, my lord?' 'oh, yes, madam, i was enquiring whether montgomery came here last night to seek physicians or a nurse. i called on him yesterday morning and the servant said, his master was very bad, dreadfully bad, too bad to be seen. i sent after dinner, and he was worse. i drove to his lodgings, just now, to make my adieus, before i leave town, and still he was so bad i could not be let in. yet i met miss trevors, who tells me he was of the party here last evening; a little out of spirits, indeed, but quite as handsome as ever.' 'that he is bad, my lord,' replied miss ashburn fixing her eyes on me, i can very well credit. and, ere long, i shall endeavour to point out some persons who have the same infectious disorders.' unless you had seen her look, you can't tell half the meaning this conveyed.--after reading her letter again, she told mrs. ashburn she was going out of town immediately; and being asked where, she said, that could not be explained till her return. her chaise is ordered; and i am delighted to think she can't interrupt us when she is away. dear, too dear montgomery, expect at nine, thy ever faithful janetta laundy letter xxv from caroline ashburn to arthur murden the long narrow passage where you met those three men you spoke of connects the tower with the south wing. there you will find a flight of stone stairs, by which she used to descend to the armoury. those stairs will conduct you into the gallery belonging to sibella's apartments. her uncle, fond of magnificence, appropriated to her use solely all the suite of rooms on that floor of the wing. she may be secured by lock and key, but i do not suppose any one is permitted to sleep near her. of that you must run the hazard. do not wonder my lines are uneven, for i actually tremble while i follow you in imagination to that gallery. were i writing to any one but yourself i should bid you blend boldness and caution. you have done it already. ah, my sweet friend, my sibella!--but i forgot that you are a stranger, my sibella, to nervous apprehension.--the first word of his errand will bless you! no, murden, mere assertion though aided by the authority of your name, will not convince mrs. ashburn of her companion's proflicacy. if i cannot fairly and fully detect her practices, i can never remove her. the affair must rest till my return; and then i will try my utmost. i thank you for your information, and i have this morning given miss laundy an information that i understand her. a surprising alteration is displayed in montgomery. mr. valmont, i conclude, has begun his discipline.--explanation is approaching; and do you, my friend, school yourself, before you and he meet, and then you will not cease to befriend him though he may cease to befriend himself. adieu! ere this arrives at the farm, i shall be at my station. caroline ashburn letter xxvi from clement montgomery to janetta laundy and is it come to this? you urged the secret from me i would fain have withheld; and now do you also give me up to despair? oh janetta! janetta! have i deserved it of you? what was there in that cruel letter of mr. valmont's which should chill the ardour of love? his anger has blasted all the fair promises of my life; but it could not transform me into age or ugliness. still am i, though wretched and desperate, thy montgomery; still adoring thy beauty, panting for thy charms. forgive me if these reproaches are injurious to your tenderness. if you yet love me, forgive me. alas! you love me not! you turn from me with an averted eye. you repulse my caresses! you give me up to misery and despair; and the wretched montgomery dies under your neglect. farewel, my janetta! oh farewel, farewel, then, to all the blooming pleasures which i gathered with an eager hand! my sentence is without appeal. mr. valmont--that a father should be so cruel! dooms me to poverty and disgrace. can i exist in poverty? no, by heaven! shall i languish in a sordid dwelling, with there food and covering, and sicken over the remembrance of past enjoyments? shall i live to crawl along with steps enfeebled by misfortune, and view the splendid equipages of those who were once my associates pass me unheeded? no, i cannot endure it. some way or other i must end it. all the means of making life desirable are denied me. i blush at my unmerited disgrace. i would hide myself from every eye save your's, janetta; and, when the fatal tidings are divulged abroad, i shall surely expire with torture. yet, be once more kind, my charmer:--if thou hast no kindness for the unfortunate montgomery, this once, at least affect it. thou hast known misfortune. have pity on me! come and listen to my sighs: let me breathe a sorrowful farewel on thy bosom. i shall not ask this indulgence a second time. i will fly, to bury in solitude the short remnant of a miserable existence.--then come, and once more bid my heart throb with rapturous sensations! bid me for a moment forget my doom, remembering only what i have been!--the blissful moment ended, farewel, janetta! farewel to all! clement montgomery letter xxvii from janetta laundy to clement montgomery it is very strange i should express myself so ill as to have my emotions of sorrow and regret mistaken, by you, for coldness and aversion. it is cruel, montgomery, thus to accuse your janetta. could i but describe the anguish i suffered both on your account and my own, you would pity me. yes, montgomery; 'tis i should ask for pity. i, who never till now knew how strong are the ties by which my rival held you. barbarous as she is, i fear you still love her. she thinks only how she can most effectually work your ruin; while you charge with neglect and unkindness the faithful janetta, who is labouring to redress your misfortunes. montgomery, there is but one way. to talk of dying is absurd. you may feel a temporary languor, the effect of vapour and indigestion; but the bloom and vigour of a constitution like your's is not so easily undermined. trust me, you will live to a good old age, even with the despicable l. per annum your hard hearted father bestows on you. but it is in your power, montgomery, to live surrounded by riches and splendor, to command the perpetual succession of pleasures which riches and splendor can procure. remember the proposal i made you one day, half in earnest half in jest. think of it. embrace it. and send mr. valmont back his paltry annuity in disdain. you cannot be so blind, so mad as to reject this only means of your happiness. renounce it, and i shall believe you reserve yourself for my rival, the faithless and barbarous sibella. accept it, and all the delights which janetta's love can bestow are your's for ever. why should you hide yourself? that form and face were given for better purposes. bloom in success and victory! and leave to those who possess not your advantages to mope in dull obscurity! you owe to yourself this triumph over the malice of mr. valmont and the cruelty of her who has so wantonly betrayed you to his wrath. throw off your foibles and your sorrow; and call up those alluring graces of your mien which are so irresistible. exchange your sighs for smiles; and, aided by the advantages of dress you well know how to choose, come here to dinner. i have contrived that we shall dine alone. weigh well what i advise and its motives; and then ask yourself, if i deserve to be accused of unkindness--ask yourself what that love must be which can content itself with secret confessions, and can yield its open triumph to another in order to secure your advantage. consider these things with attention, dearest montgomery: and convince me that you deserve all i am willing to do for you by your instant compliance. i cannot, do not, doubt you. be here by six. ever your's, _if you wish me to be so_, janetta laundy letter xxviii from george valmont to clement montgomery scoundrel, by means i cannot divine, sibella has escaped me. i have no doubt you or some of your diabolical agents are concerned in the business.--the deed, sir, i have burned.--your draught of it must help to amuse you. it delights me to think she is not yet nineteen, and that you are pennyless. beg at my gates if you dare!--the worst of indignities are better than your deservings.--you seal your union under happy auspices.--i give you joy.--would i could give you destruction! george valmont letter xxix from clement montgomery to george valmont since, sir, you have extended my punishment to the utmost, i can incur no heavier penalty by thus intruding myself before you. i could offer many excuses, sir, for my first fault; but it is now too late. only, i must say your harshness and severity drove us to that measure, which, in justice to myself, i must also inform you miss valmont proposed, and with which i but reluctantly complied. but, sir, your further charge is without foundation. i have neither any concern in, nor any knowledge of miss valmont's flight; and, further to prove that i would have obeyed you if i could, i shall refuse to protect her.--indeed, sir, your last letter has driven me immediately to ratify an engagement that precludes the possibility of any further intercourse with miss valmont. i remain, sir, your unhappy and repentant son, clement montgomery letter xxx from arthur murden to caroline ashburn there she is, madam!--she walks and sighs:--and one little room, a small circumference, contains _only_ murden and sibella. when the waiter shut the door and withdrew, i would have given an eye to have detained him.--she knows not i am writing to you; for she would have taken the office on herself, and that would not satisfy me.--it is a relief, madam, to write--tho' any thing upon earth would be preferable to hearing--i mean, _seeing her_. miss ashburn, till i saw her, i did not understand you.--well might you warn me! it will be three hours before we reach you.--i send this letter by a man and horse; because, in knowing that we are safe, you will have at least half an hour of less anxiety. the place where we are now is only a village, five miles out of the road to valmont.--richardson advised me to make this sweep for fear of a pursuit.--he brought us here through cross roads on his own horses. i have sent him back; and the only chaise this little inn maintains is engaged for a two hours airing for some invalid in the village.--have patience, madam.--your friend is safe. richardson and myself possessed ourselves of the cell at half past nine last night.--then in our disguises we prowled around the castle till about eleven, and heard the locking of doors, and saw in the upper windows light after light die away as their possessors yielded themselves to rest. we would not venture too early. i believe it was past two before we left the armoury.--all was hushed.--the stairs!--the gallery!--her apartments!--i seized richardson by the arm, as he attempted to turn the lock.--it seemed profanation. i feared every thing!--i would have gone back.--richardson forbade me. we entered the antichamber. we crossed two others. the door of a third stood open.--in that there was a fire, a candle, and a bed.--the curtains were undrawn; and i caught a glimpse of her face. instantly, i drew the door so close as only to admit my hand, holding out your letter.--i gasped.--'speak for me,' i said to richardson; 'say, miss ashburn.' 'rise, dear miss valmont,' said he, 'miss ashburn sends you this.' i heard her start from the bed.--'who?--what?' 'miss ashburn,' repeated richardson, 'miss ashburn, it is a letter from miss ashburn.' she took or rather snatched the letter; and, as i withdrew my hand, she shut the door hastily. i heard her utter an exclamation--i could hear her too burst into sobs and bless you.--i heard her also name another. at length she asked, without opening the door, if i was indeed mr. murden, and if i could take her from the castle. 'o yes, yes,' said i, 'come away.' 'stay,' she replied. she was dressed in an instant. she opened the door. she came out to us.--'ah! what, what is the matter?' cried she, extending her arms as if to save me from falling.--why were you not more explicit in your letter, miss ashburn?--i recoiled _from her_, from the remembrance of her clement--and, as i leaned on richardson's shoulder, i closed my dim eyes, and wished they might never more open upon recollection. 'shame!' whispered richardson, 'you are unmanned!' and so i am, miss ashburn. i think too, i should love revenge. i feel a rankling glow of satisfaction, as she walks past my chair, that i have so placed it i cannot look up and behold her. i recovered strength and courage while my horror remained unabated.--she saw i could hear, and she began to pour forth the effusions of her gratitude upon you and us.--she knew you had been in the castle. her cruel uncle had informed her of it.--'and then,' said she, 'i fancied i must die without seeing any one that ever loved me.'--as she spoke, i turned my eyes from her now haggard and jaundiced face to my own, reflected in the mirror by which i was standing. 'moving corpses!' said i to myself--'why encumber ye the fair earth?' 'he showed me a letter too,' added she. 'he said clement had renounced me.--ah, mr. valmont! deceiving mr. valmont!'--and she waved her hand gracefully--'had you known sibella's heart as she knows clement's, you----.' 'come away!' said i. 'have you no other preparation to make, madam?' asked richardson; 'the night is very cold.' this reminded her of a cloak.--she enquired if she must swim across the moat; and said she was sure she could swim;--for she knew why she had failed before.--i bade richardson lead her. i expected to have seen her much more surprised at the strange path through which she had to go.--from the armoury to the cell she never spoke. her mind was overcharged with swelling emotions.--at times we were obliged to stand still. she even panted for freer respiration. the---- * * * * * i heard wheels.--i expected our chaise.--it is some travellers who have stopped to bait. after we had safely crossed the moat, she alternately grasped our hands in a tumult of joy; named you, named me, but _talked_ on the never-failing theme of _her_ clement. she rode behind richardson.--i see she is much worse for the journey; yet her burning eye and vehement spirits would persuade me otherwise. she kindly ceased her torturing questions concerning clement, imagining, by my abrupt answers, i was too ill to talk.--she says you will heal me--for you have healed her.--miss ashburn, how ardently she loves you! i find you will receive this letter an hour before we come.--won't you thank, and praise me?--it is written with a shaking hand, and throbbing temples. i know it would be difficult to keep sibella from mounting the same horse, if she were informed of the messenger. when we enter the chaise, i will tell her what i have done. a. murden letter xxxi from the same to the same why should i have the rage of distraction without the phrenzy? dare they tell me i am a lunatic?--she is gone, miss ashburn? i have lost your treasure!--some villain, lured by the vestiges of her transcendent beauty, has taken her from me.--they have forced me into a bed!--the barbarians confine me here.--won't you order me to be released?--oh sweet miss ashburn, won't you tell them i must be released? now i recollect i wanted to tell you all the particulars.----ha! they fade from me, and i dream again!---- * * * * * madam, i keep the blue boar at hipsley; and the poor unhappy gentleman who wrote the above came to my house with his lady yesterday morning. as long as ever i live, i shan't forget the poor gentleman's ravings, when he discovered that his lady had ran away from him, and he only came to his senses about an hour ago, when he ordered us to send for you, and he wrote till his raving fit returned; and it would melt your heart, madam, to hear how he is bemoaning himself and calling by the kindest names the ungrateful wicked lady who served him so badly.--i saw her jump into the chaise myself; and she went willingly enough, though he won't believe it. my son brings you this, madam; and i hope you will tell us what we must do for the poor gentleman. from your ladyship's humble servant, mary holmes letter xxxii from caroline ashburn to arthur murden ah my friend, my beloved murden, if an interval of memory, happily, now is thine, read these lines which thy friend pens to thee in agony.--she follows on the instant. you once demanded my consolations and friendship, as a reparation for the mischievous error into which i had led you.--will you receive them now as such, against the manifold mischiefs i have brought upon you? ah! what, what had i to do with secret escapes!--i, who exclaimed from the beginning against valmont's secresy, and prophesied its fatal consequences!--must i too conspire to make sibella the victim of secresy?--unhappy sufferer! yet more unhappy caroline! she, debarred the use of her judgment, erred only from mistake; i, alas! have sinned against reason and conviction! clement, i suspect, has watched our footsteps. i fear he has secured her.--ah, miserable fate! console yourself, my dearest friend. it will please you to know that, even before i come to you, i am going to b----, to send messengers in search of sibella. and if money and vigilance can bring us tidings of our lost friend, i have the power of employing both.--prepare to receive me with calmness.--already, i have the aggravated distress of your and sibella's feelings to endure.--i am pained beyond description. caroline ashburn letter xxxiii from lord filmar to sir walter boyer i can truly say, i neither sit, stand, walk, nor lie:--that is, the complete _i_, body and soul together; for, let the former attempt its mechanical motions as it will, the other in a quite opposite direction is striking, curvetting, capering, twisting, tumbling, and playing more tricks than any fantastical ape in nature. therefore, dear walter, you must send me instantly a hundred guineas. yes really, if you want to quiet my conscience, you must send me a hundred guineas. nothing will quiet my conscience but matrimony. i cannot marry without a hundred guineas.--ergo, if you don't send me a hundred guineas, and i should die, and be ----, the sin will lay at your door, and you will die and be ---- likewise. as i have much consideration for you, my dear walter, and as i know that people who have very weak heads, have sometimes also very weak nerves, i would advise you to lay down my letter, unless you are seated in some safe place, for, should your situation be dangerous, and should the surprise i am preparing for you rob you of apprehension, down you drop and leave me in utter despair--lest your executors should refuse me the hundred guineas. well--are you settled to your satisfaction?--here it comes like a thunderbolt! miss valmont is mine, and i am her's--your hundred guineas will buy a parson and a prayer book; and then the _l. _ a year is mine also. you know, dear walter, that resolved to obtain the heiress of valmont castle, i left london to return to monkton hall, with a heart full of promise, and a head full of stratagem. fortune, that dear blind inconstant goddess, who formerly was almost within my grasp, now dashes the projects of others to the ground, to give my wishes their triumph. some merlin, with more potent spells than mine, broke the enchanted castle, bore off the damsel, and, directed by fate and fortune, brought her on the road, to meet me, to the very spot where it was decreed his success should end, that mine might begin. and begun it has. last night, i slept at b----; and intended breakfasting with sir gilbert monkton: this morning i ordered the driver to leave the high road, and cross the country, by which means i should save six miles of the journey. griffiths had been unwell some days; and he now appeared so cold, and so much indisposed, i thought it prudent to give him a breakfast on the road. the postilion, by the luckiest of all chances, drove up to a pretty little white-washed inn, that i shall love dearly for six months to come. the landlady, a curtsying civil woman, was mighty sorry she had not a better room to receive my honour in; but her best parlour, she said, was already taken up with a lady and gentleman, who had arrived at seven o'clock in the morning. and she showed me into a little place, which had two excellent properties, namely, perfect cleanliness, and a good fire. by this good fire i had sat five or perhaps ten minutes, when griffiths entered. 'my lord! my lord!' said he, and turned back to shut the door; 'i have seen the strangest sight, my lord! i have seen a gentleman----' at that moment a tea-kettle was brought into the room; and griffiths grew downright pettish with the damsel who bore the kettle, because she did not quit the room with sufficient speed. his information, walter, amounted to thus much--that in the passage he had seen the gentleman who occupied the land-lady's best parlour; and that this gentleman, of whom griffiths had had a very distinct view, certainly was, or griffiths was much deceived, the very identical spright who reminded some of us of our devotions in the narrow passage of the west tower at valmont castle. ''tis impossible!' said i. 'my lord, 'tis true,' said griffiths. i should know him among a thousand. i know his eyes and nose as well as i know your's, my lord.' this you will allow, walter, was but a very vague sort of a supposition to ground any belief upon; for, as eyes and noses are the common lot of all mankind, it may happen now and then that two or more may be greatly alike. yet, so diligent is hope and imagination, i could not persuade myself these eyes and this nose had any owner but the spright of the castle.--it was miss valmont and her hermit, my fancy said. i blessed my stars. i cursed my stars. i wondered how and why they should come hither. then, i remembered, that fancy, though sometimes a prophetess, is rarely an oracle, and i thought it might not be miss valmont and her hermit.--i consulted much with griffiths; and, at length, had recourse to the waiter, a dapper shabby-coated fellow with a wooden leg. they came, he said, on horseback before seven o'clock. a man, who conducted them, did not alight. they were impatient to be gone. they waited for a chaise. they had ordered a breakfast which neither of them had tasted. the lady did not appear, he thought, equipped for travelling. the gentleman was melancholy, and the lady restless and agitated. miss valmont: whispered i to myself. 'they are a fine couple,' said the waiter. i asked if he thought they were a married pair. he answered, he was sure she must be a married lady. i enquired if the gentleman seemed to be very fond of her. 'not at all,' replied the waiter. 'the gentleman sits writing, sir, with his back to her. she walks about the room, muttering to herself. when i carried in the breakfast, he leaned his head against the wall, and groaned with his eyes shut.' it cannot be miss valmont and her hermit, thought i. 'is the lady handsome?' i asked. the waiter thought she was too pale to be very handsome; but he added that in all his born days he never beheld such a head of hair. 'of what colour is it?' i asked. it was neither black, nor brown, nor as red as jenny's;--he thought it was not any colour, but it shone as if gold threads were among it. miss valmont: whispered my forward heart. i rose and walked hastily across the room. 'what did they talk about?' said i. 'they don't talk at all, sir. the poor gentleman seems very bad; and as i told your honor before, she walks about muttering. when they first came, as i was lighting a fire for them, the lady pulled off her hat just as if she was in a passion, and then she shook her fine waving locks, as though she was wond'rous proud of them. and she said her head ached with that--cumbrance; and she said something more about customs and cumbrances, but i forget what, your honor. while she talked, the gentleman looked so kind and pretty at her it did my heart good to see him; but he is either very ill or very whimmy, for, immediately, while she took off her cloak, he laid his head on the table with his face downward and sighed as if his heart was breaking.' i asked if he had heard her call him by any name, and the waiter replied he had heard her twice name somebody as she walked about the room; but to my great disappointment at that moment, his memory had not retained the name. at this part of our conference, the parlour bell rang, and the waiter disappeared; not, though, till i had sealed him mine by a bribe, and given him orders to return instantly. however, griffiths, who was most zealous on this occasion, thought proper to follow him. fortunate was it that he did; for, my waiter, dull at a hint, had received a letter from the guest in the parlour, which, without consulting my will and pleasure, he was quietly bearing to a courier ready mounted and waiting for it at the inn door. griffiths with a careless air took the letter from his hand. it was addressed, walter, to--_miss ashburn_. i began to stalk, to exclaim, to ejaculate. go on, filmar, cried i, and prosper! henceforward be plot and stratagem sanctified! for miss ashburn deigns to plot. griffiths prudently reminded me that it would be quite as well at present to think of miss valmont, and leave miss ashburn alone till another opportunity. 'right,' said i. ''tis folly! 'tis madness, but to think for a moment of such a project!', said i, ten minutes after, and turning myself half round in my chair, throwing one arm across its back and one leg over the other. no! no! i'll have nothing to do with it!' and i fell to shaking the uppermost leg furiously. 'it might be very easily managed though,' said griffiths; 'and then your lordship----' 'would have nothing to do but to digest montgomery's bullets and miss ashburn's harder words.--oh that miss ashburn can find words to lash like scorpion's stings! say no more of it, griffiths, i have given her up.' 'as you please, my lord.' 'ay! ay!' muttered i to myself. 'let her go to her montgomery! there are men who perhaps are worthy of being loved as himself, and might perhaps be more capable of constancy. there are other women too in the world, thank heaven!--strange,' continued i, 'that miss ashburn with her understanding, and who must know the imbecility of montgomery's love, could dream of joining in any plot whose object was to bear miss valmont to montgomery!' for, walter, i had by this time concluded that the quondam hermit was some righteous go-between of miss valmont and her lover; and i felt inclined to be mortally offended with her, because montgomery had so well concealed from my penetration their mutual intelligence. i shifted to the other side of my seat; and i did not sigh; but i blew my breath from me with much more force than usual. i mused during the greater part of an hour. 'your chaise is waiting, my lord,' said griffiths; 'and, as you have quite done with this affair, if your lordship thinks proper it is as well not to keep the horses in the cold.--well, i must say 'twas a fine opportunity!' 'do you think so, griffiths?' said i mildly. the rogue exultingly smiled; and, to change my wavering into downright resolution, he recapitulated all the probabilities that awaited my attempt, and noticed the trifling hazard that would accrue (provided i adopted his plan for the purpose), should the attempt fail: nor did he forget an oblique glance or two at certain prospects which he knew put no inconsiderable weight into the balance. 'away! away!' i cried, 'give the driver his directions; let him draw up close to the door, before the other chaise; and let him be sure to keep his chaise door open, but not the step down.' signifies it to thee, walter, of what griffiths' plan consisted? surely not. nothing could be more easy than, at the instant of their departure, to request a moment's conversation with the gentleman; nothing more simple than to invent a tale of a pursuit, to be delivered into the attentive ear of miss valmont's guide: nothing could promise fairer, and surely never did fulment better follow promise. our casement looked upon a garden, and there the melancholy conductor of miss valmont came to walk for a few minutes. there needed no screen to hide us from his glance. his arms were folded, and his eyes intensely fixed on the earth. his hat shaded the upper part of his face, so that i could see no part of his said resemblance to the bearded youth of the armoury; but i observed with pleasure and thrilling expectation that he and i were nearly of one stature, both booted, and both wearing dark blue great coats. this only difference existed, one of his capes he had drawn round his chin, all mine lay on my shoulders.--walter, i could button mine up on occasion. george had ridden my grey mare from town. i felt no way inclined to make him a party in the transaction; and i also wanted the mare for griffiths. i therefore ordered him to return to b----, and take a stage for london, waiting there my further orders. griffiths saw him mount a post horse, and led the grey mare round the house, and fastened her to some rails in readiness. it was exactly two hours and one quarter from the time of our arrival, before their chaise came to the door. the horses were to have a feed in their harness; the guests were impatient to be gone. i shuddered: and, as i traversed our little room, the echo of my footsteps seemed to be blabbing tell tales. i shall never, walter, know such another minute as that. all in future will be the dull uniformity of peace and plenty. it was done. the waiter delivered griffiths' message in the best parlour. i, from a distant peeping station, saw the gentleman walk to our room. i heard the door shut--the waiter stump away. thrilling, throbbing with hope and fear, i walked up the passage to their parlour. wrapped in her cloak, the hood drawn over her head, her hat in her hand, stood the fair expectant. 'o come,' said she, 'do let us hasten!' the day was gloomy, the passage was dark, i had drawn up my cape and drawn down my hat. my hand took her's. she tripped along. no creature was in sight. i caught her up in my arms, lifted her into the chaise, and we whirled off, just as the landlady came bustling up to the door. i had my cue of silence and reserve in the intelligence i had received from the waiter. during the first three miles, i neither spoke nor looked up. she, the while, clasping her hands and _muttering_, as the waiter called it. i heard her pronounce the names of miss ashburn, of montgomery, and of some one else. for three miles, i say, we interchanged not one word: then, walter, the first word betrayed me. and now what a list of sobs, tears, screams, prayers, and lamentations you expect! i have not one for you. she sighed, indeed, and a few drops forced a reluctant way; but she neither prayed, threatened, nor lamented. she demanded her liberty. she reasoned for her liberty; reasoned with a firmness collected, vigilant, manly, let me say. she remembers seeing me in the castle, and takes me for her uncle's agent. in truth, walter, i suffer her to think it still; for i do not find, when carefully examined, that my own character and motives in this business possess much to recommend them. in a little glen, between two hills of which the barrenness of one frowns on the cultivation of the other, stands a farm, embosomed hid in secresy and solitude. no traveller eyes it from the distant heath. no horses, save its own, leave the print of their hoofs at its entrance. but even more than usual gloom and dulness now reigns around it. the lively whistle of the ploughman and hind no longer chear the echoes of the hill. the farm yard is emptied of its gabbling tenants. the master is dead, the stock sold, the tenants discharged, and one solitary daughter, with one solitary female domestic alone, remains to guard the house till quarter day shall yield it to a new tenant. 'tis neither fit employment for my time to relate, nor for your's to read, the trifling adventures by which griffiths became acquainted with this fair daughter, her circumstances and abode; nor how he wooed and won her love during our residence at monkton hall. at griffiths' instigation, hither i brought miss valmont; and here, till your cash arrives, as in a place of trust and safety, do i mean to keep my treasure, although i am little more than three leagues distant from monkton hall, and scarcely four from valmont castle. a less ready imagination than even thine, walter, might picture to itself the manner in which griffiths deluded miss valmont's knight-errant with a tale of pursuit and discovery. the youth checked his surprise, and renewed his vigour. he hastened to secure his lovely ward; and griffiths, mean while, stole round the inn, mounted the grey mare, and was out of sight and sound of the consequences. i hear her walking. a slight partition divides her chamber from mine. no more of those deep-drawn sighs, my fair one! i thank heaven i am not an agent of valmont's neither. he must have used her cruelly. she is excessively pale; and strangely altered. i stand, walter, the watchful sentinel of her chamber door, which i presume not to enter. till i had her in my possession, my thoughts, in gadding after the enterprise, possessed all the saucy gaiety which youth and untamed spirits could impart. nay, when i began to write this letter, they wore their natural character. i must shift my station from this room. those deep deep sighs will undo me! hasten, dear walter, make the wings of speed thy messengers to bear to me a hundred guineas, that we may fly to the land of blessings ere i forgot that her cupids have golden headed arrows.--hem!--_seven thousand per annum_--o 'tis an elixir to chear the fainting spirits! and now, as sure as i have possession of the rich and beauteous prize after which i have so long yearned, so sure will i recompense her present uneasiness by a life of tenderness, attention, and, to the best of my present belief, of unabated constancy. but marry me she must and shall, by g--d! filmar letter xxxiv from caroline ashburn to lady barlowe dear madam, by a strange concurrence of accidents i am at present attending mr. murden, who during many days has lain dangerously ill in a small country inn nine miles from valmont castle. i must leave it to your prudence to acquaint sir thomas barlowe (to whom i know it will be most distressing tidings) that his nephew is in danger, but it is necessary that sir thomas should know it immediately, for i have made preparations for bringing mr. murden to london, that he may have better accommodation and better advice. though i speak of advice, i dare not encourage any hope in sir thomas, for i have watched the progress of his nephew's disorder, and i believe he is only lingering--abide he cannot. sir thomas barlowe loved this young man as a son; and, to receive him scarcely a shadow of his former self, will create distressing emotions. yet, i beseech you to urge sir thomas carefully to avoid any strong expressions of sorrow when his nephew arrives, for i have the grief to tell you that mr. murden's reason is shaken: and dreadful paroxysms may follow the slightest agitation. nought but the power i have long laboured to obtain and have in part obtained over my sensations could have preserved any degree of fortitude in me under the most trying events of my life, events which have lately befallen miss valmont and mr. murden. on them i had bestowed the warmest tribute of my affections. in the enjoyment of their virtues and happiness, i expected daily to augment my own. but, alas! it is gone; and my wretched hopes still wear their beautiful and alluring form while sinking in disappointment. i am aware, madam, that mr. murden's misfortune cannot create more concern in your breast than the circumstance of my being with him will raise wonder and curiosity; nor have i any other than a full intention of making you acquainted with the circumstances that drew us both hither, whose sad termination has operated so fatally on mr. murden. but i am obliged to defer the relation till our arrival in town, both on account of its length, of the preparations i am making for mr. murden's ease and safety on the journey, and the continual anxiety of watchfulness which possesses me for the sake of miss valmont, to whom i have been unhappily the cause of evils possibly worse than that which has befallen mr. murden. i cannot name the day when you and sir thomas may expect us, for the time consumed in the journey must be regulated by the abatement or increase of mr. murden's disorder. he shall travel in a litter; and i hope it is unnecessary for me to assure sir thomas nothing shall be wanting to his accommodation that i have means to procure. i remain your ladyship's well wisher and servant, caroline ashburn letter xxxv from caroline ashburn to george valmont sir, by the messenger of mine, who, on his search for my lost friend, came to your gates a few days since, you were informed that it was through my means sibella escaped from your castle; and, however stern may be the anger you entertain against me, be assured, sir, it cannot exceed the vehemence of that self-reproach and sorrow which now assail me, for having been the contriver of so unjustifiable an undertaking. i send you, sir, a pacquet containing all the letters i have received from sibella, and also the letters that have passed between mr. murden and myself. i lay them before you, with the confidence that you will afford them a patient and temperate perusal; for i think they will serve to convince you, as they have already convinced me by the unfortunate event to which they have led, that, however plausible and even necessary in appearance, yet artifice and secresy are dangerous vicious tools. your secrets were the preparatory step to the errors of clement and sibella. had sibella never departed from strict truth and sincerity, she had never formed her rash engagement with clement. had murden never (with his dangerous refinements of fancy) longed secretly to view this rare child of seclusion, he had not battered his life and happiness for a sigh. and lastly, had i not given way to the fatal mistake that secresy could repair the inability of reason, i had, instead of availing myself of the ruin on the rock, ere now perhaps released sibella by convincing you. and we had all been comparatively happy. murden's unfinished letter from the village of hipsley will show you his deplorable situation, and all that we know concerning the loss of our sibella. i have six agents employed to discover her. but they wander blindly, for i have neither trace, nor supposition, to guide them. what can i do, sir? if you have any advice to offer, i hope you will not withhold it, from animosity to me. excessively do i love the friend i have helped to sacrifice, yet i can readily and sincerely forgive you the errors of your conduct towards her. oh then, sir, pardon mine, and in pity to the anxiety of my heart aid me with your advice and assistance. i do not even hate mr. montgomery; though i do despise him altogether. you suspected him of taking sibella from the castle. i suspected him of stealing her from mr. murden. he was otherwise employed. i arrived in town, with my poor patient under my protection, yesterday evening, and resigned mr. murden to the care of his uncle, sir thomas barlowe. when i drove up to my mother's door, i found it more than usually crowded with carriages and servants; hung upon the pillars; and, when several of my mother's footmen stepped from among the crowd, i perceived they were in new liveries adorned in the highest stile of elegant expence. though it was impossible not to notice the uncommon glare of splendor that saluted my eyes, yet our changes have always been so various and profuse, i never thought of enquiring into the cause of the present. unfitted by my dress, but still more by weariness of limbs and depression of mind, to encounter company, i retired to my chamber and to bed. this morning my maid attended me; and, with the natural hesitation of good nature in relating disagreeable tidings, she informed me--mr. montgomery was married to my mother. sir, it is the fact. last saturday, my mother became the bride of your son; and the parade i witnessed last night was to do honour to the first complimentors of this extraordinary hymeneal. the tidings stunned me, for i was no way prepared from the conduct of either to expect such an event. uninvited and assuredly unwelcome, i visited their apartment the hour of breakfast, and my mother collected the utmost of her haughtiness and mr. montgomery his gay indifference, to repel the reproaches they expected i should be prompted to bestow on them. but, sir, they mistook me. i went only to deliver to them a plain history of the mischiefs i have heaped on mr. murden and my sibella, to remind them how early, and, alas! how severe a punishment has followed my deviation from rectitude. i saw montgomery's countenance become pale and ghastly. it was, sir, when i spoke of miss valmont's independent fortune. then, i believe, all the force of his situation was present with him. may it often recur, and be the preservative against future follies. allow me, sir, to say a word or two of him who most loved your niece and best deserved her. mr. murden intruded on your domain, and destroyed some of your unripe projects; yet i persuade myself you will feel a pity for his misfortunes. his life pays the forfeiture of his curiosity and secresy. a romantic love of miss valmont sapped its foundation, and his nights of watching amidst the chilling damps of the ruin hastened the progress of its destruction. sibella's unaccountable escape from him at a time when his high toned feelings were wrought upon, in a way that i cannot express, by the _alteration_ in her person, drove him to madness. then it was that i saw him who once possessed every advantage of manly grace and beauty changed to a living skeleton, whose eyes starting from their sockets glanced around with wild horror and insanity. oh, sir, it was indeed a scene that called forth all my fortitude! as his delirium had no mischievous tendencies, it was judged better to remove him to london; and whether change of air and place had the salutary effect, or the delirium had exhausted its force i know not, but he became perfectly restored to reason before we reached london. that restoration was almost beyond my hopes; and there hope rests, it dares not presume further. the most certain indications of speedy dissolution now appear; and all my time must be given to the endeavour of tracing my beloved sibella, and consoling the anxious murden for her loss. on his own account, consolation pains him. all his wishes centre in death; and the irrevocable union will soon take place. will you be kind enough to inform me of the name of sibella's other guardian?--adieu, sir, may that peace which is only to be purchased by rectitude become an inmate of your abode. caroline ashburn letter xxxvi lord filmar to sir walter boyer faith, walter, i have secured a rich prize, indeed. hear but its estimate. in the first place, a very lovely and adorable woman. in the second, a fine estate. in the third,----an heir (in embrio) to inherit it. true, by the gods!--nevertheless, stop your rash conclusions, for i have heard her whole story, therefore i tell you that miss ashburn is an angel, mr. murden a fine fellow, mr. valmont an idiot, sibella a saint, and montgomery--a scoundrel: though on my soul she talked so movingly of his _never fading faith_ i could not for my life persuade myself to tell her my true opinion of him. from the little she knows of murden, (her hermit and deliverer) i long to know more. i burn to tell you of her wonderful escape, of the marvellous ruin on the rock, but i have resolved to wave explanations till i come.--i charge you, by your friendship, breathe not a whisper of the adventure till you see me. i am going to restore her to her friends; her eloquence did part, but truly her condition did more.--i never bargained to pay off such a mortgage. i could love her dearly; but then you know my name is filmar, and as a lord i am bound in duty to love and cherish no son but a son of my own begetting. i have dispatched two messengers, one for carriages and another to that inn at hipsley (_which i don't love at all now_) to make enquiries after mr. murden. i wonder how he and i shall adjust our accounts.--i fear there is a long balance in his favour. you perceive, walter, all my secret plottings and contrivings have brought me to a fine heritage at last! murden cannot call me any thing less than a _thief_, and will say i deserve a thief's punishment. valmont too will want a peck at me, neither for the credit of love nor integrity but only because sibella is the great great great granddaughter of some one or other of his _great_ grandfather's. montgomery may pretend the honour of _his wife_ (her own phrase) impeached by her residence with me, and if he won't believe that until two hours since i never forced myself into her presence, why i shall be obliged by all the laws of honour and gentlemanship to prove it by the length of a sword. heigh ho! and this pretty wisdom-speaking mortal has actually prevailed on me to endure the brunt and carry her back to miss ashburn! she has offered high bribes,--solid comforts,--made up of duty and justice;--but i have a sickly palate--spoiled by other viands,--i want a modern seasoned fricassee. alas! i have no alternative--unless i shoot her and bury her under a tree. i don't know what of that sort i may be tempted to for myself! for when i have no longer her and her concerns to think of i must turn to my own--a pretty prospect! do you know, walter, any way that a lord turned plain man can get a living? for unless i _get it_ heaven knows i must go without it. you are admiring my forbearance in keeping such a distance, walter; but the fact is, i was a coward. daily almost hourly miss valmont intreated she might speak with me, and i as constantly with a great many civil excuses declined the conversation. what could i have said but what had amounted to this: 'miss valmont, i ran away with you, because i wanted your estate, for want of a better.--as to yourself, i know nothing about you, therefore how can i care for you?' methought, walter, when i had your cash in hand i should be bold. your cash came; i pocketed it; and i proudly strutted up to miss valmont.----the former pages will tell you the result. * * * * * the plot thickens, and i am more of montgomery's sort than i believed i was.--mr. murden is dying.--good god, walter! who would have thought on this?--they told my messenger that he has been raving mad! and that a lady took him away for london yesterday morning.--i dare not relate to miss valmont these cursed tidings.--i am impatient to yield her up.--we shall travel as fast as i think her condition may allow without danger. filmar letter xxxvii from george valmont to caroline ashburn madam, i am certainly obliged to you for your intentions; and though i allow you have sometimes reason on your side, i think you make too little allowance for the proper obedience due from children to parents. as a parent i certainly stood both to clement and sibella, and they ought implicitly to have obeyed my commands. however, she poor child suffers sufficiently, and i am willing to forgive though i can never be reconciled to her. her pregnancy will now be known to the world; and, were i again to receive her, i should co-operate in disgracing my family. i heartily wish your search may be successful; and i am ready to reimburse your expences; and also, if you find my niece, to allow her a proper establishment. my lord of elsings, joint guardian with me in the trust of miss valmont, resides at present in this neighbourhood. i have had an interview with him on the business; but i do not discover that either himself, or any one related to him, is any way concerned in taking sibella. will you take the trouble, in my name, to wish clement montgomery all the _felicity_ he may expect to find in his union with old age, folly, and affectation? madam, your very obedient servant, g. valmont letter xxxviii from lord filmar to sir walter boyer your pardon, walter, that i should pass your lodgings as i drove out of town without stopping to say a single how-do-ye. but, let pity and humanity plead their cause with ever so much eloquence, yet the prejudices of custom are so potent that a man becomes ashamed if his eyes give their tribute to the feelings of his heart. truly, walter, i should have blushed to-day at my insensibility if i had not wept yesterday. yet, for weeping, i coward-like drew up the blinds of my chaise, and, to hide myself from the finger of scorn, bade the driver carry me with all expedition to my aunt's retreat at hayley lodge. i must suppose, for your own sake, boyer, that when you wrote me your hasty letter to the farm, you were uninformed of montgomery's marriage with mrs. ashburn. haste could not excuse such an over-sight, as little as you knew of miss valmont. no! no! it was not possible you could be informed of it and not send me the tidings. i am an ass, i have not the common discernment of a school boy, or i had never talked of accommodating her condition by tardy travelling when i was bearing miss valmont to her beloved though perfidious clement. speed, flying speed, was alone necessary to her safety. i spared neither money nor command, yet to her foundered. not that she complained. never! she even thanked my zeal, when her gasping sensations would give way to utterance. but i saw it, walter, in her eyes. i saw the speed of her affections in the convulsive swells of her bosom. do not call me ridiculous, but upon my soul there were moments of the journey that while gazing on her i was on the point of grasping her in my arms, lest her very form should dissolve into feeling and vanish from my protection. once i refused to proceed unless she would take refreshment. she did not plead; and taking from me a cup of chocolate, her shaking hand raised it half way to her lips then returned it untasted to the table. i drew a chair, and deliberately seated myself, as if resolved to put my threat in practice. after a short silence, 'sir,' said she, 'have you ever known what it is to love?' i was looking on the fire; and, recollecting some odd sensations that had occasionally crept to my heart, was about to reply in the affirmative, but turning my head and meeting the full gaze of her eloquent eye, an honest and prompt reply sprang to my lips--'by my soul and salvation, never, madam!--griffiths, see the horses instantly put to the chaise. we alight no more, till we alight in london.' montgomery showed you a silly portrait that he painted. to say it was the likeness of miss valmont was a falsehood. 'twas a mere passive representation of fine features. let him paint me their energy, their force, the fulness of hope that beamed from them yesterday morning, and i will say he is worthy of miss valmont's love!--he cannot do it, walter! he could as soon be a god! she never was beautiful till then. not, in the fullest bloom of her vigour and prosperity, did she ever equal herself such as i saw her yesterday morning. 'this, madam is miss ashburn's residence,' i said as we drove to the door. 'i shall see my caroline first then,' said miss valmont:--'next my clement.' agitated as i was at the time by her impatience and expectations, i cannot suppose i enquired for any one else than miss ashburn. whether the servant imagined she was of the party or concluded my visit must be to his mistress i know not, but he announced lord filmar in the drawing room; and i led in the loveliest spectre with golden threaded hair to an apartment where montgomery lolled negligently on one sopha and his portly bride on another. shall i tell you how they looked? no! for their best looks are worthless! but i will tell you that miss valmont looked ardor love and truth.--she raised her clasped hands one instant, then rushed into the arms of montgomery, which involuntarily opened to receive and were compelled to sustain her. a confused suspicion of something more than usually wrong in montgomery darted upon my mind. i looked wistfully around the apartment, as it were for a relief from danger, and my heart bounded as i saw miss ashburn enter the room.--charming woman! she could make astonishment yield to better feelings with admirable presence of mind, she instantly approached miss valmont, saying, 'sibella, dearest sibella, have you no tokens for your caroline?' 'oh yes,' replied miss valmont, 'many, many! love and gratitude also for my caroline! happy happy world! i will live with you in it for ever!' miss ashburn endeavoured to retain sibella in her embrace; and began hurryingly to enquire of her where she had been, and by what means she had got hither. but miss valmont knew nothing of the past. she was alive only to the present, to her own anticipation of the future. she turned back to him. 'i say for ever, clement!'--she would have given herself a second time to his arms, but an averted look and staggering retreat forbad her. good god, walter, methinks i see her now! never shall i cease to remember the changes of her countenance--from rapture to astonishment--from dumb astonishment to doubt:--and from doubt, the quick transition, to despair! thus spoke to her the hesitating cold blooded villain--'miss valmont, you have used me very ill----once--i--i could have--it was barbarous of you who knew your uncle's severe disposition----a little longer concealment might--' he paused. miss ashburn's tears began to flow for her friend, who showed no symptom of common sorrow. miss ashburn endeavoured to take her hands; but sibella shrunk as if the kind emotions of her nature were congealed. a tear that had lingered on her cheek, the last of her tears of happiness, died away. her asking eye still fixed itself on montgomery, nor could he forbear answering to it. 'you know, miss valmont----' 'hear me! listen only to me!' exclaimed miss ashburn. sibella pushed her firmly aside, and bent forward to him. 'i would, miss valmont--'continued he in the same irresolute, cowardly, cruel tone, 'i should be glad to serve you.--it will be best that you return to your uncle. it might have been otherwise--but you were always rash and premature.--this is not time for explanations. i am sorry, but i cannot now give you any protection, for i--i am, indeed----yes, madam, i am married.' 'are we not both married?' said she, with an emphasis that thrilled him.--'what is this?--speak clement!' 'nay, now, miss valmont, you are childish,' said mrs. ashburn coldly (montgomery's bride i mean). 'what man of taste marries a woman after an affair with her?' 'i can bear this no longer,' cried miss ashburn. 'silence, madam!--sibella, dear sibella, turn your eyes on me! let not their pure rays beam on a wretch so worthless!' devoured by emotions over which friendship had no control, she was still deaf to miss ashburn. still those pure eyes bent their gaze on montgomery, who now trembled, who now could not ever articulate his broken sentences, who, fainting with guilt, supported himself by leaning on the back of that couch on which he had so lately reclined in the ease of his basely purchased triumph. suddenly starting from this posture, he rushed towards the door. 'whither, whither, clement!' exclaimed miss valmont. 'oh, you'll take me with you, clement!'--and while, without daring to look on her, he disengaged his hand which she had seized, she rapidly uttered in a softened tone of voice--'clement, lover, husband, all!' the door shut upon montgomery, she shrieked. miss ashburn would have embraced her, but she would not suffer it. she sunk upon the floor. she crossed her arms upon her bosom, with a violent pressure, as if to bind the agony; her teeth grated against each other; and every limb shuddered. i had approached her with miss ashburn, and, scarcely less affected than miss ashburn herself, i was turning away to hide my emotions when she sprang upon her feet in an instant; and, grasping my arm, 'you shall not go without me,' she said. 'come, sir: i have told you the way, carry me back to the castle.' 'then you have forgotten your caroline, forgotten the kind murden who hazarded so much to save you?' 'no,' replied miss valmont, 'i never forgot any one.' she took her hand from my arm, and lifted both hands to her forehead. she stood immoveable in deep musing for some time. 'take me to the castle!' at length she exclaimed, without changing her posture or looking at any person. 'bid mr. valmont provide a dungeon where i can die. i will not go to the wood! oh, no! nor to my chamber!' she groaned and started.--'for whom is it that you weep, thus?' she asked, abruptly turning round to miss ashburn. 'for my sibella.' she bent forward; and gazed intently in miss ashburn's face, as if in search of something. 'it is caroline!' said she, drawing back. spreading her arms wide, she looked down upon herself: 'sibella!'--then, every muscle of her face convulsed with anguish, she bent her eyes upon the door--'and that was clement!--oh!' in short, walter, a thousand tender touches followed which wrung my heart to pity--while that----woman had the insolence and brutality to call herself montgomery's wife. but sibella did not understand her, or if she did, 'twas nothing. his look, his tones had completed the work, and her mind could feel nothing beyond. other dreadful agonies followed, but under the suffering of those she was patience itself. she was conveyed to her friend's chamber; and in three hours delivered of a dead child. i waited the result alone in miss ashburn's library, canvassing over all the exquisite concern i had in producing such misery to this injured sibella. had i been buried in a quick sand on the road to hipsley, her noble minded caroline and the tender murden might by due preparation have robbed clement's perfidy of half its sting. but to come upon her thus, to hurl her down such a precipice from the felicity of her expectations--oh, no wonder her life should be in danger! and think, walter, what i must have felt when they came to tell me so. in such a moment, who could palliate? not, i indeed! i did not conceal from miss ashburn an atom of the truth; and she talked like an angel, for she not only told me i should amend but taught me how to amend. one little satisfaction, indeed, visited me under that roof. i saw janetta laundy disgracefully dismissed. she it was, i doubt not, that made this match to satisfy her own grasping avarice by montgomery's folly. would you believe that she had so far imposed on the credulity of mrs. ashburn that she dared sneer at my assertions? luckily, i had some letters in my pocket-book lately written by her to me, and such proofs could neither be denied nor parried. as the letters pretty fully displayed the commerce with montgomery, mrs. ashburn poured on her a torrent of abuses; but scarcely had janetta withdrawn when she complained that her daughter had made her house odious to her, had brought a rival to insult her; and finally she ordered a servant to enquire if mr. montgomery would attend her to the opera. mr. montgomery was no where to be found. and, next, miss ashburn gave me a commission. no less, walter, than to relate my worthy exploits to mr. murden. by the interest of miss ashburn's name, i was admitted to his chamber. when i saw the wasted form and heard the hollow voice of murden, and knew, for miss ashburn had told me, that love of miss valmont had brought him thus near the grave, i shuddered at the idea of my commission. he heard me with a composure which shocked while it astonished me, till i mentioned our entering mrs. ashburn's drawing room. 'hold sir,' cried he, 'has she then seen him?' i replied, 'she has indeed.' 'enough, sir,' said he, 'i know all that remains already.' not another syllable passed between us, till i rose to go. he then offered me his hand, and said if i would promise not to pity him he would ask to see me again. and so he shall. i will, if possible, see him before he dies. my messenger, who brings you this letter, travels for tidings respecting miss valmont. adieu, filmar letter xxxix from caroline ashburn to george valmont sir, our sibella is found.--i write at her bed-side; and, if after one hour's cool investigation of the past, you can lay your hand on your heart and say, _though sibella offended me i was ever just to her_, i will yield up the earnest wish i have, that you should come to london to extend the forgiveness you have already granted, to see, to bless her, e'er she dies. those convulsive starts tell me nature cannot long support the struggle. she was the only child of your brother, sir, and one among the fairest among the daughters of men. you complain, sir, that my opinions pay too little deference to the obedience due from children to parents, and in answer to that i must observe, i know not of any opposing duties, and wherever the commands of parents are contrary to the justice due from being to being, i hold obedience to be vice. the perpetual hue and cry after obedience and obedience has almost driven virtue out of the world, for be it unlimited unexamined obedience to a sovereign, to a parent, or husband, the mind, yielding itself to implicit unexamined obedience, loses its individual dignity, and you can expect no more of a man than of a brute. what is to become of the child who is taught never to think or act for himself? can a creature thus formed ever arrive at the maturity of wisdom? how is he who has never reasoned to be enabled in his turn to train his offspring otherwise than he himself was trained. proud of sway and dominion, he gratifies every impulse of caprice, blindly commands while they blindly obey; and thus from one generation to another the world is peopled with slaves, and the human mind degraded from the station which god had given to it. you sent clement into the world and you commanded him to hate it, but you never told him why it merited this abhorrence, only he was to hate because it pleased you that he should hate the world. clement montgomery saw every thing new, every thing fascinating; and the more he remembered he was to hate, the more he loved the world. then you bid him make himself independent, and you had not given him one lesson of independence of mind, without which he must ever be a tool and dependent. indeed, sir, you have no right to withhold from him your forgiveness, for you taught him by your own example to say one thing and intend another; in your own mistakes, you may trace the foundation of his vices. mr. montgomery has, indeed, heaped upon himself an infinite load of mischiefs; and you, sir, in the bitterness of your resentment, could not wish him a severer punishment than, i believe, he at present endures. my beloved and sacrificed friend was unhappily led into his presence on the first moment of her arrival. she claimed him as her own; and, he must have been marble itself, had not that interview and its sad consequences to the deceived injured sibella stung him with remorse. yet his repentance has more of frenzy than feeling. several times he attempted to force his way into sibella's chamber; and, finding me immoveable resolved that he should not see her, he gave way to the most violent bursts of indignation and invective, whose chief object was my mother. at length he quitted the house; and it is said that, in grief and distraction, he also quitted the kingdom. but i understand his feeble and wavering character; his sorrow will abate; he will be again reconciled to himself, and live abounding in all things but esteem. in consequence of mr. montgomery's departure, my mother has vowed an everlasting enmity to me. she has chosen another abode, and forbidden me her presence. it is, sir, no uncommon case for persons who would fly from the consciousness of their follies to shelter themselves under resentment, and accuse others of malignantly creating those misfortunes for them which were the unavoidable consequences of their own errors. how vain and futile are such endeavours; and how strongly do they help to prove the value of rectitude, which brings its own consolation under every afflicting circumstance of life. to press you further on the subject of your coming to london, or to relate the particulars which have befallen sibella, would be only to give you unnecessary pain. suffer me, however, to remind you once more that the moment approaches rapidly upon us when resentment cannot agitate nor forgiveness soothe her. i remain, sir, your sincere well wisher, caroline ashburn letter xl from caroline ashburn to lord filmar my lord, i scarcely recollect the verbal message i sent in answer to your letter of yesterday; for i was then under the dominion of feelings more powerful than reason--yet not more powerful; it was reason had yielded for a time her place. i will fortify myself for the relation of the events of yesterday, because i think it will do you a service. i am sure you are not incorrigible; and one example of the wretched consequences of error has often more power than a volume of precepts. it was half past eleven yesterday morning when an attendant silently beckoned me from sibella's bed. in the antichamber, sir thomas barlowe's gentleman waited to inform me that mr. murden was in my study. i could scarcely believe i was awake; it seemed so impossible that he should be there. 'alas, madam,' said the young man, 'every persuasion has been used to prevent his rash design. and since sir thomas barlowe, by the advice of the physicians, positively refused his coming to visit miss valmont, he has neither taken rest nor sustenance. what could we do, madam, but indulge him?' how indeed could they act otherwise! he was brought, my lord, in a chair; and had fainted once by the way. much affected by the nature of his enterprise, and by the resolution with which he persisted in accomplishing his design, i could not restrain my tears when i joined him in the study. he was gasping for breath; and seemed ready to drop from the arms of the servant who supported him. as i approached him, and took his hand, he turned his head away from me; an increase of anxiety and something of ill nature contracted his brow, for he expected a decided opposition on my part to the design which he had resolved never to relinquish. 'murden, my dear murden,' i said, 'i----' he interrupted me in a peevish tone. he came, he said, to see sibella--he _must_ see her. and, if i refused to let him see her, he would crawl to her chamber door, and live there whilst he did live. i would have spoken again, but he waved his hand to express that he would not hear me; and rested his head on the servant's shoulder. the hand which i still held, though he had twice attempted to draw it from mine, began to endure a consuming heat. a deep hectic colouring overspread his cheek; and i imagined disappointment was committing more ravages on him, in one way, than indulgence could, in another. strongly incited to lead murden instantly to my friend's chamber, yet unwilling to hazard so much merely on my own judgment, i retired to consult with mrs. beville, who has kindly given me her society and assistance since my mother quitted the house. mrs. beville suggested to me an idea which determined me to permit the interview, unless sibella herself should object to seeing murden. i must tell you, my lord, that from the fatal day when you was a feeling witness of her agonies, sibella has been perfectly or rather horridly calm. never has she named clement; nor has she ever wept. she insisted on having the corpse of her infant brought to her before its burial; and, while she pressed it to her burning bosom, she said--'poor senseless earth! in quitting life so soon, thou hast not lost but gained! what art thou? nothing! thy members will not swell into strength and proportion. life will not inform them. thy heart will never beat, and it shall not feel.----babe, thou art gone for ever! none laments for thee. she who should have been thy mother weeps not for thee.--go, babe! go to thy cold shelter! soon will that shelter be mine. but i cannot afford thee warmth: for i shall be cold, senseless, dead, as thou art!' as she spoke her eye had no moisture; and she delivered up the infant without shedding one tear; but the oppression she endured for want of this salutary relief was dreadful to behold. mrs. beville was of opinion that the altered and pity-moving countenance of murden, the recollection of his kindness, and his sufferings for her would surprise, affect her, turn her consideration from herself to him, and call forth a sympathy which must produce tears. i had less hope of the success of the experiment in this way to sibella than mrs. beville entertained; yet, i had hope and i also persuaded myself that a kind word from her would give to murden a renewal of vigour, and prove the chearing companion of his few remaining days. sibella was at this time more composed than usual; and, on being informed of mr. murden's desire, she expressed an earnest wish to see him. i returned to the study. 'you are come to lead me to her,' said murden, impatiently. 'yes,' i replied, 'i am. sibella herself desires it.' 'give me--give me----' said he, stretching forth his hand, and his servant presented some liquid he held in a glass; but murden pushed it from him. 'carry me there,' said he, 'all my strength is gone.' i saw that he trembled excessively, and gladly would i have retracted my consent; but it was too late. i could nothing more than hasten the interview, that the expectation of it might not prey on him thus dreadfully. we prevailed on him to taste the liquid; and then his attendants carried him in their arms to the chamber door, where at his own desire they stood still for a moment or two. when he was borne into the room, he suddenly assumed a strength which had before totally failed him, and tottered to the seat beside her.--neither spoke.----he gazed, till he could gaze no longer; and, leaning back his head, burst into a violent flood of tears. sibella was not moved. she put out her hand towards his; i lifted his, and gave it her. 'mr. murden,' said she, as she pressed his hand, 'you have been very kind to me--tell me how i can thank you?' 'you were once unkind to me,' replied murden, sobbing,--'you hated me! you shunned me!' 'true, for i did not know you.----yet, i fancied myself infallibly discerning.' she turned her head away. 'oh do not, do not turn from me!--miss valmont, i once talked with you in the ruin--do you remember it?' 'yes.--you were not so ill then, as you are now.' 'and you, miss valmont, was well.' 'i did think so,' she said, and sighed. murden comprehended the fullest force of her meaning. he looked wildly around the apartment. 'let me go, let me go,' said he eagerly, withdrawing his hand from sibella and attempting to rise. i beckoned in his two attendants, who lifted him from his seat. 'will you go, and not bid me farewel, murden?' asked sibella. he started at the plaintive tone.--'stand off!' cried he, 'would ye dare take me from her ere my errand is completed?' 'it is completed, my dear murden.' said i. 'you have seen sibella. bid her farewel, and part.' 'yes! yes!' said he, sitting down again beside her. 'we shall part--we are now on the very verge of parting.--oh dear, good miss ashburn, bless you for ever!' as he spoke, he pressed each of my hands alternately to his lips.--'dear dear miss ashburn, fare you well!' 'indeed, murden, you must go,' said i. 'must,' repeated he--'must! why i know i must.--i have no choice, miss ashburn. but allow me a little longer:--won't you,'--turning to sibella--'allow me a very little longer?' 'certainly, i will,' replied sibella; 'if it will give you satisfaction.' 'satisfaction!' said he. after a pause, during which he gazed intently on sibella, his countenance underwent a striking alteration. he made a motion for something to be given to him; but, when the servant approached, he put him aside. his head dropped against the side of the chair; and the hand he had just lifted to his forehead fell upon the bed. sibella placed it between both of her's. he drew his breath slowly and heavily. once i thought he had fainted, and offered to support him. 'no! no! no!' he said; and shortly after, i believe he slept. at that time all who were in the apartment observed a profound silence. sibella in deep thought continued to hold his hand. sometimes she looked upon murden; and, in those expressive looks, i read the anguish of her heart. she could not, as mrs. beville had supposed, separate his sufferings from her own. i perceived that her emotions were kindling into agony; and i arose from my seat, undetermined which way i could relieve her, when a loud and dreadful groan from sibella roused murden from his short interval of forgetfulness. 'oh! have pity!' said murden. sibella uttered a second groan. 'miss valmont!' exclaimed murden. 'give me not a name'--cried sibella. 'i own none! what am i? a shadow! a dream!--will you oblige me?' added she, vehemently grasping murden's hand--'carry to him the name you used to me. bid him murder that also.--oh! your touch is ice!'--she exclaimed, throwing his hand suddenly from her; 'you have chilled my blood!' a moment after, she recollected herself. 'poor murden!' said she, 'warm! warm yourself! why are you so cold?' 'because i too am but a shadow,' replied murden. 'hear me, miss valmont. i must call you so.--it was when you came to seek your fawn in the ruin, that you talked with me there. do you remember it?' 'i do.' 'oh, miss valmont, miss valmont, methought you never looked so lovely, never was so gentle as while you spake two words--only two. and can you not remember that i said to you--when remembrances of love shall be no longer remembrances of happiness, then--_die also_.' 'great god! do you reproach me with living!' cried sibella, starting up in the bed in a phrenzy. 'know you not i expired when--oh! am i not dead dead already?' 'then, let the same grave receive us!' bending forward, he locked her in his arms, and sunk upon her pillow, never to rise again. * * * * * it is easier, my lord, for you to imagine than for me to describe the consequence of yesterday's event to my beloved and dying friend. her convulsions become each hour more and more rapid and exhausting. yet she has intervals of composure and even of rest, and these serve to detain a little longer her bursting spirit within the fading form. oh, cruel those who have been the means of thus early separating a mind and form so worthy of happiness, so mated to each other! as for myself, i have endured much, and have much yet to endure, for remembrances of murden and sibella, of their virtues and misfortunes will live with me, will be the cherished, tender companions of many hours; nor shall that which the world calls pleasure, ever buy me from one of those hours with the richest of her temptations. last night, while sibella slept, i would have slept also, but the scene of yesterday lay a cumbrous load upon my heart. i rose and passed to the chamber where the corpse of murden is deposited. his faults fled from me. i saw only murden, i remembered him living, and now i looked on him dead.--my lord, my lord, what a contrast!--what a pang! a smile of something more than peace illumines even now the face from whence animation is gone for ever. it was his last smile, the smile he had so dearly purchased. his heart indeed dictated that smile, for it expanded with joy when he felt he should die with her for whom he died. fatal end of an ungoverned passion--virtuous in its object, but vicious in its excess! the corpse still remains in the house. why should i part with it? none loved him better. a sleep almost like death still locks up the faculties of sibella. during her last interval from pain and convulsions, she gave her final directions, and you my lord are concerned therein. mr. valmont is sick, sick at heart. he could not come to london; but he sent his steward with forgiveness, blessings, and an earnest request that sibella would make her own disposition of her fortune, by which he has resolved most faithfully to abide. there is a sum in hand of near a hundred thousand pounds, out of which she has desired that your debts may be discharged, my lord. her request to you is, that you will in future refrain from the pernicious practice by which they were incurred. i have no doubt but you will; and certain am i, my lord, that you may find means of disposing of your time, that in real pleasure will beggar all comparison with those to which you have been accustomed. i am summoned to sibella's chamber. * * * * * again sibella doses.--her fits have ceased, and death becomes gentle in its preparation. 'now, my caroline,' said she as i approached her bed, 'come and let me bid you farewel. i find there is something yet for me to feel in leaving you.--methought--' she added after a pause--'sensation had been dead in me--i have had strange feelings, caroline. and now i seem awakening from a fearful dream. i have lost the raging fire which consumed me--early scenes recur--and here,' laying her hand on her bosom, 'something swells as if--as if i yet had--affections!' so saying, the melting sufferer burst into tears; and my fond hopes would have persuaded me, that these tears were the beginning of her restoration. no, my lord, it is only fondness that could for one moment entertain the supposition. 'do not let us weep,' said she, 'caroline, there is a person--'tis, i desire it, caroline--whom you must forgive, pity, and befriend. when you meet him--clement'--the name hung upon her quivering lips--'tell him to be sincere. tell all the world so, caroline.--my uncle's secrets could have done me but temporary harm, it was mine own secrets destroyed me--oh that fatal contract!' a long pause succeeded; but she neither wept not sighed. she had folded her hands upon her bosom, and she looked intently upward. again raising herself, she embraced me; and then she said, 'poor murden! he had his secrets too, and he has died for them!' * * * * * my lord--it is over.--she expired in my arms. * * * * * yes, they shall be entombed together--the dearer parts of my existence.--i loved them both as i never loved man nor woman beside. anno domini ; or, _woman's destiny_. by sir julius vogel, k.c.m.g. london: hutchinson and co., , paternoster square. . printed by hazell, watson, & viney, ld., london and aylesbury. dedicated to the right honourable the earl of carnarvon, who, by his successful efforts to consolidate the canadian dominions, has greatly aided the cause of federation. contents. page prologue chapter i. the year --united britain chapter ii. the emperor and hilda fitzherbert chapter iii. lord reginald paramatta chapter iv. a partial victory chapter v. cabinet negotiations chapter vi. baffled revenge chapter vii. heroine worship chapter viii. air-cruisers chapter ix. too strange not to be true chapter x. lord reginald again chapter xi. grateful ireland chapter xii. the emperor plans a campaign chapter xiii. love and war chapter xiv. the fourth of july retrieved chapter xv. conclusion epilogue prologue. a.d. . george claude sonsius in his early youth appeared to have before him a fair, prosperous future. his father and mother were of good family, but neither of them inherited wealth. when young sonsius finished his university career, the small fortune which his father possessed was swept away by the failure of a large banking company. all that remained from the wreck was a trifling annuity payable during the lives of his father and mother, and this they did not live long to enjoy. they died within a year of each other, but they had been able to obtain for their son a fairly good position in a large mercantile house as foreign correspondent. at twenty-five the young man married; and three years afterwards he unfortunately met with a serious accident, that made him for two years a helpless invalid and at the end of the time left him with his right hand incapable of use. meanwhile his appointment had lapsed, his wife's small fortune had disappeared, and during several years his existence had been one continual struggle with ever-increasing want and penury. the end was approaching. the father and mother and their one crippled son, twelve years old, dwelt in the miserable attic of a most dilapidated house in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of london. the roof over their heads did not even protect them from the weather. the room was denuded of every article of furniture with the exception of two worthless wooden cases and a horsehair mattress on which the unhappy boy stretched his pain-wrung limbs. early in life this child suffered only from weakness of the spine, but his parents could afford no prolonged remedial measures. not that they were unkind to him. on the contrary, they devoted to him every minute they could spare, and lavished on him all the attention that affection comparatively powerless from want of means could dictate. but the food they were able to give him was scant instead of, as his condition demanded, varied and nutritious. at length chronic disease of the spine set in, and his life became one long misery. parochial aid was refused unless they would go into the poor-house, but the one thing mrs. sonsius could not bring herself to endure was the separation from her son which was demanded of her as a condition of relief. for thirty hours they had been without food, when the father, maddened by the moanings of his wife and child, rushed into the street, and passing a baker's shop which appeared to be empty, stole from it a loaf of bread. the proprietor, however, saw the action from an inner room. he caught sonsius just as he was leaving the shop. he did not care to give the thief in charge, necessitating as it would several attendances at the police court. he took the administration of justice into his own hands, and dealt the unhappy man two severe blows in the face. to a healthy person the punishment would have done comparatively little harm, but sonsius was weakened by disease and starvation, and the shock of the blows was too much for him. he fell prone on the pavement, and all attempts to restore him to consciousness proved unavailing. then his history became public property. scores of people remembered the pleasant-mannered, well-looking young man who had distinguished himself at college, and for whom life seemed to promise a pleasant journey. the horrible condition of his wife and child, the desperation that drove him to the one lapse from an otherwise stainless life, the frightful contrast between the hidden poverty and the gorgeous wealth of the great metropolis, became themes upon which every newspaper dilated after its own fashion. some papers even went so far as to ask, "was it a crime for a man to steal a loaf of bread to save his wife and child from starvation?" in grim contrast with the terrible conclusion of his wretched career, the publicity cast upon it elicited the fact that a few weeks earlier he had inherited by the death of a distant relative an enormous fortune, all efforts to trace him through the changes of residence that increasing poverty had necessitated having proved unavailing. now that the wretched father and husband was dead, the wife for whom the bread was stolen had become a great lady, the boy was at length to receive the aid that wealth could give him. poor george claude sonsius has nothing to do with our story, but his fate led to the alleviation of a great deal of misery that otherwise might have been in store for millions of human beings. loud and clear rang out the cry, "what was the use of denouncing slavery when want like this was allowed to pass unheeded by the side of superfluous wealth?" the slave-owner has sufficient interest in his slaves, it was alleged, as a rule, to care for their well-being. even criminals were clothed and fed. had not, it was asked, every human being the right to demand from a world which through the resources of experience and science became constantly more productive a sufficiency of sustenance? the inquest room was crowded. the coroner and jury were strongly affected as they viewed the body laid out in a luxuriously appointed coffin. wealth denied to the living was lavished on the dead. no longer in rags and tatters, the lifeless body seemed to revert to the past. shrunken as was the frame, and emaciated the features, there remained evidence sufficient to show that the now inanimate form was once a fine and handsome man. the evidence was short, and the summing up of the coroner decisive. he insisted that the baker had not wilfully committed wrong and should not be made responsible for the consequences that followed his rough recovery of his property. a butcher and a general provision dealer on the jury took strongly the same view. how were poor tradesmen to protect themselves? they must take the law in their own hands, they argued, otherwise it would be better to submit to being robbed rather than waste their time in police courts. they wanted a verdict of justifiable homicide. another juryman (a small builder) urged a verdict of misadventure; at first he called it peradventure. but the rest of the jury felt otherwise. some desired a verdict of manslaughter, and it was long before the compromise of "death by accident" was agreed to. deep groans filled the room as the result was announced. that same night a large crowd of men and women assembled outside the baker's shop with hostile demonstrations. the windows were destroyed, and an attempt made to break in the door. a serious riot would probably have ensued but for the arrival of a large body of police. again the fate of george sonsius became the familiar topic of the press. but the impression was not an ephemeral one. the fierce spirit of discontent which for years had been smouldering burst into flames. a secret society called the "live and let live" was formed, with ramifications throughout the world. the force of numbers, the force of brute strength, was appealed to. a bold and outspoken declaration was made that every human being had an inherent right to sufficient food and clothing and comfortable lodging. truly poor george sonsius died for the good of many millions of his fellow-creatures. our history will show the point at length achieved. shortly after poor sonsius' death a remarkable meeting was held in the city of london. the representatives of six of the largest financial houses throughout the globe assembled by agreement to discuss the present material condition of the world and its future prospects. there was lord de cardrosse, head of the english house of that name and chief, moreover, of the family, whose branches presided over princely houses of finance in six of the chief cities of the continent of europe. second only in power in great britain, the house of bisdat and co. was represented by charles james bisdat, a man of scarcely forty, but held to be the greatest living authority on abstruse financial questions. the dutch house of von serge brothers was represented by its head, cornelius julius von serge. the greatest finance house in america, rorgon, bryce and co., appeared by its chief, henry tudor rorgon; and the scarcely less powerful house of lockay, stanfield and co., of san francisco, melbourne, sydney, and wellington, was represented by its chief, alfred demetrius. the german and african house of werther, scribe and co. was present in the person of its head, baron scribe; and the french and continental houses of the de cardrosse family were represented by the future head of the family, the baroness de cardrosse. the deliberations were carried on in french. two or more of these houses had no doubt from time to time worked together in one transaction; but their uniform position was one of independence towards each other, verging more towards antagonism than to union. in fact, the junction for ordinary purposes of such vast powers as these kings of finance wielded would be fatal to liberty and freedom. a single instance will suffice to show the power referred to, which even one group of financiers could wield. five years previously all europe was in a ferment. war was expected from every quarter. it depended not on one, but on many questions. the alliances were doubtful. nothing seemed certain but that neutrality would be impossible, and that the continent would be divided into two or more great camps. the final decision appeared to rest with great britain. there an ominous disposition for war was displaying itself. the inclination of the sovereign and the cabinet was supposed to be in that direction. but the family of de cardrosses throughout europe was for peace. the chief of the family was the head of the english house, and it was decided he should interview the prime minister of england and acquaint him with the views of this great financial group. his reception was not flattering; but if he felt mortified, he did not show it. he expressed himself deeply sensible of the honour done to him by his being allowed to state his opinions; and with a reverential inclination he bowed himself from the presence of the greatest statesman of his day, the right honourable randolph stanley. that afternoon it was bruited about that, in view of coming possibilities, the de cardrosse family had determined to realise securities all over europe and send gold to america. the next morning a disposition to sell was reported from every direction, and five millions sterling of gold were collected for despatch to new york. in twenty-four hours there was a panic throughout great britain and europe. the bank of england asked for permission to suspend specie payments, but could indicate no limit to which such a permission should be set. it seemed as if europe would be drained of gold. the great rivals of the de cardrosses looked on and either could not or would not interfere. a hurried cabinet meeting was convened, and as a result a conference by telephone was arranged between the prime minister of great britain and the ministers of the great powers of europe. commencing by twos and threes, the conference developed into an assemblage for conversational purposes of at least twenty of the chief statesmen and diplomatists of the old world. rumour said that even monarchs in two or three cases were present and inspired the telephonic utterances of their ministers. how the result was arrived at was known best to those who took part in the conference, but peace and disarmament were agreed on if certain contingencies involving the exercise of vast power and the expenditure of enormous capital could be provided for. no other conclusion could be arrived at, and one way or the other the outcome had to be settled within twenty-four hours. the conference had lasted from ten o'clock to four. at five o'clock by invitation lord de cardrosse waited on the prime minister, who received him much more cordially than before. "you have caused me," he said, "to learn a great deal during the last forty-eight hours." "i could not presume to teach you anything. events have spoken," was the reply. "and who controlled them if not the houses of de cardrosse?" "you do us too much honour. it is you who govern; we are of those who are governed." "the alliance between power and modesty," said the prime minister, with pardonable irony, "is irresistible. tell me, my lord, is it too late for your views to prevail?" a slight, almost imperceptible start was the only movement the de cardrosse made. the enormous self-repression he was exercising cannot be exaggerated. the future strength of the family depended on the issue. there was, however, no tremor in his voice when he answered, "if you adopt them, i do not think it is too late." "but do you realise the sacrifices in all directions that have to be made?" said the minister in faltering tones. "i think i do." "and you think to secure peace those sacrifices should be made?" "i do." "will you tell me what those sacrifices are?" he asked. lord de cardrosse smiled. "you desire me," he said, "to tell you what you already know." then he proceeded to describe to the amazed prime minister in brief but pregnant terms one after the other the conditions that had been agreed on. once only he paused and indicated that the condition he was describing he accepted reluctantly. "i do not conceal," said the astounded prime minister, "my surprise at the extent of your knowledge; and clearly you approve the only compromise possible. it is needless to tell you that the acceptance of this compromise requires the use of means not at the disposal of the governments. in one word, will it suit you to supply them?" "i might," responded lord de cardrosse, "ask you until two o'clock to-morrow to give an answer; but i do not wish to add to your anxiety. if you will undertake to entirely and absolutely confine within your own breast the knowledge of what my answer will be, i will undertake that that answer at two o'clock to-morrow shall be 'yes.'" silently they shook hands. probably these two men had never before so thoroughly appreciated the strength and speciality of their several powers. the panic continued until two o'clock the following day, when an enormous reaction took place. the part the de cardrosse family played in securing peace was suspected by a few only. its full extent the prime minister alone knew. he it was who enjoyed the credit for saving the world from a desolating war. and now, after an interval of five years, the sovereigns of finance met in conclave. in obedience to the generally expressed wish, lord de cardrosse took the chair. "i need scarcely say," he began, "that i am deeply sensible of the compliment you pay me in asking me to preside over such a meeting. we in this room represent a living power throughout the globe, before which the reigning sovereigns of the world are comparatively helpless. but, because of our great strength, it is undesirable that we should work unitedly except for very great and humane objects. for the mere purpose of money-making, i feel assured you all agree with me in desiring no combination, no monopoly, that would pit us against the rest of the world." he paused for a moment, evidently desiring to disguise the strength of the emotion with which he spoke. he resumed in slower and apparently more mastered words. "i wish i could put it to you sufficiently strongly that our houses would not have considered any good that could result to them and to you a sufficient excuse for inviting such a combination. we hold that the only cause that could justify it is the conviction that for the good of mankind a vast power requires to be wielded which is not to be found in the ordinary machinery of government." a murmur of applause went round the table; and mr. demetrius, with much feeling, said, "you make me very happy by the assurance you have given. i will not conceal from you that our house anticipated as much, or it would not have been represented. we are too largely concerned with states in which free institutions are permanent not to avoid anything which might savour of a disposition to combine financial forces for the benefit of financial houses." lord de cardrosse then proceeded to explain that his family, in serious and prolonged conclave, could come to no other conclusion than that certain influences were at work which would cause great suffering to mankind and sap and destroy the best institutions which civilisation and science had combined to create. the time had come to answer the question, should human knowledge, human wants, and human skill continue to advance to an extent to which no limit could be put, or should the survival of the fittest and strongest be fought out in a period of anarchy? "it amounts," he said in a tone of profound conviction, "to this: the ills under which the masses suffer accumulate. there is no use in comparing what they have to-day with what they had fifty years ago. a person who grows from infancy to manhood in a prison may feel contented until he knows what the liberty is that others enjoy. the born blind are happier than those who become blind by accident. to our masses the knowledge of liberty is open, and they feel they are needlessly deprived of it. wider and wider to their increasing knowledge opens out the horizon of possible delights; more and more do they feel that they are deprived of what of right belongs to them." he paused, as if inviting some remarks from his hearers. mr. bisdat, who spoke in an interrogative rather than an affirmative tone, took up the thread. "i am right, i think, in concluding that your remarks do not point against or in favour of any school of politics or doctrines of party. you direct our notice to causes below the surface to which the government of the day--i had almost said the hour,--do not penetrate, causes which you believe, if left to unchecked operation, will undermine the whole social fabric." "it is so," emphatically replied lord de cardrosse. "the evils are not only apparent; but equally apparent is it that no remedy is being applied, and that we are riding headlong to anarchy." again he paused, and mr. rorgon took up the discussion. "if we," he said, "the princes of finance, do not find a remedy, how long will the enlarged intelligence of the people submit to conditions which are at war with the theory of the equality and liberty of mankind?" "yes," said the baroness de cardrosse, speaking for the first time, "it is clear that there is a limit to the inequality of fortune to which men and women will submit. equality of possessions there cannot be; but, if i may indulge in metaphor, we cannot expect that the bulk of humankind will be content with being entirely shut out from the sunlight of existence." the gentlemen present bowed low in approval; and mr. demetrius said, "the simile of the baroness is singularly appropriate. there are myriads of human beings to whom the sunshine of life is denied. a too universal evil invites resistance by means which in lesser cases might be scouted. in short, if the remedy is left to anarchy, anarchy there will be. even in our young lands the shadow of the coming evil is beginning to show itself. indeed," he added, with an air of musing abstraction, "it is not unfair to deduce from what has been said, that, even if the evils are less in the new lands of the west and the south, superior general intelligence may more than proportionally increase the wants of the multitude and the sense of wrong under which they labour." the conference extended over three days. every one agreed that interference with the ordinary conditions of finance was inexpedient except in extreme cases, but they were unanimous in thinking that an extreme case had to be dealt with. they finally decided by the use of an extended paper currency, with its necessary guarantees, to increase the circulating medium and to raise the prices both of products and labour. some other decisions were adopted having especial reference to the employment of labour and insurance against want in cases of disablement through illness, accident, or old age. so ended the most remarkable conference of any age or time. chapter i. the year --united britain. time has passed. there have been many alterations, few of an extreme character. the changes are mostly the results of gradual developments worked out by the natural progress of natural laws. but as constant dropping wears away a stone, constant progression, comparatively imperceptible in its course, attains to immense distances after the lapse of time. this applies though the momentum continually increases the rate of the progress. thus the well-being of the human kind has undoubtedly increased much more largely during the period between and than during the previous century, but equally in either century would it be difficult to select any five years as an example of the turning-point of advancement. progression, progression, always progression, has been the history of the centuries since the birth of christ. doubtless the century we have now entered on will be yet more fruitful of human advancement than any of its predecessors. the strongest point of the century which "has gone, with its thorns and its roses, with the dust of dead ages to mix," has been the astonishing improvement of the condition of mankind and the no less striking advancement of the intellectual power of woman. the barriers which man in his own interest set to the occupation of woman having once been broken down, the progress of woman in all pursuits requiring judgment and intellect has been continuous; and the sum of that progress is enormous. it has, in fact, come to be accepted that the bodily power is greater in man, and the mental power larger in woman. so to speak, woman has become the guiding, man the executive, force of the world. progress has necessarily become greater because it is found that women bring to the aid of more subtle intellectual capabilities faculties of imagination that are the necessary adjuncts of improvement. the arts and caprices which in old days were called feminine proved to be the silken chains fastened by men on women to lull them into inaction. without abating any of their charms, women have long ceased to submit to be the playthings of men. they lead men, as of yore, but not so much through the fancy or the senses as through the legitimate consciousness of the man that in following woman's guidance he is tending to higher purposes. we are generalising of course to a certain extent. the variable extent of women's influence is now, as it has been throughout the ages past, the point on which most of the dramas of the human race depend. the increased enjoyment of mankind is a no less striking feature of the last hundred years. long since a general recognition was given to the theory that, whilst equality of possession was an impossible and indeed undesirable ideal, there should be a minimum of enjoyment of which no human being should be deprived unless on account of crime. crime as an occupation has become unknown, and hereditary crime rendered impossible. on the other hand, the law has constituted such provisions for reserves of wealth that anything more than temporary destitution is precluded. such temporary destitution can only be the result of sheer improvidence, the expenditure, for instance, within a day of what should be expended in a week. the moment it becomes evident, its recurrence is rendered impossible, because the assistance, instead of being given weekly, is rendered daily. private charity has been minimised; indeed, it is considered to be injurious: and all laws for the recovery of debts have been abolished. the decision as to whether there is debt and its amount is still to be obtained, but the satisfaction of all debt depends solely on the sense of honour or expediency of the debtor. the posting the name of a debtor who refuses to satisfy his liabilities has been found to be far more efficacious than any process of law. the enjoyment of what in the past would have been considered luxuries has become general. the poorest household has with respect to comforts and provisions a profusion which a hundred years since was wanting in households of the advanced classes. long since there dawned upon the world the conviction-- first. that labour or work of some kind was the only condition of general happiness. second. that every human being was entitled to a certain proportion of the world's good things. third. that, as the capacity of machinery and the population of the world increased production, the theory of the need of labour could not be realised unless with a corresponding increase of the wants of mankind; and that, instead of encouraging a degraded style of living, it was in the interests of the happiness of mankind to encourage a style of living in which the refinements of life received marked consideration. great britain, as it used to be called, has long ceased to be a bundle of sticks. the british dominions have been consolidated into the empire of united britain; and not only is it the most powerful empire on the globe, but at present no sign is shown of any tendency to weakness or decay. yet there was a time--about the year --when the utter disintegration of the empire seemed not only possible, but probable. the irish question was still undecided. for many years it had continued to be the sport of ministers. cabinet succeeded cabinet; each had its irish nostrum; each seemed to think that the irish question was a good means of delaying questions nearer home. the power of the nation sensibly waned. what nation could be strong with pronounced disaffection festering in its midst? at length, when rumours of a great war were rife upon the result of which the very existence of great britain as a nation might depend, the colonies interposed. by this time the canadian, australasian, and cape colonies had become rich, populous, and powerful. united, they far exceeded in importance the original mother-country. at the instigation of the premier of canada, a confidential intercolonial conference was held. in consequence of the deliberations that ensued, a united representation was made to the prime minister of england to the effect that the colonies could no longer regard without concern the prolonged disquiet prevailing in ireland. they would suffer should any disaster overtake the empire, and disaster was courted by permitting the continuation of irish disaffection. besides, the colonies, enjoying as they did local government, could see no reason why ireland should be treated differently. the message was a mandate, and was meant to be so. the prime minister of england, however, puffed up with the pride of old traditions, did not or would not so understand it, and returned an insolent answer. within twenty-four hours the colonial ministers sent a joint respectful address to the king of england representing that they were equally his majesty's advisers with his ministers residing in england, and refusing to make any further communications to or through his present advisers. the ministry had to retire; a new one was formed. ireland received the boon it had long claimed of local government, and the whole empire was federated on the condition that the federation was irrevocable and that every part of it should fight to the last to preserve the union. the king of england and emperor of india was crowned amidst great pomp emperor of britain. all parts of the empire joined their strength and resources. a federal fleet was formed on the basis that it was to equal in power in every respect the united fleets of all the rest of the world. conferences with the great powers took place in consequence of which egypt, belgium, and the whole of the ports bordering the english channel and straits of dover, and the whole of south africa became incorporated into the empire of britain. some concessions, however, were made in other directions. these results were achieved within fifteen years of the interference by the colonies in federal affairs, and the foundation was laid for the powerful empire which britain has become. two other empires and one republic alone approach it in power, and a cordial understanding exists between them to repress war to the utmost extent possible. they constitute the police of the world. each portion of the emperor of britain's possessions enjoys local government, but the federal government is irresistibly strong. it is difficult to say which is the seat of government, as the federal parliament is held in different parts of the world, and the emperor resides in many places. with the utmost comfort he can go from end to end of his dominions in twelve days. if a headquarter does remain, it may probably be conceded that alexandria fulfils that position. the house of lords has ceased to exist as a separate chamber. the peers began to feel ashamed of holding positions not in virtue of their abilities, but because of the accident of birth. it was they who first sought and ultimately obtained the right to hold seats in the elective branch of the legislature; and finally it was decided that the peerage should elect a certain number of its own members to represent it in the federal parliament: in other words, the accidents of birth were controlled by the selection of the fittest. our scene opens in melbourne, in the year --a few years prior to the date at which we are writing. the federal parliament was sitting there that year. the emperor occupied his magnificent palace on the banks of the yarra, above melbourne, which city and its suburbs possessed a population of nearly two millions. in a large and handsome room in the federal buildings, a young woman of about twenty-three years of age was seated. she was born in new zealand. she entered the local parliament before she was twenty.[a] at twenty-two she was elected to the federal parliament, and she had now become under-secretary of state for home affairs. from her earliest youth she had never failed in any intellectual exercise. her intelligence was considered phenomenal. her name was hilda richmond fitzherbert. she was descended from families which for upwards of a century produced distinguished statesmen--a word, it should be mentioned, which includes both sexes. she was fair to look at in both face and figure. dark violet eyes, brown hair flecked with a golden tinge, clearly cut features, and a glorious complexion made up a face artistically perfect; but these charms were what the observer least noticed. the expression of the face was by far its chief attraction, and words fail to do justice to it. there was about it a luminous intelligence, a purity, and a pathos that seemed to belong to another world. no trace of passion yet stamped it. if the love given to all humanity ever became a love devoted to one person, the expression of the features might descend from the spiritual to the passionate. even then to human gaze it might become more fascinating. but that test had not come. as she rose from her chair you saw that she was well formed, though slight in figure and of full height. she went to an instrument at a side-table, and spoke to it, the materials for some half-dozen letters referring to groups of papers that lay on the table. when she concluded, she summoned a secretary, who removed the papers and the phonogram on which her voice had been impressed. these letters were reproduced, and brought to her for signature. copies attached to the several papers were initialled. meanwhile she paced up and down the room in evident deep distraction. at length she summoned a messenger, and asked him to tell the countess of middlesex that she wished to see her. in a few minutes lady middlesex entered the room. she was about thirty years of age, of middle height, and pleasing appearance, though a close observer might imagine he saw something sinister in the expression of her countenance. after a somewhat ceremonious greeting, miss fitzherbert commenced: "i have carefully considered what passed at our last interview. it is difficult to separate our official and unofficial relations. i am still at a loss to determine whether you have spoken to me as the assistant under-secretary to the under-secretary or as woman to woman." lady middlesex quickly rejoined, "will you let me speak to you as woman to woman, and forget for a moment our official relations?" "can you doubt it?" replied miss fitzherbert. "but remember that our wishes are not always under our control, and that, though i may not desire to remember to your prejudice what you say, i may not be able to free myself from recollection." "and yet," said lady middlesex, with scarcely veiled irony, "the world says miss fitzherbert does not know what prejudice means!" the slightest possible movement of impatience was all the rejoinder vouchsafed to this speech. lady middlesex continued, "i spoke to you as strongly as i dared, as strongly as my position permitted, about my brother reginald--lord reginald paramatta. he suffers under a sense of injury. he is miserable. he feels that it is to you that he owes his removal to a distant station. he loves you, and does not know if he may venture to tell you so." "no woman," replied miss fitzherbert, "is warranted in regarding with anger the love of a good man; but you know, or ought to know, that my life is consecrated to objects that are inconsistent with my entertaining the love you speak of." "but," said lady middlesex, "can you be sure that it always will be so?" "we can be sure of nothing." "nay," replied lady middlesex, "do not generalise. let me at least enjoy the liberty you have accorded me. if you did not feel that there were possibilities for reginald in conflict with your indifference, why should you trouble yourself with his removal?" "i have not admitted that i am concerned in his removal." "you know you are; you cannot deny it." miss fitzherbert was dismayed at the position into which she had allowed herself to be forced. she must either state what truth forbade or admit that to some extent lord reginald had obtained a hold on her thoughts. "other men," pursued lady middlesex, with remorseless directness, "have aspired as reginald does; and you have known how to dispose of their aspirations without such a course as that of which my brother has been the object." "i have understood," said miss fitzherbert, "that lord reginald is promoted to an important position, one that ought to be intensely gratifying to so comparatively young a man." "my brother has only one wish, and you are its centre. he desires only one position." "i did not infer, lady middlesex," said miss fitzherbert, with some haughtiness, "that you designed to use the permission you asked of me to become a suitor on your brother's behalf." "why else should i have asked such permission?" replied lady middlesex, with equal haughtiness. then, with a sudden change of mood and manner, "miss fitzherbert, forgive me. my brother is all in all to me. my husband and my only child are dead. my brother is all that is left to me to remind me of a once happy home. do not, i pray, i entreat you, embitter his life. ask yourself--forgive me for saying so--if ambition rather than consecration to a special career may not influence you; and if your conscience replies affirmatively, remember the time will come to you, as it has come to other women, when success, the applause of the crowd, and a knowledge of great deeds effected will prove a poor consolation for the want of one single human being on whom to lavish a woman's love. most faculties become smaller by disuse, but it is not so with the affections; they revenge themselves on those who have dared to disbelieve in their force." "you assume," said miss fitzherbert, "that i love your brother." "is it not so?" "no! a thousand times no!" "you feel that you might love him. that is the dawn of love." "listen, lady middlesex. that dawn has not opened to me. i will not deny, i have felt a prepossession in favour of your brother; but i have the strongest conviction that my life will be better and happier because of my refusing to give way to it. for me there is no love of the kind. in lonely maidenhood i will live and die. if my choice is unwise, i will be the sufferer; and i have surely the right to make it. my lady, our interview is at an end." lady middlesex rose and bowed her adieu, but another thought seemed to occur to her. "you will," she said, "at least see my brother before he goes. indeed, otherwise i doubt his leaving. he told me this morning that he would resign." miss fitzherbert after a moment's thought replied, "i will see your brother. bid him call on me in two hours' time. good-bye." as she was left alone a look of agony came over her face. "am i wise?" she said. "that subtle woman knew how to wound me. she is right. i could love; i could adore the man i loved. will all the triumphs of the world and the sense of the good i do to others console me during the years to come for the sunshine of love to which every woman has a claim? yes, i do not deny the claim, high as my conception is of a woman's destiny." after a few moments' pause, she started up indignantly. "am i then," she ejaculated half aloud, "that detestable thing a woman with a mission, and does the sense of that mission restrain me from yielding to my inclination?" again she paused, and then resumed, "no, it is not so. i have too easily accepted lady middlesex's insinuation. i am neither ambitious nor philanthropic to excess. it is a powerful instinct that speaks to me about lord reginald. to a certain extent i am drawn to him, but i doubt him, and it is that which restrains me. i am more disposed to be frightened of than to love him. why do i doubt him? some strong impulse teaches me to do so. what do i doubt? i doubt his loving me with a love that will endure, i doubt our proving congenial companions, and--why may i not say it to myself?--i doubt his character. i question his sincerity. the happiness of a few months might be followed by a life of misery. i must be no weak fool to allow myself to be persuaded." hilda fitzherbert was a thoroughly good, true-hearted, and lovable girl. clever, well informed, and cultivated to the utmost, she had no disposition to prudery or priggishness. she was rather inclined to under- than over-value herself. lady middlesex's clever insinuations had caused her for the moment to doubt her own conduct; but reflection returned in time, and once more she became conscious that she felt for lord reginald no more attachment than any woman might entertain for a handsome, accomplished man who persistently displayed his admiration. she was well aware that under ordinary circumstances such feelings as she had, might develop into strong love if there were no reverse to the picture; but in this case conviction--call it, if you will, an instinct--persuaded her there was an opposite side. she felt that lord reginald was playing a part; that, if his true character stood revealed to her, an unfathomable abyss would yawn between them. her reflections were disturbed by the entrance of a lady of very distinguished mien. she might indeed look distinguished, for the right honourable mrs. hardinge was not only prime minister of the empire of britain, but the most powerful and foremost statesman in the world. in her youth she had been a lovely girl; and even now, though not less than forty years of age, she was a beautiful--it might be more correct to say, a grand--woman. a tall, dignified, and stately figure was set off by a face of which every feature was artistically correct and capable of much variety of expression; and over that expression she held entire command. she had, if she wished it, an arch and winning manner, such as no one but a cultivated irishwoman possesses; the purest irish blood ran through her veins. she could say "no" in a manner that more delighted the person whose request she was refusing than would "yes" from other lips. an adept in all the arts of conversation, she could elicit information from the most inscrutable statesmen, who under her influence would fancy she was more confidential to them than they to her. by indomitable strength she had fought down an early inclination to impulsiveness. the appearance still remained, but no statesman was more slow to form opinions and less prone to change them. she could, if necessary, in case of emergency, act with lightning rapidity; but she had schooled herself to so act only in cases of extreme need. she had a warm heart, and in the private relations of life no one was better liked. hilda fitzherbert worshipped her; and mrs. hardinge, childless and with few relations, loved and admired the girl with a strength and tenacity that made their official relations singularly pleasant. "my dear hilda," she said, "why do you look so disturbed, and how is it you are idle? it is rare to find you unoccupied." hilda, almost in tears, responded, "dear mrs. hardinge, tell me, do tell me, what do you really think of lord reginald paramatta?" if mrs. hardinge felt any surprise at the extraordinary abruptness of the question, she did not permit it to be visible. "my dear, the less you think of him the better. i will tell you how i read his character. he is unstable and insincere, capable of any exertion to attain the object on which he has set his mind; the moment he has gained it the victory becomes distasteful to him. i have offered him the command of our london forces to please you, but i tell you frankly i did so with reluctance. nor would i have promoted him to the post but that it has long ceased to possess more than traditional importance. those chartered sybarites the londoners can receive little harm from lord reginald, and the time has long passed for him to receive any good. such as it is, his character is moulded; and professionally he is no doubt an accomplished officer and brave soldier. besides that, he possesses more than the ordinary abilities of a man." hilda looked her thanks, but said no more than "your opinion does not surprise me, and it tallies with my own judgment." "dear girl, do not try to dispute that judgment. and now to affairs of much importance. i have come from the emperor, and i see great difficulties in store for us." probably hilda had never felt so grateful to mrs. hardinge as she did now for the few words in which she had expressed so much, with such fine tact. an appearance of sympathy or surprise would have deeply wounded the girl. "dear mamma," she said--as sometimes in private in moments of affection she was used to do--"does his highness still show a disinclination to the settlement to which he has almost agreed?" "he shows the most marked disinclination, for he told me with strong emotion that he felt he would be sacrificing the convictions of his race." the position of the emperor was indeed a difficult one. a young, high-spirited, generous, and brave man, he was asked by his cabinet to take a step which in his heart he abhorred. a short explanation is necessary to make the case clear. when the imperial constitution of britain was promulgated, women were beginning to acquire more power; but no one thought of suggesting that the preferential succession to the direct heirs male should be withdrawn. meanwhile women advanced, and in all other classes of life they gained perfect equality with regard to the laws of succession and other matters, but the custom still remained by which the eldest daughter of the emperor would be excluded in favour of the eldest son. some negotiations had proceeded concerning the marriage of the emperor to the daughter of the lady who enjoyed the position of president of the united states, an intense advocate of woman's equality. she was disposed, if not determined, to make it a condition of the marriage that the eldest child, whether son or daughter, should succeed. the emperor's cabinet had the same view, and it was one widely held throughout the empire. but there were strong opinions on the other side. the increasing number of women elected by popular suffrage to all representative positions and the power which women invariably possessed in the cabinet aroused the jealous anger of men. true, the feeling was not in the ascendant, and other disabilities of women were removed; but in this particular case, the last, it may be said, of women's disabilities, a separate feeling had to be taken into account. the ultra-conservatives throughout the empire, including both men and women, were superstitiously tenacious of upholding the constitution in its integrity and averse to its being changed in the smallest particular. they felt that everything important to the empire depended upon the irrevocable nature of the constitution, and that the smallest change might be succeeded by the most organic alterations. the merits of the question mattered nothing in their opinion in comparison with the principle which they held it was a matter of life and death not to disturb. it was now proposed to introduce a bill to enable the emperor to declare that the succession should be to the eldest child. the cabinet were strongly in favour of it, and to a great extent their existence as a government depended on it. the emperor was well disposed to his present advisers, but, it was no secret, was strongly averse to this one proposal. the contemplated match was an affair of state policy rather than of inclination. he had seldom met his intended bride, and was not prepossessed with her. she was good-looking and a fine girl; but she had unmistakably red hair, an adornment not to his taste. besides, she was excessively firm in her opinions as to the superiority of women over men; and he strongly suspected she would be for ever striving to rule not only the household, but the empire. it is difficult to fathom the motives of the human mind, difficult not only to others, but to the persons themselves concerned. the emperor thought that his opposition to placing the succession on an equality between male and female was purely one of loyalty to his ancestors and to the traditions of the empire. but who could say that he did not see in a refusal to pass the necessary act a means of escaping the distasteful nuptials? mrs. hardinge had come from a long interview with him, and it was evident that she greatly doubted his continued support. she resumed, "his highness seems very seriously to oppose the measure, and indeed quite ready to give up his intended marriage. i wonder," she said, looking keenly at hilda, "whether he has seen any girl he prefers." the utter unconsciousness with which hilda heard this veiled surmise appeared to satisfy mrs. hardinge; and she continued, "tell me, dear, what do you think?" "i am hardly in a position to judge. does the emperor give no reasons for his opposition?" "yes, he has plenty of reasons; but his strongest appears to be that whoever is ruler of the empire should be able to lead its armies." "i thought," said miss fitzherbert, "that he had some good reason." "do you consider this a good reason?" inquired mrs. hardinge sharply. "from his point of view, yes; from ours, no," said hilda gently, but promptly. "then you do not think that we should retreat from our position even if retreat were possible?" "no," replied hilda. "far better to leave office than to make a concession of which we do not approve in order to retain it." "you are a strange girl," said mrs. hardinge. "if i understand you rightly, you think both sides are correct." "i think that there is a great deal to be said on both sides, and this is constantly the case with important controversies. between the metal and the flint the spark of truth is struck. i should think it no disgrace to be defeated on a subject about which we could show good cause. i might even come to think that better cause had been shown against us after the discussion was over; but to flee the discussion, to sacrifice conviction to expediency--that would be disgraceful." "then," said mrs. hardinge, with some interest, "if the emperor were to ask your opinion, you would try to persuade him to our side?" "yes and no. i would urge strongly my sense of the question and my opinion that it is better to settle at once a controversy about which there is so much difference of opinion. but i should respect his views; and if they were conscientious, i should not dare to advise him to sacrifice them." an interruption unexpected by miss fitzherbert, but apparently not surprising to mrs. hardinge, occurred. an aide-de-camp of the emperor entered. after bowing low to the ladies, he briefly said, "his imperial majesty desires the presence of miss fitzherbert." a summons so unusual raised a flush to the girl's cheek. she looked at mrs. hardinge. "i had intended to tell you," said that lady, "that the emperor mentioned he would like to speak to you on the subject we have been considering." then, turning to the aide-de-camp, she said, "miss fitzherbert will immediately wait on his majesty." the officer left the room. hilda archly turned to mrs. hardinge. "so, dear mamma, you were preparing me for this interview?" "dear child," said the elder lady, "you want no preparation. whatever the consequences to me, i will not ask you to put any restraint on the expression of your opinions." footnote: [a] every adult of eighteen years of age was allowed to vote and was consequently, by the laws of the empire, eligible for election. chapter ii. the emperor and hilda fitzherbert. the emperor received miss fitzherbert with a cordial grace, infinitely pleasing and flattering to that young lady. she of course had often seen his majesty at court functions, but never before had he summoned her to a separate audience. and indeed, high though her official position and reputation were, she did not hold cabinet rank; and a special audience was a rare compliment, such as perhaps no one in her position had ever previously enjoyed. the emperor was a tall man of spare and muscular frame, with the dignity and bearing of a practised soldier. it was impossible not to recognise that he was possessed of immense strength and power of endurance. he had just celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday, and looked no more than his age. his face was of the fair saxon type. his eyes were blue, varying with his moods from almost dark violet to a cold steel tint. few persons were able to disguise from him their thoughts when he fixed on them his eyes, with the piercing enquiry of which they were capable. his eyes were indeed singularly capable of a great variety of expression. he could at will make them denote the thoughts and feelings which he wished to make apparent to those with whom he conversed. apart from his position, no one could look at him without feeling that he was a distinguished man. he was of a kindly disposition, but capable of great severity, especially towards any one guilty of a mean or cowardly action. he was of a highly honourable disposition, and possessed an exalted sense of duty. he rarely allowed personal inclination to interfere with public engagements; indeed, he was tenaciously sensitive on the point, and sometimes fancied that he permitted his judgment to be obscured by his prepossessions when he had really good grounds for his conclusions. on the very subject of his marriage he was constantly filled with doubt as to whether his objection to the proposed alteration in the law of succession was well founded on public grounds or whether he was unconsciously influenced by his personal disinclination to the contemplated union. he realised the truth of the saying of a very old author-- "uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." after indicating to miss fitzherbert his wish that she should be seated, he said to her, "i have been induced to ask your attendance by a long conversation i have had with mrs. hardinge. i have heard the opinions she has formed, and they seem to me the result of matured experience. it occurred to me that i would like to hear the opinions of one who, possessed of no less ability, has been less subject to official and diplomatic exigencies. i may gather from you how much of personal feeling should be allowed to influence state affairs." "your majesty is very gracious," faltered hilda, "but mrs. hardinge has already told you the opinion of the cabinet. even if i differed from it, which i do not, i could not venture to obtrude my view on your majesty." "yes, you could," said the emperor, "if i asked you, or let me say commanded you." "sir, your wishes are commands. i do not pretend to have deeply studied the matter. i think the time has come to finally settle a long-mooted question and to withdraw from woman the last disability under which she labours." "my objection," interposed the emperor, "or hesitation is in no manner caused by any doubt as to woman's deserving to be on a par with man in every intellectual position." "then, sir, may i ask, why do you hesitate? the greatest sovereign that ever reigned over great britain, as it was formerly called, was a woman." "i cordially agree with you. no sovereign ever deserved better of the subjects of the realm than my venerated ancestress queen victoria. but again i say, i do not question woman's ability to occupy the throne to the greatest advantage." "why, may i ask, then does your majesty hesitate?" "i can scarcely reply to my own satisfaction. i give great heed to the objections commonly stated against altering the constitution, but i do not feel certain that these alone guide me. there is another, and to me very important, reason. it appeals to me not as sovereign only, but as soldier. my father and my grandfather led the troops of the empire when they went forth to battle. happily in our day war is a remote contingency, but it is not impossible. we preserve peace by being prepared for war. it seems to me a terrible responsibility to submit to a change which might result in the event of war in the army not being led by its emperor." "your majesty," said miss fitzherbert, "what am i to say? to deny the cogency of your reasons is like seeking to retain power, for you know the fate of the cabinet depends upon this measure, to which it has pledged itself." "miss fitzherbert," said the emperor gravely, "no one will suspect you of seeking to retain office for selfish purposes, and least of all would i suppose it, or i would not ask your counsel. tell me now," he said, with a winning look, "as woman to man, not as subject to sovereign, what does your heart dictate?" "sir," said miss fitzherbert with great dignity, rising from her seat, "i am deeply sensible of the honour you do me; and i cannot excuse myself from responding to it. in the affairs of life, and more especially state affairs, i have noticed that both sides to a controversy have frequently good grounds for their advocacy; and, moreover, it often happens that previous association fastens on each side the views it holds. i am strong in the belief, we are right in wishing this measure to pass; but since you insist on my opinion, i cannot avoid declaring as far as i, a non-militant woman, can judge, that, were i in your place, i would hold the sentiment you express and refuse my sanction." hilda spoke with great fervour, as one inspired. the emperor scarcely concealed his admiration; but he merely bowed courteously, and ended the interview with the words, "i am greatly indebted to you for your frankness and candour." chapter iii. lord reginald paramatta. as miss fitzherbert returned to her room, she did not know whether to feel angry or pleased with herself. she was conscious she had not served the interest of her party or of herself, but she realised that she was placed in a situation in which candour was demanded of her, and it seemed to her that the emperor was the embodiment of all that was gracious and noble in man. her secretary informed her that lord reginald paramatta was waiting to see her by appointment. lord reginald was a man of noticeable presence. above the ordinary height, he seemed yet taller because of the extreme thinness of his frame. yet he by no means wore an appearance of delicacy. on the contrary, he was exceedingly muscular; and his bearing was erect and soldierlike. he was well known as a brilliant officer, who had deeply studied his profession. but he was not only known as a soldier: he held a high political position. he had for many years continued to represent an australian constituency in the federal parliament. his naturally dark complexion was further bronzed by exposure to the sun. his features were good and strikingly like those of his sister, the countess of middlesex. he had also the same sinister expression. the paramattas were a very old new south wales family. they were originally sheep-farmers, or squatters as they used to be called. they owned large estates in new south wales and nearly half of a thriving city. the first lord was called to the peerage in , in recognition of the immense sums that he had devoted to philanthropic and educational purposes. lord reginald was the second son of the third and brother of the fourth peer. he inherited from his mother a large estate in the interior of new south wales. miss fitzherbert greeted lord reginald with marked coolness. "your sister," she said, "told me you were kind enough to desire to wish me farewell before you left to take the london command, upon which allow me to congratulate you." "thanks!" briefly replied his lordship. "an appointment that places me so far from you is not to my mind a subject of congratulation." miss fitzherbert drew herself up, and with warmth remarked, "i am surprised that you should say this to me." "you ought not to be surprised," replied lord reginald. "my sister told you of my feelings towards you, if indeed i have not already sufficiently betrayed them." "your sister must have also told you what i said in reply. pray, my lord, do not inflict on both of us unnecessary pain." "do not mistake my passion for a transitory one. miss fitzherbert, hilda, my life is bound up in yours. it depends on you to send me forth the most happy or the most miserable of men." "your happiness would not last. i am convinced we are utterly unsuited to each other. my answer is 'no' in both our interests." "do not say so finally. take time. tell me i may ask you again after the lapse of some few months." "to tell you so would be to deceive. my answer can never change." "you love some one else, then?" "the question, my lord, is not fair nor seemly, nor have you the right to put it. nevertheless i will say there is no foundation for your surmise." "then why finally reject me? give me time to prove to you how thoroughly i am in earnest." "i have not said i doubted it. but no lapse of years can alter the determination i have come to. i hope, lord reginald, that you will be happy, and that amidst the distractions of london you will soon forget me." "that would be impossible, but it will not be put to the test. i shall not go to london. i believe it is your wish that we should be separated." "i have no wish on the subject. there is nothing more to be said," replied hilda, with extreme coldness. "yes, there is. do not think that i abandon my hope. i will remain near you. i will not let you forget me. i leave you in the conviction that some day you will give me a different answer. when the world is less kind to you than hitherto, you may learn to value the love of one devoted being. there is no good-bye between us." hilda suppressed the intense annoyance that both his words and manner occasioned. she merely remarked, with supreme hauteur, "you will at least be good enough to rid me of your presence here." her coldness seemed to excite the fury of lord reginald beyond the point of control. "as i live, you shall repent this in the future," he muttered in audible accents. shortly afterwards a letter from lord reginald was laid before the premier. he was gratified, he wrote, for the consideration the official appointment displayed; but he could not accept it: his parliamentary duties forbade his doing so. if, he continued, it was considered that his duty as an officer demanded his accepting the offer, he would send in his papers and retire from the service, though of course he would retain his position in the volunteer force unless the emperor wished otherwise. it should be explained that the volunteer force was of at least equal importance to the regular service. officers had precedence interchangeably according to seniority. long since the absurdity had been recognised of placing the volunteer force on a lower footing than the paid forces. regular officers eagerly sought to be elected to commands in volunteer regiments, and the colonel of a volunteer regiment enjoyed fully as much consideration in every respect as the colonel of any of the paid regiments. the duty of defending all parts of the empire from invasion was specially assigned to volunteers. the volunteer force throughout the empire numbered at least two million, besides which there was a volunteer reserve force of three quarters of a million, which comprised the best men selected from the volunteers. the vacancies were filled up each year by fresh selections to make up the full number. the volunteer reserve force could be mobilised at short notice, and was available for service anywhere. its members enjoyed many prized social distinctions. the regular force of the empire was comparatively small. in order to understand the availability of the volunteer reserve force, regard must be had to the immense improvement in education. no child attained man or woman's estate without a large theoretical and practical knowledge of scientific laws and their ordinary application. for example, few adults were so ignorant as not to understand the modes by which motive power of various descriptions was obtained and the principles on which the working depended--each person was more or less an engineer. a hundred years since, education was deemed to be the mastering of a little knowledge about a great variety of subjects. thoroughness was scarcely regarded, and the superficial apology for preferring quantity to quality was "education does not so much mean imparting knowledge as training the faculties to acquire it." this plausible plea afforded the excuse for wasting the first twenty years of life of both sexes in desultory efforts to acquire a mastery over the dead languages. "it is a good training to the mind and a useful means of learning the living languages" was in brief the defence for the shocking waste of time. early in the last century it fell to the lot of the then prince of wales, great-grandfather to the present emperor, to prick this educational bladder. he stoutly declared that his sons should learn neither latin nor greek. "why," he said, "should we learn ancient italian any more than the italians should learn the dialects of the ancient britons?" "there is a greek and latin literature," was the reply, "but no literature of ancient britain." "yes," replied the prince, "there is a literature; but does our means of learning the dead languages enable two persons in ten thousand after years of study to take up promiscuously a latin or greek book and read it with ease and comfort? they spend much more time in learning latin and greek than their own language, but who ever buys a latin or greek book to read when he is travelling?" "but a knowledge of latin is so useful in acquiring living languages." "fudge!" said this unceremonious prince, who, by the way, was more than an average classical scholar. "if i want to go to liverpool, i do not proceed there by way of new york. i will back a boy to learn how to speak and read with interest three european languages before he shall be able, even with the aid of a dictionary, to laboriously master the meaning of a latin book he has not before studied." he continued, "do you think one person out of fifty thousand who have learnt greek is so truly imbued with the spirit of the iliad as are those whose only acquaintance with it is through the translations of derby, gladstone, or even pope? it is partly snobbishness," he proceeded, with increased warmth. "the fact is, it is expensive and wasteful to learn greek and latin; and so the rich use the acquirement as another means of walling up class against class. at any rate, i will destroy the fashion; and so that there shall be no loss of learning, i will have every greek and latin work not yet translated that can be read with advantage by decent and modest people rendered into the english language, if it cost me a hundred thousand pounds: and then there will be no longer an excuse for the waste of millions on dead languages, to say nothing of the loss occasioned by the want of education in other subjects that is consequent on the prominence given to the so-called classical attainments." the prince was equal to his word. science and art, mathematical and technical acquirements, took the place of the classics; and people became really well informed. living languages, it was found, could be easily learnt in a few months by personal intercourse with a fluent speaker. this digression has been necessary to explain how it was that the volunteers were capable of acquiring all the scientific knowledge necessary to the ranks of a force trained to the highest military duties. as to the officers, the position was sufficiently coveted to induce competitors for command in volunteer regiments to study the most advanced branches of the profession. it will be understood lord reginald, while offering to retire from the regular service, but intending to retain his volunteer command, really made no military sacrifice, whilst he took up a high ground embarrassing to the authorities. he forced them either to accept his refusal of the london command, and be a party to the breach of discipline involved in a soldier declining to render service wherever it was demanded, or to require his retirement from the regular service, with the certainty of all kinds of questions being asked and surmises made. it was no doubt unusual to offer him such a splendid command without ascertaining that he was ready to accept it, and there was a great risk of miss fitzherbert's name being brought up in an unpleasant manner. women lived in the full light of day, and several journals were in the habit of declaring that the likes and dislikes of women were allowed far too much influence. what an opportunity would be afforded to them if they could hang ever so slightly lord reginald's retirement on some affair of the heart connected with that much-envied young statesman miss fitzherbert! mrs. hardinge rapidly realised all the features of the case. "he means mischief, this man," she said; "but he shall not hurt hilda if i can help it." then she minuted "write lord reginald that i regret he is unable to accept an appointment which i thought would give him pleasure, and which he is so qualified to adorn." she laughed over this sentence. "he will understand its irony," she thought, "and smart under it." she continued, "add that i see no reason for his retirement from the regular service. it was through accident he was not consulted before the offer was officially made. i should be sorry to deprive the empire of his brilliant services. mark 'confidential.'" then she thought to herself, "this is the best way out of it. he has gained to a certain extent a triumph, but he cannot make capital out of it." chapter iv. partial victory. parliament was about to meet, and the emperor was to open it with a speech delivered by himself. much difference of opinion existed as to whether reference should be made to the question of altering the nature of the succession. the emperor desired that all reference to it should be omitted. he told mrs. hardinge frankly he had decided not to agree to an alteration, but he said his greatest pain in refusing was the consciousness that it might deprive him of his present advisers. if the recommendation were formally made, he should be compelled to say that he would not concur until he had recourse to other advisers. he wished her not to impose on him such a necessity. "but," said mrs. hardinge, "your majesty is asking us to hold office at the expense of our opinions." "not so," replied his majesty. "all pressing need of dealing with the question is over. i have resolved to break off the negotiations with the president of the united states for her daughter's hand. i do not think the union would be happy for either, and i take exception to the strong terms in which the president has urged a change in the succession of our imperial line. you see that the question is no longer an urgent one." "i hardly know to which direction our duty points," mrs. hardinge said. "we think the question urgent whether or not your majesty marries at once." "pray do not take that view. there is another reason. i have determined, as i have said, not to accept such advice without summoning other advisers. in adopting this step, i am strictly within my constitutional rights; and i do not say, if a new cabinet also recommends an alteration in the law of succession i will refuse to accept the advice. i will never voluntarily decline to recognise the constitutional rights which i have sworn to uphold. so it might be that a change of cabinet would not alter the result, and then it would be held that i had strained my constitutional power in making the change. i do not wish to appear in this or any other question to hold individual opinions. frankly i will tell you that i doubt if you have the strength to carry your proposed change even if i permitted you to submit it. if i am correct in my conjecture, the question will be forced on you from the other side; and you will be defeated on it. in that case i shall not have interfered; and, as i have said, i prefer not to do so. so you see, mrs. hardinge, that i am selfish in wishing you to hold back the question. it is in my own interest that i do so, and you may dismiss all feeling of compunction." "your majesty has graciously satisfied me that i may do as you suggest without feeling that i am actuated by undue desire to continue in office. i agree with your majesty the parliamentary result is doubtful. it greatly depends on the line taken by lord reginald paramatta and the forty or fifty members who habitually follow him." the emperor's speech was received with profound respect. but as soon as he left the council-chamber a murmur of astonishment ran round. it was generally anticipated that the announcement of the royal marriage would be made. the federal chamber was of magnificent dimensions. it accommodated with comfort the seven hundred and fifty members and one thousand persons besides. the chamber was of circular shape. a line across the centre divided the portion devoted to the members from that occupied by the audience. the latter were seated tier on tier, but not crowded. the members had each a comfortable chair and a little desk in front, on which he could either write or by the hand telegraph communicate telegrams to his friends outside for retransmission if he desired it. he could receive messages also, and in neither case was the least noise made by the instrument. the council-chamber possessed astonishing acoustic powers. vast as were its dimensions, a comparatively feeble voice could be clearly heard at the remotest distance. as soon as some routine business was concluded the leader of the opposition, a lady of great reputation for statesmanship, rose, and, partly by way of interrogation, expressed surprise that no intimation had been made respecting the future happiness of the reigning family. this was about as near a reference to the person of the sovereign as the rules of the house permitted. mrs. hardinge curtly replied that she had no intimation to make, a reply which was received with a general murmur of amazement. the house seemed to be on the point of proceeding to the ordinary business, when lord reginald paramatta rose and said "he ventured to ask, as no reference was made to the subject in the speech, what were the intentions of the government on the question of altering the law of succession of the imperial family." this interruption was received with much surprise. lord reginald had long been a member possessed of great influence. he had a considerable following, numbering perhaps not less than fifty. his rule of conduct hitherto had been to deprecate party warfare. he tried to hold the balance, and neither side had yet been able to number him and his following as partisans. that he should lead the way to an attack of an extreme party character seemed most astonishing. the few words that he had uttered were rapidly translated into meaning that he intended to throw in his lot with the opposition. mrs. hardinge, however, appeared to feel no concern as she quietly replied that she was not aware that the question pressed for treatment. "i am afraid," said lord reginald, "that i am unable to agree with this opinion; and it is my duty to test the feelings of the house on the subject." then he read to the intently listening members a resolution of which he gave notice that it was desirable, in order that no uncertainty should exist on the subject, to record the opinion of the house that the law of succession should not be altered. loud cheers followed the announcement; and the leader of the opposition, who was equally taken by surprise, congratulated lord reginald, with some little irony, on the decided position he had at last assumed. mrs. hardinge, without any trace of emotion or anxiety, rose amidst the cheers of her side of the house. the noble and gallant member, she said, had given notice of a resolution which the government would consider challenged its position. it would be better to take it before proceeding to other business, and if, as she expected, the reply to the imperial speech would not occasion discussion, to-morrow could be devoted to it. lord reginald replied to-morrow would suit him, and the sitting soon came to an end. mrs. hardinge could not but feel surprise at the accuracy of the emperor's anticipation. she was sure he was not aware of lord reginald's intention, and she knew that the latter was acting in revenge for the slight he had received at the hands of hilda fitzherbert. she felt that the prospect of the motion being carried was largely increased through lord reginald having so cleverly appropriated it to himself. but it was equally evident from the cordiality with which the proposal was received that, if lord reginald had not brought it on, some one else would. she saw also that the countess of cairo (the leader of the opposition) had rapidly decided to support lord reginald, though she might have reasonably objected to his appropriating the subject. "he is clever," mrs. hardinge reflected. "he accurately gauged lady cairo's action. what a pity neither hilda nor i can trust him! he is as bad in disposition as he is able in mind." the next day, after the routine business was disposed of, lord reginald's resolution was called on. that it excited immense interest the crowded state of the hall in every part attested. two of the emperor's aides-de-camp were there, each with a noiseless telegraph apparatus in front of him to wire alternately the progress of the debate. reporters were similarly communicating with the _argus_, _age_, and _telegraph_ in melbourne, and with the principal papers in sydney, brisbane, adelaide, and new zealand. lord reginald rose amidst loud cheers from the opposition side of the house. he made a temperate but exceedingly able speech. he would explain before he concluded why he had taken the lead in bringing the question on. hitherto he had not sought to take a prominent place in politics. he was a soldier by profession, and he would infinitely prefer distinguishing himself as a soldier than as a politician; and, as he would show, it was as a soldier that he came forward. he disclaimed any hostility to the equality of the sexes or any objection to the increasing power in public affairs to which women were attaining. he fully recognised that the immense progress of the world during the last hundred years was largely due to the intellectual advancement of women. he equally rejected the idea that women were unfitted to rule over a constitutionally governed empire. then he dwelt at great length on the inexpediency of permitting the constitution to be altered in any one particular, and this part of his speech was warmly cheered by a considerable section on each side of the chamber. the effect of these remarks was, however, marred as far as the government party were concerned by a sneering reference to their disposition to changes of all kinds; and he attempted a feeble joke by insinuating that the most desirable change of all might be a change of government. then he came to his main argument and explained that it was this consideration which had impelled him to take up the question. he was, as he had said, a soldier; but he was not one who overlooked the misery caused by war. he did not long for war, nor did he think that war was a probable contingency; but he felt that the british empire should always be ready for war as the best means of avoiding it, and as a soldier he believed no greater prestige could be given to the forces of their vast dominions than the knowledge that the emperor was ready to lead them in person. "i would not," he said, "exclude the female line; but i would not give it larger probabilities of succession than it enjoys at present. again, as a soldier i declare that the interests of the empire forbid our doing anything to limit the presence at the head of his forces of the ruler of the empire." lord reginald sat down amidst cheers. he had been listened to with profound attention, and parts of his speech were warmly applauded. still, on the whole, the speech was not a success. every one felt that there was something wanting. the speaker seemed to be deficient in sincerity. the impression left was that he had some object in view. the malign air with which the little joke was uttered about a change of government was most repelling. it came with singularly bad grace from one who tried to make out that he was unwillingly forced into opposition to a government with which he had been friendly. mrs. hardinge rose amidst loud and continuous cheers. she combated each argument of the last speaker. she admitted her great disinclination to change the constitution, but, she asked, was reverence for the constitution promoted by upholding it on the ground not of its merits, but of the inexpediency of varying it? she freely admitted that her feelings were in favour of changing the laws of succession, but she had not brought forward any proposal to that effect, nor, as an advocate of a change, did she see any immediate or early need of bringing down proposals. was it a good precedent to make great ministerial changes depend on resolutions affecting not questions before the house, not proposals made by the government, but sentiments or opinions they were supposed to entertain? this was a great change in parliamentary procedure, a larger one than those changes which the noble lord had sneeringly credited her with advocating. then she gave lord reginald a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. she pictured him as head of the government in consequence of carrying his resolution; she selected certain unpopular sentiments which he was known to entertain, and, amidst great laughter, travestied lord reginald's defence of his fads in response to resolutions of the same kind as they were now discussing. she grew eloquent even to inspiration in describing the abilities of the female sovereigns of the past. and as to the soldier's point of view she asked did not history tell them that the arms of the country had been as successful under female as under male rulers? the noble lord, she said, amidst roars of laughter, had intended to come forward as a soldier; but, for her part, she thought he had posed as a courtier, and sarcastically she hinted that he was as able in one capacity as the other. "he is sad, sir," she continued, "over the possibility that any one but the emperor should lead the forces; but if all that is said as to the noble lord's ambition be correct, he would prefer leading the troops himself to following the lead of the most exalted commander." she concluded with an eloquent appeal to her own party. she did not deny the opinions of her colleagues and herself, but asked was it wise to allow a great party to be broken up by a theoretical discussion upon a subject not yet before the country, and which for a long while might not come before it? mrs. hardinge's speech was received most enthusiastically, and at its conclusion it was clear that she had saved her party from breaking up. not a vote would be lost to it. the result merely depended on what addition lord reginald's own following could bring to the usual strength of the opposition. after some more debating a division ensued, and the resolution was lost by two votes only. both sides cheered, but there was breathless silence when mrs. hardinge rose. she made no reference to the debate beyond the very significant one of asking that the house should adjourn for a week. chapter v. cabinet negotiations. mrs. hardinge tendered the resignation of the government to the emperor, who at once sent for lady cairo, the leader of the opposition. he asked her to form an administration. "your majesty," she said, "knows that, though i am in opposition to the present premier, i greatly admire both her ability and honesty of purpose. i am not at all satisfied that she is called on to resign, or that the small majority she had on the late resolution indicates that she has not a large following on other questions." "i hold," said the emperor, "the balance evenly between the great parties of the state; and i respect the functions of the opposition no less than those of the government. it is the opinion of my present advisers that a strong administration is necessary, and that, after such a division as that of the other night, the opposition should have the opportunity offered to them of forming a government." "i respect," replied lady cairo, "mrs. hardinge's action, and under like circumstances would have pursued a like course. but though mrs. hardinge is right in offering us the opportunity, it does not follow that we should be wise in accepting it." "you are of that," replied the emperor, "of course the best judge. but i should not like so grave a step as the one which mrs. hardinge has felt it her duty to take to be construed into a formality for effacing the effect of a vote of the house. i am averse," said the wise ruler, "to anything which might even remotely make me appear as the medium of, or interferer with, parliamentary action. i esteem mrs. hardinge, and i esteem you, lady cairo; but if the resignation now tendered to me went no further than at present, it might justly be surmised that i had permitted myself to be the means of strengthening what mrs. hardinge considered an insufficient parliamentary confidence. i therefore ask you not to give me a hasty answer, but to consult your friends and endeavour to form a strong government." no more could be said. lady cairo, with becoming reverence, signified her submission to the emperor's wishes. she summoned her chief friends and colleagues, and had many earnest conferences with them separately and collectively. it was readily admitted that, if they formed a government, there was a considerable number of members who, though not their supporters, would protect them in a fair trial. it was indeed certain that mrs. hardinge would be too generous to indulge in factious opposition, and that, if they avoided any notoriously controversial measure, she would herself help them to get through the session. but lady cairo was a large-minded statesman. she loved power, but, because she loved it, was averse to exercising it on sufferance. she could not but be sensible such would be her position, and that she would have to trust less to the strength of her own party than to the forbearance of her opponents. besides, there was a point about which a great difference of opinion existed. she could not attempt to form a government unless in combination with lord reginald, who moved the resolution. the animosity he had displayed to the government made it probable, almost certain, that he would do what he could to aid her; it might even be expected that he would induce all or nearly all of his followers to come over to her; but again and again she asked herself the question would such an alliance be agreeable to her? joint action during an animated debate was widely different from the continued intimacy of official comradeship. she liked lord reginald no better than other persons liked him. she had very clear perceptions, and was of a high and honourable nature. lord reginald inspired her with distrust. it was his misfortune to awaken that feeling in the minds of those persons with whom he came into contact. her most trusted colleagues were generally of the same opinion, though several prominent members of the party thought it a mistake not to accept the opportunity and test its chances. her intimate friends expressed their opinion with diffidence. they would not accept the responsibility of dissuading her from taking office. they knew that it was a high position and one to which individually she would do justice, and they knew also that many contingencies might convert a government weak at the outset into a strong one. but she could read between the lines, the more especially that she shared the distrust at which they hinted. two of the colleagues she most valued went so far as to leave her to understand that they would not join her government, though of course they would support it. they excused themselves on private grounds; but she was shrewd enough to see these were the ostensible, not the real, reasons. lady cairo was not one of those persons who habitually try to persuade themselves to what their inclinations lead. what she had said to the emperor satisfied the most fastidious loyalty. she was perfectly free to take office. no one could question either her action or her motive. she need not fear the world's opinion if she consulted her own inclination, and nineteen out of twenty persons would have been satisfied. she was not; she still saw before her the necessity of acting with one colleague at least, lord reginald, who would be distasteful to her: and as a strong party statesman, she was not well disposed generally to the bulk of his followers, whose inclination led them to endeavour to hold the balance of power between contending parties. she determined on consulting her aged mother, now a confirmed invalid, but once a brilliant and powerful statesman, noted for her high sense of honour. "my dear," said this helpless lady when she had heard all her daughter had to tell her, "no one but yourself can measure the strength or the justice of the distaste you feel for the alliance you must make if you accept the splendid responsibilities offered to you. but the distaste exists, and it is not likely to become less. i doubt if you are justified in disregarding it. your time will come, my dear; and it will be a pleasure to you to think that you have not sought it at the expense of a personal sacrifice of doubts, that would not exist if all grounds for them were wanting. you must decide. i will go no further than to say this. i cannot persuade you to allow your inclination for office to overrule your disinclination to a powerful section of those who must share your responsibilities. it is sadly often the case that the instinct to sacrifice inclination is more reliable than the disposition to follow it." three days after their last interview the emperor again received lady cairo. "your majesty, i have to decline, with great respect and much gratitude for the confidence you reposed in me, the task of forming a government with which you graciously charged me." "is this your deliberate decision? i am told that you would have no difficulty in carrying on the business of the session if lord reginald and his party supported you.' "that is a contingency, sir, on which i could not count." "how! he has not promised to support you?" "i have not asked him. our chance presence in the same division lobby did not appear to me a sufficient basis of agreement." "then," said the emperor, "the mover of the resolution that has occasioned so much trouble has not been consulted?" "it is so, your majesty, as far as i am concerned. i did not understand that you made coalition with him a condition of my attempt to form a government. i hope, sir, you acquit me of having disregarded your wishes." "i do, lady cairo. i made no conditions, nor was i entitled to do so. i left you quite free. only it seemed to me you must act with the support of lord reginald and his following, and that therefore you would necessarily consult him." "i would not say anything in disparagement of lord reginald; but may it not be that my party do not think there has been such habitual agreement with him as to warrant our assuming that a coalition would be for the public interest, to say nothing of our own comfort?" "i see," muttered the emperor in barely audible voice, "always the same distrust of this man, able and brave though he be." then aloud, "lady cairo, what am i to do? should i send for lord reginald and ask him to attempt to form a government?" "i implore your majesty not to ask me for advice. mrs. hardinge is still in power. may i," she said in a tone of pathetic entreaty, "utter half a dozen words not officially, but confidentially?" "certainly you have my permission." "then, sir, you will understand me when i say that personal opinions, confidence, trust, and liking may have so much to do with the matter that it will be graciously kind of your majesty to allow me to state only this much in my place in the house: that, after considering the charge you entrusted to me, i felt compelled to refuse it, not believing that i could form a government which would enjoy the confidence of a majority of the house." "let it be so," said the emperor good-humouredly. "that may be your version. i must not put my troubles upon you." "your majesty is most good, most kind. i can never be sufficiently grateful." the emperor had gained one more devoted admirer. few who came into personal contact with him failed to be fascinated by his wonderful sympathy and grace. all human character appeared an open book to his discernment. he sent for mrs. hardinge. "i fear," he said, "you will not be pleased at what i am about to say. lady cairo has declined to form a government. i may have to refuse to accept your resignation, or rather to ask you to withdraw it. first, however, i wish your advice; but before i formally seek it tell me would it be distasteful to you to give it." he paused to afford an opportunity to mrs. hardinge to speak, of which she did not avail herself. "lady cairo," he continued, "did not communicate at all with the mover of the resolution, lord reginald. will you be averse to my asking you to advise me on the subject?" it will be observed that he did not ask for the advice. he well knew, if he did so, mrs. hardinge would be bound to declare that he had asked for advice, and whether she gave it or not, would still be unable to conceal that it was sought from her. the emperor now only put his question on the footing of whether she was willing that he should seek her opinion. mrs. hardinge appreciated his consideration. it all came back to the point that the objection to lord reginald was of a personal nature, and as such it was in the last degree distasteful to every one to be mixed up with its consideration. "your majesty," said mrs. hardinge, "has a claim to seek my advice on the subject; but there are reasons which make me very averse to giving it. if i can avoid doing so, you will make me very grateful." the emperor mused. "whatever the special reasons may be, why should i force on so valuable a public servant the necessity of making a lifelong enemy of this unscrupulous man? to me his enmity matters little. i will myself decide the point. lord reginald did not carry his resolution, and mrs. hardinge need not have tendered her resignation. she did offer it; and, guided by constitutional rule, i sent for the leader of the opposition. i did not take advice from mrs. hardinge as to whether i should send for lord reginald or lady cairo. i acted on my own responsibility, as in such cases i prefer doing. i am opposed to the principle of a retiring minister selecting his or her successor. i had the right to suppose that lady cairo would consult lord reginald, though not to complain of her failing to do so. if i send for lord reginald, it must be of my own initiative there is no reason why i should consult mrs. hardinge now, seeing that i did not consult her at first. so much then is settled. now i must myself decide if i will send for lord reginald. it will be distasteful to me to do so. i have no confidence in the man, and it would be a meaningless compliment, for he cannot form a government. why should i make a request i know cannot be complied with? constitutional usage does not demand it; in fact, the precedent will be injurious. because of a sudden accidental combination, the representative of a small party has no right to be elevated into the most important leader. such a practice would encourage combinations injurious to party government. if i had intended to send for lord reginald, i ought to have summoned him before i sought lady cairo. i am quite satisfied that the course i pursued was constitutional and wise, and i should throw doubt upon it by sending for lord reginald now." these reflections were made in less time than it takes to write them down. "mrs. hardinge," said the emperor, "we now begin our official interview. be kind enough to efface from your mind what has hitherto passed. i have to ask you to withdraw your resignation. lady cairo, the leader of the opposition, has declined to act, on the ground that she cannot form a government which will sufficiently possess the confidence of a majority of the house." "it shall be as your majesty wishes," said mrs. hardinge. when the house met, mrs. hardinge, by agreement with lady cairo, merely stated that, after the division of last week, she had felt it her duty to tender the resignation of her government to the emperor. lady cairo in very few words explained that the emperor had sent for her and entrusted her with the formation of a government, and that, after sufficient consideration, she resolved it was not desirable she should undertake the task, as she could not rely on a majority in the house and could not submit to lead it on sufferance. mrs. hardinge again rose, and explained that, at the request of the emperor, she had withdrawn her resignation. loud cheers from all sides of the house followed the intimation. public feeling during the week had abundantly shown itself to be against a change of government upon what really amounted to a theoretical question, as the matter was not before the house upon which the resolution was nearly carried. it was argued that even if carried it would have been a most unsatisfactory reason for a change of government. there was one member in the chamber to whom all that had passed was gall and wormwood. lord reginald left the house last week a marked and distinguished man. for the first twenty-four hours he received from those persons throughout the empire who made it their business to stand well with "the powers that be" congratulations of a most flattering description. to-day there was "none so poor to do him reverence." the change was intolerable to a man of his proud and haughty disposition. the worst feature of it was that he could not single out any one specially for complaint. there was no disguising from himself what every one in the house knew, and what every one throughout the empire soon would know: that the emperor himself and the leaders of both the great parties did not think him worthy of consideration. as we have seen, there was no actual slight; that is to say, constitutional usages had been followed. but to his mind he had been slighted in a most marked and offensive fashion. why was he not sent for at first? why did not lady cairo consult him? why was mrs. hardinge asked to withdraw her resignation without his assistance being sought--he, the mover of the resolution; he, the man who brought on the crisis about which miles of newspaper columns had since been written? he forgot that no one had asked him to take the action he did, that he had sought no advice on the subject, and that politicians who elect to act on their own account have no right to complain of the isolation they court. scarcely any one spoke to him. a member near him, noticing his extreme pallor, asked him if he was unwell; but no one seemed to care about him or to remember that he had had anything to do with the crisis which, to the rejoicing of all sides, was over. "the newspapers," he thought, "will not forget." they had blamed him during the last week; now they would ridicule and laugh at him. he writhed at the reflection; and when he reached the quiet of his own home, he paced his large study as one demented. "i will be revenged," he muttered over and over again. "i will show them i am not so powerless a being; they shall all repent the insult they have put on me: and as for that girl, that image of snow--she has set mrs. hardinge against me. she shall grovel at my feet; she shall implore me to marry her." chapter vi. baffled revenge. hilda's most confidential secretary was her sister, maud fitzherbert. she was some two or three years younger, a lovely, graceful girl, and possessed of scarcely less intellectual power than hilda. she had perhaps less inclination for public life; but both the girls were learned in physical laws, in mathematics, in living languages, in everything, in short, to which they devoted their extraordinary mental powers. they adored each other, and maud looked up to hilda as to a divinity. the latter was writing in her room. maud came to her. "lord montreal is most anxious to see you for a few minutes." lord montreal was a fine-looking, handsome young man of twenty-five years of age. he was a brave soldier, a genial companion, and a general favourite. he was the second son of the duke of ontario. he had known the fitzherberts since they were children, and the families were intimate. hilda greeted him cordially. "i will not detain you," he said; "but i have had important information confided to me in strict secrecy. i cannot tell you who was my informant, and you must not use my name. will you accept the conditions?" "i must, i suppose, if you insist on them." "i must insist on them. my information much concerns my commanding officer, lord reginald paramatta, with whom i am only on formal terms; and therefore my name must not appear. as to my informant, his condition was absolute secrecy as to his name. the gist of what he told me was that lord reginald is organising a secret society, with objects certainly not loyal to the emperor, if indeed they are not treasonable. i gathered that there is something more contemplated than theoretical utterances, and that action of a most disastrous character may follow if steps to arrest it be not at once taken. the information was imparted to me in order that i might bring it to you. i feel that i have been placed in a false position by being made the recipient without proof of statements so damaging to my superior officer; and though i fear that i may be placing a trouble upon you, i have on reflection not thought myself warranted in withholding the statement, as it was made to me with the object of its reaching you. never again will i give assurances about statements the nature of which i do not know." miss fitzherbert seemed to be destined to annoyance through lord reginald. she was now called to set the detective power in force against a man who a few days since so eagerly sought her hand. "i certainly wish," she said, "that you will not give promises which will land you into bringing me information of this kind." "you surely," said montreal, "do not care for lord reginald?" "i may not and do not care for him, but it is not agreeable to be asked to search out criminal designs on the part of a person with whom one is acquainted." "forgive me, hilda," said montreal. "it was thoughtless of me not to think that i might give you pain. but, you see, i regard you as indifferent to everything but public affairs. now maud is different;" and he looked at the fair girl who still remained in the room, with eyes in which warm affection was plainly visible. "maud has a heart, of course; but i have not," said hilda, with more irritation than she was accustomed to display. the poor girl had suffered much annoyance during the last few days, and the climax was attained that afternoon when she read in a paper purposely sent to her a strangely inverted account of her relations with lord reginald. according to this journal, mrs. hardinge had treated lord reginald cruelly because she could not induce him to respond to the affection which her protegée hilda fitzherbert felt for the great soldier. in spite of, or perhaps on account of, her vast mental power, hilda was possessed of a singularly sensitive character. she gave herself up to public affairs in the full conviction that women could do so without sacrificing in the smallest degree their self-respect. she had a high conception of the purity and holiness of woman's individual existence, and it seemed to her a sacrilege to make the public life of a woman the excuse for dragging before the eyes of the world anything that affected her private feelings. she was intensely annoyed at this paragraph. in the end, we may say in anticipation. lord reginald did not come out of it with advantage. the next issue of the paper contained the following passage: "in reference to what appeared in our columns last week about miss fitzherbert, we must apologise to that lady. we are informed by mrs. hardinge that the facts were absolutely inverted. it is not lord reginald who is unwilling. it is lord reginald who has received a _decidedly_ negative reply." hilda was not one to readily inflict her own annoyances on others. she recovered herself in a moment as she saw the pained look on maud's face. "forgive me, montreal; forgive me, maud," she said. "i have much to disturb me. i did not mean to be unkind. of course, montreal, i should have liked your aid in this matter; but as you cannot give it, i must see what i can do without it. good-bye, montreal. maud dear, send at once to colonel laurient, and ask him if he will do me the kindness to come to see me at once." colonel laurient was a very remarkable man. he was on his mother's side of an ancient jewish family, possessing innumerable branches all over the world. at various times members of the family had distinguished themselves both in public life and in scientific, commercial, and financial pursuits. colonel laurient was the second son of one of the principal partners in the de childrosse group, the largest and most wealthy financial house in the world. when his education was completed, he decided not to enter into the business, as his father gave him the option of doing. he had inherited an enormous fortune from his aunt, the most celebrated scientific chemist and inventor of her day. she had left him all the law permitted her to leave to one relation. he entered the army, and also obtained a seat in parliament. as a soldier he gained a reputation for extreme skill and discretion in the guerilla warfare that sometimes was forced on the authorities in the british asiatic possessions. on one occasion by diplomatic action he changed a powerful foe on the frontier of the indian possessions to a devoted friend, his knowledge of languages and asiatic lore standing him in good stead. this action brought him to the notice of the emperor, who soon attached him to his personal service, and, it was said, put more faith in his opinions than in those of any person living. he was rather the personal friend than the servant of the emperor. some twenty years before the date of our story it was found necessary to give to the then sovereign a private service of able and devoted men. it was the habit of the emperor of united britain to travel about the whole of his vast dominions. the means of travelling were greatly enlarged, and what would at one time have been considered a long and fatiguing expedition ceased to possess any difficulty or inconvenience. a journey from london to melbourne was looked upon with as much indifference as one from london to the continent used to be. it became apparent that either the freedom of the emperor to roam about at pleasure must be much curtailed, or that he must be able to travel without encroaching on the ordinary public duty of his constitutional advisers. thus a species of personal bodyguard grew up, with the members of which, according as his temperament dictated, the sovereign became on more or less intimate personal terms. the officers holding this coveted position had no official status. if there was any payment, the emperor made it. there was no absolute knowledge of the existence of the force, if such it could be called, or of who composed it. that the sovereign had intimate followers was of course known, and it was occasionally surmised that they held recognised and defined positions. but it was merely surmise, after all; and not half a dozen people outside of cabinet rank could have positively named the friends of the emperor who were members of the bodyguard. colonel laurient retired from parliament, where he had rather distinguished himself in the treatment of questions requiring large geographical and historical knowledge; and it was commonly supposed, he wished to give more attention to his military duties. in reality he became chief of the emperor's bodyguard, and, it might be said, was the eyes and ears of the sovereign. with consummate ability he organised a secret intelligence department, and from one end of the dominions to the other he became aware of everything that was passing. not infrequently the emperor amazed cabinet ministers with the extent of his knowledge of immediate events. colonel laurient never admitted that he held any official position, and literally he did not hold any such position. he received no pay, and his duties were not defined. he loved the emperor personally for himself, and the emperor returned the feeling. really the most correct designation to give to his position was to term him the emperor's most devoted friend and to consider that in virtue thereof the members of the bodyguard regarded him as their head, because he stood to them in the place of the emperor himself. hilda fitzherbert knew something, and conjectured more, as to his position. she was frequently brought into communication with him, and after she heard lord montreal's story she instantly determined to consult him. he came quickly on her invitation. he was always pleased to meet her. colonel laurient was a tall, slender man, apparently of about thirty-five years of age. his complexion was very dark; and his silky, curly hair was almost of raven blackness. his features were small and regular, and of that sad but intellectual type common to some of the pure-bred asiatic races. you would deem him a man who knew how to "suffer and be strong;" you would equally deem him one whom no difficulty could frighten, no obstacle baffle. you would expect to see his face light up to enjoyment not because of the prospect of ordinary pleasure, but because of affairs of exceeding gravity which called for treatment by a strong hand and subtle brain. his manner was pleasing and deferential; and he had a voice of rare harmony, over which he possessed complete control. cordial greetings passed between him and miss fitzherbert. there was no affectation of apology being necessary for sending for him or of pleasure on his part at the summons. briefly she told him of lord montreal's communication. he listened attentively, then carelessly remarked, "lord reginald's conduct has been very peculiar lately." do what she would, the girl could not help giving a slight start at this remark, made as it was with intention. colonel laurient at once perceived that there was more to be told than he already was aware of. he knew a great deal that had passed with lord reginald, and guessed more; and gradually, with an apparently careless manner, he managed to elicit so much from hilda that she thought it wiser to tell him precisely all that had occurred, especially the account of her last interview with lord reginald and his subsequent letter resigning his appointment. "confidences with me," he said, "are entirely safe. now i understand his motives, you and i start on fair terms, which we could not do whilst you knew more than i did." then they discussed what had better be done. "it may be," colonel laurient said, "that there is nothing in it. there is a possibility that it is a pure invention, and it is even possible that lord reginald may have himself caused the invention to reach you for the purpose of giving you annoyance. montreal's informant may have been instigated by lord reginald. then there is the possibility--we may say probability--that the purposes of the society do not comprise a larger amount of disaffection or dissatisfaction than the law permits. and, lastly, there is let us say the barest possibility that lord reginald, enraged to madness, may have determined on some really treasonable action. you know in old days it was said, 'hell has no fury like a woman scorned;' but in our time we would not give the precedence for wounded vanity to woman; man is not wanting in the same susceptibility, and lord reginald has passed through a whole series of humiliating experiences. i knew some of them before i saw you this afternoon. you have filled up the list with a bitter from which he doubtless suffers more than from all the rest." miss fitzherbert appeared to care little for this strain of conjecture. "what is the use of it?" she said. "however infinitesimal the risk of treasonable designs, the emperor must not be allowed to run it." "you are right," said colonel laurient. "i do not, as you know, appear in these matters; but i have means of obtaining information of secret things. within twenty-four hours i will see you again and let you know what it all means. we can then decide the course to take." some explanation is necessary to enable colonel laurient's remarks about the limits of disaffection to be understood. freedom of thought and expression was amongst the cardinal liberties of the subject most prized. in order to recognise its value, it was long since determined that a line should be drawn beyond which the liberty should not extend. it was argued that nothing could be more cruel than to play with disaffection of a dangerous nature. not only was it the means of increasing the disaffection, but of gradually drawing eminent people into compromising positions. the line then was drawn at this point:--upon any subject that did not affect the fundamental principles of the constitution change might be permissible, but any advocacy or even suggestion of destroying those fundamental principles was regarded as treasonable. the constitution was so framed as to indicate within itself the principles which were susceptible of modification or change, such, for example, as the conditions of the franchise and the modes of conducting elections. but there were three fundamental points concerning which no change was allowable, and these were--first, that the empire should continue an empire; secondly, that the sovereignty should remain in the present reigning family; and thirdly, that the union of the different parts of the dominion was irrevocable and indissoluble. it will be remembered that a great aversion had been expressed by the upholders of the constitution to the proposal to change the law of succession within the imperial family. it could not be said to touch on the second fundamental principle, as it did not involve a change of dynasty; yet many thought it too nearly approached one of the sacred, unchangeable principles. as regards the fundamental principles, no discussion was permissible. to question even the wisdom of continuing the empire, of preserving the succession in the imperial family, or of permitting a separation of any of the dominions was held to be rank treason; and no mercy was shown to an offender. outside of these points changes could be made, and organisations to promote changes were legitimate, however freely they indulged in plain speech. the conduct of the emperor himself was legitimately a subject of comment, especially on any point in which he appeared to fail in respect to the constitution he had sworn to uphold. it need scarcely be said that the constitution was no longer an ill-defined and unwritten one. such a constitution worked well enough as long as the different parts of the empire were united only during pleasure. when the union became irrevocable, it was a natural necessity that the conditions of union should be defined. it may be convenient here to state some of the broad features of the governing and social system. it has already been said that, without approaching to communism, it had long since been decided that every human being was entitled to a share in the good things of the world, and that destitution was abhorrent. it was also recognised that the happiest condition of humanity was a reasonable amount of work and labour. for that very reason, it was decided not to make the labour distasteful by imposing it as a necessity. the love of work, not its necessity, was the feeling it was desirable to implant. manual work carried with it no degradation, and there was little work to be done which did not require intelligence. mere brute force was superseded by the remarkable contrivances for affording power and saving labour which were brought even to the humblest homes. the waves, tides, and winds stored up power which was convertible into electricity or compressed air; and either of these aids to labour-saving could be carried from house to house as easily as water. if men and women wished to be idle and state pensioners, it was open to them to follow their inclination; but they had to wear uniforms, and they were regarded as inferior by the healthy body politic. the aged, infirm, and helpless might enjoy state aid without being subjected to such a humiliation or to any disability. the starting-point was that, if a person was not sufficiently criminal to be the inmate of a prison, he should not be relegated to a brutal existence. it was at first argued that such a system would encourage inaction and idleness; the state would be deluged with pensioners. but subtler counsels prevailed. far-seeing men and women argued that the condition of the world was becoming one of contracted human labour; and if the viciously inclined refused to work, there would be more left to those who had the ambition to be industrious. "but," was the rejoinder, "you are stifling ambition by making the lowest round of the ladder so comfortable and luxurious." to this was replied, "your argument is superficial. survey mankind; and you will see that, however lowly its lowest position, there is a ceaseless, persistent effort to rise on the part of nearly every well-disposed person, from the lowliest to the most exalted." ambition, it was urged, was natural to man, but it was least active amongst the poverty-crushed classes. mankind as a whole might be described as myriads of units striving to ascend a mountain. the number of those contented to rest on the plateaus to which they had climbed was infinitesimal compared with the whole. it would be as difficult to select them as it would be to pick out a lazy bee from a whole hive. whether you started at the lowest class, with individuals always on the point of starvation, with families herded together with less decency than beasts of the fields, and with thousands of human beings who from cradle to grave knew not what happiness meant, or made the start from a higher elevation, upon which destitution was impossible, there would still continue the climbing of myriads to greater heights and the resting on plateaus of infinitesimally few; indeed, as poverty tended to crush ambition, there would be a larger range of aspiration accompanying an improvement in the condition of the lowliest class. and so it proved. the system of government and taxation followed the theory of the range above destitution. taxes were exacted in proportion to the ability to pay them. the payments for the many services the post office rendered were not regarded as taxation. the customs duties were looked upon as payments made in proportion to the desires of the people to use dutiable goods. if high customs duties meant high prices, they also meant high wages. the empire, following the practice of other countries, was utterly averse to giving employment to the peoples of foreign nations. every separate local dominion within the empire was at liberty to impose by its legislature what duties it pleased as between itself and other parts of the empire, but it was imperatively required to collect three times the same duties on commodities from foreign countries. this was of course meant to be prohibitive of foreign importations, and was practicable because the countries within the empire could supply every commodity in the world. it was argued that to encourage foreign importations merely meant to pit cheap labour against the price for labour within the empire. besides the customs duties, the revenue was almost entirely made up of income tax and succession duties. stamp duties, as obstacles to business, were considered an evidence of the ignorance of the past. the first five hundred pounds a year of income was free; but beyond that amount the state appropriated one clear fourth of all incomes. similarly one quarter of the value of all successions, real or personal, in excess of ten thousand pounds, was payable to the state; and disposition by gifts before death came within the succession values. a man or woman was compelled to leave half his or her property, after payment of succession duty, in defined proportion to the children and wife or husband, as the case might be, or failing these to near relations; the other half he or she might dispose of at pleasure. it was argued that to a certain extent the amasser of wealth had only a life interest in it, and that it was not for the happiness of the successors of deceased people to come into such wealth that the ambition to work and labour would be wanting. the system did not discourage the amassment of wealth; on the contrary, larger fortunes were made than in former times. higher prices gave to fortunes of course a comparatively less purchasing power; but taking the higher prices into consideration, the accumulation of wealth became a more honourable ambition and a pleasanter task when it ceased to be purchased at the expense of the comfort of the working classes. the customs duties belonged to the separate governments that collected them, and the quarter-income tax and succession duties were equally divided between the imperial and the dominion governments. thus the friction between them was minimised. the imperial government and the dominion governments both enjoyed during most years far more revenue than they required, and so large a reserve fund was accumulated that no inconvenience was felt in years of depression. part of the surplus revenues arising from the reserve fund was employed in large educational and benevolent works and undertakings. the result of the system was that pecuniary suffering in all directions was at an end; but the ambition to acquire wealth, with its concomitant powers, was in no degree abated. of course there was not universal content--such a condition would be impossible--but the controversies were, as a rule, less bitter than the former ones which prevailed between different classes. the man-and-woman struggle was one of the large points of constant difference, and again there was much difference of opinion as to whether the quarter-income and succession duties might be reduced to a fifth. it was argued, on the one hand, that the reserve funds were becoming too large, and that the present generation was working too much for its successors. on the other hand, it was urged that the present generation in working for its successors was merely perpetuating the gift which it had inherited, and that by preserving the reserve funds great strength was given to contend against any reverses that the future might have in store. another point of controversy was the strength of the naval and military forces. a comparatively small school of public men argued that the cost and strength might be materially reduced without risk or danger, but the general feeling was not with them. this has been a long digression, but it was necessary to the comprehension of our story. it will easily be understood from what has been said that, supposing the alleged action of lord reginald was dictated by revenge, it was difficult to see, unless he resorted to treasonable efforts, what satisfaction he could derive from any agitation. colonel laurient the next afternoon fulfilled his promise of waiting on hilda. she had suffered great anxiety during the interval--the anxiety natural to ill-defined fears and doubts. he looked careworn, and his manner was more serious than on the previous day. "i have found out all about it," he said; "and i am sorry there is more cause for anxiety than we thought yesterday. it is undoubtedly true that lord reginald is organising some combination; and although the proof is wanting, there is much reason to fear that his objects are not of a legitimate nature. it is impossible to believe, he would take the trouble which he is assuming, to deal only with questions to which he has never shown an inclination. i am persuaded that behind the cloak of his ostensible objects lies ambition or revenge, or perhaps both, pointing to extreme and highly dangerous action." "you are probably right," said miss fitzherbert, who knew from the manner of the emperor's favourite that he was much disturbed by what he had heard. "but even so, what obstacle lies in the way of putting an end to the projected action, whatever its nature?" "there is a great obstacle," promptly replied the colonel; "and that is the doubt as to what the nature of the project is. lord reginald is a clever man; and notwithstanding his late failure, he has plenty of friends and admirers, especially among his own sex, and amongst soldiers, both volunteers and regulars. i have ascertained enough to show me that the leaders intend to keep within ostensibly legitimate limits until the time comes to unfold their full design to their followers, and that then they will trust to the comradeship of the latter and to their fears of being already compromised." hilda was quick of apprehension. "i see they will organise to complain perhaps of the nature of the taxation, and only expose their treasonable objects at a later time." colonel laurient gazed on her with admiration. "how readily you comprehend!" he said. "i believe you alone can grapple with the situation." the girl flushed, and then grew pale. she did not know what physical fear meant. probably, if her feelings were analysed, it would have been found that the ruling sensation she experienced was an almost delirious pleasure at the idea that she could do a signal service to the emperor. she replied, however, with singular self-repression. "i am not quick enough," she said, with a slight smile, "to understand how i can be of any use." "the organisation has been proceeding some time, although i fancy lord reginald has only lately joined and accepted the leadership. it numbers thousands who believe themselves banded together only to take strong measures to reduce taxation, on the ground that the reserve funds have become amply large enough to permit such reduction. but the leaders have other views; and i have ascertained that they propose to hold a meeting three days hence, at which it is possible--nay, i think, probable--there will be an unreserved disclosure." "why not," said miss fitzherbert, "arrest them in the midst of their machinations?" "there lies the difficulty," responded the colonel. "it entirely depends on the nature of the disclosures whether the government authorities are entitled to take any action. if the disclosures fall short of being treasonable, it would be held that there was interference of a most unpardonable character with freedom of speech and thought; and the last of it would never be heard. dear miss fitzherbert," he said caressingly, "we want some one at the meeting with a judgment so evenly balanced and accurate that she will be able on the instant to decide if the treasonable intentions are sufficiently expressed or if it would be safer not to interfere. i know no one so quick and at the same time so logical in her judgment as you. in vain have i thought of any one else whom it would be nearly so safe to employ." "but how could it be managed?" inquired hilda. "every one knows my appearance. my presence would be immediately detected." "pray listen to me," said the colonel, delighted at having met with no strenuous opposition. he had feared, he would have great difficulty in persuading miss fitzherbert to take the part he intended for her; and, to his surprise, she seemed inclined to meet him half-way. then he explained that the meeting was to be held in the parliamentary hall, a celebrated place of meeting. it had been constructed with the express purpose of making it impossible that any one not inside the hall could hear what was taking place. the edifice was an enormous one of stone. inside this building, about fifteen feet from the walls all round, and twenty feet from the roof, was a second erection, composed entirely of glass. so that as long as the external building was better lighted than the interior one the presence of a human being could be detected outside the walls or on the roof of the hall of meeting. the chamber was artificially cooled, as indeed were most of the houses in the cities of australia, excepting during the winter months. "this is the place of all others," said miss fitzherbert, "where it would be difficult for an unauthorised person to be present." "not so," replied colonel laurient. "the inside hall is to be in darkness, and the exterior dimly lighted. only the vague outlines of each person's form will be revealed; and every one is to come cloaked, and with a large overshadowing hat. from what i can gather, the revelation is to be gradual and only to be completed if it should seem to be approved during its progress. i expect lord reginald will be the last to give in his adhesion, so that it might be said he was deceived as to the purpose of the meeting if he should see fit to withdraw from the declaration of its real object. mind, you are to be sole judge as to whether the meeting transgresses the line which divides the legitimate from the treasonable." "why not act yourself?" said hilda. "if you think for a moment," he replied, "you will understand my influence is maintained only so long as it is hidden. if i appeared to act, it would cease altogether. unfortunately i must often let others do what i would gladly do myself. believe me, it is painful to me to put tasks on you of any kind, much less a task of so grave a nature. by heavens!" he exclaimed, carried away for a moment, "there is a reason known to me only why i might well dread for myself the great service you will do the emperor." he was recalled to himself by the amazed look of the girl. "forgive me," he ejaculated. "i did not mean anything. but there is no danger to you; of that be assured." "colonel laurient," said hilda gravely, "you ought to know me well enough not to suppose i am guided by fear." "i do know it," he answered, "otherwise i should not have asked you to undertake the great task i have set before you. no woman whose mind was disturbed by alarm could do justice to it." he told her that in some way, he did not mention how, he had control over the manager of the building, who had let it under a false impression, and asked her if she was aware of the comparatively late discovery of how to produce artificial magnetism. "i ought to be," she replied, with a smile, "for i am credited with having been the first to discover the principle of the remote branch of muscular magnetising electricity on which it depends." "i had forgotten," he said, with an answering smile. "one may be forgiven for forgetting for a moment the wide nature of your investigations and discoveries." then he explained to her that the principle could be put into practice with perfect certainty and safety, and that he would take care everything was properly arranged. he would see her again and tell her the pass-words, the part of the hall she was to occupy, and the mode she was to adopt to summon assistance. the evening of the meeting came, and for half an hour there were numerous arrivals at the many doors of the huge building. each person had separately to interchange the pass-words at both the outer and inner doors. at length about twelve hundred people were assembled. the lights outside the glass hall were comparatively feeble. the powerful electric lamps were not turned on. the inner hall was unlighted, and received only a dull reflection from the outer lights. some surprise was expressed by the usual frequenters of the hall at the appearance inside the glass wall of a wooden dais, sufficiently large to hold three or four people, and with shallow steps on one side leading up to it. inquiry was made as to its object. the doorkeeper, suitably instructed, replied carelessly it was thought, they might require a stage from which the speakers could address the audience. the present meeting certainly did not want it. the speakers had no desire to individually bring themselves into notice. hilda, muffled up as were the rest, quietly took a seat close to the steps of the dais. no president was appointed; no one appeared to have any control; yet as the meeting proceeded it was evident that its tactics had been carefully thought out, and that most, if not all, of the speakers were fulfilling the parts allotted to them. first a tall, elderly man rose, and with considerable force and fluency enlarged upon the evils of the present large taxation. he went into figures, and his speech ought to have been effective, only no one seemed to take any interest in it. then there loomed on the meeting the person apparently of a middle-aged woman. the cloaks and hats carefully mystified the identities of the sexes and individual peculiarities. this speaker went a little further. she explained that maintaining the empire as a whole entailed the sacrifice of regulating the taxation so as to suit the least wealthy portions. she carefully guarded herself from being more than explanatory. the comparative poverty of england and the exactions of the self-indulgent londoners, she said, necessitated a scale of taxation that hardy and rich australia, new zealand, and canada did not require. then a historically disposed young woman rose and dwelt upon the time when england thought a great deal more of herself than of the colonies and to curry favour with foreign countries placed them on the same footing as her own dominions. little by little various speakers progressed, testing at every step the feelings of the audience, until at last one went so far as to ask the question whether the time would ever come when australia would be found to be quite large and powerful enough to constitute an empire of itself. "mind," said he, "i do not say the time will come." then an apparently excited australian arose. she would not, she said, say a word in favour of such an empire; but she, an australian bred and born, and with a long line of australian ancestors, was not going to listen to any doubts being thrown on australia or australians. the country and the people, she declared, amidst murmuring signs of assent, were fit for any destiny to which they might be called. then a logical speaker rose and asked why were they forbidden to discuss the question as to whether it was desirable to retain the present limits of the empire or to divide it. he would not state what his opinion was, but he would say this: that he could not properly estimate the arguments in favour of preserving the integrity of the empire unless he was at liberty to hear the arguments and answer them of those who held an opposite opinion. when this speaker sat down, there was a momentary pause. it seemed as if there was a short consultation between those who were guiding the progress of the meeting. whether or not this was the case, some determination appeared to be arrived at; and a short, portly man arose and said he did not care for anybody or anything. he would answer the question to which they had at length attained by saying that in his opinion the present empire was too large, that australia ought to be formed into a separate empire, and that she would be quite strong enough to take care of herself. the low murmur of fear with which this bold announcement was heard soon developed into loud cheers, especially from that part of the hall where the controlling influence seemed to be held. then all restraint was cast aside; and speaker after speaker affirmed, in all varieties of eloquence, that australia must be an empire. some discussed whether new zealand should be included, but the general opinion appeared to be that she should be left to her own decision in the matter. then the climax was approached. a speaker rose and said there appeared to be no doubt in the mind of the meeting as to the empire of australia; he hoped there was no doubt that lord reginald paramatta should be the first emperor. the meeting seemed to be getting beyond the control of its leaders. it did not appear to have been part of their programme to put forward lord reginald's name at this stage. it was an awkward fix, for no person by name was supposed to be present, so that he could neither disclaim the honour nor express his thanks for it. one of the controllers, a grave, tall woman, long past middle age, dealt with this difficulty. they must not, she said, go too far at first; it was for them now to say whether australia should be an empire. she loved to hear the enthusiasm with which lord reginald paramatta's name was received. australia boasted no greater or more distinguished family than the paramattas; and as for lord reginald, every one knew that a braver and better soldier did not live. still they must decide on the empire before the emperor, and each person present must answer the question was he or she favourable to australia being constructed into a separate empire? they could not in this light distinguish hands held up. each person must rise and throw off his or her cloak and hat and utter the words, "i declare that i am favourable to australia being constituted an empire." then, evidently with the intention of making the controllers and lord reginald speak last, she asked the occupant of the seat to the extreme left of the part of the hall most distant from her to be the first to declare. probably he and a few others had been placed there for that purpose. at any rate, he rose without hesitation, threw off his cloak, removed his hat, and said, "i declare myself in favour of australia being constituted an empire." person after person from left to right and from right to left of each line of chairs followed the same action and uttered the same words, and throughout the hall there was a general removal of cloaks and hats. at length it came to hilda fitzherbert's turn. without a moment's hesitation, the brave girl rose, dropped her cloak and hat, and in a voice distinctly heard from end to end of the hall said, "i declare i am not in favour of australia being constituted an empire." for a second there was a pause of consternation. then arose a babel of sounds: "spy!" "traitor!" "it is hilda fitzherbert;" "she must not leave the hall alive;" "we have been betrayed." shrieks and sobs were amongst the cries to be distinguished. then there arose a mighty roar of "she must die," and a movement towards her. it was stilled for a moment. lord reginald rose, and, with a voice heard above all the rest, he thundered forth, "she shall not die. she shall live on one condition. leave her to me;" and he strode towards her. in one second the girl, like a fawn, sprang up the steps of the dais, and touched a button concealed in the wall, and then a second button. words are insufficient to describe the effect. the first button was connected with wires that ran through the flooring and communicated to every being in the hall excepting to hilda, on the insulated dais, a shock of magnetic electricity, the effect of which was to throw them into instantaneous motionless rigidity. no limb or muscle could be moved; as the shock found them they remained. and the pressure of the second button left no doubt of the fact, for it turned on the electric current to all the lamps inside and outside of the hall, until the chamber became a blaze of dazzling light. there was no longer disguise of face or person, and every visage was at its worst. fear, terror, cruelty, or revenge was the mastering expression on nearly every countenance. some faces showed that the owners had been entrapped and betrayed into a situation they had not sought. but these were few, and could be easily read. on the majority of the countenances there was branded a mixture of greed, thwarted ambition, personal malignity, and cruelty horrible to observe. the pose of the persons lent a ludicrous aspect to the scene. lord reginald, for instance, had one foot in front of the other in the progress he was making towards hilda. his body was bent forward. his face wore an expression of triumphant revenge and brutal love terrible to look at. evidently he had thought there "was joy at last for my love and my revenge." hilda shuddered as she glanced down upon the sardonic faces beneath her, and touched a third button. an answering clarionet at once struck out the signal to advance, and the measured tread of troops in all directions was heard. the poor wretches in the hall preserved consciousness of what was passing around, though they could not exercise their muscular powers and felt no bodily pain. an officer at the door close to the dais saluted miss fitzherbert. "be careful," she said, "to put your foot at once on the dais and come up to me." he approached her. "have you your orders?" she asked. "my orders," he said, "are to come from you. we have photographers at hand." "have a photograph," she instructed him, "taken of the whole scene, then of separate groups, and lastly of each individual. have it done quickly," she added, "for the poor wretches suffer mental, if not physical, pain. then every one may go free excepting the occupants of the three top rows. the police should see that these do not leave melbourne." she bowed to the officer, and sprang down the steps and out of the hall. at the outer door a tall form met her. she did not require to look--she was blinded by the light within--to be convinced that it was colonel laurient who received her and placed her in a carriage. she was overcome. the terrible scene she had passed through had been too much for her. she did not faint; she appeared to be in a state of numbed inertness, as if she had lost all mental and physical power. colonel laurient almost carried her into the house, and, with a face of deathly pallor, consigned her to the care of her sister. maud had been partly prepared to expect that hilda would be strongly agitated by some painful scene, and she was less struck by her momentary helplessness than by the agonised agitation of that usually self-commanding being colonel laurient. probably no one had ever seen him like this before. it may be that he felt concern not only for hilda herself, but for the part he had played in placing her in so agitating a position. chapter vii. heroine worship. it was nearly twelve o'clock before hilda roused herself from a long and dreamless slumber, consequent upon the fatigue and excitement of the previous evening. she still felt somewhat exhausted, but no physician could have administered a remedy so efficacious as the one she found ready to hand. on the table beside her was a small packet sealed with the imperial arms. she removed the covering; and opening the case beneath, a beautifully painted portrait of the emperor on an ivory medallion met her enraptured gaze. the portrait was set round with magnificent diamonds. but she scarcely noticed them; it was the painting itself that charmed her. the emperor looked just as he appeared when he said to her, "tell me now as woman to man, not as subject to emperor." there was the same winning smile, the same caressing yet commanding look. she involuntarily raised the medallion to her lips, and then blushed rosy red over face and shoulders. she turned the medallion, and on the back she found these words engraved: "albert edward to hilda, in testimony of his admiration and gratitude." he must have had these words engraved during the night. the maid entered. "miss fitzherbert," she said, "during the last two hours there have been hundreds of cards left for you. there is quite a continuous line of carriages coming to the door, and there have been bundles of telegrams. miss maud is opening them." hilda realised the meaning of the line-- "do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame." then the maid told her mrs. hardinge was most anxious to see her and was waiting. she would not allow her to be awakened. hilda said she would have her bath and see mrs. hardinge in the little boudoir adjoining her dressing-room in a few minutes. quite recovered from her last night's agitation, hilda looked her best in a charmingly fashioned dressing-gown as she entered the room where mrs. hardinge was waiting to receive her. "my dear, dear girl," said that lady as she embraced her, "i am delighted. you are well again? i need not ask. your looks proclaim it. you are the heroine of the hour. the emperor learnt everything last night, and the papers all over the world are full of it to-day. maud says the telegrams are from every part of the globe, not only within our own empire, but from europe, and the united states, and south america. you are a brave girl." "pray do not say so, mrs. hardinge. i only did my duty--what any one in my place would have done. tell me all that has happened." mrs. hardinge, nothing reluctant, replied with animated looks and gestures. "laurient has told me everything. you instructed the officer, it seems, to keep a watch over only the occupants of the three further rows. lord reginald had left those, and was approaching you. the officer, following your words literally, allowed him to leave unwatched. some sixty only of the people were placed under espionage. nearly every one of the rest who were present is supposed to have left melbourne, including lord reginald. we sent to his house to arrest him, but he had departed in one of his fastest long-distance air-cruisers. it is supposed that he has gone to europe, or to america, or to one of his remote estates in the interior of this continent. i am not sure that the emperor was displeased at his departure. when the intelligence reached him, he said to me, 'that will save miss fitzherbert from appearing in public to give evidence. as for the rest, it does not matter. they have been fooled to serve that man's ends.' so now they are free. but their names are known; indeed, their ridiculous appearance is immortalised. a likeness was taken of every one, but the _tout ensemble_ is superbly grotesque. it is well so few people know the secret of artificial magnetism." hilda showed mrs. hardinge the emperor's magnificent present, and asked what was she to do. should she write a letter of thanks? "do so," said the shrewd woman of the world. "who knows that he will not value the acknowledgment as you value the gift?" again hilda's face was suffused in red. "i must go away," she said to herself, "until i can better command myself." then she begged mrs. hardinge not to mention about the emperor's gift. "i shall only tell maud of it. i felt it was right to tell you." "of course it was," said mrs. hardinge; "but it may be well not to mention it further. there are thousands of persons who honour and admire you; but there are thousands also who already envy you, and who will not envy you the less because of this great deed." then she told hilda that the emperor wished to do her public honour by making her a countess in her own right. hilda shrank from the distinction. "it will lose me my seat in parliament," she said. "no. you will only have to stand for re-election, and no one will oppose you." "but," said the girl, "i am not rich enough." "if report is correct, you soon will be. the river-works in new zealand are nearly finished; they will make you, it is said, a millionaire." "i had forgotten them for the moment, but it is not safe to count on their success until the test is actually made. this reminds me that they will be finished next week; and my friends in new zealand think that my sister and i ought to be present, if only in honour of our dear grandfather, who left us the interest we hold in the river. can you spare me for ten days?" "of course i can, hilda dear. the change will do you good. laurient is going. he is said to have an interest in the works. and montreal is going also. he too had an interest, but i think he parted with it." they discussed whether hilda should go to the fête that was to be held on monday to celebrate the centenary of the completion of the irrigation of the malee scrub plains. these plains were once about as desolate and unromantic a locality as could be found; but a canadian firm, messrs. chaffey brothers, had undertaken to turn the wilderness into a garden by irrigation, and they had entirely succeeded. an enormous population now inhabited the redeemed lands, and a fête was to be held in commemoration of the century that had elapsed since the great work was completed. the emperor himself had agreed to be there. hilda begged to be excused. her nerves were shaken. she would dread the many congratulations she would receive and the requests to repeat over and over again the particulars of the scene which inspired her now with only horror and repulsion. "you must not show yourself to-day," mrs. hardinge said; "and i will cry you off to-morrow on the ground of illness. next day go to new zealand, and by the time you return you will be yourself again." "you may say too i am abundantly occupied," said hilda archly as maud entered the room with an enormous package of open telegrams in her hands. "dear hilda, you do look well to-day. i am so pleased," said the delighted girl as she flung down the telegrams and embraced her sister. there was something singularly pathetic in the love of these two girls. mrs. hardinge left them together. hilda showed the medallion in strict confidence. maud was literally enraptured with it. "how noble, how handsome, he is! i know only one other man so beautiful." then she paused in confusion; and hilda rather doubted the exception, though she knew it was their old playfellow montreal who was intended. "who is the traitor," she said, "you dare to compare with your sovereign?" maud, almost in tears, declared she did not mean what she said. the emperor was very handsome. "do not be ashamed, my dear, to be true to your feelings," said hilda sententiously. "a woman's heart is an empire of itself, and he who rules over it may be well content with a single loyal subject." "nonsense, hilda! do not tease me. an emperor, too, may rule over a woman's heart." this was rather carrying the war into the opposite camp. miss fitzherbert thought it time to change the subject. they discussed the telegrams. then maud told hilda how frightfully agitated laurient was the previous evening. finally they decided they would go to new zealand the day after the next. they debated if they should proceed in their own air-cruiser or in the public one that left early every morning. it was about a sixteen hours' journey in the public conveyance, but in their own it would take less time. besides, they wished to go straight to dunedin, where the girls had a beautiful residence, and where their friends were chiefly located. hilda represented dunedin in the new zealand parliament, and local government honours had been freely open to her; but, under the tutelage of mrs. hardinge, she had preferred entering into federal politics, though she continued in the new zealand parliament. most of the leading federal statesmen interested themselves with one or other dominion government. there was such an absence of friction between the federal and the separate dominion governments that no inconvenience resulted from the dual attention, while it led to a more intimate knowledge of local duties. maud bashfully remembered that lady taieri had asked them to go to dunedin on her beautiful cruiser. "she was making up a party," said maud; "and she mentioned that colonel laurient and lord montreal were amongst the number." hilda saw the wistful look in maud's eyes. "let us go with lady taieri," she said; and so it was arranged. chapter viii. air-cruisers. we trust our readers will not be wearied because it is necessary to give them at some length an explanation concerning the aerial machines to which reference has so often been made as air-cruisers. it need scarcely be said that from time immemorial a great deal of attention has been directed to the question whether aerial travelling could he made subservient to the purposes of man. balloons, as they were called, made of strong fabrics filled with a gas lighter than air, were to some extent used, but rarely for practical purposes. they were in considerable request for military objects, and it is recorded that gambetta managed to get out of paris in a balloon when that city was beleaguered by the german army in . the principle of the balloon was the use of a vessel which, weighing, with all its contents, less than a similar volume of the atmosphere, would consequently rise in the air. but evidently no great progress could be made with such an apparatus. the low specific gravity of the atmosphere forbade the hope of its being possible to carry a heavy weight in great quantity on a machine that depended for its buoyancy on a less specific gravity. besides, there was danger in using a fabric because of its liability to irreparable destruction by the smallest puncture. the question then was mooted, could not an aerial machine be devised to work although of higher specific gravity than the air? birds, it was argued, kept themselves afloat by the motion of their wings, although their weight was considerably greater than a similar volume of the air through which they travelled. this idea was pursued. the cheap production of aluminium, a strong but light metal, gave an impulse to the experiment; and it was at length proved quite satisfactorily that aerial travelling was practicable in vessels considerably heavier than the air, by the use of quickly revolving fans working in the directions that were found to be suitable to the progress of the vessel. but great power was required to make the fans revolve, and the machinery to yield great power was proportionately heavy. it was especially heavy if applied separately to a portion of the fans, whilst it was dangerous to rely on one set of machinery, since any accident to it would mean cessation of the movement of the whole of the fans and consequently instant destruction. it was considered that, for safety's sake, there should be at least three sets of fans, worked by separate machinery, and that any one set should be able to preserve sufficient buoyancy although the other two were disabled. but whilst it was easy to define the conditions of safety, it was not easy to give them effect. all applications of known engines, whether of steam, water gas, electricity, compressed air, or petroleum, were found to be too bulky; and although three sets of machines were considered necessary, one set only was generally used, and many accidents occurred in consequence. the aerial mode of travelling was much employed by the adventurous, but hundreds of people lost their lives annually. at length that grand association the inventors' institution came to the rescue. the founders of the inventors' institution, though working really with the object of benefiting humanity, were much too wise to place the undertaking on a purely philanthropic basis. on the contrary, they constructed it on a commercial basis. the object was to encourage the progress of valuable inventions, and they were willing to lend sums from trifling amounts to very large ones to aid the development of any invention of which they approved. they might lend only a trifle to obtain a patent or a large sum to make exhaustive experiments. the borrower had to enter into a bond to repay the amount tenfold or to any less extent demanded by the institution at its own discretion. it was clearly laid down that, when the invention proved a failure through no fault of the inventor, he would not be asked for any repayment. in case of moderate success, he would only be asked for moderate repayment, and so on. the fairness of the institution's exercise of discretion was rarely, if ever, called into question. once they lent nearly thirty thousand pounds to finally develop an invention. within four years they called upon the inventor to repay nearly three hundred thousand, but he was nothing loath. the invention was a great commercial success and yielding him at the rate of nearly a million per annum. this association offered a large reward for the best suggestion as to the nature of an invention to render aerial travelling safe, quick, and economical. a remarkable paper gained the prize. the writer was an eminent chemist. he expressed the opinion that the one possible means of success was the use of a power which, as in the case of explosives, could be easily produced from substances of comparative light weight. he urged, it was only of late years that any real knowledge of the nature of explosives was obtained. it was nearly four hundred years after the discovery of gunpowder before any possible substitutes were invented. it was again a long time before it was discovered that explosives partook of two distinctly separate characters. one was the quick or shattering compound producing instantaneous effect; the other was the slow or rending compound of more protracted action. he dwelt on the fact that in all cases the force yielded by explosives was through the change of a solid into a gaseous body, and that the volume of the gaseous body was greatly increased by the expansion consequent on the heat evolved during decomposition. the total amount of heat evolved during decomposition did not differ, but evidently the concentration of heat at any one time depended on the rapidity of the decomposition. the volume of gas, independent of expansion by heat, varied also with different substances. blasting oil, for instance, gave nearly thirteen hundred times its own volume of gas, and this was increased more than eight times by the concentration of heat; gunpowder only yielded in gas expanded by heat eight hundred times its own volume: or, in other words, the one yielded through decomposition thirteen times the volume of the other. he went on to argue that what was required was the leisurely chemical decomposition of a solid into a gas without sensible explosion, and of such a slow character as to avoid the production of great heat. he referred, as an example of the change resulting from the contact of two bodies, to the effect of safety matches. the match would only ignite by contact with a specially prepared surface. this match was as great an improvement on the old primitive match, as would be a decomposing material the force of which could be controlled, an improvement on the present means of obtaining power. he expressed a positive opinion that substances could be found whose rapidity of decomposition, and consequent heat and strength, could be nicely regulated, so that a force could be employed which would not be too sudden nor too strong to be used in substitution of steam or compressed air. he was, moreover, of opinion that, instead of the substances being mixed ready for use, with the concurrent danger, a mode could be devised of bringing the different component parts into contact in a not dissimilar manner to the application of the safety match, thereby assuring absolute immunity from danger in the carriage of the materials. this discovery could be made, he went on to say; and upon it depended improvement in aerial travelling. each fan could be impelled by a separate machine of a light weight, worked with perfect safety by a cheap material; for the probabilities were, the substance would be cheaply producible. each aerial vessel should carry three or four times the number of separate fans and machinery necessary to obtain buoyancy. the same substances probably could be used to procure buoyancy in the improbable event of all the machines breaking down. supposing, as he suspected would be the case, that the resultant gas of the decomposition was lighter than air, a hollow case of a strong elastic fabric could be fastened to the whole of the outside exposed surface of the machine; and this could be rapidly inflated by the use of the same material. the movement of a button should be sufficient to produce decomposition, and as a consequence to charge the whole of this casing with gas lighter than the air. as the heat attending the decomposition subsided the elastic fabric would sufficiently collapse. the danger then would not be so much of descending too rapidly through the atmosphere as of remaining in it; a difficulty, however, which a system of valves would easily overcome. the institution offered twenty-five thousand pounds for a discovery on the lines indicated; and the government offered seventy-five thousand pounds more on the condition that they should have the right to purchase the invention and preserve it as a secret, they supplying the material for civil purposes, but retaining absolute control over it for military purposes. this proviso was inserted because of the opinion of the writer that the effects he looked for might not so much depend on the chemical composition of the substances as on their molecular conditions, and that these might defy the efforts of analysts. if he was wrong, and the nature of the compound could be ascertained by analysis, the government need not buy the invention; they could leave the discoverer to enjoy its advantages by patenting it, and share with other nations the uses that could be made of it for purposes of warfare. it was some time before the investigations were completely successful. there was no lack of attention to the subject, the inducements being so splendid. many fatal accidents occurred through the widely spread attention given to the properties of explosives and to the possibility of modifying their effects. on one occasion it was thought that success was attained. laboratory experiments were entirely satisfactory, and at length it was determined to have a grand trial of the substance. a large quantity was prepared, and it was applied to the production of power in various descriptions of machinery. many distinguished people were present, including a cabinet minister, a lord of the admiralty, the under-secretary for defence, the president of the inventors' institution, several members of parliament, a dozen or more distinguished men and women of science, and the inventor himself. the assemblage was a brilliant one; but, alas! not one of those present lived to record an opinion of the invention. the substance discovered was evidently not wanting in power. how far it was successful no one ever learnt. it may have been faultily made or injudiciously employed. but the very nature of the composition was lost, for the inventor went with the rest. an explosion occurred; and all the men and women within the building were scattered miles around, with fragments of the edifice itself. the largest recognisable human remains discovered were the well-defined joint of a little finger. a great commotion followed. the eminent chemist who wrote the paper suggesting the discovery was covered with obloquy. suggestions were made that the law should restrain such investigations. some people went so far as to describe them as diabolical. all things, however, come to those who wait; and at length a discovery was made faithfully resembling the one prognosticated by the great chemist. strange to say, the inventor or discoverer was a young jewish woman not yet thirty years of age. from childhood she had taken an intense interest in the question, and the terrible accident above recorded seemed to spur her on to further exertion. she had a wonderful knowledge of ancient languages, and she searched for information concerning chemical secrets which she believed lost to the present day. she had a notion that the atomic structure of substances was better known to students in the early ages. it was said that the hint she acted on was conveyed to her by some passage in a chaldean inscription of great antiquity. she neither admitted nor denied it. perhaps the susceptibilities of an intensely eastern nature led her to welcome the halo of romance cast over her discovery. be that as it may, it is certain she discovered a substance, or rather substances which, brought into contact with each other, faithfully fulfilled all that the chemist had ventured to suggest. together with unwavering efficiency there was perfect safety; and so much of the action depended on the structure, not the composition, that the efforts of thousands of _savants_ failed to discover the secret of the invention. what the substances were in composition, and what they became after decomposition was easily determined, but how to make them in a form that fulfilled the purpose required defied every investigation. the inventor did not patent her invention. after making an enormous fortune from it, she sold it to the government, who took over the manufactory and its secrets; and whilst they sold it in quantity for ordinary use, they jealously guarded against its accumulation in foreign countries for possible warlike purposes. this invention, as much almost as its vast naval and military forces, gave to the empire of britain the great power it possessed. the united states alone affected to underrate that power. it was the habit of americans to declare that they did not believe in standing armies or fleets. if they wanted to fight, they could afford to spend any amount of treasure; and they could do more in the way of organising than any nation in the world. they were not going to spend money on keeping themselves in readiness for what might never happen. but we have not now to consider the aerial ships from their warlike point of view. it should be mentioned that the inventor of this new form of power was the aunt of colonel laurient. she died nearly twenty years before this history, and left to him, her favourite nephew, so much of her gigantic fortune as the law permitted her to devise to one inheritor. chapter ix. too strange not to be true. a little after sunrise on a prematurely early spring morning at the end of august lady taieri's air-cruiser left melbourne. there was sufficient heat to make the southerly course not too severe, and it was decided to call at stewart's island to examine its vast fishery establishments. a gay and happy party was on board. lord and lady taieri were genial, lively people, and liked by a large circle of friends. they loved nothing better than to assemble around them pleasant companions, and to entertain them with profuse hospitality. no provision was wanting to amuse the party, which consisted, besides the two miss fitzherberts, lord montreal, and colonel laurient, of nearly twenty happy young people of both sexes. general and lady buller also were there. the general was the descendant of an old new zealand family which had acquired immense wealth by turning to profitable use large areas of pumice-stone land previously supposed to be useless. the bullers were always scientifically disposed; and one lady of the family, a professor of agricultural science, was convinced that the pumice-stone land could be made productive. it was not wanting in fertilising properties; but the difficulty was that on account of its porous nature, it could not retain moisture. professor buller first had numerous artesian wells bored, and obtained at regular distances an ample supply of water over a quarter of a million of acres of pumice land, which she purchased for two shillings an acre. after a great many experiments, she devised a mixture of soil, clay, and fertilising agents capable of being held in water by suspension. she drenched the land with the water thus mixed. the pumice acted as a filter, retaining the particles and filtering the water. as the land dried it became less porous. grass seed was surface-sown. another irrigation of the charged water and a third, after some delay, of clear water, completed the work. when once vegetation commenced, there was no difficulty. the land was found particularly suitable for subtropical fruits and for grapes. vast fruit-canning works were established; and a special effervescent wine known as bullerite was produced, and was held in higher estimation than the best champagne. whilst more exhilarating, it was less intoxicating. it fetched a very high price, for it could be produced nowhere but on redeemed pumice land. not a little proud was general buller of his ancestor's achievement. he was in the habit of declaring that he did not care for the wealth he inherited in consequence; it was the genius that devised and carried out the reclamation, he said, which was to him its greatest glory. nevertheless in practice he did not seem to disregard the substantial results he enjoyed. general buller was a soldier of great scientific attainments. his only child, phoebe, a beautiful girl of seventeen, was with them. she was the object of admiration of most of the young men on board, lord montreal alone excepted. beyond some conventional civilities, he seemed unconscious of the presence of any one but maud fitzherbert; and she was nothing reluctant to receive his attentions. the cruiser was beautifully constructed of pure aluminium. everything conducive to the comfort of the passengers was provided. the machinery was very powerful, and the cruiser rose and fell with the grace and ease of a bird. after clearing the land, it kept at about a height of fifty feet above the sea, and, without any strain on the machinery, made easily a hundred miles an hour. about four o'clock in the afternoon a descent was made on stewart's island. the fishing establishments here were of immense extent and value. they comprised not only huge factories for tinning the fresh fish caught on the banks to the south-east, but large establishments for dressing the seal-skins brought from the far south, as also for sorting and preparing for the market the stores of ivory brought from near the antarctic pole, the remnants of prehistoric animals which in the regions of eternal cold had been preserved intact for countless ages. to new zealand mainly belonged the credit of antarctic research. commenced in the interests of science, it soon became endowed with permanent activity on account of its commercial results. a large island, easily accessible, which received the name of antarctica, was discovered within ten degrees of the pole, stretching towards it, so that its southern point was not more than ten miles from the southern apex of the world. from causes satisfactorily explained by scientists, the temperature within a hundred-mile circle of the pole was comparatively mild. there was no wind; and although the cold was severe, it was bearable, and in comparison with the near northern latitudes it was pleasant. on this island an extraordinary discovery was made. there were many thousands of a race of human beings whose existence was hitherto unsuspected. the instincts of man for navigating the ocean are well known. a famous scientific authority, sir charles lyell, once declared that, if all the world excepting one remote little island were left unpeopled, the people of that island would spread themselves in time over every portion of the earth's surface. the antarctic esquimaux were evidently of the same origin as the kanaka race. they spoke a language curiously little different from the maori dialect, although long centuries must have elapsed since the migrating malays, carried to the south probably against their own will, found a resting-place in antarctica. nature had generously assimilated them to the wants of the climate. their faces and bodies were covered with a thick growth of short curly hair, which, though it detracted from their beauty, greatly added to their comfort. they were a docile, peaceful, intelligent people. they loved to come up to stewart's island during the winter and to return before the summer made it too hot for them to exist, laden with the presents which were always showered upon them. they were too useful to the traders of stewart's island not to receive consideration at their hands. the seal-skins and the ivory obtained from antarctica were the finest in the world, and the latter was procured in immense quantities from the ice-buried remains of animals long since extinct as a living race. lady taieri's friends spent a most pleasant two hours on the island. some recent arrivals from antarctica were objects of great interest. a young chief especially entertained them by his description of the wonders of antarctica and his unsophisticated admiration of the novelties around him. he appeared to be particularly impressed with phoebe buller. the poor girl blushed very much; and her companions were highly amused when the interpreter told them that the young chief said she would be very good-looking if her face was covered with hair, and that he would be willing to take her back with him to antarctica. lady taieri proposed that they should all visit the island and be present at the wedding. this sally was too much. phoebe buller retired to her cabin on the cruiser, and was not seen again until the well-lighted farms and residences on the beautiful taieri plains, beneath the flying vessel, reminded its occupants that they were close to their destination. during the next six days lady taieri gave a series of magnificent entertainments. there were dances, dinner-parties, picnics, a visit to the glacier region of mount cook, and finally a ball in dunedin of unsurpassed splendour. this was on the eve of the opening of the river-works; and all the authorities of wellington, including the governor and his ministers, honoured the ball with their presence. an account of the river-works will not be unacceptable. so long since as it was discovered that the river molyneux, or clutha as it was sometimes called, contained over a great length rich gold deposits. more or less considerable quantities of the precious metal were obtained from time to time when the river was unusually low. but at no time was much of the banks and parts adjacent thereto uncovered. dredging was resorted to, and a great deal of gold obtained; but it was pointed out that the search in that manner was something like the proverbial exploration for a needle in a haystack. a great scientist, sir julius von haast, declared that during the glacial period the mountains adjacent to the valley of the molyneux were ground down by the action of glaciers from an average height of several thousand feet. every ounce of the pulverised matter must have passed through the valley drained by the river; and he made a calculation which showed that, if the stuff averaged a grain to the ton, there must be in the interstices of the river bed many thousands of tons of gold. nearly fifty years before the period of this history the grandfather of hilda and maud fitzherbert set himself seriously to unravel the problem. his design was to deepen the bed of the mataura river, running through southland, and to make an outlet to it from lake whakatip. simultaneously he proposed to close the outlet from the lake into the molyneux and, by the aid of other channels, cut at different parts of the river to divert the tributary streams, to lay bare and clear from water fully fifty miles of the river bed between lake whakatip and the dunstan. it was an enormous work. the cost alone of obtaining the various riparian and residential rights absorbed over two millions sterling. twice, too, were the works on the point of completion, and twice were they destroyed by floods and storms. mr. fitzherbert had to take several partners, and his own enormous fortune was nearly dissipated. he had lost his son and his son's wife when his grandchildren, hilda and maud, were of tender age. after his death the two girls found a letter from him in which he told them he had settled on each of them three thousand pounds a year and left to them jointly his house and garden near dunedin, with the furniture, just as they had always lived in it. beyond this comparatively inconsiderable bequest, he wrote, he had devoted everything to the completion of the great work of his life. it was certain now that the river would be uncovered; and if he was right in his expectations, they would become enormously wealthy. if it should prove he was wrong, "which," he continued, "i consider impossible, you will not think unkindly of the old grandfather whose dearest hope it was to make you the richest girls in the world." the time had come when these works, upon which so much energy had been expended, and which had been fruitful of so many disappointments, were to be finished; and a great deal of curiosity as to the result was felt in every part of the empire. hilda and maud fitzherbert had two and a half tenths each of the undertaking, and montreal and his younger brother had each one tenth, which they had inherited, but it was understood that montreal had parted with his own share to colonel laurient; two tenths were reserved for division amongst those people whose riparian and other rights mr. fitzherbert had originally purchased; and of the remaining tenth one half was the property of sir central vincent stout, baronet, a young though very able lawyer, the other half belonged to lord larnach, one of the wealthiest private bankers in the empire. there was by no means unanimity of opinion concerning the result of the works. some people held, they would prove a total failure, and that the money spent on them had been wasted by visionary enthusiasts; others thought, a moderate amount of gold might be obtained; while very few shared the sanguine expectations which had led old fitzherbert to complacently spend the huge sums he had devoted to his life's ideal. and now the result of fifty years of toil and anxiety was to be decided. it was an exceptionally fine day, and thousands of people from all parts of new zealand thronged to the ceremony. some preferred watching the river molyneux subside as the waters gradually ran out; others considered the grander sight to be the filling of the new channel of the mataura river. it had been arranged that two small levers pressed by a child would respectively have the effect of opening the gates that barred the new channel to the mataura and of closing the gates that admitted the lake waters to the molyneux. as the levers were pressed a signal was to run down the two rivers, in response to which guns stationed at frequent intervals were to thunder out a salute. precisely at twelve the loud roar of artillery announced the transfer of the waters. undoubtedly the grander sight was on the mataura river. the progress of the liberated water as it rushed onward in a great seething, foaming, swirling mass, gleaming under the bright rays of the sun, formed a picture not easily to be forgotten. but the other river attracted more attention, for there not only nature played a part, but the last scene was to be enacted in a drama of great human interest. and this scene was more slowly progressing. the subsidence of the water was not very quick. the molyneux was a quaint, many-featured river, partly fed by melted snow, partly by large surface drainage, both finding their way to the river through the lake, and by independent tributaries. at times the molyneux was of great volume and swiftness. on the present occasion it was on moderate terms--neither at its slowest nor fastest. but as the river flowed on without its usual accession from the lake and the diverted tributaries, an idealist might have fancied that it was fading away through grief at the desertion of its allies. lady taieri's party were located on a dais erected on the banks of the river about twenty miles from the lake. after an hour or so the subsidence of the water became well marked; and occasionally heaps of crushed quartz, called tailings, from gold workings on the banks, became visible. some natural impediments had prevented these from flowing down the river and built them up several feet in height. here and there crevices, deep and narrow or shallow and wide, became apparent. the time was approaching when it would be known if there was utter failure or entire success or something midway between. it had been arranged that, if any conspicuous deposit of gold became apparent, a signal should be given, in response to which all the guns along the river banks should be fired. at a quarter past one o'clock the guns pealed forth; and loud as was the noise they made, it seemed trifling compared with the cheers which ran up and down the river from both banks from the throats of the countless thousands of spectators. the announcement of success occasioned almost delirious joy. it seemed as if every person in the vast crowd had an individual interest in the undertaking. the telephone soon announced that at a turn in the river about seven miles from the lake what appeared to be a large pool of fine gold was uncovered. even as the news became circulated there appeared in the middle of the river right opposite lady taieri's stand a faint yellow glow beneath the water. gradually it grew brighter and brighter, until at length to the eyes of the fascinated beholders there appeared a long, irregular fissure of about twenty-five feet in length by about six or seven in width which appeared to be filled with gold. some of the company now rushed forward, and, amidst the deafening cheers of the onlookers, dug out into boxes which had been prepared for the purpose shovelsful of gold. fresh boxes were sent for, but the gold appeared to be inexhaustible. each box held five thousand ounces; and supposing the gold to be nearly pure, fifty boxes would represent the value of a million sterling. five hundred boxes were filled, and still the pool opposite hilda was not emptied, and it was reported two equally rich receptacles were being drained in other parts. guards of the volunteer forces were told off to protect the gold until it could be placed in safety. hilda and maud were high-minded, generous girls, with nothing of a sordid nature in their composition; but they were human, and what human being could be brought into contact with the evidence of the acquisition of such vast wealth without feelings of quickened, vivid emotion? it is only justice to them to say that their feelings were not in the nature of a sense of personal gratification so much as one of ecstatic pleasure at the visions of the enormous power for good which this wealth would place in their hands. every one crowded round with congratulations. as colonel laurient joined the throng hilda said to him, "why should i not equally congratulate you? you share the gold with us." "do i?" he said, with his inscrutable smile. "i had forgotten." lord montreal, with a face in which every vestige of colour was wanting, gravely congratulated hilda, then, turning to her sister, said in a voice the agitation of which he could not conceal, "no one, miss maud, more warmly congratulates you or more fervently wishes you happiness." before the astonished girl could reply he had left the scene. it may safely be said that maud now bitterly regretted the success of the works. she understood that montreal, a poor man, was too proud to owe to any woman enormous wealth. "what can i do with it? how can i get rid of it?" she wailed to hilda, who in a moment took in the situation. "maud dearest," she said, "control yourself. all will be well." and she led her sister off the dais into the cruiser, in which they returned to lady taieri's house. they met montreal in the gallery leading to their apartments. he bowed gravely. maud could not restrain herself. "you will kill me, montreal," she said. "what do i care for wealth?" "maud, you would not have me sacrifice my self-respect," he said, and passed on. he seemed almost unconscious where he was going. he was roused from his bitter reverie. "colonel laurient will be greatly obliged if you will go to him at once," said a servant. "show me to his room," replied montreal briefly. "laurient," said montreal, "believe me, i am not jealous of your good fortune." "my good fortune!" said laurient. "i do not know of anything very good. i always felt sure that you would pay me what you owe me." "pay you what i owe you!" said montreal, in a voice of amazement. "yes," replied laurient. "you know that i come of a race of money-lenders, and i have sent for you to ask you for my money and interest." but montreal was too sad to understand a joke; and laurient had noticed what passed with maud, and formed a shrewd conjecture that the gold had not made either of them happy. "listen to me," he continued. "it is three years since you came to me and asked me to buy your share in the molyneux works, as you had need of the money. i replied by asking what you wanted for your interest. you named a sum much below what i thought its value--a belief which to-day's results have proved to be correct. i am not in the habit of acquiring anything from a friend in distress at less than its proper value, and i was about to say so when i thought, 'i will lend this money on the security offered. i will not worry montreal by letting him think that he is in debt and has to find the interest every half-year. there is quite sufficient margin for interest and principal too; and when the gold is struck, he will repay me.' i made this arrangement apparent in my will and by the execution of a deed of trust. the share is still yours, and out of the first money you receive you can repay me. nay," he said, stopping montreal's enthusiastic thanks. "i said i was a money-lender. here is a memorandum of the interest, and you will see each year i have charged interest on the previous arrears--perfect usury. go, my dear boy. i hate thanks, and i do not want money." montreal could not control himself to speak. two minutes afterwards he was in hilda and maud's sitting-room. "forgive me, maud darling! i have the share. i thought i had lost it," he said incoherently; but he made his meaning clear by the unmistakable caress of a lover. hilda left the room--an example the historian must follow. chapter x. lord reginald again. the following telegram reached hilda next morning: "i heartily congratulate you, dear hilda, on the success of your grandfather's great undertaking. the emperor summoned me and desired me to send you his congratulations. i am also to say that he wishes as a remarkable event of his reign to show his approval of the patience, skill, and enterprise combined in the enormous works successfully concluded yesterday. the honour is to come to you as your grandfather's representative. besides that, on account of your noble deed last week he wished to raise you to the peerage. he will now raise you to the rank of duchess, and suggests the title of duchess of new zealand; but that of course is as you wish. you must, my dear, accept it. a duchess cannot be an under-secretary, and i am not willing to lose you. mr. hazelmere has repeated his wish to resign; and i now beg you to enter the cabinet as lord president of the board of education, a position for which your acquirements peculiarly fit you. your re-election to parliament will be a mere ceremony. make a speech to your constituents in dunedin. then take the waters at rotomahana and waiwera. in two months you can join us in london, where the next session of parliament will be held. you will be quite recovered from all your fatigue by then." in less than two weeks hilda, duchess of new zealand, was re-elected to parliament by her dunedin constituents. next day she left for rotomahana with a numerous party of friends who were to be her guests. she had engaged the entire accommodation of one of the hotels. maud and hilda before they left dunedin placed at the disposal of the mayor half a million sterling to be handed to a properly constituted trust for the purpose of encouraging mining pursuits, and developing mining undertakings. new zealand was celebrated for the wonderfully curative power of its waters. at rotomahana, te aroha, and waiwera in the north island, and at hammer plains and several other localities in the middle island innumerable springs, hot and cold, existed, possessing a great variety of medicinal properties. there was scarcely a disease for which the waters of new zealand did not possess either cure or alleviation. at one part of the colony or another these springs were in use the whole year round. people flocked to them from all quarters of the world. it was estimated that the year previous to the commencement of this history, more than a million people visited the various springs. rotomahana, te aroha, and waiwera were particularly pleasant during the months of october, november, and december. hilda proposed passing nearly three weeks at each. rotomahana was a city of hotels of all sizes and descriptions. some were constructed to hold only a comparatively few guests and to entertain them on a scale of great magnificence. every season these houses were occupied by distinguished visitors. not infrequently crowned heads resorted to them for relief from the maladies from which even royalty is not exempt. others of the hotels were of great size, capable indeed of accommodating several thousands of visitors. the grandissimo hotel comfortably entertained five thousand people. most of the houses were built of ground volcanic scoria, pressed into bricks. some of them were constructed of oamaru stone, dressed with a peculiar compound that at the same time hardened and gave it the appearance of marble. the house that hilda took appeared like a solid block of carrara marble, relieved with huge glass windows and with balconies constructed of gilt aluminium. balconies of plain or gilt aluminium adorned most of the hotels, and gave them a very pretty appearance. te aroha was a yet larger city than rotomahana, as, besides its use as a health resort, it was the central town of an extensive and rich mining district. waiwera was on a smaller scale, but in point of appearance the most attractive. who indeed could do justice to thy charms, sweet waiwera? a splendid beach of sand, upon which at short intervals two picturesque rivers debouched to the sea, surrounded with wooded heights of all degrees of altitude, and with many variations in the colour of the foliage, it is not to be wondered at that persons managed in this charming scene to forget the world and to reveal whatever of poetry lay dormant in their composition. few who visited waiwera did not sometimes realise the sentiment-- "i love not man the less, but nature more." hilda had duly passed through the rotomahana and te aroha cures, and she had been a week at waiwera, when one morning two hours after sunrise, as she returned from her bath, she was delighted at the receipt of the following letter, signed by mrs. hardinge: "i have prepared a surprise for you, dearest hilda. mr. decimus has lent me his yacht, and i am ready to receive you on board. come off at once by yourself. we can talk over many things better here than on shore." a beautifully appointed yacht lay in the offing six hundred yards from the shore, and a well-manned boat was waiting to take hilda on board. she flew to her room, completed her toilet, and in ten minutes was on the boat and rowing off to the yacht. she ascended the companion ladder, and was received on deck by a young officer. "i am to ask your grace to wait a few minutes," he said. hilda gazed round the entrancing view on sea, land, and river, beaming beneath a bright and gorgeous sun, forgetting everything but the sense of the loveliness around her. she could never tell how long she was so absorbed. she aroused herself with a start to feel the vessel moving and to see before her the dreaded figure of lord reginald paramatta. meanwhile the spectators on the shore were amazed to see hilda go off to the yacht alone, and the vessel weigh anchor and steam away swiftly. maud and lady taieri, returning from their baths along the beautiful avenue of trees, were speedily told of the occurrence, and a council rapidly held with laurient and montreal. mrs. hardinge's letter was found in hilda's room. "probably," said lady taieri, "the morning is so fine that mrs. hardinge is taking the duchess for a cruise while they talk together." "i do not think so," said the colonel. "look at the speed the vessel is making. they would not proceed at such a rate if a pleasant sail were the only object. she is going at the rate of thirty miles an hour." maud started with surprise, and again glanced at the letter. "you are right, colonel laurient," she said, with fearful agitation; "this writing is like that of mrs. hardinge, but it is not hers. i know her writing too well not to be sure it is an imitation. oh, help hilda; do help her! montreal, you must aid. she is the victim of a plot." meanwhile the vessel raced on; but with a powerful glass they could make out that there was only one female figure on board, and that a male figure stood beside her. "hilda," said lord reginald, bowing low, "forgive me. all is fair in love and war. my life without you is a misery." "do you think, my lord," said the girl, very pale but still courageous, "that this course you have adopted is one that will commend you to my liking?" "i will teach you to love me. you cannot remain unresponsive to the intense affection i bear you." "true love, lord reginald, is not steeped in selfishness; it has regard for the happiness of its object. do you think you can make me happy by tearing me from my friends by an artifice like this?" "i will make it up to you. i implore your forgiveness. try to excuse me." hilda during this rapid dialogue did not lose her self-possession. she knew the fears of her friends on shore would soon be aroused. she wondered at her own want of suspicion. time, she felt, was everything. when once doubt was aroused, pursuit in the powerful aerial cruiser they had on shore would be rapid. "i entreat you, lord reginald," she said, "to turn back. have pity on me. see how defenceless i am against such a conspiracy as this." lord reginald was by nature brave, and the wretched cheat he was playing affected him more because of its cowardly nature than by reason of its outrageous turpitude. he was a slave to his passions and desires. he would have led a decently good life if all his wishes were capable of gratification, but there was no limit to the wickedness of which he might be guilty in the pursuit of desires he could not satisfy. he either was, or fancied himself to be, desperately in love with hilda; and he believed, though without reason, that she had to some extent coquetted with him. even in despite of reason and evidence to the contrary, he imagined she felt a prepossession in his favour, that an act of bravery like this might stir into love. he did not sufficiently understand woman. to his mind courage was the highest human quality, and he thought an exhibition of signal bravery even at the expense of the woman entrapped by it would find favour in her eyes. hilda's words touched him keenly, though in some measure he thought they savoured of submission. "she is imploring now," he thought, "instead of commanding." "ask me," he said, in a tone of exceeding gentleness, "anything but to turn back. o hilda, you can do with me what you like if you will only consent to command!" "leave me then," she replied, "for a time. let me think over my dreadful position." "i will leave you for a quarter of an hour, but do not say the position is dreadful." he walked away, and the girl was left the solitary occupant of the deck. the beautiful landscape was still in sight. it seemed a mockery that all should appear the same as yesterday, and she in such dreadful misery. smaller and smaller loomed the features on the shore as the wretched girl mused on. suddenly a small object appeared to mount in the air. "it is the cruiser," she exclaimed aloud, with delight. "they are in pursuit." "no, hilda," said lord reginald, who suddenly appeared at her side, "i do not think it is the cruiser; and if it be, it can render you no aid. look round this vessel; you will observe guns at every degree of elevation. no cruiser can approach us without instant destruction." "but you would not be guilty of such frightful wickedness. lord reginald, let me think better of you. relent. admit that you did not sufficiently reflect on what you were doing, and that you are ready to make the only reparation in your power." "no," said lord reginald, much moved, "i cannot give you up. ask me for anything but that. see! you are right; the cruiser is following us. it is going four miles to our one. save the tragedy that must ensue. i have a clergyman in the cabin yonder. marry me at once, and your friends shall come on board and congratulate you as lady paramatta." "that i will never be. i would prefer to face death." "is it so bitter a lot?" said lord reginald, stung into irritation. "if persuasion is useless, i must insist. come to the cabin with me at once." "dare you affect to command me?" said hilda, drawing herself up with a dignity that was at once grave and pathetic. "i will dare everything for you. it is useless," he said as she waved her handkerchief to the fast-approaching cruiser. "if it come too close, its doom is sealed. be ready to fire," he roared out to the captain; and brief, stern words were passed from end to end of the vessel. "now, hilda, come. the scene is not one fit for you. come you shall," he said, approaching her and placing his arm round her waist. "never! i would rather render my soul to god," exclaimed the brave, excited girl. with one spring she stood on the rail of the bulwarks, and with another leapt far out into the ocean. lord reginald gazed on her in speechless horror, and was about to follow overboard. "it is useless," the captain said, restraining him. "the boat will save her." in two minutes it was lowered, but such was the way on the yacht that the girl floating on the water was already nearly a mile distant. the cruiser and the boat raced to meet her. the yacht's head also was turned; and she rapidly approached the scene, firing at the cruiser as she did so. the latter reached hilda first. colonel laurient jumped into the water, and caught hold of the girl. the beat was near enough for one of its occupants with a boathook to strike him a terrible blow on the arm. the disabled limb fell to his side, but he held her with iron strength with his other arm. the occupants of the cruiser dragged them both on board; and colonel laurient before he fainted away had just time to cry out, "mount into the air, and fly as fast as you can." the scene that followed was tragical. two of the occupants of the boat had grasped the sides of the cruiser, and were carried aloft with it. before they could be dragged on board a shot from the yacht struck them both, and crushed in part of the side of the vessel, besides injuring many sets of fans. another shot did damage on the opposite side. but still she rose, and to aid her buoyancy the casing was inflated. soon she was out of reach of the yacht; and, with less speed than she left it, she returned to waiwera. the yacht turned round, and steamed out to sea at full speed. hilda's immersion did her no harm, but her nerves were much shaken, and for many days she feared to be left alone. colonel laurient's arm was dreadfully shattered. the doctor at first proposed amputation, but the colonel sternly rejected the suggestion. with considerable skill it was set, and in a few days the doctors announced that the limb was saved. colonel laurient, however, was very ill. for a time, indeed, even his life was in danger. he suffered from more than the wounded arm. perhaps the anxiety during the dreadful pursuit as to what might be happening on board the yacht had something to do with it. hilda was untiring in her attention to laurient; no sister could have nursed him more tenderly, and indeed it was as a sister she felt for him. one afternoon, as he lay pale and weak, but convalescent, on a sofa by the window, gazing out at the sea, hilda entered the room with a cup of soup and a glass of bullerite. "you must take this," she said. "i will do anything you tell me," he replied, "if only in acknowledgment of your infinite kindness." "why should you talk of kindness?" said the girl, with tears in her eyes. "can i ever repay you for what you have done?" "yes, hilda, you could repay me; but indeed there is nothing to repay, for i suffered more than you did during that terrible time of uncertainty." the girl looked very sad. the colonel marked her countenance, and over his own there came a look of weariness and despair. but he was brave still, as he always was. "hilda, dearest hilda," he said, "i will not put a question to you that i know you cannot answer as i would wish; it would only pain you and stand in the way perhaps of the sisterly affection you bear for me. i am not one to say all or nothing. the sense of your presence is a consolation to me. no, i will not ask you. you know my heart, and i know yours. your destiny will be a higher and happier one than that of the wife of a simple soldier." "hush!" she said. "ambition has no place in my heart. be always a brother to me. you can be to me no more." and she flew from the room. chapter xi. grateful ireland. at the end of october maud was married from the house of the two sisters in dunedin. no attribute of wealth and pomp was wanting to make the wedding a grand one. both maud and montreal were general favourites, and the number and value of the presents they received were unprecedented. hilda gave her sister a suite of diamonds and one of pearls, each of priceless value. one of the most gratifying gifts was from the emperor; it was a small miniature on ivory of hilda, beautifully set in a diamond bracelet. it was painted by a celebrated artist. the emperor had specially requested the duchess to sit for it immediately maud's engagement became known. it was surmised that the artist had a commission to paint a copy as well as the original. immediately after the wedding lord and lady montreal left in an air-cruiser to pass their honeymoon in canada, and the duchess of new zealand at once proceeded to london, where she was rapturously received by mrs. hardinge. she reached london in time to be present at its greatest yearly fête, the lord mayor's show, on the th november. according to old chronicles, there was a time when these annual shows were barbarous exhibitions of execrable taste, suitably accompanied with scenes of coarse vulgarity. all this had long since changed. the annual lord mayor's show had become a real work of elaborated art. either it was made to represent some particular event, some connected thread of history, or some classical author's works. for example, there had been a close and accurate representation of queen victoria's jubilee procession, again a series of tableaux depicting the life of the virtuous though unhappy mary queen of scots, a portrayal of shakespeare's heroes and heroines, and a copy of the procession that celebrated the establishment of local government in ireland. the present year was devoted to a representation of all the kings and queens of england up to the proclamation of the empire. it began with the "british warrior queen," boadicea, and ended with the grandfather of the present emperor. each monarch was represented with his or her retinue in the exact costumes of the respective periods. no expense was spared on these shows. they were generally monumental works of research and activity, and were in course of preparation for several years. in many respects london still continued to be the greatest city of the empire. its population was certainly the largest, and no other place could compare with it in the possession of wealthy inhabitants. but wealth was unequally distributed. although there were more people than elsewhere enjoying great riches, the aggregate possessions were not as large in proportion to the population as in other cities, such as melbourne, sydney, and dublin. the londoners were luxurious to the verge of effeminacy. a door left open, a draught at a theatre, were considered to seriously reflect on the moral character of the persons responsible for the same. a servant summarily dismissed for neglecting to close a door could not recover any arrears of wages due to him or her. said a great lady once to an australian gentleman, "are not these easterly winds dreadful? i hope you have nothing of the kind in your charming country." "we have colder winds than those you have from the east," he replied. "we have blasts direct from the south pole, and we enjoy them. my lady, we would not be what we are," drawing himself up, "if the extremes of heat and cold were distasteful to us." she looked at him with something of curiosity mixed with envy. "you are right," she said. "it is a manly philosophy to endeavour to enjoy that which cannot be remedied." the use of coal and gas having long since been abandoned in favour of heat and light from electricity, the buildings in london had lost their begrimed appearance, and the old dense fogs had disappeared. a city of magnificent buildings, almost a city of palaces, london might be termed. where there used to be rookeries for the poor there were now splendid edifices of many stories, with constant self-acting elevators. it was the same with regard to residence as with food and clothing. the comforts of life were not denied to people of humble means. parliament was opened with much pomp and magnificence, and a mysterious allusion, in the speech from the throne, to large fiscal changes proposed, excited much attention. the budget was delivered at an early date amidst intense excitement, which turned into unrestrained delight when its secrets were revealed. the chancellor of the exchequer, the right honourable gladstone churchill, examined critically the state of the finances, the enormous accumulations of the reserve funds all over the dominions, and the continued increase of income from the main sources of revenue. "the government," he said, "are convinced the time has come to make material reductions in the taxation. they propose that the untaxable minimum of income shall be increased from five to six hundred pounds, and the untaxable minimum of succession value from ten to twelve thousand pounds, and that, instead of a fourth of the residue in each case reverting to the state, a fifth shall be substituted." then he showed by figures and calculations that not only was the relief justifiable, but that further relief might be expected in the course of a few years. he only made one exception to the proposed reductions. incomes derived from foreign loans and the capital value of such loans were still to be subject to the present taxation. foreign loans, he said, were mischievous in more than one respect. they armed foreign nations, necessitating greater expense to the british empire in consequence. they also created hybrid subjects of the empire, with sympathies divided between their own country and foreign countries. there was room for the expenditure of incalculable millions on important works within the empire, and those who preferred to place their means abroad must contribute in greater proportion to the cost of government at home. they had not, he declared, any prejudice against foreign countries. it was better for them and for britain that each country should attend to its own interests and its own people. probably no budget had been received with so much acclamation since that in which the chancellor of the exchequer declared the policy of the empire to be one of severe protection to the industries of its vast dominions. singularly, it was lord gladstone churchill, great-grandfather of the present chancellor of the exchequer, who made the announcement, seventy years previously, that the time had arrived for abandoning the free trade which however he admitted had been of benefit to the parent country prior to federation. the proposed fiscal reforms were rapidly confirmed; and parliament rose towards the middle of december, in time to allow members to be present at the great annual fête in dublin. we have already described how it was that the federation of the empire, including local government in ireland, was brought about by the intervention of the colonies. the irish people, warm-hearted and grateful, felt they could never be sufficiently thankful. they would not allow the declaration of the empire to be so great an occasion of celebration, as the anniversary of the day on which the premiers of the six australasian colonies, of the dominion of canada, and of the south african dominion met and despatched the famous cablegram which, after destroying one administration, resulted in the federation of the empire of britain. a magnificent group representing these prime ministers, moulded in life-size, was erected, and has always remained the most prominent object, in dublin. the progress of ireland after the establishment of the empire was phenomenal, and it has since generally been regarded as the most prosperous country in the world. under the vivifying influence of protection, the manufactures of ireland advanced with great strides. provisions were made by which the evils of absenteeism were abated. formerly enormous fortunes were drawn from ireland by persons who never visited it. an act was passed by which persons owning large estates but constantly absent from the country were compelled to dispose of their property at a full, or rather, it might be said, an excessive, value. the government of ireland declared that the cost of doing away with the evils of absenteeism was a secondary consideration. the population of ireland became very large. hundreds of thousands of persons descended from those who had gone to america from ireland came to the country, bringing with them that practical genius for progress of all sorts which so distinguishes the american people. the improvement of ireland was always in evidence to show the advantages of the federation of the empire and of the policy of making the prosperity of its own people the first object of a nation. the irish fête-day that year was regarded with even more than the usual fervour, and that is saying a great deal. it was to be marked by a historical address which mrs. hardinge had consented to deliver. mrs. hardinge was the idol of the irish. with the best blood of celebrated celtic patriots in her veins, she never allowed cosmopolitan or national politics to make her forget that she was thoroughly irish. she gloried in her country, and was credited with being better acquainted with its history and traditions than any other living being. she spoke in a large hall in dublin to thousands of persons, who had no difficulty in hearing every note of the flexible, penetrating, musical voice they loved so well. she spoke of the long series of difficulties that had occurred before ireland and england had hit upon a mode of living beneficial and happy to both, because the susceptibilities of the people of either country were no longer in conflict. "undoubtedly," she said, "ireland has benefited materially from the uses she has made of local government; but the historian would commit a great mistake who allowed it to be supposed that aspirations of a material and sordid kind have been at the root of the long struggle the irish have made for self-government. i put it to you," she continued, amidst the intense enthusiasm of her hearers, "supposing we suffered from the utmost depression, instead of enjoying as we do so much prosperity, and we were to be offered as the price of relinquishing self-government every benefit that follows in the train of vast wealth, would we consent to the change?" the vehement "no" which she uttered in reply to her own question was re-echoed from thousands of throats. she directed particular attention to what she called the parnell period. "looked at from this distance," she said, "it was ludicrous in the extreme. government succeeded government; and each adopted whilst in office the same system of partial coercion, partial coaxing, which it condemned its successor for pursuing. the irish contingent went from party to party as they thought each oscillated towards them. many irish members divided their time between parliament and prison. the governments of the day adopted the medium course: they would not repress the incipient revolution, and they would not yield to it. agrarian outrages were committed by blind partisans and weak tools who thought that an exhibition of unscrupulous ferocity might aid the cause. the leaders of the irish party were consequently placed on the horns of a dilemma. they had either to discredit their supporters, or to admit themselves favourable to criminal action. they were members of parliament. they had to take the oath of allegiance. they did not dare to proclaim themselves incipient rebels." then mrs. hardinge quoted, amidst demonstrative enthusiasm, moore's celebrated lines-- "rebellion, foul, dishonouring word, whose wrongful blight so oft has stained the holiest cause that tongue or sword of mortal ever lost or gained-- how many a spirit born to bless has shrunk beneath that withering name whom but a day an hour's success, had wafted to eternal fame." "but, my dear friends," pursued mrs. hardinge, "do not think that i excuse crime. the end does not justify the means. even the harm from which good results is to be execrated. the saddest actors in history are those who by their own infamy benefited or hoped to benefit others. "for one sad losel soils a name for aye, however mighty in the olden time; not all that heralds rake from coffined clay, nor florid prose, nor honeyed words of rhyme can blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime." when the applause these lines elicited subsided, mrs. hardinge dilated on the proposed home rule that mr. gladstone offered. naturally the irish party accepted it, but a close consideration convinced her that it was fortunate it was not carried into effect. the local powers mr. gladstone offered were very moderate, far less than the colonies then possessed, whilst, as the price of them, ireland was asked to virtually relinquish all share in the government of the country. gladstone saw insuperable difficulties in the way of establishing a federal parliament; and without it his proposals, if carried into operation, would have made ireland still more governed from england than it was without the so-called home rule. in fact, the fruition of mr. gladstone's proposals would have driven ireland to fight for independence. "we irish are not disposed," declared mrs. hardinge, "to submit to be excluded from a share in the government of the nation to which we belong. mr. gladstone would virtually have so excluded us; and if we had taken as a boon the small instalment of self-government he offered, we could only have taken it with the determination to use the power we acquired for the purpose of seeking more or of gaining independence. yes, my fellow-countrymen," she continued amidst loud cheers, "it was good for us, seeing how happily we now live with england, that we did not take mr. gladstone's half-measure. yet there was great suffering and great delay. weariness and concession stilled the question for a time; but the irish continued in a state of more or less suppressed irritation, both from the sense of the indignity of not being permitted local government, and from the actual evils resulting from absenteeism. relief came at length. it came from the great colonies the energy of all of us--irish, english, and scotch--had built up." long, continuous cheering interrupted the speaker. "you may well cheer," she continued. "the memory of the great colonial heroes whose action we this day commemorate, and whom, as usual, we will crown with wreaths of laurel, will always remain as green in our memory as the isle of erin itself." she proceeded to describe individually the prime ministers of the colonies who had brought the pressure to bear upon the central government. "the colonies," she said, "became every day, as they advanced in wealth and progress, more interested in the nation to which they belonged. they saw that nation weakened and discredited at home and abroad by the ever-present contingency of irish disaffection. they felt, besides, that the colonies, which had grown not only materially, but socially, happy under the influence of free institutions, could not regard with indifference the denial of the same freedom to an important territory of the nation. their action did equal honour to their intellect and virtue." mrs. hardinge concluded by describing with inimitable grace the various benefits which had arisen from satisfying ireland's wants. "the boon she received," the speaker declared, "ireland has returned tenfold. it was owing to her that the empire was federated; at one moment it stood in the balance whether this great cluster of states should be consolidated into the present happy and united empire or become a number of disintegrated communities, threatened with all the woes to which weak states are subject." after this address mrs. hardinge, in the presence of an immense multitude, placed a crown of laurel on the head of each of the statues of the colonial statesmen, commencing with the prime minister of canada. those statues later in the day were almost hidden from sight, for they were covered with a mass of many thousand garlands. chapter xii. the emperor plans a campaign. one day early in may colonel laurient was alone with the emperor, who was walking up and down the room in a state of great excitement. his eyes glittered with an expression of almost ferocity. the veins in his forehead stood out clear and defined, like cords. no one had seen him like this before. "to think they should dare to enter my territory! they shall never cease to regret it," he declared as he paced the room. two hours before, the emperor had been informed that the troops of the united states had crossed into canada, the excuse, some dispute about the fisheries, the real cause, chagrin of the president at the emperor's rejection of her daughter's hand. "this shall be a bitter lesson to the yankees," continued the emperor. "they do not know with whom they have to deal. i grant they were right to seek independence, because the government of my ancestor goaded them to it. but they shall learn there is a limit to their power, and that they are weak as water compared with the parent country they abandoned. listen, laurient," he went on more calmly as he took a seat by a table on which was spread a large map of the united states and canada. "i have made up my mind what to do, and you are to help me. you are now my first military aide-de-camp. in that capacity and as head of the bodyguard you may appear in evidence." "i shall only be too glad to render any assistance in my power. i suppose that the troops will at once proceed to canada?" "would you have me," said the emperor, "do such a wrong to my canadian subjects? you know, by the constitution of the empire, each state is bound to protect itself from invasion. do you think that my canadian volunteers are not able to perform this duty?" "i know, your majesty, that no finer body of troops is to be found in the empire than the canadian volunteers and volunteer reserve. but i thought you seemed disinclined to refrain from action." "there you are right, nor do i mean to remain idle. no; i intend a gigantic revenge. i will invade the states myself." colonel laurient's eyes glittered. he recognised the splendid audacity of the idea, and he was not one to feel fear. "carry the war into the enemy's camp!" he said. "i ought to have thought of it. it is an undertaking worthy of you, sir." "i have arranged everything with my advisers, who have given me, as commander of the forces, full executive discretion. you have a great deal to do. you will give, in strict confidence, to some person information which he is to cause to be published in the various papers. that information will be that all the ships and a large force are ordered immediately to the waters of the st. lawrence. to give reality to the intelligence, the newspapers are to be severely blamed and threatened for publishing it. but you are to select trustworthy members of the bodyguard who are verbally to communicate to the admirals and captains what is really to be done. nothing is to be put in writing beyond the evidence of your authority to give instructions, which i now hand to you. those instructions are to be by word of mouth. all the large, powerful vessels on the west indian, mediterranean, and channel stations are to meet at sandy hook, off new york, on the seventeenth evening from this, with the exception of twenty which are to proceed to boston. they are to carry with them one hundred thousand of the volunteer reserve force, fifty thousand of the regular troops, and fifty thousand ordinary volunteers who may choose to offer their services. in every case the ostensible destination is quebec. my faithful volunteers will not object to the deceit. part of the force may be carried in air-cruisers, of which there must be in attendance at least three hundred of the best in the service. the air-cruisers as soon as it is dark on the evening appointed are to range all round new york for miles and cut and destroy the telegraph wires in every direction. twenty of the most powerful, carrying a strong force of men, are to proceed to washington during the night and bring the president of the united states a prisoner to the flagship, the _british empire_. they are to leave washington without destroying property. about ten o'clock the men are to disembark at new york from the air-cruisers, and take possession of every public building and railway station. they are also during the night to disembark from the vessels. there will be little fighting. the yankees boast of keeping no standing army. they have had a difficulty to get together the hundred and fifty thousand men they have marched into canada. similar action to that at new york is to be adopted at boston. as soon as sufficient troops are disembarked i will march them into canada at the rear of the invaders, and my canadian forces are to attack them in front. i will either destroy the united states forces or take them prisoners. all means of transport by rail or river are to be seized, and also the newspaper offices. the morning publication of the newspapers in new york and boston is to be suppressed; and if all be well managed, only a few new york and boston people will know until late the day after our arrival that their cities are in my hands. my largest yacht, the _victoria_, is to go to new york. i will join it there in an air-cruiser. confidential information of all these plans is to be verbally communicated to the governor of canada by an aide-de-camp, who will proceed to ottawa to-morrow morning in a swift air-cruiser. during this night you must arrange for all the information being distributed by trusty men. i wish the intended invasion to be kept a profound secret, excepting from those specially informed. every one is to suppose that canada is the destination. i want the united states to strengthen its army in canada to the utmost. as to its fleet, as soon as my vessels have disembarked the troops they can proceed to destroy or capture such of the united states vessels of war as have dared to intrude on our canadian waters." the emperor paused. colonel laurient had taken in every instruction. his eyes sparkled with animation and rejoicing, but he did not venture to express his admiration. the emperor disliked praise. "laurient," he continued as he grasped his favourite's hand, "go. i will detain you no longer. i trust you as myself." the colonel bowed low and hastened away. it may seem that the proposed mobilization was incredible. but all the forces of the empire were constantly trained to unexpected calls to arms. formerly intended emergency measures were designed for weeks in advance; and though they purported to be secret, every intended particular was published in the newspapers. this was playing at soldiering. the minister presiding over all the land and sea forces has long since become more practical. he orders for mobilization without notice or warning, and practice has secured extraordinarily rapid results. chapter xiii. love and war. we seldom give to hilda her title of duchess of new zealand, for she is endeared to us, not on account of her worldly successes, but because of her bright, lovable, unsullied womanly nature. she was dear to all who had the privilege of knowing her. the fascination she exercised was as powerful as it was unstudied. her success in no degree changed her kindly, sympathetic nature. she always was, and always would be, unselfish and unexacting. she was staying with mrs. hardinge whilst the house she had purchased in london was being prepared for her. when maud was married, she had taken phoebe buller for her principal private secretary. miss buller was devoted to hilda, and showed herself to be a very able and industrious secretary. she had gained hilda's confidence, and was entrusted with many offices requiring for their discharge both tact and judgment. she was much liked in london society, and was not averse to general admiration. she was slightly inclined to flirtation, but she excused this disposition to herself by the reflection that it was her duty to her chief to learn as much as she could from, and about every one. she had a devoted admirer in cecil fielding, a very able barrister. as a rule, the most successful counsel were females. men seldom had much chance with juries. but cecil fielding was an exception. besides great logical powers, he possessed a voice of much variety of expression and of persuasive sympathy. but however successful he was with juries, he was less fortunate with phoebe. that young lady did not respond to his affection. she inclined more to the military profession generally and to captain douglas garstairs in particular. he was one of the bodyguard, and now that war was declared was next to colonel laurient the chief aide-de-camp. by the colonel's directions, the morning after the interview with the emperor, he waited on the duchess of new zealand to confer with her as to the selection of a woman to take charge of the ambulance corps to accompany the forces on the ostensible expedition to canada. hilda summoned phoebe and told her to take captain garstairs to see mary maudesley, and ascertain if that able young woman would accept the position on so short a notice. hilda had always taken great interest in the organisation of all institutions dedicated to dealing with disease. lately she had contributed large sums to several of these establishments in want of means, and she had specially endowed an ambulance institution to train persons to treat cases of emergency consequent on illness or accident. she had thus been brought into contact with mary maudesley, and had noticed her astonishing power of organisation and her tenderness for suffering. mary maudesley was the daughter of parents in humble life. she was about twenty-seven years of age. her father was subforeman in a large metal factory. he had risen to the position by his assiduity, ability, and trustworthiness. he received good wages; but having a large family, he continued to live in the same humble condition as when he was one of the ordinary hands at the factory. he occupied a flat on the eighth story of a large residential building in portman square, which had once been an eminently fashionable neighbourhood. besides the necessary sleeping accommodation, he had a sitting-room and kitchen. his residence might be considered the type of the accommodation to which the humblest labourers were accustomed. no one in the british empire was satisfied with less than sufficient house accommodation, substantial though plain food, and convenient, decent attire. mary when little more than fourteen years old had been present at an accident by which a little child of six years old was knocked down and had one leg and both arms broken. the father of the child had recently lost his wife. he lived in the same building as the maudesleys, and mary day and night attended to the poor little sufferer until it regained health and strength. probably this gave direction to the devotion which she subsequently showed to attendance on the sick. she joined an institution where nurses were trained to attend cases of illness in the homes of the humble. she was perfectly fearless, notwithstanding she had been twice stricken down with dangerous illness, the result of infection from patients she had nursed. miss buller thought it desirable to see miss maudesley at her own house, both because it might be necessary to consult her further, and because she wished to observe what were her domestic surroundings. they were pleased with what they saw. the flat was simply but usefully furnished. there was no striving after display. everything was substantial and good of its kind without being needlessly expensive. grace and beauty were not wanting. some excellent drawings and water-coloured paintings by mr. maudesley and one or two of his children decorated the walls. there were two or three small models of inventions of mr. maudesley's and one item of luxury in great beauty in the shape of flowers, with which the sitting-room was amply decorated. we are perhaps wrong in terming flowers luxuries, for after all, luxuries are things with which people can dispense; and there were few families who did not regard flowers as a necessary ornament of a home, however humble it and its surroundings might be. miss buller explained to miss maudesley that the usual head of the war ambulance corps required a substitute, as she was unable to join the expedition. it was her wish as well as that of the duchess of new zealand that miss maudesley should take her place. fortunately miss maudesley's engagements were sufficiently disposable to enable her to accept the notable distinction thus offered to her. miss buller was greatly pleased with the unaffected manner in which she expressed her thanks and her willingness to act. captain garstairs returned with phoebe buller to her official room. "good-bye, miss buller," he said. "i hope you will allow me to call on you when i return, if indeed the exigencies of war allow me to return." "of course you will return. and why do you call me miss buller?" said the girl, with downcast eyes and pale face. for the time all traces of coquetry were wanting. "may i call you phoebe? and do you wish me to return?" "why not? good-bye." the cold words were belied by the moistened eyes. the bold soldier saw his opportunity. before he left the room they were engaged to be married. it is curious how war brings incidents of this kind to a crisis. at the risk of wearying our readers with a monotony of events, another scene in the same mansion must be described. the emperor did mrs. hardinge the honour of visiting her at her own house. so little did she seem surprised, that it almost appeared she expected him. she, however, pleaded an urgent engagement, and asked permission to leave hilda as her substitute. the readiness with which the permission was granted seemed also to be prearranged, and the astonished girl found herself alone with the emperor before she had fully realised that he had come to see mrs. hardinge. he turned to her a bright and happy face, but his manner was signally deferential. "you cannot realise, duchess, how i have longed to see you alone once more." hilda, confused beyond expression, turned to him a face from which every trace of colour had departed. "do you remember," he proceeded, "the last time we were alone? you allowed me then to ask you a question as from man to woman. may i again do so?" he took her silence for consent, and went on in a tone from which he vainly endeavoured to banish the agitation that overmastered him. "hilda, from that time there has been but one woman in the world for me. my first, my only, love, will you be my wife?" "your majesty," said the girl, who as his agitation increased appeared to recover some presence of mind, "what would the world say? the emperor may not wed with a subject." "why not? am i to be told that, with all the power that has come to me, i am to be less free to secure my own happiness than the humblest of my subjects? hilda, i prefer you to the throne if the choice had to be made. but it has not. i will remain the emperor in order to make you the empress. but say you can love the man, not the monarch." "i do not love the emperor," said the girl, almost in a whisper. these unflattering words seemed highly satisfactory to albert edward as he sought from her sweet lips a ratification of her love not for the emperor, but the man. they both thought mrs. hardinge's absence a very short one when she returned, and yet she had been away an hour. "dear mrs. hardinge," said the emperor, with radiant face, "hilda has consented to make me the happiest man in all my wide dominions." mrs. hardinge caught hilda in her arms, and embraced her with the affection of a mother. "your majesty," she said at length, "does hilda great honour. yet i am sure you will never regret it." "indeed i shall not," he replied, with signal promptitude. "and it is she who does me honour. when i return from america and announce my engagement, i will take care that i let the world think so." on the evening which had been fixed, the war and transport vessels and air-cruisers met off new york; and in a few hours the city was in the hands of the emperor's forces. there was a little desultory fighting as well as some casualties, but there were few compared with the magnitude of the operation. the railway and telegraph stations, public buildings, and newspaper offices were in the hands of the invaders. colonel laurient himself led the force to washington. at about four o'clock in the morning between twenty and thirty air-cruisers, crowded with armed soldiers, reached that city. with a little fighting, the treasury and arsenal were taken possession of, and the newspaper offices occupied. about one thousand men invaded the white house, some entering by means of the air-cruisers through the roof and others forcing their way through the lower part of the palace. there was but little resistance; and within an hour the president of the united states, in response to colonel laurient's urgent demand, received him in one of the principal rooms. she was a fine, handsome woman of apparently about thirty-five years of age. her daughter, a young lady of seventeen, was in attendance on her. they did not show much sign of the alarm to which they had been subjected or of the haste with which they had prepared themselves to meet the british envoy. they received colonel laurient with all the high-bred dignity they might have exhibited on a happier occasion. throughout the interview his manner, though firm, was most deferential. "madam," he said, bowing low to the president, "my imperial master the emperor of britain, in response to what he considers your wanton invasion of british territory in his canadian dominions, has taken possession of new york, and requires me to lead you a prisoner to the british flagship stationed off that city. i need scarcely say that personally the task so far as it is painful to you is not agreeable to me. i have ten thousand men with me and a large number of air-cruisers. i regret to have to ask you to leave immediately." the president, deeply affected, asked if she might be allowed to take her daughter and personal attendants with her. "most certainly, madam," replied laurient. "i am only too happy to do anything to conduce to your personal comfort. you may be sure, you will suffer from no want of respect and attention." within an hour the president, her daughter, and attendants left washington in colonel laurient's own air-cruiser. an hour afterwards a second cruiser followed with the ladies' luggage. meanwhile the telegraph lines round washington were destroyed, and the officers of the forces stationed at washington were made prisoners of war and taken on board the cruisers. at six o'clock in the morning the whole of the remaining cruisers left, and rapidly made their way to new york. the president, mrs. washington-lawrence, and her daughter were received on board the flagship with the utmost respect. the officers vied with each other in showing them attention, but they were not permitted to make any communication with the shore. about noon the squadron, after disembarking the land forces, left for the st. lawrence waters, and succeeded in capturing twenty-five of the finest vessels belonging to the united states, besides innumerable smaller ones. the emperor left fifty thousand men, well supplied with guns, arms, and ammunition, in charge of new york, and at the head of an army of one hundred thousand men, the flower of the british force in the northern hemisphere, proceeded rapidly to the canadian frontier. about a hundred miles on the other side of the frontier they came upon traces of the near presence of the american forces. here it was that the most conspicuous act of personal courage was displayed, and the hero was lord reginald paramatta. he happened to be in london when war was announced, and he volunteered to accompany one of the battalions. it should be mentioned that no proceedings had been initiated against lord reginald either for his presence at the treasonable meeting, or for his attempted abduction of hilda. her friends were entirely averse to any action being taken, as the publicity would have been most repugnant to her. it became necessary early in the night to ascertain the exact position of the american forces, and to communicate with the canadian forces on the other side, with the view to joint action. the locality was too unknown and the night too dark to make the air-cruisers serviceable. the reconnoitring party were to make their way as best they could through the american lines, communicate with the canadian commander, and return as soon as possible in an air-cruiser. each man carried with him an electric battery of intense force, by means of which he could either produce a strong light, or under certain conditions a very powerful offensive and defensive weapon. only fifty men were to compose the force, and lord reginald's offer to lead them was heartily accepted. his bravery, judgment, and coolness in action were undeniable. at midnight he started, and, with the assistance of a guide, soon penetrated to an eminence from which the lights of the large united states camp below could be plainly discerned. the forces were camped on the plain skirted by the range of hills from one of which lord reginald made his observations. the plain was of peculiar shape, resembling nearly the figure that two long isosceles triangles joined at the base would represent. the force was in its greatest strength at the middle, and tapered down towards each end. far away on the other edge of the plain, evidence of the canadian camp could be dimly perceived. the ceaseless movements in the american camp betokened preparations for early action. after a long and critical survey both of the plain and of the range of hills, lord reginald determined to cross at the extreme left. the scouts of the americans were stationed far up upon the chain of hills, and lord reginald saw that it would be impossible to traverse unnoticed the range from where he stood to the point at which he had determined to descend to the plain. he had to retire to the other side of the range and make his progress to the west (the camp faced the north) on the outer side of the range that skirted the camp. the hill from which he had decided to descend was nearly two miles distant from the point at which he made his observation. but the way was rough and tortuous, and it took nearly two hours to reach a comparatively low hill skirting the plain at the narrowest point. the force below was also narrowed out. less than half a mile in depth seemed to be occupied by the american camp at this point. the canadian camp was less extended. its extreme west appeared to be attainable by a diagonal line of about two miles in length, with an inclination from the straight of about seventy degrees. lord reginald had thus to force his way through nearly half a mile of the camp, and then to cross nearly two miles between both forces. the commander halted his followers, and in a low tone proceeded to give his instructions. the men were to march in file two deep, about six feet were to separate each rank, and the files were to be twenty feet apart. each two men of the same file were to carry extended between them the flexible platinum aluminium electric wire, capable of bearing an enormous strain, that upon a touch of the button of the battery, carried by each man, would destroy any living thing which came in contact with it. lord reginald and the officer next to him in rank, who was none other than captain douglas garstairs, were to lead the way. in a few moments the wires between each two men were adjusted. they were to proceed very slowly down the hill until they were observed, then with a rush, to skirt the outside of the camp. once past the camp, the wires were to be disconnected, and the men, as much separated as possible, were to make to the opposite camp with the utmost expedition. slowly and noiselessly amidst the intense shadow of the hill lord reginald and his companion led the way towards the extreme end of the camp. they had nearly reached the level ground when at three feet distance a sentry stood before them and shouted, "who goes there?" poor wretch, they were his last words. lord reginald and his companion with a rapid movement rushed on either side of him, and the moment the wire touched him he sank to the ground a lifeless mass. then ensued a commotion almost impossible to describe. lord reginald and captain garstairs were noted runners. they proceeded at a strong pace outside of the tents. as the men rushed out to stop them, the fatal wire performed its ghastly execution. three times three men sank lifeless in their path, before they cleared the outside of the tents. the americans could only fire at intervals, for fear of hitting their own men. of the twenty-five couples of lord reginald's force, fifteen passed the tents; twenty of the brave men were stricken down, whilst the way was strewn with the bodies of the americans who had succumbed to the mysterious electric force. and now the time had come for each one to save himself. the wires were disconnected, the batteries thrown down, and for dear life every one rushed towards the canadian camp. but the noise had been heard along the line, and a wonderful consequence ensued. from end to end of the american camp the electric lights were turned on to the strength of many millions of candle-power. the lights left the camp in darkness; the rays were turned outwards to the spare ground that separated the camps. the canadians responded by turning on their lights, and the plain between the two camps was irradiated with a dazzling brightness which even the sunlight could not emulate. the forlorn hope dashed on. thousands of pieces were fired at the straggling men. it was fortunate they were so much apart, as it led to the same man being shot at many times. of the thirty who passed the tents ten men at intervals fell before the murderous fire. lord reginald had been grazed by a shot the effects of which he scarcely felt. he and his companions were within a hundred yards of safety. but that safety was not to be. captain garstairs was struck. "good-bye, reginald. tell phoebe buller----" he could say no more. lord reginald arrested his progress, and as coolly as if he were in a drawing-room lifted the wounded man tenderly and carefully in his arms, and without haste or fear covered the intervening distance to the canadian camp. he was not struck. who indeed shall say that he was aimed at? his great deed was equally seen by each army in the bright blaze of light; and when he reached the haven of safety, a cheer went up from each side, for there were brave men in both armies, ready to admire deeds of valour. only ten men reached the canadian camp; but, under the sanction of a flag of truce, five more were brought in alive, and they subsequently recovered from their wounds. captain garstairs was shot in the leg both above and below the knee. he remained in the canadian camp that day. at first it was feared he would lose the limb. but, to anticipate events, when the emperor's forces joined the canadian, mary maudesley took charge of him; and captain garstairs had ample cause to congratulate himself on the visit he had paid to secure the services of that lady. he was in the habit of declaring afterwards that it was the most successful expedition of his life, for it was the means of securing him a wife and of saving him a limb. lord reginald rapidly explained the situation to the canadian commander-in-chief. the emperor's army could come up in three hours. it was evident from the movements under the hills opposite, as shown by the electric light, that the americans did not mean to waste time. it was probable that at the first dawn of day they would set their army in motion; and it was arranged that the canadians, without hastening the action, should, on the americans advancing, proceed to meet them, so that they would be nearer the emperor's forces as these advanced in rear of the enemy. scarcely half an hour after he reached the canadian lines lord reginald ascended in a swift air-cruiser, and passing high above the american camp, reached the emperor's forces before day dawned. lord reginald briefly communicated the result of his expedition. he took no credit to himself, did not dwell on the dangerous passage nor his heroic rescue of captain garstairs. nevertheless the incident soon became known, and enhanced lord reginald's popularity. the army was rapidly in motion; and after the canadian and american forces became engaged, the british army, led by the emperor in person, appeared on the crest of the hills and descended towards the plains. the american commander-in-chief knew nothing of the british army in his rear. tidings had not reached him of the occupation of new york and boston. the incident of the rush of lord reginald and his party across the plain from camp to camp and the return of an air-cruiser towards the united states frontier had occasioned him surprise; but his mind did not dwell on it in the midst of the immediate responsible duties he had to perform. on the other hand, he was expecting reinforcements from the states; and when the new force appeared on the summit of the hills, he congratulated himself mentally; for the battle with the canadian army threatened to go hard with him. before he was undeceived the british troops came thundering down the hills, and he was a prisoner to an officer of the emperor's own staff. the british troops went onwards, and the destruction of the american forces was imminent. but the emperor could not bear the idea of the carnage inflicted on persons speaking the same language, and whose forefathers were the subjects of his own ancestors. "spare them," he appealed to the commander-in-chief. "they are hopelessly at our mercy. let them surrender." the battle was stayed as speedily as possible; and the british and canadian forces found themselves in possession of over one hundred and thirty thousand prisoners, besides all the arms, ammunition, artillery, and camp equipage. it was a tremendous victory. chapter xiv. the fourth of july retrieved. the prisoners were left at quebec suitably guarded; but the british and canadian forces, as fast as the railways could carry them, returned to new york. the united states constitution had not made provision for the imprisonment or abduction of the president of the republic, and there was some doubt as to how the place of the chief of the executive should be supplied. it was decided that, as in the president's absence on ordinary occasions the deputy president represented him, so the same precedent should be followed in the case of the present extraordinary absence. the president, however, was not anxious to resume her position. it was to her headstrong action that the invasion of canada was owing. the president of the united states possesses more individual power in the way of moving armies and declaring war than any other monarch. this has always been the case. a warlike spirit is easily fostered in any nation. still the wise and prudent were aghast at the president's hasty action on what seemed the slight provocation of the renewal of the immemorial fisheries dispute. of course public opinion could not gauge the sense of wrong that the rejection by the emperor of her daughter's hand had occasioned in the mind of the president. now that the episode was over, and the empire of britain had won a triumph which amply redeemed the humiliation of centuries back, when the english colonies of america won their independence by force of arms, public opinion was very bitter against the president. the glorious th of july was virtually abolished. how could they celebrate the independence and forget to commemorate the retrieval by their old mother-country of all her power and prestige? no wonder then that mrs. washington-lawrence did not care to return to the states! "my dear," she said to her daughter in one of the luxurious cabins assigned to them on the flagship, "do you think that i ought to send in my resignation?" "i cannot judge," replied the young lady. "you appear quite out of it. negotiations are said to be proceeding, but you are not consulted or even informed of what is going on." "if it were not for you," said the elder lady, "i would never again set foot on the united states soil. captain hamilton" (alluding to the captain of the vessel they were on, the _british empire_) "says i ought not to do so." "i do not see that his advice matters," promptly answered the young lady. "if admiral benedict had said so, i might have considered it more important." "i think more of the captain's opinion," said mrs. washington-lawrence. "perhaps he thinks more of yours," retorted the unceremonious daughter. "but what do you mean about returning for my sake?" "my dear, you are very young, and cannot remain by yourself. besides, you will want to settle in the united states when you marry, to look after the large property your father left you, and that will come to you when you are twenty-one." "i think, mother, you have interfered quite sufficiently about my marrying. we should not be here now but for your anxiety to dispose of me." mrs. washington-lawrence thought this very ungrateful, for her efforts were not at the time at all repugnant to the ambitious young lady. however, a quarrel was averted; and milder counsels prevailed. at length the elder lady confessed, with many blushes, captain hamilton had proposed to her, and that she would have accepted him but for the thought of her daughter's probable dissatisfaction. this aroused an answering confession from miss washington-lawrence. the admiral, it appeared, had twice proposed to her; and she had consented to his obtaining the emperor's permission, a condition considered necessary under the peculiar circumstances. the emperor readily gave his consent. it was an answer to those of his own subjects who had wished him to marry the new england girl with the red hair, and opened the way to his announcing his marriage with hilda. the two weddings of mother and daughter took place amidst much rejoicing throughout the whole squadron. the emperor gave to each bride a magnificent set of diamonds. negotiations meanwhile with the united states proceeded as to the terms on which the emperor would consent to peace, a month's truce having been declared in the meanwhile. mrs. hardinge and hilda met the chief ministers of the two powerful empires in europe, and satisfied them that the british government would not ask anything prejudicial to their interests. the terms were finally arranged. the united states were to pay the empire of britain six hundred millions sterling and to salute the british flag. the childrosse family and rorgon, mose and co. undertook to find the money for the united states government. the emperor consented to retire from new york in six months unless within that time a plebiscite of that state and the new english states declared by a majority of two to one the desire of the people to again become the subjects of the british empire, in which case new york would be constituted the capital of the dominion of canada. to anticipate events, it may at once be said that the majority in favour of reannexation was over four to one, and that the union was celebrated with enormous rejoicing. most of the united states vessels were returned to her, and the british government, on behalf of the empire, voluntarily relinquished the money payment, in favour of its being handed to the states seceding from the republic to join the canadian dominion. this provision was a wise one, for otherwise the new states of the canadian dominion would have been less wealthy than those they joined. chapter xv. conclusion. the emperor went to quebec for a week, and thence returned to london, in the month of july. there he announced his intended marriage, and that it would very soon take place. the ovations showered on the emperor in consequence of his successful operations in the united states defy description. he was recognised as the first military genius of the day. many declared that he excelled all military heroes of the past, and that a better-devised and more ably carried-into-effect military movement was not to be found in the pages of history, ancient or modern. at such a time, had the marriage been really unpopular, much would have been conceded to the desire to do honour to his military successes. but the marriage was not unpopular in a personal sense. there was great difference of opinion as to the wisdom of an emperor marrying a subject instead of seeking a foreign alliance. on the one hand, difficulties of court etiquette were alleged; on the other, it was contended that britain had nothing to gain from foreign marriage alliances, that she was strong enough without them, and that they frequently were sources of weakness rather than strength. the duchess of new zealand sat alone in her study in the new mansion in london of which she had just taken possession. it was magnificently furnished and decorated, but she would soon cease to have a use for it. she was to be married in a week, and the empress of britain would have royal residences in all parts of her wide dominions. she intended to make a present of her new house, with its contents, to phoebe buller on her marriage with colonel garstairs. he won his promotion in the united states war. she was writing a letter to her sister, lady montreal. a slight noise attracted her attention. she looked up, and with dismay beheld the face of lord reginald paramatta. "how dare you thus intrude?" she said, in an accent of strong indignation, though she could scarcely restrain a feeling of pity, so ill and careworn did he look. "do not grudge me," he said, in deprecatory tones, "a few moments of your presence. i am dying for the want of you." "my lord," replied hilda, "you should be sensible that nothing could be more distasteful to me than such a visit after your past conduct." "i do not deny your cause of complaint; but, hilda--let me call you so this once--remember it was all for love of you." "i cannot remember anything of the kind. true love seeks the happiness of the object it cherishes, not its misery." "you once looked kindly on me." "lord reginald, i never loved you, nor did i ever lead you to believe so. a deep and true instinct told me from the first that i could not be happy with you." "you crush me with your cruel words," said lord reginald. "when i am away from you, i persuade myself that i have not sufficiently pleaded my cause; and then with irresistible force i long to see you." "all your wishes," said the girl, "are irresistible because you have never learned to govern them. if you truly loved me, you would have the strength to sacrifice your love to the conviction that it would wreck my happiness." the girl paused. then, with a look of impassioned sincerity, she went on, "lord reginald, let me appeal to your better nature. you are brave. no one more rejoiced than i did over your great deed in canada. i forgot your late conduct, and thought only of our earlier friendship. be brave now morally as well as physically. renounce the feelings i cannot reciprocate; and when next i meet you, let me acknowledge in you the hero who has conquered himself." "in vain. in vain. i cannot do it. there is no alternative for me but you or death. hilda, i will not trifle with time. i am here to carry you away. you must be mine." "dare you threaten me," said she, "and in my own house?" her hand was on the button on the table to summon assistance, but he arrested the movement and put his arm round her waist. with a loud and piercing scream, hilda flew towards the door. before she reached it, it opened; and there entered a tall man, with features almost indistinguishable from the profuse beard, whiskers, and moustache with which they were covered. hilda screamed out, "help me. protect me." "i am laurient," he whispered to the agitated girl. "go to the back room, and this whistle will bring immediate aid. the lower part of the house and staircase are crowded with that man's followers." hilda rushed from the room before lord reginald could reach her. colonel laurient closed the door, and pulled from his face its hirsute adornments. "i am colonel laurient, at your service. you have to reckon with me for your cruel persecution of that poor girl." "how came you here?" asked lord reginald, who was almost stunned with astonishment. "my lord," replied laurient, "since your attempt at waiwera to carry the duchess away you have been unceasingly shadowed. your personal attendants were in the pay of those who watched over that fair girl's safety. your departure from canada was noted, the object of your stay in london suspected. your intended visit to-day was guessed at, and i was one of the followers who accompanied you. but there is no time for explanation. you shall account to me as a friend of the emperor for your conduct to the noble woman he is about to marry. she shall be persecuted no longer; one or both of us shall not leave this room alive." he pulled out two small firing-pieces, each with three barrels. "select one," he said briefly. "both weapons are loaded. we shall stand at opposite ends of this large room." at no time would lord reginald have been likely to refuse a challenge of this kind, and least of all now. his one desire was revenge on some one to satisfy the terrible cravings of his baffled passions. "i am under the impression," he said, with studied calmness, "that i already owe something to your interference. i am not reluctant to acquit myself of the debt." in a few minutes the help hilda summoned arrived. laurient had taken care to provide assistance near at hand. when the officers in charge of the aid entered the room, a sad sight presented itself. both lord reginald and colonel laurient were prostrate on the ground, the former evidently fatally stricken, the latter scarcely less seriously wounded. they did not venture to move lord reginald. at his earnest entreaty, hilda came to him. it was a terrible ordeal for her. it was likely both men would die, and their death would be the consequence of their vain love for her. but how different the nature of the love, the one unselfish and sacrificing, seeking only her happiness, the other brutally indifferent to all but its own uncontrollable impulses. it seemed absurd to call by the same name sentiments so widely opposite, the one so ennobling, the other so debasing. she stood beside the couch on which they had lifted him. "hilda," he whispered in a tone so low, she could scarcely distinguish what he said, "the death i spoke of has come; and i do not regret it. it was you or death, as i told you; and death has conquered." he paused for a few moments, then resumed, "my time is short. say you forgive me all the unhappiness i have caused you." hilda was much affected. "reginald," she faltered, "i fully, freely forgive you for all your wrongs to me; but can i forget that colonel laurient may also meet his death?" "a happy death, for it will have been gained in your service." "reginald, dear reginald, if your sad anticipation is to be realised, should you not cease to think of earthly things?" "pray for me," he eagerly replied. "you were right in saying my passions were ungovernable, but i have never forgotten the faith of my childhood. i am past forgiveness, for i sinned and knew that i was sinning." "god is all-merciful," said the tearful girl. she sank upon her knees before the couch, and in low tones prayed the prayers familiar to her, and something besides extemporised from her own heart. she thought of reginald as she first knew him, of the great deeds of which he had been capable, of the melancholy consequence of his uncontrolled love for herself. she prayed with an intense earnestness that he might be forgiven; and as she prayed a faint smile irradiated the face of the dying man, and with an effort to say, "amen," he drew his last breath. three days later hilda stood beside another deathbed. all that care and science could effect was useless; colonel laurient was dying. the fiat had gone forth; life was impossible. the black horses would once more come to the door of the new mansion. he who loved hilda so truly, so unselfishly, was to share the fate of that other unworthy lover. hilda's grief was of extreme poignancy, and scarcely less grieved was the emperor himself. he had passed most of his time since he had learnt laurient's danger beside his couch, and now the end was approaching. on one side of the bed was the emperor, on the other hilda, duchess of new zealand. how puerile the title seemed in the presence of the dread executioner who recognises no distinction between peasant and monarch. the mightiest man on earth was utterly powerless to save his friend, and the day would come when he and the lovely girl who was to be his bride would be equally powerless to prolong their own lives. in such a presence the distinctions of earth seemed narrowed and distorted. "sir," said the dying man, "my last prayer is that you and hilda may be happy. she is the noblest woman i have ever met. you once told me," he said, turning to her, "that you felt for me a sister's love. will you before i die give me a sister's kiss and blessing?" hilda, utterly unable to control her sobs, bent down and pressed a kiss upon his lips. it seemed as if life passed away at that very moment. he never moved or spoke again. he was buried in the grounds of one of the royal residences, and the emperor and hilda erected a splendid monument to his memory. no year ever passed without their visiting the grave of the man who had served them so well. their marriage was deferred for a month in consequence of colonel laurient's death, but the ceremony was a grand one. nothing was wanting in the way of pomp and display to invest it with the utmost importance. throughout the whole empire there were great rejoicings. it really appeared as if the emperor could not have made a more popular marriage, and that unalloyed happiness was in store for him and his bride. epilogue. twenty years have passed. the emperor is nearly fifty, and the empress is no longer young. they have preserved their good looks; but on the countenance of each is a settled melancholy expression, wanting in the days which preceded their marriage. their union seemed to promise a happy life, no cloud showed itself on the horizon of their new existence, and yet sadness proved to be its prominent feature. a year after their marriage a son was born, amidst extravagant rejoicings throughout the empire. another year witnessed the birth of a daughter, and a third child was shortly expected, when a terrible event occurred. a small dog, a great favourite of the child, slightly bit the young prince. the animal proved to be mad, a fact unsuspected until too late to apply adequate remedial measures to the boy, and the heir to the empire died amidst horrible suffering. the grief of the parents may be better imagined than described. the third child, a boy, was prematurely born, and grew up weak and sickly. two more children were subsequently born, but both died in early childhood. the princess, the elder-born of the two survivors, grew into a beautiful woman. she was over eighteen years old when this history reopens. her brother was a year younger. the contrast between the two was remarkable. princess victoria was a fine, healthy girl, with a lovely complexion. she inherited her mother's beauty and her father's dignity and grace of manner. she was the idol of every one with whom she came in contact. the charm and fascination of her demeanour were enhanced by the dignity of presence which never forsook her. her brother, poor boy, was thin and delicate-looking, and a constant invalid, though not afflicted with any organic disease. they both were clever, but their tastes were widely apart. the princess was an accomplished linguist; and few excelled her in knowledge of history, past and contemporaneous. she took great interest in public affairs. no statesman was better acquainted with the innumerable conditions which cumbered the outward seeming of affairs of state. prince albert edward, on the contrary, took no heed of public affairs. he rarely read a newspaper; but he was a profound mathematician, a constant student of physical laws: and, above all, he had a love for the study of human character. when only sixteen, he gained a gold medal for a paper sent in anonymously to the imperial institute, dealing with the influence of circumstances and events upon mental and moral development. the essay was very deep, and embodied some new and rather startling theories, closely reasoned, as to the effects of training and education. the princess was her father's idol; and though he was too just to wish to prejudice his son's rights, he could not without bitter regret remember that but for his action long ago his daughter would have been heiress to the throne. fate, with strange irony, had made the empress also alter her views. the weak and sickly son had been the special object of long years of care. the poor mother, bereaved of three children out of five, clung to this weak offspring as the shipwrecked sailor to the plank which is his sole chance of life. the very notion of the loved son losing the succession was a cruel shock to her. the theoretical views which she shared with mrs. hardinge years since, were a weak barrier to the promptings of maternal love. so it happened that the emperor ardently regretted that he had prevented the proposed change in the order of succession, and the empress as much rejoiced that the views of her party had not prevailed. but the emperor was essentially a just man. he recognised that before children had been born to him the question was open to treatment, but that it was different now when his son enjoyed personal rights. ardently as he desired his daughter should reign, he would not on any consideration agree that his son should be set aside without his own free and full consent. what annoyed him most was the fallacy of his own arguments long ago. it will be remembered, he had laid chief stress on the probability that the female succession would reduce the chance of the armies being led by the emperor in person in case of war. but it was certain that, if his son succeeded, he would not head the army in battle. the young prince had passed through the military training prescribed for every male subject of the empire, but he had no taste for military knowledge. not that he wanted courage; on the contrary, he had displayed conspicuous bravery on several occasions. once he had jumped off a yacht in rough weather to save one of his staff who had fallen overboard; and on another occasion, when a fire took place at sea, he was cooler and less terror-stricken than any of the persons who surrounded him. but for objects and studies of a militant character he had an aversion, almost a contempt; and it was certain he never would become a great general. the fallacy of his principal objection to the change in the order of succession was thus brought home to the emperor with bitter emphasis. perhaps the worst effect of all was the wall of estrangement that was being built up between him and the empress. when two people constantly in communication feel themselves prevented from discussing the subject nearest to the heart and most constant to the mind of each, estrangement must grow up, no matter how great may be their mutual love. the emperor and empress loved each other as much as ever, but to both the discussion of the question of succession was fraught with bitter pain. the time had, however, come when they must discuss it. the princess had already reached her legal majority, and the prince would shortly arrive at the age which was prescribed as the majority of the heir to the throne. his own unfitness for the sovereignty and the exceeding suitability of his sister were widely known, and the newspapers had just commenced a warm discussion on the subject. the cabinet, too, were inclined to take action. many years since, mrs. hardinge died quite suddenly of heart disease; and lady cairo had for a long period filled the post of prime minister. lady garstairs, _née_ phoebe buller, was leader of the opposition. she was still a close friend of the empress, and she shared the opinion of her imperial mistress that the subject had better not be dealt with. but lady cairo, who had always thought it ought to have been settled before the emperor's marriage, was very much embarrassed now by the strong and general demand that the question should be immediately reopened. she had several interviews with the emperor on the subject. his majesty did not conceal his personal desire that his daughter should succeed, or his opinion that she was signally fitted for the position; but nothing, he declared, would induce him to allow his son's rights to be assailed without the prince's full and free consent. meanwhile the prince showed no sign. it seemed as if he alone of all the subjects of the empire knew and cared nothing about the matter. he rarely spoke of public affairs, and scarcely ever read the newspapers, especially those portions of them devoted to politics. the emperor felt a discussion with the empress could no longer be avoided; and we meet them once more at a long and painful interview, in which they unburdened the thoughts which each had concealed from the other for years past. "dear hilda," said the emperor, "do not misunderstand me. i would rather renounce the crown than allow our son's rights to be prejudiced without his approval." "yes, yes, i understand that," said the empress; "and i recognise your sense of justice. i do not think that you love albert as much as you do victoria, and you certainly have not that pride in him which you have in her; whilst i--i love my boy, and cannot bear that he should suffer." "my dear," said the emperor, "that is where we differ. i love albert, and i admire his high character; but i do not think it would be for his happiness that he should reign, nor that he should now relinquish all the studies in which he delights, in order to take his proper position as heir to the throne. in a few weeks he will be of age; and if he is to succeed me, duties of a most onerous and constant character will devolve on him. he is, i will do him the justice to say, too conscientious to neglect his duty; and i believe he will endeavour to attend to public affairs and cast away all those studies that most delight him: but the change will make him miserable." "you are a wise judge of the hearts and ways of men and women, and it would ill become me to disregard your opinion; but, albert, does it not occur to you that our albert might live to regret any renunciation he made in earlier life?" "i admit the possibility," said the emperor; "but he is stable and mature beyond his years. his dream is to benefit mankind by the studies he pursues. he has already met with great success in those studies, and i think they will bring their own reward; but should anything occur to make him renounce them, he may, i admit, lament too late the might-have-been." "supposing," said the empress, "he married an ambitious wife and had sons like you were, dear albert, in your young manhood?" "one cannot judge one's self; yet i think i should have accepted whatever was my position, and not have allowed vain repinings to prevent my endeavouring to perform the duties that devolved on me." "forgive me, albert, for doubting it. you would, i am sure, have been true to yourself." "you confirm my own impression. recollect, hilda, true ambition prompts to legitimate effort, not to vain grief for the unattainable. it may be that victoria's own children will succeed; but albert's children, if they are ambitious, will not be denied a brilliant career." "i cannot argue the matter, for it is useless to deny that i refuse to see our son as he is. i love him to devotion, yet the grief is always with me that the son is not like the father." "hilda dear, he is not like the father in some respects; but the very difference perhaps partakes of the higher life. when the last day comes to him and to me, who shall say that he will not look back to his conduct through life with more satisfaction than i shall be able to do?" "i will not allow you to underrate yourself. you are faultless in my eyes. no human being has ever had cause to complain of you." "tut! tut! you are too partial a judge." but he kissed her tenderly, and his eyes gleamed with a pleasure for a very long while unknown to them, as she brought to him the conviction that the love and admiration of her youth had survived all the sorrows of their after-lives. at this juncture the prince entered the room. "pardon me," he said. "i thought my mother was alone;" and he was about to retire. the emperor looked at the empress, and he gathered from her answering glance that she shared with him the desire that all reserve and concealment should be at an end. in a moment his resolution was formed. his son should know everything and decide for himself. "stay, albert," he said. "i am glad to have an opportunity of talking with you in the presence of your mother." "i am equally glad, sir. indeed, i should have asked you later in the day to have given me an audience." "why do you wish to see me?" said the emperor, who in a moment suspected what proved to be the case: that his son anticipated his own wish for an exchange of confidence. "during the last few days it has become known to me, sir, that a controversy is going on respecting the order of succession to the throne. i have," producing a small package, "cuttings from some of the principal newspapers from which i gather there is a strong opinion in favour of a change in the order of succession. i glean from them that by far the larger number are agreed on the point that it would be better my sister should succeed to you." he paused a moment, and then in a clear and distinct tone said, "i am of the same opinion." the empress interposed. "are you sure of your own mind? do you recognise what it is you would renounce--the position of foremost ruler on the wide globe?" "i think i realise it. i am not much given to the study of contemporaneous history, but i am well acquainted with all the circumstances of my father's great career." the parents looked at each other in surprise. "yes; there is no one," he resumed, "who is more proud of the emperor than his only son." with much emotion the father clasped the son's hand. "what is it you wish, albert?" he said. "i would like victoria to be present if you would not mind," replied the prince, looking at his mother. "may i fetch her?" the empress nodded. "you will find her in the next room." the princess victoria was a lovely and splendid girl. it was impossible to look at her without feeling that she would adorn the highest position. the emperor's face lighted up as he glanced at her; and the empress, much impressed with what her husband had said, kissed the princess with unusual tenderness. she probably wished her daughter to feel that she was not averse to any issue which might result from the momentous interview about to take place. "sir," said the young prince, addressing his father, "i know how important your time is, so i will not prolong what i wish to say. until i saw these papers," holding up the extracts, "i confess i was unaware of the great interest which is now being taken in the question of the succession. but i cannot assert that the subject is new to me; on the contrary, i have thought it over deeply, and it was my intention to speak to you about it when in a few weeks i should attain my majority." "my dear boy, pray believe that it was through consideration to you i have refrained from speaking to you on the subject." "i know it, sir, and thank you," said the boy with feeling; "but the time has come when there must be no longer any reserve between us. you know, i do not take much interest in public affairs, and i fear it has grieved you that my inclinations have been so alien to what my position as heir to the throne required. but i am not unacquainted with the principles of the constitution of the empire. i will not pretend that i have studied them from a statesman's point of view. they have absorbed my attention in the course of my favourite study of human character. i have closely (if it did not seem conceited, i might say philosophically) investigated the constitution with the object of determining to what extent it operates as an educational medium affecting the character of the nation. the question of the succession is settled by the constitution act, and no alteration is possible in justice, that does not fully reserve the rights of all living beings. i am first in the order of succession, and no law of man can take it from me excepting with my full consent." "albert," interrupted the emperor, "you say rightly; and i assure you that i am fully prepared to adopt this view. no consideration will induce me to consent to any alteration which will prejudice you excepting with your own desire; and indeed i am doubtful if even with your desire i should be justified in allowing you at so early a period of your life to make a renunciation." "i am grateful, sir, for this assurance. its memory will live in my mind. and now let me say that, having for a long while considered the subject with the utmost attention i could give to it, i am of opinion that the present law by which the female succession is partly barred is not a just one. i will not, however, say that it ought to be altered against a living representative; but i decidedly think that it should be amended as regards those unborn. the decision i have come to then does not depend upon the amendment in the constitution which i believe to be desirable. it arises from personal causes. i believe that my sister victoria is as specially fitted for the dignity and functions of empress, as i am the reverse." the princess victoria started up in great agitation. she was not without ambition, and it could not be questioned that the position of empress had fascinating attraction for her active mind and courageous spirit. but she dearly loved her brother, and her predominant feeling at the moment was regard for his interests. "albert," she said with great energy, "i will not have you make any sacrifice for me. you will be a good and clever man, and will adorn whatever position you are called to." "i thank you, victoria," said the boy gravely. "i am delighted that you think so well of me. but you must not consider i am making a sacrifice. my inclinations are entirely against public life. the position of next heir, and in time of emperor, would give me no pleasure. my ambition--and i am not without it--points to triumphs of a different kind. no success in the council or in the field would give me the gratification that the reception of my paper by the imperial institute occasioned me, and the gold medal which i gained without my name as author being known. why i have dwelt on your fitness for the position, victoria, is because i do not believe that i should be justified in renouncing the succession unless i could honestly feel that a better person would take my place." "albert," interposed the empress, "let your mother say a word before you proceed further. i will not interfere with any decision that may be arrived at. i leave that to your father, in whose wisdom i have implicit faith. but i must ask you, have you thought over all contingencies, not only of what has happened in the past or of what is now occurring, but of what the future may have in store?" "i have, my mother, thought over the future as well as the past." "you may marry, albert. your wife may grieve for the position you have renounced; you may have children: they may inherit your father's grand qualities. will you yourself not grieve to see them subordinate to their cousins, your sister's children?" "mother, i probably shall not marry; and if i do, my renunciation of the succession will justify me in marrying as my heart dictates, and not to satisfy state exigencies. i shall be well assured that whomever i marry will be content to take me for myself, and not for what i might have been. as to the children, they will be educated to the station to which they will belong, surely a sufficiently exalted one." the emperor now interposed. "you are young," he said, "to speak of wife and children; but you have spoken with the sense and discretion of mature years. i understand, that if you renounce the succession, you will do so in the full belief that you will be consulting your own happiness and not injuring those who might be your subjects, because you leave to them a good substitute in your sister." "you have rightly described my sentiments," said the boy. "then, albert," said the emperor, "i will give my consent to the introduction of a measure that, preserving your rights, will as regards the future give to females an equal right with males to the succession. as regards yourself, i think the act should give you after your majority a right, entirely depending on your own discretion, of renunciation in favour of your sister, and provide that such renunciation shall be finally operative." our history for the present ends with the passage of the act described by the emperor; an act considered to be especially memorable, since it removed the last disability under which the female sex laboured. * * * * * it is perhaps desirable to explain that three leading features have been kept in view in the production of the foregoing anticipation of the future. first, it has been designed to show that a recognised dominance of either sex is unnecessary, and that men and women may take part in the affairs of the world on terms of equality, each member of either sex enjoying the position to which he or she is entitled by reason of his or her qualifications. the second object is to suggest that the materials are to hand for forming the dominions of great britain into a powerful and beneficent empire. the third purpose is to attract consideration to the question as to whether it is not possible to relieve the misery under which a large portion of mankind languishes on account of extreme poverty and destitution. the writer has a strong conviction that every human being is entitled to a sufficiency of food and clothing and to decent lodging whether or not he or she is willing to or capable of work. he hates the idea of anything approaching to communism, as it would be fatal to energy and ambition, two of the most ennobling qualities with which human beings are endowed. but there is no reason to fear that ambition would be deadened because the lowest scale of life commenced with sufficiency of sustenance. experience, on the contrary, shows that the higher the social status the more keen ambition becomes. aspiration is most numbed in those whose existence is walled round with constant privation. figures would of course indicate that the cost of the additional provision would be enormous, but the increase is more seeming than real. every commodity that man uses is obtained by an expenditure of more or less human labour. the extra cost would mean extra employment and profit to vast numbers of people, and the earth itself is capable of an indefinite increase of the products which are necessary to man's use. the additional employment available would in time make work a privilege, not a burden; and the objects of the truest sympathy would be those who would not or who could not work. the theory of forcing a person to labour would be no more recognised than one of forcing a person to listen to music or to view works of art. of course it will be urged that natives of countries where the earth is prolific are not, as a rule, industrious. but this fact must be viewed in connection with that other fact that to these countries the higher aims which grow in the path of civilisation have not penetrated. an incalculable increase of wealth, position, and authority would accompany an ameliorated condition of the proletariat, so that the scope of ambition would be proportionately enlarged. there would still be much variety of human woe and joy; and though the lowest rung of the ladder would not descend to the present abysmal depth of destitution and degradation, the intensely comprehensive line of the poet would continue as monumental as ever,-- "the meanest hind in misery's sad train still looks beneath him." printed by hazell, watson, & viney, ld., london and aylesbury. * * * * * hutchinson & co.'s publications. _nearly ready._ +in australian wilds+, and other colonial tales and sketches. by l. j. farjeon, c. haddon chambers, edward jenkins, "tasma," and others. edited by philip mennell. crown vo, in handsomely printed coloured wrapper, s. _in the press._ +the maid of orleans+, and the great war of the english in france. by w. h. davenport adams, author of "memorable battles in english history," etc. large crown vo, handsomely bound in cloth, with illustrations, s. d. _in the press._ companion volume to "the aldine reciter." +the aldine dialogues.+ edited by alfred h. miles. cloth, crown to, bevelled boards, gilt, s. d. _nearly ready._ +the a reciter. part .+ edited by alfred h. miles. large pages of poetry and prose by leading english and american authors. crown to, d. london: hutchinson & co., , paternoster square. popular novels by authors of the day. price s. each, paper boards. handsome library edition, in cloth, s. d. by mrs. riddell. austin friars. too much alone. the rich husband. maxwell drewitt. far above rubies. a life's assize. the world in the church. home, sweet home. phemie keller. race for wealth. the earl's promise. mortomley's estate. frank sinclair's wife. the ruling passion. my first and my last love. city and suburb. above suspicion. joy after sorrow. by florence marryat. gerald estcourt. love's conflict. too good for him. woman against woman. for ever and ever. nelly brooke. veronique. her lord and master. the prey of the gods. the girls of feversham. mad dumaresq. no intentions. petronel. by sydney s. harris. the sutherlands. rutledge. christine. the two cousins. london: hutchinson & co., , paternoster square. by j. sheridan lefanu. checkmate. all in the dark. guy deverell. the rose and the key. tenants of malory. willing to die. wylder's hand. the house by the churchyard. by g. a. sala. quite alone. by joseph hatton. clytie. the tallants of barton. in the lap of fortune. valley of poppies. in society. christopher kenrick. cruel london. the queen of bohemia. bitter sweets. by f. w. robinson. christie's faith. carry's confession. under the spell. house of elmore. milly's hero. mr. stewart's intentions. no man's friend. wild flowers. poor humanity. owen, a waif. woodleigh. a woman's ransom. mattie, a stray. slaves of the ring one and twenty. by sam slick. the season ticket. by colonel walmsley. chasseur d'afrique. the lifeguardsman. branksome dene. london: hutchinson & co., , paternoster square. _second edition. just published._ letts's popular atlas of the world. a series of maps and plans (size of each, inches by ), delineating the whole surface of the globe, and containing many original and interesting features not to be found in any other atlas, with a copious consulting index of , names. prices. £. s. d. maps folded and bound in cloth maps " " in half morocco maps flat and bound in half morocco maps backed with linen and bound in half morocco _n.b.--this atlas has had by far the largest sale of any collection of maps published in english or any other language._ opinions of the press. "to notice adequately this extraordinary work is beyond our power. unless such a feat had been done, we should have doubted if it were possible."--_academy._ "the unmounted form of messrs. letts's atlas is beyond all question the cheapest full compendium of geographical information to be obtained, and the mounted form one of the most handsome."--_saturday review._ "for general reference in all matters connected with commercial geography, it would be difficult to point to a more useful publication than this atlas."--_royal geographical society's proceedings._ "remarkable alike for the number and quality of its maps, the variety of modes in which the aid of colour is called into requisition to convey not merely information regarding geographical and political divisions, or facts in physical geography in its widest sense, but numerous other kinds of valuable information."--_daily news._ "the information is brought up to the latest date, is closely packed, and clearly printed; the only fault, if any, being that it is redundant.... letts's atlas may be pronounced a durable and exhaustive one."--_spectator._ "both the physical features, and the main commercial, agricultural, and mineral products of different countries, with the chief lines of navigation and of railway and telegraph, overland and submarine cables, are shown with remarkable distinctness.... the drawing and printing are beautifully clear; the colouring is significant and agreeable."--_illustrated london news._ "'letts's complete popular atlas' is certainly one of the very best, if not actually the best popular work of its kind; in several particulars it is an improvement on other atlases."--_graphic._ "the publishers may boast that they have succeeded in combining an atlas with a statistical encyclopædia. maps are lavishly provided.... it is a marvel of cheapness, and of great and painstaking labour."--_scotsman._ london: hutchinson & co., , paternoster square. mary minds her business by george weston author of "oh, mary, be careful," "the apple-tree girl," and "you never saw such a girl." to karl edwin harriman one of the noblest of them all g.w. mary minds her business so that you may understand my heroine, i am going to write a preface and tell you about her forebears. in the latter part of the seventeenth century, there was a young blacksmith in our part of the country named josiah spencer. he had a quick eye, a quick hand and a quicker temper. because of his quick eye he married a girl named mary mcmillan. because of his quick hand, he was never in need of employment. and because of his quick temper, he left the place of his birth one day and travelled west until he came to a ford which crossed the quinebaug river. there, before the week was over, he had bought from oeneko, the indian chief, five hundred acres on each side of the river--land in those days being the cheapest known commodity. hewing his own timber and making his own hardware, he soon built a shop of his own, and the ford being on the main road between hartford and the providence plantations, it wasn't long before he had plenty of business. above the ford was a waterfall. josiah put in a wheel, a grist mill and a saw mill. by that time mary, his wife, had presented him with one of the two greatest gifts that a woman can ever bestow, and presently a sign was painted over the shop: josiah spencer & son in course of time young josiah made his first horse-shoe and old josiah made his last. on a visit to new amsterdam, the young man had already fallen in love with a girl named matilda sturtevant. they were married in and had one of those round old-fashioned families when twelve children seemed to be the minimum and anything less created comment. two of the boys were later killed in the revolution, another became supreme court justice, but the likeliest one succeeded to the business of josiah spencer & son, which was then making a specialty of building wagons--and building them so well that the shop had to be increased in size again and again until it began to have the appearance of quite a respectable looking factory. the third spencer to own the business married a yankee--patience babcock--but patience's only son married a french-canadian girl--for even then the canadians were drifting down into our part of the country. so by that time, as you can see--and this is an important part of my preface--the spencer stock was a thrifty mixture of yankee, irish, scotch, dutch and french blood--although you would never have guessed it if you had simply seen the name of one josiah spencer following another as the owner of the quinebaug wagon works. in the same year that the fourth josiah spencer succeeded to the business, a bridge was built to take the place of the ford and the waterfall was fortified by a dam. by that time a regular little town had formed around the factory. the town was called new bethel. it was at this stage of their history that the spencers grew proud, making a hobby of their family tree and even possibly breathing a sigh over vanished coats-of-arms. the fifth of the line, for instance, married a miss copleigh of boston. he built a big house on bradford hill and brought her home in a tally-ho. the number of her trunks and the size of her crinolines are spoken of to this day in our part of the country--also her manner of closing her eyes when she talked, and holding her little finger at an angle when drinking her tea. she had only one child--fortunately a son. this son was the grandfather of our heroine. so you see we are getting warm at last. the grandfather of our heroine was probably the greatest spencer of them all. under his ownership the factory was rebuilt of brick and stone. he developed the town both socially and industrially until new bethel bade fair to become one of the leading cities in the state. he developed the water power by building a great dam above the factory and forming a lake nearly ten miles long. he also developed an artillery wheel which has probably rolled along every important road in the civilized world. indeed he was so engaged in these enterprises that he didn't marry until he was well past forty-five. then one spring, going to charlestown to buy his season's supply of pine, he came back with a bride from one of the oldest, one of the most famous families in all america. there were three children to this marriage--one son and two daughters. i will tell you about the daughters in my first chapter--two delightful old maids who later had a baby between them--but first i must tell you about the seventh and last josiah. in his youth he was wild. this may have been partly due to that irreducible minimum of original sin which (they say) is in all of us--and partly due to his cousin stanley. now i don't mean to say for a moment that stanley woodward was a natural born villain. i don't think people are born that way at all. at first the idea probably struck him as a sort of a joke. "if anything happens to young josiah," i can imagine him thinking to himself with a grin, "i may own this place myself some day.... who knows?" and from that day forward, he unconsciously borrowed from the spiders--if you can imagine a smiling spider--and began to spin. did young josiah want to leave the office early? stanley smilingly did his work for him. was young josiah late the next morning? stanley smilingly hid his absence. did young josiah yearn for life and adventure? stanley spun a few more webs and they met that night in brigg's livery stable. it didn't take much of this--unexpectedly little in fact--the last of the spencers resembling one of those giant firecrackers of bygone days--the bigger the cracker, the shorter the fuse. some say he married an actress, which was one of the things which were generally whispered when i was a boy. a russian they said she was--which never failed to bring another gasp. others say she was a beautiful bare-back rider in a circus and wore tights--which was another of the things which used to be whispered when i was a boy, and not even then unless the children had first been sent from the room and only bosom friends were present. whatever she was, young josiah disappeared with her, and no one saw him again until his mother died in the mansion on the hill. some say she died of a broken heart, but i never believed in that, for if sorrow could break the human heart i doubt if many of us would be alive to smile at next year's joys. however that may be, i do believe that young josiah thought that he was partly responsible for his mother's death. he turned up at the funeral with a boy seven years old; and bit by bit we learned that he was separated from his wife and that the court had given him custody of their only child. as you have probably noticed, there are few who can walk so straight as those who have once been saved from the crooked path. there are few so intolerant of fire as those poor, charred brands who have once been snatched from the burning. after his mother's funeral young spencer settled down to a life of atonement and toil, till first his father and then even his cousin stanley were convinced of the change which had taken place in the one-time black sheep of the family. by that time the patents on the artillery wheel had expired and a competition had set in which was cutting down the profits to zero. young josiah began experimenting on a new design which finally resulted in a patent upon a combination ball and roller bearing. this was such an improvement upon everything which had gone before, that gradually spencer & son withdrew from the manufacture of wagons and wheels and re-designed their whole factory to make bearings. this wasn't done in a month or two, nor even in a year or two. indeed the returned prodigal grew middle aged in the process. he also saw the possibilities of harnessing the water power above the factory to make electric current. this current was sold so cheaply that more and more factories were drawn to new bethel until the fame of the city's products were known wherever the language of commerce was spoken. at the height of his son's success, old josiah died, joining those silent members of the firm who had gone before. i often like to imagine the whole seven of them, ghostly but inquisitive, following the subsequent strange proceedings with noiseless steps and eyes that missed nothing; and in particular keeping watch upon the last living josiah spencer--a heavy, powerfully built man with a look of melancholy in his eyes and a way of sighing to himself as though asking a question, and then answering it with a muffled "yes... yes..." this may have been partly due to the past and partly due to the future, for the son whom he had brought home with him began to worry him--a handsome young rascal who simply didn't have the truth in him at times, and who was buying presents for girls almost before he was out of short trousers. his name was paul--"paul vionel olgavitch spencer," he sometimes proudly recited it, and whenever we heard of that we thought of his mother. the older paul grew, the handsomer he grew. and the handsomer he grew, the wilder he became and the less the truth was in him. at times he would go all right for a while, although he was always too fond of the river for his aunts' peace of mind. at a bend below the dam he had found a sheltered basin, covered with grass and edged with trees. and there he liked to lie, staring up into the sky and dreaming those dreams of youth and adventure which are the heritage of us all. or else he would sit and watch the river, although he couldn't do it long, for its swift movement seemed to fascinate him and excite him, and to arouse in him the desire to follow it--to follow it wherever it went. these were his quieter moods. ordinarily there was something gipsy-like, something neck-or-nothing about him. a craving for excitement seemed to burn under him like a fire. the full progression of correction marched upon him and failed to make impression: arguments, orders, warnings, threats, threshings and the stoppage of funds: none of these seemed to improve him in the least. josiah's two sisters did their best, but they could do nothing, either. "i wouldn't whip him again, josiah," said miss cordelia one night, timidly laying her hand upon her brother's arm. "he'll be all right when he's a little older.... you know, dear ... you were rather wild, yourself ... when you were young.... patty and i were only saying this morning that if he takes after you, there's really nothing to worry about--" "he's god's own punishment," said josiah, looking up wildly. "i know--things i can't tell you. you remember what i say: that boy will disgrace us all...." he did. one morning he suddenly and simply vanished with the factory pay-roll and one of the office stenographers. in the next twelve months josiah seemed to age at least twelve years--his cousin stanley watching him closely the while--and then one day came the news that paul spencer had shot and killed a man, while attempting to hold him up, somewhere in british columbia. if you could have seen josiah spencer that day you might have thought that the bullet had grazed his own poor heart. "it's god's punishment," he said over and over. "for seven generations there has been a spencer & son--a trust that was left to me by my father that i should pass it on to my son. and what have i done...!" whereupon he made a gesture that wasn't far from despair--and in that gesture, such as only those can make who know in their hearts that they have shot the albatross, this preface brings itself to a close and at last my story begins. chapter i "patty," said miss cordelia one morning, "have you noticed josiah lately?" "yes," nodded miss patricia, her eyes a little brighter than they should have been. "do you know," continued the other, her voice dropping to a whisper, "i'm afraid--if he keeps on--the way he is--" "oh, no, cordelia! you know as well as i do--there has never been anything like that in our family." nevertheless the two sisters looked at each other with awe-stricken eyes, and then their arms went around each other and they eased their hearts in the immemorial manner. "you know, he worries because we are the last of the spencers," said cordelia, "and the family dies with us. even if you or i had children, i don't think he would take it so hard--" a wistful look passed over their faces, such as you might expect to see on those who had repented too late and stood looking through st. peter's gate at scenes in which they knew they could never take a part. "but i am forty-eight," sighed cordelia. "and i--i am fifty--" the two sisters had been writing when this conversation started. they were busy on a new generation of the spencer-spicer genealogy, and if you have ever engaged on a task like that, you will know the correspondence it requires. but now for a time their pens were forgotten and they sat looking at each other over the gatelegged table which served as desk. they were still both remarkably good-looking, though marked with that delicacy of material and workmanship--reminiscent of old china--which seems to indicate the perfect type of spinster-hood. here and there in their hair gleamed touches of silver, and their cheeks might have reminded you of tinted apples which had lightly been kissed with the frost. and so they sat looking at each other, intently, almost breathlessly, each suddenly moved by the same question and each wishing that the other would speak. for the second time it was cordelia who broke the silence. "patty--!" "yes, dear?" breathed patty, and left her lips slightly parted. "i wonder if josiah--is too old--to marry again! of course," she hurriedly added, "he is fifty-two--but it seems to me that one of the spicers--i think it was captain abner spicer--had children until he was sixty--although by a younger wife, of course." they looked it up and in so doing they came across an ezra babcock, father-in-law of the third josiah spencer, who had had a son proudly born to him in his sixty-fourth year. they gazed at each other then, those two maiden sisters, like two conspirators in their precious innocence. "if we could find josiah a young wife--" said the elder at last. "oh, cordelia!" breathed patty, "if, indeed, we only could!" which was really how it started. as i think you will realize, it would be a story in itself to describe the progress of that gentle intrigue--the consultations, the gradual eliminations, the search, the abandonment of the search--(which came immediately after learning of two elderly gentlemen with young wives--but no children!)--the almost immediate resumption of the quest because of josiah's failing health--and finally then the reward of patience, the pious nudge one sunday morning in church, the whispered "look, cordelia, that strange girl with the pearsons--no, the one with the red cheeks--yes, that one!"--the exchange of significant glances, the introduction, the invitation and last, but least, the verification of the fruitfulness of the vine. the girl's name was martha berger and her home was in california. she had come east to attend the wedding of her brother and was now staying with the pearsons a few weeks before returning west. her age was twenty-six. she had no parents, very little money, and taught french, english and science in the high school back home. "have you any brothers or sisters!" asked miss cordelia, with a side glance toward miss patty. "only five brothers and five sisters," laughed martha. for a moment it might be said that miss cordelia purred. "any of them married?" she continued. "all but me." "my dear! ... you don't mean to say that they have made you an aunt already?" martha paused with that inward look which generally accompanies mental arithmetic. "only about seventeen times," she finally laughed again. when their guest had gone, the two sisters fairly danced around each other. "oh, patty!" exulted miss cordelia, "i'm sure she's a fruitful vine!" chapter ii there is something inexorable in the purpose of a maiden lady--perhaps because she has no minor domestic troubles to distract her; and when you have two maiden ladies working on the same problem, and both of them possessed of wealth and unusual intelligence--! they started by taking martha to north east harbor for the balance of the summer, and then to keep her from going west in the fall, they engaged her to teach them french that winter at quite a fabulous salary. they also took her to boston and bought her some of the prettiest dresses imaginable; and the longer they knew her, the more they liked her; and the more they liked her, the more they tried to enlist her sympathies in behalf of poor josiah--and the more they tried to throw their brother into martha's private company. "look here," he said one day, when his two sisters were pushing him too hard. "what's all this excitement about martha? who is she, anyway?" "why, don't you know!" cordelia sweetly asked him, and drawing a full breath she added: "martha--is--your--future--wife--" if you had been there, you would have been pardoned for thinking that the last of the spencers had suddenly discovered that he was sitting upon a remonstrative bee. the two sisters smiled at him--rather nervously, it is true, but still they kept their hands upon their brother's shoulders, as though they were two nurses soothing a patient and saying: "there, now ... the-e-e-ere ... just be quiet and you'll feel better in a little while." "yes, dear," whispered cordelia, her mouth ever so close to his ear. "your future wife--and the mother of your future children--" "nonsense, nonsense--" muttered josiah, breaking away quite flustered. "i'm--i'm too old--" almost speaking in concert they told him about captain abner spencer who had children until he was sixty, and ezra babcock, father-in-law of the third josiah spencer, who had a son proudly born to him in his sixty-fourth year. "and she's such a lovely girl," said cordelia earnestly. "patty and i are quite in love with her ourselves--" "and think what it would mean to your peace of mind to have another son--" "and what it would mean to spencer & son--!" josiah groaned at that. as a matter of fact he hadn't a chance to escape. his two sisters had never allowed themselves to be courted, but they must have had their private ideas of how such affairs should be conducted, for they took josiah in hand and put him through his paces with a speed which can only be described as breathless. flowers, candy, books, jewellery, a ring, the ring--the two maiden sisters lived a winter of such romance that they nearly bloomed into youth again themselves; and whenever josiah had the least misgiving about a man of fifty-two marrying a girl of twenty-six, they whispered to him: "think what it will mean to spencer & son--" and whenever martha showed the least misgivings they whispered to her: "that's only his way, my dear; you mustn't mind that." and once cordelia added (while patty nodded her head): "of course, there has to be a man at a wedding, but i want you to feel that you would be marrying us, as much as you would be marrying josiah. you would be his wife, of course, but you would be our little sister, too; and patty and i would make you just as happy as we could--" later they were glad they had told her this. it was a quiet wedding and for a time nothing happened; although if you could have seen the two maiden sisters at church on a sunday morning, you would have noticed that after the benediction they seemed to be praying very earnestly indeed--even as sarah prayed in the temple so many years ago. there was this curious difference, however: sarah had prayed for herself, but these two innocent spinsters were praying for another. then one morning, never to be forgotten, martha thought to herself at the breakfast table, "i'll tell them as soon as breakfast is over." but she didn't. she thought, "i'll take them into the garden and tell them there--" but though she took them into the garden, somehow she couldn't tell them there. "as soon as we get back into the house," she said, "i'll tell them." even then the words didn't come, and martha sat looking out of the window so quietly and yet with such a look of mingled fear and pride and exaltation on her face, that cordelia suddenly seemed to divine it. "oh, martha," she cried. "do you--do you--do you really think--" miss patty looked up, too--stricken breathless all in a moment--and quicker than i can tell it, the three of them had their arms around each other, and tears and smiles and kisses were blended--quite in the immemorial manner. chapter iii "we must start sewing," said miss cordelia. so they started sewing, martha and the two maiden sisters, every stitch a hope, every seam the dream of a young life's journey. "we must think beautiful thoughts," spoke up miss patty another day. so while they sewed, sometimes one and sometimes another read poetry, and sometimes they read the psalms, especially the twenty-third, and sometimes martha played the melody in f, or the shower of stars or the cinquieme nocturne. "we must think brave thoughts, too," said miss cordelia. so after that, whenever one of them came to a stirring editorial in a newspaper, or a rousing passage in a book, it was put on one side to be read at their daily sewing bee; and when these failed they read barbara fritchie, or patrick henry, or horatio at the bridge. "do you notice how much better josiah is looking!" whispered miss cordelia to her sister one evening. "a different man entirely," proudly nodded miss patty. "i heard him speaking yesterday about an addition to the factory--" "i suppose it's because he's living in the future now--" "instead of in the past. but i do wish he wouldn't be quite so sure that it's going to be a boy. i'm afraid sometimes--that perhaps he won't like it--if it's a girl--" they had grown beautiful as they spoke, but now they looked at each other in silence, the same fear in both their glances. "oh, cordelia," suddenly spoke miss patty. "suppose it is a girl--!" "hush, dear. remember, we must have brave thoughts. and even if the first one is a girl, there'll be plenty of time for a boy--" "i hadn't thought of that," said miss patty. they smiled at each other in concert, and a faint touch of colour arose to miss cordelia's slightly withered cheeks. "do you know," she said, hesitating, smiling--yes, and thrilling a little, too--"we've had so much to do with bringing it about, that somehow i feel as though it's going to be _my_ baby--" "why, cordelia!" whispered miss patty, who had been nodding throughout this confession. "that's exactly how i feel about it, too!" it wasn't long after that before they began to look up names. "if josiah wasn't such a family name," said miss cordelia, "i'd like to call him basil. that means kingly or royal." then of course they turned to cordelia. cordelia meant warm-hearted. patricia meant royal. martha meant the ruler of the house. they were pleased at these revelations. the week before the great event was expected, martha had a notion one day. she wished to visit the factory. josiah interpreted this as the happiest of auguries. "after seven generations," was his cryptic remark, "you simply can't keep them away. it's bred in the bone...." he drove martha down to the works himself, and took her through the various shops, some of which were of such a length that when you stood at one end, the other seemed to vanish into distance. everything went well until they reached the shipping room where a travelling crane was rolling on its tracks overhead, carrying a load of boxes. this crane was hurrying back empty for another load, its chain and tackle swinging low, when martha started across the room to look at one of the boys who had caught his thumb between a hammer and a nail and was trying to bind it with his handkerchief. the next moment the swinging tackle of the crane struck poor martha in the back, caught in her dress and dragged her for a few horrible yards along the floor. that night the house on the hill had two unexpected visitors, the angel of death following quickly in the footsteps of the angel of life. "you poor motherless little thing," breathed cordelia, cuddling the baby in her arms. "look, josiah," she said, trying to rouse her brother. "look ...it's smiling at you--" but josiah looked up with haggard eyes that saw nothing, and could only repeat the sentence which he had been whispering to himself, "it's god's own punishment--god's own punishment--there are things--i can't tell you--" the doctor came to him at last and, after he was quieter, the two sisters went away, carrying their precious burden with them. "wasn't there a girl's name which means bitterness?" asked miss cordelia, suddenly stopping. "yes," said miss patty. "that's what 'mary' means." the two sisters looked at each other earnestly--looked at each other and nodded. "we'll call her 'mary' then," said miss cordelia. and that is how my heroine got her name. chapter iv i wish i had time to tell you in the fulness of detail how those two spinsters brought up mary, but there is so much else to put before you that i dare not dally here. still, i am going to find time to say that all the love and affection which miss cordelia and miss patty had ever woven into their fancies were now showered down upon mary--falling softly and sweetly like petals from two full-blown roses when stirred by a breeze from the south. when she was a baby, mary's nose had an upward tilt. one morning after miss cordelia had bathed her (which would have reminded you of a function at the court of the grand monarque, with its towel holder, soap holder, temperature taker and all and sundry) she suddenly sent the two maids and the nurse away and, casting dignity to the winds, she lifted mary in a transport of love which wouldn't be denied any longer, and pretended to bite the end of the poor babe's nose off. "oh, i know it's candy," she said, mumbling away and hugging the blessed child. "it's even got powdered sugar on it--" "that's talcum powder," said miss patty, watching with a jealous eye. "powdered sugar, yes," persisted miss cordelia, mumbling on. "i know. and i know why her nose turns up at the end, too. that naughty miss patty washed it with yellow soap one night when i wasn't looking--" "i never, never did!" protested miss patty, all indignation in a moment. "washed it with yellow soap, yes," still persisted miss cordelia, "and made it shine like a star. and that night, when mary lay in her bed, the moon looked through the window and saw that little star twinkling there, and the moon said 'little star! little star! what are you doing there in mary's bed? you come up here in the sky and twinkle where you belong!' and all night long, mary's little nose tried to get up to the moon, and that's why it turns up at the end--" and then in one grand finale of cannibalistic transport, miss cordelia concluded, "oh, i could eat her up!" but it was miss patty's turn then, because although cordelia bathed the child, it was the younger sister's part to dress her. so miss patty put her arms out with an authority which wouldn't take "no" for an answer, and if you had been in the next room, you would then have heard-- "oh, where have you been my pretty young thing--?" which is a rather active affair, especially where the singer shows how she danced her a dance for the dauphin of france. by that time you won't be surprised when i tell you that miss patty's cheeks had a downright glow on them--and i think her heart had something of the same glow, too, because, seating herself at last to dress our crowing heroine, she beamed over to her sister and said (though somewhat out of breath) "isn't it nice!" this, of course, was all strictly private. in public, mary was brought up with maidenly deportment. you would never dream, for instance, that she was ever tickled with a turkey feather (which miss cordelia kept for the purpose) or that she had ever been atomized all over with lily of the valley (which miss patty never did again because ma'm maynard, the old french nurse, smelled it and told the maids). but always deep down in the child was an indefinable quality which puzzled her two aunts. as mary grew older, this quality became clearer. "i know what it is," said miss cordelia one night. "she has a mind of her own. everything she sees or hears: she tries to reason it out." i can't tell you why, but miss patty looked uneasy. "only this morning," continued miss cordelia, "i heard ma'm maynard telling her that there wasn't a prettier syringa bush anywhere than the one under her bedroom window. mary turned to her with those eyes of hers--you know the way she does--'ma'm maynard,' she said, 'have you seen all the other s'inga bushes in the world?' and only yesterday i said to her, 'mary, you shouldn't try to whistle. it isn't nice.' she gave me that look--you know--and said, 'then let us learn to whistle, aunt t'delia, and help to make it nice.'" "imagine you and i saying things like that when we were girls," said miss patty, still looking troubled. "yes, yes, i know. and yet... i sometimes think that if you and i had been brought up a little differently...." they were both quiet then for a time, each consulting her memories of hopes long past. "just the same," said miss patty at last, "there are worse things in the world than being old-fashioned." in which i think you would have agreed with her, if you could have seen mary that same evening. at the time of which i am now writing she was six years old--a rather quiet, solemn child--though she had a smile upon occasions, which was well worth going to see. for some time back she had heard her aunts speaking of "poor josiah!" she had always stood in awe of her father who seemed taller and gaunter than ever. mary seldom saw him, but she knew that every night after dinner he went to his den and often stayed there (she had heard her aunts say) until long after midnight. "if he only had some cheerful company," she once heard aunt cordelia remark. "but that's the very thing he seems to shun since poor martha died," sighed miss patty, and dropping her voice, never dreaming for a moment that mary was listening, she added with another sigh, "if there had only been a boy, too!" all these things mary turned over in her mind, as few but children can, especially when they have dreamy eyes and often go a long time without saying anything. and on the same night when aunt patty had come to the conclusion that there are worse things in the world than being old-fashioned, mary waited until she knew that dinner was over and then, escaping ma'm maynard, she stole downstairs, her heart skipping a beat now and then at the adventure before her. she passed through the hall and the library like a determined little ghost and then, gently turning the knob, she opened the study door. her father was sitting at his desk. at the sound of the opening door he turned and stared at the apparition which confronted him. mary had closed the door and stood with her back to it, screwing up her courage for the last stage of her journey. and in truth it must have taken courage, for there was something in old josiah's forbidding brow and solitary mien which would have chilled the purpose of any child. it may have been this which suddenly brought the tears to mary's eyes, or it may have been that her womanly little breast guessed the loneliness in her father's heart. whatever it was, she unsteadily crossed the room, her sight blurred but her plan as steadfast as ever, and a moment later she was climbing on josiah's knee, her arms tight around his neck, sobbing as though it would shake her little frame to pieces. what passed between those two, partly in speech but chiefly in silence with their wet cheeks pressed together, i need not tell you; but when ma'm maynard came searching for her charge and stood quite open-mouthed in the doorway, josiah waved her away, his finger on his lip, and later he carried mary upstairs himself--and went back to his study without a word, though blowing his nose in a key which wasn't without significance. and nearly every night after that, when dinner was over, mary made a visit to old josiah's study downstairs; and one saturday morning when he was leaving for the factory, he heard the front door open and shut behind him and there stood mary, her little straw bonnet held under her chin with an elastic. in the most matter of fact way she slipped her fingers into his hand. he hesitated, but woman-like she pulled him on. the next minute they were walking down the drive together. as they passed the end of the house, he remembered the words which he had once used to his sisters, "after seven generations you simply can't keep them away. it's bred in the bone." a thrill ran over him as he looked at the little figure by his side. "if she had only been a boy!" he breathed. at the end of the drive he stopped. "you must go back now, dear." "no," said mary and tried to pull him on. for as long as it might take you to count five, josiah stood there irresolute, mary's fingers pulling him one way and the memory of poor martha's fate pulling him the other. "and yet," he thought, "she's bound to see it sometime. perhaps better now--before she understands--than later--" he lifted her and sat her on his arm. "now, listen, little woman," he said as they gravely regarded each other. "this is important. if i take you this morning, will you promise to be a good girl, and sit in the office, and not go wandering off by yourself? will you promise me that?" this, too, may have been heredity, going back as far as eve: still gravely regarding him she nodded her head in silence and promised him with a kiss. he set her down, her hand automatically slipping into his palm again, and together they walked to the factory. the road made a sharp descent to the interval by the side of the river, almost affording a bird's-eye view of the buildings below--lines of workshops of an incredible length, their ventilators like the helmets of an army of giants. a freight train was disappearing into one of the warehouses. long lines of trucks stood on the sidings outside. wisps of steam arose in every direction, curious, palpitating. from up the river the roar of the falls could just be heard while from the open windows of the factory came that humming note of industry which, more than anything else, is like the sound which is sometimes made by a hive of bees, immediately before a swarm. it was a scene which always gave josiah a well-nigh oppressive feeling of pride and punishment--pride that all this was his, that he was one of those spencers who had risen so high above the common run of man--punishment that he had betrayed the trust which had been handed down to him, that he had broken the long line of fathers and sons which had sent the spencer reputation, with steadily increasing fame, to the corners of the earth. as he walked down the hall that saturday morning, his sombre eyes missing no detail, he felt mary's fingers tighten around his hand and, glancing down at her, he saw that her attention, too, was engrossed by the scene below, her eyes large and bright as children's are when they listen to a fairy tale. arrived at the office, he placed her in a chair by the side of his desk, and you can guess whether she missed anything of what went on. clerks, business callers, heads of departments came and went. all had a smile for mary who gravely smiled in return and straightway became her dignified little self again. "when is mr. woodward expected back?" josiah asked a clerk. "on the ten-thirty, from boston." this was stanley woodward, josiah's cousin--cousin stanley of the spider's web whom you have already met. he was now the general manager of the factory, and had always thought that fate was on his side since the night he had heard of martha's death and that the child she left behind her was a girl. josiah glanced at his watch. "time to make the rounds," he said and, lifting mary on his arm, he left the office and started through the plant. and, oh, how mary loved it--the forests of belts, whirring and twisting like live things, the orderly lines of machine tools, each doing its work with more than human ingenuity and precision, the enormous presses reminding her of elephants stamping out pieces of metal, the grinders which sang to her, the drilling machines which whirred to her, the polishing machines which danced for her, the power hammers which bowed to her. yes, and better than all was the smile that each man gave her, smiles that came from the heart, for all the quiet respect that accompanied them. "it's his daughter," they whispered as soon as josiah was out of hearing. here and there one would stop smiling and say, "i remember the day he brought her mother through--" at the end of one of the workshops, mr. spencer looked at his watch again. "we'd better get back to the office," he said. "tired, dear?" in a rapture of denial, she kicked her little toes against his side. "bred in the bone..." he mused. "eh, if she had only been a boy...!" but that was past all sighing for, and in the distance he saw cousin stanley, just back from boston, evidently coming to find him. mary, too, was watching the approaching figure. she had sometimes seen him at the house and had formed against him one of those instinctive dislikes which few but children know. as stanley drew near she turned her head and buried her face against her father's shoulder. "good news?" asked josiah. "good news, of course," said stanley, speaking as an irresistible force might speak, if it were endowed with a tongue. "when spencer & son start out for a thing, they get it." you could tell that what he meant was "when stanley woodward starts out for a thing, he gets it." his elbows suddenly grew restless. "it will take a lot of money," he added. "of course we shall have to increase the factory here--" still mary kept her face hidden against her father's shoulder. "got the little lady with you, i see." "yes; i'm afraid i've tired her out." a murmur arose from his shoulder. "what?" said josiah. "not tired? then turn around and shake hands with uncle stanley." slowly, reluctantly, mary lifted her head and began to reach out her hand. then just before their fingers would have touched, she quickly clasped her hands around her father's neck and again she buried her face upon his shoulder. "she doesn't seem to take to you," said josiah. "so it seems," said the other dryly. reaching around he touched mary's cheek with the back of his finger. "not mad at your uncle, are you, little girl?" he asked. "don't!" said josiah, speaking with quick concern. "you're only making her tremble...." the two stared at each other, slightly frowning. stanley was the first to catch himself. "i'll see you at the office later," he said, and with a bow at the little figure on josiah's arm he added with a touch of irony, "perhaps i had better wait until you're alone!" he turned and made his way back to the office, his elbows grown restless again. "a good thing it isn't a boy," he thought, "or he might not like me when he grows up, either. but a girl... oh, well, as it happens, girls don't count.... and a good thing, too, they don't," he thoughtfully added. "a good thing, too, they don't...." chapter v mary grew, and grew, and grew. she never outgrew her aversion to uncle stanley, though. one day, when she was in josiah's office, a young man entered and was warmly greeted by her father. he carried a walking stick, sported a white edging on his waistcoat and had just the least suspicion of perfumery on him--a faint scent that reminded mary of raspberry jam. "he smells nice," she thought, missing nothing of this. "you've never seen my daughter, have you?" asked josiah. "a little queen," said the young man with a brilliant smile. "i hope i'll see her often." "that's uncle stanley's son burdon," said josiah when he had left. "he's just through college; he's going to start in the office here." mary liked to hear that, and always after that she looked for burdon and watched him with an interest that had something of fascination in it. before she was ten, she and josiah had become old chums. she knew the factory by the river almost as well as she knew the house on the hill. not only that but she could have told you most of the processes through which the bearings passed before they were ready for the shipping room. to show you how her mind worked, one night she asked her father, "what makes a machine squeak?" "needs oil," said josiah, "generally speaking." the next saturday morning she not only kept her eyes open, but her ears as well. presently her patience was rewarded. "squee-e-eak! squee-e-eak!" complained a lathe which they were passing. mary stopped her father and looked her very old-fashionedest at the lathe hand. "needs oil," said she, "gen'ly speaking." it was one of the proud moments in josiah's life, and yet when back of him he heard a whisper, "chip of the old block," he couldn't repress the well nigh passionate yearning, "oh, lord, if she had only been a boy!" that year an addition was being made to the factory and mary liked to watch the builders. she often noticed a boy and a dog sitting under the trees and watching, too. once they smiled at each other, the boy blushing like a sunset. after that they sometimes spoke while josiah was talking to the foreman. his name, she learned, was archey forbes, his father was the foreman, and when he grew up he was going to be a builder, too. but no matter how often they saw each other, archey always blushed to the eyes whenever mary smiled at him. occasionally a man would be hurt at the factory. whenever this happened, aunt patty paid a weekly call to the injured man until he was well--an old spencer custom that had never died out. mary generally accompanied her aunts on these visits--which was a part of the family training--and in this way she saw the inside of many a home. "i wouldn't mind being a poor man," she said one saturday morning, breaking a long silence, "but i wouldn't be a poor woman for anything." "why not?" asked miss cordelia. she couldn't tell them why but for the last half hour she had been comparing the lives of the men in the factory with the lives of their wives at home. "a man can work in the factory," she tried to tell them, "and everything is made nice for him. but his wife at home-now--nobody cares--nobody cares what happens to her--" "i never saw such a child," said miss cordelia, watching her start with her father down the hill a few minutes later. "and the worst of it is, i think we are partly to blame for it." "cordelia!" said miss patty. "how?" "i mean in keeping her surrounded so completely with old people. when everything is said and done, dear, it isn't natural." "but we would miss her so much if we sent her to school--" "oh, i wasn't thinking of sending her to school--" miss patty was quiet for a time. "if we could find some one of her own age," she said at last, "whom she could play with, and talk with--some one who would lead her thoughts into more natural channels--" this question of companionship for mary puzzled the two miss spencers for nearly a year, and then it was settled, as so many things are, in an unexpected manner. in looking up the genealogy of the spicer family, miss patty discovered that a distant relative in charleston had just died, leaving a daughter behind him--an orphan--who was a year older than mary. correspondence finally led miss patty to make the journey, and when she returned she brought with her a dark-eyed girl who might have been the very spirit of youthful romance. "my dear," said miss patty, "this is your cousin helen. she is going to make us a long visit, and i hope you will love each other very much." the two cousins studied each other. then in her shy way mary held out her hand. "oh, i love you already!" said helen impulsively, and hugged her instead. that evening they exchanged confidences and when miss cordelia heard about this, she questioned mary and enjoyed herself immensely. "and then what did she ask you?" finally inquired miss cordelia, making an effort to keep her face straight. "she asked me if i had a beau, and i told her 'no.'" "and then what did she say?" "she asked me if there was anything the matter with the boys around here, and i told her i didn't know." "and then?" "and then she said, 'i'll bet you i'll soon find out.' but just then aunt patty came in and we had to stop." later miss patty came downstairs looking thoughtful and spoke to her sister in troubled secret. "i've just been in helen's room," she said, "and what do you think she has on her dresser?" "i give it up," replied miss cordelia in a very rich, voice. "three photographs of young men!" the two sisters gazed at each other, quite overcome, and if you had been there you would have seen that if they had held fans in their hands, they would have fanned themselves with vigour. "didn't you hear anything of this--in charleston?" asked miss cordelia at last. "not a word, my dear. i heard she was very popular; that was all." "'popular'...!" "the one thing, perhaps, that we have never been." miss cordelia shook her head and made a helpless gesture. "well," she said at last, "i must confess we were looking for an antidote ... but i never thought we'd be quite so successful...." chapter vi a few weeks after her arrival, helen and mary were walking to the post-office. helen had a number of letters to mail, her correspondents being active and her answers prompt. they hadn't gone far when a young man appeared in the distance, approaching them. mary gave him a look to see who it was, and after saying to helen, "this is bob mcallister--one of our neighbours. he's home from school," she continued the conversation and failed to give sir robert another thought. not so helen, however. one hand went to the back of her hair with a graceful gesture, and next she touched her nose with a powdered handkerchief. a moment before, she had been looking straight ahead with a rather thoughtful expression, but now she half turned to mary, smiling and nodding. in some manner her carriage, even her walk, underwent a change. but when i try to tell you what i mean i feel as tongue-tied as a boy who is searching for a word which doesn't exist. as nearly as i can express it, she seemed to "wiggle" a little, although that isn't the word. she seemed to hang out a sign "oh, look--look at me!"--and that doesn't quite describe it, either. just as master mcallister reached them, raising his hat and bowing to mary and her friend--helen's eyes and helen's smile unconsciously lingered on him for a second or two until, apparently recollecting that she was looking at another, she lowered her glance and peeped at him through her eyelashes instead. mary meanwhile was calmly continuing her conversation, never even suspecting the comedy which was going on by her side, but when helen shot a glance over her shoulder and whispered with satisfaction "he turned to look!" even mary began to have some slight idea of what was going on. "helen," she demurred, "you should never turn around to look at a young man." "why not?" laughed helen, her arm going around her cousin's waist. and speaking in the voice of one who has just achieved a triumph, she added, "they're all such fo-oo-ools!" mary thought that over. helen's correspondents continued active, and as each letter arrived she read parts of it to her cousin. she was a mimic, and two of the letters she read in character one afternoon when mary was changing her dress for dinner. "oh, helen, you shouldn't," said mary, laughing in spite of herself and feeling ashamed of it the same moment. "i think it's awful to make fun of people who write you like that." "pooh!" laughed helen. "they're all such fo-oo-ools!" "you don't think that of all men, do you!" "why not?" laughed helen again, and tucking the letters into her waist she started humming. unobserved ma'm maynard had entered to straighten the room and, through the mirror, mary saw her grimly nodding her head. "why, ma'm maynard," said mary, "you don't think that all men are fools, too, do you?" "eet is not halways safe to say what one believes," said ma'm, pursing her lips with mystery. "eef mademoiselles, your aunts, should get to hear--" "oh, i won't tell." "then, yes, ma cherie, i think at times all men are fools ... and i think it is also good at times to make a fool of man. for why? because it is revenge. "ah, ma cherie, i who have been three times wed--i tell you i often think the old-world view is right. man is the natural enemy of a woman. "he is not to be trus'. "i have heard it discuss' by great minds--things i cannot tell you yet--but you will learn them as you live. and halways the same conclusion arrives: man is the natural enemy of a woman, and the one best way to keep him from making a fool of you, is to turn 'round queeck and make it a fool of him!" "oh, ma'm maynard, no!" protested mary, who had turned from the mirror and was staring with wide eyes. "i can't believe it--never!" "what is it, ma cherie, which you cannot believe?" "that man is woman's natural enemy." "but i tell you, yes, yes.... it has halways been so and it halways will. everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy--it is man! "think just for a moment, ma cherie," she continued. "why are parents so careful? mon dieu, you would think it at times that a tiger is out in the streets at night--such precautions are made if the girl she is out after dark. and yes, but the parents are right. there is truly a tiger who roams in the black, but his name--eet is man! "think just for a moment, ma cherie. why are chaperons require'--even in the highest, most culture' society? why is marriage require'? is it not because all the world knows well that a man cannot be left to his own promise, but has to be bound by the law as a lion is held in a cage?" "no," said mary, shaking her head, "i'm sure it isn't that way. you're simply turning things around and making everything seem horrid." "you think so, ma cherie? eh, bien. three husbands i've had. i am not without experience." "but you might as well say that woman is man's natural enemy--" "and some say that," said ma'm nodding darkly. "left to himself, they say, man might aspire to be as the gods; but halways at his helbow is a woman like a figure of fate--and she--she keeps him down where he belongs--" "i hate all that," said mary quietly. "every once in a while i read something like it in a book or a magazine, and whenever i do, i put the book down and open the window and breathe the fresh air. of course i know some married people aren't happy. but it isn't always because they are married. single people are unhappy, too. aunt patty has indigestion sometimes, and i suppose a lot of people do. but you wouldn't call food a natural enemy; would you? and some children are just as bad as they can be. but you wouldn't call children natural enemies, would you--or try to get along without them?" but ma'm maynard would only shrug her shoulders. "eh, bien," she said. "when you have live' as long as me--" through the open window a clock could be heard. "six o'clock!" squealed helen, "and i'm not changed yet." as she hurried to the door she said, "i heard aunt patty say that uncle stanley was coming to dinner again tonight. i hope he brings his handsome son again--don't you?" chapter vii uncle stanley of late had been a frequent visitor on the hill, occasionally bringing his son burdon with him, but generally coming alone. after dinner he and josiah would sit in the den till well past midnight, going over papers and figures, and drafting out instructions for judge cutler, the firm's lawyer. mary was never able to overcome her aversion to uncle stanley. "i wish he'd stay away," she ruefully remarked to her father one night. "three evenings this week i haven't been able to come in the den." "never mind, dear," said josiah, looking at her with love in his sombre eyes. "what we're doing: it's all for you." "all for me? how?" he explained to her that whereas josiah spencer & son had always been a firm, it was now being changed to a corporation. "as long as there was a son," he said, "the partnership arrangement was all right. but the way things are now--well, when i'm gone, mary, you'll own the stock of the company, and draw your dividends, and have no responsibilities to bother you." "but who'll run the factory?" "i suppose stanley will, as long as he lives. you'll be the owner, of course, but i don't think you'll ever find anybody to beat uncle stanley as a general manager." "and when uncle stanley dies--what then?" "i think you'll find his son burdon the next best man." mary felt her heart grow heavy. it may have been presentiment, or it may have been the thought of her father's possible death. "don't let's talk any more about dying," she said. "but tell me: is that why you are making so many additions to the factory--because we are changing to a corporation?" josiah hesitated, struggling to speak to his daughter as though she were a young man instead of a young woman. but heredity, training and world-old custom restrained him. what would a girl know about mergers, combinations, fundamental patents, the differences between common and preferred stock, and all that? "it would only confuse her," he thought, looking at her with love in his eyes. "she would nod her pretty head to be polite, but i might as well be talking greek to her." "no, dear," he said, at last. "i'll tell you why we are making those additions. i have bought options on some of the biggest bearing factories in the country--so you won't have so much competition when i'm gone. and instead of running those other factories, i'm going to move their machinery down here. when the changes are once made, it's more economical to run one big factory than half a dozen little ones. and of course it will make it better for new bethel." "but it must make it bad for the towns where the factories are now," said mary after a thoughtful pause. "i know how it would hurt new bethel if we closed up." josiah nodded his head. "i didn't like it myself at first." "it was uncle stanley's idea, then?" "yes; he's engineering it." again mary felt her heart grow heavy. "it must be costing an awful lot of money," she said. "it is," said josiah, leaning over and making a gesture. "of course we'll get it back, and more, too--but for quite a few years now it's been taking a lot of money--a dreadful lot of money. still, i think the end's in sight--" he was sitting at his desk with a shaded lamp in front of him, and as he leaned over and gestured with his hands, mary's eyes caught the shadow on the wall. she seemed to see a spider--a spider that was spinning and weaving his web--and for the third time that night her heart grew heavy within her. chapter viii the next day was saturday and mary drove her father down to the factory. a small army of men was at work at the new improvements, and when they reached the brow of the hill which overlooked the scene below, josiah felt that thrill of pride which always ran over him when beholding this monument to his family's genius. "the greatest of its kind in the world," he said. with her free hand, mary patted his arm. "that's us!" she said, as proud as he. "i'll leave you at the office door, and then i'm going to drive around and see how the building's going on--" there was plenty for mary to see. a gang of structural workers was putting up the steel frame-work for one of the new buildings. nearby the brick-layers were busy with mortar and trowels. carpenters were swarming over a roof, their hammers beating staccato. as they worked in the sunshine, they joked and laughed and chatted with each other, and mary couldn't help reverting to some of her old thoughts. "how nice to be a man!" she half sighed to herself. "back home, their wives are working in the kitchens--the same thing every day and nothing to show for it. but the men come out and do all sorts of interesting things, and when they are through they can say 'i helped build that factory' or 'i helped build that ship' or whatever it is that they have been doing. it doesn't seem fair, somehow, but i suppose it's the way it always has been, and always will be--" near her a trench was being dug for water pipes. at one place the men had uncovered a large rock, and she was still wondering how they were going to get it out of the way, when a young man came briskly forward and gave one glance at the problem. "we'll rig up a derrick for this little beauty," he said. "come on, boys; let's get some timbers." they were back again in no time, and before mary knew what they were doing, they had raised a wooden tripod over the rock. the apex of this was bound together with a chain from which a pulley was hung. other chains were slung under the rock. then from a nearby hoisting engine, a cable was passed through the pulley and fastened to the chains below. "all right, boys?" "all right!" the young man raised his hand. "let her go!" he shouted. "tweet-tweet!" sounded a whistle. the engine throbbed. the cable tightened. the little beauty began to stir uneasily in its hammock of chains. then slowly and steadily the rock arose, and nearly as quickly as i can write the words, it was lying on the side of the trench and the derrick was being dismantled. as the young man hurried away he passed mary's car. "why, it's archey!" she thought. whether or not it was due to telepathy, the young man looked up and his colour deepened under his tan. "it is archey; isn't it?" asked mary, leaning forward and smiling. "yes'm," he said, awkwardly enough, and grammar deserting him in his confusion he added: "it's me all right, miss spencer." "i've been watching you get that rock out," she began, looking at him with frank admiration, and then they talked for a few minutes. i need not tell you what they said--it would only sound trivial--but as they talked a bond of sympathy, of mutual interest, seemed gradually to wind itself around them. they smiled, nodded, looking approvingly at each other; and each felt that feeling of warmth and satisfaction which comes to the heart when instinct whispers, "make no mistake. you've found a friend." "but what are you doing here?" she finally asked. "working," he grinned. "i graduated last year--construction engineer--and this is my second job. this winter i was down in old mexico on bridge work--" "you must tell me about it some time," she said, as one of the workmen came to take him away; and driving off in her car she couldn't help thinking with a smile of amusement, "'woman's natural enemy'--how silly it sounds in the open air ...!" chapter ix meanwhile the matter of mary's education was receiving the attention of her aunts. "patty," said miss cordelia one day, "do you know that child of ours is seventeen?" the years had dealt kindly with the misses spencer and as they looked at each other, with thoughtful benignity, their faces were like two studies in silver and pink. "although i say it myself," continued miss cordelia, "i doubt if we could have improved her studies. indeed she is unusually advanced in french, english and music. but i do think she ought to go to a good finishing school now for a year or two--miss parsons', of course--where she would not only be welcomed because of her family, but where she would form suitable friendships and learn those lessons of modern deportment which we ourselves, i fear, would never be able to teach her." but if you had been there when the subject of miss parsons' school for young ladies was broached to mary, i think it would have reminded you of that famous recipe for rabbit pie which so wisely begins "first catch your rabbit." mary listened to all that was said and then, quietly but unmistakably, she put her foot down on miss parsons' fashionable institution of learning. i doubt if she herself could have given you all her reasons. for one thing, the older she grew, the more democratic, the more american she was becoming. deep in her heart she thought the old original spencers had done more for the world than any leaders of fashion who ever lived; and when she read or thought of those who had made america, her mind never went to smart society and its doings, but to those great, simple souls who had braved the wilderness in search of liberty and adventure--who had toiled, and fought, and given their lives, unknown, unsung, but never in mary's mind to be forgotten. and whenever she thought of travel, she found she would rather see the rockies than the alps, rather go to new orleans than old orleans, rather visit the grand canyon than the nile, and would infinitely rather cross the american continent and see three thousand miles of her own country, than cross the atlantic and see three thousand miles of water that belonged to every one in general and no one in particular. "but, my dear," said miss cordelia, altogether taken aback, "you ought to go somewhere, you know. let me tell you about miss parsons' school--" "it's no use, aunty. i don't want to go to miss parsons' school--" "where do you want to go then?" like most inspirations, it came like a flash. "if i'm going anywhere, i want to go to college--" to college! a spencer girl--or a spicer--going to college! miss cordelia gasped. if mary had been noticing, she might not have pursued her inspiration further, but her mind was running along a breathless panorama of niagara falls, great lakes, chicago, the farms of the middle west, yellowstone park, geysers, the old man of the mountain, aztec ruins, redwood forests, orange groves and at the end of the vista--like a statue at the end of a garden walk--she imagined a great democratic institution of learning where one might conceivably be prepared to solve some of those problems which life seems to take such deep delight in presenting to us, with the grim command, "not one step farther shall you go until you have answered this!" "to college?" gasped miss cordelia. "yes," said mary, still intent upon her panorama, "there's a good one in california. i'll look it up." the more mary thought of it, the fonder she grew of her idea--which is, i think, a human trait and true of nearly every one. it was in vain that her aunts argued with her, pointing out the social advantages which she would enjoy from attending miss parsons' school. mary's objection was fundamental. she simply didn't care for those advantages. indeed, she didn't regard them as advantages at all. helen did, though. in her heart helen had always longed to tread the stage of society--to her mind, a fairyland of wit and gallantry, masquerades and music, to say nothing of handsome young polo players and titled admirers from foreign shores--"big fools," all of them, as you can guess, when dazzled by the smiles of youth and beauty. "mary can go to california if she likes," said helen at last, "but give me miss parsons' school." and mary did go to california, although i doubt if she would have gained her point if her father hadn't taken her part. for four years she attended the university by the golden gate, and every time she made the journey between the two oceans, sometimes accompanied by miss cordelia and sometimes by miss patty, she seemed to be a little more serene of glance, a little more tranquil of brow, as though one by one she were solving some of those problems which i have mentioned above. meanwhile helen was in her glory at miss parsons'; and though the two aunts didn't confess it, they liked to sit and listen to her chatter of the girls whose friendship she was making, and to whose houses she was invited for the holidays. when she was home, she sang snatches from the operas, danced with imaginary partners, rehearsed parts of private theatricals and dreamed of conquests. she had also learned the knack of dressing her hair which, when done in the grand manner, isn't far from being a talent. pulled down on one side, with a pin or two adjusted, she was a dashing young duchess who rode to hounds and made the old duke's eyes pop out. or she could dip it over her ears, change a few pins again and--lo!--she was st. cecilia seated at the organ, and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "she is quite pretty and very clever," said miss cordelia one day. "i think she will marry well." "do you think she's as pretty as mary?" asked miss patty. "my dear!" said miss cordelia with a look that said 'what a question you are asking!' "--is pretty in a way, of course," she said, "but there is something about our mary--" "i know," nodded miss patty. "something you can't express--" "the dear child," mused miss cordelia, looking out toward the west. "i wonder what she is doing this very moment!" at that very moment, as it happened, mary was in her room on the other side of the continent studying the manufacture of raisin fudge. theretofore she had made it too soft, or too sugary, but this time she was determined to have it right. long ago she had made all the friends that her room would hold, and most of them were there. some were listening to a girl in spectacles who was talking socialism, while a more frivolous group, perched on the bed, was arguing the question whether the perfect lover had a moustache or a clean-shaven lip. "money is cruel; it ought to be abolished," said the earnest girl in the spectacles. "money is a millstone which the rich use to grind the poor. you girls know it as well as i do." mary stirred away at the fudge. "it's a good thing she doesn't know that i'm rich," she smiled to herself. "i wonder when i shall start grinding the poor!" "and yet the world simply couldn't get along without the wage-earners," continued the young orator. "so all they have to do is strike--and strike--and keep on striking--and they can have everything they want--" "so could the doctors," mused mary to herself, stirring away at the fudge. "imagine the doctors striking.... and so could the farmers. imagine the farmers striking for eight hours a day, and no work sundays and holidays, and every saturday afternoon off...." dimly, vaguely, a troubled picture took shape in her mind. she stirred the fudge more reflectively than ever. "i wonder if civil wars are started that way," she thought, "one class setting out to show its power over another and gradually coming to blows. suppose--yes, suppose the women were to go on strike for eight hours a day, and as much money as the men, and saturday afternoons and sundays off, and all the rest of it.... the world certainly couldn't get along without women. as becky says, they would only have to strike--and strike--and keep on striking--and they could get everything they wanted--" although she didn't suspect it, she was so close to her destiny at that moment that she could have reached out her hand and touched it. but all unconsciously she continued to stir the fudge. "i've always thought that women have a poor time of it compared with men," she nodded to herself. "still, perhaps it's the way of the world, like ... like children have the measles ... and old folks have to wear glasses." she put the pan on the sill to cool and stood there for a time, looking out at the campus, dreamy-eyed, half occupied with her own thoughts and half listening to the conversation behind her. "there oughtn't to be any such thing as private property--" "why, vera, if he kissed you in the dark, you couldn't tell whether he was a man or a girl--" "--everything should belong to the state--" "--no, listen. kiss me both ways, and then tell me which you think is the nicest--" a squeal of laughter arose from the bed and, turning, mary saw that one of the girls was holding the back of a toothbrush against her upper lip. "now," she mumbled, "this is with the moustache ... kiss me hard ..." "the greatest book in the world," continued the girl with the spectacles, "is marx's book on capital--" mary turned to the window again, more dreamy-eyed than ever. "the greatest book in the world," she thought, "is the book of life.... oh, if i could only write a few pages in it ... myself ...!" chapter x mary "came out" the winter after her graduation. if she had been left to herself she would have dispensed with the ceremony quite as cheerfully as she had dispensed with miss parsons' school for young ladies. but in the first place her aunts were adamant, and in the second place they were assisted by helen. helen hadn't been going to finishing school for nothing. she knew the value of a proper social introduction. indeed it was her secret ambition to outshine her cousin--an ambition which was at once divined by her two aunts. whereupon they groomed mary to such good purpose that i doubt if society ever looked upon a lovelier debutante. she was dressed in chiffon, wore the spencer pearls, and carried herself with such unconscious charm that more than one who danced with her that night felt a rapping on the door of his heart and heard the voice of love exclaiming "let me in!" there was one young man in particular who showed her such attention that the matrons either smiled or frowned at each other. even miss cordelia and miss patty were pleased, although of course they didn't show it for a moment. he was a handsome, lazy-looking young rascal when he first appeared on the scene, lounging against the doorway, drawling a little as he talked to his friends--evidently a lion, bored in advance with the whole proceeding and meaning to slip away as soon as he could. but when his eye fell on mary, he stared at her unobserved for nearly a minute and his ennui disappeared into thin air. "what's the matter, wally?" asked one of his friends. "james," he solemnly replied, "i'm afraid it's something serious. i only hope it's catching." the next minute he was being introduced to mary and was studying her card. "some of these i can't dance," she warned him. "will you mark them with a tick, please--those you can't dance?" unsuspectingly she marked them. "good!" said he, writing his name against each tick. "we'll sit those out. the next waltz, though, we will dance that." "but that's engaged--'chester a. bradford,'" she read. "poor brad--didn't i tell you?" asked wally. "he fell downstairs a moment ago and broke his leg." that was the beginning of it. the first dance they sat out wally said to himself, "i shall kiss her, if it's the last thing i ever do." but he didn't. the next dance they sat out he said to himself, "i shall kiss her if i never do another thing as long as i live--" but he didn't. the last dance they sat out he said to himself, "i shall kiss her if i hang for it." he didn't kiss her, even then, but felt himself tremble a little as he looked in her eyes. then it was that the truth began to dawn upon him. "i'm a gone coon," he told himself, and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief ... "you've got him, all right," said helen later, going to mary's room ostensibly to undress, but really to exchange those confidences without which no party is complete. "got who?" asked mary. and she a bachelor of arts! "oh, aren't you innocent! wally cabot, of course. did he kiss you?" "no, he did not!" "of course, if you don't want to tell--!" "there's nothing to tell." "there isn't? ... oh, well, don't worry.... there soon will be." helen was right. from that time forward mary's own shadow was hardly less attentive than master wally cabot. his high-powered roadster was generally doing one of three things. it was either going to mary's, or coming from mary's, or taking a needed rest under mary's porte cochère. one day mary suddenly said to her father, "who was paul?" fortunately for josiah the light was on his back. "last night at the dance," she continued, "i heard a woman saying that i didn't look the least bit like paul, and i wondered who he was." "perhaps some one in her own family," said josiah at last. "must have been," mary carelessly nodded. they went on chatting and presently josiah was himself again. "what are you going to do about walter cabot?" he asked, looking at her with love in his sombre eyes. mary made a helpless gesture. "has he asked you yet?" "yes," she said in a muffled voice, "--often." "why don't you take him?" again mary made her helpless gesture and, for a long moment she too was on the point of opening her heart. but again heredity, training and age-old tradition stood between them, finger on lip. "i sometimes have such a feeling that i want to do something in the world," she nearly told him. "and if i married wally, it would spoil it all. i sometimes have such dreams--such wonderful dreams of doing something--of being somebody--and i know that if i married wally i should never be able to dream like that again--" as you can see, that isn't the sort of a thing which a girl can very well say to her father--or to any one else for that matter, except in fear and hesitation. "the way i am now," she nearly told him, "there are ever so many things in life that i can do--ever so many doors that i can open. but if i marry wally, every door is locked but one. i can be his wife; that's all." obviously again, you couldn't expect a girl to speak like that, especially a girl with dreamy eyes and shy. nevertheless those were the thoughts which often came to her at night, after she had said her prayers and popped into bed and lay there in the dark turning things over in her mind. one night, for instance, after wally had left earlier than usual, she lay with her head snuggled on the pillow, full of vague dreams and visions--vague dreams of greatness born of the sunsets and stars and flowers--vague visions of proving herself worthy of the heritage of life. "i don't think it's a bit fair," she thought. "as soon as a woman marries--well, somehow, she's through. but it doesn't seem to make any difference to the man. he can go right on doing the big things--the great things--" she stopped, arrested by the sound of a mandolin under her window. the next moment the strains of wally's tenor entered the room, mingled with the moonlight and the scent of the syringa bush. a murmuring, deep-toned trio accompanied him. "soft o'er the fountain ling'ring falls the southern moon--" the beauty of it brought a thrill to the roots of mary's hair--brought quick tears to her eyes--and she was wondering if wally was right, after all--if love (as he often told her) was indeed the one great thing of life and nothing else mattered, when her door opened and helen came twittering in. "a serenade!" she whispered excitedly. "im-a-gine!" she tip-toed to the window and, kneeling on the floor, watched the singers through the curtain--knowing well it wasn't for her, but drinking deep of the moment. slowly, sweetly, the chorus grew fainter--fainter-- "nita--juanita ask thy soul if we should part--" "what do you think of that!" said helen, leaning over and giving her cousin a squeeze and a kiss. "he had the two garde boys and will thompson with him. i thought he was leaving earlier than usual tonight; didn't you? but a serenade! i wonder if the others heard it, too!" miss patty and miss cordelia had both heard it, and helen had hardly gone when they came pattering in--each as proud as punch of mary for having caused such miracles to perform--and gleeful, too, that they had lived in the land long enough to hear a real, live serenade. and after they had kissed her and gone, ma'm maynard came in with a pretty little speech in french. so that altogether mary held quite a reception in bed. as one result, her feeling toward wally melted into something like tenderness, and if it hadn't been for the tragic event next morning, the things which i have to tell you might never have taken place. "i wonder if your father heard it," said miss patty at the breakfast table next morning. "i wonder!" laughed mary. "i think i'll run in and see." according to his custom josiah breakfasted early and had gone to his den to look over his mail. mary passed gaily through the library, but it wasn't long before she was back at the dining room door, looking as though she had seen a ghost. "come--come and look," she choked. "something--something terrible--" josiah sat, half collapsed, in his chair. before him, on the desk, lay his mail. some he had read. some he would never, never read. "he must have had a stroke," said miss cordelia, her arms around mary; and looking at her brother she whispered, "i think something upset him." when they had sent for the doctor and had taken mary away, they returned to look over the letters which josiah had opened as his last mortal act. "i don't see anything in these that could have bothered him," said miss cordelia, fearfully looking. "what's this?" asked miss patty, picking up an empty envelope from the floor. it was post-marked "rio de janeiro" and the date showed that it had taken three weeks to make the journey. "i have some recollection of that writing," said miss cordelia. "so have i," said miss patty in a low voice, "but where's the letter?" again it was she who made the discovery. "that must be it," she said. "his ash tray is cleaned out every morning." it was a large, brass tray and in it was the char of a paper that had been burned. this ash still lay in its folds and across its surface, black on black, could be seen a few lines which resembled the close of a letter. "can you read it?" she asked. miss cordelia bent over, and as a new angle of light struck the tray, the words became as legible as though they had just been written. "i thought i knew the writing," whispered miss cordelia, and lowering her voice until her sister had to hang breathless upon the movement of her lips, she added "oh, patty ... we all thought he was dead ... no wonder it killed poor josiah ..." their arms went around each other. their glances met. "i know," whispered miss patty, her lips suddenly gone dry, "....it was from paul...!" chapter xi for the first few months after her father's death, mary's dreams seemed to fade into mist. between her and josiah a bond of love had existed, stronger than either had suspected--and now that he was gone the world seemed unaccountably empty--and unaccountably cruel. as her father had gone, so must aunt cordelia and aunt patty some day surely go ... yes, and even mary herself must just as surely follow. the immemorial doubt assailed her--that doubt which begins in helplessness and ends in despair. "what's the use?" she asked herself. "we plan and work so hard--like children making things in the sand--and then death comes along with a big wave and flattens everything out ... like that ..." but gradually her sense of balance began to return. one day she stood on the brink of the hill looking at the great factory below, and a calmer, surer feeling slowly swept over her. "that's it," she thought. "the real things of life go on, no matter who dies, just as though nothing had happened. take the first josiah spencer and look down there what he left behind him. why, you might even say that he was alive today! and see what washington left behind him--and fulton, who invented the steamboat--and morse who invented the telegraph. so it's silly to say 'what's the use?' suppose columbus had said it--or any of the others who have done great things in the world--" it slowly came to her then, her doubts still lingering, how many are called, how few are chosen. "that's the trouble," she said. "we can't all be washingtons. we can't all do great things. and yet--an awful lot of people had to live so that washington could be born when he was.... "his parents: that was two. and his grand-parents: he must have had four. and his great grand-parents: eight of them.... "why, it's like the problem of the horse-shoe nails," she continued in growing excitement. "in twenty-eight generations there must have been millions and millions of people who lived--just so george washington could be born one day at mt. vernon--and grow up to make america free! yes, and every one of them was just as necessary as washington himself, because if it hadn't been for every single one of them--we would never have had him!" for a moment she seemed to be in touch with the infinite plan. down the hill she saw a woman in a black dress, crossing the street. "mrs. ridge going out for the day," thought mary, recognizing the figure below. "yes, and who knows? she may be a link in a chain which is leading straight down to some one who will be greater than washington--greater than shakespeare--greater than any man who ever lived...!" and her old dreams, her old visions beginning to return, she added with a sigh, "oh, dear! i wish i could do something big and noble--so if all those millions who are back of me are watching, they'll feel proud of what i'm doing and nudge each other as if they were saying, 'you see? she's come at last. that's us!'" as you will realize, this last thought of mary's suggested more than it told--as i believe great thoughts often do--but at least i think you'll be able to grasp the idea which she herself was groping after. at the same time you mustn't suppose that she was constantly going around dreaming, and trying to find expression for those vague strivings and yearnings which come to us all at different times in our lives, especially in the golden days of youth when the flood of ambition is rising high within us--or again in later years when we feel the tide will soon begin to turn, and we must make haste or it will be too late. no, mary had plenty of practical matters, too, to engage her attention and keep her feet on the earth. for one thing there was wally cabot--he who had so lately serenaded mary in the moonlight. but i'll tell you about him later. then the settlement of her father's estate kept coming up for action. judge cutler and mary's two aunts were the trustees--an arrangement which didn't please uncle stanley any too well, although he was careful not to show it. and the more mary saw of the silvery haired judge with his hawk's eyes and gentle smile, the more she liked him. one of the first things they discovered was that mary's heritage consisted of the factory by the river--but little else. practically all the bonds and investments that josiah had ever owned had been sold for the greater glory of spencer & son--to buy in other firms and patents--to increase the factory by the river. as her father had once confided to mary this had taken money--"a dreadful lot of money"--she remembered the wince with which he had spoken--and a safe deposit box which was nearly empty bore evidence to the truth of what he had said. "high and low," mused the judge when the inventory was at last completed, "it's always the same. the millionaire and the mill-hand--somehow they always manage to leave less than every one expected--" "why is that?" asked mary. "is it because the heirs expect too much?" "no, child. i think it's the result of pride. as a rule, man is a proud animal and he doesn't like to tell anything which doesn't redound to his credit. if a man buys bonds, for instance, he is very apt to mention it to his family. but if for any reason he has to sell those bonds, he will nearly always do it quietly and say nothing about it, hoping to buy them back again later, or something better yet-- "i've seen so many estates," he continued, "shrink into next to nothing--so many widows who thought they were well off, suddenly waking up and finding themselves at the mercy of the world--the little they have often being taken away from them by the first glib sharper who comes long--that i sometimes think every man should give his family a show-down once a year. it would surely save a lot of worries and heartaches later on-- "still," he smiled, looking down at the inventory, with its noble line of figures at the bottom of the column, "i don't think you'll have much trouble in keeping the wolf from the door." mary turned the pages in a helpless sort of way. "you'll have to explain some of this," she said at last. but before giving it back to him she looked out of the window for a time--one of her slow, thoughtful glances--and added, "i wonder why girls aren't brought up to know something about business--the way boys are." "perhaps it's because they have no head for business." she thought that over. "can you speak french?" she suddenly asked. "no." "...i can. i can speak it, and read it, and write it, and think it.... now don't you think that if a girl can do that--if she can learn thousands and thousands of new words, how to pronounce them, and spell them, and parse them, and inflect them--how to supply hundreds of rules of grammar--and if she can learn to do this so well that she can chat away in french without giving it a thought--don't you think she might be able to learn something about the language and rules of business, too, if they were only taught to her? then perhaps there wouldn't be so many helpless widows in the world, as you said just now, at the mercy of the first glib sharper who comes along." this time it was the judge's turn to think it over. "you're an exceptional girl, mary," he said at last. "no, really i'm not," she earnestly told him. "any girl can learn anything that a boy can learn--if she is only given a chance. where boys and girls go to school together--at the grammar schools and high schools--the girls are just as quick as the boys, and their average marks are quite as high. it was true at college, too. the girls could learn anything that the men could learn--and do it just as well." as one result of this, judge cutler began giving mary lessons in business, using the inventory as a text and explaining each item in the settlement of the estate. he also taught her some of the simpler maxims, beginning with that grand old caution, "never sign a paper for a stranger--" it wasn't long after this that uncle stanley called at the house on the hill. he talked for a time about some of the improvements which were being made at the factory and then arose as if to go. "oh, i nearly forgot," he said, turning back and smiling at his oversight. "we need a new director to take your father's place. when i'm away burdon looks after things, so i suppose he may as well take the responsibility. it's a thankless position, but some one has to fill it." "yes," murmured mary, "i suppose they do." "they do," said uncle stanley. "so i'll call a stockholders' meeting right away. meanwhile if you will sign this proxy--" but just as quietly mary murmured, "i'd like to think it over." they looked at each other then--those two--with that careful, yet careless-appearing glance which two duellists might employ when some common instinct warns them that sooner or later they will cross their swords. uncle stanley was the first to lower his eye. "the law requires three directors," he said in his more usual grumpy voice, "or i wouldn't have bothered you. i'll leave it and you can sign it and send it down this afternoon." but mary did neither. instead she went to see judge cutler and when the stockholders' meeting was finally called, she attended it in person--holding practically all the stock--and judge cutler was elected to fill the vacancy. uncle stanley just managed to control himself. it took an effort, but he did it. "we've got to elect a president next," he said, trying to make a joke of it, but unable to keep the tremor of testiness out of his voice. "of course i've been here all my life--if that counts for anything--and i am now serving in the more or less humble capacity of vice-president--but if the judge would like to throw up his law business and try the manufacturing end instead--" "no," smiled the judge, lighting a bombshell--though uncle stanley little guessed it--"i think the position calls for some one younger than i am. besides, my name is cutler, whereas for eight generations this concern has been headed by a spencer. "you know, mr. woodward, lawyers are sticklers for precedent, and it seems to me that as long as there is a spencer left in the family, that good old name should stand at the head. "for the office of president i therefore cast my vote in favour of the last of the spencers--miss mary--" that was the bombshell, and oh, but didn't it rock uncle stanley back on his heels! "of course, if you want to make a joke of the company," he said at last, sticking out his lower lip till it made a little shelf, although it wasn't a very steady little shelf because it trembled as though from emotion. "'president, mary spencer'--you know as well as i do what people will think when they see that on the letterhead--" "unfortunately, yes," said the judge, flashing him one of his hawk's glances but still speaking in his gentle voice. "still, we can easily get around that difficulty. we can have the letter-heads lithographed 'president, m. spencer.' then if our correspondents have imaginations, they will think that the m stands for matthew or mark or michael or malachi. one thing sure," he smiled at the new president, "they'll never think of mary." as in the case of the factory, uncle stanley had also been vice-president of the first national bank. a few days after the proceedings above recorded, the stockholders of the bank met to choose a new president. there was only one vote and when it was counted, stanley woodward was found to be elected. "i wonder what he'll be doing next," said mary uneasily when she heard the news. "my dear girl," gently protested the judge, "you mustn't be so suspicious. it will poison your whole life and lead you nowhere." mary thought that over. "you know the old saying, don't you?" he continued. "'suspicion is the seed of discord.'" "yes," nodded mary, trying to smile, though she still looked troubled. "i know the old saying--but--the trouble is--i know uncle stanley, too, and that's what bothers me..." chapter xii at this point i had meant to tell you more of wally cabot--most perfect, most charming of lovers--but first i find that i must describe a passage which took place one morning between mary and uncle stanley's son burdon. perhaps you remember burdon, the tall, dark young man who "smelled nice" and wore a white edging on the v of his waistcoat. as far back as mary could remember him, he had appealed to her imagination. his norfolk jackets, his gold cigarette case and match box, his air of distinction, his wealth of black hair which grew to a point on his forehead, even the walking stick which he sometimes carried; to mary's mind these had always been properties in a human drama--a drama breathless with possibilities, written by destiny and entitled burdon woodward. it is hard to express some things, and this is one of them. but among your own acquaintances there are probably one or two figures which stand out above the others as though they had been selected by fate to play strenuous parts--whether columbine, clown or star. something is always happening to them. wherever they appear, they seem to hold the centre of the stage, and when they disappear a dullness falls and life seems flat for a time. you think of them more often than you realize, perhaps with a smile, perhaps with a frown, and generally you dismiss them from your mind with some such thought as this--"he'll get in trouble yet," or "i wouldn't be surprised if he makes a great man some day"--or "something will happen to that girl yet, if she isn't careful!" that, in short, was the sort of a character that burdon woodward had always been to mary. for as long as she could remember him, she had associated him with romance and drama. to her he had been raffles, the amateur cracksman. he had also been steerforth in david copperfield--and time after time she had drowned him in the wreck. in stories of buccaneers he was the captain--sometimes captain morgan, sometimes captain kidd--or else he was black jack with dora in his power and trembling in the balance whether to become a hero or a villain. as mary grew older these associations not only lingered; they strengthened. not long before her father died she read in the paper of a young desperado, handsome and well-dressed, who held up a new york jeweller at the point of a gun and relieved him of five thousand dollars' worth of diamond rings. the story was made remarkable by a detail. an old woman was sitting at the corner, grinding a hand-organ, and as the robber ran past her, he dropped one of the rings into her cup. "oh, dad," mary had said, looking up and speaking on impulse, "did i hear you say last night that burdon woodward was in new york?" "no, dear. boston." "mm," thought mary. "he'd say he was going to boston for a blind." and for many a week after that she slyly watched his fingers, to see if she could catch him red-handed so to speak, wearing one of those rings! yet even while she glanced she had the grace to smile at her fancies. "all the same," she told herself, "it sounded an awful lot like him." the encounter which i am now going to tell you about took place one morning after mary had been elected to the presidency of the company. she had just finished breakfast when burdon telephoned. "your father had some private papers in his desk down here," he said. "i was wondering if you'd like to come down and look them over." "thank you," she said. "i will." josiah's private room in the factory office building had been an impressive one, high-ceiled and flanked with a fire-place which was, however, never lighted. ancestral paintings and leather chairs had added their notes of distinction. the office of any executive will generally reflect not only his own personality, but the character of the enterprise of which he stands at the head. looking in josiah's room, i think you would have been impressed, either consciously or not, that spencer & son had dignity, wealth and a history behind it. and regarding then the dark colouring of the appointments, devoid of either beauty or warmth, and feeling yourself impressed by a certain chilliness of atmosphere, i can very well imagine you saying to yourself "not very cheerful!" but you wouldn't have thought this on the morning when mary entered it in response to burdon's suggestion. a fire was glowing on the andirons. new rugs gave colour and life to the floor. the mantel had been swept clear of annual reports and technical books, and graced with a friendly clock and a still more friendly pair of vases filled with flowers. the monumental swivel chair had disappeared, and in its place was one of wicker, upholstered in cretonne. on the desk was another vase of flowers, a writing set of charming design and a triple photograph frame, containing pictures of miss cordelia, miss patty and old josiah himself. mary was still marvelling when she caught sight of burdon woodward in the doorway. "who--who did this?" she asked. he bowed low--as d'artagnan might have bowed to the queen of france--but came up smiling. "your humble, obedient servant," said he. "can i come in?" it had been some time since mary had seen him so closely, and as he approached she noticed the faultlessness of his dress, the lily of the valley in his buttonhole, and that slightly ironic but smiling manner which is generally attributed to men of the world, especially to those who have travelled far on adventurous and forbidden paths. in another age he might have worn lace cuffs and a sword, and have just returned from a gambling house where he had lost or won a fortune with equal nonchalance. "he still smells nice," thought mary to herself, "and i think he's handsomer than ever--if it wasn't for that dark look around his eyes--and even that becomes him." she motioned to a chair and seated herself at the desk. "i thought you'd like to have a place down here to call your own," he said in his lazy voice. "i didn't make much of a hit with the governor, but then you know i seldom do--" "where did you get the pictures?" "from the photographers'. of course it required influence, but i am full of that--being connected, as you may know, with spencer & son. when i told him why i wanted them, he seemed to be as anxious as i was to find the old plates." "and the fire and the rugs and everything--you don't know how i appreciate it all. i had no idea--" "i like surprises, myself," he said. "i suppose that's why i like to surprise others. the keys of the desk are in the top drawer, and i have set aside the brightest boy in the office to answer your buzzer. if you want anybody or anything--to write a letter--to see the governor--or even to see your humble servant--all you have to do is to press this button." a wave of gratitude swept over her. "he's nice," she thought, as burdon continued his agreeable drawl. "but helen says he's wicked. i wonder if he is.... imagine him thinking of the pictures: i'm sure that doesn't sound wicked, and... oh, dear!....yes, he did it again, then!... he--he's making eyes at me as much as he dares!..." she turned and opened a drawer of the desk. "i think i'll take the papers home and sort them there," she said. "you're sure there's nothing more i can do?" he asked, rising. "nothing more; thank you." "that window behind you is open at the top. you may feel a draft; i'll shut it." in his voice she caught the note which a woman never misses, and her mind went back to her room at college where the girls used to gather in the evenings and hold classes which were strictly outside the regular course. "it's simply pathetic," one of the girls had once remarked, "but nearly every man you meet makes love the same way. talk about sausage for breakfast every morning in the year. it's worse than that! "first you catch it in their eye and in their voice: 'are you sure you're comfortable?' 'are you sure you're warm enough?' 'are you sure you don't feel a draft?' that's chapter one. "then they try to touch you--absent-mindedly putting their arms along the back of your chair, or taking your elbow to keep you from falling when you have to cross a doorsill or a curb-stone or some dangerous place like that. that's always chapter two. "and then they try to get you into a nice, secluded place, and kiss you. honestly, the sameness of it is enough to drive a girl wild. sometimes i say to myself, 'the next time a man looks at me that way and asks me if i feel a draft, i'm going to say, 'oh, please let's dispense with chapter two and pass directly to the nice, secluded place. it will be such a change from the usual routine!'" mary laughed to herself at the recollection. "if vera's right," she thought, "he'll try to touch me next--perhaps the next time i come." it happened sooner than that. after she had tied up the papers and carried them to the car, and had made a tour of the new buildings--archey forbes blushing like a sunset the moment he saw her--she returned to her motor which was waiting outside the office building. burdon must have been waiting for her. he suddenly appeared and opened the door of the car. "allow me," he said. when she stepped up, she felt the support of his hand beneath her elbow. she slipped into her place at the wheel and looked ahead as dreamy-eyed as ever. "chapter two..." she thought to herself as the car began to roll away, and taking a hasty mental review of wally cabot, and burdon woodward and archey forbes, she couldn't help adding, "if a girl's thoughts started to run that way, oh, wouldn't they keep her busy!" it relieved her feelings to make the car roar up the incline that led from the river, but when she turned into the driveway at the house on the hill, she made a motion of comic despair. wally cabot's car was parked by the side of the house. inside she heard the phonograph playing a waltz. chapter xiii wally stayed for lunch, looking sheepish at first for having been caught dancing with helen. but he soon recovered and became his charming self. miss cordelia and miss patty always made him particularly welcome, listening with approval to his chatter of boston society, and feeling themselves refreshed as at some hebian spring at hearing the broad a's and the brilliant names he uttered. "if i were you, helen," said mary when lunch was over, "i think i'd go on teaching wally that dance." which may have shown that it rankled a little, even if she were unconscious that it did. "i have some papers that i want to look over and i don't feel very trippy this afternoon." she went to josiah's old study, but had hardly untied the papers when she heard the knock of penitence on the door. "come in!" she smiled. the door opened and in came master wally, looking ready to weep. "wally! don't!" she laughed. "you'll give yourself the blues!" "not when i hear you laugh like that. i know i'm forgiven." he drew a chair to the fire and sat down with an air of luxury. "i can almost imagine that we're an old married couple, sitting in here like this--can't you?" "no; i can't. and you've got to be quiet and let me work, or i shall send you back to helen." "she asked me to dance with her--of course, you know that--or i never would have done it--" "oh, fie, for shame," said mary absently, "blaming the woman. you know you liked to do it." "mary--!" "hush!" he watched her for a time and, in truth, she was worth it. he looked at the colour of her cheeks, her dreamy eyes like pools of mystery, the crease in her chin (which he always wanted to kiss), the rise and fall of the pendant on her breast. he looked until he could look no longer and then he arose and leaned over the desk. "mary--!" he breathed, taking her hand. "now, please don't start that, wally. we'll shake hands if you want to... there! how are you? now go back to your chair and be good." "'be good!'" he savagely echoed. "why, you want to be good; don't you?" she asked in surprise. "i want you to love me. mary; tell me you love me just a little bit; won't you?" "i like you a whole lot--but when it comes to love--the way you mean--" "it's the only thing in life that's worth a hang," he eagerly interrupted her. "the trouble is: you won't try it. you won't allow yourself to let go. i was like that once--thought it was nothing. but after i met you--! oh, girl, it's all roses and lilies--the only thing in the world, and don't you forget it! come on in and give it a try!" "it's not the only thing in the world," said mary, shaking her head. "that's the reason i don't want to come in: when a man marries, he goes right on with his life as though nothing had happened. that shows it's not the only thing with him. but when a woman marries--well, she simply surrenders her future and her independence. it may be right that she should, too, for all i know--but i'm going to try the other way first. i'm going right on with my life, the same as a man does--and see what i get by it." "how long are you going to try it, do you think?" "until i've found out whether love _is_ the only thing in a woman's life. if i find that i can't do anything else--if i find that a girl can only be as bright as a man until she reaches the marrying age, and then she just naturally stands still while he just naturally goes forward--why, then, i'll put an advertisement in the paper 'husband wanted. mary spencer. please apply.'" "they'll apply over my dead body." "you're a dear, good boy to say it. no, please, wally, don't or i shall go upstairs. now sit by the fire again--that's better--and smoke if you want to, and let me finish these papers." they were for the greater part the odds and ends which accumulate in every desk. there were receipted bills, old insurance policies, letters that had once seemed worth prizing, catalogues of things that had never been bought, prospectuses, newspaper clippings, copies of old contracts. and yet they had an interest, too--an interest partly historical, partly personal. this merry letter, for instance, which mary read and smiled over--who was the "jack" who had written it? "dead, perhaps, like dad," thought mary. yes, dead perhaps, and all his fun and drollery suddenly fallen into silence and buried with him. "isn't life queer!" she thought. "now why did he save this clipping?" she read the clipping and enjoyed it. wally, watching from his chair, saw the smile which passed over her face. "she'll warm up some day," he confidently told himself, with that bluntness of thought which comes to us all at times. "see how she flared up because i danced with helen. maybe if i made her jealous..." at the desk mary picked up another paper--an old cable. she read it, re-read it, and quietly folded it again; but for all her calmness the colour slowly mounted to her cheeks, as the recollection of odd words and phrases arose to her mind. "wally," she said in her quietest voice, "i'm going to ask you a question, but first you must promise to answer me truly." "cross my heart and hope to die!" "are you ready?" "quite ready." "then did you ever hear of any one in our family named paul?" "y-yes--" "who was he?" it was some time before he told the story, but trust a girl to make a man speak when she wishes it! he softened the recital in every possible way, but trust a girl again to read between the lines when she wants to! "and didn't he ever come back?" she asked. "no; you see he couldn't very well. there was an accident out west--somebody killed--anyhow, he was blamed for it. queer, isn't it?" he broke off, trying to relieve the subject. "the kaiser can start a war and kill millions. that's glory. but if some poor devil loses his head--" mary wasn't through yet. "you say he's dead!" she asked. "oh, yes, years ago. he must have been dead--oh, let me see--about fifteen or twenty years, i guess." "poor dad!" thought mary that night. "what he must have gone through! i'll bet he didn't think that love was the only thing in life. and--that other one," she hesitated, "who was 'wild after the girls,' wally says, and finally ran off with one--i'll bet he didn't think so, either--before he got through--to say nothing of the poor thing who went with him. but dead fifteen or twenty years--that's the queerest part." she found the cable again. it was dated rio janeiro-- "gods sake cable two hundred dollars wife children sick desperate next week too late." it was signed "paul" and--the point to which mary's attention was constantly returning--it wasn't fifteen or twenty years ago that this appeal had been received by her father. the date of the cable was scarcely three years old. chapter xiv for days mary could think of little else, but as week followed week, her thoughts merged into memories--memories that were stored away and stirred in their hiding places less and less often. "dad knew best," she finally told herself. "he bore it in silence all those years, so it wouldn't worry me, and i'm not going to start now. perhaps--he's dead, too. anyhow," she sternly repeated, "i'm not going to worry. i've seen enough of worry to start doing that." besides, she had too much else on her mind--"to start doing that." as the war in europe had progressed--america drawing nearer the crimson whirlpool with every passing month--a red cross chapter was organized at new bethel. mary took active part in the work, and whenever visitors came to speak at the meetings, they seldom went away without being entertained at the house on the hill. "i love to think of it," she told aunt patty one day. "the greatest organization of mercy ever known--and practically all women's work! doesn't that mean a lot to you, aunt patty? if women can do such wonderful things for the red cross, why can't they do wonderful things in other ways?" her own question set her thinking, and something seemed to tell her that now or never she must watch her chance to make old dreams come true. surely never before in the history of the world had woman come to the front with such a splendid arrival. "we'll get things yet, aunt delia," she whispered in confidence, "so that folks will be just as proud of a girl baby as a boy baby." whereupon she wagged her finger as though to say, "you mark my words!" and went rolling away to hear a distinguished lecturer who had just returned from europe with a message to the women in america of what their sisters were doing across the seas. the address was given at the red cross rooms, and as mary listened she sewed upon a flannel swaddling robe that was later to go to siberia lest a new-born babe might perish. at first she listened conscientiously enough to the speaker--"what our european sisters have done in agriculture--" "i do believe at times that it's the women more than the men who make a country great," she thought as she heard of the women ploughing, planting, reaping. to mary's mind each stoical figure glowed with the light of heroism, and she nodded her head as she worked. "just as i've always said," she mused; "there's nothing a man can do that a woman can't do." from her chair by the window she chanced to look out at an old circus poster across the street. "now that's funny, too," she thought, her needle suspended; "i never thought of that before--but even in such things as lion taming and trapeze performing--where you would think a woman would really be at a disadvantage--she isn't at all. she's just as good as a man!" the voice of the speaker broke in upon her thoughts. "i am now going to tell you," she said, "what the women of europe are doing in the factories--" and oh, how mary listened, then! it was a long talk--i cannot begin to give it here--but she drank in every word, and hungered and thirsted for more. "there is not an operation in factory, foundry or laboratory," began the speaker, "where women are not employed--" as in a dream mary seemed to see the factory of spencer & son. the long lines of men had vanished, and in their places were women, clear-eyed, dexterous and happy at escaping from the unpaid drudgery of housework. "it may come to that, too," she thought, "if we go into war." "in aeroplane construction," the speaker continued, "where an undetected flaw in her work might mean an aviator's life, woman is doing the carpentry work, building the frame work, making the propellers. they are welding metals, drilling, boring, grinding, milling, even working on the engines and magnetos--" a quiver ran up and down mary's back and her eyes felt wet. "just what i've always said," she thought. "ah, the poor women--" "they are making telescopes, periscopes, binoculars, cameras--cutting and grinding the lenses--work so fine that the deviation of a hair's breadth would cause rejection--some of the lenses as small as a split pea. they make the metal parts that hold those lenses, assemble them, adjust them, test them. these are the eyes of the army and navy--surely no small part for the woman to supply." mary's thoughts turned to some of the homes she had seen--the surroundings--the expression of the housewife. "all her life and no help for it," she thought. and again, "ah, the poor women...." "to tell you the things she is making would be to give you a list of everything used in modern warfare. they are making ships, tanks, cannon, rifles, cartridges. they are operating the most wonderful trip hammers that were ever conceived by the mind of man, and under the same roof they are doing hand work so delicate that the least extra pressure of a file would spoil a week's labour. more! there isn't a process in which she has been employed where woman has failed to show that she is man's equal in speed and skill. in many operations she has shown that she is man's superior--doing this by the simple method of turning out more work in a day than the man whose place she took--" mary invited the speaker to go home with her, and if you had gone past the house on the hill that night, you would have seen lights burning downstairs until after one o 'clock. how did they train the women? how did they find time to do their washing and ironing? what about the children? and the babies? and the home? as the visitor explained, stopping now and then to tell her young hostess where to write for government reports giving facts and figures on the subject which they were discussing, mary's eyes grew dreamier and dreamier as one fancy after another passed through her mind. and when the clock struck one and she couldn't for shame keep her guest up any longer, she went to her room at last and undressed in a sort of a reverie, her glance inward turned, her head slightly on one side, and with such a look of thoughtful exaltation that i wish i could paint it for you, because i know i can never put it into words. still, if you can picture betsey ross, it was thus perhaps that betsey looked when first she saw the flag. or joan of arc might once have gazed that way in orleans' woods. chapter xv it was in december that mary's great idea began to assume form. she wrote to the american ambassadors in great britain and france for any documents which they could send her relating to the subject so close to her heart. in due time two formidable packages arrived at the house on the hill. mary carried them into the den and opened them with fingers that trembled with eagerness. yes, it was all true.... all true.... here it was in black and white, with photographs and statistics set down by impartial observers and printed by government. generally a state report is dry reading, but to mary at least these were more exciting than any romances--more beautiful than any poem she had ever read. at last woman had been given a chance to show what she could do. and how she had shown them! without one single straining effort, without the least thought of doing anything spectacular, she had gently and calmly taken up men's tools and had done men's work--not indifferently well--not in any makeshift manner--but "in all cases, even the most technical, her work has equalled that previously done exclusively by man. in a number of instances, owing to her natural dexterity and colour sense, her work, indeed, has been superior." how mary studied those papers! never even at college had she applied herself more closely. she memorized, compared, read, thought, held arguments with herself. and finally, when she was able to pass any examination that might be set before her, she went down to the office one day and sent for mr. macpherson, the master mechanic. he came--grey haired, grim faced, a man who seemed to keep his mouth buttoned-and mary asked him to shut the door behind him. whereat mac buttoned his mouth more tightly than before, and looked grimmer, too, if that were possible. "you don't look a day older," mary told him with a smile. "i remember you from the days when my father used to carry me around--" "he was a grand man, miss mary; it's a pity he's gone," said mac and promptly buttoned his mouth again. "i want to talk to you about something," she said, "but first i want you to promise to keep it a secret." he blinked his eyes at that, and as much as a grim faced man can look troubled, he looked troubled. "there are vera few secrets that can be kept around this place," was his strange reply. "might i ask, miss mary, of what nature is the subject?" and seeing that she hesitated he added, first looking cautiously over his shoulder, "is it anything, for instance, to do wi' mr. woodward? or, say, the conduct of the business?" "no, no," said mary, "it--it's about women--" mac stared at her, but when she added "--about women working in the factory," he drew a breath of relief. "aye," he said, "i think i can promise to keep quiet about that." "isn't it true," she began, "that most of the machinery we use doesn't require a great deal of skill to run it?" "we've a lot of automatics," acknowledged mac. "your grandfather's idea, miss mary. a grand man. he was one of the first to make the machine think instead of the operator." "how long does it take to break in an ordinary man?" "a few weeks is generally enough. it depends on the man and the tool." mary told him then what she had in her mind, and mac didn't think much of it until she showed him the photographs. even then he was "michty cautious" until he happened to turn to the picture of a munition factory in glasgow where row after row of overalled women were doing the lathe work. "think of that now," said he; "in glasga'!" as he looked, the frost left his eye. "a grand lot of lasses," he said and cleared his throat. "if they can do it, we can do it, too--don't you think so?" "why not?" he asked. "for let me tell you this, miss mary. those old countries are all grand countries--to somebody's way of thinking. but america is the grandest of them all, or they wouldn't keep coming here as fast as ships can bring them! what they can do, yes, we can do--and add something for good measure, if need be!" "well, that's it," said mary, eagerly. "if we go into the war, we shall have to do the same as they are doing in europe--let women do the factory work. and if it comes to that, i want spencer & son to be ready--to be the first to do it--to show the others the way!" mac nodded. "a bit of your grandfather, that," he thought with approval. "so what i want you to do," she concluded, "is to make me up a list of machines that women can be taught to handle the easiest, and let me have it as soon as you can." "i'll do that," he grimly nodded. "there's far too many vacant now." "and remember, please, you are not to say anything. because, you know, people would only laugh at the idea of a woman being able to do a man's work." "i'm mute," he nodded again, and started for the door, his mouth buttoned very tightly indeed. but even while his hand was stretched out to reach the knob, he paused and then returned to the desk. "miss mary," he said, "i'm an old man, and you're a young girl. i know nothing, mind you, but sometimes there are funny things going on in the world. and a man's not a fool. what i'm going to tell you now, i want you to remember it, but forget who told it to you. trust nobody. be careful. i can say no more." "he means uncle stanley," thought mary, uneasily, and a shadow fell upon the day. she was still troubled when another disturbing incident arose. "i'll leave these papers in the desk here," she thought, taking her keys from her handbag. she unlocked the top drawer and was about to place the papers on top of those which already lay there, when suddenly she paused and her eyes opened wide. on the top letter in her drawer--a grey tinted sheet--was a scattered mound of cigarette ash. "somebody's been here--snooping," she thought. "somebody with a key to the desk. he must have had a cigarette in his hand when he shut the drawer, and the ashes jarred off without being noticed--" irresistibly her thoughts turned to burdon woodward, with his gold cigarette case and match box. "it was he who gave me the keys," she thought. she sighed. a sense of walking among pitfalls took possession of her. as you have probably often noticed, suspicion feeds upon suspicion, and as mary walked through the outer office she felt that more than one pair of eyes were avoiding her. the old cashier kept his head buried in his ledger and nearly all the men were busy with their papers and books. "perhaps it's because i'm a woman," she thought. ma'm maynard's words arose with a new significance, "i tell you, miss mary, it has halways been so, and it halways will. everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!" but mary could still smile at that. "take mr. macpherson," she thought; "how is he my natural enemy? or judge cutler? or archey forbes? or wally cabot?" she felt more normal then, but when these reflections had died away, she still occasionally felt her thoughts reverting to mac's warning, the cigarette ash, the averted glances in the office. the nest morning, though, she thought she had found the answer to the latter puzzle. she had hardly finished breakfast when judge cutler was announced, his hawk's eyes frowning and never a trace of his smile. "did you get your copy of the annual report?" he asked. "not yet," said mary, somehow guessing what he meant. "why?" "i got mine in the mail this morning." he drew it from his pocket and his frown grew deeper. "let's go in the den," he said; "we've got to talk this out." it was the annual report of spencer & son's business and briefly stated, it showed an alarming loss for the preceding twelve months. "ah-ha!" thought mary, "that's the reason they didn't look up yesterday. they had seen this, and they felt ashamed." "as nearly as i can make it out," said the judge, "there's too many improvements going on, and not enough business. we must do something to stop these big expenses, and find a way to get more bearings sold--" he checked himself then and looked at mary, much as mac had looked the previous day, just before issuing his warning. "perhaps he's thinking of uncle stanley, too," thought mary. "another bad feature is this," continued the judge, "the bank is getting too strong a hold on the company. we must stop that before it gets any worse." "why?" asked mary, looking very innocent. "because it isn't good business." "but uncle stanley is president of the bank. you don't think he'd do anything to hurt spencer & son; do you?" the judge tapped his foot on the floor for a time, and then made a noise like a groan--as though he had teeth in his mind and one of them was being pulled. "many a time," he said, "i have tried to talk you out of your suspicions. but--if it was any other man than stanley woodward, i would say today that he was doing his best to--to--" "to 'do' me?" suggested mary, more innocent than ever. "yes, my dear--to do you! and another year's work like this wouldn't be far from having that result." curiously enough it was mary's great idea that comforted her. instead of feeling worried or apprehensive, she felt eager for action, her eyes shining at the thoughts which came to her. "all right," she said, "we'll have a meeting in a day or two. i'll wait till i get my copy of the report." wally came that afternoon, and mary danced with him--that is to say she danced with him until a freckle-faced apprentice came up from the factory with an envelope addressed in macpherson's crabbed hand. mary took one peep inside and danced no more. "if the women can pick it up as quick as the men," she read, "i have counted places in this factory where they could be working in a few weeks time--that is, if the places were vacant. list enclosed. respectfully. james o. macpherson." it was a long list beginning " automatics, grinders--" mary studied it carefully, and then after telephoning to the factory, she called up judge cutler. "i wish you would come down to the office in about half an hour," she said, ".... directors' meeting. all right. thank you." "what was it dad used to call me sometimes--his 'little hustler'?" she thought. "if he could see, i'll bet that's what he would call me now." as she passed through the hall she looked in the drawing room to tell helen where she was going. helen was sitting on a chaise lounge and wally was bending over her, as though trying to get something out of her eye with the corner of a handkerchief. "i don't see anything," mary heard him saying. "there must be something. it hurts dreadfully," said helen. looking again, he lightly dabbed at the eye. "oh!" breathed helen. "don't, wally!" she took hold of his hand as though to stop him. mary passed on without saying anything, her nose rather high in the air. half way down the hill she laughed at nothing in particular. "yes," she told herself. "helen--in her own way--i guess that she's a little hustler ... too ...!" chapter xvi the meeting was held in mary's office--the first conference of directors she had ever attended. by common consent, uncle stanley was chosen chairman of the board. judge cutler was appointed secretary. mary sat in her chair at the desk, her face nearly hidden by the flowers in the vase. it didn't take the meeting long to get down to business. "from last year's report," began the judge, "it is evident that we must have a change of policy." "in what way?" demanded uncle stanley. whereupon they joined issue--the man of business and the man of law. if mary had been paying attention she would have seen that the judge was slowly but surely getting the worst of it. to stop improvements now would be inviting ruin--they had their hands on the top rung of the ladder now; why let go and fall to the bottom--? what would everybody think if those new buildings stayed empty--? uncle stanley piled fact on fact, argument on argument. faint heart never won great fortune--as soon as the war was over, and it wouldn't be long now--before long he began to dominate the conference, the judge growing more and more silent, looking more and more indecisive. through it all mary sat back in her chair at the desk and said nothing, her face nearly hidden by the roses, but woman-like, she never forgot for a moment the things she had come there to do. "what do you think, mary?" asked the judge at last. "do you think we had better try it a little longer and see how it works out?" "no," said mary quietly, "i move that we stop everything else but making bearings." in vain uncle stanley arose to his feet, and argued, and reasoned, and sat down again, and brought his fist down on his knee, and turned a rich, brown colour. after a particularly eloquent period he caught a sight of mary's face among the roses--calm, cool and altogether unmoved--and he stopped almost on the word. "that's having a woman, in business," he bitterly told himself. "might as well talk to the wind. never mind ... it may take a little longer--but in the end...." judge cutler made a minute in the director's book that all work on improvements was to stop at once. "and now," he said, "the next thing is to speed up the manufacture of bearings." "easily said," uncle stanley shortly laughed. "there must be some way of doing it," persisted the judge, taking the argument on himself again. "why did our earnings fall down so low last year?" "because i can manufacture bearings, but i can't manufacture men," reported uncle stanley. "we are over three hundred men short, and it's getting worse every day. let me tell you what munition factories are paying for good mechanics--" mary still sat in her wicker chair, back of the flowers, and looked around at the paintings on the walls--of the josiah spencers who had lived and laboured in the past. "they all look quiet, as though they never talked much," she thought. "it seems so silly to talk, anyhow, when you know what you are going to do." but still the argument across the desk continued, and again uncle stanley began to gain his point. "so you see," he finally concluded, "it's just as i said a few minutes ago. i can manufacture bearings, but i can't manufacture men!" from behind the roses then a patient voice spoke. "you don't have to manufacture men. we don't need them." uncle stanley gave the judge a look that seemed to say, "listen to the woman of it! lord help us men when we have to deal with women!" and aloud in quite a humouring tone he said, "we don't need men? then who's to do the work?" mary moved the vase so she could have a good look at him. "women," she replied. "they can do the work. yes, women," said she. again they looked at each other, those two, with the careful glance with which you might expect two duellists to regard each other--two duellists who had a premonition that one day they would surely cross their swords. and again uncle stanley was the first to look away. "women!" he thought. "a fine muddle there'll he!" in fancy he saw the company's organization breaking down, its output decreasing, its product rejected for imperfections. of course he knew that women were employed in textile mills and match-box factories and gum-and-glue places like that where they couldn't afford to employ men, and had no need for accuracy. but women at spencer & sons! whose boast had always been its accuracy! where every inch was divided into a thousand parts! "she's hanging herself with her own rope," he concluded. "i'll say no more." mary turned to the judge. "you might make a minute of that," she said. half turning, she chanced to catch a glimpse of uncle stanley's satisfaction. "and you might say this," she quietly added, "that miss spencer was placed in charge of the women's department, with full authority to settle all questions that might arise." "that's all?" asked uncle stanley. "i think that's all this afternoon," she said. he turned to the judge as one man to another, and made a sweeping gesture toward the portraits on the walls, now half buried in the shadows of approaching evening. "i wonder what they would think of women working here?" he said in a significant tone. mary thought that over. "i wonder what they would think of this?" she suddenly asked. she switched on the electric light and as though by magic a soft white radiance flooded the room. "would they want to go back to candles?" she asked. chapter xvii later, the thing which mary always thought of first was the ease with which the change was accomplished. first of all she called in archey forbes and told him her plan. "i'm going to make you chief of staff," she said; "that is--if you'd care for the place." he coloured with pleasure--not quite as gorgeously as he once did--but quite enough to be noticeable. "anything i can do for you, miss mary?" he said. "then first we must find a place to train the women workers. one of those empty buildings would be best, i think. i'll give you a list of machines to be set in place." the "school" was ready the following monday morning. for "teachers" mary had selected a number of elderly men whom she had picked for their quiet voices and obvious good nature. they were all expert machinists and had families. on saturday the following advertisement had appeared in the local paper: a call for women women wanted in machine-shop to do men's work at men's wages for the duration of the war. no experience necessary. easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing. $ a week and up. apply monday morning, o'clock. josiah spencer & son, inc. as you have guessed, mary composed that advertisement. it hadn't passed without criticism. "i don't think it's necessary to pay them as much as the men," mac had suggested. "to say the least it's vera generous and vera unusual." "why shouldn't they get as much as the men if they are going to do men's work?" asked mary. "besides, i'm doing it for the men's sake, even more than for the women's." mac stared at that and buttoned his mouth very tightly. "they have been all through that in europe," she explained. "don't you see? if a woman can do a man's work, and do it for less money, it brings down men's wages. because who would hire a man at $ a week after the war if they could get a woman to do the same work for $ ?" "you're richt," said mac after a thoughtful pause. "i must pass that along. i know from myself that the men will grumble when they think the women are going to make as much money as themselves. but when they richtly understand it's for their own sake, too, they'll hush their noise." mary was one of the first at the factory on monday. "won't i look silly, if nobody comes!" she had thought every time she woke in the night. but she needn't have worried. there was an argument in that advertisement, "easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing," that appealed to many a feminine imagination, and when the fancy, thus awakened, played around the promising phrase "$ a week--and up," hope presently turned to desire--and desire to resolution. "we'll have to set up more machines," said mary to archey when she saw the size of her first class. and looking them over with a proudly beating heart she called out, "good morning, everybody! will you please follow me?" from this point on, particularly, i like to imagine the eight josiah spencers who had gone before following the proceedings with ghostly steps and eyes that missed not a move--invisible themselves, but hearing all and saying nothing. and how they must have stared at each other as they followed that procession over the factory grounds, the last of the spencers followed by a silent, winding train of women, like a new type of moses leading her sisters into the promised land! as mary had never doubted for a moment, the women of new bethel proved themselves capable of doing anything that the women of europe had done; and it wasn't long before lines of feminine figures in turkish overalls were bending over the repetition tools in the spencer shops--starting, stopping, reversing gears, oiling bearings--and doing it all with that deftness and assurance which is the mark of the finished workman. indeed, if you had been near-sighted, and watching from a distance, you might have been pardoned for thinking that they were men--but if you looked closer you would have seen that each woman had a stool to sit on, when her work permitted, and if you had been there at half past ten and again at half past three, you would have seen a hand-cart going up and down the aisles, serving tea, coffee, cake and sandwiches. again at noon you would have seen that the women had a rest room of their own where they could eat their lunch in comfort--a rest room with couches, and easy chairs, and palms and flowers, and a piano, and a talking machine, and a floor that you could dance on, if you felt like dancing immediately before or after lunch. and how the eight josiahs would have stared at that happy, swaying throng in its turkish overalls--especially on friday noon just after the pay envelopes had been handed around! meanwhile the school was adding new courses of study. the cleverest operators were brought back to learn how to run more complicated machines. turret lathe hands, oscillating grinders, inspectors were graduated. in short, by the end of march, mary was able to report to another special meeting of the board of directors that where spencer & son had been men short on the first of the year, every empty place was now taken and a waiting list was not only willing but eager to start upon work which was easier than washing, ironing, scrubbing or sewing, and was guaranteed to pay $ a week--and up! this declaration might be said to mark an epoch in the spencer factory. its exact date was march st, . on april nd of the same year, another declaration was made, never to be forgotten by mankind. upon that date, as you will recall, the sixty-fifth congress of the united states of america declared war upon the imperial german government. chapter xviii wally was the first to go. on a wonderful moonlight night in may he called to bid mary good-bye. he had received a commission in the aviation department and was already in uniform--as charming and romantic a figure as the eyes of love could ever wish to see. but mary couldn't see him that way--not even when she tried--making a bold little experiment with herself and feeling rather sorry, if anything, that her heart beat no quicker and not a thrill ran over her, when her hand rested for a moment on wally's shoulder. "i wonder if i'm different from other girls," she thought. "or is it because i have other things to think about? perhaps if i had nothing else on my mind, i'd dream of love as much as anybody, until it amounted to--what do they call it?--a fixed idea?--that thing which comes to people when they keep turning the same thing over and over in their minds, till they can't get it out of their thoughts?" but you mustn't think that mary didn't care that wally was going--perhaps never to return. she knew that she liked him--she knew she would miss him. and when, just before he left, he sang the spanish cavalier in that stirring tenor which always made her scalp tingle and her breast feel full, she turned her face to the moonlit scene outside and lived one of those minutes which are so filled with beauty and the stirring of the spirit that pleasure becomes poignant and brings a feeling which isn't far from pain. "i'm off to the war--to the war i must go, to fight for my country and you, dear; but if i should fall, in vain i would call the blessing of my country and you, dear--" all their eyes were wet then, even wally's--moved by the sadness of his own song. aunt patty, aunt cordelia and helen wiped their tears away unashamed, but mary tried to hide hers. and when the time came for his departure, aunt cordelia kissed him and breathed in his ear a prayer, and aunt patty kissed him and prayed for him, and helen kissed him, too, her arms tight around his neck. but when it came to mary's turn, she looked troubled and gazed down at her hand which he was holding in both of his. "come on out for a minute," he whispered, gently leading her. they went out under the moon. "aren't you going to kiss me, too?" he asked. mary thought it over. "if i kissed you, i would love you," she said, and tried to hide her tears no more. he soothed her then in the immemorial manner, and soon she was tranquil again. "good-bye, wally," she said. "good-bye, dear. you'll promise to be here when i come back?" "i shall be here." "and you won't let anybody run away with you until i've had another chance?" "don't worry." she watched the light of his car diminish until it vanished over the crest of the hill. a gathering sense of loneliness began to assail her, but with it was a feeling of freedom and purpose--the feeling that she was being left alone, clear of distraction, to fight her own fight and achieve her own destiny. archey forbes was the next to go. his going marked a curious incident. he had applied for a commission in the engineers, and his record and training being good, it wasn't long before he received the beckoning summons of mars. upon the morning of the day when he was to leave new bethel, he went to the factory to say good-bye. the one he wished to see the most, however, was the first one he missed. "miss mary's around the factory somewhere," said a stenographer. another spoke up, a dark girl with a touch of passion in her smile. "i think mr. burdon is looking for her, too." archey missed neither the smile nor the tone--and liked neither of them. "he'll get in trouble yet," he thought, "going out with those girls," and his frown grew as he thought of burdon's daily contact with mary. "i'll see if i can find her," he told himself after he had waited a few minutes; and stepping out into the full beauty of the june morning, he crossed the lawn toward the factory buildings. on one of the trees a robin sang and watched him with its head atilt. a bee hummed past him and settled on a trellis of roses. in the distance murmured the falls, with their soothing, drowsy note. "these are the days, when i was a boy, that i used to dream of running away and seeing the world and having great adventures," thought archey, his frown forgotten. he didn't consciously put it into words, but deep from his mind arose a feeling of the coming true of great dreams--of running away from the humdrum of life, of seeing the world, of taking a part in the greatest adventure ever staged by man. "what a day!" he breathed, lifting his face to the sun. "oh, lord, what a day!" it was indeed a day--one of those days which seem to have wine in the air--one of those days when old ambitions revive and new ones flower into splendour. mary, for instance, on her way to the machine shop, was busy with thoughts of a nursery where mothers could bring their children who were too young to go to school. "plenty of sun," she thought, "and rompers for them all, and sand piles, and toys, and certified milk, and trained nurses--" and while she dreamed she hummed to herself in approval, and wasn't aware that the air she hummed was the spanish cavalier--and wasn't aware that burdon woodward was near until she suddenly awoke from her dream and found they were face to face. he turned and walked with her. the wine of the day might have been working in burdon, too, for he hadn't walked far with mary before he was reminding her more strongly than ever, of steerforth in david copperfield--baffles in the amateur cracksman. indeed, that morning, listening to his drawl and looking up at the dark handsome face with its touch of recklessness, the association of mary's ideas widened. m'sieur beaucaire, just from the gaming table--don juan on the nevski prospekt--buckingham on his way to the tuileries--they all might have been talking to her, warming her thoughts not so much by what they said as by what they might say, appealing to her like a romance which must, however, be read to the end if you wish to know the full story. they were going through an empty corridor when it happened. burdon, drawling away as agreeably as ever, gently closed his fingers around mary's hand. "i might have known," she thought in a little panic. "it's my own fault." but when she tried to pull her hand away, her panic grew. "no, no," said burdon, laughing low, his eyes more reckless than ever, "you might tell--if i stopped now. but you'll never tell a soul on earth--if i kiss you." even while mary was struggling, her head held down, she couldn't help thinking, "so that's the way he does it," and felt, i think, as feels the fly who has walked into the parlour. the next moment she heard a sharp voice, "here--stop that!" and running steps approaching. "i think it was archey," she thought, as she made her escape, her knees shaking, her breath coming fast. she knew it was, ten minutes later, when archey found her in the office--knew it from the way he looked at her and the hesitation of his speech--but it wasn't until they were shaking hands in parting that she saw the cut on his knuckles. "you've hurt yourself," she said. "wait; i have some adhesive plaster." even then she didn't guess. "how did you do it?" she asked. "oh, i don't know--" mary's glance suddenly deepened into tenderness, and when archey left a few minutes later, he walked as one who trod the clouds, his head among the stars. an hour passed, and mary looked in uncle stanley's office. burdon's desk was closed as though for the day. "where's burdon?" she asked. "he wasn't feeling very well," said uncle stanley after a long look at his son's desk, "--a sort of headache. i told him he had better go home." and every morning for the rest of the week, when she saw uncle stanley, she gave him such an innocent look and said, "how's burdon's head this morning? any better?" uncle stanley began to have the irritable feelings of an old mouse in the hands of a young kitten. "that's the worst of having women around,"--he scowled to himself--"they are worse than--worse than--worse than--" searching for a simile, he thought of a flash of lightning, a steel hoop lying on its side, a hornet's nest--but none of these quite suited him. he made a helpless gesture. "hang 'em, you never know what they're up to next!" said he. chapter xix for that matter, there were times in the next two years when mary herself hardly knew what she was up to next, for if ever a girl suddenly found herself in deep waters, it was the last of the spencers. strangely enough--although i think it is true of many of life's undertakings--it wasn't the big things which bothered her the most. she soon demonstrated--if it needed any demonstration--that what the women of france and britain had done, the women of new bethel could do. at each call of the draft, more and more men from spencer & son obeyed the beckoning finger of mars, and more and more women presently took their places in the workshops. that was simply a matter of enlarging the training school, of expanding the courses of instruction. no; it wasn't the big things which ultimately took the bloom from mary's cheeks and the smile from her eyes. it was the small things that worried her--things so trifling in themselves that it would sound foolish to mention them--the daily nagging details, the gathering load of responsibility upon her shoulders, the indifference which she had to dispel, the inertia that had to be overcome, the ruffled feelings to be soothed, the squabbles to be settled, the hidden hostilities which she had to contend against in her own office--and yet pretend she never noticed them. indeed, if it hadn't been for the recompensing features, mary's enthusiasm would probably have become chilled by experience, and dreams have come to nothing. but now and then she seemed to sense in the factory a gathering impetus of efficient organization, the human gears working smoothly for a time, the whole machine functioning with that beauty of precision which is the dream of every executive. that always helped mary whenever it happened. and the second thing which kept her going was to see the evidences of prosperity and contentment which the women on the payroll began to show--their new clothes and shoes--the hopeful confidence of their smiles--the frequency with which the furniture dealers' wagons were seen in the streets around the factory, the sounds of pianos and phonographs in the evening and, better than all, the fact that on pay day at spencer & sons, the new bethel savings bank stayed open till half past nine at night--and didn't stay open for nothing! "if things could only keep going like this when the war ends, too," breathed mary one day. "...i'm sure there must be some way ... some way...." for the second time in her life (as you will presently see) she was like a blind-folded player with arms outstretched, groping for her destiny and missing it by a hair. "still," she thought, "when the men come back, i suppose most of the women will have to go. of course, the men must have their places back, but you'd think there was some way ... some way...." in fancy she saw the women going back to the kitchens, back to the old toil from which they had escaped. "it's silly, of course," she thoughtfully added, "and wicked, too, to say that men and women are natural enemies. but--the way some of the men act--you'd almost think they believed it...." she thought of uncle stanley and has son. at his own request, burdon had been transferred to the new york office and mary seldom saw him, but something told her that he would never forgive her for the morning when he had to go home--"with a sort of a headache." "and uncle stanley, too," she thought, her lip quivering as a wave of loneliness swept over her and left her with a feeling of emptiness. "if i were a man, he wouldn't dare to act as he does. but because i'm a girl, i can almost see him hoping that something will happen to me--" if that, indeed, was uncle stanley's hope, he didn't have to wait much longer. the armistice was signed, you will remember, in the first week of november, . two months later mary showed judge cutler the financial statement for the preceding year. "another year like this," said the judge, "and, barring strikes and accidents, spencer & son will be on its feet again, stronger than ever! my dear girl," he said, rising and holding out his hand, "i must congratulate you!" mary arose, too, her hand outstretched, but something in her manner caught the judge's attention. "what's the matter, mary?" he asked. "don't you feel well?" "men--women," she said, unsteadily smiling and giving him her hand, "they ought to be--now--natural partners--not--not--" with a sigh she lurched forward and fell--a tired little creature--into his arms. chapter xx mary had a bad time of it the next few weeks. more than once her face seemed turned toward the valley of the shadow. but gradually health and strength returned, although it wasn't until april that she was anything like herself again. she liked to sit--sometimes for hours at a time--reading, thinking, dreaming--and when she was strong enough to go outside she would walk among the flowers, and look at the birds and the budding trees, and draw deep breaths as she watched the glory of the sunset appearing and disappearing in the western sky. helen occasionally walked and sat with her--but not often. helen's time was being more and more taken up by the younger set at the country club. she came home late, humming snatches of the latest dances and talking of the conquests she had made, telling mary of the men who would dance with no one else, of the compliments they had paid her, of the things they had told her, of the competition to bring her home. one night, it appears, they had an old-fashioned country party at the club, and helen was in high glee at the number of letters she had received in the game of post office. "you mean to say they all kissed you?" asked mary. "you bet they did! good and hard! that's what they were there for!" mary thought that over. "it doesn't sound nice to me, somehow," she said at last. "it sounds--oh, i don't know--common." "that's what the girls thought who didn't get called," laughed helen. she arranged her hair in front of the mirror, pulling it down over her forehead till it looked like a golden turban. "oh, who do you think was there tonight?" she suddenly interrupted herself. mary shook her head. "burdon woodward--as handsome as ever. yes, handsomer, i think, if he could be. he asked after you. i told him you were nearly better." "then he must be down at the factory every day," thought mary. but the thought moved her only a little. whether or not it was due to her illness, she seemed to have undergone a reaction in regard to the factory. everything was going on well, judge cutler sometimes told her. as the men returned from service, the women were giving up their places. "whatever you do," he always concluded, "don't begin worrying about things down there. if you do, you'll never get well." "i'm not worrying," she told him, and once she added, "it seems ever so long ago, somehow--that time we had down there." as the spring advanced, her thoughts took her further than ever from their old paths. instead of thinking of something else (as she used to do), when helen was telling of her love affairs, mary began to listen to them--and even to sit up till helen returned from the club. one night, as helen was chatting of a young an from boston who had teased her by following her around until every one was calling him "helen's little lamb," mary gradually became aware of an elusive scent in the room. "cigarettes," she thought, "and--and raspberry jam--!" she waited until her cousin paused for breath and then, "did burdon woodward ride home with you tonight?" she asked. "with doris and me," nodded helen, smiling at herself in the mirror. "he told us he went over with some of the boys, but he wanted to go home civilized." nothing more was said, but a few mornings later, as helen sat at breakfast reading her mail, mary was sure she recognized burdon's dashing handwriting. a vague sense of uneasiness passed over her, but this was soon forgotten when she went to the den to look at her own mail. on the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her father. "rio de janeiro," breathed mary, reading the post-mark. "why, that's where the cable came from!" she opened the letter.... it was signed "paul." "dear sir (it began) "this isn't begging. i am through with that. when you paid no attention to my cable, i said, 'never again!' you might like to know that i buried my wife and two youngest that time. it hurt then, but i can see now that they were lucky. "i have one daughter left--twelve years old. she's just at the age when she ought to be looked after. this is her picture. she's a pretty girl, and a good girl, but fond of fun and good times. "i've done my best, but i'm down and out--tired--through. i guess it's up to you what sort of a granddaughter you want. there's a school near here where she could go and be brought up right. it won't cost much. you can send the money direct--if you want the right sort of a granddaughter. "if you want the other kind, all you have to do is to forget it. the crowd i go with aren't good for her. "anyway i enclose the card and rates and references of the school. you see they give the consuls' names. "if you decide yes, you want your granddaughter to have a chance, write a letter to the name and address below. that's me. then write the school, sending check for one year and say it is for the daughter of the name and address below. that is the name i am known by here. "i'm sorry for everything, but of course it's too late now. the truest thing in the world is this: as you make your bed, so you've got to lie in it. i made mine wrong, but you couldn't help it. i wouldn't bother you now except for rosa's sake. "your prodigal son who is eating husks now, "paul." mary looked at the photograph--a pretty child with her hair over her shoulders and a smile in her eyes. "you poor little thing," she breathed, "and to think you're my niece--and i'm your aunt ... aunt mary," she thoughtfully repeated, and for the first time she realized that youth is not eternal and that years go swiftly by. "life's the strangest thing," she thought. "it's only a sort of an accident that i'm not in her place, and she's not in mine.... perhaps i sha'n't have any children of my own--ever--" she dreamed, "and if i don't--it will be nice to think that i did something--for this one--" for a moment the chill of caution went over her. "suppose it isn't really paul," she thought. "suppose--it's some sharper. perhaps that's why dad never wrote him--" but an instinct, deeper than anything which the mind can express, told her that the letter rang true and had no false metal in it. "or suppose," she thought, "if he knows dad is dead--suppose he turns up and makes trouble for everybody--" wally's story returned to her memory. "there was an accident out west--somebody killed. anyhow he was blamed for it--so he could never come back or they'd get him--" "that agrees with his living under this russian name," nodded mary. "anyhow, i'm sure there's nothing to fear in doing a good action--for a child like this--" she propped the picture on her desk and after a great deal of dipping her pen in the ink, she finally began-- "dear sir: "i have opened your letter to my father, josiah spencer. he has been dead three years. i am his daughter. "it doesn't seem right that such a nice girl as rosa shouldn't have every chance to grow up good and happy. so i am writing the school you mentioned, and sending them the money as you suggest. "she will probably need some clothes, as they always look at a girl's clothes so when she goes to school. i therefore enclose something for that. "trusting that everything will turn out well, i am "yours sincerely, "mary spencer. "p.s. i would like rosa to write and tell me how she gets on at school." she wrote the school next and when that was done she sat back in her chair and looked out of the window at the birds and the flowers and the bees that flew among the flowers. "what a queer thing it is--love, or whatever they call it," she thought. "the things it has done to people--right in this house! i guess it's like fire--a good servant but a bad master--" she thought of what it had done to josiah--and to josiah's son. she thought of what it had done to ma'm maynard, what it was doing to helen, how it had left aunt cordelia and aunt patty untouched. "it's like some sort of a fever," she told herself. "you never know whether you're going to catch it or not--or when you're going to catch, it--or what it's going to do to you--" she walked to the window and rather unsteadily her hand arose to her breast. "i wonder if i shall ever catch it...." she thought. "i wonder what it will do to me...!" chapter xxi archey forbes came back in the beginning of may and the first call he made was to the house on the hill. he had brought with him a collection of souvenirs--a trench-made ring, shrapnel fragments of curious shapes, the inevitable helmet and a sword handle with a piece of wire attached. "it was part of our work once," he said, "to find booby traps and make them harmless. this was in a barn, looking as though some one had tried to hide his sword in the hay. it looked funny to me, so i went at it easy and found the wire connected to a fuse. there was enough explosive to blow up the barn and everybody around there, but it wouldn't blow up a hill of bears when we got through with it." he coloured a little through his bronze. "i thought you might like these things," he awkwardly continued. "like them? i'd love them!" said mary, her eyes sparkling. "i brought them for you." they were both silent for a time, looking at the souvenirs, but presently their glances met and they smiled at each other. "of course you're going back to the factory," she said; and when he hesitated she continued, "i shall rely on you to let me know how things are going on." again he coloured a little beneath his bronze and mary found herself watching it with an indefinable feeling of satisfaction. and after he was gone and she was carrying the souvenirs to the den, she also found herself singing a few broken bars from the blue danube. "is that you singing!" shouted helen from the library. "trying to." helen came hurrying as though to see a miracle, for mary couldn't sing. "oh--oh!" she said, her eyes falling on the helmet. "who sent it? wally cabot?" "no; archey forbes brought it." "oh-ho!" said helen again. "now i see-ee-ee!" but if she did, she saw more than mary. "perhaps she thinks i'm in love with him," she thought, and though the reflection brought a pleasant sense of disturbance with it, it wasn't long before she was shaking her head. "i don't know what it is," she decided at last, "but i'm sure i'm not in love with him." as nearly as i can express it, mary was in love with love, and could no more help it than she could help the crease in her chin or the dreaminess of her eyes. if archey had had the field to himself, her heart might soon have turned to him as unconsciously and innocently as a flower turns its petals to the sun. but the day after archey returned, wally cabot came back and he, too, laid his souvenirs at mary's feet. it was the same wally as ever. he had also brought a piece of old lace for aunt cordelia, a jet necklace for aunt patty, a prison-camp brooch for helen. all afternoon he held them with tales of his adventures in the air, rolling up his sleeve to show them a scar on his arm, and bending his head down so they could see where a german ace had nicked a bit of his hair out. more than once mary felt her breath come faster, and when aunt cordelia invited him to stay to dinner and he chanced to look at her, she gave a barely perceptible signal "yes," and smiled to herself at the warmth of his acceptance. "i'll telephone mother," he said, briskly rising. "where's the phone, mary? i forget the way." she arose to show him. "let's waltz out," he laughed. "play something, helen. something lively and happy...." it was a long time before mary went to sleep that night. the moon was nearly full and shone in her windows, a stream of its rays falling on her bed and bringing to her those immortal waves of fancy which begin where the scent of flowers stop, and end where immortal and melancholy music begins. unbidden tears came to her eyes, though she couldn't have told you why, and again a sense of the fleeting of time disturbed her. "aunt mary ..." in a few years she would be old, and her hair would be white like aunt patty's.... and in a few years more.... but even as wally cabot kept her from thinking too much of archey forbes, so now archey unconsciously revenged himself and kept her thoughts from centring too closely around wally cabot. archey called the next afternoon and mary sat on the veranda steps with him, while helen made hay with wally on a tête-à-tête above. the few women who were left in the factory were having things made unpleasant for them: that was what archey had come to tell her. their canteen had been stopped; the day nursery discontinued; the nurses discharged. "of course they are not needed there any longer, so far as that is concerned," concluded archey, "but they certainly helped us out of a hole when we did need them, and it doesn't seem right now to treat them rough." at hearing this, a guilty feeling passed over mary and left her cheeks warm. "they'll think i've deserted them," she thought. "well, haven't you?" something inside her asked. some of her old dreams returned to her mind, as though to mock her. she was going to be a new moses once, leading her sisters out of the house of bondage. woman was to have things different. old drudgeries were to be lifted from her shoulders. the night was over. the dawn was at hand. "well, what can i do?" she thought uneasily. "you can stop them from being treated roughly," something inside her answered. "i can certainly do that," she nodded to herself. "i'll telephone uncle stanley right away." but uncle stanley was out, and mary was going riding with wally that afternoon. so she wrote a hurried note and left it at the factory as they passed by. "dear uncle stanley," it read, "please see that every courtesy and attention is shown, the women who are still working. we may need them again some day. "sincerely, "mary." "now!" she said to wally, and they started on their ride. and, oh, but that was a ride! the afternoon was perfect, the sun warm but not hot, the air crystal clear. it had showered the night before and the world, in its spring dress, looked as though it had been washed and spruced for their approval. "all roses and lilies!" laughed wally. "that's how i like life!" they went along hillsides and looked down into the beautiful valleys; they wound around by the sides of rivers and through deep woods; they went like the wind; they loafed; they explored country lanes and lost their way, stopped at a farm-house and found it again, shouted with delight when a squirrel tried to race them along the top of a fence, gasped together when they nearly ran over a turkey, chatted, laughed, sang (though this was a solo, for mary couldn't sing, though she tried now and then under her breath), and with every mile they rode they seemed to pass invisible milestones along the road which leads from friendship to love. it came to a crisis two weeks later, on an afternoon in june. mary was in the garden picking a bouquet for the table, and wally went to help her. she gave him a smile that made his heart do a trick, and when he bent over to help her break a piece of mignonette, his hand touched hers.... "mary...." he whispered. "yes?" "do you love me a little bit now?" "i wonder...." said she, and they both bent over to pick another piece of mignonette. away down deep in mary, a voice whispered, "somebody's watching." she looked toward the house and caught sight of helen who was sitting sideways on the veranda rail and missing never a move. wally followed mary's glance. "she'll be down here in a minute," he frowned to himself. at the bottom of the lawn, overlooking the valley, was a summer house of rustic cedar, nearly covered with honeysuckle. "let's take a stroll down there, shall we?" he asked. the tremor of his voice told mary more than his words. "he wants to love me," she thought, and burying her face in her bouquet she said in a muffled little voice, "...i don't care." they went down to the summer house, talking, trying to appear indifferent, but both of them knowing that a truly tremendous moment in their drama of life was close at hand. they seated themselves opposite each other on the bench and mary's dreamy eyes went out over the valley. "mary...." he began. she looked at him for a moment and then her glance went out over the valley again. "don't you think we've waited long enough?" he gently asked. but mary's eyes were still upon the valley below. "in a way, i'm glad you've waited," he said. "judge cutler told me some of the wonderful things you did here during the war. but you don't want to be bothering with a factory as long as you live. it's grubby, narrow work, and there's so much else in life, so much that's beautiful and--and wonderful--" for a fleeting moment a picture arose before mary's eyes: a tired woman bending over a wash-tub with a crying child tugging at her skirt. "so much that's beautiful--and wonderful"--the words were still echoing around her, and almost without thinking she said a peculiar thing. "suppose we were poor," said she. "but we aren't poor," smiled wally. "that's one reason why i want to take you away from this. what's the use of having things if you can't enjoy them?" she thought that over. "there is so much that i have always wanted to see," he continued, "but i've had sense enough to wait until i found the right girl--so we could go and see it together. switzerland--and the nile--and japan--and the riviera, with 'its skies for ever blue.' any place we liked, we could stay till we were tired of it. and a house in new york--and an island in the st. lawrence--or down near palm beach. there's nothing we couldn't do--nothing we couldn't have--" "but don't you think--" hesitated mary and then stopped, timid of breaking the spell which was stealing over her. "don't i think what, dear?" "oh, i don't know--but you see so many married people, who seem to have lost interest in each other--nice people, too. you see them at north east harbor--boston--everywhere--and somehow they are bored at each other's company. wouldn't it be awful if--if we were to be married--and then got like that, too?" "we never, never could! oh, we couldn't! you know as well as i do that we couldn't!" "they must have felt that way once," she mused, her thoughts still upon the indifferent ones, "but i suppose if people were awfully careful to guard against it, they wouldn't get that way--" she felt wally's arm along the back of the bench. "don't be afraid of love, mary," he whispered. "don't you know by now that it's the one great thing in life?" "i wonder...." breathed mary. "oh, but it is. you shouldn't wonder. it's the sweetest story ever told--the greatest adventure ever lived--" but still old dreams echoed in her memory, though growing fainter with every breath she drew. "it's all right for the man," she murmured. "if he gets tired of hearing the story, he's got other thoughts to occupy his mind. he's got his work--his career. but what's the woman going to do?" instinct told him how to answer her. "i love you," he whispered. she looked at him. somewhere over them a robin began to sing as though its breast would burst. the scent of the honeysuckle grew intoxicating. "your heart is beating faster," he whispered again. "'tck-tck-tck' it's saying. 'there's going to be a wedding next month'--'tck-tck-tck' it's saying. 'lieutenant cabot is now about to kiss his future bride--" mary's head bent low and just as wally was lifting it, his hand gently cupped beneath her chin, he caught sight of helen running toward them. "oh, mary!" she called. with an involuntary movement, mary freed herself from wally's hand. "four women to see you--from the factory, i think," helen breathlessly announced, and pretending not to notice wally's scowl she added, "i wouldn't have bothered you ... only one of them's crying...." chapter xxii the four women were standing in the driveway by the side of the house, and if you had been there as mary approached, they might have reminded you of four lost sheep catching sight of their shepherd. "come and sit down," said mary, "and tell me what's the matter." "we've been discharged," said one with a red face. "of course i know that we shouldn't have come to bother you about it, miss spencer, but it was you who hired us, and i told him, said i, 'miss spencer's going to hear about this. she won't stand for any dirty work.'" mary had seated herself on the veranda steps and, obeying her gesture, the four women sat on the step below her, two on one side and two on the other. "who discharged you?" she asked. "mr. woodward." "which mr. woodward?" "the young one--burdon." "what did he discharge you for?" "that's it. that's the very thing i asked him." "perhaps they need your places for some of the men who are coming back." "no, ma'm. we wouldn't mind if that was it, but there's nobody expected back this week." "then why is it?" there was a moment's hesitation, and then the one who had been crying said, "it's because we're women." a shadow of unconscious indignation swept over mary's face and, seeing it, the four began speaking at once. "things have never been the same, miss spencer, since you were sick--" "first they shut down the nursery--" "then the rest room--said it was a bad example for the men--" "a bad example for the men, mind you--us!" "and then the canteen was closed--" "and behind our backs, they called us 'molls.'" "not that i care, but 'molls,' mind you--" "then they began hanging signs in our locker room--" "'a woman's place is in the home' and things like that--" "and then they began putting us next to strange men--" "and, oh, their language, miss spencer--" "don't tell her--" as the chorus continued, mary began to feel hot and uncomfortable. "i had no right to leave them in the lurch like that," she thought, and her cheeks stung as she recalled her old plans, her old visions. "and now they've got to go back to their kitchens for the rest of their lives--and told they are not wanted anywhere else--because they are women--" the more she thought about it, the warmer she grew; and the higher her indignation arose, the more remote were her thoughts of wally--wally with his greatest adventure that was ever lived--wally with his sweetest story ever told. she looked at the hands of the two women below her and saw three wedding rings. "the roses and lilies didn't last long with them," thought mary grimly. "oh, i'm sure it's all wrong, somehow.... i'm sure there's some way that things could be made happier for women...." she interrupted the quartette, in her voice a note which wally had never heard before and which made him exchange a glance with helen. "now first of all," she said, "just how badly do you four women need your pay envelopes every week?" they told her, especially the one who had been crying, and who now started crying again. "wait here a minute, please," said mary, that note in her voice more marked than before. she arose and went in the house, and wally guessed that she had gone to telephone the factory. for a while they couldn't hear her, except when she said "i want to speak to mr. burdon woodward--yes--mr. burdon woodward--" they could faintly hear her talking then, but toward the end her voice came full and clear. "i want you to set them to work again! they are coming right back! yes, the four of them! i shall be at the office in the morning. that's all. good-bye." she came out, then, like a young aurora riding the storm. "you're to go right back to your work," she said, and in a gentler voice, "wally, can i speak to you, please?" he followed her into the house and when he came out alone ten minutes later, he drew a deep sigh and sat down again by helen, a picture of utter dejection. "never mind, wally," she said, and patted his arm. "i can't make her out at times," he sighed. "no, and nobody else," she whispered. "what do you think, helen?" he asked. "don't you think that love is the greatest thing in life?" "why, of course it is," she whispered, and patted his arm again. chapter xxiii in spite of her brave words the day before, when mary left the house for the office in the morning, a feeling of uncertainty and regret weighed upon her, and made her pensive. more than once she cast a backward look at the things she was leaving behind--love, the joys of youth, the pleasure places of the world to see, romance, heart's ease, and "skies for ever blue." at the memory of wally's phrase she grew more thoughtful than before. "but would they be for ever blue?" she asked herself. "i guess every woman in the world expects them to be, when she marries. yes, and they ought to be, too, an awful lot more than they are. oh, i'm sure there's something wrong somewhere.... i'm, sure here's something wrong...." she thought of the four women standing in the driveway by the side of the house, looking lost and bewildered, and the old sigh of pity arose in her heart. "the poor women," she thought. "they didn't look as though the sweetest story ever told had lasted long with them--" she had reached the crest of the hill and the factory came to her view. a breeze was rising from the river and as she looked down at the scene below, as her forbears had looked so many times before her, she felt as a sailor from the north might feel when after drifting around in drowsy tropic seas, he comes at last to his own home port and feels the clean wind whip his face and blow away his languor. the old familiar office seemed to be waiting for her, the pictures regarding her as though they were saying "where have you been, young lady? we began to think you had gone." through the window sounded the old symphony, the roar of the falls above the hum of the shops, the choruses and variations of well-nigh countless tools, each having its own particular note or song. mary's eyes shone bright. gone, she found, were her feeling of uncertainty, her sighs of regret. here at last was something real, something definite, something noble and great in the work of the world. "and all mine," she thought with an almost passionate feeling of possession. "all mine--mine--mine--" archey was the first to come in, and it only needed a glance to see that archey was unhappy. "i'm afraid the men in the automatic room are shaping for trouble," he said, as soon as their greetings were over. "what's the matter with them?" "it's about those four women--the four who came back." mary's eyes opened wide. "there has been quite a lot of feeling," he continued, "and when the four women turned up this morning again and started work, the men went out and held a meeting in the locker room. in fact i wouldn't be surprised if the automatic hands went on strike." "you mean to say they will go on strike before they will work with their own wives and sisters?" "that's the funny part of it. as far as i can find out, the trouble wasn't started by our own men--but by strangers--men from new york and boston--professional agitators, they look like to me--plenty of money and plenty of talk and clever workmen, too. i don't know just how far they've gone, but--" the office boy appeared in the doorway and he, too, looked worried. "there's a committee to see you, miss spencer," he said, "a bunch from the lathe shops." "have they seen mr. woodward?" "no'm. he referred them to you." "all right, joe. send them in, please." the committee filed in and archey noted that they were still wearing their street clothes. "looks bad," he told himself. there were three men, two of them strangers to mary, but the third she recognized as one of the teachers in her old "school"--a thoughtful looking man well past middle age, with a long grey moustache and reflective eyes. "mr. edsol, isn't it?" she asked. "yes'm," he solemnly replied. "that's me." she looked at the other two. the first had the alert glance and actions which generally mark the orator, the second was a dark, heavy man who never once stopped frowning. "miss spencer," immediately began the spokesman--he who looked like the orator--"we have been appointed a committee by the automatic shop to tell you that we do not believe in the dilution of labour by women. unless the four women who are working in our department are laid off at once, the men in our shop will quit." "just a moment, please," said mary, ringing. "joe, will you please tell mr. woodward, sr., that i would like to see him?" "he's just gone out," said joe. "mr. burdon, then." "mr. burdon sent word he wouldn't be down today. he's gone to new york." mary thought that over. "joe," she said. "there are four women working in the automatic shop. i wish you'd go and bring them here." and turning to the committee she said, "i think there must be some way of settling this to everybody's satisfaction, if we all get together and try." it wasn't long before the four women came in, and again it struck mary how nervous and bewildered three of them looked. the fourth, however, held her back straight and seemed to walk more than upright. "now," smiled mary to the spokesman of the committee, "won't you tell me, please, what fault you find with these four women?" "as i understand it," he replied, "we are not here to argue the point. same time, i don't see the harm of telling you what we think about it. first place, it isn't natural for a woman to be working in a factory." "why not?" "well, for one thing, if you don't mind me speaking out, because she has babies." "but the war has proved a baby is lucky to have its mother working in a modern factory," replied mary. "the work is easier than housework, the surroundings are better, the matter is given more attention. as a result, the death rate of factory babies has been lower than the death rate of home babies. don't you think that's a good thing? wouldn't you like to see it go on?" "who says factory work is easier than housework?" "the women who have tried both. these four, for instance." "well, another thing," he said, "a woman can't be looking after her children when she's working in a factory." "that's true. but she can't be looking after them, either, when she's washing, or cooking, or doing things like that. they lie and cry--or crawl around and fall downstairs--or sit on the doorstep--or play in the street. "now, here, during the war," she continued, "we had a day nursery. you never saw such happy children in your life. why, almost the only time they cried was when they had to go home at night!" mary's eyes brightened at the memory of it. "didn't your son's wife have a baby in the nursery, mr. edsol?" "two," he solemnly nodded. "for another thing," said the chairman, "a woman is naturally weaker than a man. you couldn't imagine a woman standing up under overtime, for instance." "oh, you shouldn't say that," said mary earnestly, "because everybody knows that in the human family, woman is the only one who has always worked overtime." here the third member of the committee muttered a gruff aside. "no use talking to a woman," said he. "you be quiet, i'm doing this," said the chairman. "another thing that everybody knows," he continued to mary, "a woman hasn't the natural knack for mechanics that a man has." "during the war," mary told him, "she mastered nearly two thousand different kinds of skilled work--work involving the utmost precision. and the women who did this weren't specially selected, either. they came from every walk of life--domestic servants, cooks, laundresses, girls who had never left home before, wives of small business men, daughters of dock labourers, titled ladies--all kinds, all conditions." she told him, then, some of the things women had made--read him reports--showed him pictures. "in fact," she concluded, "we don't have to go outside this factory to prove that a woman has the same knack for mechanics that a man has. during the war we had as many women working here as men, and every one will tell you that they did as well as the men." "well, let's look at it another way," said the chairman, and he nodded to his colleagues as though he knew there could be no answer to this one. "there are only so many jobs to go around. what are the men going to do if the women take their jobs?" "that's it!" nodded the other two. all three looked at mary. "i used to wonder that myself," she said, "but one day i saw that i was asking the wrong question. there is just so much work that has to be done in the world every day, so we can all be fed and clothed, and have those things which we need to make us happy. now everybody in this room knows that 'many hands make light work.' so, don't you see? the more who work, the easier it will be for everybody." but the spokesman only smiled at this--that smile which always meant to mary, "no use talking to a woman"--and aloud he said, "well, as i told you before, we weren't sent to argue. we only came to tell you what the automatic hands were going to do if these four women weren't laid off." "i understand," said mary; and turning to the four she asked, "how do you feel about it?" "i suppose we'll have to go," said mrs. ridge, her face red but her back straighter then ever. "i guess it was our misfortune, miss spencer, that we were born women. it seems to me we always get the worst end of it, though i'm sure i don't know why. i did think once, when the war was on, that things were going to be different for us women after this. but it seems not.... you've been good to us, and we don't want to get you mixed up in any strike, miss spencer.... i guess we'd better go...." judge cutler's expression returned to mary's mind: "another year like this and, barring strikes and accidents, spencer & son will be on its feet again--" barring strikes! mary was under no misapprehension as to what a strike might mean.... "i want to get this exactly right," she said, turning to the chairman again. "the only reason you wish these women discharged is because they are women, is that it?" "yes; i guess that's it, when you come right down to it." "do you think it's fair?" "i'm sorry, miss spencer, but it's not a bit of use arguing any longer. if these four women stay, the men in our department quit: that's all." mary looked up at the pictures of her forbears who seemed to be listening attentively for her answer. "please tell the men that i shall be sorry--very sorry--to see them go," she said at last, "but these four women are certainly going to stay." chapter xxiv from one of the windows of mary's office, she could see the factory gate. "if they do go on strike," she thought, "i shall see them walk out." she didn't have to watch long. first in groups of twos and threes, and then thick and fast, the men appeared, their lunch boxes under their arms, all making for the gate. some were arguing, some were joking, others looked serious. it struck mary that perhaps these latter were wondering what they would tell their wives. "i don't envy them the explanation," she half smiled to herself. but her smile was short-lived. in the hallway she heard a step and, turning, she saw uncle stanley looking at her. "what's the matter with those men who are going out?" he asked. "as if he didn't know!" she thought, but aloud she answered, "they're going on strike." "what are they striking for?" "because i wouldn't discharge those four women." he gave her a look that seemed to say, "you see what you've done--think you could run things. a nice hornet's nest you've stirred up!" at first he turned away as though to go back to his office, but he seemed to think better of it. "you might as well shut down the whole plant," he said. "we can't do anything without the automatics. you know that as well as i do." he waited for a time, but she made no answer. "shall i tell the rest of the men?" he asked. "tell them what, uncle stanley?" "that we're going to shut down till further notice?" mary shook her head. "it would be a pity to do that," she said, "because--don't you see?--there wouldn't be anything then for the four women to do." at this new evidence of woman's utter inability to deal with large affairs, uncle stanley snorted. "we've got to do something," said he. "all right, uncle," said mary, pressing the button on the side of her desk, "i'll do the best i can." for in the last few minutes a plan had entered her mind--a plan which has probably already presented itself to you. "when the war was on," she thought, "nearly all the work in that room was done by women. i wonder if i couldn't get them back there now--just to show the men what we can do--" in answer to her ring, joe knocked and entered, respectful admiration in his eye. you may remember joe, "the brightest boy in the office." in the three years that mary had known him, he had grown and was now in the transient stage between office boy and clerk--wore garters around his shirt sleeves to keep his cuffs up, feathered his hair in the front, and wore a large black enamel ring with the initial "j" worked out in "diamonds." "joe," she said, "i want you to bring me the employment cards of all the women who worked here during the war. and send miss haskins in, please; i want to write a circular letter." she hurried him away with a nod and a quick smile. "gee, i wish there was a lion or something out here," he thought as he hurried through the hall to the outer office, and after he had taken mary the cards and sent miss haskins in, he proudly remarked to the other clerks, "maybe they thought she'd faint away and call for the doctor when they went on strike, but, say, she hasn't turned a hair. i'll bet she's up to something, too." it wasn't a long letter that mary sent to the list of names which she gave miss haskins, but it had that quiet pull and power which messages have when they come from the heart. "oh, i know a lot will come," said mrs. ridge when mary showed her a copy of it. "they would come anyhow, miss spencer. most of them never made money like they made it here. they've been away long enough now to miss it and--ha-ha-a!--excuse me." she suddenly checked herself and looked very red and solemn. "what are you laughing at?" asked mary. "i was thinking of my next door neighbour, mrs. strauss. she's never through saying that the year she was here was the happiest year of her life; and how she'd like to come back again. she'll be one of the first to come--i know she will. and her husband is one of the strikers--that's the funny part of it!" mary smiled herself at that, and she smiled again the next morning when she saw the women coming through the gate. "report in your old locker room," her letter had read, "and bring your working clothes." by nine o'clock more than half the automatic machines were busy, and women were still arriving. "the canteen's going again," ran the report up and down the aisles. at half past ten the old gong sounded in the lathe room, and the old tea wagon began its old-time trundling. in addition to refreshments each woman received a rose-bud--"from miss spencer. with thanks and best wishes." "do you know if the piano's here yet?" asked a brisk looking matron in sky blue overalls. "yep," nodded the tea girl. "when i came through, they were taking the cover off it, and fixing up the rest room." "isn't it good to be back again!" said the brisk young matron to her neighbour. "believe me or not, i haven't seen a dancing floor since i quit work here." mrs. ridge had been appointed forewoman. just before noon she reported to mary. "there'll be a lot more tomorrow," she said. "when these get home, they'll do nothing but talk about it; and i keep hearing of women who are fixing things up at home so they can come in the morning. so don't you worry, miss spencer, this strike isn't going to hurt you none, but--ha-ha-ha!--excuse me," she said, suddenly checking her mirth again and looking very red and solemn. "i like to hear you laugh," said mary, "but what's it about this time!" "mrs. strauss is here. i told you she would be. she left her husband home to do the housework and today is washday--that's the funny part of it!" whatever mrs. ridge's ability as a critic of humour might be, at least she was a good prophet. nearly all the machines were busy the next morning, and new arrivals kept dropping in throughout the day. mary began to breathe easy, but not for long. "i don't want to be a gloom," reported archey, "but the lathe hands are trying to get the grinders to walk out. they say the men must stick together, or they'll all lose their jobs." she looked thoughtful at that. "i think we had better get the nursery ready," she said. "let's go and find the painters." it was a pleasant place--that nursery--with its windows overlooking the river and the lawn. in less than half an hour the painters had spread their sheets and the teamster had gone for a load of white sand. the cots and mattresses were put in the sun to air. the toys had been stored in the nurse's room. these were now brought out and inspected. "i think i'll have the other end of the room finished off as a kindergarten," said mary. "then we'll be able to take care of any children up to school age, and their mothers won't have to worry a bit." she showed him where she wished the partition built, and as he ran his rule across the distance, she noticed a scar across the knuckles of his right hand. "that's where i dressed it, that time," she thought. "isn't life queer! he was in france for more than a year, but the only scar that i can see is the one he got--that morning--" something of this may have shown in her eyes for when archey straightened and looked at her, he blushed ("he'll never get over that!" thought mary)--and hurried off to find the carpenters. these preparations were completed only just in time. on thursday she went to new york to select her kindergarten equipment. on friday a truck arrived at the factory, filled with diminutive chairs, tables, blackboards, charts, modelling clay, building blocks, and more miscellaneous items than i can tell you. and on saturday morning the grinders sent a committee to the office that they could no longer labour on bearings which had passed through the hands of women workers. mary tried to argue with them. "when women start to take men's jobs away--" began one of the committee. "but they didn't," she said. "the men quit." "when women start to take men's jobs away from them," he repeated, "it's time for the men to assert themselves." "we know that you mean well, miss spencer," said another, "but you are starting something here that's bad. you're starting something that will take men's work away from them--something that will make more workers than there are jobs." "it was the war that started it," she pleaded, "not i. now let me ask you something. there is so much work that has to be done in the world every day; isn't there?" "yes, i guess that's right." "well, don't you see? the more people there are to do that work, the easier it will be for everybody." but no, they couldn't see that. so mary had to ring for joe to bring in the old employment cards again, and that night and all day sunday, mrs. ridge's company spread the news that four hundred more women were wanted at spencer & son's--"and you ought to see the place they've got for looking after children," was invariably added to the mothers of tots, "free milk, free nurses, free doctoring, free toys, rompers, little chairs and tables, animals, sand piles, swings, little pails and shovels--you never saw anything like it in your life--!" if the tots in question heard this, and were old enough to understand, their eyes stood out like little painted saucers, and mutely then or loudly they pleaded mary's cause. chapter xxv it sometimes seems to me that the old saying, "history repeats itself," is one of the truest ever written. at least history repeated itself in the case of the grinders. before the week was over, the places left vacant by the men had been filled by women, and the nursery and kindergarten had proved to be unqualified successes. many of the details i will reserve till later, including the growth of the canteen, the vanishing mirror, an improvement in overalls, to say nothing of daffodils and daisies and mrs. kelly's drum. and though some of these things may sound peculiar at first, you will soon see that they were all repetitions of history. they followed closely after things that had already been done by other women in other places, and were only adopted by mary first because they added human touches to a rather serious business, and second because they had proved their worth elsewhere. before going into these affairs, however, i must tell you about the reporters. the day the grinders went on strike, a local correspondent sent a story to his new york paper. it wasn't a long story, but the editor saw possibilities in it. he gave it a heading, "good-bye, man, says she. woman owner of big machine shop replaces men with women." he also sent a special writer and an artist to new bethel to get a story for the sunday edition. other editors saw the value of that "good-bye, man" idea and they also sent reporters to the scene. they came; they saw; they interviewed; and almost before mary knew what was happening, new bethel and spencer & son were on their way to fame. some of the stories were written from a serious point of view, others in a lighter vein, but all of them seemed to reflect the opinion that a rather tremendous question was threatening--a question that was bound to come up for settlement sooner or later, but which hadn't been expected so soon. "is woman really man's equal?" that was the gist of the problem. was her equality theoretical--or real? now that she had the ballot and could no longer be legislated against, could she hold her own industrially on equal terms with man? or, putting it as briefly as possible, "could she make good?" some of these articles worried mary at first, and some made her smile, and after reading others she wanted to run away and hide. judge cutler made a collection of them, and whenever he came to a good one, he showed it to mary. "i wish they would leave us alone," she said one day. "i don't," said the judge seriously. "i'm glad they have turned the spotlight on." "why?" "because with so much publicity, there's very little chance of rough work. of course the men here at home wouldn't do anything against their own women folks, but quite a few outsiders are coming in, and if they could work in the dark, they might start a whisper, 'anything to win!'" mary thought that over, and somehow the sun didn't shine so brightly for the next few minutes. ma'm maynard's old saying arose to her mind: "i tell you, miss mary, it has halways been so and it halways will: everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy: eet is man!" "no, sir, i don't believe it!" mary told herself. "and i never shall believe it, either!" the next afternoon judge cutler brought her an editorial entitled, "we shall see." "the women of new bethel (it read) are trying an experiment which, carried to its logical conclusion, may change industrial history. "perhaps industrial history needs a change. it has many dark pages where none but man has written. "if woman is the equal of man, industrially speaking, she is bound to find her natural level. if she is not the equal of man, the new bethel experiment will help to mark her limitations. "whatever the outcome, the question needs an answer and those who claim that she is unfitted for this new field should be the most willing to let her prove it. "by granting them the suffrage, we have given our women equal rights. unless for demonstrated incapacity, upon what grounds shall we now deny them equal opportunities? "the new bethel experiment should be worked out without hard feeling or rancour on either side. "can a woman do a man's work? "let us watch and we shall see." mary read it twice. "i like that," she said. "i wish everybody in town could see that." "just what i thought," said the judge. "what do you say if we have it printed in big type, and pasted on the bill-boards?" they had it done. the day after the bills were posted, archey went around to see how they were being received. "it was a good idea," he told mary the next morning, but she noticed that he looked troubled and absent-minded, as though his thoughts weren't in his words. "what's the matter, archey?" she quietly asked. "oh, i don't know," he said, and with the least possible touch of irritation he added, "sometimes i think it's because i don't like him. everything that counts against him sticks--and i may have been mistaken anyway--" "it's something about burdon," thought mary, and in the same quiet voice as before she said, "what is it, archey?" "well," he said, hesitating, "i went out after dinner last night--to see if they were reading the bill-boards. i thought i'd walk down jay street--that's where the strikers have their headquarters. i was walking along when all at once i thought i saw burdon's old car turning a corner ahead of me. "it stopped in front of repetti's pool-room. two men came out and got in. "a little while later i was speaking to one of our men and he said some rough actors were drifting in town and he didn't like the way they were talking. i asked him where these men were making their headquarters and he said, 'repetti's pool room.'" mary thought that over. "mind you, i wouldn't swear it was burdon's old car," said archey, more troubled than before. "i can only tell you i'm sure of it--and i might be mistaken at that. and even if it was burdon, he'd only say that he had gone there to try to keep the strike from spreading--yes, and he might be right at that," he added, desperately trying to be fair, "but--well, he worries me--that's all." he was worrying mary, too, although for a different reason. with increasing frequency, helen was coming home from the country club unconsciously scented with that combination of cigarette smoke and raspberry jam. burdon had a new car, a swift, piratical craft which had been built to his order, and sometimes when he called at the house on the hill for helen, mary amused herself by thinking that he only needed a little flag-pole and a jolly roger--a skirted coat and a feathered hat--and he would be the typical younger son of romance, scouring the main in search of spanish gold. occasionally when he rolled to the door, wally's car was already there, for wally--after an absence--was again coming around, pale and in need of sympathy, singing his tenor songs to helen's accompaniment and with greater power of pathos than ever, especially when he sang the sad ones at mary's head-- "there in the churchyard, crying, a grave i se-ee-ee nina, that sweet dove flying was thee-ee-ee, was thee--" "ah, i have sighed for rest--" "--and if she willeth to destroy me i can die.... i can die...." after wally had moved them all to a feeling of imminent tears, he would hover around helen with a vague ambition of making her cousin jealous--a proceeding which didn't bother mary at all. but she did worry about the growing intimacy between helen and burdon and, one evening when helen was driving her up to the house from the factory, mary tried to talk to her. "if i were you, helen," she said, "i don't think i'd go around with burdon woodward quite so much--or come to the office to see him quite so often." helen blew the horn, once, twice and again. "no, really, dear, i wouldn't," continued mary. "of course you know he's a terrible flirt. why he can't even leave the girls at the office alone." quite unconsciously helen adopted the immemorial formula. "burdon woodward has always acted to me like a perfect gentleman," said she. "of course he has, dear. if he hadn't, i know you wouldn't have gone out with him last night, for instance. but he has such a reckless, headstrong way with him. suppose last night, instead of coming home, he had turned the car toward boston or new york, what would you have done then?" "don't worry. i could have stopped him." "stopped him? how could you, if he were driving very fast?" "oh, it's easy enough to stop a car," said helen. "one of the girls at school showed me." leaning over, she ran her free hand under the instrument board. "feel these wires back of the switch," she said. "all you have to do is to reach under quick and pull one loose--just a little tug like this--and you can stop the wildest man, and the wildest car on earth.... see?" in the excitement of her demonstration she tugged the wire too hard. it came loose in her hand and the engine stopped as though by magic. "it's a good thing we are up to the house," she laughed. "you needn't look worried. robert can fix it in a minute." it wasn't that, though, which troubled mary. "think of her knowing such a thing!" she was saying to herself. "how her mind must run at times!" but of course she couldn't voice a thought like that. "all the same, helen," she said aloud, "i wouldn't go out with him so much, if i were you. people will begin to notice it, and you know the way they talk." helen tossed her head, but in her heart she knew that her cousin was right--a knowledge which only made her the more defiant. yes ...people were beginning to notice it.... the saturday afternoon before, when burdon was taking her to the club in his gallant new car, they had stopped at the station to let a train pass. a girl on the sidewalk had smiled at burdon and stared at helen with equal intensity and equal significance. "who was that?" asked helen, when the train had passed. "oh, one of the girls at the office. she's in my department--sort of a bookkeeper." noticing helen's silence he added more carelessly than before, "you know how some girls act if you are any way pleasant to them." it was one of those trifling incidents which occasionally seem to have the deepest effect upon life. that very afternoon, when mary had tried to warn her cousin, helen had gone to the factory apparently to bring mary home, but in reality to see burdon. she had been in his private office, perched on the edge of his desk and swinging her foot, when the same girl came in--the girl who had smiled and stared near the station. "all right, fanny," said burdon without looking around. "leave the checks. i'll attend to them." it seemed to helen that the girl went out slowly, a sudden spot of colour on each of her cheeks. "you call her fanny!" helen asked, when, the door shut again. "yes," he said, busy with the checks. "they do more for you, when you are decent with them." "you think so?" he caught the meaning in her voice and sighed a little as he sprawled his signature on the next check. "i often wish i was a sour, old crab," he said, half to helen and half to himself. "i'd get through life a whole lot better than i do." mary had come to the door then, ready to start for home. when helen passed through the outer office she saw the girl again, her cheek on her palm, her head bent over her desk, dipping her pen in the red ink and then pushing the point through her blotter pad. none of this was lost on helen, nor the girl's frown, nor the row of crimson blotches that stretched across the blotter. "she'll go in now to get those checks," thought helen, as the car started up the hill, and it was just then that mary started to warn her about going out so much with burdon. once in the night helen awoke and lay for a long time looking at the silhouette of the windows. "...i wonder what they said to each other...." she thought. the next morning mary was going through her mail at the office when she came to an envelope with a newspaper clipping in it. this had been cut from the society notes of the new bethel _herald_. "burdon woodward has a specially designed new car which is attracting much attention." the clipping had been pasted upon a sheet of paper, and underneath it, the following two questions were typewritten: "how can a man buy $ , cars on a $ , salary? "why don't you audit his books and see who paid for that car?" mary's cheeks stung with the brutality of it. "what a horrible thing to do!" she thought. "if any one paid attention to things like this--why, no one would be safe!" she was on the point of tearing it to shreds when another thought struck her. "perhaps i ought to show it to him," she uneasily thought. "if a thing like this is being whispered around, i think he ought to get to the bottom of it, and stop it.... i know i don't like him for some things," she continued, more undecided than ever, "but that's all the more reason why i should be fair to him--in things like this, for instance." she compromised by tucking the letter in her pocket, and when judge cutler dropped in that afternoon, she first made him promise secrecy, and then she showed it to him. "i feel like you," he said at last. "an anonymous attack like this is usually beneath contempt. and i feel all the more like ignoring it because it raises a question which i have been asking myself lately: how _can_ a man on a ten thousand dollar salary afford to buy an eight thousand dollar car?" mary couldn't follow that line of reasoning at all. "why do you feel like ignoring it, if it's such a natural question?" she asked. "because it's a question that might have occurred to anybody." that puzzled mary, too. "perhaps burdon has money beside his salary," she suggested. "he hasn't. i know he hasn't. he's in debt right now." they thought it over in silence. "i think if i were you, i'd tear it up," he said at last. she promptly tore it into shreds. "now we'll forget that," he said. "i must confess, however, that it has raised another question to my mind. how long is it since your bookkeeping system was overhauled here?" she couldn't remember. "just what i thought. it must need expert attention. modern conditions call for modern methods, even in bookkeeping. i think i'll get a good firm of accountants to go over our present system, and make such changes as will keep you in closer touch with everything that is going on." mary hardly knew what to think. "you're sure it has nothing to do with this?" she asked, indicating the fragments in the waste-basket. "not the least connection! besides," he argued, "you and i know very well--don't we?--that with all his faults, burdon would never do anything like that--" "of course he wouldn't!" "very well. i think we ought to forget that part of it, and never refer to it again--or it might be said that we were fearing for him." this masculine logic took mary's breath away, but though she thought it over many a time that day, she couldn't find the flaw in it. "men are queer," she finally concluded. "but then i suppose they think women are queer, too. to me," she thought, "it almost seems insulting to burdon to call accountants in now; but according to the judge it would be insulting to burdon not to call them in--" she was still puzzling over it when archey, that stormy petrel of bad news, came in and very soon took her mind from anonymous letters. "the finishers are getting ready to quit," he announced. "they had a vote this noon. it was close, but the strikers won." they both knew what a blow this would be. with each successive wave of the strike movement, it grew harder to fill the men's places with women. "if this keeps on, i don't know what we shall do," she thought. "by the time we have filled these empty places, we shall have as many women working here as we had during the war." outwardly, however, she gave no signs of misgivings, but calmly set in motion the machinery which had filled the gaps before. "if you're going to put that advertisement in again," said archey, "i think i'd add 'nursery, restaurant, rest-room, music'" she included the words in her copy, and after a moment's reflection she added "laundry." "but we have no laundry," objected archey, half laughing. "are you forgetting a little detail like that?" "no, i'm not," said mary, her eyes dancing. "you must do the same with the laundry as i did with the kindergarten. go to boston this afternoon.... take a laundryman with you if you like.... and bring the things back in the morning by motor truck. we have steam and hot water and plenty of buildings, and i'm sure it won't take long to get the machines set up when you once get them here--" at such moments there was something great in mary. to conceive a plan and put it through to an irresistible conclusion: there was nothing in which she took a deeper delight. that night, at home, she told them of her new plan. "just think," she said, "if a woman lives seventy years, and the washing is done once a week, you might say she spent one-seventh of her life--or ten whole years--at the meanest hardest work that was ever invented--" "they don't do the washing when they're children," said helen. "no, but they hate it just as much. i used to see them on wash days when aunt patty took me around, and i always felt sorry for the children." wally came in later and listened sadly to the news of the day. "you're only using yourself up," he said, "for a lot of people who don't care a snap of the finger for you. it seems to me," he added, "that you'd be doing better to make one man happy who loves you, than try to please a thousand women who never, never will." she thought that over, for this was an angle which hadn't occurred to her before. "no," she said, "i'm not doing it to gain anything for myself, but to lift the poor women up--to give them something to hope for, something to live for, something to make them happier than they are now. yes, and from everybody's point of view, i think i'm doing something good. because when the woman is miserable, she can generally make her man miserable. but when the woman is happy, she can nearly always make the man happy, too." "i wish you'd make me happy," sighed poor wally. "here comes helen," said mary with just the least trace of wickedness in her voice. "she'll do her best, i'm sure." helen was dressed for the evening, her arms and shoulders gleaming, her coiffure like a golden turban. "mary hardly ever dresses any more," she said as she came down the stairs, "so i feel i have to do double duty." on the bottom landing she stopped and with extravagant motions of her body sang the opening lines of the bedouin's love song, wally joining in at last with his plaintive, passionate tenor. "if you ever lose your money, wally," she said, coming down the remaining stairs, "we'll take up comic opera." curtseying low she simpered, "my lord!" and gave him her hand to kiss. "she knows how to handle men," thought mary watching, "just as the women at the factory know how to handle metal. i wonder if it comes natural to her, or if she studies it by herself, or if she learned any of it at miss parsons'." she was interrupted by a message from hutchins, the butler. the spread of the strike had been flashed out by the news association early in the afternoon, and the eight-ten train had brought a company of reporters. "there are half a dozen of them," said hutchins, noble in voice and deportment. "knowing your kindness to them before, i took the liberty of showing them into the library. do you care to see them, or shall i tell them you are out?" mary saw them and they greeted her like old friends. it didn't take long to confirm the news of the strike's extension. "how many men are out now?" one of them asked. "about fifteen hundred." "what are you going to do when you have used up all your local women?" asked another. "what would you do?" she asked. "i don't know," he replied. "i guess i'd advertise for women in other cities-cities where they did this sort of thing during the war." "bridgeport, for instance," suggested another. "pittsburgh--there were a lot of women doing machine work there--" "st. louis," said a fourth. "some of the shops in st. louis were half full of women--" with the help they gave her, mary made up a list. "even if you could fill the places locally," said the first, "i think i'd get a few women from as many places as possible. it spreads the idea--makes a bigger story--rounds out the whole scheme." after they had gone mary sat thoughtful for a few minutes and then returned to the drawing room. when she entered, helen and wally were seated on the music bench, and it seemed to mary that they suddenly drew apart--or if i may express a distinction, that wally suddenly drew apart while helen played a chord upon the piano. "poor wally," thought mary a little later. "i wish he wouldn't look like that when he sings.... perhaps he feels like i felt this spring.... i wonder if ma'm was right.... i wonder if people do fall in love with love...." her reflections took a strange turn, half serious, half humorous. "it's like a trap, almost, when you think of it that way," she thought. "when a man falls in love, he can climb out again and go on with his work, and live his life, and do wonderful things if he has a chance. but when a woman falls in the trap, she can never climb out and live her own life again. i wonder if the world wouldn't be better off if the women had been allowed to go right on and develop themselves, and do big things like the men do.... "i'm sure they couldn't do worse.... "look at the war--the awfullest thing that ever happened: that's a sample of what men do, when they try to do everything themselves.... but they'll have to let the women out of their traps, if they want them to help.... "i wonder if they ever will let them out.... "i wonder if they ought to come out.... "i wonder...." to look at mary as she sat there, tranquil of brow and dreamy-eyed, you would never have guessed that thoughts like these were passing through her mind, and later when helen took wally into the next room to show him something, and returned with a smile that was close to ownership, you would never have guessed that mary's heart went heavy for a moment. "helen," she said, when their visitor had gone, "do you really love wally--or are you just amusing yourself?" "i only wish that burdon had half his money." "helen!" "oh, it's easy for you to say 'helen'! you don't know what it is to be poor.... well, good-night, beloved-- "good-night, good-night my love, my own--" she sang. "i've a busy day ahead of me tomorrow." mary had a busy day, too. nearly two hundred women responded to her new advertisement in the morning, and as many more at noon. fortunately some of these were familiar with the work, and the most skilful were added to the corps of teachers. in addition to this, new nurses were telephoned for to take care of the rapidly growing nursery, temporary tables were improvised in the canteen, another battery of ranges was ordered from the gas company, and preparations were made for archey's arrival with the laundry equipment. yes, it was a busy day and a busy week for mary; but somehow she felt a glory in every minute of it--even, i think, as molly pitcher gloried in her self-appointed task so many years ago. and when at the close of each day, she locked her desk, she grew into the habit of glancing up and nodding at the portraits on the walls--a glance and a nod that seemed to say, "that's us!" for myself, i like to think of that long line of josiah spencers, holding ghostly consultations at night; and if the spirits of the dead can ever return to the scenes of life which they loved the best, they must have spent many an hour together over the things they saw and heard. steadily and surely the places left vacant by the men were filled with women, naturally deft of hand and quick of eye; but the more apparent it became that the third phase of the strike was being lost by the men, the more worried archey looked--the oftener he peeped into the future and frowned at what he saw there. "the next thing we know," he said to mary one day, "every man on the place will walk out, and what are we going to do then?" she told him of the reporter's suggestion. "a good idea, too," he said. "if i were you, i'd start advertising in those other cities right away, and get as many applications on file as you can. don't just ask for women workers. mention the kind you want: machine tool hands, fixers, tool makers, temperers, finishers, inspectors, packers--i'll make you up a list. and if you don't mind i'll enlarge the canteen, and change the loft above it into a big dining room, and have everything ready this time--" a few days later spencer & son's advertisement appeared for the first time outside of new bethel, and soon a steady stream of applications began to come in. although mary didn't know it, her appeal had a stirring note like the peal of a silver trumpet. it gripped attention and warmed imagination all the way from its first line "a call to women" to its signature, "josiah spencer & son, inc. mary spencer, president." "that's the best yet," said archey, looking at the pile of applications on the third day. "i sha'n't worry about the future half as much now." "i don't worry at all any more," said mary, serene in her faith. "or at least i don't worry about this," she added to herself. she was thinking of helen again. the night before helen had come in late, and mary soon knew that she had been with burdon. helen was quiet--for her--and rather pale as well. "did you have a quarrel?" mary had hopefully asked. "quarrel with burdon woodward?" asked helen, and in a low voice she answered herself, "i couldn't if i tried." "... do you love him, helen?" to which after a pause, helen had answered, much as she had spoken before, "i only wish he had half of wally's money...." and would say no more. "i have warned her so often," said mary. "what more can i say?" she uneasily wondered whether she ought to speak to her aunts, but soon shook her head at that. "it would only bother them," she told herself, "and what good could it do?" next day at the factory she seemed to feel a shadow around her and a weight upon her mind. "what is it?" she thought more than once, pulling herself up short. the answer was never far away. "oh, yes--helen and burdon woodward. well, i'm glad she's going out with wally today. she's safe enough with him." it had been arranged that wally should drive helen to hartford to do some shopping, and they were expected back about nine o'clock in the evening. but nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock and midnight came--and still no sign of wally's car. "they must have had an accident," thought mary, and at first she pictured this as a slight affair which simply called for a few hours' delay at a local garage--perhaps the engine had overheated, or the battery had failed. but when one o'clock struck, and still no word from the absent pair, mary's fancies grew more tragic. by two o'clock she imagined the car overturned at the bottom of some embankment, and both of them badly hurt. at three o'clock she began to have such dire forebodings that she went and woke up aunt cordelia, and was on the point of telephoning wally's mother when the welcome rumbling of a car was heard under the porte cochère. it was wally and helen, and though helen looked pale she had that air of ownership over her apologetic escort which every woman understands. mary already divined the end of the story. "we were coming along all right," said wally, "and would have been home before ten. but when we were about nine miles from nowhere and going over a bad road, i had a puncture. "of course that delayed me a little--to change the wheels--but when i tried to start the car again, she wouldn't go. "i fussed and fixed for a couple of hours, it seems to me, and then i thought i'd better go to the nearest telephone and have a garage send a car out for us. but helen, poor girl, was tired and of course i couldn't leave her there alone. so i tackled the engine again and just when i was giving up hope, a car came along. "they couldn't take us in--they were filled--but they promised to wake up a garage man in the next town and send him to the rescue. it was half past two when he turned up, but it didn't take him long to find the trouble, and here we are at last." he drew a full breath and turned to helen. "of course i wouldn't have cared a snap," he said, "if it hadn't been for poor helen here." "oh, i don't mind--now," she said. "i knew it!" thought mary. "they're engaged..." and though she tried to smile at them both, for some reason which i can never hope to explain, it took an effort. wally and helen were still looking at each other. "tired, dear?" he asked. helen nodded and glanced at mary with a look that said, "did you hear him call me 'dear'?" "i think if i were you, i'd go to bed," continued wally, all gentle solicitude. she took an impulsive step toward him. he kissed her. "we're engaged," he said to mary. what mary said in answer, she couldn't remember herself when she tried to recall it later, for a strange thought had leaped into her mind, driving out everything else. "i almost hate to ask," she thought. "it would be too dreadful to know." but curiosity has always been one of mankind's fateful gifts, and at the breakfast table next morning, mary had wally to herself. "oh, wally," she said. "what did the garage man find was the trouble with your car?" "the simplest thing imaginable," he said. "one of the wires leading to the switch on the instrument board had worked loose--that awful road, you know." "i knew it," mary quietly told herself, and in her mind she again saw helen demonstrating how to quell the wildest car on earth. mary ought to have stopped there, but a wicked imp seemed to have taken possession of her. "did helen cry, when she saw how late it was getting?" "she did at first," he said, looking very solemn, "but when i told her--" his confessions were interrupted by hutchins, who whispered to mary that she was wanted on the telephone. "it's mr. forbes," he said. archey's voice was ringing with excitement when he greeted mary over the wire. "can you come down to the office early this morning?" he asked. "what's the matter?" "i just found out that the rest of the men had a meeting last night--and they voted to strike. there won't be a man on the place this morning ... and i think there may be trouble...." chapter xxvi afterwards, when mary looked back at the leading incidents of the big strike it wasn't the epic note which interested her the most, although the contest had for her its moments of exaltation. nor did her thoughts revert the oftenest to those strange things which might have engrossed the chance observer--work and happiness walking hand in hand, for instance, to the accompaniment of mrs. kelly's drum--or woman showing that she can acquire the same dexterity on a drilling machine as on a sewing machine, the same skill at a tempering oven as at a cook stove, the same competence and neatness in a factory as in a house. indeed, when all is said and done, the sound of the work which women were presently doing at new bethel was only an echo of the tasks which women had done during four years of war, and being a repetition of history, it didn't surprise mary when she stopped to think it over. but looking back at the whole experience later, these were the two reflections which interested her the most. "they have always called woman a riddle," she thought. "i wonder if that is because she could never be natural. if woman has been a riddle in the past, i wonder if this is the answer now...." that was her first reflection. her second was this, and in it she unconsciously worded one of the great lessons of life. "the things i worried about seldom happened. it was something which nobody ever dreamed of--that nearly ended everything." and when she thought of that, her breath would come a little quicker and soon she would shake her head, and try to put her mind on something else; although if you had been there i think you would have seen a suspicious moisture in her eye, and if she were in her room at home, she would go to a photograph on the wall-the picture of a gravely smiling girl on a convent portico--signed "with all my love, rosa." still, as you can see, i am running ahead of my story, and so that you may better understand mary's two reflections and the events which led to them, i will now return to the morning when she received archey's message that every man in the factory had gone on strike as a protest against the employment of women. as soon as she reached the office she sent a facsimile letter to the skilled women workers who had applied from out of town. "if we only get a third of them," she thought, "we'll pull through somehow." but mary was reckoning without her book. for one thing, she was unaware of the publicity which her experiment was receiving, and for another thing perhaps it didn't occur to her that the same yearnings, the same longings, the same stirrings which moved her own heart and mind so often--the same vague feeling of imprisonment, the same vague groping for a way out--might also be moving the hearts and minds of countless other women, and especially those who had for the first time in their lives achieved economic independence by means of their labour in the war. whatever the reason, so many skilled women journeyed to new bethel that week, coming with the glow of crusaders, eager to write their names on this momentous page of woman's history, that mary's worry turned into a source of embarrassment. however, by straining every effort, accommodations were found for the visitors and the work of re-organization was at once begun. the next six weeks were the busiest, i had almost said the most feverish, in mary's life. the day after the big strike was declared, not a single bearing was made at spencer & son's great plant. for a factory is like a road of many bridges, and when half of these bridges are suddenly swept away, traffic is out of the question. so the first problem was to bridge the gaps. from the new arrivals, fixers, case-hardeners and temperers were set to work--women who had learned their trades during the war. also a call was issued for local workers and the "school" was opened, larger than ever. for the first few weeks it might be said that half the factory was a school of intensive instruction; and then, one day which mary will never forget, a few lonely looking bearings made laborious progress through the plant--only a few, but each one embodying a secret which i will tell you about later. the missing bridges weren't completed yet, you understand--not by any manner of means--but at least the foundations had been laid, and every day the roadway became a little wider and a little firmer--and the progress of the bearings became a little thicker and a little quicker. and, oh, the enthusiasm of the women--their shining eyes, their breathless attention--as they felt the roadway growing solid beneath their feet and knew it was all their work! "if we keep on at this rate," said archey, looking at the reports in mary's office one morning, "it won't be long before we're doing something big." there was just the least touch of astonishment in his voice--masculine, unconscious--which raised an equally unconscious touch of exultation in mary's answer. "perhaps sooner than you think," she said. for no one knew better than she that the new organization was rapidly finding itself now that the roadway of production had been rebuilt. every day weak spots had been mended, curves straightened out, narrow places made wider. "let's speed up today," she finally said, "and see what we can do." at the end of that day the reports showed that all the departments had made an improvement until the bearings reached the final assembling room and there the traffic had become congested. for the rest of the week the assembly room was kept under scrutiny, new methods were tried, more women were set to work. "let's speed up again today," said mary one morning, "and see if we can make it this time--" and finally came the day when they _did_ make it! for four consecutive days their output equalled the best ever done by the factory, and then just as every woman was beginning to thrill with that jubilation which only comes of a hard task well done, a weak spot developed in the hardening department. oh, how everybody frowned and clicked their tongues! you might have thought that all the cakes in the world had suddenly burned in the ovens--that every clothes line in america had broken on a muddy washday! "never mind," said mary. "we're nearly there. one more good try, and over the top we'll go...." one more good try, and they _did_ go over the top. for two days, three days, four days, five days, a whole week, they equalled the best man-made records. for one week, two weeks, three weeks, the famous spencer bearings rolled out of the final inspection room and into their wooden cases as fast as man had ever rolled them. and when mary saw that at last the first part of her vision had come true, she did a feminine thing, that is to say a human thing. she simultaneously said, "i told you so," and sprung her secret by sending the following message to the newspapers: "the three thousand women at this factory are daily turning out the same number of bearings that three thousand men once turned out. "the new bearings are identical with the old ones in every detail but one, namely: they are one thousandth of an inch more accurate than spencer bearings were ever made before. "our customers appreciate this improvement and know what it means. "our unfriendly critics, i think, will also appreciate it and know what it means." upon consideration, mary had that last paragraph taken out. "i'll leave that to their imaginations," she said, and after she had signed each letter, she did another feminine thing. she had a gentle little cry all by herself, and then through her tears she smiled at her silent forbears who seemed to be watching her more attentively than ever from their frames of tarnished gilt upon the walls. "it hasn't been all roses and lilies," she told them, "but--that's us!" chapter xxvii meanwhile, as you will guess, it hadn't been "all roses and lilies" either, for the men who had gone on strike. "didn't you say you expected trouble?" mary asked archey one morning just after the big strike was declared. "yes," he told her. "they were talking that way. but they are so sure now that we'll have to give in, that they are quite good natured about it." mary said nothing, but her back grew stiff, something like mrs. ridge's; and when she saw uncle stanley in the outer office a few minutes later and he smiled without looking at her--smiled and shook his head to himself as though he were thinking of something droll--mary went back to her room in a hurry, and stayed there until she felt tranquil again. "what are the men saying now?" she asked archey the following week. "they are still taking it as a sort of a joke," he told her, "but here and there you catch a few who are looking thoughtful--especially those who have wives or daughters working here." that pleased her. the next time the subject was mentioned, archey brought it up himself. "there was quite a fight on jay street yesterday," he said. as mary knew, jay street was the headquarters of the strikers, and suddenly she became all attention. "those out-of-town agitators are beginning to feel anxious, i guess. two of them went around yesterday whispering that the women at the factory needed a few good scares, so they'd stay home where they belonged. they tackled jimmy kelly, not knowing his wife works here. 'what do you mean: good scares?' he asked. 'rough stuff,' they told him, on the quiet. 'what do you mean, rough stuff?' he asked them. they whispered something--nobody knows what it was--but they say jimmy fell on them both like a ton of bricks on two bad eggs. 'try a little rough stuff, yourself,' he said, 'and maybe you'll stay home where you belong.'" mary's eyes shone. it may be that blood called to blood, for if you remember one of those josiah spencers on the walls had married a mary mcmillan. "it's things like that," she said, "that sometimes make me wish i was a man," and straightway went and interviewed mrs. james kelly, and gave her a message of thanks to be conveyed to her double-fisted husband. the next week mary didn't have to ask archey what the men were doing, because one of the sunday papers had made a special story of the subject. some of the men were getting work elsewhere, she read. others were on holidays, or visiting friends out of town. some were grumpy, some were merry, one had been caught red-handed--or at least blue-aproned--cooking his own dinner. all who could be reached had been asked how they thought the strike would end, and the reply which i am quoting is typical of many. "they may bungle through with a few bearings for a while," said mr. reisinger, "but they won't last long. it stands to reason that a woman can't do man's work and get away with it." mary was walking through the factory the next day when she heard two women discussing that article. "i told sam reisinger what i thought about him last night," said the younger. "he was over to our house for supper. "'so it stands to reason, does it?' i said to him, 'that a woman can't do a man's work and get away with it? well, i like your nerve! what do you understand by a man's work?' i said to him. "'do you think she ought to have all the meanest, hardest work in the world, and get paid nothing for it, working from the time she gets up in the morning till she goes to bed at night? is that your idea of woman's work?' i said to him. 'but any nice, easy job that only has to be worked at four hours in the morning, and four hours in the afternoon, and has a pay envelope attached to it: i suppose you think that's a man's work!' i said to him. "'listen to me, sam reisinger, there's no such thing as man's work, and there's no such thing as woman's work,' i said to him. 'work's work, and it makes no difference who does it, as long as it gets done! "'take dressmaking,' i said to him. 'i suppose you call that woman's work. then how about worth, and those other big men dressmakers? "'maybe you think cooking is woman's work. then how about the chefs at the big hotels?' i said to him. "'maybe you think washing is woman's work. then how about the steam laundries where nearly all the shirt ironers are men?' i said to him. "'maybe you think that working in somebody else's house is woman's work. then how about that butler up at miss spencer's?' i said to him. "'and maybe we can bungle through with a few bearings for a while, can we?' i said to him, very polite. 'well, let me tell you one thing, sam reisinger, if that's the way you think of women, you can bungle over to the movies with yourself tomorrow night. i'm not going with you!'" for a long time after that when things went wrong, mary only had to recall some of the remarks which had been made to a certain mr. sam reisinger on a certain sunday afternoon, and she always felt better for it. "what are the men saying now?" she asked archey at the end of their first good week. "they're not saying much, but i think they're up to something. they've called a special meeting for tonight." the next morning was sunday. mary was hardly downstairs when archey called. "i've found out about their meeting last night," he said. "they have appointed a committee to try to have a boycott declared on our bearings." it didn't take mary long to see that this might be a mortal thrust unless it were parried. "but how can they?" she asked. "they are going to try labour headquarters first. 'unfair to labour'--that's what they are going to claim it is--to allow women to do what they're doing here. they're going to try to have a boycott declared, so that no union man will handle spencer bearings, the teamsters won't truck them, the railways won't ship them, the metal workers and mechanics won't install them, and no union man will use a tool or a machine that has a spencer bearing in it. that's their program. that's what they are going to try to do." from over the distance came the memory of ma'm maynard's words: "i tell you, miss mary, it has halways been so and it halways will: everything that lives has its own natural enemy--and a woman's natural enemy--eet is man!" "no, sir!" said mary to herself, as resolutely as ever, "i don't believe it. they're trying to gain their point--that's all--the same as i'm trying to gain mine.... but aren't they fighting hard when they do a thing like that...!" it came to her then with a sharp sense of relief that no organization--no union--could well afford to boycott products simply because they were made by women. "because then," she thought, "women could boycott things that were made by unions, and i'm sure the unions wouldn't want that." she mentioned this to archey and it was decided that judge cutler should follow the strikers' committee to washington and present the women's side of the case. archey went, but the atmosphere of worry which he had brought with him stayed behind. mary seemed to breathe it all day and to feel its oppression every time she awoke in the night. "what a thing it would be," she thought, "if they did declare a boycott! all the work we've done would go for nothing--all our hopes and plans--everything wiped right out--and every woman pushed right back in her trap--and a man sitting on the lid--with a boycott in his hand...!" the next day after a bad night, she was listlessly turning over the pages of a production report, when mrs. kelly came in glowing with enthusiasm, holding in her hand a book from the rest room library. "miss spencer," she said, "it's in this book that over on the other side the women in the factories had orchestras. i wonder if we couldn't have an orchestra now!" mary's listlessness vanished. "i've talked it over with a lot of the women," continued mrs. kelly, "and they think it's great. i've come to quite a few that play different instruments. i only wish i knew my notes, so i could play something, too." mary thought that over. it didn't seem right to her that the originator of the idea couldn't take part in it. "couldn't you play the drum?" she suddenly asked. "why, so i could!" beamed mrs. kelly in rare delight. "do you mind then if i start a subscription for the instruments?" "no; i'll do that, if you'll promise to play the drum." "it's a promise," agreed mrs. kelly, and when she reached the hall outside and saw the size of mary's subscription she joyfully smote an imaginary sheepskin, "boom.... boom.... boom-boom-boom...!" that is the week that wally was married--with a ceremony that helen had determined should be the social event of the year. she was busy with her plans for weeks, making frequent trips to new york and boston in the building up of her trousseau, arranging the details of the breakfast, making preparations for the decorations at the church and at the house on the hill, preparing and revising her list of those to be invited, ordering the cake and the boxes, attending to the engraving, choosing the music, keeping in touch with the bridesmaids and their dresses. "why, she's as busy as i am," thought mary one day, in growing surprise at helen's knowledge and ability; and dimly she began to see that in herself and helen were embodied two opposite ideas of feminine activity. "of course she believes her way is the best," continued mary thoughtfully, "just the same as i believe mine is. but i can't help thinking that it's best to be doing something useful, something that really makes a difference in the world--so that at the end of every week we can say to ourselves, 'well, i did this' or 'i did that'--'i haven't lived this week for nothing....'" mary started dreaming then, and the next day when she accompanied helen up the aisle of st. thomas's as maid of honour, her eyes went dreamier still. and yet if you had been there i think you might have seen the least trace of a shadow in their depths--just the least suspicion of a wavering, unguessed doubt. but when wally, with his wife at his side, started his car an hour later and rolled smoothly on his wedding tour in search of the great adventure, in search of the sweetest story--mary changed her dress and hurried back to the factory where she made a tour of her own. and as she walked through the workshops with their long lines of contented women, passing up one aisle and down another--nearly every face turning for a moment and flashing her a smile--the shadows vanished from her eyes and her doubts went with them. "this is the best," she told herself, "i'm sure i did right, choosing this instead of wally. it's best for me, and best for these three thousand women--" her imagination caught fire. she saw her three thousand pioneers growing into three hundred thousand, into three million. a moment of greatness fell upon her and in fancy she thus addressed her unsuspecting workers: "you are doing something useful--something that you can be proud of. your daily labour isn't wasted. there isn't a country in the world that won't profit by it. "because of these bearings which you are making, automobiles and trucks will carry their loads more easily, tractors will plough better, engines will run longer, water will be pumped more quickly, electric light will be sold for less money. "you are helping transportation--agriculture--commerce. and if that isn't better, nobler work than washing, ironing, getting your own meals, washing your own dishes, and doing the same old round of profitless chores day after day, and year after year, from the hour you are old enough to work, till the hour you are old enough to die--well, then, i'm wrong and helen's right; and i ought to have married wally--and not one of you women ought to be here today!" a whisper arose in her mind. "....somebody's got to do the housework...." "yes, but it needn't take up a woman's whole life," she shortly told herself, "any more than it does a man's. i'm sure there must be some way...some way...." she stopped, a sudden flush striking along her cheek as she caught the first glimpse of her golden vision--that vision which may some day change the history of the human race. "oh, if i only could!" she breathed to herself. "if i only could!" she slowly returned to the office. judge cutler was waiting to see her, just back from his visit to washington. "well?" she asked eagerly, shutting the door. "are they going to boycott us?" "i don't think so," he answered. "i told them how it started. as far as i can find out, the strike here is a local affair. the men i saw disclaimed any knowledge or responsibility for it. "of course, i pointed out that women had the vote now, and that boycotts were catching.... but i don't think you need worry. "they're splendid men--all of them. i'm sure you'd like them, mary. they are all interested in what you are doing, but i think they are marking time a little--waiting to see how things turn out before they commit themselves one way or the other." mary thrilled at that. "more than ever now it depends on me," she thought, and another surge of greatness seemed to lift her like a flood. the judge's voice recalled her. "on my way back," he was saying, "i stopped in new york and engaged a firm of accountants to come and look over the books. they are busy now, but i told them there was no hurry--that we only wanted their suggestions--" "i had forgotten about that," said mary. "so had i. what do you suppose reminded me of it?" she shook her head. "one of the first men i saw in washington was burdon woodward." "i think it just happened that way," said mary uneasily. "he told me he was going away for a few days, but i'm sure he only did it to get out of going to helen's wedding." "well, anyhow, no harm done. it was the sight of him down there that reminded me: that's all.... how has everything been running here? smoothly, i hope?" smoothly, yes. that was the week when mary sent her letters to the papers, announcing that the women at spencer & son's had not only equalled past outputs, but were working within a closer degree of accuracy. and all that month, and the next month, and the next, the work at spencer & son's kept rolling out as smoothly as though it were moving on its own bearings--not only the mechanical, but the welfare work as well. the dining room was re-modelled, as you will presently see. the band progressed, as you will presently hear. the women were proud and happy in the work they were doing, and mary was proud because they were proud, happy because they were happy, and all the time she was nursing another secret, no one dreaming what was in her mind. along in the third month, wally and helen came back from their wedding tour. mary looked once, and she saw there was something wrong with wally. a shadow of depression hung over him--a shadow which he tried to hide with bursts of cheerfulness. but his old air of eagerness was gone--that air with which he had once looked at the future as a child might stare with delighted eyes at a conjurer drawing rabbits and roses out of old hats and empty vases. in a word, he looked disenchanted, as though he had seen how the illusion was produced, how the trick was done, and was simultaneously abating his applause for the performer and his interest in the show. "he's found her out," thought mary, and with that terrible frankness which sometimes comes unbidden to our minds she added with a sigh, "i was always afraid he would." wally had taken a house near the country club--one of those brick mansions surrounded by trees and lawns which are somehow reminiscent of titled society and fox hunters in buckskin and scarlet. there helen was soon working her way to the leadership of the younger set. she seldom called at the house on the hill. "i'm generally dated up for the evening, and you're never there in the daytime. so i have to drop in and see you here," she said one afternoon, giving mary a surprise visit at the office. "do you, know you're getting to be fashionable?" she continued. "who? me?" "yes. you. nearly everywhere we went, they began quizzing us as soon as they found miss spencer was a cousin of mine." mary noted helen's self-promotion to the head of the cousinship, but she kept her usual tranquil expression. "it's because she's mrs. cabot now," she thought. "perhaps she wouldn't have called at all if these people hadn't mentioned me!" but when helen arose to go, mary revised her opinion of the reason for her cousin's call. "well, i must be going," said helen, rising. "i'll drop in and see burdon for a few minutes on my way out." "that's it," thought mary, and her reflections again taking upon themselves that terrible frankness which can seldom be put in words, she added to herself, "poor wally.... i was always afraid of it...." she was still looking out of the window in troubled meditation when the arrival of the afternoon mail turned her thoughts into another track. as helen had said, the new bethel experiment had become fashionable. taking it as their text, the women's clubs throughout the country were giving much of their time to a discussion of the changed industrial relations due to the war. increasingly often, visitors appeared at the factory, asking if they could see for themselves--well-known, even famous figures among them. but on the afternoon when helen cabot made her first call, mary received a letter which took her breath away, so distinguished, so illustrious were the names of those who were asking if they could pay a visit on the following day. mary sent a telegram and then, her cheeks coloured with pride, she made a tour through the factory to make sure that everything would be in order, whispering the news here and there, and knowing that every woman would hear it as unmistakably as though it had been pealed from the heavens in tones of thunder. the visitors arrived at ten o'clock the next morning. there were four in the party--two men and two women. mary recognized three of them at the first glance and felt a glow of pride warm her as they seated themselves in her office. "not even you," she thought with a glance at the attentive figures on the walls, "not even you ever had visitors like these." and in some subtle manner which i simply cannot describe to you, she felt that the portrayed figures were proud of the visitors, too--and prouder yet of the dreamy-eyed girl who had brought it about, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood, who was looking so queenly and chatting so quietly to the elect of the earth. the fourth caller was introduced as professor marsh, and mary soon perceived that he was a hostile critic. "i shall have to be careful of him," she thought, "or i shall be giving him some good, hard bouncers before i know it--and that would never do today." so putting the temptation behind her she presently said, "we'll start at the nursery, if you like--any time you're ready." you have already seen something of that nursery, its long row of windows facing the south, its awnings, toys, sand-piles and white-robed nurses. since then mary had had time to elaborate the original theme with a kitchen for preparing their majesties' food, linen closets and a rest-room for the nurses. the chief glory of the nursery, however, was its noble line of play-rooms, each in charge of two nurses. "let's look in here," said mary, opening a door. they came upon an interesting scene. in this room were twelve children, about two years old. the nurses were feeding them. each nurse sat on the inside of a kidney shaped table, large enough to accommodate six children, but low enough to avoid the necessity for high chairs with the consequent dangling between earth and heaven. in front of each child was a plate set in a recess in the table--this to guard against overturning in the excitement of the moment--and in each plate was a generous portion of chicken broth poured over broken bread. it was evidently good. approval shone on each pink face. a brisk play of spoons and the smacking of lips seemed to be the order of the day. "each play room has its own wash room--" said mary. she opened another door belonging to this particular suite and disclosed a bathroom with special fixtures for babies. large bowls, with hot and cold water, were set in porcelain tables. "what's the use of having so many bath-bowls in this table," asked professor marsh, "when you only have two nurses to do the bathing?" "every woman with a baby has half an hour off in the morning, and another half hour in the afternoon," he was told. "in the morning, she bathes her baby. in the afternoon she loves it." in the next play-room which they visited, the babies were of the bottle age, and were proving this to the satisfaction of every one concerned. in the next, refreshments were over; and some of the youngsters slept while others were starting large engineering projects upon the sand pile. "i never saw such nurseries," said the most distinguished visitor. he looked at the artistic miniature furniture, the decorations, the low padded seat which ran around the walls--at once a seat and a cupboard for toys. he looked at the sunlight, the screened verandah, the awning, the flowers, the birds hopping over the lawn, the river gleaming through the trees. "miss spencer," he said, "i congratulate you. if they could understand me, i would congratulate these happy youngsters, too." "but don't you think it's altogether wrong," said professor marsh, "to deprive a child of the advantages of home life?" "i read and hear that so often," said mary, "that i have adopted my own method of replying to it." she led her visitors into a small room with a low ceiling. it was furnished with a cookstove, a table, a small side-board, an old conch and a few chairs. the floor was splintery and only partly covered by frayed rugs and worn oil cloth. the paper on the walls was a dark mottled green. the ceiling was discoloured by smoke. "this is the kitchen of an average wage-earner," said mary. "some are better. some are worse. i bought the furniture out of a room, just as it stood, and had the whole place copied in detail." three of the visitors looked at each other. "imagine a tired woman," continued mary, "standing over that stove--perhaps expecting another baby before long. she has been washing all morning and now she is cooking. the room is damp with steam, the ceiling dotted with flies. then imagine a child crawling around the floor, its mother too busy to attend to it, and you'll get an idea of where some of these children in the nursery would be--if they weren't here. mind," she earnestly continued, "i'm not saying that home life for poor children doesn't have its advantages, but we mustn't forget that it has its disadvantages, too." she led them next to the kindergarten. a recess was on and the children were out in the play-ground--some swinging, some sliding down the chutes, others playing in a merry-go-round which was pushed around by hand. "every other hour they have for play," said mary. "in the alternate hours the teachers read to them, talk to them, teach them their letters, teach them to sing and give them the regular kindergarten course. if they weren't here," she said, half turning to professor marsh, "most of them would probably be playing on the street." the next place they visited was the dining room--which occupied the upper floor of one of the great buildings which mary's father had planned. but to look at it, you would never have suspected the original purpose for which the place had been intended. it was a dining room that any hotel would be glad to call its own, with its forest-colour decorations, its growing palms and ferns on every side. "the compartments around the walls are for the families," explained mary. "it is, of course, optional with those who work here whether they use the dining room or not. we supply all food at cost. this was this morning's breakfast." the bill of fare is too long to quote in full, but the visitors noted that it included a choice of fruit, choice of cereal, choice of tea, coffee, milk or cocoa--and for the main dish, either fish, ham and eggs, oyster stew or small steak. "what you have seen so far," said mary, "is a side issue. many of our workers are young women not yet married, others have some one at home to look after the children. in fact the woman with a baby or little children is in the minority, but i thought it only right to provide for them--for a number of reasons--" "including sympathy?" smiled one of the ladies. mary gave her a grateful glance. "we will now have an inspection of our real work here," she said, "--the same being the manufacture of bearings." the first room they entered was the ground floor of one of the buildings which housed the automatic department. at the nearer machines were long lines of women stamping out the metal discs which held the balls and rollers in their places. "when these machines were operated by men," said mary, "it required considerable strength to throw the levers. but by a very simple improvement we changed the machines so that the lightest touch on the handle is sufficient to do the work. we also put backs on the stools--and elbow rests--and racks for the feet--" they followed her glances to each of these changes but their attention soon turned to the business-like speed and precision with which each woman did her work. "women, of course, are naturally quick," said mary as though reading their thoughts. "you know what they can do on a typewriter, for instance--or on a sewing machine. as you can see, it is much simpler to operate one of these automatic machines than it is to typewrite a legal document--or make a dress." together they looked up the long aisle at the double line of workers in their creams and browns, their fingers deftly placing the blanks in position and removing the finished discs. somewhere, unseen, a phonograph started playing a lively tune. "where do they get their flowers?" asked one of the guests, noticing that each woman was wearing a rose or a carnation. "they find them in their locker rooms every morning," said mary. "they usually sing when the phonograph plays," she added, "but perhaps they feel nervous--at having company--" this was confirmed when they left the room, for as they stood in the hallway first a hum was heard behind them here and there, and soon a mellow toned chorus arose. "they certainly seem happy," said one of the visitors. "they are," said mary. "and, indeed, why shouldn't they be? their work is light and interesting; they are paid well; and more than anything else, i think, they all know they are making something useful--something tangible--something they can look upon with satisfaction and pride." they ascended a stairway and suddenly the scene changed. below, the work had been cast as though in a light staccato key, but here the music for the machinery had a more powerful note. "these are the oscillating grinders," said mary, raising her voice above the skirling symphony. "it isn't everybody who can run them." she wondered whether her visitors caught the unconscious air of pride which many of the women wore in this department. at one end of the room a steady stream of rough castings came flowing in, while at the other end an equally steady volume of finished cones went flowing out. mary had always liked to watch the oscillators and as she stood there, her guests temporarily forgotten, her eyes filled with the almost human movements of the whirling machines, her ears with the triumphant music of the abrasive wheels biting into the metal, that same unconscious air of pride fell upon her, too, and although she didn't know it, her glance deepened and her head went up--quite in the old spencer manner. "is their work fairly accurate?" asked one of the visitors, breaking the spell. "let's go and see," said mary, leading the way. the cones left the grinders upon an endless conveyor which carried them to an inspection room. here at long tables were lines of attentive women, each with a set of gauges in front of her. the visitors stopped behind one of these inspectors just as she picked up a cone to put it through its course of tests. first she slipped it into a gauge to see if it was too large. a pointer on a dial before her swung to "o.k." almost without stopping the motion of her hand, she inserted it into another gauge to see if it was too small. again the pointer swung to "o.k." the third test was to verify the angle of the cone, and for the third time the pointer said "o.k." the next moment the cone had been dropped into a box and another was going through the same course. "how many have been rejected today?" asked one of the visitors. "two," said the inspector. these two unfortunates lay on a rack in front of her. interrupting her work she picked up one of them. at the second operation the pointer turned to a red segment of the dial and a bell rang. "i don't hear many bells ringing," commented the visitor, quizzically looking around the room. mary smiled with quiet pleasure. "next," she said, "i'm going to take you to a department where women never worked before." she led the way to one of the tempering buildings--a building equipped with long lines of ovens--each as large as a baker's oven--where metal cones were heated instead of rolls. "here, too, as you will see," said mary, "we have tried to reduce the element of human error as far as possible. in each oven is an electric thermometer and when the bearings have reached the proper degree of heat, an incandescent bulb is automatically lighted in front of the oven.... see?" they made their way to the oven where a white light had appeared. a woman-worker had already opened the door and was pulling a lever. as though by magic, a bunch of castings, wired together, came travelling out of their heat bath and were immediately lowered into a large tank which held the tempering liquid. "what would have happened if the oven hadn't been opened when the white light appeared?" asked another of the visitors. "in five minutes a red lamp would have been automatically lighted," said mary "--a signal for the forewoman to come and take charge of the oven." "and suppose the red lamp had been disregarded?" "in five minutes more an alarm bell would have started. you would have heard it over half the factory--and it would have kept ringing until the superintendent herself had come and stopped it with a key which only she is allowed to carry." "is that the bell now?" he asked, as a mellow chime came from one of the distant buildings. "no," smiled mary, listening, "that's the lunch bell. in another ten minutes i shall have a surprise for you." at the end of that time, they made their way to the dining room, which was already filled with eager women. in one corner was a private room, glass-partitioned. as mary followed her guests toward it, the full, subdued strains of the crusader march suddenly sounded in harmonious greeting from the other end of the room. "ah!" said the most distinguished visitor, turning to look. "men at last!" mary let him look and then she beamed with pleasure at his glance of appreciation. "our own orchestra--one hundred pieces," she said. "this is their first public appearance." oh, but it was a red-letter day for mary! whether it was the way she felt, or because the sound became softened and mellowed in travelling the length of the dining room, it seemed to her that she had never heard music so sweet, had never listened to sounds that filled her heart so full or lifted her thoughts so high. the climax came at the end of the dessert. a shy girl entered, a small leather box in her hand. "i have a souvenir for your visitor, miss spencer," she said, and turning to him she added, "we made it with our own hands, thinking you might like to use it as a paper weight--as a reminder of what women can do." the box was lined with blue velvet and contained a small model of the spencer bearing, made of gold, perfect to the last ball and the last roller. the visitor examined it with admiration--every eye in the dining room (which could be brought to bear) watching him through the glass partition. "if i ever received a more interesting souvenir," he said, "i fail to recall it. thank you, and please thank the others for me. tell them how very much i appreciate it, and tell them, too, if you will, that here in this factory today i have had my outlook on life widened to an extent which i had thought impossible. for that, too, i thank you." of course they couldn't hear him in the main room, but they could see when he had finished speaking. they clapped their hands; the band played; and when he arose and bowed, they clapped and played louder than before. and a few minutes later when the party left the dining room to the strains of el capitan, it seemed to mary that after the closing chord she heard two vigorous beats of the drum--soul expression of mrs. kelly, signifying "that's us!" the visitors departed at last, and mary returned to her office to find other callers awaiting her. the first was helen, togged to the nines. "somehow she heard they were here," thought mary, "and she came down thinking to meet them. she thought surely i would bring them in here again." but her next reflection made her frown a little. "--partly that, i guess," she thought, "and partly to see burdon, as usual." a knock on the door interrupted her, and joe entered, bearing two cards. "these gentlemen have been waiting since noon," he announced, "but they said they didn't mind waiting when i told them who was with you." the cards bore the name of a firm of public accountants. "oh, yes," said mary. "show them in, please, joe. and ask mr. burdon if i can see him for a few minutes." if you had been there, you might have noticed a change pass over helen. a moment before burdon's name was mentioned she was sitting relaxed and rather dispirited, as you sometimes see a yacht becalmed, riding the water without life or interest. but as soon as it appeared that burdon was about to enter, a breeze suddenly seemed to fill helen's sails. her beauty, passive before, became active. her bunting fluttered. her flags began to fly. the door opened, but helen's smiling glance was disappointed. the two auditors entered. one was grey, the other was young; but each had the same pale, incurious air of detachment. they reminded mary of two astronomy professors of her college days, two men who had just such an air of detachment, who always seemed to be out of their element in the daylight, always waiting for the night to come to resume the study of their beloved stars. "i have sent for our treasurer, mr. woodward," said mary. "won't you be seated for a few minutes?" they sat down in the same impersonal way and glanced around the room with eyes that seemed to see nothing. by the side of the mantel was a framed piece of history, an itemized bill of the first generation of the firm, dated june , , and quaint with its old spelling, its triple column of pounds, shillings and pence. "may i look at that?" asked one of the accountants, rising. the other followed him. their heads bent over the document.... it occurred to mary that they were verifying the addition. again the door opened and this time it was burdon, his dashing personality immediately dominating the room. mary introduced the accountants to him. "with our new methods," she said, "we probably need a new system of bookkeeping. i also want to compare our old costs with present costs--" burdon stared at her, but mary--half-ashamed of what she was doing--kept her glance upon the two accountants. "mr. burdon will give you all the old records, all the old books you want," she said, "and will help you in every possible way--" and still burdon stared at her--his whole life concentrated for a moment in his glance. and still mary looked at the two accountants who completed the triangle by looking at burdon, as they naturally would, waiting for him to turn and speak to them. as mary watched them, she became conscious of a change in their manner, a tenseness of interest, such as the two astronomers aforesaid might display at the sight of some disturbance in the heavens. "what do they see?" she thought, and looked at burdon. but burdon at the same moment had turned to the accountants, his manner as large, his air as dashing as ever. "anything you want, gentlemen," he said, "you have only to ask for it." when mary reached home that evening, you can imagine how aunt patty and aunt cordelia listened to her recital, their white heads nodding at the periods, their cheeks pink with pride. now and then they exchanged glances. "our baby!" these glances seemed to say, and then turned back to mary with such love and admiration that finally the object of this pantomime could stand it no longer, but had to kiss them both till their cheeks turned pinker than ever and they gasped for breath. that night, when mary went to her room and stood at the window, looking out at the world below and the sky above, she threw out her arms and, turning her face to the moonlight, she felt that world-old wish to express the inexpressible, to put immortal yearnings into mortal words. life--thankfulness for life--a joy so deep that it wasn't far from pain--hoping--longing-yearning ... for what? mary herself could not have told you--perhaps to be one with the starlight and the scent of flowers--to have the freedom of infinity--to express the inexpressible-- for a long time she stood at the window, the moon looking down upon her and bathing her face in its radiance.... insensibly then the earth recalled her and her thoughts began to return to the events of the day. "oh, yes," she suddenly said to herself, "i knew there was something.... i wonder why the accountants stared at burdon so...." chapter xxviii far away, that same moon was watching another scene--a ship on the southern sea throbbing its way to new york. it was a steamer just out of rio, its drawing rooms and upper decks filled with tourists doubly happy because they were going home. on the steerage deck below, in the apron of a kitchen worker, a man was standing with his elbows on the rail--an uncertain figure in the moonlight. once when he turned to look at the deck above, a lamp shone upon him. if you had been there you would have seen that while a beard covered much of his face, his cheeks were wasted and his eyes looked as though he needed rest. he turned his glance out over the sea again, looking now to the north star and now to the roadway of ripples that led to the moon. "i wonder if rosa's asleep," he thought. "eleven o'clock. she ought to be. it's a good school. she's lucky. so was i, that the old gentleman didn't get my letter...." on the deck above, a violin and harp were accompanying a piano. "that's where i ought to be--up there," he thought, "not peeling potatoes and scouring pans down here. all i have to do is to go up and announce myself...." he smiled--a grim affair. "yes, all i have to do is to go up and announce myself.... they'd take care of me, all right!" he lifted his hand and thoughtfully rubbed his beard. "as long as i stick to russian, i'm safe. nicholas rapieff--nobody has suspected me now for fifteen years. paul spencer's dead--dead long ago. but, somehow or other, i have taken it into my head that i would like to see the place where he was born...." his glance were on the ripples that led to the moon. "i wonder if the orchard is still back of the house," he thought, "and the winesap tree i fell out of. i wonder if old hutch is dead yet. i remember he carried me in the house, and the very next week i knocked the clock down on him.... i wonder if that swimming hole is still there where the river turns below the dam. that was the best of all.... i remember how i liked to lie there--an innocent kid--and dream what i was going to do when i was a man.... lord in heaven, what wouldn't i give to dream those dreams again...." on the upper deck the dance had come to an end. "time to turn in," thought paul. he crossed to the steerage door and a moment later the moon was shining on an empty deck. chapter xxix as time went on, it became increasingly clear to mary that wally wasn't happy--that the "one great thing in life" for him was turning out badly. never had a jason sailed forth with greater determination to find the golden fleece of happiness, but with every passing week he seemed to be further than ever from the winning of his prize. mary turned it over in her mind for a long time before she found a clue to the answer. "i believe it's because helen has nothing useful to occupy her mind," she thought one day; and more quickly than words can describe the fancy, she seemed to see the wives at each end of the social scale--each group engaged from morning till night on a never-ending round of unproductive activities, walkers of treadmills, drudges of want and wealth. "they are in just the same fix--the very rich and the very poor," she thought, "grinding away all day and getting nowhere--never satisfied--never happy--because way down in their hearts they know they're not doing anything useful--not doing anything that counts--" her mind returned to helen's case. "i'm sure that's it," she nodded. "helen hasn't found happiness, so she goes out looking for it, and never thinks of trying the only thing that would help her. yes, and i believe that's why so many rich people have divorces. when you come to think of it, you hardly ever heard of divorces during the war--because for the first time in their lives a lot of people were doing something useful--" hesitating then she asked herself if she ought not to speak to helen. "i didn't get any thanks the last time i tried it," she ruefully remarked. "but perhaps if i used an awful lot of tact--" she had her chance that afternoon when helen dropped in at the office on her way back from the city. "shopping--all day--tired to death," she said, sinking into the chair by the side of the desk. "how are you getting on?" mary felt like replying, "very well, thank you.... but how are you getting on, helen?.... you and wally?" somehow, though, it sounded dreadful, even to hint that everything wasn't as it should be between wally and his wife. "besides," thought mary, "she'd only say, 'oh, all right,' and yawn and change the subject--and what could i do then?" she answered herself, "nothing," and thoughtfully added, "it will take a lot of tact." indeed there are some topics which require so much tact in their presentation that the article becomes lost in its wrappings, and its presence isn't even suspected by the recipient. "how's wally?" asked mary. "oh, he's all right." "when i saw him the other day, i thought he was looking a bit under." "oh, i don't know--" as mary had guessed, helen patted her hand over her mouth to hide a yawn. "how's aunt patty and aunt cordelia?" she asked. mary sighed to herself. "what can i do?" she thought. "if i say, 'helen, you know you're not happy. folks never are unless they are doing something useful,' she would only think i was trying to preach to her. but if i don't say anything--and things go wrong--" one of the accountants entered--the elder one--with a sheaf of papers in his hand. on seeing the visitor, he drew back. "don't let me interrupt you," whispered helen to mary. "i'll run in and see burdon for a few minutes--" absent-mindedly mary began to look at the papers which the accountant placed before her--her thoughts elsewhere--but gradually her interest centred upon the matter in hand. "what?" she exclaimed. "a shortage as big as that last year? never!" the accountant looked at her with the same quizzical air as an astronomer might assume in looking at a child who had just said, "what? the sun ninety million miles away from the earth? never!" "either that," he said, "or a good many bearings were made in the factory last year--and lost in the river--" "oh, there's some mistake," said mary earnestly. "perhaps the factory didn't make as many bearings as you think." again he gave her his astronomical smile, as though she were saying now, "perhaps the moon isn't as round as you think it is; it doesn't always look round to me." "i thought it best to show you this, confidentially," he said, gathering the papers together, "because we have lately become conscious of a feeling of opposition--in trying to trace the source of this discrepancy. it seems to us," he suggested, speaking always in his impersonal manner, "that this is a point which needs clearing up--for the benefit of every one concerned." "yes," said mary after a pause "of course you must do that. it isn't right to raise suspicions and then not clear them up.... besides," she added, "i know that you'll find it's just a mistake somewhere--" after he had gone, helen looked in, burdon standing behind her, holding his cane horizontally, one hand near the handle, the other near the ferrule. in the half gloom of the hall he looked more dashing--more reckless--than mary had ever visioned him. his cane might have been a sword ... his hat three-cornered with a sable feather in it.... "i just looked in to say good-bye," said helen. "i'm going to take burdon home." "i need somebody to mind me," said burdon, flashing mary one of his violent smiles; and turning to go he said to helen over his shoulder, "come, child. we're late." "he calls her 'child'..." thought mary. that night wally was a visitor at the house on the hill--and when mary saw how subdued he was--how chastened he looked--her heart went out to him. "it seems so good to be here, calling again like this," he said. "does it remind you of old times, the same as it does me?" but mary wouldn't follow him there. as they talked it occurred to her more than once that while wally appeared to be listening to her, his thoughts were elsewhere--his ears attuned for other sounds. "what are you listening for!" she asked him once. he answered her with a puzzle. "for the lorelei's song," he said, and going to the piano he sang it, his clear, plaintive tenor still retaining its power to make her nose smart and the dumb chills to run up and down her back. she was sitting near the piano and when he was through, he turned around on the bench. "have you ever been the least bit sorry," he asked, "that you turned me down--for a business career?" "i didn't turn you down," she said. "we couldn't agree on certain things: that's all." "on what, for instance?" "that love is the one great thing in life, for instance. you always said it was--especially to a girl. and i always said there were other things in a woman's life, too--that love shouldn't monopolize her any more than it does a man." "you were wrong, mary, and you know you were wrong." "i was right, wally, and you know i was right. because, don't you see?--if love is the only thing in life, and love fails, a person's whole life is in ruins--and that isn't fair--" "it's true, though," he answered, more to himself than to her. again he unconsciously assumed a listening attitude, as one who is trying to catch a sound from afar. "wally!" said mary. "what on earth are you listening for?" again it pleased him to answer her with a riddle. "italian opera," he said; and turning back to the keyboard he began-- "woman is fickle false altogether moves like a feather borne on the breezes--" "did you ever sing when you were flying?" she asked, trying to shake him out of his mood. the question proved a happy one. for nearly two hours they chatted and smiled and hummed old airs together--that is to say, wally hummed them and mary tried, for, as you know, she couldn't sing but could only follow the melody with a sort of a deep note far down in her throat, always pretending that she wasn't doing it and shyly laughing when wally nodded in encouragement and tried to get her to sing up louder. "eleven o'clock!" he exclaimed at last. "that's the first time in three months--" whatever it was, he didn't finish it, but when he bade her good-bye he said in a low voice, "young lady, do you know that you played the very old ned with my life when you turned me down?" but mary wouldn't follow him there, either. "good-bye, wally," she said, and just before he went down to his car, she saw him standing on the step, his face turned toward the drive as though still listening for that distant sound--that sound which never came. the riddle was solved the next morning. helen appeared at the office soon after nine and the moment she saw mary she said, "has wally 'phoned you this morning?" "no," said mary. her cousin looked relieved. "i want you to fib for me," she said. "you know the way the men stick together.... well, the women have to do it, too.... at dinner yesterday," she continued, "wally happened to ask me where i was going that evening, and i told him i was coming over to see you. and really, dear, i meant it at the time. instead, a little crowd of us happened to get together and we went to the club. "well, that was all right. but it was nearly twelve when i got home, and he looked so miserable that i hated to tell him that i had been off enjoying myself, so i pretended i had been over to see you." mary blinked at the inference, but was too breathless, too alarmed to speak. "he asked me if i got to your house early," resumed helen, "and i said, 'oh, about eight.' and then he said, 'what time did you leave mary's?' and i said, 'oh, about half-past eleven.' "of course, i thought everything was all right, but i could tell from something he said this morning that he didn't believe me. so if he calls you up, tell him that i was over at your house last night--will you?--there's a dear--" "but i can't," said mary, more breathless, more alarmed than ever. "wally was over himself last night--and, oh, helen, now i know! he was listening for your car every minute!" helen stared ... and then suddenly she laughed--a laugh that had no mirth in it--that sound, half bitter, half mocking, which is sometimes used as ironical applause for ironical circumstance. "i guess i can square it up somehow," she said. "i'll drop in and see burdon for a few minutes." before her cousin knew it, she was gone. "i'll speak to her when she comes out," mary told herself, but while she was trying to decide what to say, the morning mail was placed on her desk and the routine of the day began. half an hour later she heard the sound of helen's car rolling away. "she went without saying good-bye," thought mary. "oh, well, i'll see her again before long." to her own surprise the events of the last few days worried her less than she expected. for one reason, she had lived long enough to notice that no matter how involved things may look, time has an astonishing faculty of straightening them out. and for another reason, having two worries to think about, each one tended to take her mind off the other. whenever she started thinking about the accountant's report, she presently found herself wondering how helen proposed to square it up with wally. "oh, well," she thought again, realizing the futility of trying to read the future, "let's hope everything will come out right in the end.... it always has, so far...." archey came in toward noon, and mary went with him to inspect a colony of bungalows which she was having built on the heights by the side of the lake. another thing that she had lived long enough to notice was the different effect which different people had upon her. although she preserved, or tried to preserve, the same tranquil air of interest toward them all--a tranquillity and interest which generally required no effort--some of the people she met in the day's work subconsciously aroused a feeling of antagonism in her, some secretly amused her, some irritated her, some made her feel under a strain, and some even had the queer, vampirish effect of leaving her washed out and listless--psychological puzzles which she had never been able to solve. but with archey she always felt restful and contented, smiling at him and talking to him without exertion or repression and--using one of those old-fashioned phrases which are often the last word in description--always "feeling at home" with him, and never as though he had to be thought of as company. they climbed the hill together and began inspecting the bungalows. "i wouldn't mind living in one of these myself," said archey. "what are you going to do with them?" but that was a secret. mary smiled inscrutably and led the way into the kitchen. i have called it a kitchen, but it was just as much a living room, a dining room. a pullman table had been built in between two of the windows and on each side of this was a settee. at the other end of the room was a gas range. when wally opened the refrigerator door he saw that it could be iced from the porch. electric light fixtures hung from the ceiling and the walls. "going to have an artists' colony up here?" teased archey, and looking around in admiration he repeated, "no, sir! i wouldn't mind living in one of these houses myself--" they went into the next room--the sitting room proper--unusual for its big bay window, its built-in cupboards and bookshelves. then came the bathroom and three bed-rooms, all in true bungalow style on one floor. when they had first entered, mary and archey had chatted freely enough, but gradually they had grown quieter. there is probably no place in the world so contributive to growing intimacy as a new empty house--when viewed by a young man and a younger woman who have known each other for many years-- the place seems alive, hushed, expectant, watching every move of its visitors, breathing suggestions to them-- "do you like it?" asked mary, breaking the silence. archey nodded, afraid for the moment to trust himself to speak. they looked at each other and, almost in haste, they went outside. "he'll never get over that trick of blushing," thought mary. at the end of the hall was a closet door with a mirror set in it. she caught sight of her own cheeks. "oh, dear!" she breathed to herself. "i wonder if i'm catching it, too!" once outside, archey began talking with the concentration of a man who is trying to put his mind on something else. "this work up here was a lucky turn for some of the strikers," he said. "things are getting slack again now and men are being laid off. here and there i begin to hear the old grumbling, 'three thousand women keeping three thousand men out of jobs.' so whenever i hear that, i remind them how you found work for a lot of the men up here--and then of course i tell them it was their own fault--going on strike in the first place--just to get four women discharged!" "and even if three thousand women are doing the work of three thousand men," said mary, "i don't see why any one should object--if the women don't. the wages are being spent just the same to pay rent and buy food and clothes--and the savings are going into the bank--more so than when the men were drawing the money!" "i guess it's a question of pride on the man's part--as much as anything else--" "oh, archey--don't you think a woman has pride, too?" "well, you know what i mean. he feels he ought to be doing the work, instead of the woman." "oh, archey," she said again. "can't you begin to see that the average woman has always worked harder than the average man? you ask any of the women at the factory which is the easiest--the work they are doing now--or the work they used to do." "i keep forgetting that. but how about this--i hear it all the time. suppose the idea spreads and after a while there are millions of women doing work that used to be done by men--what are the men going to do?" "that's a secret," she laughed. "but i'll tell you some day--if you're good--" the friendly words slipped out unconsciously, but for some reason her tone and manner made his heart hammer away like that powerful downward passage of the anvil chorus. "i'll be good," he managed to say. mary hardly heard him. "i wonder what made me speak like that," she was thinking. "i must be more dignified--or he'll think i'm bold...." and in a very dignified voice indeed, she said, "i must be getting back now. i wish you'd find the contractor and ask him when he'll be through." she went down the hill alone. on the way a queer thought came to her. i sha'n't attempt to explain it--only to report it. "of course it isn't the only thing in life--that's ridiculous," she thought. "but sooner or later ... i guess it becomes quite important...." chapter xxx a few hours later, mary was sitting in her office, thinking of this and that (as the old phrase goes) when a knock sounded on the door and the elderly accountant entered. "we have finished the first part of our work," he said, "that dealing with factory costs. i will leave this with you and when you have read it, i would like to go over it with you in detail." it was a formidable document, nearly three hundred typewritten pages, neatly bound in hard covers. mary hadn't looked in it far when she knew she was examining a work of art. "how he must love his work!" she thought, and couldn't help wondering what accidental turn of life had guided his career into the field of figures. "how interesting he makes it!" she thought again. "why, it's almost like a novel." brilliant sentences illuminated nearly every page. "this system, admirable in its way, is probably a legacy from the past, when the bookkeepers of spencer & son powdered their hair and used quill pens.--" "under these conditions, a stock clerk must become a prodigy and depend upon his memory. when memory fails he must become a poet, for he has nothing but imagination to guide him." "thus one department would corroborate another, like two witnesses independently sworn and each examined in private--" the back of the volume, she noticed, was filled with tables of figures. "this won't be so interesting," she told herself, turning the leaves. but suddenly she stopped at one of the open pages--and read it again--and again-- "comparative efficiency of men's labour and women's labour," the sheet was headed. and there it was in black and white, line after line, just how much it had cost to make each spencer bearing when the men did the work, and just how much it was costing under the new conditions. "there!" said mary, "i always knew we could do it, if the women in europe could! there! no wonder we've been making so much money lately--!" she took the report home in triumph to show to her aunts, and when dinner was over she carried the volume to her den, and never a young lady in bye-gone days sat down to don juan with any more pleasurable anticipation than mary felt when she buried herself in her easy chair and opened that report again. she was still gloating over the table of women's efficiency when hutchins appeared. "mr. archibald forbes is calling." archey had news. "the men had a meeting this afternoon," he said. "they've been getting up a big petition, and they are going to send another committee to washington." "what for?" "to press for that boycott. headquarters put them off last time, but there are so many men out of work now at other factories that they hope to get a favourable decision." "i'll see judge cutler in the morning," promised mary, and noticing archey's expression, she said, "don't worry. i'm not the least alarmed." "what bothers me," he said, "is to have this thing hanging over all the time. it's like old what's-his-name who had the sword hanging over his head by a single hair all through the dinner." the sword didn't seem to bother mary, though. that comparative table had given her another idea--an idea that was part plan and part pride. when she reached the office in the morning she telephoned judge cutler and uncle stanley. "a directors' meeting--something important," she told them both; and after another talk with the accountant she began writing another of her advertisements. she was finishing this when judge cutler appeared. a minute later uncle stanley followed him. lately uncle stanley had been making his headquarters at the bank--his attitude toward the factory being one of scornful amusement. "women mechanics!" he sometimes scoffed to visitors at the bank. "women foremen! women presidents! by judas, i'm beginning to think old ned himself is a woman--the sort of mischief he's raising lately!... something's bound to crack before long, though." in that last sentence you have the picture of uncle stanley. even as mr. micawber was always waiting for something to turn up, so uncle stanley was always waiting for something to go wrong. mary opened the meeting by showing the accountants' report and then reading her proposed advertisement. if you had been there, i think you would have seen the gleam of satisfaction in uncle stanley's eye. "i knew i'd catch her wrong yet," he seemed to be saying to himself. "as soon as she's made a bit of money, she wants everybody to have it. it's the hen and the egg all over again--they've simply got to cackle." thus the gleam in uncle stanley's eye. looking up at the end of her reading, mary caught it. "how he hates women!" she thought. "still, in a way, you can't wonder at it.... if it hadn't been for women and the things they can do he would have had the factory long ago." aloud she said, "what do you think of it?" "i think it's a piece of foolishness, myself," said uncle stanley promptly. "but i know you are going to do it, if you've made up your mind to do it." "i'm not so sure it's foolish," said the judge. "it seems to me it's going to bring us a lot of new business." "got all we can handle now, haven't we?" "well, we can expand! it wouldn't be the first time in spencer & son's history that the factory has been doubled, and, by jingo, i believe mary's going to do it, too!" mary said nothing, but a few mornings later when the advertisement appeared in the leading newspapers throughout the country, she made a remark which showed that her co-directors had failed to see at least two of the birds at which she was throwing her stone.... she had the newspapers brought to her room that morning, and was soon reading the following quarter page announcement: the fruits of her labour for the past six months, spencer bearings have been made exclusively by women. the first result of this is a finer degree of accuracy than had ever been attained before. the second result is a reduction in the cost of manufacture, this notwithstanding the fact that every woman on our payroll has always received man's wages, and we have never worked more than eight hours a day. to those who watched the work done by women in the war, neither of the above results will be surprising. because of the accuracy of her work, spencer bearings are giving better satisfaction than ever before. because of her dexterity and quickness, we are able to make the following public announcement: we are raising the wages of every woman in our factory one dollar a day; and we are reducing the price of our bearings ten per cent. these changes go into effect immediately. josiah spencer & son, inc. mary spencer, president. "there!" said mary, sitting up in bed and making a gesture to the world outside. "that's what women can do! ... are you going to boycott us now?" chapter xxxi if you can imagine a smiling, dreamy-eyed bombshell that explodes in silence, aimed at men's minds instead of their bodies, rocking fixed ideas upon their foundations and shaking innumerable old notions upon their pedestals until it is hard to tell whether or not they are going to fall, perhaps you can get an idea of the first effect of mary's advertisement. wherever skilled workmen gathered together her announcement was discussed, and nowhere with greater interest than in her own home town. "seems to me this thing may spread," said a thoughtful looking striker in repetti's pool-room. "looks to me as though we had started something that's going to be powerful hard to stop." "what makes you think it's going to spread?" asked another. "stands to reason. if women can make bearings cheaper than men, the other bearing companies have got to hire women, too, or else go out of business. and you can bet your life they won't go out of business without giving the other thing a try." "hang it all, there ought to be a law against women working," said a third. "you mean working for wages?" "sure i mean working for wages." "how are you going to pass a law like that when women can vote?" impatiently demanded a fourth. "bill's right," said another. "we've started something here that's going to be hard to stop." "and the next thing you know," continued bill, looking more thoughtful than ever, "some manufacturer in another line of business--say automobiles--is going to get the idea of cutting his costs and lowering his prices--and pretty soon you'll see women making automobiles, too. you can go to sleep at some of those tools in a motor shop. pie for the ladies!" "what are us men going to do after a while?" complained another. "wash the dishes? or sweep the streets? or what?" "search me. i guess it'll come out all right in the end; but, believe me, we certainly pulled a bonehead play when we went on strike because of those four women." "i was against it from the first, myself," said another. "so was i. i voted against the strike." "so did i!" "so did i!" it was a conversation that would have pleased mary if she could have heard it, especially when it became apparent that those who had caused the strike were becoming so hard to find. but however much they might now regret the first cause, the effect was growing more irresistible with every passing hour. it began to remind mary of the dikes in holland. for centuries, working unconsciously more often than not, men had built walls that kept women out of certain industries. then through their own strike, the men at new bethel had made a small hole in the wall--and the women had started to trickle through. with the growth of the strike, the gap in the wall had widened and deepened. more and more women were pouring through, with untold millions behind them, a flowing flood of power that was beginning to make mary feel solemn. like william the thoughtful, she, too, saw that she had started something which was going to be hard to stop.... all over the country, women had been watching for the outcome of her experiment, and when the last announcement appeared, a stream of letters and inquiries poured upon her desk.... the reporters returned in greater strength than ever.... it sometimes seemed to mary that the whole dike was beginning to crack.... even jove must have felt a sense of awe when he saw the effect of his first thunderbolt.... "if they would only go slowly," she uneasily told herself, "it would be all right. but if they go too fast..." she made a helpless gesture--again the gesture of those who have started something which they can't stop--but just before she went home that evening she received a telegram which relieved the tension. "may we confer with you monday at your office regarding situation at new bethel?" that was the telegram. it was signed by three leaders of labour--the same men, mary remembered, whom judge cutler had seen when he had visited headquarters. "splendid men, all of them," she remembered him reporting. "i'm sure you'd like them, mary." "perhaps they'll be able to help," she told herself. "anyhow, i'm not going to worry any more until i have seen them." that night, after dinner, two callers appeared at the house on the hill. the first was helen. dinner was hardly over when mary saw her smart coupé turn in to the garage. a minute later helen ran up the steps, a travelling bag in her hand. she kissed her cousin twice, quotation marks of affection which enclosed the whisper, "do you mind if i stay all night?" "of course i don't," said mary, laughing at her earnestness. "what's the matter? wally out of town?" "oh, don't talk to me about wally! ... no; he isn't out of town. that's why i'm here.... can i have my old room?" she was down again soon, her eyes brighter than they should have been, her manner so high strung that it wasn't far from being flighty. as though to avoid conversation, she seated herself at the piano and played her most brilliant pieces. "i think you might tell me," said mary, in the first lull. "i told you long ago. men are fools! but if he thinks he can bully me--!" "who?" "wally!" mary's exclamation of surprise was drowned in the ballet from coppelia. "i don't allow any man to worry me!" said helen over her shoulder. "but, helen--don't you think it's just possible--that you've been worrying him?" a crashing series of chords was her only answer. in the middle of a run helen topped and swung around on the bench. "talking about worrying people," she said. "what's the matter with burdon down at the office lately? what have you been doing to him?" "helen! what a thing to say!" "well, that's how it started, if you want to know! i was trying to cheer him up a little ... and wally thought he saw more than he did...." for a feverish minute she resumed delibes' dance, but couldn't finish it. she rose, half stumbling, blinded by her tears and mary comforted her. "now, go and get your bag, dear," she said at last, "and i'll go home with you, and stay all night if you like." but helen wouldn't have that. "no," she said, "i'm going to stay here a few days. i told my maid where she could find me--but i made her promise not to tell wally till morning--and i'm not going back till he comes for me." "i wonder what he saw..." mary kept thinking. "poor wally!" and then more gently, "poor helen! ... it's just as i've always said." mary was a long time going to sleep that night, thinking of helen, and wally and burdon. yes, helen was right about burdon. something was evidently worrying him. for the last few days she had noticed how irritable he was, how drawn he looked. "i do believe he's in trouble of some sort," she sighed. "and he looks so reckless, too. i'm glad that wally did speak to helen. he isn't safe." and again the thought recurring, "i wonder what wally saw...." a sound from the lawn beneath her window stopped her. at first she thought she was dreaming--but no, it was a mandolin being played on muted strings. she stole to the window. in the shadow stood a figure and at the first subdued note of his song, mary knew who it was. "soft o'er the fountain ling'ring falls the southern moon--" "if that isn't wally all over," thought mary. "he thinks helen's here, and he wants to make up." but how did he know helen was there? and why was he singing so sadly, so plaintively just underneath mary's window? another possibility came to her mind and she was still wondering what to do when helen came in, even as she had come in that night so long ago when wally had sung juanita before. "wait till morning! he'll hear from me!" said helen in indignation. wally's song was growing fainter. he had evidently turned and was walking toward the driveway. a minute later the rumble of a car was heard. "if he thinks he can talk to me the way he did," said helen, more indignant than before, "and then come around here like that--serenading you--!" "oh, helen, don't," said mary, trembling. "...i think he was saying good-bye.... wait till i put the light on...." the distress in her voice cheeked helen's anger, and a moment later the two cousins were staring at each other, two tragic figures suddenly uncovered from the mantle of light. "i won't go back to my room; i'll stay here," whispered helen at last. "don't fret, mary; he won't do anything." it was a long time, though, before mary could stop trembling, but an hour later when the telephone bell began ringing downstairs, she found that her old habit of calmness had fallen on her again. "i'll answer it," she said to helen. "don't cry now. i'm sure it's nothing." but when she returned in a few minutes, helen only needed one glance to tell her how far it was from being nothing. "your maid," said mary, hurrying to her dresser. "wally's car ran into the bar harbor express at the crossing near the club.... he's terribly hurt, but the doctor says there's just a chance.... you run and dress now, as quickly as you can.... i have a key to the garage...." chapter xxxii the first east-bound express that left new york the following morning carried in one of its pullmans a famous surgeon and his assistant, bound for new bethel. in the murk of the smoker ahead was a third passenger whose ticket bore the name of the same city--a bearded man with rounded shoulders and tired eyes, whose clothes betrayed a foreign origin. this was paul spencer on the last stage of his journey home. until the train drew out of the station, the seat by his side was unoccupied. but then another foreign looking passenger entered and made his way up the aisle. you have probably noticed how some instinctive law of selection seems to guide us in choosing our companion in a car where all the window seats are taken. the newcomer passed a number of empty places and sat down by the side of paul. he was tall, blonde, with dusty looking eyebrows and a beard that was nearly the colour of dead grass. "russian, i guess," thought paul, "and probably thinks i am something of the same." the reflection pleased him. "if that's the way i look to him, nobody else is going to guess." when the conductor came, paul's seat-mate tried to ask if he would have to change cars before reaching his destination, but his language was so broken that he couldn't make himself understood. "i thought he was russian," paul nodded to himself, catching a word here and there; and, aloud, he quietly added in his mother's tongue, "it's all right, batuchka; you don't have to change." the other gave him a grateful glance, and soon they were talking together. "a bolshevist," thought paul, recognizing now and then a phrase or an argument which he had heard from some of his friends in rio, "but what's he going to new bethel for?" as the train drew nearer the place of his birth, paul grew quieter. old landmarks, nearly forgotten, began to appear and remind him of the past. "what time do we get there?" he asked a passing brakeman. "eleven-thirty-four." paul's companion gave him a look of envy. "you speak english well," said he. paul didn't like that, and took refuge behind one of those slavonic indirections which are typical of the russian mind--an indirection hinting at mysterious purpose and power. "there are times in a life," said he, "when it becomes necessary to speak a foreign language well." they looked at each other then, and simultaneously they nodded. "you are right, batuchka," said the blonde giant at last, matching indirection with indirection. "for myself, i cannot speak english well--ah, no--but i have a language that all men understand--and fear--and when i speak, the houses fall and the mountains shake their heads." his eyes gleamed and he breathed quickly--intoxicated by the poetry of his own words; but paul had heard too much of that sort of imagery to be impressed. "a bolshevist, sure enough," he thought. a familiar landscape outside attracted his attention. "we'll be there in a few minutes," he thought. "yes, there's the road ... and there's the lower bridge.... i hope that old place at the bend of the river's still there. i'll take a walk down this afternoon, and see." at the station he noted that his late companion was being greeted by a group of friends who had evidently come to meet him. paul stood for a few minutes on the platform, unrecognized, unheeded, jostled by the throng. "the prodigal son returns," he sighed, and slowly crossed the square.... late in the afternoon a tired figure made its way along the river below the factory. the banks were high, but where the stream turned, a small grass-covered cove had been hollowed out by the edge of the water. "this is the best of all," thought paul after he had climbed down the bank and, sinking upon the grass, he lay with his face to the sun, as he had so often lain when he was a boy, dreaming those golden dreams of youth which are the heritage of us all. "i was a fool to come," he told himself. "i'll get back to the ship tomorrow...." for where he had hoped to find pleasure, he had found little but bitterness. the sight of the house on the hill, the factory in the hollow below the dam, even the faces which he had recognized had given him a feeling of sadness, of punishment--a feeling which only an outcast can know to the full--an outcast who returns to the scene of his home after many years, unrecognized, unwanted, afraid almost to speak for fear he will betray himself.... for a long time paul lay there, sometimes staring up at the sky, sometimes half turning to look up the river where he could catch a glimpse of the factory grounds and, farther up, the high cascade of water falling over the dam--the bridge just above it.... gradually a sense of rest, of relaxation took possession of him. "this is the best of all," he sighed, "but i'll get back to the ship tomorrow...." the sun shone on his face.... his eyes closed.... when he opened them again it was dark. "first time i've slept like that for years," he said, sitting up and stretching. around him the grass was wet with dew. "must be getting late," he thought. "i'd better get under shelter." on the bridge above the dam he saw the headlights of a car slowly moving. in the centre it stopped and the lights went out. "that's funny," he thought. "something the matter with his wires, maybe." he stood up, idly watching. after a few minutes the lights switched on again and the car began to move forward. behind it appeared the approaching lights of a second machine. "that first car doesn't want to be seen," thought paul. at each end of the bridge was an arc lamp. as the first car passed under the light, he caught a glimpse of it--a grey touring car, evidently capable of speed. paul didn't think of this again until he was near the place where he had decided to pass the night. at the corner of the street ahead of him a grey car stopped and three men got out--his blonde companion of the train among them, conspicuous both on account of his height and his beard. "that's the same car," thought paul, watching it roll away; and frowning as he thought of his russian acquaintance of the morning he uneasily added, "i wonder what they were doing on that bridge...." chapter xxxiii the next morning wally was a little better. he was still unconscious, but thanks to the surgeon his breathing was less laboured and he was resting more quietly. mary had stayed with helen overnight, and more than once it had occurred to her that even as it requires darkness to bring out the beauty of the stars, so in the shadow of overhanging disaster, helen's better qualities came into view and shone with unexpected radiance. "i know..." thought mary. "it's partly because she's sorry, and partly because she's busy, too. she's doing the most useful work she ever did in her life, and it's helping her as much as it's helping him--" they had a day nurse, but helen had insisted upon doing the night work herself. there were sedatives to be given, bandages to be kept moist. mary wanted to stay up, too, but helen didn't like that. "i want to feel that i'm doing something for him--all myself," she said, and with a quivering lip she added, "oh, mary... if he ever gets over this...!" and in the morning, to their great joy, the doctor pronounced him a little better. mary would have stayed longer, but that was the day when the labour leaders were to visit the factory; so after hearing the physician's good report, she started for the office. at ten o'clock she telephoned helen who told her that wally had just fallen off into his first quiet sleep. "i'm going to get some sleep myself, now, if i can," she added. "the nurse has promised to call me when he wakes." mary breathed easier, for some deep instinct told her that wally would come through it all right. she was still smiling with satisfaction when joe of the plumed hair came in with three cards, the dignity of his manner attesting to the importance of the names. "all right, joe, send them in," she said. "and i wish you'd find mr. forbes and mr. woodward, and tell them i would like to see them." "mr. woodward hasn't come down yet, but i guess i know where mr. forbes is--" he disappeared and returned with the three callers. mary arose and bowed as they introduced themselves, meanwhile studying them with tranquil attentiveness. "the judge was right," she told herself. "i like them." and when they sat down, there was already a friendly spirit in the air. "this is a wonderful work you are doing here, miss spencer," said one. "you think so?" she asked. "you mean for the women to be making bearings?" "yes. weren't you surprised yourself when your idea worked out so well?" "but it wasn't my idea," she said. "it was worked out in the war--oh, ever so much further than we have gone here. we are only making bearings, but when the war was on, women made rifles and cartridges and shells, cameras and lenses, telescopes, binoculars and aeroplanes. i can't begin to tell you the things they made--every part from the tiniest screws as big as the end of this pin--to rough castings. they did designing, and drafting, and moulding, and soldering, and machining, and carpentering, and electrical work--even the most unlikely things--things you would never think of--like ship-building, for instance! "ship-building! imagine!" she continued. "why, one of the members of the british board of munitions said that if the war had lasted a few months longer, he could have guaranteed to build a battleship from keel to crow's-nest--with all its machinery and equipment--all its arms and ammunition--everything on it--entirely by woman's labour! "so, you see, i can't very well get conceited about what we are doing here--although, of course, i am proud of it, too, in a way--" she stopped then, afraid they would think she was gossipy--and she let them talk for a while. the conversation turned to her last advertisement. "are you sure your figures are right?" asked one. "are you sure your women workers are turning out bearings so much cheaper than the men did?" "they are not my figures," she told them. "they are taken from an audit by a firm of public accountants." she mentioned the name of the firm and her three callers nodded with respect. "i have the report here," she said--and showed them the table of comparative efficiency. "remarkable!" said one. "it only confirms," said mary, "what often happened during the war." "perhaps you are working your women too hard." "if you would like to go through the factory," said mary, "you can judge for yourselves." archey was in the outer office and they took him with them. they began with the nursery and went on, step by step, until they arrived at the shipping room. "do you think they are overworked?" asked mary then. the three callers shook their heads. they had all grown rather silent as the tour had progressed, but in their eyes was the light of those who have seen revelations. "as happy a factory as i have ever seen," said one. "in fact, it makes it difficult to say what we wanted to say." they returned to the office and when they were seated again, mary said, "what is it you wanted to say?" "we wanted to talk to you about the strike. as we understand your principle, miss spencer, you regard it as unfair to bar a woman from any line of work which she may wish to follow--simply because she is a woman." "that's it," she said. "and for the same reason, of course, no man should be debarred from working, simply because he's a man." they smiled at that. "such being the case," he continued, "i think we ought to be able to find some way of settling this strike to the satisfaction of both sides. of course you know, miss spencer, that you have won the strike. but i think i can read character well enough to know that you will be as fair to the men as you wish them to be with the women." "the strike was absolutely without authority from us," said one of the others. "the men will tell you that. it was a mistake. they will tell you that, too. worse than a mistake, it was silly." "however, that's ancient history now," said the third. "the present question is: how can we settle this matter to suit both sides?" "of course i can't discharge any of the women," said mary thoughtfully, "and i don't think they want to leave--" "they certainly don't look as if they did--" "i have another plan in mind," she said, more thoughtfully than before, "but that's too uncertain yet.... the only other thing i can think of is to equip some of our empty buildings and start the men to work there. since our new prices went into effect we have been turning business away." "you'll do that, miss spencer?" "of course the men would have to do as much work as the women are doing now--so we could go on selling at the new prices." "you leave that to us--and to them. if there's such a thing as pride in the world, a thousand men are going to turn out as many bearings as a thousand women!" "there's one thing more," said the second; "i notice you have raised your women's wages a dollar a day. can we tell the men that they are going to get women's wages?" they laughed at this inversion of old ideas. "you can tell them they'll get women's wages," said mary, "if they can do women's work!" but in spite of her smile, for the last few minutes she had become increasingly conscious of a false note, a forced conclusion in their plans--had caught glimpses of future hostilities, misunderstandings, suspicions. the next remark of one of the labour leaders cleared her thoughts and brought her back face to face with her golden vision. "the strike was silly--yes," one of the leaders said. "but back of the men's actions i think i can see the question which disturbed their minds. if women enter the trades, what are the men going to do? will there be work enough for everybody?" even before he stopped speaking, mary knew that she had found herself, knew that the solid rock was under her feet again. "there is just so much useful work that has to be done in the world every day," she said, "and the more hands there are to do it, the quicker it will get done." that was as far as she had ever gone before, but now she went a step farther. "let us suppose, for instance, that we had three thousand married men working here eight hours a day to support their families. if now we allow three thousand women to come out of those same homes and work side by side with the men--why, don't you see?--the work could be done in four hours instead of eight, and yet the same family would receive just the same income as they are getting now--the only difference being that instead of the man drawing all the money, he would draw half and his wife would draw half." "a four hour day!" said one of the leaders, almost in awe. "i'm sure it's possible if the women help," said mary, "and i know they want to help. they want to feel that they are doing something--earning something--just the same as a man does. they want to progress--develop-- "we used to think they couldn't do men's work," she continued. "i used to think so, myself. so we kept them fastened up at home--something like squirrels in cages--because we thought housework was the only thing they could do.... "but, oh, how the war has opened our eyes!... "there's nothing a man can do that a woman can't do--nothing! and now the question is: are we going to crowd her back into her kitchen, when if we let her out we could do the world's work in four hours instead of eight?" "of course there are conditions where four hours wouldn't work," said one of the leaders half to himself. "i can see that in many places it might be feasible, but not everywhere--" "no plan works everywhere. no plan is perfect," said mary earnestly. "i've thought of that, too. the world is doing its best to progress--to make people happier--to make life more worth living all the time. but no single step will mark the end of human progress. each step is a step: that's all... "take the eight hour day, for instance. it doesn't apply to women at all--i mean house women. and nearly half the people are house women. it doesn't apply to farmers, either; and more than a quarter of the people in america are on farms. but you don't condemn the eight hour day--do you?--just because it doesn't fit everybody?" "a four hour day!" repeated the first leader, still speaking in tones of awe. "if that wouldn't make labour happy," said the second, "i don't know what would." "myself, i'd like to see it tried out somewhere," said the third. "it sounds possible--the way miss spencer puts it--but will it work?" "that's the very thing to find out," said mary, "and it won't take long." she told them about the model bungalows. "i intended to try it with twenty-five families first," she said, taking a list from her desk. "here are the names of a hundred women working here, whose husbands are among the strikers. i thought that out of these hundred families, i might be able to find twenty-five who would be willing to try the experiment." the three callers looked at each other and then they nodded approval. "so while we're having lunch," she said, "i'll send these women out to find their husbands, and we'll talk to them altogether." it was half past one when mary entered the rest room with her three visitors and archey. nearly all the women had found their men, and they were waiting with evident curiosity. as simply as she could, mary repeated the plan which she had outlined to the leaders. "so there you are," she said in conclusion. "i want to find twenty-five families to give the idea a trial. they will live in those new bungalows--you have probably all seen them. "there's a gas range in each to make cooking easy. they have steam heat from the factory--no stoves--no coal--no ashes to bother with. there's electric light, refrigerator, bathroom, hot and cold water--everything i could think of to save labour and make housework easy. "now, mrs. strauss, suppose you and your husband decide to try this new arrangement. you would both come here and work till twelve o'clock, and the afternoons you would have to yourselves. "in the afternoons you could go shopping, or fishing, or walking, or boating, or skating, or visiting, or you could take up a course of study, or read a good book, or go to the theatre, or take a nap, or work in your garden--anything you liked.... "in short, after twelve o'clock, the whole day would be your own--for your own development, your own pleasure, your own ideas--anything you wanted to use it for. do you understand it, mrs. strauss?" "indeed i do. i think it's fine." "is mr. strauss here? does he understand it?" "yes, i understand it," said a voice among the men. assisted by his neighbours he arose. "i'm to work four hours a day," he said, "and so's the wife. instead of drawing full money, i draw half and she draws half. we'd have to chip in on the family expenses. every day is to be like saturday--work in the morning and the afternoon off. suits me to a dot, if it suits her. i always did think saturday was the one sensible day in the week." a chorus of masculine laughter attested approval to this sentiment and mr. strauss sat down abashed. "well, now, if you all understand it," said mary, "i want twenty-five families who will volunteer to try this four-hour-a-day arrangement--so we can see how it works. all those who would like to try it--will they please stand up?" presently one of the labour leaders turned to mary with a beaming eye. "looks as though they'll have to draw lots," said he... "they are all standing up...!" chapter xxxiv the afternoon was well advanced when her callers left, and mary had to make up her work as best she could. a violent thunder-storm had arisen, but in spite of the lightning she telephoned helen. wally was still improving. "i'll be over as soon as i've had dinner," said mary, "but don't expect me early." she was hanging up the receiver when the senior accountant entered, a little more detached, a little more impersonal than she had ever seen him. "we shall have our final report ready in the morning," he said. "that's good," said mary, starting to sign her letters. "i'll be glad to see it any time." at the door he turned, one hand on the knob. "i haven't seen mr. woodward, jr., today. do you expect him tomorrow?" at any other time she would have asked herself, "why is he inquiring for burdon?"--but she had so much work waiting on her desk, demanding her attention, that it might be said she was talking subconsciously, hardly knowing what was asked or answered. it was dusk when she was through, and the rain had stopped for a time. near the entrance to the house on the hill--a turn where she always had to drive slowly--a shabby man was standing--a bearded man with rounded shoulders and tired eyes. "i wonder who he is?" thought mary. "that's twice i've seen him standing there...." without seeming to do so, a pretence which only a woman can accomplish, she looked at him again. "how he stares!" she breathed. as you have guessed, the waiting man was paul. for the first time that morning he had heard about the strike--had heard other things, too--in the cheap hotel where he had spent the night--obscure but alarming rumours which had led him to change his plans about an immediate return to his ship. a bit here, a bit there, he had pieced the story of the strike together--a story which spared no names, and would have made burdon woodward's ears burn many a time if he had heard it. "there's a bunch of bolshevikis come in now--" this was one of the things which paul had been told. "'down with the capitalists who prey on women!' that's them! but it hasn't caught on. sounds sort of flat around here to those who know the women. so this bunch of bols has been laying low the last few days. they've hired a boat and go fishing in the lake. they don't fool me, though--not much they don't. they're up to some deviltry, you can bet your sweet life, and we'll be hearing about it before long--" paul's mind turned to the blonde giant who had ridden on the train from new york, and the group of friends who had been waiting for him at the station. "he was up to something--the way he spoke," thought paul. "and last night he was in that car on the bridge.... where do these bols hang out?" he asked aloud. he was told they made their headquarters at repetti's pool-room, but though he looked in that establishment half a dozen times in the course of the day, he failed to see them. "looking for somebody?" an attendant asked him. "yes," said paul. "tall man with a light beard. came in from new york yesterday." "oh, that bunch," grinned the attendant. "they've gone fishing again. going to get wet, too, if they ain't back soon." for over three hours then the storm had raged, the rain falling with the force of a cloudburst. at seven it stopped and, going out, paul found himself drifting toward the house on the hill. it was there he saw mary turning in at the gate. he stood for a long time looking at the lights in the windows and thinking those thoughts which can only come to the ishmaels of the world--to those sons of hagar who may never return to their father's homes. "i was a fool for coming," he half groaned, tasting the dregs of bitterness. unconsciously he compared the things that were with the things that might have been. "she certainly acted like a queen to rosa," he thought once. for a moment he felt a wild desire to enter the gate, to see his home again, to make himself known--but the next moment he knew that this was his punishment--"to look, to long, but ne'er again to feel the warmth of home." he returned to the pool-room, his eyes more tired than ever, and found a seat in a far corner. some one had left a paper in the next chair. paul was reading it when he became conscious of some one standing in front of him, waiting for him to look up. it was his acquaintance of the day before--the russian traveller--and paul perceived that he was excited, and was holding himself very high. "good evening, batuchka," said paul, and looking at the other's wet clothes he added, "i see you were caught in the storm." "you are right, batuchka," said the other, and leaning over, his voice slightly shaking, he added, "others, too, are about to be caught in a storm." he raised his finger with a touch of grandeur and took the chair by paul's side, breathing hard and obviously holding himself at a tension. "your friends aren't with you tonight?" again the russian spoke in parables. "some men run from great events. others stop to witness them." "something in the wind," thought paul. "i think he'll talk." aloud he said, pretending to yawn, "great events, batuchka? there are no more great events in the world." "i tell you, there are great events," said the other, "wherever there are great men to do them." "you mean your friends?" asked paul. "but no. why should i ask! for great men would not spend their days in catching little fishes--am i not right, batuchka?" "a thousand times right," said the other, his grandeur growing, "but instead of catching little fishes, what do you say of a man who can let loose a large fish--an iron fish--a fish that can speak with a loud noise and make the whole world tremble--!" paul quickly raised his finger to his lips. "let's go outside," he said. "some one may hear us here..." chapter xxxv at eight o'clock mary had gone to helen's. "if i'm not back at ten, i sha'n't be home tonight," she had told hutchins as she left the house. at half past eight archey called, full of the topic which had been started that afternoon. hutchins told him what mary had said. "all right," he said. "i'll wait." he left his car under the porte cochère, and went upstairs to chat with miss cordelia and miss patty. at twenty to ten, hutchins was looking through the hall window up the drive when he saw a figure running toward the house. the door-bell rang--a loud, insistent peal. hutchins opened the door and saw a man standing there, shabby and spattered with mud. "is miss spencer in?" "no; she's out." the hall light shone on the visitor's face and he stared hard at the butler. "hutch," he said in a quieter voice, "don't you remember me?" "n-n-no, sir; i think not, sir," said the other--and he, too, began to stare. "don't you remember the day i fell out of the winesap tree, and you carried me in, and the next week i tried to climb on top of that hall clock, and knocked it over, and you tried to catch it, and it knocked you over, too?" the butler's lips moved, but at first he couldn't speak. "is it you, master paul?" he whispered at last, as though he were seeing a visitor from the other world. and again "is it you, master paul?" "you know it is. listen, now. pull yourself together. we've got to get to the dam before ten o'clock, or they'll blow it up. put your hat on. have you a car here?" in the hall the clock chimed a quarter to ten. the tone of its bell seemed to act as a spur to them both. "there's a young gentleman here," said hutchins, suddenly turning. "i'll run and get him right away." as they speeded along the road which led to the bridge above the dam, paul told what he had heard--archey in the front seat listening as well as he could. "he didn't come right out and say so," paul rapidly explained, "but he dropped hints that a blind man could see. i met him on a train yesterday--a russian--a fanatic--proud of what he's done--! "as nearly as i can make it out, they have got a boat leaning against the dam with five hundred pounds of tnt in it--or hanging under it--i don't know which-- "there is a battery in the boat, and clockwork to set the whole thing off at ten o'clock tonight. he didn't come right out and say so, you understand, and i may be making a fool of myself. but if i am--god knows, it won't be the first time ... anyhow we'll soon know." it was a circuitous road that led to the dam. the rain was pouring again, the streets deserted. once they were held up at a railroad crossing.... the clock in the car pointed at five minutes to ten when their headlights finally fell upon the bridge. as they drew nearer they could hear nothing in the darkness but the thunder of the water. the bridge was a low one and only twenty yards up the stream from the falls; but though they strained their eyes to the uttermost they couldn't see as far as the dam. "i'll turn one of the headlights," said archey, "and we'll drive over slow." the lamp, turned at an angle, swept over the edge of the dam like a searchlight. half way over the bridge the car stopped. they had found what they were looking for. "why doesn't it go over?" shouted archey, jumping out. "anchored to a tree up the bend, i guess," paul shouted back. "they must have played her down the stream after dark." nearly over the dam was a boat painted black and covered with tarpaulin. "the explosive is probably hanging from a chain underneath," thought paul. "the current would hold it tight against the mason-work." "we ought to have brought some help," shouted archey, suddenly realizing. "if that dam breaks, it will sweep away the factory and part of the town.... what are you going to do?" paul had dropped his hat in the stream below the bridge and was watching to see where it went over the crest. it swept over the edge a few feet to the right of the boat. he moved up a little and tried next by dropping his coat. this caught fairly against the boat. then before they knew what he was doing, he had climbed over the rail of the bridge and had dropped into the swiftly moving water below. "done it!" gasped hutchins. paul's arms were clinging around the bow of the boat. he twisted his body, the current helping him, and gained the top of the tarpaulin. under the spotlight thrown by the car, it was like a scene from some epic drama, staged by the gods for their own amusement--man against the elements, courage against the unknown-life against death. "he's feeling for his knife," thought archey. "he's got it!" paul ran his blade around the cloth and had soon tossed the tarpaulin over the dam. then he made a gesture of helplessness. from the bridge, they could see that the stern of the boat was heavily boxed in. "it's under there!" groaned hutchins. "he can't get to it!" archey ran to the car for a hammer, but paul had climbed to the bow and was looking at the ring in which was fastened the cable that held the boat in place. the strain of the current had probably weakened this, for the next thing they saw--paul was tugging at the cable with all his strength, worrying it from side to side, kicking at the bow with the front of his heel, evidently trying to pull the ring from its socket. "if that gives way, the whole thing goes over," cried archey. "i'll throw him the hammer." even as he spoke the ring suddenly came out of the bow; and thrown off his balance by his own effort, paul went over the side of the boat and in the same moment had disappeared from view. "gone ..." gasped hutchins. "and now that's going after him...." the boat was lurching forward--unsteadily--unevenly-- "something chained to the bottom, all right," thought archey, all eyes to see, the hammer still in his hand. as they watched, the boat tipped forward--lurched--vanished--followed quickly by two cylindrical objects which, in the momentary glimpse they caught of them, had the appearance of steel barrels. the two on the bridge were still looking at each other, when archey thought to glance at the clock in his car. it was on the stroke of ten. "that may go off yet if the thing holds together," shouted archey. "it was built good and strong...." they stood there for a minute looking down into the darkness and were just on the point of turning back to the car when an explosion arose from the racing waters far below the dam.... presently the wind, blowing up stream, drenched their faces with spray.... splinters of rock and sand began to fall.... chapter xxxvi the next morning ushered in one of those days in june which make the spirit rejoice. when mary left helen's, she thought she had never known the sky so blue, the world so fair, the air so full of the breath of life, the song of birds, the scent of flowers. wally was definitely out of danger and helen was nursing him back to strength like a ministering angel, every touch a caress, every glance a look of love. "now if burdon will only leave her alone," thought mary as she turned the car toward the factory. she needn't have worried. before she had time to look at her mail, joe announced that the two accountants were waiting to see her. "they've been hanging around for the last half hour," he confidentially added. "i guess they want to catch a train or something." "all right, joe," she nodded. "show them in." they entered, and for the first time since she had known them, mary thought she saw a trace of excitement in their manner--such, for instance, as you might expect to see in two learned astronomers who had seen sirius the dog-star rushing over the heavens in pursuit of the big bear--or the virgin seating herself in cassiopeia's chair. "we finished our report last night," said the elder, handing her a copy. "as you will see, we have discovered a very serious situation in the treasurer's department." it struck mary later that she showed no surprise. indeed, more than once in the last few days, when noticing burdon's nervous recklessness, she had found herself connecting it with the auditors' work upon the books. "i would have asked mr. woodward for an explanation," continued the accountant, "but he has been absent yesterday and today. however, as you will see, no explanation can possibly cover the facts disclosed. there is a clear case for criminal action against him." "i don't think there will be any action," said mary, looking up after a pause. "i'm sure his father will make good the shortage." but when she looked at the total she couldn't help thinking, "it will be a tight squeeze, though, even for uncle stanley." now that it was over, she felt relieved, as though a load had lifted from her mind. "he'll never bother helen again," she found herself thinking. "perhaps i had better telephone judge cutler and let him handle it--" the judge promised to be down at once, and mary turned to her mail. near the bottom she found a letter addressed in burdon's writing. it was unstamped and had evidently been left at the office. the date-line simply said "midnight." it was a long letter, some of it clear enough and some of it obscure. mary was puzzling over it when judge cutler and hutchins entered. as far as she could remember, it was the first time that the butler had ever appeared at the factory. "anything wrong?" she asked in alarm. "he was in my office when you telephoned," said the judge. "i'll let him tell his story as he told it to me.... i think i ought to ask you something first, though.... did any one ever tell you that you had a brother paul? ..." "yes," said mary, her heart contracting. throughout the recital she sat breathless. now and then the colour rose to her cheeks, and more than once the tears came to her eyes, especially when hutchins' voice broke, and when he said in tones of pride, "before we could stop him, master paul was over the rail and in the water--" more than once mary looked away to hide her emotion, glancing around the room at her forebears who had never seemed so attentive as then. "you may well listen," thought mary. "he may have been the black sheep of the family, but you see what he did in the end...." hutchins told them about the search which he and archey had made up and down the banks, aided with a flashlight, climbing, calling, and sometimes all but falling in the stream themselves. "but it was no use, miss mary," he concluded. "master paul is past all finding, i'm afraid." for a long time mary sat silent, her handkerchief to her eyes. "archey is still looking," said the judge, rising. "i'll start another searching party at once. and telephone the towns below, too. we are bound to find him if we keep on looking, you know--" they found him sooner than they expected, in the grassy basin at the bend of the river, where the high water of the night before had borne him--in the place where he had loved to dream his dreams of youth and adventure when life was young and the future full of promise. he was lying on his side, his head on his arm, his face turned to the whispering river, and there perhaps he was dreaming again--those eternal dreams which only those who have gone to their rest can know. chapter xxxvii time, quickly passing, brought mary to another wonderful morning in the story of her life. even as her father's death had broadened her outlook, so now paul's heroism gave her a deeper glance at the future, a more tolerant view of the past. on the morning in question, helen brought wally to the office. he was now entirely recovered, but helen still mothered him, every touch a caress, every glance a look of love. mary grew very thoughtful as she watched them. the next morning they were leaving for a tour of the maine woods. when they left, an architect called. under his arm he had a portfolio of plans for a welfare building which he had drawn exactly according to mary's suggestions. as long as the idea had been a nebulous one--drawn only in fancy and coloured with nothing stronger than conversation, she had liked it immensely; but seeing now precisely how the building would look--how the space would be divided, she found herself shaking her head. "it's my own fault," she said. "you have followed out every one of my ideas--but somehow--well, i don't like it: that's all. if you'll leave these drawings, i'll think them over and call you up again in a few days." at judge cutler's suggestion, archey had been elected treasurer to take burdon's place. mary took the plans into his office and showed them to him. they were still discussing them, sitting at opposite sides of his flat-top desk, when the twelve o'clock whistle blew. a few minutes later, the four-hour workers passed through the gate, the men walking with their wives, the children playing between. "i wonder how it's going to turn out," said archey. "i wonder ..." said mary. "of course it's too early to tell yet. i don't know.... time will tell." "it was the only solution," he told her. "i wonder ..." she mused again. "anyhow it was something definite. if women are really going to take up men's trades, it's only right that they should know what it means. as long as we just keep talking on general lines about a thing, we can make it sound as nice as we like. but when we try to put theory into practice ... it doesn't always seem the same. "take these plans, for instance," she ruefully remarked. "i thought i knew exactly what i wanted. but now that i see it drawn out to scale, i don't like it. and that, perhaps, is what we've been doing here in the factory. we have taken a view of woman's possible future and we have drawn it out to scale. everybody can see what it looks like now--they can think about it--and talk about it--and then they can decide whether they want it or not...." he caught a note in her voice that had a touch of emptiness in it. "do you know what i would do if i were you?" he gently asked. she looked at him, his eyes eager with sympathy, his smile tender and touched with an admiration so deep that it might be called devotion. never before had archey seemed so restful to her--never before with him had she felt so much at home. "if i smile at him, he'll blush," she caught herself thinking--and experienced a rising sense of elation at the thought. "what would you do!" she asked. "i'd go away for a few weeks.... i believe the change would do you good." she smiled at him and watched his responding colour with satisfaction. "if vera was right," she thought, "that's chapter one the way he just spoke. now next--he'll try to touch me." her eyes ever so dreamy, she reached her hand over the desk and began playing with, the blotter. "why, he's trembling a little," she thought. "and he's looking at it.... but, oh, isn't he shy!" she tried to hum then and lightly beat time with her hand. "no, it isn't the only thing in life," she repeated to herself, "but--just as i said before--sooner or later--it becomes awfully important--" she caught archey's glance and smilingly led it back to her waiting fingers. "how dark your hand is by the side of mine," she said. he rose to his feet. "mary!" "yes ... archey?" "if i were a rich man--or you were a poor girl...." mary, too, arose. "well," she laughed unsteadily, "we may be ... some day...." ten minutes later sir joseph of the plumed crest opened the door with a handful of mail. he suddenly stopped ... stared ... smiled ... and silently withdrew. the end what diantha did by charlotte perkins gilman chapter i. handicapped one may use the old man of the sea, for a partner or patron, but helpless and hapless is he who is ridden, inextricably, by a fond old mer-matron. the warden house was more impressive in appearance than its neighbors. it had “grounds,” instead of a yard or garden; it had wide pillared porches and “galleries,” showing southern antecedents; moreover, it had a cupola, giving date to the building, and proof of the continuing ambitions of the builders. the stately mansion was covered with heavy flowering vines, also with heavy mortgages. mrs. roscoe warden and her four daughters reposed peacefully under the vines, while roscoe warden, jr., struggled desperately under the mortgages. a slender, languid lady was mrs. warden, wearing her thin but still brown hair in “water-waves” over a pale high forehead. she was sitting on a couch on the broad, rose-shaded porch, surrounded by billowing masses of vari-colored worsted. it was her delight to purchase skein on skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tie them together again in contrasting colors, and then crochet this hashed rainbow into afghans of startling aspect. california does not call for afghans to any great extent, but “they make such acceptable presents,” mrs. warden declared, to those who questioned the purpose of her work; and she continued to send them off, on christmases, birthdays, and minor weddings, in a stream of pillowy bundles. as they were accepted, they must have been acceptable, and the stream flowed on. around her, among the gay blossoms and gayer wools, sat her four daughters, variously intent. the mother, a poetic soul, had named them musically and with dulcet rhymes: madeline and adeline were the two eldest, coraline and doraline the two youngest. it had not occurred to her until too late that those melodious terminations made it impossible to call one daughter without calling two, and that “lina” called them all. “mis' immerjin,” said a soft voice in the doorway, “dere pos'tively ain't no butter in de house fer supper.” “no butter?” said mrs. warden, incredulously. “why, sukey, i'm sure we had a tub sent up last--last tuesday!” “a week ago tuesday, more likely, mother,” suggested dora. “nonsense, dora! it was this week, wasn't it, girls?” the mother appealed to them quite earnestly, as if the date of that tub's delivery would furnish forth the supper-table; but none of the young ladies save dora had even a contradiction to offer. “you know i never notice things,” said the artistic cora; and “the de-lines,” as their younger sisters called them, said nothing. “i might borrow some o' mis' bell?” suggested sukey; “dat's nearer 'n' de sto'.” “yes, do, sukey,” her mistress agreed. “it is so hot. but what have you done with that tubful?” “why, some i tuk back to mis' bell for what i borrered befo'--i'm always most careful to make return for what i borrers--and yo' know, mis' warden, dat waffles and sweet potaters and cohn bread dey do take butter; to say nothin' o' them little cakes you all likes so well--_an'_ de fried chicken, _an'_--” “never mind, sukey; you go and present my compliments to mrs. bell, and ask her for some; and be sure you return it promptly. now, girls, don't let me forget to tell ross to send up another tub.” “we can't seem to remember any better than you can, mother,” said adeline, dreamily. “those details are so utterly uninteresting.” “i should think it was sukey's business to tell him,” said madeline with decision; while the “a-lines” kept silence this time. “there! sukey's gone!” mrs. warden suddenly remarked, watching the stout figure moving heavily away under the pepper trees. “and i meant to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub! dora, dear, you run and get it for mother.” dora laid down her work, not too regretfully, and started off. “that child is the most practical of any of you,” said her mother; which statement was tacitly accepted. it was not extravagant praise. dora poked about in the refrigerator for a bit of ice. she had no idea of the high cost of ice in that region--it came from “the store,” like all their provisions. it did not occur to her that fish and milk and melons made a poor combination in flavor; or that the clammy, sub-offensive smell was not the natural and necessary odor of refrigerators. neither did she think that a sunny corner of the back porch near the chimney, though convenient, was an ill-selected spot for a refrigerator. she couldn't find the ice-pick, so put a big piece of ice in a towel and broke it on the edge of the sink; replaced the largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rest to filter slowly down through a mass of grease and tea-leaves; found the raspberry vinegar, and made a very satisfactory beverage which her mother received with grateful affection. “thank you, my darling,” she said. “i wish you'd made a pitcherful.” “why didn't you, do?” her sisters demanded. “you're too late,” said dora, hunting for her needle and then for her thimble, and then for her twist; “but there's more in the kitchen.” “i'd rather go without than go into the kitchen,” said adeline; “i do despise a kitchen.” and this seemed to be the general sentiment; for no one moved. “my mother always liked raspberry shrub,” said mrs. warden; “and your aunt leicester, and your raymond cousins.” mrs. warden had a wide family circle, many beloved relatives, “connections” of whom she was duly proud and “kin” in such widening ramifications that even her carefully reared daughters lost track of them. “you young people don't seem to care about your cousins at all!” pursued their mother, somewhat severely, setting her glass on the railing, from whence it was presently knocked off and broken. “that's the fifth!” remarked dora, under breath. “why should we, ma?” inquired cora. “we've never seen one of them--except madam weatherstone!” “we'll never forget _her!”_ said madeline, with delicate decision, laying down the silk necktie she was knitting for roscoe. “what _beautiful_ manners she had!” “how rich is she, mother? do you know?” asked dora. “rich enough to do something for roscoe, i'm sure, if she had a proper family spirit,” replied mrs. warden. “her mother was own cousin to my grandmother--one of the virginia paddingtons. or she might do something for you girls.” “i wish she would!” adeline murmured, softly, her large eyes turned to the horizon, her hands in her lap over the handkerchief she was marking for roscoe. “don't be ungrateful, adeline,” said her mother, firmly. “you have a good home and a good brother; no girl ever had a better.” “but there is never anything going on,” broke in coraline, in a tone of complaint; “no parties, no going away for vacations, no anything.” “now, cora, don't be discontented! you must not add a straw to dear roscoe's burdens,” said her mother. “of course not, mother; i wouldn't for the world. i never saw her but that once; and she wasn't very cordial. but, as you say, she might do _something._ she might invite us to visit her.” “if she ever comes back again, i'm going to recite for her,” said, dora, firmly. her mother gazed fondly on her youngest. “i wish you could, dear,” she agreed. “i'm sure you have talent; and madam weatherstone would recognize it. and adeline's music too. and cora's art. i am very proud of my girls.” cora sat where the light fell well upon her work. she was illuminating a volume of poems, painting flowers on the margins, in appropriate places--for roscoe. “i wonder if he'll care for it?” she said, laying down her brush and holding the book at arm's length to get the effect. “of course he will!” answered her mother, warmly. “it is not only the beauty of it, but the affection! how are you getting on, dora?” dora was laboring at a task almost beyond her fourteen years, consisting of a negligee shirt of outing flannel, upon the breast of which she was embroidering a large, intricate design--for roscoe. she was an ambitious child, but apt to tire in the execution of her large projects. “i guess it'll be done,” she said, a little wearily. “what are you going to give him, mother?” “another bath-robe; his old one is so worn. and nothing is too good for my boy.” “he's coming,” said adeline, who was still looking down the road; and they all concealed their birthday work in haste. a tall, straight young fellow, with an air of suddenly-faced maturity upon him, opened the gate under the pepper trees and came toward them. he had the finely molded features we see in portraits of handsome ancestors, seeming to call for curling hair a little longish, and a rich profusion of ruffled shirt. but his hair was sternly short, his shirt severely plain, his proudly carried head spoke of effort rather than of ease in its attitude. dora skipped to meet him, cora descended a decorous step or two. madeline and adeline, arm in arm, met him at the piazza edge, his mother lifted her face. “well, mother, dear!” affectionately he stooped and kissed her, and she held his hand and stroked it lovingly. the sisters gathered about with teasing affection, dora poking in his coat-pocket for the stick candy her father always used to bring her, and her brother still remembered. “aren't you home early, dear?” asked mrs. warden. “yes; i had a little headache”--he passed his hand over his forehead--“and joe can run the store till after supper, anyhow.” they flew to get him camphor, cologne, a menthol-pencil. dora dragged forth the wicker lounge. he was laid out carefully and fanned and fussed over till his mother drove them all away. “now, just rest,” she said. “it's an hour to supper time yet!” and she covered him with her latest completed afghan, gathering up and carrying away the incomplete one and its tumultuous constituents. he was glad of the quiet, the fresh, sweet air, the smell of flowers instead of the smell of molasses and cheese, soap and sulphur matches. but the headache did not stop, nor the worry that caused it. he loved his mother, he loved his sisters, he loved their home, but he did not love the grocery business which had fallen so unexpectedly upon him at his father's death, nor the load of debt which fell with it. that they need never have had so large a “place” to “keep up” did not occur to him. he had lived there most of his life, and it was home. that the expenses of running the household were three times what they needed to be, he did not know. his father had not questioned their style of living, nor did he. that a family of five women might, between them, do the work of the house, he did not even consider. mrs. warden's health was never good, and since her husband's death she had made daily use of many afghans on the many lounges of the house. madeline was “delicate,” and adeline was “frail”; cora was “nervous,” dora was “only a child.” so black sukey and her husband jonah did the work of the place, so far as it was done; and mrs. warden held it a miracle of management that she could “do with one servant,” and the height of womanly devotion on her daughters' part that they dusted the parlor and arranged the flowers. roscoe shut his eyes and tried to rest, but his problem beset him ruthlessly. there was the store--their one and only source of income. there was the house, a steady, large expense. there were five women to clothe and keep contented, beside himself. there was the unappeasable demand of the mortgage--and there was diantha. when mr. warden died, some four years previously, roscoe was a lad of about twenty, just home from college, full of dreams of great service to the world in science, expecting to go back for his doctor's degree next year. instead of which the older man had suddenly dropped beneath the burden he had carried with such visible happiness and pride, such unknown anxiety and straining effort; and the younger one had to step into the harness on the spot. he was brave, capable, wholly loyal to his mother and sisters, reared in the traditions of older days as to a man's duty toward women. in his first grief for his father, and the ready pride with which he undertook to fill his place, he had not in the least estimated the weight of care he was to carry, nor the time that he must carry it. a year, a year or two, a few years, he told himself, as they passed, and he would make more money; the girls, of course, would marry; he could “retire” in time and take up his scientific work again. then--there was diantha. when he found he loved this young neighbor of theirs, and that she loved him, the first flush of happiness made all life look easier. they had been engaged six months--and it was beginning to dawn upon the young man that it might be six years--or sixteen years--before he could marry. he could not sell the business--and if he could, he knew of no better way to take care of his family. the girls did not marry, and even when they did, he had figured this out to a dreary certainty, he would still not be free. to pay the mortgages off, and keep up the house, even without his sisters, would require all the money the store would bring in for some six years ahead. the young man set his teeth hard and turned his head sharply toward the road. and there was diantha. she stood at the gate and smiled at him. he sprang to his feet, headacheless for the moment, and joined her. mrs. warden, from the lounge by her bedroom window, saw them move off together, and sighed. “poor roscoe!” she said to herself. “it is very hard for him. but he carries his difficulties nobly. he is a son to be proud of.” and she wept a little. diantha slipped her hand in his offered arm--he clasped it warmly with his, and they walked along together. “you won't come in and see mother and the girls?” “no, thank you; not this time. i must get home and get supper. besides, i'd rather see just you.” he felt it a pity that there were so many houses along the road here, but squeezed her hand, anyhow. she looked at him keenly. “headache?” she asked. “yes; it's nothing; it's gone already.” “worry?” she asked. “yes, i suppose it is,” he answered. “but i ought not to worry. i've got a good home, a good mother, good sisters, and--you!” and he took advantage of a high hedge and an empty lot on either side of them. diantha returned his kiss affectionately enough, but seemed preoccupied, and walked in silence till he asked her what she was thinking about. “about you, of course,” she answered, brightly. “there are things i want to say; and yet--i ought not to.” “you can say anything on earth to me,” he answered. “you are twenty-four,” she began, musingly. “admitted at once.” “and i'm twenty-one and a half.” “that's no such awful revelation, surely!” “and we've been engaged ever since my birthday,” the girl pursued. “all these are facts, dearest.” “now, ross, will you be perfectly frank with me? may i ask you an--an impertinent question?” “you may ask me any question you like; it couldn't be impertinent.” “you'll be scandalised, i know--but--well, here goes. what would you think if madeline--or any of the girls--should go away to work?” he looked at her lovingly, but with a little smile on his firm mouth. “i shouldn't allow it,” he said. “o--allow it? i asked you what you'd think.” “i should think it was a disgrace to the family, and a direct reproach to me,” he answered. “but it's no use talking about that. none of the girls have any such foolish notion. and i wouldn't permit it if they had.” diantha smiled. “i suppose you never would permit your wife to work?” “my widow might have to--not my wife.” he held his fine head a trifle higher, and her hand ached for a moment. “wouldn't you let me work--to help you, ross?” “my dearest girl, you've got something far harder than that to do for me, and that's wait.” his face darkened again, and he passed his hand over his forehead. “sometimes i feel as if i ought not to hold you at all!” he burst out, bitterly. “you ought to be free to marry a better man.” “there aren't any!” said diantha, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “and if there were--millions--i wouldn't marry any of 'em. i love _you,”_ she firmly concluded. “then we'll just _wait,”_ said he, setting his teeth on the word, as if he would crush it. “it won't be hard with you to help. you're better worth it than rachael and leah together.” they walked a few steps silently. “but how about science?” she asked him. “i don't let myself think of it. i'll take that up later. we're young enough, both of us, to wait for our happiness.” “and have you any idea--we might as well face the worst--how many years do you think that will be, dearest?” he was a little annoyed at her persistence. also, though he would not admit the thought, it did not seem quite the thing for her to ask. a woman should not seek too definite a period of waiting. she ought to trust--to just wait on general principles. “i can face a thing better if i know just what i'm facing,” said the girl, quietly, “and i'd wait for you, if i had to, all my life. will it be twenty years, do you think?” he looked relieved. “why, no, indeed, darling. it oughtn't to be at the outside more than five. or six,” he added, honest though reluctant. “you see, father had no time to settle anything; there were outstanding accounts, and the funeral expenses, and the mortgages. but the business is good; and i can carry it; i can build it up.” he shook his broad shoulders determinedly. “i should think it might be within five, perhaps even less. good things happen sometimes--such as you, my heart's delight.” they were at her gate now, and she stood a little while to say good-night. a step inside there was a seat, walled in by evergreen, roofed over by the wide acacia boughs. many a long good-night had they exchanged there, under the large, brilliant california moon. they sat there, silent, now. diantha's heart was full of love for him, and pride and confidence in him; but it was full of other feelings, too, which he could not fathom. his trouble was clearer to her than to him; as heavy to bear. to her mind, trained in all the minutiae of domestic economy, the warden family lived in careless wastefulness. that five women--for dora was older than she had been when she began to do housework--should require servants, seemed to this new england-born girl mere laziness and pride. that two voting women over twenty should prefer being supported by their brother to supporting themselves, she condemned even more sharply. moreover, she felt well assured that with a different family to “support,” mr. warden would never have broken down so suddenly and irrecoverably. even that funeral--her face hardened as she thought of the conspicuous “lot,” the continual flowers, the monument (not wholly paid for yet, that monument, though this she did not know)--all that expenditure to do honor to the man they had worked to death (thus brutally diantha put it) was probably enough to put off their happiness for a whole year. she rose at last, her hand still held in his. “i'm sorry, but i've got to get supper, dear,” she said, “and you must go. good-night for the present; you'll be round by and by?” “yes, for a little while, after we close up,” said he, and took himself off, not too suddenly, walking straight and proud while her eyes were on him, throwing her a kiss from the corner; but his step lagging and his headache settling down upon him again as he neared the large house with the cupola. diantha watched him out of sight, turned and marched up the path to her own door, her lips set tight, her well-shaped head as straightly held as his. “it's a shame, a cruel, burning shame!” she told herself rebelliously. “a man of his ability. why, he could do anything, in his own work! and he loved it so! “to keep a grocery store!!!!! “and nothing to show for all that splendid effort!” “they don't do a thing? they just _live_--and 'keep house!' all those women! “six years? likely to be sixty! but i'm not going to wait!” chapter ii. an unnatural daughter the brooding bird fulfills her task, or she-bear lean and brown; all parent beasts see duty true, all parent beasts their duty do, we are the only kind that asks for duty upside down. the stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak pricked the dry silence wearingly. rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled, heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums. thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual shade to the house. it was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. for no other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape. there was an attempt at a “lawn,” the pet ambition of the transplanted easterner; and a further attempt at “flower-beds,” which merely served as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products. the parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as new england parlors are; minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living, and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. it was clean, clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and unremitting care. the zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily rubbing. there was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere. but the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does a dutch, german or french kitchen, it spoke of labor, economy and duty--under restriction. in the dead quiet of the afternoon diantha and her mother sat there sewing. the sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. the dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two. ee-errr!--ee-errr!--came the faint whine of the windmill. to the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was california--hot, arid, tedious in endless sunlight--a place of exile. to the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and ross's murmured words, it was california--rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless vitality, promise, and power--home! mrs. bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment. “why don't you stop it mother dear? there's surely no hurry about these things.” “no--not particularly,” her mother answered, “but there's plenty else to do.” and she went on with the long neat hemming. diantha did the “over and over seam” up the middle. “what _do_ you do it for anyway, mother--i always hated this job--and you don't seem to like it.” “they wear almost twice as long, child, you know. the middle gets worn and the edges don't. now they're reversed. as to liking it--” she gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which certainly did not indicate pleasure. “what kind of work do you like best--really?” her daughter inquired suddenly, after a silent moment or two. “why--i don't know,” said her mother. “i never thought of it. i never tried any but teaching. i didn't like that. neither did your aunt esther, but she's still teaching.” “didn't you like any of it?” pursued diantha. “i liked arithmetic best. i always loved arithmetic, when i went to school--used to stand highest in that.” “and what part of housework do you like best?” the girl persisted. mrs. bell smiled again, wanly. “seems to me sometimes as if i couldn't tell sometimes what part i like least!” she answered. then with sudden heat--“o my child! don't you marry till ross can afford at least one girl for you!” diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “we'll have to wait some time for that i fancy,” she said. “but, mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! i never saw anything like the way you manage the money, and i believe you've got every bill since you were married.” “yes--i do love accounts,” mrs. bell admitted. “and i can keep run of things. i've often thought your father'd have done better if he'd let me run that end of his business.” diantha gave a fierce little laugh. she admired her father in some ways, enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated; but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair chance to grow. it seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love. she knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of “the square man in the round hole.” she folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking her mother's also. “now you sit still for once, mother dear, read or lie down. don't you stir till supper's ready.” and from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded to make biscuit. her mother watched her admiringly. “how easy you do it!” she said. “i never could make bread without getting flour all over me. you don't spill a speck!” diantha smiled. “i ought to do it easily by this time. father's got to have hot bread for supper--or thinks he has!--and i've made 'em--every night when i was at home for this ten years back!” “i guess you have,” said mrs. bell proudly. “you were only eleven when you made your first batch. i can remember just as well! i had one of my bad headaches that night--and it did seem as if i couldn't sit up! but your father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. and you said, 'now mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! i can!' and you could!--you did! they were bettern' mine that first time--and your father praised 'em--and you've been at it ever since.” “yes,” said diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother caught, “i've been at it ever since!” “except when you were teaching school,” pursued her mother. “except when i taught school at medville,” diantha corrected. “when i taught here i made 'em just the same.” “so you did,” agreed her mother. “so you did! no matter how tired you were--you wouldn't admit it. you always were the best child!” “if i was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. i was tired enough of teaching school though. i've got something to tell you, presently, mother.” she covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what she wanted and started a fire. “why _don't_ you get an oil stove? or a gasoline? it would be a lot easier.” “yes,” her mother agreed. “i've wanted one for twenty years; but you know your father won't have one in the house. he says they're dangerous. what are you going to tell me, dear? i do hope you and ross haven't quarrelled.” “no indeed we haven't, mother. ross is splendid. only--” “only what, dinah?” “only he's so tied up!” said the girl, brushing every chip from the hearth. “he's perfectly helpless there, with that mother of his--and those four sisters.” “ross is a good son,” said mrs. bell, “and a good brother. i never saw a better. he's certainly doing his duty. now if his father'd lived you two could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet.” diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with light steps and no clatter of dishes. “i'm twenty-one,” she said. “yes, you're twenty-one,” her mother allowed. “it don't seem possible, but you are. my first baby!” she looked at her proudly. “if ross has to wait for all those girls to marry--and to pay his father's debts--i'll be old enough,” said diantha grimly. her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and listened with keen sympathy. “i know it's hard, dear child. you've only been engaged six months--and it looks as if it might be some years before ross'll be able to marry. he's got an awful load for a boy to carry alone.” “i should say he had!” diantha burst forth. “five helpless women!--or three women, and two girls. though cora's as old as i was when i began to teach. and not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living.” “they weren't brought up that way,” said mrs. bell. “their mother don't approve of it. she thinks the home is the place for a woman--and so does ross--and so do i,” she added rather faintly. diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking the while as if these acts were automatic. “i don't agree with mrs. warden on that point, nor with ross, nor with you, mother,” she said, “what i've got to tell you is this--i'm going away from home. to work.” mrs. bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter with wide frightened eyes. “why diantha!” she said. “why diantha! you wouldn't go and leave your mother!” diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble little woman in the chair. then she went to her, knelt down and hugged her close--close. “it's not because i don't love you, mother. it's because i do. and it's not because i don't love ross either:--it's because i _do._ i want to take care of you, mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. i want to help him--to help carry that awful load--and i'm going--to--do--it!” she stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. it was only her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother and took another rocking-chair. “i just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. aren't they beauties? the baby's asleep. gerald hasn't got in yet. supper's all ready, and i can see him coming time enough to run back. why, mother! what's the matter? you're crying!” “am i?” asked mrs. bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way. “what are you doing to mother, diantha?” demanded young mrs. peters. “bless me! i thought you and she never had any differences! i was always the black sheep, when i was at home. maybe that's why i left so early!” she looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding, “come--what's the trouble?” “you might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “i have decided to leave home, that's all.” “to leave home!” mrs. peters sat up straight and stared at her. “to leave home!--and mother!” “well?” said diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her mother's eyes. “well, why not? you left home--and mother--before you were eighteen.” “that's different!” said her sister sharply. “i left to be married,--to have a home of my own. and besides i haven't gone far! i can see mother every day.” “that's one reason i can go now better than later on,” diantha said. “you are close by in case of any trouble.” “what on earth are you going for? ross isn't ready to marry yet, is he?” “no--nor likely to be for years. that's another reason i'm going.” “but what _for,_ for goodness sake.” “to earn money--for one thing.” “can't you earn money enough by teaching?” the mother broke in eagerly. “i know you haven't got the same place this fall--but you can get another easy enough.” diantha shook her head. “no, mother, i've had enough of that. i've taught for four years. i don't like it, i don't do well, and it exhausts me horribly. and i should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year if i taught for a lifetime.” “well, i declare!” said her sister. “what do you _expect_ to get? i should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!” diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around. “and you're meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?” “why not?” said diantha firmly. “henderson did--when he was eighteen. none of you blamed him.” “i don't see what that's got to do with it,” her mother ventured. “henderson's a boy, and boys have to go, of course. a mother expects that. but a girl--why, diantha! how can i get along without you! with my health!” “i should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!” said young mrs. peters. a slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching, carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the door. “father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!” said his youngest daughter laughingly. “and mother will straighten it out after him! i'm bringing gerald up on better principles. you should just see him wait on me!” “a man should be master in his own household,” mr. bell proclaimed, raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the towel--which his wife handed him. “you won't have much household to be master of presently,” said mrs. peters provokingly. “half of it's going to leave.” mr. bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some explanation of this attempted joke, “what nonsense are you talking?” he demanded. “i think it's nonsense myself,” said the pretty young woman--her hand on the doorknob. “but you'd better enjoy those biscuits of di's while you can--you won't get many more! there's gerald--good night!” and off she ran. diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply crusted. “supper's ready,” she said. “do sit down, mother,” and she held the chair for her. “minnie's quite right, father, though i meant not to tell you till you'd had supper. i am going away to work.” mr. bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. he ate a hot biscuit in two un-fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea. “you've got your mother all worked up with your nonsense,” said he. “what are you talking about anyway?” diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. he was a tall old man, still handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of an idolizing mother. but he had never succeeded in being the head of anything else. repeated failures in the old new england home had resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing his delicate wife and three young children to california. vain were her protests and objections. it would do her good--best place in the world for children--good for nervous complaints too. a wife's duty was to follow her husband, of course. she had followed, willy nilly; and it was good for the children--there was no doubt of that. mr. bell had profited little by his venture. they had the ranch, the flowers and fruit and ample living of that rich soil; but he had failed in oranges, failed in raisins, failed in prunes, and was now failing in wealth-promising hens. but mrs. bell, though an ineffectual housekeeper, did not fail in the children. they had grown up big and vigorous, sturdy, handsome creatures, especially the two younger ones. diantha was good-looking enough. roscoe warden thought her divinely beautiful. but her young strength had been heavily taxed from childhood in that complex process known as “helping mother.” as a little child she had been of constant service in caring for the babies; and early developed such competence in the various arts of house work as filled her mother with fond pride, and even wrung from her father some grudging recognition. that he did not value it more was because he expected such competence in women, all women; it was their natural field of ability, their duty as wives and mothers. also as daughters. if they failed in it that was by illness or perversity. if they succeeded--that was a matter of course. he ate another of diantha's excellent biscuits, his greyish-red whiskers slowly wagging; and continued to eye her disapprovingly. she said nothing, but tried to eat; and tried still harder to make her heart go quietly, her cheeks keep cool, and her eyes dry. mrs. bell also strove to keep a cheerful countenance; urged food upon her family; even tried to open some topic of conversation; but her gentle words trailed off into unnoticed silence. mr. bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit his pipe. “when you've got through with the dishes, diantha,” he said coldly, “i'll hear about this proposition of yours.” diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. she washed the dishes,--her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. then with heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit table and sat still. her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes--a kind of work she specially disliked. “you'll have to get some new socks, father,” she ventured, “these are pretty well gone.” “o they'll do a good while yet,” he replied, not looking at them. “i like your embroidery, my dear.” that pleased her. she did not like to embroider, but she did like to be praised. diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but silent yet. her mother's needle trembled irregularly under and over, and a tear or two slid down her cheeks. finally mr. bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and said, “now then. out with it.” this was not a felicitious opening. it is really astonishing how little diplomacy parents exhibit, how difficult they make it for the young to introduce a proposition. there was nothing for it but a bald statement, so diantha made it baldly. “i have decided to leave home and go to work,” she said. “don't you have work enough to do at home?” he inquired, with the same air of quizzical superiority which had always annoyed her so intensely, even as a little child. she would cut short this form of discussion: “i am going away to earn my living. i have given up school-teaching--i don't like it, and, there isn't money enough in it. i have plans--which will speak for themselves later.” “so,” said mr. bell, “plans all made, eh? i suppose you've considered your mother in these plans?” “i have,” said his daughter. “it is largely on her account that i'm going.” “you think it'll be good for your mother's health to lose your assistance, do you?” “i know she'll miss me; but i haven't left the work on her shoulders. i am going to pay for a girl--to do the work i've done. it won't cost you any more, father; and you'll save some--for she'll do the washing too. you didn't object to henderson's going--at eighteen. you didn't object to minnie's going--at seventeen. why should you object to my going--at twenty-one.” “i haven't objected--so far,” replied her father. “have your plans also allowed for the affection and duty you owe your parents?” “i have done my duty--as well as i know how,” she answered. “now i am twenty-one, and self-supporting--and have a right to go.” “o yes. you have a right--a legal right--if that's what you base your idea of a child's duty on! and while you're talking of rights--how about a parent's rights? how about common gratitude! how about what you owe to me--for all the care and pains and cost it's been to bring you up. a child's a rather expensive investment these days.” diantha flushed, she had expected this, and yet it struck her like a blow. it was not the first time she had heard it--this claim of filial obligation. “i have considered that position, father. i know you feel that way--you've often made me feel it. so i've been at some pains to work it out--on a money basis. here is an account--as full as i could make it.” she handed him a paper covered with neat figures. the totals read as follows: miss diantha bell, to mr. henderson r. bell, dr. to medical and dental expenses... $ . to school expenses... $ . to clothing, in full... $ , . to board and lodging at $ . a week... $ , . to incidentals... $ . -------- $ . . he studied the various items carefully, stroking his beard, half in anger, half in unavoidable amusement. perhaps there was a tender feeling too, as he remembered that doctor's bill--the first he ever paid, with the other, when she had scarlet fever; and saw the exact price of the high chair which had served all three of the children, but of which she magnanimously shouldered the whole expense. the clothing total was so large that it made him whistle--he knew he had never spent $ , . on one girl's clothes. but the items explained it. materials, three years at an average of $ a year... $ . five years averaging $ each year... $ . five years averaging $ each year... $ . five years averaging $ each year... $ . ------- $ . the rest was “mother's labor”, averaging twenty full days a year at $ a day, $ a year. for fifteen years, $ . . mother's labor--on one child's, clothes--footing up to $ . . it looked strange to see cash value attached to that unfailing source of family comfort and advantage. the school expenses puzzled him a bit, for she had only gone to public schools; but she was counting books and slates and even pencils--it brought up evenings long passed by, the sewing wife, the studying children, the “say, father, i've got to have a new slate--mine's broke!” “broken, dina,” her mother would gently correct, while he demanded, “how did you break it?” and scolded her for her careless tomboy ways. slates--three, $ . --they were all down. and slates didn't cost so much come to think of it, even the red-edged ones, wound with black, that she always wanted. board and lodging was put low, at $ . per week, but the items had a footnote as to house-rent in the country, and food raised on the farm. yes, he guessed that was a full rate for the plain food and bare little bedroom they always had. “it's what aunt esther paid the winter she was here,” said diantha. circuses--three... $ . share in melodeon... $ . yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it. music lessons... $ . and quite a large margin left here, called miscellaneous, which he smiled to observe made just an even figure, and suspected she had put in for that purpose as well as from generosity. “this board account looks kind of funny,” he said--“only fourteen years of it!” “i didn't take table-board--nor a room--the first year--nor much the second. i've allowed $ . a week for that, and $ . for the third--that takes out two, you see. then it's $ a year till i was fourteen and earned board and wages, two more years at $ --and i've paid since i was seventeen, you know.” “well--i guess you did--i guess you did.” he grinned genially. “yes,” he continued slowly, “i guess that's a fair enough account. 'cording to this, you owe me $ , . , young woman! i didn't think it cost that much to raise a girl.” “i know it,” said she. “but here's the other side.” it was the other side. he had never once thought of such a side to the case. this account was as clear and honest as the first and full of exasperating detail. she laid before him the second sheet of figures and watched while he read, explaining hurriedly: “it was a clear expense for ten years--not counting help with the babies. then i began to do housework regularly--when i was ten or eleven, two hours a day; three when i was twelve and thirteen--real work you'd have had to pay for, and i've only put it at ten cents an hour. when mother was sick the year i was fourteen, and i did it all but the washing--all a servant would have done for $ . a week. ever since then i have done three hours a day outside of school, full grown work now, at twenty cents an hour. that's what we have to pay here, you know.” thus it mounted up: mr. henderson r. bell, to miss diantha bell, dr. for labor and services!!!!! two years, two hours a day at c. an hour... $ . two years, three hours a day at c. an hour... $ . one year, full wages at $ . a week... $ . six years and a half, three hours a day at c... $ . -------- $ . mr. bell meditated carefully on these figures. to think of that child's labor footing up to two thousand dollars and over! it was lucky a man had a wife and daughters to do this work, or he could never support a family. then came her school-teaching years. she had always been a fine scholar and he had felt very proud of his girl when she got a good school position in her eighteenth year. california salaries were higher than eastern ones, and times had changed too; the year he taught school he remembered the salary was only $ . --and he was a man. this girl got $ , next year $ , $ , $ ; why it made $ , she had earned in four years. astonishing. out of this she had a balance in the bank of $ . . he was pleased to see that she had been so saving. and her clothing account--little enough he admitted for four years and six months, $ . . all incidentals for the whole time, $ . --this with her balance made just $ . that left $ , . . “twenty-one hundred dollars unaccounted for, young lady!--besides this nest egg in the bank--i'd no idea you were so wealthy. what have you done with all that?” “given it to you, father,” said she quietly, and handed him the third sheet of figures. board and lodging at $ . a week for / years made $ . , that he could realize; but “cash advance” $ , more--he could not believe it. that time her mother was so sick and diantha had paid both the doctor and the nurse--yes--he had been much cramped that year--and nurses come high. for henderson, jr.'s, expenses to san francisco, and again for henderson when he was out of a job--mr. bell remembered the boy's writing for the money, and his not having it, and mrs. bell saying she could arrange with diantha. arrange! and that girl had kept this niggardly account of it! for minnie's trip to the yosemite--and what was this?--for his raisin experiment--for the new horse they simply had to have for the drying apparatus that year he lost so much money in apricots--and for the spraying materials--yes, he could not deny the items, and they covered that $ , . exactly. then came the deadly balance, of the account between them: her labor... $ , . her board... $ . her “cash advanced”... $ , . --------- $ , . his expense for her... $ , --------- due her from him... $ . diantha revolved her pencil between firm palms, and looked at him rather quizzically; while her mother rocked and darned and wiped away an occasional tear. she almost wished she had not kept accounts so well. mr. bell pushed the papers away and started to his feet. “this is the most shameful piece of calculation i ever saw in my life,” said he. “i never heard of such a thing! you go and count up in cold dollars the work that every decent girl does for her family and is glad to! i wonder you haven't charged your mother for nursing her?” “you notice i haven't,” said diantha coldly. “and to think,” said he, gripping the back of a chair and looking down at her fiercely, “to think that a girl who can earn nine hundred dollars a year teaching school, and stay at home and do her duty by her family besides, should plan to desert her mother outright--now she's old and sick! of course i can't stop you! you're of age, and children nowadays have no sense of natural obligation after they're grown up. you can go, of course, and disgrace the family as you propose--but you needn't expect to have me consent to it or approve of it--or of you. it's a shameful thing--and you are an unnatural daughter--that's all i've got to say!” mr. bell took his hat and went out--a conclusive form of punctuation much used by men in discussions of this sort. chapter iii. breakers duck! dive! here comes another one! wait till the crest-ruffles show! beyond is smooth water in beauty and wonder-- shut your mouth! hold your breath! dip your head under! dive through the weight and the wash, and the thunder-- look out for the undertow! if diantha imagined that her arithmetical victory over a too-sordid presentation of the parental claim was a final one, she soon found herself mistaken. it is easy to say--putting an epic in an epigram--“she seen her duty and she done it!” but the space and time covered are generally as far beyond our plans as the estimates of an amateur mountain climber exceed his achievements. her determination was not concealed by her outraged family. possibly they thought that if the matter was well aired, and generally discussed, the daring offender might reconsider. well-aired it certainly was, and widely discussed by the parents of the little town before young people who sat in dumbness, or made faint defense. it was also discussed by the young people, but not before their parents. she had told ross, first of all, meaning to have a quiet talk with him to clear the ground before arousing her own family; but he was suddenly away just as she opened the subject, by a man on a wheel--some wretched business about the store of course--and sent word that night that he could not come up again. couldn't come up the next night either. two long days--two long evenings without seeing him. well--if she went away she'd have to get used to that. but she had so many things to explain, so much to say to make it right with him; she knew well what a blow it was. now it was all over town--and she had had no chance to defend her position. the neighbors called. tall bony mrs. delafield who lived nearest to them and had known diantha for some years, felt it her duty to make a special appeal--or attack rather; and brought with her stout mrs. schlosster, whose ancestors and traditions were evidently of german extraction. diantha retired to her room when she saw these two bearing down upon the house; but her mother called her to make a pitcher of lemonade for them--and having entered there was no escape. they harried her with questions, were increasingly offended by her reticence, and expressed disapproval with a fullness that overmastered the girl's self-control. “i have as much right to go into business as any other citizen, mrs. delafield,” she said with repressed intensity. “i am of age and live in a free country. what you say of children no longer applies to me.” “and what is this mysterious business you're goin' into--if one may inquire? nothin you're ashamed to mention, i hope?” asked mrs. delafield. “if a woman refuses to mention her age is it because she's ashamed of it?” the girl retorted, and mrs. delafield flushed darkly. “never have i heard such talk from a maiden to her elders,” said mrs. schlosster. “in my country the young have more respect, as is right.” mrs. bell objected inwardly to any reprimand of her child by others; but she agreed to the principle advanced and made no comment. diantha listened to quite a volume of detailed criticism, inquiry and condemnation, and finally rose to her feet with the stiff courtesy of the young. “you must excuse me now,” she said with set lips. “i have some necessary work to do.” she marched upstairs, shut her bedroom door and locked it, raging inwardly. “its none of their business! not a shadow! why should mother sit there and let them talk to me like that! one would think childhood had no limit--unless it's matrimony!” this reminded her of her younger sister's airs of superior wisdom, and did not conduce to a pleasanter frame of mind. “with all their miserable little conventions and idiocies! and what 'they'll say,' and 'they'll think'! as if i cared! minnie'll be just such another!” she heard the ladies going out, still talking continuously, a faint response from her mother now and then, a growing quiet as their steps receded toward the gate; and then another deeper voice took up the theme and heavily approached. it was the minister! diantha dropped into her rocker and held the arms tight. “now i'll have to take it again i suppose. but he ought to know me well enough to understand.” “diantha!” called her mother, “here's dr. major;” and the girl washed her face and came down again. dr. major was a heavy elderly man with a strong mouth and a warm hand clasp. “what's all this i hear about you, young lady?” he demanded, holding her hand and looking her straight in the eye. “is this a new kind of prodigal daughter we're encountering?” he did not look nor sound condemnatory, and as she faced him she caught a twinkle in the wise old eyes. “you can call it that if you want to,” she said, “only i thought the prodigal son just spent his money--i'm going to earn some.” “i want you to talk to diantha, doctor major,” mrs. bell struck in. “i'm going to ask you to excuse me, and go and lie down for a little. i do believe she'll listen to you more than to anybody.” the mother retired, feeling sure that the good man who had known her daughter for over fifteen years would have a restraining influence now; and diantha braced herself for the attack. it came, heavy and solid, based on reason, religion, tradition, the custom of ages, the pastoral habit of control and protection, the father's instinct, the man's objection to a girl's adventure. but it was courteous, kind, and rationally put, and she met it point by point with the whole-souled arguments of a new position, the passionate enthusiasm of her years. they called a truce. “i can see that you _think_ its your duty, young, woman--that's the main thing. i think you're wrong. but what you believe to be right you have to do. that's the way we learn my dear, that's the way we learn! well--you've been a good child ever since i've known you. a remarkably good child. if you have to sow this kind of wild oats--” they both smiled at this, “i guess we can't stop you. i'll keep your secret--” “its not a secret really,” the girl explained, “i'll tell them as soon as i'm settled. then they can tell--if they want to.” and they both smiled again. “well--i won't tell till i hear of it then. and--yes, i guess i can furnish that document with a clean conscience.” she gave him paper and pen and he wrote, with a grin, handing her the result. she read it, a girlish giggle lightening the atmosphere. “thank you!” she said earnestly. “thank you ever so much. i knew you would help me.” “if you get stuck anywhere just let me know,” he said rising. “this proddy gal may want a return ticket yet!” “i'll walk first!” said diantha. “o dr. major,” cried her mother from the window, “don't go! we want you to stay to supper of course!” but he had other calls to make, he said, and went away, his big hands clasped behind him; his head bent, smiling one minute and shaking his head the next. diantha leaned against a pearly eucalyptus trunk and watched him. she would miss dr. major. but who was this approaching? her heart sank miserably. mrs. warden--and _all_ the girls. she went to meet them--perforce. mrs. warden had always been kind and courteous to her; the girls she had not seen very much of, but they had the sweet southern manner, were always polite. ross's mother she must love. ross's sisters too--if she could. why did the bottom drop out of her courage at sight of them? “you dear child!” said mrs. warden, kissing her. “i know just how you feel! you want to help my boy! that's your secret! but this won't do it, my dear!” “you've no idea how badly ross feels!” said madeline. “mrs. delafield dropped in just now and told us. you ought to have seen him!” “he didn't believe it of course,” adeline put in. “and he wouldn't say a thing--not a thing to blame you.” “we said we'd come over right off--and tried to bring him--but he said he'd got to go back to the store,” coraline explained. “he was mad though!” said dora--“_i_ know.” diantha looked from one to the other helplessly. “come in! come in!” said mrs. bell hospitably. “have this rocker, mrs. warden--wouldn't you like some cool drink? diantha?” “no indeed!” mrs. warden protested. “don't get a thing. we're going right back, it's near supper time. no, we can't think of staying, of course not, no indeed!--but we had to come over and hear about this dear child's idea!--now tell us all about it, diantha!” there they sat--five pairs of curious eyes--and her mother's sad ones--all kind--all utterly incapable of understanding. she moistened her lips and plunged desperately. “it is nothing dreadful, mrs. warden. plenty of girls go away to earn their livings nowadays. that is all i'm doing.” “but why go away?” “i thought you were earning your living before!” “isn't teaching earning your living?” “what _are_ you going to do?” the girls protested variously, and mrs. warden, with a motherly smile, suggested!!!!! “that doesn't explain your wanting to leave ross, my dear--and your mother!” “i don't want to leave them,” protested diantha, trying to keep her voice steady. “it is simply that i have made up my mind i can do better elsewhere.” “do what better?” asked mrs. warden with sweet patience, which reduced diantha to the bald statement, “earn more money in less time.” “and is that better than staying with your mother and your lover?” pursued the gentle inquisitor; while the girls tried, “what do you want to earn more money for?” and “i thought you earned a lot before.” now diantha did not wish to state in so many words that she wanted more money in order to marry sooner--she had hardly put it to herself that way. she could not make them see in a few moments that her plan was to do far more for her mother than she would otherwise ever be able to. and as to making them understand the larger principles at stake--the range and depth of her full purpose--that would be physically impossible. “i am sorry!” she said with trembling lips. “i am extremely sorry. but--i cannot explain!” mrs. warden drew herself up a little. “cannot explain to me?--your mother, of course, knows?” “diantha is naturally more frank with me than with--anyone,” said mrs. bell proudly, “but she does not wish her--business--plans--made public at present!” her daughter looked at her with vivid gratitude, but the words “made public” were a little unfortunate perhaps. “of course,” mrs. warden agreed, with her charming smile, “that we can quite understand. i'm sure i should always wish my girls to feel so. madeline--just show mrs. bell that necktie you're making--she was asking about the stitch, you remember.” the necktie was produced and admired, while the other girls asked diantha if she had her fall dressmaking done yet--and whether she found wash ribbon satisfactory. and presently the whole graceful family withdrew, only dora holding her head with visible stiffness. diantha sat on the floor by her mother, put her head in her lap and cried. “how splendid of you, mother!” she sobbed. “how simply splendid! i will tell you now--if--if--you won't tell even father--yet.” “dear child” said her mother, “i'd rather not know in that case. it is--easier.” “that's what i kept still for!” said the girl. “it's hard enough, goodness knows--as it is! its nothing wicked, or even risky, mother dear--and as far as i can see it is right!” her mother smiled through her tears. “if you say that, my dear child, i know there's no stopping you. and i hate to argue with you--even for your own sake, because it is so much to my advantage to have you here. i--shall miss you--diantha!” “don't, mother!” sobbed the girl. “its natural for the young to go. we expect it--in time. but you are so young yet--and--well, i had hoped the teaching would satisfy you till ross was ready.” diantha sat up straight. “mother! can't you see ross'll never be ready! look at that family! and the way they live! and those mortgages! i could wait and teach and save a little even with father always losing money; but i can't see ross wearing himself out for years and years--i just _can't_ bear it!” her mother stroked her fair hair softly, not surprised that her own plea was so lost in thought of the brave young lover. “and besides,” the girl went on “if i waited--and saved--and married ross--what becomes of _you,_ i'd like to know? what i can't stand is to have you grow older and sicker--and never have any good time in all your life!” mrs. bell smiled tenderly. “you dear child!” she said; as if an affectionate five-year old had offered to get her a rainbow, “i know you mean it all for the best. but, o my _dearest_! i'd rather have you--here--at home with me---than any other 'good time' you can imagine!” she could not see the suffering in her daughter's face; but she felt she had made an impression, and followed it up with heart-breaking sincerity. she caught the girl to her breast and held her like a little child. “o my baby! my baby! don't leave your mother. i can't bear it!” a familiar step outside, heavy, yet uncertain, and they both looked at each other with frightened eyes. they had forgotten the biscuit. “supper ready?” asked mr. bell, with grim humor. “it will be in a moment, father,” cried diantha springing to her feet. “at least--in a few moments.” “don't fret the child, father,” said mrs. henderson softly. “she's feeling bad enough.” “sh'd think she would,” replied her husband. “moreover--to my mind--she ought to.” he got out the small damp local paper and his pipe, and composed himself in obvious patience: yet somehow this patience seemed to fill the kitchen, and to act like a ball and chain to diantha's feet. she got supper ready, at last, making griddle-cakes instead of biscuit, and no comment was made of the change: but the tension in the atmosphere was sharply felt by the two women; and possibly by the tall old man, who ate less than usual, and said absolutely nothing. “i'm going over to see edwards about that new incubator,” he said when the meal was over, and departed; and mrs. bell, after trying in vain to do her mending, wiped her clouded glasses and went to bed. diantha made all neat and tidy; washed her own wet eyes again, and went out under the moon. in that broad tender mellow light she drew a deep breath and stretched her strong young arms toward the sky in dumb appeal. “i knew it would be hard,” she murmured to herself, “that is i knew the facts--but i didn't know the feeling!” she stood at the gate between the cypresses, sat waiting under the acacia boughs, walked restlessly up and down the path outside, the dry pepper berries crush softly under foot; bracing herself for one more struggle--and the hardest of all. “he will understand!” he told herself, over and over, but at the bottom of her heart she knew he wouldn't. he came at last; a slower, wearier step than usual; came and took both her hands in his and stood holding them, looking at her questioningly. then he held her face between his palms and made her look at him. her eyes were brave and steady, but the mouth trembled in spite of her. he stilled it with a kiss, and drew her to a seat on the bench beside him. “my poor little girl! you haven't had a chance yet to really tell me about this thing, and i want you to right now. then i'm going to kill about forty people in this town! _somebody_ has been mighty foolish.” she squeezed his hand, but found it very difficult to speak. his love, his sympathy, his tenderness, were so delicious after this day's trials--and before those further ones she could so well anticipate. she didn't wish to cry any more, that would by no means strengthen her position, and she found she couldn't seem to speak without crying. “one would think to hear the good people of this town that you were about to leave home and mother for--well, for a trip to the moon!” he added. “there isn't any agreement as to what you're going to do, but they're unanimous as to its being entirely wrong. now suppose you tell me about it.” “i will,” said diantha. “i began to the other night, you know, you first of course--it was too bad! your having to go off at that exact moment. then i had to tell mother--because--well you'll see presently. now dear--just let me say it _all_--before you--do anything.” “say away, my darling. i trust you perfectly.” she flashed a grateful look at him. “it is this way, my dear. i have two, three, yes four, things to consider:--my own personal problem--my family's--yours--and a social one.” “my family's?” he asked, with a faint shade of offence in his tone. “no no dear--your own,” she explained. “better cut mine out, little girl,” he said. “i'll consider that myself.” “well--i won't talk about it if you don't want me to. there are the other three.” “i won't question your second, nor your imposing third, but isn't the first one--your own personal problem--a good deal answered?” he suggested, holding her close for a moment. “don't!” she said. “i can't talk straight when you put it that way.” she rose hurriedly and took a step or two up and down. “i don't suppose--in spite of your loving me, that i can make you see it as i do. but i'll be just as clear as i can. there are some years before us before we can be together. in that time i intend to go away and undertake a business i am interested in. my purpose is to--develop the work, to earn money, to help my family, and to--well, not to hinder you.” “i don't understand, i confess,” he said. “don't you propose to tell me what this 'work' is?” “yes--i will--certainly. but not yet dear! let me try to show you how i feel about it.” “wait,” said he. “one thing i want to be sure of. are you doing this with any quixotic notion of helping me--in _my_ business? helping me to take care of my family? helping me to--” he stood up now, looking very tall and rather forbidding, “no, i won't say that to you.” “would there be anything wrong in my meaning exactly that?” she asked, holding her own head a little higher; “both what you said and what you didn't?” “it would be absolutely wrong, all of it,” he answered. “i cannot believe that the woman i love would--could take such a position.” “look here, ross!” said the girl earnestly. “suppose you knew where there was a gold mine--_knew it_--and by going away for a few years you could get a real fortune--wouldn't you do it?” “naturally i should,” he agreed. “well, suppose it wasn't a gold mine, but a business, a new system like those cigar stores--or--some patent amusement specialty--or _anything_--that you knew was better than what you're doing--wouldn't you have a right to try it?” “of course i should--but what has that to do with this case?” “why it's the same thing! don't you see? i have plans that will be of real benefit to all of us, something worth while to _do_--and not only for us but for _everybody_--a real piece of progress--and i'm going to leave my people--and even you!--for a little while--to make us all happier later on.” he smiled lovingly at her but shook his head slowly. “you dear, brave, foolish child!” he said. “i don't for one moment doubt your noble purposes. but you don't get the man's point of view--naturally. what's more you don't seem to get the woman's.” “can you see no other point of view than those?” she asked. “there are no others,” he answered. “come! come! my darling, don't add this new difficulty to what we've got to carry! i know you have a hard time of it at home. some day, please god, you shall have an easier one! and i'm having a hard time too--i don't deny it. but you are the greatest joy and comfort i have, dear--you know that. if you go away--it will be harder and slower and longer--that's all. i shall have you to worry about too. let somebody else do the gold-mine, dear--you stay here and comfort your mother as long as you can--and me. how can i get along without you?” he tried to put his arm around her again, but she drew back. “dear,” she said. “if i deliberately do what i think is right--against your wishes--what will you do?” “do?” the laughed bitterly. “what can i do? i'm tied by the leg here--i can't go after you. i've nothing to pull you out of a scrape with if you get in one. i couldn't do anything but--stand it.” “and if i go ahead, and do what you don't like--and make you--suffer--would you--would you rather be free?” her voice was very low and shaken, but he heard her well enough. “free of you? free of _you_?” he caught her and held her and kissed her over and over. “you are mine!” he said. “you have given yourself to me! you cannot leave me. neither of us is free--ever again.” but she struggled away from him. “both of us are free--to do what we think right, _always_ ross! i wouldn't try to stop you if you thought it was your duty to go to the north pole!” she held him a little way off. “let me tell you, dear. sit down--let me tell you all about it.” but he wouldn't sit down. “i don't think i want to know the details,” he said. “it doesn't much matter what you're going to do--if you really go away. i can't stop you--i see that. if you think this thing is your 'duty' you'll do it if it kills us all--and you too! if you have to go--i shall do nothing--can do nothing--but wait till you come back to me! whatever happens, darling--no matter how you fail--don't ever be afraid to come back to me.” he folded his arms now--did not attempt to hold her--gave her the freedom she asked and promised her the love she had almost feared to lose--and her whole carefully constructed plan seemed like a child's sand castle for a moment; her heroic decision the wildest folly. he was not even looking at her; she saw his strong, clean-cut profile dark against the moonlit house, a settled patience in its lines. duty! here was duty, surely, with tenderest happiness. she was leaning toward him--her hand was seeking his, when she heard through the fragrant silence a sound from her mother's room--the faint creak of her light rocking chair. she could not sleep--she was sitting up with her trouble, bearing it quietly as she had so many others. the quiet everyday tragedy of that distasteful life--the slow withering away of youth and hope and ambition into a gray waste of ineffectual submissive labor--not only of her life, but of thousands upon thousands like her--it all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot young heart. ross had turned to her--was holding out his arms to her. “you won't go, my darling!” he said. “i am going wednesday on the . ,” said diantha. chapter iv. a crying need “lovest thou me?” said the fair ladye; and the lover he said, “yea!” “then climb this tree--for my sake,” said she, “and climb it every day!” so from dawn till dark he abrazed the bark and wore his clothes away; till, “what has this tree to do with thee?” the lover at last did say. it was a poor dinner. cold in the first place, because isabel would wait to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another dress. she hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown, specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably. isabel was never a cook. in the many servantless gaps of domestic life in orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the porne household. “dear,” said mr. porne, “might i petition to have the steak less cooked? i know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?” “i'm sorry,” she answered, “i always forget about the steak from one time to the next.” “yet we've had it three times this week, my dear.” “i thought you liked it better than anything,” she with marked gentleness. “i'll get you other things--oftener.” “it's a shame you should have this to do, isabel. i never meant you should cook for me. indeed i didn't dream you cared so little about it.” “and i never dreamed you cared so much about it,” she replied, still with repression. “i'm not complaining, am i? i'm only sorry you should be disappointed in me.” “it's not _you,_ dear girl! you're all right! it's just this everlasting bother. can't you get _anybody_ that will stay?” “i can't seem to get anybody on any terms, so far. i'm going again, to-morrow. cheer up, dear--the baby keeps well--that's the main thing.” he sat on the rose-bowered porch and smoked while she cleared the table. at first he had tried to help her on these occasions, but their methods were dissimilar and she frankly told him she preferred to do it alone. so she slipped off the silk and put on the gingham again, washed the dishes with the labored accuracy of a trained mind doing unfamiliar work, made the bread, redressed at last, and joined him about nine o'clock. “it's too late to go anywhere, i suppose?” he ventured. “yes--and i'm too tired. besides--we can't leave eddie alone.” “o yes--i forget. of course we can't.” his hand stole out to take hers. “i _am_ sorry, dear. it's awfully rough on you women out here. how do they all stand it?” “most of them stand it much better than i do, ned. you see they don't want to be doing anything else.” “yes. that's the mischief of it!” he agreed; and she looked at him in the clear moonlight, wondering exactly what he thought the mischief was. “shall we go in and read a bit?” he offered; but she thought not. “i'm too tired, i'm afraid. and eddie'll wake up as soon as we begin.” so they sat awhile enjoying the soft silence, and the rich flower scents about them, till eddie did wake presently, and isabel went upstairs. she slept little that night, lying quite still, listening to her husband's regular breathing so near her, and the lighter sound from the crib. “i am a very happy woman,” she told herself resolutely; but there was no outpouring sense of love and joy. she knew she was happy, but by no means felt it. so she stared at the moon shadows and thought it over. she had planned the little house herself, with such love, such hope, such tender happy care! not her first work, which won high praise in the school in paris, not the prize-winning plan for the library, now gracing orchardina's prettiest square, was as dear to her as this most womanly task--the making of a home. it was the library success which brought her here, fresh from her foreign studies, and orchardina accepted with western cordiality the youth and beauty of the young architect, though a bit surprised at first that “i. h. wright” was an isabel. in her further work of overseeing the construction of that library, she had met edgar porne, one of the numerous eager young real estate men of that region, who showed a liberal enthusiasm for the general capacity of women in the professions, and a much warmer feeling for the personal attractions of this one. together they chose the lot on pepper-shaded inez avenue; together they watched the rising of the concrete walls and planned the garden walks and seats, and the tiny precious pool in the far corner. he was so sympathetic! so admiring! he took as much pride in the big “drawing room” on the third floor as she did herself. “architecture is such fine work to do at home!” they had both agreed. “here you have your north light--your big table--plenty of room for work! you will grow famouser and famouser,” he had lovingly insisted. and she had answered, “i fear i shall be too contented, dear, to want to be famous.” that was only some year and a-half ago,--but isabel, lying there by her sleeping husband and sleeping child, was stark awake and only by assertion happy. she was thinking, persistently, of dust. she loved a delicate cleanliness. her art was a precise one, her studio a workshop of white paper and fine pointed hard pencils, her painting the mechanical perfection of an even wash of color. and she saw, through the floors and walls and the darkness, the dust in the little shaded parlor--two days' dust at least, and orchardina is very dusty!--dust in the dining-room gathered since yesterday--the dust in the kitchen--she would not count time there, and the dust--here she counted it inexorably--the dust of eight days in her great, light workroom upstairs. eight days since she had found time to go up there. lying there, wide-eyed and motionless, she stood outside in thought and looked at the house--as she used to look at it with him, before they were married. then, it had roused every blessed hope and dream of wedded joy--it seemed a casket of uncounted treasures. now, in this dreary mood, it seemed not only a mere workshop, but one of alien tasks, continuous, impossible, like those set for the imprisoned princess by bad fairies in the old tales. in thought she entered the well-proportioned door--the gate of happiness--and a musty smell greeted her--she had forgotten to throw out those flowers! she turned to the parlor--no, the piano keys were gritty, one had to clean them twice a day to keep that room as she liked it. from room to room she flitted, in her mind, trying to recall the exquisite things they meant to her when she had planned them; and each one now opened glaring and blank, as a place to work in--and the work undone. “if i were an abler woman!” she breathed. and then her common sense and common honesty made her reply to herself: “i am able enough--in my own work! nobody can do everything. i don't believe edgar'd do it any better than i do.--he don't have to!”--and then such a wave of bitterness rushed over her that she was afraid, and reached out one hand to touch the crib--the other to her husband. he awakened instantly. “what is it, dear?” he asked. “too tired to sleep, you poor darling? but you do love me a little, don't you?” “o _yes_!” she answered. “i do. of _course_ i do! i'm just tired, i guess. goodnight, sweetheart.” she was late in getting to sleep and late in waking. when he finally sat down to the hurriedly spread breakfast-table, mr. porne, long coffeeless, found it a bit difficult to keep his temper. isabel was a little stiff, bringing in dishes and cups, and paying no attention to the sounds of wailing from above. “well if you won't i will!” burst forth the father at last, and ran upstairs, returning presently with a fine boy of some eleven months, who ceased to bawl in these familiar arms, and contented himself, for the moment, with a teaspoon. “aren't you going to feed him?” asked mr. porne, with forced patience. “it isn't time yet,” she announced wearily. “he has to have his bath first.” “well,” with a patience evidently forced farther, “isn't it time to feed me?” “i'm very sorry,” she said. “the oatmeal is burned again. you'll have to eat cornflakes. and--the cream is sour--the ice didn't come--or at least, perhaps i was out when it came--and then i forgot it..... i had to go to the employment agency in the morning!.... i'm sorry i'm so--so incompetent.” “so am i,” he commented drily. “are there any crackers for instance? and how about coffee?” she brought the coffee, such as it was, and a can of condensed milk. also crackers, and fruit. she took the baby and sat silent. “shall i come home to lunch?” he asked. “perhaps you'd better not,” she replied coldly. “is there to be any dinner?” “dinner will be ready at six-thirty, if i have to get it myself.” “if you have to get it yourself i'll allow for seven-thirty,” said he, trying to be cheerful, though she seemed little pleased by it. “now don't take it so hard, ellie. you are a first-class architect, anyhow--one can't be everything. we'll get another girl in time. this is just the common lot out here. all the women have the same trouble.” “most women seem better able to meet it!” she burst forth. “it's not my trade! i'm willing to work, i like to work, but i can't _bear_ housework! i can't seem to learn it at all! and the servants will not do it properly!” “perhaps they know your limitations, and take advantage of them! but cheer up, dear. it's no killing matter. order by phone, don't forget the ice, and i'll try to get home early and help. don't cry, dear girl, i love you, even if you aren't a good cook! and you love me, don't you?” he kissed her till she had to smile back at him and give him a loving hug; but after he had gone, the gloom settled upon her spirits once more. she bathed the baby, fed him, put him to sleep; and came back to the table. the screen door had been left ajar and the house was buzzing with flies, hot, with a week's accumulating disorder. the bread she made last night in fear and trembling, was hanging fatly over the pans; perhaps sour already. she clapped it into the oven and turned on the heat. then she stood, undetermined, looking about that messy kitchen while the big flies bumped and buzzed on the windows, settled on every dish, and swung in giddy circles in the middle of the room. turning swiftly she shut the door on them. the dining-room was nearly as bad. she began to put the cups and plates together for removal; but set her tray down suddenly and went into the comparative coolness of the parlor, closing the dining-room door behind her. she was quite tired enough to cry after several nights of broken rest and days of constant discomfort and irritation; but a sense of rising anger kept the tears back. “of course i love him!” she said to herself aloud but softly, remembering the baby, “and no doubt he loves me! i'm glad to be his wife! i'm glad to be a mother to his child! i'm glad i married him! but--_this_ is not what he offered! and it's not what i undertook! he hasn't had to change his business!” she marched up and down the scant space, and then stopped short and laughed drily, continuing her smothered soliloquy. “'do you love me?' they ask, and, 'i will make you happy!' they say; and you get married--and after that it's housework!” “they don't say, 'will you be my cook?' 'will you be my chamber maid?' 'will you give up a good clean well-paid business that you love--that has big hope and power and beauty in it--and come and keep house for me?'” “love him? i'd be in paris this minute if i didn't! what has 'love' to do with dust and grease and flies!” then she did drop on the small sofa and cry tempestuously for a little while; but soon arose, fiercely ashamed of her weakness, and faced the day; thinking of the old lady who had so much to do she couldn't think what to first--so she sat down and made a pincushion. then--where to begin! “eddie will sleep till half-past ten--if i'm lucky. it's now nearly half-past nine,” she meditated aloud. “if i do the upstairs work i might wake him. i mustn't forget the bread, the dishes, the parlor--o those flies! well--i'll clear the table first!” stepping softly, and handling the dishes with slow care, she cleaned the breakfast table and darkened the dining-room, flapping out some of the flies with a towel. then she essayed the parlor, dusting and arranging with undecided steps. “it _ought_ to be swept,” she admitted to herself; “i can't do it--there isn't time. i'll make it dark--” “i'd rather plan a dozen houses!” she fiercely muttered, as she fussed about. “yes--i'd rather build 'em--than to keep one clean!” then were her hopes dashed by a rising wail from above. she sat quite still awhile, hoping against hope that he would sleep again; but he wouldn't. so she brought him down in full cry. in her low chair by the window she held him and produced bright and jingling objects from the tall workbasket that stood near by, sighing again as she glanced at its accumulated mending. master eddy grew calm and happy in her arms, but showed a growing interest in the pleasing materials produced for his amusement, and a desire for closer acquaintance. then a penetrating odor filled the air, and with a sudden “o dear!” she rose, put the baby on the sofa, and started toward the kitchen. at this moment the doorbell rang. mrs. porne stopped in her tracks and looked at the door. it remained opaque and immovable. she looked at the baby--who jiggled his spools and crowed. then she flew to the oven and dragged forth the bread, not much burned after all. then she opened the door. a nice looking young woman stood before her, in a plain travelling suit, holding a cheap dress-suit case in one hand and a denim “roll-bag” in the other, who met her with a cheerful inquiring smile. “are you mrs. edgar porne?” she asked. “i am,” answered that lady, somewhat shortly, her hand on the doorknob, her ear on the baby, her nose still remorsefully in the kitchen, her eyes fixed sternly on her visitor the while; as she wondered whether it was literature, cosmetics, or medicine. she was about to add that she didn't want anything, when the young lady produced a card from the rev. benjamin a. miner, mrs. porne's particularly revered minister, and stated that she had heard there was a vacancy in her kitchen and she would like the place. “introducing mrs. d. bell, well known to friends of mine.” “i don't know--” said mrs. porne, reading the card without in the least grasping what it said. “i--” just then there was a dull falling sound followed by a sharp rising one, and she rushed into the parlor without more words. when she could hear and be heard again, she found mrs. bell seated in the shadowy little hall, serene and cool. “i called on mr. miner yesterday when i arrived,” said she, “with letters of introduction from my former minister, told him what i wanted to do, and asked him if he could suggest anyone in immediate need of help in this line. he said he had called here recently, and believed you were looking for someone. here is the letter i showed him,” and she handed mrs. porne a most friendly and appreciative recommendation of miss d. bell by a minister in jopalez, inca co., stating that the bearer was fully qualified to do all kinds of housework, experienced, honest, kind, had worked seven years in one place, and only left it hoping to do better in southern california. backed by her own pastor's approval this seemed to mrs. porne fully sufficient. the look of the girl pleased her, though suspiciously above her station in manner; service of any sort was scarce and high in orchardina, and she had been an agelong week without any. “when can you come?” she asked. “i can stop now if you like,” said the stranger. “this is my baggage. but we must arrange terms first. if you like to try me i will come this week from noon to-day to noon next friday, for seven dollars, and then if you are satisfied with my work we can make further arrangements. i do not do laundry work, of course, and don't undertake to have any care of the baby.” “i take care of my baby myself!” said mrs. porne, thinking the new girl was presuming, though her manner was most gently respectful. but a week was not long, she was well recommended, and the immediate pressure in that kitchen where the harvest was so ripe and the laborers so few--“well--you may try the week,” she said. “i'll show you your room. and what is your name?” “miss bell.” chapter v. when the fig growns on the thistle, and the silk purse on the sow; when one swallow brings the summer, and blue moons on her brow!!!!! then we may look for strength and skill, experience, good health, good will, art and science well combined, honest soul and able mind, servants built upon this plan, one to wait on every man, patiently from youth to age,-- for less than a street cleaner's wage! when the parson's gay on mondays, when we meet a month of sundays, we may look for them and find them-- but not now! when young mrs. weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors. mrs. porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice. “why, belle! i haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long. it must be the new maid!” “that's it--she's 'bell' too--'miss bell' if you please!” the visitor looked puzzled. “is she a--a friend?” she ventured, not sure of her ground. “i should say she was! a friend in need! sit here by the window, viva--and i'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes.” she gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. “she arrived at about quarter of ten. i engaged her inside of five minutes. she was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!” “what promptness! and i suppose there was plenty to do!” mrs. porne laughed unblushingly. “there was enough for ten women it seemed to me! let's see--it's about five now--seven hours. we have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. she hasn't touched that yet. but the house is clean--_clean_! smell it!” she took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly. “she said that if i didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!” mrs. weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. “i'm very glad for you, belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all is--don't you think so?” “nuisance! it's slow death! to me at least,” mrs. porne answered. “but i don't see why you should mind. i thought madam weatherstone ran that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all.” “oh yes, she runs it. i couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't. that's her life. it was my mother's too. always fussing and fussing. their houses on their backs--like snails!” “don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.” “its twenty, i think. but my dear belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it awhile, that's all!” “not for a millionaire baby's ransom!” answered isabel promptly. “give me my drawing tools and plans and i'm happy--but this business”--she swept a white hand wearily about--“it's not my work, that's all.” “but you _enjoy_ it, don't you--i mean having nice things?” asked her friend. “of course i enjoy it, but so does edgar. can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? i enjoy ocean travel, but i don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!” mrs. weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “you're lucky, you have other interests,” she said. “how about our bungalow? have you got any farther?” mrs. porne flushed. “i'm sorry, viva. you ought to have given it to someone else. i haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. no help, and the baby, you know. and i was always dog-tired.” “that's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. you can get at it now, can't you--with this other belle to the fore?” “she's not belle, bless you--she's 'miss bell.' it's her last name.” mrs. weatherstone smiled her faint smile. “well--why not? like a seamstress, i suppose.” “exactly.” that's what she said. “if this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--oh she's a most superior _and_ opinionated young person, i can see that.” “i like her looks,” admitted mrs. weatherstone, “but can't we look over those plans again; there's something i wanted to suggest.” and they went up to the big room on the third floor. in her shop and at her work isabel porne was a different woman. she was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women. she pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. “and you say you're not domestic!” “i'm a domestic architect, if you like,” said isabel; “but not a domestic servant.--i'll remember what you say about those windows--it's a good idea,” and she made a careful note of mrs. weatherstone's suggestion. that lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that isabel followed at last and took her hand. “did you love him so much?” she asked softly. “who?” was the surprising answer. “why--mr. weatherstone,” said mrs. porne. “no--not very much. but he was something.” isabel was puzzled. “i knew you so well in school,” she said, “and that gay year in paris. you were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing--but not like this. what's happened viva?” “nothing that anybody can help,” said her friend. “nothing that matters. what does matter, anyway? fuss and fuss and fuss. dress and entertain. travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy! then--when a real thing happens--there's all this!” and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. “and mourning notepaper and cards and servant's livery--and all the things you mustn't do!” isabel put an arm around her. “don't mind, dear--you'll get over this--you are young enough yet--the world is full of things to do!” but mrs. weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. “i loved another man, first,” she said. “a real one. he died. he never cared for me at all. i cared for nothing else--nothing in life. that's why i married martin weatherstone--not for his old millions--but he really cared--and i was sorry for him. now he's dead. and i'm wearing this--and still mourning for the other one.” isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek. “oh, i'll feel differently in time, perhaps!” said her visitor. “maybe if you took hold of the house--if you ran things yourself,”--ventured mrs. porne. mrs. weatherstone laughed. “and turn out the old lady? you don't know her. why she managed her son till he ran away from her--and after he got so rich and imported her from philadelphia to rule over orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy--he's the only person that manages her! she's utterly spoiled him--that was his father's constant grief. no, no--let her run the house--she thinks she owns it.” “she's fond of you, isn't she?” asked mrs. porne. “o i guess so--if i let her have her own way. and she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. speaking of trouble, there they are--she said she'd stop for me.” at the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and mrs. weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. in the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young mat weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. he was not a nice young man. ***** diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to ross. she could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others. to leave home--to leave school-teaching, to leave love--and “go out to service” did not seem a step up, that was certain. but she set her red lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that evening, tired though she was. three letters came back quickly. her mother's answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding. her sister's was as unpleasant as she had expected. “the _idea!_” wrote mrs. susie. “a girl with a good home to live in and another to look forward to--and able to earn money _respectably!_ to go out and work like a common irish girl! why gerald is so mortified he can't face his friends--and i'm as ashamed as i can be! my own sister! you must be _crazy_--simply _crazy!_” it was hard on them. diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with ross; but she had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. she found tears in her eyes over her mother's letter. her sister's made her both sorry and angry--a most disagreeable feeling--as when you step on the cat on the stairs. ross's letter she held some time without opening. she was in her little upstairs room in the evening. she had swept, scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. the “hoo! hoo!” of the little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night, and large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. she kissed the letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened it. “dearest: i have your letter with its--somewhat surprising--news. it is a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger. “i can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something else, as you say so repeatedly; and i can understand also that you are too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand. “i will be perfectly frank with you, dear. “in the first place i love you. i shall love you always, whatever you do. but i will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to me unutterably foolish and wrong. “i suppose you expect by some mysterious process to “develope” and “elevate” this housework business; and to make money. i should not love you any better if you made a million--and i would not take money from you--you know that, i hope. if in the years we must wait before we can marry, you are happier away from me--working in strange kitchens--or offices--that is your affair. “i shall not argue nor plead with you, dear girl; i know you think you are doing right; and i have no right, nor power, to prevent you. but if my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the shadow of the acacia boughs--in my arms! “any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, dear. “yours, ross.” “any time she felt like coming back? diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the letter--her arms spread wide. the letter grew wetter and wetter, and her shoulders shook from time to time. but the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you might have heard a dogged repetition, monotonous as a tibetan prayer mill: “it is right. it is right. it is right.” and then. “help me--please! i need it.” diantha was not “gifted in prayer.” when mr. porne came home that night he found the wifely smile which is supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence. “o edgar!” cried she in a triumphant whisper, “i've got such a nice girl! she's just as neat and quick; you've no idea the work she's done today--it looks like another place already. but if things look queer at dinner don't notice it--for i've just given her her head. i was so tired, and baby bothered so, and she said that perhaps she could manage all by herself if i was willing to risk it, so i took baby for a car-ride and have only just got back. and i _think_ the dinner's going to be lovely!” it was lovely. the dining-room was cool and flyless. the table was set with an assured touch. a few of orchardina's ever ready roses in a glass bowl gave an air of intended beauty mrs. porne had had no time for. the food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want them. mrs. porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks. but he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a multitude of sins. on this they rested, while the week went by. it was a full week, and a short one. mrs. porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls. when thursday night came around she was simply running over with information to give her husband. “such a talk as i have had with miss bell! she is so queer! but she's nice too, and it's all reasonable enough, what she says. you know she's studied this thing all out, and she knows about it--statistics and things. i was astonished till i found she used to teach school. just think of it! and to be willing to work out! she certainly does her work beautiful, but--it doesn't seem like having a servant at all. i feel as if i--boarded with her!” “why she seemed to me very modest and unpresuming,” put in mr. porne. “o yes, she never presumes. but i mean the capable way she manages--i don't have to tell her one thing, nor to oversee, nor criticize. i spoke of it and she said, 'if i didn't understand the business i should have no right to undertake it.” “that's a new point of view, isn't it?” asked her husband. “don't they usually make you teach them their trade and charge for the privilege?” “yes, of course they do. but then she does have her disadvantages--as you said.” “does she? what are they?” “why she's so--rigid. i'll read you her--i don't know what to call it. she's written out a definite proposition as to her staying with us, and i want you to study it, it's the queerest thing i ever saw.” the document was somewhat novel. a clear statement of the hours of labor required in the position, the quality and amount of the different kinds of work; the terms on which she was willing to undertake it, and all prefaced by a few remarks on the status of household labor which made mr. porne open his eyes. thus miss bell; “the ordinary rate for labor in this state, unskilled labor of the ordinary sort, is $ . a day. this is in return for the simplest exertion of brute force, under constant supervision and direction, and involving no serious risk to the employer.” “household labor calls for the practice of several distinct crafts, and, to be properly done, requires thorough training and experience. its performer is not only in a position of confidence, as necessarily entrusted with the care of the employer's goods and with knowledge of the most intimate family relations; but the work itself, in maintaining the life and health of the members of the household, is of most vital importance. “in consideration of existing economic conditions, however, i am willing to undertake these intricate and responsible duties for a seven day week at less wages than are given the street-digger, for $ . a day.” “good gracious, my dear!” said mr. porne, laying down the paper, “this young woman does appreciate her business! and we're to be let off easy at $ . a month, are we.” “and feel under obligations at that!” answered his wife. “but you read ahead. it is most instructive. we shall have to ask her to read a paper for the club!” “'in further consideration of the conditions of the time, i am willing to accept part payment in board and lodging instead of cash. such accommodations as are usually offered with this position may be rated at $ . a month.'” “o come now, don't we board her any better than that?” “that's what i thought, and i asked her about it, and she explained that she could get a room as good for a dollar and a-half a week--she had actually made inquiries in this very town! and she could; really a better room, better furnished, that is, and service with it. you know i've always meant to get the girl's room fixed more prettily, but usually they don't seem to mind. and as to food--you see she knows all about the cost of things, and the materials she consumes are really not more than two dollars and a half a week, if they are that. she even made some figures for me to prove it--see.” mr. porne had to laugh. “breakfast. coffee at thirty-five cents per pound, one cup, one cent. oatmeal at fourteen cents per package, one bowl, one cent. bread at five cents per loaf, two slices, one-half cent. butter at forty cents per pound, one piece, one and a-half cents. oranges at thirty cents per dozen, one, three cents. milk at eight cents per quart, on oatmeal, one cent. meat or fish or egg, average five cents. total--thirteen cents.” “there! and she showed me dinner and lunch the same way. i had no idea food, just the material, cost so little. it's the labor, she says that makes it cost even in the cheapest restaurant.” “i see,” said mr. porne. “and in the case of the domestic servant we furnish the materials and she furnishes the labor. she cooks her own food and waits on herself--naturally it wouldn't come high. what does she make it?” 'food, average per day.............$ . room, $ . per w'k, ave. per day..... ----- . total, per month... $ . $ . per day, per month... $ . “'remaining payable in cash, $ . .' do i still live! but my dear ellie, that's only what an ordinary first-class cook charges, out here, without all this fuss!” “i know it, ned, but you know we think it's awful, and we're always telling about their getting their board and lodging clear--as if we gave'em that out of the goodness of our hearts!” “exactly, my dear. and this amazing and arithmetical young woman makes us feel as if we were giving her wampum instead of money--mere primitive barter of ancient days in return for her twentieth century services! how does she do her work--that's the main question.” “i never saw anyone do it better, or quicker, or easier. that is, i thought it was easy till she brought me this paper. just read about her work, and you'll feel as if we ought to pay her all your salary.” mr. porne read: “labor performed, average ten hours a day, as follows: preparation of food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of dishes, utensils, towels, stove, etc., per meal--breakfast two hours, dinner three hours, supper or lunch one hour--six hours per day for food service. daily chamber work and dusting, etc., one and one-half hours per day. weekly cleaning for house of nine rooms, with halls, stairs, closets, porches, steps, walks, etc., sweeping, dusting, washing windows, mopping, scouring, etc., averaging two hours per day. door service, waiting on tradesmen, and extras one-half hour per day. total ten hours per day.” “that sounds well. does it take that much time every day?” “yes, indeed! it would take me twenty!” she answered. “you know the week i was here alone i never did half she does. of course i had baby, but then i didn't do the things. i guess when it doesn't take so long they just don't do what ought to be done. for she is quick, awfully quick about her work. and she's thorough. i suppose it ought to be done that way--but i never had one before.” “she keeps mighty fresh and bright-looking after these herculean labors.” “yes, but then she rests! her ten hours are from six-thirty a.m., when she goes into the kitchen as regularly as a cuckoo clock, to eight-thirty p.m. when she is all through and her kitchen looks like a--well it's as clean and orderly as if no one was ever in it.” “ten hours--that's fourteen.” “i know it, but she takes out four. she claims time to eat her meals.” “preposterous!” “half an hour apiece, and half an hour in the morning to rest--and two in the afternoon. anyway she is out, two hours every afternoon, riding in the electric cars!” “that don't look like a very hard job. her day laborer doesn't get two hours off every afternoon to take excursions into the country!” “no, i know that, but he doesn't begin so early, nor stop so late. she does her square ten hours work, and i suppose one has a right to time off.” “you seem dubious about that, my dear.” “yes, that's just where it's awkward. i'm used to girls being in all the time, excepting their day out. you see i can't leave baby, nor always take him--and it interferes with my freedom afternoons.” “well--can't you arrange with her somehow?” “see if you can. she says she will only give ten hours of time for a dollar and a half a day--tisn't but fifteen cents an hour--i have to pay a woman twenty that comes in. and if she is to give up her chance of sunlight and fresh air she wants me to pay her extra--by the hour. or she says, if i prefer, she would take four hours every other day--and so be at home half the time. i said it was difficult to arrange--with baby, and she was very sympathetic and nice, but she won't alter her plans.” “let her go, and get a less exacting servant.” “but--she does her work so well! and it saves a lot, really. she knows all about marketing and things, and plans the meals so as to have things lap, and it's a comfort to have her in the house and feel so safe and sure everything will be done right.” “well, it's your province, my dear. i don't profess to advise. but i assure you i appreciate the table, and the cleanness of everything, and the rested look in your eyes, dear girl!” she slipped her hand into his affectionately. “it does make a difference,” she said. “i _could_ get a girl for $ . and save nearly $ . a week--but you know what they are!” “i do indeed,” he admitted fervently. “it's worth the money to have this thing done so well. i think she's right about the wages. better keep her.” “o--she'll only agree to stay six months even at this rate!” “well--keep her six months and be thankful. i thought she was too good to last!” they looked over the offered contract again. it closed with: “this agreement to hold for six months from date if mutually satisfactory. in case of disagreement two weeks' notice is to be given on either side, or two weeks' wages if preferred by the employer.” it was dated, and signed “miss d. c. bell.” and with inward amusement and great display of penmanship they added “mrs. isabel j. porne,” and the contract was made. chapter vi. the cynosure. it's a singular thing that the commonest place is the hardest to properly fill; that the labor imposed on a full half the race is so seldom performed with good will-- to say nothing of knowledge or skill! what we ask of all women, we stare at in one, and tribute of wonderment bring; if this task of the million is once fitly done we all hold our hands up and sing! it's really a singular thing! isabel porne was a cautious woman, and made no acclaim over her new acquisition until its value was proven. her husband also bided his time; and when congratulated on his improved appearance and air of contentment, merely vouchsafed that his wife had a new girl who could cook. to himself he boasted that he had a new wife who could love--so cheerful and gay grew mrs. porne in the changed atmosphere of her home. “it is remarkable, edgar,” she said, dilating repeatedly on the peculiar quality of their good fortune. “it's not only good cooking, and good waiting, and a clean house--cleaner than i ever saw one before; and it's not only the quietness, and regularity and economy--why the bills have gone down more than a third!” “yes--even i noticed that,” he agreed. “but what i enjoy the most is the _atmosphere,_” she continued. “when i have to do the work, the house is a perfect nightmare to me!” she leaned forward from her low stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and regarded him intently. “edgar! you know i love you. and i love my baby--i'm no unfeeling monster! but i can tell you frankly that if i'd had any idea of what housework was like i'd never have given up architecture to try it.” “lucky for me you hadn't!” said he fondly. “i know it's been hard for you, little girl. i never meant that you should give up architecture--that's a business a woman could carry on at home i thought, the designing part anyway. there's your 'drawing-room' and all your things--” “yes,” she said, with reminiscent bitterness, “there they are--and there they might have stayed, untouched--if miss bell hadn't come!” “makes you call her “miss bell” all the time, does she?” mrs. porne laughed. “yes. i hated it at first, but she asked if i could give her any real reason why the cook should be called by her first name more than the seamstress or governess. i tried to say that it was shorter, but she smiled and said that in this case it was longer!--her name is diantha--i've seen it on letters. and it is one syllable longer. anyhow i've got used to miss bell now.” “she gets letters often?” “yes--very often--from topolaya where she came from. i'm afraid she's engaged.” mrs. porne sighed ruefully. “i don't doubt it!” said mr. porne. “that would account for her six months' arrangement! well, my dear--make hay while the sun shines!” “i do!” she boasted. “whole stacks! i've had a seamstress in, and got all my clothes in order and the baby's. we've had lot of dinner-parties and teas as you know--all my “social obligations” are cleared off! we've had your mother for a visit, and mine's coming now--and i wasn't afraid to have either of them! there's no fault to be found with my housekeeping now! and there are two things better than that--yes, three.” “the best thing is to see you look so young and handsome and happy again,” said her husband, with a kiss. “yes--that's one. another is that now i feel so easy and lighthearted i can love you and baby--as--as i _do!_ only when i'm tired and discouraged i can't put my hand on it somehow.” he nodded sympathetically. “i know, dear,” he said. “i feel that way myself--sometimes. what's the other?” “why that's best of all!” she cried triumphantly. “i can work again! when baby's asleep i get hours at a time; and even when he's awake i've fixed a place where he can play--and i can draw and plan--just as i used to--_better_ than i used to!” “and that is even more to you than loving?” he asked in a quiet inquiring voice. “it's more because it means _both!_” she leaned to him, glowing, “don't you see? first i had the work and loved it. then you came--and i loved you--better! then baby came and i loved him--best? i don't know--you and baby are all one somehow.” there was a brief interim and then she drew back, blushing richly. “now stop--i want to explain. when the housework got to be such a nightmare--and i looked forward to a whole lifetime of it and _no_ improvement; then i just _ached_ for my work--and couldn't do it! and then--why sometimes dear, i just wanted to run away! actually! from _both_ of you!--you see, i spent five years studying--i was a _real_ architect--and it did hurt to see it go. and now--o now i've got it and you too, darling! _and_ the baby!--o i'm so happy!” “thanks to the providential miss bell,” said he. “if she'll stay i'll pay her anything!” the months went by. peace, order, comfort, cleanliness and economy reigned in the porne household, and the lady of the house blossomed into richer beauty and happiness; her contentment marred only by a sense of flying time. miss bell fulfilled her carefully specified engagement to the letter; rested her peaceful hour in the morning; walked and rode in the afternoon; familiarized herself with the length and breadth of the town; and visited continuously among the servants of the neighborhood, establishing a large and friendly acquaintance. if she wore rubber gloves about the rough work, she paid for them herself; and she washed and ironed her simple and pretty costumes herself--with the result that they stayed pretty for surprising periods. she wrote letters long and loving, to ross daily; to her mother twice a week; and by the help of her sister's authority succeeded in maintaining a fairly competent servant in her deserted place. “father was bound he wouldn't,” her sister wrote her; “but i stood right up to him, i can now i'm married!--and gerald too--that he'd no right to take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. he made a fuss about your paying for the girl--but that was only showing off--_he_ couldn't pay for her just now--that's certain. and she does very well--a good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” and then she scolded furiously about her sister's “working out.” diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. she had faced all sides of the question before deciding. “your mother misses you badly, of course,” ross wrote her. “i go in as often as i can and cheer her up a bit. it's not just the work--she misses you. by the way--so do i.” he expressed his views on her new employment. diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. but she would put them away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim courage. “it's hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “its hard on me--some. but we'll all be better off because of it, and not only us--but everybody!” meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in comment and grew green with envy. in social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in domestic circles, it was noised abroad that mrs. edgar porne had “solved the servant question.” news of this marvel of efficiency and propriety was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops and other downtown meeting places mentioned. servants gathered it at dinner-tables; and diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new friends among the servants. “does she keep on just the same?” asked little mrs. ree of mrs. porne in an awed whisper. “just the same if not better. i don't even order the meals now, unless i want something especial. she keeps a calendar of what we've had to eat, and what belongs to the time of year, prices and things. when i used to ask her to suggest (one does, you know: it is so hard to think up a variety!), she'd always be ready with an idea, or remind me that we had had so and so two days before, till i asked her if she'd like to order, and she said she'd be willing to try, and now i just sit down to the table without knowing what's going to be there.” “but i should think that would interfere with your sense of freedom,” said mrs. ellen a dankshire, “a woman should be mistress of her own household.” “why i am! i order whenever i specially want anything. but she really does it more--more scientifically. she has made a study of it. and the bills are very much lower.” “well, i think you are the luckiest woman alive!” sighed mrs. ree. “i wish i had her!” many a woman wished she had her, and some, calling when they knew mrs. porne was out, or descending into their own kitchens of an evening when the strange miss bell was visiting “the help,” made flattering propositions to her to come to them. she was perfectly polite and agreeable in manner, but refused all blandishments. “what are you getting at your present place--if i may ask?” loftily inquired the great mrs. thaddler, ponderous and beaded. “there is surely no objection to your asking, madam,” she replied politely. “mrs. porne will not mind telling you, i am sure.” “hm!” said the patronizing visitor, regarding her through her lorgnette. “very good. whatever it is i'll double it. when can you come?” “my engagement with mrs. porne is for six months,” diantha answered, “and i do not wish to close with anyone else until that time is up. thank you for your offer just the same.” “peculiarly offensive young person!” said mrs. thaddler to her husband. “looks to me like one of these literary imposters. mrs. porne will probably appear in the magazines before long.” mr. thaddler instantly conceived a liking for the young person, “sight unseen.” diantha acquired quite a list of offers; places open to her as soon as she was free; at prices from her present seven dollars up to the proposed doubling. “fourteen dollars a week and found!--that's not so bad,” she meditated. “that would mean over $ clear in a year! it's a wonder to me girls don't try it long enough to get a start at something else. with even two or three hundred ahead--and an outfit--it would be easier to make good in a store or any other way. well--i have other fish to fry!” so she pursued her way; and, with mrs. porne's permission--held a sort of girl's club in her spotless kitchen one evening a week during the last three months of her engagement. it was a “study and amusement club.” she gave them short and interesting lessons in arithmetic, in simple dressmaking, in easy and thorough methods of housework. she gave them lists of books, referred them to articles in magazines, insidiously taught them to use the public library. they played pleasant games in the second hour, and grew well acquainted. to the eye or ear of any casual visitor it was the simplest and most natural affair, calculated to “elevate labor” and to make home happy. diantha studied and observed. they brought her their poor confidences, painfully similar. always poverty--or they would not be there. always ignorance, or they would not stay there. then either incompetence in the work, or inability to hold their little earnings--or both; and further the tale of the other side--the exactions and restrictions of the untrained mistresses they served; cases of withheld wages; cases of endless requirements; cases of most arbitrary interference with their receiving friends and “followers,” or going out; and cases, common enough to be horrible, of insult they could only escape by leaving. “it's no wages, of course--and no recommendation, when you leave like that--but what else can a girl do, if she's honest?” so diantha learned, made friends and laid broad foundations. the excellence of her cocking was known to many, thanks to the weekly “entertainments.” no one refused. no one regretted acceptance. never had mrs. porne enjoyed such a sense of social importance. all the people she ever knew called on her afresh, and people she never knew called on her even more freshly. not that she was directly responsible for it. she had not triumphed cruelly over her less happy friends; nor had she cried aloud on the street corners concerning her good fortune. it was not her fault, nor, in truth anyone's. but in a community where the “servant question” is even more vexed than in the country at large, where the local product is quite unequal to the demand, and where distance makes importation an expensive matter, the fact of one woman's having, as it appeared, settled this vexed question, was enough to give her prominence. mrs. ellen a. dankshire, president of the orchardina home and culture club, took up the matter seriously. “now mrs. porne,” said she, settling herself vigorously into a comfortable chair, “i just want to talk the matter over with you, with a view to the club. we do not know how long this will last--” “don't speak of it!” said mrs. porne. “--and it behooves us to study the facts while we have them.” “so much is involved!” said little mrs. ree, the corresponding secretary, lifting her pale earnest face with the perplexed fine lines in it. “we are all so truly convinced of the sacredness of the home duties!” “well, what do you want me to do?” asked their hostess. “we must have that remarkable young woman address our club!” mrs. dankshire announced. “it is one case in a thousand, and must be studied!” “so noble of her!” said mrs. ree. “you say she was really a school-teacher? mrs. thaddler has put it about that she is one of these dreadful writing persons--in disguise!” “o no,” said mrs. porne. “she is perfectly straightforward about it, and had the best of recommendations. she was a teacher, but it didn't agree with her health, i believe.” “perhaps there is a story to it!” mrs. ree advanced; but mrs. dankshire disagreed with her flatly. “the young woman has a theory, i believe, and she is working it out. i respect her for it. now what we want to ask you, mrs. porne, is this: do you think it would make any trouble for you--in the household relations, you know--if we ask her to read a paper to the club? of course we do not wish to interfere, but it is a remarkable opportunity--very. you know the fine work miss lucy salmon has done on this subject; and miss frances kellor. you know how little data we have, and how great, how serious, a question it is daily becoming! now here is a young woman of brains and culture who has apparently grappled with the question; her example and influence must not be lost! we must hear from her. the public must know of this.” “such an ennobling example!” murmured mrs. ree. “it might lead numbers of other school-teachers to see the higher side of the home duties!” “furthermore,” pursued mrs. dankshire, “this has occured to me. would it not be well to have our ladies bring with them to the meeting the more intelligent of their servants; that they might hear and see the--the dignity of household labor--so ably set forth? “isn't it--wouldn't that be a--an almost dangerous experiment?” urged mrs. ree; her high narrow forehead fairly creped with little wrinkles: “she might--say something, you know, that they might--take advantage of!” “nonsense, my dear!” replied mrs. dankshire. she was very fond of mrs. ree, but had small respect for her judgment. “what could she say? look at what she does! and how beautifully--how perfectly--she does it! i would wager now--_may_ i try an experiment mrs. porne?” and she stood up, taking out her handkerchief. “certainly,” said mrs. porne, “with pleasure! you won't find any!” mrs. dankshire climbed heavily upon a carefully selected chair and passed her large clean plain-hemmed handkerchief across the top of a picture. “i knew it!” she proclaimed proudly from her eminence, and showed the cloth still white. “that,” she continued in ponderous descent, “that is knowledge, ability and conscience!” “i don't see how she gets the time!” breathed mrs. ree, shaking her head in awed amazement, and reflecting that she would not dare trust mrs. dankshire's handkerchief on her picture tops. “we must have her address the club,” the president repeated. “it will do worlds of good. let me see--a paper on--we might say 'on the true nature of domestic industry.' how does that strike you, mrs. ree?” “admirable!” said mrs. ree. “so strong! so succinct.” “that certainly covers the subject,” said mrs. porne. “why don't you ask her?” “we will. we have come for that purpose. but we felt it right to ask you about it first,” said mrs. dankshire. “why i have no control over miss bell's movements, outside of working hours,” answered mrs. porne. “and i don't see that it would make any difference to our relations. she is a very self-poised young woman, but extremely easy to get along with. and i'm sure she could write a splendid paper. you'd better ask her, i think.” “would you call her in?” asked mrs. dankshire, “or shall we go out to the kitchen?” “come right out; i'd like you to see how beautifully she keeps everything.” the kitchen was as clean as the parlor; and as prettily arranged. miss bell was making her preparation for lunch, and stopped to receive the visitors with a serenely civil air--as of a country store-keeper. “i am very glad to meet you, miss bell, very glad indeed,” said mrs. dankshire, shaking hands with her warmly. “we have at heard so much of your beautiful work here, and we admire your attitude! now would you be willing to give a paper--or a talk--to our club, the home and culture club, some wednesday, on the true nature of domestic industry?” mrs. ree took miss bell's hand with something of the air of a boston maiden accosting a saint from hindoostan. “if you only would!” she said. “i am sure it would shed light on this great subject!” miss bell smiled at them both and looked at mrs. porne inquiringly. “i should be delighted to have you do it,” said her employer. “i know it would be very useful.” “is there any date set?” asked miss bell. “any wednesday after february,” said mrs. dankshire. “well--i will come on the first wednesday in april. if anything should happen to prevent i will let you know in good season, and if you should wish to postpone or alter the program--should think better of the idea--just send me word. i shall not mind in the least.” they went away quite jubilant, miss bell's acceptance was announced officially at the next club-meeting, and the home and culture club felt that it was fulfilling its mission. chapter vii. heresy and schism. you may talk about religion with a free and open mind, for ten dollars you may criticize a judge; you may discuss in politics the newest thing you find, and open scientific truth to all the deaf and blind, but there's one place where the brain must never budge! chorus. oh, the home is utterly perfect! and all its works within! to say a word about it-- to criticize or doubt it-- to seek to mend or move it-- to venture to improve it-- is the unpardonable sin! --“old song.” mr. porne took an afternoon off and came with his wife to hear their former housemaid lecture. as many other men as were able did the same. all the members not bedridden were present, and nearly all the guests they had invited. so many were the acceptances that a downtown hall had been taken; the floor was more than filled, and in the gallery sat a block of servant girls, more gorgeous in array than the ladies below whispering excitedly among themselves. the platform recalled a “tournament of roses,” and, sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness, sat mrs. dankshire in “the chair” flanked by miss torbus, the recording secretary, miss massing, the treasurer, and mrs. ree, tremulous with importance in her official position. all these ladies wore an air of high emprise, even more intense than that with which they usually essayed their public duties. they were richly dressed, except miss torbus, who came as near it as she could. at the side, and somewhat in the rear of the president, on a chair quite different from “the chair,” discreetly gowned and of a bafflingly serene demeanor, sat miss bell. all eyes were upon her--even some opera glasses. “she's a good-looker anyhow,” was one masculine opinion. “she's a peach,” was another, “tell you--the chap that gets her is well heeled!” said a third. the ladies bent their hats toward one another and conferred in flowing whispers; and in the gallery eager confidences were exchanged, with giggles. on the small table before mrs. dankshire, shaded by a magnificent bunch of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentry dignity, the gavel; an instrument no self-respecting chairwoman may be without; yet which she still approaches with respectful uncertainty. in spite of its large size and high social standing, the orchardina home and culture club contained some elements of unrest, and when the yearly election of officers came round there was always need for careful work in practical politics to keep the reins of government in the hands of “the right people.” mrs. thaddler, conscious of her new york millions, and madam weatherstone, conscious of her philadelphia lineage, with mrs. johnston a. marrow (“one of the boston marrows!” was awesomely whispered of her), were the heads of what might be called “the conservative party” in this small parliament; while miss miranda l. eagerson, describing herself as 'a journalist,' who held her place in local society largely by virtue of the tacit dread of what she might do if offended--led the more radical element. most of the members were quite content to follow the lead of the solidly established ladies of orchard avenue; especially as this leadership consisted mainly in the pursuance of a masterly inactivity. when wealth and aristocracy combine with that common inertia which we dignify as “conservatism” they exert a powerful influence in the great art of sitting still. nevertheless there were many alert and conscientious women in this large membership, and when miss eagerson held the floor, and urged upon the club some active assistance in the march of events, it needed all mrs. dankshire's generalship to keep them content with marking time. on this auspicious occasion, however, both sides were agreed in interest and approval. here was a subject appealing to every woman present, and every man but such few as merely “boarded”; even they had memories and hopes concerning this question. solemnly rose mrs. dankshire, her full silks rustling about her, and let one clear tap of the gavel fall into the sea of soft whispering and guttural murmurs. in the silence that followed she uttered the momentous announcements: “the meeting will please come to order,” “we will now hear the reading of the minutes of the last meeting,” and so on most conscientiously through officer's reports and committees reports to “new business.” perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rites, perhaps their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion, perhaps the lifelong reiterance of small duties at home, or all these things together, which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in parliamentry usage. but these stately ceremonies were ended in course of time, and mrs. dankshire rose again, even more solemn than before, and came forward majestically. “members---and guests,” she said impressively, “this is an occasion which brings pride to the heart of every member of the home and culture club. as our name implies, this club is formed to serve the interests of the home--those interests which stand first, i trust, in every human heart.” a telling pause, and the light patter of gloved hands. “its second purpose,” pursued the speaker, with that measured delivery which showed that her custom, as one member put it, was to “first write and then commit,” “is to promote the cause of culture in this community. our aim is culture in the broadest sense, not only in the curricula of institutions of learning, not only in those spreading branches of study and research which tempts us on from height to height”--(“proof of arboreal ancestry that,” miss eagerson confided to a friend, whose choked giggle attracted condemning eyes)--“but in the more intimate fields of daily experience.” “most of us, however widely interested in the higher education, are still--and find in this our highest honor--wives and mothers.” these novel titles called forth another round of applause. “as such,” continued mrs. dankshire, “we all recognize the difficult--the well-nigh insuperable problems of the”--she glanced at the gallery now paying awed attention--“domestic question.” “we know how on the one hand our homes yawn unattended”--(“i yawn while i'm attending--eh?” one gentleman in the rear suggested to his neighbor)--“while on the other the ranks of mercenary labor are overcrowded. why is it that while the peace and beauty, the security and comfort, of a good home, with easy labor and high pay, are open to every young woman, whose circumstances oblige her to toil for her living, she blindly refuses these true advantages and loses her health and too often what is far more precious!--in the din and tumult of the factory, or the dangerous exposure of the public counter.” madam weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black fan upon her black glove emphatically. mrs. thaddler also nodded; which meant a good deal from her. the applause was most gratifying to the speaker, who continued: “fortunately for the world there are some women yet who appreciate the true values of life.” a faint blush crept slowly up the face of diantha, but her expression was unchanged. whoso had met and managed a roomful of merciless children can easily face a woman's club. “we have with us on this occasion one, as we my say, our equal in birth and breeding,”--madam weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also did the boston marrow; possibly mrs. dankshire, whose parents were iowa farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly, “and whose first employment was the honored task of the teacher; who has deliberately cast her lot with the domestic worker, and brought her trained intelligence to bear upon the solution of this great question--the true nature of domestic service. in the interests of this problem she has consented to address us--i take pleasure in introducing miss diantha bell.” diantha rose calmly, stepped forward, bowed to the president and officers, and to the audience. she stood quietly for a moment, regarding the faces before her, and produced a typewritten paper. it was clear, short, and to some minds convincing. she set forth that the term “domestic industry” did not define certain kinds of labor, but a stage of labor; that all labor was originally domestic; but that most kinds had now become social, as with weaving and spinning, for instance, for centuries confined to the home and done by women only; now done in mills by men and women; that this process of socialization has now been taken from the home almost all the manufactures--as of wine, beer, soap, candles, pickles and other specialties, and part of the laundry work; that the other processes of cleaning are also being socialized, as by the vacuum cleaners, the professional window-washers, rug cleaners, and similar professional workers; and that even in the preparation of food many kinds are now specialized, as by the baker and confectioner. that in service itself we were now able to hire by the hour or day skilled workers necessarily above the level of the “general.” a growing rustle of disapproval began to make itself felt, which increased as she went on to explain how the position of the housemaid is a survival of the ancient status of woman slavery, the family with the male head and the group of servile women. “the keynote of all our difficulty in this relation is that we demand celibacy of our domestic servants,” said diantha. a murmur arose at this statement, but she continued calmly: “since it is natural for women to marry, the result is that our domestic servants consist of a constantly changing series of young girls, apprentices, as it were; and the complicated and important duties of the household cannot be fully mastered by such hands.” the audience disapproved somewhat of this, but more of what followed. she showed (mrs. porne nodding her head amusedly), that so far from being highly paid and easy labor, house service was exacting and responsible, involving a high degree of skill as well as moral character, and that it was paid less than ordinary unskilled labor, part of this payment being primitive barter. then, as whispers and sporadic little spurts of angry talk increased, the clear quiet voice went on to state that this last matter, the position of a strange young girl in our homes, was of itself a source of much of the difficulty of the situation. “we speak of giving them the safety and shelter of the home,”--here diantha grew solemn;--“so far from sharing our homes, she gives up her own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food and a cramped lodging; she has neither the freedom nor the privileges of a home; and as to shelter and safety--the domestic worker, owing to her peculiarly defenceless position, furnishes a terrible percentage of the unfortunate.” a shocked silence met this statement. “in england shop-workers complain of the old custom of 'sleeping in'--their employers furnishing them with lodging as part payment; this also is a survival of the old apprentice method. with us, only the domestic servant is held to this antiquated position.” regardless of the chill displeasure about her she cheerfully pursued: “let us now consider the economic side of the question. 'domestic economy' is a favorite phrase. as a matter of fact our method of domestic service is inordinately wasteful. even where the wife does all the housework, without pay, we still waste labor to an enormous extent, requiring one whole woman to wait upon each man. if the man hires one or more servants, the wastes increase. if one hundred men undertake some common business, they do not divide in two halves, each man having another man to serve him--fifty productive laborers, and fifty cooks. two or three cooks could provide for the whole group; to use fifty is to waste per cent. of the labor. “but our waste of labor is as nothing to our waste of money. for, say twenty families, we have twenty kitchens with all their furnishings, twenty stoves with all their fuel; twenty cooks with all their wages; in cash and barter combined we pay about ten dollars a week for our cooks--$ a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families, for about a hundred persons! “three expert cooks, one at $ a week and two at $ would save to those twenty families $ a week and give them better food. the cost of kitchen furnishings and fuel, could be reduced by nine-tenths; and beyond all that comes our incredible waste in individual purchasing. what twenty families spend on individual patronage of small retailers, could be reduced by more than half if bought by competent persons in wholesale quantities. moreover, our whole food supply would rise in quality as well as lower in price if it was bought by experts. “to what does all this lead?” asked diantha pleasantly. nobody said anything, but the visible attitude of the house seemed to say that it led straight to perdition. “the solution for which so many are looking is no new scheme of any sort; and in particular it is not that oft repeated fore-doomed failure called 'co-operative housekeeping'.” at this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. the irritation roused by those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat allayed. hope was relit in darkened countenances. “the inefficiency of a dozen tottering households is not removed by combining them,” said diantha. this was of dubious import. “why should we expect a group of families to “keep house” expertly and economically together, when they are driven into companionship by the fact that none of them can do it alone.” again an uncertain reception. “every family is a distinct unit,” the girl continued. “its needs are separate and should be met separately. the separate house and garden should belong to each family, the freedom and group privacy of the common milkman, by a common baker, by a common cooking and a common cleaning establishment. we are rapidly approaching an improved system of living in which the private home will no more want a cookshop on the premises than a blacksmith's shop or soap-factory. the necessary work of the kitchenless house will be done by the hour, with skilled labor; and we shall order our food cooked instead of raw. this will give to the employees a respectable well-paid profession, with their own homes and families; and to the employers a saving of about two-thirds of the expense of living, as well as an end of all our difficulties with the servant question. that is the way to elevate--to enoble domestic service. it must cease to be domestic service--and become world service.” suddenly and quietly she sat down. miss eagerson was on her feet. so were others. “madam president! madam president!” resounded from several points at once. madam weatherstone--mrs. thaddler--no! yes--they really were both on their feet. applause was going on--irregularly--soon dropped. only, from the group in the gallery it was whole-hearted and consistent. mrs. dankshire, who had been growing red and redder as the paper advanced, who had conferred in alarmed whispers with mrs. ree, and miss massing, who had even been seen to extend her hand to the gavel and finger it threateningly, now rose, somewhat precipitately, and came forward. “order, please! you will please keep order. you have heard the--we will now--the meeting is now open for discussion, mrs. thaddler!” and she sat down. she meant to have said madam weatherstone, by mrs. thaddler was more aggressive. “i wish to say,” said that much beaded lady in a loud voice, “that i was against this--unfortunate experiment--from the first. and i trust it will never be repeated!” she sat down. two tight little dimples flickered for an instant about the corners of diantha's mouth. “madam weatherstone?” said the president, placatingly. madam weatherstone arose, rather sulkily, and looked about her. an agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each. “order!” said mrs. dankshire, “order, please!” and rapped three times with the gavel. “i have attended many meetings, in many clubs, in many states,” said madam weatherstone, “and have heard much that was foolish, and some things that were dangerous. but i will say that never in the course of all my experience have i heard anything so foolish and so dangerous, as this. i trust that the--doubtless well meant--attempt to throw light on this subject--from the wrong quarter--has been a lesson to us all. no club could survive more than one such lamentable mistake!” and she sat down, gathering her large satin wrap about her like a retiring caesar. “madam president!” broke forth miss eagerson. “i was up first--and have been standing ever since--” “one moment, miss eagerson,” said mrs. dankshire superbly, “the rev. dr. eltwood.” if mrs. dankshire supposed she was still further supporting the cause of condemnation she made a painful mistake. the cloth and the fine bearing of the young clergyman deceived her; and she forgot that he was said to be “advanced” and was new to the place. “will you come to the platform, dr. eltwood?” dr. eltwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom platforms belonged by right. “ladies,” he began in tones of cordial good will, “both employer and employed!--and gentlemen--whom i am delighted to see here to-day! i am grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me”--he bowed six feet of black broadcloth toward mrs. dankshire--“by your honored president. “and i am grateful for the opportunity previously enjoyed, of listening to the most rational, practical, wise, true and hopeful words i have ever heard on this subject. i trust there will be enough open-minded women--and men--in orchardina to make possible among us that higher business development of a great art which has been so convincingly laid before us. this club is deserving of all thanks from the community for extending to so many the privilege of listening to our valued fellow-citizen--miss bell.” he bowed again--to miss bell--and to mrs. dankshire, and resumed his seat, miss eagerson taking advantage of the dazed pause to occupy the platform herself. “mr. eltwood is right!” she said. “miss bell is right! this is the true presentation of the subject, 'by one who knows.' miss bell has pricked our pretty bubble so thoroughly that we don't know where we're standing--but she knows! housework is a business--like any other business--i've always said so, and it's got to be done in a business way. now i for one--” but miss eagerson was rapped down by the presidential gavel; as mrs. thaddler, portentous and severe, stalked forward. “it is not my habit to make public speeches,” she began, “nor my desire; but this is a time when prompt and decisive action needs to be taken. this club cannot afford to countenance any such farrago of mischievous nonsense as we have heard to-day. i move you, madam president, that a resolution of condemnation be passed at once; and the meeting then dismissed!” she stalked back again, while mrs. marrow of boston, in clear, cold tones seconded the motion. but another voice was heard--for the first time in that assembly--mrs. weatherstone, the pretty, delicate widower daughter-in-law of madam weatherstone, was on her feet with “madam president! i wish to speak to this motion.” “won't you come to the platform, mrs. weatherstone?” asked mrs. dankshire graciously, and the little lady came, visibly trembling, but holding her head high. all sat silent, all expected--what was not forthcoming. “i wish to protest, as a member of the club, and as a woman, against the gross discourtesy which has been offered to the guest and speaker of the day. in answer to our invitation miss bell has given us a scholarly and interesting paper, and i move that we extend her a vote of thanks.” “i second the motion,” came from all quarters. “there is another motion before the house,” from others. cries of “madam president” arose everywhere, many speakers were on their feet. mrs. dankshire tapped frantically with the little gavel, but miss eagerson, by sheer vocal power, took and held the floor. “i move that we take a vote on this question,” she cried in piercing tones. “let every woman who knows enough to appreciate miss bell's paper--and has any sense of decency--stand up!” quite a large proportion of the audience stood up--very informally. those who did not, did not mean to acknowledge lack of intelligence and sense of decency, but to express emphatic disapproval of miss eagerson, miss bell and their views. “i move you, madam president,” cried mrs. thaddler, at the top of her voice, “that every member who is guilty of such grossly unparlimentary conduct be hereby dropped from this club!” “we hereby resign!” cried miss eagerson. “_we_ drop _you!_ we'll have a new woman's club in orchardina with some warmth in its heart and some brains in its head--even if it hasn't as much money in its pocket!” amid stern rappings, hissings, cries of “order--order,” and frantic “motions to adjourn” the meeting broke up; the club elements dissolving and reforming into two bodies as by some swift chemical reaction. great was the rejoicing of the daily press; some amusement was felt, though courteously suppressed by the men present, and by many not present, when they heard of it. some ladies were so shocked and grieved as to withdraw from club-life altogether. others, in stern dignity, upheld the shaken standards of home and culture; while the most conspicuous outcome of it all was the immediate formation of the new woman's club of orchardina. chapter viii. behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box before them, madam weatherstone and mrs. weatherstone rolled home silently, a silence of thunderous portent. another purple person opened the door for them, and when madam weatherstone said, “we will have tea on the terrace,” it was brought them by a fourth. “i was astonished at your attitude, viva,” began the old lady, at length. “of course it was mrs. dankshire's fault in the first place, but to encourage that,--outrageous person! how could you do it!” young mrs. weatherstone emptied her exquisite cup and set it down. “a sudden access of courage, i suppose,” she said. “i was astonished at myself.” “i wholly disagree with you!” replied her mother-in-law. “never in my life have i heard such nonsense. talk like that would be dangerous, if it were not absurd! it would destroy the home! it would strike at the roots of the family.” viva eyed her quietly, trying to bear in mind the weight of a tradition, the habits of a lifetime, the effect of long years of uninterrupted worship of household gods. “it doesn't seem so to me,” she said slowly, “i was much interested and impressed. she is evidently a young woman of knowledge and experience, and put her case well. it has quite waked me up.” “it has quite upset you!” was the reply. “you'll be ill after this, i am sure. hadn't you better go and lie down now? i'll have some dinner sent to you.” “thank you,” said viva, rising and walking to the edge of the broad terrace. “you are very kind. no. i do not wish to lie down. i haven't felt so thoroughly awake in--” she drew a pink cluster of oleander against her cheek and thought a moment--“in several years.” there was a new look about her certainly. “nervous excitement,” her mother-in-law replied. “you're not like yourself at all to-night. you'll certainly be ill to-morrow!” viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely kissing her. “not at all!” she said gaily. “i'm going to be well to-morrow. you will see!” she went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far off view and sat herself down to think. diantha's assured poise, her clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords in this woman's nature. it was like the sound of far doors opening, windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen bugle notes. a sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her. orchardina society, eagerly observing “young mrs. weatherstone” from her first appearance, had always classified her as “delicate.” beside the firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. but her white forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin, though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist. she was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon's events. “i'm like that man in 'phantastes',” she thought contemptuously, “who stayed so long in that dungeon because it didn't occur to him to open the door! why don't i--?” she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands behind her. “i will!” she said at last. then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light of diantha's words. “sleeping in, indeed!” she murmured to herself. “and nobody doing anything!” she looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. her gown was an impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a crown. a clear red lit her checks. she rang. little ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy admiration. mrs. weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. “have you been here long?” she asked. “what is your name?” “no, ma'am,” said the child--she was scarce more. “only a week and two days. my name is ilda.” “who engaged you?” “mrs. halsey, ma'am.” “ah,” said mrs. weatherstone, musing to herself, “and i engaged mrs. halsey!” “do you like it here?” she continued kindly. “oh yes, ma'am!” said ilda. “that is--” she stopped, blushed, and continued bravely. “i like to work for you, ma'am.” “thank you, ilda. will you ask mrs. halsey to come to me--at once, please.” ilda went, more impressed than ever with the desirability of her new place, and mistress. as she was about to pass the door of mr. matthew weatherstone, that young gentleman stepped out and intercepted her. “whither away so fast, my dear?” he amiably inquired. “please let one pass, sir! i'm on an errand. please, sir?” “you must give me a kiss first!” said he--and since there seemed no escape and she was in haste, she submitted. he took six--and she ran away half crying. mrs. halsey, little accustomed to take orders from her real mistress, and resting comfortably in her room, had half a mind to send an excuse. “i'm not dressed,” she said to the maid. “well she is!” replied ilda, “dressed splendid. she said 'at once, please.'” “a pretty time o' day!” said the housekeeper with some asperity, hastily buttoning her gown; and she presently appeared, somewhat heated, before mrs. weatherstone. that lady was sitting, cool and gracious, her long ivory paper-cutter between the pages of a new magazine. “in how short a time could you pack, mrs. halsey?” she inquired. “pack, ma'am? i'm not accustomed to doing packing. i'll send one of the maids. is it your things, ma'am?” “no,” said mrs. weatherstone. “it is yours i refer to. i wish you to pack your things and leave the house--in an hour. one of the maids can help you, if necessary. anything you cannot take can be sent after you. here is a check for the following month's wages.” mrs. halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye. this was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution. “you've no right to turn me off in a minute like this!” she burst forth. “i'll leave it to madam weatherstone!” “if you will look at the terms on which i engaged you, mrs. halsey, you will find that a month's warning, or a month's wages, was specified. here are the wages--as to the warning, that has been given for some months past!” “by whom, ma'am?” “by yourself, mrs. halsey--i think you understand me. oscar will take your things as soon as they are ready.” mrs. halsey met her steady eye a moment--saw more than she cared to face--and left the room. she took care, however, to carry some letters to madam weatherstone, and meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met mr. matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical. when hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and then from the new excitement, until dinner time. this meal, in the mind of madam weatherstone, was the crowning factor of daily life; and, on state occasions, of social life. in her cosmogony the central sun was a round mahogany table; all other details of housekeeping revolved about it in varying orbits. to serve an endless series of dignified delicious meals, notably dinners, was, in her eyes, the chief end of woman; the most high purpose of the home. therefore, though angry and astounded, she appeared promptly when the meal was announced; and when her daughter-in-law, serene and royally attired, took her place as usual, no emotion was allowed to appear before the purple footman who attended. “i understood you were out, viva,” she said politely. “i was,” replied viva, with equal decorum. “it is charming outside at this time in the evening--don't you think so?” young matthew was gloomy and irritable throughout the length and breadth of the meal; and when they were left with their coffee in the drawing room, he broke out, “what's this i hear about mrs. halsey being fired without notice?” “that is what i wish to know, viva,” said the grandmother. “the poor woman is greatly distressed. is there not some mistake?” “it's a damn shame,” said matthew. the younger lady glanced from one to the other, and wondered to see how little she minded it. “the door was there all the time!” she thought to herself, as she looked her stepson in the eye and said, “hardly drawing-room language, matthew. your grandmother is present!” he stared at her in dumb amazement, so she went on, “no, there is no mistake at all. i discharged mrs. halsey about an hour before dinner. the terms of the engagement were a month's warning or a month's wages. i gave her the wages.” “but! but!” madam weatherstone was genuinely confused by this sudden inexplicable, yet perfectly polite piece of what she still felt to be in the nature of 'interference' and 'presumption.' “i have had no fault to find with her.” “i have, you see,” said her daughter-in-law smiling. “i found her unsatisfactory and shall replace her with something better presently. how about a little music, matthew? won't you start the victrolla?” matthew wouldn't. he was going out; went out with the word. madam weatherstone didn't wish to hear it--had a headache--must go to her room--went to her room forthwith. there was a tension in the atmosphere that would have wrung tears from viva weatherstone a week ago, yes, twenty-four hours ago. as it was she rose to her feet, stretching herself to her full height, and walked the length of the great empty room. she even laughed a little. “it's open!” said she, and ordered the car. while waiting for it she chatted with mrs. porne awhile over the all-convenient telephone. ***** diantha sat at her window, watching the big soft, brilliant moon behind the eucalyptus trees. after the close of the strenuous meeting, she had withdrawn from the crowd of excited women anxious to shake her hand and engage her on the spot, had asked time to consider a number of good opportunities offered, and had survived the cold and angry glances of the now smaller but far more united home and culture club. she declined to talk to the reporters, and took refuge first in an open car. this proved very unsatisfactory, owing to her sudden prominence. two persistent newspaper men swung themselves upon the car also and insisted on addressing her. “excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “i am not acquainted with you.” they eagerly produced their cards--and said they were “newspaper men.” “i see,” said diantha, “but you are still men? and gentlemen, i suppose? i am a woman, and i do not wish to talk with you.” “miss bell declines to be interviewed,” wrote the reporters, and spent themselves on her personal appearance, being favorably impressed thereby. but miss bell got off at the next corner and took a short cut to the house where she had rented a room. reporters were waiting there, two being women. diantha politely but firmly declined to see them and started for the stairs; but they merely stood in front of her and asked questions. the girl's blood surged to her cheeks; she smiled grimly, kept absolute silence, brushed through them and went swiftly to her room, locking the door after her. the reporters described her appearance--unfavorably this time; and they described the house--also unfavorably. they said that “a group of adoring-eyed young men stood about the doorway as the flushed heroine of the afternoon made her brusque entrance.” these adorers consisted of the landlady's johnny, aged thirteen, and two satellites of his, still younger. they _did_ look at diantha admiringly; and she _was_ a little hurried in her entrance--truth must be maintained. too irritated and tired to go out for dinner, she ate an orange or two, lay down awhile, and then eased her mind by writing a long letter to ross and telling him all about it. that is, she told him most of it, all the pleasant things, all the funny things; leaving out about the reporters, because she was too angry to be just, she told herself. she wrote and wrote, becoming peaceful as the quiet moments passed, and a sense grew upon her of the strong, lasting love that was waiting so patiently. “dearest,” her swift pen flew along, “i really feel much encouraged. an impression has been made. one or two men spoke to me afterward; the young minister, who said such nice things; and one older man, who looked prosperous and reliable. 'when you begin any such business as you have outlined, you may count on me, miss bell,' he said, and gave me his card. he's a lawyer--p. l. wiscomb; nice man, i should think. another big, sheepish-looking man said, 'and me, miss bell.' his name is thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. some of the women are favorably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind--my! 'if hate killed men, brother lawrence!'--but it don't.” she wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length on the pleasant episode of the minister and young mrs. weatherstone's remarks. “i liked her,” she wrote. “she's a nice woman--even if she is rich.” there was a knock at her door. “lady to see you, miss.” “i cannot see anyone,” said diantha; “you must excuse me.” “beg pardon, miss, but it's not a reporter; it's--.” the landlady stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely, “it's young mrs. weatherstone!” diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. “i'll be right down,” she said. but a voice broke in from the hall, “i beg your pardon, miss bell, but i took the liberty of coming up; may i come in?” she came in, and the landlady perforce went out. mrs. weatherstone held diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. “i was a schoolmate of ellen porne,” she told the girl. “we are dear friends still; and so i feel that i know you better than you think. you have done beautiful work for mrs. porne; now i want you to do to it for me. i need you.” “won't you sit down?” said diantha. “you, too,” said mrs. weatherstone. “now i want you to come to me--right away. you have done me so much good already. i was just a new england bred school teacher myself at first, so we're even that far. then you took a step up--and i took a step down.” diantha was a little slow in understanding the quick fervor of this new friend; a trifle suspicious, even; being a cautious soul, and somewhat overstrung, perhaps. her visitor, bright-eyed and eager, went on. “i gave up school teaching and married a fortune. you have given it up to do a more needed work. i think you are wonderful. now, i know this seems queer to you, but i want to tell you about it. i feel sure you'll understand. at home, madam weatherstone has had everything in charge for years and years, and i've been too lazy or too weak, or too indifferent, to do anything. i didn't care, somehow. all the machinery of living, and no _living_--no good of it all! yet there didn't seem to be anything else to do. now you have waked me all up--your paper this afternoon--what mr. eltwood said--the way those poor, dull, blind women took it. and yet i was just as dull and blind myself! well, i begin to see things now. i can't tell you all at once what a difference it has made; but i have a very definite proposition to make to you. will you come and be my housekeeper, now--right away--at a hundred dollars a month?” diantha opened her eyes wide and looked at the eager lady as if she suspected her nervous balance. “the other one got a thousand a year--you are worth more. now, don't decline, please. let me tell you about it. i can see that you have plans ahead, for this business; but it can't hurt you much to put them off six months, say. meantime, you could be practicing. our place at santa ulrica is almost as big as this one; there are lots of servants and a great, weary maze of accounts to be kept, and it wouldn't be bad practice for you--now, would it?” diantha's troubled eyes lit up. “no--you are right there,” she said. “if i could do it!” “you'll have to do just that sort of thing when you are running your business, won't you?” her visitor went on. “and the summer's not a good time to start a thing like that, is it?” diantha meditated. “no, i wasn't going to. i was going to start somewhere--take a cottage, a dozen girls or so--and furnish labor by the day to the other cottages.” “well, you might be able to run that on the side,” said mrs. weatherstone. “and you could train my girls, get in new ones if you like; it doesn't seem to me it would conflict. but to speak to you quite frankly, miss bell, i want you in the house for my own sake. you do me good.” they discussed the matter for some time, diantha objecting mainly to the suddenness of it all. “i'm a slow thinker,” she said, “and this is so--so attractive that i'm suspicious of it. i had the other thing all planned--the girls practically engaged.” “where were you thinking of going?” asked mrs. weatherstone. “to santa ulrica.” “exactly! well, you shall have your cottage and our girls and give them part time. or--how many have you arranged with?” “only six have made definite engagements yet.” “what kind?” “two laundresses, a cook and three second maids; all good ones.” “excellent! now, i tell you what to do. i will engage all those girls. i'm making a change at the house, for various reasons. you bring them to me as soon as you like; but you i want at once. i wish you'd come home with me to-night! why don't you?” diantha's scanty baggage was all in sight. she looked around for an excuse. mrs. weatherstone stood up laughing. “put the new address in the letter,” she said, mischievously, “and come along!” ***** and the purple chauffeur, his disapproving back ineffectual in the darkness, rolled them home. chapter ix. “sleeping in.” men have marched in armies, fleets have borne them, left their homes new countries to subdue; young men seeking fortune wide have wandered-- we have something new. armies of young maidens cross our oceans; leave their mother's love, their father's care; maidens, young and helpless, widely wander, burdens new to bear. strange the land and language, laws and customs; ignorant and all alone they come; maidens young and helpless, serving strangers, thus we keep the home. when on earth was safety for young maidens far from mother's love and father's care? we preserve the home, and call it sacred-- burdens new they bear. the sun had gone down on madam weatherstone's wrath, and risen to find it unabated. with condensed disapprobation written on every well-cut feature, she came to the coldly gleaming breakfast table. that mrs. halsey was undoubtedly gone, she had to admit; yet so far failed to find the exact words of reproof for a woman of independent means discharging her own housekeeper when it pleased her. young mathew unexpectedly appeared at breakfast, perhaps in anticipation of a sort of roman holiday in which his usually late and apologetic stepmother would furnish the amusement. they were both surprised to find her there before them, looking uncommonly fresh in crisp, sheer white, with deep-toned violets in her belt. she ate with every appearance of enjoyment, chatting amiably about the lovely morning--the flowers, the garden and the gardeners; her efforts ill seconded, however. “shall i attend to the orders this morning?” asked madam weatherstone with an air of noble patience. “o no, thank you!” replied viva. “i have engaged a new housekeeper.” “a new housekeeper! when?” the old lady was shaken by this inconceivable promptness. “last night,” said her daughter-in-law, looking calmly across the table, her color rising a little. “and when is she coming, if i may ask?” “she has come. i have been with her an hour already this morning.” young mathew smiled. this was amusing, though not what he had expected. “how extremely alert and businesslike!” he said lazily. “it's becoming to you--to get up early!” “you can't have got much of a person--at a minute's notice,” said his grandmother. “or perhaps you have been planning this for some time?” “no,” said viva. “i have wanted to get rid of mrs. halsey for some time, but the new one i found yesterday.” “what's her name?” inquired mathew. “bell--miss diantha bell,” she answered, looking as calm as if announcing the day of the week, but inwardly dreading the result somewhat. like most of such terrors it was overestimated. there was a little pause--rather an intense little pause; and then--“isn't that the girl who set 'em all by the ears yesterday?” asked the young man, pointing to the morning paper. “they say she's a good-looker.” madam weatherstone rose from the table in some agitation. “i must say i am very sorry, viva, that you should have been so--precipitate! this young woman cannot be competent to manage a house like this--to say nothing of her scandalous ideas. mrs. halsey was--to my mind--perfectly satisfactory. i shall miss her very much.” she swept out with an unanswerable air. “so shall i,” muttered mat, under his breath, as he strolled after her; “unless the new one's equally amiable.” viva weatherstone watched them go, and stood awhile looking after the well-built, well-dressed, well-mannered but far from well-behaved young man. “i don't _know_,” she said to herself, “but i do feel--think--imagine--a good deal. i'm sure i hope not! anyway--it's new life to have that girl in the house.” that girl had undertaken what she described to ross as “a large order--a very large order.” “it's the hardest thing i ever undertook,” she wrote him, “but i think i can do it; and it will be a tremendous help. mrs. weatherstone's a brick--a perfect brick! she seems to have been very unhappy--for ever so long--and to have submitted to her domineering old mother-in-law just because she didn't care enough to resist. now she's got waked up all of a sudden--she says it was my paper at the club--more likely my awful example, i think! and she fired her old housekeeper--i don't know what for--and rushed me in. “so here i am. the salary is good, the work is excellent training, and i guess i can hold the place. but the old lady is a terror, and the young man--how you would despise that johnny!” the home letters she now received were rather amusing. ross, sternly patient, saw little difference in her position. “i hope you will enjoy your new work,” he wrote, “but personally i should prefer that you did not--so you might give it up and come home sooner. i miss you as you can well imagine. even when you were here life was hard enough--but now!!!!!! “i had a half offer for the store the other day, but it fell through. if i could sell that incubus and put the money into a ranch--fruit, hens, anything--then we could all live on it; more cheaply, i think; and i could find time for some research work i have in mind. you remember that guinea-pig experiment i want so to try?” diantha remembered and smiled sadly. she was not much interested in guinea-pigs and their potential capacities, but she was interested in her lover and his happiness. “ranch,” she said thoughtfully; “that's not a bad idea.” her mother wrote the same patient loving letters, perfunctorily hopeful. her father wrote none--“a woman's business--this letter-writin',” he always held; and george, after one scornful upbraiding, had “washed his hands of her” with some sense of relief. he didn't like to write letters either. but susie kept up a lively correspondence. she was attached to her sister, as to all her immediate relatives and surroundings; and while she utterly disapproved of diantha's undertaking, a sense of sisterly duty, to say nothing of affection, prompted her to many letters. it did not, however, always make these agreeable reading. “mother's pretty well, and the girl she's got now does nicely--that first one turned out to be a failure. father's as cranky as ever. we are all well here and the baby (this was a brand new baby diantha had not seen) is just a darling! you ought to be here, you unnatural aunt! gerald doesn't ever speak of you--but i do just the same. you hear from the wardens, of course. mrs. warden's got neuralgia or something; keeps them all busy. they are much excited over this new place of yours--you ought to hear them go on! it appears that madam weatherstone is a connection of theirs--one of the f. f. v's, i guess, and they think she's something wonderful. and to have _you_ working _there!_--well, you can just see how they'd feel; and i don't blame them. it's no use arguing with you--but i should think you'd have enough of this disgraceful foolishness by this time and come home!” diantha tried to be very philosophic over her home letters; but they were far from stimulating. “it's no use arguing with poor susie!” she decided. “susie thinks the sun rises and sets between kitchen, nursery and parlor! “mother can't see the good of it yet, but she will later--mother's all right. “i'm awfully sorry the wardens feel so--and make ross unhappy--but of course i knew they would. it can't be helped. it's just a question of time and work.” and she went to work. ***** mrs. porne called on her friend most promptly, with a natural eagerness and curiosity. “how does it work? do you like her as much as you thought? do tell me about it, viva. you look like another woman already!” “i certainly feel like one,” viva answered. “i've seen slaves in housework, and i've seen what we fondly call 'queens' in housework; but i never saw brains in it before.” mrs. porne sighed. “isn't it just wonderful--the way she does things! dear me! we do miss her! she trained that swede for us--and she does pretty well--but not like 'miss bell'! i wish there were a hundred of her!” “if there were a hundred thousand she wouldn't go round!” answered mrs. weatherstone. “how selfish we are! _that_ is the kind of woman we all want in our homes--and fuss because we can't have them.” “edgar says he quite agrees with her views,” mrs. porne went on. “skilled labor by the day--food sent in--. he says if she cooked it he wouldn't care if it came all the way from alaska! she certainly can cook! i wish she'd set up her business--the sooner the better.” mrs. weatherstone nodded her head firmly. “she will. she's planning. this was really an interruption--her coming here, but i think it will be a help--she's not had experience in large management before, but she takes hold splendidly. she's found a dozen 'leaks' in our household already.” “mrs. thaddler's simply furious, i hear,” said the visitor. “mrs. ree was in this morning and told me all about it. poor mrs. ree! the home is church and state to her; that paper of miss bell's she regards as simple blasphemy.” they both laughed as that stormy meeting rose before them. “i was so proud of you, viva, standing up for her as you did. how did you ever dare?” “why i got my courage from the girl herself. she was--superb! talk of blasphemy! why i've committed _lese majeste_ and regicide and the unpardonable sin since that meeting!” and she told her friend of her brief passage at arms with mrs. halsey. “i never liked the woman,” she continued; “and some of the things miss bell said set me thinking. i don't believe we half know what's going on in our houses.” “well, mrs. thaddler's so outraged by 'this scandalous attack upon the sanctities of the home' that she's going about saying all sorts of things about miss bell. o look--i do believe that's her car!” even as they spoke a toneless voice announced, “mr. and mrs. thaddler,” and madam weatherstone presently appeared to greet these visitors. “i think you are trying a dangerous experiment!” said mrs. thaddler to her young hostess. “a very dangerous experiment! bringing that young iconoclast into your home!” mr. thaddler, stout and sulky, sat as far away as he could and talked to mrs. porne. “i'd like to try that same experiment myself,” said he to her. “you tried it some time, i understand?” “indeed we did--and would still if we had the chance,” she replied. “we think her a very exceptional young woman.” mr. thaddler chuckled. “she is that!” he agreed. “gad! how she did set things humming! they're humming yet--at our house!” he glanced rather rancorously at his wife, and mrs. porne wished, as she often had before, that mr. thaddler wore more clothing over his domestic afflictions. “scandalous!” mrs. thaddler was saying to madam weatherstone. “simply scandalous! never in my life did i hear such absurd--such outrageous--charges against the sanctities of the home!” “there you have it!” said mr. thaddler, under his breath. “sanctity of the fiddlesticks! there was a lot of truth in what that girl said!” then he looked rather sheepish and flushed a little--which was needless; easing his collar with a fat finger. madam weatherstone and mrs. thaddler were at one on this subject; but found it hard to agree even so, no love being lost between them; and the former gave evidence of more satisfaction than distress at this “dangerous experiment” in the house of her friends. viva sat silent, but with a look of watchful intelligence that delighted mrs. porne. “it has done her good already,” she said to herself. “bless that girl!” mr. thaddler went home disappointed in the real object of his call--he had hoped to see the dangerous experiment again. but his wife was well pleased. “they will rue it!” she announced. “madam weatherstone is ashamed of her daughter-in-law--i can see that! _she_ looks cool enough. i don't know what's got into her!” “some of that young woman's good cooking,” her husband suggested. “that young woman is not there as cook!” she replied tartly. “what she _is_ there for we shall see later! mark my words!” mr. thaddler chuckled softly. “i'll mark 'em!” he said. diantha had her hands full. needless to say her sudden entrance was resented by the corps of servants accustomed to the old regime. she had the keys; she explored, studied, inventoried, examined the accounts, worked out careful tables and estimates. “i wish mother were here!” she said to herself. “she's a regular genius for accounts. i _can_ do it--but it's no joke.” she brought the results to her employer at the end of the week. “this is tentative,” she said, “and i've allowed margins because i'm new to a business of this size. but here's what this house ought to cost you--at the outside, and here's what it does cost you now.” mrs. weatherstone was impressed. “aren't you a little--spectacular?” she suggested. diantha went over it carefully; the number of rooms, the number of servants, the hours of labor, the amount of food and other supplies required. “this is only preparatory, of course,” she said. “i'll have to check it off each month. if i may do the ordering and keep all the accounts i can show you exactly in a month, or two at most.” “how about the servants?” asked mrs. weatherstone. there was much to say here, questions of competence, of impertinence, of personal excellence with “incompatibility of temper.” diantha was given a free hand, with full liberty to experiment, and met the opportunity with her usual energy. she soon discharged the unsatisfactory ones, and substituted the girls she had selected for her summer's experiment, gradually adding others, till the household was fairly harmonious, and far more efficient and economical. a few changes were made among the men also. by the time the family moved down to santa ulrica, there was quite a new spirit in the household. mrs. weatherstone fully approved of the girls' club diantha had started at mrs. porne's; and it went on merrily in the larger quarters of the great “cottage” on the cliff. “i'm very glad i came to you, mrs. weatherstone,” said the girl. “you were quite right about the experience; i did need it--and i'm getting it!” she was getting some of which she made no mention. as she won and held the confidence of her subordinates, and the growing list of club members, she learned their personal stories; what had befallen them in other families, and what they liked and disliked in their present places. “the men are not so bad,” explained catharine kelly, at a club meeting, meaning the men servants; “they respect an honest girl if she respects herself; but it's the young masters--and sometimes the old ones!” “it's all nonsense,” protested mrs. james, widowed cook of long standing. “i've worked out for twenty-five years, and i never met no such goings on!” little ilda looked at mrs. james' severe face and giggled. “i've heard of it,” said molly connors, “i've a cousin that's workin' in new york; and she's had to leave two good places on account of their misbehavin' theirselves. she's a fine girl, but too good-lookin'.” diantha studied types, questioned them, drew them out, adjusted facts to theories and theories to facts. she found the weakness of the whole position to lie in the utter ignorance and helplessness of the individual servant. “if they were only organized,” she thought--“and knew their own power!--well; there's plenty of time.” as her acquaintance increased, and as mrs. weatherstone's interest in her plans increased also, she started the small summer experiment she had planned, for furnishing labor by the day. mrs. james was an excellent cook, though most unpleasant to work with. she was quite able to see that getting up frequent lunches at three dollars, and dinners at five dollars, made a better income than ten dollars a week even with several days unoccupied. a group of younger women, under diantha's sympathetic encouragement, agreed to take a small cottage together, with mrs. james as a species of chaperone; and to go out in twos and threes as chambermaids and waitresses at cents an hour. two of them could set in perfect order one of the small beach cottage in an hour's time; and the occupants, already crowded for room, were quite willing to pay a little more in cash “not to have a servant around.” most of them took their meals out in any case. it was a modest attempt, elastic and easily alterable and based on the special conditions of a shore resort: mrs. weatherstone's known interest gave it social backing; and many ladies who heartily disapproved of diantha's theories found themselves quite willing to profit by this very practical local solution of the “servant question.” the “club girls” became very popular. across the deep hot sand they ploughed, and clattered along the warping boardwalks, in merry pairs and groups, finding the work far more varied and amusing than the endless repetition in one household. they had pleasant evenings too, with plenty of callers, albeit somewhat checked and chilled by rigorous mrs. james. “it is both foolish and wicked!” said madam weatherstone to her daughter-in-law, “exposing a group of silly girls to such danger and temptations! i understand there is singing and laughing going on at that house until half-past ten at night.” “yes, there is,” viva admitted. “mrs. james insists that they shall all be in bed at eleven--which is very wise. i'm glad they have good times--there's safety in numbers, you know.” “there will be a scandal in this community before long!” said the old lady solemnly. “and it grieves me to think that this household will be responsible for it!” diantha heard all this from the linen room while madam weatherstone buttonholed her daughter-in-law in the hall; and in truth the old lady meant that she should hear what she said. “she's right, i'm afraid!” said diantha to herself--“there will be a scandal if i'm not mighty careful and this household will be responsible for it!” even as she spoke she caught ilda's childish giggle in the lower hall, and looking over the railing saw her airily dusting the big chinese vases and coquetting with young mr. mathew. later on, diantha tried seriously to rouse her conscience and her common sense. “don't you see, child, that it can't do you anything but harm? you can't carry on with a man like that as you can with one of your own friends. he is not to be trusted. one nice girl i had here simply left the place--he annoyed her so.” ilda was a little sulky. she had been quite a queen in the small norwegian village she was born in. young men were young men--and they might even--perhaps! this severe young housekeeper didn't know everything. maybe she was jealous! so ilda was rather unconvinced, though apparently submissive, and diantha kept a careful eye upon her. she saw to it that ilda's room had a bolt as well as key in the door, and kept the room next to it empty; frequently using it herself, unknown to anyone. “i hate to turn the child off,” she said to herself, conscientiously revolving the matter. “she isn't doing a thing more than most girls do--she's only a little fool. and he's not doing anything i can complain of--yet.” but she worried over it a good deal, and mrs. weatherstone noticed it. “doesn't your pet club house go well, 'miss bell?' you seem troubled about something.” “i am,” diantha admitted. “i believe i'll have to tell you about it--but i hate to. perhaps if you'll come and look i shan't have to say much.” she led her to a window that looked on the garden, the rich, vivid, flower-crowded garden of southern california by the sea. little ilda, in a fresh black frock and snowy, frilly cap and apron, ran out to get a rose; and while she sniffed and dallied they saw mr. mathew saunter out and join her. the girl was not as severe with him as she ought to have been--that was evident; but it was also evident that she was frightened and furious when he suddenly held her fast and kissed her with much satisfaction. as soon as her arms were free she gave him a slap that sounded smartly even at that distance; and ran crying into the house. “she's foolish, i admit,” said diantha,--“but she doesn't realize her danger at all. i've tried to make her. and now i'm more worried than ever. it seems rather hard to discharge her--she needs care.” “i'll speak to that young man myself,” said mrs. weatherstone. “i'll speak to his grandmother too!” “o--would you?” urged diantha. “she wouldn't believe anything except that the girl 'led him on'--you know that. but i have an idea that we could convince her--if you're willing to do something rather melodramatic--and i think we'd better do it to-night!” “what's that?” asked her employer; and diantha explained. it was melodramatic, but promised to be extremely convincing. “do you think he'd dare! under my roof?” hotly demanded madam weatherstone. “i'm very much afraid it wouldn't be the first time,” diantha reluctantly assured her. “it's no use being horrified. but if we could only make _sure_--” “if we could only make his grandmother sure!” cried madam weatherstone. “that would save me a deal of trouble and misunderstanding. see here--i think i can manage it--what makes you think it's to-night?” “i can't be absolutely certain--” diantha explained; and told her the reasons she had. “it does look so,” her employer admitted. “we'll try it at any rate.” urging her mother-in-law's presence on the ground of needing her experienced advice, mrs. weatherstone brought the august lady to the room next to ilda's late that evening, the housekeeper in attendance. “we mustn't wake the servants,” she said in an elaborate whisper. “they need sleep, poor things! but i want to consult you about these communicating doors and the locksmith is coming in the morning.--you see this opens from this side.” she turned the oiled key softly in the lock. “now miss bell thinks they ought to be left so--so that the girls can visit one another if they like--what do you think?” “i think you are absurd to bring me to the top floor, at this time of night, for a thing like this!” said the old lady. “they should be permanently locked, to my mind! there's no question about it.” viva, still in low tones, discussed this point further; introduced the subject of wall-paper or hard finish; pointed out from the window a tall eucalyptus which she thought needed heading; did what she could to keep her mother-in-law on the spot; and presently her efforts were rewarded. a sound of muffled speech came from the next room--a man's voice dimly heard. madam weatherstone raised her head like a warhorse. “what's this! what's this!” she said in a fierce whisper. viva laid a hand on her arm. “sh!” said she. “let us make sure!” and she softly unlatched the door. a brilliant moon flooded the small chamber. they could see little ilda, huddled in the bedclothes, staring at her door from which the key had fallen. another key was being inserted--turned--but the bolt held. “come and open it, young lady!” said a careful voice outside. “go away! go away!” begged the girl, low and breathlessly. “oh how _can_ you! go away quick!” “indeed, i won't!” said the voice. “you come and open it.” “go away,” she cried, in a soft but frantic voice. “i--i'll scream!” “scream away!” he answered. “i'll just say i came up to see what the screaming's about, that's all. you open the door--if you don't want anybody to know i'm here! i won't hurt you any--i just want to talk to you a minute.” madam weatherstone was speechless with horror, her daughter-in-law listened with set lips. diantha looked from one to the other, and at the frightened child before them who was now close to the terrible door. “o please!--_please!_ go away!” she cried in desperation. “o what shall i do! what shall i do!” “you can't do anything,” he answered cheerfully. “and i'm coming in anyhow. you'd better keep still about this for your own sake. stand from under!” madam weatherstone marched into the room. ilda, with a little cry, fled out of it to diantha. there was a jump, a scramble, two knuckly hands appeared, a long leg was put through the transom, two legs wildly wriggling, a descending body, and there stood before them, flushed, dishevelled, his coat up to his ears--mat weatherstone. he did not notice the stern rigidity of the figure which stood between him and the moonlight, but clasped it warmly to his heart.--“now i've got you, ducky!” cried he, pressing all too affectionate kisses upon the face of his grandmother. young mrs. weatherstone turned on the light. it was an embarrassing position for the gentleman. he had expected to find a helpless cowering girl; afraid to cry out because her case would be lost if she did; begging piteously that he would leave her; wholly at his mercy. what he did find was so inexplicable as to reduce him to gibbering astonishment. there stood his imposing grandmother, so overwhelmed with amazement that her trenchant sentences failed her completely; his stepmother, wearing an expression that almost suggested delight in his discomfiture; and diantha, as grim as rhadamanthus. poor little ilda burst into wild sobs and choking explanations, clinging to diantha's hand. “if i'd only listened to you!” she said. “you told me he was bad! i never thought he'd do such an awful thing!” young mathew fumbled at the door. he had locked it outside in his efforts with the pass-key. he was red, red to his ears--very red, but there was no escape. he faced them--there was no good in facing the door. they all stood aside and let him pass--a wordless gauntlet. diantha took the weeping ilda to her room for the night. madam weatherstone and mrs. weatherstone went down together. “she must have encouraged him!” the older lady finally burst forth. “she did not encourage him to enter her room, as you saw and heard,” said viva with repressed intensity. “he's only a boy!” said his grandmother. “she is only a child, a helpless child, a foreigner, away from home, untaught, unprotected,” viva answered swiftly; adding with quiet sarcasm--“save for the shelter of the home!” they parted in silence. chapter x. union house. “we are weak!” said the sticks, and men broke them; “we are weak!” said the threads, and were torn; till new thoughts came and they spoke them; till the fagot and the rope were born. for the fagot men find is resistant, and they anchor on the rope's taut length; even grasshoppers combined, are a force, the farmers find-- in union there is strength. ross warden endured his grocery business; strove with it, toiled at it, concentrated his scientific mind on alien tasks of financial calculation and practical psychology, but he liked it no better. he had no interest in business, no desire to make money, no skill in salesmanship. but there were five mouths at home; sweet affectionate feminine mouths no doubt, but requiring food. also two in the kitchen, wider, and requiring more food. and there were five backs at home to be covered, to use the absurd metaphor--as if all one needed for clothing was a four foot patch. the amount and quality of the covering was an unceasing surprise to ross, and he did not do justice to the fact that his womenfolk really saved a good deal by doing their own sewing. in his heart he longed always to be free of the whole hated load of tradesmanship. continually his thoughts went back to the hope of selling out the business and buying a ranch. “i could make it keep us, anyhow,” he would plan to himself; “and i could get at that guinea pig idea. or maybe hens would do.” he had a theory of his own, or a personal test of his own, rather, which he wished to apply to a well known theory. it would take some years to work it out, and a great many fine pigs, and be of no possible value financially. “i'll do it sometime,” he always concluded; which was cold comfort. his real grief at losing the companionship of the girl he loved, was made more bitter by a total lack of sympathy with her aims, even if she achieved them--in which he had no confidence. he had no power to change his course, and tried not to be unpleasant about it, but he had to express his feelings now and then. “are you coming back to me?” he wrote. “how con you bear to give so much pain to everyone who loves you? is your wonderful salary worth more to you than being here with your mother--with me? how can you say you love me--and ruin both our lives like this? i cannot come to see you--i _would_ not come to see you--calling at the back door! finding the girl i love in a cap and apron! can you not see it is wrong, utterly wrong, all this mad escapade of yours? suppose you do make a thousand dollars a year--i shall never touch your money--you know that. i cannot even offer you a home, except with my family, and i know how you feel about that; i do not blame you. “but i am as stubborn as you are, dear girl; i will not live on my wife's money--you will not live in my mother's house--and we are drifting apart. it is not that i care less for you dear, or at all for anyone else, but this is slow death--that's all.” mrs. warden wrote now and then and expatiated on the sufferings of her son, and his failing strength under the unnatural strain, till diantha grew to dread her letters more than any pain she knew. fortunately they came seldom. her own family was much impressed by the thousand dollars, and found the occupation of housekeeper a long way more tolerable than that of house-maid, a distinction which made diantha smile rather bitterly. even her father wrote to her once, suggesting that if she chose to invest her salary according to his advice he could double it for her in a year, maybe treble it, in belgian hares. _“they'd_ double and treble fast enough!” she admitted to herself; but she wrote as pleasant a letter as she could, declining his proposition. her mother seemed stronger, and became more sympathetic as the months passed. large affairs always appealed to her more than small ones, and she offered valuable suggestions as to the account keeping of the big house. they all assumed that she was permanently settled in this well paid position, and she made no confidences. but all summer long she planned and read and studied out her progressive schemes, and strengthened her hold among the working women. laundress after laundress she studied personally and tested professionally, finding a general level of mediocrity, till finally she hit upon a melancholy dane--a big rawboned red-faced woman--whose husband had been a miller, but was hurt about the head so that he was no longer able to earn his living. the huge fellow was docile, quiet, and endlessly strong, but needed constant supervision. “he'll do anything you tell him, miss, and do it well; but then he'll sit and dream about it--i can't leave him at all. but he'll take the clothes if i give him a paper with directions, and come right back.” poor mrs. thorald wiped her eyes, and went on with her swift ironing. diantha offered her the position of laundress at union house, with two rooms for their own, over the laundry. “there'll be work for him, too,” she said. “we need a man there. he can do a deal of the heavier work--be porter you know. i can't offer him very much, but it will help some.” mrs. thorald accepted for both, and considered diantha as a special providence. there was to be cook, and two capable second maids. the work of the house must be done thoroughly well, diantha determined; “and the food's got to be good--or the girls wont stay.” after much consideration she selected one julianna, a “person of color,” for her kitchen: not the jovial and sloppy personage usually figuring in this character, but a tall, angular, and somewhat cynical woman, a misanthrope in fact, with a small son. for men she had no respect whatever, but conceded a grudging admiration to mr. thorald as “the usefullest biddablest male person” she had ever seen. she also extended special sympathy to mrs. thorald on account of her peculiar burden, and the swedish woman had no antipathy to her color, and seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in julianna's caustic speeches. diantha offered her the place, boy and all. “he can be 'bell boy' and help you in the kitchen, too. can't you, hector?” hector rolled large adoring eyes at her, but said nothing. his mother accepted the proposition, but without enthusiasm. “i can't keep no eye on him, miss, if i'm cookin' an less'n you keep your eye on him they's no work to be got out'n any kind o' boy.” “what is your last name, julianna?” diantha asked her. “i suppose, as a matter o' fac' its de name of de last nigger i married,” she replied. “dere was several of 'em, all havin' different names, and to tell you de truf mis' bell, i got clean mixed amongst 'em. but julianna's my name--world without end amen.” so diantha had to waive her theories about the surnames of servants in this case. “did they all die?” she asked with polite sympathy. “no'm, dey didn't none of 'em die--worse luck.” “i'm afraid you have seen much trouble, julianna,” she continued sympathetically; “they deserted you, i suppose?” julianna laid her long spoon upon the table and stood up with great gravity. “no'm,” she said again, “dey didn't none of 'em desert me on no occasion. i divorced 'em.” marital difficulties in bulk were beyond diantha's comprehension, and she dropped the subject. union house opened in the autumn. the vanished pepper trees were dim with dust in orchardina streets as the long rainless summer drew to a close; but the social atmosphere fairly sparkled with new interest. those who had not been away chattered eagerly with those who had, and both with the incoming tide of winter visitors. “that girl of mrs. porne's has started her housekeeping shop!” “that 'miss bell' has got mrs. weatherstone fairly infatuated with her crazy schemes.” “do you know that bell girl has actually taken union house? going to make a girl's club of it!” “did you ever _hear_ of such a thing! diantha bell's really going to try to run her absurd undertaking right here in orchardina!” they did not know that the young captain of industry had deliberately chosen orchardina as her starting point on account of the special conditions. the even climate was favorable to “going out by the day,” or the delivery of meals, the number of wealthy residents gave opportunity for catering on a large scale; the crowding tourists and health seekers made a market for all manner of transient service and cooked food, and the constant lack of sufficient or capable servants forced the people into an unwilling consideration of any plan of domestic assistance. in a year's deliberate effort diantha had acquainted herself with the rank and file of the town's housemaids and day workers, and picked her assistants carefully. she had studied the local conditions thoroughly, and knew her ground. a big faded building that used to be “the hotel” in orchardina's infant days, standing, awkward and dingy on a site too valuable for a house lot and not yet saleable as a business block, was the working base. a half year with mrs. weatherstone gave her $ in cash, besides the $ she had saved at mrs. porne's; and mrs. weatherstone's cheerfully offered backing gave her credit. “i hate to let you,” said diantha, “i want to do it all myself.” “you are a painfully perfect person, miss bell,” said her last employer, pleasantly, “but you have ceased to be my housekeeper and i hope you will continue to be my friend. as a friend i claim the privilege of being disagreeable. if you have a fault it is conceit. immovable colossal conceit! and obstinacy!” “is that all?” asked diantha. “it's all i've found--so far,” gaily retorted mrs. weatherstone. “don't you see, child, that you can't afford to wait? you have reasons for hastening, you know. i don't doubt you could, in a series of years, work up this business all stark alone. i have every confidence in those qualities i have mentioned! but what's the use? you'll need credit for groceries and furniture. i am profoundly interested in this business. i am more than willing to advance a little capital, or to ensure your credit. a man would have sense enough to take me up at once.” “i believe you are right,” diantha reluctantly agreed. “and you shan't lose by it!” her friends were acutely interested in her progress, and showed it in practical ways. the new woman's club furnished five families of patrons for the regular service of cooked food, which soon grew, with satisfaction, to a dozen or so, varying from time to time. the many families with invalids, and lonely invalids without families, were glad to avail themselves of the special delicacies furnished at union house. picnickers found it easier to buy diantha's marvelous sandwiches than to spend golden morning hours in putting up inferior ones at home; and many who cooked for themselves, or kept servants, were glad to profit by this outside source on sunday evenings and “days out.” there was opposition too; both the natural resistance of inertia and prejudice, and the active malignity of mrs. thaddler. the pornes were sympathetic and anxious. “that place'll cost her all of $ , a year, with those twenty-five to feed, and they only pay $ . a week--i know that!” said mr. porne. “it does look impossible,” his wife agreed, “but such is my faith in diantha bell i'd back her against rockefeller!” mrs. weatherstone was not alarmed at all. “if she _should_ fail--which i don't for a moment expect--it wont ruin me,” she told isabel. “and if she succeeds, as i firmly believe she will, why, i'd be willing to risk almost anything to prove mrs. thaddler in the wrong.” mrs. thaddler was making herself rather disagreeable. she used what power she had to cry down the undertaking, and was so actively malevolent that her husband was moved to covert opposition. he never argued with his wife--she was easily ahead of him in that art, and, if it came to recriminations, had certain controvertible charges to make against him, which mode him angrily silent. he was convinced in a dim way that her ruthless domineering spirit, and the sheer malice she often showed, were more evil things than his own bad habits; and that even in their domestic relation her behavior really caused him more pain and discomfort than he caused her; but he could not convince her of it, naturally. “that diantha bell is a fine girl,” he said to himself. “a damn fine girl, and as straight as a string!” there had crept out, through the quenchless leak of servants talk, a varicolored version of the incident of mathew and the transom; and the town had grown so warm for that young gentleman that he had gone to alaska suddenly, to cool off, as it were. his grandmother, finding mrs. thaddler invincible with this new weapon, and what she had so long regarded as her home now visibly mrs. weatherstone's, had retired in regal dignity to her old philadelphia establishment, where she upheld the standard of decorum against the weakening habits of a deteriorated world, for many years. as mr. thaddler thought of this sweeping victory, he chuckled for the hundredth time. “she ought to make good, and she will. something's got to be done about it,” said he. diantha had never liked mr. thaddler; she did not like that kind of man in general, nor his manner toward her in particular. moreover he was the husband of mrs. thaddler. she did not know that he was still the largest owner in the town's best grocery store, and when that store offered her special terms for her exclusive trade, she accepted the proposition thankfully. she told ross about it, as a matter well within his knowledge, if not his liking, and he was mildly interested. “i am much alarmed at this new venture,” he wrote, “but you must get your experience. i wish i could save you. as to the groceries, those are wholesale rates, nearly; they'll make enough on it. yours is a large order you see, and steady.” when she opened her “business men's lunch” mr. thaddler had a still better opportunity. he had a reputation as a high flyer, and had really intended to sacrifice himself on the altar of friendship by patronizing and praising this “undertaking” at any cost to his palate; but no sacrifice was needed. diantha's group of day workers had their early breakfast and departed, taking each her neat lunch-pail,--they ate nothing of their employers;--and both kitchen and dining room would have stood idle till supper time. but the young manager knew she must work her plant for all it was worth, and speedily opened the dining room with the side entrance as a “caffeteria,” with the larger one as a sort of meeting place; papers and magazines on the tables. from the counter you took what you liked, and seated yourself, and your friends, at one of the many small tables or in the flat-armed chairs in the big room, or on the broad piazza; and as this gave good food, cheapness, a chance for a comfortable seat and talk and a smoke, if one had time, it was largely patronized. mr. thaddler, as an experienced _bon vivant,_ despised sandwiches. “picnicky makeshifts” he called them,--“railroad rations”--“bread and leavings,” and when he saw these piles on piles of sandwiches, listed only as “no. ,” “no. ” “no. ,” and so on, his benevolent intention wavered. but he pulled himself together and took a plateful, assorted. “come on, porne,” he said, “we'll play it's a sunday school picnic,” and he drew himself a cup of coffee, finding hot milk, cream and sugar crystals at hand. “i never saw a cheap joint where you could fix it yourself, before,” he said,--and suspiciously tasted the mixture. “by jing! that's coffee!” he cried in surprise. “there's no scum on the milk, and the cream's cream! five cents! she won't get rich on this.” then he applied himself to his “no. ” sandwich, and his determined expression gave way to one of pleasure. “why that's bread--real bread! i believe she made it herself!” she did in truth,--she and julianna with hector as general assistant. the big oven was filled several times every morning: the fresh rolls disappeared at breakfast and supper, the fresh bread was packed in the lunch pails, and the stale bread was even now melting away in large bites behind the smiling mouths and mustaches of many men. perfect bread, excellent butter, and “what's the filling i'd like to know?” more than one inquiring-minded patron split his sandwich to add sight to taste, but few could be sure of the flavorsome contents, fatless, gritless, smooth and even, covering the entire surface, the last mouthful as perfect as the first. some were familiar, some new, all were delicious. the six sandwiches were five cents, the cup of coffee five, and the little “drop cakes,” sweet and spicy, were two for five. every man spent fifteen cents, some of them more; and many took away small cakes in paper bags, if there were any left. “i don't see how you can do it, and make a profit,” urged mr. eltwood, making a pastorial call. “they are so good you know!” diantha smiled cheerfully. “that's because all your ideas are based on what we call 'domestic economy,' which is domestic waste. i buy in large quantities at wholesale rates, and my cook with her little helper, the two maids, and my own share of the work, of course, provides for the lot. of course one has to know how.” “whenever did you find--or did you create?--those heavenly sandwiches?” he asked. “i have to thank my laundress for part of that success,” she said. “she's a dane, and it appears that the danes are so fond of sandwiches that, in large establishments, they have a 'sandwich kitchen' to prepare them. it is quite a bit of work, but they are good and inexpensive. there is no limit to the variety.” as a matter of fact this lunch business paid well, and led to larger things. the girl's methods were simple and so organized as to make one hand wash the other. her house had some twenty-odd bedrooms, full accommodations for kitchen and laundry work on a large scale, big dining, dancing, and reception rooms, and broad shady piazzas on the sides. its position on a corner near the business part of the little city, and at the foot of the hill crowned with so many millionaires and near millionaires as could get land there, offered many advantages, and every one was taken. the main part of the undertaking was a house worker's union; a group of thirty girls, picked and trained. these, previously working out as servants, had received six dollars a week “and found.” they now worked an agreed number of hours, were paid on a basis by the hour or day, and “found” themselves. each had her own room, and the broad porches and ball room were theirs, except when engaged for dances and meetings of one sort and another. it was a stirring year's work, hard but exciting, and the only difficulty which really worried diantha was the same that worried the average housewife--the accounts. chapter xi. the power of the screw. your car is too big for one person to stir-- your chauffeur is a little man, too; yet he lifts that machine, does the little chauffeur, by the power of a gentle jackscrew. diantha worked. for all her employees she demanded a ten-hour day, she worked fourteen; rising at six and not getting to bed till eleven, when her charges were all safely in their rooms for the night. they were all up at five-thirty or thereabouts, breakfasting at six, and the girls off in time to reach their various places by seven. their day was from a. m. to . p. m., with half an hour out, from . to twelve, for their lunch; and three hours, between . and . , for their own time, including their tea. then they worked again from . to . , on the dinner and the dishes, and then they came home to a pleasant nine o'clock supper, and had all hour to dance or rest before the . bell for bed time. special friends and “cousins” often came home with them, and frequently shared the supper--for a quarter--and the dance for nothing. it was no light matter in the first place to keep twenty girls contented with such a regime, and working with the steady excellence required, and in the second place to keep twenty employers contented with them. there were failures on both sides; half a dozen families gave up the plan, and it took time to replace them; and three girls had to be asked to resign before the year was over. but most of them had been in training in the summer, and had listened for months to diantha's earnest talks to the clubs, with good results. “remember we are not doing this for ourselves alone,” she would say to them. “our experiment is going to make this kind of work easier for all home workers everywhere. you may not like it at first, but neither did you like the old way. it will grow easier as we get used to it; and we _must_ keep the rules, because we made them!” she laboriously composed a neat little circular, distributed it widely, and kept a pile in her lunch room for people to take. it read thus: union house food and service. general housework by the week..... $ . general housework by the day....... $ . ten hours work a day, and furnish their own food. additional labor by the hour....... $. special service for entertainments, maids and waitresses, by the hour..........$. catering for entertainments. delicacies for invalids. lunches packed and delivered. caffeteria... to what annoyed the young manager most was the uncertainty and irregularity involved in her work, the facts varying considerably from her calculations. in the house all ran smoothly. solemn mrs. thorvald did the laundry work for thirty-five--by the aid of her husband and a big mangle for the “flat work.” the girls' washing was limited. “you have to be reasonable about it,” diantha had explained to them. “your fifty cents covers a dozen pieces--no more. if you want more you have to pay more, just as your employers do for your extra time.” this last often happened. no one on the face of it could ask more than ten hours of the swift, steady work given by the girls at but a fraction over cents an hour. yet many times the housekeeper was anxious for more labor on special days; and the girls, unaccustomed to the three free hours in the afternoon, were quite willing to furnish it, thus adding somewhat to their cash returns. they had a dressmaking class at the club afternoons, and as union house boasted a good sewing machine, many of them spent the free hours in enlarging their wardrobes. some amused themselves with light reading, a few studied, others met and walked outside. the sense of honest leisure grew upon them, with its broadening influence; and among her thirty diantha found four or five who were able and ambitious, and willing to work heartily for the further development of the business. her two housemaids were specially selected. when the girls were out of the house these two maids washed the breakfast dishes with marvelous speed, and then helped diantha prepare for the lunch. this was a large undertaking, and all three of them, as well as julianna and hector worked at it until some six or eight hundred sandwiches were ready, and two or three hundred little cakes. diantha had her own lunch, and then sat at the receipt of custom during the lunch hour, making change and ordering fresh supplies as fast as needed. the two housemaids had a long day, but so arranged that it made but ten hours work, and they had much available time of their own. they had to be at work at : to set the table for six o'clock breakfast, and then they were at it steadily, with the dining rooms to “do,” and the lunch to get ready, until : , when they had an hour to eat and rest. from : to o'clock they were busy with the lunch cups, the bed-rooms, and setting the table for dinner; but after that they had four hours to themselves, until the nine o'clock supper was over, and once more they washed dishes for half an hour. the caffeteria used only cups and spoons; the sandwiches and cakes were served on paper plates. in the hand-cart methods of small housekeeping it is impossible to exact the swift precision of such work, but not in the standardized tasks and regular hours of such an establishment as this. diantha religiously kept her hour at noon, and tried to keep the three in the afternoon; but the employer and manager cannot take irresponsible rest as can the employee. she felt like a most inexperienced captain on a totally new species of ship, and her paper plans looked very weak sometimes, as bills turned out to be larger than she had allowed for, or her patronage unaccountably dwindled. but if the difficulties were great, the girl's courage was greater. “it is simply a big piece of work,” she assured herself, “and may be a long one, but there never was anything better worth doing. every new business has difficulties, i mustn't think of them. i must just push and push and push--a little more every day.” and then she would draw on all her powers to reason with, laugh at, and persuade some dissatisfied girl; or, hardest of all, to bring in a new one to fill a vacancy. she enjoyed the details of her lunch business, and studied it carefully; planning for a restaurant a little later. her bread was baked in long cylindrical closed pans, and cut by machinery into thin even slices, not a crust wasted; for they were ground into crumbs and used in the cooking. the filling for her sandwiches was made from fish, flesh, and fowl; from cheese and jelly and fruit and vegetables; and so named or numbered that the general favorites were gradually determined. mr. thaddler chatted with her over the counter, as far as she would allow it, and discoursed more fully with his friends on the verandah. “porne,” he said, “where'd that girl come from anyway? she's a genius, that's what she is; a regular genius.” “she's all that,” said mr. porne, “and a benefactor to humanity thrown in. i wish she'd start her food delivery, though. i'm tired of those two swedes already. o--come from? up in jopalez, inca county, i believe.” “new england stock i bet,” said mr. thaddler. “its a damn shame the way the women go on about her.” “not all of them, surely,” protested mr. porne. “no, not all of 'em,--but enough of 'em to make mischief, you may be sure. women are the devil, sometimes.” mr. porne smiled without answer, and mr. thaddler went sulking away--a bag of cakes bulging in his pocket. the little wooden hotel in jopalez boasted an extra visitor a few days later. a big red faced man, who strolled about among the tradesmen, tried the barber's shop, loafed in the post office, hired a rig and traversed the length and breadth of the town, and who called on mrs. warden, talking real estate with her most politely in spite of her protestation and the scornful looks of the four daughters; who bought tobacco and matches in the grocery store, and sat on the piazza thereof to smoke, as did other gentlemen of leisure. ross warden occasionally leaned at the door jamb, with folded arms. he never could learn to be easily sociable with ranchmen and teamsters. serve them he must, but chat with them he need not. the stout gentleman essayed some conversation, but did not get far. ross was polite, but far from encouraging, and presently went home to supper, leaving a carrot-haired boy to wait upon his lingering customers. “nice young feller enough,” said the stout gentleman to himself, “but raised on ramrods. never got 'em from those women folks of his, either. he _has_ a row to hoe!” and he departed as he had come. mr. eltwood turned out an unexpectedly useful friend to diantha. he steered club meetings and “sociables” into her large rooms, and as people found how cheap and easy it was to give parties that way, they continued the habit. he brought his doctor friends to sample the lunch, and they tested the value of diantha's invalid cookery, and were more than pleased. hungry tourists were wholly without prejudice, and prized her lunches for their own sake. they descended upon the caffeteria in chattering swarms, some days, robbing the regular patrons of their food, and sent sudden orders for picnic lunches that broke in upon the routine hours of the place unmercifully. but of all her patrons, the families of invalids appreciated diantha's work the most. where a little shack or tent was all they could afford to live in, or where the tiny cottage was more than filled with the patient, attending relative, and nurse, this depot of supplies was a relief indeed. a girl could be had for an hour or two; or two girls, together, with amazing speed, could put a small house in dainty order while the sick man lay in his hammock under the pepper trees; and be gone before he was fretting for his bed again. they lived upon her lunches; and from them, and other quarters, rose an increasing demand for regular cooked food. “why don't you go into it at once?” urged mrs. weatherstone. “i want to establish the day service first,” said diantha. “it is a pretty big business i find, and i do get tired sometimes. i can't afford to slip up, you know. i mean to take it up next fall, though.” “all right. and look here; see that you begin in first rate shape. i've got some ideas of my own about those food containers.” they discussed the matter more than once, diantha most reluctant to take any assistance; mrs. weatherstone determined that she should. “i feel like a big investor already,” she said. “i don't think even you realize the _money_ there is in this thing! you are interested in establishing the working girls, and saving money and time for the housewives. i am interested in making money out of it--honestly! it would be such a triumph!” “you're very good--” diantha hesitated. “i'm not good. i'm most eagerly and selfishly interested. i've taken a new lease of life since knowing you, diantha bell! you see my father was a business man, and his father before him--i _like it._ there i was, with lots of money, and not an interest in life! now?--why, there's no end to this thing, diantha! it's one of the biggest businesses on earth--if not _the_ biggest!” “yes--i know,” the girl answered. “but its slow work. i feel the weight of it more than i expected. there's every reason to succeed, but there's the combined sentiment of the whole world to lift--it's as heavy as lead.” “heavy! of course it's heavy! the more fun to lift it! you'll do it, diantha, i know you will, with that steady, relentless push of yours. but the cooked food is going to be your biggest power, and you must let me start it right. now you listen to me, and make mrs. thaddler eat her words!” mrs. thaddler's words would have proved rather poisonous, if eaten. she grew more antagonistic as the year advanced. every fault that could be found in the undertaking she pounced upon and enlarged; every doubt that could be cast upon it she heavily piled up; and her opposition grew more rancorous as mr. thaddler enlarged in her hearing upon the excellence of diantha's lunches and the wonders of her management. “she's picked a bunch o' winners in those girls of hers,” he declared to his friends. “they set out in the morning looking like a flock of sweet peas--in their pinks and whites and greens and vi'lets,--and do more work in an hour than the average slavey can do in three, i'm told.” it was a pretty sight to see those girls start out. they had a sort of uniform, as far as a neat gingham dress went, with elbow sleeves, white ruffled, and a dutch collar; a sort of cross between a nurses dress and that of “la chocolataire;” but colors were left to taste. each carried her apron and a cap that covered the hair while cooking and sweeping; but nothing that suggested the black and white livery of the regulation servant. “this is a new stage of labor,” their leader reminded them. “you are not servants--you are employees. you wear a cap as an english carpenter does--or a french cook,--and an apron because your work needs it. it is not a ruffled label,--it's a business necessity. and each one of us must do our best to make this new kind of work valued and respected.” it is no easy matter to overcome prejudices many centuries old, and meet the criticism of women who have nothing to do but criticize. those who were “mistresses,” and wanted “servants,”--someone to do their will at any moment from early morning till late evening,--were not pleased with the new way if they tried it; but the women who had interests of their own to attend to; who merely wanted their homes kept clean, and the food well cooked and served, were pleased. the speed, the accuracy, the economy; the pleasant, quiet, assured manner of these skilled employees was a very different thing from the old slipshod methods of the ordinary general servant. so the work slowly prospered, while diantha began to put in execution the new plan she had been forced into. while it matured, mrs. thaddler matured hers. with steady dropping she had let fall far and wide her suspicions as to the character of union house. “it looks pretty queer to me!” she would say, confidentially, “all those girls together, and no person to have any authority over them! not a married woman in the house but that washerwoman,--and her husband's a fool!” “and again; you don't see how she does it? neither do i! the expenses must be tremendous--those girls pay next to nothing,--and all that broth and brown bread flying about town! pretty queer doings, i think!” “the men seem to like that caffeteria, don't they?” urged one caller, perhaps not unwilling to nestle mrs. thaddler, who flushed darkly as she replied. “yes, they do. men usually like that sort of place.” “they like good food at low prices, if that's what you mean,” her visitor answered. “that's not all i mean--by a long way,” said mrs. thaddler. she said so much, and said it so ingeniously, that a dark rumor arose from nowhere, and grew rapidly. several families discharged their union house girls. several girls complained that they were insultingly spoken to on the street. even the lunch patronage began to fall off. diantha was puzzled--a little alarmed. her slow, steady lifting of the prejudice against her was checked. she could not put her finger on the enemy, yet felt one distinctly, and had her own suspicions. but she also had her new move well arranged by this time. then a maliciously insinuating story of the place came out in a san francisco paper, and a flock of local reporters buzzed in to sample the victim. they helped themselves to the luncheon, and liked it, but that did not soften their pens. they talked with such of the girls as they could get in touch with, and wrote such versions of these talks as suited them. they called repeatedly at union house, but diantha refused to see them. finally she was visited by the episcopalian clergyman. he had heard her talk at the club, was favorably impressed by the girl herself, and honestly distressed by the dark stories he now heard about union house. “my dear young lady,” he said, “i have called to see you in your own interests. i do not, as you perhaps know, approve of your schemes. i consider them--ah--subversive of the best interests of the home! but i think you mean well, though mistakenly. now i fear you are not aware that this-ah--ill-considered undertaking of yours, is giving rise to considerable adverse comment in the community. there is--ah--there is a great deal being said about this business of yours which i am sure you would regret if you knew it. do you think it is wise; do you think it is--ah--right, my dear miss bell, to attempt to carry on a--a place of this sort, without the presence of a--of a matron of assured standing?” diantha smiled rather coldly. “may i trouble you to step into the back parlor, dr. aberthwaite,” she said; and then; “may i have the pleasure of presenting to you mrs. henderson bell--my mother?” ***** “wasn't it great!” said mrs. weatherstone; “i was there you see,--i'd come to call on mrs. bell--she's a dear,--and in came mrs. thaddler--” “mrs. thaddler?” “o i know it was old aberthwaite, but he represented mrs. thaddler and her clique, and had come there to preach to diantha about propriety--i heard him,--and she brought him in and very politely introduced him to her mother!--it was rich, isabel.” “how did diantha manage it?” asked her friend. “she's been trying to arrange it for ever so long. of course her father objected--you'd know that. but there's a sister--not a bad sort, only very limited; she's taken the old man to board, as it were, and i guess the mother really set her foot down for once--said she had a right to visit her own daughter!” “it would seem so,” mrs. porne agreed. “i _am_ so glad! it will be so much easier for that brave little woman now.” it was. diantha held her mother in her arms the night she came, and cried tike a baby. “o mother _dear!_” she sobbed, “i'd no idea i should miss you so much. o you blessed comfort!” her mother cried a bit too; she enjoyed this daughter more than either of her older children, and missed her more. a mother loves all her children, naturally; but a mother is also a person--and may, without sin, have personal preferences. she took hold of diantha's tangled mass of papers with the eagerness of a questing hound. “you've got all the bills, of course,” she demanded, with her anxious rising inflection. “every one,” said the girl. “you taught me that much. what puzzles me is to make things balance. i'm making more than i thought in some lines, and less in others, and i can't make it come out straight.” “it won't, altogether, till the end of the year i dare say,” said mrs. bell, “but let's get clear as far as we can. in the first place we must separate your business,--see how much each one pays.” “the first one i want to establish,” said her daughter, “is the girl's club. not just this one, with me to run it. but to show that any group of twenty or thirty girls could do this thing in any city. of course where rents and provisions were high they'd have to charge more. i want to make an average showing somehow. now can you disentangle the girl part front the lunch part and the food part, mother dear, and make it all straight?” mrs. bell could and did; it gave her absolute delight to do it. she set down the total of diantha's expenses so far in the service department, as follows: rent of union house $ , rent of furniture................... $ one payment on furniture............ $ fuel and lights, etc................ $ service of at $ a week each... $ , food for thirty-seven............. $ , ----- total............................. $ , “that covers everything but my board,” said mrs. bell. “now your income is easy-- x $ . equals $ , . take that from your $ , and you are $ behind.” “yes, i know,” said diantha, eagerly, “but if it was merely a girl's club home, the rent and fixtures would be much less. a home could be built, with thirty bedrooms--and all necessary conveniences--for $ , . i've asked mr. and mrs. porne about it; and the furnishing needn't cost over $ , if it was very plain. ten per cent. of that is a rent of $ you see.” “i see,” said her mother. “better say a thousand. i guess it could be done for that.” so they set down rent, $ , . “there have to be five paid helpers in the house,” diantha went on, “the cook, the laundress, the two maids, and the matron. she must buy and manage. she could be one of their mothers or aunts.” mrs. bell smiled. “do you really imagine, diantha, that mrs. o'shaughnessy or mrs. yon yonson can manage a house like this as you can?” diantha flushed a little. “no, mother, of course not. but i am keeping very full reports of all the work. just the schedule of labor--the hours--the exact things done. one laundress, with machinery, can wash for thirty-five, (its only six a day you see), and the amount is regulated; about six dozen a day, and all the flat work mangled. “in a girl's club alone the cook has all day off, as it were; she can do the down stairs cleaning. and the two maids have only table service and bedrooms.” “thirty-five bedrooms?” “yes. but two girls together, who know how, can do a room in minutes--easily. they are small and simple you see. make the bed, shake the mats, wipe the floors and windows,--you watch them!” “i have watched them,” the mother admitted. “they are as quick as--as mill-workers!” “well,” pursued diantha, “they spend three hours on dishes and tables, and seven on cleaning. the bedrooms take minutes; that's nearly five hours. the other two are for the bath rooms, halls, stairs, downstairs windows, and so on. that's all right. then i'm keeping the menus--just what i furnish and what it costs. anybody could order and manage when it was all set down for her. and you see--as you have figured it--they'd have over $ leeway to buy the furniture if they were allowed to.” “yes,” mrs. bell admitted, “_if_ the rent was what you allow, and _if_ they all work all the time!” “that's the hitch, of course. but mother; the girls who don't have steady jobs do work by the hour, and that brings in more, on the whole. if they are the right kind they can make good. if they find anyone who don't keep her job--for good reasons--they can drop her.” “m'm!” said mrs. bell. “well, it's an interesting experiment. but how about you? so far you are $ behind.” “yes, because my rent's so big. but i cover that by letting the rooms, you see.” mrs. bell considered the orders of this sort. “so far it averages about $ . a week; that's doing well.” “it will be less in summer--much less,” diantha suggested. “suppose you call it an average of $ . .” “call it $ . ,” said her mother ruthlessly. “at that it covers your deficit and $ over.” “which isn't much to live on,” diantha agreed, “but then comes my special catering, and the lunches.” here they were quite at sea for a while. but as the months passed, and the work steadily grew on their hands, mrs. bell became more and more cheerful. she was up with the earliest, took entire charge of the financial part of the concern, and at last diantha was able to rest fully in her afternoon hours. what delighted her most was to see her mother thrive in the work. her thin shoulders lifted a little as small dragging tasks were forgotten and a large growing business substituted. her eyes grew bright again, she held her head as she did in her keen girlhood, and her daughter felt fresh hope and power as she saw already the benefit of the new method as affecting her nearest and dearest. all diantha's friends watched the spread of the work with keenly sympathetic intent; but to mrs. weatherstone it became almost as fascinating as to the girl herself. “it's going to be one of the finest businesses in the world!” she said, “and one of the largest and best paying. now i'll have a surprise ready for that girl in the spring, and another next year, if i'm not mistaken!” there were long and vivid discussions of the matter between her and her friends the pornes, and mrs. porne spent more hours in her “drawing room” than she had for years. but while these unmentioned surprises were pending, mrs. weatherstone departed to new york--to europe; and was gone some months. in the spring she returned, in april--which is late june in orchardina. she called upon diantha and her mother at once, and opened her attack. “i do hope, mrs. bell, that you'll back me up,” she said. “you have the better business head i think, in the financial line.” “she has,” diantha admitted. “she's ten times as good as i am at that; but she's no more willing to carry obligation than i am, mrs. weatherstone.” “obligation is one thing--investment is another,” said her guest. “i live on my money--that is, on other people's work. i am a base capitalist, and you seem to me good material to invest in. so--take it or leave it--i've brought you an offer.” she then produced from her hand bag some papers, and, from her car outside, a large object carefully boxed, about the size and shape of a plate warmer. this being placed on the table before them, was uncovered, and proved to be a food container of a new model. “i had one made in paris,” she explained, “and the rest copied here to save paying duty. lift it!” they lifted it in amazement--it was so light. “aluminum,” she said, proudly, “silver plated--new process! and bamboo at the corners you see. all lined and interlined with asbestos, rubber fittings for silver ware, plate racks, food compartments--see?” she pulled out drawers, opened little doors, and rapidly laid out a table service for five. “it will hold food for five--the average family, you know. for larger orders you'll have to send more. i had to make _some_ estimate.” “what lovely dishes!” said diantha. “aren't they! aluminum, silvered! if your washers are careful they won't get dented, and you can't break 'em.” mrs. bell examined the case and all its fittings with eager attention. “it's the prettiest thing i ever saw,” she said. “look, diantha; here's for soup, here's for water--or wine if you want, all your knives and forks at the side, japanese napkins up here. its lovely, but--i should think--expensive!” mrs. weatherstone smiled. “i've had twenty-five of them made. they cost, with the fittings, $ apiece, $ , . i will rent them to you, miss bell, at a rate of per cent. interest; only $ a year!” “it ought to take more,” said mrs. bell, “there'll be breakage and waste.” “you can't break them, i tell you,” said the cheerful visitor, “and dents can be smoothed out in any tin shop--you'll have to pay for it;--will that satisfy you?” diantha was looking at her, her eyes deep with gratitude. “i--you know what i think of you!” she said. mrs. weatherstone laughed. “i'm not through yet,” she said. “look at my next piece of impudence!” this was only on paper, but the pictures were amply illuminating. “i went to several factories,” she gleefully explained, “here and abroad. a yankee firm built it. it's in my garage now!” it was a light gasolene motor wagon, the body built like those old-fashioned moving wagons which were also used for excursions, wherein the floor of the vehicle was rather narrow, and set low, and the seats ran lengthwise, widening out over the wheels; only here the wheels were lower, and in the space under the seats ran a row of lockers opening outside. mrs. weatherstone smiled triumphantly. “now, diantha bell,” she said, “here's something you haven't thought of, i do believe! this estimable vehicle will carry thirty people inside easily,” and she showed them how each side held twelve, and turn-up seats accommodated six more; “and outside,”--she showed the lengthwise picture--“it carries twenty-four containers. if you want to send all your twenty-five at once, one can go here by the driver. “now then. this is not an obligation, miss bell, it is another valuable investment. i'm having more made. i expect to have use for them in a good many places. this cost pretty near $ , , and you get it at the same good interest, for $ a year. what's more, if you are smart enough--and i don't doubt you are,--you can buy the whole thing on installments, same as you mean to with your furniture.” diantha was dumb, but her mother wasn't. she thanked mrs. weatherstone with a hearty appreciation of her opportune help, but no less of her excellent investment. “don't be a goose, diantha,” she said. “you will set up your food business in first class style, and i think you can carry it successfully. but mrs. weatherstone's right; she's got a new investment here that'll pay her better than most others--and be a growing thing i do believe.” and still diantha found it difficult to express her feelings. she had lived under a good deal of strain for many months now, and this sudden opening out of her plans was a heavenly help indeed. mrs. weatherstone went around the table and sat by her. “child,” said she, “you don't begin to realize what you've done for me--and for isobel--and for ever so many in this town, and all over the world. and besides, don't you think anybody else can see your dream? we can't _do_ it as you can, but we can see what it's going to mean,--and we'll help if we can. you wouldn't grudge us that, would you?” as a result of all this the cooked food delivery service was opened at once. “it is true that the tourists are gone, mostly,” said mrs. weatherstone, as she urged it, “but you see there are ever so many residents who have more trouble with servants in summer than they do in winter, and hate to have a fire in the house, too.” so diantha's circulars had an addition, forthwith. these were distributed among the orchardinians, setting their tongues wagging anew, as a fresh breeze stirs the eaves of the forest. the stealthy inroads of lunches and evening refreshments had been deprecated already; this new kind of servant who wasn't a servant, but held her head up like anyone else (“they are as independent as--as--'salesladies,'” said one critic), was also viewed with alarm; but when even this domestic assistant was to be removed, and a square case of food and dishes substituted, all archaic orchardina was horrified. there were plenty of new minds in the place, however; enough to start diantha with seven full orders and five partial ones. her work at the club was now much easier, thanks to her mother's assistance, to the smoother running of all the machinery with the passing of time, and further to the fact that most of her girls were now working at summer resorts, for shorter hours and higher wages. they paid for their rooms at the club still, but the work of the house was so much lightened that each of the employees was given two weeks of vacation--on full pay. the lunch department kept on a pretty regular basis from the patronage of resident business men, and the young manager--in her ambitious moments--planned for enlarging it in the winter. but during the summer her whole energies went to perfecting the _menus_ and the service of her food delivery. mrs. porne was the very first to order. she had been waiting impatiently for a chance to try the plan, and, with her husband, had the firmest faith in diantha's capacity to carry it through. “we don't save much in money,” she explained to the eager mrs. ree, who hovered, fascinated, over the dangerous topic, “but we do in comfort, i can tell you. you see i had two girls, paid them $ a week; now i keep just the one, for $ . my food and fuel for the four of us (i don't count the babies either time--they remain as before), was all of $ , often more. that made $ a week. now i pay for three meals a day, delivered, for three of us, $ a week--with the nurse's wages, $ . then i pay a laundress one day, $ , and her two meals, $. , making $ . . then i have two maids, for an hour a day, to clean; $. a day for six days, $ , and one maid sunday, $. . $ . in all. so we only make $ . . _but!_ there's another room! we have the cook's room for an extra guest; i use it most for a sewing room, though and the kitchen is a sort of day nursery now. the house seems as big again!” “but the food?” eagerly inquired mrs. ree. “is it as good as your own? is it hot and tempting?” mrs. ree was fascinated by the new heresy. as a staunch adherent of the old home and culture club, and its older ideals, she disapproved of the undertaking, but her curiosity was keen about it. mrs. porne smiled patiently. “you remember diantha bell's cooking i am sure, mrs. ree,” she said. “and julianna used to cook for dinner parties--when one could get her. my swede was a very ordinary cook, as most of these untrained girls are. do take off your hat and have dinner with us,--i'll show you,” urged mrs. porne. “i--o i mustn't,” fluttered the little woman. “they'll expect me at home--and--surely your--supply--doesn't allow for guests?” “we'll arrange all that by 'phone,” her hostess explained; and she promptly sent word to the ree household, then called up union house and ordered one extra dinner. “is it--i'm dreadfully rude i know, but i'm _so_ interested! is it--expensive?” mrs. porne smiled. “haven't you seen the little circular? here's one, 'extra meals to regular patrons cents.' and no more trouble to order than to tell a maid.” mrs. ree had a lively sense of paltering with satan as she sat down to the porne's dinner table. she had seen the delivery wagon drive to the door, had heard the man deposit something heavy on the back porch, and was now confronted by a butler's tray at mrs. porne's left, whereon stood a neat square shining object with silvery panels and bamboo trimmings. “it's not at all bad looking, is it?” she ventured. “not bad enough to spoil one's appetite,” mr. porne cheerily agreed. “open, sesame! now you know the worst.” mrs. porne opened it, and an inner front was shown, with various small doors and drawers. “do you know what is in it?” asked the guest. “no, thank goodness, i don't,” replied her hostess. “if there's anything tiresome it is to order meals and always know what's coming! that's what men get so tired of at restaurants; what they hate so when their wives ask them what they want for dinner. now i can enjoy my dinner at my own table, just as if i was a guest.” “it is--a tax--sometimes,” mrs. ree admitted, adding hastily, “but one is glad to do it--to make home attractive.” mr. porne's eyes sought his wife's, and love and contentment flashed between them, as she quietly set upon the table three silvery plates. “not silver, surely!” said mrs. ree, lifting hers, “oh, aluminum.” “aluminum, silver plated,” said mr. porne. “they've learned how to do it at last. it's a problem of weight, you see, and breakage. aluminum isn't pretty, glass and silver are heavy, but we all love silver, and there's a pleasant sense of gorgeousness in this outfit.” it did look rather impressive; silver tumblers, silver dishes, the whole dainty service--and so surprisingly light. “you see she knows that it is very important to please the eye as well as the palate,” said mr. porne. “now speaking of palates, let us all keep silent and taste this soup.” they did keep silent in supreme contentment while the soup lasted. mrs. ree laid down her spoon with the air of one roused from a lovely dream. “why--why--it's like paris,” she said in an awed tone. “isn't it?” mr. porne agreed, “and not twice alike in a month, i think.” “why, there aren't thirty kinds of soup, are there?” she urged. “i never thought there were when we kept servants,” said he. “three was about their limit, and greasy, at that.” mrs. porne slipped the soup plates back in their place and served the meat. “she does not give a fish course, does she?” mrs. ree observed. “not at the table d'hote price,” mrs. porne answered. “we never pretended to have a fish course ourselves--do you?” mrs. ree did not, and eagerly disclaimed any desire for fish. the meat was roast beef, thinly sliced, hot and juicy. “don't you miss the carving, mr. porne?” asked the visitor. “i do so love to see a man at the head of his own table, carving.” “i do miss it, mrs. ree. i miss it every day of my life with devout thankfulness. i never was a good carver, so it was no pleasure to me to show off; and to tell you the truth, when i come to the table, i like to eat--not saw wood.” and mr. porne ate with every appearance of satisfaction. “we never get roast beef like this i'm sure,” mrs. ree admitted, “we can't get it small enough for our family.” “and a little roast is always spoiled in the cooking. yes this is far better than we used to have,” agreed her hostess. mrs. ree enjoyed every mouthful of her meal. the soup was hot. the salad was crisp and the ice cream hard. there was sponge cake, thick, light, with sugar freckles on the dark crust. the coffee was perfect and almost burned the tongue. “i don't understand about the heat and cold,” she said; and they showed her the asbestos-lined compartments and perfectly fitting places for each dish and plate. everything went back out of sight; small leavings in a special drawer, knives and forks held firmly by rubber fittings, nothing that shook or rattled. and the case was set back by the door where the man called for it at eight o'clock. “she doesn't furnish table linen?” “no, there are japanese napkins at the top here. we like our own napkins, and we didn't use a cloth, anyway.” “and how about silver?” “we put ours away. this plated ware they furnish is perfectly good. we could use ours of course if we wanted to wash it. some do that and some have their own case marked, and their own silver in it, but it's a good deal of risk, i think, though they are extremely careful.” mrs. ree experienced peculiarly mixed feelings. as far as food went, she had never eaten a better dinner. but her sense of domestic aesthetics was jarred. “it certainly tastes good,” she said. “delicious, in fact. i am extremely obliged to you, mrs. porne, i'd no idea it could be sent so far and be so good. and only five dollars a week, you say?” “for each person, yes.” “i don't see how she does it. all those cases and dishes, and the delivery wagon!” that was the universal comment in orchardina circles as the months passed and union house continued in existence--“i don't see how she does it!” chapter xii. like a banyan tree the earth-plants spring up from beneath, the air-plants swing down from above, but the banyan trees grow both above and below, and one makes a prosperous grove. in the fleeting opportunities offered by the caffeteria, and in longer moments, rather neatly planned for, with some remnants of an earlier ingenuity, mr. thaddler contrived to become acquainted with mrs. bell. diantha never quite liked him, but he won her mother's heart by frank praise of the girl and her ventures. “i never saw a smarter woman in my life,” he said; “and no airs. i tell you, ma'am, if there was more like her this world would be an easier place to live in, and i can see she owes it all to you, ma'am.” this the mother would never admit for a moment, but expatiated loyally on the scientific mind of mr. henderson bell, still of jopalez. “i don't see how he can bear to let her out of his sight,” said mr. thaddler. “of course he hated to let her go,” replied the lady. “we both did. but he is very proud of her now.” “i guess there's somebody else who's proud of her, too,” he suggested. “excuse me, ma'am, i don't mean to intrude, but we know there must be a good reason for your daughter keeping all orchardina at a distance. why, she could have married six times over in her first year here!” “she does not wish to give up her work,” mrs. bell explained. “of course not; and why should she? nice, womanly business, i am sure. i hope nobody'd expect a girl who can keep house for a whole township to settle down to bossing one man and a hired girl.” in course of time he got a pretty clear notion of how matters stood, and meditated upon it, seriously rolling his big cigar about between pursed lips. mr. thaddler was a good deal of a gossip, but this he kept to himself, and did what he could to enlarge the patronage of union house. the business grew. it held its own in spite of fluctuations, and after a certain point began to spread steadily. mrs. bell's coming and mr. eltwood's ardent championship, together with mr. thaddler's, quieted the dangerous slanders which had imperilled the place at one time. they lingered, subterraneously, of course. people never forget slanders. a score of years after there were to be found in orchardina folk who still whispered about dark allegations concerning union house; and the papers had done some pretty serious damage; but the fame of good food, good service, cheapness and efficiency made steady headway. in view of the increase and of the plans still working in her mind, diantha made certain propositions to mr. porne, and also to mrs. porne, in regard to a new, specially built club-house for the girls. “i have proved what they can do, with me to manage them, and want now to prove that they can do it themselves, with any matron competent to follow my directions. the house need not be so expensive; one big dining-room, with turn-up tables like those ironing-board seat-tables, you know--then they can dance there. small reception room and office, hall, kitchen and laundry, and thirty bedrooms, forty by thirty, with an “ell” for the laundry, ought to do it, oughtn't it?” mrs. porne agreed to make plans, and did so most successfully, and mr. porne found small difficulty in persuading an investor to put up such a house, which visibly could be used as a boarding-house or small hotel, if it failed in its first purpose. it was built of concrete, a plain simple structure, but fine in proportions and pleasantly colored. diantha kept her plans to herself, as usual, but they grew so fast that she felt a species of terror sometimes, lest the ice break somewhere. “steady, now!” she would say. “this is real business, just plain business. there's no reason why i shouldn't succeed as well as fred harvey. i will succeed. i am succeeding.” she kept well, she worked hard, she was more than glad to have her mother with her; but she wanted something else, which seemed farther off than ever. her lover's picture hung on the wall of her bedroom, stood on her bureau, and (but this was a secret) a small one was carried in her bosom. rather a grim looking young woman, diantha, with the cares of the world of house-keepers upon her proud young shoulders; with all the stirring hopes to be kept within bounds, all the skulking fears to be resisted, and the growing burden of a large affair to be carried steadily. but when she woke, in the brilliant california mornings, she would lie still a few moments looking at the face on the wall and the face on the bureau; would draw the little picture out from under her pillow and kiss it, would say to herself for the thousandth time, “it is for him, too.” she missed him, always. the very vigor of her general attitude, the continued strength with which she met the days and carried them, made it all the more needful for her to have some one with whom she could forget every care, every purpose, every effort; some one who would put strong arms around her and call her “little girl.” his letters were both a comfort and a pain. he was loyal, kind, loving, but always that wall of disapproval. he loved her, he did not love her work. she read them over and over, hunting anew for the tender phrases, the things which seemed most to feed and comfort her. she suffered not only from her loneliness, but from his; and most keenly from his sternly suppressed longing for freedom and the work that belonged to him. “why can't he see,” she would say to herself, “that if this succeeds, he can do his work; that i can make it possible for him? and he won't let me. he won't take it from me. why are men so proud? is there anything so ignominious about a woman that it is disgraceful to let one help you? and why can't he think at all about the others? it's not just us, it's all people. if this works, men will have easier times, as well as women. everybody can do their real work better with this old primitive business once set right.” and then it was always time to get up, or time to go to bed, or time to attend to some of the numberless details of her affairs. she and her mother had an early lunch before the caffeteria opened, and were glad of the afternoon tea, often held in a retired corner of the broad piazza. she sat there one hot, dusty afternoon, alone and unusually tired. the asphalted street was glaring and noisy, the cross street deep in soft dust, for months unwet. failure had not discouraged her, but increasing success with all its stimulus and satisfaction called for more and more power. her mind was busy foreseeing, arranging, providing for emergencies; and then the whole thing slipped away from her, she dropped her head upon her arm for a moment, on the edge of the tea table, and wished for ross. from down the street and up the street at this moment, two men were coming; both young, both tall, both good looking, both apparently approaching union house. one of them was the nearer, and his foot soon sounded on the wooden step. the other stopped and looked in a shop window. diantha started up, came forward,--it was mr. eltwood. she had a vague sense of disappointment, but received him cordially. he stood there, his hat off, holding her hand for a long moment, and gazing at her with evident admiration. they turned and sat down in the shadow of the reed-curtained corner. the man at the shop window turned, too, and went away. mr. eltwood had been a warm friend and cordial supporter from the epoch of the club-splitting speech. he had helped materially in the slow, up-hill days of the girl's effort, with faith and kind words. he had met the mother's coming with most friendly advances, and mrs. bell found herself much at home in his liberal little church. diantha had grown to like and trust him much. “what's this about the new house, miss bell? your mother says i may know.” “why not?” she said. “you have followed this thing from the first. sugar or lemon? you see i want to disentangle the undertakings, set them upon their own separate feet, and establish the practical working of each one.” “i see,” he said, “and 'day service' is not 'cooked food delivery.'” “nor yet 'rooms for entertainment',” she agreed. “we've got them all labelled, mother and i. there's the 'd. s.' and 'c. f. d.' and 'r. f. e.' and the 'p. p.' that's picnics and parties. and more coming.” “what, more yet? you'll kill yourself, miss bell. don't go too fast. you are doing a great work for humanity. why not take a little more time?” “i want to do it as quickly as i can, for reasons,” answered diantha. mr. eltwood looked at her with tender understanding. “i don't want to intrude any further than you are willing to want me,” he said, “but sometimes i think that even you--strong as you are--would be better for some help.” she did not contradict him. her hands were in her lap, her eyes on the worn boards of the piazza floor. she did not see a man pass on the other side of the street, cast a searching glance across and walk quickly on again. “if you were quite free to go on with your beautiful work,” said mr. eltwood slowly, “if you were offered heartiest appreciation, profound respect, as well as love, of course; would you object to marrying, miss bell?” asked in an even voice, as if it were a matter of metaphysical inquiry. mrs. porne had told him of her theory as to a lover in the home town, wishing to save him a long heart ache, but he was not sure of it, and he wanted to be. diantha glanced quickly at him, and felt the emotion under his quiet words. she withdrew her eyes, looking quite the other way. “you are enough of a friend to know, mr. eltwood,” she said, “i rather thought you did know. i am engaged.” “thank you for telling me; some one is greatly to be congratulated,” he spoke sincerely, and talked quietly on about less personal matters, holding his tea untasted till it was cold. “do let me give you some that is hot,” she said at last, “and let me thank you from my heart for the help and strength and comfort you have been to me, mr. eltwood.” “i'm very glad,” he said; and again, “i am very glad.” “you may count upon anything i can do for you, always,” he continued. “i am proud to be your friend.” he held her hand once more for a moment, and went away with his head up and a firm step. to one who watched him go, he had almost a triumphant air, but it was not triumph, only the brave beginning of a hard fight and a long one. then came mrs. bell, returned from a shopping trip, and sank down in a wicker rocker, glad of the shade and a cup of tea. no, she didn't want it iced. “hot tea makes you cooler,” was her theory. “you don't look very tired,” said the girl. “seems to me you get stronger all the time.” “i do,” said her mother. “you don't realize, you can't realize, diantha, what this means to me. of course to you i am an old woman, a back number--one has to feel so about one's mother. i did when i married, and my mother then was five years younger than i am now.” “i don't think you old, mother, not a bit of it. you ought to have twenty or thirty years of life before you, real life.” “that's just what i'm feeling,” said mrs. bell, “as if i'd just begun to live! this is so _different!_ there is a big, moving thing to work for. there is--why diantha, you wouldn't believe what a comfort it is to me to feel that my work here is--really--adding to the profits!” diantha laughed aloud. “you dear old darling,” she said, “i should think it was! it is _making_ the profits.” “and it grows so,” her mother went on. “here's this part so well assured that you're setting up the new union house! are you _sure_ about mrs. jessup, dear?” “as sure as i can be of any one till i've tried a long time. she has done all i've asked her to here, and done it well. besides, i mean to keep a hand on it for a year or two yet--i can't afford to have that fail.” mrs. jessup was an imported aunt, belonging to one of the cleverest girls, and diantha had had her in training for some weeks. “well, i guess she's as good as any you'd be likely to get,” mrs. bell admitted, “and we mustn't expect paragons. if this can't be done by an average bunch of working women the world over, it can't be done--that's all!” “it can be done,” said the girl, calmly. “it will be done. you see.” “mr. thaddler says you could run any kind of a business you set your hand to,” her mother went on. “he has a profound respect for your abilities, dina.” “seems to me you and mr. thaddler have a good deal to say to each other, motherkins. i believe you enjoy that caffeteria desk, and all the compliments you get.” “i do,” said mrs. bell stoutly. “i do indeed! why, i haven't seen so many men, to speak to, since--why, never in my life! and they are very amusing--some of them. they like to come here--like it immensely. and i don't wonder. i believe you'll do well to enlarge.” then they plunged into a discussion of the winter's plans. the day service department and its employment agency was to go on at the new union house, with mrs. jessup as manager; the present establishment was to be run as a hotel and restaurant, and the depot for the cooked food delivery. mrs. thorvald and her husband were installed by themselves in another new venture; a small laundry outside the town. this place employed several girls steadily, and the motor wagon found a new use between meals, in collecting and delivering laundry parcels. “it simplifies it a lot--to get the washing out of the place and the girls off my mind,” said diantha. “now i mean to buckle down and learn the hotel business--thoroughly, and develop this cooked food delivery to perfection.” “modest young lady,” smiled her mother. “where do you mean to stop--if ever?” “i don't mean to stop till i'm dead,” diantha answered; “but i don't mean to undertake any more trades, if that is what you mean. you know what i'm after--to get 'housework' on a business basis, that's all; and prove, prove, prove what a good business it is. there's the cleaning branch--that's all started and going well in the day service. there's the washing--that's simple and easy. laundry work's no mystery. but the food part is a big thing. it's an art, a science, a business, and a handicraft. i had the handicraft to start with; i'm learning the business; but i've got a lot to learn yet in the science and art of it.” “don't do too much at once,” her mother urged. “you've got to cater to people as they are.” “i know it,” the girl agreed. “they must be led, step by step--the natural method. it's a big job, but not too big. out of all the women who have done housework for so many ages, surely it's not too much to expect one to have a special genius for it!” her mother gazed at her with loving admiration. “that's just what you have, dina--a special genius for housework. i wish there were more of you!” “there are plenty of me, mother dear, only they haven't come out. as soon as i show 'em how to make the thing pay, you'll find that we have a big percentage of this kind of ability. it's all buried now in the occasional 'perfect housekeeper.' “but they won't leave their husbands, dina.” “they don't need to,” the girl answered cheerfully. “some of them aren't married yet; some of them have lost their husbands, and _some_ of them”--she said this a little bitterly--“have husbands who will be willing to let their wives grow.” “not many, i'm afraid,” said mrs. bell, also with some gloom. diantha lightened up again. “anyhow, here you are, mother dear! and for this year i propose that you assume the financial management of the whole business at a salary of $ , 'and found.' how does that suit you?” mrs. bell looked at her unbelievingly. “you can't afford it, dina!” “oh, yes, i can--you know i can, because you've got the accounts. i'm going to make big money this year.” “but you'll need it. this hotel and restaurant business may not do well.” “now, mother, you _know_ we're doing well. look here!” and diantha produced her note-book. “here's the little laundry place; its fittings come to so much, wages so much, collection and delivery so much, supplies so much--and already enough patronage engaged to cover. it will be bigger in winter, a lot, with transients, and this hotel to fall back on; ought to clear at least a thousand a year. the service club don't pay me anything, of course; that is for the girls' benefit; but the food delivery is doing better than i dared hope.” mrs. bell knew the figures better than diantha, even, and they went over them carefully again. if the winter's patronage held on to equal the summer's--and the many transient residents ought to increase it--they would have an average of twenty families a week to provide for--one hundred persons. the expenses were: food for at $ a week. per capita. $ --- per year $ , labor--delivery man. $ head cook. $ two assistant cooks. $ , three washers and packers. $ , office girl. $ --- per year $ , rent, kitchen, office, etc. $ rent of motor. $ rent of cases. $ gasolene and repairs. $ --- per year $ , total. $ , “how do you make the gasolene and repairs as much as that?” asked mrs. bell. “it's margin, mother--makes it even money. it won't be so much, probably.” the income was simple and sufficient. they charged $ . a week per capita for three meals, table d'hote, delivered thrice daily. frequent orders for extra meals really gave them more than they set down, but the hundred-person estimate amounted to $ , a year. “now, see,” said diantha triumphantly; “subtract all that expense list (and it is a liberal one), and we have $ , left. i can buy the car and the cases this year and have $ , over! more; because if i do buy them i can leave off some of the interest, and the rent of kitchen and office comes to union house! then there's all of the extra orders. it's going to pay splendidly, mother! it clears $ a year per person. next year it will clear a lot more.” it did not take long to make mrs. bell admit that if the business went on as it had been going diantha would be able to pay her a salary of a thousand dollars, and have five hundred left--from the food business alone. there remained the hotel, with large possibilities. the present simple furnishings were to be moved over to new union house, and paid for by the girls in due time. with new paint, paper, and furniture, the old house would make a very comfortable place. “of course, it's the restaurant mainly--these big kitchens and the central location are the main thing. the guests will be mostly tourists, i suppose.” diantha dwelt upon the prospect at some length; and even her cautious mother had to admit that unless there was some setback the year had a prospect of large success. “how about all this new furnishing?” mrs. bell said suddenly. “how do you cover that? take what you've got ahead now?” “yes; there's plenty,” said diantha. “you see, there is all union house has made, and this summer's profit on the cooked food--it's plenty.” “then you can't pay for the motor and cases as you planned,” her mother insisted. “no, not unless the hotel and restaurant pays enough to make good. but i don't _have_ to buy them the first year. if i don't, there is $ , leeway.” “yes, you are safe enough; there's over $ , in the bank now,” mrs. bell admitted. “but, child,” she said suddenly, “your father!” “yes, i've thought of father,” said the girl, “and i mean to ask him to come and live at the hotel. i think he'd like it. he could meet people and talk about his ideas, and i'm sure i'd like to have him.” they talked much and long about this, till the evening settled about them, till they had their quiet supper, and the girls came home to their noisy one; and late that evening, when all was still again, diantha came to the dim piazza corner once more and sat there quite alone. full of hope, full of courage, sure of her progress--and aching with loneliness. she sat with her head in her hands, and to her ears came suddenly the sound of a familiar step--a well-known voice--the hands and the lips of her lover. “diantha!” he held her close. “oh, ross! ross! darling! is it true? when did you come? oh, i'm so glad! so _glad_ to see you!” she was so glad that she had to cry a little on his shoulder, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy. “i've good news for you, little girl,” he said. “good news at last! listen, dear; don't cry. there's an end in sight. a man has bought out my shop. the incubus is off--i can _live_ now!” he held his head up in a fine triumph, and she watched him adoringly. “did you--was it profitable?” she asked. “it's all exchange, and some cash to boot. just think! you know what i've wanted so long--a ranch. a big one that would keep us all, and let me go on with my work. and, dear--i've got it! it's a big fruit ranch, with its own water--think of that! and a vegetable garden, too, and small fruit, and everything. and, what's better, it's all in good running order, with a competent ranchman, and two chinese who rent the vegetable part. and there are two houses on it--_two_. one for mother and the girls, and one for us!” diantha's heart stirred suddenly. “where is it, dear?” she whispered. he laughed joyfully. “it's _here!”_ he said. “about eight miles or so out, up by the mountains; has a little canyon of its own--its own little stream and reservoir. oh, my darling! my darling!” they sat in happy silence in the perfumed night. the strong arms were around her, the big shoulder to lean on, the dear voice to call her “little girl.” the year of separation vanished from their thoughts, and the long years of companionship opened bright and glorious before them. “i came this afternoon,” he said at length, “but i saw another man coming. he got here first. i thought--” “ross! you didn't! and you've left me to go without you all these hours!” “he looked so confident when he went away that i was jealous,” ross admitted, “furiously jealous. and then your mother was here, and then those cackling girls. i wanted you--alone.” and then he had her, alone, for other quiet, happy moments. she was so glad of him. her hold upon his hand, upon his coat, was tight. “i don't know how i've lived without you,” she said softly. “nor i,” said he. “i haven't lived. it isn't life--without you. well, dearest, it needn't be much longer. we closed the deal this afternoon. i came down here to see the place, and--incidentally--to see you!” more silence. “i shall turn over the store at once. it won't take long to move and settle; there's enough money over to do that. and the ranch pays, diantha! it really _pays,_ and will carry us all. how long will it take you to get out of this?” “get out of--what?” she faltered. “why, the whole abominable business you're so deep in here. thank god, there's no shadow of need for it any more!” the girl's face went white, but he could not see it. she would not believe him. “why, dear,” she said, “if your ranch is as near as that it would be perfectly easy for me to come in to the business--with a car. i can afford a car soon.” “but i tell you there's no need any more,” said he. “don't you understand? this is a paying fruit ranch, with land rented to advantage, and a competent manager right there running it. it's simply changed owners. i'm the owner now! there's two or three thousand a year to be made on it--has been made on it! there is a home for my people--a home for us! oh, my beloved girl! my darling! my own sweetheart! surely you won't refuse me now!” diantha's head swam dizzily. “ross,” she urged, “you don't understand! i've built up a good business here--a real successful business. mother is in it; father's to come down; there is a big patronage; it grows. i can't give it up!” “not for me? not when i can offer you a home at last? not when i show you that there is no longer any need of your earning money?” he said hotly. “but, dear--dear!” she protested. “it isn't for the money; it is the work i want to do--it is my work! you are so happy now that you can do your work--at last! this is mine!” when he spoke again his voice was low and stern. “do you mean that you love--your work--better than you love me?” “no! it isn't that! that's not fair!” cried the girl. “do you love your work better than you love me? of course not! you love both. so do i. can't you see? why should i have to give up anything?” “you do not have to,” he said patiently. “i cannot compel you to marry me. but now, when at last--after these awful years--i can really offer you a home--you refuse!” “i have not refused,” she said slowly. his voice lightened again. “ah, dearest! and you will not! you will marry me?” “i will marry you, ross!” “and when? when, dearest?” “as soon as you are ready.” “but--can you drop this at once?” “i shall not drop it.” her voice was low, very low, but clear and steady. he rose to his feet with a muffled exclamation, and walked the length of the piazza and back. “do you realize that you are saying no to me, diantha?” “you are mistaken, dear. i have said that i will marry you whenever you choose. but it is you who are saying, 'i will not marry a woman with a business.'” “this is foolishness!” he said sharply. “no man--that is a man--would marry a woman and let her run a business.” “you are mistaken,” she answered. “one of the finest men i ever knew has asked me to marry him--and keep on with my work!” “why didn't you take him up?” “because i didn't love him.” she stopped, a sob in her voice, and he caught her in his arms again. it was late indeed when he went away, walking swiftly, with a black rebellion in his heart; and diantha dragged herself to bed. she was stunned, deadened, exhausted; torn with a desire to run after him and give up--give up anything to hold his love. but something, partly reason and partly pride, kept saying within her: “i have not refused him; he has refused me!” chapter xiii. all this. they laid before her conquering feet the spoils of many lands; their crowns shone red upon her head their scepters in her hands. she heard two murmuring at night, where rose-sweet shadows rest; and coveted the blossom red he laid upon her breast. when madam weatherstone shook the plentiful dust of orchardina from her expensive shoes, and returned to adorn the more classic groves of philadelphia, mrs. thaddler assumed to hold undisputed sway as a social leader. the social leader she meant to be; and marshalled her forces to that end. she patronized here, and donated there; revised her visiting list with rigid exclusiveness; secured an eminent professor and a noted writer as visitors, and gave entertainments of almost roman magnificence. her husband grew more and more restive under the rising tide of social exactions in dress and deportment; and spent more and more time behind his fast horses, or on the stock-ranch where he raised them. as a neighbor and fellow ranchman, he scraped acquaintance with ross warden, and was able to render him many small services in the process of settling. mrs. warden remembered his visit to jopalez, and it took her some time to rearrange him in her mind as a person of wealth and standing. having so rearranged him, on sufficient evidence, she and her daughters became most friendly, and had hopes of establishing valuable acquaintance in the town. “it's not for myself i care,” she would explain to ross, every day in the week and more on sundays, “but for the girls. in that dreadful jopalez there was absolutely _no_ opportunity for them; but here, with horses, there is no reason we should not have friends. you must consider your sisters, ross! do be more cordial to mr. thaddler.” but ross could not at present be cordial to anybody. his unexpected good fortune, the freedom from hated cares, and chance to work out his mighty theories on the faithful guinea-pig, ought to have filled his soul with joy; but diantha's cruel obstinacy had embittered his cup of joy. he could not break with her; she had not refused him, and it was difficult in cold blood to refuse her. he had stayed away for two whole weeks, in which time the guinea-pigs nibbled at ease and diantha's work would have suffered except for her mother's extra efforts. then he went to see her again, miserable but stubborn, finding her also miserable and also stubborn. they argued till there was grave danger of an absolute break between them; then dropped the subject by mutual agreement, and spent evenings of unsatisfying effort to talk about other things. diantha and her mother called on mrs. warden, of course, admiring the glorious view, the sweet high air, and the embowered loveliness of the two ranch houses. ross drew diantha aside and showed her “theirs”--a lovely little wide-porched concrete cottage, with a red-tiled roof, and heavy masses of gold of ophir and banksia roses. he held her hand and drew her close to him. he kissed her when they were safe inside, and murmured: “come, darling--won't you come and be my wife?” “i will, ross--whenever you say--but--!” she would not agree to give up her work, and he flung away from her in reckless despair. mrs. warden and the girls returned the call as a matter of duty, but came no more; the mother saying that she could not take her daughters to a servant girls' club. and though the servant girls' club was soon removed to its new quarters and union house became a quiet, well-conducted hotel, still the two families saw but little of each other. mrs. warden naturally took her son's side, and considered diantha an unnatural monster of hard-heartedness. the matter sifted through to the ears of mrs. thaddler, who rejoiced in it, and called upon mrs. warden in her largest automobile. as a mother with four marriageable daughters, mrs. warden was delighted to accept and improve the acquaintance, but her aristocratic southern soul was inwardly rebellious at the ancestorlessness and uncultured moneyed pride of her new friend. “if only madam weatherstone had stayed!” she would complain to her daughters. “she had family as well as wealth.” “there's young mrs. weatherstone, mother--” suggested dora. “a nobody!” her mother replied. “she has the weatherstone money, of course, but no position; and what little she has she is losing by her low tastes. she goes about freely with diantha bell--her own housekeeper!” “she's not her housekeeper now, mother--” “well, it's all the same! she _was!_ and a mere general servant before that! and now to think that when ross is willing to overlook it all and marry her, she won't give it up!” they were all agreed on this point, unless perhaps that the youngest had her inward reservations. dora had always liked diantha better than had the others. young mrs. weatherstone stayed in her big empty house for a while, and as mrs. warden said, went about frequently with diantha bell. she liked mrs. bell, too--took her for long stimulating rides in her comfortable car, and insisted that first one and then the other of them should have a bit of vacation at her seashore home before the winter's work grew too heavy. with mrs. bell she talked much of how diantha had helped the town. “she has no idea of the psychic effects, mrs. bell,” said she. “she sees the business, and she has a great view of all it is going to do for women to come; but i don't think she realizes how much she is doing right now for women here--and men, too. there were my friends the pornes; they were 'drifting apart,' as the novels have it--and no wonder. isabel was absolutely no good as a housekeeper; he naturally didn't like it--and the baby made it all the worse; she pined for her work, you see, and couldn't get any time for it. now they are as happy as can be--and it's just diantha bell's doings. the housework is off isabel's shoulders. “then there are the wagrams, and the sheldons, and the brinks--and ever so many more--who have told me themselves that they are far happier than they ever were before--and can live more cheaply. she ought to be the happiest girl alive!” mrs. bell would agree to this, and quite swelled with happiness and pride; but mrs. weatherstone, watching narrowly, was not satisfied. when she had diantha with her she opened fire direct. “you ought to be the happiest, proudest, most triumphant woman in the world!” she said. “you're making oodles of money, your whole thing's going well, and look at your mother--she's made over!” diantha smiled and said she was happy; but her eyes would stray off to the very rim of the ocean; her mouth set in patient lines that were not in the least triumphant. “tell me about it, my friend,” said her hostess. “is it that he won't let you keep on with the business?” diantha nodded. “and you won't give it up to marry him?” “no,” said diantha. “no. why should i? i'd marry him--to-morrow!” she held one hand with the other, tight, but they both shook a little. “i'd be glad to. but i will not give up my work!” “you look thin,” said mrs. weatherstone. “yes--” “do you sleep well?” “no--not very.” “and i can see that you don't eat as you ought to. hm! are you going to break down?” “no,” said diantha, “i am not going to break down. i am doing what is right, and i shall go on. it's a little hard at first--having him so near. but i am young and strong and have a great deal to do--i shall do it.” and then mrs. weatherstone would tell her all she knew of the intense satisfaction of the people she served, and pleasant stories about the girls. she bought her books to read and such gleanings as she found in foreign magazines on the subject of organized house-service. not only so, but she supplied the orchardina library with a special bibliography on the subject, and induced the new woman's club to take up a course of reading in it, so that there gradually filtered into the orchardina mind a faint perception that this was not the freak of an eccentric individual, but part of an inevitable business development, going on in various ways in many nations. as the winter drew on, mrs. weatherstone whisked away again, but kept a warm current of interest in diantha's life by many letters. mr. bell came down from jopalez with outer reluctance but inner satisfaction. he had rented his place, and susie had three babies now. henderson, jr., had no place for him, and to do housework for himself was no part of mr. bell's plan. in diantha's hotel he had a comfortable room next his wife's, and a capacious chair in the firelit hall in wet weather, or on the shaded piazza in dry. the excellent library was a resource to him; he found some congenial souls to talk with; and under the new stimulus succeeded at last in patenting a small device that really worked. with this, and his rent, he felt inclined to establish a “home of his own,” and the soul of mrs. bell sank within her. without allowing it to come to an issue between them, she kept the question open for endless discussion; and mr. bell lived on in great contentment under the impression that he was about to move at almost any time. to his friends and cronies he dilated with pride on his daughter's wonderful achievements. “she's as good as a boy!” he would declare. “women nowadays seem to do anything they want to!” and he rigidly paid his board bill with a flourish. meanwhile the impressive gatherings at mrs. thaddler's, and the humbler tea and card parties of diantha's friends, had a new topic as a shuttlecock. a new york company had bought one of the largest and finest blocks in town--the old para place--and was developing it in a manner hitherto unseen. the big, shabby, neglected estate began to turn into such a fairyland as only southern lands can know. the old live-oaks were untouched; the towering eucalyptus trees remained in ragged majesty; but an army of workmen was busy under guidance of a master of beauty. one large and lovely building rose, promptly dubbed a hotel by the unwilling neighbors; others, smaller, showed here and there among the trees; and then a rose-gray wall of concrete ran around the whole, high, tantalizing, with green boughs and sweet odors coming over it. those who went in reported many buildings, and much activity. but, when the wall was done, and each gate said “no admittance except on business,” then the work of genii was imagined, and there was none to contradict. it was a school of theosophy; it was a christian science college; it was a free-love colony; it was a secret society; it was a thousand wonders. “lot of little houses and one big one,” the employees said when questioned. “hotel and cottages,” the employers said when questioned. they made no secret of it, they were too busy; but the town was unsatisfied. why a wall? what did any honest person want of a wall? yet the wall cast a pleasant shadow; there were seats here and there between buttresses, and, as the swift california season advanced, roses and oleanders nodded over the top, and gave hints of beauty and richness more subtly stimulating than all the open glory of the low-hedged gardens near. diantha's soul was stirred with secret envy. some big concern was about to carry out her dream, or part of it--perhaps to be a huge and overflowing rival. her own work grew meantime, and flourished as well as she could wish. the food-delivery service was running to its full capacity; the girls got on very well under mrs. jessup, and were delighted to have a house of their own with the parlors and piazzas all to themselves, and a garden to sit in as well. if this depleted their ranks by marriage, it did not matter now, for there was a waiting list in training all the time. union house kept on evenly and profitably, and diantha was beginning to feel safe and successful; but the years looked long before her. she was always cheered by mrs. weatherstone's letters; and mrs. porne came to see her, and to compare notes over their friend's success. for mrs. weatherstone had been presented at court--at more than one court, in fact; and mrs. weatherstone had been proposed to by a duke--and had refused him! orchardina well-nigh swooned when this was known. she had been studying, investigating, had become known in scientific as well as social circles, and on her way back the strenuous upper layer of new york society had also made much of her. rumors grew of her exquisite costumes, of her unusual jewels, of her unique entertainments, of her popularity everywhere she went. other proposals, of a magnificent nature, were reported, with more magnificent refusals; and orchardina began to be very proud of young mrs. weatherstone and to wish she would come back. she did at last, bringing an italian prince with her, and a hoch geborene german count also, who alleged they were travelling to study the country, but who were reputed to have had a duel already on the beautiful widow's account. all this was long-drawn gossip but bore some faint resemblance to the facts. viva weatherstone at thirty was a very different woman front the pale, sad-eyed girl of four years earlier. and when the great house on the avenue was arrayed in new magnificence, and all orchardina--that dared--had paid its respects to her, she opened the season, as it were, with a brilliant dinner, followed by a reception and ball. all orchardina came--so far as it had been invited. there was the prince, sure enough--a pleasant, blue-eyed young man. and there was the count, bearing visible evidence of duels a-plenty in earlier days. and there was diantha bell--receiving, with mrs. porne and mrs. weatherstone. all orchardina stared. diantha had been at the dinner--that was clear. and now she stood there in her soft, dark evening dress, the knot of golden acacias nestling against the black lace at her bosom, looking as fair and sweet as if she had never had a care in her life. her mother thought her the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; and her father, though somewhat critical, secretly thought so, too. mrs. weatherstone cast many a loving look at the tall girl beside her in the intervals of “delighted to see you's,” and saw that her double burden had had no worse effect than to soften the lines of the mouth and give a hint of pathos to the clear depths of her eyes. the foreign visitors were much interested in the young amazon of industry, as the prince insisted on calling her; and even the german count for a moment forgot his ancestors in her pleasant practical talk. mrs. weatherstone had taken pains to call upon the wardens--claiming a connection, if not a relationship, and to invite them all. and as the crowd grew bigger and bigger, diantha saw mrs. warden at last approaching with her four daughters--and no one else. she greeted them politely and warmly; but mrs. weatherstone did more. holding them all in a little group beside her, she introduced her noble visitors to them; imparted the further information that their brother was _fiance_ to miss bell. “i don't see him,” she said, looking about. “he will come later, of course. ah, miss madeline! how proud you all must feel of your sister-in-law to be!” madeline blushed and tried to say she was. “such a remarkable young lady!” said the count to adeline. “you will admire, envy, and imitate! is it not so?” “your ladies of america have all things in your hands,” said the prince to miss cora. “to think that she has done so much, and is yet so young--and so beautiful!” “i know you're all as proud as you can be,” mrs. weatherstone continued to dora. “you see, diantha has been heard of abroad.” they all passed on presently, as others came; but mrs. warden's head was reeling. she wished she could by any means get at ross, and _make_ him come, which he had refused to do. “i can't, mother,” he had said. “you go--all of you. take the girls. i'll call for you at twelve--but i won't go in.” mr. and mrs. thaddler were there--but not happy. she was not, at least, and showed it; he was not until an idea struck him. he dodged softly out, and was soon flying off, at dangerous speed over the moon-white country roads. he found ross, dressed and ready, sulking blackly on his shadowy porch. “come and take a spin while you wait,” said mr. thaddler. “thanks, i have to go in town later.” “i'll take you in town.” “thank you, but i have to take the horses in and bring out my mother and the girls.” “i'll bring you all out in the car. come on--it's a great night.” so ross rather reluctantly came. he sat back on the luxurious cushions, his arms folded sternly, his brows knit, and the stout gentleman at his side watched him shrewdly. “how does the ranch go?” he asked. “very well, thank you, mr. thaddler.” “them chinks pay up promptly?” “as prompt as the month comes round. their rent is a very valuable part of the estate.” “yes,” mr. thaddler pursued. “they have a good steady market for their stuff. and the chicken man, too. do you know who buys 'em?” ross did not. did not greatly care, he intimated. “i should think you'd be interested--you ought to--it's diantha bell.” ross started, but said nothing. “you see, i've taken a great interest in her proposition ever since she sprung it on us,” mr. thaddler confided. “she's got the goods all right. but there was plenty against her here--you know what women are! and i made up my mind the supplies should be good and steady, anyhow. she had no trouble with her grocery orders; that was easy. meat i couldn't handle--except indirectly--a little pressure, maybe, here and there.” and he chuckled softly. “but this ranch i bought on purpose.” ross turned as if he had been stung. “you!” he said. “yes, me. why not? it's a good property. i got it all fixed right, and then i bought your little upstate shop--lock, stock and barrel--and gave you this for it. a fair exchange is no robbery. though it would be nice to have it all in the family, eh?” ross was silent for a few turbulent moments, revolving this far from pleasing information. “what'd i do it for?” continued the unasked benefactor. “what do you _think_ i did it for? so that brave, sweet little girl down here could have her heart's desire. she's established her business--she's proved her point--she's won the town--most of it; and there's nothing on earth to make her unhappy now but your pigheadedness! young man, i tell you you're a plumb fool!” one cannot throw one's host out of his own swift-flying car; nor is it wise to jump out one's self. “nothing on earth between you but your cussed pride!” mr. thaddler remorselessly went on. “this ranch is honestly yours--by a square deal. your jopalez business was worth the money--you ran it honestly and extended the trade. you'd have made a heap by it if you could have unbent a little. gosh! i limbered up that store some in twelve months!” and the stout man smiled reminiscently. ross was still silent. “and now you've got what you wanted--thanks to her, mind you, thanks to her!--and you ain't willing to let her have what she wants!” the young man moistened his lips to speak. “you ain't dependent on her in any sense--i don't mean that. you earned the place all right, and i don't doubt you'll make good, both in a business way and a scientific way, young man. but why in hades you can't let her be happy, too, is more'n i can figure! guess you get your notions from two generations back--and some!” ross began, stumblingly. “i did not know i was indebted to you, mr. thaddler.” “you're not, young man, you're not! i ran that shop of yours a year--built up the business and sold it for more than i paid for this. so you've no room for heroics--none at all. what i want you to realize is that you're breaking the heart of the finest woman i ever saw. you can't bend that girl--she'll never give up. a woman like that has got more things to do than just marry! but she's pining for you all the same. “here she is to-night, receiving with mrs. weatherstone--with those bannerets, dukes and earls around her--standing up there like a princess herself--and her eyes on the door all the time--and tears in 'em, i could swear--because you don't come!” ***** they drew up with a fine curve before the carriage gate. “i'll take 'em all home--they won't be ready for some time yet,” said mr. thaddler. “and if you two would like this car i'll send for the other one.” ross shook hands with him. “you are very kind, mr. thaddler,” he said. “i am obliged to you. but i think we will walk.” tall and impressive, looking more distinguished in a six-year-old evening suit than even the hoch geborene in his uniform, he came at last, and diantha saw him the moment he entered; saw, too, a new light in his eyes. he went straight to her. and mrs. weatherstone did not lay it up against him that he had but the briefest of words for his hostess. “will you come?” he said. “may i take you home--now?” she went with him, without a word, and they walked slowly home, by far outlying paths, and long waits on rose-bowered seats they knew. the moon filled all the world with tender light and the orange blossoms flooded the still air with sweetness. “dear,” said he, “i have been a proud fool--i am yet--but i have come to see a little clearer. i do not approve of your work--i cannot approve of it--but will you forgive me for that and marry me? i cannot live any longer without you?” “of course i will,” said diantha. chapter xiv. and heaven beside. they were married while the flowers were knee-deep over the sunny slopes and mesas, and the canyons gulfs of color and fragrance, and went for their first moon together to a far high mountain valley hidden among wooded peaks, with a clear lake for its central jewel. a month of heaven; while wave on wave of perfect rest and world-forgetting oblivion rolled over both their hearts. they swam together in the dawn-flushed lake, seeing the morning mists float up from the silver surface, breaking the still reflection of thick trees and rosy clouds, rejoicing in the level shafts of forest filtered sunlight. they played and ran like children, rejoiced over their picnic meals; lay flat among the crowding flowers and slept under the tender starlight. “i don't see,” said her lover, “but that my strenuous amazon is just as much a woman as--as any woman!” “who ever said i wasn't?” quoth diantha demurely. a month of perfect happiness. it was so short it seemed but a moment; so long in its rich perfection that they both agreed if life brought no further joy this was enough. then they came down from the mountains and began living. ***** day service is not so easily arranged on a ranch some miles from town. they tried it for a while, the new runabout car bringing out a girl in the morning early, and taking diantha in to her office. but motor cars are not infallible; and if it met with any accident there was delay at both ends, and more or less friction. then diantha engaged a first-class oriental gentleman, well recommended by the “vegetable chinaman,” on their own place. this was extremely satisfactory; he did the work well, and was in all ways reliable; but there arose in the town a current of malicious criticism and protest--that she “did not live up to her principles.” to this she paid no attention; her work was now too well planted, too increasingly prosperous to be weakened by small sneers. her mother, growing plumper now, thriving continuously in her new lines of work, kept the hotel under her immediate management, and did bookkeeping for the whole concern. new union home ran itself, and articles were written about it in magazines; so that here and there in other cities similar clubs were started, with varying success. the restaurant was increasingly popular; diantha's cooks were highly skilled and handsomely paid, and from the cheap lunch to the expensive banquet they gave satisfaction. but the “c. f. d.” was the darling of her heart, and it prospered exceedingly. “there is no advertisement like a pleased customer,” and her pleased customers grew in numbers and in enthusiasm. family after family learned to prize the cleanliness and quiet, the odorlessness and flylessness of a home without a kitchen, and their questioning guests were converted by the excellent of the meals. critical women learned at last that a competent cook can really produce better food than an incompetent one; albeit without the sanctity of the home. “sanctity of your bootstraps!” protested one irascible gentleman. “such talk is all nonsense! i don't want _sacred_ meals--i want good ones--and i'm getting them, at last!” “we don't brag about 'home brewing' any more,” said another, “or 'home tailoring,' or 'home shoemaking.' why all this talk about 'home cooking'?” what pleased the men most was not only the good food, but its clock-work regularity; and not only the reduced bills but the increased health and happiness of their wives. domestic bliss increased in orchardina, and the doctors were more rigidly confined to the patronage of tourists. ross warden did his best. under the merciless friendliness of mr. thaddler he had been brought to see that diantha had a right to do this if she would, and that he had no right to prevent her; but he did not like it any the better. when she rolled away in her little car in the bright, sweet mornings, a light went out of the day for him. he wanted her there, in the home--his home--his wife--even when he was not in it himself. and in this particular case it was harder than for most men, because he was in the house a good deal, in his study, with no better company than a polite chinaman some distance off. it was by no means easy for diantha, either. to leave him tugged at her heart-strings, as it did at his; and if he had to struggle with inherited feelings and acquired traditions, still more was she beset with an unexpected uprising of sentiments and desires she had never dreamed of feeling. with marriage, love, happiness came an overwhelming instinct of service--personal service. she wanted to wait on him, loved to do it; regarded wang fu with positive jealousy when he brought in the coffee and ross praised it. she had a sense of treason, of neglected duty, as she left the flower-crowned cottage, day by day. but she left it, she plunged into her work, she schooled herself religiously. “shame on you!” she berated herself. “now--_now_ that you've got everything on earth--to weaken! you could stand unhappiness; can't you stand happiness?” and she strove with herself; and kept on with her work. after all, the happiness was presently diluted by the pressure of this blank wall between them. she came home, eager, loving, delighted to be with him again. he received her with no complaint or criticism, but always an unspoken, perhaps imagined, sense of protest. she was full of loving enthusiasm about his work, and he would dilate upon his harassed guinea-pigs and their development with high satisfaction. but he never could bring himself to ask about her labors with any genuine approval; she was keenly sensitive to his dislike for the subject, and so it was ignored between them, or treated by him in a vein of humor with which he strove to cover his real feeling. when, before many months were over, the crowning triumph of her effort revealed itself, her joy and pride held this bitter drop--he did not sympathize--did not approve. still, it was a great glory. the new york company announced the completion of their work and the _hotel del las casas_ was opened to public inspection. “house of the houses! that's a fine name!” said some disparagingly; but, at any rate, it seemed appropriate. the big estate was one rich garden, more picturesque, more dreamily beautiful, than the american commercial mind was usually able to compass, even when possessed of millions. the hotel of itself was a pleasure palace--wholly unostentatious, full of gaiety and charm, offering lovely chambers for guests and residents, and every opportunity for healthful amusement. there was the rare luxury of a big swimming-pool; there were billiard rooms, card rooms, reading rooms, lounging rooms and dancing rooms of satisfying extent. outside there were tennis-courts, badminton, roque, even croquet; and the wide roof was a garden of babylon, a court of the stars, with views of purple mountains, fair, wide valley and far-flashing rim of sea. around it, each in its own hedged garden, nestled “las casas”--the houses--twenty in number, with winding shaded paths, groups of rare trees, a wilderness of flowers, between and about them. in one corner was a playground for children--a wall around this, that they might shout in freedom; and the nursery thereby gave every provision for the happiness and safety of the little ones. the people poured along the winding walls, entered the pretty cottages, were much impressed by a little flock of well-floored tents in another corner, but came back with ohs! and ahs! of delight to the large building in the avenue. diantha went all over the place, inch by inch, her eyes widening with admiration; mr. and mrs. porne and mrs. weatherstone with her. she enjoyed the serene, well-planned beauty of the whole; approved heartily of the cottages, each one a little different, each charming in its quiet privacy, admired the plentiful arrangements for pleasure and gay association; but her professional soul blazed with enthusiasm over the great kitchens, clean as a hospital, glittering in glass and copper and cool tiling, with the swift, sure electric stove. the fuel all went into a small, solidly built power house, and came out in light and heat and force for the whole square. diantha sighed in absolute appreciation. “fine, isn't it?” said mr. porne. “how do you like the architecture?” asked mrs. porne. “what do you think of my investment?” said mrs. weatherstone. diantha stopped in her tracks and looked from one to the other of them. “fact. i control the stock--i'm president of the hotel del las casas company. our friends here have stock in it, too, and more that you don't know. we think it's going to be a paying concern. but if you can make it go, my dear, as i think you will, you can buy us all out and own the whole outfit!” it took some time to explain all this, but the facts were visible enough. “nothing remarkable at all,” said mrs. weatherstone. “here's astor with three big hotels on his hands--why shouldn't i have one to play with? and i've got to employ _somebody_ to manage it!” ***** within a year of her marriage diantha was at the head of this pleasing centre of housekeeping. she kept the hotel itself so that it was a joy to all its patrons; she kept the little houses homes of pure delight for those who were so fortunate as to hold them; and she kept up her “c. f. d.” business till it grew so large she had to have quite a fleet of delivery wagons. orchardina basked and prospered; its citizens found their homes happier and less expensive than ever before, and its citizenesses began to wake up and to do things worth while. ***** two years, and there was a small ross warden born. she loved it, nursed it, and ran her business at long range for some six months. but then she brought nurse and child to the hotel with her, placed them in the cool, airy nursery in the garden, and varied her busy day with still hours by herself--the baby in her arms. back they came together before supper, and found unbroken joy and peace in the quiet of home; but always in the background was the current of ross' unspoken disapproval. three years, four years. there were three babies now; diantha was a splendid woman of thirty, handsome and strong, pre-eminently successful--and yet, there were times when she found it in her heart to envy the most ordinary people who loved and quarreled and made up in the little outlying ranch houses along the road; they had nothing between them, at least. meantime in the friendly opportunities of orchardina society, added to by the unexampled possibilities of las casas (and they did not scorn this hotel nor diantha's position in it), the three older miss wardens had married. two of them preferred “the good old way,” but one tried the “d. s.” and the “c. f. d.” and liked them well. dora amazed and displeased her family, as soon as she was of age, by frankly going over to diantha's side and learning bookkeeping. she became an excellent accountant and bade fair to become an expert manager soon. ross had prospered in his work. it may be that the element of dissatisfaction in his married life spurred him on, while the unusual opportunities of his ranch allowed free effort. he had always held that the “non-transmissability of acquired traits” was not established by any number of curtailed mice or crop-eared rats. “a mutilation is not an acquired trait,” he protested. “an acquired trait is one gained by exercise; it modifies the whole organism. it must have an effect on the race. we expect the sons of a line of soldiers to inherit their fathers' courage--perhaps his habit of obedience--but not his wooden leg.” to establish his views he selected from a fine family of guinea-pigs two pair; set the one, pair a, in conditions of ordinary guinea-pig bliss, and subjected the other, pair b, to a course of discipline. they were trained to run. they, and their descendants after them, pair following on pair; first with slow-turning wheels as in squirrel cages, the wheel inexorably going, machine-driven, and the luckless little gluttons having to move on, for gradually increasing periods of time, at gradually increasing speeds. pair a and their progeny were sheltered and fed, but the rod was spared; pair b were as the guests at “muldoon's”--they had to exercise. with scientific patience and ingenuity, he devised mechanical surroundings which made them jump increasing spaces, which made them run always a little faster and a little farther; and he kept a record as carefully as if these little sheds were racing stables for a king. several centuries of guinea-pig time went by; generation after generation of healthy guinea-pigs passed under his modifying hands; and after some five years he had in one small yard a fine group of the descendants of his gall-fed pair, and in another the offspring of the trained ones; nimble, swift, as different from the first as the razor-backed pig of the forest from the fatted porkers in the sty. he set them to race--the young untrained specimens of these distant cousins--and the hare ran away from the tortoise completely. great zoologists and biologists came to see him, studied, fingered, poked, and examined the records; argued and disbelieved--and saw them run. “it is natural selection,” they said. “it profited them to run.” “not at all,” said he. “they were fed and cared for alike, with no gain from running.” “it was artificial selection,” they said. “you picked out the speediest for your training.” “not at all,” said he. “i took always any healthy pair from the trained parents and from the untrained ones--quite late in life, you understand, as guinea-pigs go.” anyhow, there were the pigs; and he took little specialized piglets scarce weaned, and pitted them against piglets of the untrained lot--and they outran them in a race for “mama.” wherefore mr. ross warden found himself famous of a sudden; and all over the scientific world the wiesmanian controversy raged anew. he was invited to deliver a lecture before some most learned societies abroad, and in several important centers at home, and went, rejoicing. diantha was glad for him from the bottom of her heart, and proud of him through and through. she thoroughly appreciated his sturdy opposition to such a weight of authority; his long patience, his careful, steady work. she was left in full swing with her big business, busy and successful, honored and liked by all the town--practically--and quite independent of the small fraction which still disapproved. some people always will. she was happy, too, in her babies--very happy. the hotel del las casas was a triumph. diantha owned it now, and mrs. weatherstone built others, in other places, at a large profit. mrs. warden went to live with cora in the town. cora had more time to entertain her--as she was the one who profited by her sister-in-law's general services. diantha sat in friendly talk with mrs. weatherstone one quiet day, and admitted that she had no cause for complaint. “and yet--?” said her friend. young mrs. warden smiled. “there's no keeping anything from you, is there? yes--you're right. i'm not quite satisfied. i suppose i ought not to care--but you see, i love him so! i want him to _approve_ of me!--not just put up with it, and bear it! i want him to _feel_ with me--to care. it is awful to know that all this big life of mine is just a mistake to him--that he condemns it in his heart.” “but you knew this from the beginning, my dear, didn't you?” “yes--i knew it--but it is different now. you know when you are _married_--” mrs. weatherstone looked far away through the wide window. “i do know,” she said. diantha reached a strong hand to clasp her friend's. “i wish i could give it to you,” she said. “you have done so much for me! so much! you have poured out your money like water!” “my money! well i like that!” said mrs. weatherstone. “i have taken my money out of five and seven per cent investments, and put it into ten per cent ones, that's all. shall i never make you realize that i am a richer woman because of you, diantha bell warden! so don't try to be grateful--i won't have it! your work has _paid_ remember--paid me as well as you; and lots of other folks beside. you know there are eighteen good imitations of union house running now, in different cities, and three 'las casas!' all succeeding--and the papers are talking about the dangers of a cooked food trust!” they were friends old and tried, and happy in mutual affection. diantha had many now, though none quite so dear. her parents were contented--her brother and sister doing well--her children throve and grew and found mama a joy they never had enough of. yet still in her heart of hearts she was not wholly happy. ***** then one night came by the last mail, a thick letter from ross--thicker than usual. she opened it in her room alone, their room--to which they had come so joyously five years ago. he told her of his journeying, his lectures, his controversies and triumphs; rather briefly--and then: “my darling, i have learned something at last, on my travels, which will interest you, i fancy, more than the potential speed of all the guinea-pigs in the world, and its transmissability. “from what i hear about you in foreign lands; from what i read about you wherever i go; and, even more, from what i see, as a visitor, in many families; i have at last begun to grasp the nature and importance of your work. “as a man of science i must accept any truth when it is once clearly seen; and, though i've been a long time about it, i do see at last what brave, strong, valuable work you have been doing for the world. doing it scientifically, too. your figures are quoted, your records studied, your example followed. you have established certain truths in the business of living which are of importance to the race. as a student i recognize and appreciate your work. as man to man i'm proud of you--tremendously proud of you. as your husband! ah! my love! i am coming back to you--coming soon, coming with my whole heart, yours! just wait, my darling, till i get back to you! “your lover and husband.” diantha held the letter close, with hands that shook a little. she kissed it--kissed it hard, over and over--not improving its appearance as a piece of polite correspondence. then she gave way to an overmastering burst of feeling, and knelt down by the wide bed, burying her face there, the letter still held fast. it was a funny prayer, if any human ear had heard it. “thank you!” was all she said, with long, deep sobbing sighs between. “thank you!--o--thank you!” memoirs of emma courtney mary hays contents preface xvii volume i chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx chapter xxi chapter xxii chapter xxiii chapter xxiv chapter xxv chapter xxvi chapter xxvii chapter xxviii volume ii chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx chapter xxi chapter xxii chapter xxiii chapter xxiv chapter xxv chapter xxvi chapter xxvii preface the most interesting, and the most useful, fictions, are, perhaps, such, as delineating the progress, and tracing the consequences, of one strong, indulged, passion, or prejudice, afford materials, by which the philosopher may calculate the powers of the human mind, and learn the springs which set it in motion--'understanding, and talents,' says helvetius, 'being nothing more, in men, than the produce of their desires, and particular situations.' of the passion of terror mrs radcliffe has made admirable use in her ingenious romances.--in the novel of caleb williams, curiosity in the hero, and the love of reputation in the soul-moving character of falkland, fostered into ruling passions, are drawn with a masterly hand. for the subject of these memoirs, a more universal sentiment is chosen--a sentiment hackneyed in this species of composition, consequently more difficult to treat with any degree of originality;--yet, to accomplish this, has been the aim of the author; with what success, the public will, probably, determine. every writer who advances principles, whether true or false, that have a tendency to set the mind in motion, does good. innumerable mistakes have been made, both moral and philosophical:--while covered with a sacred and mysterious veil, how are they to be detected? from various combinations and multiplied experiments, truth, only, can result. free thinking, and free speaking, are the virtue and the characteristics of a rational being:--there can be no argument which mitigates against them in one instance, but what equally mitigates against them in all; every principle must be doubted, before it will be examined and proved. it has commonly been the business of fiction to pourtray characters, not as they really exist, but, as, we are told, they ought to be--a sort of _ideal perfection_, in which nature and passion are melted away, and jarring attributes wonderfully combined. in delineating the character of emma courtney, i had not in view these fantastic models: i meant to represent her, as a human being, loving virtue while enslaved by passion, liable to the mistakes and weaknesses of our fragile nature.--let those readers, who feel inclined to judge with severity the extravagance and eccentricity of her conduct, look into their own hearts; and should they there find no record, traced by an accusing spirit, to soften the asperity of their censures--yet, let them bear in mind, that the errors of my heroine were the offspring of sensibility; and that the result of her hazardous experiment is calculated to operate as a _warning_, rather than as an example.--the philosopher--who is not ignorant, that light and shade are more powerfully contrasted in minds rising above the common level; that, as rank weeks take strong root in a fertile soil, vigorous powers not unfrequently produce fatal mistakes and pernicious exertions; that character is the produce of a lively and constant affection--may, possibly, discover in these memoirs traces of reflection, and of some attention to the phænomena of the human mind. whether the incidents, or the characters, are copied from life, is of little importance--the only question is, if the _circumstances_, and situations, are altogether improbable? if not--whether the consequences _might_ not have followed from the circumstances?--this is a grand question, applicable to all the purposes of education, morals, and legislation--_and on this i rest my moral_--'do men gather figs of thorns, or grapes of thistles?' asked a moralist and a reformer. every _possible_ incident, in works of this nature, might, perhaps, be rendered _probable_, were a sufficient regard paid to the more minute, delicate, and connecting links of the chain. under this impression, i chose, as the least arduous, a simple story--and, even in that, the fear of repetition, of prolixity, added, it may be, to a portion of indolence, made me, in some parts, neglectful of this rule:--yet, in tracing the character of my heroine from her birth, i had it in view. for the conduct of my hero, i consider myself less responsible--it was not _his_ memoirs that i professed to write. i am not sanguine respecting the success of this little publication. it is truly observed, by the writer of a late popular novel[ ]--'that an author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack; for, though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. a bad composition carries with it its own punishment--contempt and ridicule:--a good one excites envy, and (frequently) entails upon its author a thousand mortifications.' [footnote : the monk.] to the feeling and the thinking few, this production of an active mind, in a season of impression, rather than of leisure, is presented. _memoirs of emma courtney_ volume to augustus harley rash young man!--why do you tear from my heart the affecting narrative, which i had hoped no cruel necessity would ever have forced me to review?--why do you oblige me to recall the bitterness of my past life, and to renew images, the remembrance of which, even at this distant period, harrows up my soul with inconceivable misery?--but your happiness is at stake, and every selfish consideration vanishes.--dear and sacred deposit of an adored and lost friend!--for whose sake i have consented to hold down, with struggling, suffocating reluctance, the loathed and bitter portion of existence;--shall i expose your ardent mind to the incessant conflict between truth and error--shall i practise the disingenuousness, by which my peace has been blasted--shall i suffer you to run the wild career of passion--shall i keep back the recital, written upon my own mind in characters of blood, which may preserve the child of my affections from destruction? ah! why have you deceived me?--has a six months' absence obliterated from your remembrance the precept i so earnestly and incessantly laboured to inculcate--the value and importance of unequivocal sincerity? a precept, which i now take shame to myself for not having more implicitly observed! had i supposed your affection for joanna more than a boyish partiality; had i not believed that a few months' absence would entirely erase it from your remembrance; had i not been assured that her heart was devoted to another object, a circumstance of which she had herself frankly informed you; i should not now have distrusted your fortitude, when obliged to wound your feelings with the intelligence--that the woman, whom you have so wildly persecuted, was, yesterday, united to another. to the same i resume my pen. your letter, which joanna a few days since put into my hands, has cost me--ah! my augustus, my friend, my son--what has it not cost me, and what impressions has it not renewed? i perceive the vigour of your mind with terror and exultation. but you are mistaken! were it not for the insuperable barrier that separates you, for ever, from your hopes, perseverance itself, however active, however incessant, may fail in attaining its object. your ardent reasoning, my interesting and philosophic young friend, though not unconsequential, is a finely proportioned structure, resting on an airy foundation. the science of morals is not incapable of demonstration, but we want a more extensive knowledge of particular facts, on which, in any given circumstance, firmly to establish our data.--yet, be not discouraged; exercise your understanding, think freely, investigate every opinion, disdain the rust of antiquity, raise systems, invent hypotheses, and, by the absurdities they involve, seize on the clue of truth. rouse the nobler energies of your mind; be not the slave of your passions, neither dream of eradicating them. sensation generates interest, interest passion, passion forces attention, attention supplies the powers, and affords the means of attaining its end: in proportion to the degree of interest, will be that of attention and power. thus are talents produced. every man is born with sensation, with the aptitude of receiving impressions; the force of those impressions depends on a thousand circumstances, over which he has little power; these circumstances form the mind, and determine the future character. we are all the creatures of education; but in that education, what we call chance, or accident, has so great a share, that the wisest preceptor, after all his cares, has reason to tremble: one strong affection, one ardent incitement, will turn, in an instant, the whole current of our thoughts, and introduce a new train of ideas and associations. you may perceive that i admit the general truths of your reasoning; but i would warn you to be careful in their particular application; a long train of patient and laborious experiments must precede our deductions and conclusions. the science of mind is not less demonstrative, and far more important, than the science of newton; but we must proceed on similar principles. the term _metaphysics_ has been, perhaps, justly defined--the first _principles of arts and sciences_.[ ] every discovery of genius, resulting from a fortunate combination of circumstances, may be resolved into simple facts; but in this investigation we must be patient, attentive, indefatigable; we must be content to arrive at truth through many painful mistakes and consequent sufferings.--such appears to be the constitution of man! [footnote : helvetius.] to shorten and meliorate your way, i have determined to sacrifice every inferior consideration. i have studied your character: i perceive, with joy, that its errors are the ardent excesses of a generous mind. i loved your father with a fatal and unutterable tenderness: time has softened the remembrance of his faults.--our noblest qualities, without incessant watchfulness, are liable insensibly to shade into vices--but his virtues and _misfortunes_, in which my own were so intimately blended, are indelibly engraven on my heart. a mystery has hitherto hung over your birth. the victim of my own ardent passions, and the errors of one whose memory will ever be dear to me, i prepare to withdraw the veil--a veil, spread by an importunate, but, i fear, a mistaken tenderness. learn, then, from the incidents of my life, entangled with those of his to whom you owe your existence, a more striking and affecting lesson than abstract philosophy can ever afford. chapter i the events of my life have been few, and have in them nothing very uncommon, but the effects which they have produced on my mind; yet, that mind they have helped to form, and this in the eye of philosophy, or affection, may render them not wholly uninteresting. while i trace them, they convince me of the irresistible power of circumstances, modifying and controuling our characters, and introducing, mechanically, those associations and habits which make us what we are; for without outward impressions we should be nothing. i know not how far to go back, nor where to begin; for in many cases, it may be in all, a foundation is laid for the operations of our minds, years--nay, ages--previous to our birth. i wish to be brief, yet to omit no one connecting link in the chain of causes, however minute, that i conceive had any important consequences in the formation of my mind, or that may, probably, be useful to your's. my father was a man of some talents, and of a superior rank in life, but dissipated, extravagant, and profligate. my mother, the daughter of a rich trader, and the sole heiress of his fortunes, allured by the specious address and fashionable manners of my father, sacrificed to empty shew the prospect of rational and dignified happiness. my father courted her hand to make himself master of her ample possessions: dazzled by vanity, and misled by self-love, she married him;--found, when too late, her error; bitterly repented, and died in child bed the twelfth month of her marriage, after having given birth to a daughter, and commended it, with her dying breath, to the care of a sister (the daughter of her mother by a former marriage), an amiable, sensible, and worthy woman, who had, a few days before, lost a lovely and promising infant at the breast, and received the little emma as a gift from heaven, to supply its place. my father, plunged in expence and debauchery, was little moved by these domestic distresses. he held the infant a moment in his arms, kissed it, and willingly consigned it to the guardianship of its maternal aunt. it will here be necessary to give a sketch of the character, situation, and family, of this excellent woman; each of which had an important share in forming the mind of her charge to those dispositions, and feelings, which irresistibly led to the subsequent events. chapter ii mr and mrs melmoth, my uncle and aunt, married young, purely from motives of affection. mr melmoth had an active, ardent mind, great benevolence of heart, a sweet and chearful temper, and a liberal manner of thinking, though with few advantages of education: he possessed, also, a sanguine disposition, a warm heart, a generous spirit, and an integrity which was never called in question. mrs melmoth's frame was delicate and fragile; she had great sensibility, quickness of perception, some anxiety of temper, and a refined and romantic manner of thinking, acquired from the perusal of the old romances, a large quantity of which, belonging to a relation, had, in the early periods of her youth, been accidentally deposited in a spare room in her father's house. these qualities were mingled with a devotional spirit, a little bordering on fanatacism. my uncle did not exactly resemble an orlando, or an oroondates, but he was fond of reading; and having the command of a ship in the west india trade, had, during his voyages in fine weather, time to indulge in this propensity; by which means he was a tolerable proficient in the belles lettres, and could, on occasion, quote shakespeare, scribble poetry, and even philosophize with pope and bolingbroke. mr melmoth was one-and-twenty, his bride nineteen, when they were united. they possessed little property; but the one was enterprizing and industrious, the other careful and oeconomical; and both, with hearts glowing with affection for each other, saw cheering hope and fairy prospects dancing before their eyes. every thing succeeded beyond their most sanguine expectations. my uncle's cheerful and social temper, with the fairness and liberality of his dealings, conciliated the favour of the merchants. his understanding was superior, and his manners more courteous, than the generality of persons in his line of life: his company was eagerly courted, and no vessel stood a chance of being freighted till his had its full cargo. his voyages were not long, and frequent absences and meetings kept alive between him and my aunt, the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, and the transports of love. their family soon increased, but this was a new source of joy to mr melmoth's affectionate heart. a walk or a ride in the country, with his wife and little ones, he accounted his highest relaxation:--on these occasions he gave himself up to a sweet and lively pleasure; would clasp them alternately to his breast, and with eyes overflowing with tears of delight, repeat thomson's charming description of the joys of virtuous love-- 'where nothing strikes the eye but sights of bliss, all various nature pressing on the heart!' this was the first picture that struck my young imagination, for i was, in all respects, considered as the adopted child of the family. this prosperity received little other interruption than from my uncle's frequent absences, and the pains and cares of my aunt in bringing into the world, and nursing, a family of children. mr melmoth's successful voyages, at rather earlier than forty years of age, enabled him to leave the sea, and to carry on an extensive mercantile employment in the metropolis.--at this period his health began to be injured by the progress of a threatening internal disorder; but it had little effect either on his spirits or activity. his business every day became wider, and his attention to it was unremitted, methodical, and indefatigable. his hours of relaxation were devoted to his family and social enjoyment; at these times he never suffered the cares of the counting-house to intrude;--he was the life of every company, and the soul of every pleasure. he at length assumed a more expensive style of living; took a house in the country (for the charms of which he had ever a peculiar taste) as a summer residence; set up an equipage, increased the number of his servants, and kept an open and hospitable, though not a luxurious, table. the hours fled on downy pinions; his wife rested on him, his children caught sunshine from his smiles; his domestics adored him, and his acquaintance vied with each other in paying him respect. his life, he frequently repeated, had been a series of unbroken success. his religion, for he laid no stress on forms, was a sentiment of grateful and fervent love.--'_god is love_,' he would say, 'and the affectionate, benevolent heart is his temple.' chapter iii it will now be necessary, for the development of my own particular character, again to revert to earlier periods.--a few days before my birth, my aunt had lost (as already related) a lovely female infant, about four months old, and she received me, from the hands of my dying mother, as a substitute.--from these tender and affecting circumstances i was nursed and attended with peculiar care. my uncle's ship (it being war time) was then waiting for a convoy at portsmouth, where he was joined by his wife: she carried me with her, and, tenderly watchful over my safety, took me on all their little excursions, whether by sea or land: i hung at her breast, or rested in her arms, and her husband, or attendant, alternately relieved her.--plump, smiling, placid, happy, i never disturbed her rest, and the little emma was the darling of her kind guardians, and the plaything of the company. at the age at which it was thought necessary to wean me, i was sent from my tender nurse for that purpose, and consigned to the care of a stranger, with whom i quickly pined myself into a jaundice and bilious fever. my aunt dare not visit me during this short separation, she was unable to bear my piercing cries of anguish at her departure. if a momentary sensation, at that infantine period, deserve the appellation, i might call this my first affectionate sorrow. i have frequently thought that the tenderness of this worthy woman generated in my infant disposition that susceptibility, that lively propensity to attachment, to which i have through life been a martyr. on my return to my friends, i quickly regained my health and spirits; was active, blythsome, ran, bounded, sported, romped; always light, gay, alert, and full of glee. at church, (whither on sunday i was accustomed to accompany the family) i offended all the pious ladies in our vicinity by my gamesome tricks, and avoided the reprimands of my indulgent guardians by the drollery and good humour which accompanied them. when myself and my little cousins had wearied ourselves with play, their mother, to keep us quiet in an evening, while her husband wrote letters in an adjoining apartment, was accustomed to relate (for our entertainment) stories from the arabian nights, turkish tales, and other works of like marvellous import. she recited them circumstantially, and these i listened to with ever new delight: the more they excited vivid emotions, the more wonderful they were, the greater was my transport: they became my favourite amusement, and produced, in my young mind, a strong desire of learning to read the books which contained such enchanting stores of entertainment. thus stimulated, i learned to read quickly, and with facility. my uncle took pleasure in assisting me; and, with parental partiality, thought he discovered, in the ardour and promptitude with which i received his instructions, the dawn of future talents. at six years old i read aloud before company, with great applause, my uncle's favourite authors, pope's homer, and thomson's seasons, little comprehending either. emulation was roused, and vanity fostered: i learned to recite verses, to modulate my tones of voice, and began to think myself a wonderful scholar. thus, in peace and gaiety, glided the days of my childhood. caressed by my aunt, flattered by her husband, i grew vain and self-willed; my desires were impetuous, and brooked no delay; my affections were warm, and my temper irascible; but it was the glow of a moment, instantly subsiding on conviction, and when conscious of having committed injustice, i was ever eager to repair it, by a profusion of caresses and acknowledgements. opposition would always make me vehement, and coercion irritated me to violence; but a kind look, a gentle word, a cool expostulation--softened, melted, arrested, me, in the full career of passion. never, but once, do i recollect having received a blow; but the boiling rage, the cruel tempest, the deadly vengeance it excited, in my mind, i now remember with shuddering. every day i became more attached to my books; yet, not less fond of active play; stories were still my passion, and i sighed for a romance that would never end. in my sports with my companions, i acted over what i had read: i was alternately the valiant knight--the gentle damsel--the adventurous mariner--the daring robber--the courteous lover--and the airy coquet. ever inventive, my young friends took their tone from me. i hated the needle:--my aunt was indulgent, and not an hour passed unamused:--my resources were various, fantastic, and endless. thus, for the first twelve years of my life, fleeted my days in joy and innocence. i ran like the hind, frisked like the kid, sang like the lark, was full of vivacity, health, and animation; and, excepting some momentary bursts of passion and impatience, awoke every day to new enjoyment, and retired to rest fatigued with pleasure. chapter iv at this period, by the command of my father, i was sent to boarding school.--ah! never shall i forget the contrast i experienced. i was an alien and a stranger;--no one loved, caressed, nor cared for me;--my actions were all constrained;--i was obliged to sit poring over needle work, and forbidden to prate;--my body was tortured into forms, my mind coerced, and talks imposed upon me, grammar and french, mere words, that conveyed to me no ideas. i loved my guardians with passion--my tastes were all passions--they tore themselves from my embraces with difficulty. i sat down, after their departure, and wept--bitter tears--sobbed convulsively--my griefs were unheeded, and my sensibility ridiculed--i neither gave nor received pleasure. after the rude stare of curiosity, ever wounding to my feelings, was gratified, i was left to sob alone. at length, one young lady, with a fair face and a gentle demeanour, came and seated herself beside me. she spoke, in a soft voice, words of sympathy--my desolate heart fluttered at the sound. i looked at her--her features were mild and sweet; i dried my tears, and determined that she should be my friend.--my spirits became calmer, and for a short time i indulged in this relief; but, on enquiry, i found my fair companion had already a selected favourite, and that their amity was the admiration of the school.--proud, jealous, romantic--i could not submit to be the second in her esteem--i shunned her, and returned her caresses with coldness. the only mitigation i now felt to the anguish that had seized my spirits, was in the hours of business. i was soon distinguished for attention and capacity; but my governness being with-held, by an infirm constitution, from the duties of her office, i was consigned, with my companions, to ignorant, splenetic, teachers, who encouraged not my emulation, and who sported with the acuteness of my sensations. in the intervals from school hours i fought and procured books.--these were often wantonly taken from me, as a punishment for the most trivial offence; and, when my indignant spirit broke out into murmurs and remonstrance, i was constrained to learn, by way of penance, chapters in the proverbs of solomon, or verses from the french testament. to revenge myself, i satirized my tyrants in doggrel rhymes: my writing master also came in for a share of this little malice; and my productions, wretched enough, were handed round the school with infinite applause. sunk in sullen melancholy, in the hours of play i crept into corners, and disdained to be amused;--home appeared to me to be the eden from which i was driven, and there my heart and thoughts incessantly recurred. my uncle from time to time addressed to me--with little presents--kind, pleasant, affectionate notes--and these i treasured up as sacred relics. a visit of my guardians was a yet more tumultuous pleasure; but it always left me in increased anguish. some robberies had been committed on the road to town.--after parting with my friends, i have laid awake the whole night, conjuring up in my imagination all the tragic accidents i had ever heard or read of, and persuading myself some of them must have happened to these darling objects of my affection. thus passed the first twelvemonth of my exile from all i loved; during which time it was reported, by my school-fellows, that i had never been seen to smile. after the vacations, i was carried back to my prison with agonizing reluctance, to which in the second year i became, however, from habit, better reconciled. i learned music, was praised and encouraged by my master, and grew fond of it; i contracted friendships, and regained my vivacity; from a forlorn, unsocial, being, i became, once more, lively, active, enterprising,--the soul of all amusement, and the leader of every innocently mischievous frolic. at the close of another year i left school. i kept up a correspondence for some time with a few of my young friends, and my effusions were improved and polished by my paternal uncle. chapter v this period, which i had anticipated with rapture, was soon clouded by the gradual decay, and premature death, of my revered and excellent guardian. he sustained a painful and tedious sickness with unshaken fortitude;--with more, with chearfulness. i knelt by his bedside on the day of his decease; and, while i bathed his hand with my tears, caught hope from the sweet, the placid, serenity of his countenance, and could not believe the terrors of dissolution near. 'the last sentiment of my heart,' said he, 'is gratitude to the being who has given me so large a portion of good; and i resign my family into his hands with confidence.' he awoke from a short slumber, a few minutes before his death.--'emma,' said he, in a faint voice, (as i grasped his cold hand between both mine) turning upon me a mild, yet dying, eye, 'i have had a pleasant sleep--be a good girl, and comfort your aunt!'-- he expired without a groan, or a struggle--'his death was the serene evening of a beautiful day!' i gazed on his lifeless remains, the day before their interment, and the features still wore the same placid, smiling benignity. i was then about fourteen years of age,--this first emotion of real sorrow rent my heart asunder! the sensations of mrs melmoth were those of agonizing, suffocating anguish:--the fair prospect of domestic felicity was veiled for ever! this was the second strong impression which struck my opening mind. many losses occurred, in consequence of foreign connections, in the settlement of mr melmoth's affairs.--the family found their fortunes scanty, and their expectations limited:--their numerous fair-professing acquaintance gradually deserted them, and they sunk into oeconomical retirement; but they continued to be respectable, because they knew how to contract their wants, and to preserve their independence. my aunt, oppressed with sorrow, could be roused only by settling the necessary plans for the future provision of her family. occupied with these concerns, or absorbed in grief, we were left for some time to run wild. months revolved ere the tender sorrows of mrs melmoth admitted of any mitigation: they at length yielded only to tender melancholy. my wonted amusements were no more; a deep gloom was spread over our once cheerful residence; my avidity for books daily increased; i subscribed to a circulating library, and frequently read, or rather devoured--little careful in the selection--from ten to fourteen novels in a week. chapter vi my father satisfied himself, after the death of my beloved uncle, with making a short and formal visit of condolence to the family, and proposing either my return to school, or to pay an annual stipend (which mr and mrs melmoth had hitherto invariably refused) for defraying the expences of my continuance and board with the amiable family by which i had been so kindly nurtured. i shrunk from the cold and careless air of a man whom i had never been able to teach my heart either to love or honour; and throwing my arms round the neck of my maternal aunt, murmured a supplication, mingled with convulsive sobs, that she would not desert me. she returned my caresses affectionately, and entreated my father to permit me to remain with her; adding, that it was her determination to endeavour to rouse and strengthen her mind, for the performance of those pressing duties--the education of her beloved children, among whom she had ever accounted her emma--which now devolved wholly upon her. my father made no objection to this request; but observed, that notwithstanding he had a very favourable opinion of her heart and understanding, and considered himself indebted to her, and to her deceased husband, for their goodness to emma, he was nevertheless apprehensive that the girl had been weakened and spoiled by their indulgence;--that his own health was at present considerably injured;--that it was probable he might not survive many years;--in which case, he frankly confessed, he had enjoyed life too freely to be able to make much provision for his daughter. it would therefore, he conceived, be more judicious to prepare and strengthen my mind to encounter, with fortitude, some hardships and rude shocks, to which i might be exposed, than to foster a sensibility, which he already perceived, with regret, was but too acute. for which purpose, he desired i might spend one day in every week at his house in berkley-square, when he should put such books into my hands [he had been informed i had a tolerable capacity] as he judged would be useful to me; and, in the intervals of his various occupations and amusements, assist me himself with occasional remarks and reflections. any little accomplishments which mrs melmoth might judge necessary for, and suitable to, a young woman with a small fortune, and which required the assistance of a master, he would be obliged to her if she would procure for me, and call upon him to defray the additional expence. he then, looking on his watch, and declaring he had already missed an appointment, took his leave, after naming monday as the day on which he should constantly expect my attendance in berkley-square. till he left the room i had not courage to raise my eyes from the ground--my feelings were harrowed up--the tone of his voice was discordant to my ears. the only idea that alleviated the horror of my weekly punishment (for so i considered the visits to berkley-square) was the hope of reading new books, and of being suffered to range uncountroled through an extensive and valuable library, for such i had been assured was mr courtney's. i still retained my passion for adventurous tales, which, even while at school, i was enabled to gratify by means of one of the day-boarders, who procured for me romances from a neighbouring library, which at every interval of leisure i perused with inconceivable avidity. chapter vii the following monday i prepared to attend mr courtney. on arriving at his house, and announcing my name, a servant conducted me into his master's dressing-room. i appeared before him with trembling steps, downcast eyes, and an averted face. 'look up, child!' said my father, in an imperious tone. 'if you are conscious of no crime, why all this ridiculous confusion?' i struggled with my feelings: the tone and manner in which i was addressed gave me an indignant sensation:--a deeper suffusion than that of modesty, the glow of wounded pride, burnt in my cheeks:--i turned quick, gazed in the face of mr courtney with a steady eye, and spoke a few words, in a firm voice, importing--that i attended by his desire, and waited his direction. he regarded me with somewhat less _hauteur_, and, while he finished dressing, interrogated me respecting the books i had read, and the impression they had left on my mind. i replied with simplicity, and without evasion. he soon discovered that my imagination had been left to wander unrestrained in the fairy fields of fiction; but that, of historical facts, and the science of the world, i was entirely ignorant. 'it is as i apprehended,' said he:--'your fancy requires a _rein_ rather than a _spur_. your studies, for the future, must be of a soberer nature, or i shall have you mistake my valet for a prince in disguise, my house for a haunted castle, and my rational care for your future welfare for barbarous tyranny.' i felt a poignant and suffocating sensation, too complicated to bear analyzing, and followed mr courtney in silence to the library. my heart bounded when, on entering a spacious room, i perceived on either side a large and elegant assortment of books, regularly arranged in glass cases, and i longed to be left alone, to expatiate freely in these treasures of entertainment. but i soon discovered, to my inexpressible mortification, that the cases were locked, and that in this intellectual feast i was not to be my own purveyor. my father, after putting into my hands the lives of plutarch, left me to my meditations; informing me, that he should probably dine at home with a few friends, at five o'clock, when he should expect my attendance at the table. i opened my book languidly, after having examined through the glass doors the titles of those which were with-held from me. i felt a kind of disgust to what i considered as a task imposed, and read a few pages carelessly, gazing at intervals through the windows into the square.--but my attention, as i proceeded, was soon forcibly arrested, my curiosity excited, and my enthusiasm awakened. the hours passed rapidly--i perceived not their flight--and at five o'clock, when summoned to dinner, i went down into the dining-room, my mind pervaded with republican ardour, my sentiments elevated by a high-toned philosophy, and my bosom glowing with the virtues of patriotism. i found with mr courtney company of both sexes, to whom he presented me on my entrance. their easy compliments disconcerted me, and i shrunk, abashed, from the bold and curious eyes of the gentlemen. during the repast i ate little, but listened in silence to every thing that passed. the theatres were the first topic of conversation, venice preserved had been acted the preceding evening, and from discussing the play, the conversation took a political turn. a gentleman that happened to be seated next me, who spoke fluently, looking around him every moment for approbation, with apparent self-applause, gave the discourse a tone of gallantry, declaring--'pierre to be a noble fellow, and that the loss of a mistress was a sufficient excuse for treason and conspiracy, even though the country had been deluged in blood and involved in conflagration.' 'and the mistresses of all his fellow citizens destroyed of course;'--said a gentleman coolly, on the opposite side of the table. oh! that was not a consideration, every thing must give place when put in competition with certain feelings. 'what, young lady,' (suddenly turning to me) 'do you think a lover would not risque, who was in fear of losing you?' good god! what a question to an admirer of the grecian heroes! i started, and absolutely shuddered. i would have replied, but my words died away upon my lips in inarticulate murmurs. my father observed and enjoyed my distress. 'the worthies of whom you have been reading, emma, lived in ancient times. aristides the just, would have made but a poor figure among our modern men of fashion!' 'this lady reads, then,'--said our accomplished coxcomb--'heavens, mr courtney! you will spoil all her feminine graces; knowledge and learning, are unsufferably masculine in a woman--born only for the soft solace of man! the mind of a young lady should be clear and unsullied, like a sheet of white paper, or her own fairer face: lines of thinking destroy the dimples of beauty; aping the reason of man, they lose the exquisite, _fascinating_ charm, in which consists their true empire;--then strongest, when most weak-- "loveliest in their fears-- and by this silent adulation, soft, to their protection more engaging man." 'pshaw!' replied mr courtney, a little peevishly--'you will persuade emma, that the age of chivalry is not yet over; and that giants and ravishers are as common now, as in the time of charlemagne: a young woman of sense and spirit needs no other protection; do not flatter the girl into affectation and imbecility. if blank paper be your passion, you can be at no loss; the town will supply quires and reams.' 'there i differ from you,' said the gentleman on the opposite side of the table; 'to preserve the mind a blank, we must be both deaf and blind, for, while any inlet to perception remains, your paper will infallibly contract characters of some kind, or be blotted and scrawled!' 'for god's sake! do not let us begin to philosophise,' retorted his antagonist, who was not to be easily silenced. 'i agree with you,'--rejoined the other--'_thinking_ is undoubtedly very laborious, and _principle_ equally troublesome and impertinent.' i looked at him as he finished speaking, and caught his eye for a moment; its expression methought was doubtful. the man of fashion continued to expatiate in rhetorical periods--he informed us, that he had fine feelings, but they never extended beyond selfish gratification. for his part, he had as much humanity as any man, for which reason he carefully avoided the scene or the tale of distress. he, likewise, had his opinions, but their pliability rendered them convenient to himself, and accommodating to his friends. he had courage to sustain fatigue and hardship, when, not his country, but vanity demanded the exertion. it was glorious to boast of having travelled two hundred miles in eight and forty hours, and sat up three nights, to be present, on two succeeding evenings, at a ball in distant counties. 'this man,' i said to myself, while i regarded him with a look of ineffable scorn--'takes a great deal of pains to render himself ridiculous, he surely must have a vile heart, or a contemptible opinion of mankind: if he be really the character he describes, he is a compound of atrocity and folly, and a pest to the world; if he slanders himself, what must be that state of society, the applause of which he persuades himself is to be thus acquired?' i sighed deeply;--in either case the reflection was melancholy;--my eyes enquired--'am i to hate or to despise you?' i know not whether he understood their language, but he troubled me no more with his attentions. i reflected a little too seriously:--i have since seen many a prating, superficial coxcomb, who talks to display his oratory--_mere words_ --repeated by rote, to which few ideas are affixed, and which are uttered and received with equal apathy. chapter viii during three years, i continued my weekly visits to berkley square; i was not always allowed to join the parties who assembled there, neither indeed would it have been proper, for they were a motley groupe; when permitted so to do, i collected materials for reflection. i had been educated by my aunt, in strict principles of religion; many of mr courtney's friends were men of wit and talents, who, occasionally, discussed important subjects with freedom and ability: i never ventured to mingle in the conversations, but i overcame my timidity sufficiently to behave with propriety and composure; i listened attentively to all that was said, and my curiosity was awakened to philosophic enquiries. mr courtney now entrusted me with the keys of the bookcases, through which i ranged with ever new delight. i went through, by my father's direction, a course of historical reading, but i could never acquire a taste for this species of composition. accounts of the early periods of states and empires, of the grecian and roman republics, i pursued with pleasure and enthusiasm: but when they became more complicated, grew corrupt, luxurious, licentious, perfidious, mercenary, i turned from them fatigued, and disgusted, and sought to recreate my spirits in the fairer regions of poetry and fiction. my early associations rendered theology an interesting subject to me; i read ecclesiastical history, a detail of errors and crimes, and entered deeply into polemic divinity: my mind began to be emancipated, doubts had been suggested to it, i reasoned freely, endeavoured to arrange and methodize my opinions, and to trace them fearlessly through all their consequences: while from exercising my thoughts with freedom, i seemed to acquire new strength and dignity of character. i met with some of the writings of descartes, and was seized with a passion for metaphysical enquiries. i began to think about the nature of the soul--whether it was a composition of the elements, the result of organized matter, or a subtle and etherial fire. in the course of my researches, the heloise of rousseau fell into my hands.--ah! with what transport, with what enthusiasm, did i peruse this dangerous, enchanting, work!--how shall i paint the sensations that were excited in my mind!--the pleasure i experienced approaches the limits of pain--it was tumult--all the ardour of my character was excited.--mr courtney, one day, surprised me weeping over the sorrows of the tender st preux. he hastily snatched the book from my hand, and, carefully collecting the remaining volumes, carried them in silence to his chamber: but the impression made on my mind was never to be effaced--it was even productive of a long chain of consequences, that will continue to operate till the day of my death. my time at this period passed rapidly and pleasantly. my father never treated me with affection; but the austerity of his manner gradually subsided. he gave me, occasionally, useful hints and instructions. without feeling for him any tenderness, he inspired me with a degree of respect. the library was a source of lively and inexhaustible pleasure to my mind; and, when admitted to the table of mr courtney, some new character or sentiment frequently sharpened my attention, and afforded me subjects for future enquiry and meditation. i delighted to expatiate, when returning to the kind and hospitable mansion of my beloved aunt, (which i still considered as my home) on the various topics which i had collected in my little emigrations. i was listened to by my cousins with a pleasure that flattered my vanity, and looked up to as a kind of superior being;--a homage particularly gratifying to a young mind. chapter ix the excellent woman, who had been my more than mother, took infinite pains to cure the foibles, which, like pernicious weeds, entangled themselves with, and sometimes threatened to choak, the embryo blossoms of my expanding mind. ah! with what pleasure do i recall her beloved idea to my memory! fostered by her maternal love, and guided by her mild reason, how placid, and how sweet, were my early days!--why, my first, my tenderest friend, did i lose you at that critical period of life, when the harmless sports and occupations of childhood gave place to the pursuits, the passions and the errors of youth?--with the eloquence of affection, with gentle, yet impressive persuasion, thou mightest have checked the wild career of energetic feeling, which thou hast so often remarked with hope and terror. as i entered my eighteenth year, i lost, by a premature death, this tender monitor. never shall i forget her last emphatic, affectionate, caution. 'beware, my dear emma,' said this revered friend, 'beware of strengthening, by indulgence, those ardent and impetuous sensations, which, while they promise vigour of mind, fill me with apprehension for the virtue, for the happiness of my child. i wish not that the canker-worm, distrust, should blast the fair fruit of your ripening virtues. the world contains many benevolent, many disinterested, spirits; but civilization is yet distempered and imperfect; the inequalities of society, by fostering artificial wants, and provoking jealous competitions, have generated selfish and hostile passions. nature has been vainly provident for her offspring, while man, with mistaken avidity, grasping more than he has powers to enjoy, preys on his fellow man:--departing from simple virtues, and simple pleasures, in their stead, by common consent, has a wretched semblance been substituted. endeavour to contract your wants, and aspire only to a rational independence; by exercising your faculties, still the importunate suggestions of your sensibility; preserve your sincerity, cherish the ingenuous warmth of unsophisticated feeling, but let discernment precede confidence. i tremble even for the excess of those virtues which i have laboured to cultivate in your lively and docile mind. if i could form a wish for longer life, it is only for my children, and that i might be to my emma instead of reason, till her own stronger mind matures. i dread, lest the illusions of imagination should render those powers, which would give force to truth and virtue, the auxiliaries of passion. learn to distinguish, with accuracy, the good and ill qualities of those with whom you may mingle: while you abhor the latter, separate the being from his errors; and while you revere the former, the moment that your reverence becomes personal, that moment, suspect that your judgment is in danger of becoming the dupe of your affections.' would to god that i had impressed upon my mind--that i had recalled to my remembrance more frequently--a lesson so important to a disposition like mine!--a continual victim to the enthusiasm of my feelings; incapable of approving, or disapproving, with moderation--the most poignant sufferings, even the study of mankind, have been insufficient to dissolve the powerful enchantment, to disentangle the close-twisted associations!--but i check this train of overwhelming reflection, that is every moment on the point of breaking the thread of my narration, and obtruding itself to my pen. chapter x mr courtney did not long survive the guardian of my infancy:--his constitution had for some years been gradually impaired; and his death was hastened by a continuance of habitual dissipation, which he had not the resolution to relinquish, and to which his strength was no longer equal. it was an event i had long anticipated, and which i contemplated with a sensation of solemnity, rather than of grief. the ties of blood are weak, if not the mere chimeras of prejudice, unless sanctioned by reason, or cemented by habits of familiar and affectionate intercourse. mr courtney refusing the title of father, from a conviction that his conduct gave him no claim to this endearing appellation, had accustomed me to feel for him only the respect due to some talents and good qualities, which threw a veil over his faults. courage and truth were the principles with which he endeavoured to inspire me;--precepts, which i gratefully acknowledge, and which forbid me to adopt the language of affection, when no responsive sympathies exist in the heart. my eyes were yet moist with the tears that i had shed for the loss of my maternal friend, when i received a hasty summons to berkley-square. a servant informed me, that his master was, at length, given over by his physicians, and wished to speak to miss courtney, before his strength and spirits were too much exhausted. i neither felt, nor affected, surprize at this intelligence, but threw myself, without reply, into the carriage which had been dispatched for my conveyance. on entering the house, a gloomy silence seemed to reign throughout the late festive apartments; but, as i had seldom been a partaker of the festivity, the contrast struck me less forcibly than it might otherwise have done. my name was announced, and i was conducted, by the housekeeper, to the chamber of her dying master, who, supported on pillows, breathed with difficulty, but appeared to be free from pain, and tolerably composed. i met the physician in the ante-chamber; who, on my requesting earnestly to know the situation of his patient, informed me--that an internal mortification had taken place, and that he could not survive many hours. approaching the bed, considerably shocked at the intelligence i had received, mr courtney, in a low and faint voice, desired me to draw a chair near him. i obeyed in silence. 'emma,' said he, 'i am about to quit a world, in which i have experienced little sincere enjoyment; yet, i leave it reluctantly. had i been more temperate in my pleasures, perhaps, they might have been less destructive, and more protracted. i begin to suspect, that i have made some great mistakes; but it is now too late for retraction, and i will not, in my last moments, contradict, by my example, the lesson of fortitude, with which it has been a part of my plan to inspire you. you have now, unprotected, the world to encounter; for, i will frankly confess, that my affection for you has not been strong enough to induce me to forego my own more immediate gratification: but i have never deceived you. your mother, when she married, reserved for her private expences a thousand pounds, which, on her deathbed, she desired might be invested in the funds on your account. this request i religiously complied with, and there it has remained untouched; and, being purchased in your name, you may claim it whenever you please. i have appointed you no guardians; for, already in your nineteenth year and possessing an understanding superior to your sex and age, i chose to leave you unfettered, and at your own discretion. i spared from my pleasures what money was requisite to complete your education; for having no fortune to give you, and my health being precarious, i thought it just to afford you every advantage for the improvement of those talents which you evidently possess, and which must now enable you to make your way in the world; for the scanty pittance, that the interest of your fortune will produce, is, i doubt, insufficient for your support. had i lived, it was my intention to have established you by marriage; but that is a scheme, to which, at present, i would not advise you to trust. marriage, generally speaking, in the existing state of things, must of necessity be an affair of _finance_. my interest and introduction might have availed you something; but mere merit, wit, or beauty, stand in need of more powerful auxiliaries. my brother, mr morton[ ], called on me this morning:--he has agreed, for the present, to receive you into his family, where you must endeavour to make yourself useful and agreeable, till you can fix on a better and more independent plan. finding me in so low a state, your uncle would have waited a few days in town, to have seen the result, and in case of the worst, to have taken you down with him, but pressing business urged his departure. i would advise you, immediately after my decease, to set out for morton park. proper persons are appointed to settle my affairs:--when every thing is turned into money, there will, i trust, be sufficient to discharge my just debts; but do not flatter yourself with the expectation of a surplus. your presence here, when i am no more, will be equally unnecessary and improper.' [footnote : mr courtney's brother had taken the name of morton, to qualify himself for the inheritance of an estate, bequeathed to him by a distant relation.] this was said at intervals, and with difficulty; when, seeming quite exhausted, he waved his hand for me to leave the room, and sunk into a sort of dose, or rather stupor, which continued till within some minutes of his decease. mr courtney had been, what is called, a man of pleasure:--he had passed thro' life without ever loving any one but himself--intent, merely, on gratifying the humour of the moment. a superior education, and an attentive observance, not of rational, but, of social man, in an extensive commerce with the world, had sharpened his sagacity; but he was inaccessible to those kindlings of the affections--those glowings of admiration--inspired by real, or fancied, excellence, which never fail to expand and advance the minds of such as are capable of sketching, with a daring hand, the dangerous picture:--or of those philosophic and comprehensive views, which teach us to seek a reflected happiness in benevolent exertions for the welfare of others. my mother, i suspected, had been the victim of her husband's unkindness and neglect: wonder not, then, that my heart revolted when i would have given him the tender appellation of father! if he coldly acknowledged any little merits which i possessed, he regarded them rather with jealousy than approbation; for he felt that they tacitly reproached him. i will make no comment on the closing scene of his life. among the various emotions which had rapidly succeeded each other in my mind, during his last address, surprize had no place; i had not then his character to learn. chapter xi the small pittance bequeathed to me was insufficient to preserve me from dependence.--_dependence!_--i repeated to myself, and i felt my heart die within me. i revolved in my mind various plans for my future establishment.--i might, perhaps, be allowed to officiate, as an assistant, in the school where i had been placed in my childhood, with the mistress of which i still kept up an occasional correspondence; but this was a species of servitude, and my mind panted for freedom, for social intercourse, for scenes in motion, where the active curiosity of my temper might find a scope wherein to range and speculate. what could the interest of my little fortune afford? it would neither enable me to live alone, nor even to board in a family of any respectability. my beloved aunt was no more; her children were about to be dispersed, and to form various connections. cruel prejudices!--i exclaimed--hapless woman! why was i not educated for commerce, for a profession, for labour? why have i been rendered feeble and delicate by bodily constraint, and fastidious by artificial refinement? why are we bound, by the habits of society, as with an adamantine chain? why do we suffer ourselves to be confined within a magic circle, without daring, by a magnanimous effort, to dissolve the barbarous spell? a child in the drama of the world, i knew not which way to turn, nor on what to determine. i wrote to mr morton, to enquire on what terms i was to be received by his family. if merely as a visitor for a few weeks, till i had time to digest my plans, i should meet, with pleasure, a gentleman whose character i had been taught to respect; but i should not consider myself as subject to controul. i ought, perhaps, to have been satisfied with mr morton's answer to my interrogatories. he wished to embrace the daughter of his brother, his family would be happy to render morton park agreeable to her, as long as she should think proper to favour them by making it her residence. the young ladies expected both pleasure and improvement from the society of their accomplished kinswoman, &c. i believe i was unreasonable, the style of this letter was civil, nay kind, and yet it appeared, to me, to want the vivifying principle--what shall i say?--dictated merely by the head, it reached not the heart. the trials of my mind, i foreboded, were about to commence, i shrunk from the world i had been so willing to enter, for the rude storms of which i had been little fitted by the fostering tenderness of my early guardians. those ardent feelings and lively expectations, with all the glowing landscapes which my mind had sketched of the varied pleasures of society, while in a measure secluded from its enjoyments, gradually melted into one deep, undistinguished shade. that sanguine ardour of temper, which had hitherto appeared the predominant feature of my character, now gave place to despondency. i wept, i suffered my tears to flow unrestrained: the solemnity of the late events had seized my spirits, and the approaching change filled me with solicitude. i wandered over the scenes of my past pleasures, and recalled to my remembrance, with a sad and tender luxury, a thousand little incidents, that derived all their importance from the impossibility of their renewal. i gazed on every object, _for the last time_--what is there in these words that awakens our fanaticisms? i could have done homage to these inanimate, and, till now, uninteresting objects; merely because i should _see them no more_. how fantastic and how capricious are these sentiments! ought i, or ought i not, to blush while i acknowledge them? my young friends, also, from whom i was about to separate myself!--how various might be our destinies, and how unconscious were we of the future! happy ignorance, that by bringing the evils of life in succession, gradually inures us to their endurance. 'had i beheld the sum of ills, which one by one, i have endured--my heart had broke.' chapter xii the hour at length came, when, harrassed in body and in mind, i set out for morton park. i travelled alone, and reached the end of my journey at close of day. i entreated mr morton, who hastened to hand me from the carriage, and welcome my arrival, that i might be permitted to retire to my apartment, pleading fatigue, and wishing to wave the ceremony of an introduction to the family till the next morning. my request was obligingly granted, and a servant ordered to attend me to my chamber. many years had elapsed since i had seen this family, and my judgment was then so immature, that our meeting at the breakfast table had with each of us, i believe, the force of a first impression. you know my _fanaticism_ on these occasions. i will attempt an imperfect sketch of the groupe, assembled in the saloon, to whom i was severally presented on my entrance, by the lord of the domain. mr morton, himself, to whom precedence is due, seemed to be about fifty years of age, was of the middle stature, his features regular, and his countenance placid: he spoke but little, but that little was always mild and often judicious. he appeared not to be void of benevolent affections, and had the character of a humane landlord, but his virtues were, in a great measure, sunk in an habitual indolence of temper; he would sometimes sacrifice his principles to his repose, though never to his interest. his lady--no, i will not describe her; her character will, it may be, unfold itself to you in future--suffice it to say, that her person was gross, her voice loud and discordant, and her features rugged: she affected an air of openness and pleasantry; it may be prejudiced, perhaps she did not _affect it_. sarah morton, the eldest of the daughters, was about my age, she was under the middle height, fair, plump, loquacious; there was a childish levity in her accent and manners, which impressed strangers with an unfavourable opinion of her understanding, but it was an acquired manner, for she was shrewd and sensible. ann, the second daughter was a little lively brunette, with sharp features and sparkling black eyes; volatile, giddy, vain and thoughtless, but good humoured and pretty. the other children were much younger. two gentlemen joined us at our repast, visitors at morton park. mr francis, the elder, was in his fortieth year, his figure slender and delicate, his eye piercing, and his manner impressive. it occurred to me, that i had somewhere seen him before, and, after a few minutes recollection, i recognized in him a gentleman who had occasionally visited at my father's, and whom i have already mentioned as the antagonist of the man of fashion, whose sentiments and volubility excited my youthful astonishment and indignation. mr montague the younger, the son of a medical gentleman residing in a neighbouring county, seemed about one and twenty, tall, elegantly formed, full of fire and vivacity, with imperious manners, an impetuous temper, and stubborn prejudices. the introduction of a stranger generally throws some kind of restraint over a company; a break is made in their usual topics and associations, till the disposition and habits of the intruder have, in some degree, unfolded themselves. mrs morton took upon herself to entertain; she exhibited her talents on various subjects, with apparent self-approbation, till a few keen remarks from mr francis arrested the torrent of her eloquence. the young ladies scrutinized me with attention; even the lively ann, while she minutely observed me, ceased to court play from mr montague, who attended to me with the air, and addressed me in the language of gallantry. i sometimes caught the penetrating eye of mr francis, and his glance seemed to search the soul. after breakfast, mr morton having retired to his dressing-room, and the younger part of the company strolling into the pleasure grounds, whither i declined accompanying them, i took an opportunity, being ever desirous of active and useful employment, of offering my assistance to mrs morton, in the education of her younger children; proposing to instruct them in the rudiments either of music, drawing, french, or any other accomplishment, for which my own education had capacitated me. mr francis remained standing in a window, his back towards us, with a book in his hand, on which he seemed intent. 'if,' replied mrs morton, 'it is your wish, miss courtney, to procure the situation of governess in any gentleman's family, and it is certainly a very laudable desire in a young woman of your _small fortune_, mr morton will, i have no doubt, have it in his power to recommend you: but in the education of my family, i desire no interference; it is an important task, and i have my peculiar notions on the subject: their expectations are not great, and your _elegant_ accomplishments might unfit them for their future, probable, stations.' the manner in which this speech was uttered spoke yet more forcibly than the words.--i felt my cheeks glow. 'i was not asking favours, madam, i was only desirous of being useful.' 'it is a pity, then, that your discernment had not corrected your vanity.' the housekeeper entering, to consult her mistress on some domestic occasion, mrs morton quitted the room. mr francis closed his book, turned round, and gazed earnestly in my face: before sufficiently mortified, his observation, which i felt at this moment oppressive, did not relieve me. i attempted to escape, but, seizing my hand, he detained me by a kind of gentle violence. 'and why this confusion, my dear miss courtney; do you blush for having acted with propriety and spirit?' i burst into tears--i could not help it--'how weak is this, how unworthy of the good sense you have just manifested.' 'i confess it, but i feel myself, at this moment, a poor, a friendless, an unprotected being.' 'what prejudices! poverty is neither criminal, nor disgraceful; you will not want friends, while you continue to deserve them; and as for protection,' (and he smiled) 'i had not expected from emma courtney's spirited letter to mr morton, and equally proper retort to his lady's impertinence, so plaintive, so feminine a complaint.--you have talents, cultivate them, and learn to rest on your own powers.' 'i thank you for your reproof, and solicit your future lessons.' 'can you bear the truth?' 'try me.' 'have you not cherished a false pride?' it is too true, thought i, and i sighed. 'how shall i cure this foible?' 'by self-examination, by resolution, and perseverance.' 'be to me instead of a conscience.' 'what, then, is become of your own?' 'prejudice, i doubt, has blinded and warped it.' 'i suspect so; but you have energy and candor, and are not, i hope, of a temper to despond.' the return of the family terminated this singular conversation. the young ladies rallied me, on being found _tête-à-tête_ with the philosopher; mr montague, i thought looked displeased. i stole out; while the party were dressing for dinner, and rambled into the gardens, which were extensive, and laid out with taste. chapter xiii i judged my visit here would not be very long. i scarcely knew whether i was most inclined to like or to fear mr francis, but i determined, if possible, to cultivate his friendship. i interrogated myself again and again--from whence this restlessness, this languor, this disgust, with all i hear and see?--why do i feel wayward, querulous, fastidious? mr morton's family had no hearts; they appeared to want a _sense_, that preyed incessantly on mine; i could not love them, and my heart panted to expand its sensations. sarah and ann became jealous of me, and of each other; the haughty, yet susceptible, montague addressed each in turn, with a homage equally fervent for the moment, and equally transient. this young man was bold, ardent, romantic, and enterprizing, but blown about by every gust of passion, he appeared each succeeding moment a different character: with a glowing and rapid imagination, he had never given himself time to reason, to compare, to acquire principles: following the bent of a raised, yet capricious fancy, he was ever in pursuit of meteors, that led him into mischief, or phantoms, that dissolved at his approach. had my mind been more assured and at ease, i could have amused myself with the whimsical flights of this eccentric being--one hour, attracted by the sportive graces of ann, he played with and caressed her, while the minutes flew rapidly on the light wing of amusement, and, till reminded by the grave countenance of mr morton, seemed to forget that any other person was present. the next minute, disgusted by her frivolity, all his attention was absorbed by the less fascinating, but more artful and ingenious, sarah. then, quitting them both, he would pursue my steps, break in upon my meditations, and haunt my retreats, from whence, when not disposed to be entertained by his caprice, i found it not difficult to drive him, by attacking some of his various prejudices:--accustomed to feel, and not to reason, his tastes and opinions were vehement and uncontroulable. from this society, so uncongenial to my reflecting, reasoning, mind, i found some resource in the conversation of mr francis. the pride of montague was evidently piqued by the decided preference which i gave to the company of his friend; but his homage, or his resentment, were alike indifferent to me: accustomed to speak and act from my convictions, i was but little solicitous respecting the opinion of others. my understanding was exercised by attending to the observations of mr francis, and by discussing the questions to which they led; yet it was exercised without being gratified: he opposed and bewildered me, convicted me of error, and harrassed me with doubt. mr francis soon after prepared to return to town. i was affected at the idea of his departure; and felt, that in losing his society, i should be deprived of my only rational recreation, and should again be exposed to mrs morton's illiberal attacks, who appeared to have marked me out for her victim, though at present restrained by the presence of a man, who had found means to inspire, even her, with some degree of respect. mr francis, on the evening preceding the day on which he purposed leaving morton park, passing under the open window of my chamber, in which i was sitting with a book to enjoy the refreshing breeze, invited me to come down, and accompany him in a ramble. i immediately complied with his request, and joined him in a few minutes, with a countenance clouded with regret at the idea of his quitting us. 'you are going,' said i, as i gave him my hand (which he passed under his arm), 'and i lose my friend and counsellor.' 'your concern is obliging; but you are capable of standing alone, and your mind, by so doing, will acquire strength.' 'i feel as if this would not be the case: the world appears to me a thorny and pathless wilderness; i step with caution, and look around me with dread.--that i require protection and assistance is, i confess, a proof of weakness, but it is nevertheless true.' 'mr montague,' replied he, with some degree of archness in his tone and manner, 'is a gallant knight, a pattern of chivalry, and appears to be particularly calculated for the defender of distressed damsels!' 'i have no inclination to trust myself to the guidance of one, who seems himself entangled in an inextricable maze of error, and whose versatile character affords little basis for confidence.' 'tell me what it is you fear;--are your apprehensions founded in reason?' 'recollect my youth, my sex, and my precarious situation.' 'i thought you contemned the plea of _sex_, as a sanction for weakness!' 'though i disallow it as a natural, i admit it as an artificial, plea.' 'explain yourself.' 'the character, you tell me, is modified by circumstances: the customs of society, then, have enslaved, enervated, and degraded woman.' 'i understand you: there is truth in your remark, though you have given it undue force.' i hesitated--my heart was full--i felt as if there were many things which i wished to say; but, however paradoxical, the manners of mr francis repressed, while they invited, confidence. i respected his reason, but i doubted whether i could inspire him with sympathy, or make him fully comprehend my feelings. i conceived i could express myself with more freedom on paper; but i had not courage to request a correspondence, when he was silent on the subject. that it would be a source of improvement to me, i could not doubt, but prejudice with-held me from making the proposal. he looked at me, and perceived my mind struggling with a suggestion, to which it dared not give utterance: he suspected the truth, but was unwilling to disturb the operations of my understanding. we walked for some time in silence:--my companion struck into a path that led towards the house--listened to the village clock as it struck nine--and observed, the hour grew late. he had distinguished me, and i was flattered by that distinction; he had supported me against the arrogance of mrs morton, retorted the sly sarcasms of sarah, and even helped to keep the impetuous montague in awe, and obliged him to rein in his offensive spirit, every moment on the brink of outrage. my heart, formed for grateful attachment, taking, in one instant, a hasty retrospect of the past, and a rapid glance into futurity, experienced at that moment so desolating a pang, that i endeavoured in vain to repress its sensations, and burst into a flood of tears. mr francis suddenly stopped, appeared moved, and, with a benevolent aspect and soothing accents, enquired into the cause of an emotion so sudden and unexpected. i wept a few minutes in silence, and my spirits seemed, in some measure, relieved. 'i weep,' (said i), 'because i am _friendless_; to be esteemed and cherished is necessary to my existence; i am an alien in the family where i at present reside, i cannot remain here much longer, and to whom, and whither, shall i go?' he took my hand--'i will not, at present, say all that it might be proper to say, because i perceive your mind is in a feeble state;--my affairs call me to london;--yet, there is a method of conversing at a distance.' i eagerly availed myself of this suggestion, which i had wished, without having the courage to propose. 'will you, then, allow me, through the medium of pen and paper, to address, to consult you, as i may see occasion?' 'will i? yes, most cheerfully! propose your doubts and state your difficulties, and we shall see,' (smiling) 'whether they admit of a solution.' thanking him, i engaged to avail myself of this permission, and we proceeded slowly to the house, and joined the party in the supper room. i never once thought of my red and swoln eyes, till sarah, glancing a look half curious, half sarcastic, towards me, exclaimed from shakespear, in an affected tone, 'parting is such sweet sorrow!' mr francis looked at her sternly, she blushed and was silent; mr montague was captious; ann mortified, that she could not by her little tricks gain his attention. mrs morton sat wrapped in mock dignity; while mr morton, and his philosophic friend, canvassed the principles upon which an horizontal mill was about to be constructed on the estate of the former. after a short and scanty meal, i retired to my apartment, determined to rise early the next morning, and make breakfast for my friend before his departure. chapter xiv mr francis had ordered his horse to be ready at five o'clock. i left my chamber at four, to have the pleasure of preparing for him the last friendly repast, and of saying _farewel_. he was serene and chearful as usual, i somewhat more pensive; we parted with great cordiality, he gave me his address in town, and engaged me to write to him shortly. i accompanied him through the park to the porter's lodge, where the servant and horses waited his coming. my eyes glistened as i bade him adieu, and reiterated my wishes for his safety and prosperity, while his features softened into a more than usual benignity, as he returned my salutation. i wandered thoughtfully back towards the house, but the rich purple that began to illumine the east, the harbinger of the rising sun, the freshness of the morning air, the soft dews which already glittered on every fragrant plant and flower, the solemn stillness, so grateful to the reflecting mind, that pervaded the scene, induced me to prolong my walk. every object appeared in unison with my feelings, my heart swelled with devotional affections, it aspired to the author of nature. after having bewildered ourselves amid systems and theories, religion, in such situations, returns to the susceptible mind as a _sentiment_ rather than as a principle. a passing cloud let fall a gentle, drizzling shower; sheltered beneath the leafy umbrage of a spreading oak, i rather heard than felt it; yet, the coolness it diffused seemed to quench those ardent emotions, which are but too congenial with my disposition, while the tumult of the passions subsided into a delicious tranquillity. how mutable are human beings!--a very few hours converted this sublime complacency into perturbation and tumult. having extended my walk beyond its accustomed limits, on my return, i retired, somewhat fatigued to my apartment, and devoted the morning to my studies. at the dinner hour i joined the family, each individual of which seemed wrapped up in reserve, scarcely deigning to practise the common ceremonies of the occasion. i was not sufficiently interested in the cause of these appearances to make any enquiries, and willingly resigned myself, in the intervals of the entertainment, to meditation. when the table was cleared, and the servants had withdrawn, perceiving the party not sociably inclined, i was about to retire--when mrs morton observed, with features full of a meaning which i did not comprehend, that-- 'their guest, mr francis, had, no doubt, left morton park gratefully impressed by the _kindness_ of miss courtney.' montague reddened--bit his lips--got up--and sat down again. the young ladies wore an air not perfectly good-humoured, and a little triumphant. mr morton looked very solemn. 'i hope so, madam,' i replied, somewhat carelessly. 'i felt myself indebted to mr francis for his civilities, and was solicitous to make him all the return in my power--i wish that power had been enlarged.' she held up her hands and eyes with an affected, and ridiculous, gesture. 'mr francis,' said montague, abruptly, 'is very happy in having inspired you with sentiments _so partial_.' 'i am not partial--i am merely just. mr francis appeared to me a rational man, and my understanding was exercised and gratified by his conversation.' i was about to proceed, but my uncle (who seemed to have been tutored for the occasion) interrupted me with much gravity. 'you are but little acquainted, emma, with the customs of society; there is great indecorum in a young lady's making these distinctions.' 'what distinctions, my dear sir!--in prefering a reasonable man to fools and coxcombs.' 'forgive me, my dear--you have a quick wit, but you want experience. i am informed, that you breakfasted with mr francis this morning, and attended him through the park:--this, with your late walk yesterday evening, and evident emotion on your return, let me tell you, child, wears an indecorous appearance:--the world is justly attentive to the conduct of young women, and too apt to be censorious.' i looked round me with unaffected surprize--'good god!--did i suppose, in this family, it was necessary to be upon my guard against malicious constructions?' 'pray,'--interrupted sarah, pertly--'would you not have expressed some surprize, had i shewed mr montague similar attentions?' i looked at her, i believe, a little too contemptuously.--'whatever sentiments might have been excited in my mind by the attentions of miss morton to mr montague, _surprize_, assuredly, would not have been among them.' she coloured, and montague's passions began to rise. i stopped him at the beginning of an impertinent harangue, by observing-- 'that i did not think myself accountable to him for my conduct;--before i should be solicitous respecting his opinions, he must give me better reasons, than he had hitherto done, to respect his judgment.' ann wept, and prattled something, to which nobody thought it worth while to attend. 'well, sir,' continued i, turning to mr morton, 'be pleased to give me, in detail, what you have to alledge, that i may be enabled to justify myself.' 'will you allow me to ask you a question?' 'most certainly.' 'has mr francis engaged you to correspond with him?' i was silent a few moments. 'you hesitate!' 'only, sir, _how_ to answer your question.--i certainly intend myself the pleasure of addressing mr francis on paper; but i cannot strictly say _he engaged_ me so to do, as it was a proposal he was led to make, by conjecturing my wishes on the subject.' again, mrs morton, with uplifted hands and eyes--'what effrontery!' i seemed not to hear her.--'have you any thing more to say, my dear uncle?' 'you are a strange girl. it would not, perhaps, be proper before this company to enquire'--and he stopped. 'any thing is proper, sir, to enquire of me, and in any company--i have no reserves, no secrets.' 'well, then, i think it necessary to inform you, that, though a sensible, well educated, liberal-minded, man, mr francis has neither estate nor fortune, nor does he practise any lucrative profession.' 'i am sorry for it, on his own account; and for those whom his generosity might benefit. but, what is it to me?' 'you affect to misunderstand me.' 'i _affect_ nothing.' 'i will speak more plainly:--has he made you any proposals?' the purport of this solemn, but ludicrous, preparation, at once flashed upon my mind, the first time the thought had ever occurred. i laughed--i could not help it. 'i considered mr francis as a _philosopher_, and not as a _lover_. does this satisfy you, sir?' my uncle's features, in spite of himself, relaxed into a half-smile. 'very platonic--sweet simplicity!'--drauled out mrs morton, in ironical accents. 'i will not be insulted, mr morton!' quitting my seat, and rising in temper.--'i consider myself, merely, as your visitant, and not as responsible to any one for my actions. conscious of purity of intention, and superior to all disguise or evasion, i was not aware of these feminine, indelicate, unfriendly suggestions. if this behaviour be a specimen of what i am to expect in the world--the world may do its will--but i will never be its slave: while i have strength of mind to form principles, and courage to act upon them, i am determined to preserve my freedom, and trust to the general candour and good sense of mankind to appreciate me justly. as the brother of my late father, and as entitled to respect from your own kind intentions, i am willing to enter into any explanations, which _you_, _sir_, may think necessary:--neither my motives, nor my actions, have ever yet shrunk from investigation. will you permit me to attend you in your library? it is not my intention to intrude longer on your hospitality, and i could wish to avail myself of your experience and counsels respecting my future destination.' mr morton, at my request, withdrew with me into the library, where i quickly removed from his mind those injurious suspicions with which mrs morton had laboured to inspire him. he would not hear of my removal from the park--apologized for what had passed--assured me of his friendship and protection--and entreated me to consider his house as my home. there was an honest warmth and sincerity in his manner, that sensibly affected me; i could have wept; and i engaged, at his repeated request, not to think, at present, of withdrawing myself from his protection. thus we separated. how were the virtues of this really good man tarnished by an unsuitable connection! in the giddy hours of youth, we thoughtlessly rush into engagements, that fetter our minds, and affect our future characters, without reflecting on the important consequences of our conduct. this is a subject on which i have had occasion to reflect deeply; yet, alas! my own boasted reason has been, but too often, the dupe of my imagination. chapter xv nothing, here, occupied my heart--a heart to which it was necessary to love and admire. i had suffered myself to be irritated--the tumult of my spirits did not easily subside--i was mortified at the reflection--i had believed myself armed with patience and fortitude, but my philosophy was swept before the impetuous emotions of my passions like chaff before the whirlwind. i took up my pen to calm my spirits, and addressed myself to the man who had been, unconsciously, the occasion of these vexations.--my swelling heart needed the relief of communication. to mr francis 'i sought earnestly for the privilege of addressing you on paper. my mind seemed to overflow with a thousand sentiments, that i had not the courage to express in words; but now, when the period is arrived, that i can take up my pen, unawed by your penetrating glance, unchecked by your poignant reply, and pour out my spirit before you, i feel as if its emotions were too wayward, too visionary, too contradictory, to merit your attention. 'every thing i see and hear is a disappointment to me:--brought up in retirement--conversing only with books--dwelling with ardour on the great characters, and heroic actions, of antiquity, all my ideas of honour and distinction were associated with those of virtue and talents. i conceived, that the pursuit of truth, and the advancement of reason, were the grand objects of universal attention, and i panted to do homage to those superior minds, who, teaching mankind to be wise, would at length lead them to happiness. accustomed to think, to feel, to kindle into action, i am at a loss to understand the distinction between theory and practice, which every one seems eager to inculcate, as if the degrading and melancholy intelligence, which fills my soul with despondency, and pervades my understanding with gloom, was to them a subject of exultation. 'is virtue, then, a chimera--does it exist only in the regions of romance?--have we any interest in finding our fellow creatures weak and miserable?--is the being who formed them unjust, capricious, impotent, or tyrannical? 'answer these questions, that press heavily on my mind, that dart across it, in its brightest moments, clouding its sun-shine with a thick and impenetrable darkness. must the benevolent emotions, which i have hitherto delighted to cherish, turn into misanthropy--must the fervent and social affections of my heart give place to inanity, to apathy--must the activity of a curious and vigorous mind sink into torpor and abhorred vacuity? 'while they teach me to distrust the existence of virtue, they endeavour to impose on me, in its stead, a fictitious semblance; and to substitute, for the pure gold of truth, a paltry tinsel. it is in vain i ask--what have those to do with "_seeming_," who still retain "that which _passeth shew_?" however my actions may be corrupted by the contagious example of the world, may i still hold fast my integrity, and disdain to wear the _appearance_ of virtue, when the substance shall no longer exist. 'to admire, to esteem, to love, are congenial to my nature--i am unhappy, because these affections are not called into exercise. to venerate abstract perfection, requires too vigorous an exertion of the mental powers--i would see virtue exemplified, i would love it in my fellow creatures--i would catch the glorious enthusiasm, and rise from created to uncreated excellence. 'i am perplexed with doubts; relieve the wanderings of my mind, solve the difficulties by which it is agitated, prepare me for the world which is before me. the prospect, no longer beaming with light, no longer glowing with a thousand vivid hues, is overspread with mists, which the mind's eye vainly attempts to penetrate. i would feel, again, the value of existence, the worth of rectitude, the certainty of truth, the blessing of hope! ah! tell me not--that the gay expectations of youth have been the meteors of fancy, the visions of a romantic and distempered imagination! if i must not live to realize them, i would not live at all. 'my harrassed mind turns to you! you will not ridicule its scruples--you will, at least, deign to reason with me, and, in the exercise of my understanding, i shall experience a temporary relief from the sensations which devour me, the suspicions that distress me, and which spread over futurity a fearful veil. 'emma.' i walked to the next market town, and left my letter at the post-house,--i waited impatiently for a reply; my mind wanted _impression_, and sunk into languor. the answer, which arrived in a few days, was kind, because it was prompt, my sickly mind required a speedy remedy. to emma courtney. 'why will you thus take things in masses, and continually dwell in extremes? you deceive yourself; instead of cultivating your reason, you are fostering an excessive sensibility, a fastidious delicacy. it is the business of reason to compare, to separate, to discriminate. is there no medium--extraordinary exertions are only called forth by extraordinary contingences;--because every human being is not a hero, are we then to distrust the existence of virtue? 'the mind is modified by the circumstances in which it is placed, by the accidents of birth and education; the constitutions of society are all, as yet, imperfect; they have generated, and perpetuated, many mistakes--the consequences of those mistakes will, eventually, carry with them their antidote, the seeds of reproduction are, even, visible in their decay. the growth of reason is slow, but not the less sure; the increase of knowledge must necessarily prepare the way for the increase of virtue and happiness. 'look back upon the early periods of society, and, taking a retrospective view of what has been done, amidst the interruptions of barbarous inroads, falling empires, and palsying despotism, calculate what yet may be achieved: while the causes, which have hitherto impeded the progress of civilization, must continue to decrease, in an accelerated ration, with the wide, and still wider, diffusion of truth. 'we may trace most of the faults, and the miseries of mankind, to the vices and errors of political institutions, their permanency having been their radical defect. like children, we have dreamt, that what gratifies our desires, or contributes to our convenience, to-day, will prove equally useful and satisfactory to-morrow, without reflecting on the growth of the body, the change of humours, the new objects, and the new situations, which every succeeding hour brings in its train. that immutability, which constitutes the perfection of what we (from the poverty of language) term the _divine mind_, would inevitably be the bane of creatures liable to error; it is of the constancy, rather than of the fickleness, of human beings, that we have reason to complain. 'every improvement must be the result of successive experiments, this has been found true in natural science, and it must be universally applied to be universally beneficial. bigotry, whether religious, political, moral, or commercial, is the canker-worm at the root of the tree of knowledge and of virtue. the wildest speculations are less mischievous than the torpid state of error: he, who tamely resigns his understanding to the guidance of another, sinks at once, from the dignity of a rational being, to a mechanical puppet, moved at pleasure on the wires of the artful operator.--_imposition_ is the principle and support of every varied description of tyranny, whether civil or ecclesiastical, moral or mental; its baneful consequence is to degrade both him who is imposed on, and him who imposes. _obedience_, is a word, which ought never to have had existence: as we recede from conviction, and languidly resign ourselves to any foreign authority, we quench the principle of action, of virtue, of reason;--we bear about the semblance of humanity, but the spirit is fled. 'these are truths, which will slowly, but ultimately, prevail; in the splendour of which, the whole fabric of superstition will gradually fade and melt away. the world, like every individual, has its progress from infancy to maturity--how many follies do we commit in childhood? how many errors are we precipitated into by the fervour and inexperience of youth! is not every stable principle acquired through innumerable mistakes--can you wonder, that in society, amidst the aggregate of jarring interests and passions, reformation is so tardy? though civilization has been impeded by innumerable obstacles, even these help to carry on the great work: empires may be overturned, and the arts scattered, but not lost. the hordes of barbarians, which overwhelmed ancient rome, adopted at length the religion, the laws, and the improvements of the vanquished, as rome had before done those of greece. as the stone, which, thrown into the water, spreads circles still more and more extended;--or (to adopt the gospel similitude) as the grain of mustard seed, growing up into a large tree, shelters the fowls of heaven in its branches--so will knowledge, at length, diffuse itself, till it covers the whole earth. 'when the minds of men are changed, the system of things will also change; but these changes, though active and incessant, must be gradual. reason will fall softly, and almost imperceptibly, like a gentle shower of dews, fructifying the soil, and preparing it for future harvests. let us not resemble the ambitious shepherd, who, calling for the accumulated waters of the nile upon his lands, was, with his flock, swept away in the impetuous torrent. 'you ask, whether--because human beings are still imperfect--you are to resign your benevolence, and to cherish misanthropy? what a question! would you hate the inhabitants of an hospital for being infected with a pestilential disorder? let us remember, that vice originates in mistakes of the understanding, and that, he who seeks happiness by means contradictory and destructive, _is emphatically the sinner_. our duties, then, are obvious--if selfish and violent passions have been generated by the inequalities of society, we must labour to counteract them, by endeavouring to combat prejudice, to expand the mind, to give comprehensive views, to teach mankind their true interest, and to lead them to habits of goodness and greatness. every prejudice conquered, every mistake rectified, every individual improved, is an advance upon the great scale of virtue and happiness. 'let it, then, be your noblest ambition to co-operate with, to join your efforts, to those of philosophers and sages, the benefactors of mankind. to waste our time in useless repinings is equally weak and vain; every one in his sphere may do something; each has a little circle where his influence will be availing. correct your own errors, which are various--weeds in a luxuriant soil--and you will have done something towards the general reformation. but you are able to do more;--be vigilant, be active, beware of the illusions of fancy! i suspect, that you will have much to suffer--may you, at length, reap the fruits of a wholesome, though it should be a bitter, experience. '---- francis.' i perused the letter, i had received, again and again; it awakened a train of interesting reflections, and my spirits became tranquillized. chapter xvi early one fine morning, ann tapped gently at the door of my chamber; i had already risen, and invited her to enter. 'would i accompany her to breakfast, with a widow lady, who resided in a village about two miles from morton park, an occasional visitant in the family, a lady with whom, she was certain, i should be charmed.' i smiled at her ardour, thanked her for her kindness, and readily agreed to her proposal. we strolled together through an adjacent wood, which, by a shady and winding path, conducted us towards the residence of this vaunted favourite of my little companion. on our way, she entertained me with a slight sketch of the history of mrs harley and her family. she was the widow of a merchant, who was supposed to possess great property; but, practising occasionally as an underwriter, a considerable capture by the enemy (during war time) of some rich ships, reduced his fortune; and, by the consequent anxiety, completely destroyed a before debilitated constitution. he died in a few weeks after the confirmation of his loss, and, having neglected to make a will, a freehold estate of some value, which was all that remained of his effects, devolved of course to his eldest son; his two younger sons and three daughters being left wholly unprovided for. augustus harley, the heir, immediately sold the estate, and divided the produce, in equal shares, between each individual of the family. his brothers had been educated for commerce, and were enabled, through the generous kindness of augustus, to carry on, with advantage and reputation, their respective occupations; the sisters were, soon after, eligibly married. augustus, who had been educated for the law, disgusted with its chicanery, relinquished the profession, content to restrain his expences within the limits of a narrow income. this income had since received an increase, by the bequest of a distant relation, a man of a whimsical character, who had married, early in life, a beautiful woman, for love; but his wife having eloped from him with an officer, and, in the course of the intrigue, practised a variety of deceptions, he had retired disgusted from society, cherishing a misanthropical spirit: and, on his decease, bequeathed an annual sum of four hundred pounds to augustus harley (to whom in his childhood he had been particularly attached) on condition of his remaining unmarried. on his marriage, or death, this legacy passed into another branch of the family. on this acquisition augustus determined on making the tour of europe; and, after travelling on the continent for three years, on his return to his native country, alternately resided, either in the village of----, with his mother, or in the metropolis, where he divided his time, between liberal studies, and rational recreation. his visits to the country had, of late, been shorter and less frequent: he was the idol of his mother, and universally respected by his acquaintance, for his noble and generous conduct.--'ah!' (added the lively narrator) 'could you but see augustus harley, you would, infallibly, lose your heart--so frank, so pleasant, so ingenuous are his manners, so intrepid, and yet so humane! montague is a fine gentleman, but augustus harley is more--_he is a man!_' she began to grow eloquent on this, apparently, exhaustless theme, nor did she cease her panegyric till we came in view of mrs harley's mansion. 'you will love the mother as well as the son,' continued this agreeable prattler, 'when you come to know her; she is very good and very sensible.' drawing near the house, she tripped from me, to enquire if its mistress had yet risen. a small white tenement, half obscured in shrubbery, on a verdant lawn, of dimensions equally modest, situated on the side of a hill, and commanding an extensive and variegated prospect, was too interesting and picturesque an object, not to engage for some moments my attention. the image of augustus, also, which my lively companion had pourtrayed with more than her usual vivacity, played in my fancy--my heart paid involuntary homage to virtue, and i entered the mansion of mrs harley with a swelling emotion, made up of complicated feelings--half respectful, half tender--sentiments, too mingled to be distinctly traced. i was introduced into a room that overlooked a pleasant garden, and which the servant called a library. it was hung with green paper, the carpet the same colour, green venetian blinds to the windows, a sopha and chairs covered with white dimity; some drawings and engravings hung on the walls, arranged with exact symmetry; on one side of the room stood a grand piano-forte, opposite to which, was a handsome book-case, filled with books, elegantly bound; in the middle of the apartment was placed a table, covered with a green cloth, on which was a reading desk, some books and pamphlets, with implements for writing and drawing. nothing seemed costly, yet neatness, order, and taste, appeared through the whole apartment, bespeaking the elegant and cultivated mind of the owner. after amusing myself for a short time, in this charming retirement, i was summoned by ann to the breakfast room, where mrs harley awaited me. i was interested, at the first glance, in favour of this amiable woman--she appeared to be near fifty, her person agreeable, her countenance animated, her address engaging, and her manners polished. mutually pleased with each other, the hours passed rapidly; and, till reminded by a significant look from my little friend, i was unconscious, that i had made my visit of an unreasonable length. mrs harley spoke much of her son, he was the darling and the pride of her heart; she lamented the distance that separated them, and wished, that her health, and his tenderness, would allow of her residence with him in london. when conversing on this favourite topic, a glow enlivened her countenance, and her eyes sparkled with a humid brightness. i was affected by her maternal love--tender remembrances, and painful comparisons, crouded into my mind--a tear fell, that would not be twinkled away--she observed it, and seemed to feel its meaning; she held out her hand to me, i took it and pressed it to my lips. at parting, she entreated me speedily to renew my visit, to come often without ceremony--i should cheer her solitude--my sympathy, for she perceived i had a feeling heart, would help to console her in the absence of her augustus. chapter xvii on our way home, ann was in high spirits, congratulating herself upon her sagacity. 'mrs harley,' (said she, archly leering in my face) 'will console you for the departure of mr francis.' i smiled without replying. at dinner our visit of the morning was canvassed (ann had wished me to conceal it, but this i positively refused). mr morton spoke of mrs harley and her son with great respect, mrs morton with a sarcastic sneer, accompanied with a reprimand to her daughter, for the improper liberty she had taken. i quitted the table, immediately after the desert, to stifle my disgust, and, taking a book, wandered into the pleasure grounds, but incapable of fixing my attention, i presently shut my book, and, sauntering slowly on, indulged in a reverie. my melancholy reflections again returned--how could i remain in a house, where i was every day marked out for insult by its mistress--and where was i to dispose of myself? my fortune was insufficient to allow of my boarding in a respectable family. mrs harley came across my mind--amiable woman!--would she, indeed, accept of my society, and allow me to soften her solitude!--but her income was little less limited than my own--it must not be thought of. i reflected on the inequalities of society, the source of every misery and of every vice, and on the peculiar disadvantages of my sex. i sighed bitterly; and, clasping my hands together, exclaimed, unconsciously-- 'whither can i go--and where shall i find an asylum?' 'allow me to propose one,' said a voice, in a soft accent, suddenly, behind me. i started, turned, and beheld mr montague. after some expressions of sympathy for the distress which he had witnessed, apologies for his intrusion, and incoherent expressions of respect and regard, he somewhat abruptly offered his hand and heart to my acceptance, with the impetuosity which accompanied all his sentiments and actions; yet, he expressed himself with the air of a man who believes he is conferring an obligation. i thanked him for his generous proposal-- but, as my heart spake not in his favour--'i must be allowed to decline it.' 'that heart,' said he, rudely, 'is already bestowed upon another.' 'certainly not, mr montague; if it were, i would frankly tell you.' he pronounced the name of mr francis-- 'mr francis is a man for whom i feel a sincere respect and veneration--a man whom i should be proud to call my friend; but a thought beyond that, i dare venture to say, has never occurred to either of us.' he knew not how to conceive--that a woman in my situation, unprepossessed, could reject so advantageous an establishment! this, i told him, was indelicate, both to me and to himself. were my situation yet more desolate, i would not marry any man, merely for an _establishment_, for whom i did not feel an affection. would i please to describe to him the model of perfection which i should require in a husband? it was unnecessary; as i saw no probability of the portrait bearing any resemblance to himself. he reddened, and turned pale, alternately; bit his lips, and muttered to himself.--'damned romantic affectation!' i assumed a firmer tone--methought he insulted me.--'i beg you will leave me, sir--i chuse to be alone--by what right do you intrude upon my retirements?' my determined accent abashed him:--he tried, but with an ill grace, to be humble; and entreated me to take time for consideration. 'there is no need of it. it is a principle with me, not to inflict a moment's suspence on any human being, when my own mind is decided.' 'then you absolutely refuse me, and prefer the being exposed to the mean and envious insults of the vulgar mistress of this mansion!' 'of the two evils, i consider it as the least, because it involves no permanent obligation.' his countenance was convulsed with passion. his love, he told me, was converted into vengeance by my scorn: he was not to be contemned with impunity; and he warned me to beware. i smiled, i believe, a little too contemptuously. 'you love me not, sir; i am glad, for your own sake, that you never loved me.' 'my hatred may be more terrible!' 'you cannot intimidate me--i am little accustomed to fear.' i turned from him somewhat disdainfully: but, instantly recollecting myself, i stepped back, and apologized for the harsh manner into which i had been betrayed by his abrupt address, vehement expostulation, and the previous irritated state of my mind. 'i acknowledge,' said i, 'the disinterestedness of your proposal, and the _distinction_ which it implies. will you allow my own wounded feelings to be an excuse for the too little consideration with which i have treated _your's_? can you forgive me?' added i, in a conciliating tone, holding out my hand. the strong emotions, which rapidly succeeded each other in his mind, were painted in his countenance. after a moment's hesitation, he snatched the hand i offered him, pressed it to his lips, and, murmuring a few incoherent words, burst into tears. my spirits were already depressed--affected by these marks of his sensibility, and still more distressed by the recollection of the pain i had occasioned him by my inconsiderate behaviour, i wept with him for some minutes in silence. 'let us no more,' resumed i, making an effort to recover myself, 'renew these impressions. i thank you sincerely for the sympathy you have manifested for my situation. i am sensible that i have yielded to weak and wayward feelings.--i have youth, health, and activity--i ought not--neither do i despair.--the mortifications i have experienced, since my residence here, will afford me a useful lesson for the future--they have already taught me, what i before merely conjectured, _the value of independence_!' 'why, then,' interrupted he with quickness, 'do you reject an opportunity of placing yourself out of the reach of insult?' 'stop, my good friend,' replied i, smilingly looking in his face; 'there is a possibility of exchanging evils. you are yet too young, and too unstable, maturely to have weighed the importance of the scheme you propose. remember, likewise, that you are, yourself, in a great measure, dependent on the will of your father; and that much reflection is requisite before we fetter ourselves with engagements, that, once entered into, are not easily dissolved.' 'you allow me, then, to hope!' 'indeed i meant not to imply any such thing. i wish to soften what i have already expressed--but, there are a variety of reasons which oblige me to assure you, that i see no probability of changing my sentiments on the subject.' 'why, then, this cruel ostentation? i would either love or hate, bless or curse you.' 'you shall do neither, if i can prevent it. if my esteem is of any value to you, you must learn to respect both me and yourself.' 'esteem!--is that to be my frigid reward!' 'if _mine_ be worthless, propose to yourself _your own_ as a recompense.' 'i have already forfeited it, by seeking to move a heart, that triumphs in its cold inflexibility.' 'is this just--is it kind? is it, indeed, _my welfare_ you seek, while you can thus add to the vexations and embarrassment, which were before sufficiently oppressive? i would preserve you from an act of precipitation and imprudence;--in return, you load me with unmerited reproaches. but it is time to put an end to a conversation, that can answer little other purpose than vain recrimination.' he was about to speak--'say no more--i feel myself, again, in danger of losing my temper--my spirits are agitated--i would not give you pain--allow me to retire, and be assured of my best wishes.' some of the family appearing in sight, as if advancing towards us, favoured my retreat. i quitted the place with precipitation, and retired to my chamber, where i sought, by employing myself, to calm the perturbation of my heart. chapter xviii in a few days i renewed my visit to mrs harley:--a strong sympathy united us, and we became almost inseparable. every day i discovered in this admirable woman a new and indissoluble tie, that bound me to her. her cultivated understanding afforded an inexhaustible fund of instruction and entertainment; and her affectionate heart spread a charm over her most indifferent actions. we read, we walked, we conversed together; but, with whatever subjects these conversations commenced, some associated idea always led them to terminate in an eulogium on the virtues and talents, or an expression of regret, for the absence of augustus. there was a portrait of him (drawn by a celebrated artist, which he had lately sent from town as a present to his mother) hung up in the library. i accustomed myself to gaze on this resemblance of a man, in whose character i felt so lively an interest, till, i fancied, i read in the features all the qualities imputed to the original by a tender and partial parent. cut off from the society of mankind, and unable to expound my sensations, all the strong affections of my soul seemed concentrated to a single point. without being conscious of it, my grateful love for mrs harley had, already, by a transition easy to be traced by a philosophic mind, transferred itself to her son. he was the st preux, the emilius of my sleeping and waking reveries. i now spent almost my whole time in the cottage of my friend, returning to morton park late in the evening, and quitting it early in the morning, and sometimes being wholly absent for weeks together. six months thus passed away in tranquillity, with but little variation. mr montague, during this period, had several times left mr morton's, and returned again abruptly: his manners became sullen, and even, at times, ferocious. i carefully avoided encountering him, fearful of exasperating a spirit, that appeared every moment on the verge of excess. hastening one evening to my friend, after a longer separation than common, (having been prevailed on by mr morton and his daughters to accompany them on a distant visit, where business of mr morton's detained us for some days) i ran into the library, as usual, and threw myself into the arms of mrs harley, that opened spontaneously to receive me. 'ah! you little truant,' said she, in a voice of kindness, 'where have you been so long? my son has visited me in your absence; he passed through this part of the country, in his way to the seat of a friend. he staid with me two days, during which i sent half a dozen messages to morton park, but you were flown away, it seems, nor could i learn any tidings of you. augustus,' continued she, without observing the emotions she excited, 'had scarcely quitted the house an hour when you arrived.' i made no reply; an unaccountable sensation seized, and oppressed, my heart--sinking on the sopha, i burst into a convulsive flood of tears. my friend was struck: all the indiscretion of her conduct (as she has since told me) flashed suddenly into her mind; she felt that, in indulging her own maternal sensations, she had, perhaps, done me an irreparable injury, and she shuddered at the probable consequences. it was some moments before either of us recovered;--our conversation was that evening, for the first time, constrained, reserved, and painful; and we retired at an early hour to our respective apartments. i spent the night in self-examination. i was compelled to acknowledge, to myself, that solitude, the absence of other impressions, the previous circumstances that had operated on my character, my friendship for mrs harley, and her eloquent, affectionate, reiterated, praises of her son, had combined to awaken all the exquisite, though dormant, sensibilities of my nature; and, however romantic it might appear to others, and did appear even to myself, i felt, that i loved an ideal object (for such was augustus harley to me) with a tender and fervent excess; an excess, perhaps, involving all my future usefulness and welfare. 'people, in general,' says rousseau, 'do not sufficiently consider the influence which the first attachments, between man and woman, have over the remainder of their lives; they do not perceive, that an impression so strong, and so lively, as that of love, is productive of a long chain of effects, which pass unobserved in a course of years, yet, nevertheless, continue to operate till the day of their deaths.' it was in vain i attempted to combat this illusion; my reason was but an auxiliary to my passion, it persuaded me, that i was only doing justice to high and uncommon worth; imagination lent her aid, and an importunate sensibility, panting after good unalloyed, completed the seduction. from this period mrs harley was more guarded in her conduct; she carefully avoided the mention of her son.--under pretence of having an alteration made in the frame, she removed his picture from the library; but the constraint she put upon herself was too evident and painful; we no longer sought, with equal ardour, an interchange of sentiment, reserve took place of the tender confidence of friendship; a thousand times, while i gazed upon her dear averted countenance, i yearned to throw myself upon her bosom, to weep, to unfold to her the inmost recesses of my mind--that ingenuous mind, which languished for communication, and preyed upon itself! dear and cruel friend, why did you transfix my heart with the barbed and envenomed arrow, and then refuse to administer the only healing balsam? my visits to mrs harley became less frequent; i shut myself up whole days in my apartment, at morton park, or wandered through its now leafless groves, absorbed in meditation--fostering the sickly sensibility of my soul, and nursing wild, improbable, chimerical, visions of felicity, that, touched by the sober wand of truth, would have 'melted into thin air.' 'the more desires i have' (observes an acute, and profound french philosopher[ ]) 'the less ardent they are. the torrents that divide themselves into many branches are the least dangerous in their course. a strong passion is a solitary passion, that concentrates all our desires within one point.' [footnote : helvetius.] chapter xix i had not seen my friend for many days, when, on a dark and stormy night, in the month of january, between nine and ten o'clock, the family at morton park were alarmed, by a loud and violent knocking at the hall door. on opening it, a servant appeared--and a chaise, the porter having unbolted the great gates, drew up to the door. the man delivered a note addressed to miss courtney. i was unacquainted with the handwriting, and unfolded it with trepidation. it contained but a few lines, written in a female character, and signed with the name of a lady, who resided about twelve miles from morton park, at whose house mrs harley sometimes made a visit of a few days. it stated-- 'that my friend was seized at the mansion of this lady with an apoplectic fit, from which she had been restored, after some hours of insensibility: that the physicians were apprehensive of a relapse, and that mrs harley had expressed a desire of seeing miss courtney--a carriage and servants were sent for her conveyance.' mr morton was from home, his lady made no offer of any of her own domestics to accompany me. montague, who had been at the park for some days past, solicited permission to be my escort. i hesitated a moment, and would willingly have declined this proposal, but he repeated and enforced it with a vehemence, that, in the present hurried state of my mind, i had not spirits to oppose. shocked, alarmed, distressed, i wrapped a shawl round me, and sprang into the chaise. montague stepped in after me, and seated himself by my side; the horses galloped, or rather flew down the avenue, that led to the high road. we travelled with great swiftness, and in uninterrupted silence for some miles: the darkness was so thick and profound, that i could not discover the road we took, and i began to feel very impatient to arrive at the place of our destination. i questioned my companion respecting his knowledge of our situation, and expressed an apprehension, that we might possibly have missed the way. he made no reply to my interrogation, but, starting as if from a reverie, seized my hand, while his own trembled with a visible agitation, and began once more to urge a suit, which i had hoped the steadiness and consistency of my conduct had induced him entirely to relinquish. 'is this a time, mr montague, for an address of this nature--do you believe, that my favour is to be gained by these proofs of inconsideration? have some respect for the claims of humanity and friendship, and, in seeking my affection, do not forfeit my esteem.' he was about to reply, and i could perceive by the few words which he uttered, and by the tone of his voice, that he struggled, in vain, to rein in his quick and irascible spirit; when, in turning a sharp angle of the road, the horses took fright at some object, indistinctly seen, and ran precipitately down a steep hill, with a velocity that threatened immediate destruction. my companion, forcing open the door, seemed inclined to leap from the carriage, but hesitated, as if unwilling to desert me in so imminent a danger; i exhorted him to think only of providing for his own safety, and, letting down the glasses on the side on which i sat, i resigned myself to my fate. in springing from the chaise, by some means, montague entangled his coat in the step--he fell, without clearing it, and i felt, with a horror that congealed my blood, the wheel go over him. in a few minutes, i perceived a traveller, at the risque of his own life, endeavouring to stop the horses--the pole of the chaise striking him with great force, he was obliged to relinquish his humane efforts--but this impediment occasioning the restive animals to turn out of the road, they ran furiously up a bank, and overset the carriage. i felt it going, and sitting, with my arms folded, close in the lower corner, fell with it, without attempting to struggle, by which means i escaped unhurt. the stranger, once more, came to our assistance, and, the mettle of the horses being now pretty well exhausted, my deliverer was enabled to cut the traces, and then hastened to extricate me from my perilous situation. it was some time before i recovered myself sufficiently to thank him for his humanity, and to assure him, that i had received no other injury than from my fears. i then mentioned to him, my apprehensions for the fate of my fellow traveller, entreating that he would return with me in search of him. with this request he immediately complied, leaving the horses in the care of the servants, neither of which had received any material hurt. we soon discovered the unfortunate montague, lying in the road, in a melancholy situation: the wheel had gone over one of his legs, the bone of which was broken and splintered in a terrible manner, and, having fainted from the pain, we were at first apprehensive that he was already dead. turning from this shocking spectacle, a faint sickness overspread my heart, the stranger supported me in his arms, while a violent burst of tears preserved me from swooning. my companion examining the body, perceived signs of life, and, by our united efforts, sense and recollection were soon restored. i remained with montague while the stranger returned to the carriage, to enquire what damages it had received, and whether it was in a condition to proceed to the next village, which, the postilion informed him, was near two miles from the spot where the accident had happened, and we were, yet, five miles from the place whither we were going. the axle-tree and one of the hind wheels, upon examination, were found broken, the traces had been cut in pieces, and the horses, had the chaise been in a better condition, were so unmanageable, in consequence of their late fright, that it would have been dangerous to have attempted putting them again into harness. with this intelligence, our kind friend came back to us--we held a short consultation, on the means most proper to be adopted, and, at length it was determined, that, after placing montague in the carriage, where he should be sheltered from the inclemency of the elements, and leaving him in the charge of the servants, the traveller and myself should walk onward to the village, and send a chaise, or litter, for the conveyance of our unfortunate companion. to this proposal montague assented, at the same time, declaring it to be his intention, to proceed directly across the country, to the house of his father, which could not, he conjectured, be at any great distance, and where he should be assured of meeting with greater attention, and more skilful assistance, than at a petty inn, in a paltry village. having thus adjusted our plan, and, with the help of the servants, carefully placed montague in the chaise, we proceeded towards the village. chapter xx the night was tempestuous, and, though the moon was now rising, her light was every moment obscured by dark clouds, discharging frequent and heavy showers of rain, accompanied by furious gusts of wind. after walking near a mile we entered upon a wide heath, which afforded no shelter from the weather. i perceived my companion's steps began to grow feeble, and his voice faint. the moon suddenly emerging from a thick cloud, i observed his countenance, and methought his features seemed familiar to me; but they were overspread by a pallid and death-like hue. he stopped suddenly-- 'i am very ill,' said he, in a tone of voice that penetrated into my soul, 'and can proceed no further.' he sunk upon the turf. seating myself beside him, while his head fell on my shoulder, i threw around him my supporting arms. his temples were bedewed with a cold sweat, and he appeared to be in expiring agonies. a violent sickness succeeded, followed by an hemorrhage. 'gracious god!' i exclaimed, 'you have broken a blood vessel!' 'i fear so,' he replied. 'i have felt strangely disordered since the blow i received from the pole of the carriage; but, till this moment, i have not been at leisure to attend to my sensations.' 'do not talk,' cried i, wildly; 'do not exhaust yourself.' again the clouds gathered; an impetuous gust of wind swept over the heath, and the rain fell in torrents. unconscious of what i did, i clasped the stranger to my throbbing bosom,--the coldness of death seemed upon him--i wrapped my shawl around him, vainly attempting to screen him from the piercing blast. he spake not; my terrified imagination already represented him as a lifeless corpse; i sat motionless for some minutes, in the torpor of despair. from this horrible situation, i was, at length, roused, by the sound of a distant team: breathless, i listened for a few moments; i again distinctly heard it wafted upon the wind; when, gently reclining my charge on the grass, i started from the ground, and ran swiftly towards the highway. the sound approached, and the clouds once more breaking, and discovering a watery moon-light gleam, i perceived, with joy, a waggon loaded with hay. i bounded over a part of the turf that still separated me from the road, and accosting the driver, explained to him, in a few words, as much of my situation as was necessary; and, entreating his assistance, allured him by the hope of a reward. we returned to my patient; he raised his head on my approach, and attempted to speak; but, enjoining him silence, he took my hand, and, by a gentle pressure, expressed his sense of my cares more eloquently than by words. i assisted the countryman in supporting him to the road. we prepared for him, in the waggon, a soft bed of hay, upon which we placed him; and, resting his head on my lap, we proceeded gently to the nearest village. on our arrival at an indifferent inn, i ordered a bed to be immediately prepared for him, and sent a man and horse express, to the next town, for medical assistance: at the same time, relating in brief the accidents of the night, i dispatched a carriage for the relief of montague, who was conveyed, according to his wishes, to the house of his father. notwithstanding all my precautions, the moving brought on a relapse of the alarming symptoms; the discharge of blood returned with aggravated violence, and, when the physician arrived, there appeared in the unfortunate sufferer but little signs of life; but by the application of styptics and cordials he once more began to revive; and, about five in the morning, i was prevailed on, by the joint efforts of the landlady and the humane dr----, to resign my seat at the bed's head to a careful servant, and to recruit my exhausted strength by a few hours' repose. the vivid impressions, which had so rapidly succeeded each other in my mind, for some time kept me waking, in a state of feverish agitation; but my harrassed spirits were at length relieved by wearied nature's kind restorer, and i slept for four hours profoundly. on waking, my first enquiry was after my companion, in whose state i felt an unusual degree of interest; and i heard, with pleasure, that the hemorrhage had not returned; that he had rested with apparent tranquillity, and appeared revived. i dressed myself hastily, and passed into his apartment: he faintly smiled on perceiving my approach, and gave me his hand.--the physician had ordered him to be kept quiet, and i would not suffer him to speak; but, contemplating more attentively his countenance, which had the night before struck me with a confused recollection--what were my emotions, on tracing the beloved features of augustus harley! his resemblance, not only to the portrait, but to his mother, could not, as i thought, be mistaken. a universal trembling seized me--i hastened out of the apartment with tottering steps, and shutting myself into my chamber, a tide of melancholy emotions gushed upon my heart. i wept, without knowing wherefore, tears half delicious, half agonizing! quickly coming to myself, i returned to the chamber of my patient, (now more tenderly endeared) which, officiating as a nurse for five days, i never quitted, except to take necessary rest and refreshment. i had written to mr morton a minute account of all that happened, merely suppressing the name of my deliverer: to this letter i received no reply; but had the pleasure of hearing, on the return of my messenger (who was commissioned to make enquiries), that mrs harley had suffered no return of her disorder, and was daily acquiring health and strength--i feared, yet, to acquaint her with the situation of her son; not only on the account of her own late critical situation, but, also, lest any sudden agitation of spirits from the arrival of his mother, might, in his present weak state, be fatal to augustus. i now redoubled for him my cares and attentions: he grew hourly better; and, when permitted to converse, expressed in lively terms his grateful sense of my kindness. ah! why did i misconstrue these emotions, so natural in such circumstances--why did i flatter my heart with the belief of a sympathy which did not, could not, exist! chapter xxi as my patient began to acquire strength, i demanded of him his name and family, that i might inform his friends of his situation. on his answering 'harley,' i enquired, smiling-- if he remembered hearing his mother speak of a little _protegé_, emma courtney, whom she favoured with her partial friendship? 'oh, yes!'--and his curiosity had been strongly awakened to procure a sight of this lady. 'behold her, then, in your nurse!' 'is it possible!' he exclaimed, taking my hand, and pressing it with his lips--'my sister!--my friend!--how shall i ever pay the debt i owe you?' 'we will settle that matter another time; but it is now become proper that i should inform your excellent mother of what has happened, which i have hitherto delayed, lest surprise should be prejudicial to you, and retard your recovery.' i then recounted to him the particulars of the late occurrences, of which he had before but a confused notion; adding my surprise, that i had neither seen, nor heard, any thing from mr morton. he informed me, in his turn, that, having received an express, informing him of his mother's alarming situation, he immediately quitted the seat of his friend, where he was on a visit, to hasten to her; that, for this purpose, riding late, he by some means bewildered himself through the darkness of the evening, by which mistake he encountered our chaise, and he hoped was, in some measure, notwithstanding the accidents which ensued, accessary to my preservation. i quitted him to write to my friend, whom i, at length, judged it necessary to acquaint with his situation. on the receipt of my letter, she flew to us on the wings of maternal tenderness--folded her beloved augustus, and myself, alternately to her affectionate bosom, calling us 'her children--her darling children!--i was her guardian angel--_the preserver of her son!_--and _he_ only could repay my goodness!' i ventured to raise my eyes to him--they met his--mine were humid with tears of tenderness: a cloud passed over his brow--he entreated his mother to restrain her transports--he was yet too enfeebled to bear these emotions. she recollected herself in an instant; and, after again embracing him, leaning on my arm, walked out into the air, to relieve the tumultuous sensations that pressed upon her heart. once more she made me recite, minutely, the late events--strained me in her arms, repeatedly calling me-- 'her beloved daughter--the meritorious child of her affections--the preserver of her augustus!' every word she uttered sunk deep into my soul, that greedily absorbed the delicious poison, prepared for me by the cruel hand of more than maternal fondness. i mentioned to her my having written to mr morton, and my astonishment at his silence. he had not yet returned, she informed me, to morton park; and intimated, that some malicious stories, respecting my sudden disappearance, had been circulated by mrs morton through the neighbourhood. she had herself been under extreme solicitude on my account. it was generally believed, from the turn mrs morton's malice had given to the affair, that i had eloped with mr montague:--the accident which had befallen him had been rumoured; but the circumstances, and the occasion of it, had been variously related. confiding in my principles, she had waited with anxiety for the elucidation of these mysterious accounts; lamenting herself as the innocent occasion of them, yet assured they would, eventually, prove to my honour. she commended the magnanimity, which her partial friendship imputed to my behaviour, with all the enthusiasm of affection, and execrated the baseness of mrs morton, who, having received my letter, must have been acquainted with the real truth. her narration gave me many complicated, and painful, sensations; but the good opinion of the world, however desirable it may be, as connected with our utility, has ever been with me but a secondary consideration. confiding in the rectitude of my own conduct, i composed my spirits; depending on that rectitude, and time, for removing the malignant aspersions which at present clouded my fame. the tale of slander, the basis of which is falsehood, will quietly wear away; and should it not--how unfounded, frequently, are the censures of the world--how confused its judgments! i entreated my friend to say nothing, at present, to her son on this subject; it was yet of importance that his mind should be kept still and tranquil. we rejoined augustus at the dinner hour, and spent the day together in harmony and friendship. the physician calling in the evening, mrs harley consulted him, whether it would be safe to remove her son, as she was impatient to have him under her own roof. to this the doctor made no objection, provided he was conveyed in an easy carriage, and by short stages. on mrs harley's thanking him for his polite and humane attention to his patient, smilingly pointing to me, he replied--'her thanks were misplaced.' his look was arch and significant; it called a glow into my cheeks. i ventured, once more, to steal a glance at augustus: his features were again overspread with a more than usual seriousness, while his eyes seemed designedly averted. mrs harley sighed, and, abruptly changing the subject, asked the physician an indifferent question, who soon after took his leave. chapter xxii in a few days we returned to the peaceful mansion of my maternal friend. augustus seemed revived by the little journey, while every hour brought with it an increase of health and spirits. mrs harley would not suffer me to speak of going to morton park in the absence of its master; neither could augustus spare his kind nurse:--'i must stay,' he added, and methought his accents were softened, 'and complete my charitable purpose.' my appearance again in the village, the respectability, and the testimony, of my friends, cleared my fame; and it was only at morton park, that any injurious suspicions were affected to be entertained. the hours flew on downy pinions:--my new _brother_, for so he would call himself, endeavoured to testify his gratitude, by encouraging and assisting me in the pursuit of learning and science: he gave us lectures on astronomy and philosophy-- 'while truths divine came mended from his tongue.' i applied myself to the languages, and aided by my preceptor, attained a general knowledge of the principles, and philosophy, of criticism and grammar, and of the rules of composition. every day brought with it the acquisition of some new truth; and our intervals from study were employed in music, in drawing, in conversation, in reading the _belles lettres_--in-- 'the feast of reason, and the flow of souls.' the spring was advancing:--we now made little excursions, either on horseback, in a chaise, or in a boat on the river, through the adjacent country. the fraternal relation, which augustus had assumed, banished restraint, and assisted me in deceiving myself. i drank in large and intoxicating draughts of a delicious poison, that had circulated through every vein to my heart, before i was aware of its progress. at length, part of a conversation, which i accidentally overheard between mrs harley and her son, recalled me to a temporary recollection. i was seeking them in the garden, towards the dusk of the evening, and a filbert hedge separated us. i heard the voice of my friend, as speaking earnestly, and i unconsciously stopped. 'it would be a comfort to my declining years to see you the husband of a woman of virtue and sensibility: domestic affections meliorate the heart; no one ought to live wholly to himself.' 'certainly not, neither does any one; but, in the present state of society, there are many difficulties and anxieties attending these connections: they are a lottery, and the prizes are few. i think, perhaps, nearly with you, but my situation is, _in many respects, a peculiar one_,'--and he sighed deeply:--need i enumerate these peculiarities to you? neither do i pretend to have lived so long in the world without imbibing many of its prejudices, and catching the contagion of its habits.' 'they are unworthy of you.' 'perhaps so--but we will, if you please, change the subject; this to me is not a pleasant one. what is become of my pupil? it is likely to be a clear night; let us go in, and prepare for some astronomical observations.' my heart reproved me for listening, i crept back to my chamber--shed one tear--heaved a convulsive, struggling, sigh--breathed on my handkerchief, applied it to my eyes, and joined my friends in the library. four months had rapidly passed--'the spot of azure in the cloudy sky'--of my destiny. mr morton, i was informed, had returned to the park, and augustus, whose health was now thoroughly restored, talked of quitting the country. i advised with my friends, who agreed with me, that it was now become proper for me to visit my uncle, and, explaining to him the late events, justify my conduct. mrs harley and her son offered to accompany me; but this, for many reasons, i declined; taking my leave of them with a heavy heart, and promising, if i were not kindly received, an immediate return. chapter xxiii on my arrival at mr morton's, the porter informed me, he was ordered by his lady, to deny my entrance. my swelling heart!--a sentiment of indignation distended it almost to suffocation.--at this moment, anne tripped lightly through the court-yard, and, seeing me, ran to embrace me. i returned her caresses with warmth. 'ah!' said she, 'you are not, you cannot be, guilty. i have been longing to see you, and to hear all that has happened, but it was not permitted me.' she added, in a whisper, 'i cannot love my mother, for she torments and restrains me--my desire of liberty is stronger than my duty--but i shall one day be able to outwit her.' 'will not your father, my love, allow me to speak with him? i have a right to be heard, and i demand his attention.' 'he is in his dressing-room,' said ann, 'i will slide softly, to him, and tell him you are here.' away she flew, and one of the footmen presently returned, to conduct me to his master. i found him alone, he received me with a grave and severe aspect. i related to him, circumstantially, the occurrences which had taken place during his absence. my words, my voice, my manner, were emphatic--animated with the energy of truth--they extorted, they commanded, they, irresistibly, compelled assent. his features softened, his eyes glistened, he held out his hand, he was about to speak--he hesitated a moment, and sighed. at this instant, mrs morton burst into the room, with the aspect of a fury--her bloated countenance yet more swelled and hideous--i shrunk back involuntarily--she poured forth a torrent of abuse and invective. a momentary recollection reassured me--waiting till she had exhausted her breath, i turned from her, and to her husband, with calm dignity-- 'i thank you, sir, for all the kindness i have received from you--i am convinced you do me justice--_for this i do not thank you_, it was a duty to which i had a claim, and which you owed, not only to me, but, to yourself. my longer continuance in this house, i feel, would be improper. for the present, i return to mrs harley's, where i shall respectfully receive, and maturely weigh, any counsels with which you may in future think proper to favour me.' mr morton bowed his head; poor man! his mild spirit was overborne, he dared not assert the dictates of his own reason. i hurried out of the apartment, and hastily embracing ann, who awaited me in the hall, charging myself with a hundred kisses for mrs harley, i took the way to the hospitable mansion of my friend. i had proceeded about half a mile, when i beheld augustus, advancing towards me; he observed my tremulous emotions, and pallid countenance; he took my hand, holding it with a gentle pressure, and, throwing his other arm round me, supported my faultering steps. his voice was the voice of kindness--his words spake assurance, and breathed hope--_fallacious hope!_--my heart melted within me--my tremor encreased--i dissolved into tears. 'a deserted outcast from society--a desolate orphan--what was to become of me--to whom could i fly?' 'unjust girl! have i then forfeited all your confidence--have you not a mother and a friend, who love you--' he stopped--paused--and added 'with maternal, with _fraternal_, tenderness? to whom would you go?--remain with us, your society will cheer my mother's declining years'--again he hesitated,--'i am about to return to town, assure me, that you will continue with mrs harley--it will soften the pain of separation.' i struggled for more fortitude--hinted at the narrowness of my fortune--at my wish to exert my talents in some way, that should procure me a less dependent situation--spoke of my active spirit--of my abhorrence of a life of indolence and vacuity. he insisted on my waving these subjects for the present. 'there would be time enough, in future, for their consideration. in the mean while, i might go on improving myself, and whether present or absent, might depend upon him, for every assistance in his power.' his soothing kindness, aided by the affectionate attentions of my friend, gradually, lulled my mind into tranquillity. my bosom was agitated, only, by a slight and sweet emotion--like the gentle undulations of the ocean, when the winds, that swept over its ruffled surface, are hushed into repose. chapter xxiv another month passed away--every hour, i imbibed, in large draughts, the deceitful poison of hope. a few days before that appointed for the departure of augustus, i received a visit from mr montague, of whose situation, during his confinement, i had made many enquiries, and it was with unaffected pleasure that i beheld him perfectly restored to health. i introduced him to my friends, who congratulated him upon his recovery, and treated him with that polite and cordial hospitality which characterized them. he was on his way to morton park, and was particular in his enquiries respecting the late conduct of the lady of the mansion, of which he had heard some confused reports. i could not conceal from him our final separation, but, aware of his inflammable temper, i endeavoured to soften my recital as far as was consistent with truth and justice. it was with difficulty, that our united persuasions induced him to restrain his fiery spirit, which broke out into menaces and execrations. i represented to him-- 'that every thing had been already explained; that the affair had now subsided; that a reconciliation was neither probable nor desirable; that any interference, on his part, would only tend to mutual exasperation, from which i must eventually be the sufferer.' i extorted from him a promise--that, as he was necessitated to meet mr morton on business, he would make no allusions to the past--i should be mortified, (i added) by having it supposed, that i stood in need of a _champion_.--mr morton had no doubts of the rectitude of my conduct, and it would be barbarous to involve him in a perpetual domestic warfare. mr montague, at the request of augustus, spent that day, and the next, with us. i thought, i perceived, that he regarded mr harley with a scrutinizing eye, and observed my respect for, and attention to, him, with jealous apprehension. before his departure, he requested half an hour's conversation with me alone, with which request i immediately complied, and withdrew with him into an adjoining compartment. he informed me-- 'that he was going to london to pursue his medical studies--that, on his return, his father had proposed to establish him in his profession--that his prospects were very favourable, and that he should esteem himself completely happy if he might, yet, hope to soften my heart in his favour, and to place me in a more assured and tranquil position.' i breathed a heavy sigh, and sunk into a melancholy reverie. 'speak to me, emma,' said he, with impatience, 'and relieve the anxiety i suffer.' 'alas! what can i say?' 'say, that you will try to love me, that you will reward my faith and perseverance.' 'would to god, i could'--i hesitated--my eyes filled with tears--'go to london,' resumed i; 'a thousand new objects will there quickly obliterate from your remembrance a romantic and ill-fated attachment, to which retirement, and the want of other impression, has given birth, and which owes its strength merely to opposition.' 'as that opposition,' retorted he, 'is the offspring of pride and insensibility--' i looked at him with a mournful air--'do not reproach me, montague, my situation is far more pitiable than yours. _i am, indeed, unhappy_,' --added i, after a pause; 'i, like you, am the victim of a raised, of, i fear, a distempered imagination.' he eagerly entreated me to explain myself. 'i will not attempt to deceive you--i should accuse myself, were i to preserve any sentiment, however delicate its nature, that might tend to remove your present illusion. it is, i confess, with extreme reluctance--with real pain'--i trembled--my voice faultered, and i felt my colour vary--'that i constrain myself to acknowledge a hopeless, an extravagant'--i stopped, unable to proceed. fire flashed from his eyes, he started from his seat, and took two or three hasty strides across the room. 'i understand you, but too well--augustus harley shall dispute with me a prize'-- 'stop, sir, be not unjust--make not an ungenerous return to the confidence i have reposed in you. respect the violence which, on your account, i have done to my own feelings. i own, that i have not been able to defend my heart against the accomplishments and high qualities of mr harley--i respected his virtues and attainments, and, by a too easy transition--at length--_loved his person_. but my tenderness is a secret to all the world but yourself--it has not met with'--a burning blush suffused my cheek--'it has little hope of meeting, a return. to your _honor_ i have confided this cherished _secret_--dare you betray my confidence? i know, you dare not!' he seemed affected--his mind appeared torn by a variety of conflicting emotions, that struggled for victory--he walked towards me, and again to the door, several times. i approached him--i gave him my hand-- 'adieu, montague,' said i, in a softened accent--'be assured of my sympathy--of my esteem--of my best wishes! when you can meet me with calmness, i shall rejoice to see you--_as a friend_. amidst some excesses, i perceive the seeds of real worth in your character, cultivate them, they may yield a noble harvest. i shall not be forgetful of the distinction you have shewn me, _when almost a deserted orphan_--once again--farewel, my friend, and--may god bless you!' i precipitately withdrew my hand from his, and rushed out of the room. i retired to my chamber, and it was some hours before my spirits became sufficiently composed to allow me to rejoin my friends. on meeting them, mrs harley mentioned, with some surprize, the abrupt departure of montague, who had quitted the house, without taking leave of its owners, by whom he had been so politely received. 'he is a fine young man,' added she, 'but appears to be very eccentric.' augustus was silent, but fixed his penetrating eyes on my face, with an expression that covered me with confusion. chapter xxv the day fixed for the departure of mr harley, for london, now drew near--i had anticipated this period with the most cruel inquietude. i was going to lose, perhaps for ever, my preceptor, my friend! he, from whom my mind had acquired knowledge, and in whose presence my heart had rested satisfied. i had hitherto scarcely formed a wish beyond that of daily beholding, and listening to him--i was now to gaze on that beloved countenance, to listen to those soothing accents, no longer. he was about to mix in the gay world--to lose in the hurry of business, or of pleasure, the remembrance of those tender, rational, tranquil, moments, sacred to virtue and friendship, that had left an indelible impression on my heart. could i, indeed, flatter myself, that the idea of the timid, affectionate, emma, would ever recur to his mind in the tumultuous scenes of the crouded metropolis, it would doubtless quickly be effaced, and lost in the multiplicity of engagements and avocations. how should i, buried in solitude and silence, recall it to his recollection, how contrive to mingle it with his thoughts, and entangle it with his associations? ah! did he but know my tenderness--_the desire of being beloved_, of inspiring sympathy, is congenial to the human heart--why should i hesitate to inform him of my affection--why do i blush and tremble at the mere idea? it is a false shame! it is a pernicious system of morals, which teaches us that hypocrisy can be virtue! he is well acquainted with the purity, and with the sincerity, of my heart--he will at least regard me with esteem and tender pity--and how often has 'pity melted the soul to love!' the experiment is, surely, innocent, and little hazardous. what i have to apprehend? can i distrust, for a moment, those principles of rectitude, of honour, of goodness, which gave birth to my affection? have i not witnessed his humanity, have i not experienced his delicacy, in a thousand instances? though he should be obliged to wound, he is incapable of insulting, the heart that loves him; and that, loving him, believed, alas! for a long time, _that it loved only virtue_! the morning of our separation, at last, arrived. my friend, too much indisposed to attend the breakfast table, took leave of her son in her own apartment. i awaited him, in the library, with a beating heart, and, on his departure, put into his hands a paper.-- 'read it not,' said i, in a low and almost inarticulate tone of voice, 'till arrived at the end of your journey; or, at least, till you are ten miles from hence.' he received it in silence; but it was a silence more expressive than words. 'suffer me,' it said, 'for a few moments, to solicit your candour and attention. you are the only man in the world, to whom i could venture to confide sentiments, that to many would be inconceivable; and by those, who are unacquainted with the human mind, and the variety of circumstances by which characters are variously impressed and formed--who are accustomed to consider mankind in masses--who have been used to bend implicitly, to custom and prescription--the deviation of a solitary individual from _rules_ sanctioned by usage, by prejudice, by expediency, would be regarded as romantic. i frankly avow, while my cheeks glow with the blushes of _modesty_, not of shame, that your virtues and accomplishments have excited in my bosom an affection, as pure as the motives which gave it birth, and as animated as it is pure.--this ingenuous avowal may perhaps affect, but will scarcely (i suspect) surprise, you; for, incapable of dissimulation, the emotions of my mind are ever but too apparent in my expressions, and in my conduct, to deceive a less penetrating eye than yours--neither have i been solicitous to disguise them. 'it has been observed, that,' "the strength of an affection is generally in the same proportion, as the character of the species, in the object beloved, is lost in that of the individual,"[ ] and, that individuality of character is the only fastener of the affections. it is certain, however singular it may appear, that many months before we became personally acquainted, the report of your worth and high qualities had generated in my mind, an esteem and reverence, which has gradually ripened into a tenderness, that has, at length, mixed itself with all my associations, and is become interwoven with every fibre of my heart. [footnote : wolstonecraft's rights of woman.] 'i have reflected, again and again, on the imprudence of cherishing an attachment, which a variety of circumstances combine to render so unpromising, and--what shall i say?--so peculiar is the constitution of my mind, that those very circumstances have had a tendency directly opposite to what might reasonably have been expected; and have only served to render the sentiment, i have delighted to foster, more affecting and interesting.--yes! i am aware of the tenure upon which you retain your fortunes--of the cruel and unnatural conditions imposed on you by the capricious testator: neither can i require a sacrifice which i am unable to recompence. but while these melancholy convictions deprive me of hope, they encourage me, by proving the disinterestedness of my attachment, to relieve my heart by communication.--mine is a whimsical pride, which dreads nothing so much as the imputation of sordid, or sinister motives. remember, then--should we never meet again--if in future periods you should find, that the friendship of the world is--"a shade that follows wealth and fame;"--if, where you have conferred obligations, you are repaid with ingratitude--where you have placed confidence, with treachery--and where you have a claim to zeal, with coldness! remember, _that you have once been beloved, for yourself alone_, by one, who, in contributing to the comfort of your life, would have found the happiness of her own. 'is it possible that a mind like yours, neither hardened by prosperity, nor debased by fashionable levity--which vice has not corrupted, nor ignorance brutalized--can be wholly insensible to the balmy sweetness, which natural, unsophisticated, affections, shed through the human heart? "shall those by heaven's own influence join'd, by feeling, sympathy, and mind, the sacred voice of truth deny, and mock the mandate of the sky?" 'but i check my pen:--i am no longer-- "the hope-flush'd enterer on the stage of life." 'the dreams of youth, chaced by premature reflection, have given place to soberer, to sadder, conclusions; and while i acknowledge, that it would be inexpressibly soothing to me to believe, that in happier circumstances, my artless affection might have awakened in your mind a sympathetic tenderness:--this is the extent of my hopes!--i recollect you once told me "it was our duty to make our reason conquer the sensibility of our heart." yet, why? is, then, apathy the perfection of our nature--and is not that nature refined and harmonized by the gentle and social affections? the being who gave to the mind its reason, gave also to the heart its sensibility. 'i make no apologies for, because i feel no consciousness of, weakness. an attachment sanctioned by nature, reason, and virtue, ennoble the mind capable of conceiving and cherishing it: of such an attachment a corrupt heart is utterly incapable. 'you may tell me, perhaps, "that the portrait on which my fancy has dwelt enamoured, owes all its graces, its glowing colouring--like the ideal beauty of the ancient artists--to the imagination capable of sketching the dangerous picture."--allowing this, for a moment, _the sentiments it inspires are not the less genuine_; and without some degree of illusion, and enthusiasm, all that refines, exalts, softens, embellishes, life--genius, virtue, love itself, languishes. but, on this subject, my opinions have not been lightly formed:--it is not to the personal graces, though "the body charms, because the mind is seen," but to the virtues and talents of the individual (for without intellect, virtue is an empty name), that my heart does homage; and, were i never again to behold you--were you even the husband of another--my tenderness (a tenderness as innocent as it is lively) would never cease! 'but, methinks, i hear you say,--"whither does all this tend, and what end does it propose?" alas! this is a question i scarcely dare to ask myself!--yet, allow me to request, that you will make me one promise, and resolve me one question:--ah! do not evade this enquiry; for much it imports me to have an explicit reply, lest, in indulging my own feelings, i should, unconsciously, plant a thorn in the bosom of another:--_is your heart, at present, free?_ or should you, in future, form a tender engagement, tell me, that i shall receive the first intimation of it from yourself; and, in the assurance of your happiness, i will learn to forget my own. 'i aspire to no higher title than that of the most faithful of your friends, and the wish of becoming worthy of your esteem and confidence shall afford me a motive for improvement. i will learn of you moderation, equanimity, and self-command, and you will, perhaps, continue to afford me direction, and assistance, in the pursuit of knowledge and truth. 'i have laid down my pen, again and again, and still taken it up to add something more, from an anxiety, lest even you, of whose delicacy i have experienced repeated proofs, should misconstrue me.--"oh! what a world is this!--into what false habits has it fallen! can hypocrisy be virtue? can a desire to call forth all the best affections of the heart, be misconstrued into something too degrading for expression?"[ ] but i will banish these apprehensions; i am convinced they are injurious. 'yes!--i repeat it--i relinquish my pen with reluctance. a melancholy satisfaction, from what source i can scarcely define, diffuses itself through my heart while i unfold to you its emotions.--write to me; be _ingenuous_; i desire, i call for, truth! 'emma.' [footnote : holcroft's anna st ives.] chapter xxvi i had not courage to make my friend a confident of the step i had taken; so wild, and so romantic, did it appear, even to myself--a false pride, a false shame, with-held me. i brooded in silence over the sentiment, that preyed on the bosom which cherished it. every morning dawned with expectation, and every evening closed in disappointment. i walked daily to the post-office, with precipitate steps and a throbbing heart, to enquire for letters, but in vain; and returned slow, dejected, spiritless. _hope_, one hour, animated my bosom and flushed my cheek; the next, pale despair shed its torpid influence through my languid frame. inquietude, at length, gradually gave place to despondency, and i sunk into lassitude. my studies no longer afforded me any pleasure. i turned over my books, incapable of fixing my attention; took out my drawings, threw them aside; moved, restless and dissatisfied, from seat to seat; sought, with unconscious steps, the library, and, throwing myself on the sopha, with folded arms, fixed my eyes on the picture of augustus, which had lately been replaced, and sunk into waking dreams of ideal perfection and visionary bliss. i gazed on the lifeless features, engraven on my heart in colours yet more true and vivid--but where was the benignant smile, the intelligent glance, the varying expression? where the pleasant voice, whose accents had been melody in my ear; that had cheered me in sadness, dispelled the vapours of distrust and melancholy, and awakened my emulation for science and improvement? starting from a train of poignant and distressing emotions, i fled from an apartment once so dear, presenting now but the ghosts of departed pleasures--fled into the woods, and buried myself in their deepest recesses; or, shutting myself in my chamber, avoided the sight of my friend, whose dejected countenance but the more forcibly reminded me-- 'that such things were, and were most dear.' in this state of mind, looking one day over my papers, without any known end in view, i accidentally opened a letter from mr francis (with whom i still continued, occasionally, to correspond), which i had recently received. i eagerly seized, and re-perused, it. my spirits were weakened; the kindness which it expressed affected me--it touched my heart--it excited my tears. i determined instantly to reply to it, and to acknowledge my sense of his goodness. my mind was overwhelmed with the pressure of its own thoughts; a gleam of joy darted through the thick mists that pervaded it; communication would relieve the burthen. i took up my pen; and, though i dared not betray the fatal secret concealed, as a sacred treasure, in the bottom of my heart, i yet gave a loose to, i endeavoured to paint, its sensations. after briefly sketching the events that had driven me from morton park (of which i had not hitherto judged it necessary to inform him), without hinting the name of my deliverer, or suffering myself to dwell on the services he had rendered me, i mentioned my present temporary residence at the house of a friend, and expressed an impatience at my solitary, inactive, situation. i went on-- 'to what purpose should i trouble you with a thousand wayward, contradictory, ideas and emotions, that i am, myself, unable to disentangle--which have, perhaps, floated in every mind, that has had leisure for reflection--which are distinguished by no originality, and which i may express (though not feel) without force? i sought to cultivate my understanding, and exercise my reason, that, by adding variety to my resources, i might increase the number of my enjoyments: for _happiness_ is, surely, the only desirable _end_ of existence! but when i ask myself, whether i am yet nearer to the end proposed?--i dare not deceive myself--sincerity obliges me to answer in the negative. i daily perceive the gay and the frivolous, among my sex, amused with every passing trifle; gratified by the insipid _routine_ of heartless, mindless, intercourse; fully occupied, alternately, by domestic employment, or the childish vanity of varying external ornaments, and "hanging drapery on a smooth block." i do not affect to despise, and i regularly practise, the necessary avocations of my sex; neither am i superior to their vanities. the habits acquired by early precept and example adhere tenaciously; and are never, perhaps, entirely eradicated. but all these are insufficient to engross, to satisfy, the active, aspiring, mind. hemmed in on every side by the constitutions of society, and not less so, it may be, by my own prejudices--i perceive, indignantly perceive, the magic circle, without knowing how to dissolve the powerful spell. while men pursue interest, honor, pleasure, as accords with their several dispositions, women, who have too much delicacy, sense, and spirit, to degrade themselves by the vilest of all interchanges, remain insulated beings, and must be content tamely to look on, without taking any part in the great, though often absurd and tragical, drama of life. hence the eccentricities of conduct, with which women of superior minds have been accused--the struggles, the despairing though generous struggles, of an ardent spirit, denied a scope for its exertions! the strong feelings, and strong energies, which properly directed, in a field sufficiently wide, might--ah! what might they not have aided? forced back, and pent up, ravage and destroy the mind which gave them birth! 'yes, i confess, _i am unhappy_, unhappy in proportion as i believe myself (it may be, erringly) improved. philosophy, it is said, should regulate the feelings, but it has added fervor to mine! what are passions, but another name for powers? the mind capable of receiving the most forcible impressions is the sublimely improveable mind! yet, into whatever trains such minds are accidentally directed, they are prone to enthusiasm, while the vulgar stupidly wonder at the effects of powers, to them wholly inconceivable: the weak and the timid, easily discouraged, are induced, by the first failure, to relinquish their pursuits. "they make the impossibility they fear!" but the bold and the persevering, from repeated disappointment, derive only new ardor and activity. "they conquer difficulties, by daring to attempt them." 'i feel, that i am writing in a desultory manner, that i am unable to crowd my ideas into the compass of a letter, and, that could i do so, i should perhaps only weary you. there are but few persons to whom i would venture to complain, few would understand, and still fewer sympathise with me. you are in health, they would say, in the spring of life, have every thing supplied you without labour (so much the worse) nature, reason, open to you their treasures! all this is, partly, true--but, with inexpressible yearnings, my soul pants for something more, something higher! the morning rises upon me with sadness, and the evening closes with disgust--imperfection, uncertainty, is impressed on every object, on every pursuit! i am either restless or torpid, i seek to-day, what to-morrow, wearies and offends me. 'i entered life, flushed with hope--i have proceeded but a few steps, and the parterre of roses, viewed in distant prospect, nearer seen, proves a brake of thorns. the few worthy persons i have known appear, to me, to be struggling with the same half suppressed emotions.--whence is all this? why is intellect and virtue so far from conferring happiness? why is the active mind a prey to the incessant conflict between truth and error? shall i look beyond the disorders which, _here_, appear to me so inexplicable?--shall i expect, shall i demand, from the inscrutable being to whom i owe my existence, in future unconceived periods, the _end_ of which i believe myself capable, and which capacity, like a tormenting _ignis fatuus_, has hitherto served only to torture and betray? the animal rises up to satisfy the cravings of nature, and lies down to repose, undisturbed by care--has man superior powers, only to make him pre-eminently wretched?--wretched, it seems to me, in proportion as he rises? assist me, in disentangling my bewildered ideas--write to me--reprove me--spare me not! 'emma.' to this letter i quickly received a kind and consolatory reply, though not unmingled with the reproof i called for. it afforded me but a temporary relief, and i once more sunk into inanity; my faculties rusted for want of exercise, my reason grew feeble, and my imagination morbid. chapter xxvii a pacquet of letters, at length, arrived from london--mrs harley, with a look that seemed to search the soul, put one into my hands--the superscription bore the well known characters--yes, it was from augustus, and addressed to emma--i ran, with it, into my chamber, locked myself in, tore it almost asunder with a tremulous hand, perused its contents with avidity--scarce daring to respire--i reperused it again and again. 'i had trusted my confessions' (it said) 'to one who had made the human heart his study, who could not be affected by them improperly. it spoke of the illusions of the passions--of the false and flattering medium through which they presented objects to our view. he had answered my letter earlier, had it not involved him in too many thoughts to do it with ease. there was a great part of it to which he knew not how to reply--perhaps, on some subjects, it was not necessary to be explicit. and now, it may be, he had better be silent--he was dissatisfied with what he had written, but, were he to write again, he doubted if he should please himself any better.--he was highly flattered by the favourable opinion i entertained of him, it was a grateful proof, not of his merit, but of the warmth of my friendship, &c. &c.' this letter appeared to me vague, obscure, enigmatical. unsatisfied, disappointed, i felt, i had little to hope--and, yet, had no _distinct_ ground of fear. i brooded over it, i tortured its meaning into a hundred forms--i spake of it to my friend, but in general terms, in which she seemed to acquiesce: she appeared to have made a determination, not to enquire after what i was unwilling to disclose; she wholly confided both in my principles, and in those of her son: i was wounded by what, entangled in prejudice, i conceived to be a necessity for this reserve. again i addressed the man, whose image, in the absence of all other impressions, i had suffered to gain in my mind this dangerous ascendency. to augustus harley. 'i, once more, take up my pen with a mind so full of thought, that i foresee i am about to trespass on your time and patience--yet, perhaps, to one who makes "the human heart his study," it may not be wholly uninteresting to trace a faithful delineation of the emotions and sentiments of an ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind--a mind formed by solitude, and habits of reflection, to some strength of character. 'if to have been more guarded and reserved would have been more discreet, i have already forfeited all claim to this discretion--to affect it now, would be vain, and, by pursuing a middle course, i should resign the only advantage i may ever derive from my sincerity, the advantage of expressing my thoughts and feelings with freedom. 'the conduct, which i have been led to adopt, has been the result of a combination of peculiar circumstances, _and is not what i would recommend to general imitation_--to say nothing of the hazards it might involve, i am aware, generally speaking, arguments might be adduced, to prove, that certain customs, of which i, yet, think there is reason to complain, may not have been unfounded in nature--i am led to speak thus, because i am not willing to spare myself, but would alledge all which you might have felt inclined to hint, had you not been with-held by motives of delicate consideration. 'of what then, you may ask, do i complain?--not of the laws of nature! but when mind has given dignity to natural affections; when reason, culture, taste, and delicacy, have combined to chasten, to refine, to exalt (shall i say) to sanctity them--is there, then, no cause to complain of rigor and severity, that such minds must either passively submit to a vile traffic, or be content to relinquish all the endearing sympathies of life? nature has formed woman peculiarly susceptible of the tender affections. "the voice of nature is too strong to be silenced by artificial precepts." to feel these affections in a supreme degree, a mind enriched by literature and expanded by fancy and reflection, is necessary--for it is intellect and imagination only, that can give energy and interest to-- "the thousand soft sensations-- which vulgar souls want faculties to taste, who take their good and evil in the gross." 'i wish we were in the vehicular state, and that you understood the sentient language;[ ] you might then comprehend the whole of what i mean to express, but find too delicate for _words_. but i do you injustice. [footnote : see light of nature pursued. an entertaining philosophical work.] 'if the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial--where the _end_, sought to be attained, is-- "something, than beauty dearer," 'you may, perhaps, agree with me, that it is almost indifferent on which side the sentiment originates. yet, i confess, my frankness has involved me in many after thoughts and inquietudes; inquietudes, which all my reasoning is, at times, insufficient to allay. the shame of being singular, it has been justly observed,[ ] requires strong principles, and much native firmness of temper, to surmount.--those who deviate from the beaten track must expect to be entangled in the thicket, and wounded by many a thorn--my wandering feet have already been deeply pierced. [footnote : aikin's letters.] 'i should vainly attempt to describe the struggles, the solicitudes, the doubts, the apprehensions, that alternately rend my heart! i feel, that i have "put to sea upon a shattered plank, and placed my trust in miracles for safety." i dread, one moment, lest, in attempting to awaken your tenderness, i may have forfeited your respect; the next, that i have mistaken a delusive meteor for the sober light of reason. in retirement, numberless contradictory emotions revolve in my disturbed mind:--in company, i start and shudder from accidental allusions, in which no one but myself could trace any application. the end of doubt is the beginning of repose. say, then, to me, that it is a principle in human nature, however ungenerous, to esteem lightly what may be attained without difficulty.--tell me to make distinctions between love and friendship, of which i have, hitherto, been able to form no idea.--say, that the former is the caprice of fancy, founded on external graces, to which i have little pretension, and that it is vain to pretend, that-- "truth and good are one, and beauty dwells with them." 'tell me, that i have indulged too long the wild and extravagant chimeras of a romantic imagination. let us walk together into the palace of truth, where (it is fancifully related by an ingenious writer,[ ] that) every one was compelled by an irresistible, controuling, power, to reveal his inmost sentiments! all this i will bear, and will still respect your integrity, and confide in your principles; but i can no longer sustain a suspense that preys upon my spirits. it is not the book of fate--it is your mind, only, i desire to read. a sickly apprehension overspreads my heart--i pause here, unable to proceed.' 'emma.' [footnote : madame de genlis's tales of the castle.] chapter xxviii week after week, month after month, passed away in the anguish of vain expectation: my letter was not answered, and i again sunk into despondency.--winter drew near. i shuddered at the approach of this dreary and desolate season, when i was roused by the receipt of a letter from one of the daughters of the maternal aunt, under whose care i had spent the happy, thoughtless, days of childhood. my cousin informed me-- 'that she had married an officer in the east india service; that soon after their union he was ordered abroad, and stationed in bengal for three years, during which period she was to remain in a commodious and pleasant house, situated in the vicinity of the metropolis. she had been informed of my removal from morton park, and had no doubt but i should be able to give a satisfactory account of the occasion of that removal. she purposed, during the absence of her husband, to let out a part of her house; and should i not be fixed in my present residence, would be happy to accommodate me with an apartment, on terms that should be rather dictated by friendship than interest. she also hinted, that a neighbouring lady, of respectable character, would be glad to avail herself of the occasional assistance of an accomplished woman in the education of her daughters; that she had mentioned me to her in advantageous terms, conceiving that i should have no objection, by such a means, to exercise my talents, to render myself useful, and to augment my small income.' this intelligence filled me with delight: the idea of change, of exertion, of new scenes--shall i add, _of breathing the same air with augustus_, rushed tumultuously through my imagination. flying eagerly to my friend, to impart these tidings, i was not aware of the ungrateful and inconsiderate appearance which these exultations must give me in her eyes, till i perceived the starting tear.--it touched, it electrified, my heart; and, throwing myself into her arms, i caught the soft contagion, and wept aloud. 'go, emma--my daughter,' said this excellent woman; 'i banish the selfish regret that would prompt me to detain you. i perceive this solitude is destructive to thy ardent mind. go, vary your impressions, and expand your sensations; gladden me only from time to time with an account of your progress and welfare.' i had but little preparation to make. i canvassed over, with my friend, a thousand plans, and formed as many expectations and conjectures; but they all secretly tended to one point, and concentrated in one object. i gave my cousin notice that i should be with her in a few days--settled a future correspondence with my friend--embraced her, at parting, with unfeigned, and tender, sorrow--and, placing myself in a stage-coach, that passed daily through the village, took the road, once more, with a fluttering heart, to london. we travelled all night--it was cold and dreary--but my fancy was busied with various images, and my bosom throbbing with lively, though indistinct sensations. the next day, at noon, i arrived, without accident, at the residence of my relation, mrs denbeigh. she received me with unaffected cordiality: our former amity was renewed; we spent the evening together, recalling past scenes; and, on retiring, i was shewn into a neat chamber, which had been prepared for me, with a light closet adjoining. the next day, i was introduced to the lady, mentioned to me by my kind hostess, and agreed to devote three mornings in the week to the instruction of the young ladies (her daughters), in various branches of education. _memoirs of emma courtney_ volume ii to augustus harley 'my friend, my son, it is for your benefit, that i have determined on reviewing the sentiments, and the incidents, of my past life. cold declamation can avail but little towards the reformation of our errors. it is by tracing, by developing, the passions in the minds of others; tracing them, from the seeds by which they have been generated, through all their extended consequences, that we learn, the more effectually, to regulate and to subdue our own. 'i repeat, it will cost me some pain to be ingenuous in the recital which i have pledged myself to give you; even in the moment when i resume my pen, prejudice continues to struggle with principle, and i feel an inclination to retract. while unfolding a series of error and mortification, i tremble, lest, in warning you to shun the rocks and quicksands amidst which my little bark has foundered, i should forfeit your respect and esteem, the pride, and the comfort, of my declining years. but you are deeply interested in my narrative, you tell me, and you entreat me to proceed.' chapter i change of scene, regular employment, attention to my pupils, and the conscious pride of independence, afforded a temporary relief to my spirits. my first care, on my arrival in town, was to gladden the mind of my dear benefactress, by a minute detail of the present comforts and occupations. she had charged me with affectionate remembrance and letters to her son. i enclosed these letters; and, after informing him (in the cover) of the change of my situation, and the incident which had occasioned it, complained of the silence he had observed towards my last letter. --'if,' said i, 'from having observed the social and sympathetic nature of our feelings and affections, i suffered myself to yield, involuntarily, to the soothing idea, that the ingenuous avowal of an attachment so tender, so sincere, so artless, as mine, could not have been unaffecting to a mind with which my own proudly claimed kindred:--if i fondly believed, that simplicity, modesty, truth--the eye beaming with sensibility, the cheek mantling with the glow of affection, the features softened, the accents modulated, by ineffable tenderness, might, in the eyes of a virtuous man, have supplied the place of more dazzling accomplishments, and more seductive charms: if i over-rated my own merit, and my own powers--surely my mistakes were sufficiently humiliating! you should not, indeed you should not, have obliged me to arrive at the conviction through a series of deductions so full of mortification and anguish. you are too well acquainted with the human heart not to be sensible, that no certainty can equal the misery of conjecture, in a mind of ardour--the agonizing images which _suspense_ forces upon the tender and sensible heart! you should have written, in pity to the situation of my mind. i would have thanked you for being ingenuous, even though, like hamlet, you had _spoke daggers_. i expected it, from your character, and i had a claim to your sincerity. 'but it is past!--the vision is dissolved! the barbed arrow is not extracted with more pain, than the enchantments of hope from the ardent and sanguine spirit! but why am i to lose your friendship? my heart tells me, i have not deserved this! do not suspect, that i have so little justice, or so little magnanimity, as to refuse you the privilege, the enviable privilege, of being master of your own affections. i am unhappy, i confess; the principal charm of my life is fled, and the hopes that should enliven future prospects are faint: melancholy too often obscures reason, and a heart, perhaps too tender, preys on itself. 'i suspect i had formed some vain and extravagant expectations. i could have loved you, had you permitted it, with no mean, nor common attachment.--my words, my looks, my actions, betrayed me, ere i suffered my feelings to dictate to my pen. would to god, i had buried this fatal secret in the bottom of my soul! but repentance is, now, too late. yet the sensible heart yearns to disclose itself--and to whom can it confide its sentiments, with equal propriety, as to him who will know how to pity the errors, of which he feels himself, however involuntarily, the cause? the world might think my choice in a confident singular; it has been my misfortune seldom to think with the world, and i ought, perhaps, patiently to submit to the inconveniences to which this singularity has exposed me. 'i know not how, without doing myself a painful violence, to relinquish your society; and why, let me again ask, should i? i now desire only that repose which is the end of doubt, and this, i think, i should regain by one hour's frank conversation with you; i would compose myself, listen to you, and yield to the sovereignty of reason. after such an interview, my mind--no longer harrassed by vague suspicion, by a thousand nameless apprehensions and inquietudes--should struggle to subdue itself--at least, i would not permit it to dictate to my pen, not to bewilder my conduct. i am exhausted by perturbation. i ask only certainty and rest. 'emma.' a few days after i had written the preceding letter, mr harley called on me. mrs denbeigh was with me on his entrance; i would have given worlds to have received him alone, but had not courage to hint this to my relation. overwhelmed by a variety of emotions, i was unable for some time to make any reply to his friendly enquiries after my health, and congratulations on my amended prospects. my confusion and embarrassment were but too apparent; perceiving my distress, he kindly contrived to engage my hostess in discourse, that i might have time to rally my spirits. by degrees, i commanded myself sufficiently to join in the conversation--i spoke to him of his mother, expressed the lively sense i felt of her goodness, and my unaffected regret at parting with her. animated by my subject, and encouraged by the delicacy of augustus, i became more assured: we retraced the amusements and studies of h----shire, and two hours passed delightfully and insensibly away, when mrs denbeigh was called out of the room to speak to a person who brought her letters and intelligence from the india house. mr harley, rising at the same time from his seat, seemed about to depart, but hesitating, stood a few moments as if irresolute. 'you leave me,' said i, in a low and tremulous tone, 'and you leave me still in suspense?' 'could you,' replied he, visibly affected, 'but have seen me on the receipt of your last letter, you would have perceived that my feelings were not enviable--your affecting expostulation, added to other circumstances of a vexatious nature, oppressed my spirits with a burthen more than they were able to sustain.' he resumed his seat, spoke of his situation, of the tenure on which he held his fortune,--'i am neither a stoic nor a philosopher,' added he,--'i knew not how--_i could not answer your letter_. what shall i say?--i am with-held from explaining myself further, by reasons --_obligations_--who can look back on every action of his past life with approbation? mine has not been free from error! i am distressed, perplexed--_insuperable obstacles_ forbid what otherwise'-- 'i feel,' said i, interrupting him, 'that i am the victim of my own weakness and vanity--i feel, that i have been rushing headlong into the misery which you kindly sought to spare me--i am sensible of your delicacy--of your humanity!--and is it with the full impression of your virtues on my heart that i must teach that heart to renounce you--renounce, for ever, the man with whose pure and elevated mind my own panted to mingle? my reason has been blinded by the illusions of my self-love--and, while i severely suffer, i own my sufferings just--yet, the sentiments you inspired were worthy of you! i understand little of--i have violated common forms--seeking your tenderness, i have perhaps forfeited your esteem!' 'far, _very far_, from it--i would, but cannot, say more.' 'must we, then, separate for ever--will you no longer assist me in the pursuit of knowledge and truth--will you no more point out to me the books i should read, and aid me in forming a just judgment of the principles they contain--must all your lessons be at an end--all my studies be resigned? how, without your counsel and example, shall i regain my strength of mind--to what _end_ shall i seek to improve myself, when i dare no longer hope to be worthy of him--' a flood of tears checked my utterance; hiding my face with my hands, i gave way to the kindly relief, but for which my heart had broken. i heard footsteps in the passage, and the voice of mrs denbeigh as speaking to her servant--covered with shame and grief, i dared not in this situation appear before her, but, rushing out at an opposite door, hid myself in my chamber. a train of confused recollections tortured my mind, i concluded, that augustus had another, a prior attachment. i felt, with this conviction, that i had not the fortitude, and that perhaps i ought not, to see him again. i wrote to him under this impression; i poured out my soul in anguish, in sympathy, in fervent aspirations for his happiness. these painful and protracted conflicts affected my health, a deep and habitual depression preyed upon my spirits, and, surveying every object through the medium of a distempered imagination, i grew disgusted with life. chapter ii i began, at length, to think, that i had been too precipitate, and too severe to myself.--why was i to sacrifice a friend, from whose conversation i had derived improvement and pleasure? i repeated this question to myself, again and again; and i blushed and repented. but i deceived myself. i had too frequently acted with precipitation, i determined, now, to be more prudent--i waited three months, fortified my mind with many reflections, and resumed my pen-- to augustus harley. 'near three months have elapsed, since i last addressed you. i remind you of this, not merely to suppress, as it arises, any apprehension which you may entertain of further embarrassment or importunity: for i can no longer afflict myself with the idea, that my peace, or welfare, are indifferent to you, but will rather adopt the sentiment of plato--who on being informed, that one of his disciples, whom he had more particularly distinguished, had spoken ill of him, replied, to the slanderer--"i do not believe you, for it is impossible that i should not be esteemed by one whom i so sincerely regard." 'my motive, for calling to your remembrance the date of my last, is, that you should consider what i am now about to say, as the result of calmer reflection, the decision of judgment after having allowed the passions leisure to subside. it is, perhaps, unnecessary to premise, that i am not urged on by pride, from an obscure consciousness of having been betrayed into indiscretion, to endeavour to explain away, or to extenuate, any part of my former expressions or conduct. to a mind like yours, such an attempt would be impertinent; from one like mine, i hope, superfluous. i am not ashamed of being a human being, nor blush to own myself liable to "the shakes and agues of his fragile nature." i have ever spoken, and acted, from the genuine dictates of a mind swayed, at the time, by its own views and propensities, nor have i hesitated, as those views and propensities have changed, to avow my further convictions--"let not the coldly wise exult, that their heads were never led astray by their hearts." i have all along used, and shall continue to use, the unequivocal language of sincerity. 'however _romantic_ (a vague term applied to every thing we do not understand, or are unwilling to intimate) my views and sentiments might appear to many, i dread not, from you, this frigid censure. "the ideas, the associations, the circumstances of each man are properly his own, and it is a pernicious system, that would lead us to require all men, however different their circumstances, to act in many of the common affairs of life, by a precise, general rule."[ ] the genuine effusions of the heart and mind are easily distinguished, by the penetrating eye, from the vain ostentation of sentiment, lip deep, which, causing no emotion, communicates none--oh! how unlike the energetic sympathies of truth and feeling--darting from mind to mind, enlightening, warming, with electrical rapidity! [footnote : godwin's political justice.] 'my ideas have undergone, in the last three months, many fluctuations. my _affection_ for you (why should i seek for vague, inexpressive phrases?) has not ceased, has not diminished, but it has, in some measure, changed its nature. it was originally generated by the report, and cemented by the knowledge, of your virtues and talents; and to virtue and talents my mind had ever paid unfeigned, enthusiastic, homage! it is somewhere said by rousseau--"that there may exist such a suitability of moral, mental, and personal, qualifications, as should point out the propriety of an union between a prince and the daughter of an executioner." vain girl that i was! i flattered myself that between us this sympathy really existed. i dwelt on the union between mind and mind--sentiments of nature gently insinuated themselves--my sensibility grew more tender, more affecting--and my imagination, ever lively, traced the glowing picture, and dipped the pencil in rainbow tints! possessing one of those determined spirits, that is not easily induced to relinquish its purposes--while i conceived that i had only your pride, or your insensibility, to combat, i wildly determined to persevere.--a further recapitulation would, perhaps, be unnecessary:--my situation, alas! is now changed. 'having then examined my heart, attentively and deliberately, i suspect that i have been unjust to myself, in supposing it incapable of a disinterested attachment.--why am i to deprive you of a faithful friend, and myself of all the benefits i may yet derive from your conversation and kind offices? i ask, why? and i should, indeed, have cause to blush, if, after having had time for reflection, i could really think this necessary. shall i, then, sign the unjust decree, that women are incapable of energy and fortitude? have i exercised my understanding, without ever intending to apply my principles to practice? do i mean always to deplore the prejudices which have, systematically, weakened the female character, without making any effort to rise above them? is the example you have given me, of a steady adherence to honour and principle, to be merely respected, without exciting in my bosom any emulation? dare i to answer these questions in the affirmative, and still ask your esteem--the esteem of the wise and good?--i dare not! no longer weakened by alternate hopes and fears, like the reed yielding to every breeze, i believe myself capable of acting upon firmer principles; and i request, with confidence, the restoration of your friendship! should i afterwards find, that i have over-rated my own strength, i will frankly tell you so, and expect from your humanity those allowances, which are but a poor substitute for respect. 'believe, then, my views and motives to be simply such as i state them; at least, such, after severely scrutinizing my heart, they appear to myself; and reply to me with similar ingenuousness. my expectations are very moderate: answer me with simplicity--my very soul sickens at evasion! you have undoubtedly, a right to judge and to determine for yourself; but it will be but just to state to me the reasons for, and the result of, that judgment; in which case, if i cannot obviate those reasons, i shall be bound, however reluctantly, to acquiesce in them. be assured, i will never complain of any consequences which may ensue, even, from the utterance of all truth. 'emma.' chapter iii this letter was succeeded by a renewal of our intercourse and studies. mrs denbeigh, my kind hostess, was usually of our parties. we read together, or conversed only on general topics, or upon subjects of literature. i was introduced by mr harley to several respectable families, friends of his own and of his mother's. i made many indirect enquiries of our common acquaintance, with a view to discover the supposed object of my friend's attachment, but without success. all that he had, himself, said, respecting such an engagement, had been so vague, that i began to doubt of the reality of its existence.--when, in any subsequent letters (for we continued occasionally to correspond) i ventured to allude to the subject, i was warned 'not to confound my own conceptions with real existences.' when he spoke of a susceptibility to the tender affections, it was always in the past time,--'i _have_ felt,'--'i _have_ been--'once he wrote--'his situation had been rendered difficult, by a combination of _peculiar circumstances_; circumstances, with which but few persons were acquainted.' sometimes he would affect to reflect upon his past conduct, and warn me against appreciating him too highly. in fine, he was a perfect enigma, and every thing which he said or wrote tended to increase the mystery. a restless, an insatiable, curiosity, devoured me, heightened by feelings that every hour became more imperious, more uncontroulable. i proposed to myself, in the gratification of this curiosity, a satisfaction that should compensate for all the injuries i might suffer in the career. this inquietude prevented my mind from resting; and, by leaving room for conjecture, left room for the illusions of fancy, and of hope. had i never expressed this, he might have affected ignorance of my sensations; he might have pleaded guiltless, when, in the agony of my soul, i accused him of having sacrificed my peace to his disingenuousness--but vain were all my expostulations! 'if,' said i, 'i have sought, too earnestly, to learn the state of your affections, it has been with a view to the more effectually disciplining of my own--of stifling every _ignis fatuus_ of false hope, that making, even, impossibilities possible, will still, at times, continue to mislead me. objects seen through obscurity, imperfectly discerned, allow to the fancy but too free a scope; the mind grows debilitated, by brooding over its apprehensions; and those apprehensions, whether real or imaginary, are carried with accumulated pain to the heart. i have said, on this subject, you have a right to be free; but i am, now, doubtful of this right: the health of my mind being involved in the question, has rendered it a question of _utility_--and on what other basis can morals rest?' i frequently reiterated these reasonings, always with encreased fervor and earnestness: represented--'that every step i took in advance would be miles in return--every minute that the blow was suspended, prepared it to descend with accumulated force.' i required no particulars, but merely requested to be assured of _a present, existing, engagement_. i continued, from time to time, to urge this subject. 'much,' said i, 'as i esteem you, and deeply as a thousand associations have fixed your idea in my heart--in true candour of soul, i, yet, feel myself your superior.--i recollect a sentiment of richardson's clarissa that always pleased me, and that may afford a test, by which each of us may judge of the integrity of our own minds--"i should be glad that you, and all the world, knew my heart; let my enemies sit in judgment upon my actions; fairly scanned, i fear not the result. let them ask me my most secret thoughts; and, whether they make for me, or against me, i will reveal them." 'this is the principle, my friend, upon which i have acted towards you. i have said many things, i doubt not, which make against me; but i trusted them to one, who told me, that he had made the human heart his study: and it is only in compliance with the prejudices of others, if i have taken any pains to conceal all i have thought and felt on this, or on any other, subject, from the rest of the world. had i not, in the wild career of fervent feeling, had sufficient strength of mind to stop short, and to reason calmly, how often, in the bitterness of my spirit, should i have accused you of sporting with my feelings, by involving me in a hopeless maze of conjecture--by leaving me a prey to the constant, oppressive, apprehension of hearing something, which i should not have had the fortitude to support with dignity; which, in proportion as it is delayed, still contributes to harrass, to weaken, to incapacitate, my mind from bearing its disclosure. 'i know you might reply--and more than nine-tenths of the world would justify you in this reply--"that you had already said, what ought to have been sufficient, and would have been so to any other human being;--that you had not sought the confidence i boast of having reposed in you;--and that so far from affording you any satisfaction, it has occasioned you only perplexity. if my own destiny was not equivocal, of what importance could it be to me, and what right had i to enquire after circumstances, in which, however affecting, i could have no real concern." 'you may think all this, perhaps--i will not spare myself--and it may be reasonable. _but could you say it_--and have you, indeed, studied the human heart--_have you, indeed, ever felt the affections?_--whatever may be the event--and it is in the mind of powers only that passions are likely to become fatal--and however irreproachable every other part of your conduct may have been, i shall, _here_, always say, you were culpable!' i changed my style. 'i know not,' said i, 'the nature of those stern duties, which oblige you to with-hold from me your tenderness; neither do i any longer enquire. i dread, only, lest i should acquire this knowledge when i am the least able to support it. ignorant, then, of any reasons which should prevent me from giving up my heart to an attachment, now become interwoven with my existence, i yield myself up to these sweet and affecting emotions, so necessary to my disposition--to which apathy is abhorrent. "the affections (truly says sterne) must be exercised on something; for, not to love, is to be miserable. were i in a desart, i would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections. if i could do no better, i would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to--i would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection. i would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desart. if their leaves withered, i would teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, i would rejoice with them." 'an attachment, founded upon a full conviction of worth, must be both safe and salutary. my mind has not sufficient strength to form an abstract idea of perfection. i have ever found it stimulated, improved, advanced, by its affections. i will, then, continue to love you with fervor and purity; i will see you with joy, part from you with regret, grieve in your griefs, enter with zeal into your concerns, interest myself in your honour and welfare, and endeavour, with all my little power, to contribute to your comfort and satisfaction.--is your heart so differently constituted from every other human heart, that an affection, thus ardent and sincere, excites in it no grateful, and soothing, emotions? why, then, withdraw yourself from me, and by that means afflict, and sink into despondency, a mind that entrusts its peace to your keeping. 'emma.' we met the next day at the house of a common friend. my accents, involuntarily, were softened, my attentions pointed.--manifestly agitated, embarrassed, even distressed, augustus quitted the company at an early hour. it would be endless to enumerate all the little incidents that occurred; which, however trifling they might appear in the recital, continued to operate in one direction. many letters passed to the same purport. my curiosity was a consuming passion; but this inflexible, impenetrable, man, was still silent, or alternately evaded, and resented, my enquiries. we continued, occasionally, to meet, but generally in company. chapter iv during the ensuing summer, mr harley proposed making a visit to his mother, and, calling to take his leave of me, on the evening preceding his journey, accidentally found me alone.--we entered into conversation on various subjects: twilight stole upon us unperceived. the obscure light inspired me with courage: i ventured to resume a subject, so often discussed; i complained, gently, of his reserve. 'could i suppose,' he asked, 'that he had been without _his share_ of suffering?' i replied something, i scarce know what, adverting to his stronger mind. 'strength!' said he, turning from me with emotion, 'rather say, weakness!' i reiterated the important, the so often proposed, enquiry--'had he, or had he not, a _present, existing, engagement_?' he endeavoured to evade my question--i repeated it--he answered, with a degree of impatience, '_i cannot tell you_; if i could, do you think i would have been silent so long?'--as once, before, he spoke of the circumstances of his past life, as being of '_a singular, a peculiar, nature_.' at our separation, i asked, if he would write to me during his absence. 'certainly, he would.' the next morning, having some little commissions to execute for mrs harley, i sent them, accompanied by a few lines, to her son. 'why is it,' said i, 'that our sagacity, and penetration, frequently desert us on the most interesting occasions? i can read any mind with greater facility than i can read your's; and, yet, what other have i so attentively studied? this is a problem i know not how to solve. one conclusion will force itself upon me--if a mistaken one, whom have you to blame?--that an _honourable_, suitable, engagement, could have given no occasion for mystery.' i added, 'i should depend on hearing from him, according to his promise.' week after week, month after month, wore away, and no letter arrived. perturbation was succeeded by anxiety and apprehension; but hearing, through my maternal friend, mrs harley, of the welfare of this object of our too tender cares, my solicitude subsided into despondency. the pressure of one corroding train of ideas preyed, like a canker-worm, upon my heart, and destroyed all its tranquillity. in the beginning of the winter, this mysterious, inexplicable, being, again returned to town. i had undertaken a little business, to serve him, during his absence--i transmitted to him an account of my proceedings; subjoining a gentle reproach for his unkind silence. 'you promised you would write to me,' said i, 'during your residence in ----shire. i therefore depended upon hearing from you; and, yet, i was disappointed. you should not, indeed you should not, make these experiments upon my mind. my sensibility, originally acute, from having been too much exercised, has become nearly morbid, and has almost unfitted me for an inhabitant of this world. i am willing to believe, that your conduct towards me has originated in good motives, nevertheless, you have made some sad mistakes--you have _deeply_, though undesignedly, wounded me: i have been harrassed, distressed, mortified. you know not, neither will i attempt to describe, all i have suffered! language would be inadequate to paint the struggles of a delicate, susceptible, mind, in some peculiar and interesting situations. 'you may suspect me of wanting resolution, but strong, persevering affections, are no mark of a weak mind. to have been the wife of a man of virtue and talents was my dearest ambition, and would have been my glory: i judged myself worthy of the confidence and affection of such a man--i felt, that i could have united in his pursuits, and shared his principles--aided the virtuous energies of his mind, and assured his domestic comforts. i earnestly sought to inspire you with tenderness, from the conviction, that i could contribute to your happiness, and to the worth of your character. and if, from innumerable associations, i at length loved your person, it was the magnanimity of your conduct, it was your virtues, that first excited my admiration and esteem. but you have rejected an attachment originating in the highest, the purest, principles--you have thrown from you a heart of exquisite sensibility, and you leave me in doubt, whether you have not sacrificed that heart to prejudice. yet, contemned affection has excited in my mind no resentment; true tenderness is made up of gentle and amiable emotions; nothing hostile, nothing severe, can mix with it: it may gradually subside, but it will continue to soften the mind it has once subdued. 'i see much to respect in your conduct, and though, it is probable, some parts of it may have originated in mistaken principles, i trust, that their source was pure! i, also, have made many mistakes--have been guilty of many extravagances. yet, distrust the morality, that sternly commands you to pierce the bosom that most reveres you, and then to call it virtue--_yes! distrust and suspect its origin!_' i concluded with expressing a wish to see him--'_merely as a friend_'--requesting a line in reply. he wrote not, but came, unexpectedly came, the next evening. i expressed, in lively terms, the pleasure i felt in seeing him. we conversed on various subjects, he spoke affectionately of his mother, and of the tender interest she had expressed for my welfare. he enquired after my pursuits and acquirements during his absence, commending the progress i had made. just before he quitted me, he adverted to the reproach i had made him, for not having written to me, according to his engagement. 'recollect,' said he, 'in the last letter i received from you, before i left london, you hinted some suspicions--' i looked at him, 'and what,' added he, 'could i reply?' i was disconcerted, i changed colour, and had no power to pursue the subject. chapter v from this period, he continued to visit me (i confess at my solicitation) more frequently. we occasionally resumed our scientific pursuits, read together, or entered into discussion on various topics. at length he grew captious, disputatious, gloomy, and imperious--the more i studied to please him, the less i succeeded. he disapproved my conduct, my opinions, my sentiments; my frankness offended him. this change considerably affected me. in company, his manners were studiously cold and distant; in private capricious, yet reserved and guarded. he seemed to overlook all my efforts to please, and, with a severe and penetrating eye, to search only for my errors--errors, into which i was but too easily betrayed, by the painful, and delicate, situation, in which i had placed myself. we, one day, accompanied mrs denbeigh on a visit of congratulation to her brother (eldest son of my deceased uncle mr melmoth), who had, when a youth, been placed by his father in a commercial house in the west indies, and who had just returned to his native country with an ample fortune. his sister and myself anticipated the pleasure of renewing our early, fraternal, affection and intimacy, while i felt a secret pride in introducing to his acquaintance a man so accomplished and respectable as mr harley. we were little aware of the changes which time and different situations produce on the character, and, with hearts and minds full of the frank, lively, affectionate, youth, from whom we had parted, seven years since, with mutual tears and embraces, shrunk spontaneously, on our arrival at mr melmoth's elegant house in bedford square, from the cold salutation, of the haughty, opulent, purse-proud, planter, surrounded by ostentatious luxuries, and evidently valuing himself upon the consequence which he imagined they must give him in our eyes. mr harley received the formal compliments of this favourite of fortune with the easy politeness which distinguishes the gentleman and the man of letters, and the dignified composure which the consciousness of worth and talents seldom fails to inspire. mr melmoth, by his awkward and embarrassed manner, tacitly acknowledged the impotence of wealth and the real superiority of his guest. we were introduced by our stately relation to his wife, the lady of the mansion, a young woman whom he had accidentally met with in a party of pleasure at jamaica, whither she had attended a family in the humble office of companion or chief attendant to the lady. fascinated by her beauty and lively manner, our trader had overlooked an empty mind, a low education, and a doubtful character, and, after a very few interviews, tendered to her acceptance his hand and fortune; which, though not without some affectation of doubt and delay, were in a short time joyfully accepted. a gentleman joined our party in the dining-room, whom the servant announced by the name of pemberton, in whom i presently recognized, notwithstanding some years had elapsed since our former meeting, the man of fashon and gallantry who had been the antagonist of mr francis, at the table of my father. he had lately (we were informed by our host) been to jamaica, to take possession of an estate bequeathed to him, and had returned to england in the same vessel with mr and mrs melmoth. after an elegant dinner of several courses had been served up and removed for the desert, a desultory conversation took place. mr pemberton, it appeared, held a commission in the militia, and earnestly solicited mrs melmoth, on whom he lavished a profusion of compliments, to grace their encampment, which was to be stationed in the ensuing season near one of the fashionable watering places, with her presence. this request the lady readily promised to comply with, expressing, in tones of affected softness, her admiration of military men, and of the 'pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!' 'do you not think, miss courtney,' said she, turning to me, 'that soldiers are the most agreeable and charming men in the world?' 'indeed i do not, madam; their trade is _murder_, and their trappings, in my eyes, appear but as the gaudy pomp of sacrifice.' '_murder_, indeed! what a harsh word--i declare you are a shocking creature--there have always been wars in the world, and there always must be: but surely you would not confound the brave fellows, who fight to protect their king and country, and _the ladies_, with common ruffians and housebreakers!' 'all the difference between them is, that the one, rendered desperate by passion, poverty, or injustice, endeavours by _wrong_ means to do himself _right_, and through this terrible and pitiable mistake destroys the life or the property of a fellow being--the others, wantonly and in cold blood, cut down millions of their species, ravage whole towns and cities, and carry devastation through a country.' 'what _odd notions_! dear, mr pemberton, did you ever hear a lady talk so strangely?' thus called upon, mr pemberton thought it incumbent upon him to interfere--'_courtney_, i think, madam, your name is! the daughter of an old friend of mine, if i am not mistaken, and who, i remember, was, when a very young lady, a great admirer of _roman virtues_.' 'not of _roman virtues_, i believe, sir; they had in them too much of the destructive spirit which mrs melmoth thinks so admirable.' 'indeed, i said nothing about _roman virtues_, nor do i trouble myself with such subjects--i merely admired the soldiers because they are so brave and so polite; besides, the military dress is so elegant and becoming--dear, mr pemberton, how charmingly you must look in your regimentals!' mr pemberton, bowing in return to the compliment, made an animated eulogium on the taste and beauty of the speaker. 'pray, sir,' resumed she, addressing herself to mr harley, whose inattention seemed to pique her, and whose notice she was determined to attract, 'are you of miss courtney's opinion--do you think it right to call soldiers _murderers_?' 'upon my word, madam,' with an air of irony, 'you must excuse me from entering into such _nice distinctions_--when _ladies_ differ, who shall presume to decide?' mr melmoth interposed, by wishing, 'that they had some thousands more of these _murderers_ in the west indies, to keep the slaves in subordination, who, since absurd notions of liberty had been put into their heads, were grown very troublesome and refractory, and, in a short time, he supposed, would become as insolent as the english servants.' 'would you believe it, mrs denbeigh,' said the planter's lady, addressing the sister of her husband, 'mr melmoth and i have been in england but a month, and have been obliged three times to change our whole suit of servants?' 'this is a land of freedom, my dear sister; servants, here, will not submit to be treated like the slaves of jamaica.' 'well, i am sure it is very provoking to have one's will disputed by such low, ignorant, creatures. how should they know what is right? it is enough for them to obey the orders of their superiors.' 'but suppose,' replied mrs denbeigh, 'they should happen to think their superiors unreasonable!' '_think!_ sister,' said the lordly mr melmoth, with an exulting laugh, 'what have _servants_, or _women_, to do with _thinking_?' 'nay, now,' interrupted mr pemberton, 'you are too severe upon the ladies--how would the elegant and tasteful arrangement of mrs melmoth's ornaments have been produced without thinking?' 'oh, you flatterer!' said the lady. 'let them think only about their dress, and i have no objection, but don't let them plague us with _sermonizing_.' 'mrs melmoth,' said i, coolly, 'does not often, i dare say, offend _in this way_. that some of the gentlemen, present, should object to a woman's exercising her discriminating powers, is not wonderful, since it might operate greatly to their disadvantage.' 'a blow on the right cheek, from so fair a hand,' replied mr pemberton, affectedly bending his body, 'would almost induce one to adopt the christian maxim, and turn the left, also. what say you, mr harley?' 'mr harley, i believe, sir, does not feel himself included in the reflection.' 'he is a happy man then.' 'no, sir, merely a _rational one_!' 'you are pleased to be severe; of all things i dread a female wit.' 'it is an instinctive feeling of self-preservation--nature provides weak animals with timidity as a guard.' mr pemberton reddened, and, affecting a careless air, hummed a tune. mr melmoth again reverted to the subject of english servants, which gave rise to a discussion on the slave trade. mr harley pleaded the cause of freedom and humanity with a bold and manly eloquence, expatiating warmly on the iniquity as well as impolicy of so accursed a traffic. melmoth was awed into silence. mr pemberton advanced some trite arguments in opposition, respecting the temporary mischiefs which might ensue, in case of an abolition, to the planters, landholders, traders, &c. augustus explained, by contending only for the gradual emancipation, after their minds had been previously prepared, of the oppressed africans. the conversation grew interesting. pemberton was not devoid of talents when he laid aside his affectation; the subject was examined both in a moral and a political point of view. i listened with delight, while augustus exposed and confuted the specious reasoning and sophistry of his antagonist: exulting in the triumph of truth and justice, i secretly gloried--'with more than selfish vanity'--in the virtues and abilities of my friend. though driven from all his resources, mr pemberton was too much the courtier to be easily disconcerted, but complimenting his adversary on his eloquence, declared he should be happy to hear of his having a seat in parliament. mrs melmoth, who had yawned and betrayed various symptoms of weariness during the discussion, now proposed the adjournment of the ladies into the drawing-room, whither i was compelled, by a barbarous and odious custom, reluctantly to follow, and to submit to be entertained with a torrent of folly and impertinence. 'i was ill-natured,' she told me.--'how could i be so severe upon the _charming_ and _elegant_ mr pemberton?' it was in vain i laboured to convince her, that to be treated like ideots was no real compliment, and that the men who condescend to flatter our foibles, despised the weak beings they helped to form. my remonstrances were as fatiguing, and as little to be comprehended by this _fine lady_, as the arguments respecting the slave trade:--she sought refuge from them in interrogating mrs denbeigh respecting the last new fashions, and in consulting her taste on the important question--whether blue or violet colour was the most becoming to a brunette complexion? the gentlemen joined us, to our great relief, at the tea-table:--other company dropped in, and the evening was beguiled with cards and the chess-board;--at the latter mr melmoth and mr harley were antagonists;--the former was no match for augustus. i amused myself by observing their moves, and overlooking the game. during our return from this visit, some conversation occurred between mr harley, my cousin, and myself, respecting the company we had quitted. i expressed my disappointment, disgust, and contempt, in terms, it may be, a little too strong. 'i was _fastidious_,' augustus told me, 'i wanted a world made on purpose for me, and beings formed after one model. it was both amusing, and instructive, to contemplate varieties of character. i was a romantic enthusiast--and should endeavour to become more like an inhabitant of the world.' piqued at these remarks, and at the tone and manner in which they were uttered, i felt my temper rising, and replied with warmth; but it was the glow of a moment; for, to say truth, vexation and disappointment, rather than reason, had broken and subdued my spirit. mrs denbeigh, perceiving i was pained, kindly endeavoured to give a turn to the conversation; yet she could not help expressing her regret, on observing the folly, levity, and extravagance, of the woman whom her brother had chosen for a wife. 'no doubt,' said augustus, a little peevishly, 'he is fond of her--she is a fine woman--there is no accounting for the _caprices_ of the affections.' i sighed, and my eyes filled with tears--'is, then, affection so _capricious_ a sentiment--is it possible to love what we despise?' 'i cannot tell,' retorted mr harley, with quickness. 'triflers can give no _serious_ occasion for uneasiness:--the humours of superior women are sometimes still less tolerable.' 'ah! how unjust. if gentleness be not _the perfection of reason_, it is a quality which i have never, yet, properly understood.' he made no reply, but sunk into silence, reserve, and reverie. on our arrival at my apartments, i ventured (my cousin having left us) to expostulate with him on his unkind behaviour; but was answered with severity. some retrospection ensued, which gradually led to the subject ever present to my thoughts.--again i expressed a solicitude to be informed of the real state of his heart, of the nature of those mysterious obstacles, to which, when clearly ascertained, i was ready to submit.--'had he, or had he not, an attachment, that looked to, as its _end_, a serious and legal engagement?' he appeared ruffled and discomposed.--'i ought not to be so urgent--he had already sufficiently explained himself.' he then repeated to me some particulars, apparently adverse to such a supposition--asking me, in his turn, 'if these circumstances bespoke his having any such event in view?' chapter vi for some time after this he absented himself from me; and, when he returned, his manners were still more unequal; even his sentiments, and principles, at times, appeared to me equivocal, and his character seemed wholly changed. i tried, in vain, to accommodate myself to a disposition so various. my affection, my sensibility, my fear of offending--a thousand conflicting, torturing, emotions, threw a constraint over my behaviour.--my situation became absolutely intolerable--time was murdered, activity vain, virtue inefficient: yet, a secret hope inspired me, that _indifference_ could not have produced the irritations, the inequalities, that thus harrassed me. i thought, i observed a conflict in his mind; his fits of absence, and reflection, were unusual, deep, and frequent: i watched them with anxiety, with terror, with breathless expectation. my health became affected, and my mind disordered. i perceived that it was impossible to proceed, in the manner we had hitherto done, much longer--i felt that it would, inevitably, destroy me. i reflected, meditated, reasoned, with myself--'that one channel, into which my thoughts were incessantly impelled, was destructive of all order, of all connection.' new projects occurred to me, which i had never before ventured to encourage--i revolved them in my mind, examined them in every point of view, weighed their advantages and disadvantages, in a moral, in a prudential, scale.--threatening evils appeared on all sides--i endeavoured, at once, to free my mind from prejudice, and from passion; and, in the critical and _singular_ circumstances in which i had placed myself, coolly to survey the several arguments of the case, and nicely to calculate their force and importance. 'if, as we are taught to believe, the benevolent author of nature be, indeed, benevolent,' said i, to myself, 'he surely must have intended the _happiness_ of his creatures. our morality cannot extend to him, but must consist in the knowledge, and practice, of those duties which we owe to ourselves and to each other.--individual happiness constitutes the general good:--_happiness_ is the only true _end_ of existence; --all notions of morals, founded on any other principle, involve in themselves a contradiction, and must be erroneous. man does right, when pursuing interest and pleasure--it argues no depravity--this is the fable of superstition: he ought to only be careful, that, in seeking his own good, he does not render it incompatible with the good of others--that he does not consider himself as standing alone in the universe. the infraction of established _rules_ may, it is possible, in some cases, be productive of mischief; yet, it is difficult to state any _rule_ so precise and determinate, as to be alike applicable to every situation: what, in one instance, might be a _vice_, in another may possibly become a _virtue_:--a thousand imperceptible, evanescent, shadings, modify every thought, every motive, every action, of our lives--no one can estimate the sensations of, can form an exact judgment for, another. 'i have sometimes suspected, that all mankind are pursuing phantoms, however dignified by different appellations.--the healing operations of time, had i patience to wait the experiment, might, perhaps, recover my mind from its present distempered state; but, in the meanwhile, the bloom of youth is fading, and the vigour of life running to waste.--should i, at length, awake from a delusive vision, it would be only to find myself a comfortless, solitary, shivering, wanderer, in the dreary wilderness of human society. i feel in myself the capacities for increasing the happiness, and the improvement, of a few individuals--and this circle, spreading wider and wider, would operate towards the grand end of life--_general utility_.' again i repeated to myself--'ascetic virtues are equally barbarous as vain:--the only just morals, are those which have a tendency to increase the bulk of enjoyment. my plan tends to this. the good which i seek does not appear to me to involve injury to any one--it is of a nature, adapted to the disposition of my mind, for which every event of my life, the education both of design and accident, have fitted me. if i am now put out, i may, perhaps, do mischief:--the placid stream, forced from its channel, lays waste the meadow. i seem to stand as upon a wide plain, bounded on all sides by the horizon:--among the objects which i perceive within these limits, some are so lofty, my eyes ache to look up to them; others so low, i disdain to stoop for them. _one_, only, seems fitted to my powers, and to my wishes--_one, alone_, engages my attention! is not its possession worthy an arduous effort: _perseverance_ can turn the course of rivers, and level mountains! shall i, then, relinquish my efforts, when, perhaps, on the very verge of success? 'the mind must have an object:--should i desist from my present pursuit, after all it has cost me, for what can i change it? i feel, that i am neither a philosopher, nor a heroine--but a _woman, to whom education has given a sexual character_. it is true, i have risen superior to the generality of my _oppressed sex_; yet, i have neither the talents for a legislator, nor for a reformer, of the world. i have still many female foibles, and shrinking delicacies, that unfit me for rising to arduous heights. ambition cannot stimulate me, and to accumulate wealth, i am still less fitted. should i, then, do violence to my heart, and compel it to resign its hopes and expectations, what can preserve me from sinking into, the most abhorred of all states, _languor and inanity_? --alas! that tender and faithful heart refuses to change its object--it can never love another. like rousseau's julia, my strong individual attachment has annihilated every man in the creation:--him i love appears, in my eyes, something more--every other, something less. 'i have laboured to improve myself, that i might be worthy of the situation i have chosen. i would unite myself to a man of worth--i would have our mingled virtues and talents perpetuated in our offspring--i would experience those sweet sensations, of which nature has formed my heart so exquisitely susceptible. my ardent sensibilities incite me to love--to seek to inspire sympathy--to be beloved! my heart obstinately refuses to renounce the man, to whose mind my own seems akin! from the centre of private affections, it will at length embrace--like spreading circles on the peaceful bosom of the smooth and expanded lake--the whole sensitive and rational creation. is it virtue, then, to combat, or to yield to, my passions?' i considered, and reconsidered, these reasonings, so specious, so flattering, to which passion lent its force. one moment, my mind seemed firmly made up on the part i had to act;--i persuaded myself, that i had gone too far to recede, and that there remained for me no alternative:--the next instant, i shrunk, gasping, from my own resolves, and shuddered at the important consequences which they involved. amidst a variety of perturbations, of conflicting emotions, i, at length, once more, took up my pen. chapter vii to augustus harley. 'i blush, when i reflect what a weak, wavering, inconsistent being, i must lately have appeared to you. i write to you on important subjects--i forbid you to answer me on paper; and, when you seem inclined to put that period to the present, painful, high-wrought, and trying, state of my feelings, which is now become so necessary, i appear neither to hear, nor to comprehend you. i fly from the subject, and thicken the cloud of mystery, of which i have so often, and, i still think, so justly complained.--these are some of the effects of the contradictory systems, that have so long bewildered our principles and conduct. a combination of causes, added to the conflict between a thousand delicate and nameless emotions, have lately conspired to confuse, to weaken, my spirits. you can conceive, that these acute, mental, sensations, must have had a temporary effect on the state of my health. to say truth (and, had i not said it, my countenance would have betrayed me), i have not, for some time past, been so thoroughly disordered. 'once more, i have determined to rally my strength; for i feel, that a much longer continuance in the situation, in which my mind has been lately involved, would be insupportable:--and i call upon you, _now_, with a resolution to summon all my fortitude to bear the result, for the _written_ state of your mind, on the topic become so important to my future welfare and usefulness. 'you may suppose, that a mind like mine must have, repeatedly, set itself to examine, on every side, all that could possibly have a relation to a subject affecting it so materially. you have hinted at _mysterious_ obstacles to the wish, in which every faculty of my soul has been so long absorbed--the wish of forming with you, a connection, nearer, _and more tender_, than that of friendship. this mystery, by leaving room for conjecture (and how frequently have i warned you of this!), left room for the illusions of imagination, and of hope--left room for the suspicion, that you might, possibly, be sacrificing _your own feelings_ as well as mine, to a mistaken principle. is it possible that you were not aware of this--you, who are not unacquainted with the nature of the mind! still less were you ignorant of the nature of my mind--which i had so explicitly, so unreservedly, laid open! i had a double claim upon your confidence--a confidence, that i was utterly incapable of abusing, or betraying--a confidence, which must have stopped my mind in its career--which would have saved me the bitter, agonizing, pangs i have sustained. mine were not common feelings--it is _obscurity_ and _mystery_ which has wrought them up to frenzy--_truth_ and _certainty_ would, long ere this, have caused them temporarily to subside into their accustomed channels. you understand little of the human heart, if you cannot conceive this--"where the imagination is vivid, the feelings strong, the views and desires not bounded by common rules;--in such minds, passions, if not subdued, become ungovernable and fatal: where there is much warmth, much enthusiasm, there is much danger.--my mind is no less ardent than yours, though education and habit may have given it a different turn--it glows with equal zeal to attain its end."[ ] yes, i must continue to repeat, there has been in your conduct _one grand mistake_; and the train of consequences which may, yet, ensue, are uncertain, and threatening.--but, i mean no reproach--we are all liable to errors; and my own, i feel, are many, and various. but to return-- [footnote : holcraft's anna st ives.] 'you may suppose i have revolved, in my thoughts, every possible difficulty on the subject alluded to; balancing their degrees of probability and force:--and, i will frankly confess, such is the sanguine ardour of my temper, that i can conceive but one obstacle, that would be _absolutely invincible_; which is, supposing that you have already contracted a _legal, irrecoverable_, engagement. yet, this i do not suppose. i will arrange, under five heads, (on all occasions, i love to class and methodize) every other possible species of objection, and subjoin all the reasonings which have occurred to me on the subjects. 'and, first, i will imagine, as the most serious and threatening difficulty, that you love another. i would, then, ask--is she capable of estimating your worth--does she love you--has she the magnanimity to tell you so--would she sacrifice to that affection every meaner consideration--has she the merit to secure, as well as accomplishments to attract, your regard?--you are too well acquainted with the human heart, not to be aware, that what is commonly called love is of a fleeting nature, kept alive only by hopes and fears, if the qualities upon which it is founded afford no basis for its subsiding into tender confidence, and rational esteem. beauty may inspire a transient desire, vivacity amuse, for a time, by its sportive graces; but the first will quickly fade and grow familiar--the last degenerate into impertinence and insipidity. interrogate your own heart--would you not, when the ardour of the passions, and the fervor of the imagination, subsided, wish to find the sensible, intelligent, friend, take place of the engaging mistress?--would you not expect the economical manager of your affairs, the rational and judicious mother to your offspring, the faithful sharer of your cares, the firm friend to your interest, the tender consoler of your sorrows, the companion in whom you could wholly confide, the discerning participator of your nobler pursuits, the friend of your virtues, your talents, your reputation--who could understand you, who was formed to pass the ordeal of honour, virtue, friendship?--ask yourself these questions--ask them closely, without sophistry, and without evasion. you are not, now, an infatuated boy! supposing, then, that you are, at present, entangled in an engagement which answers not this description--is it virtue to fulfil, or to renounce, it? contrast it with my affection, with its probable consequences, and weigh our different claims! _would you have been the selected choice, of this woman, from all mankind_--would no other be capable of making her equally happy--would nothing compensate to her for your loss--are you the only object that she beholds in creation--might not another engagement suit her equally well, or better--is her whole soul absorbed but by one sentiment, that of fervent love for you--is her future usefulness, as well as peace, at stake--does she understand your high qualities better than myself--will she emulate them more?--does the engagement promise a favourable issue, or does it threaten to wear away the best period of life in protracted and uncertain feeling--_the most pernicious, and destructive, of all state of mind?_ remember, also, that the summer of life will quickly fade; and that he who has reached the summit of the hill, has no time to lose--if he seize not the present moment, age is approaching, and life melting fast away.--i quit this, to state my second hypothesis-- 'that you esteem and respect me, but that your heart has hitherto refused the sympathies i have sought to awaken in it. if this be the case, it remains to search for the reason; and, i own, i am at a loss to find it, either in moral, or physical, causes. our principles are in unison, our tastes and habits not dissimilar, our knowledge of, and confidence in, each other's virtues is reciprocal, tried, and established--our ages, personal accomplishments, and mental acquirements do not materially differ. from such an union, i conceive, mutual advantages would result. i have found myself distinguished, esteemed, beloved by, others, where i have not sought for this distinction. how, then, can i believe it compatible with the nature of mind, that so many strong efforts, and reiterated impressions, can have produced no effect upon yours? is your heart constituted differently from every other human heart?--i have lately observed an inequality in your behaviour, that has whispered something flattering to my heart. examine yourself--have you felt no peculiar interest in what concerns me--would the idea of our separation affect you with no more than a slight and common emotion?--one more question propose to yourself, as a test--could you see me form a new, and more fortunate, attachment, with indifference? if you cannot, without hesitation, answer these questions, i have still a powerful pleader in your bosom, though unconscious of it yourself, that will, ultimately, prevail. if i have, yet, failed of producing an unequivocal effect, it must arise from having mistaken the _means_ proper to produce the desired _end_. my own sensibility, and my imperfect knowledge of your character may, here, have combined to mislead me. the first, by its suffocating and depressing powers, clouding my vivacity, incapacitating me from appearing to you with my natural advantages--these effects would diminish as assurance took the place of doubt. the last, every day would contribute to correct. permit me, then, _to hope for_, as well as to seek your affections, and if i do not, at length, gain and secure them, it will be a phenomenon in the history of mind! 'but to proceed to my third supposition--the peculiar, pecuniary, embarrassments of your situation--good god! did this barbarous, insidious, relation, allow himself to consider the pernicious consequences of his absurd bequest?--threatening to undermine every manly principle, to blast every social virtue? oh! that i had the eloquence to rouse you from this tame and unworthy acquiescence--to stimulate you to exercise your talents, to trust to the independent energies of your mind, to exert yourself to procure the honest rewards of virtuous industry. in proportion as we lean for support on foreign aid, we lose the dignity of our nature, and palsey those powers which constitute that nature's worth. yet, i will allow, from my knowledge of your habits and associations, this obstacle its full force. but there remains one method of obviating, even this! i will frankly confess, that could i hope to gain the interest in your heart, which i have so long and so earnestly sought--my confidence in your honour and integrity, my tenderness for you, added to the wish of contributing to your happiness, would effect, what no lesser considerations could have effected--would triumph, not over my principles, (_for the individuality of an affection constitutes its chastity_) but over my prudence. i repeat, i am willing to sacrifice every inferior consideration--retain your legacy, so capriciously bequeathed--retain your present situation, and i will retain mine. this proposition, though not a violation of modesty, certainly involves in it very serious hazards--_it is, wholly, the triumph of affection!_ you cannot suppose, that a transient engagement would satisfy a mind like mine; i should require a reciprocal faith plighted and returned--an after separation, otherwise than by mutual consent, would be my destruction--i should not survive your desertion. my existence, then, would be in your hands. yet, having once confided, your affection should be my recompence--my sacrifice should be a cheerful and a voluntary one; i would determine not to harrass you with doubts nor jealousies, i would neither reflect upon the past, nor distrust the future: i would rest upon you, i would confide in you fearlessly and entirely! but, though i would not enquire after the past, my delicacy would require the assurance of your present, undivided, affection. 'the fourth idea that has occurred to me, is the probability of your having formed a plan of seeking some agreeable woman of fortune, who should be willing to reward a man of merit for the injustice of society. whether you may already have experienced some disappointments of this nature, i will not pretend to determine. i can conceive, that, by many women, a coxcomb might be preferred to you--however this may be, the plan is not unattended with risque, nor with some possible degrading circumstances--and you may succeed, and yet be miserable: happiness depends not upon the abundance of our possessions. 'the last case which i shall state, and on which i shall lay little comparative stress, is the possibility of an engagement of a very inferior nature--a mere affair of the senses. the arguments which might here be adduced are too obvious to be repeated. besides, i think highly of your refinement and delicacy--having therefore just hinted, i leave it with you. 'and now to conclude--after considering all i have urged, you may, perhaps, reply--that the subject is too nice and too subtle for reasoning, and that the heart is not to be compelled. these, i think, are mistakes. there is no subject, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. what is it that we desire--_pleasure_--_happiness_? i allow, pleasure is the supreme good: but it may be analyzed--it must have a stable foundation--to this analysis i now call you! this is the critical moment, upon which hangs a long chain of events--this moment may decide your future destiny and mine--it may, even, affect that of unborn myriads! my spirit is pervaded with these important ideas--my heart flutters--i breathe with difficulty--_my friend_--_i would give myself to you_--the gift is not worthless. pause a moment, ere you rudely throw from you an affection so tried, so respectable, so worthy of you! the heart may be compelled--compelled by the touching sympathies which bind, with sacred, indissoluble ties, mind to mind! do not prepare for yourself future remorse--when lost, you may recollect my worth, and my affection, and remember them with regret--yet mistake me not, i have no intention to intimidate--i think it my duty to live, while i may possibly be useful to others, however bitter and oppressive may be that existence. i will live _for duty_, though peace and enjoyment should be for ever fled. you may rob me of my happiness, you may rob me of my strength, but, even, you cannot destroy my principles. and, if no other motive with-held me from rash determinations, my tenderness for you (it is not a selfish tenderness), would prevent me from adding, to the anxieties i have already given you, the cruel pang, of feeling yourself the occasion, however unintentionally, of the destruction of a fellow creature. 'while i await your answer, i summon to my heart all its remaining strength and spirits. say to me, in clear and decisive terms, that the obstacles which oppose my affection _are absolutely, and altogether, insuperable_--or that there is a possibility of their removal, but that time and patience are, yet, necessary to determine their force. in this case, i will not disturb the future operations of your mind, assuring myself, that you will continue my suspence no longer than is proper and requisite--or frankly accept, and return, the faith of her to whom you are infinitely dearer than life itself! 'early to-morrow morning, a messenger shall call for the paper, which is to decide the colour of my future destiny. every moment, that the blow has been suspended, it has acquired additional force--since it must, at length, descend, it would be weakness still to desire its protraction--we have, already, refined too much--_i promise to live--more, alas! i cannot promise_. '_farewel!_ dearest and most beloved of men--whatever may be my fate--_be happiness yours!_ once more, my lingering, foreboding heart, repeats _farewel!_ 'emma.' it would be unnecessary to paint my feelings during the interval in which i waited a reply to this letter--i struggled to repress hope, and to prepare my mind for the dissolution of a thousand air-built fabrics. the day wore tediously away in strong emotion, and strong exertion. on the subsequent morning, i sat, waiting the return of my messenger, in a state of mind, difficult even to be conceived--i heard him enter--breathless, i flew to meet him--i held out my hand--i could not speak. 'mr harley desired me to tell you, _he had not had time to write_.' gracious god! i shudder, even now, to recall the convulsive sensation! i sunk into a chair--i sat for some time motionless, every faculty seemed suspended. at length, returning to recollection, i wrote a short incoherent note, entreating-- 'to be spared another day, another night, like the preceding--i asked only _one single line_! in the morning i had made up my mind to fortitude--it was now sinking--another day, i could not answer for the consequences.' again an interval of suspense--again my messenger returned with a verbal reply--'_he would write to-morrow._' unconsciously, i exclaimed--'_barbarous, unfeeling, unpitying, man!_' a burst of tears relieved--no--_it did not relieve me_. the day passed--i know not how--i dare not recollect. the next morning, i arose, somewhat refreshed; my exhausted strength and spirits had procured me a few hours of profound slumber. a degree of resentment gave a temporary firmness to my nerves. 'what happiness (i repeated to myself) could i have expected with a man, thus regardless of my feelings?' i composed my spirits--_hope was at an end_--into a sort of sullen resignation to my fate--a half stupor! at noon the letter arrived, coldly, confusedly written; methought there appeared even a degree of irritation in it. '_another, a prior attachment_--his behaviour had been such, as necessarily resulted from such an engagement--unavoidable circumstances had prevented an earlier reply.' my swollen heart--but it is enough--'he blamed my impatience--he would, in future, perhaps, when my mind had attained more composure, make some remarks on my letter.' chapter viii to write had always afforded a temporary relief to my spirits--the next day i resumed my pen. to augustus harley. 'if, after reflecting upon, and comparing, many parts of your past conduct, you can acquit yourself, at the sacred bar of humanity--it is well! how often have i called for--urged, with all the energy of truth and feeling--but in vain--such a letter as you have at length written--and, _even now_, though somewhat late, i thank you for it. yet, what could have been easier, than to repeat so plain and so simple a tale? the vague hints, you had before given, i had repeatedly declared to be insufficient. remember, all my earnestness, and all my simplicity, and _learn the value of sincerity_! "oh! with what difficulty is an active mind, once forced into any particular train, persuaded to desert it as hopeless!"[ ] [footnote : godwin's caleb williams.] 'this recital, then, was not to be confirmed, till the whole moral conformation of my mind was affected--till the barbed arrow had fixed, and rankled in, and poisoned, with its envenomed point, every vein, every fibre, of my heart. this, i confess, is now the case--reason and self-respect sustain me--but the wound you have inflicted _is indelible_--it will continue to be the corroding canker at the root of my peace. my youth has been worn in anguish--and the summer of life will probably be overshadowed by a still thicker and darker cloud. but i mean not to reproach you--it is not given me to contribute to your happiness--the dearest and most ardent wish of my soul--i would not then inflict unnecessary pain--yet, i would fix upon your mind, the value of _unequivocal sincerity_. 'had the happiness of any human being, the meanest, the vilest, depended as much upon me, as mine has done on you, i would have sacrificed, for their relief, the dearest secret of my heart--the secret, even upon which my very existence had depended. it is true, you did not directly deceive me--but is that enough for the delicacy of humanity? may the past be an affecting lesson to us both--it is written upon my mind in characters of blood. i feel, and acknowledge, my own errors, in yielding to the illusion of vague, visionary, expectation; but my faults have originated in a generous source--they have been the wild, ardent, fervent, excesses, of a vigorous and an exalted mind! 'i checked my tears, as they flowed, and they are already dried--uncalled, unwished, for--why do they, thus, struggle to force their way? my mind has, i hope, too much energy, utterly to sink--i know what it is to suffer, and to combat with, if not to subdue, my feelings--and _certainty_, itself, is some relief. i am, also, supported by the retrospect of my conduct; with all its mistakes, and all its extravagances, it has been that of a virtuous, ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind. you have contemned a heart of no common value, you have sported with its exquisite sensibilities--but it will, still, know how to separate your virtues from your errors. 'you reprove, perhaps justly, my impatience--i can only say, that circumstanced as you were, i should have stolen an hour from rest, from company, from business, however, important, to have relieved and soothed a fellow-creature in a situation, so full of pain and peril. every thought, during a day scarcely to be recollected without agony, _was a two-edged sword_--but some hours of profound and refreshing slumber recruited my exhausted spirits, and enabled me, yesterday, to receive my fate, with a fortitude but little hoped for. 'you would oblige me exceedingly by the remarks you allow me to hope for, on my letter of the ----th. you know, i will not shrink from reproof--that letter afforded you the last proof of my affection, and i repent not of it. i loved you, first, for what, i conceived, high qualities of mind--from nature and association, my tenderness became personal--till at length, i loved you, not only rationally and tenderly--_but passionately_--it became a pervading and a devouring fire! and, yet, i do not blush--my affection was modest, if intemperate, _for it was individual_--it annihilated in my eyes every other man in the creation. i regret these natural sensations and affections, their forcible suppression injures the mind--it converts the mild current of gentle, and genial sympathies, into a destructive torrent. this, i have the courage to avow it, has been one of the miserable mistakes in morals, and, like all other partial remedies, has increased the evil, it was intended to correct. from monastic institutions and principles have flowed, as from a polluted source, streams, that have at once spread through society a mingled contagion of dissoluteness and hypocrisy. 'you have suddenly arrested my affections in their full career--in all their glowing effervescence--you have taken "the rose from the fair forehead of an innocent love, and placed a blister there." 'and, yet, i survive the shock, and determine to live, not for future enjoyment--that is now, for ever, past--_but for future usefulness_--is not this virtue? 'i am sorry your attachment has been and i fear is likely to be, protracted--i know, too well, the misery of these situations, and i should, now, feel a melancholy satisfaction in hearing of its completion--in that completion, may you experience no disappointment! i do not wish you to be beloved, as i have loved you; this, perhaps, is unnecessary; such an affection, infallibly, enslaves the heart that cherishes it; and slavery is the tomb of virtue and of peace. 'i believe it would not be proper for us to meet again--at least at present--should i hear of sickness, or calamity, befalling you, i shall, i suspect, be impelled, by an irresistible impulse to seek you--but i will no more interrupt your repose--though you have contemned my affection, my friendship will still follow you. 'if you really _love_, i think you ought to make some sacrifices, and not render yourself, and the happy object of your tenderness, the victims of factitious notions.--remember--youth and life will quickly fade. relinquish, call upon her to relinquish, her prejudices--should she refuse, she is unworthy of you, and you will regret, too late, the tender, faithful, ingenuous heart, that you have pierced through and through--_that you have almost broken_! should she make you happy, i will esteem, though i may never have an opportunity of thanking, her--were she informed of my conduct, she might rejoice in the trial of your affection--though i should not. 'the spirits, that had crouded round my heart, are already subsiding--a flood of softness, a tide of overwhelming affection, gushes upon it--and i feel sinking into helpless, infantine, distress! hasten to me your promised remarks--they will rouse, they will strengthen, me--_truth_ i will never call indelicate or inhuman--it is only the virtuous mind can dare to practise, to challenge, it:--simplicity is true refinement. 'let us reap from the past all the good we can--a close, and searching, knowledge of the secret springs and foldings of our hearts. methinks, i could wish you justified, _even at my own expence_.--i ask, unshrinkingly, a frank return. 'a heart-rending sigh accompanies my _farewel_--the last struggles of expiring nature will be far less painful--but my philosophy, now, _sternly_ calls upon me to put its precepts in practice--trembling--shuddering--i obey! '_farewel!_ 'emma.' perhaps it cost me some effort to make the preceding letter so moderate--yet, every victory gained over ourselves is attended with advantages. but this apparent calm was the lethargy of despair--it was succeeded by severer conflicts, by keener anguish. a week passed, and near a second--i received no answer. chapter ix a letter from the country made it necessary for me, again, to address mr harley, to make some enquiries which respected business of his mother's. it may be, that i felt a mixture of other motives;--it is certain, that when i wrote, i spoke of more than business. 'i had hoped,' i told him, 'ere this, to have received the promised letter--yet, i do not take up my pen,' said i, 'either to complain of, or to importune, you. if i have already expressed myself with bitterness, let the harrassed state of my mind be my excuse. my own conduct has been too erroneous, too eccentric, to enable me to judge impartially of your's. forgive me, if by placing you in an embarrassing situation, i have exposed you to consequent mistake or uneasiness. i feel, that whatever errors we may either of us have committed, _originated only with myself_, and i am content to suffer all the consequences. it is true, had you reposed in me an early, generous, confidence, much misery would have been avoided--i had not been wounded "there, where the human heart most exquisitely feels!" 'you had been still my friend, and i had been comparatively happy. every passion is, in a great measure, the growth of indulgence: all our desires are, in their commencement, easily suppressed, when there appears no probability of attaining their object; but when strengthened, by time and reflection, into habit, in endeavouring to eradicate them, we tear away part of the mind. in my attachments there is a kind of savage tenacity--they are of an elastic nature, and, being forced back, return with additional violence. 'my affection for you has not been, altogether, irrational or selfish. while i felt that i loved you, as no other woman, i was convinced, would love you--i conceived, could i once engage your heart, i could satisfy, and even, purify it. while i loved your virtues, i thought i saw, and i lamented, the foibles which sullied them. i suspected you, perhaps erroneously, of pride, ambition, the love of distinction; yet your ambition could not, i thought, be of an ignoble nature--i feared that the gratifications you sought, if, indeed, attainable, were factitious--i even fancied i perceived you, against your better judgment, labouring to seduce yourself!' "he is under a delusion," said i, to myself;--"reason may be stunned, or blinded, for awhile; but it will revive in the heart, and do its office, when sophistry will be of no avail." i saw you struggling with vexations, that i was assured might be meliorated by tender confidence--i longed to pour its balms into your bosom. my sensibility disquieted you, and myself, only _because it was constrained_. i thought i perceived a conflict in your mind--i watched its progress with attention and solicitude. a thousand times has my fluttering heart yearned to break the cruel chains that fettered it, and to chase the cloud, which stole over your brow, by the tender, yet chaste, caresses and endearments of ineffable affection! my feelings became too highly wrought, and altogether insupportable. sympathy for your situation, zeal for your virtues, love for your mind, tenderness for your person--a complication of generous, affecting, exquisite, emotions, impelled me to make one great effort.--"[ ] the world might call my plans absurd, my views romantic, my pretensions extravagant--was i, or was i not, guilty of any crime, when, in the very acme of the passions, i so totally disregarded the customs of the world?" ah! what were my sensations--what did i not suffer, in the interval?--and you prolonged that cruel interval--and still you suffer me to doubt, whether, at the moment in my life when i was actuated by the highest, the most fervent, the most magnanimous, principles--whether, at that moment, when i most deserved your respect, i did not for ever forfeit it. [footnote : holcroft's anna st ives.] 'i seek not to extenuate any part of my conduct--i confess that it has been wild, extravagant, romantic--i confess, that, even for your errors, i am justly blameable--and yet i am unable to bear, because i feel they would be unjust, your hatred and contempt. i cherish no resentment--my spirit is subdued and broken--your unkindness sinks into my soul. 'emma.' another fortnight wore away in fruitless expectation--the morning rose, the evening closed, upon me, in sadness. i could not, yet, think the mystery developed: on a concentrated view of the circumstances, they appeared to me contradictory, and irreconcileable. a solitary enthusiast, a child in the drama of the world, i had yet to learn, that those who have courage to act upon advanced principles, must be content to suffer moral martyrdom.[ ] in subduing our own prejudices, we have done little, while assailed on every side by the prejudices of others. my own heart acquitted me; but i dreaded that distortion of mind, that should wrest guilt out of the most sublime of its emanations. [footnote : this sentiment may be just in some particular cases, but it is by no means of general application, and must be understood with great limitations.] i ruminated in gloomy silence, on my forlorn, and hopeless, situation. 'if there be not a future state of being,' said i to myself, 'what is this!--tortured in every stage of it, "man cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down--he fleeth, as a shadow, and continueth not!"--i looked backward on my past life, and my heart sickened--its confidence in humanity was shaken--i looked forward, and all was cheerless. i had certainly committed many errors!--who has not--who, with a fancy as lively, feelings as acute, and a character as sanguine, as mine? "what, in fact," says a philosophic writer,[ ] "is character?--the production of a lively and constant affection, and consequently, of a strong passion:"--eradicate that passion, that ferment, that leaven, that exuberance, which raises and makes the mind what it is, and what remains? yet, let us beware how we wantonly expend this divine, this invigorating, power. every grand error, in a mind of energy, in its operations and consequences, carries us years forward--_precious years, never to be recalled_!' i could find no substitute for the sentiments i regretted--for that sentiment formed my character; and, but for the obstacles which gave it force, though i might have suffered less misery, i should, i suspect, have gained less improvement; still adversity _is a real evil_; and i foreboded that this improvement had been purchased too dear. [footnote : helvetius.] chapter x weeks elapsed ere the promised letter arrived--a letter still colder, and more severe, than the former. i wept over it, bitter tears! it accused me 'of adding to the vexations of a situation, before sufficiency oppressive.'--alas! had i known the nature of those vexations, could i have merited such a reproof? the augustus, i had so long and so tenderly loved, no longer seemed to exist. some one had, surely, usurped his signature, and imitated those characters, i had been accustomed to trace with delight. he tore himself from me, _nor would he deign to soften the pang of separation_. anguish overwhelmed me--my heart was pierced. reclining my head on my folded arms, i yielded myself up to silent grief. alone, sad, desolate, no one heeded my sorrows--no eye pitied me--no friendly voice cheered my wounded spirit! the social propensities of a mind forbidden to expand itself, forced back, preyed incessantly upon that mind, secretly consuming its powers. i was one day roused from these melancholy reflections by the entrance of my cousin, mrs denbeigh. she held in her hand a letter, from my only remaining friend, mrs harley. i snatched it hastily; my heart, lacerated by the seeming unkindness of him in whom it had confided, yearned to imbibe the consolation, which the gentle tenderness of this dear, maternal, friend, had never failed to administer. the first paragraph informed me-- 'that she had, a few days since, received a letter from the person to whom the legacy of her son devolved, should he fail in observing the prescribed conditions of the testator: that this letter gave her notice, that those conditions had already been infringed, mr harley having contracted a marriage, three years before, with a foreigner, with whom he had become acquainted during his travels; that this marriage had been kept a secret, and, but very lately, by an accidental concurrence of circumstances, revealed to the person most concerned in the detection. undoubted proofs of the truth of this information could be produced; it would therefore be most prudent in her son to resign his claims, without putting himself, and the legal heir, to unnecessary expence and litigation. ignorant of the residence of mr harley, the writer troubled his mother to convey to him these particulars.' the paper dropped from my hand, the colour forsook my lips and cheeks;--yet i neither wept, nor fainted. mrs denbeigh took my hands--they were frozen--the blood seemed congealed in my veins--and i sat motionless--my faculties suspended, stunned, locked up! my friend spake to me--embraced, shed tears over, me--but she could not excite mine;--my mind was pervaded by a sense of confused misery. i remained many days in this situation--it was a state, of which i have but a feeble remembrance; and i, at length, awoke from it, as from a troublesome dream. with returning reason, the tide of recollection also returned. oh! how complicated appeared to me the guilt of augustus! ignorant of his situation, i had been unconsciously, and perseveringly, exerting myself to seduce the affections of a _husband_ from his _wife_. he had made me almost criminal in my own eyes--he had risqued, at once, by a disingenuous and cruel reserve, the virtue and the happiness of three beings. what is virtue, but a calculation of _the consequences of our actions_? did we allow ourselves to reason on this principle, to reflect on its truth and importance, we should be compelled to shudder at many parts of our conduct, which, _taken unconnectedly_, we have habituated ourselves to consider as almost indifferent. virtue can exist only in a mind capable of taking comprehensive views. how criminal, then, is ignorance! during this sickness of the soul, mr francis, who had occasionally visited me since my residence in town, called, repeatedly, to enquire after my welfare; expressing a friendly concern for my indisposition. i saw him not--i was incapable of seeing any one--but, informed by my kind hostess of his humane attentions, soothed by the idea of having yet a friend who seemed to interest himself in my concerns, i once more had recourse to my pen (mrs denbeigh having officiously placed the implements of writing in my way), and addressed him in the wild and incoherent language of despair. to mr francis. 'you once told me, that i was incapable of heroism; and you were right--yet, i am called to great exertions! a blow that has been suspended over my head, days, weeks, months, years, has at length fallen--still i live! my tears flow--i struggle, in vain, to suppress them, but they are not tears of blood!--my heart, though pierced through and through, is not broken! 'my friend, come and teach me how to acquire fortitude--i am wearied with misery--all nature is to me a blank--an envenomed shaft rankles in my bosom--philosophy will not heal the festering wound--_i am exquisitely wretched!_ 'do not chide me till i get more strength--i speak to you of my sorrows, for your kindness, while i was yet a stranger to you, inspired me with confidence, and my desolate heart looks round for support. 'i am indebted to you--how shall i repay your goodness? do you, indeed, interest yourself in my fate? call upon me, then, for the few incidents of my life--i will relate them simply, and without disguise. there is nothing uncommon in them, but the effect which they have produced upon my mind--yet, that mind they formed. 'after all, my friend, what a wretched farce is life! why cannot i sleep, and, close my eyes upon it for ever? but something whispers, "_this would be wrong_."--how shall i tear from my heart all its darling, close twisted, associations?--and must i live--_live for what?_ god only knows! yet, how am i sure that there is a god--is he wise--is he powerful--is he benevolent? if he be, can he sport himself in the miseries of poor, feeble, impotent, beings, forced into existence, without their choice--impelled, by the iron hand of necessity, through mistake, into calamity?--ah! my friend, who will condemn the poor solitary wanderer, whose feet are pierced with many a thorn, should he turn suddenly out of the rugged path, seek an obscure shade to shrowd his wounds, his sorrows, and his indignation, from the scorn of a pitiless world, and accelerate the hour of repose.[ ] who would be born if they could help it? you would perhaps--_you may do good_--but on me, the sun shines only to mock my woes--oh! that i had never seen the light. [footnote : this is the reasoning of a mind distorted by passion. even in the moment of disappointment, our heroine judged better. see page .] 'torn by conflicting passions--wasted in anguish--life is melting fast away--a burthen to myself, a grief to those who love me, and worthless to every one. weakened by long suspence--preyed upon, by a combination of imperious feelings--i fear, i greatly fear, the _irrecoverable blow is struck_! but i blame no one--i have been entangled in error--_who is faultless?_ 'while pouring itself out on paper, my tortured mind has experienced a momentary relief: if your heart be inaccessible to tender sympathies, i have only been adding one more to my numberless mistakes! 'emma.' mr francis visited me, and evinced for my situation the most humane and delicate consideration. he reminded me of the offer i had made him, and requested the performance of my engagement. in compliance with this request, and to beguile my melancholy thoughts, i drew up a sketch of the events of my past life, and unfolded a history of the sentiments of my mind (from which i have extracted the preceding materials) reserving only any circumstance which might lead to a detection of the name and family of the man with whom they were so intimately blended. chapter xi after having perused my manuscript, mr francis returned it, at my desire, accompanied by the following letter. to emma courtney. 'your narrative leaves me full of admiration for your qualities, and compassion for your insanity. 'i entreat however your attention to the following passage, extracted from your papers. "after considering all i have urged, you may perhaps reply, that the subject is too nice, and too subtle, for reasoning, and that the heart is not to be compelled. this, i think, is a mistake. there is no topic, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. what is it we desire? pleasure, happiness. what! the pleasure of an instant, only; or that which is more solid and permanent? i allow, pleasure is the supreme good! but it may be analysed. to this analysis i now call you." 'could i, if i had studied for years, invent a comment on your story, more salutary to your sorrows, more immoveable in its foundation, more clearly expressed, or more irresistibly convincing to every rational mind? 'how few real, substantial, misfortunes there are in the world! how few calamities, the sting of which does not depend upon our cherishing the viper in our bosom, and applying the aspic to our veins! the general pursuit of all men, we are frequently told, is happiness. i have often been tempted to think, on the contrary, that the general pursuit is misery. it is true, men do not recognize it by its genuine appellation; they content themselves with the pitiful expedient of assigning it a new denomination. but, if their professed purpose were misery, could they be more skilful and ingenious in the pursuit? 'look through your whole life. to speak from your own description, was there ever a life, in its present period, less chequered with substantial _bona fide_ misfortune? the whole force of every thing which looks like a misfortune was assiduously, unintermittedly, provided by yourself. you nursed in yourself a passion, which, taken in the degree in which you experienced it, is the unnatural and odious invention of a distempered civilization, and which in almost all instances generates an immense overbalance of excruciating misery. your conduct will scarcely admit of any other denomination than moon-struck madness, hunting after torture. you addressed a man impenetrable as a rock, and the smallest glimpse of sober reflection, and common sense, would have taught you instantly to have given up the pursuit. 'i know you will tell me, and you will tell yourself, a great deal about constitution, early association, and the indissoluble chain of habits and sentiments. but i answer with small fear of being erroneous, "it is a mistake to suppose, that the heart is not to be compelled. there is no topic, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. pleasure, happiness, is the supreme good; and happiness is susceptible of being analysed." i grant, that the state of a human mind cannot be changed at once; but, had you worshipped at the altar of reason but half as assiduously as you have sacrificed at the shrine of illusion, your present happiness would have been as enviable, as your present distress is worthy of compassion. if men would but take the trouble to ask themselves, once every day, why should i be miserable? how many, to whom life is a burthen, would become chearful and contented. 'make a catalogue of all the real evils of human life; bodily pain, compulsory solitude, severe corporal labour, in a word, all those causes which deprive us of health, or the means of spending our time in animated, various, and rational pursuits. aye, these are real evils! but i should be ashamed of putting disappointed love into my enumeration. evils of this sort are the brood of folly begotten upon fastidious indolence. they shrink into non-entity, when touched by the wand of truth. 'the first lesson of enlightened reason, the great fountain of heroism and virtue, the principle by which alone man can become what man is capable of being, is _independence_. may every power that is favourable to integrity, to honour, defend me from leaning upon another for support! i will use the word, i will use my fellow men, but i will not abuse these invaluable benefits of the system of nature. i will not be weak and criminal enough, to make my peace depend upon the precarious thread of another's life or another's pleasure. i will judge for myself; i will draw my support from myself--the support of my existence and the support of my happiness. the system of nature has perhaps made me dependent for the means of existence and happiness upon my fellow men taken collectively; but nothing but my own folly can make me dependent upon individuals. will these principles prevent me from admiring, esteeming, and loving such as are worthy to excite these emotions? can i not have a mind to understand, and a heart to feel excellence, without first parting with the fairest attribute of my nature? 'you boast of your sincerity and frankness. you have doubtless some reason for your boast--yet all your misfortunes seem to have arisen from concealment. you brooded over your emotions, and considered them as a sacred deposit--you have written to me, i have seen you frequently, during the whole of this transaction, without ever having received the slightest hint of it, yet, if i be a fit counsellor now, i was a fit counsellor then; your folly was so gross, that, if it had been exposed to the light of day, it could not have subsisted for a moment. even now you suppress the name of your hero: yet, unless i know how much of a hero and a model of excellence he would appear in my eyes, i can be but a very imperfect judge of the affair. '---- francis.' chapter xii to the remonstrance of my friend, which roused me from the languor into which i was sinking, i immediately replied-- to mr francis. 'you retort upon me my own arguments, and you have cause. i felt a ray of conviction dart upon my mind, even, while i wrote them. but what then?--"i seemed to be in a state, in which reason had no power; i felt as if i could coolly survey the several arguments of the case--perceive, that they had prudence, truth, and common sense on their side--and then answer--i am under the guidance of a director more energetic than you!"[ ] i am affected by your kindness--i am affected by your letter. i could weep over it, bitter tears of conviction and remorse. but argue with the wretch infected with the plague--will it stop the tide of blood, that is rapidly carrying its contagion to the heart? i blush! i shed burning tears! but i am still desolate and wretched! and how am i to stop it? the force which you impute to my reasoning was the powerful frenzy of a high delirium. [footnote : godwin's caleb williams.] 'what does it signify whether, abstractedly considered, a misfortune be worthy of the names real and substantial, if the consequences produced are the same? that which embitters all my life, that which stops the genial current of health and peace is, whatever be its nature, a real calamity to me. there is no end to this reasoning--what individual can limit the desires of another? the necessaries of the civilized man are whimsical superfluities in the eye of the savage. are we, or are we not (as you have taught me) the creatures of sensation and circumstance? 'i agree with you--and the more i look into society, the deeper i feel the soul-sickening conviction--"the general pursuit is misery"--necessarily--excruciating misery, from the source to which you justly ascribe it--"_the unnatural and odious inventions of a distempered civilization._" i am content, you may perceive, to recognize things by their genuine appellation. i am, at least, a reasoning maniac: perhaps the most dangerous species of insanity. but while the source continues troubled, why expect the streams to run pure? 'you know i will tell you--"about the indissoluble chains of association and habit:" and you attack me again with my own weapons! alas! while i confess their impotence, with what consistency do i accuse the flinty, impenetrable, heart, i so earnestly sought, in vain, to move? what materials does this stubborn mechanism of the mind offer to the wise and benevolent legislator! 'had i, you tell me, "worshipped at the altar of reason, but half as assiduously as i have sacrificed at the shrine of illusion, my happiness might have been enviable." but do you not perceive, that my reason was the auxiliary of my passion, or rather my passion the generative principle of my reason? had not these contradictions, these oppositions, roused the energy of my mind, i might have domesticated, tamely, in the lap of indolence and apathy. 'i do ask myself, every day--"why should i be miserable?"--and i answer, "because the strong, predominant, sentiment of my soul, close twisted with all its cherished associations, has been rudely torn away, and the blood flows from the lacerated wound. you would be ashamed of placing disappointed love in your enumeration of evils! gray was not ashamed of this-- 'and pining love shall waste their youth, and jealousy, with rankling tooth, that inly gnaws the secret heart!' * * * * * 'these shall the stings of falsehood try, and hard unkindness' alter'd eye, that mocks the tear it forc'd to flow.'" 'is it possible that you can be insensible of all the mighty mischiefs which have been caused by this passion--of the great events and changes of society, to which it has operated as a powerful, though secret, spring? that jupiter shrouded his glories beneath a mortal form; that he descended yet lower, and crawled as a reptile--that hercules took the distaff, and sampson was shorn of his strength, are in their spirit, no fables. yet, these were the legends of ages less degenerate than this, and states of society less corrupt. ask your own heart--whether some of its most exquisite sensations have not arisen from sources, which, to nine-tenths of the world, would be equally inconceivable: mine, i believe, is a _solitary madness in the eighteenth century: it is not on the altars of love, but of gold, that men, now, come to pay their offerings_. 'why call woman, miserable, oppressed, and impotent, woman--_crushed, and then insulted_--why call her to _independence_--which not nature, but the barbarous and accursed laws of society, have denied her? _this is mockery!_ even you, wise and benevolent as you are, can mock the child of slavery and sorrow! "excluded, as it were, by the pride, luxury, and caprice, of the world, from expanding my sensations, and wedding my soul to society, i was constrained to bestow the strong affections, that glowed consciously within me, upon a few."[ ] love, in minds of any elevation, cannot be generated but upon a real, or fancied, foundation of excellence. but what would be a miracle in architecture, is true in morals--the fabric can exist when the foundation has mouldered away. _habit_ daily produces this wonderful effect upon every feeling, and every principle. is not this the theory which you have taught me? [footnote : godwin's caleb williams.] 'am i not sufficiently ingenuous?--i will give you a new proof of my frankness (though not the proof you require).--from the miserable consequences of wretched moral distinctions, from chastity having been considered as a sexual virtue, all these calamities have flowed. men are thus rendered sordid and dissolute in their pleasures; their affections vitiated, and their feelings petrified; the simplicity of modest tenderness loses its charm; they become incapable of satisfying the heart of a woman of sensibility and virtue.--half the sex, then, are the wretched, degraded, victims of brutal instinct: the remainder, if they sink not into mere frivolity and insipidity, are sublimed into a sort of--[what shall i call them?]--refined, romantic, factitious, unfortunate, beings; who, for the sake of the present moment, dare not expose themselves to complicated, inevitable, evils; evils, that will infallibly overwhelm them with misery and regret! woe be, more especially, to those who, possessing the dangerous gifts of fancy and feeling, find it as difficult to discover a substitute for the object as for the sentiment! you, who are a philosopher, will you still controvert the principles founded in truth and nature? "gross as is my folly," (and i do not deny it) "you may perceive i was not wholly wandering in darkness. but while the wintry sun of hope illumined the fairy frost-work with a single, slanting ray--dazzled by the transient brightness, i dreaded the meridian fervors that should dissolve the glittering charm." yes! it was madness--but it was the pleasurable madness which none but madmen know. 'i cannot answer your question--pain me not by its repetition; neither seek to ensnare me to the disclosure. unkindly, severely, as i have been treated, i will not risque, even, the possibility of injuring the man, whom i have so tenderly loved, in the esteem of any one. were i to name him, you know him not; you could not judge of his qualities. he is not "a model of excellence." i perceive it, with pain--and if obliged to retract my judgment on some parts of his character--i retract it with agonizing reluctance! but i could trace the sources of his errors, and candour and self-abasement imperiously compel me to a mild judgment, to stifle the petulant suggestions of a wounded spirit. 'ought not our principles, my friend, to soften the asperity of our censures?--could i have won him to my arms, i thought i could soften, and even elevate, his mind--a mind, in which i still perceive a great proportion of good. i weep for him, as well as for myself. he will, one day, know my value, and feel my loss. still, i am sensible, that, by my extravagance, i have given a great deal of vexation (possibly some degradation), to a being, whom i had no right to persecute, or to compel to chuse happiness through a medium of my creation. i cannot exactly tell the extent of the injury i may have done him. a long train of consequences succeed, even, our most indifferent actions.--strong energies, though they answer not the end proposed, must yet produce correspondent effects. morals and mechanics are here analogous. no longer, then, distress me by the repetition of a question i ought not to answer. i am content to be the victim--oh! may i be the only victim--of my folly! 'one more observation allow me to make, before i conclude. that we can "admire, esteem, and love," an individual--(for love in the abstract, loving mankind collectively, conveys to me no idea)--which must be, in fact, depending upon that individual for a large share of our felicity, and not lament his loss, in proportion to our apprehension of his worth, appears to me a proposition, involving in itself an absurdity; therefore demonstrably false. 'let me, my friend, see you ere long--your remonstrance has affected me--save me from myself!' to the same. [in continuation.] 'my letter having been delayed a few days, through a mistake--i resume my pen; for, running my eye over what i had written, i perceive (confounded by the force of your expressions) i have granted you too much. my conduct was not, altogether, so insane as i have been willing to allow. it is certain, that could i have attained the end proposed, my happiness had been encreased. "it is necessary for me to love and admire, or i sink into sadness." the behaviour of the man, whom i sought to move, appeared to me too inconsistent to be the result of _indifference_. to be roused and stimulated by obstacles--obstacles admitting hope, because obscurely seen--is no mark of weakness. could i have subdued, what i, _then_, conceived to be the _prejudices_ of a worthy man, i could have increased both his happiness and my own. i deeply reasoned, and philosophized, upon the subject. perseverance, with little ability, has effected wonders;--with perseverance, i felt, that, i had the power of uniting ability--confiding in that power, i was the dupe of my own reason. no other man, perhaps, could have acted the part which this man has acted:--how, then, was i to take such a part into my calculations? 'do not misconceive me--it is no miracle that i did not inspire affection. on this subject, the mortification i have suffered has humbled me, it may be, even, unduly in my own eyes--but to the emotions of my pride, i would disdain to give words. whatever may have been my feelings, i am too proud to express the rage of slighted love!--yet, i am sensible to all the powers of those charming lines of pope-- "unequal talk, a passion to resign, for hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost, as mine! ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, how often must it love, how often hate; how often hope, despair, resent, regret, conceal, disdain, _do all things but forget_!" 'but to return. i pursued, comparatively, (as i thought) a certain good; and when, at times, discouraged, i have repeated to myself--what! after all these pains, shall i relinquish my efforts, when, perhaps, on the very verge of success?--to say nothing of the difficulty of forcing an active mind out of its trains--if i desisted, what was to be the result? the sensations i now feel--apathy, stagnation, abhorred vacuity! 'you cannot resist the force of my reasoning--you, who are acquainted with, who know how to paint, in colours true to nature, the human heart--you, who admire, as a proof of power, the destructive courage of an alexander, even the fanatic fury of a ravaillac--you, who honour the pernicious ambition of an augustus cæsar, as bespeaking the potent, energetic, mind!--why should _you_ affect to be intolerant to a passion, though differing in nature, generated on the same principles, and by a parallel process. the capacity of perception, or of receiving sensation, is (or generates) the power; into what channel that power shall be directed, depends not on ourselves. are we not the creatures of outward impressions? without such impressions, should we be any thing? are not passions and powers synonimous--or can the latter be produced without the lively interest that constitutes the former? do you dream of annihilating the one--and will not the other be extinguished? with the apostle, paul, permit me to say--"i am not mad, but speak the words of truth and soberness." 'to what purpose did you read my confessions, but to trace in them a character formed, like every other human character, by the result of unavoidable impressions, and the chain of necessary events. i feel, that my arguments are incontrovertible:--i suspect that, by affecting to deny their force, you will endeavour to deceive either me or yourself.--i have acquired the power of reasoning on this subject at a dear rate--at the expence of inconceivable suffering. attempt not to deny me the miserable, expensive, victory. i am ready to say--(ungrateful that i am)--why did you put me upon calling forth my strong reason? 'i perceive there is no cure for me--(apathy is, not the restoration to health, but, the morbid lethargy of the soul) but by a new train of impressions, of whatever nature, equally forcible with the past.--you will tell me, it remains with myself whether i will predetermine to resist such impressions. is this true? is it philosophical? ask yourself. what!--can _even you_ shrink from the consequences of your own principles? 'one word more--you accuse me of brooding in silence over my sensations--of considering them as a "sacred deposit." concealment is particularly repugnant to my disposition--yet a thousand delicacies--a thousand nameless solicitudes, and apprehensions, sealed my lips!--he who inspired them was, alone, the depositary of my most secret thoughts!--my heart was unreservedly open before him--i covered my paper with its emotions, and transmitted it to him--like him who whispered his secret into the earth, to relieve the burden of uncommunicated thought. my secret was equally safe, and received in equal silence! alas! he was not then ignorant of the effects it was likely to produce! 'emma.' mr francis continued his humane and friendly attentions; and, while he opposed my sentiments, as conceiving them destructive of my tranquillity, mingled with his opposition a gentle and delicate consideration for my feelings, that sensibly affected me, and excited my grateful attachment. he judged right, that, by stimulating my mind into action, the sensations, which so heavily oppressed it, might be, in some measure, mitigated--by diverting the course of my ideas into different channels, and by that means abating their force. his kindness soothed and flattered me, and communications relieved my thoughts. chapter xiii the period which succeeded these events, though tedious in wearing away, marked by no vicissitude, has left little impression behind. the tenor of my days resembled the still surface of a stagnant lake, embosomed in a deep cavern, over which the refreshing breezes never sweep. sad, vacant, inactive--the faculties both of mind and body seemed almost suspended. i became weak, languid, enervated--my disorder was a lethargy of soul. this was gradually succeeded by disease of body:--an inactivity, so contrary to all the habits of my past life, generated morbid humours, and brought on a slow, remitting, fever. i recovered, by degrees, from this attack, but remained for some time in a debilitated, though convalescent, state. a few weeks after my disorder returned, lasted longer, and left me still more weakened and depressed. a third time it assailed me, at a shorter interval; and, though less violent, was more protracted, and more exhausting. mrs denbeigh, alarmed by my situation, wrote to mrs harley, expressing the apprehensions which she entertained. from this dear friend, who was herself in a declining state of health, i received a pressing invitation to visit, once more, the village of f----; and to seek, from change of air, change of scene, and the cordial endearments of friendship, a restoration for my debilitated frame, and a balm for my wounded mind. my relation, at this period, had letters from her husband, informing her, that the term of his residence in india was prolonged; pressing her to join him there, and to come over in the next ship. to this request she joyfully acceded; and, hearing that a packet was about to sail for bengal, secured her passage, and began immediately to make preparations for her departure. i no longer hesitated to comply with the entreaties of my friend; besides the tie of strong affection, which drew me to her, i had, at present, little other resource. after affectionately embracing mrs denbeigh, wishing a happy issue to her voyage, thanking her for all her kindness, and leaving a letter of grateful acknowledgement for mr francis, i quitted the metropolis, with an aching heart, and a wasted frame. my cousin accompanied me to the inn, from whence the vehicle set out that was to convey me to mrs harley. we parted in silence--a crowd of retrospective ideas of the past, and solicitudes respecting the future, occupied our thoughts--our sensations were too affecting for words. the carriage quitted london at the close of the evening, and travelled all night:--it was towards the end of the year. at midnight we passed over hounslow and bagshot heaths. 'the moon,' to adopt the language of ossian, 'looked through broken clouds, and brightened their dark-brown sides.' a loud november blast howled over the heath, and whistled through the fern.--there was a melancholy desolation in the scene, that was in unison with my feelings, and which overwhelmed my spirits with a tide of tender recollections. i recalled to my imagination a thousand interesting images--i indulged in all the wild enthusiasm of my character. my fellow-travellers slept tranquilly, while my soul was awake to agonizing sorrow. i adopted the language of the tender eloisa--'why,' said i, 'am i indebted for life to his care, whose cruelty has rendered it insupportable? inhuman, as he is, let him fly from me for ever, and deny himself the savage pleasure of being an eye-witness to my sorrows!--but why do i rave thus?--he is not to be blamed--_i, alone, am guilty_--i, alone, am the author of my own misfortunes, and should, therefore, be the only object of anger and resentment.'[ ] [footnote : rousseau.] weakened by my late indisposition, fatigued by the rough motion of the carriage, and exhausted by strong emotion, when arrived at the end of my journey, i was obliged to be lifted from the coach, and carried into the cottage of my friend. the servant led the way to the library--the door opened--mrs harley advanced, to receive me, with tottering steps. the ravages of grief, and the traces of sickness, were visible in her dear, affectionate, countenance. i clasped my hands, and, lifting up my eyes, beheld the portrait of augustus--beheld again the resemblance of those features so deeply engraven on my heart! my imagination was raised--methought the lively colours of the complexion had faded, the benignant smile had vanished, and an expression of perplexity and sternness usurped its place. i uttered a faint shriek, and fell lifeless into the arms of my friend. it was some time before i returned to sense and recollection, when i found myself on the bed, in the little chamber which had formerly been appropriated to my use. my friend sat beside me, holding my hand in her's, which she bathed with her tears. 'thank god!' she exclaimed, in a rapturous accent, (as, with a deep sigh, i raised my languid eyes, and turned them mournfully towards her)--'she lives!--my emma!--child of my affections!'--sobs suppressed her utterance. i drew the hand, which held mine, towards me--i pressed it to my bosom--'_my mother!_'--i would have said; but the tender appellation died away upon my lips, in inarticulate murmurs. these severe struggles were followed by a return of my disorder. mrs harley would scarcely be persuaded to quit my chamber for a moment--her tenderness seemed to afford her new strength;--but these exertions accelerated the progress of an internal malady, which had for some time past been gaining ground, and gradually undermining her health. youth, and a good constitution, aided by the kind solicitudes of friendship, restored me, in a few weeks, to a state of convalescence. i observed the declining strength of my friend with terror--i accused myself of having, though involuntarily, added to these alarming symptoms, by the new fatigues and anxieties which i had occasioned her. affection inspired me with those energies, that reason had vainly dictated. i struggled to subdue myself--i stifled the impetuous suggestions of my feelings, in exerting myself to fulfil the duties of humanity. my mind assumed a firmer tone--i became, once more, the cheerful companion, the tender consoler, the attentive nurse, of this excellent woman, to whose kindness i was so much indebted--and, if i stole a few moments in the day, while my friend reposed, to gaze on the resemblance of augustus, to weep over the testimonies of his former respect and friendship, i quickly chased from my bosom, and my countenance, every trace of sadness, when summoned to attend my friend. chapter xiv the winter came on severe and cold. mrs harley was forbidden to expose herself to the frosty air, which seemed to invigorate my languid frame. i was constituted her almoner, to distribute to the neighbouring poor the scanty portion, which she was enabled, by a rigid oeconomy, to spare from her little income: yet the value of this distribution had been more than redoubled, by the gentler charities of kind accents, tender sympathy, and wholesome counsels. to these indigent, but industrious, cottagers, i studied to be the worthy representative of their amiable benefactress, and found my reward in their grateful attachment, and the approving smiles of my friend. by degrees, she ventured to converse with me on the subject nearest her heart--the situation of her son. he had been obliged to yield to the proofs produced of his marriage, which he had, at first, seemed desirous of evading. he had written, with reserve, upon the subject to his mother; but, from the enquiries of a common friend, she had reason to apprehend, that his engagement had been of an imprudent nature. two children, were, already the fruits of it: the mother, with a feminine helplessness of character, had a feeble constitution. the small fortune, which augustus had originally shared with his family, was greatly reduced. his education and habits had unfitted him for those exertions which the support of an encreasing family necessarily required:--his spirits (her friend had informed her) seemed broken, and his temper soured. some efforts had been made to serve him, which his lofty spirit had repelled with disdain. this narration deeply affected my heart--i had resigned myself to his loss--but the idea of his suffering, i felt, was an evil infinitely severer. it was this conviction that preyed incessantly on the peace and health of his mother. my fortitude failed, when i would have tried to sustain her; and i could only afford the melancholy satisfaction of mingling my sorrows with her's. the disorder of my friend rapidly increased--her mind became weakened, and her feelings wayward and irritable. i watched her incessantly--i strove, by every alleviating care, to soften her pains. towards the approach of spring the symptoms grew more threatening; and it was judged, by her physician, necessary to apprize her family of her immediate danger. what a trial for my exhausted heart! i traced, with a trembling hand, a line to this melancholy purpose--addressed it to mr harley, and through him to his younger brothers and sisters. in a few days they arrived in the village--sending from the inn a servant, to prepare their mother for their approach. i gently intimated to her the visitants we might expect. the previous evening, a change had taken place, which indicated approaching dissolution; and her mind (not uncommon in similar cases) seemed, almost instantaneously, to have recovered a portion of its original strength. she sighed deeply, while her eyes, which were fixed wistfully on my face, were lighted with a bright, but transient, lustre. 'my dear emma,' said she, 'this is a trying moment for us both. i shall soon close my eyes, for ever, upon all worldly cares.--still cherish, in your pure and ingenuous mind, a friendship for my augustus--the darling of my soul! he may, in future, stand in need of consolation. i had formed hopes--vain hopes!--in which you and he were equally concerned. in the happiness of this partially-favoured child--this idol of my affections--all mine was concentrated. he has disappointed me, and i have lost the desire of living--yet, he has noble qualities!--who, alas! is perfect? summon your fortitude, collect your powers, my child, for this interview!' she sunk on her pillow--i answered her only with my tears. a servant entered--but spoke not--her look announced her tidings--it caught the eye of mrs harley-- 'let them enter,' said she; and she raised herself, to receive them, and assumed an aspect of composure. i covered my face with my handkerchief--i heard the sound of footsteps approaching the bed--i heard the murmurs of filial sorrow--the voice of augustus, in low and interrupted accents, struck upon my ear--it thrilled through my nerves--i shuddered, involuntarily--what a moment! my friend spoke a few words, in a faint tone. 'my children,' she added, 'repay to this dear girl,' laying her hand upon mine, 'the debt of kindness i owe her--she has smoothed the pillow of death--she is an orphan--she is tender and unfortunate.' i ventured to remove for a moment the handkerchief from my eyes--they met those of augustus--he was kneeling by the bed-side--his countenance was wan, and every feature sunk in dejection; a shivering crept through my veins, and chilled my heart with a sensation of icy coldness--he removed his eyes, fixing them on his dying mother. 'my son,' she resumed, in still fainter accents, 'behold in emma, your sister--_your friend!_--confide in her--she is worthy of your confidence!'--'will you not love him, my child,'--(gazing upon me,)--'with a sisterly affection?' i hid my face upon the pillow of my friend--i threw my arms around her--'your request is superfluous, my friend, my more than parent, _ah, how superfluous_!' 'forgive me, i know the tenderness of your nature--yielding, in these parting moments, to the predominant affection of my heart--i fear, i have wounded that tender nature.' 'farewell, my children! love and assist each other--augustus, where is your hand?--my sight fails me--god bless you and your little ones--_god bless you all_!--my last sigh--my last prayer--is yours.' exhausted by these efforts, she fainted--augustus uttered a deep groan, and raised her in his arms--but life was fled. at the remembrance of these scenes, even at this period, my heart is melted within me. what is there of mournful magic in the emotions of virtuous sorrow, that in retracing, in dwelling upon them, mingles with our tears a sad and sublime rapture? nature, that has infused so much misery into the cup of human life, has kindly mixed this strange and mysterious ingredient to qualify the bitter draught. chapter xv after the performance of the last melancholy duties, this afflicted family prepared to separate. i received from them, individually, friendly offers of service, and expressions of acknowledgment, for my tender attentions to their deceased parent. i declined, for the present, their invitations, and profferred kindness, though uncertain how to dispose of myself, or which way to direct my course. augustus behaved towards me with distant, cold, respect. i observed in his features, under a constrained appearance of composure, marks of deep and strong emotion. i recalled to my mind the injunctions of my deceased friend--i yearned to pour into his bosom the balm of sympathy, but, with an aspect bordering on severity, he repressed the expression of those ingenuous feelings which formed my character, and shunned the confidence i so earnestly sought. unfortunate love had, in my subdued and softened mind, laid the foundation of a fervent and durable friendship--but my love, my friendship, were equally contemned! i relinquished my efforts--i shut myself in my chamber--and, in secret, indulged my sorrows. the house of my deceased friend was sold, and the effects disposed of. on the day previous to their removal, and the departure of the family for london, i stole into the library, at the close of the evening, to view, for _the last time_, the scene of so many delightful, so many afflicting emotions. a mysterious and sacred enchantment is spread over every circumstance, even every inanimate object, connected with the affections. to those who are strangers to these delicate, yet powerful sympathies, this may appear ridiculous--but the sensations are not the less genuine, nor the less in nature. i will not attempt to analyse them, it is a subject upon which the language of philosophy would appear frigid, and on which i feel myself every moment on the verge of fanaticism. yet, affections like these are not so much weakness, as strength perhaps badly exerted. rousseau was, right, when he asserted, that, 'common men know nothing of violent sorrows, nor do great passions ever break out in weak minds. energy of sentiment is the characteristic of a noble soul.' i gazed from the windows on the shrubbery, where i had so often wandered with my friends--where i had fondly cherished so many flattering, so many visionary, prospects. every spot, every tree, was associated with some past pleasure, some tender recollection. the last rays of the setting sun, struggling from beneath a louring cloud, streamed through its dark bosom, illumined its edges, played on the window in which i was standing, and gilding the opposite side of the wainscot, against which the picture of augustus still hung, shed a soft and mellow lustre over the features. i turned almost unconsciously, and contemplated it with a long and deep regard. it seemed to smile benignly--it wore no traces of the cold austerity, the gloomy and inflexible reserve, which now clouded the aspect of the original. i called to my remembrance a thousand interesting conversations--when 'tuned to happy unison of soul, a fairer world of which the vulgar never had a glimpse, displayed, its charms.' absorbed in thought, the crimson reflection from the western clouds gradually faded, while the deep shades of the evening, thickened by the appearance of a gathering tempest, involved in obscurity the object on which, without distinctly perceiving it, i still continued to gaze. i was roused from this reverie by the sudden opening of the door. some person, whom the uncertain light prevented me from distinguishing, walked across the room, with a slow and solemn pace, and, after taking several turns backwards and forwards, reclined on the sopha, remaining for some time perfectly still. a tremor shook my nerves--unable either to speak, or to move, i continued silent and trembling--my heart felt oppressed, almost to suffocation--at length, a deep, convulsive sigh, forced its way. 'my god!' exclaimed the person, whose meditations i had interrupted, 'what is that?' it was the voice of mr harley, he spoke in a stern tone, though with some degree of trepidation, and advanced hastily towards the window against which i leaned. the clouds had for some hours been gathering dark and gloomy. just as augustus had reached the place where i stood, a flash of lightning, pale, yet vivid, glanced suddenly across my startled sight, and discovered to him the object which had alarmed him. 'emma,' said he, in a softened accent, taking my trembling and almost lifeless hand, 'how came you here, which way did you enter?' i answered not--another flash of lightning, still brighter, blue and sulphurous, illuminated the room, succeeded by a loud and long peal of thunder. again the heavens seemed to rend asunder and discover a sheet of livid flame--a crash of thunder, sudden, loud, short, immediately followed, bespeaking the tempest near. i started with a kind of convulsive terror. augustus led me from the window, and endeavoured, in vain, to find the door of the library--the temporary flashes, and total darkness by which they were succeeded, dazzled and confounded the sight. i stumbled over some furniture, which stood in the middle of the room, and unable to recover my feet, which refused any longer to sustain me, sunk into the arms of augustus, suffering him to lift me to the sopha. he seated himself beside me, the storm continued; the clouds, every moment parting with a horrible noise, discovered an abyss of fire, while the rain descended in a deluge. we silently contemplated this sublime and terrible scene. augustus supported me with one arm, while my trembling hand remained in his. the tempest soon exhausted itself by its violence--the lightning became less fierce, gleaming at intervals--the thunder rolled off to a distance--its protracted sound, lengthened by the echoes, faintly died away; while the rain continued to fall in a still, though copious, shower. my spirits grew calmer, i gently withdrew my hand from that of mr harley. he once more enquired, but in a tone of greater reserve, how i had entered the room without his knowledge? i explained, briefly and frankly, my situation, and the tender motives by which i had been influenced. 'it was not possible,' added i, 'to take leave of this house _for ever_, without recalling a variety of affecting and melancholy ideas--i feel, that i have lost _my only friend_.' 'this world,' said he, 'may not unaptly be compared to the rapids on the american rivers--we are hurried, in a frail bark, down the stream--it is in vain to resist its course--happy are those whose voyage is ended!' 'my friend,' replied i in a faultering voice, 'i could teach my heart to bear your loss--though, god knows, the lesson has been sufficiently severe--but i know not how, with fortitude, to see you suffer.' 'suffering is the common lot of humanity--but, pardon me, when i say, your conduct has not tended to lessen my vexations!' 'my errors have been the errors of _affection_--do they deserve this rigor?' 'their source is not important, their consequences have been the same--you make not the allowances you claim.' 'dear, and severe, friend!--be not unjust--the confidence which i sought, and merited, would have been obviated'-- 'i know what you would alledge--that confidence, you had reason to judge, was of a painful nature--it ought not to have been extorted.' 'if i have been wrong, my faults have been severely expiated--if the error has been _only mine_, surely my sufferings have been in proportion; seduced by the fervor of my feelings; ignorant of your situation, if i wildly sought to oblige you to chuse happiness through a medium of my creation--yet, to have assured _yours_, was i not willing to risque all my own? i perceive my extravagance, my views were equally false and romantic--dare i to say--they were the ardent excesses of a generous mind? yes! my wildest mistakes had in them a dignified mixture of virtue. while the institutions of society war against nature and happiness, the mind of energy, struggling to emancipate itself, will entangle itself in error'-- 'permit me to ask you,' interrupted augustus, 'whether, absorbed in your own sensations, you allowed yourself to remember, and to respect, the feelings of others?' i could no longer restrain my tears, i wept for some moments in silence--augustus breathed a half-suppressed sigh, and turned from me his face. 'the pangs which have rent my heart,' resumed i, in low and broken accents, 'have, i confess, been but too poignant! that lacerated heart still bleeds--we have neither of us been guiltless--_alas! who is?_ yet in my bosom, severe feelings are not more painful than transient--already have i lost sight of your unkindness, (god knows how little i merited it!) in stronger sympathy for your sorrows--whatever be their nature! we have both erred--why should we not exchange mutual forgiveness? why should we afflict each other? friendship, like charity, should suffer all things and be kind!' 'my mind,' replied he coldly, 'is differently constituted.' '_unpitying man!_ it would be hard for us, if we were all to be judged at so severe a tribunal--you have been a _lover_,' added i, in a softer tone, 'and can you not forgive the faults of _love_?' he arose, visibly agitated--i also stood up--my bosom deeply wounded, and, unknowing what i did, took his hand, and pressed it to my lips. 'you have rudely thrown from you a heart of exquisite sensibility--you have contemned my love, and you disdain my friendship--is it brave, is it manly,' added i wildly--almost unconscious of what i said--forgetting at the moment his situation and my own--'thus to triumph over a spirit, subdued by its affections into unresisting meekness?' he broke from me, and precipitately quitted the room. i threw myself upon the floor, and, resting my head on the seat which augustus had so lately occupied, passed the night in cruel conflict--a tempest more terrible than that which had recently spent its force, shook my soul! the morning dawned, ere i had power to remove myself from the fatal spot, where the measure of my afflictions seemed filled up.--virtue may conquer weakness, but who can bear to be despised by those they love. the sun darted its beams full upon me, but its splendour appeared mockery--hope and joy were for ever excluded from my benighted spirit. the contempt of the world, the scoffs of ignorance, the contumely of the proud, i could have borne without shrinking--but to find myself rejected, contemned, scorned, by him with whom, of all mankind, my heart claimed kindred; by him for whom my youth, my health, my powers, were consuming in silent anguish--who, instead of pouring balm into the wound he had inflicted, administered only corrosives!--_it was too painful!_ i felt, that i had been a lavish prodigal--that i had become a wretched bankrupt; that there was but _one way_ to make me happy and _a thousand_ to make me miserable! enfeebled and exhausted, i crawled to my apartment, and, throwing myself on the bed, gave a loose to the agony of my soul. chapter xvi under pretence of indisposition, i refused to meet the family. i heard them depart. too proud to accept of obligation, i had not confided to them my plans, if plans they could be called, where no distinct end was in view. a few hours after their departure, i once more seated myself in a stage coach, in which i had previously secured a place, and took the road to london. i perceived, on entering the carriage, only one passenger, who had placed himself in the opposite corner, and in whom, to my great surprize, i immediately recognized mr montague. we had not met since the visit he had paid me at mrs harley's, the result of which i have already related: since that period, it had been reported in the village, that he addressed sarah morton, and that they were about to be united. montague manifested equal surprize at our meeting: the intelligence of my friend's death (at which he expressed real concern) had not reached him, neither was he acquainted with my being in that part of the country. he had not lately been at mr morton's, he informed me, but had just left his father's, and was going to london to complete his medical studies. after these explanations, absorbed in painful contemplation, i for some time made little other return to his repeated civilities, than by cold monosyllables: till at length, his cordial sympathy, his gentle accents, and humane attentions, awakened me from my reverie. ever accessible to the soothings of kindness, i endeavoured to exert myself, to prove the sense i felt of his humanity. gratified by having succeeded in attracting my attention, he redoubled his efforts to cheer and amuse me. my dejected and languid appearance had touched his feelings, and, towards the end of our journey, his unaffected zeal to alleviate the anxiety under which i evidently appeared to labour, soothed my mind and inspired me with confidence. he respectfully requested to know in what part of the town i resided, and hoped to be permitted to pay his respects to me, and to enquire after my welfare? this question awakened in my bosom so many complicated and painful sensations, that, after remaining silent for a few minutes, i burst into a flood of tears. 'i have no home;' said i, in a voice choaked with sobs--'i am an alien in the world--and alone in the universe.' his eyes glistened, his countenance expressed the most lively, and tender, commiseration, while, in a timid and respectful voice, he made me offers of service, and entreated me to permit him to be useful to me. 'i then mentioned, in brief, my present unprotected situation, and hinted, that as my fortune was small, i could wish to procure a humble, but decent, apartment in a reputable family, till i had consulted one friend, who, i yet flattered myself, was interested in my concerns, or till i could fix on a more eligible method of providing for myself.' he informed me--'that he had a distant relation in town, a decent, careful, woman, who kept a boarding house, and whose terms were very reasonable. he was assured, would i permit him to introduce me to her, she would be happy, should her accommodation suit me, to pay me every attention in her power.' in my forlorn situation, i confided, without hesitation, in his recommendation, and gratefully acceded to the proposal. mr montague introduced me to this lady in the most flattering terms, she received me with civility, but, i fancied, not without a slight mixture of distrust. i agreed with her for a neat chamber, with a sitting room adjoining, on the second floor, and settled for the terms of my board, more than the whole amount of the interest of my little fortune. chapter xvii i took an early opportunity of addressing a few lines to mr francis, informing him of my situation, and entreating his counsel. i waited a week, impatiently, for his reply, but in vain: well acquainted with his punctuality, and alarmed by this silence, i mentioned the step i had taken, and my apprehensions, to montague, who immediately repaired, himself, to the house of mr francis; and, finding it shut up, was informed by the neighbours, that mr francis had quitted england, a short time before, in company with a friend, intending to make a continental tour. this intelligence was a new shock to me. i called on some of my former acquaintance, mentioning to them my wish of procuring pupils, or of engaging in any other occupation fitted to my talents. i was received by some with civility, by others with coldness, but every one appeared too much engrossed by his own affairs to give himself the trouble of making any great exertion for others. i returned dispirited--i walked through the crowded city, and observed the anxious and busy faces of all around me. in the midst of my fellow beings, occupied in various pursuits, i seemed, as if in an immense desart, a solitary outcast from society. active, industrious, willing to employ my faculties in any way, by which i might procure an honest independence, i beheld no path open to me, but that to which my spirit could not submit--the degradation of servitude. hapless woman!--crushed by the iron hand of barbarous despotism, pampered into weakness, and trained the slave of meretricious folly!--what wonder, that, shrinking from the chill blasts of penury (which the pernicious habits of thy education have little fitted thy tender frame to encounter) thou listenest to the honied accents of the spoiler; and, to escape the galling chain of servile dependence, rushest into the career of infamy, from whence the false and cruel morality of the world forbids thy return, and perpetuates thy disgrace and misery! when will mankind be aware of the uniformity, of the importance, of truth? when will they cease to confound, by sexual, by political, by theological, distinctions, those immutable principles, which form the true basis of virtue and happiness? the paltry expedients of combating error with error, and prejudice with prejudice, in one invariable and melancholy circle, have already been sufficiently tried, have already been demonstrated futile:--they have armed man against man, and filled the world with crimes, and with blood.--how has the benign and gentle nature of reform been mistated! 'one false idea,' justly says an acute and philosophic writer,[ ] 'united with others, produces such as are necessarily false; which, combining again with all those the memory retains, give to all a tinge of falsehood. one error, alone, is sufficient to infect the whole mass of the mind, and produce an infinity of capricious, monstrous, notions.--every vice is the error of the understanding; crimes and prejudices are brothers; truth and virtue sisters. these things, known to the wise, are hid from fools!' [footnote : helvetius.] without a sufficiently interesting pursuit, a fatal torpor stole over my spirits--my blood circulated languidly through my veins. montague, in the intervals from business and amusement, continued to visit me. he brought me books, read to me, chatted with me, pressed me to accompany him to places of public entertainment, which (determined to incur no pecuniary obligation) i invariably refused. i received his civilities with the less scruple, from the information i had received of his engagement with miss morton; which, with his knowledge of my unhappy attachment, i thought, precluded every idea of a renewal of those sentiments he had formerly professed for me. in return for his friendship, i tried to smile, and exerted my spirits, to prove my grateful sensibility of his kindness: but, while he appeared to take a lively interest in my sorrows, he carefully avoided a repetition of the language in which he had once addressed me; yet, at times, his tender concern seemed sliding into a sentiment still softer, which obliged me to practise more reserve: he was not insensible of this, and was frequently betrayed into transient bursts of passion and resentment, which, on my repelling with firmness, he would struggle to repress, and afterwards absent himself for a time. unable to devise any method of increasing my income, and experiencing the pressure of some daily wants and inconveniencies, i determined, at length, on selling the sum invested, in my name, in the funds, and purchasing a life annuity. recollecting the name of a banker, with whom my uncle, the friend of my infancy, had formerly kept cash, i learned his residence, and, waiting upon him, made myself known as the niece of an old and worthy friend; at the same time acquainting him with my intentions.--he offered to transact the affair for me immediately, the funds being, then, in a very favourable position; and to preserve the money in his hands till an opportunity should offer of laying it out to advantage. i gave him proper credentials for the accomplishing of this business, and returned to my apartment with a heart somewhat lightened. this scheme had never before occurred to me. the banker, who was a man of commercial reputation, had assured me, that my fortune might now be sold out with little loss; and that, by purchasing an annuity, on proper security, at seven or eight per cent, i might, with oeconomy, be enabled to support myself decently, with comfort and independence. chapter xviii some weeks elapsed, and i heard no more from my banker. a slight indisposition confined me to the house. one evening, mr montague, coming to my apartment to enquire after my health, brought with him a newspaper (as was his frequent custom), and, finding me unwell, and dispirited, began to read some parts from it aloud, in the hope of amusing me. among the articles of home intelligence, a paragraph stated--'the failure of a considerable mercantile house, which had created an alarm upon the exchange, as, it was apprehended, some important consequences would follow in the commercial world. a great banking-house, it was hinted, not many miles from ----, was likely to be affected, by some rumours, in connection with this business, which had occasioned a considerable run upon it for the last two or three days.' my attention was roused--i eagerly held out my hand for the paper, and perused this alarming paragraph again and again, without observing the surprize expressed in the countenance of montague, who was at a loss to conceive why this intelligence should be affecting to me.--i sat, for some minutes, involved in thought, till a question from my companion, several times repeated, occasioned me to start. i immediately recollected myself, and tried to reason away my fears, as vague and groundless. i was about to explain the nature of them to my friend--secretly accusing myself for not having done so sooner, and availed myself of his advice, when a servant, entering, put a letter into his hand. looking upon the seal and superscription, he changed colour, and opened it hastily. strong emotion was painted in his features while he perused it. i regarded him with anxiety. he rose from his seat, walked up and down the room with a disordered pace--opened the door, as if with an intention of going out--shut it--returned back again--threw himself into a chair--covered his face with his handkerchief--appeared in great agitation--and burst into tears. i arose, went to him, and took his hand--'_my friend!_' said i--i would have added something more--but, unable to proceed, i sunk into a seat beside him, and wept in sympathy. he pressed my hand to his lips--folded me wildly in his arms, and attempted to speak--but his voice was lost in convulsive sobs. i gently withdrew myself, and waited, in silence, till the violence of his emotions should subside. he held out to me the letter he had received. i perused it. it contained an account of the sudden death of his father, and a summons for his immediate return to the country, to settle the affairs, and to take upon him his father's professional employment. 'you leave me, then!' said i--'i lose my only remaining friend!' '_never!_'--he replied, emphatically. i blushed for having uttered so improper, so selfish, a remark; and endeavoured to atone for it by forgetting the perils of my own situation, in attention to that of this ardent, but affectionate, young man.--his sufferings were acute and violent for some days, during which he quitted me only at the hours of repose--i devoted myself to sooth and console him. i felt, that i had been greatly indebted to his friendship and kindness, and i endeavoured to repay the obligation. he appeared fully sensible of my cares, and, mingled with his acknowledgments expressions of a tenderness, so lively, and unequivocal, as obliged me, once more, to be more guarded in my behaviour. in consideration for the situation of mr montague--i had forgotten the paragraph in the paper, till an accidental intelligence of the bankruptcy of the house, in which my little fortune was entrusted, confirmed to me the certainty of this terrible blow. montague was sitting with me when i received the unwelcome news. 'gracious god!' i exclaimed, clasping my hands, and raising my eyes to heaven--'what is to become of me now?--the measure of my sorrows is filled up!' it was some time before i had power to explain the circumstances to my companion. 'do not distress yourself, my lovely emma,' said he; 'i will be your friend--your guardian--' (and he added, in a low, yet fervent, accent) --'_your husband_!' 'no--no--no!' answered i, shaking my head, 'that must not, cannot, be! i would perish, rather than take advantage of a generosity like yours. i will go to service--i will work for my bread--and, if i cannot procure a wretched sustenance--_i can but die_! life, to me, has long been worthless!' my countenance, my voice, my manner, but too forcibly expressed the keen anguish of my soul. i seemed to be marked out for the victim of a merciless destiny--_for the child of sorrow_! the susceptible temper of montague, softened by his own affliction, was moved by my distress. he repeated, and enforced, his proposal, with all the ardour of a youthful, a warm, an uncorrupted, mind. 'you add to my distress,' replied i. 'i have not a heart to bestow--i lavished mine upon one, who scorned and contemned it. its sensibility is now exhausted. shall i reward a faithful and generous tenderness, like yours, with a cold, a worthless, an alienated, mind? no, no!--seek an object more worthy of you, and leave me to my fate.' at that moment, i had forgotten the report of his engagement with miss morton; but, on his persisting, vehemently, to urge his suit, i recollected, and immediately mentioned, it, to him. he confessed-- 'that, stung by my rejection, and preference of mr harley, he had, at one period, entertained a thought of that nature; but that he had fallen out with the family, in adjusting the settlements. mrs morton had persuaded her husband to make, what he conceived to be, ungenerous requisitions. miss morton had discovered much artifice, but little sensibility, on the occasion. disgusted with the apathy of the father, the insolence of the mother and the low cunning of the daughter, he had abruptly quitted them, and broken off all intercourse with the family.' it is not necessary to enlarge on this part of my narrative. suffice it to say, that, after a long contest, my desolate situation, added to the persevering affection of this enthusiastic young man, prevailed over my objections. his happiness, he told me, entirely depended on my decision. i would not deceive him:--i related to him, with simplicity and truth, all the circumstances of my past conduct towards mr harley. he listened to me with evident emotion--interrupted me, at times, with execrations; and, once or twice, vowing vengeance on augustus, appeared on the verge of outrage. but i at length reasoned him into greater moderation, and obliged him to do justice to the merit and honour of mr harley. he acquiesced reluctantly, and with an ill grace, yet, with a lover-like partiality, attributed his conduct to causes, of which i had discerned no traces. he assured himself that the affections of a heart, tender as mine, would be secured by kindness and assiduity--and i at last yielded to his importunity. we were united in a short time, and i accompanied my husband to the town of ----, in the county of ----, the residence of his late father. chapter xix mr montague presented me to his relations and friends, by whom i was received with a flattering distinction. my wearied spirits began now to find repose. my husband was much occupied in the duties of his profession. we had a respectable circle of acquaintance: in the intervals of social engagement, and domestic employment, ever thirsting after knowledge, i occasionally applied myself to the study of physic, anatomy, and surgery, with the various branches of science connected with them; by which means i frequently rendered myself essentially serviceable to my friend; and, by exercising my understanding and humanity, strengthened my mind, and stilled the importunate suggestions of a heart too exquisitely sensible. the manners of mr montague were kind and affectionate, though subject, at times, to inequalities and starts of passion; he confided in me, as his best and truest friend--and i deserved his confidence:--yet, i frequently observed the restlessness and impetuosity of his disposition with apprehension. i felt for my husband a rational esteem, and a grateful affection:--but those romantic, high-wrought, frenzied, emotions, that had rent my heart during its first attachment--that enthusiasm, that fanaticism, to which opposition had given force, the bare recollection of which still shook my soul with anguish, no longer existed. montague was but too sensible of this difference, which naturally resulted from the change of circumstances, and was unreasonable enough to complain of what secured our tranquillity. if a cloud, sometimes, hung over my brow--if i relapsed, for a short period, into a too habitual melancholy, he would grow captious, and complain. 'you esteem me, emma: i confide in your principles, and i glory in your friendship--but, you have never _loved_ me!' 'why will you be so unjust, both to me, and to yourself?' 'tell me, then, sincerely--i know you will not deceive me--have you ever felt for me those sentiments with which augustus harley inspired you?' 'certainly not--i do not pretend to it--neither ought you to wish it. my first attachment was the morbid excess of a distempered imagination. liberty, reason, virtue, usefulness, were the offerings i carried to its shrine. it preyed incessantly upon my heart, i drank up its vital spirit, it became a vice from its excess--it was a pernicious, though a sublime, enthusiasm--its ravages are scarcely to be remembered without shuddering--all the strength, the dignity, the powers, of my mind, melted before it! do you wish again to see me the slave of my passions--do you regret, that i am restored to reason? to you i owe every thing--life, and its comforts, rational enjoyments, and the opportunity of usefulness. i feel for you all the affection that a reasonable and a virtuous mind ought to feel--that affection which is compatible with the fulfilling of other duties. we are guilty of vice and selfishness when we yield ourselves up to unbounded desires, and suffer our hearts to be wholly absorbed by one object, however meritorious that object may be.' 'ah! how calmly you reason,--while i listen to you i cannot help loving and admiring you, but i must ever hate that accursed harley--no! _i am not satisfied_--and i sometimes regret that i ever beheld you.' many months glided away with but little interruptions to our tranquillity.--a remembrance of the past would at times obtrude itself, like the broken recollections of a feverish vision. to banish these painful retrospections, i hastened to employ myself; every hour was devoted to active usefulness, or to social and rational recreation. i became a mother; in performing the duties of a nurse, my affections were awakened to new and sweet emotions.--the father of my child appeared more respectable in my eyes, became more dear to me: the engaging smiles of my little emma repayed me for every pain and every anxiety. while i beheld my husband caress his infant, i tasted a pure, a chaste, an ineffable pleasure. chapter xx about six weeks after my recovery from childbed, some affairs of importance called mr montague to london. three days after he had quitted me, as, bending over the cradle of my babe, i contemplated in silence its tranquil slumbers, i was alarmed by an uncommon confusion in the lower part of the house. hastening down stairs, to enquire into the cause, i was informed--that a gentleman, in passing through the town, had been thrown from his horse, that he was taken up senseless, and, as was customary in cases of accident, had been brought into our house, that he might receive assistance. mr montague was from home, a young gentleman who resided with us, and assisted my husband in his profession, was also absent, visiting a patient. having myself acquired some knowledge of surgery, i went immediately into the hall to give the necessary directions on the occasion. the gentleman was lying on the floor, without any signs of life. i desired the people to withdraw, who, crowding round with sincere, but useless sympathy, obstructed the circulation of air. approaching the unfortunate man, i instantly recognised the well-known features, though much altered, wan and sunk, of _augustus harley_. staggering a few paces backward--a death-like sickness overspread my heart--a crowd of confused and terrible emotions rushed through my mind.--but a momentary reflection recalled my scattered thoughts. once before, i had saved from death an object so fatal to my repose. i exerted all my powers, his hair was clotted, and his face disfigured with blood; i ordered the servants to raise and carry him to an adjoining apartment, wherein was a large, low sopha, on which they laid him. carefully washing the blood from the wound, i found he had received a dangerous contusion in his head, but that the scull, as i had at first apprehended, was not fractured. i cut the hair from the wounded part, and applied a proper bandage. i did more--no other assistance being at hand, i ventured to open a vein: the blood presently flowed freely, and he began to revive. i bathed his temples, and sprinkled the room with vinegar, opened the windows to let the air pass freely through, raised his head with the pillows of the sopha, and sprinkled his face and breast with cold water. i held his hand in mine--i felt the languid and wavering pulse quicken--i fixed my eyes upon his face--at that moment every thing else was forgotten, and my nerves seemed firmly braced by my exertions. he at length opened his eyes, gazed upon me with a vacant look, and vainly attempted, for some time, to speak. at last, he uttered a few incoherent words, but i perceived his senses were wandering, and i conjectured, too truly, that his brain had received a concussion. he made an effort to rise, but sunk down again. 'where am i,' said he, 'every object appears to me double.' he shut his eyes, and remained silent. i mixed for him a cordial and composing medicine, and entreating him to take it, he once more raised himself, and looked up.--our eyes met, his were wild and unsettled. 'that voice,'--said he, in a low tone, 'that countenance--oh god! where am i?' a strong, but transient, emotion passed over his features. with a trembling hand he seized and swallowed the medicine i had offered, and again relapsed into a kind of lethargic stupor. i then gave orders for a bed to be prepared, into which i had him conveyed. i darkened the room, and desired, that he might be kept perfectly quiet. i retired to my apartment, my confinement was yet but recent, and i had not perfectly recovered my strength. exhausted by the strong efforts i had made, and the stronger agitation of my mind, i sunk into a fainting fit, (to which i was by no means subject) and remained for some time in a state of perfect insensibility. on my recovery, i learnt that mr lucas, the assistant of my husband, had returned, and was in the chamber of the stranger; i sent for him on his quitting the apartment, and eagerly interrogated him respecting the state of the patient. he shook his head--i related to him the methods i had taken, and enquired whether i had erred? he smiled-- 'you are an excellent surgeon,' said he, 'you acted very properly, but,' observing my pallid looks, 'i wish your little nursery may not suffer from your humanity'-- 'i lay no claim,' replied i with emotion--'to extraordinary humanity--i would have done the same for the poorest of my fellow creatures--but this gentleman is an old acquaintance, _a friend_, whom, in the early periods of my life, i greatly respected.' 'i am sorry for it, for i dare not conceal from you, that i think him in a dangerous condition.' i changed countenance--'there is no fracture, no bones are broken.'-- 'no, but the brain has received an alarming concussion--he is also, otherwise, much bruised, and, i fear, has suffered some internal injury.' 'you distress and terrify me,' said i, gasping for breath--'what is to be done--shall we call in further advice?' 'i think so; in the mean time, if you are acquainted with his friends, you would do well to apprize them of what has happened.' 'i know little of them, i know not where to address them--oh! save him,' continued i, clasping my hands with encreased emotion, unconscious of what i did, 'for god's sake save him, if you would preserve me from dis--' a look penetrating and curious from lucas, recalled me to reason. commending his patient to my care, he quitted me, and rode to the next town to procure the aid of a skilful and experienced physician. i walked up and down the room for some time in a state of distraction. 'he will die'--exclaimed i--'die in my house--fatal accident! oh, augustus! _too tenderly beloved_, thou wert fated to be the ruin of my peace! but, whatever may be the consequences, i will perform, for thee, the last tender offices.--i will not desert my duty!' the nurse brought to me my infant, it smiled in my face--i pressed it to my bosom--i wept over it.--how could i, from that agitated bosom, give it a pernicious sustenance? chapter xxi in the evening, i repaired to the chamber of mr harley, i sat by his bed-side, i gazed mournfully on his flushed, but vacant countenance--i took his hand--it was dry and burning--the pulse beat rapidly, but irregularly, beneath my trembling fingers. his lips moved, he seemed to speak, though inarticulately--but sometimes raising his voice, i could distinguish a few incoherent sentences. in casting my eyes round the room, i observed the scattered articles of his dress, his cloaths were black, and in his hat, which lay on the ground, i discovered a crape hatband. i continued to hold his burning hand in mine. 'she died,'--said he--'and my unkindness killed her--unhappy emma--thy heart was too tender!'--i shuddered--'no, no,'--continued he, after a few minutes pause, 'she is not married--she dared not give her hand without her heart, _and that heart was only mine_!' he added something more, in a lower tone, which i was unable to distinguish. overcome by a variety of sensations, i sunk into a chair, and, throwing my handkerchief over my face, indulged my tears. sometimes he mentioned his wife, sometimes his mother.--at length, speaking rapidly, in a raised voice--'my son,'--said he, 'thou hast no mother--but emma will be a mother to thee--she will love thee--_she loved thy father_--her heart was the residence of gentle affections--yet, i pierced that heart!' i suspected, that a confused recollection of having seen me on recovering from the state of insensibility, in which he had been brought, after the accident, into our house, had probably recalled the associations formerly connected with this idea. the scene became too affecting: i rushed from the apartment. all the past impressions seemed to revive in my mind--my thoughts, with fatal mechanism, ran back into their old and accustomed channels.--for a moment, conjugal, maternal, duties, every consideration _but for one object_ faded from before me! in a few hours, mr lucas returned with the physician;--i attended them to the chamber, heedfully watching their looks. the fever still continued very high, accompanied with a labouring, unsteady pulse, a difficult respiration, and strong palpitations of the heart. the doctor said little, but i discovered his apprehensions in his countenance. the patient appeared particularly restless and uneasy, and the delirium still continued. on quitting the apartment, i earnestly conjured the gentlemen to tell me their opinion of the case. they both expressed an apprehension of internal injury. 'but a short time,' they added, 'would determine it; in the mean while he must be kept perfectly still.' i turned from them, and walked to the window--i raised my eyes to heaven--i breathed an involuntary ejaculation--i felt that the crisis of my fate was approaching, and i endeavoured to steel my nerves--to prepare my mind for the arduous duties which awaited me. mr lucas approached me, the physician having quitted the room. '_mrs montague_,' said he, in an emphatic tone--'in your sympathy for a _stranger_, do not forget other relations.' 'i do not need, sir, to be reminded by you of my duties; were not the sufferings of a fellow being a sufficient claim upon our humanity, this gentleman has _more affecting claims_--i am neither a stranger to him, nor to his virtues.' 'so i perceive, madam,' said he, with an air a little sarcastic, 'i wish, mr montague were here to participate your cares.' 'i wish he were, sir, his generous nature would not disallow them.' i spoke haughtily, and abruptly left him. i took a turn in the garden, endeavouring to compose my spirits, and, after visiting the nursery, returned to the chamber of mr harley. i there found mr lucas, and in a steady tone, declared my intention of watching his patient through the night. 'as you please, madam,' said he coldly. i seated myself in an easy chair, reclining my head on my hand. the bed curtains were undrawn on the side next me. augustus frequently started, as from broken slumbers; his respiration grew, every moment, more difficult and laborious, and, sometimes, he groaned heavily, as if in great pain. once he suddenly raised himself in the bed, and, gazing wildly round the room, exclaimed in a distinct, but hurried tone-- 'why dost thou persecute me with thy ill-fated tenderness? a fathomless gulf separates us!--emma!' added he, in a plaintive voice, '_dost thou, indeed, still love me?_' and, heaving a convulsive sigh, sunk again on his pillow. mr lucas, who stood at the feet of the bed, turned his eye on me. i met his glance with the steady aspect of conscious rectitude. about midnight, our patient grew worse, and, after strong agonies, was seized with a vomiting of blood. the fears of the physician were but too well verified, he had again ruptured the blood-vessel, once before broken. mr lucas had but just retired, i ordered him to be instantly recalled, and, stifling every feeling, that might incapacitate me for active exertion, i rendered him all the assistance in my power--i neither trembled, nor shed a tear--i banished the _woman_ from my heart--i acquitted myself with a firmness that would not have disgraced the most experienced, and veteran surgeon. my services were materially useful, my solicitude vanquished every shrinking sensibility, _affection had converted me into a heroine_! the hæmorrhage continued, at intervals, all the next day: i passed once or twice from the chamber to the nursery, and immediately returned. we called in a consultation, but little hope was afforded. the next night, mr lucas and myself continued to watch--towards morning our exhausted patient sunk into an apparently tranquil slumber. mr lucas intreated me to retire, and take some repose, on my refusal, he availed himself of the opportunity, and went to his apartment, desiring to be called if any change should take place. the nurse slept soundly in her chair, i alone remained watching--i felt neither fatigue nor languor--my strength seemed preserved as by a miracle, so omnipotent is the operation of moral causes! silence reigned throughout the house; i hung over the object of my tender cares--his features were serene--but his cheeks and lips were pale and bloodless. from time to time i took his lifeless hand--a low, fluttering, pulse, sometimes seeming to stop, and then to vibrate with a tremulous motion, but too plainly justified my fears--his breath, though less laborious, was quick and short--a cold dew hung upon his temples--i gently wiped them with my handkerchief, and pressed my lips to his forehead. yet, at that moment, that solemn moment--while i beheld the object of my virgin affections--whom i had loved with a tenderness, 'passing the love of woman'--expiring before my eyes--i forgot not that i was a wife and a mother.--the purity of my feelings sanctified their enthusiasm! the day had far advanced, though the house still remained quiet, when augustus, after a deep drawn sigh, opened his eyes. the loss of blood had calmed the delirium, and though he regarded me attentively, and with evident surprize, the wildness of his eyes and countenance had given place to their accustomed steady expression. he spoke in a faint voice. 'where am i, how came i here?' i drew nearer to him--'an unfortunate accident has thrown you into the care of kind friends--you have been very ill--it is not proper that you should exert yourself--rely on those to whom your safety is precious.' he looked at me as i spoke--his eyes glistened--he breathed a half smothered sigh, but attempted not to reply. he continued to doze at intervals throughout the day, but evidently grew weaker every hour--i quitted him not for a moment, even my nursery was forgotten. i sat, or knelt, at the bed's head, and, between his short and broken slumbers, administered cordial medicines. he seemed to take them with pleasure from my hand, and a mournful tenderness at times beamed in his eyes. i neither spake nor wept--my strength appeared equal to every trial. in the evening, starting from a troubled sleep, he fell into convulsions--i kept my station--our efforts were successful--he again revived. i supported the pillows on which his head reclined, sprinkled the bed cloaths, and bathed his temples, with hungary water, while i wiped from them the damps of death. a few tears at length forced their way, they fell upon his hand, which rested on the pillow--he kissed them off, and raised to mine his languid eyes, in which death was already painted. the blood forsaking the extremities, rushed wildly to my heart, a strong palpitation seized it, my fortitude had well nigh forsaken me. but i had been habituated to subdue my feelings, and should i suffer them to disturb the last moments of him, _who had taught me this painful lesson_? he made a sign for a cordial, an attendant offering one--he waved his hand and turned from her his face--i took it--held it to his lips, and he instantly drank it. another strong emotion shook my nerves--once more i struggled and gained the victory. he spoke in feeble and interrupted periods--kneeling down, scarce daring to breathe, i listened. 'i have a son,' said he,--'i am dying--he will have no longer a parent--transfer to him a portion of--' 'i comprehend you--say no more--_he is mine_--i adopt him--where shall i find--?' he pointed to his cloaths;--'a pocket book'--said he, in accents still fainter. 'enough!--i swear, in this awful moment, never to forsake him.' he raised my hand to his lips--a tender smile illumined his countenance --'surely,' said he, 'i have sufficiently fulfilled the dictates of a rigid honour!--in these last moments--when every earthly tie is dissolving--when human institutions fade before my sight--i may, without a crime, tell you--_that i have loved you_.--your tenderness early penetrated my heart--aware of its weakness--i sought to shun you--i imposed on myself those severe laws of which you causelessly complained.--had my conduct been less rigid, i had been lost--i had been unjust to the bonds which i had voluntarily contracted; and which, therefore, had on me indispensible claims. i acted from good motives, but no doubt, was guilty of some errors--yet, my conflicts were, even, more cruel than yours--i had not only to contend against my own sensibility, but against yours also.--the fire which is pent up burns the fiercest!'-- he ceased to speak--a transient glow, which had lighted up his countenance, faded--exhausted, by the strong effort he had made, he sunk back--his eyes grew dim--they closed--_their last light beamed on me_!--i caught him in my arms--and--_he awoke no more_. the spirits, that had hitherto supported me, suddenly subsided. i uttered a piercing shriek, and sunk upon the body. chapter xxii many weeks passed of which i have no remembrance, they were a blank in my life--a long life of sorrow! when restored to recollection, i found myself in my own chamber, my husband attending me. it was a long time before i could clearly retrace the images of the past. i learned-- 'that i had been seized with a nervous fever, in consequence of having exerted myself beyond my strength; that my head had been disordered; that mr montague on his return, finding me in this situation, of which mr lucas had explained the causes, had been absorbed in deep affliction; that, inattentive to every other concern, he had scarcely quitted my apartment; that my child had been sent out to nurse; and that my recovery had been despaired of.' my constitution was impaired by these repeated shocks. i continued several months in a low and debilitated state.--with returning reason, i recalled to my remembrance the charge which augustus had consigned to me in his last moments. i enquired earnestly for the pocket-book he had mentioned, and was informed, that, after his decease, it had been found, and its contents examined, which were a bank note of fifty pounds, some letters, and memorandums. among the letters was one from his brother, by which means they had learned his address, and had been enabled to transmit to him an account of the melancholy catastrophe, and to request his orders respecting the disposal of the body. on the receipt of this intelligence, the younger mr harley had come immediately into ----shire, had received his brother's effects, and had his remains decently and respectfully interred in the town where the fatal accident had taken place, through which he was passing in his way to visit a friend. as soon as i had strength to hold a pen, i wrote to this gentleman, mentioning the tender office which had been consigned to me; and requesting that the child, or children, of mr augustus harley, might be consigned to my care. to this letter i received an answer, in a few days, hinting-- 'that the marriage of my deceased friend had not been more imprudent than unfortunate; that he had struggled with great difficulties and many sorrows; that his wife had been dead near a twelve-month; that he had lost two of his children, about the same period, with the small-pox, one only surviving, the younger, a son, a year and a half old; that it was, at present, at nurse, under his (his brother's) protection; that his respect for me, and knowledge of my friendship for their family, added to his wish of complying with every request of his deceased brother, prevented him from hesitating a moment respecting the propriety of yielding the child to my care; that it should be delivered to any person whom i should commission for the purpose; and that i might draw upon him for the necessary charges towards the support and education of his nephew.' i mentioned to mr montague these particulars, with a desire of availing myself of his counsel and assistance on the occasion. 'you are free, madam,' he replied, with a cold and distant air, 'to act as you shall think proper; but you must excuse me from making myself responsible in this affair.' i sighed deeply. i perceived, but too plainly, that _a mortal blow was given to my tranquillity_; but i determined to persevere in what i considered to be my duty. on the retrospect of my conduct, my heart acquitted me; and i endeavoured to submit, without repining, to my fate. i was, at this period, informed by a faithful servant, who attended me during my illness, of what i had before but too truly conjectured--that in my delirium i had incessantly called upon the name of augustus harley, and repeated, at intervals, in broken language, the circumstances of our last tender and fatal interview: this, with some particulars related by mr lucas to mr montague on his return, had, it seems, at the time, inflamed the irascible passions of my husband, almost to madness. his transports had subsided, by degrees, into gloomy reserve: he had watched me, till my recovery, with unremitting attention; since which his confidence and affection became, every day, more visibly alienated. self-respect suppressed my complaints--conscious of deserving, even more than ever, his esteem, i bore his caprice with patience, trusting that time, and my conduct, would restore him to reason, and awaken in his heart a sense of justice. i sent for my babe from the house of the nurse, to whose care it had been confided during my illness, and placed the little augustus in its stead. 'it is unnecessary, my friend, to say, that you were that lovely and interesting child.--oh! with what emotion did i receive, and press, you to my care-worn bosom; retracing in your smiling countenance the features of your unfortunate father! adopting you for my own, i divided my affection between you and my emma. scarce a day passed that i did not visit the cottage of your nurse. i taught you to call me by the endearing name of _mother_! i delighted to see you caress my infant with fraternal tenderness--i endeavoured to cherish this growing affection, and found a sweet relief from my sorrows in these tender, maternal, cares.' chapter xxiii my health being considerably injured, i had taken a young woman into my house, to assist me in the nursery, and in other domestic offices. she was in her eighteenth year--simple, modest, and innocent. this girl had resided with me for some months. i had been kind to her, and she seemed attached to me. one morning, going suddenly into mr montague's dressing-room, i surprised rachel sitting on a sopha with her master:--he held her hand in his, while his arm was thrown round her waist; and they appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. they both started, on my entrance:--unwilling to encrease their confusion, i quitted the room. montague, on our meeting at dinner, affected an air of unconcern; but there was an apparent constraint in his behaviour. i preserved towards him my accustomed manner, till the servants had withdrawn. i then mildly expostulated with him on the impropriety of his behaviour. his replies were not more unkind than ungenerous--they pierced my heart. 'it is well, sir, i am inured to suffering; but it is not of _myself_ that i would speak. i have not deserved to lose your confidence--this is my consolation;--yet, i submit to it:--but i cannot see you act in a manner, that will probably involve you in vexation, and intail upon you remorse, without warning you of your danger. should you corrupt the innocence of this girl, she is emphatically _ruined_. it is the strong mind only, that, firmly resting on its own powers, can sustain and recover itself amidst the world's scorn and injustice. the morality of an uncultivated understanding, is that of _custom_, not of reason: break down the feeble barrier, and there is nothing to supply its place--you open the flood-gates of infamy and wretchedness. who can say where the evil may stop?' 'you are at liberty to discharge your servant, when you please, madam.' 'i think it my duty to do so, mr montague--not on my own, but on _her_, account. if i have no claim upon your affection and principles, i would disdain to watch your conduct. but i feel myself attached to this young woman, and would wish to preserve her from destruction!' 'you are very generous, but as you thought fit to bestow on me your _hand_, when your _heart_ was devoted to another--' 'it is enough, sir!--to your justice, only, in your cooler moments, would i appeal!' i procured for rachel a reputable place, in a distant part of the county.--before she quitted me, i seriously, and affectionately, remonstrated with her on the consequences of her behaviour. she answered me only with tears and blushes. in vain i tried to rectify the principles, and subdue the cruel prejudices, of my husband. i endeavoured to shew him every mark of affection and confidence. i frequently expostulated with him, upon his conduct, with tears--urged him to respect himself and me--strove to convince him of the false principles upon which he acted--of the senseless and barbarous manner in which he was sacrificing my peace, and his own, to a romantic chimera. sometimes he would appear, for a moment, melted with my tender and fervent entreaties. 'would to god!' he would say, with emotion, 'the last six months of my life could be obliterated for ever from my remembrance!' he was no longer active, and chearful: he would sit, for hours, involved in deep and gloomy silence. when i brought the little emma, to soften, by her engaging caresses, the anxieties by which his spirits appeared to be overwhelmed, he would gaze wildly upon her--snatch her to his breast--and then, suddenly throwing her from him, rush out of the house; and, inattentive to the duties of his profession, absent himself for days and nights together:--his temper grew, every hour, more furious and unequal. he by accident, one evening, met the little augustus, as his nurse was carrying him from my apartment; and, breaking rudely into the room, overwhelmed me with a torrent of abuse and reproaches. i submitted to his injustice with silent grief--my spirits were utterly broken. at times, he would seem to be sensible of the impropriety of his conduct--would execrate himself and entreat my forgiveness;--but quickly relapsed into his accustomed paroxysms, which, from having been indulged, were now become habitual, and uncontroulable. these agitations seemed daily to encrease--all my efforts to regain his confidence--my patient, unremitted, attentions--were fruitless. he shunned me--he appeared, even, to regard me with horror. i wept in silence. the hours which i passed with my children afforded me my only consolation--they became painfully dear to me. attending to their little sports, and innocent gambols, i forgot, for a moment, my griefs. chapter xxiv some months thus passed away, with little variation in my situation. returning home one morning, early, from the nurse's, where i had left my emma with augustus (whom i never, now, permitted to be brought to my own house) as i entered, mr montague shot suddenly by me, and rushed up stairs towards his apartment. i saw him but transiently, as he passed; but his haggard countenance, and furious gestures, filled me with dismay. he had been from home the preceding night; but to these absences i had lately been too much accustomed to regard them as any thing extraordinary. i hesitated a few moments, whether i should follow him. i feared, lest i might exasperate him by so doing; yet, the unusual disorder of his appearance gave me a thousand terrible and nameless apprehensions. i crept toward the door of his apartment--listened attentively, and heard him walking up and down the room, with hasty steps--sometimes he appeared to stop, and groaned heavily:--once i heard him throw up the sash, and shut it again with violence. i attempted to open the door, but, finding it locked, my terror increased.--i knocked gently, but could not attract his attention. at length i recollected another door, that led to this apartment, through my own chamber, which was fastened on the outside, and seldom opened. with trembling steps i hurried round, and, on entering the room, beheld him sitting at a table, a pen in his hand, and paper before him. on the table lay his pistols--his hair was dishevelled--his dress disordered--his features distorted with emotion--while in his countenance was painted the extreme of horror and despair. i uttered a faint shriek, and sunk into a chair. he started from his seat, and, advancing towards me with hurried and tremulous steps, sternly demanded, why i intruded on his retirement? i threw myself at his feet,--i folded my arms round him--i wept--i deprecated his anger--i entreated to be heard--i said all that humanity, all that the most tender and lively sympathy could suggest, to inspire him with confidence--to induce him to relieve, by communication, the burthen which oppressed his heart.--he struggled to free himself from me--my apprehensions gave me strength--i held him with a strenuous grasp--he raved--he stamped--he tore his hair--his passion became frenzy! at length, forcibly bursting from him, i fell on the floor, and the blood gushed from my nose and lips. he shuddered convulsively--stood a few moments, as if irresolute--and, then, throwing himself beside me, raised me from the ground; and, clasping me to his heart, which throbbed tumultuously, burst into a flood of tears. 'i will not be thy _murderer_, emma!' said he, in a voice of agony, interrupted by heart-rending sobs--'i have had enough of blood!' i tried to sooth him--i assured him i was not hurt--i besought him to confide his sorrows to the faithful bosom of his wife! he appeared softened--his tears flowed without controul. 'unhappy woman!--you know not what you ask! to be ingenuous, belongs to purity like yours!--guilt, black as hell!--conscious, aggravated, damnable, guilt!--_your fatal attachment_--my accursed jealousy!--ah! emma! i have injured you--but you are, indeed, revenged!' every feature seemed to work--seemed pregnant with dreadful meaning--he was relapsing into frenzy. 'be calm, my friend--be not unjust to yourself--you can have committed no injury that i shall not willingly forgive--you are incapable of persisting in guilt. the ingenuous mind, that avows, has already made half the reparation. suffer me to learn the source of your inquietude! i may find much to extenuate--i may be able to convince you, that you are too severe to yourself.' 'never, never, never!--nothing can extenuate--_the expiation must be made_!--excellent, admirable, woman!--remember, without hating, the wretch who has been unworthy of you--who could not conceive, who knew not how to estimate, your virtues!--oh!--do not--do not'--straining me to his bosom--'curse my memory!' he started from the ground, and, in a moment, was out of sight. i raised myself with difficulty--faint, tottering, gasping for breath, i attempted to descend the stairs. i had scarcely reached the landing-place, when a violent knocking at the door shook my whole frame. i stood still, clinging to the balustrade, unable to proceed. i heard a chaise draw up--a servant opening the door--a plain-looking countryman alighted, and desired instantly to speak to the lady of the house--his business was, he said, of life and death! i advanced towards him, pale and trembling! 'what is the matter, my friend--whence came you?' 'i cannot stop, lady, to explain myself--you must come with me--i will tell you more as we go along.' 'do you come,' enquired i, in a voice scarcely articulate, 'from my husband?' 'no--no--i come from a person who is dying, who has somewhat of consequence to impart to you--hasten, lady--there is no time to lose!' 'lead, then, i follow you.' he helped me into the chaise, and we drove off with the rapidity of lightning. chapter xxv i asked no more questions on the road, but attempted to fortify my mind for the scenes which, i foreboded, were approaching. after about an hour's ride, we stopped at a small, neat, cottage, embosomed in trees, standing alone, at a considerable distance from the high-road. a decent-looking, elderly, woman, came to the door, at the sound of the carriage, and assisted me to alight. in her countenance were evident marks of perturbation and horror. i asked for a glass of water; and, having drank it, followed the woman, at her request, up stairs. she seemed inclined to talk, but i gave her no encouragement--i knew not what awaited me, nor what exertions might be requisite--i determined not to exhaust my spirits unnecessarily. on entering a small chamber, i observed a bed, with the curtains closely drawn. i advanced towards it, and, unfolding them, beheld the unhappy rachel lying in a state of apparent insensibility. 'she is dying,' whispered the woman, 'she has been in strong convulsions; but she could not die in peace without seeing madam montague, and obtaining her forgiveness.' i approached the unfortunate girl, and took her lifeless hand.--a feeble pulse still trembled--i gazed upon her, for some moments, in silence.--she heaved a deep sigh--her lips moved, inarticulately. she, at length, opened her eyes, and, fixing them upon me, the blood seemed to rush through her languid frame--reanimating it. she sprung up in the bed, and, clasping her hands together, uttered a few incoherent words. 'be pacified, my dear--i am not angry with you--i feel only pity.' she looked wildly. 'ah! my dear lady, i am a wicked girl--but not--oh, no!--_not a murderer!_ i did not--indeed, i did not--murder my child!' a cold tremor seized me--i turned heart-sick--a sensation of horror thrilled through my veins! 'my dear, my kind mistress,' resumed the wretched girl, 'can you forgive me?--oh! that cruel, barbarous, man!--it was _he_ who did it--indeed, it was _he_ who did it!' distraction glared in her eyes. 'i do forgive you,' said i, in broken accents. 'i will take care of you--but you must be calm.' 'i will--i will'--replied she, in a rapid tone of voice--'but do not send me to prison--_i did not murder it!_--oh! my child, my child!' continued she, in a screaming tone of frantic violence, and was again seized with strong convulsions. we administered all the assistance in our power. i endeavoured, with success, to stifle my emotions in the active duties of humanity. rachel once more revived. after earnestly commending her to the care of the good woman of the house, and promising to send medicines and nourishment proper for her situation, and to reward their attentions--desiring that she might be kept perfectly still, and not be suffered to talk on subjects that agitated her--i quitted the place, presaging but too much, and not having, at that time, the courage to make further enquiries. chapter xxvi on entering my own house my heart misgave me. i enquired, with trepidation, for my husband, and was informed--'that he had returned soon after my departure, and had shut himself in his apartment; that, on being followed by mr lucas, he had turned fiercely upon him, commanding him, in an imperious tone, instantly to leave him; adding, he had affairs of importance to transact; and should any one dare to intrude on him, it would be at the peril of their lives.' all the family appeared in consternation, but no one had presumed to disobey the orders of their master.--they expressed their satisfaction at my return--alas! i was impotent to relieve the apprehensions which, i too plainly perceived, had taken possession of their minds. i retired to my chamber, and, with a trembling hand, traced, and addressed to my husband, a few incoherent lines--briefly hinting my suspicions respecting the late transactions--exhorting him to provide for his safety, and offering to be the companion of his flight. i added--'let us reap wisdom from these tragical consequences of _indulged passion_! it is not to atone for the past error, by cutting off the prospect of future usefulness--repentance for what can never be recalled, is absurd and vain, but as it affords a lesson for the time to come--do not let us wilfully forfeit the fruits of our dear-bought experience! i will never reproach you! virtuous resolution, and time, may yet heal these aggravated wounds. dear montague, be no longer the slave of error; inflict not on my tortured mind new, and more insupportable, terrors! i await your directions--let us fly--let us summon our fortitude--let us, at length, bravely stem the tide of passion--let us beware of the criminal pusillanimity of despair!' with faultering steps, i sought the apartment of my husband. i listened a moment at the door--and hearing him in motion, while profound sighs burst every instant from his bosom, i slid my paper under the door, unfolded, that it might be the more likely to attract his attention. presently, i had the satisfaction of hearing him take it up. after some minutes, a slip of paper was returned, by the same method which i had adopted, in which was written, in characters blotted, and scarcely legible, the following words-- 'leave me, one half hour, to my reflections: at the end of that period, be assured, i will see, or write, to you.' i knew him to be incapable of falsehood--my heart palpitated with hope. i went to my chamber, and passed the interval in a thousand cruel reflections, and vague plans for our sudden departure. near an hour had elapsed, when the bell rang. i started, breathless, from my seat. a servant passed my door, to take his master's orders. he returned instantly, and, meeting me in the passage, delivered to me a letter. i heard montague again lock the door.--disappointed, i re-entered my chamber. in my haste to get at the contents of the paper, i almost tore it in pieces--the words swam before my sight. i held it for some moments in my hand, incapable of decyphering the fatal characters. i breathed with difficulty--all the powers of life seemed suspended--when the report of a pistol roused me to a sense of confused horror.--rushing forward, i burst, with preternatural strength, into the apartment of my husband--what a spectacle!--assistance was vain!--montague--the impetuous, ill-fated, montague--_was no more--was a mangled corpse_!--rash, unfortunate, young, man! but, why should i harrow up your susceptible mind, by dwelling on these cruel scenes? _ah! suffer me to spread a veil over this fearful catastrophe!_ some time elapsed ere i had fortitude to examine the paper addressed to me by my unfortunate husband. its contents, which were as follows, affected me with deep and mingled emotions. to mrs montague. 'amidst the reflections which press, by turns, upon my burning brain, an obscure consciousness of the prejudices upon which my character has been formed, is not the least torturing--because i feel the _inveterate force of habit_--i feel, that my convictions come too late! 'i have destroyed myself, and you, dearest, most generous, and most unfortunate, of women! i am a monster!--i have seduced innocence, and embrued my hands in blood!--oh, god!--oh, god!--_'tis there distraction lies!_--i would, circumstantially, retrace my errors; but my disordered mind, and quivering hand, refuse the cruel task--yet, it is necessary that i should attempt a brief sketch. 'after the cruel accident, which destroyed our tranquillity, i nourished my senseless jealousies (the sources of which i need not, now, recapitulate), till i persuaded myself--injurious wretch that i was!--that i had been perfidiously and ungenerously treated. stung by false pride, i tried to harden my heart, and foolishly thirsted for revenge. your meekness, and magnanimity, disappointed me.--i would willingly have seen you, not only suffer the pangs, but express the _rage_, of a slighted wife. the simple victim of my baseness, by the artless affection she expressed for me, gained an ascendency over my mind; and, when you removed her from your house, we still contrived, at times, to meet. the consequences of our intercourse could not long be concealed. it was, then, that i first began to open my eyes on my conduct, and to be seized with remorse!--rachel, now, wept incessantly. her father, she told me, was a stern and severe man; and should he hear of her misconduct, would, she was certain, be her destruction. i procured for her an obscure retreat, to which i removed the unhappy girl [oh, how degrading is vice!], under false pretences. i exhorted her to conceal her situation--to pretend, that her health was in a declining state--and i visited her, from time to time, as in my profession. 'this poor young creature continued to bewail the disgrace she anticipated--her lamentations pierced my soul! i recalled to my remembrance your emphatic caution. i foresaw that, with the loss of her character, this simple girl's misfortune and degradation would be irretrievable; and i could, now, plainly distinguish the morality of _rule_ from that of _principle_. pursuing this train of reasoning, i entangled myself, for my views were not yet sufficiently clear and comprehensible! bewildered, amidst contending principles--distracted by a variety of emotions--in seeking a remedy for one vice, i plunged (as is but too common), into others of a more scarlet dye. with shame and horror, i confess, i repeatedly tried, by medical drugs, to procure an abortive birth: the strength and vigour of rachel's constitution defeated this diabolical purpose. foiled in these attempts, i became hardened, desperate, and barbarous! 'six weeks before the allotted period, the infant saw the light--for a moment--to close its eyes on it for ever! i, only, was with the unhappy mother. i had formed no deliberate purpose--i had not yet arrived at the acme of guilt--but, perceiving, from the babe's premature birth, and the consequences of the pernicious potions which had been administered to the mother, that the vital flame played but feebly--that life was but as a quivering, uncertain, spark--a sudden and terrible thought darted through my mind. i know not whether my emotion betrayed me to the ear of rachel--but, suddenly throwing back the curtain of the bed, she beheld me grasp--with savage ferocity--_with murderous hands_!--springing from the bed, and throwing herself upon me--her piercing shrieks-- '_i can no more_--of the rest you seem, from whatever means, but too well informed! i need not say--protect, if she survive, the miserable mother!--to you, whose heavenly goodness i have so ill requited, it would be injurious as unnecessary! i read, too late, the heart i have insulted! 'i have settled the disposal of my effects--i have commanded my feelings to give you this last, sad, proof of my confidence.--_kneeling_, i entreat your forgiveness for the sufferings i have caused you! i found your heart wounded--and into those festering wounds i infused a deadly venom--curse not my memory--_we meet no more_. 'farewel! first, and last, and only, beloved of women!--a long--a long farewel! 'montague.' these are the consequences of confused systems of morals--and thus it is, that minds of the highest hope, and fairest prospect, are blasted! chapter xxvii the unhappy rachel recovered her health by slow degrees. i had determined, when my affairs were settled, to leave a spot, that had been the scene of so many tragical events. i proposed to the poor girl to take her again into my family, to which she acceded with rapture. she has never since quitted me, and her faithful services, and humble, grateful attachment, have repaid my protection an hundred fold. mr montague left ten thousand pounds, the half of which was settled on his daughter, the remainder left to my disposal. this determined me to adopt you wholly for my son. i wrote to your uncle to that purport, taking upon myself the entire charge of your education, and entreating, that you might never know, unless informed by myself, to whom you owed your birth. that you should continue to think me _your mother_, flattered my tenderness, nor was my emma, herself, more dear to me. i retired in a few months to my present residence, sharing my heart and my attentions between my children, who grew up under my fostering care, lovely and beloved. 'while every day, soft as it roll'd along, shew'd some new charm.' i observed your affection for each other with a flattering presage. with the features of your father, you inherited his intrepidity, and manly virtues--even, at times, i thought i perceived the seeds of his inflexible spirit; but the caresses of my emma, more fortunate than her mother--yet, with all her mother's sensibility--could, in an instant, soften you to tenderness, and melt you into infantine sweetness. i endeavoured to form your young minds to every active virtue, to every generous sentiment.--you received, from the same masters, the same lessons, till you attained your twelfth year; and my emma emulated, and sometimes outstripped your progress. i observed, with a mixture of hope and solicitude, her lively capacity--her enthusiastic affections; while i laboured to moderate and regulate them. it now became necessary that your educations should take a somewhat different direction; i wished to fit you for a commercial line of life; but the ardor you discovered for science and literature occasioned me some perplexity, as i feared it might unfit you for application to trade, in the pursuit of which so many talents are swallowed up, and powers wasted. yet, as to the professions my objections were still more serious.--the study of law, is the study of chicanery.--the church, the school of hypocrisy and usurpation! you could only enter the universities by a moral degradation, that must check the freedom, and contaminate the purity, of the mind, and, entangling it in an inexplicable maze of error and contradiction, _poison virtue at its source_, and lay the foundation for a duplicity of character and a perversion of reason, destructive of every manly principle of integrity. for the science of physic you expressed a disinclination. a neighbouring gentleman, a surveyor, a man high in his profession, and of liberal manners, to whose friendship i was indebted, offered to take you. you were delighted with this proposal, (to which i had no particular objection) as you had a taste for drawing and architecture. our separation, though you were to reside in the same town, cost us many tears--i loved you with more than a mother's fondness--and my emma clung round the neck of her beloved brother, her augustus, her playfellow, and sobbed on his bosom. it was with difficulty that you could disentangle yourself from our embraces. every moment of leisure you flew to us--my emma learned from you to draw plans, and to study the laws of proportion. every little exuberance in your disposition, which, generated by a noble pride, sometimes wore the features of asperity, was soothed into peace by her gentleness and affection: while she delighted to emulate your fortitude, and to rise superior to the feebleness fostered in her sex, under the specious name of delicacy. your mutual attachment encreased with your years, i renewed my existence in my children, and anticipated their more perfect union. ah! my son, need i proceed? must i continually blot the page with the tale of sorrow? can i tear open again, can i cause to bleed afresh, in your heart and my own, wounds scarcely closed? in her fourteenth year, in the spring of life, your emma and mine, lovely and fragile blossom, was blighted by a killing frost--after a few days illness, she drooped, faded, languished, and died! it was now that i felt--'that no agonies were like the agonies of a mother.' my broken spirits, from these repeated sorrows, sunk into habitual, hopeless, dejection. prospects, that i had meditated with ineffable delight, were for ever veiled in darkness. every earthly tie was broken, except that which bound you to my desolated heart with a still stronger cord of affection. you wept, in my arms, the loss of her whom you, yet, fondly believed your sister.--i cherished the illusion lest, by dissolving it, i should weaken your confidence in my maternal love, weaken that tenderness which was now my only consolation. to augustus harley. my augustus, _my more than son_, around whom my spirit, longing for dissolution, still continues to flutter! i have unfolded the errors of my past life--i have traced them to their source--i have laid bare my mind before you, that the experiments which have been made upon it may be beneficial to yours! it has been a painful, and a humiliating recital--the retrospection has been marked with anguish. as the enthusiasm--as the passions of my youth--have passed in review before me, long forgotten emotions have been revived in my lacerated heart--it has been again torn with _the pangs of contemned love_--the disappointment of rational plans of usefulness--the dissolution of the darling hopes of maternal pride and fondness. the frost of a premature age sheds its snows upon my temples, the ravages of a sickly mind shake my tottering frame. the morning dawns, the evening closes upon me, the seasons revolve, without hope; the sun shines, the spring returns, but, to me, it is mockery. and is this all of human life--this, that passes like a tale that is told? alas! it is a tragical tale! friendship was the star, whose cheering influence i courted to beam upon my benighted course. the social affections were necessary to my existence, but they have been only inlets to sorrow--_yet, still, i bind them to my heart_! hitherto there seems to have been something strangely wrong in the constitutions of society--a lurking poison that spreads its contagion far and wide--a canker at the root of private virtue and private happiness--a principle of deception, that sanctifies error--a circean cup that lulls into a fatal intoxication. but men begin to think and reason; reformation dawns, though the advance is tardy. moral martyrdom may possibly be the fate of those who press forward, yet, their generous efforts will not be lost.--posterity will plant the olive and the laurel, and consecrate their mingled branches to the memory of such, who, daring to trace, to their springs, errors the most hoary, and prejudices the most venerated, emancipate the human mind from the trammels of superstition, and teach it, _that its true dignity and virtue, consist in being free_. ere i sink into the grave, let me behold the _son of my affections_, the living image of him, whose destiny involved mine, who gave an early, but a mortal blow, to all my worldly expectations--let me behold my augustus, escaped from the tyranny of the passions, restored to reason, to the vigor of his mind, to self controul, to the dignity of active, intrepid virtue! the dawn of my life glowed with the promise of a fair and bright day; before its noon, thick clouds gathered; its mid-day was gloomy and tempestuous.--it remains with thee, my friend, to gild with a mild radiance the closing evening; before the scene shuts, and veils the prospect in impenetrable darkness. transcriber's note punctuation, hyphenation and period spellings have been retained even where not consistent. the latter includes the name anne, which also occurs without the final e. the changes listed below have been made to the text (corrected version follows original): but in this investigatation we must be patient but in this investigation we must be patient arisides the just, aristides the just knowledge and learning, are unsufferably masculine in a women knowledge and learning, are unsufferably masculine in a woman why do we suffer ourselve to be confined why do we suffer ourselves to be confined gratified by his covnersation gratified by his conversation at his repeated requst at his repeated request the degrading and melancholy intelligence, with fills my soul the degrading and melancholy intelligence, which fills my soul the acitivity of a curious and vigorous mind the activity of a curious and vigorous mind a temporary reflief a temporary relief would she, inded, accept of my society, would she, indeed, accept of my society, qutting it early in the morning quitting it early in the morning any suddent agitation of spirits any sudden agitation of spirits the distinction yo have shewn me the distinction you have shewn me so sincere, so artless, as mind so sincere, so artless, as mine such an attempt would be impertiment; such an attempt would be impertinent; their heads were never led astray by thir hearts. their heads were never led astray by their hearts. though peace and enjoymment should be for ever fled though peace and enjoyment should be for ever fled attended wtih advantages attended with advantages persevervance, with little ability, has effected wonders; perseverance, with little ability, has effected wonders; wtih the various branches of science with the various branches of science you have been very will you have been very ill the fruits of our dear-bought exerience the fruits of our dear-bought experience i would willing have seen you i would willingly have seen you hagar hagar by mary johnston [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge copyright, , by mary johnston all rights reserved _published october _ contents i. the packet-boat ii. gilead balm iii. the descent of man iv. the convict v. maria vi. eglantine vii. mr. laydon viii. hagar and laydon ix. romeo and juliet x. gilead balm xi. the letters xii. a meeting xiii. the new springs xiv. new york xv. looking for thomasine xvi. the maines xvii. the socialist meeting xviii. a telegram xix. alexandria xx. medway xxi. at roger michael's xxii. hagar in london xxiii. by the sea xxiv. denny gayde xxv. hagar and denny xxvi. gilead balm xxvii. a difference of opinion xxviii. new york again xxix. rose darragh xxx. an old acquaintance xxxi. john fay xxxii. ralph xxxiii. gilead balm xxxiv. brittany hagar hagar chapter i the packet-boat "_low braidge!_" the people on deck bent over, some until heads touched knees, others, more exactly calculating, just sufficiently to clear the beams. the canal-boat passed beneath the bridge, and all straightened themselves on their camp-stools. the gentlemen who were smoking put their cigars again between their lips. the two or three ladies resumed book or knitting. the sun was low, and the sycamores and willows fringing the banks cast long shadows across the canal. the northern bank was not so clothed with foliage, and one saw an expanse of bottom land, meadows and cornfields, and beyond, low mountains, purple in the evening light. the boat slipped from a stripe of gold into a stripe of shadow, and from a stripe of shadow into a stripe of gold. the negro and the mule on the towpath were now but a bit of dusk in motion, and now were lit and, so to speak, powdered with gold-dust. now the rope between boat and towpath showed an arm-thick golden serpent, and now it did not show at all. now a little cloud of gnats and flies, accompanying the boat, shone in burnished armour and now they put on a mantle of shade. a dark little girl, of twelve years, dark and thin, sitting aft on the deck floor, her long, white-stockinged legs folded decorously under her, her blue gingham skirt spread out, and her leghorn hat upon her knees, appealed to one of the reading ladies. "aunt serena, what is 'evolution'?" miss serena ashendyne laid down her book. "'evolution,'" she said blankly, "'what is evolution?'" "i heard grandfather say it just now. he said, 'that man darwin and his evolution'--" "oh!" said miss serena. "he meant a very wicked and irreligious englishman who wrote a dreadful book." "was it named 'evolution'?" "no. i forget just what it is called. 'beginning'--no! 'origin of species.' that was it." "have we got it in the library at gilead balm?" "heavens! no!" "why?" "your grandfather wouldn't let it come into the house. no lady would read it." "oh!" miss serena returned to her novel. she sat very elegantly on the camp-stool, a graceful, long-lined, drooping form in a greenish-grey delaine picked out with tiny daisies. it was made polonaise. miss serena, alone of the people at gilead balm, kept up with the fashions. at the other end of the long, narrow deck a knot of country gentlemen were telling war stories. all had fought in the war--the war that had been over now for twenty years and more. there were an empty sleeve and a wooden leg in the group and other marks of bullet and sabre. they told good stories, the country gentlemen, and they indulged in mellow laughter. blue rings of tobacco-smoke rose and mingled and made a haze about that end of the boat. "how the gentlemen are enjoying themselves!" said placidly one of the knitting ladies. the dark little girl continued to ponder the omission from the library. "aunt serena--" "yes, hagar." "is it like 'tom jones'?" "'tom jones'! what do you know about 'tom jones'?" "grandfather was reading it one day and laughing, and after he had done with it i got it down from the top shelf and asked him if i might read it, and he said, 'no, certainly not! it isn't a book for ladies.'" "your grandfather was quite right. you read entirely too much anyway. dr. bude told your mother so." the little girl turned large, alarmed eyes upon her. "i don't read half as much as i used to. i don't read except just a little time in the morning and evening and after supper. it would _kill_ me if i couldn't read--" "well, well," said miss serena, "i suppose we shall continue to spoil you!" she said it in a very sweet voice, and she patted the child's arm and then she went back to "the wooing o't." she was fond of reading novels herself, though she liked better to do macramé work and to paint porcelain placques. the packet-boat glided on. it was almost the last packet-boat in the state and upon almost its last journey. presently there would go away forever the long, musical winding of the packet-boat horn. it would never echo any more among the purple hills, but the locomotive would shriek here as it shrieked elsewhere. beyond the willows and sycamores, across the river whose reaches were seen at intervals, gangs of convicts with keepers and guards and overseers were at work upon the railroad. the boat passing through a lock, the dark little girl stared, fascinated, at one of these convicts, a "trusty," a young white man who was there at the lock-keeper's on some errand and who now stood speaking to the stout old man on the coping of masonry. as the water in the lock fell and the boat was steadily lowered and the stone walls on either hand grew higher and higher, the figure of the convict came to stand far above all on deck. dressed hideously, in broad stripes of black and white, it stood against the calm evening sky, with a sense of something withdrawn and yet gigantic. the face was only once turned toward the boat with its freight of people who dressed as they pleased. it was not at all a bad face, and it was boyishly young. the boat slipped from the lock and went on down the canal, between green banks. the negro on the towpath was singing and his rich voice floated across-- "for everywhere i went ter pray, i met all hell right on my way." the country gentlemen were laughing again, wrapped in the blue and fragrant smoke. the captain of the packet-boat came up the companionway and passed from group to group like a benevolent patriarch. down below, supper was cooking; one smelled the coffee. the sun was slipping lower, in the green bottoms the frogs were choiring. standing in the prow of the boat a negro winded the long packet-boat horn. it echoed and echoed from the purple hills. the dark little girl was still staring at the dwindling lock. the black-and-white figure, striped like a zebra, was there yet, though it had come down out of the sky and had now only the green of the country about and behind it. it grew smaller and smaller until it was no larger than a black-and-white woodpecker--it was gone. she appealed again to miss serena. "aunt serena, what do you suppose he did?" miss serena, who prided herself upon her patience, put down her book for the tenth time. "of whom are you speaking, hagar?" "that man back there--the convict." "i didn't notice him. but if he is a convict, he probably did something very wicked." hagar sighed. "i don't think _anybody_ ought to be made to dress like that. it--it smudged my soul just to look at it." "convicts," said miss serena, "are not usually people of fine feelings. and you ought to take warning by him never to do anything wicked." a silence while the trees and the flowering blackberry bushes went by; then, "aunt serena--" "yes?" "the woman over there with the baby--she says her husband got hurt in an accident--and she's got to get to him--and she hasn't got any money. the stout man gave her something, and i _think_ the captain wouldn't let her pay. can't i--wouldn't you--can't i--give her just a little?" "the trouble is," said miss serena, "that you never know whether or not those people are telling the truth. and we aren't rich, as you know, hagar. but if you want to, you can go ask your grandfather if he will give you something to give." the dark little girl undoubled her white-stockinged legs, got up, smoothed down her blue gingham dress, and went forward until the tobacco-smoke wrapped her in a fragrant fog. out of it came, genially, the colonel's voice, rich as old madeira, shot like shot silk with curious electric tensions and strains and agreements, a voice at once mellifluous and capable of revealments demanding other adjectives, a voice that was the colonel's and spoke the colonel from head to heel. it went with his beauty, intact yet at fifty-eight, with the greying amber of his hair, mustache, and imperial; with his eyes, not large but finely shaped and coloured; with his slightly aquiline nose; with the height and easy swing of his body that was neither too spare nor too full. it went with him from head to foot, and, though it was certainly not a loud voice nor a too-much-used one, it quite usually dominated whatever group for the moment enclosed the colonel. he was speaking now in a kind of energetic, golden drawl. "so he came up to me and said, 'dash it, ashendyne! if gentlemen can't be allowed in this degenerate age to rule their own households and arrange their own duels--'" he became aware of the child standing by him, and put out a well-formed, nervous hand. "yes, gipsy? what is it you want now?" hagar explained sedately. "her husband hurt and can't get to him to nurse him?" said the colonel. "well, well! that's pretty bad! i suppose we must take up a collection. pass the hat, gipsy!" hagar went to each of the country gentlemen, not with the suggested hat, but with her small palm held out, cupped. one by one they dropped into it quarter or dime, and each, as his coin tinkled down, had for the collector of bounty a drawling, caressing, humorous word. she thanked each gentleman as his bit of silver touched her hand and thanked with a sedate little manner of perfection. manners at gilead balm were notoriously of a perfection. hagar took the money to the woman with the baby and gave it to her shyly, with a red spot in each cheek. she was careful to explain, when the woman began to stammer thanks, that it was from her grandfather and the other gentlemen and that they were anxious to help. she was a very honest little girl, with an honest wish to place credit where it belonged. back beside miss serena she sat and studied the moving green banks. the sun was almost down; there were wonderful golden clouds above the mountains. willow and sycamore, on the river side of the canal, fell away. across an emerald, marshy strip, you saw the bright, larger stream, mirror for the bright sky, and across it in turn you saw limestone cliffs topped with shaggy woods, and you heard the sound of picks against rock and saw another band of convicts, white and black, making the railroad. the packet-boat horn was blown again,--long, musical, somewhat mournfully echoing. the negro on the towpath, riding sideways on his mule, was singing still. "aunt serena--" "yes, hagar." "why is it that women don't have any money?" miss serena closed her book. she glanced at the fields and the sky-line. "we shall be at gilead balm in ten minutes.--you ask too many questions, hagar! it is a very bad habit to be always interrogating. it is quite distinctly unladylike." chapter ii gilead balm at the gilead balm landing waited captain bob with a negro man to carry up to the house the colonel's portmanteau and miss serena's small leather trunk. the packet-boat came in sight, white and slow as a deliberate swan, drew reflectively down the shining reach of water, and sidled to the landing. the colonel shook hands with all the country gentlemen and bowed to the ladies, and the country gentlemen bowed to miss serena, who in turn bent her head and smiled, and the captain said good-bye, and the colonel gave the attendant darky a quarter, and the woman with the baby came to that side of the boat and held for a moment the hand of the dark little girl, and then the gangplank was placed and the three ashendynes passed over to the colonel's land. the horn blew again, long, melodious; the negro on the towpath said, "get up!" to the mule. amid a waving of hands and a chorus of slow, agreeable voices the packet-boat glided from the landing and proceeded down the pink water between the willows and sycamores. captain bob, with his hound luna at his heels, greeted the returning members of the family: "well, serena, did you have a pleasant visit? hey, gipsy, you've grown a week! well, colonel?" the colonel shook hands with his brother. "very pleasant time, bob! good old-time people, too good for this damned new-fangled world! but--" he breathed deep. "i am glad to get home. i am always glad to get home. well? everything all right?" "right as a trivet! the bishop's here, and mrs. legrand. came on the stage yesterday." "that's good news," said the colonel. "the bishop's always welcome, and mrs. legrand is most welcome." the four began to walk toward the house, half a mile away, just visible among great trees. the dark little girl walked beside the hound, but the hound kept her nose in captain bob's palm. she was fond of hagar, but captain bob was her god. as for captain bob himself, he walked like a curious, unfinished, somewhat flawed and shortened suggestion of his brother. he was shorter than the colonel and broader; hair, nose, eyes, mouth were nothing like so fine; carriage and port were quite different; he lacked the _cachet_, he lacked the _grand air_. for all that, the fact that they were brothers was evident enough. captain bob loved dogs and hunting, and read the county newspaper and the sporting almanac. he was not complex. ninety-nine times out of a hundred he acted from instinct and habit, and the puzzling hundredth time he beat about for tradition and precedent. he was good-natured and spendthrift, with brains enough for not too distant purposes. emotionally, he was strongest in family affection. "missed you all!" he now observed cheerfully. "gilead balm's been like a graveyard." "how is mother?" asked miss serena. she was picking her way delicately through the green lane, between the evening primroses, the grey-green delaine held just right. "she wrote me that she burned her hand trying the strawberry preserves." "it's all right now. never saw old miss looking better!" the dark little girl turned her dark eyes on captain bob. "how is my mother?" "maria? well, i should say that she was all right, too. i haven't heard her complain." "gad! i wish she would complain," ejaculated the colonel. "then one could tell her there was nothing to complain about. i hate these women who go through life with a smile on their lips and an indictment in their eyes--when there's only the usual up and down of living to indict. i had rather they would whine--though i hate them to whine, too. but women are all cowards. no woman knows how to take the world." the dark little girl, who had been walking between the colonel and captain bob, began to tremble. "whoever else's a coward, my mother's not--" "i don't think, father, you ought--" captain bob was stronger yet. he was fond of gipsy, and he thought that sometimes the family bore too hardly on maria. now and then he did a small bit of cloudy thinking, and when he did it he always brought forth the result with a certain curious clearing of the throat and nodding of the head, as though the birth of an idea was attended with considerable physical strain. "no, colonel," now he said, "you oughtn't! damn it, where'd we be but for women anyhow? as for maria--i think you're too hard on maria. the chief trouble with maria is that she isn't herself an ashendyne. of course, she can't help that, but i think it is a pity. always did think that men ought to marry at least fifth or sixth cousins. bring women in without blood and traditions of people they've got to live with--of course, there's trouble adapting. seen it a score of times. maria's just like the rest when they're not cousins. ought somehow to be cousins." "bob, you are a perfect fool," remarked the colonel. he walked on, between the primroses, his hands behind him, tall and easy in his black, wide-skirted coat and his soft black hat. the earth was in shadow, but the sky glowed carnation. against it stood out the long, low red-brick house of gilead balm. at either gable end rose pyramidal cedars, high and dark against the vivid sky. in the lane there was the smell of dewy grass, and on either hand, back from the vine-draped rail fences, rolled the violet fields. somewhere in the distance sounded the tinkling of cow bells. the ardent sky began to pale; the swallows were circling above the chimneys of gilead balm, and now the silver venus came out clear. the little girl named hagar lagged a little going up the low hill on which the house stood. she was growing fast, and all journeys were exciting, and she was taking iron because she wasn't very strong, and she had had a week of change and had been thinking hard and was tired. she wanted to see her mother, and indeed she wanted to see all at gilead balm, for, unlike her mother, she loved gilead balm, but going up the hill she lagged a little. partly it was to look at the star and to listen to the distant bells. she was not aware that she observed that which we call nature with a deep passion and curiosity, that beauty was the breath of her nostrils, and that she hungered and thirsted after the righteousness of knowledge. she only came slowly, after many years, into that much knowledge of herself. to-day she was but an undeveloped child, her mind a nebula just beginning to spiral. in conversation she would have applied the word "pretty" indiscriminately to the flushed sky, the star, the wheeling swallows, the yellow primroses. but within, already, the primroses struck one note, and the wheeling swallows another, and the sky another, and the star another, and, combined, they made a chord that was like no other chord. already her moments were distinguished, and each time she saw gilead balm she saw, and dimly knew that she saw, a different gilead balm. she climbed the hill a little stumblingly, a dark, thin child with braided, dusky hair. she was so tired that things went into a kind of mist--the house and the packet-boat and the lock and the convict and the piping frogs and the cat-tails in a marsh and the word "evolution."... and then, up on the low hilltop, dilsey and plutus lit the lamps, and the house had a row of topaz eyes;--and here was the cedar at the little gate, and the smell of box--box smell was always of a very especial character, dark in hue, cool in temperature, and quite unfathomably old. the four passed through the house gate and went up the winding path between the box and the old, old blush roses--and here was the old house dog roger fawning on the colonel--and the topaz eyes were growing bigger, bigger.... "i am glad to get home," said miss serena, in front. "it's curious how, every time you go from home, something happens to cure you of a roving disposition." captain bob laughed. "never knew you had a roving disposition, serena! luna here, now,--luna's got a roving disposition--haven't you, old girl?" "luna," replied miss serena with some asperity, "luna makes no effort to alter her disposition. i do. everybody's got tendencies and notions that it is their bounden duty to suppress. if they don't, it leads to all kind of changes and upheavals.--and that is what i criticize in maria. she makes no effort, either. it's most unfortunate." the colonel, in front of them all, moved on with a fine serenity. he had taken off his hat, and in the yet warm glow the grey-amber of his hair seemed fairly luminous. as he walked he looked appreciatively up at the evening star. he read poetry with a fine, discriminating, masculine taste, and now, with a gesture toward the star, he repeated a line of byron. maria and her idiosyncrasies troubled him only when they stood actually athwart his path; certainly he had never brooded upon them, nor turned them over in his hand and looked at them. she was his son's wife--more, he was inclined to think, the pity! she was, therefore, ashendyne, and she was housed at gilead balm. he was inclined to be fond of the child hagar. as for his son--the colonel, in his cooler moments, supposed, damn it! that he and medway were too much alike to get on together. at any rate, whatever the reason, they did not get on together. gilead balm had not seen the younger ashendyne for some years. he was in europe, whence he wrote, at very long intervals, an amiable traveller's letter. neither had he and maria gotten on well together. the house grew large, filling all the foreground. the topaz eyes changed to a wide, soft, diffused light, pouring from windows and the open hall door. in it now appeared the figures of the elder mrs. ashendyne, of the bishop, and mrs. legrand, coming out upon the porch to welcome the travellers. hagar took her grandmother's kiss and mrs. legrand's kiss and the bishop's kiss, and then, after a few moments of standing still in the hall while the agreeable, southern voices rose and fell, she stole away, went up the shallow, worn stairway, turned to the left, and opened the door of her mother's room. she opened it softly. "uncle plutus says you've got a headache." maria's voice came from the sofa in the window. "yes, i have. shut the door softly, and don't let us have any light. but i don't mind your sitting by me." the couch was deep and heaped with pillows. maria's slight, small form was drawn up in a corner, her head high, her hands twisted and locked about her knees. she wore a soft white wrapper, tied beneath her breast with a purple ribbon. she had beautiful hair. thick and long and dusky, it was now loosened and spread until it made a covering for the pillows. out from its waves looked her small face, still and exhausted. the headache, after having lasted all day, was going away now at twilight. she just turned her dark eyes upon her daughter. "i don't mind your lying down beside me," she said. "there's room. only don't jar my head--" hagar lay carefully down upon the couch, her head in the hollow of her mother's arm. "did you have a good time?" "yes.... pretty good." "what did you do?" "there was another little girl named sylvie. we played in the hayloft, and we made willow baskets, and we cut paper dolls out of a 'godey's lady's book.' i named mine lucy ashton and diana vernon and rebecca, and she didn't know any good names, so i named hers for her. we named them rosalind and cordelia and vashti. then there was a lady who played backgammon with me, and i read two books." "what were they?" "one was 'gulliver's travels.' i didn't like it altogether, though i liked some of it. the other was shelley's 'shorter poems.' oh"--hagar rose to a sitting posture--"i liked that better than anything i've _ever_ read--" "you are young to be reading shelley," said her mother. she spoke with her lips only, her young, pain-stilled face high upon the pillows. "what did you like best?" hagar pondered it. "i liked the 'cloud,' and i liked the 'west wind,' and i liked the 'spirit of night'--" some one tapped at the door, and then without waiting for an answer opened it. the elder mrs. ashendyne entered. hagar slipped from the sofa and maria changed her position, though very slightly. "come in," she said, though mrs. ashendyne was already in. "old miss," as the major part of gilead balm called her, old miss crossed the room with a stately tread and took the winged chair. she intended tarrying but a moment, but she was a woman who never stood to talk. she always sat down like a regent, and the standing was done by others. she was a large woman, tall rather than otherwise, of a distinct comeliness, and authoritative--oh, authoritative from her black lace cap on her still brown, smoothly parted hair, to her low-heeled list shoes, black against her white stockings! now she folded her hands upon her black stuff skirt and regarded maria. "are you better?" "yes, thank you." "if you would take my advice," said mrs. ashendyne, "and put horseradish leaves steeped in hot water to your forehead and the back of your neck, you would find it a great relief." "i had some lavender water," said maria. "the horseradish would have been far better. are you coming to supper?" "no, i think not. i do not care for anything. i am not hungry." "i will have phoebe fetch you a little thin chipped beef and a beaten biscuit and a cup of coffee. you must eat.--if you gave way less it would be better for you." maria looked at her with sombre eyes. at once the fingers slipped to other and deeper notes. "if i gave way less.... well, yes, i do give way. i have never seen how not to. i suppose if i were cleverer and braver, i should see--" "what i mean," said old miss with dignity, "is that the lord, for his own good purposes,--and it is _sinful_ to question his purposes,--regulated society as it is regulated, and placed women where they are placed. no one claims--certainly i don't claim--that women as women do not see a great deal of hardship. the bible gives us to understand that it is their punishment. then i say take your punishment with meekness. it is possible that by doing so you may help earn remission for all." "there was always," said maria, "something frightful to me in the old notion of whipping-boys for kings and princes. how very bad to be the whipping-boy, and how infinitely worse to be the king or prince whose whipping-boy you were!" a red came into mrs. ashendyne's face. "you are at times positively blasphemous!" she said. "i do not at all see of what, personally, you have to complain. if medway is estranged from you, you have probably only yourself to thank--" "i never wish," said maria, "to see medway again." medway's mother rose with stateliness from the winged chair. "when it comes to statements like that from a wife, it is time for old-fashioned people like myself to take our leave.--phoebe shall bring you your supper. hagar, you had better come with me." "leave hagar here," said the other. "the bell will ring in ten minutes. come, child!" "stay where you are, hagar. when the bell rings, she shall come." the elder mrs. ashendyne's voice deepened. "it is hard for me to see the mind of my son's child perverted, filled with all manner of foolish queries and rebellions." "your son's child," answered maria from among her pillows, "happens to be also my child. his family has just had her for a solid week. now, pray let me have her for an hour." her eyes, dark and large in her thin, young face, narrowed until the lashes met. "i am perfectly aware of how deplorable is the whole situation. if i were wiser and stronger and more heroic, i suppose i should break through it. i suppose i should go away with hagar. i suppose i should learn to work. i suppose i should somehow keep us both. i suppose i might live again. i suppose i might ... even ... get a divorce--" her mother-in-law towered. "the bishop shall talk to you the first thing in the morning--" chapter iii the descent of man a pool of june sunlight lay on the library floor. it made a veritable pool of siloam, with all around a brown, bank-like duskiness. the room was by no means book-lined, but there were four tall mahogany cases, one against each wall, well filled for the most part with mellow calf. flanking each case hung ashendyne portraits, in oval, very old gilt frames. beneath three of these were fixed silhouettes of revolutionary ashendynes; beneath the others, war photographs, _cartes de visite_, a dozen in one frame. there was a mahogany escritoire and mahogany chairs and a mahogany table, and, before the fireplace, a fire-screen done in cross-stitch by a colonial ashendyne. the curtains were down for the summer, and the dark, polished floor was bare. the room was large, and there presided a pleasant sense of unencumbered space and coolness. in the parlour, across the hall, miss serena had been allowed full power. here there was a crocheted macramé lambrequin across the mantel-shelf, and a plush table-scarf worked with chenille, and fine thread tidies for the chairs, and a green-and-white worsted "water-lily" mat for the lamp, and embroidery on the piano cover. here were pelargoniums and azaleas painted on porcelain placques, and a painted screen--gladioli and calla lilies,--and autumn leaves mounted on the top of a small table, and a gilded milking stool, and gilded cat-tails in decalcomania jars. but the colonel had barred off the library. "embroider petticoat-world to the top of your bent--but don't embroider books!" the colonel was not in the library. he had mounted his horse and ridden off down the river to see a brother-in-law about some piece of business. ashendynes and coltsworths fairly divided the county between them. blood kin and marriage connections,--all counted to the seventeenth degree,--traditional old friendships, old acquaintances, clients, tenants, neighbours, the coloured people sometime their servants, folk generally, from judge to blacksmith,--the two families and their allies ramified over several hundred square miles, and when you said "the county," what you saw were ashendynes and coltsworths. they lived in brick houses set among green acres and in frame houses facing village streets. none were in the least rich, a frightful, impoverishing war being no great time behind them, and many were poor--but one and all they had "quality." the colonel was gone down the river to hawk nest. captain bob was in the stable yard. muffled, from the parlour, the doors being carefully closed, came the notes of "silvery waves." miss serena was practising. it was raspberry-jam time of year. in the brick kitchen out in the yard old miss spent the morning with her knitting, superintending operations. a great copper kettle sat on the stove. between it and the window had been placed a barrel and here perched a half-grown negro boy, in his hands a pole with a paddle-like cross-piece at the further end. with this he slowly stirred, round and round, the bubbling, viscous mass in the copper kettle. kitchen doors and windows were wide, and in came the hum of bees and the fresh june air, and out floated delectable odours of raspberry jam. old miss sat in an ample low chair in the doorway, knitting white cotton socks for the colonel. the bishop--who was a bishop from another state--was writing letters. mrs. legrand had taken her novel out to the hammock beneath the cedars. upstairs, in her own room, in a big four-poster bed, lay maria, ill with a low fever. dr. bude came every other day, and he said that he hoped it was nothing much but that he couldn't tell yet: mrs. ashendyne must lie quiet and take the draught he left, and her room must be kept still and cool, and he would suggest that phoebe, whom she seemed to like to have about her, should nurse her, and he would suggest, too, that there be no disturbing conversation, and that, indeed, she be left in the greatest quiet. it seemed nervous largely--"yes, yes, that's true! we all ought to fight more than we do. but the nervous system isn't the imaginary thing people think! she isn't very strong, and--wrongly, of course--she dashes herself against conditions and environment like a bird against glass. i don't suppose," said dr. bude, "that it would be possible for her to travel?" maria lay in the four-poster bed, making images of the light and shadow in the room. sometimes she asked for hagar, and sometimes for hours she seemed to forget that hagar existed. old miss, coming into the room at one of these times, and seeing her push the child from her with a frightened air and a stammering "i don't know you"--old miss, later in the day, took hagar into her own room, set her in a chair beside her, taught her a new knitting-stitch, and explained that it would be kinder to remain out of her mother's room, seeing that her presence there evidently troubled her mother. "it troubles her sometimes," said hagar, "but it doesn't trouble her most times. most times she likes me there." "i do not think you can judge of that," said her grandmother. "at any rate, i think it best that you should stay out of the room. you can, of course, go in to say good-morning and good-night.--throw the thread over your finger like that. mimy is making sugar-cakes this morning, and if you want to you can help her cut them out." "grandmother, please let me go _four_ times a day--" "no. i do not consider it best for either of you. you heard the doctor say that your mother must not be agitated, and you saw yourself, a while ago, that she did not seem to want you. i will tell phoebe. be a good, obedient child!--bring me the bag yonder, and let's see if we can't find enough pink worsted for a doll's afghan." that had been two days ago. hagar went, morning and evening, to her mother's room, and sometimes maria knew her and held her hands and played with her hair, and sometimes she did not seem to know her and ignored her or talked to her as a stranger. her grandmother told her to pray for her mother's recovery. she did not need the telling; she loved her mother, and her petitions were frequent. sometimes she got down on her knees to make them; sometimes she just made them walking around. "o god, save my mother. for jesus' sake. amen."--"o god, let my mother get well. for jesus' sake. amen."--she had finished the pink afghan, and she had done the dusting and errands her grandmother appointed her. this morning they had let her arrange the flowers in the bowls and vases. she always liked to do that, and she had been happy for almost an hour--but then the feeling came back.... the bright pool on the library floor did not reach to the bookcases. they were all in the gold-dust powdered umber of the rest of the room. hagar standing before one of them, first on a hassock, and then, for the upper shelves, on a chair, hunted something to read. "ministering children"--she had read it. "stepping heavenward"--she had read it. "home influence" and "mother's recompense"--she had read them. mrs. sherwood--she had read mrs. sherwood--many volumes of mrs. sherwood. in after life it was only by a violent effort that she dismissed, in favour of any other india, the spectre of mrs. sherwood's india. "parent's assistant and moral tales"--she knew simple susan and rosamond and all of them by heart. "rasselas"--she had read it. "scottish chiefs"--she had read it. the forms of wallace and helen and murray and edwin flitted through her mind--she half put out her hand to the book, then withdrew it. she wasn't at all happy, and she wanted novelty. miss mühlbach--"prince eugene and his times"--"napoleon and marie louise"--she had read those, too. "the draytons and the davenants"--she half thought she would read about olive and roger again, but at last she passed them by also. there wasn't anything on that shelf she wanted. she called it the blue and green and red shelf, because the books were bound in those colours. miss serena's name was in most of these volumes. the shelf that she undertook next had another air. to hagar each case had its own air, and each shelf its own air, and each book its own air. "blair's rhetoric"--she had read some of that, but she didn't want it to-day. "pilgrim's progress"--she knew that by heart. "burke's speeches"--"junius"--she had read "junius," as she had read many another thing simply because it was there, and a book was a book. she had read it without much understanding, but she liked the language. milton--she knew a great part of milton, but to-day she didn't want poetry. poetry was for when you were happy. scott--on another day scott might have sufficed, but to-day she wanted something new--so new and so interesting that it would make the hard, unhappy feeling go away. she stepped from the hassock upon the chair and began to study the titles of the books on almost the top shelf.... there was one in the corner, quite out of sight unless you were on a chair, right up here, face to face with the shelf. the book was even pushed back as though it had retired--or had been retired--behind its fellows so as to be out of danger, or, perhaps, out of the way of being dangerous. hagar put in her slender, sun-browned hand and drew it forward until she could read the legend on the back--"the descent of man." she drew it quite forth, and bringing both hands into play opened it. "by charles darwin." she turned the leaves. there were woodcuts--cuts that exercised a fascination. she glanced at the first page: "he who wishes to decide whether man is the modified descendant of some preëxisting form--" hagar turned upon the chair and looked about her. the room was a desert for solitude and balmy quiet. distantly, through the closed parlour doors, came miss serena's rendering of "monastery bells." she knew that her grandfather was down the river, and that her grandmother was making raspberry jam. she knew that the bishop was in his room, and that mrs. legrand was out under the cedars. uncle bob did not count anyway--he rarely asked embarrassing questions. she may have hesitated one moment, but no more. she got down from the chair, put it back against the wall, closed the bookcase door, and taking the "descent of man" with her went over to the old, worn horsehair sofa and curled herself up at the end in a cool and slippery hollow. a gold-dust shaft, slipping through the window, lit her hair, the printed page, and the slim, long-fingered hand that clasped it. hagar knew quite well what she was doing. she was going to read a book which, if her course were known, she would be forbidden to read. it had happened before now that she had read books under the ban of gilead balm. but heretofore she had always been able to say that she had not known that they were so, had not known she was doing wrong. that could not be said in this case. aunt serena had distinctly told her that charles darwin was a wicked and irreligious man, and that no lady would read his books.... but then aunt serena had unsparingly condemned other books which hagar's mind yet refused to condemn. she had condemned "the scarlet letter." when gilead balm discovered hagar at the last page of that book, there had ensued a family discussion. miss serena said that she blushed when she thought of the things that hagar was learning. the colonel had not blushed, but he said that such books unsettled all received notions, and while he supported her he wasn't going to have medway's child imbibing damned anarchical sentiments of any type. old miss said a number of things, most of which tended toward maria. the latter had defended her daughter, but afterwards she told hagar that in this world, even if you didn't think you were doing wrong, it made for all the happiness there seemed to be not to do what other people thought you ought not to do.... but hagar didn't believe yet that there was anything wrong in reading "the scarlet letter." she had been passionately sorry for hester, and she had felt--she did not know why--a kind of terrified pity for mr. dimmesdale, and she had loved little pearl. she had intended asking her mother what the red-cloth letter that hester prynne wore meant, but it had gone out of her mind. the chapter she liked best was the one with little pearl playing in the wood.... perhaps aunt serena, having been mistaken about that book, was mistaken, too, about charles darwin. neither now nor later did she in any wise love the feel of wrong-doing. forbidden fruit did not appeal to her merely because it was forbidden. but if there was no inner forbidding, if she truly doubted the justice or authority or abstract rightness of the restraining hand, she was capable of attaining the fruit whether forbidden or no. there was always the check of great native kindliness. if what she wanted to do was going--no matter how senselessly--to trouble or hurt other people's feelings, on the whole she wouldn't do it. in the case of this june day and the "descent of man" the library was empty. she only wanted to look at the pictures and to run over the reading enough to see what it was about--then she would put it back on the top shelf. she was not by nature indirect or secretive. she preferred to go straightforwardly, to act in the open. but if the wall of not-agreed-in objection stood too high and thick before her, she was capable of stealing forth in the dusk and seeking a way around it. coiled now in the cool hollow of the sofa, half in and half out of the shaft of sunshine, she began to read. the broad band of gold-dust shifted place. miss serena, arrived at the last ten minutes of her hour and a half at the piano, began to play "pearls and roses." out in the brick kitchen old miss dropped a tablespoonful of raspberry jam into a saucer, let it cool, tasted, and pronounced it done. the negro boy and mimy between them lifted the copper kettle from the stove. upstairs in gilead balm's best room the bishop folded and slipped into an addressed envelope the last letter he was going to write that morning. out under the cedars mrs. legrand came to a dull stretch in her novel. she yawned, closed the book, and leaned back against the pillows in the hammock. mrs. legrand was fair and forty, but only pleasantly plump. she had a creamy skin, moderately large, hazel eyes, moderately far apart, a small, straight nose, a yielding mouth, and a chin that indubitably would presently be double. she was a widow and an orphan. married at nineteen, her husband, the stars of a brigadier-general upon his grey collar, had within the year fallen upon some one of the blood-soaked battle-grounds of the state. her father, the important bearer of an old, important name, had served the confederacy well in a high civil capacity. when the long horror of the war was over, and the longer, miserable torture of the reconstruction was passing, and a comparative ease and pale dawn of prosperity rose over the state, mrs. legrand looked about her from the remnant of an old plantation on the edge of a tidewater town. the house was dilapidated, but large. the grounds had old neglect for gardener, but they, too, were large, and only needed good-care-at-last for complete rehabilitation. mrs. legrand had a kind of smooth, continuous, low-pressure energy, but no money. "a girls' school," she murmured to herself. when she wrote, here and there over the state, it was at once seen by her correspondents that this was just the thing for the daughter of a public man and the widow of a gallant officer. it was both ladylike and possible.... that was some years ago. mrs. legrand's school for young ladies was now an established fact. the house was repaired, the grounds were trim, there was a corps of six teachers, with prospects of expansion, there were day pupils and boarding pupils. mrs legrand saw in her mind's eye long wing-like extensions to the main house where more boarding pupils might be accommodated.... she was successful, and success agreed with her. the coat grew sleek, the cream rose to the top, every angle disappeared; she was warmly optimistic, and smooth, indolent good company. in the summer-time she left eglantine and from late june to september shared her time between the springs and the country homes of kindred, family connections, or girlhood friends. she nearly always came for a fortnight or more to gilead balm. now, leaning back in the hammock, the novel shut, her eyes closed, she was going pleasantly over to herself the additions and improvements to be carried out at eglantine. from this her mind slipped to her correspondence with a french teacher who promised well, and thence to certain letters received that week from patrons with daughters. one of these, from a state farther south, spoke in highest praise of mrs. legrand's guardianship of the young female mind, of the safe and elegant paths into which she guided it, and of her gift generally for preserving dew and bloom and ignorance of evil in her interesting charges. every one likes praise and no one is so churlish as to refuse a proffered bouquet or to doubt the judgment of the donor. mrs. legrand experienced from head to foot a soft and amiable glow. for ten minutes longer she lay in an atmosphere of balm, then she opened her eyes, drew her watch from her white-ribbon belt, and glancing at it surmised that by now the bishop might have finished his letters. upon this thought she rose, and paced across the bright june grass to the house. "pearls and roses" floated from the parlour. her hand on the doorknob, mrs. legrand paused irresolutely for a moment, then lightly took it away and crossed the hall to the library. a minute later the bishop, portly and fine, letters in his hand, came down the stairs, and turned toward this room. the mail-bag always hung, he remembered, by the library escritoire. though he was a large man, he moved with great lightness; he was at once ponderous and easy. miss serena at the piano could hardly have heard him pass the door, so something occult, perhaps, made her ignore the _da capo_ over the bar of "pearls and roses" which she had now reached. she struck a final chord, rose, closed the piano, and left the parlour. chapter iv the convict "my dear bishop!" exclaimed mrs. legrand; "won't you come here and talk to this little girl?" "to hagar?" answered the bishop. "what is the trouble with hagar? have you broken your doll, poor dear?" he came easily across to the horsehair sofa, a good man, by definition, as ever was. "what's grieving you, little girl?" "i think that it is hagar who may come to grieve others," said mrs. legrand. "i do not suppose it is my business to interfere,--as i should interfere were she in my charge at eglantine,--but i cannot but see in my daily task how difficult it is to eradicate from a youthful mind the stain that has been left by an improper book--" "an improper book! what are you doing, hagar, with an improper book?" the bishop put out his hand and took it. he looked at the title and at the author's name beneath, turned over a dozen pages, closed the book, and put it from him on the cold, bare mahogany table. "it was not for this that i christened you," he said. miss serena joined the group. "serena," appealed mrs. legrand, "_do_ you think hagar ought to be allowed to contaminate her mind by a book like that?" miss serena looked. "that child!--she's been reading darwin!" a slow colour came into her cheeks. the book was shocking, but the truly shocking thing was how absolutely hagar had disobeyed. miss serena's soul was soft as wax, pliant as a reed to the authorities her world ranged before her. by an inevitable reaction stiffness showed in the few cases where she herself held the orb of authority. to be disobeyed was very grievous to her. where it was only negligence in regard to some command of her own,--direction to a servant, commands in her sunday-school class,--she had often to put up with it, though always with a swelling sense of injury. but when things combined, when disobedience to serena ashendyne was also disobedience to the constituted authorities, miss serena became adamant. now she looked at hagar with a little gasp, and then, seeing through the open door the elder mrs. ashendyne entering from the kitchen, she called to her. "mother, come here a moment!"... "if she had said that she was sorry," pronounced the bishop, "you might forgive her, i think, this time. but if she is going to harden her heart like that, you had best let her see that all sin, in whatever degree, brings suffering. and i should suit, i think, the punishment to the offence. hagar told me only yesterday that she had rather read a book than gather cherries or play with dolls, or go visiting, or anything. i think i should forbid her to open any book at all for a week." behind gilead balm, beyond the orchard and a strip of meadow, sprang a ridge of earth, something more than a hill, something less than a low mountain. it was safe, dry, warm, and sandy, too cut-over and traversed to be popular with snakes, too within a stone's throw of the overseer's house and the overseer's dogs to be subject to tramps or squirrel-hunting boys, just wooded enough and furrowed with shallow ravines to make it to children a romantic, sprite-inhabited region. when children came to gilead balm, as sometimes, in the slow, continuous procession through the houses of a people who traditionally kept "open house," they did come, hagar and they always played freely and alone on the home-ward-facing side of the ridge. when the overseer's grandchildren, too, came to visit him, they and hagar played here, and sometimes mary magazine, isham and car'line's ten-year-old at the ferry, was allowed to spend the day, and she and hagar played together on the ridge. hagar was very fond of mary magazine. one day, having completed her circle of flower dolls before her companion's was done, she leaned back against the apple tree beneath which the two were seated and thoughtfully regarded the other's down-bent brown face and "wrapped" hair. "mary magazine, you couldn't have been named 'mary magazine.' you were named mary magdalene." "no'm," said mary magazine, a pink morning-glory in one hand and a blue one in the other. "no'm. i'm named mary magazine. my mammy done named me for de lady what took her cologne bottle somebody give her christmas, an' poured it on her han' an' rubbed jesus' feet." when mary magazine didn't come to gilead balm and no children were staying in the house, and the overseer's grandchildren were at their home on the other side of the county, hagar might--provided always she let some one know where she was going--hagar might play alone on the ridge. to-day, having asked the colonel if she might, she was playing there alone. "playing" was the accepted word. they always talked of her as "playing," and she herself repeated the word. "may i go play awhile on the ridge?" "i reckon so, gipsy. wear your sunbonnet and don't get into any mischief." at the overseer's house she stopped to talk with mrs. green, picking pease in the garden. "mahnin', hagar," said mrs. green. "how's yo' ma this mahnin'?" "i think she's better, mrs. green. she laughed a little this morning. grandmother let me stay a whole half-hour, and mother talked about _her_ grandmother, and about picking up shells on the beach, and about a little boat that she used to go out to sea in. she said that all last night she felt that boat beneath her. she laughed and said it felt like going home.--only"--hagar looked at mrs. green with large, wistful eyes--"only home's really gilead balm." "of course it is," said mrs. green cheerfully. she sat down on an overturned bucket between the green rows of pease, and pushed back her sunbonnet from her kind, old wrinkled face. "i remember when yo' ma came here jest as well. she was jest the loveliest thing!--but of course all her own people were a good long way off, and she was a seafarer herself, and she couldn't somehow get used to the hills. i've heard her say they jest shut her in like a prison.... but then, after a while, you came, an' i reckon, though she says things sometimes, wherever you are she feels to be home. when it comes to being a woman, the good lord has to get in com-pensation somewhere, or i don't reckon none of us could stand it.--i'm glad she's better." "_i'm_ glad," said hagar. "can i help you pick the pease, mrs. green?" "thank you, child, but i've about picked the mess. you goin' to play on the ridge? i wish thomasine and maggie and corker were here to play with you." "i wish they were," said hagar. her eyes filled. "it's a very lonesome day. yesterday was lonesome and to-morrow's going to be lonesome--" "haven't you got a good book? i never see such a child for books." two tears came out of hagar's eyes. "i was reading a book aunt serena told me not to read.--and now i'm not to read _anything_ for a whole week." "sho!" exclaimed mrs. green. "what did you do that for? don't you know that little girls ought to mind?" hagar sighed. "yes, i suppose they ought.... i wish i had now.... it's so lonesome not to read when your mother's sick and grandmother won't let me go into the room only just a little while morning and evening." "haven't you got any pretty patchwork nor nothin'?" hagar standing among the blush roses, looked at her with sombre eyes. "mrs. green, i hate to sew." "oh!" exclaimed mrs. green. "that's an awful thing to say!" she sat on the overturned bucket, between the pale-green, shiny-podded peavines, her friendly old face, knobbed and wrinkled like a japanese carving, gleaming from between the faded blue slats of her sunbonnet, and she regarded the child before her with real concern. "i wonder now," she said, "if you're goin' to grow up a rebel? look-a-here, honey, there ain't a mite of ease and comfort on that road." "that's what the yankees called us all," said hagar. 'rebels.'" "ah, i don't mean 'rebel' that-er-way," said mrs. green. "there's lonelier and deeper ways of rebellin'. you don't get killed with an army cheerin' you, and newspapers goin' into black, and a state full of people, that were 'rebels' too, keepin' your memory green,--what happens, happens just to you, by yourself without any company, and no wreaths of flowers and farewell speeches. they just open the door and put you out." "out where?" "out by yourself. out of this earth's favour. and, though we mayn't think it," said mrs. green, "this earth's favour is our sunshine. it's right hard to go where there isn't any sunshine.... i don't know why i'm talking like this to you--but you're a strange child and always were, and i reckon you come by it honest!" she rose from among the peavines. "well, i've been baking apple turnovers, and they ain't bad to picnic on! suppose you take a couple up on the ridge with you." there grew, on the very top of the ridge, a cucumber tree that hagar loved. underneath was a little fine, sparse grass and enough pennyroyal to make the place aromatic when the sunshine drew out all its essence, as was the case to-day. over the light soil, between the sprigs of pennyroyal, went a line of ants carrying grains of some pale, amber-clear substance. hagar watched them to their hill. when, one by one, they had entered, a second line of foragers emerged and went off to the right through the grass. in a little time these, too, reappeared, each carrying before her a tiny bead of the amber stuff. hagar watched, elbows on ground and chin on hands. she had a feeling that they were people, and she tried giving them names, but they were so bewilderingly alike that in a moment she could not tell which was "brownie" and which "pixie" and which "slim." she turned upon her back and lying in the grass and pennyroyal saw above her only blue sky and blue sky. she stared into it. "if the angels were sailing like the birds up there and looking down--and looking down--we people might seem all alike to them--all alike and not doing things that were very different--all alike.... only there are our clothes. pink ones and blue ones and white ones and black ones and plaid ones and striped ones--" she stared at the blue until she seemed to see step after step of blue, a great ladder leading up, and then she turned on her side and gazed at gilead balm and, a mile away, the canal and the shining river. she could see many windows, but not her mother's window. she had to imagine that. lonesomeness and ennui, that had gone away for a bit in the interest of watching the ants, returned full force. she stood up and cast about for something to break the spell. the apple turnovers wrapped in a turkey-red, fringed napkin, rested in a small willow basket upon the grass. hagar was not hungry, but she considered that she might as well eat a turnover, and then that she might as well have a party and ask a dozen flower dolls. her twelve years were as a moving plateau--one side a misty looming landscape of the mind, older and higher than her age would forecast; on the other, green, hollow, daisy-starred meadows of sheer childhood. her attention passed from side to side, and now it settled in the meadows. she considered the grass beneath the cucumber tree for a dining-room, and then she grew aware that she was thirsty, and so came to the conclusion that she would descend the back side of the ridge to the spring and have the party there. crossing the hand's breadth of level ground she began to climb down the long shady slope toward a stream that trickled through a bit of wood and a thicket, and a small, ice-cold spring in a ferny hollow. the sun-bathed landscape, river and canal and fields and red-brick gilead balm with its cedars, and the garden and orchard, and the overseer's house sank from view. there was only the broad-leaved cucumber tree against the deep blue sky. the trunk of the cucumber tree disappeared, and then the greater branches, and then the lesser branches toward the top, and then the bushy green top itself. when hagar and the other children played on the ridge, they followed her lead and called this side "the far country." to them--or perhaps only to hagar--it had a clime, an atmosphere quite different from the homeward-facing side. when she came to the spring at the foot of the ridge she was very thirsty. she knelt on a great sunken rock, and, taking off her sunbonnet, leaned forward between the fern and mint, made a cup of her hands and drank the sparkling water. when she had had all she wished, she settled back and regarded the green, flowering thicket. it came close to the spring, filling the space between the water and the wood, and it was a wild, luxuriant tangle. hagar's fancy began to play with it. now it was a fairy wood for thumbelina--now titania and oberon danced there in the moonlight--now her mind gave it height and hugeness, and it was the wood around the sleeping beauty. the light-winged minutes went by and then she remembered the apple turnovers.... here was the slab of rock for the table. she spread the turkey-red napkin for cloth, and she laid blackberry leaves for plates, and put the apple turnovers grandly in the middle. then she moved about the hollow and gathered her guests. wild rose, ox-eye daisy, black-eyed susan, elder, white clover, and columbine--quite a good party.... she set each with due ceremony on the flat rock, before a blackberry-leaf plate, and then she took her own place facing the thicket, and after a polite little pause, folded her hands and closed her eyes. "we will say," she said, "a silent grace." when she opened her eyes, she opened them full upon other eyes--haggard, wolfishly hungry eyes, looking at her from out the thicket, behind them a body striped like a wasp.... "i didn't mean to scare you," said the boy, "but if you ever went most of two days and a night without anything to eat, you'd know how it felt." "i never did," said hagar. "but i can imagine it. i wish i had asked mrs. green for _five_ apple turnovers." as she spoke, she pushed the red fringed napkin with the second turnover toward him. "eat that one, too. i truly don't want any, and the flowers are never hungry." he bit into the second turnover. "it seems mean to eat up your tea-party, but i'm 'most dead, and that's the truth--" hagar, sitting on the great stone with her hands folded in her lap and her sunbonnet back on her shoulders, watched her suddenly acquired guest. he would not come clear out of the thicket; the tangled growth held him all but head and shoulders. "i believe i've seen you before," she said at last. "about two weeks ago grandfather and aunt serena and i were on the packet-boat. weren't you at the lock up the river? the boat went down and down until you were standing 'way up, just against the sky. i am almost sure it was you." he reddened. "yes, it was me." then, dropping the arm that held the yet uneaten bit of turnover, he broke out. "i didn't run away while i was a trusty! i wouldn't have done it! one of the men lied about me and said dirty words about my people, and i jumped on him and knocked his head against a stone until he didn't come to for half an hour! then they did things to me, and did what they called degrading me. 'no more trustying for you!' said the boss. so i run away--three days ago." he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "it seems more like three years. i reckon they've got the dogs out." "what have they got the dogs out for?" "why, to hunt me. i--i--" his voice sunk. terror came back, and will-breaking fear, a chill nausea and swooning of the soul. he groaned and half rose from the thicket. "i was lying here till night, but i reckon i'd better be going--" his eyes fell upon his body and he sank back. "o god! i reckon in hell we'll wear these clothes." hagar stared at him, faint reflecting lines of anxiety and unhappiness on her brow, quiverings about her lips. "ought you to have run away? was it right to run away?" the colour flooded her face. it was always hard for her to tell of her errors, but she felt that she and the boy were in somewhat the same case, and that she ought to do it. "i did something my aunt had told me not to do. it was reading a book that she said was wicked. i can't see yet that it was wicked. it was very interesting. but the bishop said that he didn't christen me for that, and that it was a sin. and now, for a whole week, grandmother says that i'm not to read any book at all--which is very hard. what i mean is," said hagar, "though i don't feel yet that there was anything wicked in that book (i didn't read much of it), i feel perfectly certain that i ought to obey grandmother. the bible tells you so, and i believe in the bible." her brow puckered again. "at least, i believe that i believe in the bible. and if there wasn't anybody in the house, and the most interesting books were lying around, i wouldn't--at least i think i wouldn't--touch one till the week is over." she tried earnestly to explain her position. "i mean that if i really did wrong--and i reckon i'll have to say that i oughtn't to have disobeyed aunt serena, though the bible doesn't say anything about aunts--i'll take the hard things that come after. of course"--she ended politely--"your folks may have been mistaken, and you may not have done anything wrong at all--" the boy bloomed at her. "i'll tell you what i did. i live 'way out in the mountains, the other end of nowhere. well, christmas there was a dance in the cove, and i went, but nancy horn, that had promised to go with me, broke her word and went with dave windless. there was a lot of apple jack around, and i took more'n i usually take. and then, when we were dancing the reel, somebody--and i'll swear still it was dave, though he swore in the court-room it wasn't--dave windless put out his foot and tripped me up! well, nancy, she laughed.... i don't remember anything clear after that, and i thought that the man who was shooting up the room was some other person, though i did think it was funny the pistol was in my hand.... anyhow, dave got a ball through his hip, and old daddy jake willy, that i was awful fond of and wouldn't have hurt not for a still of my own and the best horse on the mountain, he got his bow arm broken, and one of the women was frightened into fits, and next week when her baby was born and had a harelip she said i'd done it.... anyhow the sheriff came and took me--it was about dawn, 'way up on the mountain-side, and i still thought it was another man going away toward catamount gap and the next county where there wasn't any nancy horn--i thought so clear till i fired at the sheriff and broke his elbow and the deputy came up behind and twisted the pistol away, and somebody else threw a gourd of water from the spring over me ... and i come to and found it had been me all the time.... that's what i did, and i got four years." "four years?" said hagar. "four years in--in jail?" "in the penitentiary," said the boy. "it's a worse word than jail.... i know what's right and wrong. liquor's wrong, and the judge said carrying concealed weapons was wrong, and i reckon it is, though there isn't much concealment when everybody knows you're wearing them.... yes, liquor's wrong, and quarrels might go off just with some words and using your fists if powder and shot weren't right under your hand, tempting you. yes, drinking's wrong and quarreling's wrong, and after i come to my senses it didn't need no preacher like those that come round sundays to tell me that. but i tell you what's the whole floor space of hell wronger than most of the things men do and that's the place the lawyers and the judges and the juries send men to!" "do you mean that they oughtn't to--to do anything to you? you _did_ do wrong." "no, i don't mean that," said the boy. "i've got good sense. if i didn't see it at first, old daddy jake willy came to the county jail three or four times, and he made me see it. the judge and the lawyer couldn't ha' made me see it, but _he_ did. and at last i was willing to go." his face worked. "the day before i was to go i was in that cell i'd stayed in then two months and i looked right out into the sunshine. you could see old rocky knob between two bars, and bear's den between two, and lonely river running down into the valley between the other two, and the sun shining over everything--shining just like it's shining to-day. well, i stood there, looking out, and made a good resolution. i was going to take what was coming to me because i deserved it, having broken the peace and lamed men and hurt a woman, and broken daddy jake's arm and fired at the sheriff. i hadn't meant to do all that, but still i had done it. so i said, 'i'll take it. and i won't give any trouble. and i'll keep the rules. if it's a place to make men better in, i'll come out a better man. i'll work just as hard as any man, and if there's books to study i'll study, and i'll keep the rules and try to help other people, and when i come out, i'll be young still and a better man.'" he rose to his full height in the thicket, the upper half of his striped body showing like a swimmer's above the matted green. he sent out his young arms in a wide gesture at once mocking and despairing, but whether addressed to earth or heaven was not apparent. "you see, i didn't know any more about that place than a baby unborn!" with that he dropped like a stone back into the thicket and lay dumb and close, with agonized eyes. around the base of the ridge out of the wood came the dogs; behind them three men with guns. ...one of the men was a jolly, fatherly kind of person. he tried to explain to hagar that they weren't really going to hurt the convict at all--she saw for herself that the dogs hadn't hurt him, not a mite! the handcuffs didn't hurt him either--they were loose and comfortable. no; they weren't going to do anything to him, they were just going to take him back.--he hadn't hurt her, had he? hadn't said anything disagreeable to her or done anything but eat up her tea-party?--then that was all right, and the fatherly person would go himself with her to the house and tell the colonel about it. of course he knew the colonel, everybody knew the colonel! and "stop crying, little lady! that boy ain't worth it." the colonel's dictum was that the country was getting so damned unsettled that hagar must not again be let to play on the ridge alone. old miss, who had had that morning a somewhat longish talk with dr. bude, stated that she would tell mary green to send for thomasine and maggie and corker. "dr. bude thinks the child broods too much, and it may be better to have healthy diversion for her in case--" "in case--!" exclaimed miss serena. "does he really think, mother, that it's serious?" "i don't think he knows," answered her mother. "i don't think it is, myself. but maria was never like anybody else--" "dear maria!" said mrs. legrand. "she should have made such a brilliant, lovely woman! if only there was a little more compliance, more feminine sweetness, more--if i may say so--unselfishness--" "where," asked the bishop, "is medway?" mrs. ashendyne's needles clicked. "my son was in spain, the last we heard: studying the painter murillo." chapter v maria thomasine and maggie and corker arrived and filled the overseer's house with noise. they were a blatantly healthful, boisterous set, only thomasine showing gleams of quiet. they wanted at once to play on the ridge, but now hagar wouldn't play on the ridge. she said she didn't like it any more. as she spoke, her thin shoulders drew together, and her eyes also, and two vertical lines appeared between these. "what you shakin' for?" asked corker. "got a chill?" so they played down by the branch where the willows grew, or in the old, disused tobacco-house, or in the orchard, or about a haystack on a hillside. corker wanted always to play robbers or going to sea. maggie liked to jump from the haystack or to swing, swing, swing, holding to the long, pendant green withes of the weeping willow, or to climb the apple trees. thomasine liked to make dams across the streamlet below the tobacco-house. she liked to shape wet clay, and she saved every pebble or bit of bright china, or broken blue or green glass with which to decorate a small grotto they were making. she also liked to play ring-around-a-rosy, and to hunt for four-leaved clovers. hagar liked to play going to sea, but she did not care for robbers. she liked to swing from the willows and to climb a particular apple tree which she loved, but she did not want to jump from the haystack, nor to climb all trees. she liked almost everything that thomasine liked, but she was not so terribly fond of ring-around-a-rosy. in her own likings she found herself somewhat lonely. none of the three, though thomasine more than the others, cared much for a book. they would rather have a sugar-cake any day. when it came to lying on the hillside without speaking and watching the clouds and the tree-tops, they did not care for that at all. however, when they were tired, and everything else failed, they did like hagar to tell them a story. "aladdin" they liked--sitting in the shadow of the haystack, their chins on their hands, thomasine's eyes still unconsciously alert for four-leaved clovers, corker with a june apple, trying to determine whether he would bite into it now or wait until aladdin's mother had uncovered the jewels before the sultan. they liked "aladdin" and "queen gulnare and prince beder" and "snow white and rose red." and then came the day that they went after raspberries. that morning hagar, turning the doorknob of her mother's room, found the door softly opened from within and phoebe on the threshold. phoebe came out, closing the door gently behind her, beckoned to hagar, and the two crossed the hall to the deep window. "i wouldn't go in this mahnin' ef i were you, honey," said phoebe. "miss maria done hab a bad night. she couldn't sleep an' her heart mos' give out. oh, hit's all right now, an' she's been lyin' still an' peaceful since de dawn come up. but we wants her to sleep an' we don' want her to talk. an' old miss thinks an' phoebe thinks too, honey, dat you'd better not go in this mahnin'. nex' time old miss 'll let you stay twice as long to make up for it." hagar looked at her large-eyed, "is my mother going to die, aunt phoebe?" but old phoebe put her arms around her and the wrinkles came out all over her brown face as they did when she laughed. phoebe was a good woman, wise and old and tender and a strong liar. "law, no, chile--what put dat notion in yo' po' little haid? no, indeedy! we gwine pull miss maria through, jes' as easy! dr. bude he say he gwine do hit, and what dr. bude say goes for sho! phoebe done see him raise de mos' dead. law, no, don' you worry 'bout miss maria! an' de nex' time you goes in de room, you kin stay jes' ez long ez you like. you kin sit by her er whole hour an' won't nobody say you nay." downstairs captain bob was sitting on the sunny step of the sunny back porch, getting a thorn out of luna's paw. "hi, gipsy," he said, when hagar came and stood by him; "what's the matter with breakfast this morning?" "i don't know," said hagar. "i haven't seen grandmother to-day. uncle bob--" "well, chicken?" "they'd tell you, wouldn't they, if my mother was going to die?" captain bob, having relieved luna of the thorn, gave his attention fully to his great-niece. he was slow and kindly and unexacting and incurious and unimaginative, and the unusual never occurred to him before it happened. "maria going to die? that's damned nonsense, partridge! haven't heard a breath of it--isn't anything to hear. nobody dies at gilead balm--hasn't been a death here since the war. besides, medway's away.--mustn't get notions in your head--makes you unhappy, and things go on just the same as ever." he pulled her down on the step beside him. "look at luna, now! she ain't notionate--are you, luna? luna and i are going over the hills this morning to find old miss's guineas for her. don't you want to go along?" "i don't believe i do, thank you, uncle bob." mrs. legrand came out upon the porch, fresh and charming in a figured dimity with a blue ribbon. "mrs. ashendyne and serena are talking to dr. bude, and as you men must be famished, captain bob, i am going to ring for breakfast and pour out your coffee for you--" in the hall hagar appealed to her. "mrs. legrand, can't i go into grandmother's room and hear what dr. bude says about my mother?" but mrs. legrand smiled and shook her head and laid hands on her. "no, indeed, dear child! your mother's all right. you come with me, and have your breakfast." the bishop appearing at the stair foot, she turned to greet him. hagar, slipping from her touch, stole down the hall to old miss's chamber and tried the door. it gave and let her in. old miss was seated in the big chair, dr. bude and the colonel were standing on either side of the hearth, and miss serena was between them and the door. "hagar!" exclaimed miss serena. "don't come in now, dear. grandmother and i will be out to breakfast in a moment." but hagar had the courage of unhappiness and groping and fear for the most loved. she fled straight to dr. bude. "dr. bude--oh, dr. bude--is my mother going to die?" "no, bude," said the colonel from the other side of the hearth. dr. bude, an able country doctor, loved and honoured, devoted and fatherly and wise, made a "tchk!" with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. old miss, leaving the big chair, came and took hagar and drew her back with her into the deep chintz hollows. no one might doubt that old miss loved her granddaughter. now her clasp was as stately as ever, but her voice was quite gentle, though of course authoritative--else it could not have belonged to old miss. "your mother had a bad night, dear, and so, to make her quiet and comfortable, we sent early for dr. bude. she is going to sleep now, and to-morrow you shall go in and see her. but you can only go if you are a good, obedient child. yes, i am telling you the truth. i think maria will get well. i have never thought anything else.--now, run away and get your breakfast, and to-day you and thomasine and maggie and corker shall go raspberrying." dr. bude spoke from the braided rug. "no one knows, hagar, what's going to happen in this old world, do they? but nature has a way of taking care of people quite regardless and without waiting to consult the doctors. i've watched nature right closely, and i never give up anything. your mother's right ill, my dear, but so have a lot of other people been right ill and gotten well. you go pick your raspberries, and maybe to-morrow you can see her--" "can't i see her to-night?" "well, maybe--maybe--" said the doctor. the raspberry patches were almost two miles away, past a number of shaggy hills and dales. a wood road led that way, and hagar and thomasine and maggie and corker, with jinnie, a coloured woman, to take care of them, felt the damp leaf mould under their feet. a breeze, coming through oak and pine, tossed their hair and fluttered the girls' skirts and the broad collar of corker's voluminous shirt. the sky was bright blue, with two or three large clouds like sailing vessels with all sail on. a cat-bird sang to split its throat. they saw a black snake, and a rabbit showed a white tip of tail, and a lightning-blasted pine with a large empty bird-nest in the topmost crotch, ineffably lonely and deserted against the deep sky, engaged their attention. they had various adventures. each of the children carried a tin bucket for berries, and jinnie carried a white-oak split basket with dinner in it--sandwiches and rusks and a jar with milk and snowball cakes. they were going to stay all day. that was what usually they loved. it was so adventurous. corker strode along whistling. maggie whistled, too, as well as a boy, though he looked disdain at her and said, "huh! girls can't whistle!" "dar's a piece of poetry i done heard," said jinnie,-- "'er whistlin' woman an' er crowin' hen, dey ain' gwine come ter no good end.'" thomasine hummed as she walked. she had filled her bucket with various matters as she went along, and now she was engaged in fashioning out of the green burrs of the burdock a basket with an elaborate handle. "don't you want some burrs?" she asked hagar, walking beside her. thomasine was always considerate and would give away almost anything she had. hagar took the burrs and began also to make a basket. she was being good. and, indeed, as the moments passed, the heavy, painful feeling about her heart went away. the doctor had said and grandmother had said, and uncle bob and phoebe and every one.... the raspberries. she instantly visualized one of the blue willow saucers filled with raspberries, carried in by herself to her mother, at supper-time. yarrow was in bloom and black-eyed susans and the tall white jerusalem candles. coming back she would gather a big bouquet for the grey jar on her mother's table. she grew light-hearted. a bronze butterfly fluttered before her, the heavy odour of the pine filled her nostrils, the sky was so blue, the air so sweet--there was a pearly cloud like a castle and another like a little boat--a little boat. off went her fancy, lizard-quick, feather-light. "swing low, sweet chariot--" sang jinnie as she walked. the raspberry patches were in sunny hollows. there was a span-wide stream, running pure over a gravel bed, and a grazed-over hillside, green and short-piled as velvet, and deep woods closing in, shutting out. summer sunshine bathed every grass blade and berry leaf, summer winds cooled the air, bees and grasshoppers and birds, squirrels in the woods, rippling water, wind in the leaves made summer sounds. it was a happy day. sometimes hagar, thomasine, maggie, corker, and jinnie picked purply-red berries from the same bush; sometimes they scattered and combined in twos and threes. sometimes each established a corner and picked in an elfin solitude. sometimes they conversed or bubbled over with laughter, sometimes they kept a serious silence. it was a matter of rivalry as to whose bucket should first be filled. hagar strayed off at last to an angle of an old rail fence. the berries, as she found, were very fine here. she called the news to the others, but they said they had fine bushes, too, and so she picked on with a world of her own about her. the june-bugs droned and droned, her fingers moved slower and slower. at last she stopped picking, and, lying down on a sunken rock by the fence, fell to dreaming. her dreams were already shot with thought, and she was apt, when she seemed most idle, to be silently, inwardly growing. now she was thinking about heaven and about god. she was a great committer of poetry to memory, and now, while she lay filtering sand through her hands as through an hourglass, she said over a stanza hard to learn, which yet she had learned some days ago. "trailing clouds of glory do we come from god, who is our home--" when she had repeated it dreamily, in an inward whisper, the problem of why, in that case, she was so far from home engaged her attention. the "here" and the "there--" god away, away off on a throne with angels, and hagar ashendyne, in a blue sunbonnet here by a virginia rail fence, with raspberry stain on her hands. _home_ was where you lived. god was everywhere; then, was god right here, too? but hagar ashendyne couldn't see the throne and the gold steps and floor and the angels. she could make a picture of them, just as she could of solomon's throne, or pharaoh's throne, or queen victoria's throne, but the picture didn't stir anything at her heart. she wasn't homesick for the court. she was homesick to be a good woman when she grew up, and to learn all the time and to know beautiful things, but she wasn't homesick for heaven where god lived. then was she wicked? hagar wondered and wondered. the yellow sand dropped from between her palms.... god in the sand, god in me, god here and now.... then god also is trying to grow more god.... hagar drew a great sigh, and for the moment gave it up. before her on the grey rail was a slender, burnished insect, all gold-and-green armour. around the lock of the fence came, like a gold-and-green moving stiletto, a lizard which took and devoured the gold-and-green insect.... god in the lizard, god in the insect, god devouring god, making himself feed himself, growing so.... the sun suddenly left the grass and the raspberry bushes. a cloud had hidden it. other cloud masses, here pearly white, here somewhat dark, were boiling up from the horizon. jinnie called the children together. "what we gwine do? look like er storm. reckon we better light out fer home!" protests arose. "ho!" cried corker, "it ain't going to be a storm. i haven't got my bucket more'n half full and we haven't had a picnic neither! let's stay!" "let's stay," echoed maggie. "who's afraid of a little bit of storm anyhow?" "it's lots better for it to catch us here in the open," argued thomasine. "they're all tall trees in the wood. but _i_ think the clouds are getting smaller--there's the sun again!" the sunshine fell, strong and golden. "we's gwine stay den," said jinnie. "but ef hit rains an' you all gets wet an' teks cold, i's gwine tell old miss i jus' couldn't mek you come erway!--dar's de old cow-house at de end of de field. i reckon we kin refugee dar ef de worst comes to de worst." while they were eating the snowball cakes, a large cloud came up and determinedly covered the sun. by the time they had eaten the last crumb, lightnings were playing. "dar now, i done tol' you!" cried jinnie. "i never see such children anyhow! old miss an' mrs. green jus' ought-ter whip you all! now you gwine git soppin' wet an' maybe de lightning'll strike you, too!" "no, it won't!" cried corker. "the cow-house's my castle, an' we've been robbing a freight train an' the constable an' old captain towney and the army are after us--i'm going to get to the cow-house first!" maggie scrambled to her feet. "no, you ain't! i'm going to--" the cow-house was dark and somewhat dirty, but they found a tolerable square yard or two of earthen floor and they all sat close together for warmth--the air having grown quite cold--and for company, a thunderstorm, after all, being a thing that made even train robbers and castled barons feel rather small and helpless. for an hour lightnings flashed and thunders rolled and the rain fell in leaden lines. then the lightnings grew less frequent and vivid, and the thunder travelled farther away, but the rain still fell. "oh, it's so stupid and dark in here!" said corker. "let's tell stories. hagar, you tell a story, and jinnie, you tell a story!" hagar told about the snow queen and kay and gerda, and they liked that very well. all the cow-house was dark as the little robber girl's hut in the night-time when all were asleep save gerda and the little robber girl and the reindeer. when they came to the reindeer, corker said he heard him moving behind them in a corner, and maggie said she heard him, too, and jinnie called out, "whoa, dere, mr. reindeer! you des er stay still till we's ready fer you!"--and they all drew closer together with a shudder of delight. the clouds were breaking--the lines of rain were silver instead of leaden. even the cow-house was lighter inside. there was no reindeer, after all; there were only brown logs and trampled earth and mud-daubers' nests and a big spider's web. "now, jinnie," said corker, "you tell a ghost story." thomasine objected. "i don't like ghost stories. hagar doesn't either." "i don't mind them much," said hagar. "i don't have to believe them." but jinnie chose to become indignant. "you jes' hab to believe dem. dey're true! my lan'! goin' ter church an' readin' de bible an' den doubtin' erbout ghosts! i'se gwine tell you er story you's got ter believe, 'cause hit's done happen! hit's gwine ter scare you, too! dey tell me hit scare a young girl down in de hollow inter fits. hit's gwine ter mek yo' flesh crawl. sayin' ghos' stories ain't true, when everybody knows dey's true!" the piece of ancient african imagination, traveller of ten thousand years through heated forests, was fearsome enough. "ugh!" said the children and shivered and stared.--it took the sun, indeed, to drive the creeping, mistlike thoughts away. going home through the rain-soaked woodland, hagar began to gather flowers. her bucket of berries on her arm, she stepped aside for this bloom and that, gathering with long stems, making a sheaf of blossoms. "what you doin' dat for?" queried jinnie. "dey's all wet. you'll jes' ruin dat gingham dress!" but hagar kept on plucking black-eyed susans, and cardinal flowers, and purple clover and lady's-lace. they came, in the afternoon glow, in sight of gilead balm. they came closer until the house was large, standing between its dark, funereal cedars, with a rosy cloud behind. "all the blinds are closed as though we'd gone away!" said hagar. "i never saw it that way before." mrs. green was at the lower gate, waiting for them. her old, kind, wrinkled face was pale between the slats of her sunbonnet, but her eyelids were reddened as though she had been weeping. "yes, yes, children, i'm glad you got a lot of berries!--corker and maggie and thomasine, you go with jinnie. mind me and go.--hagar, child, you and me are goin' to come on behind.... you and me are goin' to sit here a bit on the summer-house step.... the colonel said i was the best one after all to do it, and i'm going to do it, but i'd rather take a killing! ... yes, sit right here, with my arm about you. hagar, child, i've got something to tell you, honey." hagar looked at her with large, dark eyes. "mrs. green, why are all the shutters closed?" chapter vi eglantine no one could be so cross-grained as to deny that eglantine was a sweet place. it lay sweetly on just the right, softly swelling hill. the old grey-stucco main house had a sweet porch, with wistaria growing sweetly over it; the long, added grey-stucco wings had pink and white roses growing sweetly on trellises between the windows. there were silver maples and heavily blooming locust trees and three fine magnolias. there were thickets of weigelia and spiræa and forsythia, and winding walks, and an arbour, and the whole twenty acres or so was enclosed by a thorny, osage-orange hedge, almost, though not quite so high as the hedge around the sleeping beauty's palace. it was a sweet place. everyone said so--parents and guardians, the town that neighboured eglantine, tourists that drove by, visitors to the commencement exercises--everybody! the girls themselves said so. it was praised of all--almost all. the place was sweet. m. morel, the french teacher, who was always improving his english, and so on the hunt for synonyms, once said in company that it was saccharine. miss carlisle, who taught ancient and modern history and, in the interstices, astronomy and a blue-penciled physiology, gently corrected him. "oh, m. morel! we never use that word in this sense! if you wish to vary the term you might use 'charming,' or 'refined,' or 'elegant.' besides"--she gazed across the lawn--"it isn't so sweet, i always think, in november as it is in april or may." "the sweetest time, i think," said miss bedford, who taught mathematics, geography, and latin, "is when the lilac is in bloom." "and when the robins nest again," sighed a pensive, widowed mrs. lane, who taught the little girls. "it is 'refined' always," said m. morel. "november or april, what is ze difference? it has ze atmosphere. it is sugary." "here," remarked miss gage, who taught philosophy--"here is mrs. legrand." all rose to greet the mistress of eglantine as she came out from the hall upon the broad porch. mrs. legrand's graciously ample form was wrapped in black cashmere and black lace. her face was unwrinkled, but her hair had rapidly whitened. it was piled upon her head after an agreeable fashion and crowned by a graceful small cap of lace. she was ample and creamy and refinedly despotic. with her came her god-daughter, sylvie maine. it was early november, and the sycamores were yet bronze, the maples aflame. it was late friday afternoon, and the occasion the arrival and entertainment overnight of an english writer of note, a woman visiting america with a book in mind. mrs. legrand said that she had thought she heard the carriage wheels. mr. pollock, the music-master, said, no; it was the wind down the avenue. mrs. legrand, pleasantly, just condescending enough and not too condescending, glanced from one to the other of the group. "m. morel and mr. pollock and you, miss carlisle and miss bedford, will, i hope, take supper with our guest and me? sylvie, here, will keep her usual place. i can't do without sylvie. she spoils me and i spoil her! and we will have besides, i think, the girl that has stood highest this month in her classes. who will it be, miss gage?" "hagar ashendyne, mrs. legrand." mrs. legrand had a humorous smile. "then, sylvie, see that hagar's dress is all right and try to get her to do her hair differently. i like eglantine girls to look their birth and place." "dear cousin olivia," said sylvie, who was extremely pretty, "for all her plainness, hagar's got distinction." but mrs. legrand shrugged her shoulders. she couldn't see it. a little wind arising, all the place became a whirl of coloured leaves. and now the carriage wheels were surely heard. half an hour later sylvie went up to hagar's room. it was what was called the "tower room"--small and high up--too small for anything but a single bed and one inmate. it wasn't a popular room with the eglantine girls--a room without a roommate was bad enough, and then, when it was upon another floor, quite away from every one--! language failed. but hagar ashendyne liked it, and it had been hers for three years. she had been at eglantine for three years, going home to gilead balm each summer. she was eighteen--old for her age, and young for her age. sylvie found her curled in the window-seat, and spoke twice before she made her hear. "hagar! come back to earth!" hagar unfolded her long limbs and pushed her hair away from her eyes. "i was travelling," she said. "i was crossing the desert of sahara with a caravan." "you are," remarked sylvie, "too funny for words!--you and i are to take supper with 'roger michael'!" a red came into hagar's cheek. "are we? did mrs. legrand say so?" "yes--" hagar lit the lamp. "'roger michael'--'roger michael'--sylvie, wouldn't you rather use your own name if you wrote?" "oh, i don't know!" answered sylvie vaguely. "what dress are you going to wear?" "i haven't any but the green." "then wear your deep lace collar with it. cousin olivia wants you to look as nice as possible. don't you want me to do your hair?" hagar placed the lamp upon the wooden slab of a small, old-time dressing-table. that done, she stood and looked at herself with a curious, wistful puckering of the lips. "sylvie, prinking and fixing up doesn't suit me." "don't you like people to like you?" "yes, i do. i like it so much it must be a sin. only not very many people do.... and i don't think prinking helps." "yes, it does. if you look pretty, how can people help liking you? it's three fourths the battle." hagar fell to considering it. "is it?... but then we don't all think the same thing pretty or ugly." the red showed again like wine beneath her smooth, dark skin, "sylvie, i'd _like_ to be beautiful. i'd like to be as beautiful as beatrix esmond. i'd like to be as beautiful as helen of troy. but everybody at eglantine thinks i am ugly, and i suppose i am." she looked wistfully at sylvie. now in the back of sylvie's head there was certainly the thought that hagar ought to have said, "i'd like to be as beautiful as you, sylvie." but sylvie had a sweet temper and she was not unmagnanimous. "i shouldn't call you ugly," she said judicially. "you aren't pretty, and i don't believe any one would ever call you so, but you aren't at all disagreeably plain. you've got something that makes people ask who you are. i wouldn't worry." "oh, i wasn't worrying!" said hagar. "i was only _preferring_.--i'll wear the lace collar." she took it out of a black japanned box, and with it the topaz brooch that had been her mother's. the visitor from england found the large, square eglantine parlour an interesting room. the pier-glasses, framed in sallow gilt, the many-prismed chandelier, the old velvet carpet strewn with large soft roses, the claw-foot furniture, the two or three portraits of powdered colonial gentlemen, the bits of old china, the framed letters bearing signatures that seemed to float to her from out her old united states history--all came to her like a vague fragrance from some unusual old garden. and then, curiously superimposed upon all this, appeared memorials of four catastrophic years. soldiers and statesmen of the confederacy had found no time in which to have their portraits painted. but mrs. legrand had much of family piety and, in addition, daguerreotypes and _cartes de visite_ of the dead and gone. with her first glow of prosperity she had a local artist paint her father from a daguerreotype. stalwart, with a high roman face, he looked forth in black broadcloth with a roll of parchment in his hand. the next year she had had her husband painted in his grey brigadier's uniform. her two brothers followed, and then a famous kinsman--all dead and gone, all slain in battle. the portraits were not masterpieces, but there they were, in the pathos of the grey, underneath each a little gilt plate. "killed at sharpsburg."--"killed leading a charge in the wilderness."--"killed at cold harbour." upon the wall, against the pale, century-old paper, hung crossed swords and cavalry pistols, and there were framed commissions and battle orders, and an empty shell propped open the wide white-panelled door. the english visitor found it all strange and interesting. it was as though a fragrance of dried rose-leaves contended with a whiff of gunpowder. the small dining-room into which presently she was carried had fascinating prints--"pocahontas baptized," and "pocahontas married," and a group of women with children and several negroes gathered about an open grave, one woman standing out, reading the burial service.--roger michael was so interested that she would have liked not to talk at all, just to sit and look at the prints and mark the negro servants passing about the table. but mrs. legrand's agreeable voice was asking about the health of the queen--she bestirred herself to be an acceptable guest. the small dining-room was separated only by an archway from the large dining-room, and into the latter, in orderly files, came the eglantine pupils, wound about to their several tables and seated themselves with demureness. m. morel was speaking of the friendship of france and england. roger michael, while she appeared to listen, studied these american girls, these southern girls. she found many of them pretty, even lovely,--not, emphatically, with the english beauty of skin, not with the colour of new england girls, among whom, recently, she had been,--not with the stronger frame that was coming in with this generation of admission to out-of-door exercise, the certain boyish alertness and poise that more and more she was seeing exhibited,--but pretty or lovely, with delicacy and a certain languor, a dim sweetness of expression, and, precious trove in america! voices that pleased. she noted exceptions to type, small, swarthy girls and large overgrown ones, girls that were manifestly robust, girls that were alert, girls that were daring, girls that were timid or stupid, or simply anæmic, girls that approached the english type and girls that were at the very antipodes--but the general impression was of farther south than she had as yet gone in america, of more grace and slowness, manner and sweetness. their clothes interested her; they were so much more "dressed" than they would have been in england. evidently, in deference to the smaller room, there was to-night an added control of speech; there sounded no more than a pleasant hum, a soft, indistinguishable murmur of young voices. "they are so excited over the prospect of your speaking to them after supper," said mrs. legrand, her hand upon the coffee urn.--"cream and sugar?" "they do not seem excited," thought roger michael.--"sugar, thank you; no cream. of what shall i talk to them? in what are they especially interested?" "in your charming books, i should say," answered mrs. legrand. "in how you write them, and in the authors you must know. and then your sweet english life--stratford and canterbury and devonshire--" "we have been reading 'lorna doone' aloud this month," said miss carlisle. "and the girls very cleverly arranged a little play.... sylvie here played lorna beautifully." roger michael smiled across at hagar, two or three places down, on the other side of the table. "i should like to have seen it," she said in her good, deep english voice. "oh," said hagar, "i'm not sylvie. i played lizzie." "this is my little cousin and god-daughter, sylvie maine," said mrs. legrand. "and this is hagar ashendyne, the granddaughter of an old friend and connection of my family." "_hagar ashendyne_," said roger michael. "i remember meeting once in the south of france a southerner--a mr. medway ashendyne." "indeed?" exclaimed mrs. legrand. "then you have met hagar's father. medway ashendyne! he is a great traveller--we do not see as much of him as we should like to see, do we, hagar?" "i have not seen him," said hagar, "since i was a little girl." her voice, though low, was strange and vibrant. "what's here?" thought roger michael, but what she said was only, "he was a very pleasant gentleman, very handsome, very cultivated. my friends and i were thrown with him during a day at carcassonne. a month afterwards we met him at aigues-mortes. he was sketching--quite wonderfully." mrs. legrand inwardly deplored medway ashendyne's daughter's lack of _savoir-faire_. "to give herself away like that! just the kind of thing her mother used to do!" aloud she said, "medway's a great wanderer, but one of these days he will come home and settle down and we'll all be happy together. i remember him as a young man--a perfectly fascinating young man.--dinah, bring more waffles!--yes, if you will tell our girls something of your charming english life. we are all so interested--" miss carlisle's voice came in, a sweet treble like a canary's. "the princess of wales keeps her beauty, does she not?" the study hall was a long, red room, well enough lighted, with a dais holding desk and chairs. roger michael, seated in one of these, watched, while her hostess made a little speech of introduction, the bright parterre of young faces. sitting so, she excercised a discrimination that had not been possible in the dining-room. of the faces before her each was different, after all, from the other. there were keen faces as well as languorous ones; brows that promised as well as those that did not; behind the prevailing "sweet" expression, something sometimes that showed as by heat lightning, something that had depth. "here as elsewhere," thought roger michael. "the same life!" mrs. legrand was closing, was turning toward her. she rose, bowed toward the mistress of eglantine, then, standing square, with her good, english figure and her sensibly shod, english feet, she began to talk to these girls. she did not, however, speak to them as, even after she rose, she meant to speak. she did not talk letters in england, nor english landscape. she spoke quite differently. she spoke of industrial and social unrest, of conditions among the toilers of the world. "i am what is called a fabian," she said, and went on as though that explained. she spoke of certain movements in thought, of breakings-away toward larger horizons. she spoke of various heresies, political, social, and other. "of course i don't call them heresies; i call them 'the enlarging vision.'" she gave instances, incidents; she spoke of the dawn coming over the mountains, and of the trumpet call of "the coming time." she said that the dying nineteenth century heard the stronger voice of the twentieth century, and that it was a voice with a great promise. she spoke of women, of the rapidly changing status of women, of what machinery had done for women, of what education had done. she spoke of the great needs of women, of their learning to organize, of the need for unity among women. she used the words "false position" thrice. "woman's immemorially false position."--"society has so falsely placed her."--"until what is false is done away with."--she said that women were beginning to see. she said that the next quarter-century would witness a revolution. "you young people before me will see it; some of you will take part in it. i congratulate you on living when you will live." she talked for nearly an hour, and just as she was closing it came to her, with a certain effect of startling, that much of the time she had been speaking to just one countenance there. she was speaking directly to the girl called hagar ashendyne, sitting halfway down the hall. when she took her seat there followed a deep little moment of silence broken at last by applause. roger michael marked the girl in green. she didn't applaud; she sat looking very far away. mrs. legrand was saying something smoothly perfunctory, beflowered with personal compliments; the girls all stood; the eglantine hostess and guest, with the teachers who had been at table, passed from the platform, and turned, after a space of hallway, into the rose-carpeted big parlour. miss carlisle and miss bedford brought up the rear. "didn't you think," murmured the latter, "that that was a very curious speech? now and then i felt so uneasy.--it was as though in a moment she was going to say something indelicate! dear mrs. legrand ought to have told her how careful we are with our girls." the wind rose that night and swept around the tower room, and then, between eleven and twelve, died away and left a calm that by contrast was achingly still. hagar was not yet asleep. she lay straight and still in the narrow bed, her arms behind her head. she was rarely in a hurry to go to sleep. this hour and a half was her dreaming-awake time, her time for romance building, her time for floating here and there, as in a witch of atlas boat in her own no-woman's land. she had in the stalls of her mind half a dozen vague and floating romances, silver and tenuous as mist; one night she drove one afield, another night another. all took place in a kind of other space, in countries that were not on any map. she brought imagined physical features into a strange juxtaposition. when the himalayas haunted her she ranged them, snow-clad, by a west indian sea. Ætna and chimborazo rose over against each other, and a favourite haunt was a palm-fringed, flower-starred lawn reached only through crashing leagues of icebergs. she took over localities that other minds had made; when she wished to she pushed aside a curtain of vine and entered the forest of arden; she knew how the moonlight fell in the wood outside athens; she entered the pilotless boat and drove toward the sunset gate of the domain of arnheim. usually speaking, people out of books made the population of these places, and here, too, there were strange juxtapositions. she looped and folded time like a ribbon. mark antony and robin hood were contemporaries; pericles and philip sidney; ruth and naomi came up abreast, with joan of arc, and all three with grace darling; the round table and the girondins were acquainted. all manner of historic and fictive folk wandered in the glades of her imagination, any kind of rendezvous was possible. much went on in that inner world--doubts and dreams and dim hypotheses, romance run wild, fata morganas, castles in spain, passion for dead shapes, worship of heroes, strange, dumb stirrings toward self-immolation, dreams of martyrdom, mind drenched now with this poem, now with that, dream life, dream adventures, dream princes, religions, world cataclysms, passionings over a colour, a tone, a line of verse--much utter spring and burgeoning. eighteen years--a fluid unimprisoned mind--and no confidante but herself; of how recapitulatory were these hours, of how youth of all the ages surged, pulsed, vibrated through her slender frame, she had, of course, no adequate notion. she would simply have said that she couldn't sleep, and that she liked to tell herself stories. as she lay here now, she was not thinking of roger michael's talk, though she had thought of it for the first twenty minutes after she had put out the lamp. it had been very interesting, and it had stirred her while it was in the saying, but the grappling hook had not finally held; she was not ready for it. she had let it slip from her mind in favour of the rose and purple and deep violin humming of one of her romances. she had lain for an hour in a great wood, like a wood in xanadu, beneath trees that touched the sky, and like an elfin stream had gone by knights and ladies.... the great clock down in the hall struck twelve. she turned her slender body, and the bed being pushed against the window, laid her outstretched hands upon the window-sill, and looked up, between the spectral sycamore boughs, to where sirius blazed. dream wood and dream shapes took flight. she lay with parted lips, her mind quiet, her soul awake. minutes passed; a cloud drove behind the sycamore branches and hid the star. first blankness came and then again unrest. she sat up in bed, pushing her two heavy braids of hair back over her shoulders. the small clock upon the mantel ticked and ticked. the little room looked cold in the watery moonlight. hagar was not dreaming or imagining now; she was thinking back. she sat very still for five minutes, tears slowly gathering in her eyes. at last she turned and lay face down upon the bed, her outstretched hands against the wooden frame. her tears wet the sleeve of her gown. "_carcassonne--aigues-mortes. carcassonne--aigues-mortes_...." chapter vii mr. laydon the winter was so open, so mild and warm, that a few pale roses clung to their stems through half of december. christmas proved a green christmas; neither snow nor ice, but soft, indian summer weather. eglantine always gave two weeks' holiday at christmas. it was a great place for holidays. right and left went the girls. those whose own homes were too far away went with roommates or bosom friends to theirs; hardly a pupil was left to mope in the rooms that grew so still. most of the teachers went away. the scattering was general. but hagar remained at eglantine. gilead balm was a good long way off. she had gone home last christmas and the christmas before, but this year--she hardly knew how--she had missed it. in the most recently received of his rare letters her grandfather had explicitly stated that, though he was prepared to pay for her schooling and to support her until she married, she must, on her side, get along with as little money as possible. it was criminal that he had so little nowadays, but such was the melancholy fact. the whole world was going to the dogs. he sometimes felt a cold doubt as to whether he could hold gilead balm. he wished to die there, at any rate. hagar had been very unhappy over that letter, and it set her to wondering more strongly than ever about money, and to longing to make it. in her return letters he suggested that she stay at eglantine this christmas, and so save travelling expenses. and in order that gilead balm might not feel that she would be too dreadfully disappointed, she said that it was very pleasant at eglantine, and that several of the girls were going to stay, and that she would be quite happy and wouldn't mind it much, though of course she wanted to see them all at gilead balm. the plan was of her suggesting, but she had not realized that they might fall in with it. when her grandmother answered at length, explaining losses that the colonel had sustained, and agreeing that this year it might be best for her to stay at eglantine, she tried not to feel desperately hurt and despondent. she loved gilead balm, loved it as much as her mother had hated it. old miss's letter had shown her own disappointment, but--"you are getting to be a woman and must consider the family. ashendyne and coltsworth women, i am glad to say, have always known their duty to the family and have lived up to it." the last half of the letter had a good deal to say of ralph coltsworth who was at the university. hagar was here at eglantine, and it was two days before christmas, and most of the girls were gone. sylvie was gone. the teacher whom she liked best--miss gage--was gone. mrs. legrand, who liked holidays, too, was going. mrs. lane and miss bedford and the housekeeper were not going, and they and the servants would look after eglantine. besides these there would be left the books in the book-room, and hagar would have leave to be out of doors, in the winding walks and beneath the trees, alone and whenever she pleased. the weather was dreamy still; everywhere a warm amethyst haze. this morning had come a box from gilead balm. her grandmother had filled it with good things to eat and the colonel sent his love and a small gold-piece. there was a pretty belt from captain bob and a hand-painted plate and a soft pink wool, shell-pattern, crocheted "fascinator" from miss serena. mrs. green sent a hemstitched handkerchief, and the servants sent a christmas card. through the box were scattered little sprays from the gilead balm cedars, and there was a bunch of white and red and button chrysanthemums. hagar, sitting on the hearth-rug, unpacked everything; then went off into a brown study, the chrysanthemums in her lap. later in the morning she arranged upon the hand-painted plate some pieces of home-made candy, several slices of fruitcake, three or four lady apples, and a number of old miss's exquisitely thin and crisp wafers, and with it in her hand went downstairs to mrs. legrand's room, knocked at the door, and was bidden to enter. mrs. legrand half-raised herself from a flowery couch near the fire, put the novel that she was reading behind her pillow, and stretched out her hand. "ah, hagar!--goodies from gilead balm? how nice! thank you, my dear!" she took a piece of cocoanut candy, then waved the hand-painted plate to the round table. "put it there, dear child! now sit down for a minute and keep me company." hagar took the straight chair on the other side of the hearth. the bright, leaping flame was between the two. it made a kind of softer daylight, and full in the heart of it showed mrs. legrand's handsome, not yet elderly countenance, the ripe fullness of her bust, covered by a figured silk dressing-sacque, and her smooth, well-shaped, carefully tended hands. hagar conceived that it was her duty to think well and highly of mrs. legrand, who was such an old friend of the family, and who, she knew, out of these same friendly considerations, was keeping her at eglantine on the easiest of terms. yes, it was certainly her duty to love and admire mrs. legrand. that she did not do so caused her qualms of conscience. many of the girls raved about mrs. legrand, and so did miss carlisle and miss bedford. hagar supposed with a sigh that there was something wrong with her own heart. to-day, as she sat in the straight chair, her hands folded in her lap, she experienced a resurgence of an old childhood dislike. she saw again the gilead balm library, and the pool of sunlight on the floor and the "descent of man," and heard again mrs. legrand telling the bishop that she--hagar--was reading an improper book. time between then and now simply took itself away like a painted drop-scene. six years rolled themselves up as with a spring, and that hour seamlessly adjoined this hour. "i'm afraid," said mrs. legrand, "that you'll be a little lonely, dear child, but it won't be for long. time flies so!" "i don't exactly get lonely," said hagar gravely. "you are going down the river, aren't you?" "yes, for ten days. my dear friends at idlewood won't hear of my not coming. they were my dear husband's dearest cousins. mrs. lane and miss bedford, together with mrs. brown, will take, i am sure, the best of care of things here." "yes, of course. we'll get on beautifully," said hagar. "mr. laydon is not going away either. his mother is ill and he will not leave her. he says that if we like to listen, he will come over in the evenings and read aloud to us." mr. laydon was teacher of belles-lettres at eglantine, a well-looking young gentleman, with a good voice, and apparently a sincere devotion to the best literature. eglantine and mr. laydon alike believed in the future of mr. laydon. it was understood that his acceptance of a position here was of the nature of a makeshift, a mere pot-boiler on his road to high places. he and his mother were domiciled with a cousin from whose doorstep you might toss a pebble into the eglantine grounds. in the past few years the neighbouring town had begun to grow; it had thrown out a street which all but touched the osage-orange hedge. mrs. legrand made a slight motion with her hand on which was her wedding-ring, with an old pearl ring for guard. "i shall tell mrs. lane not to let him do that too often. i have a great esteem for mr. laydon, but eglantine cannot be too careful. no one with girls in their charge can be too careful!--what is the gilead balm news?" "the letter was from grandmother. she is well, and so is grandfather. they have had a great deal of company. uncle bob has had rheumatism, but he goes hunting just the same. the hawk nest coltsworths are coming for christmas--all except ralph. he is going home with a classmate. grandmother says he is the handsomest man at the university, and that if i hear tales of his wildness i am not to believe them. she says all men are a little wild at first. aunt serena is learning how to illuminate texts. mrs. green has gone to see her daughter, who has something the matter with her spine. thomasine's uncle in new york is going to have her visit him, and grandmother thinks he means to get thomasine a place in a store. grandmother says no girl ought to work in a store, but thomasine's people are very poor, and i don't see what she can do. she's got to live. corker has a place, but he isn't doing very well. car'line and isham have put a porch to their cabin, and mary magazine has gotten religion." "girls of thomasine's station," said mrs. legrand, "are beginning more and more, i'm sorry to see, to leave home to work for pay. it's spreading, too; it's not confined to girls of her class. only yesterday i heard that a bright, pretty girl that i used to know at the white had gone to philadelphia to study to be a nurse, and there's nellie wynne trying to be a journalist! a journalist! there isn't the least excuse for either of those cases. one of those girls has a brother and the other a father quite able to support them." "but if there really isn't any one?" said hagar wistfully. "and if you feel that you are costing a lot--" her dreams at night were beginning to be shot with a vague but insistent "if i could write--if i could paint or teach--if i could earn money--" "there is almost always some one," answered mrs. legrand. "and if a girl knows how to make the best of herself, there inevitably arrives her own establishment and the right man to take care of her. if"--she shrugged--"if she doesn't know how to make the best of herself, she might as well go work in a store. no one would especially object. that is, they would not object except that when that kind of thing creeps up higher in the scale of society, and girls who can perfectly well be supported at home go out and work for pay, it makes an unfortunate kind of precedent and reacts and reflects upon those who do know how to make the best of themselves." hagar spoke diffidently. "but a lot of women had to work after the war. mrs. lane and general ----'s daughters, and you yourself--" "that is quite different," said mrs. legrand. "gentlewomen in reduced circumstances may have to battle alone with the world, but they do not like it, and it is only hard fate that has put them in that position. it's an unnatural one, and they feel it as such. what i am talking of is that nowadays you see women--young women--actually choosing to stand alone, actually declining support, and--er--refusing generally to make the best of themselves. it's part of the degeneracy of the times that you begin to see women--women of breeding--in all kinds of public places, working for their living. it's positively shocking! it opens the gate to all kinds of things." "wrong things?" "ideas, notions. roger michael's ideas, for instance,--which i must say are extremely wrong-headed. i regretted that i had asked her here. she was hardly feminine." mrs. legrand stretched herself, rubbed her plump, firm arms, from which the figured silk had fallen back, and rose from the couch. "i hope that eglantine girls will always think of these things as ladies should. and now, my dear, will you tell mrs. lane that i want to see her?" mrs. legrand went away from eglantine for ten days. of the women teachers living in the house, all went but mrs. lane and miss bedford. all the girls went but three, and they were, first, hagar ashendyne; second, a pale thin girl from the far south, a martyr to sick headaches; and third, francie smythe, a girl apparently without many home people. francie was sweetly dull, with small eyes and a perpetual smile. how quiet seemed the great house with its many rooms! they closed the large dining-room and used the small room where roger michael had supped. they shut the classrooms and the study-hall and the book-room, and sat in the evenings in the bowery, flowery parlour. here, the very first evening, and the second, came mr. laydon with browning in one pocket and tennyson in the other. mrs. lane was knitting an afghan of a complicated pattern. her lips moved softly, continuously, counting. mr. laydon, making an eloquent pause midway of "tithonous" caught this _one--two--three--four_--and had a fleeting expression of pain. mrs. lane saw the depth to which she had sunk in his esteem and flushed over her delicate, pensive face. for the remainder of the hour she sat with her knitting in her lap. but really the afghan must be finished, and so, the second evening, she placed her chair so as to face not the reader but a shadowy corner, and so knit and counted in peace. miss bedford neither knit nor counted; she said that she adored poetry and sighed rapturously where something seemed to be indicated. she also adored conversation and argumentation as to this or that nice point. what did mr. laydon think browning really meant in "childe roland," and was porphyria's lover really mad? was amy really to blame in "locksley hall"? miss bedford made play with her rather fine eyes and teased the fringe of the table-cover. the pale girl from the far south--lily was her name--sat by the fire and now rubbed her forehead with a menthol pencil and now stroked tipsy parson, mrs. legrand's big black cat. francie smythe had a muslin apron full of coloured silks and was embroidering a centre-piece--yellow roses with leaves and thorns. francie was a great embroiderer. hagar sat upon a low stool by the hearth, over against lily, close to the slowly burning logs. she was a fire-worshipper. the flames were better to her than jewels, and the glowing alleys and caverns below were treasure caves and temples. she sat listening in the rosy light, her chin in her hands. she thought that mr. laydon read very well--very well, indeed. "'where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, miles and miles, on the solitary pastures--'" midway of the poem she turned a little so that she could see the reader. he sat in the circle of lamplight, a presentable man, well-formed, dark-eyed, and enthusiastic; fairly presentable within, too, very fairly clean, a good son, filled with not unhonourable ambitions; good, average, human stuff with an individual touch of impressionability and a strong desire to be liked, as he expressed it, "for himself"; young still, with the momentum and emanation of youth. the lamp had a rose and amber shade. it threw a softened, coloured, dreamy light. everything within its range was subtly altered and enriched. "'and i knew--while thus the quiet-coloured eve smiles to leave to their folding, all our many tinkling fleece in such peace, and the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey melt away--'" hagar sat in her corner, upon the low stool, in the firelight, as motionless as though she were in a trance. her eyes, large, of a marvellous hazel, beneath straight, well-pencilled brows of deepest brown, were fixed steadily upon the man reading. slowly, tentatively, something rich and delicate seemed to rise within her, something that clung to soul and body, something strange, sweet and painful, something that, spreading and deepening with great swiftness, suffused her being and made her heart at once ecstatic and sorrowful. she blushed deeply, felt the crimsoning, and wished to drop her head upon her arms and be alone in a balmy darkness. it was as though she were in a strange dream, or in one of her long romances come real. "'in one year they sent a million fighters forth, south and north,-- and they built their gods a brazen pillar high as the sky-- ... ... love is best.'" laydon put the book down upon the table. while he read, one of the maids, zinia, had brought a note to miss bedford, and that lady had gone away to answer it. mrs. lane knitted on, her lips moving, her back to the table and the hearth. francie smythe was sorting silks. "that was a lovely piece," she said unemotionally, and went on dividing orange from lemon. the girl with the menthol pencil was more appreciative. "once, when i was a little girl i went with my father and mother to rome. we went out on the campagna. i remember now how it was all green and flat and wide as the sea and still, and there were great arches running away--away--and a mist that they said was fever." her voice sank. she sighed and rubbed her forehead with the menthol. her eyes closed. edgar laydon rose and came into the circle of firelight. he was moved by his own reading, shaken with the impulse and rhythm of the poem. he stood by the mantel and faced hagar. she was one of his pupils, she recited well; of the essays, the "compositions," which were produced under his direction, hers were the best; he had told her more than once that her work was good; in short, he was kindly disposed toward her. to this instant that was all; he was scrupulously correct in his attitude toward the young ladies whom he taught. he had for his work a kind of unnecessary scorn; he felt that he ought to be teaching men, or at the very least should hold a chair in some actual college for women. eglantine was nothing but a young ladies' seminary. he felt quite an enormous gulf between himself and those around him, and, as a weakness will sometimes quaintly do, this feeling kept him steady. until this moment he was as indifferent to hagar ashendyne, as to any one of the fifty whom he taught, and he was indifferent to them all. he had a picture in his mind of the woman whom some day he meant to find and woo, but she wasn't in the least like any one at eglantine. now, in an instant, came a change. hagar's eyes, very quiet and limpid, were upon him. perhaps, deep down, far distant from her conscious self, she willed and exercised an ancient power of her sex and charmed him to her; perhaps--in his lifted mood, the great, sensuous swing of the verse still with him, the written cry of passion faintly drumming within his veins--he would have suddenly linked that diffused emotion to whatever presence, young and far from unpleasing, might have risen at this moment to confront him. however that may be, laydon's eyes and those of hagar met. each gaze held the other for a breathless moment, then the lids fell, the heart beat violently, a colour surged over the face and receded, leaving each face pale. a log, burned through, parted, striking the hearth with a sound like the click of a closing trap. mrs. lane, having come to an easy part in the pattern, turned her face to the rest of the room. "aren't we going to have some more poetry? read us some more, mr. laydon." the girl with the menthol pencil spoke dreamily. "isn't there another piece about the campagna? i can see it plain--green like the sea and arches and tombs and a mist hanging over it, and a road going on--a road going on--a road going on." chapter viii hagar and laydon this is what they did. the next day was soft as balm. to hagar, sitting in the sun on the step of the west porch, came the sound of steps over the fallen leaves of what was called at eglantine the syringa alley--sycamore boughs above and syringa bushes thickly planted and grown tall, making winding walls for a winding path. the red surged over hagar, her eyes, dark-ringed, half-closed. laydon, emerging from the alley, came straight toward her, over a space of gravel and wind-brought leaves. it was mid-morning, the place open and sunny, to be viewed from more windows than one, with the servants, moreover, going to and fro on their morning business, apt to pass this gable end. aunt dorinda, for instance, the old, turbaned cook, passed, but she saw nothing but one of the teachers stopping to say, "merry christmas!" to miss hagar. all the servants liked miss hagar. what laydon said was not "merry christmas!" but, "hagar, hagar! that was love came to us last night! i have not slept. i have been like a madman all night! i did not know there was such a force in the world." "i did not sleep either," answered hagar. "i did not sleep at all." "every one can see us here. let us walk toward the gate, through the alley." she rose from the step and went with him. well in the shelter of the syringa, hidden from the house, he stopped, and laid his hands lightly upon her shoulders, then, as she did not resist, drew her to him. they kissed, they clung together in a long embrace, they uttered love's immemorial words, smothering each with each, then they fell apart; and hagar first buried her face in her hands, then, uncovering it, broke into tremulous laughter, laughter that had a sobbing note. "what will they say at gilead balm--oh, what will they say at gilead balm?" "say!" answered laydon. "they'll say that they wish your happiness! hagar, how old are you?" "i'm nearly eighteen." "and old for your years. and i--i am twenty-eight, and young for my years." laydon laughed, too. he was giddy with happiness. "gilead balm! what a strange name for a place--and you've lived there always--" "always." they were moving now down the alley toward a gate that gave upon the highroad. near by lay an open field seized upon, at christmas, by a mob of small boys with squibs and torpedoes and cannon crackers. they had a bonfire, and the wood smoke drifted across, together with the odour of burning powder. the boys were shouting like liliputian soldiery, and the squibs and giant crackers shook the air as with a continuous elfin bombardment. the nearest church was ringing its bells. laydon and hagar came to the gate--not the main but a lesser entrance to eglantine. no one was in view; hand in hand they leaned against the wooden palings. before them stretched the road, an old, country pike going on and on between cedar and locust and thorn until it dropped into the violet distance. "i wish we were out upon it," said hagar; "i wish we were out upon it, going on and on through the world, travelling like gipsies!" "you look like a gipsy," he said. "have you got gipsy blood in you?" "no.... yes. just to go on and on. the open road--and a clear fire at night--and to see all things--" "hagar--why did they call you hagar?" "i don't know. my mother named me." "hagar, we've got to think a little.... it took us so by surprise.... we had best, i think, just quietly say nothing to anybody for a while.... don't you think so?" "i had not thought about it, but i will," said hagar. she gazed down the road, her brows knit. the christmas cannonading went on, a continuous miniature tearing and shaking of the air, with a dwarf shouting and laughing, and small coalescing clouds of powder smoke. the road ran, a quiet, sunny streak, past this small bedlam, into the still distance. "i won't tell any one at eglantine," she said at last, "until mrs. legrand comes back. she will be back in a week. but i'll write to grandmother to-night." laydon measured the gate with his hand. "i had rather not tell my mother at once. she is very delicate and nervous, and perhaps she has grown a little selfish in her love for me. besides, she had set her heart on--" he threw that matter aside, it being a young and attractive kinswoman with money. "i had rather not tell her just now. then, as to mrs. legrand.... of course, i suppose, as i am a teacher here, and you are a pupil ... but there, too, had we not best delay a little? it will make a confusion--things will be said--my position will become an embarrassing one. and you, too, hagar,--it won't be pleasant for you either. isn't it better just to keep our own concerns to ourselves for a while? and your people up the river--why not _not_ tell them until summer-time? then, when you go home,--and when i have finished my engagement here, for i don't propose to come back to eglantine next year,--then you can tell them, and so much better than you could write it! i could follow you to gilead balm--we could tell them together. then we could discuss matters and our future intelligently--and that is impossible at the moment. let us just quietly keep our happiness to ourselves for a while! why should the world pry into it?" he seized her hands and pressed his face against them. "let us be happy and silent." she looked at him with her candid eyes. "no, we shouldn't be happy that way. i'll write to grandmother to-night." they gazed at each other, the gate between them. the strong enchantment held, but a momentary perplexity crossed it, and the never long-laid dust of pain was stirred. "i am not asking anything wrong," said laydon, a hurt note in his voice. "i only see certain embarrassments--difficulties that may arise. but, darling, darling! it shall be just as you please! 'i'd crowns resign to call you mine'--and so i reckon i can face mother and mrs. legrand and colonel ashendyne!" a flush came into his cheek. "i've been so foolish, too, as to--as to pay a little attention to miss bedford. but she is too sensible a woman to think that i meant anything seriously--" "did you?" "not in the least," said laydon truthfully. "a man gets lonely, and he craves affection and understanding, and he's in a muddle before he knows it. there isn't anything else there, and i never said a word of _love_ to her. darling, darling! i never loved any one until last night by the fire, and you looked up at me with those wonderful eyes, and i looked down, and our eyes met and held, and it was like a fine flame all over--and now i'm yours till death--and i'll run any gauntlet you tell me to run! if you write to your people to-night, so will i. i'll write to colonel ashendyne." they left the gate and again pursued the syringa alley. the sound of the christmas bombardment drifted away. when they reached the shadow of the great bushes, he kissed her again. all the air was blue and hazy and the church bells were ringing, ringing. "i haven't any money," said laydon. "mother has a very little, but i've never been able, somehow, to lay by. i'll begin now, though, and then, as i told you, i expect next year to have a much better situation. dr. ---- at ---- thinks he may get me in there. it would be delightful--a real field at last, the best of surroundings and a tolerable salary. if i were fortunate there, we could marry very soon, darling, darling! but as it is--it is wretched that eglantine pays so little, and that there is so little recognition here of ability--no career--no opportunity! but just you wait and see--you one bright spot here!" hagar gazed at the winding path, strewn with bronze leaves, and at the syringa bushes, later to be laden with fragrant bloom, and at the great white sycamore boughs against the pallid blue, and at the roof and chimneys of eglantine, now apparent behind the fretwork of trees. the inner eye saw the house within, the three-years-familiar rooms, her "tower room"--and all the human life, the girls, the teachers, the servants. bright drops came to her eyes. "i've been unhappy here, too, sometimes. but i couldn't stay three years in a place and not love something about it." "that is because you are a woman," said the lover. "with a man it is different. if a place isn't right, it isn't right.--if i had but five thousand dollars! then we might marry in a month's time. as it is, we'll have to wait and wait and wait--" "i am going to work, too," said hagar. "i am going to try somehow to make money." he laughed. "you dear gipsy! you just keep your beautiful, large eyes, and those dusky warm waves of hair, and your long slim fingers, and the way you hold yourself, and let 'trying to earn money' go hang! that's my part. too many women are trying to earn money, anyhow--competing with us.--you've got just to be your beautiful self, and keep on loving me." he drew a long breath. "jove! i can see you now, in a parlour that's our own at ----, receiving guests--famous guests, maybe, after a while; people who will come distances to see me! for i don't mean to remain unknown. i know i've got ability." before they left the alley they settled that both should write that night to gilead balm. laydon found the idea distasteful enough; older and more worldly-wise than the other, he knew that there would probably ensue a tempest, and he was constitutionally averse to tempests. he was well enough in family, but no great things; he had a good education, but so had others; he could give a good character--already he was running over in mind a list of clergymen, educators, prominent citizens, and confederate veterans to whom he could refer colonel ashendyne. he had some doubt, however, as to whether comparative spotlessness of character would have with colonel ashendyne the predominant and overweening value that it should have. money--he had no means; position--he had as yet an uncertain foothold in the world, and no powerful relatives to push him. unbounded confidence he had in himself, but the point was to create that confidence in hagar's people. of course, they would say that she was too young, and that he had taken advantage. his skirts were clear there; both had truthfully been taken prisoners, fallen into an ambuscade of ancient instinct; there hadn't been the slightest premeditation. but how to convey that fact to the old bourbon up the river? laydon had once been introduced to colonel ashendyne upon one of the latter's rare visits to the neighbouring city and to eglantine. he remembered stingingly the colonel's calm and gentlemanly willingness immediately to forget the existence of a teacher of belles-lettres in a young ladies' school. the letter to gilead balm. he didn't want to write it, but he was going to--oh! he was going to.... women were curiously selfish about some things.... mrs. legrand, too; he thought that he would write about it to mrs. legrand. he could imagine what she would say, and he didn't want to hear it. he was in love, and he was going to do the honourable thing, of course; he had no idea otherwise. but he certainly entertained the wish that hagar could see how entirely honourable, as well as discreet, would be silence for a while. hagar never thought of it in terms of "honour." she had no adequate idea of his reluctance. it might be said that she knew already the arching of mrs. legrand's brows and the lightning and thunder that might issue from gilead balm. grandfather and grandmother, aunt serena and uncle bob looked upon her as nothing but a child. she wasn't a child; she was eighteen. she felt no need to vindicate herself, nor to apologize. she was moving through what was still almost pure bliss, moving with a dreamlike tolerance of difficulties. what did it matter, all those things? they were so little. the air was wine and velvet, colours were at once soft and clear, sound was golden. in the general transfiguration the man by her side appeared much like a demigod. her wings were fairly caught and held by the honey. it was natural for her to act straightforwardly, and when she must propose that she act so still, it was simply a putting forward, an unveiling of the mass of her nature. she showed herself thus and so, and then went on in her happy dream. had he been able to make her realize his great magnanimity in giving up his point of view to hers, perhaps she might have striven for magnanimity, too, and acquiesced in a temporary secrecy, perhaps not--on the whole, perhaps not. had she deeply felt the secrecy to be necessary, had they paced the earth in another time and amid actual dangers, wild beasts could not have torn from her a relation of their case. but laydon thought that she was thinking in terms of "honour." pure women were naturally up in arms at the suggestion of secrecy. their delicate minds had at once a vision of deception, desertion, all kinds of horrors. he acknowledged that men had given them reason for the vision; they could not be blamed if they saw it even when an entirely honourable and devoted man was at their feet. he smiled at what he supposed hagar thought; his warm sense of natural supremacy became rich and deep; he felt like an eastern king unfolding a generous and noble nature to some suppliant who had reason to doubt those qualities in eastern kings at large--he experienced a sumptuous, oriental, ahasuerus-and-esther feeling. poor little girl! if she had any absurd fear like that--he began to be eager to get to the letter to colonel ashendyne. he could see his own strong black handwriting on a large sheet of bond paper. _my dear colonel ashendyne:--you will doubtless be surprised at the nature and contents of this letter, but i beg of you to_-- the syringa alley ended, and the west wing of the house, beyond which stretched the offices, opened upon them. zinia, the mulatto maid, and old daniel, the gardener, watched them from a doorway. "my lord!" said zinia. "dey's walkin' right far apart, but i knows a co'tin' air when i sees it! miss sarah better come back here!" daniel frowned. he had been born on the eglantine place and the majesty and honour and glory of eglantine were his. "shet yo' mouf, gal! don't no co'tin' occur at eglantine. hit's christmas an' everybody looks good an' shinin' lak de angels. dey two jes' been listenin' to de 'lumination an' talkin' jography an' greek!" as the two stepped upon the west porch, the door opened and miss bedford came out--miss bedford in a very pretty red hood and a connemara cloak. miss bedford had a sharp look. "where did you two find each other?" she asked; then, without waiting for an answer, "hagar! mrs. lane has been looking for you. she wants you to help her do up parcels for her mission children. i've been tying up things until i am tired, and now i am going to walk down the avenue for a breath of air. hurry in, dear; she needs you.--oh, mr. laydon! there's a passage in 'the ring and the book' that i've been wanting to ask you to explain--" hagar went in and tied up parcels in coloured tissue paper. the day went by as in a dream. there was a christmas dinner, with holly on the table, and little red candles, and in the afternoon she went with mrs. lane to a christmas tree for poor children in the sunday-school room of a neighbouring church. the tree blazed with an unearthly splendour, the star in the top seemed effulgent, the "ohs!" and "ahs!" and laughter of the circling children, fell into a rhythm like sweet, low, distant thunder. that night she wrote both to her grandmother and her grandfather. when she had made an end of doing so, she kneeled upon the braided rug before the fire in her tower room, loosed her dark hair, shook it around her, and sat as in a tent, her arms clasping her knees, her head bowed upon them. "_carcassonne--aigues-mortes. carcassonne--aigues-mortes._ i can't send a letter to father, for i don't know where to address it. mother--mother--mother! i can't send a letter to you either...." chapter ix romeo and juliet that week a noted actress played juliet several evenings in succession at the theatre in the neighbouring town. the ladies left adrift at eglantine read in the morning paper a glowing report of the performance. miss bedford said she was going; she never missed an opportunity to see "romeo and juliet." mr. laydon, walking in at that moment--they were all in the small book-room--caught the statement. "why shouldn't you all go? i have seen her play it once, but i'd like to see it again." he laughed. "i feel reckless and i'm going to get up a theatre-party! mrs. lane, won't you go?" mrs. lane shook her head. "my theatre days are over," she said in her gentle, plaintive voice. "thank you just the same, mr. laydon. but the others might like to go." "miss bedford--" "we ought," said miss bedford, "by rights to have mrs. lane to chaperon us, but it's christmas, isn't it?--and everybody's a little mad! thank you, mr. laydon." laydon looked at francie. "miss smythe, won't you come, too?" he had made a rapid calculation. yes, it would cost only so much,--they would go in of course on the street car,--and in order to ask one he would have to ask all. yes, francie would go, though she was sorry that it was shakespeare, and just caught herself in time from saying so. "it will be lovely," she said, instead, unemotionally. miss bedford supplied the lacking enthusiasm. "it will be the treat of the winter! oh, the balcony scene, and where she drinks the sleeping-draught, and the tomb--" she moved nearer laydon as she spoke and managed to convey to him, _sotto voce_, "you mustn't be extravagant, you generous man! don't think that you have to ask these girls just because they are in the room." but she was too late; laydon was already asking. "miss goldwell, won't you come, too, to see 'romeo and juliet'?" if she didn't have a headache, miss goldwell would be glad to,--"thank you, mr. laydon." "miss ashendyne, won't you?" "yes, thank you." "i will go at once," said laydon, "and get the tickets." in the end, lily goldwell went, and francie smythe did not. francie developed a sore throat that put mrs. lane in terror of tonsillitis. nothing must go wrong--nobody must get ill while dear mrs. legrand was away!--it would be madness for francie to go out. where "what mrs. legrand might think" came into it, mrs. lane was adamant. francie sullenly stayed at home. lily, for a marvel, didn't have a headache, and she said she would take her menthol pencil, in case the music should bring on one. the four walked down the avenue, beneath the whispering trees. there was no moon, but the stars shone bright, and it was not cold. mr. laydon and miss bedford went a little in front, and lily and hagar followed. they passed through the big gate and, walking down the road a little way, came to where the road became a street, and, at ten minutes' interval, a street-car jingled up, reversed, and jingled back to town again. on the street-car miss bedford and mr. laydon were again together, and lily and hagar. between the two pairs stretched a row of men, several with the evening newspaper. it was too warm in the car, and lily, murmuring something, took out her menthol pencil. hagar studied the score of occupants, and the row of advertisements, and the dark night without the windows. the man next her had a newspaper, and now he began to talk to an older man beside him. "the country's doing pretty well, seems to me." the other grunted. "isn't anything doing pretty well. i'm getting to be a populist." "oh, go away! are you going to the world's fair?" "no. there's going to be the biggest panic yet in this country about one year from now." "oh, cheer up! you've been living on homestead." "if i have, it's poor living." across the aisle a woman was talking about the famine in russia. "we are going to try to get up a bazaar and make a little money to send to get food with. tolstoy--" the horse-car jingled, jingled through the night. all the windows were down; it grew hot and close and crowded. the black night without pressed alongside, peered through the clouded glass. within were a muddy glare and swaying and the mingled breath of people. lily sighed. "don't you ever wish for just a clear nothing? no pain, no feeling, no people, no light, no sound, no anything?" the street-car turned a corner and swayed and jingled into a lighted, business street, where were christmas windows and upon the pavement a christmas throng. a drug store--a wine and liquor store--a grocery--a clothing store--a wine and liquor store--a drug store; amber and crimson, green and blue, broken and restless arrived the lights through the filmy glass. laughter and voices of the crowd came with a distant humming, through which clanged the street-car bell. the car stopped for passengers, then creaked on again. a workman entered, stood for a couple of minutes, touching hagar's skirt, then, a man opposite rising and leaving the car, sank into the vacant place. hagar's eyes swept him dreamily; then, she knew not why, she fell to observing him with a puzzled, stealthy gaze. he was certainly young, and yet he did not look so. the lower part of his face was covered by a short soft, dark beard; he had a battered slouch hat pulled down low; the eyes beneath were sombre and the face lined. there was a dinner pail at his feet. he, too, had an evening paper; hagar saw the headlines of the piece he was reading: "homestead"; and underneath, "strong hand of the law." outside, topaz and ruby and emerald drifted by the windows of a wine and liquor store. she knit her brows. some current in the shoreless sea of mind had been started, but she could not trace its beginning nor where it led. another minute and the car stopped before the theatre. within, laydon manoeuvred, and the end was that if he had miss bedford upon his right, yet he had hagar upon his left. the orchestra had not yet begun; the house was dim, people entering, those seated having to stand up to let the others pass. once, when this happened, he leaned toward her until their shoulders touched, until his breath was upon her cheek. he dared so much as to whisper, "if only we were here, just you and i, together!" every one was seated now, and she looked at the people with their festal, christmas air. there was a girl in a box who was like sylvie, and nearer yet a grey-haired gentleman with a certain vague resemblance to her grandfather. her thought flashed across the dark country, up the winding, amber-hued river to gilead balm. they would have had her letter yesterday. the shimmer and murmur of the filled theatre were all about her, but so was gilead balm--she tried to hear what they would be saying there to-night. the music began, and in a moment she was in a colourful dream. the curtain went up, and here was the hot, sunshiny street of verona and all the heady wine of youth and love. when the curtain fell and the lights brightened, miss bedford, after frantically applauding, claimed laydon for her own. she had raptures to impart, criticisms to exchange, knowledge to imbibe. minutes passed ere, during a momentary lapse into her programme, laydon could bend toward the lady on his left. did she like it? what did she think of juliet?--what did she think of romeo?--was it not well-staged? hagar did not know whether it were well staged or not. she was eighteen years old; she had been very seldom to the theatre; she was moving through a dreamy paradise. she wanted just to sit still and bring it all back before the inner eye. despite the fact that he was her lover, she was not sorry when laydon must turn to the lady on his right. when lily spoke to her, she said, "don't let's talk. let's sit still and see it all again." lily agreed. she was no chatterbox herself. the music played; the lights in the house were lowered; up, slowly, gently, went the curtain; here was the orchard of the capulets. the great concave of the theatre was dim. laydon's hand sought hagar's, found it in the semi-darkness, held it throughout the act. she acquiesced; and yet--and yet--she did not wish him to fondle her hand, nor yet, as once or twice he did, to whisper to her. she wished to listen, listen. she was in verona, not here. the act closed. the lights went up, laydon softly withdrew his hand. he applauded loudly, all the house applauded. hagar hated the clapping, not experienced enough to know how breath-of-life it was to the people behind the curtain. already the curtain was rising for juliet to come forth and bow, and then for juliet to bring forth romeo, and both to bow. had she known, she would have applauded, too; she was a kindly child. the curtain was down now, the house rustling. all around was talking; people seemed never to wish to be quiet. laydon was talking, too, answering miss bedford's artful-artless queries, embarking on a commentary upon act and actors. he talked with a conscious brilliance as became a professor of belles-lettres, more especially for hagar's delight, but aware also that the people directly in front and behind were listening. was hagar delighted? very slowly and insidiously, like a slender serpent stealing into some happy valley, there came into her heart a distaste for commentaries. as the valley might be ignorant of the serpent, so neither did she know what was the matter; she was only not so mystically happy as she had been before. the orchestra came back, there was a murmur of expectation, laydon ceased to discourse of bandello, and of dante's reference to montague and capulet. lily, on the other side of hagar, complained of the heat and the music. "i like stringed instruments, but those great brass horns make the back of my head hurt so." hagar touched her cold, little hand. "poor lily! i wish you didn't feel badly all the time! i wish you liked the horns." the curtain rose, the play rolled on. mercutio was slain,--mercutio and tybalt,--romeo was banished. the scene changed, and here was the great window of juliet's room--the rope ladder--the envious east. "_night's candles are burned out and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops; i must be gone and live, or stay and die_--" hagar sat, bent forward, her eyes dark and wide, the wine-red in her cheeks. when the curtain went down she did not move; laydon, under cover of the loud applause, spoke to her twice before she attended. her eyes came back from a long way off, her mind turned with difficulty. "yes? what is it?" laydon was easily aggrieved. "you are thinking more of this wretched play," he whispered, "than you are of me!" on rolled the swift events, gorgeous and swift as shadows. the curtain fell, the curtain rose. the potion was drunk--the wailing was made--balthasar rode to warn romeo. there came the last act: the poison--county paris--the tomb-- "_here will i set up my everlasting rest_--" it was over.... she helped lily with her red evening cloak, she found miss bedford's striped silk bag that laydon could not find; they all passed out of the house of enchantments. here was the night, and the night wind, and broken lights and carriages, and a clamour of voices, and at last the clanging street-car with a great freight of talking people. she wanted to sit still and dream it over--and fortunately laydon was again occupied with miss bedford. "you liked it, didn't you?" asked lily. "i think that you like things that you imagine better than you like things that you do." hagar looked at her with eyes that were yet wide and fixed. "i don't know. if you could be and do all that you can imagine--but you can't--you can't--" she smiled and rubbed her hand across her eyes-- "and it's a tragedy." when they left the street-car and walked toward the eglantine gates, it was drawing toward midnight. laydon and hagar now moved side by side through the darkness. lily--who said that her head had ached very little, thank you!--exchanged comments on the play with miss bedford. laydon held the gate open; then, closing it, fell a few feet behind with hagar. "you enjoyed it?" "oh--" he was again in love. "the plays we'll see together, darling, darling! 'two souls with but a single thought--'" "there is no need to walk so fast," said miss bedford. "oh, mr. laydon, a briar has caught my skirt--will you--? oh, thank you!" the house showed before them. "the parlour windows are lighted," said lily. "mrs. lane must have company." mrs. lane did have company. she herself opened the front door to them. mrs. lane's eyes were red, and she looked frightened. "wait," she said, and got between the little group and the parlour door. "lily, you had best go straight upstairs, my dear! miss bedford, will you please wait here with me just a minute? mr. laydon, mrs. legrand says will you come into the parlour? hagar, you are to go, too. your grandfather is here." colonel ashendyne stood between the table and the fire. mrs. legrand was seated upon the sofa, which meant that she sat in state. mrs. lane, who came presently stealing in again, sat back from the centre in a meek, small chair, and at intervals wiped her eyes. the culprits stood. colonel argall ashendyne never lacked words with which to express his meaning--words that bit. now his well-cut lips opened, and out there came like a scimitar his part of the ensuing conversation. "hagar, your letter was read yesterday evening. i immediately telegraphed to mrs. legrand at idlewood, and she obligingly took this morning's boat. i myself came down on the afternoon train, and got here two hours ago. now, sir--" he turned on laydon--"what have you got to say for yourself?" "i--i--" began laydon. he drew a breath and his spine stiffened. "i have to say, sir, that i love your granddaughter, and that i have asked her to marry me." mrs. legrand, while the colonel's hawk eye dwelt witheringly, spoke from the sofa. "i have no words, mr. laydon, in which to express my disapproval of your action, or my disappointment in one whom i had supposed a gentleman. in my absence you have chosen to abuse my confidence and to do a most dishonourable and ungentlemanly thing--a thing which, were it known, might easily bring disrepute upon eglantine. you will understand, of course, that it terminates your connection with this school--" "mrs. legrand," said laydon, "i have done nothing dishonourable." "you have taken advantage of my absence, sir, to make love to one of my pupils--" "to an inexperienced child, sir," said the colonel;--"too young to know better or to tell pinchbeck when she sees it! you should be caned." "colonel ashendyne, if you were a younger man--" "bah!" said the colonel. "i am younger now and more real than you!--hagar!" "yes, grandfather." "come here!" hagar came. the colonel laid his hands upon her shoulders, a little roughly, but not too roughly. the two looked each other in the eyes. he was tall and she but of medium height, she was young and he was her elder, he was ancestor and she descendant, he was her supporter and she his dependant, he was grandfather and she was grandchild. gilead balm had always inculcated reverence for dominant kin and family authority. it had been gilead balm's grievance, long ago, against her mother that she recognized that so poorly.... but hagar had always seemed to recognize it. "gipsy," said the colonel now, "i am not going to be hard upon you. it's the nature of the young to be foolish, and a young girl may be pardoned anything short of the irrecoverable. all that i want you to do is to see that you have been very foolish and to say as much to this--this gentleman. simply turn round and say to him 'mr.--' what's his name?--layton?" "i wrote to you day before yesterday, colonel ashendyne," said laydon. "you saw my name there--" "i never got your letter, sir! i got hers.--hagar! say after me to this gentleman, 'sir, i was mistaken in my sentiment toward you, and i here and now release you from any fancied engagement between us.'--say it!" as he spoke, he wheeled her so that she faced laydon. she stood, a scarlet in her cheeks, her eyes dark, deep, and angry. "hagar!" cried laydon, maddened, too, "are you going to say that?" "no," answered hagar. "no, i am not going to say it! i have done nothing wrong nor underhand, and neither have you! mrs. legrand knew that you were coming here, in the evening, to read to us. why shouldn't you come? well, one evening you were reading and i was listening, and i was not thinking of you and you were not thinking of me. and then, suddenly, something--love--came into this room and took us prisoner. we did not ask him here, we did not know anything.... but when it happened we knew it, and next morning, out in the open air, we told each other about it. nothing could have kept us from doing that, and nothing had a right to keep us from it! nothing!--and that very night i wrote to you, grandfather--and he wrote.... if i am mistaken i am mistaken, but i will find it out for myself!" she twisted herself in the colonel's grasp until she faced him. "you say that you are real--well, i am real too! i am as real as you are!" the colonel's fine, bony hands closed upon her shoulders until she caught her breath with the pain. the water rushed to her eyes, but she kept it from over-brimming. "don't cry!" said a voice within her. "whatever you do, don't cry!" it was like her mother's voice, and she answered instantly. colonel ashendyne, his lips white beneath his grey mustache, shook her violently, so violently that, pushed from her footing, she stumbled and sank to her knee. laydon came up with clenched fists and the colour gone from his face. "let her go, damn you!--" mrs. lane uttered a faint cry and mrs. legrand rose from the sofa. chapter x gilead balm the march winds shook the rusty cedars and tossed the pink peach branches, and carried a fleet of clouds swiftly overhead through the blue aërial sea. they rattled the windows of gilead balm and bent the chimney smoke aslant like streamers. the winds were rough but not cold. now and again they sank into the sunniest of calms, little periods of stillness, small doldrums punctuating the stormiest sentences. then with a whistle, shriller and shriller, they mounted again, tremendously exhilarated, sweeping earth and sky. on the ridge back of gilead balm the buds of the cucumber tree were swelling, the grass beneath was growing green, the ants were out in the sunshine. up in the branches a bluebird was exploring building-sites. hagar came wandering over the ridge. the wind wrapped her old brown dress about her limbs and blew her dark hair into locks and tendrils. luna followed her, but luna in no frolicsome mood. luna was old, old, and to-day dispirited because captain bob had gone to a meeting of democrats in the neighbouring town and had left her behind. depression was writ in every line of luna's body, and an old, experienced weariness and disillusionment in the eye with which she looked askance at a brand-new white butterfly on a brand-new dandelion. hagar stood with her back to the cucumber tree and surveyed the scene. the hills, scurried over by the shadows of the driven clouds, the river--the river winding down to the sea, and the ditch where used to be the canal; and away, away, the white plume of a passenger train. she was mad for travel, for wandering, for the open road; all the world sung to her as with a thousand tongues in the books she read. pictures, cathedrals, statues, cities, snow on mountains, the ocean, deserts, torrid lands, france, spain, italy, england--oh, to go, to go! she would have liked to fling herself on the blowing wind and go with it over land and sea. she looked with hot, sombre eyes at gilead balm. it was the home she had always known and she loved it; it was home,--yes, it was home; but it was not so pleasant at home just now. march--and the colonel had withdrawn her from eglantine, ordered her home, the first of january! january, february, a part of march--and her grandfather still eaten with a cold anger every time he looked at her, and her grandmother, outraged at her suddenly manifested likeness to maria and maria's "ways," almost as bad! aunt serena gave her no sympathy; aunt serena had become almost violent on the subject. if you were going to rebel and disobey, aunt serena told her, if you were going to be forward and almost fast, and rebel and disobey, you needn't look for any sympathy from her! colonel ashendyne had been explicit enough back in january. "when you send about his business that second-rate person you've chosen to entangle yourself with, then and not till then will you be 'gipsy' again to me!" hagar put out her arms to the wind. "i want to go away! i want to go away! i'm tired of it all--tired of living here--" the wind blew past her with its long cry; then it suddenly sank, and there came almost a half-hour of bright calm, warm stillness, astral gold. hagar sat down between the roots of the cucumber tree and took her head within her arms. by degrees, in the sunshine, emotion subsided; she began to think and dream. her mind sent the shuttle far and fast, it touched here and touched there, and in the course of its weaving it touched eglantine, touched and quit and touched again. laydon was still at eglantine. he had been a very satisfactory professor of belles-lettres; mrs. legrand really did not know where, in mid-season, to find such another. he had behaved wretchedly, but the mischief was done, and there was--on consideration--no need to tell the world about it, no especial need, indeed, of proclaiming it at eglantine or to eglantine patrons at large. he was not--mrs. legrand did him that justice--he was not at all a "fast" man or likely to give further trouble upon this line. and he was a good teacher, a good talker, in demand for lectures on cultural subjects before local literary societies, popular and pleasing, a creditable figure among the eglantine faculty. much of this matter was probably hagar's fault. she had made eyes at him, little fool! when the colonel declared his determination,--with no reflections on eglantine, my dear friend!--to bring to an end his granddaughter's formal education, and to take her back to gilead balm where this infatuation would soon disappear,--mrs. legrand saw daylight. she had an interview with colonel ashendyne. he was profoundly contemptuous of what mr. laydon did for a living or where he did it, of whom he taught or what he taught, so long as there was distance between him and an ashendyne. "you know--you know, my dear friend, that i have always had in mind ralph coltsworth!" she had an interview--concert pitch--with laydon. she had a smooth, quiet talk with her teachers. she mentioned casually, to one after another of the girls, that mrs. ashendyne at gilead balm was not as young as she had been, nor as strong, and that colonel ashendyne thought that hagar should be at home with her grandmother. she, mrs. legrand, regretted it, but every girl's duty to her family was paramount. they would miss hagar sadly,--she was a dear girl and a clever girl,--but it seemed right that she should go. hagar went and laydon stayed, and without a word from any principal in the affair, every girl at eglantine knew that mr. laydon had kissed hagar, and that hagar had said that she would love him forever, and that colonel ashendyne was very angry, and was probably keeping hagar on bread and water at that instant, and that it was all very romantic.... and then at eglantine examinations came on, and dreams of easter holiday, and after that of commencement, and mr. laydon taught with an entire correctness and an impassive attitude toward all young ladies; and miss bedford, who had been very bitter at first and had said things, grew amiable again and reopened her browning. the ripple smoothed out as all things smoothed out at eglantine. the place resumed its pristine "sweetness." it was believed among the girls that mr. laydon and hagar "corresponded," but it was not certainly known. mr. laydon wrapped himself in dignity as in a mantle. as for hagar, she had always been rather far away. up on the ridge to-day, hagar's mind dwelt somewhat on eglantine, but not overmuch. it was not precisely eglantine that she was missing. was she missing laydon? certainly, at this period, she would have answered that she was--though, to be perfectly truthful, she might have added, "but i do not think of that all the time--not nearly all the time." she was unhappy, and on occasions her fancy brooded over that night in the eglantine parlour when he read of love, and the flames became jewelled and alive, and she saw the turret on the plain, "by the caper overrooted, by the gourd overscored," and suddenly a warmth and light wrapped them both. the warmth and light certainly still dwelt over that scene and that moment. to a lesser extent it abided over and around the next morning, the west porch, the syringa alley. very strangely, as she was dimly aware, it stretched only thinly over the following days, over even the night of "romeo and juliet." there was there a mixed and wavering light, changing, for the hour that immediately followed,--the hour when she faced her grandfather, and he spoke with knives as he was able to do, when he laid his hands upon her and said untrue and unjust things to laydon,--into an angry glow. that hour was bright and hot like a ruby. how much was love, and how much outraged pride and a burning sense of wrong, she was not skilled to know, nor how much was actual chivalric defence of her partner in iniquity.... the parting interview, when she and laydon, having stood upon their rights, obtained a strange half-hour in the eglantine parlour--strange and stiff, with "of course, if i love you, i'll be faithful," repeated on her part some five times, with, on his part, byronic fervour, volcanic utterances. had he not gone over them to himself afterwards, in his homely, cheerfully commonplace room in the brown cottage outside the eglantine grounds? they had been fine; from the point of view of belles-lettres they could not have been bettered. he felt a glow as he recognized that fact, followed by a mental shot at the great seat of learning where he wished to be. "by george! that's the place i'm fitted for! the man they've got isn't in the same class--".... the parting interview--to the girl on the ridge a cloud seemed to hang over that, a cloud that was here and there rose-flushed, but just as often fading into grey. hagar drove her thoughts back to the first evening and the jewelled fire; that was a clear, fair memory, innocent, rich and sincere. the others had, so strangely, a certain pain and dulness. she had a sturdy power of reaction against the melancholy and the painful, and as to-day she could not, somehow, fix her mind unswervingly upon the one clear hour, and the others perplexed and hurt, her mind at last turned with decision from any contemplation whatsoever of the round of events which lay behind her presence here, in march, upon the ridge behind gilead balm. rising, she left the cucumber tree and walked along the crest of the ridge. the wind was not blowing now, the sunshine was very golden, the little leaves were springing. she crossed the ribbon-like plateau to its northern edge, and stood, looking down that slope. it was somewhat heavily wooded, and in shadow. it fell steeply to a handsbreadth of sward, a purling streamlet, sunken boulders, a wide thicket and a wood beyond. hagar, leaning against a young beech, gazed down the shadowed stillness. her eyebrows lifted at their inner ends, lines came into her forehead, wistful markings about her lips. sometimes when she knew that she was quite alone she spoke aloud to her self. she did this now. "i haven't been here since that day it happened.... six years.... i wonder if he ran away again, or if he stayed there to the end. i wonder where he is now. six years...." the wind rose and blew fiercely, rattling in the thicket and bending every tree; then it sank again. hagar leaned against the trunk of the beech and thought and thought. as a child she had been speculative, everywhere and all the time; with youth had come dreams and imaginations, pushing the older intense querying aside. now of a sudden a leaf was turned. she dreamed and imagined still, but the thinker within her rose a step, gained a foot on the infinite, mounting stair. hagar began to brood upon the state of the world. "black and white stripes like a zebra.... how petty to clothe a man--a boy he was then--like that, mark him and brand him, until through life he sees himself striped black and white like a zebra--on his dying bed, maybe, sees himself like that! vindictive. and the world sees him, too, like that, grotesque and mean and awful, and it cannot cleanse his image in its mind. it is foolish." the wind roared again up and down the ridge. hagar shivered and began to move toward the warmer side; then halted, turned, and came back to the beech. "i'll not go away until the sun comes from under that cloud and the wind drops. it's like leaving him alone in the thicket down there, in the cold and shadow." she waited until the sun came out and the wind dropped, then took her hand from the beech tree and went away. leaving the ridge, she came to the overseer's house, hesitated a moment, then went and knocked at the kitchen door. "come in!" called mrs. green, who was sitting by the kitchen table, in the patch of sunlight before the window, sewing together strips of bright cloth and winding them into balls for a rag carpet. "you, hagar? come right in! well, march is surely going out like a lion!" "it's so windy that the clouds are running like sheep," said hagar. she took a small, split-bottom rocking-chair, drew it near mrs. green, and began to wind carpet rags. "red and blue and grey--it's going to be a beautiful carpet! have you heard from thomasine?" mrs. green rose and took a letter from behind the clock. "read it. she's been to a theatre and the eden musée and brooklyn bridge, and she's going to visit the statue of liberty." hagar read five pages of lined notepaper, all covered with thomasine's pretty, precise writing. "she's having a good time.... i wish i were there, too. i've never seen new york." "never mind! you will one day," said mrs. green. "yes, thomasine's having a good time. jim was born generous." "is she really going to work if he can get her a place?" "yes, child, she is. times seems to me to be gettin' harder right along instead of easier. girls have got to go out in the world and work nowadays, just the same as boys. i don't know as it will hurt them; anyway, they've got to do it. food an' clothes don't ask which sect you belong to." "thomasine ought to have gone to school. girls can go to college now, and thomasine and i both ought to have gone to college." "landsake!" said mrs. green. "ain't you been to college for going on three years?" but hagar shook her head. "no. eglantine wasn't exactly a college. i ought to have gone to a different kind of place. thomasine likes books, too." "yes, she likes them, but she don't like them nothing like as much as you do. but thomasine's a good child and mighty refined. i hope jim'll take pains to get her a place where they are nice people. he means all right, but there! men don't never quite understand." "i wish i could earn money," said hagar. "i wish i could." mrs. green regarded her over her spectacles. "a lot of women have wished that, child. a lot of women have wished it, and then again a lot of women haven't wished it. some would rather do for themselves an' for others an' some would rather be did for, and that's the world. i've noticed it in men, too." "it's in my head all the time. i think mother put it there--" "yes, i know," said mrs. green. "a lot of us have felt that way. but it ain't so easy for women to make money. there's more ways they can't than they can. it's what they call 'sentiment' fights them. sentiment don't mind their being industrious, but it draws the line at their getting money for it. it says it ought to be a free gift. it don't grudge--at least it don't grudge much--a little egg and butter money, but anything more--lord!" she sewed together two strips of blue flannel. "no, it ain't easy. and a woman kind of gets discouraged. she's put her ambition to sleep so often that now with most of them it seems asleep for keeps. them that's industrious don't expect to rise or anything to come of it, and them that's lazy gets lazier. it's a funny world--for women.--there's a lot of brown strips in the basket there." "i'm going to tell you what i've done," said hagar, winding a red ball. "i've written a fairy story--but i don't suppose it will be taken." "i always knew you could write," said mrs. green. "a fairy story! what's it about?" "about fairies and a boy and a girl, and a lovely land they found by going neither north nor south nor east nor west, and what they did there. it seemed to me right good," said hagar wistfully; "but i sent it off a month ago, and i've never heard a word about it." "where did you send it? i never did know," said mrs. green, "how what people writes gets printed and bound. it don't do it just of itself." hagar leaned forward in her rocking-chair. her cheeks were carmine and her eyes soft and bright. "the 'young people's home magazine' offered three prizes for the three best stories--stories that it could publish. and i thought, 'why not i as well as another?'--and so i wrote a fairy story and sent it. the first prize is two hundred dollars, and the second prize is one hundred dollars, and the third is fifty dollars.--if i could get even the third prize, i would be happy." "i should think you would!" exclaimed mrs. green. "fifty dollars! i don't know as i ever saw fifty dollars all in one lump--exceptin' war money. when are you going to hear?" "i don't know. i'm afraid i won't ever hear. i'm afraid it wasn't good enough--not even good enough for them to write to me and say it wouldn't do and tell me why." "well, i wouldn't give up hope," said mrs. green. "it's my motto to carry hope right spang through the grave." she rose, fed the fire, and filled the tea-kettle, then returned to her rag carpet. "you're lookin' a little thin, child. don't let them worry you up at the house." "i'm not," answered hagar sombrely. the light went out of her eyes. she stitched slowly, drawing her thread through with deliberation. mrs. green again looked over her spectacles. "they're mighty fine folk, the ashendynes," she said at last. "they've got old blood and pride for a dozen, and the settest heads! ain't nothin' daunts them, neither satan nor the lord. they're goin' to run their own race.--you're more like your mother, but i wouldn't say you didn't have something of your grandfather in you at times. you've got a dash of coltsworth, too." "haven't i anything of my father at all?" mrs. green, leaning forward into the sunlight, threaded her needle. "i wouldn't be bitter about my father, if i were you. people can be born without a sense of obligation and responsibility just as they can be born without other senses. i suppose it's there somewhere, only, so many other things are atop, it ain't hardly ever stirred. your father's right rich in other things." "he's so poor he couldn't either truly love my mother or truly let her go.--but i didn't mean to talk about him," said hagar. she laid the ball she had been winding in the basket with the other balls and stood up, stretching her young arms above her head. "listen to the wind! i wish it would blow me away, neither north nor south nor east nor west!" "yes, you are like your mother," said mrs. green. "have you got to go? then will you take your grandmother's big knitting-needles back to her for me? and don't you want a winesap?--there's a basket of them behind the door." chapter xi the letters miss serena was playing "silvery waves." hagar, kneeling on the hearth-rug, warmed her hands at the fire and studied the illuminated text over the mantel. "silvery waves" came to an end, and miss serena opened the green music-book at "santa anna's march." "has isham gone for the mail?" asked hagar. "yes. he went an hour ago.--you're hoping, i suppose, for a letter from that dreadful man?" "you know as well as i do," said hagar, "that i gave my word and he gave his to write only once a month. and he isn't a dreadful man. he's just like everybody else." "ha!" said miss serena, and brought her hands down upon the opening chord. hagar, her elbows on her knees, hid her eyes in her hands. within her consciousness juliet was speaking as she had spoken that night upon the stage--spoken in the book--spoken in immortal life, youth, love. not so, she knew with a suddenness and clangour as of a falling city, not so could juliet have spoken! "like everybody else"--was laydon, then, truly, like everybody else?--a horror of weakness and fickleness came over her. was there something direfully wrong with her nature, or was it possible for people simply to be mistaken in such a matter? her head grew tired; she was so unhappy that she wished to creep away and weep and weep.... miss serena, having marched with santa anna, turned a dozen pages and began "the mocking bird. with variations." old miss's step was heard in the hall, very firm and authoritative. in a moment she entered the room, portly, not perceptibly aged, her hair, beneath her cap, hardly more than powdered with grey, still wearing black stuff gowns and white aprons and heelless low shoes over white stockings. hagar rose from the rug and pushed the big chair toward the fire. old miss dropped into it--no, not "dropped"--lowered herself with dignity. "has isham brought the mail?" "no, not yet." "i dreamed last night that there was a letter from medway. serena!" "yes, mother?" "the next text you paint i want you to do one for me. _honour thy father and mother that thy days may be long_--" miss serena turned on the piano-stool. "i'll do it right away, mother. it would be lovely in blue and gold.... you can't say that i haven't honoured father and mother." old miss had drawn out her knitting and now her needles clicked. "no one honours them as they used to be honoured. no one obeys them as they used to obey. to-day children think that they are wiser than their fathers. they set up to use their own judgment until it's a scandal.... it's true you've been better than most, serena. taking you year in and year out, you've obeyed the commandment. it's more than many daughters and grand-daughters that i know have done." her needles clicked again. "yes, serena, you haven't given us much trouble. you were easy to make mind from the beginning." she gave the due praise, but her tone was not without acerbity. it might almost have seemed that such forthright ductility and keeping of the commandment as had been miss serena's had its side of annoyance and satiety. hagar spoke from the window where she stood, her forehead pressed against the glass. "i see isham down the road, by the half-mile cedar." old miss turned the heel of the colonel's sock she was knitting. "things that from the newspaper and my personal observation happen now in the world could not possibly have occurred when i was young. people defying their betters, women deserting their natural sphere, atheists denying hell and saying that the world wasn't made in six days, young girls talking about independence and their own lives--their own lives! ha!" miss serena began to play "the sea in the shell." "we all know how hagar came by her disposition, but i must say it is an unfortunate one! when i was her age, no money could have made me act as she has done." "no money could have made me, either," spoke hagar at the window. "money has nothing to do with it!" said old miss. "at least as far as hagar is concerned, nothing! but fitness, propriety, meekness, and modesty, consultation with those to whom she owes duty, and bowing to what they say--all those have something to do with it! but what could you expect? it was bound to come out some day. from a bush with thorns will come a bush with thorns." "here is isham," said hagar. "if you've said enough for to-day, grandmother, shall i get the mail?" she brought the bag to her grandmother. when the colonel was at home, no one else opened the small leather pouch and distributed its contents; when he was away old miss performed the ceremony. to-day he had mounted selim and ridden to the meeting in the neighbouring town. mrs. ashendyne opened the bag and sorted the mail. there was no great amount of it, but--"i said so! i dreamed it. my dreams often come true. there it is!" "it" was a square letter, quite thick, addressed in a rather striking hand and bearing a foreign stamp and postmark. it was addressed to the colonel, and mrs. ashendyne never opened the colonel's letters--not even when they were from medway. they were not from him very often. the last, and that thin between the fingers, had been in september. this one was so much thicker than that one! old miss gazed at it with greedy eyes. miss serena, too, leaving the piano-stool, came to her mother's side and fingered the letter. "he must have had a lot to write about. from paris.... i used to want to go to paris so much!" "put it on the mantelpiece," said old miss. "it can't be long before the colonel's home." even when it was on the mantel-shelf she still sat looking at it with devouring eyes. "i dreamed it was coming--and there it is!" the remainder of the mail waited under her wrinkled hand. miss serena grew mildly impatient. "what else is there, mother? i'm looking for a letter about those embroidery silks. there it is now, i think!" she drew from her mother's lap an envelope with a printed return address in the upper left-hand corner. "no, it isn't it. 'young people's home magazine.' some advertisement or other--people pay a lot to tell people about things they don't want! _miss hagar ashendyne._ here, hagar! it evidently doesn't know that you are grown up--or think you are! there's my letter, mother,--under the 'dispatch.'" hagar went away with the communication from the "young people's home magazine" in her hand. she went upstairs to her own room. it had been her mother's room. she slept in the four-poster bed on which maria had died, and she curled herself with a book in the corner of the flowered chintz sofa as maria had done before her. she curled herself here to-day, though with the letter, not with a book. the letter lay upon her knees. she looked at it with a fixed countenance, hardly breathing. she had thought herself out of a deal of the conventional and materialized religious ideas of her world--not out of religion but out of conventional religion. she did not often pray now for rewards or benefits, or hiatuses in the common law, or for a salvation external to her own being. but at this moment the past reasserted itself. her lips moved. "o god, let it have been taken! o god, let it have been taken! let me have won the fifty dollars! let me have won the third prize. o god, let it have been taken!" at last, her courage at the sticking-point, she opened the envelope, and unfolded the letter within. the typewritten words swam before her eyes, the "dear madam," the page or two that followed, the "with congratulations, we are faithfully yours." there was an enclosure--a cheque. she touched it with trembling fingers. it said: "pay to miss hagar ashendyne the sum of two hundred dollars." an hour later, the dinner-bell sounding, she went downstairs. the colonel and captain bob were yet at the meeting of democrats. there was to be a public dinner; they would not be home before dusk. the three women ate alone, dilsey waiting. old miss was preoccupied; the letter on the parlour mantelpiece filled her mind. "from paris. in september he was at a place called dinard." miss serena had her mind upon a panel--calla lilies and mignonette--which she was painting for the rectory parlour. as for hagar, she did not talk much, nowadays, at gilead balm. if she were more silent than usual to-day, it passed without notice. only once old miss remarked upon her appearance. "hagar, you've got a dazed look about the eyes. are you feeling badly?" "no, grandmother." "you're not to get ill, child. i shall make a bottle of tansy bitters to-morrow morning. we've trouble enough in this family without your losing colour and getting circles round your eyes." that was love and kindness from old miss. the water came into hagar's eyes. she felt a desire to tell her grandmother and aunt serena about the letter, but in another moment it was gone. her whole inner life was by now secret from them, and this seemed of the inner life. presently, of course, she would deliberately tell them all; she had thought it out and determined that it would be after supper, before uncle bob went to bed and grandfather told her to get the chess-table. it seemed so wonderful a thing to her; she was so awed by it that she could not help the feeling that it would be wonderful to them, too. in the afternoon she put a cape around her, left the home hill and went down the lane, skirted a ploughed field, and, crossing the river road, came immediately to the fringe of sycamores and willows upon the river bank. it was warmer and stiller than it had been in the morning, for the voice of the wind there sounded now the voice of the river; the many boughs above were still against the sky. she made for a great sycamore that she had known from childhood; it had a vast protuberant curving root in whose embrace you could sit as in an armchair. she sat there now and looked at the river that went so swiftly by. it was swollen with the spring rains; it made a deep noise, going by to the distant sea. to hagar its voice to-day was at once solemn and jubilant, strong and stirred from depth to surface. she had with her the letter; how many times she had read it she could not have told. she could have said it by heart, but still she wanted to read it, to touch it, to become aware of meaning under meaning.... she could write, she could tell stories, she could write books.... she could earn money. it was one of the moments of her life: the moment when she knew of her mother's death--the moment when she changed gilead balm for eglantine--the moment by the fire, christmas eve--this moment. she was but eighteen; the right-angled turns in her road of this life had not been many; this was one and a main one. suddenly, to herself, her life achieved purpose, direction. it was as though a rudderless boat had been suddenly mended, or a bewildered helmsman had seen the pole star. she sat in the embrace of the sycamore, her feet lightly resting on the spring earth, her shoulders just touching the pale bark of the tree, her arms folded, her eyes level; poised, recollected as a young brahman, conscious of an expanded space, a deeper time. how long she sat there she did not know; the sun slipped lower, touched her knees with gold. she sighed at last, raised her hands and turned her body. what, perhaps, had roused her was the sound of a horse's hoofs upon the river road. at any rate, she now marked a black horse coming in the distance, down the road, by the speckled sycamores. it came on with a gay sound upon the wind-dried earth, and in its rider she presently recognized her cousin, ralph coltsworth. "what are you doing here?" she asked when he reined in the black horse beside her. "why aren't you at the university with blackstone under your arm?" he dismounted, fastened his horse, and came across to the sycamore root. "it's big enough for two, isn't it?" he asked, and sat down facing her. "you mentioned the university? the university, bless its old heart! doesn't appreciate me." "ralph! have you been expelled?" "suspended." hands behind head, he regarded first the blue sky behind the interlaced bare branches, then the tall and great gnarled trunk, then the brown-clad figure of his cousin, enthroned before him. "the suspense," he said, "is exquisite." "what did you do?" he grimaced. "i don't remember. why talk about it? it wasn't much. cakes and ale--_joie de vivre_--chimes at midnight--same old song." he laughed. "i gather that you've been rusticated, too." hagar winced. "don't!... let's laugh about other things. you'll break your family's hearts at hawk nest." "old miss said in a letter which mother showed me that you were breaking hers. what kind of a fellow is he, hagar?--like me?" hagar looked at him gravely. "not in the least. how long are you going to stay at hawk nest?" "oh, a month! i'm coming to see you every other day." "are you?" "i am. if i could draw i'd like to draw you just as you look now--half marquise, half dryad--sitting before your own front door!" "well, you can't draw," said hagar. "and it's getting cold, and the dryad is going home." "all right," said ralph. "i'm going, too. i've come to spend the night." leading his horse, he walked beside her. in the green lane, a wintry sunset glory over every slope and distant wood, the house between its black cedars rising before them, he halted a moment. "i haven't seen you since august when i rode over to tell gilead balm good-bye. you've changed. you've 'done growed.'" "that may be. i've grown to-day." "since i came?" "no. before you came. for the first time i suppose in your life, grandmother is going to be sorry to see you. she worships you." "she was sorry to see you, too, wasn't she? it's rather nice to be companions out of favour." "oh!" cried hagar. "you are and always were the most provoking twister of the truth! i want to say to you that i do not consider that ours are similar cases! and now, if you please, that is the last word i am going to say to you on such a matter." "all right!" said ralph. "i was curious, of course. but i acknowledge your right to shut me up." they passed through the home gate,--where a boy took his horse,--and went up the hill together. dilsey was lighting the lamps. as they entered the hall miss serena came out of the library--miss serena looking curiously agitated. "dilsey, hasn't miss hagar come in yet?... oh, hagar! i've been searching the place for you--why, ralph! where on earth did you come from? has the university burned down? have you got a holiday?" the library door was ajar. the colonel's voice made itself heard from within. "serena! is that hagar? tell her to come here." the three entered the room together. there was a slight clamour of surprise and greeting from its occupants for ralph, but it died down in the face, as it were, of things of greater importance. "what's the matter?" he asked, bringing up at last by captain bob in the background. "a letter from medway," answered the other. "_shh!_" the evenings falling cold, there was a fire upon the hearth. the reading-lamp was lit; all the room was in a glow that caressed the stiff portraits, the old mahogany and horsehair furniture, the bookcases and the books within. in the smaller of the two great chairs by the hearth sat old miss, preternaturally straight, her hands folded on the black silk apron which she donned in the evening, her still comely face and head rising from the narrow, very fine embroidered collar fastened by an oval brooch in which, in a complicated pattern, was wrought the hair of dead coltsworths and hardens. her face wore a look at once softened and fixed. across from her, in the big chair by the leaf-table, sat colonel ashendyne, a little greyer, a little more hawklike of nose, a little sparer in frame as the years went by, but emphatically not a person to whom could be applied the term "old." there breathed from him still an insolent, determined prime, a timelessness, a pictorial quality as of some gallery masterpiece. with the greyish-amber of his yet plentiful hair, his mustache and imperial, the racer set of his head, his well-shaped jaw and long nervous hands, his fine, long, spare figure and his eye in which a certain bladelike keenness and cynicism warred with native sensuousness, he stayed in the memory like such a canvas. his mood always showed through him, though somewhat cloudily like light through a venetian glass. that it was a mixed and curious mood to-night, hagar felt the moment she was in the room. she did not always like her grandfather, but she usually understood him. she saw the letter that had rested on the mantelpiece, the letter from paris, in his hand, and at once there came over her a curious foreboding, she did not know whether of good or evil. "sit down," said the colonel. "i have something to read to you." for two months and more he had not looked at her without anger in his eyes. to-night the cloud seemed at least partly to have gone by. there was even in the colonel's tone a touch of blandness, of enjoyment of the situation. she sat down, wondering, her eyes upon the letter. on occasion, when she searched her heart through, she found but a shrivelled love for her father. except that he had had half-share in giving her life, she really did not know what she had to love him for. now, however, what power of growth there was in the winter-wrapped root broke the soil. she began to tremble. "what is the matter? is father ill? is he coming home?" "not immediately," said the colonel. "no, he is not ill. he appears to be in his usual health and to exhibit his usual good spirits. your grandmother and i were fortunate in having a son of a disposition so happy that he left all clouds and difficulties, including his own, to other people. at the proper moment he has always been able to find a burden-bearer. no, medway is well, and apparently happy. he has remarried." "remarried!..." it was the colonel's intention to read her the letter--indeed, it carried an inclosure for her--as he had already read it, twice, with varying comment, to the others assembled. but he chose to make first, his own introduction. "you've heard of the cat that always falls on its feet? well, that's your father, gipsy!"--even in the whirl of the moment hagar could not but note that he called her "gipsy."--"that's medway! here's a careless, ungrateful, disobedient son, utterly reckless of his obligations. is he hanged or struck by lightning? not he! he goes happily along--master lucky-dog! he makes a disastrous marriage with a penniless remnant of a broken-down family on some lost coast or other and brings her home, and presently there's a child. does he undertake to support them, stay by his bargain, however poor a one? not he! he's got a tiny income in his own right, left him by his maternal grandfather--just enough, with care, for one! off he goes with that in his pocket and a wealthy friend and, from that day to this, we haven't laid eyes on prince fortunatus! well, what happens? does he come to eating husks with the swine and so at last slink back! not he! he enjoys life; he's free and footloose; he's put his burden on other folk's backs! death comes along and unmakes his marriage. his doting mother and his weak father apparently are prepared to charge themselves with the maintenance of his child. why should he trouble? he doesn't--not in the least! he's got just enough in his own right to let him wander, _en garçon_, over creation. if he took the least care of another he couldn't wander, and he likes to wander. ah, i understand medway, from hair to heel!--what comes of it all? we used to believe in nemesis, but that, like other beliefs, is going by the board. isn't he going to suffer? not at all! he remains the cat that falls, every time, upon its feet.--this, gipsy, is the letter." _my dear father and mother:--as well as i can remember, i was staying at dinard when i last wrote you. i was there because of the presence in that charming place of a lady whose acquaintance i had made, the previous year, at aix-les-bains. from dinard i followed her, in november, to nice, and from nice to italy. i spent a portion of february as her guest in her villa near sorrento, and there matters were brought to a conclusion. i proposed marriage and she accepted. we were married a week ago in rome, in the english church, before a large company, the american minister giving her away. there were matters to be arranged with her banker and lawyer in paris, and so, despite the fact that march is a detestable month in this city, we immediately came on here. later we shall be in brittany, and we talk of norway for the summer._ _the lady whom i have married was the widow of ---- ----, the noted financier and railroad magnate. she is something under my own age, accomplished, attractive, handsome, and possessed of a boundless good nature and a benevolent heart. we understand each other's nature and expect to be happy together. i need hardly tell you that being who she is, she has extreme wealth. if you read the papers--i do not--you may perhaps recall that ----'s will left his millions to her absolutely without condition. there were no children. to close this matter:--she has been generous to a degree in insisting that certain settlements be made--it leaves me with a personal financial independence and assurance of which, of course, i never dreamed.... i have often regretted that i have been able to do so little for you, or for the upkeep of dear old gilead balm. this, in the future, may be rectified. i understand that you have had to raise money upon the place, and i wish you would let me know the amount._ the colonel's eyes darted cold fire. he let the sheet fall for the moment and turned upon hagar, sitting motionless on the ottoman by the fire. "damn your father's impertinence, gipsy!" he said. old miss spoke in a soft and gentle voice. "why do you call it that, colonel? medway always had a better heart than he's ever been given credit for. why shouldn't he help now that he can do so? it's greatly to his credit that he should write that way." "sarah," said the colonel, "you are a soft-hearted--mother!" captain bob spoke from beyond the table. captain bob did not often speak, nor often with especial weight, but he had been pondering this matter for three quarters of an hour, and he had a certain kind of common sense. "i think sarah's right. medway's a curiosity to me, but i've always held that he was born that way. you are, you know; you're born so or you aren't born so. he's pretty consistent. there never was a time when i wouldn't have said that he would come to the fore just as soon as he didn't have to deny himself. now the time's come, and here he is. i think sarah's right. forgive and forget! if he wants to pay his debts--and god knows he owes you and sarah a lot--i'd let him. and as to gipsy there--better late than never! read her what he says." "i am going to," said the colonel sardonically. he read the page that remained, then laid the letter on the table, put his hands behind his head and regarded his granddaughter. "the benevolent parent arrived at last upon the scene--a kindly disposed stepmother with millions--and that teacher of surface culture to young ladies at eglantine! among the three you ought to be quite ideally provided for! i hope medway will like the teacher." old miss came, unexpectedly, to her granddaughter's aid. "don't worry her, colonel! i haven't thought her looking well to-day. give her her letter, and let her go and think it out quietly by herself.--if you like, child, phoebe shall bring you your supper." hagar did like--oh, would like that, thank you, grandmother, very much! she took the letter--it was addressed to her in a woman's hand--which her father had enclosed and which her grandfather now held out to her, and went away, feeling somewhat blindly for the door, leaving the others staring after her. upstairs she lit her lamp and placed it on maria's table, by maria's couch. then, curled there, against the chintz-covered pillows,--they were in a pattern of tulips and roses,--she read the very kind letter which her stepmother had written. chapter xii a meeting the new springs had been so christened about a hundred years before, when a restless pioneer family had moved westward and upward from the old springs, thirty miles away, at the foot of the great forest-clad range. the new springs had been a deer-lick, and apparently, from the number of arrowheads forever being unearthed, a known region to the indians. now the indians were gone, and the deer fast, fast withdrawing. occasionally buck or doe was shot, but for the most part they were phantoms of the past. so with the bear who used to come down to the corncribs in the lonely clearings. bear mountain still rose dark blue, like a wall, and the stark cliff called bear's den caught the first ray of the sun, but the bears themselves were seldom seen. they also were phantoms of the past. but the fish stayed in the mountain streams. there were many streams and many fish,--bright, speckled mountain trout, darting and flashing among pools and cascades, now seen in the sunlight, now lurking by fern-crowned rocks, in the shadow of the dark hemlock spruce. the region was fisherman's paradise. it was almost an all-day's climb from the nearest railway station to the new springs. you took the stage in the first freshness of the morning; you went gaily along for a few miles through a fair grazing country; then the stage began to climb, and it climbed and climbed until you wondered where and when the thing was going to stop. every now and then driver and passengers got down and walked. here it was shady, with wonderful banks of rhododendron, with ferns and overhanging trees, and here it was sunny and hot, with the wood scrub or burned, and the only interesting growth huckleberries and huckleberries and huckleberries, dwarf under the blazing sun, with butterflies flitting over them. up here you had wonderful views; you saw a sea of mountains, tremendous, motionless waves; the orb as it had wrinkled when man and beast and herb were not. at last, somewhere on the long crest, having been told that you must bring luncheon with you and having provided yourself at the railway station with cold bread and fruit and hard-boiled eggs, you had luncheon. it was eaten near a bubbling spring with a water-trough at which the horses were drinking, and eaten with the most tremendous appetite. by now you were convinced that the air up here was blowing through a champagne bottle. luncheon over and the horses rested, on went the stage. quite in the mid-afternoon you began to go down the mountain. somewhat later, in a turn by a buckwheat field waving white in the summer wind, the driver would point with his whip--"right down there--there's the new springs! be there in an hour now." it might be "right down there," but still the new springs was pretty high in the world, away, away above sea level. you always slept at the new springs under blankets, you nearly always had a fire in the evening; even the heat of the midday sun in the dog days was only a dry, delightful warmth. hardly anywhere did the stars shine so brightly, the air was so rare and fine. the new springs boasted no imposing dwellings. there was a hotel, of faint, old, red brick, with a pillared verandah, and there were half a dozen one-story frame cottages, each with a small porch and growing over it its individual vine. honeysuckle clambered over one, and hops over another, and a scarlet bean over a third, and so on. there was an ice-cold sulphur spring where the bubbles were always rising, and around it was built a rustic pavilion. also there existed a much-out-of-repair bowling-alley. "yes, there's the new springs," said the driver, pointing with his whip. "but, lord! it stopped being new a long time ago." there were hardly any passengers to-day; only three in fact: two women and a man. all three were young enough to accomplish with enjoyment a great deal of walking up the long mountain. they had laughed and talked together, though of very nothings as became just-met folk. the birds and the bees and butterflies, the flowers, the air, and the view had been the chief subjects of comment. now, back in the stage for the descent, they held in their hands flowers and ferns and branches covered with ripe huckleberries which they detached from the stems, lifted to their lips and ate. the two women were friends, coming, so they now explained to their fellow-traveller, from a distance to this little out-of-the-way place. the brother of one, it seemed, was a great fisherman and came often. he was not here this year; he was travelling in palestine; but he had advised his sister, who was a little broken down and wanted a quiet place to work in, to come here. she said, jubilantly, that if the air was always going to be like this she was glad she had come. it had seemed funny, at first, to think of coming south for the summer--though her friend was half-southern and didn't mind. "i'm wondering," said the fellow-traveller, with an effect of gallantry, "what in the world the work can be! the very latest thing, i suppose, in fancy-work--or perhaps you do pastels?" elizabeth eden looked at him with her very candid grey eyes. "i'm doing a book of statistics--women and children in industry." "and i," said the other, marie caton, "i teach english to immigrant girls. we are both settlement workers." laydon prided himself on his ability quickly to shift sail. "oh!" he said; "a settlement! that's an idea that hasn't got down to us yet. we are rather lazy, i suppose.--i was reading, though, an excellent article upon settlements in one of the current magazines only the other day. ladies, especially, seem to be going in for that kind of work;--of course, it is, when you think of it, only an extension of their historic function as 'loaf-giver.' charity and woman--they're almost synonymous." "that's a magnificent compliment--or meant to be!" said marie caton. her eyes were dancing. "i wonder what you'd say if i said that charity--charity in your sense--is one of woman's worst weaknesses? thank god settlements, bad as they are, aren't charity!" "look at the view, marie," said elizabeth. "and, oh! feel that wind! isn't it divine?" "winds blow from all four points at oncet up here," said the driver. "ain't many people at the new springs this summer. fish don't bite, or everybody's gone to the world's fair, or something or other! ain't more'n forty people, countin' children." "what kind of people are they? do the women fish, too?" "no, ma'am, not much. it's the husbands and brothers and fathers does the fishing mostly--though there's mrs. josslyn. _she_ fishes. the others just sit around in rocking-chairs, i reckon, and crochet. them that has children looks after them, and them that hasn't listens to them that has. then it's a fine air for the health; fine air and fine water. a lot of tired people come. then there's others get into the habit of meeting friends here. being on the border, as it were, it's convenient for more states than one. colonel ashendyne, for instance,--he comes because general argyle and judge black and he made a pact in the war that if they lived through they'd spend a month together every two years until they died. they've kept it faithful, and because judge black's a great fisherman, and general argyle likes the juleps they make here, and colonel ashendyne knew the place when he was a boy, they pitched on the new springs. when they're here together, they're the three kings.--git up thar, dandy!--this year the colonel's got his daughter and granddaughter with him." laydon nodded, looking animated and handsome. "i know the ashendynes. indeed--but that is neither here nor there. the ashendynes," he explained for the benefit of the two foreigners, "are one of our oldest families, with connections everywhere; not wealthy,--we have very little wealth, you know,--but old, very widespread and honoured. a number of them in the past were really famous. it might be said of the ashendynes as it was said of an english family--'all the sons were brave and all the daughters virtuous.'" "you seem," said marie caton, "to have a profound acquaintance with the best literature." laydon disclaimed it with a modest shake of the head. "oh, only so-so! however, literature is my profession. i have a chair of belles-lettres." "that is interesting," said elizabeth in her friendly voice. "is it your vacation? are you a fisherman, too?" "oh, i fish a little on occasion! but i am not what you call a great fisherman. and i was never at the new springs before." he gave a half-boyish, embarrassed laugh. "to tell the truth, i am one of those persons who've come because another person happens to be here--" "oh!" said marie caton, "i see!" she began presently to hum beneath her breath-- "gin a body meet a body, comin' through the rye--" "oh, what a rough piece of road!" "it ain't often mended," said the driver. "they say times is changing,--there was a fellow through here last summer said they was changing so rapid they made you dizzy,--but there ain't much change gotten round to bear mountain. i remember that identical rut there when i was just a little shaver.--look out, now, on that side, and you'll see the new springs again! we ain't more'n a mile an' a half away now. the ladies often walk up here to see the sunset." "there's one coming up the road now," said marie caton, "in a green gingham and a shady hat." "that," said the driver, "'ll be miss hagar--colonel ashendyne's granddaughter. she and me's great friends. come by here 'most any evenin' and you'll find her sittin' on the big rock there, lookin' away to kingdom come." "stop a minute," spoke laydon, "and let me out here. i know miss ashendyne. i'll wait here to meet her and walk back to the springs with her." he lifted his hat to his fellow-travellers and the stage went on without him. "a nice, clean-looking man," said elizabeth who was inveterate at finding good; "not very original, but then who is?" "i can't answer it," said marie promptly. "now we'll see the girl! she's coming up straight and light, like a right mountain climber." the stage met and passed hagar, she and the driver exchanging "good-evenings!" the stage lumbered on down the slope. "i liked her looks," said marie. "now, they're meeting--" "don't look back." "all right, i won't. i'd like such consideration myself.--betsy, betsy! you are going to get strong enough at the new springs to throw every statistic between canada and mexico!" back beside the big rock at the bend of the road, hagar and laydon met. "there isn't any one to see!" he exclaimed, and would have taken her in his arms. she evaded his grasp, putting out her hand and a light staff which she carried. "no, mr. laydon! wait--wait--" stepping backward to the rock by the wayside she sat down upon it, behind her all the waves of the endless mountains. "i only got your letter yesterday. it had been delayed. if i had had it in time, i should have written to you not to come." "i told you in it," smiled laydon, "that i was not afraid of your grandfather. he can't eat me. the new springs is as much mine to come to as it is his. i had just three days before i go to ---- to see about that opening there. the idea came to me that if i could really see him and talk to him, he might become reconciled. and then, dear little girl! i wanted to see you! i couldn't resist--" as he spoke he moved toward her again. she shook her head and put out again the hand with the staff. "no. that is over.... i came up here to meet you because i wanted to find out--to know--to be certain, at once--" "to find out--to know--to be certain of what?" he smiled. "that i am just the same?--that i love you still?" "to be certain," said hagar, "that i was mistaken.... i have got my certainty." "i wish," said laydon, after a pause, "that i knew what you were driving at. there was something in your last month's letter, and for the matter of that in the month before, that struck cold. have i offended you in any way, hagar?" "you have not been to blame," said hagar. "i don't think either of us was to blame. i think it was an honest mistake. i think we took a passing lightning flash for the sun in heaven.... mr. laydon, that evening in the parlour at eglantine and the morning after, when we walked to the gate, and the road was sunny and lonely and the bells were ringing, oh, then i am sure i loved you--" she drew her hand across brow and eyes. "or, if not you, i loved--love! but after that, oh, steadily after that, it lessened--" "'lessened'!--you mean that you are not in love with me as you were?" "i am not in love with you at all. i was in love with you, or.... i was in love. i am not now." she struck her staff against the rock. "i almost hope i'll never be in love again!" across from a cleared hillside, steep and grassy, came a tinkling of sheep-bells. the sun hung low in the west and the trees cast shadows across the road. a vireo was singing in a walnut tree, a chipmunk ran along a bit of old rail fence. a zephyr brought an odour dank and rich, from the aged forest that hung above. "i think," said laydon, "that you are treating me very badly." "am i? i am sorry.... you mustn't think that i haven't been wretched over all this. but it would be treating you badly, indeed, if i were such a coward as to let it go on." she looked at him oddly. "will you be--are you much hurt?" "i--i--" said laydon. "i do not think you quite conceive what you are saying, nor what such a cool pronunciamento must mean to a man! hurt? yes, i am hurt. my pride--my confidence in you--my assurance that i had your heart and that you had put your life in my keeping--the love that i truly felt for you--" "'felt.'--you loved me, loving you. oh," said hagar, "i feel so old--so old!" "i loved you sincerely. i imperilled my position for you--to a certain extent, all my prospects in life. i had delightful visions of the day when we should be finally together--the home you would make--the love and protection i should give you--" "you are honest," said hagar, "and i like honesty. if i have done you any wrong at all, if i have made life any harder for you, if i have destroyed any ideals, if i have done you the least harm, i very heartily beg your pardon." laydon drew from his pocket a small box and opened it. "i had brought you that--" hagar took it in her hand and looked at it. "it is lovely!" she said. "a diamond and a sapphire! and it isn't going to be wasted. you keep it. sooner or later you'll surely need it. you couldn't have bought a prettier one." she looked up with a soft, bright, almost maternal face. "you don't know how much happier i am having faced it, and said it, and had it over with! and you--i don't believe you are so unhappy! now are you--now are you?" "you have put me in an absurd position. what am i to say--" "to people? nothing--or what you please. i will tell grandfather myself, to-night--and aunt serena. i shall tell them that you have behaved extremely well, and that it was all my fault. or no! i shall tell them that we both found out that we had been mistaken, for i think that that is the truth. and that we have had an explanation, and are now and for always just well-wishers and common friends and nothing more. i am going to try--i think that now maybe i can do it--to get grandfather to treat you properly. there is nobody else here whose business it is, or who knows anything about it--and you have only three days anyway. there are some pleasant people, and you'll meet them. it isn't going to be awkward, indeed, it isn't--" "by george!" said laydon, "if you aren't the coolest.... of course, if this is the way you feel, it may be wisest not to link my life with--naturally a man wants entire love, admiration, and confidence--" "just so," said hagar. "and you'll find some one to feel all that. and now let's walk to the new springs." chapter xiii the new springs laydon's three days spun themselves out to five with a fine smoothness. colonel ashendyne's tone was balm itself to what it might have been. miss serena was willing to discuss with him "in memoriam" and the novels of miss broughton, and ralph coltsworth who was also at the new springs walked with him over the place. laydon was keen enough to see that hagar had appealed to her family, and that ashendyne breeding had rallied to her support. he was at once provoked and soothed; now conscious only of the injury to his healthy self-love, and now of a vague relief that, young as he still was, and with that wonderful future all to make, he really was not tied down. his very vanity would not agree but that the woman with whom he had thought himself in love must be of a superior type and an undeniable charm, but the same vanity conceded gently that to err was mortal, and that there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and that he certainly had not been fatally smitten--on the whole, she, poor little thing! had probably suffered the most of the two. charming as she was, the glamour for him, he conceded, was gone. _he had come off pretty well, after all._ when the five days were up, he felt positive regret at having to go, and his good-bye to all the ashendynes was cordial. he had already written to mrs. legrand, and, of course, to his mother. he went; the stage took him up the mountain.... "for all i could see--and i watched pretty closely--there didn't anything come of it," remarked marie caton. "on the whole, i am rather glad. now you can't hear the rumble of the stage any longer. he's gone out of the picture.--betsy, stop writing and look at the robin and the chipmunk--" they had the tiniest cottage to themselves--elizabeth's brother being an old-timer here, and his letter to the proprietor procuring them great consideration. there were but two rooms in the cottage. roof and porch, it was sunk in traveller's-joy, and in front sprang a vast walnut tree, and beyond the walnut a span-wide stream purled between mint over a slaty bed. from the porch you looked southward over mountains and mountains, and every evening antares looked redly back at you. now it was morning, and wrens and robins and cat-birds all were singing. elizabeth looked up from the table where she was working. "if i watch chipmunks all morning, i'll never get these textile figures done.--mrs. josslyn said at breakfast that it wasn't a good day for fishing, and that she might wander by." "she's coming now. i see her in the distance. i like molly josslyn." "so do i.--we haven't been here a week and yet we talk as though we had known these people always!" "well, the fact that quite a number knew your brother made for there being no ice to break. and it would be so absurd not to know one another at the new springs! as absurd as if a shipload of people cast on a desert island--here she is. come in, mrs. josslyn!" "thank you, i don't want a chair," said molly josslyn. "you don't mind if i sit on the edge of the porch and dangle my feet, do you? nor if i take off my hat and roll up my sleeves so that i can feel the air on my arms?" "not a bit. take the hairpins out of your hair and let it fly." "i wish that i could cut it off!" said molly viciously. "i will some day! pretty nearly a whole three-quarters of an hour out of every twenty-four gone in brushing and combing and doing up hair! you have to do it in the morning and the middle of the day and the evening. a twentieth part of your whole waking existence!... oh, me!" "what a sigh!" "i've been in rocking-chair-and-gossip land over on the big porch. i've heard everybody--in a petticoat--who wasn't there hanged, drawn, and quartered. of course, i knew they were eager to get at me, and so i was obliging and came away." marie caton laughed. "miss eden here is an optimist of the first water. if you ask her she'll tell you that women are growing beyond that sort of thing--that they don't sting one another half as much as they used to!" "no, i don't think they do," said mrs. josslyn. "i think that's getting apparent nowadays. speaking for myself, fresh air and out of doors and swinging off by one's self seem to make a body more or less charitable. but some of us have got the habit yet. gnat or wasp or hornet or snake, on they go!" she laughed. "over on the porch it wasn't anything but a little cloud of gnats. they weren't really stinging--just getting between your eyes and the blue sky." "but it is growing better--it is, it is!" said elizabeth. "i wouldn't give up that belief for anything." "no, don't!" said molly josslyn. "i like women and like to think well of them." a strong, rosy blonde, she stood up and stretched her arms above her head. "i wish there were a pool somewhere, deep enough to swim in! i'd like to cross the hellespont this morning--swim it and swim back.--christopher is coming to-morrow." "christopher?" "my husband--christopher josslyn. they don't," said mrs. josslyn, "make them any nicer than christopher! christopher was my born mate." and went away with a beamy look, over the grass. marie spoke thoughtfully. "yesterday i heard one of the gnats singing. it sang, 'yes, rather handsome, but don't you find her dreadfully unfeminine?'" "oh, 'feminine'!" said elizabeth, and went on adding figures. marie caton took a book from the generous number ranged around a jar of black-eyed susans on the rustic table in the middle of the porch, but "the chipmunks and the robins get so in the way," she presently dreamily murmured, and then, "you had just as well put up your work. here's judge black and general argyle!" judge black was sixty-two, rather lean than stout, rather short than tall, clean-shaven, with a good-looking countenance below grizzled, close-clipped hair, with a bald spot at the top like a monk's tonsure. general argyle was a much larger and taller man, big-framed, wide-girthed, with a well-set head framed about with shaggy white hair. his countenance was rubicund, his voice mellow. he was sixty-seven, in some respects very old, and in others quite young. usually, at the new springs, colonel ashendyne marched in company, but this morning--"ashendyne's got some family conference or other on hand. it's a day off for fishing, and nobody seems to have a mind for whist or poker, and the papers haven't come. argyle and i are floating around like two lost corks or the babes in the wood--" "so i said," said general argyle richly, "let's stroll over there and say good-morning to tom eden's sister and her attractive friend.--no, no; no chairs! we'll sit here on the steps. as soon as ashendyne appears, we're going after young coltsworth and have a turn in the bowling-alley. must exercise!--that's what i'm always telling black here--" "as if i didn't exercise," said judge black, "more in a day than he does in a week.--what a pretty little porch you've got! books, flowers, needlework--" the general surveyed it, too. "it _is_ pretty. woman's touch--woman's touch!" "that isn't needlework in the basket," said marie demurely. "it's apples. will you have one?" "no, thanks, mistress eve--or yes, on second thoughts, i will! what are you reading?--'the doll's house.' ibsen!" "yes." "i do not know," said the judge, "what young ladies are coming to! i have never had time, nor, i may say, inclination, to read ibsen myself, but of course i know the kind of thing he's responsible for. and, frankly, i should not permit my daughter to read that book!" "oh," said marie, "i don't think myself it is a book for a child!" "she's not a child. she's twenty-six. i should dissuade my wife, too, from reading it." "then your wife," answered marie, "would miss an illuminating piece of literature." elizabeth came in with her serene voice. "don't you think, judge black, that we all acquire a habit of judging a writer, whom we haven't yet had time to study for ourselves, too much in terms of some review or other, or of the mere unthinking, current talk? i think we all do it. i believe when you read ibsen you will feel differently about him." "not i!" said the judge. "i have seen extracts enough. i tell you, miss eden, the age is reading too much of such decadent stuff--" "oh, 'decadent'!" "and it is read, amazingly, by women. i would rather see my wife or daughter with the old dramatists at their worst in their hands than with stuff like that--! overturning all our concepts, criticizing supremacies--i beg your pardon, miss caton, but if you knew how women, nowadays, amaze me--" "stop hectoring, black," said the general mellowly. "she's not in the dock. just so that women stay women, they can fill their heads with what stuff they will--" "exactly!" said judge black. "do you see them staying women?" "women of the past," said elizabeth. "that is woman,--the women of the past. there isn't any other. the eternal feminine--" "i think you are limiting the eternal and denying the universe power to evolve," said elizabeth. "why not eternally the man of the past? why not 'there isn't any other'? why not 'the eternal masculine'? why do you change and grow from age to age?" "i'm not so sure that they do," said marie _sotto voce_. "yes, they do! they grow and become freer always; though i think," said elizabeth painfully, "that they lag in the way they look at women.--well, if you grow, being one half, do you suppose that we are not going to grow, being the other half? and if you think that the principle of growth is not in us, still i shouldn't worry! if we can't grow, we won't grow, and you needn't fash yourselves. on the other hand, if we can, we will--and that is all there is about it. and it wouldn't do you the least harm to read ibsen--nor to get another definition of 'decadent.'" she leaned forward in her chair. "do you see that strip of blanched grass there?--or rather it was blanched yesterday when that board over there was lying upon it and had lain, i don't know how long!--blanched and bent and sicklied over. now look! it is getting colour and standing straight--only beginning, but it is beginning--beginning to be on terms with the sun! well, that grass is woman to-day! the heavy board is being lifted, and that's the change and all the change--and you find it 'pernicious'!" glowing-cheeked, she ceased speaking. judge black's colour, too, had heightened. "my dear miss eden, how did all this begin? i'm the last person in the world to deny to woman a proper freedom. i only ask that it shan't go beyond a certain point--that it shan't threaten the unsettling of a certain divine _status quo_--" "i doubt if a divine _status quo_ is ever unsettled, judge black," said elizabeth. "but there--but there!" she smiled, and she had a very sweet, sunny smile. "i didn't in the least mean to quarrel! tom will have told you that i sometimes use my tongue, and that's the ancient woman, still, isn't it? you see i care for women--being one--a good deal." "let us," said marie caton, "talk about fishing." general argyle chuckled. "black doesn't think you know anything about fishing. he has to acknowledge that mrs. josslyn does--but then he thinks that she's a charming _lusus naturæ_. i like to hear you give it to black. pay him back. he's always giving it to me!" "that's right!" said black. "pitch into me! cover me with obloquy! poor homeless, friendless sailor with the pole star mysteriously shifted from its place--" ... "the homeless, friendless sailor stayed a long time, even with the pole star shifted," remarked marie, forty minutes later. "i certainly didn't mean to be rude," murmured elizabeth, her eyes upon the disappearing guests, now well on their way to the bowling-alley. "they mean you never to resent a thing which they would at once recognize for an impertinence if one of themselves said it to another--" "oh, i shouldn't dub you rude," said the other. "and if he found you uncomfortable for a minute, you made up for it afterwards! you were charming enough, just as charming as if the pole star had never shifted. he went off still in mind the eastern king." "ah," said elizabeth, "that is where all of us are weak. we say the truth, and then we bring in 'charm' and sandpaper it away again! it's going to take another generation, marie!" "another?" said marie. "a dozen, more like!--now i suppose i can read 'the doll's house' in peace.--no, by all that's fated in this place, here comes another guest!" this was ralph coltsworth, but he made no long tarrying; he was as transient as a butterfly. "have you ladies seen hagar ashendyne? i want her to go to walk with me, and i can't find her anywhere." "no, we haven't," said marie. "judge black and general argyle are looking for you to play tenpins." ralph smiled back at her. "let them look! it will do the old codgers good. do you like this place?" "yes, very much. don't you?" "oh, i like it so-so!" said ralph. "it's a good enough lotus land, but there's a lack somehow of wild, exciting adventure. i've been trying to read on the hotel porch. what do you think they're talking about over there? fringed doilies!" "what do you like to do and to talk about?" "live things." he laughed, tossed an apple into the air and caught it again. "i want first to make fifty millions, and then i want to spend fifty millions!" "what an admirable american you are!" "am i not? and i vary it with just wanting to be a cowboy with a six-shooter on a western plain--" he tossed the apple into the air again and, watching it, missed the glimpse of hagar which the other two received. she appeared around the corner of a neighbouring cottage, her face directed toward the traveller's-joy porch, saw coltsworth, wheeled and withdrew. he caught the apple, and after gazing meditatively for a moment in the direction of the tenpin-alley, sighed, and said that he supposed after all he might as well go help the general demolish the army of the potomac. "that's what he calls the pins when they're set up. he takes the biggest bowl and sends it thundering. i believe he thinks for the moment it is a ball from one of his old twenty-pounders. he sees fire and smells smoke. sometimes he demolishes the army of the potomac and sometimes he doesn't; but he never gets discouraged. the next cannon ball will surely do the work!" when he was gone, and had been gone twenty minutes or more, hagar reappeared. she came swiftly across the grass, mounted the porch steps, and stood, with a little deprecating shake of her head for the offered chair, by elizabeth's work-table. "i am not going to stay, thank you! miss eden, somebody told me last night that you had written and published books--" "only text and reference books--compilations," said elizabeth. "i only do that kind of unoriginal work." "yes, but a book is a book," said hagar. "what i wondered was if you wouldn't be good enough to tell me some things. no one in all my connection writes--i don't know any one to go to. i only want to know plain things--a, b, c's of how to manage--" "about a manuscript, you mean?" "yes. i don't know anything. i've read all kinds of useless things and so little useful! for instance," said hagar, "is it wrong to write on both sides of the paper?" chapter xiv new york in august--the ashendynes being back at gilead balm--the "young people's home magazine" published hagar's fairy story. gilead balm was impressed, but not greatly impressed. it had the aristocratic tradition as to writers; no ashendyne had ever needed to be one. there had been editor ashendynes, in the old fiery, early, and mid-century times, but editorship came out naturally from the political stream, and the political, with law, planting, and soldiery, had been the ashendyne stream. the ashendyne mind harked back to early georgian, even to stuart times; when you said "writer" it saw something grub streetish. in addition, hagar's was, of course, only a child's story. the two hundred dollars shrank in impressiveness from being known of after and not before medway ashendyne's letter. but to the eyes of her grandmother and her aunt serena the two hundred dollars was the impressive, the only really impressive, thing. her grandmother advised that it be put in bank. miss serena said that, when she was hagar's age, she had had a watch and chain for more than two years. "what would you like to do with it, gipsy?" asked captain bob. the colour came into hagar's cheeks. "with one half i want to get my two winter dresses and my coat and hat, and with the other half i want to get books." "books!" exclaimed the ashendynes--the colonel was not present. "why, aren't there books enough here?" "they are not the kind of books i need." "nonsense!" said old miss. "get your winter clothes if you wish,--though i am sure that medway means now to send the colonel money for you,--but save the rest. it will come in useful some day. some day, child, you'll be thinking about your marriage clothes." "luna and i came over the hill just now with ralph coltsworth," remarked captain bob cheerfully, apropos of nothing. "he says he's studying hard--means to catch up at the university and be a credit to the family." miss serena was talented in taking offence at small things. she had evolved the watch-and-chain idea and she thought it should have received more consideration. in addition she had the kind of memory that always holds the wrong things. "books! i suppose you mean a kind of books that we certainly don't have many of here!--french novels and darwin and the kind of books those two northern women were reading this summer! even when you were a child--don't you remember, mother?--you had a perfect talent for getting your hands on debasing literature! i supposed you had outgrown it. i'm sure mrs. legrand never encouraged it. a hundred dollars worth of books!--and i suppose you are to choose them! well, if i were father, i'd look over the list first." "aunt serena," said hagar, with a spanish gravity and courtesy, "there are times when i understand the most violent crimes.... yes; i know you don't know what i mean." that was in august. september passed and part of october, and then, late in that month, hagar went to new york. medway ashendyne and his wife were travelling in the east. next year or the year after, they might, medway wrote, be in america. in the meantime, hagar must have advantages. he had not the least idea, he wrote his father, what kind of a person she was. her letters were formal, toneless and colourless to a degree. he hoped she had not inherited--but whatever she had inherited, she was, of course, his daughter, and he must take care of her, being now in a position properly to do so. his wife suggested, for the moment, a winter in new york, properly chaperoned. the money would be forthcoming (there followed a memorandum of a handsome sum placed in bank to the colonel's credit). he could, he knew, leave it to his father and mother to see that she _was_ properly chaperoned. his wife had thought of making certain suggestions, but upon talking it over together, they had come to the conclusion that, at the moment, at least, it would be wisest not to interfere with the gilead balm order and way of life. it was admirably suited, he judged, for a young girl's bringing up--much better than the modern american way of doing things. only in france--or the orient--was the _jeune fille_ really preserved. the colonel wrote to mrs. legrand. mrs. legrand returned one of her long, fluent letters. first of all, congratulations that hagar had come to her senses about mr. laydon, then--"now as to new york--" sylvie was going to new york too,--going to have singing lessons, for she had a very sweet voice, and every one agreed that it would be a mistake not to give it the best training. the problem of how to manage for sylvie had received the following solution, and mrs. legrand proffered it as a possible way to manage for hagar also. there was powhatan maine's family in new york--powhatan himself and bessie and their widowed daughter, mrs. bolt, with her two children. they lived well, "in our quiet, homelike, southern fashion, of course." powhatan was a solid lawyer in a solid firm. sylvie had paid them a visit once before, but of course this year it was a question of her being in new york for months and months. now, ordinarily, the maines would not have heard of such a thing, but this disastrous year, with everybody failing, powhatan had lost heavily in stocks and apparently they were having to economize. at any rate, bessie was willing, just for this year, to take sylvie under her wing and to let her pay for her room and board. the maines' house was a good, big one, and mrs. legrand had very little doubt that, just as a family favour, bessie would be willing to receive hagar on similar terms. bessie would certainly stipulate that the arrangement should be a quiet one, just between themselves, and that hagar, no less than sylvie, should be regarded merely as a young friend and connection, visiting her that winter. this understood, bessie would look after the two as if they were her own. it was fortunate that neither sylvie nor hagar was "out," for the maines were in mourning. but powhatan and bessie knew a great many people, and the two girls would probably see company enough. "you remember bessie, don't you? good-nature itself! nothing pleases her so much as having people happy about her." then, too, there would be rachel bolt. she could take hagar to the theatre and to concerts and the picture galleries and where not. "the maines are all members of st. timothy's--the bishop's nephew's church, you know."--in fine, mrs. legrand advised that the ashendynes write at once to mrs. maine. it was done and hagar's winter soon arranged for. new york!... she had dreamed of great cities, but she had never seen one. the night on the sleeping-car--her first night on any sleeping-car--she stayed awake and watched through the window the flying clouds and the moon and stars between, and, underneath, the fugitive landscape. there was a sense of exaltation, of rushing on with the rushing world. now and again, as the train creaked and swung, and once, as another roared past, there came moments of fascinated terror. rushing train and rushing world, all galloping wildly through the night, and in front, surely some bottomless precipice!... she and sylvie had a section, and though hagar had offered to take the upper berth, it had ended in their having it put back and sleeping together. now hagar sat up in bed, and looked at the sleeping sylvie. there was a dim, blended light, coming from the lamp above and the moonlight night without. sylvie lay, half-uncovered, fast asleep, her hair in glossy braids, her pretty face, shell-tinted, sunk in the pillow, her breast quietly rising and falling. hagar had an intense, impersonal, abstract passion for beauty wherever and in whatever form it resided. now, limbs beneath her, her arms nursing each other, she sat and regarded the sleeping sylvie with a pure, detached admiration. the train roared into a station; she drew the window curtain until it roared out again, then bared the window, and sat and watched the flying dark woods and the silver surface of some wide water. new york--new york--new york.... sylvie was a travelled lady. sylvie had been to new york before. she had been to florida and new orleans and niagara and saratoga. she could play sweetly, not arrogantly,--sylvie was not arrogant, except, perhaps, a little when it came to good looks,--the part of guide and mentor to hagar. in the jersey city station she kept a reassuring touch upon hagar's arm down the long platform to the gate. "the new york ferry has a sign over it. even if they don't meet us, i know how to manage--oh, there's cousin powhatan!" it was a pearl-grey morning, going over, with a mist that was almost a fog hanging upon the water and making unearthly and like a mirage the strange sky-line before them. there were not so many huge, tall buildings as there would be in after years, but they were beginning. the mist drifted, opening and closing, and to the mist was added the fairy garlands and pennants of white steam. out of the luminous haze grew white ferryboats and low barges, and here passed an opalescent shape like a vast moth wing. "a sailboat," said hagar under her breath. the air was chill and clinging. sylvie and captain powhatan maine preferred to sit and talk within the cabin, but hagar remained outside. she stood with her hands lightly touching the rail, her eyes wide. another sailboat slipped past. she turned and looked along the widening water, oceanward, and in a rift of the grey pearl clouds she seemed to see, at a great distance, a looming woman shape. a salt odour filled her nostrils. "oh, the sea! i smell the sea!" the ferryboat glided into its slip, the bell rang, the chains rattled; out resonantly, from the lower deck, passed the great dray horses and heavy wagons; the passengers disembarked; a crowd hurried, in column, toward the elevated. half-bewildered, hagar found herself mounting long flights of steps, passing through a gateway, entering a train, which at once, with a shriek, began to run upon a level with second-story windows. she saw dingy red-brick factory and tenement buildings close, close to her face; fire-escapes and staring windows with squalid or horribly tawdry rooms beyond; on the window-sills spindling, starved plants in ancient, battered tin cans, children's faces, women leaning out, children, children, children--"we have to go quite far uptown," said captain maine. "well, and what do you girls want to see first?" he was a short, stout, gallant gentleman with a fierce grey mustache. sylvie talked for both. hagar nodded her head or commanded a smile when manners seemed to indicate it, but her mind was dealing with a nightmare. "was this--was this new york?" once she turned her head toward their escort, but something told her that if, indeed, she asked the absurd question, he would say, "why, yes! don't you like it?" where were the domes and colonnades? where the cleanness and fairness--where the order and beauty? where was the noble, great city? where were the happy people? she tried to tell herself, first, that all these were there, that this was but a chance ugly street the train was going through ... but they went through it for miles, and she caught glimpses of so many other streets that seemed no better! and then she tried to tell herself, that, after all, she must have known it would be something like this. she had seen before, on a small scale, in a small city, decrepit buildings and decrepit people of all ages. poverty, dirt, and disease.... one city would be like another, only larger.... she must have known. but knowing did not seem to have helped--or perhaps she had never really seen, nor thought it out. she was tired and overstrained; a horror came upon her. she looked through a window into a room hung with a ghastly green, torn, and soiled paper. men and women were working in it, bent over a long table, working haggardly and fast, the shirts of the men, the bodices of the women, open at the throat. another window--a wretched, blowsy woman and a young man with a bloated, unwholesome face;--another, and an old, old woman with a crying child, whom she struck;--then mere blank windows or windows with starveling geraniums in broken pots; and beneath and around and everywhere voices and heavy wheels, and the train rushing on upon its trestle high in the air. something black and cold and hopeless rolled over hagar's soul. it was as though the train were droning, droning, a melancholy text. "hagar! what is the matter? you looked as though you were going to faint!" but hagar wasn't going to faint. she pulled herself together. "no, no! it isn't anything! i was tired, i suppose--" "mustn't faint in new york," said captain maine genially. "you'll get run over if you do." on went the elevated, and the walls of windows grew vaguely better--or the shock of surprise was over--or the armoured being within shouldered away a hampering unhappiness. _new york--new york--new york!_ hope and vision sprang afresh. the windows and the houses in which they were set decidedly bettered. there were distant glimpses of fine buildings, spires of churches, trees that must be in a park. the sun, which had been all morning hidden by clouds, came suddenly forth and flooded the world with october gold. the gulf between what she had dreamed and what she saw perceptibly narrowed, though it was still there and though it still ached. "here we are!" said captain maine, and folded his newspaper. out of the train upon a platform--then more stairs, this time running downward--then a block or two of walking, in the crisp air, then a very different street from those the train had rushed through and very different houses. "here we are!" said their host again, and they mounted a brownstone stoop. a coloured maid opened the door--they passed into a narrow reception hall with the maines' ancestral tall clock standing by the stair and on the opposing walls engravings of southern generals; thence, through folding doors, into a cool, deep parlour and the embrace of mrs. maine. mrs. maine was large and sleepy and quiet and dark, with a nebulous personality. everybody who knew her said that she was extremely good-natured, while a few added that she was too indolent to be irascible, and a fair number called it native kindliness and adduced a range of respectable incidents. no one ever hinted at intellectuality, and she certainly did not shine in conversation; she was not, apparently, socially ambitious, and nobody could be said to take less trouble--and yet a number of people--chiefly southerners dwelling in new york, the more decorative and prosperous of st. timothy's congregation, and powhatan maine's legal associates and acquaintances--exhibited a certain partiality for the maine house. powhatan told good war stories and darky stories; almost always there appeared something good to eat, with a southern name and flavour; and mrs. maine was as unobtrusive and comfortable to get on with as the all-pervasive ether. there was nothing riotous nor especially buoyant in the house; it was rather dim and dull and staid; but people who had begun to visit the maines twenty years before visited still. perhaps most of them were dim and dull and staid themselves. others, perhaps, liked the occasional salt of an environment which was not habitually theirs. the house itself was deep and for a new york dwelling wide, cool, high-ceilinged, and dark, with a gleam of white marble mantel-pieces and antiquated crystal chandeliers, with some ancient virginia furniture and some ebony and walnut abominations of the 'seventies. everything was a little worn, tending toward shabbiness; but a shabbiness not extreme, as yet only comfortable, though with a glance toward a more helpless old age. there were a fair number of books, some portraits and good, time-yellowed engravings. there were four coloured servants beside the nurse for mrs. bolt's children. the children, charley and betty, were pudgy, quaint elves of three and five. charley, the younger, had been blind from birth. that evening, rachel bolt came before bedtime into hagar's room. "may i sit and talk a little while? sylvie and mother and father and dick dabney, who came in a little while ago, are playing duplicate whist." "of course you may. it's such a pleasant room you've given me." rachel turned in her chair and regarded it from wall to wall somewhat cynically. "well, i suppose at the first blush it may seem so. it is, however, rather shabby. we meant to do it over again this year, but times are so tremendously hard that we gave it up with a lot of other things.--what i really came in for was to ask what kind of things and places and people you'd like to see this winter. it's agreed with your grandfather that i'm to take you around." "it is good of you to be willing to do it--" "oh, i'm to be paid for doing it! i'll be spinning my spring outfit and betty's and charley's while we gallivant. but i do not mean"--she laughed--"that it is going to be hard or disagreeable work, unless"--she ended coolly--"you want to go to places where i don't want to go." "to those places," said hagar seriously, "i will go alone." "then," said rachel, "we will get along very well.... what do you want to do anyhow?" "i want to feel around for a while. and i'd like to be shown how to go and how to manage, just at first. but after that i hope you won't mind if i just wander about by myself." she lifted her long arms above her head in a gesture, harassed and restless. "i think there are people to whom solitude means as much as food or sleep." "do you want me to get up and say good-night?" asked rachel promptly. hagar gave a warm little laugh. "not yet awhile. i'm not that greedy and sleepy. i strive to be temperate.... what i want to see first are pictures. i have never seen any--barring those at home and at eglantine." "well, we can go to the metropolitan to-morrow." "i should like that. then i want to hear music. i have never heard any to count." "there'll be concerts and the opera later. the opera is, of course, very expensive, but i understand that your father wants you to do pretty well what you wish. if you don't mind being high up, we can do a good deal of it reasonably." "then let us go high up." "at the moment there aren't even concerts. we might find an organ recital, and on sundays there is music in the park." "day after to-morrow is sunday. i'll go and hear that. then i want to go to the theatre." "most of that will come later, too. are you fond of the theatre?" "i don't know. that is why i want to go--to find out. i have never seen but three plays." "what an awfully lucky person! what were they?" "one--i was a little girl and i went to richmond for two days--was 'maria stuart.' janauschek played it. the next was in the small town near where i live. it was rather terribly done, i believe, and it kept me awake for a week afterward. i was fifteen. it was 'the corsican brothers.' then"--said hagar, "last winter i saw 'romeo and juliet.'... they didn't seem like plays. they seemed like life,--sometimes terrible and sometimes beautiful. i want to go to find out if it is always so." "it isn't," said rachel. "you are inexperienced." "there is a natural history museum here, isn't there?" "yes, a large one." "i want to go there. i want to see malachite and chrysoprase and jade, and the large blue butterflies and the apes up to man and the models of the pterodactyl and dinosaur and a hundred other things." "until now," said rachel, "i have thought that charley and betty had the largest possible appetites. what else?" "am i tiring you?" "not a bit. besides, it is business. i came in here to get a _catalogue raisonné_.--it's rather curious that you should have such a passion for minerals and species and prehistoric things." "is it? well, i have it," said hagar. she put her arms again behind and above her head. "if you want to know all, you must live all--though in honour preferring one to the other." beside her, on the little table by the hearth, was a paper and pencil. suddenly she unlocked her hands, bent over and drew a sheet of paper from under the book with which she had covered it on rachel's entrance. "i was trying to write something when you came in. it is rough and crude,--just the skeleton,--but it's something like what i mean and what i want." she held it out; then, with a deprecating gesture and a shy flush, "if it doesn't bore you--" rachel took it and read. "god that am i, i that am god, mass and motion and psyche inextricably wound! we began not; we end not; and a sole purpose have we,-- intimately to know and exalted to taste, in wisdom and beauty perpetually heightening, the absolute, infinite, one substance who is! in joy to name in wisdom to know all flames and all fruits from that hearth and that tree! to name infinite modes, eternally to name, to name as we grow, and grow as we name. and stars shall arise, beyond stars that we see, and self-knowledge shall come, to me in god, god in me--" rachel put it down. "i'll think that out a little. we've never had any one in the house just like you." "i thought," said hagar, "that sunday morning i would go to the catholic cathedral. if you tell me the way i can find it--" "you are not a catholic?" "no. but i have always wanted so to smell incense.-- "'when from the censer clouds of fragrance roll--'" "you are rich in differences," said rachel. "i hope we'll get along well together. i think we will. is there anything else you can think of at the moment?" "i want to see the salvation army." "that may be managed, if you are willing to take it in detachments." "and i want--oh, i want to go somewhere where i can really see the ocean!" "i'll get father to take us down to brighton beach. it isn't too late, this mild weather." "this morning," said hagar, "we came through--miles, i think--of places where poor people live. i want to see all that again." "it isn't very edifying. but we can get under the wing of some association and do a little mild slumming." "i want to go down there alone and often--" "that," said rachel, "is impossible." "why?" "it is not done. besides, it would be dangerous." "dangerous?" "you might take any disease--or get into any kind of trouble. there are all sorts of traps." "why should they set traps?" "oh, all kinds of horrors happen.--just look at the newspapers! a girl--alone--you'd be subjected to insult." hagar sighed. "i've always been alone. and i don't see that we are not subjected to insult everywhere. i could never feel more insulted than, sometimes, i have been at home." rachel, turning in her chair, darted at her a lightning-like glance of comprehension. "well, that's true enough, though i never heard it put into words before! it's true.... but it remains that with our present conventions, you must have company when you go to see how the other half lives." "the other half?" "it's a term: one half of us doesn't know how the other half lives." "i see," said hagar. "well, i'll be glad when i get out of fractions." both laughed. a kind of soft, friendly brightness prevailed in the third-floor back bedroom. there was no open fire, but they sat on either side of the little squat table, and the reading-lamp with a yellowy globe did the job of a common luminary. the light reached out to each and linked them together. rachel bolt was small and dark and slender. much of the time she passed for a cynical and rather melancholy young woman; then, occasionally, sheaths parted like opening wings and something showed that was vivid and deep and duskily luminous. the next moment the rift might close, but there had been received an impression of the inward depths. she had been married at eighteen, her first child born a year later. she was now twenty-five, and had been a widow for two years. in worldly wisdom and _savoir faire_, and in several emotional experiences she was well ahead of hagar, but in other respects the brain ways of the younger in years were deeper and older. whatever differences, their planes were near enough for a comprehension that, continually deepening, passed before long into the country of lasting friendship. chapter xv looking for thomasine when hagar had been ten days in new york, she went early one afternoon to find thomasine. she had the address, and upon showing it to rachel the latter had pronounced it "poor but respectable," adding, "are you sure you ought to go alone?" "'ought to go alone?--ought to go alone?'--i am so tired of that phrase 'ought to go alone'!" said hagar. "at gilead balm they said, 'don't go beyond the mile-and-a-half cedar!' you say yourself that i couldn't get lost, and i was brought up with thomasine, and jim and his wife are perfectly good people." downstairs, as she was passing the parlour doors, mrs. maine called to her from within. "where are you going, dear?" hagar entered and explained. "that is very nice of you to look her up, but do you think you ought to go alone?" hagar explained that, too; whereupon mrs. maine patted her hand and told her to trot along, but always to be careful! as the front door closed after her, her hostess resumed her box of chocolates and the baby sacque she was knitting. "it isn't as though i had promised to give her, or to make rachel give her, continual chaperonage! to look after her in a general way is all that could possibly be expected. besides, it's foolish always to be nervous about people!" she took a chocolate cream and began the sleeve. "medway ashendyne, with all those millions, isn't doing very much for her. she couldn't dress more plainly if she tried. i wonder what he means to do with her eventually. perhaps he doesn't mean anything--just to let things drift...." hagar knew how to orientate herself very well. she took the surface car going in the right direction, and when she had travelled some distance she left it and took a cross-town car. this brought her to the block she wished. out of the jingling car, across a street of push-carts and drays and hurrying, dodging people, she stood upon the broken and littered pavement a moment to look about her. the houses were tall and dreary; once good, a house to a family, but now not so good, and several families to a house. the corners were occupied by larger buildings, unadorned and jerry-built and ugly, each with a high-sounding name, each containing "flats";--flats and flats and flats, each with its ground floor occupied by small stores--unprosperous greengrocer, unprosperous butcher, poor chemist, prosperous saloon, and what not. it was a grimy, chilly grey afternoon with more than a hint of the approaching winter. all voices seemed raw and all colours cold. among the children playing on the pavement and in areaways or on high, broken, entrance steps, there sounded more crying than laughing. dirty papers were blown up and down; there floated an odour of stale beer; an old-clothes man went by, ringing a bell and crying harshly, "old clothes! old clothes! got any rags?" hagar stood with contracted brows. she shivered a little. "why, thomasine should not live in a place like this!" she looked about her. "who should?" she had a vision of thomasine playing ring-around-a-rosy, thomasine looking for four-leaved clovers. but when she climbed to the third floor of one of the corner buildings, and, standing in the perpetual twilight of the landing-way, rang the bell of a door from which much of the paint had been scarred, she found that thomasine did not live there. the door was opened by a gaunt, raw-boned woman. "thomasine dale? did she live with marietta green and jim?" "yes. she is jim's niece." "well, she don't live here now." "may i see jim or his wife?" "they don't live here neither." the door across the landing opened, and a stout woman in a checked apron looked out. "was you looking for the greens?" "yes, please." "if you'll come in and set a minute, i'll tell you about them. i've got asthmy, and there's an awful draught comes up those steps." hagar sat down in an orange plush rocking-chair and the stout woman, having removed her apron, took the green and purple sofa. "there now! i meant to mend that carpet!"--and she covered the hole with the sole of her shoe. "i am as fond as i can be of the greens! jim's a good man, and if marietta wa'n't so delicate she'd manage better. the children are nice youngsters, too.... well, i'm sorry they've gone, but jim hurt his arm down in the works and marietta couldn't seem to get strong again after the last baby, and everybody's cutting wages when they ain't turning men off short, and jim's turn come, for all he's always been good and sober and a good workman. first the works hurt his arm, and then it said that he wasn't so useful now; and then it said that it had seen for a long time that it would have to economize, and the men could choose between cut wages or no wages at all, and jim was one of them it said it to. so he had to take the cut." she began to cough and wheeze and then to pant for breath. "did you--ever have--the asthmy? i'm--going off--with it--some day. glass of water? yes--next room--cup by the sink.... thank you--child! you're real helpful.--what was i saying? oh, yes--'t was jim and marietta and the children and thomasine who had to economize." "where are they gone?" asked hagar sorrowfully. "it isn't so awful far from here. i'll give you the address. the car at the corner'll take you there pretty quick. but it ain't nowhere near so nice a neighbourhood or a house as this." she regarded her plush furniture and nottingham curtains with pride. "thomasine's an awful nice girl." "yes," said hagar. the tears came into her eyes. "i love thomasine. i oughtn't to have waited so long before coming to find her, but i never thought of all this. it never entered my head." "she's got an awful good place, for a woman--nine dollars a week. she could have kept a room here, but she's awful fond of jim and marietta and the children, and she went with them. i reckon she'll help right sharp this winter--'less'n the stores take to cutting too." on the street-car, the new address in her hand, hagar considered poverty. it was there in person to illustrate, in an opposite row of anæmic, anxious faces and forms none too warmly clad; it was there on the street, going up and down; it was there in the houses that were so gaunt, defaced, and ugly. the very november air, cold and querulous, seemed poor. her mind was sorting and comparing impressions. she had known, when she came to think of it, a good deal of poverty, and a number of poor people. in the first place, she had been brought up on the tradition of the poverty after the war--but that had been heroic, exalted poverty, in which all shared, and where they kept the amenities. then, when that had passed, there were the steadygoing poor people in the country--those who had always been poor and apparently always would be so. but it did not seem to hurt so in the country, and certainly it was not so ugly. often it was not ugly at all. of course, everybody at home, in a cheerful tone of voice, called the greens poor people. the greens were poor,--car'line and isham were poor;--she remembered, with a curious vividness, the poor woman on the canal boat, the summer her mother died. she had even heard the colonel say that he--the colonel--was poor. of course, she had seen hosts of poor people. and yet until to-day, or rather, to be more precise, until the morning of the ferry and the elevated, she had never generalized poverty, never conceived it abstractly. poverty! what was poverty? why was poverty? was it a constant; was it going to last? if so, why? if it wasn't going to last, what was going to make things better? it was desirable that things should be better--oh, desirable, desirable! the slave of beauty and the slave of righteousness in hagar's soul rose together and looked upon the dump-heap and the shards that were thrown upon it. "it shouldn't be. there is no need and no sense--" four or five summers past, visiting with miss serena some coltsworth or ashendyne house in the country, and exploring, as she always did almost at once, the bookcases, she had come upon--tucked away in the extreme shadow of a shadowy shelf--a copy of william morris's "news from nowhere." hagar had long since come to the conviction that her taste was radically different from that of most coltsworths and ashendynes. where they tucked away, she drew forth. she had read "news from nowhere" upon that visit. but she had read it hurriedly, amid distractions, and she was much younger then than now. it had left with her chiefly an impression of a certain kind of haunting, other-world beauty. she remembered the boy and the girl in the tobacco-shop, playing merchant, and the cherry trees in the streets, and the cottage of ellen, and ellen herself, and the harvest home. why it was written or what it was trying to show, she had not felt then with any clearness. now, somehow, the book came back to her. "that was what 'news from nowhere' was trying to show. that people might work, work well and enough, and yet there be for all beauty and comfort and leisure and friendliness.... i'll see if i can find that book and i'll read it again." the car stopped at the street-corner indicated. when she was out upon the pavement, and again stood a moment to look about her, she was frightened. this was the region of the fire-escapes, zig-zagging down the faces of the buildings, the ramshackle buildings. it was the region of the black windows, and the women leaning out, and the wan children. this street was narrower than the other, grimier and more untidy, more crowded, colder, and the voice of it never died. it rose to a clamour, it sank to a murmur, but it never vanished. usually it kept a strident midway, idle and fretful as the interminable blown litter of the street. hagar drew a pained breath. "thomasine's got no business living here--nor jim and marietta and the children either!" but it seemed, when she mounted a dirty, narrow stair and made enquiries of a person she met atop,--it seemed that they didn't live there. "they moved out a week ago. the man was in some damned works or other, and it threw him on the scrap-heap with about a thousand more. then the place where the girl worked thought scrap-heaps were so pretty that it started one, too. then he heard a report of work to be had over in new jersey--as if, if this is the frying-pan, that ain't the fire!--and so they left this state. no; they didn't leave any address. working people's address this year is 'tramping it. care of the unemployed.' sometimes, it's just plain 'gone under.'" the man looked at hagar, and hagar looked at the man. she thought that he had the angriest, gloomiest eyes she had ever seen, and yet they were not wicked eyes. they blazed out of the dark entryway at her, but for all their coal-like glowing they were what she denominated far-away-seeing eyes. they seemed to look through her at something big and black beyond. "have you seen the evening paper?" he asked abruptly. "no, i have not. why?" "i wanted to see.... this morning's had an account of three anarchist bits-of-business. a bomb in barcelona, a bomb in milan, and a bomb in paris.--no, i can't tell you anything more about your friends. yes, i'm sorry. it's a hard world. but there's a better time coming." grieving and bewildered, she came out upon the pavement. why hadn't thomasine--why hadn't jim let them know? if there wasn't anything at home for jim to do,--and she agreed that there wasn't--nor for thomasine, still they could all have stayed there and waited for a while until jim's arm and hard times got better. she tried to put them all--there were six--in the overseer's house with mrs. green. it would be crowded, but.... the overseer's house was her grandfather's; mrs. green had had it, rent free, since william green's death, and most of her cornmeal and flour came from the colonel's hand. hagar tried to say to herself that her grandfather would be glad to see jim and marietta and thomasine and the three children there staying with mrs. green as long as was necessary; that if it were crowded in the overseer's house her grandmother would be glad to have thomasine and perhaps one of the children stay in the big house. it would not work. it came to her too, that perhaps jim and marietta and thomasine might not be so fond of coming and sitting down on mrs. green and saying, "we've failed." but couldn't they work in the country? jim was a mechanic; he didn't know anything about farming--and the farmers were having a hard time, too. hagar's head began to ache. then the travelling expenses--she tried to count those up. if they couldn't pay the rent, how could they pay for six to go down to virginia--and the children's clothes, and the food and everything?... was there no one who could send them money? mrs. green couldn't, she knew--and thomasine's mother and father were very poor, and corker wasn't doing well, and maggie was at home nursing their mother whose spine was bad.... gilead balm had a kindly feeling for the greens, she knew that. william green had been a good overseer, and he had fought in the regiment the colonel led. her grandfather--if he knew how bad it was, if he could see these places where they had been living, if he could have heard the woman in the check apron and the man with the eyes--he might send jim twenty-five dollars, he might even send him fifty dollars, though she doubted if he could do that much. she herself had twenty dollars left of that august two hundred. she had been saving it for christmas presents for gilead balm, but now she was going to send it to thomasine--just as soon as she knew where to send it. she walked on for a little way in a hopeful glow, and then the bottom dropped out of that, too. it wouldn't go far or do much. it was too small a cloth to wrap a giant in. jim and thomasine's unemployment--jim's injured arm, hurt in the works, marietta weak and worn, trying to care for a little baby.... other mariettas, jims, thomasines, thousands and thousands of them.... they were willing and wanting to work. they were not lazy. jim hadn't injured his own arm. apparently there had to be babies.... unemployment, and no one to help when help was needed.... it needed a giant. "all of us together could do it--all of us together." she was cold, even under her warm jacket and with her thick gloves. the street looked horribly cold, but she did not notice many jackets, and no gloves. with all her beauty-loving nature she hated the squalid; nothing so depressed her. she had not seen it before so verily itself; in the country it was apt to have a draping and setting of beauty; even a pigpen might be environed by blossoming fruit trees. here squalor environed squalor, ugliness ugliness. on a step before her sat a forlorn little girl of eight or nine, taking care of a large baby wrapped in a shawl. hagar stopped and spoke. "are you cold?" the child shook her head. "are you hungry?" she shook it still; then suddenly broke forth volubly in a strange tongue. she was telling her something, but what could not be made out. the door behind opened, and elizabeth eden came forth. she spoke to the child kindly, in her own language, with a caressing touch upon the shoulder. the little girl nodded, gathered up the baby, and went into the house. "miss eden--" elizabeth turned. "what--why, miss ashendyne! did you drop out of the sky? what on earth are you doing in omega street?" "i came down here to find some people whom i know. i am visiting in new york. oh, i _am_ glad to see you!" "we can't stand here. the settlement is just two blocks away. can't you come with me and have a cup of tea? where are you staying?" hagar told her, adding, "i must be back before dark or they won't let me come out again by myself." "it isn't quite four. i'll put you on the elevated in plenty of time.--what people were you looking for?" hagar told her as they walked. elizabeth listened, knew nothing of them, but said gravely that it was a common lot nowadays. "i have seen many hard winters, but this promises to be one of the worst." she advised writing guardedly to mrs. green, until she found out how thomasine and jim wrote themselves. "they may not be telling her how bad it is, and if she cannot help, it is right that they shouldn't. i believe, too, in being hopeful. if they're sturdy, intelligent people, they'll weather the gale somehow, barring accidents. it's the miserable accidents--the strained arm, your marietta's illness after the baby--things like that that tip the scales against them. well, cheer up, child! you may hear that they've got work and are happy.--this is the settlement." three old residences, stranded long years ago when "fashionable society" moved away, first street by street and at last mile by mile, formed the settlement. made one building by archways cut through, grave and plain, with a dignity of good woodwork and polished brass and fit furniture sparely placed, the house had the poise and force of a galleon caught and held intact in the arms of some sargasso sea. all around it were wrecks of many natures, strangled, pinned down, and disintegrating, but it had not disintegrated. one use and custom had left it, but another had passed in with a nobler plan. hagar ashendyne went through the place, wondering, saw the workrooms, the classrooms, the assembly-room, the dwelling-rooms, austere, with a quiet goodness and fairness, of the people who dwelled there and made the heart of the place. "it is not like a convent," she said in a low voice; "at least, i imagine it is not--and yet--" "oh, the two ideas have a point of contact!" answered elizabeth cheerfully. "only, here, the emphasis is laid on action." she met several people whom she thought she would like to meet again, and at the last minute came in marie caton. it was marie, who, at five o'clock, put her on the elevated that would take her home in twenty minutes. marie had met the maines--"i'm southern, too, you know,"--and she promised to come to see hagar, and she said that hagar and rachel bolt must come, some sunday afternoon, to the settlement. "that is chiefly when we see our personal friends." that night hagar wrote to her grandmother and to mrs. green. in four days time she heard from the latter. yes, jim and all of them and thomasine had moved to new jersey. times were hard, jim said, and work was slack, and they thought they could better themselves. sure enough he had got a right good job. they were living where it wasn't so crowded as it was in new york, almost in the country, right by a big mill. there was a row of houses, just alike, thomasine said, and they were living in one of them. there wasn't any yard, but you could walk into the country and see the woods, and thomasine said the sky was wonderful at night, all red from a furnace. thomasine hadn't got work yet, but she thought that she would. there was a place where they made silk into ribbons, and she thought there'd be a place for her there. marietta was better, and the children were fine. mrs. green sent the address--and gilead balm certainly missed hagar. old miss wrote an explanatory letter. hagar knew or ought to know that they had little or nothing but the place. the colonel had been in debt, but medway had cleared that off, as it was right that he should, now that he was able to do it; right and kind. but as for ready money--country people never had any ready money, she knew that perfectly well. medway was now, old miss supposed, a rich man, but no one knew exactly how rich, and at any rate it was his money, and living abroad as he did was, of course, expensive. he couldn't justly be expected to do much more than he was doing. "as for your having money to give the greens, you haven't any, child! medway has told your grandfather that he wants you from now on to have every proper advantage, but that he does not believe in the way young people to-day squander money, nor does he want you to depart from what you have been taught at gilead balm. he wants you to remain modest in your wants, as every woman should be. the money he has put in your grandfather's hands for you this year is to pay for this winter in new york and for wherever you go next summer. he never meant it to be diverted to helping people without any claim upon him that are out of employment. your grandfather won't hear to any such thing as you propose. he says your idea of coming home and using the money you are costing in new york is preposterous. the money isn't your money; it's your father's money, to be used as he, and not as you, direct.... of course, it's a hard year, and of course, there are people suffering. there always are. but jim's a man and can get work, and thomasine oughtn't to have gone away from home anyhow. they aren't starving, child."--so old miss, and more to the same effect, and then, at the end, a postscript. "i had a ten-dollar gold-piece that's been lying by me a long time, and i've taken it to mary green and told her to send it to jim. she seemed surprised, and from what she says and what his letter says, i don't think they are any worse off than most people. you're young, and your feelings run away with you." hagar wrote a long, loving letter to thomasine, and sent her the twenty dollars. thomasine returned her effusive, pretty thanks, showed that she was glad, and glad enough to have the help, but insisted that she should regard it as a loan. she acknowledged that jim and she, and therefore marietta and the babies, had been pretty hard up. but things were better, she hopefully said. she had a place and jim had a place. his arm was about well, and on the whole, they liked new jersey, "though it isn't as interesting, of course, as new york." chapter xvi the maines it was the year of the assassination of sadi carnot in france, of the trial of emma goldman in new york, of much "hellish anarchist activity." it was a year of growth in the american federation of labour. it was a year of socialist growth. it was a year of strikes--mine strikes, railway strikes, other strikes, lehigh and pullman and cripple creek. it was the year of the army of coxey. it was the year of the unemployed and of relief agencies. it was the year when the phrase "a living wage" received currency. in the winter of the spanish war had not been, the boer war had not been, the russo-japanese war had not been. the war between japan and china was on the eve of being; people talked of matabeleland, and cecil rhodes was chief in south africa. hawaii was in process of being annexed. in the winter of it was the wilson tariff bill, and bimetallism, and mr. gladstone and home rule, and the mafia in sicily, and the a.p.a., and the bicycle, and queen liliuokalani, and the causes of strikes and of panics, and electric traction, and the romances of sienkiewicz and "tess of the d'urbervilles" and "the prisoner of zenda" and "the heavenly twins." mr. howells was writing "letters of an altrurian traveller"; george meredith had published "lord ormont and his aminta." stevenson, at vailima, was considering "weir of hermiston." in occurred the first voting of women in new zealand. it saw the opening of a woman's congress in berlin. in new york a woman suffrage amendment was strongly advocated before a constitutional convention. there was more talk than usual of the unrest among women, more editorials than usual upon the phenomenon, more magazine articles. but the bulk of the talk and the editorials and the magazine articles had to do with the business failures and the unemployed and the strikes. the beating of the waves of the year was not loudly heard in the maines' long, high-ceilinged parlour. the law droned on, bad years with good. powhatan had speculated and made his little losses. his philosophy this winter was pessimistic, and the household "economized." but the table was still good and plentiful, and the coloured servants, who were fond of him and he of them, smiled and bobbed, and he had not felt it necessary to change his brand of cigars, and the same old people came in the evening. mrs. maine never read the newspapers. she rarely read anything, though once in a while she took up an old favourite of her youth, and placidly dipped now into it and now into her box of chocolates. powhatan kept her supplied with the chocolates. twice a week, when he came in at five o'clock, he produced out of his overcoat pocket a glazed, white, two-pound box:--"chocolates, bessie! catch!" rachel bolt was more alert to the world surge, but to her, too, it must come a little muted through the family atmosphere. her swiftest vibrations were upon other lines, curious inner, personal revolts and rebellions, sometimes consumed below the crust, sometimes breaking forth with a flare and rain of words as of lava. the family and the people who habitually came to the house were used to rachel's way of talking; as long as she did nothing _outré_,--and she did not,--it was no more to them than a painted volcano. as for sylvie--sylvie was as sweet and likeable as sugar, but not interested in anything outside of the porcelain world-dish that held her. she liked her clothes this winter, and the young men who came to the house, and she dutifully practised her voice, and enjoyed the shops and the plays, and wondered a good deal if she was or was not in love with jack carter, who was an interne in one of the hospitals, and who sent her every week six of the new roses called american beauties. she had other, more distant relatives in new york, people of wealth who presently took her up. she was with them and away from the maines a good deal, and, on the whole, hagar saw not much of sylvie this winter. she and rachel were more together. almost every evening, at the maines', people came in--old southern friends, living in new york, or here on business or other occasions, young men and women, fond of rachel, acceptable fellow-sheep from the fold of st. timothy, now and then the rector himself, now and then some young man, southern, with a letter of introduction. sometimes there were but one or two besides the family, sometimes seven or eight. there was little or no formal entertainment, but this kind of thing always. each day at dusk hagar put on one of the two half-festive gowns which, at the last moment, miss serena had insisted she must have. both were simplicity itself, both of some soft, crêpy stuff, one dark bronze and one dark green. they were made with the large puffed sleeves of the period, and the throat slightly low and square. "country-made, but somehow just right," rachel judged. "you aren't any more adorned than the leaf of a tree, and yet you might walk, just as you are, into cæsar's palace." usually by half-past ten visitors were gone, lights downstairs were out. powhatan and bessie believed in early to bed and late to rise. upstairs, in her bedroom on the third floor, hagar shook out and hung in the closet the bronze or green dress, as the case might be, put on her gown and her red wrapper, braided her hair, pushed the couch well beneath the light, curled herself up on it under the eider-down quilt, and, tablet against knee, began to write.... the short story--it was that she dreamed and wrote and polished. two currents of thought and aspiration ran side by side. "to earn money--to make my own living--to be able to help"; and "to make this idea, that i think is beautiful, come forth and grow.--to get this thing right--to make this dream show clear--to do it, to do it!--to create!" the latter current was the most powerful. the former would sooner or later accomplish its end; it would turn the mill-wheel and be content. but the latter--never, never would it be satisfied; never would it say, "it is accomplished." always there would be the further dream, always the necessity to make that, too, come clear. there were other currents, more or less strong, desire of fame, desire to be known, desire to excel, and others; but the first two were the great currents. since march and the fairy story she had written other stories, four or five in all. she had sent them to magazines, and all but one had come back. that one she had sent immediately after her search for thomasine. in a month she had word that it was taken, and that, on publication, she would be paid fifty dollars. the letter was like manna, she went about all day with a rapt face. to write--to write--to write stories like hawthorne, like poe.... she had been six weeks in new york. that night, when she had worked for an hour over one half-page, and then, the light out, had sat for a long while in the window looking at the winter stars above the city roofs, she could not sleep when she went to bed, but lay, straight and still, half-thinking, half-dreaming. a pageant of impressions, waves of repeated, altered, rearranged contacts drove through her mind. the pictures and marbles of the metropolitan, the sculptures and casts of sculptures which she cared for more than for the paintings, those of the latter which she loved--the music that she had heard, the plays she had seen, the park and the slow, interminable afternoon parade of carriages watched from a bench beneath the trees, fifth avenue, broadway, the hurrying crowds, the rush and roar, tramp and clangour, the colour and bravura--omega street, the settlement, a sunday afternoon there, discussions to which she had listened, a mass meeting of strikers which, powhatan having taken her downtown to show her the stock exchange and trinity, they had inadvertently fringed, and from which, with epithets of disapproval, he had hurried her away;--uptown once more and the florists' windows and the wheels on the asphalt, a sunday morning at st. timothy's with the stained glass and the bishop's nephew intoning;--again the theatres, a gilbert and sullivan opera, the "merchant of venice," a play of pinero's; again the pictures and the statues, the cast of the great venus, the cast of niobe, of the diana with the hound, of apollo and hermes; the pictures, rembrandts and vandykes, and certain landscapes, and a form that she liked, firelit and vague, blind nydia moving through ruining pompeii, and bastien lepage's joan of arc; then the park again, and the great trees above the mall, and people, people, people!--all made a vibrating whirl, vast, many-hued, and with strange harmonies. she lay until it passed and sank like the multi-coloured sand of the desert. when at last she slept, she had a curious dream. she and her mother were alone on an island with palm trees. she was used to being with her mother in dreams. she had for the memory of her mother so passionate a loyalty; the figure of maria, young, it always seemed to her, as herself, so kept abreast with her inner life that it was but a naturalness that she should be there in the dream mind, too. she was there now, on the island with the palm trees, and the two sat and looked at the sea, which was very blue. then, right out of the lonely sea, there grew a crowded wharf, with a white steamship and people going to it and coming from it. her father came from it, dressed in white with a white hat like a helmet, and then suddenly there was no wharf nor ship, but they were in a curious street of low, pale-coloured houses--her father and her mother and herself and the palm trees. "now we are all going to be happy together," she said; but "no," said her mother, "wait until the procession passes." then there was a procession, and they were all women, and at first they all had the face and eyes of bastien lepage's joan of arc, but then that faded, and they were simply many women, but each of them carried a blossoming bough. she saw faces that she knew among them, and she saw women that she thought belonged to the middle ages, and greek women, and egyptians, and savages. they went by for a long time, and then, with a turn of the hand, the dream changed, and they were all in a courtyard with a well and more palm trees, and people coming and going, and they were eating and drinking, and there was a third woman with them whom her father called anna. she had a string of jewels, and she tried them, first on hagar and then on maria; but maria had a knife and suddenly she struck at her father with it. she cut him across both wrists and the blood flowed.--hagar wakened and sat up in bed, shivering. her father's face was still plain against her eyeballs--bearded and handsome, with red in his cheeks and the hat like a helmet. during christmas week ralph coltsworth appeared. he had to spend his holidays somewhere, he said. hawk nest was dull and he didn't like gilead balm without hagar. "ralph, why don't you study?" "i do study. i'm a star student. only i don't like the law. i'm going to do a little more convincing myself and the family, and then i'm going to chuck it! i've got a little money to start things with. i want to go in with a broker i know." "what do you want to do that for?" "oh, because!... there are chances, if you've got the feeling in your finger tips!... don't you know, gipsy, that something like that is the career for a man like me? if i had been my father, i could have waved my sword and gone charging down history--and if i'd been my grandfather, i could have poured out whig eloquence from every stump in the country and looked olympian and been carried in procession (i don't like politics now; it's an entirely different thing);--and if i'd been my great-grandfather, i could have filibustered or settled the southwest; and back of that i could have done almost any old thing--come over with the adventurers, seized a continent, shared england with the normans, marauded with the vikings, whiled through europe with attila, done almost anything and come out with a name and my arms full! now you can't conquer things like that, but, by george, you can corner things!" "what do you mean?--that you want to become a rich man?" "that's what most of those others wanted. yes, riches and power." "i was reading the other day a magazine article. it said that the day when any american, if he had energy and ambition, might hope to make a great fortune was past. it said that the capets and plantagenets and hapsburgs were all here; that the dynasties were established and the _entente cordiale_ in operation; that young and adventurous americans might hope to become captains of mercenaries, or they might go in for being court chaplains, and troubadours." "oh, that article had dyspepsia!" said ralph. "it isn't as easy as it was, that's certain! but it's possible yet, in --if you've got an opening." "have you got one?" "elder and marten would take me in. marten was an old flame of my mother's, and i got his son dick out of a scrape last year.--in ten years, you'll see, gipsy! i'll send you orchids and pearls!" "i don't want them, thank you, ralph." ralph took the flower from his buttonhole and began to pluck away its petals. "gipsy, i was awfully glad, last summer, when you sent that eglantine fellow about his business." "mr. laydon and i sent each other." "well, the road's clear--that's all i want to know! gipsy--" "ralph, it's no use. i'm not going to listen." "the family has planned this ever since we were infants. when you used to come to hawk nest with your big eyes and your blue gingham dress and your white stockings--i knew it somehow even then, even when i teased you so--" "you certainly teased me. do you remember the rain barrel?" "no, i don't. the family has set its heart--" "oh, ralph, family can be such a tyrant! at any rate, ours will have to take its heart off this." ralph turned sullen. "well, the family used to settle it for women." "yes, it did--when you came over with william the conqueror! do you want to _take_ me, regardless--just as you'd take those millions? well, you may take those millions, but you can't take me!" "your father wants it, too. the colonel showed me a letter--" hagar stopped short--they were walking in the park. "my father!... do you think i owe my father so great a love and obedience?" she looked before her, steadily, down the vista of vast, leafless trees. "the strongest feeling," she said, "that i have about my father is one of strong curiosity." chapter xvii the socialist meeting the house was full, said the man at the ticket-window. nothing to be had, short of almost the back row, under the gallery. rachel shook her head, and her cousin, willy maine, leaving the window, expressed his indignation. "you ought to have told me this afternoon that you wanted to go! anybody might have known"--willy was from one of the sleepier villages in one of the sleepiest counties of his native state--"anybody might have known that in new york you have to get your tickets early! now we've missed the show!" by now they were out of the swinging doors and down upon the pavement. the night was bright and not especially cold. it was the lyceum theatre, and they stood at the intersection of fourth avenue and twenty-third street. "it's too late to try anything else," pondered rachel. "willy, i'm sorry. but we truly didn't know we could go until the last minute, and i didn't believe it would be crowded." "it's a beautiful night," said hagar. "it's light and bright, and there are crowds of people. why can't we just walk about until bedtime?" willy, who was nineteen but a young giant, pursed his lips. "is it proper for ladies?" "oh, i think so," said rachel absently, "but would it really amuse you, hagar?" "yes, it would. let us go slowly, rachel, and look in windows and pretend to be purchasing." willy laughed, genially and patronizingly. "i've been along here. there aren't any paris fashions in these windows." "i want," said hagar succinctly, "to saunter through the streets of a great city." they began to walk, their faces turned downtown, staying chiefly upon the avenue, but now and then diverging into side streets where there were lights and people. by degrees they came into congested, poorer quarters. to willy, not long removed from a loneliness of tidal creeks, vast stretches of tobacco, slow, solitary sandy roads, all and any of new york was exciting, all a show, a stimulus swallowed without discrimination. that day rachel had found occasion to rage against a certain closed circle of conventions. the subject had come up at the breakfast table, introduced by a headline in the morning paper, and she had so shocked her family that for once they had acted as though the volcano was real. mrs. maine had grown moist and pink, and had said precipitately that in her time a young woman--whether she were married or single, that didn't matter!--would as soon have thought of putting her hand in the fire as of mentioning such things! and powhatan had as nearly thundered as was in his nature to do. rachel shrugged her shoulders and desisted, but she had gone about all day with defiance written in her small, sombre face. now to-night, the street, the broad stripes of blackness, the thin stripes of gold light, the sound of voices and of many footfalls, the faces when the light fell upon them and the brushing by of half-seen forms suited her raised, angry, and mutinous mood. as for hagar, the street and its movement simply became herself. she never lost the child's and the poet's power of coalescence. it was before the days of waring. the only white wings upon this avenue had been the snowflakes which a week ago had fallen thickly, which had been dully scraped over the curbing into the gutter, and which now stayed there in irregular, one to three feet in altitude, begrimed alpine ranges. the cobblestones of the street between, over which the great dray horses ceaselessly passed, were foul enough, while the sidewalks had their own litter of torn scraps of paper, cheap cigar ends, infinitesimal bits of refuse. the day of the weirdness of electric lighting, of the bizarre come-and-go of motion signs was not yet either. down here there were occasional arc lights, but gas yet reigned in chief. the shops, that were not shops for millionaires, nor even for the quite comfortable, all had their winking gaslights. below them like chequered walls sprang out the variegated show-windows. the wares displayed were usually small in size, slight of value, and high in colour, a kaleidoscopic barbaric display. above dark doorways the frequent three golden balls showed up well. because the night was so mild and windless many people were abroad--people not well-dressed, and yet not quite poverty-stricken in aspect; others who were so, lounging men with hopeless faces, women wandering by, pinched and lost-looking; then again groups or individuals of a fairly prosperous appearance. the flaring gas showed now and again faces that were evidently alien, or there came a snatch of strange jargon. a crowd had gathered at a street corner. a girl wearing a dark-blue poke bonnet with a red ribbon across it was going from one to the other holding out a tambourine. a few pennies clinked into it. a man standing in the centre of the crowd, raised his arm. "now, we are going to sing." the women in the bonnets beat upon the tambourines, a man with a drum and another with a cornet gave the opening bars, the women raised shrill, sweet voices,-- "there is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from immanuel's veins, and sinners, plunged beneath that flood, lose all their guilty stains--" the hymn ended, a woman lifted both hands and prayed with fervour and a strange, natural eloquence. then the squad gathered up horn and drum and tambourines, and, drawing a part of the crowd with it, moved up the street to another skirmish ground. rachel and willy and hagar drifted on. the night was still young, the stars glittering above, the gaslamps making a vista, the footfalls on the pavement murmurous as a stream. the clanging of the street-car bell, the rush of a train on the neighbouring elevated, the abrupt rise and fall of passing voices--all exercised a fascination. the night was coloured, rhythmic. they came to a building, narrow and plain, with lit windows, as of a hall, on the second floor, and with a clean, fairly lighted stair going up from an open street door. men and women were entering. a care-worn, stooping, workman-looking man stood by the door with handbills or leaflets which he was giving out. "socialist meeting," he said. "good speaking. the unemployed and the strikes. socialist meeting. everybody welcome." hagar stopped. "rachel, i want to go in here. yes, i do! come now, be good to me, rachel! mr. maine wants to go, too." "socialists!" said willy. "those are the people who are blowing up everybody with bombs. i didn't suppose new york would let them hold a meeting! they're devils!" but willy had so well-grown a human curiosity that he was not averse to a glimpse of devils. perhaps he heard himself, back home in the sleepy county, talking at the village post-office or in the churchyard before church. "yes, and where else do you think i went? i went to a socialist meeting! bomb-throwers--socialists and anarchists, you know!" rachel, hardly more informed, was ready to-night for anything a little desperate. she would not have taken hagar where she positively thought she ought not to go,--but if these were desperate people going in, they were, to say the least, pretty quiet and orderly and decent-looking;--and it could do no harm just to slip in and sit on a back seat for a few minutes and look on--just as you might go to mass in a cathedral abroad, disapproving all the time, of course. but hagar had a book or two in her mind, and in addition the talk that sunday afternoon at the settlement. when they had climbed the stairs and come into the hall, which was a small one, they found that the back seats were all taken. apparently all seats were taken, but as they stood hesitating, a young man beckoned, and before they knew it they found themselves well down the place, seated near the platform. rachel looked around a little uneasily. "crowded, and they all look so intent! it's not going to be easy to get up and leave." the hall was rude enough, and small, the light not brilliant, the platform a few bare boards. upon it stood a deal table, and three or four chairs. back of these, fastened against the wall, was a red flag, and on either side of this a strip of canvas with large letters. on one side, universal brotherhood, and on the other, workingmen, unite! now standing beside the table, and slowly walking from end to end of the platform, a dark-eyed, well-knit man was speaking, quite conversationally, with a direct appeal, now to this quarter of the hall, now to that. his voice was deep and mellow; he spoke without denunciations, with a quiet reasonableness and conviction. at the moment he was stating a theory, giving the data upon which it was based, weighing it, comparing it with its counter theory. he used phrases--"economic determinism"--"unearned increment"--"class-consciousness"--"problem of distribution"--explained clearly what he meant by them, then put them aside. "they are phrases that will serve their ends and pass from speech," he said. "we shall bring in modifiers, we shall make other phrases, and they, too, in their turn, will pass from the tongues of men; but the idea behind them--the idea--the idea and its expression, the intellectual and moral sanction, the thing that is metaphysical and immortal, that will not pass! the very word socialism may pass, but socialism itself will be in the blood and bone and marrow of the world that is to be! and this is what is that socialism." he began to speak in aphorisms, in words from old wisdom-religions, and then, for all they were stories of quite modern happenings, in parables--the woe of the world epitomized, a generalization of its needs, all lines of help synthesized into a world saviour, which, lo! was the world itself. he made an end, stood a moment with kindling eyes, then sat down. after an appreciable silence there came a strange, deep applause, men and women striking fist on palm, striking the bare floor with ill-shod feet. a small, wiry dark man, sitting on the platform, rose and spoke rapidly for twenty minutes. he had a caustic wit and the power of invective which, if possessed by the other, had not been displayed. once or twice he evoked a roar of angry laughter. when he had finished, and the applause had subsided, the chairman of the evening stood up and spoke. "as the comrades know, it is our habit to turn the last half-hour into an open meeting. nearly always there's somebody who's been thinking and studying and wants to say a word as to what he's found--or there's somebody who's got a bit of personal experience that he thinks might help a comrade who's struggling, maybe, through a like pit. anybody that feels like speaking out, let him do it--or let her do it. men and women, we're all comrades--and though socialists are said not to be religious, we're all religious enough to like a good experience meeting--" he paused, waiting for some one to rise. the first speaker came for a moment to his side. "mr. chairman, may i say one word to our comrades, and to any others who may be here? it is this. if 'religious' means world-service and a recognition and a striving toward the ultimate divine in my neighbour as in myself, and in myself as in my neighbour--then i think socialism may be called religious." as he moved back to his chair a man arose in the back of the house and began to speak. after a moment the chairman halted him with a gesture. "it is difficult for the comrades on this side the hall to hear you. won't you come to the platform?" the man hesitated, then nodded his head; and with a certain deliberateness moved down the aisle, and stepping upon the only slightly raised platform stood facing the gathering. a colour flared in his cheek, and his hands, held somewhat stiffly at his sides, opened and shut. it was evident that he was not an accustomed speaker, and that there was diffidence or doubt of himself and his welcome to be overcome. he began stammering, with nervous hesitation. if anything he _could_ say would help by one filing he would say it, though he wasn't used--yet--to speaking. he owed a debt and he believed in paying debts--though not the way the world made you pay them. it was hard to tell how young or old he was. at times he looked boyish; then, when a certain haggard, brooding aspect came upon him, he seemed a middle-aged man. his clothes were poor, but whole and clean, his shirt a grey flannel one. above the loose collar showed a short, dark beard, well-cut features, and deep-set dark eyes. lines came into hagar's forehead between her eyes. she had seen this man somewhere. where? she had a trick of holding her mind passive, when the wanted memory would slowly rise, like water from a deep, deep well. now, after a minute or two, it came. she had seen him in the street-car that night, going from eglantine to see "romeo and juliet." he had been in workman's clothes, he had touched her skirt, standing before her in the car; then he had found a seat, and she had watched him unfold and read a newspaper. some vague, uncertain thought that she could not trace had made her regard him at intervals until with miss bedford and lily and laydon she had left the car.... the man on the platform had shaken off the initial clumsiness of speech and bearing. like a swimmer, he had needled the wave. he was not clumsy now; he was speaking with short, stripped words, nakedly, with earnestness at white heat. once he had been dumb and angry, he said, as a maddened dog. he had been through years that had made him so. he had been growing like a wolf. there were times when he wanted to take hold of the world's throat and tear it out. "do you remember ishmael in the bible?--his hand against every man and every man's hand against him? well, i was growing to feel that way." then at that point--"and that was perhaps three years ago, and i was down south in a town in my state, trying to get work. i knew how to break rock, and i knew how to make parts of shoes, and i didn't know much besides, except that it was a hard world and i hated it"--at this point chance "or something" had sent him an acquaintance, an educated man, a bookkeeper in the concern where he finally got a job. out of the acquaintanceship had grown a friendship. "after a while i got to going to his house. he had a wife who helped him lots." the three used to talk together, and the man lent him books and made him read them, and "little by little, he led me on. he was like an old man i knew in the mountains when i was a boy. he showed me that we're all sick and sorry, but that we're growing a principle of health. he showed me how slow we creep up from worm to man, and how now we're fluttering toward something farther on, and how hands of the past come upon us, and how we yet escape--and the wings strengthen. he showed me how vindictiveness is no use, and how much that is wrong with the world is owing to poor social mechanism and can be changed. he showed me what brotherliness means, on the road to unity. he put it in my mind and heart to want to help. he told me i had a good mind. i had always rather liked books, but i'd been where i couldn't get any, even if they'd given you time for reading. he made me study things out, and one day i began to think--think for myself--think it out. i've never stopped. usually now, i'm at night-school nights. i'm learning, and i'm going to keep on, until i make thinking wisdom." he studied the ceiling a moment, then spoke out with a ring in his voice. "i was a mountain boy. when i wasn't out of my teens i got drunk at a dance and played hell-fool and almost killed a man or two. then the sheriff chased me up to catamount gap, and the stuff was still in me and my head hitting the stars, and i shot and shot at the sheriff.... well, the end of all that playing was that i went to the penitentiary for four years. one thing i want wisdom for is to know how to talk to people about what is called crime and about that great crime, our law courts and penal system. well, i came out of the penitentiary, and then it was very hard to get work. it was bitter hard. that's another thing i want learning and wisdom for--to talk about that. you see, the penitentiary wasn't content with the four years; it followed me always. and then it's hard to get work anyhow. there wasn't any use in going back to the mountains. but after a while i got work and kept it. then, three months ago, i came up here, and i got work here. i'm working on your streets now, and studying between times.... i'm standing up here to-night to tell you that you've got a flag that draws the unhappy to you, when it happens that they're seeking with the mind. i don't know much about class-consciousness. we didn't have it in the mountains, though, of course, we had it in the penitentiary. but i know that we've got to take the best that was in the past and leave the worst, and go on with the best toward new things. we've got to help others and help ourselves. and it doesn't do just to want to help; you've got to have a working theory; you've got to use your mind. you've got to consider your line of march and mark it out and blast away the rock upon it and go on. and i am willing to be of your construction gang. the man i was talking about thought pretty much that way, too. he said there were a lot of isolated people, here, there, and everywhere, not only those that call themselves working-people, but others, too, and women just as well as men, who were thinking that way--that they might not call themselves socialists, but that they were blood kin just the same. i don't know why, to-night, but i am thinking of something that happened when i had been a year in the penitentiary, and they had rented a lot of us up the river to make the bed for a railroad. while i was up there, i couldn't stand it any longer, and i ran away. they set the dogs on my track and took me, of course, but before they did, i was lying in a thicket, and i hadn't had anything to eat for two days and a night. a little girl, about twelve years old, i reckon, came over a hill and down to the stream by the thicket. she gathered flowers and set them around a big rock for a flower doll tea-party. she had two little apple pies and she put those in the middle--and then she saw me, lying in the thicket. and i was wearing"--the colour flared into his face, then ebbed--"i was wearing stripes.... i don't think she ever thought of being frightened. she gave me both pies, and she sat and talked to me like a friendly human being. i've never forgotten. and when the dogs came, as they did pretty soon, and the men behind them, she lay on the grass and cried and cried as if her heart would break. i've never forgotten. that's what i mean. i don't care what we've done, if we're not fiends incarnate, and very few of us are, we've got to feel toward one another like that. we've got to feel, 'if you are struck, i am struck. if you are wearing stripes, i am wearing stripes.' we've got to feel something more than brotherhood. we've got to feel identity. and as a part, anyway, of that road seems to me to be named socialization, i'm willing to be called a socialist." he nodded to the audience, and, stepping from the platform, amid a clapping of hands and stamping of feet, did not return to his place in the back of the hall, but sat upon the edge of the stage, his hands clasped around his knee. a german clockmaker and a fiery, dark woman spoke each for a few minutes, and then the meeting ended. there was a noise of rising, of pushing back chairs, a surge of people, in part toward the exit, in part toward the platform. hagar touched rachel on the arm. "wait here for me. i want to speak to that man.--yes, i know him. wait here, rachel." she made her way to the space before the platform where men and women were pressing about the speakers. the man with the grey flannel shirt was answering a question or two, put by the dark-eyed man who had spoken first. he stood with a certain mountain litheness and lack of tension. a movement, his answer given, brought him face to face with hagar. she had taken off her hat, so that it might not trouble the people behind her, and she had it still in her hand. her dark, soft hair framed her face much as it had done in childhood; she was looking at him with wide, startled eyes. "i had to come to tell you," she said, "that i am glad you came through. i never forgot you either." "'forgot you either!'--" the man stared at her. "they were apple turnovers," she said; but before she had really spoken there came the flush and light of recognition. "oh--h!..." he fell back a step; then, with a reddened cheek and a light in his eyes, put out his hand. she laid hers in it; his fingers closed over hers in a grasp strong enough to give pain. then, as their hands dropped, as she fell back a little, the second speaker came between, then others. suddenly the lights were lowered, people were staying too long. rachel's hand on hagar's arm drew her back. "come, we must go!" willy, too, was insistent. "it's getting late. show's over!" the space between her and the boy of the thicket, the figure drawn against the sky of the canal lock, widened, filled with forms in the partial dusk. she was half-drawn, half-pushed by the outgoing stream through the door, out upon the stair, and so down to the street, where now there were fewer lights. the wind had arisen and the air turned colder. "we'll take this cross-town car, and then the elevated," and while she was still bewildered, they were on the car. the bell clanged, they went on; again, in what seemed the shortest time, they were out in the night, then climbing the long stairs, then through the gate and upon the rushing elevated. willy talked and talked. he was excited. "i thought it was going to be all about bombs! but they talked sense, didn't they?--and there was something in the air that kind of warmed you! next time i'm in new york i'm going again. look at the lights streaming off! by jiminy! new york's great!" he was not staying at the maines', but with other kinspeople a few blocks away. he saw the two in at the door, said good-night, and went whistling away. hagar and rachel turned off the lowered gas in the hall and went softly upstairs. as they passed mrs. maine's door she asked sleepily from within, "did you enjoy the play?" "we didn't go," said rachel. "we'll tell you about it in the morning." when the two had said good-night and parted and hagar, in her own room, kneeling at the window, looked up at the pleiades, at aldebaran--only then came the realization that she did not know that man's name, that she had never heard it. in her thoughts he had always been "the boy." chapter xviii a telegram the next day she went down to the settlement. elizabeth was at home. "yes, i could give you a list of books on socialism. i read a good deal along those lines myself. i am glad you are interested." "i am interested," answered hagar. "i cannot get any of these books now, but i am looking for fifty dollars, and when it comes, i will." "but i can lend you two or three," said elizabeth. "won't you take them--dear hagar?" she regarded the younger woman with her steady, friendly eyes, her strong lips just parting in a smile. there was perhaps nine years' difference in their ages, but mentally they came nearer. it was the first time that she had dropped the formal address. hagar answered with a warm colour and a tremulous light from brow to chin. "yes, if you'll be so good--elizabeth!" she crossed the floor with the other to the long, low, bookcase. elizabeth drew out a couple of volumes. "these are good to begin with--and this." she stood a moment in thought, her back to the case, her elbow resting on its polished top and her head upon her hand. on a shelf behind her stood a small bronze psyche, a photograph of botticelli's judith, a drawing of florence nightingale. "hagar," said elizabeth, "if i give you two or three books upon the position of woman in the past and to-day, will you read them?" "i will read anything you give me, elizabeth." she took her parcel of books and went back to the maines'. she read with great rapidity. her memory was not a verbal one, but her very tissues seemed to absorb the sense of what she read. much in these books simply formulated for her with clearness what was already in solution in her mind. here and there she was conscious of lines of difference, of inward criticism, but in the main they but enlarged a content already there, but brought above the threshold, named and fed what she was already thinking. her mind went back to eglantine and roger michael's talk. "no. it did not begin even here. it was in me. it had been in me a long time, only i didn't know it, or called it other names." before these books were finished she got her fifty dollars from the magazine, and the magazine itself was sent her with her story in it. she sat and read the story, and it seemed strange and new in its robe of print. the magazine had provided an illustration--and how strange it was to see her figures (or rather _not_ her figures) moving and laughing there! again and again, after the first time, she opened the magazine and in part or whole read the story and gazed upon the illustration--half a dozen or more times during the first twenty-four hours, then with dwindling frequency day after day, for a week or so. after that her appetite for her own completed work flagged. she laid the magazine away, and it was years before she read that story again. the fifty dollars--she put thirty-five away to go toward her summer clothes and wrote to her grandmother that she had done so. the remaining fifteen she expended on books, taking starred titles from elizabeth's list. in january she wrote "the lame duck." she sent it to one of the great monthlies. it was accepted, she was paid a fair price, and the monthly gave her to understand that it should like to see _hagar ashendyne's_ next story. the letter came as she was leaving the house for a walk in the park. there was no great distance to go before you came to an entrance, and she often went alone and wandered here and there by herself. the country was in her veins; not to see trees and grass very often was very bad. she opened the letter, saw what it was, then walked on in a rosy mist. after a while, out under the branched grey trees, she found a bench, sat down, and read it again and yet again. her soul passioned to do this thing; to write, to write well, to give out wonderfully, beautifully. a letter that told her it was so, that she was doing that which, with the strongest longing, she longed to do, must be to her golden as a love letter. with it open on her lap, with her eyes on the serene, pearl-grey meadow on the edge of which she sat, she stayed a long time, dreaming. a young man and woman, lovers evidently, slowly passed her bench beneath the trees. she watched them with tranquil eyes. "they're lovers," and she felt a reflex of their bliss. they passed, and she watched as happily the grey spaces where a few sheep stirred, and the edge of trees beyond, dream trees in the mist. quite simply she fell to thinking of "the boy." he had been often in her mind since the evening of that meeting; she wondered about him a good deal. she did not know his name; she had no idea where he lived; he might be in new york now, or he might not be; she might pass him in the street and not know--though, indeed, now she kept a lookout. he did not know her name; she was to him "the little girl" as he was to her "the boy." they might never meet again, but she had a faith that it would not be so. what she felt toward him was but friendliness, concern, and some admiration; but the feeling had a soft glow and pulse. the most marked thing was the consciousness that she knew him truly; reasoning did not come into it; she could have told herself a dozen times how little she did know, and it would have made no difference. it was as though the boy and she had seen each other's essential self through a clear pane of glass. her mind did not dwell long upon him to-day. she sat with her hands crossed above the letter, and her eyes, half-veiled, upon the far horizon. to write--to write--to produce, to lead forth, to give birth, to push out and farther on forever, to make a beautiful thing, and always a more beautiful thing--always--always.... she was more mind than body as she sat there; she saw her thought-children going up to heaven before her. there came an impulse to look on beauty that other minds had sent forth. she rose and walked, with her light, rhythmic swiftness, northward toward the metropolitan. when she passed the turnstile there lacked less than an hour of closing time. she went at once toward the rooms where were the casts. there was hardly a moving figure besides herself; there were only the still, white giants. she entered an alcove where there was a seat drawn before a cast of the tomb of lorenzo de' medici. she sat down and gazed upon michael angelo's thinker. after a while her eyes moved to the great figures of twilight and dawn, and then, rising, she crossed to guliano's tomb and stood before day and night. presently she left the alcove, and crossing by the models of the parthenon and of notre dame came into the hall of the antique and into the presence of the great venus. here she stayed until a man came through the place and said it was closing time. in february she sent to the same monthly "the mortal." it passed from hand to hand until in due time it reached the editor. he read it, then strolled into the assistant editor's room:--"new star in the sky." but before hagar could hear from the monthly, another moment in her life was here. a week after she had mailed this story, she and rachel were together one evening in the latter's room. it was pouring rain, and there would be no company. supper was just over,--the maines clung to supper,--and the children had not been put to bed. nightgowned, they made excursions and alarms from their nursery into their mother's room and out again and in again. then rachel turned out the gas, and they all sat in the light of the coal fire, and first rachel told a story, and then betty told one, and then hagar, and then charley. they were all stories out of mother goose, so no one had to wait long for their turn. then hagar had to tell about bouncing bet and creeping charley, which was a continued story with wonderful adventures, an adventure a night. then the clock struck eight with a leaden sound, and mammy appeared in the nursery door. "you carry me!" cried bouncing bet, and "you carry me!" cried creeping charley. so rachel took one and hagar took the other, mounted them like papooses, and in the nursery shot each into the appropriate small, white bed. back before the fire, with the lights still out, the two sat for a time in silence. hagar had a story in mind. she was musing it out, seeing the figures come true in the lit hollows. rachel had a habit of crooning to herself. she went on now with one of the children's rhymes:-- "baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?" "yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full-- one for my master and one for my dame, and one for the little boy that lives in the lane!" hagar stirred, lifted her arms, and clasped her hands behind her head. "how the rain pours! the winter is nearly over. it has been a wonderful winter." "i'm glad you've found it so," said rachel. "you've got a wonder-world of your own, behind your eyes. everything spins out for good for you sooner or later and somehow or other. you're lucky!" "aren't you lucky, too? haven't you liked this winter?" "oh, i've liked it so-so! i've liked you." "rachel, i wish you'd be happy. you've got those darling children." "i am happy where the children touch. and, oh, yes, they touch a long way round! but there's a gap in the circle where you go out lonely and come in lonely." "that's true of everybody's circle:--mine, yours, everybody's. but you chafe so. you blow the coals with your breath." "i don't need to blow the coal. it burns without that.... let me tell you, hagar. there are two kinds of people in the world. the people who are half or maybe two thirds the way out of the pit and the mire and the slough and the shadow so thick you can cut it! they are rising still, and their garments are getting clean and white, and they can see the wonderful round landscape, and they look at it with calm, wide eyes. they're nearly out; they're more or less spectators. the other kind--they're the poor, dull, infuriated actors. they're still in; they can hardly see even the rim of the pit. the first kind wants to help and does help. it's willing for the others to lay hold of its hands, its skirts, to drag out by. it's willing as an angel, and often the others wouldn't get out at all if it didn't give aid. but it's seen, of course, and it's away beyond.... people like elizabeth eden, for instance.... but the other kind--my kind.--it's all personal with us yet--we're fighting and loving and hating, down here in the muck and turmoil--all of us who are yet devils, and those who are half-devils, and those of us who are just getting vision and finding the stepping-stones--the animal and the half-animal, and those who've only got pointed ears--all resenting and striking out and trampling one another, knowing, some of us, that there are better things and yet not knowing how to get the shining garments; others not caring--oh, i tell you, life's a bubbling cauldron!" "i know it is--deep above and deep below. but--" rachel rose, went to the window, and stood, brow against the pane, looking out. the rain dashed against the glass; all the street lights were blurred; the gusty wind shook the bare boughs of the one tree upon the block, "you don't know anything about my married life. well, i'm going to tell you." she came back to the fire, pushed a footstool upon the hearth, and sat down, crouching close to the flame. "i'm not yet twenty-six. i was married to julian bolt when i was eighteen. i'd known him--or i thought i'd known him--for years. his mother and sisters went in summer to the place in the mountains where we always went. they had money, though less than people supposed. julian spent two weeks with them each summer. he was older than i, of course,--years older. but he used to row us girls upon the lake, and to play tennis with us, and we thought him wonderful. we called him 'the prince.' as i got older, he rowed me sometimes alone on the lake, and now and then we went for a walk together. he was good-looking, and he dressed and talked well, and he spent money. i had heard somebody call him 'a man-about-town'--but i didn't know what 'a man-about-town' meant. there were two or three families in the place with daughters out or about to come out, and they made julian bolt very welcome. i never heard a father or mother there say a word against him. mine didn't. "well, i came out very early, and the summer after, when i went to virginia, to the white with my aunt, and that winter when i stayed with some army people at old point, he came to both places, and i knew that he came to see me. he told me so.... of course, though i would have died rather than say it, even to myself, of course, i was expecting men to fall in love with me and ask me to marry them--and expecting to choose one, having first, of course, fallen in love with him, and be married in white satin and old lace, and be romantically happy and provided for ever after! isn't that the thinking rôle for every properly brought-up girl? the funny thing is that i'd rather die than see betty come upon that treadmill they've built for a girl's mind!... well, i was on it all right.... "julian had money, and he spent it recklessly. i didn't see how recklessly; i didn't see anything except that he liked me; for he sent me the most beautiful flowers, the most expensive bon-bons and books and magazines. it was a gay winter. looking back, it seems to me that everybody was eating and drinking, for to-morrow we die. i knew i must fall in love--that had been suggested to me, suggested for years, just as regularly and powerfully as any hypnotist could do it. the whole world was bent on suggesting it to every young girl. you see, the world's selfish. it wants to live, and it can't live unless the young girl says yea. and it can't leave it, or it thinks it can't, to nature working in a certain number in her own good time. it must cheat and beguile and train the girl--every girl--every girl! i tell you, i didn't know any more about marriage than i did about life on the planet mars! i was packing my trunks for a voyage--and i didn't know where i was going. i didn't know anything about it. no one offered me a baedeker.... it was orange blossoms and a veil and a ring--and i didn't know what either meant--and felicitations and presents and 'hear the golden wedding-bells!' and 'they lived happily ever after.' julian was handsome and lavish and popular, and his family were all right, and if he had been gay he would now settle down; and father and mother were satisfied, and people said i was to be envied.... i married at eighteen. i hadn't read much. i didn't know anything. no one told me anything. maybe the world thinks that if it tells, the young girl would say no. "we went on a wedding-trip. i suppose sometimes a wedding-trip isn't a mockery. i'm not so bitter as not to know that often it isn't so--that often it is all right. i'm not denying love, and clean men and considerate. i'm not denying hosts of marriages that without any very high ideal are fit and decent enough. i'm not denying noble lovers--men and women--and noble marriages. i'm only saying that the other kind, the kind that's not fit nor clean nor decent and anything but noble, is so frequent and commonplace that it is rather laughable and altogether sardonic and devilish to kneel down and worship as we do the institution of staying together--staying together at any price, even when evidently the only clean thing to do would be to stay apart.... my wedding-trip lasted four months. i went eighteen, and i came back old as i am now--older than i am now; for i have grown younger these last two years. my marriage wasn't the noble kind. it was the kind you couldn't make noble. it wasn't even the decent, low-order type. it was a sink and a pit and a horror." she bent and stirred the fire. outside the gusty wind went by and the rain beat upon the windows. "i know that there are marriages where woman is the ruiner. there are women who are wreckers. they fasten themselves on a man's life and drain it dry. they are devil-fish. they hold him in their arms and break his bones. they're among the worst of us struggling here in the pit. they're wicked women. they may be fewer than wicked men, or they may be equal in number, i don't know. i'm not talking of wicked men or wicked women in that sense. i'm talking of men whom the world does not call wicked, and of a great army of women like myself, an army that stretches round the world and through hundreds of years.... an army? it isn't an army. we never had any weapons. we were never taught to fight. we were never allowed to ask questions. we were told there were no questions to ask. we were young girls, dreaming, dropped into the wolf pack ... and it goes on all the time. it is going on now. it may be going on when betty grows up--though i'll tell her! you needn't be afraid. i'll tell her.... "that wedding trip--that honeymoon. i had married a handsome beast--a cruel one, too. he treated me like a slave, bought for one purpose, wanted for one purpose, kept for one purpose. i wasn't enough for him--i found that out very soon. but those others were freer than i. they made him pay them.... he would have said that he paid me, too; that he supported me. perhaps it's true. i only know that i am going to have betty taught to support herself." "you should have left him." "we were in europe. i hadn't any money. i was beaten down and stunned. when i tried to write to father and mother, i couldn't. they would have said that i was hysterical, and for god's sake to consider the family name!... i have been a woman slow to develop mentally. what poise i've got, what reading, what knowledge, what everything, has come to me since that time. then i didn't know how to hold my head up and march out. then i only wanted to die.... we came home, and it was to find father with a desperate illness. i couldn't tell mother then. i doubt if i could ever have told her. i doubt if it would have done any good if i had.... we went to live in a house up on the sound. julian said his fortune was getting low, and that it would be cheaper there. but he himself came into town and stayed when he wished. he spent a great deal of money. i do not know what he did with it. he threw away all that he had.... i knew by now that betty was coming. she was born before i was nineteen. and charley was born a year afterward--born blind, and i knew why. i loved my children. but my marriage remained what it had always been. when charley was nearly a year old, i couldn't stand it any longer. if i could stand it for myself, i saw that i couldn't stand it for them. i couldn't let them grow up having that kind of a mother, the kind that would stand it.... julian went away. every two or three months he took all the money he could lay his hands on and disappeared. i knew that he had dived into all that goes on here, in some places, in this city. he would be gone sometimes two weeks, sometimes longer.... well, this time i took betty and charley and came home, came here--and they tried to persuade me to go back. the bishop was here, visiting his nephew, and he came and tried to persuade me to go back. but i wouldn't ... and there was no need. within the week julian was killed in a fray in a house a mile, i suppose, from where we sit. that was two years ago." she rose and moved about the firelit room. "yes, i've got the two children, and life's healing over. i don't call myself unhappy now. at times i'm quite gay--and you don't know how eerie it feels! but happy or not, hagar, i'll never forget--i'll never forget--i'll never forget! they talk about the end of the century, and about our seeing the beginning of better things. they say the twentieth century will be an age of clearer thinking and greater courage, and they talk about the coming great movements.--there's one movement that i want to see, and that's the movement to tell the young girl. if i were the world i wouldn't have my dishonoured life as it gets it now.... and now let's talk about something else." hagar crossed to her, took her in her arms, and kissed her lips and forehead. "i love you, rachel. come, let's look at the rain, how it streams! listen! isn't that thunder?" they stood at the window and looked out upon the slanting lines and the glistening asphalt. the doorbell rang. "who on earth can that be?" rachel went to the door, opened it, and stood listening. "a telegram. dicey is bringing it up. it's for you, hagar." she struck a match and lit the gas. hagar opened the brown envelope and unfolded the sheet within. the telegram was from gilead balm, from her grandfather:-- _cables from physician and consul at alexandria. terrible accident. yacht on which were medway and his wife wrecked. his wife drowned, body not recovered. medway seriously injured. life not despaired of, but believe it will leave him crippled. ill in hotel there. unconscious at present. every attention. your grandmother will fret herself ill unless i go. insists that you accompany me. have telegraphed for passage on boat sailing saturday. arrive in new york friday morning. get ready.--argall ashendyne._ chapter xix alexandria "my master," said the valet, "is fond of cairo and detests alexandria. as soon as he is able to be moved, if not sooner, he will wish to be moved." "he is not able now," said hagar. "no, miss. he is still delirious." "the doctor says that he is very ill." "yes, miss. but if i may make so bold, i think mr. ashendyne will recover. i have lived with him a long time, miss." "what is your name?" "thomson, miss." the colonel entered. "he didn't know me. nor would i have known him. he is pretty badly knocked to pieces.--what have you got there? tea? i want coffee." thomson moved to the bell, and gave the order to the arab who appeared with the swiftness of a genie. "is there anything else, sir?" "no, not now." "the english papers are upon the small table, sir." and thomson glided from the room. the colonel looked about him. "humph! millionaires fix themselves luxuriously." "i keep seeing her," said hagar. "her body lying drowned there." the colonel glanced at her. "pull yourself together, gipsy! whatever you do, don't get morbid." "i won't," hagar answered. "i'm like you there, grandfather. i hate it. but it isn't morbidness to think a little of her." the arab brought the coffee. "turkish coffee!" said the colonel, not without relish in his voice. "i always wanted to taste--" he did so, appreciatively. "ah, it's good--" he leaned back in the deep wicker chair and gazed upon the latest attendant. "and what may be your name?" the figure spread its hands and said something unintelligible. "humph! comment vous nommez-vous?" "mahomet, monsieur." "we've come, gipsy," said the colonel, "far from old virginia. well, i always wanted to travel, but i never could. i had a sense of responsibility." it struck hagar with the force of novelty that what he said was true. he had such a sense. there had always been times when she did not like her grandfather, and times when she did. but during the last two weeks, filled with a certain loneliness and strangeness for them both, she had felt nearer to him than ever before. there had chanced to be on the boat few people whom he found congenial. he had been forced to fall back upon his granddaughter's companionship, and in doing so he had made the discovery that the child had a mind. he liked mind. of old, when he was most sarcastically harsh toward maria, he had yet grudgingly admitted that she had mind--only, which was the deep damnation, she used it so wrongheadedly! but gipsy--gipsy wouldn't have those notions! the laydon matter had been just a foolish girl's affair. she had been obstinate, but she had seen her mistake. as for ralph--ralph would get her yet. the colonel had been careful, in their intercourse during the voyage, to bring forward none of her mother's notions. he found that she knew really an amazing amount of geography and history, that to a certain extent she followed public events, that she knew byron and could quote milton, and that though she had no greek (he had forgotten most of his), she was familiar with translations and could not only give a connected account of the olympian family, but could follow in their windings the minor myths. the long voyage, the hours when they reclined side by side in their steamer chairs, or with the country need for exercise paced from prow to stern, and from stern to prow, taught him more about his granddaughter than had done the years at gilead balm. she told him of the acceptance of "the lame duck" and the sending of "the mortal," and he was indulgent toward her prospects. "there have been women who have done very good work of a certain type. it's limited, but it's good of its kind. as letter-writers they have always excelled. of course, it isn't necessary for you to write, and in the old south, at least, we've always rather deprecated that kind of thing for a woman." the colonel drank his thick coffee from its little metal cup with undeniable and undenied pleasure. he was not hypocritical, and he never canted. his only son lay in a large bedroom of this luxurious suite, maimed and hardly conscious, and whether he would live or die no one knew. but the colonel had never wept over medway in the past and he was not going to weep now. he drank his coffee leisurely, and when it was done mahomet took salver and cup away. rising, the colonel walked to one of the windows and stood looking out at a bougainvillæa-covered wall, a shaggy eucalyptus tree, and a seated beggar, fearful to the eye. it was afternoon, and they had been in alexandria since eight o'clock. "i sent a cable to your grandmother. the doctors think he's holding his own, but i don't know. it looks pretty bad. they've got a nurse from a hospital here,--two, in fact,--and that man thomson is invaluable.... i've seen, too, this morning, before they let me into the room, his wife's brother. it seems that he was in london at the time, and came on and has very properly waited here for our arrival. we walked through the place mahomet ali, and he took me to a very good club, where we sat and talked.... her will--it's rather curious. i suppose medway, if he lives, will be disappointed. and yet, with care, he'll have enough." the colonel laughed, rather grimly. "we'd think in virginia, that a million was a good livelihood, but standards are changing, and doubtless he's been feeling many times that amount between his fingers. it occurred to me that they must have quarrelled. it's like a woman to fling off and do a thing like that hastily. her brother says, however, that he believes they were really happy together. he fancies that she had some feminine scruple or other as to the way her first husband obtained his wealth,--as the world goes, entirely honourable transactions, i believe,--and that she had an idea of 'restoring' it. she made this last will in london, just before they started on this long trip that's ended so. it's been read. there's a string of bequests to servants and so on. she leaves just one million, well invested, to medway. the rest, and it's an enormous rest, goes into a fund, for erecting model lodging-houses and workmen's dwellings. philanthropy mad!" said the colonel. "her brother's got, i understand, some millions of his own, and he could afford to smile. also, he's been supposing for a year that it would all go to medway. well, that's where medway is--if he lives. fifty thousand or so a year," said the colonel, regarding the beggar, "is not an income to be despised. i should be happy if i saw, each year, in clear money, an eighth as much." there came a knock at the door and the physician entered. he was an american, a young, fresh-coloured man with an air of strength and capability. he had lunched with the two ashendynes, and now came in as one at home. he looked graver now than then; there was a plain cloud upon his brow. "i don't believe he can hold out," he said abruptly. "he has a magnificent constitution, and his body is making a splendid fight, but--it may come at any minute with a quick collapse. of course, i'm not saying that it will be so. but if miss ashendyne wishes to see him, or to be with him if it should happen to be the end--" hagar turned deadly pale. the colonel, not usually considerate of her or given to thinking that she needed consideration, was somehow different to-day. "if you'd rather not, gipsy--? indeed, i think that you had better not. it isn't as though you had been always with him." he turned to the physician. "she has seen very little of her father since baby-hood." but hagar had steadied herself and risen from her chair. "thank you, grandfather, but i would rather go with you." it was almost sunset, and the splendid western light flooded the chamber where the sick man lay. he lay low upon the pillows, with only a light covering. there had been, beside injuries to spine and limb, and some internal hurt, a bad blow over the head. this was bandaged; fold after fold of gauze wrapped around forehead and crown. "oh," thought hagar, "it is like the white helmet in that dream!" but the features below were not flushed with health; they were grey and drawn. the second physician, standing at the bed-head, lifted his hand from the pulse and moved to the side of the first. "a little stronger." the nurse placed a chair for hagar. thomson, at the windows, raised the jalousies higher, and the light evening breeze blew through the room. "it may or it may not be," said the first doctor in a low voice to the colonel. "if he pulls through to-night, i'll say he wins." the amber, almost red, light of the sun bathed the bed. when the sun sank, a violet light covered it. when the short twilight was gone, and the large, mild stars shone out, they brought shaded lamps, and the bed lay half in that light and half in the shadow. in the room, through the slow passing hours, hushed, infrequent movements took place, the doctors relieving each other in the watch by the bed, the night nurse arriving, the giving of stimulants, whispered consultations by the window. the adjoining room was prepared for rest and relaxation; there was a table with bread and cold meat and wine. the colonel came and went, noiseless as a shadow, but a restless shadow. once or twice during the night his touch upon her shoulder or his hand beckoning from the doorway drew hagar forth. "you'd better rest, child. here, drink this wine!" each time she stayed half an hour or so, either in the room or out upon the balcony which gave upon a garden, but then she stole back into the bedroom. she sat in a big chair which she had drawn aside and out of the way. she could, however, see the bed and the figure upon it; not clearly, because the lights were low, but dimly. she rather felt than saw it; it was as though a sixth sense were busy. she sat very still. her father.... through her mind, automatically, without any conscious willing, drifted words and images that spoke of father and child. it might be a bible verse, it might be a line from a younger poet, it might be an image from some story or history. father and child--father and daughter--father and daughter.... to sit and see her father die, and to feel no deep sorrow, no rending sense of companionship departing, no abject, suffocating pulsing of a stricken heart, no lifted hope and faith or terror for him, no transcending sense of self-relinquishment, while the loved one flew farther and swifter and higher out of her sight, away from this life's low level.... she could not feel any of that. as little as the colonel did she believe in or practise cant. she knew that she could not feel it thus, and knew why. but there was a great forlornness in sitting there and watching this stranger die. she tried to strengthen the faint memories that the past held. was she five or six years old the last time she had seen him? the distinctest image was of underneath the cedars at gilead balm. there was a shawl spread upon the grass. her father was lying on it, his hat tilted over his eyes. there was a book beside him. she had been gathering dandelions, and she came and sat down on the edge of the shawl and opened the book. she thought every book had pictures, but there were none in that one. then he had waked up and laughed at her, and said, "come here!"--it flashed into her consciousness, from where it had lain unrecalled all these years, just what he had said. he had said, "come here, miss ugly, ill-omened name!" she had gone, and in playing with her he had accidentally burned her finger with his lighted cigar. and then--it came to her with an effect of warmth and sunshine, and with a feeling of wanting to laugh, with tears in her eyes--he had been beautifully, charmingly shocked and apologetic. he had taken her away and made old miss bandage the finger, and then he had shouldered her and carried her into the orchard and broken boughs of apple blossoms for her and told her "jack and the beanstalk." ... that was almost all she could remember; or if there were one or two less agreeable things, she would not remember those now. she tried to keep the warmth about her heart; on the whole, aided by human pity for the broken form upon the bed, she succeeded better than she could have dreamed. the man upon the bed!--outside the fatherhood, outside the physical relation between them--there he was, a human being with death hovering above. it was easier to think of him just as a fellow-being; she laid hold of that thought and kept it. a fellow-mortal--a fellow-mortal. with a strange sense of relief, she let the images and words and the painful straining for some filial feeling pass from her soul. she did not know why she should feel toward him filially; he had not, like her mother, suffered to give her life; he had probably never thought of her; she had not been to him the concern in the matter. nor hardly since had he acted parentally toward her. with a wry humour she had to concede the winter in new york, the summer at the new springs, but it hardly seemed that the sacrifice could have been great, or that the need for gratitude was extreme. her soul rose against any hypocrisy. she could not and she would not try to say, "dear father--dear father!" the vision of her mother rose beside her.... but just to think of him as a human being--she could do that; a man lying there on the knife edge of the present, with the vast, unplumbed gulf before him.... that dream of the blue sea and the palm trees and the low pale-coloured houses returned to mind, but she put it from her somewhat shudderingly. he had looked so abounding in life, so vivid and vital, with the white hat like a helmet!... a fellow-mortal, lying there, helpless and suffering.... at three in the morning the physician in charge, who had been sitting for some time beside the bed, rose and moved away. he nodded his head to his fellow. hagar caught the satisfaction in the gesture even before, in passing her chair, he paused to say just audibly, "i think your father will recover." a short time passed, and then the colonel touched her arm. "they think it safe for us to go. he is stronger. come! they'll call if there is any need, but they don't think there will be." going, she stopped for a moment close beside the bed. she had not been this near before. medway lay there, with his head swathed in bandages, with his lips and chin unshorn, with no colour now in his cheeks, with his eyes closed. hagar felt the sudden smart of tears between her own lids. the gold thread of the dandelion day tied itself to the natural human pity and awe. her lips trembled. "father!" she said, in the lowest of whispers. her hand moved falteringly until, for the lightest moment, it rested upon his. in the outer room the physician joined them. "he'll still have to fight for it, and there may be setbacks. it's going to be a weary, long, painful siege for him, but i don't believe he's going to die. indeed, i think that, except in the one respect, we'll get him back to being a well man with a long life before him." "and that respect?" "i'm afraid, colonel ashendyne, that he'll never walk again. if he does, it will be with crutches and with great difficulty." when, half an hour later, hagar opened the door of her own room, the dawn was coming. it was a comfortable bedroom, large, cool, and high-pitched, and it, too, had a balcony. the bed invited; she was deadly tired; and yet she doubted if she could sleep. she stood in the middle of the room, her hands over her eyes, then, a little stumblingly, she went out upon the balcony. it was a small place, commanding the east. there was a chair and a little table on which you could rest your arms, and your head upon them, sideways so that you could see the sky. it was just grey light; there were three palm trees rustling, rustling. after a while purple came into the sky, and then pale, pale gold. the wind fell, the palms stood still, the gold widened until all the east was gold. she saw distant, strange, flat roofs, a distant dome and slender towers, all against the pale, pale gold. the air was cool and unearthly still. her head upon her arm, her face very quiet, her eyes open upon the deepening light, she stayed until the gardeners came into the garden below. chapter xx medway five days later, medway, one morning, recognized the colonel. "why, my dear father, what are you doing here?... what's it all about?" his feeble voice died away; without waiting for an answer, he lapsed into a kind of semi-consciousness. out of this, day by day, though, he came more strongly. directly he appeared to accept, without further curiosity, his father's occasional presence in the room. another interval, and he began to question the physician and nurses. "back, eh?--and leg, and this thing on my head. i don't remember.--a kind of crash.... what happened?" evasive answers did for a while, but it was evident that they would not do for ever. in the end it was thomson who told him. "you did, did you!" exclaimed the doctor in the outer room. "well, i don't know but what it's just as well!" "i couldn't help it, sir. he pinned me down." the colonel spoke. "just what and how much did you tell him?" "i told him, sir, about the wreck, and how he got beaten about, and how i fastened him, when he was senseless and we were sinking, to a bit of spar, and how we were picked up with some of the crew about dawn. and about his being brought here, and being very well cared for, and your coming from new york, you and miss ashendyne, and that he'd been wonderful close to dying, but was all right now, and what the date was, and things like that, sir." "did he ask for his wife?" "yes, sir." "and you told him?" "yes, sir." the doctor rose. "well, i'm glad it's done. i'll go see--" and disappeared into the sick-room. "i think you did well, thomson," said the colonel. "when you've got to take a thing, you'd better stand up and take it, and the quicker the better." "yes, sir," said thomson; and adjusted the jalousies, it being now very warm and the glare at times insupportable. the colonel, under the guidance of a dragoman of the best, had been shopping, and was in white duck. hagar, too, had secured from a french shop muslin and nainsook. thomson had been concerned for her lack of any maid or female companionship. he had gently broached the subject a week or two before. "mrs. ashendyne had an excellent maid, miss, who was with us on the yacht that night and was saved. but she's of a high-wrought nature, and the shock and cold and everything rather laid her up. she has a brother who is a photographer in cairo, having married a native woman, and she's gone to stay with him awhile, before she goes back into service. if that hadn't been the case, miss, you might, if you wished, have taken her on. i think she would have given satisfaction. as it is, miss, i know some english people with a shop here, and i think through them i could find you some one. she would not be a superior lady's maid like cécile, but--" hagar had declined the offer. "i never had a maid, thank you, thomson. i can do for myself very well." she liked thomson, and thomson agreed with the nurse that she was a considerate young lady. now, having adjusted the blinds, thomson left the room. the colonel paced up and down, his hands behind him. the white duck was becoming; he did not look sixty. hair, mustache, and imperial were quite grey; except for that he had never aged to hagar's eyes. his body had the same height and swing, the same fine spareness; his voice kept the same rich inflections, all the way from mellow and golden to the most corroding acid; he dominated, just as she remembered him in her childhood. not all of his two weeks in egypt had been spent by medway's bedside; he had been fairly over alexandria, and to meks and ramleh, and even afield to abûkir and rosetta. he had offered to take her with him upon these later excursions, but she had refused. the brother of her father's wife was going with him, and she correctly thought that they would be freer without her. the colonel acquiesced. "i dare say you'll have chances enough to see things, gipsy." it was her first intimation that any one had in mind her staying.... now the colonel, after pacing awhile, spoke reflectively. "at this rate it won't be long before he's really well enough to talk. i'll have to have several talks with him. did you gather, gipsy, that thomson had told him that he would remain crippled?" "i do not think he told him that, grandfather." "that's going to be the shock," said the colonel. "well, he'll have to be told! i think thomson--or the doctor--had better do it. and then he'll have to learn about that will. altogether, it may delay his convalescence a little. of course, i'll stay until he's practically recovered--as far as he can recover." "do you think that ... perhaps ... he might like to go home--to go home to gilead balm?" "not," answered the colonel, "if i know medway, and i think i do! to come back, crippled, after all these primrose years--to sleep in his old room, and maria's--to sit on the porch and listen to bob and serena--no!" that night in her own room hagar placed two candles on the table, took a sheet of paper and a pencil, and sitting down, made a calculation. the night was warm to oppression; through the windows came the indefinite, hot, thick murmur of the evening city. hagar sat with bare arms and throat and loosened hair. she wrote her name, _hagar ashendyne_, and her age, and then, an inch below, a little table,-- the prize story $ . (_clothes, books, thomasine. all spent._) the story in ----'s magazine $ . (_clothes, books. all spent._) "the lame duck" $ . (_i have most of it yet._) "the mortal" $ . ------- total $ . after a pause the pencil moved on. "many stories in mind, one partly written. the monthly says i can write and will make a name." it paused, then moved again. "to earn a living. to live where life is simple and doesn't cost much. if i go on, and i will go on, i could live at gilead balm on what i make, and help keep up the place. if ever i had to live by myself, i could get two or three rooms in a city and live there. or maybe a small house, and have thomasine with me. in another year or two years, i can keep myself. i do not want to stay here when grandfather goes. where there is no love and honour, what is the use? it isn't as though he needed me--he doesn't--or wanted me--" she laid the pencil down and leaned back in the deep chair. her eyes grew less troubled; a vague relief and calm came into her face, and she smiled fleetingly. "if he doesn't think he needs me or wants me,--and i don't believe he'll think so,--then there isn't anything surer than that i won't stay." she rose and paced the room. "i shouldn't worry, hagar!" some days after this, she offered one afternoon to relieve the nurse. she had done this before and frequently. heretofore the service had consisted, since the patient almost always slept through the afternoon, in sitting quietly in the darkened chamber and dreaming her own dreams for an hour or two, when the grateful nurse came back refreshed. to-day she was presently aware that he was awake; that he was lying there with his eyes open, regarding the slow play of light and shadow upon the ceiling. she had found out, on those earlier occasions, that he did not discriminate between her and the usual nurse; when he roused himself to demand water he had looked no farther than the glass held by her hand to his lips. now, as she felt at once as with a faint electric shock, it was going to be different. he spoke presently. his voice, though halting and much weakened, resembled the colonel's golden, energetic drawl. "what time is it?" "five o'clock." "what day of the month?" she told him. "alexandria in april!" he said. "what impossible things happen!" she did not answer, and he fell silent, lying there staring at the ceiling. in a few minutes he asked for water. the glass at his lips, she felt that he looked with curiosity first at the hand which held it, and then at her face. "water tastes good," he said, "doesn't it?" "yes, it does." she put down the glass and returned to her seat. "you aren't," he said, "the nurse i've had." "no; she will be back presently." there followed another pregnant silence; then: "a beautiful string of impossibilities. i know the colonel's here--been here a long time. now, did i dream it or did thomson tell me that he'd brought my daughter with him?" "thomson told you." medway lay quite quiet and relaxed. the cut over the head was nearly healed; there was now but a slight fillet-like white bandage about it. thomson had trimmed mustache and short pointed beard; the features above were bloodless yet, but no longer sunken and ghastly; the eyes were gathering keenness and intelligence. ashendynes and coltsworths were alike good-looking people, and medway had taken his share. he knew it, prized it, and bestowed upon it a proper care. hagar wondered--wondered. he spoke again. "life's a variorum! i shouldn't wonder ... hagar!" "yes, father?" "suppose you come over here, nearer. i want to see how you've 'done growed up.'" she moved her chair until it rested full in a slant ray of sunlight, coming through the lowered blinds, then sat within the ray, as still almost as if she had been sculptured there. five minutes passed. "haven't you any other name than hagar?" said medway. "are they always going to call you that?" "grandfather calls me gipsy--except when he doesn't like what i do." "does that happen often? are you wilful?" "i do not know," said hagar. "i am like my mother." when she had spoken, she repented it with a pang of fear. he was in no condition, of course, to have waked old, disturbing thoughts. but medway had depth on depth of _sang-froid_. "you look like her and you don't look like her," he murmured. "you may be like her within, but you can't be all like her. blessings and cursings are all mixed in this life. you must be a little bit like me--gipsy!" "it is time," said hagar, "for an egg beaten up in wine." she gave it to him, standing, grave-eyed, beside the bed. "i do not think you should talk. shut your eyes and go to sleep." "can you read aloud?" "yes, but--" "can you sing?" "not to amount to anything. but i can sing to you very low until you go to sleep, if that's what you mean--" "all right. sing!" she moved from the shaft of light, and began to croon rather than to sing, softly and dreamily, bits of old songs and ballads. in ten minutes he was asleep, and in ten more the nurse returned. the next afternoon thomson brought her a message. "mr. ashendyne would like you to sit with him awhile, miss." she went, and took her chair by the window, the nurse leaving the room. medway lay dozing, his eyes half-closed. after a while he woke fully and asked who was there. "it is hagar, father." "sit where you were yesterday." she obeyed, taking again her place in the slant light. it made a gold crown for her dusky hair, slid to the hollow of her firm young throat, brought forward her slender shoulders, draped in white, and bathed her long hands, folded in her lap. medway lay and looked at her, coolly, as long as he pleased. "you are not at all what is called beautiful. we'll dismiss that from mind. but the people who give us our terms are mostly idiots anyhow! beauty in the eye of the beholder--but what bats are the beholders! no, you haven't beauty, as they say, but there's something left.... i like the way you sit there, gipsy." "i am glad that you are pleased, father." "i couldn't deduce you from your letters." her eyes met his. "i did not choose that you should." again she felt a quiver of pain for what she had said. she was torn between a veritable anger which now and again rose perilously near the surface and a profound pity for his broken body, and for what he would feel when he knew. her dream of the early winter haunted her. she saw him leaving that white steamer, coming lightly and jauntily down from it to the shore, robust, with a colour in his cheeks and his white hat like a helmet. she heard again roger michael speaking. "we met him at carcassonne, and afterwards at aigues-mortes. he was sketching most wonderfully." she saw him, moving lightly, from stone to stone in old half-ruined cities. the dandelion day and the blossoming orchard came back to her; she felt again beneath her his half-dancing motion as he carried her under the boughs where the bees were humming. her pity, her comprehension, put the anger down. medway was watching her curiously. "you have a most expressive face," he said. "i do not remember you well as a child. how old were you the last time we met?" "five or six, i think. the clearest thing i can remember, father, is one day when you were lying under the cedars and i had been gathering dandelions and came to look at a book you had. you played with me, and i accidentally burned my finger on your cigar. then you were very kind and lovely; you took me to grandmother to have it tied up, and then you carried me on your shoulder through the orchard, and told me 'jack and the beanstalk.'" "by jove!" said medway. "why, i remember that, too!... first the smell of the cedar and then the apple blossoms.... you were a queer little elf--and you entered into the morals of 'jack and the beanstalk' most seriously.... good lack! whoever forgets anything! that to come back as soft and vivid!... well, i thought i had forgotten you clean, gipsy, but it seems i hadn't." "you mustn't talk too much. shall i sing you to sleep?" "yes, sing!" just before he dozed off, he spoke again, drowsily. "have you heard them say how many days it will be before i am on my feet again?" "no." "i will want to show you and the colonel--" but she had begun to croon "swanee river," and he went to sleep with his sentence unfinished. the next day he spoke of his drowned wife. it came as a casual remark, but with propriety. "anna was a good woman. there could hardly have been a more amiable one. she had experience and tact; she was utterly unexacting. she had her interests and i had mine; we lived and let live.... i cannot yet understand how she happened to have been the one--" "she sent me her picture," said hagar. "i thought it very handsome, and a good face, too. and the two or three letters i had from her--i have kept them." "she was a good woman," repeated medway. "you rarely see a tolerant woman--she was one. her brother has told me about her will. it is true that i expected, perhaps, a fuller confidence. but it was her money--she had a right to do as she pleased. i knew that she had some unfortunate idea or other as to the origin of her wealth--but i did not conceive that her mind made so much of it.... however, i refuse to be troubled on that score. her disposition of matters leaves me comfortable enough. i am not worrying over it. i never worry, gipsy!" after lying for three minutes he spoke with his inimitable liquid drawl. "when i think of all the years out of which i have squeezed enjoyment on the pettiest income--going here and going there--every nook of europe, much of asia and africa--just managing to keep thomson and myself--knowing every in and out, every rank and grade and caste, palace and hovel, château and garret, camp and atelier, knowing pictures, music, scenery, strange people and strange adventures, knowing my own kind and welcome among them--now basking like a lizard, now in action as though a tarantula had bit me--everywhere, desert and sea and city--and all on next to nothing!--making drawings when i had to (i did that one year in southern france; carcassonne, aigues-mortes, nîmes, and so forth), but usually fortunate in friends ... it seems that i might be able to manage on fifty thousand a year ... resume at the old house." it was another week before he was told. he was growing impatient and suspicious.... the doctor did it, thomson flunking for the first time in his existence. the doctor, having done it, came out of the room, drew a long breath, and accepted coffee from mahomet with rather a shaking hand. "well?" demanded the colonel. "well?" "he's perfectly game," said the doctor, "but i should say he's hard hit. however,"--he drank the coffee,--"there's one thing that a considerable experience with human nature has taught me, and that is, colonel, that your born hedonist--and it's no disparagement to mr. ashendyne to call him that; quite the reverse--your born hedonist will remain hedonist still, though the heavens fall. he'll twist back to the pleasant. he's going through pretty bitter waters at the moment, but he'll get life somehow on the pleasurable plane again. all the same," mused the doctor, "he's undoubtedly suffering at present." "i won't go in," said the colonel. "better fight such things out alone!" the other nodded. "yes, i suppose so." but a little later hagar went in. she waited an hour or two in her own room, sitting before a window, gazing with unseeing eyes. the heat swam and dazzled above countless flat, pale, parapetted roofs of countless houses. palm and pepper and acacia and eucalyptus drooped in the airless day; there sounded a drone of voices; a great bird sailed slowly on stretched wings far overhead in a sky like brass. she turned and went to her father's room. outside she met thomson. "are you going in, miss? i'm glad of that. mr. ashendyne isn't one of these people whom their own company suffices--" hagar raised sombre eyes. "i thought that my father had always been sufficient to himself--" "not in trouble, miss." he knocked at the door for her. medway's voice answered, strangely jerky, quick, and harsh. "what is it? come in!" thomson opened the door. "it's miss hagar, sir," then closed it upon her and glided away down the corridor. medway was lying well up upon his pillows, staring at the light upon the wall. he had sent away the nurse. he did not speak, and hagar, moving quietly, went here and there in the large room, that was as large as an audience chamber. at the windows she drew the jalousies yet closer, making a rich twilight in the room. there were flowers on a table, and she brought fresh water and filled the bowl in which they lived. there were books in a small case, and, kneeling before it, she read over their titles, and taking one from the shelf went softly through it, looking at the pictures. at last, with it still in her hand, she came to her accustomed seat near the bed. "it's a bad day for you," she said simply. "i am very sorry." "do you object to my swearing?" "not especially, if it helps you." "it won't--i'll put it off.... oh--h...." he turned his head and shoulders as best he could, until his face was buried in the pillows. the bed shook with his heavy, gasping sobs.... it did not last. ashendynes were not apt long to indulge in that kind of thing. medway pulled a good oar out of it. the room very soon became perfectly still again. when the silence was broken, he asked her what she was reading, and then if she had seen anything of the city. presently he told her to sing. he thought he might sleep; he hadn't slept much last night. "i must have had a presentiment of this damned thing--go on and sing!" she crooned "dixie" and "swanee river" and "annie laurie," but it was of no use. he could not sleep. "of all things to come to me, this--!... why, i should like to be out in the desert this minute, with a caravan.... o god!" she brought him cool water. "i'm sorry--i'm sorry!" she said. as she put down the glass, he held her by the sleeve. a twisted smile, half-wretched, half with a glint of cheer, crossed his face. "do you know, gipsy, i could grow right fond of you." chapter xxi at roger michael's on an early april afternoon in the year a man and woman were crossing, with much leisureliness, trafalgar square. "we won't get run over! it isn't like paris." "aren't you tired, molly? don't you want a hansom?" "tired? no! what could make me tired a day like this? i want to go stroke the lions." they gravely went and did so. "poor old british lion!--listen!" news was being cried. "_details of fight at bushman's kop!_" christopher josslyn left the lions, ran across and got a paper, then returned. "a small affair!" he said. "how interminably the thing drags out!" "but they'll have peace directly now." "yes--but it's poor old lion, just the same--" they moved from the four in stone, striking across to pall mall. "there was a halcyon time in england, fifty years or so ago, when, if you'll believe what men wrote, it was seriously held that no civilized man would ever again encroach upon a weaker brother's rights! Æons were at hand of universal education, stained glass, and ascension lilies. at any rate æons of brotherhood. under the kindly control of the great elder brother england. and they had some reason--it looked for an illusory moment that way. i always try to remember that--and moments like that in every land's history--at moments such as these. why doesn't that moment carry on over? there's something deeply, fundamentally wrong." he looked along the crowded street. men were buying papers--that seemed their chief employment. _delarey--kitchener--report of fight at hartz river._ "not far from a billion dollars expended on this war--and those east side streets we went through yesterday--concentration camps--and the coronation--this reactionary administration with its corn laws and coercion laws and wretched education bill, and so on--and the coronation talk--and piccadilly last night after nine--" "oh," said molly sharply. "that's the sting that i feel! it's women and children who are suffering in those concentration camps, i suppose--and it's women's sons who are lying on the battlefields--and it's women just as well as men who are paying the taxes--and it's women, too, in those horrible slums, wretched and hopeless--and bad legislation falls on women just as hardly as on men--but the other! there we've got the tragedy mostly to ourselves--and there's no greater tragedy below the stars!" she dashed a bright drop from her eyes. "i'll never forget that girl, last night, on the embankment--thin and painted and that hollow laugh.... i wish women would wake up!" "women and men," said the other. "they're waking, but it's slow, it's slow, it's slow." the softened, softened english sunlight bathed the broad street, the buildings, the wheeled traffic, the people going up and down. the two americans, here at last at the latter end of their six months abroad, delighted in the tender light, in the soft afternoon sky with a few sailing clouds, in the street sights and sounds, in the english speech. they strolled rather than walked; even at times they dawdled rather than strolled. they developed a tendency to stand before shop-windows. so strong and handsome a pair were they that they attracted some attention. thirty-five and thirty-two, both tall, both well-made, lithe, active, both aglow with health; she a magnificent rosy blonde, he blue-eyed, but with nut-brown hair; both dressed with an unconventional simplicity, fitness, and comfort; both interested as children and happy in each other's company--those who observed them did not call them "promise-bearers"; and yet, in a way, that was what they were. there were three children at home with as splendid a grandmother. a university had sent christopher to make an investigation, and the children had said, "you go, too, mother! it'll be splendid. you need a rest!" and christopher had said, "molly, you need another honeymoon." the english weather was uncommonly good. as they came to green park a barrel-organ was playing. spring was full at hand; you read it everywhere. two men passed, talking. "yes, to confer at klerksdorp, with steyn and botha and de wet. peace presently, and none too soon!" "i should think not. i'm done with wars." "little annie rooney," played the barrel-organ. "there is more than one way for societies to survive," said christopher, "and some day men will find it out. you can survive by being a better duellist and for a longer time than the other fellow--and you can survive by being the better toiler, also with persistence--or you can survive by being the better thinker, in an endless, ascending scale. each plane makes the lower largely unnecessary, is, indeed, the lower moved up, become more merciful and wiser. survive--to live over--to outlive. the true survivor--wouldn't you like to see him--see her--see _us_, molly?" "yes," said molly soberly. "we are a long way off." christopher assented. "true enough. and, thank heaven! the true survivor will always vanish toward the truer yet. but i don't know--it seems to me--the twentieth century might catch a faint far glimpse of our lineaments! i am madly, wildly, rashly optimistic for the twentieth century--even when i remember how optimistic they were fifty years ago! who could help being optimistic on such an afternoon? look at the gold on the green!" the barrel-organ played an old, gay dance. "do you suppose," said molly, "that, in merry england, the milkmaids and shepherdesses danced about a maypole at thirty-two? for that's just exactly what i should like to do this minute! how absurd to be able to climb the matterhorn, and then not to be let go out there and dance on that smooth bit of green!" "you might try it. only i wouldn't answer for the conduct of the policeman by the tree. and if you're arrested, we can't dine to-night with roger michael." roger michael lived in a small, red, georgian house in chelsea. her grandparents had lived here, and her parents, and she had been born here, nearer fifty than forty years ago. it had descended to her, and she lived here still. she had an old housekeeper and a beautiful cat, and two orphan children who were almost the happiest children in that part of the world. she always kept children in the house. there were a couple of others whom she had raised and who were out in the world, doing well, and when the two now with her were no longer children she would find another two. she did not believe in orphan asylums. she herself had never married. she remembered george eliot, and she had known the rossettis, and more slightly the carlyles. now in her small, distinguished house, with its atmosphere of plain living and high thinking, fragrant and sunny with kindliness and good will, she set her table often for her friends and drew them together in her simple, old-fashioned, book-overflowing drawing-room. her friends were scholars, writing and thinking people, and simply good people, and any one who was in trouble and came to her, and many reformers. she was herself of old, reforming stock, and she served humanity in all those ways. she had met and liked the josslyns when she was in america years before, and when they wrote and told her they were in london she promptly named this evening for them to come to chelsea. they found besides roger michael a scientific man of name asked to meet christopher, a writer of plays, a writer of essays, a noted fabian, and as noted a woman reformer. the seventh guest was a little late. when she came, it was hagar ashendyne. "what an unexpected pleasure!" said the josslyns, and meant every word of it. "how long since that summer at the new springs? almost nine years! and you've grown a great, famous woman--" "not so very great, and not so very famous," said hagar ashendyne. "but i'm fortunate enough--to-night! you're a wind from home--you mountain-climbing, divine couple! the bear's den! do you remember the day we climbed there?" "yes!" said molly; "and judge black waiting at the foot. oh, i am glad to see you! we did not dream you were in london." "we--my father and i--have been here only a little while. all winter we were in algeria. then, suddenly, he wanted to see the leonardos in the national." her voice, which was very rich and soft, made musical notes of her words. she was subtly, indescribably, transfigured and magnified. she looked a great woman. while she turned to greet others in the room, one or two of whom seemed acquaintances of more or less old standing, molly and christopher were alike engaged in drawing rapidly into mind what they knew of this countrywoman. they knew what the world knew--that she was a writer of short stories whose work would probably live; that her work was fabulously in demand; that it had a metaphysical value as well as a clutching interest. they knew that she was a world-wanderer, sailing here and there over the globe with a father whose insatiable zest for life crutches and wheel-chair could not put under. it was their impression that she had not been in america more than once or twice in a number of years. they read everything she published; they knew what could be known that way. they had that one summer's impression and memory. she was there still; she was that hagar ashendyne also, but evolved, enriched.... roger michael never had large dinner-parties, and the talk was oftenest general. the fare that she spread was very simple; it was enough and good; it gained that recognition, and then the attention went elsewhere. the eight at the round table were, through a long range, harmoniously minded; half, at least, were old friends and comrades, and the other half came easily to a meeting-place. thought, become articulate with less difficulty than usual, wove with ductileness across and across the table. there sounded a fair deal of laughter. they were all workers here, and, necessarily, toward many issues, serious-minded enough. but they could talk shop, and one another's shop, and shop of the world at large, with humour and quick appreciation of the merrier aspects of the workroom. at first, naturally, in a time of public excitement, they talked the war in africa, and the sick longing the country now felt for peace, and the general public foreboding, undefined but very real, that had taken the place of the old, too-mellow complacency; but then, as naturally in this company, the talk went to underlying, slow, hesitant movements, evolutionary forces just "a-borning"; roads that people such as these were blazing, and athwart which each reactionary swing of the pendulum brought landslides and floods enough, mountains of obstruction, gulfs of not-yet-ness. but the roadmakers, the pioneers, had the pioneer temper; they were spinning ropes, shouldering picks, stating to themselves and one another that gulfs had been crossed before and mountains removed, and that, on the whole, it was healthful exercise. they were incurably hopeful, though at quite long range, as reformers have to be. the fabian told a mirth-provoking anecdote of a tory candidate. the scientific man, who possessed an imagination and was a member of the society for psychical research, gave a brief account of thomson's new theory of corpuscles, and hazarded the prediction that the next quarter-century would see remarkable things. "we'll know more about radiation--gravity--the infinitely little and the infinitely big. and then--my hobby. there's a curious increase of interest in the question of a fourth dimension. it's a strange age, and it's going to be stranger still--or merely beautifully simple and homecoming, i don't know which. science and mysticism are fairly within hailing distance of each other." the talk went to christopher's investigation, and then to mountain-climbing, and cecil rhodes's will, and marconi's astonishing feat of receiving in newfoundland wireless signals from a station on the english coast, and m. santos-dumont's flight in a veritable airship. the writer of essays, who was a woman and an earnest and loving one, had recently published a paper upon a term that had hardly as yet come into general use--_eugenics_; an article as earnest and loving as herself. roger michael had liked it greatly, and so had others at the table. now they made the writer go over a point or two, which she did quietly, elaborating what she had first said. only the writer of plays--his last one being at the moment in the hands of the censor--chose to be strangely, deeply, desperately pessimistic. "i am going," he said, "to quote huxley--not that i couldn't say it as well myself. says huxley, 'i know of no study which is so unutterably saddening as that of the evolution of humanity.... out of the darkness of prehistoric ages man emerges with the mark of his lowly origin strong upon him. he is a brute, more intelligent than other brutes; a blind prey to impulses which, as often as not, lead him to destruction; a victim to endless illusions which make his mental existence a terror and a burthen and fill his physical life with barren toil and battle. he attains a certain degree of comfort and develops a more or less workable theory of life ... and then for thousands of years struggles with varying fortunes, attended by infinite wickedness, bloodshed, and misery, to maintain himself at that point against the greed and ambition of his fellow-men. he makes a point of killing and otherwise persecuting all those who first try to get him to move on; and when he has moved a step farther, foolishly confers _post-mortem_ deification on his victims. he exactly repeats the process with all who want him to move a step yet farther.'--that," said the writer of plays, "is what happens to brains, aspiration, and altruism in combination--rack and thumbscrews and auto-da-fés, and maybe in five hundred years or a thousand a picture skied by the royal academy--'giordano bruno going to the stake,' 'galileo recanting,' 'joan of arc before her judges.' my own theory of the world is that it is standing on its head. naturally it resents the presence of people whose heads are in the clouds. naturally it finds them rather ridiculous and contrary to all the proprieties, and violently to be pulled down. moral: keep your brains close to safety and the creeping herb." "i think that you worry," said the fabian, "much too much about that play. i don't believe there's the slightest prospect that he'll think it fit to be produced." the woman reformer was talking with molly. "yes; it's a long struggle. we've been at it since the 'fifties--just as you have been in america. a long, long time. the movement in both countries is a grey-haired woman of almost sixty years. we've needed what they say we have--patience. sometimes i think we've been too patient. you younger women have got to come in and take hold and give what perhaps the older type couldn't give--organization and wider knowledge and modern courage. we've given the old-time courage all right, and you'll have to have the patience and staying qualities, too;--but there's needed now a higher heart and a freer step than we could give in that world that we're coming out of." "i think that i've always thought it right," said molly, "but i've never really come out and said so, or become identified in any way.--of course, it isn't thinking so very positively if you haven't done that--" "it is like that with almost every one. diffused thought--and then, suddenly one day, something happens or another mind touches yours, and out of the mist there gathers form, determination, action. you're all right, my dear! only, i hope when you go home you will speak out, join some organization--that is the simple, right thing that every one can do. concerted effort is the effort that tells to-day." "are you speaking," asked hagar ashendyne, "of the suffrage movement?" they were back in the drawing-room, all gathered more or less closely around a light fire upon the hearth, kindled for the comfort of americans who always found england "so cold." it softened and brightened all the room, quaint and old-fashioned, where, for a hundred years, distinguished quiet people had come and gone. "yes," said the older woman. "are you interested?" "yes, of course--" she had not spoken much at dinner, but had sat, a pearl of listeners, deep, soft eyes upon each discourser in turn. there was in the minds of all an interest and curiosity regarding her. her work was very good. she had personality to an extraordinary degree. now she spoke in a voice that had a little of the ashendyne golden drawl. "i have been--in the last eight years--oh, all over! europe, yes; but more especially, it seems to me, looking back, the orient. egypt, all north africa, turkey and persia, japan and india. yes, and europe, too; greece and italy and spain, the mid-continent and the north. around the world--a little of spanish america, a little of the islands. sometimes long in one place, sometimes only a few days.... everywhere it was always the same.... the social organism with a shrivelled side." the writer of plays was in a mood to take issue with his every deepest conviction; also to say banal things. "but aren't american women the freest in the world?" hagar ashendyne did not answer. she sat in a deep armchair, her elbow upon the arm, her chin in her hand, her eyes dreaming upon the fire.... but christopher entered the lists. "'freest'--'freest'! yes, perhaps they are. the italian woman is freer than the oriental woman, and the german woman is freer than the italian, and the english woman is freer than the german, and the american is freer than the english! but what have they to do with 'freer' and 'freest'? it is a question of being free!" "free politically?" "free in all human ways, politically being one. i do not see how a man can endure to say to a woman, 'you are less free than i am, but be satisfied! you are so much freer than that wretch over there!'" hagar rose. her eyes chanced to meet those of the man who had talked physics and mysticism. "we shan't," she said, "get into the fourth dimension while we have a shrivelled side. we can't limp into that, you know." she crossed the room and stood before a portrait hung above a sofa. "roger michael, come tell me about this quaker lady!" she left before ten, pleading an early rising for work that must be done. and molly and christopher would come to see her? she might be a month in london. christopher and the fabian saw her into her cab, and she gave each her hand and was driven away. "that," said the fabian, as they turned back to the house, "is a woman one could die for." it was a long way to the hotel where the ashendynes were staying. a mild, dark, blurred night; street lights, houses with lights and darkened houses, forms on the pavement that moved briskly, forms that idled, forms that went with stealthiness; passing vehicles, the horses' hoofs, the roll of the wheels, the onward, unfolding ribbon of the night. the air came in at the lowered window, soft and cool, with a hint now of rain. hagar was dreaming of gilead balm. up over the threshold had peered a childhood evening, and she and thomasine and maggie and corker and mary magazine played ring-around-a-rosy, over the dewy grass until the pink in the west was ashes of roses and the fireflies were out. chapter xxii hagar in london "i have been re-reading humboldt," said medway ashendyne. "what do you say, gipsy, to risking a south american revolution? venezuela--colombia--sail from new york in september--and if you wanted ten days at gilead balm--" their drawing-room looked pleasantly out over gardens; indeed, so closely came the trees, there was a green and shimmering light in the room. it was may, and the sounds of the london streets floated pleasantly in at the open windows with the pleasant morning breeze. the waiter had taken away medway's breakfast paraphernalia. hagar had breakfasted much earlier. thomson stood at the back of the room arranging upon a small table, which presently would be moved within reach of medway's hand, smoking apparatus, papers, magazines, and what not. that eight-years-past prolonged sojourn and convalescence in egypt had produced a liking for mahomet, and medway had annexed him as he annexed all possible things that he liked and that could serve him. mahomet, speaking english now, but still in the costume of the east, had just brought in a pannier of flowers. they were all over the room, in tall vases. "too many," said hagar's eyes; but medway who, when he was in search of the rarefied pleasure of adventure and novelty in strange and barbarous places, could be as ascetic as a red indian on the warpath, loved, when he rocked in the trough of the waves, to rock in a bower. "cartagena would be our port. there's a railroad, i believe, to calamar. then up the magdalena by some kind of a steamboat to giradot. then get to bogotá as best we might. there's an interesting life there, eight thousand feet above the sea, with schools and letters, and governments in and governments out, and cool mountain water running downwards through the city, and the houses built low because of the earthquakes. let us go up the magdalena and across to bogotá, gipsy!" he sat in the wheel-chair he had himself designed, a wonderfully light and graceful affair,--considering,--with wonderful places alongside and beneath for wonderful things. his crutches were there, slung alongside, ready to his hand, and wicker detachable receptacles for writing-things and sketching-block and pencils and the book he was reading and so forth. where he travelled now, the wheel-chair must travel. he was good with crutches for a hundred paces or two; then he must sit down and gather force for the next hundred. he suffered at times--not at all constantly--a good deal of pain. but with all of this understood, he yet looked a vigorous person,--fresh, hale, well-favoured, with not a grey hair,--a young man still. "bogotá," he said, "an archiepiscopal see--universities, libraries, and a botanic garden. shut-in and in-growing meridional culture, tempered by revolutions. by all means let us go to bogotá, gipsy!" hagar smiled, sat without speaking, waiting, her eyes upon thomson putting the last touches to the table, and mahomet thrusting long-stemmed irises into the vases, the faces of both discreetly masking whatever interest they might feel in the proposed itinerary. when, after another minute or two, they were gone from the room, "were you waiting for them to go? why, who keeps anything from thomson? he knows my innermost soul. i told him this morning i was thinking of south america." hagar rose, and with her hands behind her head, began slowly to pace the large room. "bogotá _qua_ bogotá is all right. you've the surest instinct, of course, when it comes to matching your mood with your place. you're a marvel there, as you are in so many ways, father! and thomson and mahomet would like it, too, i think." "do you mean that you won't like it?" "no. i should like it very much. but i am not going, father." medway made an impatient movement, "we have had this before--" "yes, but not so determinedly.... why not agree that the battle is over? it _is_ over." "and you rest the conqueror?" "in this--yes." "i could see," said medway, "some point in it if the existence you lead with me made the fulfilment of your undoubted talent--your genius, perhaps--impossible. but you write wherever we go. you work steadily." "yes," said hagar, "but the work by which you live is not all of life." "it seems to me that you have touched life at a good many points in these eight years." "being with you," said hagar, "has been a liberal education." she laughed with soft, deliberate merriment, but she meant what she said. from a slender green vase she took an iris, and coming to the wheel-chair knelt down and drew the long stalk through the appropriate buttonhole. "you must have as large a bouquet as that!" she said. "yes, a university and a training-ship! i can never be sufficiently grateful!" they both laughed. "well, you've paid your way!" he said; "literally and metaphorically. i suppose two gratitudes cancel each other--" "leaving an understanding friendship." she grew graver. "a good deal of love, too. i want you to realize that." she laughed again. "i do not always approve you, you know, but, thank god! i can love without always approving!" medway nodded. "i like a tolerant woman." she rose and stood, regarding him with a twisted smile, affectionate and pitying. "i think that you are a fearfully selfish man--to quote stevenson, quoted by henley, 'an unconscious, easy, selfish person.' and i think that, of your own brand, you have grit and pluck and stamina for twenty men. there's no malice or envy in you, and you're intellectually honest, and you can be the best company in the world. i am very fond of you." "aren't you the selfish person not to be willing to go to bogotá?" "perhaps--perhaps--" said hagar ashendyne, "but i am not willing." "what is it that you do want?" "that is the first time you have asked me that.... wandering is good, but it is not good for all of life. i want to return to my own country and to live there. i want to grow in my native forest and serve in my own place." "to live at gilead balm with bob and serena?" "no; i do not mean that precisely." hagar pushed back her heavy hair. "i haven't thought it out perfectly. but it has grown to be wrong to me, personally, to wander, wander forever like this--irresponsible, brushing life with moth wings.... if i saw any end to it ... but i do not--" "and you wish to cut the painter? this comes," said medway, "of the damned modern independence of women. if you couldn't write--couldn't earn--you'd trot along quietly enough! the pivotal mistake was letting women learn the alphabet." "i could always have taken a position as housemaid," said hagar serenely. "you can't make me angry, and so get the best of me. and you like me better, knowing the alphabet, and there's no use in your denying it.... if only you would conceive that it were possible for you to return to america, to take a house, to _live_ there. and still you could travel--sometimes with me, sometimes without me--travel often if you pleased and far and wide.... would it be so distasteful?" "profoundly so," said medway. "it is idle to talk of it. i should be bored to extinction.--what is your alternative?" "i shall be glad to spend three months out of every year with you." "is that your last word?" "yes." "suppose you do not begin the arrangement until next year? then we can still go to bogotá." "are you so wild to go to bogotá?" "all life," said medway, "is based upon compromise." hagar, pacing to and fro, in her soft dull-green cotton with its fine deep collar of valenciennes, stopped now before the purple irises and now before the white. "had i not appeared by your bedside in alexandria, eight years ago, had i not been at hand during that convalescence for you to grow a little fond of, you would have, all these years, taken thomson and mahomet and gone to every place where we have gone, just the same,--just the same,--and with, i hardly doubt, just as full enjoyment. if you had not liked me, you would, with the entirest equanimity, have bidden me good-bye and seen me return with grandfather to gilead balm, and you would have travelled on, finding and making friends, acquaintances, and servants as you do to so remarkable a degree, missing not one station or event. if i died to-day, you would do every proper thing--and in the autumn proceed to bogotá." "granting all that," said medway, "it remains that i find and have found in the past a pleasure in your company.--i am going to remind you again, gipsy, that all life is compromise." hagar, at the window, in the green and shimmering light like the bottom of the sea, leaned her forehead against the sash and looked across into the leafy gardens. children were there, playing and calling. a young girl passed, carrying smart bandboxes; then an old woman, stooping, using a cane, with her a great dog and a young woman in the dress of a nurse. the soft rumble and crying of the city droned in together with a bee that made for the nearest flower. hagar turned. "i will go with you for another year, father, but after that, i will go home." "no end of things," said medway, "can happen in a year. i never cross a bridge that's three hundred and sixty-five days away.--i'd advise you, if you haven't already done so, to read humboldt." he had a luncheon engagement, and at twelve vanished, thomson and mahomet in attendance. this drawing-room, his large chamber and bath, an adjoining room with its own entrance for thomson, quarters somewhere for mahomet, were his; he paid for them. hagar had two rooms, her bedroom, and a much smaller drawing-room. they were hers; she paid for them. after the first two years she had assumed utterly her own support. medway had shrugged. "as you choose--" now, in her own rooms, she wrote through the early afternoon, then, rising, weighted the sheets of manuscript with a jade buddha, put on a street dress, and went out into the divine, mild may weather. she knew people in london; she had acquaintances, engagements; but to-day was free. she walked a long way, the air was so sweet, and at last she found herself before westminster abbey. after a moment's hesitation she went in. the great, crowded place was empty, almost, of the living; a few tourist figures flitted vaguely. she moved slowly, over the dust of the dead, between the dull, encumbering marbles, until she reached a corner that she liked. sitting here, her head a little thrown back against the stone, her soul opened the gates of quiet. rose and purple light sifted down from the great windows; all about was the dim thought of dead kings and queens, soldiers, poets, men of the state. in the organ loft some one touched the organ keys. a few chords were sounded, then the vibration ceased. hagar sat very still, her eyes closed. her soul was searching, searching, not tumultuously, but quietly, quietly. it touched the past, here and there, and lighted it up; days and nights, dreams, ambitions, aspirations. some dreams, some ambitions were in the way of fulfilment. medway ashendyne was within her; she, too, knew _wanderlust_--"for to admire an' for to see." she had wandered and had seen. she would always love to wander, crave for to see and to admire.... to write--to earn--to write.... her lips curved into the slightest smile. the old days and nights when she had wondered, wondered if that would ever come to pass, if it ever _could_ come to pass! it had come to pass. to do better work, and always better work--that was a continuing impulse; but it was still and steady now, not fevered.... her mind swept with wider wings. to know, to learn, to gain in content and in fineness, to gather being, knowledge, wisdom, bliss--to gather, and then from her granary to give the increase, that was the containing, the undying desire. she had a strange passion for the future, for all that might become. she was sensitive to the wild and scattered motion within the whole, atom colliding with atom, blind-man's-buff--all looking for the outlet into freedom, power, glory; all groping, beating the air with unclutching hands, missing the outlet, it was perhaps so small. she thought of an expression of george meredith's, "to see the lynx that sees the light." to see it--to follow--to help find the opening.... what was needed was direction, and then unity of movement, the atoms in one stream, resistless. that, when the lightning bolt went across the sky, was what happened; corpuscles streaming freely, going side by side, not face against face, not energy dashing itself endlessly against energy. it was all one, physical and psychic; power lay in community of understanding.... public opinion, community of understanding, minds moving in a like direction, power resulting, power to accomplish mighty and mightier things.... then do your best to ennoble public opinion. do not think whether your best is little or great; do your best.... she opened her eyes upon the light sifting down from the rose windows. it was shortening, the shaft; evening was at hand in the church of the great dead. many who lay there had had within them a lynx that saw the light and had tried to bring the mass of their being to follow; many had ennobled the world-mind, one this way and one that; each had brought to the vast granary his handful of wheat. ruby and amethyst, the light lay athwart the pillars like an ethereal stair. the organist touched the organ again. a verger came down the aisle; it was closing time. hagar rose and went out into what sunshine lay over london. chapter xxiii by the sea but after all they did not go to bogotá. that autumn a revolution flared up in colombia. medway considered the matter, but finally shrugged and shook his head. his point gained and bogotá prepared for, he gave the idea up "for this time" with entire nonchalance. but they were in new york by now, and something must be done. he went with hagar to gilead balm for two weeks--going home for the second time in eight years. the first time had been perhaps two years after his accident. old miss had cried out so to him to come, had so passionately besought him to let her see him again, and hagar had so steadfastly supported her claim, that at last he gave in and went. he spent two months at gilead balm, and he had been gracious and considerate to all the family with an extra touch for his mother. but when he went away he evidently considered that he had done all that mortal could ask, and though old miss continued to write to him every three months, and though she always said, "and when are you coming home?" she never so urged the matter again. now he went with hagar down through the late autumn country to his birthplace, and stayed for a fortnight, as unruffled, debonair, and dominant as before. the colonel and old miss had each of them years enough now; as age is counted they were old. but each came of a long-lived stock, and they held their own to a marvel. hagar could see the difference the years had made, but there was no overwhelming difference. the colonel did not ride so far, and old miss, though she jealously guarded her key-basket and abated authority not a jot, was less active than of old. she had grown rather deaf, and medway avoided much conversation with her. captain bob was more broken; he looked older than the elder brother. luna was dead long ago, and he had another hound, lisa. he was fond of lisa and lisa of him, but lisa was not luna, and he was very faithful to luna's memory and always telling stories of her intelligence and exploits. miss serena had changed very little. mrs. green was dead, and the overseer's house at the moment stood empty. car'line was dead, too, but mary magazine kept house for isham. hagar walked down to the ferry, and she and mary magazine talked about the old flower dolls and the hayloft, and the cavern by the spring. she walked by herself upon the ridge, and sat under the cucumber tree, and went to the north side, and, leaning against the beech, which had grown to be a good-sized tree, looked down the long slope to the hollow and streamlet, the sunken boulder and thicket. the two weeks passed. indian summer held throughout november. "this dreamy place makes you disinclined to vigorous planning," said medway. "i think, gipsy, that we will drift on down through florida, and cross to cuba." this year there were evidently cross-winds. at palm beach, medway came upon an old acquaintance, associate of ancient days in paris, an artist with whom he had rambled through fontainebleau forest and drunk good wine in barbizon. for years each had been to the other a thin memory; now, almost with violence, the attraction renewed itself. but the artist was not going to cuba; he was going to the bahamas. he had a commission to paint a portrait, and his subject, who was a chicago multi-millionaire, had elected to winter at nassau and to give the sittings there. commissions evidently did not come every day to the artist, who was post-post-impressionist, and he was quite willing to go to nassau, jubilantly so, in fact. he said that, for once, light was going to be thrown upon the multi-millionaire. medway strove to persuade him to forfeit the commission and go to cuba; and he was even, it was evident, prepared to make the proceeding no financial loss. but the artist stated explicitly that he had a sense of honour and could not leave the chicagoan in the lurch; besides he wanted to paint that portrait. "come and see me do it, old fellow! i'm going to take a reasonable small house with a garden, knock out partitions and make a studio. one commission leads to another:--light on the whole bunch.--oh, i'm told that you've got a million, too! how the devil did you get into that galley?" in the end, rather than part with the old companion, medway exchanged cuba for the bahamas. thomson found a house that he thought would answer. hagar went with him to see it, and agreed that it would. both spoke entirely with reference to medway. back at the great hotel, she explained its advantages. "there's a pleasing, tangled garden, palms and orange trees and hibiscus, and a high garden wall. the verandahs, upper and lower, are wide. you get the air, and you have, besides the town, a great sweep of this turquoise sea. there's only a short, quiet, easy street between the house and mr. greer's studio. i think that it will answer." it answered very well as medway granted. he and greer were much together. the chicagoan, when he arrived, proved to be a good fellow, too, earnest in his endeavour to play blotting-paper to culture. greer gathered from the hotel several congenial americans. medway, who always had the best of letters, provided an englishman or two from the more or less stationary government set. the studio became practically his and greer's in common; they were extraordinarily good talkers and they rolled wonderful cigarettes and mahomet made _café fort_. a violinist of some note was stopping at the hotel, and he and his violin added themselves to the company. when a traveller who knew lhasa, bangkok, and baalbek, knossos and kairwan and kandy, was joined to the others, it became evident that medway had made his circle and found the winter's entertainment. he had never made greatly too large demand upon hagar's hours. he was full of resources, supple in turning from person to person of all his varied acquaintance in varied lands, moderately appreciative, too, of the value of solitude. on her side she would have stood, had there been need, for time to herself. it was to her the very breath of life. but there was never extreme need. she was within call when he wanted to turn to her, and that was sufficient. but this winter, it was evident, she would have her days to a greater extent than usual in her own hand. there was never any accounting to him for her days apart from him; almost from the first there had obtained that relation of personal liberty. to do him justice he felt no desire to exact such an accounting, and had he tried to do so he would have failed. hagar saw that she was going to have time, time this winter; and, what she liked, they would be long enough in one place to allow her to work with advantage. there would be visitors, invitations--already they had begun:--medway would wish to give, now and then, a garden-party, a dinner-party. but life would by no means run to an exchange of visits and entertainments. father and daughter had alike, in this direction, the art of sufficient but not too much. anything beyond a certain, not-great amount wearied and exasperated him, wearied and saddened her. all that would be kept in bounds. hagar, pacing the garden, saw quiet days, surcharged with light. she was thinking out her half-year's work. a volume of stories, eight or ten in all--such a subject and such a subject; such or such an incident, situation, value; such a man, such a woman. she knew that her work was good, that it was counted very good, counted to her for name and fame. all that was something to her; rather, it was much to her; but only positively so, not relatively. it could by no means fill her universe. for years she had taken now this, now that filament-like value and with skill and power had enlarged, coloured, and arranged it so that her great audience might also see; and she had done, she thought, service thereby; had, in her place, served beauty and knowledge. but the hunger grew to serve more fully. knowledge, knowledge--wisdom, wisdom--action.... hagar moved to a stone seat that commanded an opening in the garden wall. she looked out, down and over a short, steep, dazzling white street and a swarm of low, pale-coloured, chimneyless houses, with the green between of tropic trees, to the surf upon the coral shore and the opaque, marvellous blue of the surrounding sea. the creative passion was upon her, but it moved nowadays as it had moved with many an idealist-realist before.... to mould living material, to deal with the objective, to deal with the living world, not the world of bright-hued shadows; to see the living world lighten to the dawn, see the dull hues brighten, see the beautyless become beauty and beauty grow vivid, to see all the world lift, lift toward the golden day, to see the race become the over-race.... she would have died for that and died to help. she laid her arms along the stone and her head upon them. "and yet i do not help, or not with all that is in me. i sit here to one side and spin fancies." she rose, and put on a shady hat, and going out into the dazzling white street moved down it, and then by another across for some distance to the white road by the sea. her back to the town, she walked on. a few scattered palms, the sea-wall; then where it ended, an edging tangle of the hard green leaves of the sea-grape; outside of that, low fantastically worn coral rock and the white dash and spray of the water. though the sun was high and the sky intense and cloudless, a wind blew always; the air was dry and the day not too warm. there was hardly anyone upon the road. she met a cluster of negro children and talked with them a little. a surrey, of the type that waited on the street near the great hotels, passed her, driven sleepily by a sleepy negro, within it a large man in white. when it was gone in a little cloud of white dust there was only the long road, and the unyielding monotonous green of the sea-grape, and the water thundering in an undertone. hagar turned aside, broke through the grape, and came down to the edge of the surf. there was a rock hollowed until it made a rude chair. she sat down and looked out to sea. on one hand, across the harbour mouth, rose from a finger-narrow sliver of land, a squat white lighthouse; but turn a little and look away and there was only the open sea, unimaginably blue, azure as the sky. the soft wind blew, the surf broke in low thunder. hagar, her chin upon her hand, sat for a long time, very still. "how good is man's life, the mere living--" it seemed true enough, sitting there in the sunshine, in the heart of so rich a beauty. she agreed. how good it was, how good it often was!--only, only.... the line was true, perhaps, of all at some time, of some at all times--though she doubted that--but never of all at all times. it was true of a host at very few times; it was never so true of any as it might be. "how good is man's life, the mere living!--how fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!" who felt that?--not even the poets immemorial who so sang--sang often in sadness of heart! they felt only the promise that the future cast before her. association of ideas was so strong and quick within her that she was apt to call up images, not singly, but in series and sequences. her mind swept away from the west indian sea. she saw her mother at gilead balm, beating her wings against invisible bars; the woman on the packet-boat, racked with anxiety, her child in her arms, begging her way to her sick mate; the figure of the convict at the lock, thomasine in the silk mill, omega street.... she thought of rachel and her married life, of things which she had heard at the settlement, and the pain in elizabeth eden's eyes as she told them. she thought of eglantine and its insidious sapping, sapping ... of miss serena and her stunted, small industries and too-obedient soul. she thought of miss bedford, and of francie smythe, and of mrs. legrand. she seemed again to hear mrs. legrand upon roger michael. she thought of the bishop and the day he passed sentence upon a child for reading a great book. she saw the thicket back of the ridge, and dogs set by a human being upon a human being. she saw winter streets in new york, and the light shining on the three balls of the pawnbrokers, and a bread-line, and men and women huddled on park benches while the wind shook the leafless trees. she saw wall street and st. timothy's. her mind passed overseas. russia--three summers before they had been there. medway, though he laughed at her, had agreed to a stepping aside which she proposed. she wished to see tolstoy. it was always easy to him to arrange such things, and it had ended in their being invited for two days to yásnaya polyána. she saw again the old man and heard his slow words. _non-resistance_--but his mind, through his pen, was not non-resistant! it acted, it scourged, it fought, it strove to build and to clear the ground that it might build. he deceived himself, the tremendous old man. he thought himself quietist as lao-tzu, but there in that bare, small study he cried, _allah! allah!_ and fought like a mohammedan. russia and the burden of russia ... the world and the burden of the world. she thought of the east, and now her mind entered zenanas--of india, and it was the child marriages; of turkey, egypt, algeria, morocco, and it was the veiled women, proclaimed without souls. she saw the eunuchs at the gate. away to europe--and she saw that concept grading away, but never quite gone, never quite gone. woman as mind undying, self-authoritative and unrelated, the arbiter of her own destiny, the definer of her own powers, with an equal goal and right-of-way--few were the earthly places where that ray fell! "how good is man's life, the mere living--" "with vast modifications and withdrawals, with dross and alloy," said hagar. "but it might be--o, god, it might be! lift all desire and you lift the whole. lift the present--steady, steady!--and know that one day the future will blossom. and a woman's work is now with women. solidarity--unification--woman at last for woman." chapter xxiv denny gayde a few days after this she grew tired one morning of working. at ten o'clock she put away paper and pencil, pen and ink, letters and manuscript, and went out, first into the garden, and then through the gate in the wall into the high white light of the street and the pale-coloured town. few were abroad in this section; she gave a friendly nod to those she met, but they were not many--an old negress carrying chickens, a few slow wagons, a priest, a young girl and boy, white-clad, with tennis rackets; two or three others. the street swam in light, the blue vault above sprang intense, there was just enough air to keep away languor. she turned into the grounds of the old, closed royal victoria hotel. here was shade and greater freshness. she sat down on the rock coping of the driveway; then, as there was no one about, lay down upon it pillowing her head on her arms. above her was a tall, tall tree, and between the branches the deep and vivid blue. it seemed so near, it was as though with a little upward effort you might touch a sapphire roof. between the leaves the sun scattered gold sequins. they lay upon her white skirt, the hat she had discarded, her arms, her hair. she looked sideways watching a chameleon, burnished and slender, upon the wall below her. it saw her at last and with a jerk of its head scuttled away. hagar laughed, sat up and stretched her arms. some neighbouring, one-storey house, buried in foliage, possessed a parrot or cockatoo. she watched it now, on some hidden perch, a vivid splash of colour in the enfolding green, dancing about, chattering and screaming. some curious, exotic fragrance came to her; she could not trace its source. "it's a morning for the gods!" she said, and walked slowly by winding paths downward through the garden to the street. before her, seen through foliage, rose the curiously shaped building with a history where now was lodged the public library. she had visited it several times; she liked the place, which had a quaintness, and liked the way the air blew in through its deep windows; and where books were she was at home. she crossed the white street, entered and went up the stair past dusty casts, pieces of coral and sea-curios, and into the round room where english and american papers and magazines were spread upon a table. from this centre sprang, like short spokes, alcoves made by the book-stacks. each of these divisions had its chair or two and its open window. the air came in coolly, deliciously. there were the librarian and two or three people standing or seated about the central table,--no one else in the cool, quiet place. hagar, too, stood by the table for a while, turning over the january magazines, looking at the table of contents or glancing at some article or illustration. catholicism versus ultramontanism--why ireland is disloyal--drama of the future--the coal strike and its lessons--labour and the trusts--labour and capital--municipalization of public services--the battleship of the future--the war against disease--tschaikowsky and tolstoy--mankind in the making--mendel's law--the advancement of woman--the woman who toils--variation in man and woman--genesis of the Æsthetic categories--new metaphysical movement--inversion of ideas as to the structure of the universe--the world and the individual.--after a while she left these and the table and moved to one of the alcoves. it was not a day somehow for magazines. the rows of books! her gaze lingered with fondness upon them--this familiar title, this loved old friend and that. finally she drew forth a volume of keats, and with it sat down in the sweet air from the window. "no, no! go not to lethe, neither twist wolf'sbane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine--" an hour passed. a man, who had come into the room a few minutes before, was standing, looking about him--evidently the first time he had been in the building. the librarian joined him. "it's a pleasant old place, isn't it?" she said politely. "it certainly is," answered the man. "but it's so curious with that narrow stair and these deep-set windows." "yes. you see it's the old jail. once they kept men here instead of books." there was a pause. then the man said, "this is the nobler use, don't you think?" "oh," said the librarian; "but of course they were wicked men--that is, most of them. there wasn't anything else to do with them." "i see," said the man. he looked about him. "well, it's sweet and clean and useful now at last!" some one called the librarian and she went away. the man moved on with slow steps from alcove to alcove. hagar, from her recess, watched him, fascinated. her book had fallen upon the floor. with half of her mind she was again in a poor hall in new york on a winter night.... five or six people entered the library together. they came between her and the man she was following with her eyes. when at last they moved from before her alcove, she saw him leaving the place. before she could hastily rise and come out into the wider space he was out of the room upon the landing--he was going downstairs. she caught up the book from the floor, thrust it hurriedly into its place, and with a light and rapid step followed. he was at the foot of the stair when she reached the head. "oh," she called, "will you stop--will you wait?" he stopped short, turned. she was halfway down the stair, which was not long. "i beg your pardon. was it to me you were speaking?" "yes!" she came up with him--they stood together in the light-washed doorway. "i--you do not remember me." she put up her hand and took off her wide hat of straw and lace. "do you, now?" he gazed. "no--yes! wait.... oh--h! you are the little girl again!" they both laughed with pure pleasure. a soft, bright swirl of feeling enfolded the ancient doorway. "oh," she said, "i have so often thought of you!" "not oftener than i have thought of you.... you've always been like a quaint, bright picture and a piece of music in my mind.--i don't know your name." "hagar ashendyne.--and i don't know yours." "denny gayde.... i tried to find you in the crowd that night--the night of the meeting, you remember--but you were gone." "yes. and for weeks after that night i used to think that perhaps i might meet you on the street any day. and then i went away." the sun was dazzling where they stood. people, too, were coming down the stairs behind them. "let us go somewhere where we can talk," said hagar; "the gardens over there--have you time?" "i'm here on a holiday. i came yesterday. i don't know a soul and i was lonely. i've all the time there is." they crossed the street, passed under an arch of blossoming vines, and entered the royal victoria's garden--deserted, cool, and silent as when hagar had quitted it earlier in the morning. built high above the ground, about the vast trunk of a vast silk-cotton tree was a square, railed platform reached by a flight of steps. a bench ran around it; it was a cool and airy perch, chequered with shadows of leaf and twig and with a sight of the azure sea. the two mounted the steps, and moving around the trunk to a well-shaded angle, sat down. no one at all seemed near; for solitude it was much like a tree house which, shipwrecked, they might have built on a desert island. "life's the most curious thing!" said gayde. "isn't it? 'curiouser and curiouser!' said alice. i was twelve years old that summer we shared the apple turnovers." "we didn't share them. you gave me all.--i was nineteen." "and then--how many years?--nine, isn't it?--that night at that socialist meeting, when you spoke--" "what were you doing there? i asked about you--i got to know well many of the people who were there that night--but no one could identify you. and though i kept you in mind, and looked for you, too, i could never find you again." "i was spending the winter in new york. that night we had missed the theatre. we walked down fourth avenue and across--we were seeing new york at night. a crowd was going into that hall, and we went in too--" "i see." "not until i got home that night did i remember that i did not know your name.... and in a month i was upon the ocean, and i have been in america very little in all the years since. i am here this winter with my father.... and you?" she regarded him with dark eyes, simple and serious and interested as the eyes with which as a child she had regarded him above her flower dolls. he was not hungry and haggard and fear-ridden as then, nor was he as he had been the night of the socialist meeting, somewhat embarrassed and stumbling, strong, but piteous, too.... he was a little thin and worn, and looked as though he had been ill, she noted, but he was quiet, at ease, and assured. there needed no elaborate process in telling her things; to intuition she added a considerable knowledge of the world and of ways and means; to heart, intellect. one could do much in nine years; she knew that from personal experience. this man had added to native strength education, experience, poise, and significance. she might have said culture, only she had grown to dislike the word. he had not, evidently, attained to wealth as wealth is counted. in a region where the male visitor, though he might arrive in winter garments, promptly sloughed them off for fine white flannels, he had not followed custom. it was true that he was not wearing a winter suit, but what was probably a last summer's one. it was not white--only a grey, light-weight business suit, ready-made and somewhat worn. his straw hat looked new. he was clean-shaven. his face was at once the face of the boy in the thicket, and the face of the workman talking out of bitter experience to other workmen, and a new face, too,--a judging face, ascetic rather than not, with eyes that carried a passion for something vaster than the flesh. "and you?" asked hagar again. but he had fallen into a brown study. "_hagar ashendyne_--you can't be--do you mean that you are--hagar ashendyne, the writer?" "yes, hagar ashendyne, the writer." she smiled. "it never occurred to me that you might read what i have written. have you?" "yes, i have read what you have written--read it and cared for it greatly.... well, all life's a strange encounter!" "and that's true enough. and now will you tell me about yourself?" his eyes smiled back at her. "let me see--what is there to tell? that night in new york.... well, after that night ... i was fortunate in the work i got, and i rose from grade to grade. i studied hard, every moment i could get. i read and read and read. i became secretary to a certain socialist organization. i have been for some years a socialist organizer, lecturer, and occasional writer. in the summer i am to take the editorship of a socialist paper. behold the short and simple annals of the poor!" "how long are you going to be in nassau?" "a whole month. these last two years have been years of exacting, constant work, and there's a prospect of the same continuing. i thought i'd got my second wind--and then i came down suddenly. the doctor said that if i wanted to do the paper justice--and i do--i'd have to give it an editor who could sleep. so he and rose packed me off." "rose?" "my wife--rose darragh." he spoke as though she would know the name. indeed, it seemed to have for her some association; but it wavered like a dream; she could not fix it. she seemed to feel how long she had been away from america--out of touch--not knowing things, events, trendings. "nine years," she said again, uncertainly; "so much happens in nine years." "yes," he said. "personal life changes rapidly to-day--with everything more flexible, with horizons growing wider--and the age follows and changes and changes--changes and mounts. we are in for a great century. i'm glad to be alive!" "yes, i am, too." presently she looked at her watch. it was luncheon-time. would he not take it with her father and herself? no; he would not do that to-day; but leaving the great tree and the garden they walked together to the house. at the gate in the wall she said, "come to see me here to-morrow morning, if you will. i should like you to come and go as you please." "thank you," he said, then, with emphasis, "_friend_.... that is what, when i was nineteen and afterwards, i called you in my mind." "it's a good word--'friend.' let us use it still." "with all the will in the world. you are wonderful to me--hagar ashendyne." "i am glad to have found you again, denny gayde." that night, suddenly, before she slept, she placed the name rose darragh.... a feminist--a socialist agitator and leader--a writer of vigorous prose--sociology--economics.... she seemed to see her picture in some magazine of current life--a face rich, alert, and daring, rising on a strong throat from a blouse like a peasant's. chapter xxv hagar and denny the afternoon sun yet made a dazzle of the white road. infrequent trees cast infrequent shadows. it was warm, but not too warm, with an endless low wind. the tide was going out; there spread an expanse of iridescent shallows, and beyond a line of water so blue that it was unearthly. there was a tonic smell of salt and marsh. the wheels of the surrey, the horse's hoofs, brought a pleasant, monotonous, rhythmic sense of sound and motion. "that is the shell house," said hagar, breaking a long silence; "that small, small house with the boat behind. there you can buy throngs of things that come out of the sea--coral and sponges and purple sea-fans and wonderful shells." "i walked out here last week. there's a sick child i know--a little cripple. i am going to take her a great box of the prettiest shells. she'll lie there and play with them in her dingy corner of the dingy room where all the others work, and maybe they'll bring her a little of all this.... god knows!" the wheels went on. they passed the small house with a great lump of coral on one side of the door, and a tall purple sea-fan upon the other. "i sometimes think," said hagar, "that the trouble with me is that i am too general. my own sharp inner struggle was for intellectual and spiritual freedom. i had to think away from concepts with which the atmosphere in which i was raised was saturated. i had to think away from creeds and dogmas and affirmations made for me by my ancestors. i had to think away from the idea of a sacrosanct past and the virtue of immobility;--not the true idea of the mighty past as our present body which we are to lift and ennoble, and not immobility as the supreme refusal to be diverted from that purpose,--but the past, that is made up of steps forward, set and stubborn against another step, and immobility blind to any virtue in change. i had to think away from a concept of woman that the future can surely only sadly laugh at. i had to think away from sanctions and authorities and taboos and divine rights--and when i had done so, i had to go back with the lamp of wider knowledge, deeper feeling, and find how organic and on the whole virtuous in its day was each husk and shell. the trouble was that in love with the lesser we would keep out the stronger day ... and there was everywhere a sickness of conflict. i had to think away from my own dogmatisms and intolerances. i'm still engaged in doing that.... what has come of it all is a certain universal feeling.... i'm not explaining very well what i mean, but--though i want to be able to do it--it is difficult for me to drive the lightning in a narrow track to a definite end. it's playing over everything." "i see what you mean. you're more the philosopher than the crusader. well, we need philosophers, too!... i'm more, i think, the type that is sharpened to a point, that couches its lance for one promised land, which it believes is the key to many another. but i hold that it is better to move full-orbed, if you can." "i do not know--i do not know," said hagar. "i try to plunge with my whole mind into some political or social theory, but i fail. even the slow drawing-up of the submerged capacities in woman, even the helping in that,--which is greater than would be the discovery of atlantis, which is greater than almost anything else,--cannot bring the ends together. name everything and there is so much besides!" "there is such a thing," said denny, "as going to the stake for what you know to be partial, only factors, scaffoldings, stairs to mount by.... stairs and scaffoldings are necessary; therefore, die for them if need be." "i agree there," answered hagar. the surrey had left the sight of the sea. the pale road stretched straight before them, going on until it touched the cobalt sky. on either hand stood growing walls, dense and thorny as those about the sleeping beauty's palace--all manner of trees, silver palm and thatch palm, tamarind, poison-wood and plum, ink-berry and jack-bush, bound all together with smilax and many another vine. at long intervals occurred an opening, a ragged space and a hut or cabin, with an odour, too languid-sweet, of orange blossoms, and a vision of black children. the walls closed in again sombrely. the road would have been a little dreary but for the sky and the sun and the jewel-fine air. "i suppose," said hagar, "that there is a certain brahmin-like attitude to be overcome. i suppose that to take wallet and staff and go with the mass upon the day's march, encouraging, lifting, helping, pointing forward, bearing with the others, is a nobler thing than to run ahead upon your own path and cry back to the throng, 'why are you not here as well?' i suppose that ... and yet there are times when i am nietzschean, too. i can be opposites." "yes; that is what bewilders," said denny. "to include contradictories and irreconcilables--to be both centripetal and centrifugal--to be in one brain socialist and individualist!... but the greatest among mankind have found themselves able. they have been farthest ahead, and yet they have always seemed to be in the midst." the sun sank low, the white road grew pallid. "better turn presently," said hagar. "when we get to that palm. how wonderful it stands against the sky!--i never thought that i should see palm trees." when they came to it, the negro driver turned the horse. roll of wheel and slow thud of hoofs they went dreamily back toward nassau. the walls on either hand were darkening; the sky was putting on a splendid dress. "years and years now i have been away," said hagar. "in the spring i am going home." "home to--to gilead balm?" "at first, yes, i think ... then, i do not know. i have been away so long. there are people in new york i want to see--old friends--women. do you chance to know elizabeth eden?" "yes, i know her. she's one of the blessed." after a moment he said abruptly, "i want you to know rose darragh." "yes, i want to," said hagar simply. they came before long to the shell house. "let us stop and get some shells." inside they had the place, save for the merchant of shells, to themselves. right and left and all around were strewn the pearl and pink and purply spoils. all the sunset tints were here, and the beauty of delicate form--grotesqueries, too; nature in queer moods. it was pleasant to run the hands through the myriad small shells heaped in baskets, to weigh the sea-cushions and sea-stars and golden seafeathers, to admire rose coral and brain coral and finger coral, and hold the conch shells to the ear. through the open door, too, came the smell and murmur of the near-by sea, and on the floor lay one last splash of sunlight. "give me a shell," said hagar, "and i will give you one. then each of us will have something to remember the other by." they gravely picked them out, and it took some minutes to do it. then in turn each crossed to the merchant in his corner and paid the purchase price, then came back to the light in the doorway. denny held out a delicate, translucent, rosy shell. "it won't hold my gratitude," he said. "you'll never know.... i used to see you in the moonlight, between me and the bars.... somebody had cried for me, ... wept passionately. it helped to keep me human. i've always seen you with a light about you. this is your shell." "thank you. i shall keep your kind gift always," said hagar. she spoke in a child's lyric voice, quaintly and properly, so precisely as she might have spoken at twelve years old that, startled herself, she laughed, and denny, with a catch in his voice, laughed too. "oh," she cried with something like a sob, "sixteen years to slip from one like that!" she held out a small purple shell. "this is yours, denny gayde.... and i've thought of you often, and wished you well. if i did you, unknowing, a service, so you, unknowing, have done me a service, too. that summer morning, long ago--it shocked me awake. the world since then has been different always, more pitiful and nearer. here's your shell. it won't hold my gratitude and well-wishing either." they passed out between the coral and the sea-fans, entered the surrey, and it drove on. now they were back by the sea. the tide was far out, the expanse of shallows vaster. the salt pools had been fired by the torch of the sky; they lay in reds and purples, wonderful. the smell of the sea impregnated the air and there blew a whispering wind. the town began to appear, straggling out to meet them, low chimneyless houses of the poorer sort. men and women were out in the twilight, and children calling to one another and playing. the vivid lights had faded from sky and from wet sand and rock, shoal and lagoon, but colour was left, though it was the ghost of itself. it swam in the air, it gleamed from the earth. warmth was there, too, and languor, and the melancholy of the gathering night. a dreamlike quality came into things--the children's voices sounded faint and far; only there were waves of some faint odour, coming now it seemed from gardens.... now they were in the town and the sea was shut away. "one half of my fairy month is gone." "you are sleeping better?" "yes--much better.... where shall we go to-morrow?" "leave it to to-morrow. look at the star ... oh, beauty!" when to-morrow was here they walked inland to fort fincastle, and then to the queen's staircase. negro children raced after them with some sweet-smelling yellow flower in their hands. "penny, boss!--penny, boss!--penny, boss!" when they were gone, and when two surreys filled with white-dressed hotel people vanished likewise, they had the queen's staircase to themselves. broad-stepped, cut in the living rock, it plunged downward to the green bottom of the seventy-foot deep ancient quarry. trees overhung it and yellow flowers, and there was a rich, green light like the bottom of the sea. denny and hagar sat upon a step a quarter of the way down. "i do not know why," said denny, "there should be so deadly a fear of upheaval. all growth comes with upheaval--surely all spiritual growth comes so. growth by accretion means little. growth from within comes with upheaval--what you have been transformed or discarded. a little higher, a little finer breaks the sod and grows forth so. the deadly fear should be of down-sinking--from the stagnant grow-no-farther-than-our-fathers-grew down--down.... of course, the woman movement means upheaval and great upheaval--but that is a poor reason for condemnation.... as far as its political aspect is concerned, most open-minded men, socialists and others, with whom i come into contact, admit the right and the need. unless a man is very stupid he can see what a farce it is to talk of a democracy--government of the people, for the people, by the people--when one out of every two human beings is notoriously living under an aristocracy. and, of course, we who want an associative gain of livelihood, no less than an associative form of government, stand for her equality there.... but to me there is something other than all that in this upheaval. i cannot express it. i do not know what it is, unless it is some faint, supernal promise.... it is as though the spirit were again working upon the face of the waters." he paused, gazing upward at the sky above the wall of rock. "we are in for a deep change." "yes, i think so. a lift of mind and a change of heart, on which to base a chance for a deep change, indeed. a richer, deeper life.... oh, there will be dross enough for a time, tares, detritus, heat and dust and wounds of conflict, babel, cries and counter-cries! and some will think they lose...." "they'll only think so for a while. nothing can be lost." "no--only transmuted.... but i hate the tumult and the shouting while the people are yet bewildered. if that's the brahmin in me, i am going to sacrifice him. i am going where the battle is." "i do not doubt that." more white-suited people appeared, at their heels the black children. "penny, boss!--penny, boss!--penny, boss!" hagar and denny rose and walked back to town through the warm, fragrant ways. he left her at greer's studio--she had promised to come look at the portrait. as they stood a moment in the verandah, medway's golden drawl was heard from within. "well, i've known a good many philosophers--but none that were irreducible. every heroic, every transcendental treads at last the same pavement. 'i love and seek the street called pleasure. i abhor and avoid the street called pain.' therefore the _summum bonum_--" the door opened to hagar. she smiled and waved her hand, and the studio swallowed her up. some days after this they drove one afternoon over the blue hills to the southern beach. long white road--long white road--and on either hand pine and scrub, pine and scrub, and over all a vault of sky achingly blue. it was a lonely road, a road untravelled to-day, and the wind shook in the palmetto scrub. small grey birds flitted before them, or cheeped from the tangled wood. it was a day for silence and they stayed silent so long that the negro driving, who was afraid of silence, broke it himself. he told them about things, and when they awoke and genially answered, he was happy and talked on to himself until they, too, were talking, when he lapsed into silence and contentment. the wind blew, the scrub rustled, the sky was sapphire--oh, sapphire! when they came after a good while to the south beach, they left the surrey and the horse and the driver, in the shade of the trees that fringed the beach, and walked slowly a long way, over the firm sand. it stretched, a silver shore; the sun was westering, the great sea making a hoarse, profound murmur. they walked in silence, thinking their own thoughts. before them, half-sunken in the sand, lay an old boat. when they came to it, they sat down upon its shattered, sun-dried boards, with the sand at their feet and the grave evening light stealing up and mother ocean speaking, speaking.... "in the last analysis it is," said hagar, "a metaphysical adventure--a love-quest if you will. there is a passion of the mind, there is the questing soul, there is the desire that will have union with nothing less than the whole. i will think freely, and largely, and doing that, under pain of being false, i must act freely and largely, live freely and largely. nor must i think one thing and speak another, nor must i be silent when silence betrays the whole.... and so woman no less than man comes into the open." "there is something that broods in this time," said denny. "i do not know what it will hatch. but something vaster, something nobler...." hagar let the warm sand stream through her fingers. "oh, how blue is the sea.... Æons and æons and æons ago, when slowly, slowly life drew itself forth from such a sea as this into upper air--when amphibian began to know two elements, how much richer was life for amphibian, how great was the gain!... when, after æons and æons, there was all manner of warm-blooded life in woods like these behind us, or in richer woods ... and one day, dimly, dimly, some primate thought, and her children and grandchildren a little, little more consciously thought, and it spread.... to that tribe how strange a dawn! 'we are growing away from the four-footed--we are growing away from our sister the gibbon and our brother the chimpanzee--we are growing--we are changing--we feel the heavens over us and a strange new life within us--we are passing out, we are coming in--we need a new word....' and at last they called themselves _human_--æons ago...." "and now?" "and now, on the human plane, it seems to me that we may be immediately above that region." she took a pointed piece of driftwood and drew upon the sand. "here is the human plane--and here above it is another plane." she drew a diagonal line between. "and that is a stairway of growth from one to the other. and we are turning from this plane--the lower plane--and coming upon that stairway, and down it, to meet us, pours like a morning wind, like the first light in the sky, a hint of what may be. like that ancestral tribe, we are growing, we are changing--we feel a strange new life within us--we are passing out, we are coming in--we need a new word." "what would it be?" "i do not know.... after a while, an age hence maybe, when the light is stronger, we will coin it. now there is only intuition of the change.... there is something in a translation i was reading of one of the upanishads, 'but he who discerns all creatures in his self and his self in all creatures, has no disquiet.... what delusion, what grief can be with him in whom all creatures have become the very self of the thinker, discerning their oneness?... he has spread around a thing, bright, bodiless, taking no hurt, sinewless, pure, unsmitten by evil.... that might come after a long, long time, after change upon change." the great sea murmured on, a wild white bird flew across the round of vision, melted into the sunset. "and each change is greater by geometrical progression than was the one before?" "not the change itself, but that into which the change leads us. each time we depart at right angles.... yes, i think so." "and the movement of women toward freedom of field and toward self-recognition--no less than the general movement toward socialization--is part of the change?" "all things are part of it.... yes, it is part." she rose from the sand. "the sun is setting." they walked back to the surrey and took the homeward road. as they came over the blue hills it was first dusk; the town lay, grey-pearl, before them, and above it swam the moon, full and opaline. "how many days have you now?" "just seven." "have you heard from rose darragh?" "yes. she's been doing her work and mine, too. she begs me to stay another two weeks, but i must not. there is no need--i am perfectly well again--it would only be selfish enjoyment." "i wish it were possible--but if it's not, it's not.... oh, how large the moon is! you can almost see it a globe--it is like a beautiful, lighted japanese lantern." "where will we go to-morrow afternoon?" "we cannot go anywhere to-morrow afternoon, for, alas! i have to go to a garden-party at government house. but the next day we might go to old fort. what is that fragrance--those strange lilies? look now at the japanese lantern!" they went to old fort and came back in the warm evening light, driving close to the sounding sea. "five days now," said denny. "well, i have been so happy." that night hagar could not sleep. she rose at last from the bed and paced her moon-flooded room. all the long windows were wide; the night air came in and brought a sighing of the trees. after a while she stepped out upon the gallery that ran along the face of the house. medway's room was down stairs and away from this front; she had the long silvered pathway to herself. she paced it slowly, up and down, wooing calm. each time she reached the end of the gallery, she paused a moment and looked across the sleeping town that lay for the most part below this house and garden, to where she could guess the roof of the small, inexpensive, half hotel, half boarding-house where denny bided. when after a time she discovered that she was doing this, she shook herself away from the action. "no, hagar, no!" going to the other end of the gallery, she found there a low chair and sat down, leaning her head against the railing. it was the middle of the night. something in the place and in the balm of the air brought back to her those days and nights in alexandria, so long ago. there, too, she had had to make choice.... "i could love him here and now--love him--love him in the old immemorial way.... well, i will not!" she put her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. "_rose darragh--rose darragh--rose darragh_"--it struck through her mind, slow and heavily vibrant, like a deep and melancholy music. she rose and paced the gallery again, but when she came to the farther end, she turned without pause or look over the moonlit town. "_rose darragh--rose darragh_"--she made it rhythmic, breathing deeply and quietly, saying the name inwardly, deeply, but without passion now, saying it like a comrade's name. "_rose darragh--rose darragh--rose darragh--_" calm came at last, repose of mind, victory. she sat down again, leaned her arms upon the railing, and followed with her eyes the lonely, silver moon. work was in the world, the all-friend work; and beauty was in the world, the all-friend beauty; and one good put out of reach, mind and spirit must make another and were equal to the task. "rose darragh--rose darragh!--not if i could would i hurt you," said hagar; and took her attention from that matter and put it first upon the stars, and then upon some lines of shelley's that she loved, and then upon the story she had in hand. it was not well to go to bed thinking of a story, and when at last she left the gallery and laid herself straight upon the cool linen, she stilled the waves of the mind-stuff and let the barque of attention drift whither it would. at last she seemed in a deep forest long ago and far away, and there she went to sleep with a feeling of violets under her hand. five days, and denny left nassau. "it's not saying good-bye. in may, when you come to new york--" "yes, in may i'll see you and rose darragh. until may, then--" denny and she clasped hands, both hands. "thank god for friends!" he said with the odd little laugh that she liked, with the catch in the voice at the end of it as though he had started to laugh and then life had come in. his eyes were misty. he brushed his hand across them. "you are dancing before me," he said apologetically. she laughed herself. "and you are dancing before me! good-bye, good-bye, denny gayde! let's be friends always." from the garden she watched the miami steam slowly down the narrow harbour, and, passing the lighthouse, turn to the open sea. she watched it until it was but a black speck with a dark feather of smoke, and then until the feather and all had melted into the sky. "well," she said, "there's work and beauty and high cheer, and time that smooths away most violences!" but she did not see denny and rose darragh in may. that evening at dinner medway was more than usually good company. he had a high colour; his hair and curling beard had been cut just the length that was most becoming; he looked superbly handsome. often he affected hagar as would a very fine canvas, some portrait by titian. to-night was one of these nights. greer dined with them, and he was urging medway as he had urged before to let him paint him. "fortune's smiling on us both--on you as well as me. neither of us may have such a chance again! let me--ah, let me!" "what should i do with it when it was done, and if i liked it--which you know, greer, is not dead certain? you can't hang portraits in a nomad's tent, and i haven't a soul in the world to give it to,--my mother would like a coloured photograph of me, but she wouldn't like greer's picture,--unless gipsy will take it when she sets up her own establishment--" "i will take it with thanks," said hagar. "let mr. greer do it." medway said he would consider it. dinner went off gaily with stories and badinage. afterwards the traveller from the colonial came in, and then the violinist. he played for them--played rhapsodies and fantasias. it was after eleven when the three guests departed. greer's gay voice could be heard down the street-- "'a saint-blaise, à la zuecca, vous étiez, vous étiez bien aise a saint-blaise. a saint blaise, à la zuecca nous étions bien là--'" thomson appeared, with mahomet behind him to put out the lights. "good-night--sleep right!" said medway. "pleasant fellows, aren't they?" toward daylight she was awakened by a knock at her door, followed by thomson's voice. "mr. ashendyne has had some kind of a stroke, miss hagar--" she sprang up, threw on a kimono, opened the door, and ran downstairs with thomson. "i heard him breathing heavily--i've waked mahomet and sent the black boy for the doctor--" it was paralysis. and after months of nassau, she took him back to the mainland and northward by slow stages, not to gilead balm, for he made always "no!" with his head and eyes to that, and not to new york for he seemed impatient of that, too; but at last to washington. there she and thomson found a pleasant residence to let on a tree-embowered avenue, and there they moved him, and there she stayed with him two years and read a vast number of books aloud, and between the readings cultivated a sunny talkativeness. at the end of the two years there came a second stroke which killed him. chapter xxvi gilead balm "it's a foolish piece of idealism," said ralph. "but she's had her way so long i suppose it's impossible now to check her." the colonel's irritation exploded. white-haired, hawk-nosed and eyed, a little stooped now, a good deal shrunken in his black, old-fashioned, aristocratic clothes, he lifted a bloodless hand and made emphasis with a long forefinger. "precisely so! one world mistake lay in ever giving property unqualifiedly into a woman's hands, and another in ever encouraging occupations outside the household, and so breeding this independent attitude--an attitude which i for one find the most intolerable feature of this intolerable latter age! i opposed the married woman's property act in this state, but the people were infatuated and passed it. married or single, the principle is the same. it is folly to give woman control of any considerable sum of money--" mrs. legrand, entering the gilead balm library, caught the last three sentences. she smiled on the two gentlemen and took her seat upon the sofa. "money and women are you talking about? where money comes in," said mrs. legrand, "i always act under advice. women know very little about finance, and their judgment is rarely to be trusted." "just so, my dear friend! it is not in the least," spoke the colonel, "that i am acquisitive or that it will make any great difference to me personally if medway's wealth stays in the family or no. what i am commenting upon is the folly of giving a woman power to do so foolish a thing." "hagar always _could_ do foolish things," said miss serena, looking up from her mexican drawnwork. "i don't quite understand yet," said mrs. legrand. "mrs. ashendyne was telling me in the big room yesterday evening, and then some one came in--dear medway's will left her without proviso all that he had--" "as was quite proper," said ralph, "the colonel to the contrary. well, the principal comes to considerably over a million dollars--the cool million his second wife left him by her will and the settlement she had already made upon their marriage. the investment is gilt-edged. altogether it would make hagar not an extremely rich woman as riches are counted nowadays, but--yes, certainly for the south--a very rich woman. but now comes in your feminine tender conscience--" "hagar refuses to put on black," said miss serena. "i don't see that she's got a tender conscience--" "the entire amount--everything that came from the fortune--she turns back to the fund which the second wife established for workingmen's housing. she states that she agrees with her stepmother's views as to how the fortune was made, and that she does not care to be a beneficiary. she says that her stepmother had evidently given thought to the matter and preferred that form of 'restitution' and that her only duty is simply to return this million and more to the fund already erected, and from which it was diverted for cousin medway's benefit." "duty!" exclaimed mrs. legrand. "i don't see where 'duty' comes in. her 'duty' is to see that her father was wise for her. if he was content there's surely no reason why she should not be so!" "hagar," said miss serena, "never could see proper distinctions between people. i don't see that working-people are housed so badly--" ralph laughed mirthlessly. "yes, they are, cousin serena! scarcely any of them have tiled bathrooms and the best type of porcelain-lined tub, and very few have libraries that'll accommodate more than a thousand volumes, and quite a number do without nurseries papered with scenes from mother goose. and as they're all for that kind of housing, they're preparing to move in--just a little preliminary ousting of a few people with more brains and money and in they go!--cuckoos laying their eggs in abler folks' nests! this is the age of the cuckoo." "how absurd," said miss serena, "gilead balm hasn't a tiled bathroom, nor an extremely large library, and when i was a child the nursery wasn't papered at all. but we are perfectly comfortable at gilead balm. it's a heinous sin--discontent with your lot in life." "do you mean," asked mrs. legrand, "that, against your counsel and advice, hagar is really going headstrongly on to do this silly thing?" "apparently so. she is," said the colonel, "of age. there again was a mistake--to let women come of age. perpetual minors--" mrs. legrand laughed. "colonel, you are not very gallant!" the colonel turned to her. "oh, my dear friend, you're not the modern, unwomanly type that professes to see something degrading in the subordination that god and nature have decreed for woman! gallant! that's just what i am. knights and gallantry were for the type that's vanishing, though"--he bowed to mrs. legrand, who had not a little of her old beauty left--"though here and there is left a shining example!" mrs. legrand used her fan. "oh, colonel, there are many of us who like the old ways best." ralph drummed with his fingers upon the table. "to come back to hagar--" hagar herself entered the room. she was dressed in white; she was a little thin and pale, for the last weeks had been trying ones. habitually she had a glancing way of ranging from an appearance of youth almost girlish to a noble look of young maturity. to-day she looked her thirty-one years, but looked them regally. once the colonel would not have hesitated to hector her, miss serena peevishly to blame what she could not understand, mrs. legrand to attempt smoothly to put her down. all that seemed impossible now. there was about her the glamour of successful work, of a known person. mrs. legrand had recently purchased a "who's who," and had found her there. _ashendyne, hagar, author; b. gilead balm, in virginia_, and so on. from various chronicles of the realm of contemporary literature she had gathered that hagar's name would be found in yet more exclusive lists than "who's who." of course, all in the room had read much of what she had written, and equally, of course, each of the four had, for temperamental reasons, spokenly or unspokenly depreciated it. but all knew that she had--though they could not see the justice of her having--that standing in the world. mrs. legrand always, with patrons, smoothly brought it in that she had been a pupil at eglantine. none of them knew how much she made by her writing; it was to be supposed it was something, seeing that she was coolly throwing away a million dollars. there was likewise the glamour of much absence in foreign lands; the undefined feeling that here were novelties of experience and adventure, ground with which she was familiar and they were not. of experience and adventure in psychical lands they took no account. but it was undeniable that her knowing europe and asia and africa added to the already considerable difficulty in properly expressing to hagar how criminally foolish she was being. added to that, there was something in herself that prevented it. ralph spoke first. "we were talking, hagar, about your idea of what to do with cousin medway's money. here are only kinspeople and old friends, and we all wish that you wouldn't do it, and think that there'll come a day when you'll be sorry--" the colonel, leaning back in his chair, stroked his white imperial. "i should never have said, gipsy, that you were the sentimental, beggar-tending kind--" hagar's kindly eyes that had travelled from her cousin to her grandfather, now went on to mrs. legrand. "and you?" they seemed to say. "why couldn't you," said mrs. legrand, "do both? why couldn't you give a handsome donation--give a really large amount to this charity? and then why not feel that you had, so to speak, the rest in trust, and give liberally, so much a year, to all kinds of worthy enterprises? i don't believe the most benevolent heart could find anything to complain of in that--" hagar's eyes went to miss serena. "you ought to take advice," said miss serena. "how can you know that your judgment is good?" hagar gave her eyes to all in company. "it is right that you should say what you think. we are all too bound together for one not to be ready to listen and give weight to what the others think. but having done it, our own judgment has to determine at last, hasn't it? it seems to me that it is right to do what i am doing--what i have done, for it is practically accomplished. i saw all necessary lawyers and people last week in new york. of course, i hope that you'll come to see it as i do, but if you do not, still i'll hope that you'll believe that i am right in doing what i hold to be right. and now don't let's talk of that any more." "what i want to know," said miss serena, "is how you're going to live, if you don't take your dead father's support--" hagar looked at her in surprise. "live? why, live as i have lived for years--upon what i earn." "i didn't suppose you could do that.--what _do_ you earn?" "it depends. some years more, some years less. i have published a good deal and there is a continuing sale. england and america together, i am good for something more than ten thousand a year." miss serena stared at her. a film seemed to come over her eyes, the muscles of her face slightly worked. "somewhere about thirty years ago," she said painfully, "i thought i'd write a book. i'd thought of a pretty story. i wrote to a printing and publishing company in richmond about it, but they wrote back that i'd have to _pay_ to have it printed." that night in her bedroom, plethoric with small products of needle, crochet-needle, and paint-box, miss serena drew down the shades of all four windows preparatory to undressing. she was upstairs, there was a thick screen of cedars and no house or hill or person who could possibly command her windows, but she would have been horribly uneasy with undrawn shades. ready for bed, she always blew out the lamp before she again bared the windows. some one knocked at the door. "who is it?" called miss serena, her hand upon her dress-waist. "it's hagar. may i come in?" it seemed that hagar just wanted to talk. and she talked, with charm, of twenty things. mostly of happenings about the old place. she asked about the latest panel of garden lilies and cat-tails, and she took the wonderfully embroidered pincushion from the bureau and admired it. "i think that i'm going to have an apartment in new york this winter, and if i do, won't you make me a pincushion? and, aunt serena, you must come sometimes to see me." "you'll be marrying. you ought to marry ralph." "even so, you could come to see me, couldn't you? but i am not going to marry ralph." miss serena stiffened. "the whole family wants you to--" she was upon family authority, and the wooing had to be done all over again.... "i saw thomasine in new york. she's going to live with me as my secretary. you know that she has been a typewriter and stenographer for a long time, and they say she is an excellent one. she has been studying, too, other things at night, after her long hours. she is as pretty and sweet as ever. when you come, the three of us will do wonderful things together--" miss serena's bosom swelled. "i wonder when ashendynes and dales and greens began to 'do things'--by which i suppose you mean going to theatres and concerts and stores and such things--together! the bottom rail's on top with a vengeance in these days! but your mother before you had no sense of blood." hagar sat silent, with a feeling of despair. then she began again, her subject the flower garden, and then, at last--"aunt serena, tell me about the story _you_ wanted to write...." ralph--ralph was too insistent, she thought. he found her the next morning, under the old sycamore by the river, and he proceeded again to be insistent. she stopped him impatiently. "ralph, do you wish still to be friends, or do you wish me to put you one side of the equator and myself on the other? i can do it." "the equator's an imaginary line." "you'll find that an imaginary line can change you into a stranger." "hagar, i'm used to getting what i set my heart and brain upon." "so was a gentleman named napoleon bonaparte. he got it--up to a certain limit." "i don't believe you are in earnest. i don't believe you have ever really considered--and i intend one day to make you see--" "see what? see my enormous advantage in marrying you? oh, you--man!" "see that you love me." "how, you mean, can i help it? oh, you--featherless biped!" ralph broke in two the bit of stick in his hands with a snapping sound. "i'm mad for you, and i'd like to pay you out--" "you are more remotely ancestral than almost any man i know!--come, come! let us stop this and talk as cousins and old playmates. there's wall street left, and who is going to be president, and what are you going to do with hawk nest." "what i wanted to do with hawk nest was to fix it up for you." "oh, ralph, ralph! i should laugh at you, but i feel more like crying. the pattern is so criss-cross!" she rose from beneath the sycamore. "i'm going back to the house now." he walked beside her. "do you remember once i told you i was going to make a great fortune, and you made light of it? well, i'm a wealthy man to-day and i shall be a much wealthier one. it grows now automatically. and that i would be powerful. well, i am powerful to-day, and that, too, grows." "oh, ralph, i wish you well! and if we don't define wealth and power alike, still your definition is your definition. and if that's your heart's desire, and i think it is, be happy in your heart's desire--until it changes, and then be happier in the change!" "i have told you what is my heart's desire." "i will _not_ go back to that. look! the sumach is turning red." "yes, it is very pretty.... you didn't see sylvie maine--sylvie carter--when you were in new york?" "no. i haven't seen sylvie since that one first winter there. i wrote to her when i heard of jack carter's death." "that has been three years ago now. she is a very beautiful woman and much sought after. i saw a good deal of her last winter.... yes, that sumach is getting red. autumn's coming.... hagar! i'm not in the least going to give up." "ralph, i'm going to advise you to use your business acumen and recognize an unprofitable enterprise when you see it.... look at the painted ladies on that thistle!" "i'm old-fashioned enough to believe that a man can _make_ a woman love him--" "are you? be so good as to let me know when you succeed.--i warn you that the equator is getting ready to drop between." when they passed the cedars and came to the porch steps, it was to find old miss sitting in the large chair, her white-stockinged feet firmly planted, her key-basket beside her, and her knitting-needles glinting. "did you have a pleasant walk?" she asked, and looked at them with a certain massive eagerness. "ask hagar, ma'am. she may have," answered ralph; and took himself into the house. they heard his rather heavy footfall upon the stair. hagar sat down on the porch step. "ralph has, doubtless, a great many good qualities, but he is spoiled." now old miss had a favourite project or projects, and that was matings between coltsworths and ashendynes. every few years for perhaps two centuries such matings had occurred. many had occurred in her day. with great intensity she wanted and had wanted for years to see a match made between her granddaughter and so promising, nay, so accomplishing, a coltsworth as ralph. she was proud of ralph--proud of his appearance, of his ability to get on in the world and make money and restore hawk nest, of his judgment and knowledge of public affairs which seemed to her extraordinary. she wanted him to marry hagar, and characteristically she refused to admit the possibility of defeat. but ralph was no longer quite a young man--he ought to have been married years ago. as for hagar--old miss loved her granddaughter, but she had very little patience with her. she was not patient with women generally. she thought that, on the whole, women were a poor lot--_witness maria_. maria lived for old miss, lived on one side in space of her own, core of an atmosphere of smouldering, dull resentment. if maria had been different, medway would have lived at home. if maria had known her duty, there would have been a brood of grandchildren to match with broods of coltsworths and others of rank just under the first. if maria had been different, this one grandchild wouldn't be throwing a million dollars away and failing to love her cousin! if maria hadn't been a wilful piece, hagar might have escaped being a wilful piece. old miss loved her granddaughter, but that was what she was calling her now in her mind--a wilful piece. factors that counted with the others at gilead balm, hagar's very actual detachment and independence, name and prestige and personality, failed to count with old miss. such things counted in other cases; they counted in ralph's case. but hagar was of the younger, therefore rightfully subordinate, generation, and she was female. ralph was of the younger generation, also, and as a boy, while old miss spoiled him when he came to gilead balm, she expected to rule him, too. but ralph had crossed the rubicon. as soon as he grew from young boy to man, some mysterious force placed him without trouble of his own in the conquering superior class whose dicta must be accepted and whose judgment must be deferred to. the halo appeared about his head. he came up equal with and passed ahead of old miss, elder generation to the contrary. but hagar--hagar was yet in the class that was young and couldn't know; she was in the class of the "poor lot." she was a wilful piece. "i do not see that ralph is spoiled," said old miss. "he receives a natural recognition of his ability and success in life. he is a very successful man, a very able man. he is giving new weight to the family name. there was a piece in the paper the other day that said the state ought to be proud of ralph. i cut it out," said old miss, "and put it in my scrapbook. i'll show it to you. you ought to read it. i don't see why you aren't proud of your cousin." "i hope i may be.--what are you knitting, grandmother?" "any woman might be happy to have ralph propose to her. and any woman but your mother's daughter might have some care for family happiness and advantage--" "oh, grandmother, would my unhappiness in truth advantage the family?" "unhappiness! there's no need for unhappiness. that's your mother again! ralph is a splendid man. you ought to feel flattered. i don't believe in marrying without love, certainly not without respect; but when you see it is your duty and make your mind submissive you can manage easily enough to feel both. that's the trouble with you as it was with your mother before you. you don't see your duty and you don't make your mind submissive. i've no patience with you." "grandmother," said hagar, "did you ever realize that you yourself only make your mind submissive when it comes into relation with men, or with ideas advanced by men? i have never seen you humble-minded with a woman." old miss appeared to take this as a startling proposition, and to consider it for a moment; then, "i don't know what you mean." "i mean that outraged nature must be itself somewhere--else there's annihilation." old miss's needles clicked. "i don't pretend to be 'literary,' or to understand literary talk. what moses and st. paul said and the way we've always done in virginia is good enough for me. you're perverse and rebellious as maria was before you. it's simple obstinacy, your not caring for ralph--and as for throwing away medway's million dollars, there ought to be a law to keep you from doing it!--are you going upstairs? my scrapbook is on the fourth shelf of the big closet. get it and read that piece about ralph." chapter xxvii a difference of opinion but the great gilead balm explosion came three days later. it was nearly sunset, and they were all upon the wide, front porch--the colonel, old miss, miss serena, captain bob, mrs. legrand, hagar. ralph was not there, he had ridden to hawk nest, but would return to-night. it had been a beautiful, early september day, the sky high and blue, the air all sunny vigour. gilead balm sat and enjoyed the cool, golden, winey afternoon, the shadows lengthening over the hills, the swallows overhead, the tinkle of the cow-bells. it was not one of your families that were always chattering. the porch held rather silent than otherwise. mrs. legrand could, indeed, keep up a smooth, slow flow of talk, but mrs. legrand had been packing to return to eglantine which would "open" in another week, and she was somewhat fatigued. the colonel, pending the arrival of yesterday's newspaper, was reviewing that of the day before yesterday. captain bob and lisa communed together. old miss knitted. miss serena ran a strawberry emery bag through and through with her embroidery needle. hagar had a book, but she was not reading. it lay face down in her lap; she was hardly thinking; she was dreaming with her eyes upon a vast pearly, cumulus cloud, coming up between the spires of the cedars. a mulatto boy appeared with the mail-bag. "ha!" said the colonel, and stretched out his hand. there was a small table beside him. he opened the bag and turned the contents out upon this, then began to sort them. no one--it was a gilead balm way--claimed letter or paper until the colonel had made as many little heaps as there were individuals and had placed every jot and tittle of mail accruing, ending by shaking out the empty bag. he did all this to-day. captain bob had only a county paper--no letters for old miss--a good deal of forwarded mail for mrs. legrand--the colonel's own--letters and papers for hagar. the colonel handled each piece, glanced at the superscription, put it in the proper heap. he shook out the bag; then, gathering up mrs. legrand's mail, gave it to her with a smile and a small courtly bow. miss serena rose, work in hand, and took hers from the table. lisa walked gravely up, then returned to captain bob with the county paper in her mouth. the colonel's shrunken long fingers took up hagar's rather large amount and held it out to her. "here, gipsy"--the last time for many a day that he called her gipsy. a letter slipped from the packet to the floor. bending, the colonel picked it up, and in doing so for the first time regarded the printing on the upper left-hand corner--_return in five days to the ---- equal suffrage league_. the envelope turned in his hand. on its reverse, across the flap, was boldly stamped--votes for women. colonel argall ashendyne straightened himself with a jerk. "hagar!--what is that? how do you happen to get letters like that?--answer!" his granddaughter, who had risen to take her mail, regarded first the letter and then the colonel with some astonishment. "what do you mean, grandfather? the letter's from my friend, elizabeth eden. i wonder if you don't remember her, that summer long ago at the new springs?" the colonel's forefinger stabbed the three words on the back of the envelope. "you don't have friends and correspondents who are working for _that_?" "why not? i propose presently actively to work for it myself." apoplectic silence on the part of the colonel. the suddenly arisen storm darted an electric feeler from one to the other upon the porch. "what's the matter?" demanded captain bob. "something's the matter!" old miss, who had not clearly caught the colonel's words, yet felt the tension and put in an authoritative foot. "what have you done now, hagar? who's been writing to you? what is it, colonel?" ralph, in his riding-clothes, coming through the hall from the back where he had just dismounted, felt the sultry hush. "what's happened? what's the matter, hagar?" "get me a glass of water, serena!" breathed the colonel. he still held the letter. "my dear friend, let me fan you!" exclaimed mrs. legrand, and moved to where she could see the offending epistle. "votes for--oh, hagar, you surely aren't one of _those_ women!" miss serena, who had flown for the water, returned. the colonel drank and the blood receded from his face. the physical shock passed, there could be seen gathering the mental lightning. miss serena, too, read over his shoulder "votes-- ... oh, _hagar_!" hagar laughed--a cool, gay, rippling sound. "why, how round-eyed you all are! it isn't murder and forgery. is the word 'rebellion' so strange to you? may i have my letter, grandfather?" the colonel released the letter, but not the situation. "either you retire from such a position and such activities, or you cease to be granddaughter of mine--" old miss, enlightened by an aside from mrs. legrand, came into action. "she doesn't mean that she's friends with those brazen women who want to be men? what's that? she says she's going to work with them? i don't believe it! i don't believe that even of maria's daughter. going around speaking and screaming and tying themselves to houses of parliament and interrupting policemen! if i believed it, i don't think i'd ever speak to her again in this life! women righters and abolitionists!--doing their best to drench the country with blood, kill our people and bring the carpetbaggers upon us! wearing bloomers and cutting their hair short and speaking in town-halls and wanting to change the marriage service!--yes, they do wear bloomers! i saw one doing it in new york in , when i was there with your grandfather. and she had short hair--" mrs. legrand, as the principal of a school for young ladies, always recognized her responsibility to truth. she stood up for veracity. "dear mrs. ashendyne, it is not just like that now. there are a great many more suffragists now--so many that society has agreed not to ostracize them. some of them are pretty and dress well and have a good position. i was at a tea in baltimore and there were several there. i've even heard women in virginia--women that you'd think ought to know better--say that they believed in it and that sooner or later we'd have a movement here. of course, you don't hear that kind of talk, but i can assure you there's a good deal of it. of course, i myself think it is perfectly dreadful. woman's place is the home. and we can surely trust _everything_ to the chivalry of our southern men. i am sure hagar has only to think a little--the whole thing seems to me so--so--so _vulgar_!" miss serena broke out passionately. "it's against the bible! i don't see how any _religious_ woman--" hagar, who had gone back to her chair, turned her eyes toward captain bob. "confound it, gipsy! what do you want to put your feet on the table and smoke cigars for?" hagar looked at ralph. he was gazing at her with eyes that were burning and yet sullen and angry. "women, i suppose, have got to have follies and fads to amuse themselves with. at any rate, they have them. suffrage or bridge, it doesn't much matter, so long as it's not let really to interfere. if it begins to do that, we'll have to put a stop to it. woman, i take it, was made for man, and she'll have to continue to recognize that fact. good lord! it seems to me that if we give her our love and pay her bills, she might be satisfied!" all having spoken, hagar spoke. "i should like, if i may, to tell you quietly and reasonably why--" her eyes were upon her grandfather. "i wish to hear neither your excuses nor your reasons," said the colonel. "i want to hear a retraction and a promise." hagar turned slightly, "grandmother--" "don't," said old miss, "talk to me! when you're wrong, you're wrong, and that's all there is to it! maria used to try to explain, and then she stopped and i was glad of it." hagar leaned back in her chair and regarded the circle of her relatives. she felt for a moment more like maria than hagar. she felt trapped. then she realized that she was not trapped, and she smiled. thanks to the evolving whole, thanks to the years and to her eternal self pacing now through a larger moment than those moments of old, she was not by position maria, she was not by position miss serena. before her, quiet and fair, opened her fourth dimension. inner freedom, ability to work, personal independence, courage and sense of humour and a sanguine mind, breadth and height of vision, tenderness and hope, her waiting friends, elizabeth, marie, rachel, molly and christopher, denny, rose darragh, many another--her work, the story now hovering in her brain, what other and different work might rise above the horizon--the passion to help, help largely, lift without thinking if it were or were not her share of the weight--the universe of the mind, the growing spirit and the wings of the morning ... there was her land of escape, real as the hills of gilead balm. she crossed the border with ease; she was not trapped. even now her subtle self was serenely over. and the hagar ashendyne appearing to others upon this porch was not chained there, was not riveted to gilead balm. next week, indeed, she would be gone. a tenderness came over hagar for her people. all her childhood was surrounded by them; they were dear, deep among the roots of things. she wanted to talk to them; she longed that they should understand. "if you'd listen," she said, "perhaps you'd see it a little differently--" the colonel spoke with harshness. "there is no need to see it differently. it is you who should see it differently." "it comes of the kind of things you've always read!" cried miss serena. "books that i wouldn't touch!" "yes, maria was always reading, too," said old miss. for her it _was_ less hagar than maria sitting there.... "if it was anything we didn't know, we would, of course, listen to you, hagar dear," said mrs. legrand. "i should be glad to listen anyhow, just as i listened to those two women in baltimore. but i must say their arguments sounded to me very foolish. ladies in the south certainly don't need to come into contact with the horrors they talked about. and i cannot consider the discussion of such subjects delicate. i should certainly consider it disastrous if my girls at eglantine gained any such knowledge. to talk about their being white slaves and things like that--it was nauseating!" "would you listen, ralph?" asked hagar. "i'll listen to you, hagar, on any other subject but this." mrs. legrand's voice came in again. she was fluttering her fan. "all these theories that you women are advancing nowadays--if they _paid_, if you stood to gain anything by them, if by advancing them you didn't, so it seems to me, always come out at the little end of the horn--people ridiculing you, society raising its eyebrows, men afraid to marry you--! my dear hagar, men, collectively speaking--men don't want women to exhibit mind in all directions. they don't object to their showing it in certain directions, but when it comes to women showing it all around the circle they do object, and from my point of view quite properly! men naturally require a certain complaisance and deference from women. there's no need to overdo it, but a certain amount of physical and mental dependence they certainly do want! well, what's the use of a woman quarrelling with the world as it's made? between doing without independent thinking and doing without an establishment and someone to provide for you--! so you see," said mrs. legrand, smoothly argumentative, "what's the use of stirring up the bottoms of things? and it isn't as though we weren't really fond of the men. we are. i've always been fonder of a man, every time, than of a woman. i must confess i can't see any reason at all for all this strenuous crying out against good old usage! of course a woman with considerable mental power may find it a little limiting, but there are a lot of women, i assure you, who never think of it. if there's a little humbug and if some women suffer, why those things are in the dish, that's all! the dish isn't all poisoned, and a woman who knows what she is about can pick and choose and turn everything to account. i wouldn't know what to do," said mrs. legrand, "with the dish that people like you would set before us. all this crying out about evolution and development and higher forms doesn't touch me in the least! i like the forms we've got. perhaps they're imperfect, but the thing is, i feel at home with imperfection." she leaned back, in good humour. hagar had given her an opportunity to express herself very well. "don't you, too," she asked, "feel at home with the dear old imperfection?" hagar met her eyes. "no," she said. mrs. legrand shrugged. "oh, well!" she said, "i suppose each will fight for the place that is home." hagar looked beyond her, to her kindred. "you're all opponents," she said. "alike you worship god as man, and you worship a static god, never to be questioned nor surpassed. you have shut an iron door upon yourselves.... one day you who shut it, you alone--you will open it, you alone. but i see that the day is somewhat far." she rose. "i was going anyhow you know, grandfather, in four days. but i can take the morning train if you'd rather?" but colonel ashendyne said stiffly that if she had forgotten her duty, he had not his, and that the hospitality of gilead balm would be hers, of course, for the four days. hagar listened to him, and then she looked once more around the circle. a smile hovered on her lips and in her eyes. it broadened, became warm and sweet. "i'll accept for a time the partial estrangement, but i don't ever mean that it shall be complete! it takes two to make an estrangement." she went up to her grandmother and kissed her, then said that she was going for a walk.--"no, ralph, you are not coming with me!" she went down the porch steps, and moved away in the evening glow. the black cedars swallowed her up; then upon the other side, beyond the gate, she was seen mounting the hill to the right. the sun was down, but the hilltop rested against rose-suffused air, and above it swam the evening star. ralph spoke with a certain grim fury. "i wish the old times were back! then a man could do what he wished! then you didn't feel yourself caught in a net like a cobweb that you couldn't break--" mrs. legrand again opened her fan. "i am very fond, of course, of dear hagar, but i must say that she seems to me intensely unwomanly!" chapter xxviii new york again it seemed strange to be back at the maines', staying a fortnight with rachel while the apartment was being looked for. nothing had been moved in that house; it was all just the same, only the tone of time was deeper, the furniture more worn, the prints yellower. she asked for and was given the third-floor back room again, though, indeed, mrs. maine protested that now that she was famous!... bessie had changed as little as the house. more grey hairs, somewhat more flesh, a great many more pounds of chocolate creams to her credit--that seemed all. she was still amiable, sleepily agreeable, comely, and lazy. powhatan, except to grow greyer and leaner, had not altered either. the old servants held on. with some inevitable variations the same people came in the evenings--the bishop's nephew and the st. timothy people, and powhatan's downtown acquaintances, and chance visitors from the other side of mason and dixon's. she noticed a slight difference in the cast of talk. they all seemed uneasily aware that the world was moving. mostly they disapproved and foreboded. she cast her mind back to that winter of ' -' . it had been the terrible winter of unemployment, strikes, widespread discontent. she remembered clearly how powhatan had declaimed then against "upsetters" and what the country was coming to. but now she heard him and the bishop's nephew agree that anti-christ and ruin were modern inventions. they sighed for the halcyon past. "even ten or twelve years ago, sir, men were content enough!" rachel--rachel had not sat still. rachel had climbed. she was the old rachel, but sweetened and broadened. there was left something of her old manner; she had her broodings that to the casual eye seemed half-sullen; at the end of long silences she might flare out, send at table or elsewhere a flaming, unexpected arrow, but her old ways were like old clothes, kept half-negligently, worn from habit, while all the time a fairer, more lately woven garment was in the wardrobe. she looked no older; she was slight and brown and somehow velvety. hagar called her a pansy. she was no longer tragic, or tragedy had become but a dim background, a remembered cloud. and she was the strong, sane, and actual comrade of her children. betty and charley.... charley was blind. charley and betty had changed, changed more than anybody. betty stood a frank, straight young diana, what she said and did ringing true. charley was the student. he had his shelves of braille, and his mother's eyes and voice were his at call. just now they were doing general history together--that was what charley wanted, to be a historian. charley and betty claimed hagar for their own. there were her christmas letters every year--wonderful letters--and her christmas gifts, small choice things from every land. they worshipped her, too, with frankness because she had "done something"--because her name counted. oh, they were very ambitious, betty and charley; filled with ideas, glorious for the new time, ready to push the world with vigour! "oh," cried hagar, "don't they make you feel timid, cautious, and conservative?" she watched with interest to see what effect the two had upon powhatan and bessie. she was forced to the conclusion that they had very little. they angered powhatan sometimes, and he would strike the table and deplore the days of silent reverence. but he was desperately proud of betty's looks, and he had an odd, sneaking pity and fondness for charley, and hagar gathered that he would have sadly missed them out of the house. as for bessie, she only gave her sleepy smile, and said that all children talked foolishly, but that you didn't have to listen. upstairs, at bedtime, now in rachel's room, now in hagar's the two talked together. daytime, they looked for hagar's apartment. they found it at last, high in air, overlooking the great city; roofs and roofs and roofs at a hundred levels; curling streamers of white steam like tossed plumes against the blue sky, bright pennants floating from towering hotel or department store; a clock below a church spire, with a gilt weather-cock far above; blurs of occasional trees seen in some hollow opening; streets far below them, crossing, crossing--percolating rivulets of manikins that were people; roofs and roofs and roofs, and a low perpetual, multitudinous voice; and the sky over all, high and clear and exhilarating the day they found the place. "i am going to utter a bromide," said hagar. "how marvellous is modern life!" they went over it again. "thomasine's room, and a guest-room, and my room, and a fine room for mary magazine who is coming--isham having remarried--to look after us, and two baths and a great big library-study-drawing-room, and a little room for what we please, and plenty of closets, and a quiet and good café away up on the roof--rachel, it's fine!" they sat on a window-seat and rachel produced a pencil and notebook, and together they tinted the walls and laid rugs and hung pictures and ran bookshelves around and furnished the apartment. "there! that's quiet and perfect and not expensive. as thomson would say, 'it's quite _comme il faut_, miss!'" "where is thomson?" "mr. greer, the artist, has taken him over. he wrote me that he was making thousands, throwing the light on millionaires, and especially millionairesses, and that he wanted thomson, oh, so badly! he's the type that thomson likes, and so he joined him two months ago at newport. dear old thomson! mahomet has gone back to alexandria." they looked around the big room. "soft lights at night and all those twinkling stars out there. it's going to be a dear home." "you'll have people coming about you. your own sort--" hagar laughed. "what is my sort? everybody's my sort." "writers--artists--" hagar pondered the mantel-shelf with a view to what should go above it. "i don't know many of them. i know more of them abroad than here. we're a very isolated kind of craftspeople--each of us more or less on a little robinson crusoe island of our own. it may be different in new york, i don't know.... we could do a good deal if we'd put our heads together and push the same wheel." the apartment was not to be furnished in a day. they worked at it in a restful and leisurely manner, and in the midst of operations, hagar went to see the josslyns who had a house up on the sound. that afternoon she and the josslyns walked by the water and watched the white sails gliding by the green and rocky shore, then in the evening sat by a wood fire with cider and apples. monday to friday the children were in town at their grandmother's, going to school; friday afternoon they entered the big living-room like a west wind and danced about with their mother. a little later the whole family would go into town; christopher had had a course of lectures to write and he was doing it better here. the fire crackled and blazed; at night through the open windows came in a dim sound of waves, with passing lights of boats, and the fragrance of the salt sea, beloved by hagar. on monday, when the children had gone, she drove with molly deep into the sweet countryside, and the two talked as the quiet old horse jogged along.... molly had taken the advice of the woman at roger michael's dinner-party three years and more ago. she was an active member of a suffrage organization, deeply interested, beginning to speak. "i'm a good out-of-doors sort. my voice carries and i don't have to strain it. of course, we're just beginning out-of-doors speaking. i haven't half the intellect i wish i had, but i can give them good, plain doctrine. it's so common-sense, after all! and christopher helps so much.... oh, hagar, when you're truly mated, it's _heaven_!" molly could tell much of the practical working, of the everyday effort and propaganda. "in two weeks we'll be back in town, and then if you'll let me take you here and there--and when we get back to the house i'll show you what i have of the literature we use,--pamphlets, leaflets, and so on,--from john stuart mill down to an article christopher wrote the other day. we broadcast a great amount of it in every state, but if we were rich we could make use of a thousand times more. but we're not rich--whether that's to our damnation or our salvation! we have to make devotion do instead. then there are the books that help us, and they are coming out constantly now. and every now and then we gain a bit of the press. a number of the magazines help no end. and, of course, we speak and have meetings and work quietly, each among her own acquaintance. it's to educate--educate--educate! we're just at the beginning of things. there were the early stages and the heroic women who blazed the trail. they're all going,--miss anthony died last march,--and their time is merging into our time, and now the trail's a roadway and there are thousands on it, and still we're just at the beginning--" molly could tell, too, something of the personality of the women eminent in the movement. "the really eminent to-day are not always those whose names the reporters catch, and _vice versa_. and while the papers talk of 'leaders,' i do not think that, in the man's sense, they are leaders at all. we do not hurrah for any woman as the men do for mr. roosevelt or mr. bryan. the movement goes without high priests and autocrats and personifications. we haven't, i suppose, the big chief tradition. perhaps woman's individualism has a value after all. it's like religion when it really is personal; your idea of good remains your idea of good; it doesn't take on a human form. or perhaps we're merely tired of crooking the knee. i don't know. the fact remains." they jogged along by country roads and orchards. "it's the most worth-_while_ thing!" said molly. "nobody can explain it, but every one who takes hold of it _deep_ feels it. i heard a woman say the other day that it was like going out of a close room into ozone and wind and the blue lift of the sky. she said she felt as though she had wings! discouragements? cartloads of them! but somehow they don't matter. nor do mistakes. of course we make them--but the next time we do better." the witching autumn week with the josslyns over, hagar went back to town, and, as she had promised, to the settlement for three days. the settlement! the first day she had seen it came back clearly; the harsh, biting day and the search for thomasine, and omega street, and then how wonderful the old house had seemed to her, going over it with elizabeth. it was shrunken now, of course, in size and marvel, but it was still a grave and pleasant place of fine uses. she had visited it before during this month, and she had marked certain changes. a few of the people in residence years before were here yet, others were gone, others of later years had come in. but it was not only people; other changes appeared. she found exhibited a deep skepticism of certain danaïdes' labours still favoured or tolerated so many years ago. the policies of the place were bolder and larger; every one was at once more radical and more serene. marie caton met her. "elizabeth has a committee meeting, and then she speaks to-night at cooper union: _women in the sweated trades_. i haven't had you to myself hardly ever! now i'm going to." "can't i go to cooper union to-night?" "oh, yes! i'm going, too. it's an important meeting. but i've got you for a whole two hours, and nowadays that's a long and restful sojourn together! get your things off and we'll take possession of elizabeth's sitting-room." in elizabeth's room, with her books, with the psyche and the botticelli judith and the mona lisa and the drawing of the sphinx, they talked of twenty things, finally of the settlement's specific activities, old ones carried on, new ones embarked in; then, "but more and more you get drawn--or i get drawn--into the ocean of china awake." "china awake?" "women awake. it's an ocean all right, with an ocean's possibilities." "i don't think it's women only who are waking, marie. women and men, all of us--" "i agree," said marie. "but it wasn't just natural sleepy-headedness with women. they've been drugged--given knock-out drops, so to speak. they have a long way to wake up." hagar mused, her eyes upon the drawing. "yes, a good, long way.... there must have been a lot of pristine strength." "well, it's coming out. all kinds of things are coming out with an accent on qualities they didn't think she had." "yes. the world _is_ rather in the position of the hen with the duckling--" "the kind of thing we read and hear at this place emphasizes, of course, the economic and sociological side. it's to be the century of fair distribution, of social organization, of humanism--_ergo_, woman also. which, of course, is all right, but i'd put an infinite plus to that." "and elizabeth?" "oh, elizabeth is a saint! what she thinks of is the sweated woman and the little children, and the girl who goes under--most often is pushed under. it's what we see down here; it's the starved bodies and minds, the slow dying of fatigue, the monstrous wrong of the things withheld that's moving her. of course, we all think of that. how can any thinking woman not think of that? she wants the vote to use as a lever, and so do i, and so do you.... but behind all that, in the place where i myself live," said marie, with sudden passion, "i am fighting to be myself! i am fighting for that same right for the other woman! i am fighting for plain recognition of an equal humanity!" there was a crowd that night at cooper union. elizabeth spoke; a grave, strong talk, followed with attention, clapped with sincerity. after her there spoke an a. f. of l. man. "women have got to unionize. they've got to learn to keep step. they've got to learn that the good of one is wrapped up in the good of all. they've got to learn to strike. they've got to learn to strike not only for themselves, but for the others. they've got to get off their little, just-standing-room islands, and think in terms of continents. they've got to get an idea of solidarity--" when he had taken his seat came an announcement, made with evident satisfaction. "we did not know it until a few minutes ago. we thought she was still in the west--but we are so fortunate as to have with us to-night--rose darragh!" applause broke forth at once. chapter xxix rose darragh rose darragh's short speech, at once caustic and passionate, ended--the meeting ended. hagar waited below the platform. rose darragh, at last shaking off the crowd, came toward her. "i've been looking at you. i seem, somehow, to know you--" "and i you. and not--which is strange to me--not through another." "is your name hagar ashendyne?" hagar nodded. "we can't talk well here--" "i'm in new york for two weeks. denny's in chicago and i join him there. let me see--where can we meet? will you come to my flat?" "yes; and in a few days i shall have my own rooms. i want to see you there, too, rose darragh." "i'll come. this is my address. will you come to-morrow at four?" hagar went. denny had written that the two lived "handy to their work," and it was apparent that they did. the flat had the dignity of spartan simplicity. in it rose darragh moved with the fire of the ruby. "denny had to go about the paper. oh, it's doing well, the paper! it's denny's idol. he serves in the temple day and night, and when the idol asks it, he'll give his heart's blood.... you liked denny very much, didn't you?--in nassau, three years ago?" "yes, i did." they were sitting in the plain, bare room, attractive, for it was so clean, the late autumn sunlight streaming in at the curtainless windows. "yes, i did. i liked him so well that ... i had somewhat of a fight with myself.... i am telling you that," said hagar, "because i want your friendship. it is over now, nor do i think it will come again." rose darragh gave her a swift look from heel to head. "that's strength. i like strength.... all right! i'm not afraid." they sat in silence for a moment; then, "i wish you'd tell me," said hagar, "about your work." a very few days after this she took possession of the apartment, and at once made it a home. there was a housewarming with rachel and betty and charley and elizabeth and marie and the josslyns, and two pleasant gentlemen, her publishers, and a fellow-writer or two whom she was by way of knowing and liking, and an artist, and an old scholar and philosopher whom she had known abroad and loved and honoured. and there was thomasine, a little worn and faded, but with happiness stealing over her, and mary magazine busy with the cakes and ale. there couldn't have been a better housewarming. thomasine--thomasine began to bloom afresh. factory and department store and business school and office lay behind her--each a stage upon a somewhat dull and dusty and ambuscade-beset road of life. business school and office, training for mind and fingers alike, a resulting "place" with a fair-dealing firm--all that was hagar's helping, a matter of the last six or seven years. and now hagar had come back and had made thomasine an offer, and thomasine closed with it very simply and gladly. she had from the beginning worked hard and as best she could and had given good value for her pay; and now she was going still to do all that, but to do it with a singing heart and her hunger for beauty and fitness fed. the colour came back into her cheeks; she began to take on a sprite-like beauty. she brought seriously into conversation one day the fact that she had always been good at finding four-leafed clovers.... jim and marietta were doing fairly, still over in new jersey. "fairly" meant a poor house which marietta did her best to keep clean, and two of the children working, and the city for summer and winter, and jim's pay envelope neither larger nor heavier, but the cost of living both. but jim had his "job," and marietta was not so ailing as she used to be, and the two children brought in a little, and thomasine helped each month; so they might be said to be doing much better than many others. there was even talk of being able one day to get--the whole family being fond of music--one of the cheaper phonographs. hagar and thomasine worked through the mornings, hagar thinking, remembering, creating; thomasine taking from her the labour of record; caring also for her letters and the keeping of accounts and all small, recurring business. and thomasine loved to do any shopping that arose to be done,--which was well, for hagar hated shopping,--and loved to keep the apartment "just so." the two lived in quiet, harmonious intercourse, together in working hours, but when working hours were over, each going freely her individual way. thomasine, too, had friends. she wrote to jim and marietta and to maggie at home, taking care of the mother with the spine, that she hadn't been so happy since they used to go to grandmother's at gilead balm.... rose darragh--rose darragh had not been at hagar's housewarming. she was speaking that night in newark. but some days afterwards she came--came late one afternoon with the statement that she had the evening free. she and thomasine and hagar dined in the café together, but thomasine hurried through her dinner, for she was going to the theatre with a fellow-stenographer with whom she had worked for two years downtown, and who was "such a nice girl," and with the stenographer's brother, who looked like a nice brother. hagar and rose darragh, left at the table, sipped their coffee. a quality of rose darragh's came out. she observed and deduced, to the amusement of herself and of others, with the swiftness and accuracy of m. dupin or of mr. sherlock holmes. they had a small corner table commanding the long, bright room. "twenty tables," she said. "men and women and a fair number of children. not proportionately so large a number as once there would have been, and that is well, the bawlers of race-suicide to the contrary!--i'm interested in the women just now. man's had the centre of the stage for so long!--and, of course, we know that this is the century of the child--see cotton-mills, glass-works, and canneries. but woman--woman's just coming out of the wings.... there's rather an interesting collection here to-night. do you know any of them?" "i have spoken casually to several. i have been here, you know, only the shortest time." "there's a woman over there who has a wonderful face--brooding and wise.... a teacher isn't she? i should say she was not married." "yes; she is a teacher, and single." "there's a woman who is a nurse." "yes. there's a sick child in that family. but she is not in uniform to-night." "i know her all the same. she's a good nurse. there are those who are and those who aren't. but she's got strength and poise and knows what she is about and is kind.--those two women over there--" "yes. what do you make of them?" "there's such a glitter of diamonds you can't see the women. poor things!--to be beings of a single element--to live in a world of pure carbon--to be the hardest thing there is, and yet be so brittle too!... the woman next them is good ordinary: nothing remarkable, and yet pleasant enough. the worst that can be said of her is that she doesn't discriminate. if the broth lacks salt, she never knows it." "and the two over there with the stout man?" rose darragh gazed a moment with eyes slightly narrowed. "oh, those!" she said. "those are our adapted women--perilously near adapted, at any rate. that's a sucking wife and daughter. take your premise that in the divine order of things the male opens the folds of his being, surrounds, encloses, 'shelters' and 'protects' and 'provides for' your female in season and out of season, when there is need, and when there is certainly none, and your further premise that the female is willing and ruthlessly logical--and behold the supremely natural conclusion!... daughters of the horse leech--and perfectly respectable members of society as constituted! faugh!--with their mouths glued to that fat man's pocket. he looks haggard, and at the moment he's probably grinding the faces of no end of men and women,--not because he's got a bad heart and really wants to,--but because he's got to 'provide' for those two perfectly strong and healthy persons in jewelry and orchids! he's cowed by tradition into accepting the monstrous position, and he's weak enough to let them define what is 'provision.' he's got to keep filling and filling the pocket because they suck so fast." "do you think they can change?" "they can be forced to change. they don't want to change, any more than the copepod wants to change. and logically, while he persists in his present attitude, the man can't ask them to change. he can't keep his cake and eat it too." she drank her coffee. "that very stout gentleman who is being driven to bankruptcy, or to ways that are queer, is just the kind to strike the table with his fist and violently to assure you that god meant woman, lovely woman! to be dependent upon man, and that it is with deep regret that he sees woman crowding into industry and beating at the doors of the professions--woman, wife and mother, god bless her! do you notice how they always put wife first? if the association opposed to the extension of the franchise to women asked him to-night for a contribution, they'd probably get it." "how numerous do you think are those women?" "the copepods? numerous enough, pity 'tis! but not so numerous as, given the system, you might fairly expect: numerous positively, but not relatively. and a lot of them have simply succumbed to environmental pressure. given a generation or two of rational training and a nobler ideal of what befits a human being, and the copepod will yet succour herself.... denny and i see more of the other kind. the drudges outnumber the copepods, and neither need be.... there's a girl over there i like--the one with the braided hair. many of the young girls of to-day are rather wonderful. it's going to be interesting to see what they'll do when they're older, and what their daughters will do. she's got a fine head--mathematics, i should think." they went down together. in the large and comfortable half study, half drawing-room with the shaded lights, with the sea-like sound of the city without the windows, with the books and pictures, they walked a little to and fro together, and at last paused before a window and looked forth--the firmament studded with lights above and the city studded with lights below. "there's a noble word called work," said rose darragh, "and we have degraded it into toil, on the one hand, and it has a strong enemy called false ideals, on the other. what i ask of life is that i may be one of the helpers to save work from toil and false ideals." they watched the lights in silence, then turned back to the soft glowing room. when each had taken a deep chair on either side of the great library table, they still kept silent. rose darragh sat erect, lithe, strong, embrowned, a wine red in her cheeks. as in the picture that hagar remembered, her strong throat rose clear from a blouse of the simplest make, only a soft dark silk instead of wool in honour of the evening. her skirt was of dark cheviot. she wore no stays, it was evident, and needed none. her hair, of a warm chestnut, wavy and bright, was cut to about the length worn by byron and keats and shelley.... to a marked extent she was interest-provoking; there was felt a powerful nature, rich and indomitable. presently she spoke. "denny will be home next week. don't you want me to take you one day to see the shrine where he keeps his idol and watch him providing acceptable sacrifice? it's rich--the editorial room of 'onward!'" "yes, i should like it very much." "then we'll go down some morning soon. there's a place near the temple where they give you a decent omelette and cheese. we'll all three go there for luncheon.... denny's fine." "i'm very sure of that." "yes, warp and woof, he's sincere--and that's what i worship, sincerity! and he's able. he strikes more narrowly than i do, but he strikes deep. we've lived and worked together now eight years. we've seen hard times together. we've nearly starved together. we've made a name and come out together. and, bigger than our own fates, we've seen our cause bludgeoned and seen it lift its bleeding head. we've known together impersonal sorrow and joy, humbling and pride, fear and faith, despair and hope. denny and i are the best friends. we've been lovers in the flesh, but there's something better than that between us." she turned square to the light and hagar. "that's the truest truth, and yet i want to tell you that i think you've always been to him a kind of unearthly and spiritual romance. he's kept you lifted, moving above him in the clouds, beckoning, with a light about you. and i want to tell you that i have not grudged that--" "i spoke to you as i did the other day," said hagar, "because, somehow, i had that impulse. it was not necessary that i should do so; that of which i spoke had long passed." she rose and walked slowly back and forth in the room. "when i bethought myself, that month in nassau, of where i--not he--was drifting ... i was able then to leave that current, and leave it not to reënter. that was three years ago. i beg you to believe that that temptation, if it was a temptation, is far behind me. my soul will not return that way, cannot return that way.... and now i simply want to be friends." "i'll meet you there. i like you too much not to want to. you seem to me one of those rare ones who find their lamp and refuge in themselves." "and i like you, extraordinarily. i should like to work with you." "there is nothing," said rose darragh, "any easier to arrange than that." chapter xxx an old acquaintance in the year , a certain large gathering of suffragists occurring in new york, permission was sought and obtained for speaking in union square. here and there, beneath the trees, sprang temporary tribunes sheathed with bunting the colour of gold; above them banners and banneroles of the same hue, black-lettered, votes for women. from each tribune now a woman was speaking, now a man. about speakers and tribunes pressed the crowd, good-natured, commenting, earnest in places. each speaker had about ten minutes; time up, he or she stepped down; another took position. sometimes the crowd laughed at a good story or at a barbed shaft skilfully shot; sometimes it applauded; sometimes it indulged in questions. its units continually shifted; one or more speakers at this stand listened to, it went roaming for pastures new and brought up before the next tribune, whose crowd, roaming in its turn, filled the just vacated spaces. it was a still, pearl-grey mid-afternoon, the pale-brown leaves falling from the trees, the roar of the city softened, the square's frontier lines of tall buildings withdrawn, a little blurred, made looming and poetic. all was a picture, lightly shifting with gleams of gold and a woman's voice, earnest, lilting. the crowd increased until there was a great crowd. votes for women--votes for women--said the banners and the banneroles. a man and a woman, leaving a taxicab on the broadway facet of the square, stood a moment upon the pavement. "what a crowd!" said the man. "there is speaking of some kind." he stopped a boy. "what is going on?" "suffragettes! women speaking. want ter vote. ain't got no husbands.--_i_ wouldn't let 'em! say, ain't they gettin' too big for their places?" the boy stuck out his tongue and went away. "young hoodlum!" exclaimed the man with disgust. "let us stay and hear them for a while. i never have." "all right!--i'll pay the cab." he came back to her, and they moved across and under the trees. "are you interested?" "i think i am. i haven't made up my mind. we're so far south that as a movement it's all as yet only a rather distant sound. how do you feel about it?" "why, i think it's an honest proposition. i've never seen why not. we're all human together, aren't we? but building bridges for south american governments has kept me, too, a little out of earshot. i see what the papers say, and they're saying a good deal." "ours chiefly confine themselves to being scandalized by the english militants." "then your papers are very foolish. who ever supposed there weren't jacobins in every historic struggle for liberty? sometimes they help and sometimes they hinder, and sometimes they do both at once. it's rather superficial to see only the 'left,' and not the movement of which it is the 'left.'" they came beneath the trees upon the fringe of the crowd about one of the gold-swathed stands. this was an attentive crowd, not restless but listening, slanted forward. the man from the taxicab touched a young workman upon the arm. "who is it speaking?" the other turned a pale, tense face. "it's one that can hold them. it's rose darragh, speaking for the working-women." the two made their way to where they could see and hear. rose darragh, speaking with a lifted irony and passion, sent her last parthian arrow, paused a moment, then cried with a vibrant voice, "give the working-woman a vote!" and stepped back and down from the stand. "by george!" breathed the man from the cab. the crowd applauded--for such a meeting applauded loudly. the young man to whom the two had appealed cried out also. "give the working-woman a vote! she's working dumb and driven under your factory laws! give her the vote!" a large, bald-headed, stubborn-jawed man who had been making _sotto-voce_ remarks, turned with anger. "and have them striking at the polls as well as striking in the shop! doubling the ignorant vote and getting into the way of business! you'd better listen to what i tell you! woman's place is at home--damn her!" the man next him was a clergyman. "i agree with you, sir, that woman's place is the home, but i object to your expletive!" the bald-headed man was willing to be placatory. "well, reverend, if we're only two words apart--are you going to stay here? i'm not! i don't believe in encouraging them--" "i believe you to be right there, sir. woman's sphere--" they went off together. the man from the cab, john fay by name, with his sister-in-law, lily fay, who had been lily goldwell, moved still nearer the front. they could see rose darragh pausing for a moment beside the stand before she went away to another tribune. a woman dressed in wood-brown spoke to her laughing; then, a hand on her shoulder, mounted to the platform. two women behind lily fay whispered together excitedly, "hagar ashendyne?" "yes. i didn't know she was going to speak to-day--but she and rose darragh often do speak together. they're great friends.... somebody ought to tell them who she is--oh! they know--" "_shh!_" "oh, she's holding them--" lily fay clutched her companion's arm. "hagar ashendyne! i went to school with her--" "the writer?" "yes. how strange it seems.... oh, listen!" hagar's voice came to them, silver clear as a swinging bell. "men and women--i am going to tell you why a woman like myself finds herself to-day under a mental and moral compulsion consciously to further what is called the woman movement--" she spoke for ten minutes. when she ended and stepped from the platform, there followed a moment of silence, then applause broke forth. a dark-eyed, breathless girl, a lettered ribbon across her coat, caught her hand. "hurry! we're waiting for you at the next stand. rose darragh is just through--" the two hastened away together, lithe and free beneath the falling brown leaves. a columbia man was speaking well for the men's league, but a good proportion of the crowd, john and lily fay among them, followed the wood-brown skirt. they followed from stand to stand during the next hour, at the end of which time speaking was over for that day. the crowd broke up; the speakers, after some cheerful talk among themselves, gathered together their banners and pennants and went their several ways; committees looked after the taking-down of the stands. lily went over to hagar ashendyne standing with rose darragh and molly josslyn, talking to a little group of friendly people. "i'm lily goldwell. do you remember?" hagar put her arms about her. "oh, lily, how is your head? have you got that menthol pencil still?" "my head got better and i threw it away. oh, hagar, you are a sight for sair een!... yes, i'm lily fay, now. i'm on my way to england to join my husband. the boat sails next week. i'm at the ----. this is my brother-in-law, john fay." "i've got to be at carnegie hall to-night," said hagar. "and i have something to do to-morrow through the day--but the evening's free. won't you come to dinner with me--both of you? yes, i want you, want you bad! come early--come at six." to-morrow was the serenest autumn day. lily and john fay walked from their hotel through a twilight tinted like a shell. when they came to the apartment house and were carried up, up, and left the elevator and rang at the door before them and it opened and they were admitted by a tidy coloured maid, it was to find themselves a little in advance of their hostess. mary magazine explained with slow, soft courtesy. "miss hagar cert'n'y meant to be home er long time befo' you come, she cert'n'y did. but there's er big strike goin' on--er lot of sewing-women--an' she went with miss elizabeth eden early this mahnin', an' erwhile ago she telephone if you got heah first, you must 'scuse her anyhow an' make yo'selves at home 'cause she'll be heah presently. she had," mary magazine explained further, "to send miss thomasine to see somebody for her in boston, so there isn't anybody to entertain you twel she comes. if you'll just make yo'selves comfortable--" and mary magazine smiled slowly and disappeared. the large room had not greatly altered in appearance since rachel and hagar first arranged it, three years ago. there were more books, a few more prints, more signed photographs, a somewhat richer tone of time. it was a good room, quiet and fine, not lacking an air of nobility. a great bough of red autumn leaves flamed at one end like a stained-glass window. a door opening into a small room showed a typewriter and a desk piled with work. the two visitors, with fifteen minutes of sole possession before them, strolled to the windows and admired the far-flung, grandiose view, twilight beginning to be starred with the city lights; then turned back to the room and its strong charm. "we've lived through the revolution, i think," said john fay. "the senses move more slowly than the event. we're just taking it in, and we call it all to make. but it's really made." "i see what you mean. but they--but we--have all this monstrous amount of hard work yet--" "yes. introducing the revolution to the slow-minded. but i gather it's being done." he moved about the room, looking at the photographs. "artists and thinkers and world-builders, men and women.... those years down there around the equator, i could at least take the magazines, and i got each twelvemonth a box of books. i know all these people. i used to feel quite intimate with them, down there building bridges.... building bridges is great work. i believe in it thoroughly and quite enjoy doing it.... and these are bridge-builders, too, and i had a fraternal feeling. i've cut their pictures, men and women, from the magazines and stuck them up in my hut and said good-morning and good-evening to them." he had the pleasantest, humorous eyes, and now they twinkled. "sometimes i like them so well that i really kow-towed to them. and i've laid a platonic sprig of flowers before more than one of these women's pictures. perhaps i'd better not tell her so, but there was a picture of hagar ashendyne--" the door opened and hagar entered. she wore the wood-brown dress of yesterday--she was somewhat pale, with circles under her eyes. "ah, i am sorry!" she said, "but i could not help it. the strike ... and they send the girls to the island. two or three of us went to the court--oh, the snaky, blind thing we call justice!" her eyes filled. "pardon! but if you had been there--" she caught herself up, dashed the moisture from her eyes and said--and looked--that she was glad to see them. "we'll put the things away that make your heart ache! i'll go and change, and we'll eat our dinner and have a pleasant, pleasant time!" in a very little while she was back, dressed in white, amethysts in an old and curious setting about her throat. they had been maria's, and to-night she looked like maria, lines of the haunted mind about her mouth and between her eyes. only it was not her personal fate that troubled her, but a wider haunting. at dinner, in the café at the corner table, she told them, when they asked her, a little of where she had been and what she had done during the day, told them of this pitiful case and of that. then after a moment's silence she said resolutely, "don't let us talk about these things any more. let us talk about happy things. talk to me about yourself, lily!" "there isn't much to tell," said lily; "i've been quite terribly sheltered. for years i was ill, and then i grew better. i've travelled a little, and i like maeterlinck and vedanta and bergson, and i play the violin not so badly, and robert, my husband, is very good to me. i haven't grown much, i am afraid, since i was at eglantine. but more and more continually i want to grow. do you remember, at eglantine--" dinner was not long. they came down to the grave and fair room with the scarlet autumn leaves and the books, and here mary magazine gave them coffee. they sat in their deep chairs and drank it slowly. the talk dropped; they sat in a thoughtful mood. john fay had a long and easy figure, a bronzed, clean-shaven, humorous face and sea-blue eyes. lily was slender as a willow wand, with colourless, strong features. her eyes were dreamy--hagar remembered how she sat and looked into the fire when they read poetry. like the faintest, faraway strain of a music not altogether welcome, a line went through her mind,-- "where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles miles and miles--" hagar, with her odd, pensive, enigmatical face, drove the strain back to the limbo whence it came. she and lily talked of the girls so long ago at eglantine, of sylvie and francie and all the rest, the living and the dead, and the scattered fates. neither had ever been back to the school, but she could tell lily of mrs. legrand's health and prosperity. "you don't like her," said lily. "i was so ill and homesick, i didn't have energy one way or the other, but she was very smooth, i remember that, ... and we were all to marry, and only to marry--marry money and social position--especially social position." they talked of the teachers. "i liked miss gage," said hagar, "and mrs. lane was a gentle, sweet woman. do you remember m. morel?" "yes, and mr. laydon." lily started. "oh, hagar, i had forgotten that! but perhaps there was nothing in it--" hagar laughed. "if you meant that at eighteen i sincerely thought i loved mr. laydon--and that he, as sincerely, i do believe, thought that he loved me--yes, there was that in it! but we found out with fair promptness that it was false fire.--i have not seen nor heard of him for many years. he taught at eglantine for a while, and then he went, i believe, to some western school.... lily, lily! i have had a long life!" "i have had as long a one in years," said lily. "but yours has been the fuller. you have a wonderful life." "we all have wonderful lives," answered hagar. "one is rich after this fashion, one after that." the bell rang. in another moment denny gayde came into the big room. the six years since the nassau month had wrought little outer change. he was still somewhat thin and worn, with a face at once keen and quiet, a little stern, with eyes that saw away, away--he was more light than heat, but there was warmth, too, and it glowed and deepened all around "onward!" when he said the name of his paper, it was as though he caressed it. he was like a lighthouse-keeper whose whole being had become bent, on a wreck-strewn shore, to tending and heightening the light, to sending the rays streaming across the reefs. chapter xxxi john fay "denny," said hagar, "ask mary magazine to give you a coffee-cup." denny came back with it and she filled it from the silver urn. "rose went to brooklyn to-night?" "yes.--i was to have spoken down on omega street, but at the last moment harding came in and i sent him instead. 'onward!' 's got the strongest kind of stuff this week, and there are some finishing touches--i'm going back to the office in an hour or two. rose said that she asked you for that poem, and that you said you would give it, and she thought you might have it ready. i've got a telling place for it--" "drink your coffee and talk to the others while i copy it out," said hagar. she rose and went to the desk in the smaller room. when she came back, lily was dreaming with her eyes upon the forest bough, and the two men sat discussing syndicalism. she laid a folded piece of paper upon the table beside denny's hand. "there are only three verses." he opened the paper and read them. "thank you, hagar! you've struck it home." he refolded the paper and was about to put it in his pocket when john fay held out his hand. "mayn't i see it, too?" he looked at hagar. "yes, of course, if you wish." fay read it, held the paper in his hand for a moment, then gave it back to denny. "i wish i could write like that," he said. his tone was so oddly humble that hagar laughed. "i wish that i could build great bridges across deep rivers!" she said. they sat and talked, and the poem gave leadings to their talk, though they did not speak of the poem. at first it was fay, answering hagar's questions, telling of the struggle of muscle and brain with the physical earth, of mountain-piercing, river-spanning, harbour-making. he was thirty-nine; he had been engineering, building in strange and desert places since he was a boy; he had a host of memories of struggles, now desperate and picturesque, now patient and drudging, grapples of mind with matter, first-hand encounters with solids and liquids and gases. he had had to manage men in order to manage these; he had had to know how to manage men. born with an enquiring mind, he learned as he went along his governments and peoples, their customs, institutions, motor-faiths, strengths and weaknesses; also he knew the natural history of places, and loved mother earth and a good part of her progeny. he had also a defined, quizzical humour which saved the day for him when it grew too strenuous. he talked well, with a certain drawling fitness of phrase which brought medway into hagar's mind, but not unpleasantly. there had been much in medway which she had liked. fay was no monopolist. the talk went from one to another, and denny drew more into it. he had been listening attentively to fay. "it's your work," he said, "and it's tremendous and basic work. you've been doing it through the ages ever since it first occurred to us that we could lengthen an arm with a stick and crack a nut--or an enemy's head--with a stone. it's tremendous and basic still. and the people who work under your direction, and atom by atom give you power?" "why, one day," said fay, "they'll work as artists. a far day, doubtless, and there are degrees in artists; but i see no other conclusion. and to give the artist component in the mass of humanity a chance to strengthen and come out is, i take it, the tremendous and basic work to which we've all got to devote the next century or two." "oh, you're all right!" said denny. hagar smiled. "my old 'news from nowhere'--" "but with a difference," said denny. "morris's was an over-simplified dream." "yes; we are more complex and flowing than that. but it was lovely. do you remember the harvest home, and the masons, so absorbed and happy in their building ... like children, and yet conscious artists, buoyant, free--" fay looked at her. "what," he said, "is _your_ vision of the country that is coming?" her candid eyes met his. "i have no clear vision," she said. "visions, too, are flowing. the vision of to-day is not that of yesterday and to-morrow's may be different yet. moreover, i don't want to fix a vision, to mount it like a butterfly and keep it with the life gone out. we've done too much of that all along the way behind us. vision grows, and who wishes to say 'lo, the beautiful end!' there is no end. i do not wish a rigid mind, posturing before one altar-piece. pictures dissolve and altars are portable." "yes," said denny, "but--" "lily says she reads vedanta. well, it is the yogi's _neti--neti!_ almost your only possible definition as yet is, 'not this--not this!' the country that is coming--it is not capitalism, though capitalism is among its ancestors. it is not war, though in the past it warred. it is not ecclesiasticism, though ecclesiasticism, too, was an inn on its road. it is not sex-aristocracy, though that, too, is behind it; it is not preoccupation with sex at all. it is not sectionalism, nor nationalism, nor imperialism. it is not racial arrogance. it is not arrogance at all. it is not exploitation. it is not hatred. it is not selfishness. it is not lust. it is not bigotry. it is not ignorance, or pride in ignorance.--_neti, neti!_... it is beauty--and truth.... and always greater.... and it comes by knowledge, out of which grows understanding, and by courage, out of which come great actions." she ceased to speak, and leaned back in her chair, her hand at the amethysts about her throat. fay kept his eyes upon her. he was conscious of a resurgence of a morning of a couple of years before when he had cut from a magazine a page bearing a half-tone portrait and had pinned it above his book-shelf. hagar ashendyne had said the legend below. the rustle of the palms outside his hut came to him, and the mist of early morning above the waters. the clock on hagar's mantel-shelf struck ten with a silvery stroke. denny started. "i've got to go--work's calling!" "i had rather hear you say, at ten o'clock, that sleep was calling," said hagar. "you're working too hard, rose says so, and i say so." she looked at him with friendliness deep and tender, soft and bright. "almost denny's only fault is that he makes his work his god rather than his servant. at times he's perilously near offering it a human sacrifice. why will you, denny?" "there's so much to do and so few are doing it," said denny. his eyes were upon the great forest bough, but he seemed to be looking beyond it, down long, long vistas. "i don't know that i worship work. but i want every prisoner of wrong to rebel. and there's no time to waste when you have to pass the word along to so many cells. sometimes i feel, too, like sitting down and playing, but when i do, i always begin after a little to hear the chains." he laughed. "and i like you and rose preaching _dolce far niente_! if ever there were two who had the power of work--!" "all the same," said hagar, "go to bed before two o'clock, won't you?" he shook hands around and was gone. "what a wonderful face!" said lily; and fay nodded. "a kind of worn, warrior angel--" hagar took lily's hand and kissed it. "you've defined denny to a nicety! 'a kind of worn, warrior angel'--i like that!... no, don't go! it isn't late." "we'll stay, then, just one other half-hour. and now," said lily, "tell me about yourself. we see your name, of course, and what the papers think you are doing. but you yourself--" "but i myself?" said hagar. "ah, if you'll tell me, i'll tell you!" the great bough of red leaves against the wall was repeated in miniature by a spray upon the table, resting in a piece of cloudy venetian glass. hagar took it from the vase and sat studying it, colour and line. she sat at ease in the deep chair, her long, slender limbs composed, her head thrown back against green-bronze, an arm bent and raised, the wine-red spray in her hand. "what," she said, "does a man or woman do in a dusty day's march of every great transit? about that is what i and many others have been doing, in this age as in other ages. millions of minds to reach with a statement that for reasons of weight the column must surmount such a hill and again such a hill, the line of march lying truly on higher levels. the statement did not originate with the messengers of this or any other age; it is social, and the inner urge would send the marchers somehow on, but there is needed interpreting, clarifying, articulation--hence the office that we fill, though we fill it as yet, i know, weakly enough! so it means a preoccupation with communication--ways and means of reaching minds. and that, lacking a developed telepathy, means the spoken and the written word. and that means, seeing we have such great numbers to reach, a continuing endeavour to reach people in congregation. and that means arrangement, going from place to place, much time that you sigh for consumed, some weariness, a great number of petty happenings--and a vast insight into life and the way it is lived and the beings who live it! it means contacts with reality and a feeding the springs of humour and an acquaintance with the truly astonishing forest of human motives. and there is organization work and correspondence, and much of what might be called drudgery unless you can put the glow about it.... and there is the weaving all the time of the web of unity. the human family, and the dying-out before love and understanding of invidious distinctions. the world one home, and men one man, though of an infinite variety, and women one woman, though of an infinite variety, and children one child, and the open road before the three. and back of the three, oneness. the great pulse--out, the many; in, the one.... so i with others speak and write and go about and work." when the clock struck again, lily and john fay said good-night. lily was to come once more before her boat sailed. hagar looked at fay. "you are going to england, too?" he hesitated. "i've said so--" "he's just built a great bridge," said lily, "and he hasn't really taken a holiday for years. robert and i want him just as long as he will travel with us." when they were gone, hagar went to the window and looked out far and wide upon the city settling to its rest. here, to-night, would be deep repose, here fevered tossing, here perhaps no sleep at all. there would be death chambers and birth chambers--a many of each. and spiritual death chambers and spiritual birth chambers and the trodden middle rooms, minds that cried, "light, more light!" and minds that said, "we see as it is." ... and over all, the suns so far away they were but glittering points. hagar's gaze moved across the heavens from host to host. "ah, if you were hieroglyphics, and we could find the key--" she came back to the lamplit table; thomasine away, mary magazine asleep--the place was alone with her. she had been tired, but she did not feel so now. she sat down, put her arms above her head and her eyes upon the forest bough, and began to think.... she thought visually with colour and light and form, luminous images parting the mist, rising in the great "interior sphere." she sat there till the clock struck twelve, then she rose, put out the lights, opened every window. in the east, above the roofs, glittered orion, with aldebaran red and mighty and the glimmering pleiades. hagar stood and gazed. she lifted her eyes toward the zenith--capella and algol and the street whose dust is stars between. her lips moved, she raised her hand. "all hail!" she said; then turning from the window opened the door that led into her bedroom. it was a white and fair and simple place. as she undressed, she was thinking of the october woods at gilead balm. three days later, at the hotel, lily and john fay had a short but momentous conversation. "_do_ you want to go, john? i don't want you to go if you don't want to go, you know." "that's what i came to talk to you about," said fay. "i have my stateroom. the boat sails day after to-morrow. i've written to men i know in london and in paris. i want to see them. they're men i've worked with. i want to see robert. i even want to keep on seeing you, lily! i've been about as eager as a boy for that run over europe with the two of you. and i don't want to disappoint you and robert, if it is the least disappointment. but--" "i don't know that she'll ever marry," said lily. "she'll not, unless she finds some one alike to strengthen and be strengthened by. a lot of the reasons for which women used to marry are out of court with her. even what we call love--she won't feel it now for anything less than something that matches her." fay walked across the floor, stood at the window a moment, then came back. "i won't fence," he said. "it's simple truth, however you divined it. and i'm going to stay. i don't match her, but i've never proposed to stop growing." chapter xxxii ralph fay stayed. lily's farewell note to hagar merely said that after all he was not sailing with her and that she hoped hagar would let him be among her friends. he made a good friend. fay himself wrote to her, stating that he would be much in new york that autumn and winter and asking if he might come to see her. she answered yes, but that she herself was often away; he would have to take the chance of not finding her. he came, and she was away, came again, and she was away; then she wrote and asked him to dine with her on such an evening. he went, and it was an evening to mark with a white stone, to keep a lamp burning before in the mind. he asked how he could find out where she would be, since it was evident that she was speaking here and there. she nodded; she was working hard that autumn, oftenest in company with rose darragh, but often, too, with elizabeth eden and marie caton, with rachel and molly josslyn. she showed him a list of meetings. he thanked her and copied it down. "i see that your book will presently be out." "yes. i hope that you will like it." "i think that i shall. how hard you work!" "not harder than others. the secret is to learn concentration and to fill all the interstices with the balm of leisure. and to work with love of the world to be." that november, together with rose darragh and denny and elizabeth, she was often speaking in the poor and crowded sections of the great city. sometimes they talked to the people in dim, small halls, sometimes in larger, brighter places, sometimes there were street meetings. she grew aware that often fay was present. sometimes, when the meeting was over, he joined her; it began to be no infrequent thing his going uptown upon the car with her. she began to wonder.... once in a street meeting she saw him near her as she spoke. it was a good crowd and interested. as she brought her brief, straight talk to a conclusion, elizabeth whispered to her, "lucien couldn't come. is there any one else who could speak?" hagar's eyes met john fay's. "we lack a speaker," she said. "couldn't you--won't you?" he nodded, stepped upon the box, and made a good speech. his drawling, telling periods, his smiling, sea-blue eyes, a story that he told and a blow or two out from the shoulder caught the fancy and then the good-will of the crowd. an old woman, irish, wrinkled, her hands on her hips, called out to him. "be yez the new man? if yez are, i loike yez foine!" he laughed at and with her. "do you? then you'll have to become a new woman to match me!" the november dusk was closing in when the crowd dispersed. elizabeth with the other woman speaker faced toward the settlement. "can't you come with me, hagar?" "no, not to-night. there are letters and letters--" fay asked if he might go uptown with her. she nodded. "yes, if you like. good-night, elizabeth--good-night, mary ware; good-night, good-night!" they took a surface car. she sat for a minute with her eyes shut. "are you very tired?" she smiled. "no, i am not tired. after all, why should it fatigue more than standing in cathedrals, walking through art galleries? but i was thinking of something.... let us sit quietly for a while." the minutes went by. at last she spoke. "i liked what you said, and the way you said it. thank you." "you do not need to thank me. had i been less convinced, i might have spoken because you asked me to. as it is, i was willing to serve the truth." "ah, good!..." there was another silence; then she began to speak of the light and thunder of the city about them, and then of a book she was reading. when they left the car it was dark--they walked westward together. "have you heard from lily?" "yes. she and robert are going first to the riviera, then to sicily." "both are very lovely. why do you not change your mind and go?" "i like it better here." the evening was dark, clear and windy, with the stars trooping out. "when," asked hagar, "are you going to build another bridge?" he pondered it. "i've been building for a long time and i'm going to build for another long time. do you grudge me this half-year in between?" "i do not. i was only wondering--" she broke off and began to talk about the josslyns whom, it had turned out, he knew and liked. two weeks ago she had dined there with him, and christopher had taken occasion to tell her that john fay was about the rightest all right he knew.... she had not really needed the telling. she had a good deal of insight herself. they came to the great arched door of the apartment house, and there she told fay good-night. when he was gone, she stood for a moment in the paved lobby with its palm or two, her eyes upon the clear darkness without; then she turned to the elevator. upstairs, within her own doors, thomasine met her. "oh, hagar! it's mr. ralph--" "ralph!" ralph had been abroad, and she had not seen him for a long time. "yes!" said thomasine. "his boat came in yesterday evening. and awhile ago he telephoned to ask you if he might come to dinner with you, and i didn't know what to say, and i told him you wouldn't be in till late; and he said did i think you'd mind his coming, and i didn't know what to say, so i said, 'no,' i couldn't think so; and he asked what time you dined--and it's nearly seven now--" "well, you couldn't say anything else," said hagar. "only i devoutly hope--" she moved toward her own room. "i'll dress quickly." "and don't you think," said thomasine, "that i'd better not dine with you--" "i think just the contrary," answered hagar, and vanished. ralph came. he was the ralph of three years ago, of that last autumn week at gilead balm, only with certain things accentuated. he was richer, he had more and more a name in finance; his state was now loudly and perpetually proud of him. there was an indefinable hardening.... he was very handsome, thomasine thought; he looked tremendously somebody. he had been around the world--his physician had sent him off because of a threatened breaking-down. apparently that had been staved off, pushed at least into a closet to stay there a few years. he talked well, with vigorous, clipped sentences, of australia and china and india. hagar, sitting opposite him in a filmy black gown, kept the talk upon travel. she had not seen him for eighteen months, and before then, for a long while, their meetings had been casual, cold and stiff enough, with upon his side an absurd hauteur. the eighteen months had at least dissipated that.... dinner over, they went for coffee back to the apartment, and thomasine determinedly disappeared. old gilead balm talk was in thomasine's mind. ralph coltsworth and hagar ashendyne were to mate--old miss had somehow kept that in the air, even so long, long ago. in the grave and restful room with its shaded lights hagar poured a cup of coffee for her cousin and gave it to him. taking it, he took for a moment also her two hands, long, slender, and very finely made. "ringless!" he said. hagar, withdrawing them, poured her own coffee. "i have never cared to wear jewels. a necklace and an old brooch or two of my mother's are almost the only things i have." ralph looked about the room. the bough of flaming maple was gone and in its place rested a great branch of cone-bearing white pine. her eyes followed his. "i can see the forest through it. do you remember the great pine above the spring?" his gaze still roamed. "and you call this home?" "yes, it is home." "without a man?" she smiled. "do you think there can be no home without a man?" he drank his coffee; then, putting down the cup, rose and moved about the deep and wide place. she watched him from her armchair, long and slim as diana in her black robe. he looked at the walls with their rows of cabined thought and the pictures above, at the great library table with its tokens of work, and then, standing before the wide, clear windows, at the multitudinous lights of the world without. a sound as of a distant sea came through the glass. "and without a child?" her clear voice sounded behind him. "you are mistaken," she said. "my work is my child. one human being serves and expresses in one way and one in another, and i think it is not the office which is higher or lower, but only the mind with which the office is performed. did i ever meet a man whom i loved and who was my comrade, and who loved me and saw in me his comrade, my home would probably open to that man. and we two might say, 'now in cleanliness and joy and awe will we bring a child into our home.' ... i think that would be a happy thing to happen. but if it does not happen, none the less will i have my earthly home as i have my unearthly, and be happy in it, and none the less will i do world-work and rejoice in the doing. and if it happened, it would be but added bliss--it would be by no means all the bliss, or all the world, nor should it be. we grow larger than that.... and now, having answered your question, come! let us sit down and talk about what you are doing and when you are going down to hawk nest. i had a letter from gilead balm last week--from aunt serena." he came and sat down. "the last time i was at gilead balm--two years and a half ago--they said they had ceased to write to you." "they have begun again," said hagar calmly. "dear ralph, we live in the twentieth century. you yourself are here to-night, eating my bread and salt." "have you been to gilead balm?" "yes, i went last summer, and again the summer before. not for long, for a little while. grandfather and grandmother and aunt serena said some hard things, but i think they enjoyed saying them, and i could ramble over the old place, and, indeed, i think, though they would never have said so, that they were glad to have me there. i will not quarrel. they are so feeble--the colonel and old miss. i do not think they can live many years longer." "are you going again this summer?" "yes." they talked again of his journey and recovered health, of new york, of the political and financial condition of the country; or rather he gave his view upon this and she sat studying him, her fine, long hands folded in her lap. what with question and remark she kept him for a long time upon general topics, or upon his increasing part in the subtle machinery behind so much that made general talk;--but at last, skilfully as she fenced, he came back to personal life and to his resentment of all her attitude.... he had thought that time and absence had cured his passion for her. even a month ago he had told himself that there was left only family interest, old boyish memories. he disapproved intensely of the way she thought of things; she was not at all the wife for him. sylvie carter was--he would go to see sylvie just as soon as he reached new york.... and then, upon the boat, coming over, it was of hagar that he dreamed all the time. like a gathering thunderstorm it was all coming back. landing in new york he had only thought of her, all last night and to-day. it was an obsession, he told himself that--he could see that once he had her, possessed her, owned her, he would fight her through life ... or she would fight him ... and all the same the obsession had him, whirling him like a leaf in storm. he spoke with a suddenness startling to himself. "what is between us is all this fog of damnable ideas that has arisen in the last twenty years! if it wasn't for that you would marry me." hagar took the jade buddha from the table and weighed it in her hands. "oh, give me patience--" she murmured. he rose and began to pace the floor. the physical, the passionate side of him was in storm. he was not for nothing a coltsworth. coltsworths were dominating people, they were masterful. they wished to prevail, body and point of view, point of view, perhaps, no less than body. they were not content to have their scheme of life and to allow another a like liberty; their scheme must lie upon and smother under the other's. they wished submissiveness of mind--the other person's mind. they wished it in their relations with men--ralph himself preferred subservient officials, subservient secretaries, subservient boards, subservient legislators. he preferred men to listen in the club, he liked a deferential murmur from his acquaintance. he had followers whom he called friends. a certain number of these truly admired him; he was to them feudal and splendid. he was a coltsworth and coltsworths liked to dominate the minds and fortunes of men. when it came to collective womankind, they might have said that they had really never considered the question--naturally men dominated women. to them god was male. they would have agreed with the kentucky editor that the feminist movement was an audacious attempt to change the sex of deity.... the thing that angered the coltsworths through and through was revolt. political, economic, intellectual, spiritual--revolt was revolt, whatever adjective went before! rage boiled up in the mind of the master. and when the revolted was not perturbed, or anxious or fluttered, but stood aloof and was aloof, when the revolt was successful, when the rebellion had become revolution and the new flag was up and the citadel impregnable--the sense of wrath and injury overflowed like the waves of phlegethon. it overflowed now with ralph. he turned from the window. "all this rebellion of women is unthinkable!" hagar looked at him somewhat dreamily. "however, it has occurred." "things can't change like that--" "the answer to that is that they have changed." she sat and smiled at him, quite eluding him, a long way off. "do you think that only mind in man rebels? mind in woman does it too. and it comes about that there are always more rebels, men and women. we are quite numerous to-day.... but there are women who do not rebel, as there are men. there are many women who will grant you your every premise, who are horrified in company with you, horrified at us others.... why do you not wish to mate among your own kind?" "i wish to mate with _you_!" she shook her head. "that you cannot do.... there is being drawn a line. some men and women are on one side of it, and some men and women are on the other side of it. there is taking place a sorting-out.... in the things that make the difference you are where you were when troy fell. i cannot go back, down all those slopes of time." "i am afire for you." "you wake in me no answering fire." she rose. "i will talk about much with you, but i will talk no longer about love. you may take your choice. stay and talk as my old playmate and cousin, or say good-night and good-bye." "if i go," said ralph hoarsely, "i shall not come again--i shall not ask you again--" "ralph, ralph! do you think i shall weep for that?... you do think that i shall weep for that!... you are mad!" "by god!" said ralph, and quivered, "i wish that we were together in a dark wood--i wish that you were in a captured city, and i was coming through the broken gate--" suddenly he crossed the few feet between them, caught and crushed her in his arms, bruising her lips with his. "just be a woman--you dark, rich thing with wings--" hagar had a physical strength for which he was unprepared. exerting it, she freed herself, and in the same instant and as deliberately as swiftly, struck him across the face with her open hand. "good-bye, to you!" she said in a thrilling voice. they stared at each other for a moment across space. then hagar said quietly. "you had better go, ralph...." he went. when the door had closed behind him, she stood very still for a few moments, her eyes upon the pine bough. the excess of colour slowly ebbed from her face, the anger died in her eyes. "oh, all of us poor, struggling souls!" she said. obeying some inner impulse she first lowered, then extinguished the lights in the room and moved to one of the windows. she threw up the sash and the keen, autumnal night streamed in upon her. the window-seat was low and broad. she sat there with her head thrown back against the frame, and let the night and the high, starry heaven and the moving air absorb and lift her. it was very clear and there seemed depths on depths above. hyades and pleiades, and the charioteer, and andromeda bound, and perseus climbing the steep sky. "we are all bound and limited--we are all on the lower slopes of time--down in the fens with the lower nature. it is only a question of more or less--aspiration born and strengthening, or aspiration yet in the womb. then what room for anger because another is where i have been--because another, coming upward, rests awhile in the dungeon that was also mine, perhaps it was yesterday, perhaps it was ages ago?... where i am to-day will seem dungeon enough to that which one day i shall be.... and so with him, and so with us all...." a month after this she found among her letters one morning four smoothly ecstatic pages from sylvie carter. ralph had asked sylvie to marry him, and sylvie had said yes. sylvie wrote that she expected to be very happy, and that she was going to do her best to make ralph so, too. the next day brought a half-page from ralph. it stated that something hagar had said had set him to thinking. she had said that there was being a line drawn and that some men and some women were finding themselves together on either side. he thought there was truth in it, and that, after all, one should marry within one's class; otherwise a perpetual clash of opinions, fatal to love. there followed a terse announcement of his engagement to sylvie, and he signed himself, "your affectionate cousin, ralph coltsworth." but it was old miss whose letter was wholly aggrieved and indignant.... chapter xxxiii gilead balm the second letter from old miss came in february. the colonel had suddenly failed and taken to his bed. old miss believed that he would get up again,--there was, she said, no reason why he shouldn't,--but in the mean time there he lay. he was a little wandering in his mind, and he had taken to thinking that hagar was in the house, and a little girl still, and demanding to see her. old miss suggested that she should come to gilead balm. she went at once. on the train, thundering south through a snowy night, she lay awake until half of her journey was over. scenes and moments, occurrences of the outer and inner life, went by her mind like some endless, shifting tapestry. childhood, girlhood, womanhood, work and play, the daily, material task and the inner lift, lift, and ever-strengthening knowledge of the impalpable--that last was not tapestry; it was height and breadth and depth, and something more. the old, wide travel came back to her; shifting gleams of eastern cities, deserts, time-broken temples, mountains, vineyards, haunted groves, endless surrounding, azure, murmuring seas.... medway, white-clothed and helmeted, in his rolling chair.... the whistle shrieked; the train stopped with a jar at some lighted station, then, regathering its forces, rushed and roared on through the february night. now it was the last three years and more: they passed in panorama before her. stages and stairways and scaffoldings by which the world-spirit might mount an inch: ferments and leavens: voices telling of democracy and fair play and care for your neighbour's freedom as for your own, your woman-neighbour and your man-neighbour. through her mind ran all the enormous detail of the work being pursued over all the country; countless meetings, speeches, appeals, talks to a dozen gathered together or to two or three; letters and letters and letters, press and magazine utterances, organization, the difficult raising of money, legislative work, petitions, canvassing; drudgery in myriad detail, letters and letters, voice and pen.... and all the opposition--blind bigotry to be met, and a maniac fear of change, inertia, tradition, habit, the dead past's hand, cold and heavy--and all the interested opposition, the things whose book the movement did not suit--and all the lethargy of womankind itself.... and in the very camp, in the huge, chaotic movement itself, as in all the past's vast human movements, recurring frictions, antagonisms, small jealousies, flags set up by individuals, pacifications and smoothings, bringing compatibles together, keeping incompatibles apart.... a contending with outer oppositions and inner weaknesses, resisting discouragement, fighting cynicism, acknowledging the vast road to travel, keeping on.... she knew nothing that was at once so weak and so mighty as the woman movement. one who was deep within it might feel at times a vast weariness, impatience, and despair ... but deep within it you never left it. here you dealt with clay that was so cold and lumpish it seemed that no generous idea could germinate within; here you dealt with stuff so friable, light, and disintegrative that the thought would come that it were better to cast it to the winds ... but you did not; you comforted your soul with the very much that was noble, and you hoped for the other that was not yet noble, and you went on--went on. it was all you yourself--you had within you the intractable clay and the stuff light as chaff, inconsequent; but you went on transmuting, lifting.... there was no other hope, no other course, deep down no other wish. so with the woman movement.... another station. hagar looked out at the lights and the hurrying forms; then, as the train roared into the white countryside, at what could be seen of the fields and hills and storm-bent trees. she was thinking now of gilead balm and her childhood and her mother. she seemed to lie again, close beside maria, on the big, chintz-covered sofa. at last she slept, lying so. captain bob and lisa met her at the station, three miles from gilead balm. captain bob had a doleful mien. "oh, yes, the colonel's better--but i don't think he's so much better. he's getting old--and lisa and i are getting old, too, aren't we old girl?--old like luna and going away pretty soon like luna. well, gipsy, you're looking natural--no, it's been an open winter down here--not much snow." he put her in the carriage, and they drove slowly to gilead balm, over the heavy country road. old miss was well; serena was well; captain bob himself had had rheumatism, but he was better.--the colonel didn't look badly; it was only that he didn't seem to want to get out of bed, and that every little while he set the clock back and rambled on about things and people--"it's creepy to hear him," said captain bob. "he thinks young dr. bude is old dr. bude, and he thinks that maria is alive, and that she won't let you come into the room. and then it'll change like that, and he's just as much himself as he ever was--more so, in fact.--hi, li-sa! let that rooster alone--" the house cedars showed over the brown hills. "dr. bude wanted old miss to get a trained nurse because somebody's got more or less to watch at night. but old miss wouldn't hear to it. she don't approve of women training for nurses, so she's got young phoebe and isham's second wife--and i think myself," said captain bob, "that i wouldn't want a young white woman that i couldn't order round." red brick and brown fields and the black-green of many cedars--here was gilead balm, looking just as it used to look of a february. the air was cold and still, the day a grey one, the smoke from the chimneys moving upward sluggishly. miss serena came down the porch steps and greeted hagar as she stepped from the carriage. "yes, your old room. did you have a tiresome journey?--is your trunk coming? then i'll send it up as soon as they bring it. young phoebe, you take miss hagar's bag up to her room. the fire's lighted, hagar, and mimy shall make you a cup of coffee. we're glad to see you." the old room, her mother's and her own! hagar had not been in it in winter-time for a long while. when phoebe was gone, she sat in the winged chair by the fire and regarded the familiar wall-paper and the old, carved wardrobe and the four-poster bed and the sofa where maria had lain, and, between the dimity curtains at the windows, the winter landscape. the fire was bright and danced in the old mahogany; the old chintz covers were upon the chair and sofa--the old pattern, only the hues faded. hagar rose, took off her travelling dress, bathed and put on a dark, silken dressing-gown. she took the pins from her hair and let it stream; it was like maria's. she stood for a moment, her eyes upon the pallid day, the rusty cedars without the window, then she went to the chintz sofa and lay down in the firelight, piling the pillows behind her head, taking, half-consciously, the posture that oftenest in her memory she saw maria take. her mother was present with her; there came an expression into her face that was her mother's. old miss knocked at the door, and entered without waiting for the "come in!" hagar rose and embraced her grandmother; then old miss sat down in the winged chair and her granddaughter went back to the sofa. the two gazed at each other. hagar did not know that she looked to-day like maria, and old miss did not examine the springs and sources of a mounting anger and sense of injury. she sat very straight, with her knitting in her hand, wearing a cap upon her smoothly parted hair, in which there were yet strands of brown, wearing a black stuff skirt and low-heeled shoes over white stockings; comely yet, and as ever, authoritative. "i am so very sorry about grandfather," said hagar. "uncle bob thinks he is better--" "yes, he is better. he will be well presently. i should not," said old miss coldly, "have written asking you to come but that dr. bude advised it." "i was very glad to come." "dr. bude is by no means the man his father was. the age is degenerate. and so"--said old miss--"sylvie maine has taken the prize right from under your hand." "oh!" said hagar. the corners of her lips rose; her look that had been rather still and brooding broke into sunshine. "if you call it that!--i hope that ralph and sylvie will be very happy." "they will probably be extraordinarily happy. she is not one of your new women. i detest," said old miss grimly, "your new women." silence. hagar lay back against the pillows and she looked more and more to old miss like maria. old miss's needles clicked. "when may i see grandfather?" asked hagar, and she kept her voice friendly and quiet. "he is sleeping now. when he wakes up, if he asks for you you may go in. i wouldn't stay long.--and what have you been doing this winter?" "various things, grandmother. thomasine and i have been working pretty hard. thomasine sent her regards to every one at gilead balm." "if you hadn't thrown away medway's million dollars you wouldn't have had to work," said old miss. "maria was perfectly spendthrift, and of course you take after her.--what kind of work do you mean you have been doing?" "i have been writing, of course. and then other work connected with movements in which i am interested." old miss's needles clicked again! "unsexing women and unsettling the minds of working-people. i saw a piece in a paper. preposterous! but it's just what maria would have liked to have done." silence again; then hagar leaned across and took up her grandmother's work. "what is it? an afghan? it's lovely soft wool." "when," asked old miss, "are you going to marry--and whom?" "i do not know, grandmother, that i am going to marry, or whom." "you should have married ralph.... all these years have you had any other offers?" "yes, grandmother." "while you were with medway?" "yes, grandmother." "have you had any since you set up in this remarkable way for yourself?" hagar laughed. "no, grandmother--unless you except ralph." "ha!" said old miss in grim triumph; "i knew you wouldn't!" miss serena came to the door. "father's awake and he wants to see hagar." but when hagar went down and into the big room and up to the great bed, the colonel declared her to be maria, grew excited, and said that she shouldn't keep his grandchild from him. "i tell you, woman, medway and i are going to use authority! the child's medway's--medway's next of kin by every law in the land! he can take her from you, and, by god! he shall do it!" "father," said miss serena, "this is hagar, grown up." but the colonel grew violently angry. "you are all lying!--a man's family conspiring against him! that woman's my daughter-in-law--my son's wife, dependent on me for her bread and shelter and setting up her will against mine! and now she's all for keeping from me my grandchild--she's hiding gipsy in closets and under the stairs--you have no right. it's not your child, it's medway's child! that's law. you ought to be whipped!" "grandfather," said hagar, "do you remember alexandria and the mosques and the place mahomet ali?" "why, exactly," said the colonel. "well, gipsy, we always wanted to travel, didn't we? that dragoman seems to know his business--we're going down to cairo to-day and out to see the pyramids. want to come along?" day followed day at gilead balm. sometimes the colonel's mind wandered over the seas of creation, with the pilot asleep at the helm; sometimes the pilot suddenly awoke, though it was not apt to be for long. it was eerie when the pilot awoke; when he suddenly sat there, gaunt, with a parchment face and beak-like nose and straying white hair, and in a cool, drawling voice asked intelligent questions about the hour and the season and the plantation happenings. at such times, if hagar were not already in the room, he demanded to see her. she came, sat by him in the great chair, offered to read to him. he was not infrequently willing for her to do this. she read both prose and verse to him this winter. sometimes he did not wish her to read; he wanted to talk. when this was the case--the pilot being awake--it was her life away from gilead balm that he oftenest chose to comment upon. that he knew the content of her life hardly at all mattered, as little to the colonel as it mattered to old miss and miss serena. they were going to let fly their arrows; if there was no target in the direction in which they shot, at least they were in sublime ignorance of the fact. hagar let them talk. not only the colonel--gilead balm was dying.... in the middle of a sarcastic sentence the pilot would drop asleep again; in a moment the barque was at the mercy of every wandering wind. hagar became maria and he gibbered at her. young dr. bude came and went. february grew old and passed into march; march, cold and sunny, with high winds, wheeled by; april came with tender light, with judas trees and bloodroot, and the white cherry trees in a mist of bloom; and still the colonel lay there, and now the pilot waked and now the pilot slept. may came. dr. bude stayed in the house. one evening at dusk the colonel suddenly opened his eyes upon his family gathered about his bed. old miss was sitting, upright and still, in the great chair at the bed-head. miss serena had a low chair at the foot, and captain bob was near, his old, grey head buried in his hands. there was also an ashendyne close kinsman, and a coltsworth--not ralph. dr. bude waited in the background. hagar stood behind miss serena. colonel argall ashendyne looked out from his pillow. "wasn't the canal good enough? who wants their railroad--damn them! and after the railroad there'll be something else.... public schools, too!... this country's getting too damnably democratic!" his eyes closed, his face seemed to sink together. dr. bude came from the hearth and, bending over, laid his finger upon the pulse. the colonel again opened his eyes. they were fastened now on hagar, standing behind miss serena. "well, gipsy!" he said with cheerfulness, "it's a pretty comfortable boat, eh? we'll make the voyage before we know it." his hands touched the bed. "steamer chairs! i don't think i was ever in one before. lean back and see the wide ocean stretch before you! the wide ocean ... the wide ocean ... "'roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!' "that's byron, you know, gipsy.... the wide ocean...." his eyes glazed. he sank back. dr. bude touched the wrist again; then, straightening himself, turned and spoke to old miss. chapter xxxiv brittany "she hasn't had a holiday for nearly four years," said molly. "i'm glad she's gone for this summer. she wouldn't take thomasine--she said she wanted to be all, all alone, just for three months. then she would come back to work." "brittany--" "yes. a little place on the coast that she knew. she said she wanted the sea. i thought perhaps that she had written to you--" "not since may," said john fay. "there was a proposed extension of a piece of work of mine in the west. i was called out there to see about it, and i had to go. i was kept for weeks. i tried to get back, but i couldn't--i was in honour bound. then when i came her boat had sailed. and now i--" he measured the table with his fingers. "do you think she would hate me if i turned up in that place in brittany?" molly considered it. "she's a reasonable being. brittany isn't for the benefit of just one person." "ah, but you see i should want to talk to her." molly pondered that, too. "well, i should try, i think. if she doesn't want to talk she will tell you so...." hagar's village was a small village, a grey patch of time-worn houses, set like a lichen against a cliff with a heath above. before it ran a great and far stretch of brown sands. there was a tiny harbour where the fishing-boats came in, and all beyond the thundering sea. the place boasted a small inn, but she did not stay there. the widow of the curé had to let a clean large room, overlooking a windy garden, and the widow and her one servant set a table with simple, well-cooked fare. hagar stayed here, though most of the time, indeed, she stayed out upon the brown, shell-strewn, far-stretching sands. she walked for miles, or, down with the women at evening, she watched the boats come one by one to haven, or, far from the village, beneath some dune-like heap of sand, she sat with her hands about her knees and watched the shifting colour of the sea. she had a book with her; sometimes she read in it, and sometimes it lay unopened. all the colours went over the sea, the surf murmured, the sea-birds flew, the salt wind bent the sparse grass at the top of the dune. on such an afternoon, after long, motionless dreaming, she changed her posture, turning her eyes toward the distant village. a man was walking toward her, over the firm sand. she watched him at first dreamily, then, suddenly, with a quickened breath. while the distance between them was yet great, she knew it to be fay. he came up to her and held out his hand. she put hers in it. "did i startle you?" he said. "if you don't want me, i will go away." "i thought you were bridge-building in the west." "i could get away at last. i crossed the atlantic because i wanted to see you. do you mind, very much?" "do i mind seeing you here, in brittany? no, i do not know that i mind that.... sit down and tell me about america. america has seemed so far away, these still, still days ... farther away than the sun and the moon." long and clean-limbed, with his sea-blue eyes and quizzical look, fay threw himself down upon the sand beside her. they talked that day of people at home, of the work he had been doing and of her long absence at gilead balm. she made him see the place--the old man who had died--and old miss and miss serena and captain bob and the servants and lisa. "they are going to live on there?" "yes. just as they have done, until they, too, die.... oh, gilead balm!" late in the afternoon, the sun making a red path across the waters, and the red-sailed boats growing larger, coming toward the land, they walked back to the village together. he left her at the door of the curé's house. he himself was staying at the inn. she did not ask him how long he would stay, or if he was on his way to other, larger places. the situation accepted itself. there followed some days of wandering together, through the little grey town, or over the green headland to a country beyond of pine trees and druid stones, or, in the evening light, along the sands. they found a sailboat, with an old, hale boatman, for hire, and they went out in this boat. sometimes the wind carried them along, swift as a leaf; sometimes they went as in a sea-revery, so dreamily. the boatman knew all the legends of the sea; he told them stories of the king of ys and the false ahés, and then he talked of the pardons of his youth. sometimes they skirted the coast, sometimes they went so far out that the land was but an eastward-lying shadow. the next day, perhaps, they wandered inland, over the heath among dolmens and menhirs, or, seated on old wreckage upon the sands, the dark blue sea before them, now they talked and now they kept company with silence. they talked little rather than much. the place was taciturn, and her mood made for quiet. it was not until the fourth day that he told her for what he had come. "but you know for what i came." "yes, i know." "if you could--" "i want," said hagar, "more time. will you let it all rest for a little longer? i don't think i could tell you truly to-day." "as long as you wish," he said, "if only, in the end--" two days after this they went out in the afternoon in the boat. it had been a warm day, with murk in the air. at the little landing-place fay, after a glance at the dim, hot arch of the sky, asked the boatman if bad weather might be brewing. but the breton was positive. "nothing to-day--nothing to-day! to-morrow, perhaps, m'sieu." they went sailing far out, until the land sunk from sight. an hour or two passed, pleasantly, pleasantly. then suddenly the wind, where they were, dropped like a stone. they lay for an hour with flapping sail and watched the blue sky grow pallid and then darken. a puff of wind, hot and heavy, lifted the hair from their brows. it increased; the sky darkened yet more; with an appalling might and swiftness the worst storm of the half-year burst upon them. the wind blew a hurricane; the sea rose; suddenly the mast went. fay and the breton battled with the wreckage, cut it loose--the boat righted. but she had shipped water and her timbers were straining and creaking. the wind was whipping her away to the open sea, and the waves, continually mounting, battered her side. there was a perceptible list. night was oncoming, and the fury above increasing. hagar braided her long hair that the wind had loosened from its fastening. "we are in danger," she said to fay. "yes. can you swim?" "yes. but there would be no long swimming in this sea." they sat in the darkness of the storm. when the lightnings flashed each had a vision of the other's face, tense and still. there was nothing that could be done. the sailor, who was hardy enough, now muttered prayers and now objurgations upon the faithless weather. he tried to assure his passengers that not st. anne herself could have foreseen what was going to occur that afternoon. certainly jean gouillou had not. "that's understood," said hagar, smiling at him in a flash of lightning; and, "just do your best now," said fay. the wild storm continued. wind and wave tossed and drove the helpless boat. now it laboured in the black trough of the waves, now it staggered upon the summits; and always it laboured more heavily, and always it was more laggard in rising. the breton and fay took turns in bailing the water out. it was now, save for the lightning, dark night. at last it was seen--though still they worked on--that there was little use in bailing. the boat grew heavier, more distressed. the sea was running high. "some wave will swamp us?" "yes. it is a matter of time--and not long time, i think." hagar put out her hands to him. "then i will tell you now--" he took her hands. "is it your answer?" "yes, my dear.... yes, my dear." they bent toward each other--their lips met. "now, whether we live or whether we die--" the wild storm continued. the slow sands of the night ran on, and still the boat lived, though always more weakly, with the end more certainly before her. the breton crossed himself and prayed. hagar and fay sat close together, hand in hand. after midnight the storm suddenly decreased in force. the lightning and thunder ceased, the clouds began to part. in another hour there would be a sky all stars. the wind that had been so loud and wild sank to a lingering, steady moaning. there was left the tumultuous, lifted sea, and the boat sunken now almost to her gunwales. fay spoke in a low voice. "are you afraid of death?" "no.... you cannot kill life." "it will not be painful, going as we shall go--if it is to happen. and to go together--" "i am glad that we are going together--seeing that we are to go." "do you believe that--when it is over--we shall be together still?" "consciously together?" "yes." "i do not know. no one knows. no one can know--yet. but i have faith that we shall persist, and that intelligently. i do not think that we shall forget or ignore our old selves. and if we wish to be together--and we do wish it--then i think we may have power to compass it." "it has sometimes seemed to me," said fay, "that after death may prove to be just life with something like fourth dimensional powers. all this life a memory as of childhood, and a power and freedom and scope undreamed of now--" "it is possible. all things are possible--save extinction.--i think, too, it will be higher, more spiritual.... at any rate, i do not fear. i feel awe as before something unknown and high." "and i the same." off in the east the stars were paling, there was coming a vague and mournful grey. the boat was sinking. the two men had torn away the thwarts and with a piece of rope lashed them together. it would be little more than a straw to cling to, in the turbulent wide ocean, miles from land. all were cold and numbed with the wind and the rain and the sea. purple streaks came into the east, a chill and solemn lift to all the sea and air and the roofless ether. hagar and fay looked at the violet light, at the extreme and ghostly calm of the fields of dawn. "it is coming now," said fay, and put his arm around her. the boat sank. the three, clinging to the frail raft they had provided, were swung from wave to wave beneath the glowing dawn.... the wind was stilled now, the water, under the rising sun, smoothed itself out. they drifted, drifted; and now the sun was an hour high.... "look! look!" cried the breton, and they looked and saw a red sail coming toward them. a day or two later hagar and fay met at the gate of the curé's widow, and climbing through the grey town came out upon the heath above. it was a high, clear afternoon, with a marvellous blue sky. they walked until they came to a circle of stones, raised there in the immemorial, dark past. when they had wandered among them for a while, they rested, leaning against the greatest menhir, looking out over the grey-green, far-stretching heath to a line of sapphire sea. "it grows like a dream," said hagar. "death, life--life, death.... i think we are growing into something that transcends both ... as we have known both." "hagar, do you love me?" "yes, i love you.... it's a quiet love, but it's deep." they sat down in the warm grass by the huge stone, and now they talked and now they were silent and content. little by little they laid their plans. "let us go to london. i will go to roger michael's. we will marry quietly there." "lily and robert will want to come from scotland." "well, we'll let them." hagar laughed, a musical, sweet laugh. "thomson is in london with mr. greer. dear old thomson! i think he'll have to come." "couldn't we have," said fay, "a month in some old, green, still, english country place?" "with roses to the eaves and a sunken lane to wander in and at night a cricket chirping on the hearth.... we'll try." "and in october sail for home." "and in october sail for home." she looked at him with eyes that smiled and yet were grave. "you're aware that you're marrying a working-woman, who intends to continue to work?" "i'm aware." her candid eyes continued to meet his. "i wish a child. while it needs me and when it needs me, i shall be there." his hand closed over hers. "is it as though i did not know that--" she kissed him on the lips. "and you're aware that i shall work on through life for the fairer social order? and that, generally speaking, the woman movement has me for keeps?" "i'm aware. i'm going to help you." "south america--" "i'm not wedded," said fay, "to south american governments. there are a plenty of bridges to be built in the united states." the grey-green silent heath stretched away to the shining sea. the grasses waved around and between the grey altars of the past, and the sky vaulted all, azure and splendid. two sea-birds passed overhead with a long, clarion cry. two butterflies hung poised upon a thistle beside them. the salt wind blew from the sea as it had blown against man and woman when these stones were raised. they sat and talked until the sun was low in the west, and then, hand in hand, walked back toward the village. the end the riverside press cambridge . massachusetts u. s. a transcriber's notes obvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired. inconsistent hyphenation fixed. p. : older women -> older woman. p. : englantine -> eglatine. p. : others changes appeared -> other changes appeared. p. : left at table -> left at the table. p. : duplicate line removed: "yes, and mr. laydon." transcriber's note: the oe-ligature is represented by [oe] (example: ph[oe]nix). unveiling a parallel. a romance [illustration] by two women of the west copyright , by arena publishing company. all rights reserved. table of contents. page. chapter i. a remarkable acquaintance chapter ii. a woman chapter iii. the auroras' annual chapter iv. elodia chapter v. the vaporizer chapter vi. cupid's gardens chapter vii. new friends chapter viii. a talk with elodia chapter ix. journeying upward chapter x. the master chapter xi. a comparison chapter . a remarkable acquaintance. "a new person is to me always a great event, and hinders me from sleep." --emerson. you know how certain kinds of music will beat everything out of your consciousness except a wild delirium of joy; how love of a woman will take up every cranny of space in your being,--and fill the universe beside,--so that people who are not en rapport with the strains that delight you, or with the beauty that enthralls you, seem pitiable creatures, not in touch with the divine harmony, with supreme loveliness. so it was with me, when i set my feet on mars! my soul leaped to its highest altitude and i had but one vast thought,--"i have triumphed; i am here! and i am alone; earth is unconscious of the glory that is mine!" i shall not weary you with an account of my voyage, since you are more interested in the story of my sojourn on the red planet than in the manner of my getting there. it is not literally red, by the way; that which makes it appear so at this distance is its atmosphere,--its "sky,"--which is of a soft roseate color, instead of being blue like ours. it is as beautiful as a blush. i will just say, that the time consumed in making the journey was incredibly brief. having launched my aeroplane on the current of attraction which flows uninterruptedly between this world and that, traveling was as swift as thought. my impression is that my speed was constantly accelerated until i neared my journey's end, when the planet's pink envelope interposed its soft resistance to prevent a destructive landing. i settled down as gently as a dove alights, and the sensation was the most ecstatic i have ever experienced. when i could distinguish trees, flowers, green fields, streams of water, and people moving about in the streets of a beautiful city, it was as if some hitherto unsuspected chambers of my soul were flung open to let in new tides of feeling. my coming had been discovered. a college of astronomers in an observatory which stands on an elevation just outside the city, had their great telescope directed toward the earth,--just as our telescopes were directed to mars at that time,--and they saw me and made me out when i was yet a great way off. they were able to determine the exact spot whereon i would land, about a mile distant from the observatory, and repaired thither with all possible speed,--and they have very perfect means of locomotion, superior even to our electrical contrivances. before i had time to look about me, i found myself surrounded, and unmistakably friendly hands outheld to welcome me. there were eight or ten of the astronomers,--some young, some middle-aged, and one or two elderly men. all of them, including the youngest, who had not even the dawn of a beard upon his chin, and the oldest, whose hair was silky white, were strikingly handsome. their features were extraordinarily mobile and expressive. i never saw a more lively interest manifest on mortal countenances than appeared on theirs, as they bent their glances upon me. but their curiosity was tempered by a dignified courtesy and self-respect. they spoke, but of course i could not understand their words, though it was easy enough to interpret the tones of their voices, their manner, and their graceful gestures. i set them down for a people who had attained to a high state of culture and good-breeding. i suddenly felt myself growing faint, for, although i had not fasted long, a journey such as i had just accomplished is exhausting. near by stood a beautiful tree on which there was ripe fruit. some one instantly interpreted the glance i involuntarily directed to it, and plucked a cluster of the large rich berries and gave them to me, first putting one in his own mouth to show me that it was a safe experiment. while i ate,--i found the fruit exceedingly refreshing,--the company conferred together, and presently one of the younger men approached and took me gently by the arm and walked me away toward the city. the others followed us. we had not to go farther than the first suburb. my companion, whom they called severnius, turned into a beautiful park, or grove, in the midst of which stood a superb mansion built of dazzling white stone. his friends waved us farewells with their hands,--we responding in like manner,--and proceeded on down the street. i learned afterwards that the park was laid out with scientific precision. but the design was intricate, and required study to follow the curves and angles. it seemed to me then like an exquisite mood of nature. the trees were of rare and beautiful varieties, and the shrubbery of the choicest. the flowers, whose colors could not declare themselves,--it being night,--fulfilled their other delightful function and tinctured the balmy air with sweet odors. paths were threaded like white ribbons through the thick greensward. as we walked toward the mansion, i stopped suddenly to listen to a most musical and familiar and welcome sound,--the plash of water. my companion divined my thought. we turned aside, and a few steps brought us to a marble fountain. it was in the form of a chaste and lovely female figure, from whose chiseled fingers a shower of glittering drops continually poured. severnius took an alabaster cup from the base of the statue, filled it, and offered me a drink. the water was sparkling and intensely cold, and had the suggestion rather than the fact of sweetness. "delicious!" i exclaimed. he understood me, for he smiled and nodded his head, a gesture which seemed to say, "it gives me pleasure to know that you find it good." i could not conceive of his expressing himself in any other than the politest manner. we proceeded into the house. how shall i describe that house? imagine a place which responds fully to every need of the highest culture and taste, without burdening the senses with oppressive luxury, and you have it! in a word, it was an ideal house and home. both outside and inside, white predominated. but here and there were bits of color the most brilliant, like jewels. i found that i had never understood the law of contrast, or of economy in art; i knew nothing of "values," or of relationships in this wonderful realm, of which it maybe truly said, "fools rush in where angels fear to tread." i learned subsequently that all marsians of taste are sparing of rich colors, as we are of gems, though certain classes indulge in extravagant and gaudy displays, recognizing no law but that which permits them to have and to do whatsoever they like. i immediately discovered that two leading ideas were carried out in this house; massiveness and delicacy. there was extreme solidity in everything which had a right to be solid and stable; as the walls, and the supporting pillars, the staircases, the polished floors, and some pieces of stationary furniture, and the statuary,--the latter not too abundant. each piece of statuary, by the way, had some special reason for being where it was; either it served some practical purpose, or it helped to carry out a poetical idea,--so that one was never taken aback as by an incongruity. some of the floors were of marble, in exquisite mosaic-work, and others were of wood richly inlaid. the carpets were beautiful, but they were used sparingly. when we sat down in a room a servant usually brought a rug or a cushion for our feet. and when we went out under the trees they spread carpets on the grass and put pillows on the rustic seats. the decorations inside the house were the most airy and graceful imaginable. the frescoes were like clouds penetrated by the rarest tints,--colors idealized,--cunningly wrought into surpassingly lovely pictures, which did not at once declare the artist's intention, but had to be studied. they were not only an indulgence to the eye, but a charming occupation for the thoughts. in fact, almost everything about the place appealed to the higher faculties as well as to the senses. there comes to us, from time to time, a feeling of disenchantment toward almost everything life has to offer us. it never came to me with respect to severnius' house. it had for me an interest and a fascination which i was never able to dissect, any more than you would be able to dissect the charm of the woman you love. with all its fine artistic elaborations, there was a simplicity about it which made it possible for the smallest nature to measure its capacity there, as well as the greatest. the proper sort of a yardstick for all uses has inch-marks. severnius took me upstairs and placed a suite of rooms at my command, and indicated to me that he supposed i needed rest, which i did sorely. but i could not lie down until i had explored my territory. the room into which i had been ushered, and where severnius left me, closing the noiseless door behind him, looked to me like a pretty woman's boudoir,--almost everything in it being of a light and delicate color. the walls were cream-tinted, with a deep frieze of a little darker shade, relieved by pale green and brown decorations. the wood work was done in white enamel paint. the ceiling was sprinkled with silver stars. two or three exquisite water-colors were framed in silver, and the andirons, tongs and shovel, and the fender round the fire-place, and even the bedstead, were silver-plated. the bed, which stood in an alcove, was curtained with silk, and had delicacies of lace also, as fine and subtle as arachne's web. the table and a few of the chairs looked like our spindle-legged chippendale things. and two or three large rugs might have been of persian lamb's wool. a luxurious couch was placed across one corner of the room and piled with down cushions. an immense easy chair, or lounging chair, stood opposite. the dressing table, of a peculiarly beautiful cream-colored wood, was prettily littered with toilet articles in carved ivory or silver mountings. above it hung a large mirror. there was a set of shelves for books and bric-a-brac; a porphyry lamp-stand with a lamp dressed in an exquisite pale-green shade; a chiffonier of marquetry. the mantel ornaments were vases of fine pottery and marble statuettes. a musical instrument lay on a low bamboo stand. i could not play upon it, but the strings responded sweetly to the touch. a little investigation revealed a luxurious bath-room. i felt the need of a bath, and turned on the water and plunged in. as i finished, a clock somewhere chimed the hour of midnight. before lying down, i put by the window draperies and looked out. i was amazed at the extreme splendor of the familiar constellations. owing to the peculiarity of the atmosphere of mars, the night there is almost as luminous as our day. every star stood out, not a mere twinkling eye, or little flat, silver disk, but a magnificent sphere, effulgent and supremely glorious. notwithstanding that it was long before i slept, i awoke with the day. i think its peculiar light had something to do with my waking. i did not suppose such light was possible out of heaven! it did not dazzle me, however; it simply filled me, and gave me a sensation of peculiar buoyancy. i had a singular feeling when i first stepped out of bed,--that the floor was not going to hold me. it was as if i should presently be lifted up, as a feather is lifted by a slight current of air skimming along on the ground. but i soon found that this was not going to happen. my feet clung securely to the polished wood and the soft wool of the rug at the bedside. i laughed quietly to myself. in fact i was in the humor to laugh. i felt so happy. happiness seemed to be a quality of the air, which at that hour was particularly charming in its freshness and its pinkish tones. i had made my ablutions and was taking up my trousers to put them on, when there was a tap at the door and severnius appeared with some soft white garments, such as he himself wore, thrown over his arm. in the most delicate manner possible, he conveyed the wish that i might feel disposed to put them on. i blushed,--they seemed such womanish things. he misinterpreted my confusion. he assured me by every means in his power that i was entirely welcome to them, that it would give him untold pleasure to provide for my every want. i could not stand out against such generosity. i reached for the things--swaddling clothes i called them--and severnius helped me to array myself in them. i happened to glance into the mirror, and i did not recognize myself. i had some sense of how a barbarian must feel in his first civilized suit. at my friend's suggestion i hung my own familiar apparel up in the closet,--you may imagine with what reluctance. but i may say, right here, that i grew rapidly to my new clothes. i soon liked them. there was something very graceful in the cut and style of them. they covered and adorned the body without disguising it. they left the limbs and muscles free and encouraged grace of pose and movement. the elegant folds in which the garments hung from the shoulders and the waist, the tassels and fringes and artistic drapery arrangements, while seemingly left to their own caprice, were as secure in their place as the plumage of a bird,--which the wind may ruffle but cannot displace. i suspect that it requires a great deal of skill to construct a marsian costume, whether for male or female. they are not altogether dissimilar; the women's stuffs are of a little finer quality ordinarily, but their dress is not usually so elaborately trimmed as the men's garb, which struck me as very peculiar. both sexes wear white, or a soft cream. the fabric is either a sort of fine linen, or a mixture of silk and wool. after severnius and i came to understand each other, as comrades and friends, he laughingly compared my dress, in which i had made my first appearance, to the saddle and housings of a horse. he declared that he and his friends were not quite sure whether i was a man or a beast. but he was too polite to give me the remotest hint, during our early acquaintance, that he considered my garb absurd. when, having completed my toilet, i indicated to him that i was ready for the next thing on the program,--which i sincerely hoped might be breakfast,--he approached me and taking my hand placed a gold ring on my finger. it was set with a superb rubellite enhanced with pearls. the stone was the only bit of color in my entire dress. even my shoes were of white canvas. i thanked him as well as i was able for this especial mark of favor. i was pleased that he had given me a gem not only beautiful, but possessing remarkable qualities. i held it in a ray of sunlight and turned it this way and that, to show him that i was capable of appreciating its beauties and its peculiar characteristics. he was delighted, and i had the satisfaction of feeling that i had made a good impression upon him. he led the way down-stairs, and luckily into the breakfast room. we were served by men dressed similarly to ourselves, though their clothing was without trimming and was of coarser material than ours. they moved about the room swiftly and noiselessly. motion upon that planet seems so natural and so easy. there is very little inertia to overcome. our meal was rather odd; it consisted of fruits, some curiously prepared cereals, and a hot palatable drink. no meat. after this light but entirely satisfactory repast we ascended the grand stairway--a marvel of beauty in its elaborate carvings--and entered a lofty apartment occupying a large part of the last _etage_. i at first made out that it was a place devoted to the fine arts. i had noticed a somewhat conspicuous absence, in the rooms below, of the sort of things with which rich people in our country crowd their houses. i understood now, they were all marshaled up here. there were exquisitely carved vessels of all descriptions, bronzes, marbles, royal paintings, precious minerals. here also were the riches of color. the brilliant morning light came through the most beautiful windows i have ever seen, even in our finest cathedrals. the large central stained glasses were studded round with prisms that played extraordinary pranks with the sunbeams, which, as they glanced from them, were splintered into a thousand scintillating bits, as splendid as jewels. we sat down, i filled--i do not know why--with a curious sense of expectancy that was half awe. across one end of the great room was stretched a superb curtain of tapestry,--a mosaic in silk and wool. severnius did not make any other sign or gesture to me except the one that bade me be seated. i watched him wonderingly but furtively. he seemed to be composing himself, as i have seen saintly people compose themselves in church. not that he was saintly; he did not strike me as being that kind of a man, though there was that about him which proclaimed him to be a good man, whose friendship would be a valuable acquisition. he folded his hands loosely in his lap and sat motionless, his glance resting serenely on one of the great windows for a time and then passing on to other objects equally beautiful. we were still enwrapped in this august silence when i became conscious that somewhere, afar off, beyond the tapestry curtain, there were stealing toward us strains of unusual, ineffable music, tantalizingly sweet and vague. gradually the almost indistinguishable sounds detached themselves from, and rose above, the pulsing silence,--or that unappreciable harmony we call silence,--and swelled up among the arches that ribbed the lofty ceiling, and rolled and reverberated through the great dome above, and came reflected down to us in refined and sublimated undulations. our souls--my soul,--in this new wonder and ecstasy i forgot severnius,--awoke in responsive raptures, inconceivably thrilling and exalted. i did not need to be told that it was sacred music, it invoked the divine presence unmistakably. no influence that had ever before been trained upon my spiritual senses had so compelled to adoration of the supreme one who holds and rules all worlds. "he lifts me to the golden doors; the flashes come and go; all heaven bursts her starry floors, and strows her lights below, and deepens on and up! the gates roll back. * * * *" this i murmured, and texts of our scriptures, and fragments of anthems. it was as if i brought my earthly tribute to lay on this marsian shrine. the gates did roll back, the heavens were broken up, new spiritual heights were shown to me, up which my spirit mounted. i looked at severnius. his eyes were closed. his face, lighted as by an inner illumination, and his whole attitude, suggested a "waiting upon god," that "intercourse divine, which god permits, ordains, across the line." there stole insensibly upon the sound-burdened air, the hallowed perfume of burning incense. i conjectured, and truly as i afterward learned, that i was in my friend's private sanctuary. it was his spiritual lavatory, in which he made daily ablutions. a service in which the soul lays aside the forms necessary in public worship and stands unveiled before its god. it was a rare honor he paid me, in permitting me to accompany him. and he repeated it every morning during my stay in his house, except on one or two occasions. it speedily became almost a necessity to me. you know how it is when you have formed a habit of exercising your muscles in a gymnasium. if you leave it off, you are uncomfortable, you have a feeling that you have cheated your body out of its right. it was so with me, when for any reason i was obliged to forego this higher exercise. i was heavy in spirit, my conscience accused me of a wrong to one of the "selfs" in me,--for we have several selfs, i think. there was not always music. sometimes a wonderful voice chanted psalms and praises, and recited poems that troubled the soul's deepest waters. at first i did not understand the words, of course, but the intonations spoke to me the same as music does. and i felt that i knew what the words expressed. often there was nothing there but the presence, which hushed our voices and set our souls in tune with heavenly things. no matter, i was fed and satisfied. at the end of a sweet half-hour, the music died away, and we rose and passed out of the sacred place. i longed to question severnius, but was powerless. he led the way down into the library, which was just off the wide entrance hall. books were ranged round the walls on shelves, the same as we dispose ours. but they were all bound in white cloth or white leather. the lettering on the backs was gold. i took one in my hand and flipped its leaves to show severnius that i knew what a book was. he was delighted. he asked me, in a language which he and i had speedily established between ourselves, if i would not like to learn the marsian tongue. i replied that it was what i wished above all things to do. we set to work at once. his teaching was very simple and natural, and i quickly mastered several important principles. after a little a servant announced some visitors, and severnius went out into the hall to receive them. he left the door open, and i saw that the visitors were the astronomers i had met the night before. they asked to see me, and severnius ushered them into the library. i stood up and shook hands with each one, as he advanced, and repeated their own formula for "how do you do!" which quite amused them. i suppose the words sounded very parrot-like,--i did not know where to put the accent. they congratulated me with many smiles and gesticulations on my determination to learn the language,--severnius having explained this fact to them. he also told them that i had perhaps better be left to myself and him until i had mastered it, when of course i should be much more interesting to them and they to me. they acquiesced, and with many bows and waves of the hand, withdrew. the language, i found, was not at all difficult,--not so arbitrary as many of our modern languages. it was similar in form and construction to the ancient languages of southern europe. the proper names had an almost familiar sound. that of the country i was in was paleveria. the city was called thursia, and there was a river flowing through it,--one portion of severnius' grounds, at the back of the house, sloped to it,--named the gyro. chapter . a woman. "her face so fair, as flesh it seemed not, but heavenly portrait of bright angels hew, clear as the skye withouten blame or blot, through goodly mixture of complexion's dew; and in her cheeks the vermeil red did shew like roses in a bed of lillies shed. * * * * * in her faire eyes two living lamps did flame." --spenser. thus far, i had seen no women. i was curious on this point, and i was not kept long in suspense. late in the afternoon of the day following my arrival, severnius and i went out to walk about the grounds, and were returning through an avenue of eucalyptus trees,--of a variety more wide-spreading in their branches than any i have seen in our country,--when a person alighted from a carriage in the _porte cochere_ and, instead of entering the house, came to meet us. it was a woman. though it was not left to her dress, nor her stature,--she was nearly as tall as myself,--to proclaim that fact; her grace and carriage would have determined her sex, if her beautiful face had not. she advanced swiftly, with long, free steps. her white dress, similar in cut and style to ours, was relieved only by a girdle studded with gems. she carried a little white parasol with a gold fringe, and wore no head-gear to crush down her beautifully massed hair. i felt myself growing red under her lively gaze, and attributed it to my clothes. i was not accustomed to them yet, and i felt as you would to appear before a beautiful woman in your night shirt. especially if you fancied you saw something in her eyes which made you suspect that she thought you cut a ludicrous figure. of course that was my imagination, my apparel, in her eyes, must have been correct, since it was selected from among his best by my new friend, who was unmistakably a man of taste. her face, which was indescribably lovely, was also keenly intelligent,--that sort of intelligence which lets nothing escape, which is as quick to grasp a humorous situation as a sublime truth. it was a face of power and of passion,--of, i might say, manly self-restraint,--but yet so soft! i now observed for the first time the effect of the pinkish atmosphere on the complexion. you have seen ladies in a room where the light came through crimson hangings or glass stained red. so it was here. severnius smiled, spoke, and gave her his hand. the glance they bestowed upon each other established their relationship in my mind instantly. i had seen that glance a thousand times, without suspecting it had ever made so strong an impression upon me that in a case like this i should accept its evidence without other testimony. they were brother and sister. i was glad of that, for the reason, i suppose, that every unmarried man is glad to find a beautiful woman unmarried,--there are seductive possibilities in the situation. severnius did his best to introduce us. he called her elodia. i learned afterwards that ladies and gentlemen in that country have no perfunctory titles, like mrs., or mr., they support their dignity without that. it would have seemed belittling to say "miss" elodia. i had a feeling that she did not attach much importance to me, that she was half amused at the idea of me; a peculiar tilting-up of her eyebrows told me so, and i was piqued. it seemed unfair that, simply because she could not account for me, she should set me down as inferior, or impossible, or ridiculous, whichever was in her mind. she regarded me as i have sometimes regarded un-english foreigners in the streets of new york. she indulged her curiosity about me only for a moment, asking a few questions i inferred, and then passed me over as though she had more weighty matters in hand. i knew, later on, that she waived me as a topic of conversation when her brother insisted upon talking about me, saying half impatiently, "wait till he can talk and explain himself, severnius,--since you say he is going to learn our speech." i studied her with deep interest as we walked along, and no movement or accent of hers was lost upon me. once she raised her hand--her wide sleeve slipped back and bared a lovely arm--to break off a long scimeter-shaped leaf from a bough overhead. quicker than thought i sprang at the bough and snapped off the leaf in advance of her, and presented it with a low obeisance. she drew herself up with a look of indignant surprise, but instantly relented as though to a person whose eccentricities, for some reason or other, might better be excused. she did not, however, take the leaf,--it fluttered to the ground. she was not like any other woman,--any woman i had ever seen before. you could not accuse her of hauteur, yet she bore herself like a royal personage, though with no suggestion of affecting that sort of an air. you had to take her as seriously as you would the czar. i saw this in her brother's attitude toward her. there was none of that condescension in his manner that there often is in our manner toward the women of our households. i began to wonder whether she might not be the queen of the realm! but she was not. she was simply a private citizen. she sat at the dinner table with us, and divided the honors equally with severnius. i wish i could give you an idea of that dinner,--the dining-room, the service, the whole thing! it surpassed my finest conceptions of taste and elegance. we sat down not merely to eat,--though i was hungry enough!--but to enjoy ourselves in other ways. there was everything for the eye to delight in. the room was rich in artistic decorations upon which the rarest talent must have been employed. the table arrangements were superb; gold and silver, crystal, fine china, embroidered linen, flowers. and the food, served in many courses, was a happy combination of the substantial and the delicate. there was music--not too near--of a bright and lively character. music enters largely into the life of these people. it seemed to me that something beat time to almost everything we did. the conversation carried on between the brother and sister--in which i could take no more part than a deaf-mute--was, i felt sure, extremely entertaining if not important. my eyes served me well,--for one sense is quick to assume the burdens of another,--and i knew that the talk was not mere banter, nor was it simply the necessary exchange of words and opinions about everyday matters which must take place in families periodically, concerning fuel, and provisions, and servants, and water-tax, and the like. it took a much higher range. the faces of both were animated, their eyes beamed brightly upon each other. it was clear that the brother did not talk down to her understanding, rather he talked up to it,--or no, they were on a level with each other, the highest level of both, for they held each other up to their best. however, elodia had been away for a couple of days, i learned, and absence gives a bloom of newness which it is delightful to brush off. i did not detect any of the quality we call chivalry in severnius' pose, nor of its complement in hers. though one would hardly expect that between brothers and sisters anywhere. still, we have a way with our near women relations which never ignores the distinction between the sexes; we humor them, patronize them, tyrannize over them. and they defer to, and exalt us, and usually acknowledge our superiority. it was not so with this pair. they respected and honored each other equally. and there was a charming _camaraderie_ between them, the same as if they had both been men--or women, if you single out the right kind. they held widely different opinions upon many subjects, but they never crowded them upon each other. their tastes were dissimilar. for one thing, elodia had not her brother's fine religious sense. she seldom entered the sanctuary, though once or twice i saw her there, seated far apart from severnius and myself. stimulated by the hope of some day being able to talk with her, and of convincing her that i was a person not altogether beneath her intelligence, i devoted myself, mind and soul, to the paleverian language. in six weeks i could read and write it fairly well. severnius was untiring in his teaching; and every day strengthened my regard for him as a man. he was an accomplished scholar, and he was as clean-souled as a child,--but not weakly or ignorantly so. he knew evil as well as good; but he renounced the one and accepted the other. he was a man "appointed by almighty god to stand for a fact." and i never knew him to weaken his position by defending it. often we spent hours in the observatory together. it was a glorious thing to me to watch the splendid fleet of asteroids sailing between jupiter and mars, and to single out the variously colored moons of jupiter, and to distinguish with extraordinary clearness a thousand other wonders but dimly seen from the earth. even to study the moons of mars, the lesser one whirling round the planet with such astonishing velocity, was a world of entertainment to me. i had begged severnius not to ask me to see any visitors at all until i could acquit myself creditably in conversation. he agreed, and i saw no one. i believe that in those weeks of quiet study, observation, and close companionship of one noble man, my soul was cleared of much dross. i lived with books, severnius, and the stars. at last, i no longer feared to trust myself to speak, even to elodia. it was a great surprise to her, and evidently a pleasure too. my first brilliant attempt was at the dinner table. severnius adroitly drew me into a conversation about our world. elodia turned her delightful gaze upon me so frankly and approvingly that i felt myself blushing like a boy whom his pretty sabbath-school teacher praises with her smile when he says his text. up to that time, although she had been polite to me,--so entirely polite that i never for a moment felt myself an intruder in her home,--she apparently took no great interest in me. but now she voluntarily addressed me whenever we met, and took pains to draw me out. once she glanced at a book i was reading, a rather heavy work, and smiled. "you have made astonishing progress," she said. "i have had the best of instructors," i replied. "ah, yes; severnius has great patience. and besides, he likes you. and then of course he is not wholly disinterested, he wants to hear about your planet." "and do you?" i asked foolishly. i wanted somehow to get the conversation to running in a personal channel. "o, of course," she returned indifferently, "though i am not an astronomer. i should like to hear something about your people." i took that cue joyfully, and soon we were on very sociable terms with each other. she listened to my stories and descriptions with a most flattering interest, and i soon found myself worshiping her as a goddess. yes, as a goddess, not a woman. her entire lack of coquetry prevented me from making love to her, or would have prevented me if i had dared to have such a thought. if there could have been anything tender between us, i think she must have made the advances. but this is foolish. i am merely trying to give you some idea of the kind of woman she was. but i know that i cannot do that; the quality of a woman must be felt to be understood. there was a great deal of social gayety in thursia. we went out frequently, to opera, to concert, and to crowded gatherings in splendid homes. i observed that elodia immediately became the centre of interest wherever she appeared. she gave fresh zest to every amusement or conversation. she seemed to dignify with her presence whatever happened to be going on, and made it worth while. not that she distinguished herself in speech or act; she had the effect of being infinitely greater than anything she did or said and one was always looking out for manifestations of that. she kept one's interest in her up to the highest pitch. i often asked myself, "why is it that we are always looking at her with a kind of inquiry in our glances?--what is it that we expect her to do?" it was a great part of her charm that she was not _blasé_. she was full of interest in all about her, she was keenly and delightfully alive. her manners were perfect, and yet she seemed careless of etiquette and conventions. her good manners were a part of herself, as her regal carriage was. it was her unvarying habit, almost, to spend several hours down town every day. i ventured to ask severnius wherefore. he replied that she had large business interests, and looked carefully after them herself. i expressed astonishment, and severnius was equally surprised at me. i questioned him and he explained. "my father was a banker," he said, "and very rich. my sister inherited his gift and taste for finance. i took after my mother's family, who were scientists. we were trained, of course, in our early years according to our respective talents. at our parents' death we inherited their fortune in equal shares. elodia was prepared to take up my father's business where he left it. in fact he had associated her with himself in the business for some time previous to his departure, and she has carried it on very successfully ever since." "she is a banker!" said i. "yes. i, myself, have always had a liking for astronomy, and i have been employed, ever since i finished my education, in the state observatory." "and how do you employ your capital?" i asked. "elodia manages it for me. it is all in the bank, or in investments which she makes. i use my dividends largely in the interest of science. the state does a great deal in that direction, but not enough." "and what, may i ask, does she do with her surplus,--your sister, i mean,--she must make a great deal of money?" "she re-invests it. she has a speculative tendency, and is rather daring; though they tell me she is very safe--far-sighted, or large-sighted, i should call it. i do not know how many great enterprises she is connected with,--railroads, lines of steamers, mining and manufacturing operations. and besides, she is public-spirited. she is much interested in the cause of education,--practical education for the poor especially. she is president of the school board here in the city, and she is also a member of the city council. a great many of our modern improvements are due to her efforts." my look of amazement arrested his attention. "why are you so surprised?" he asked. "do not your women engage in business?" "well, not to such an extraordinary degree," i replied. "we have women who work in various ways, but there are very few of them who have large business interests, and they are not entrusted with important public affairs, such as municipal government and the management of schools!" "oh!" returned severnius with the note of one who does not quite understand. "would you mind telling me why? is it because they are incapable, or--unreliable?" neither of the words he chose struck me pleasantly as applied to my countrywomen. i remembered that i was the sole representative of the earth on mars, and that it stood me in hand to be careful about the sort of impressions i gave out. it was as if i were on the witness' stand, under oath. facts must tell the story, not opinions,--though personally i have great confidence in my opinions. i thought of our government departments where women are the experts, and of their almost spotless record for faithfulness and honesty, and replied: "they are both capable and reliable, in as far as they have had experience. but their chances have been circumscribed, and i believe they lack the inclination to assume grave public duties. i fear i cannot make you understand,--our women are so different, so unlike your sister." elodia was always my standard of comparison. "perhaps you men take care of them all," suggested severnius, "and they have grown dependent. we have some such women here." "no, i do not think it is that entirely," said i. "for in my city alone, more than a hundred and seventy thousand women support not only themselves, but others who are dependent upon them." "ah, indeed! but how?" "by work." "you mean servants?" "not so-called. i mean intelligent, selfrespecting women; teachers, clerks, stenographers, type-writers." "i should think it would be more agreeable, and easier, for them to engage in business as our women do." "no doubt it would," i replied, feeling myself driven to a close scrutiny of the woman question, as we call it, for the first time in my life. for i saw that my friend was deeply interested and wanted to get at the literal truth. "but the women of my country," i went on, "the self-supporting ones, do not have control of money. they have a horror of speculation, and shrink from taking risks and making ventures, the failure of which would mean loss or ruin to others. a woman's right to make her living is restricted to the powers within herself, powers of brain and hand. she is a beginner, you know. she has not yet learned to make money by the labor of others; she does not know how to manipulate those who are less intelligent and less capable than herself, and to turn their ignorance and helplessness to her own account. perhaps i had better add that she is more religious than man, and is sustained in this seeming injustice by something she calls conscience." severnius was silent for a moment; he had a habit of setting his reason to work and searching out explanations in his own mind, of things not easily understood. as a rule, the marsians have not only very highly developed physical faculties, such as sight and hearing, but remarkably acute intellects. they let no statement pass without examination, and they scrutinize facts closely and seek for causes. "if so many women," said he, "are obliged to support themselves and others beside, as you say, by their work simply, they must receive princely wages,--and of course they have no responsibilities, which is a great saving of energy." i remembered having heard it stated that in new york city, the united states bureau gives the average of women's wages--leaving out domestic service and unskilled labor--as five dollars and eighty-five cents per week. i mentioned the fact, and severnius looked aghast. "what, a mere pittance!" said he. "only about a third as much as i give my stableman. but then the conditions are different, no doubt. here in thursia that would no more than fight off the wolf, as we say,--the hunger and cold. it would afford no taste of the better things, freedom, leisure, recreation, but would reduce life to its lowest terms,--mere existence." "i fear the conditions are much the same with us," i replied. "and do your women submit to such conditions,--do they not try to alter them, throw them off?" "they submit, of course," i said; "i never heard of a revolt or an insurrection among them! though there seems to be growing up among them, lately, a determination strong as death, to work out of those conditions as fast as may be. they realize--just as men have been forced to realize in this century--that work of the hands cannot compete with work of machines, and that trained brains are better capital than trained fingers. so, slowly but surely, they are reaching up to the higher callings and working into places of honor and trust. the odds are against them, because the 'ins' always have a tremendous advantage over the 'outs.' the women, having never been in, must submit to a rigid examination and extraordinary tests. they know that, and they are rising to it. whenever, it is said, they come into competition with men, in our colleges and training schools, they hold their own and more." "what are they fitting for?" asked severnius. "largely for the professions. they are becoming doctors, lawyers, editors, artists, writers. the enormous systems of public schools in my own and other countries is entirely in their hands,--except of course in the management and directorship." "except in the management and directorship?" echoed severnius. "of course they do not provide and disburse the funds, see to the building of school-houses, and dictate the policy of the schools!" i retorted. "but they teach them; you can hardly find a male teacher except at the head of a school,--to keep the faculty in order." severnius refrained from comment upon this, seeing, i suppose, that i was getting a little impatient. he walked along with his head down. i think i neglected to say that we were taking a long tramp into the country, as we often did. in order to change the conversation, i asked him what sort of a government they had in paleveria, and was delighted when he replied that it was a free republic. "my country is a republic also," i said, proudly. "we both have much to be thankful for," he answered. "a republic is the only natural government in the world, and man cannot get above nature." i thought this remark rather singular,--at variance with progress and high civilization. but i let it pass, thinking to take it up at some future time. "how do you vote here?" i asked. "what are your qualifications and restrictions?" "briefly told," he replied. "every citizen may vote on all public questions, and in all elections." "but what constitutes citizenship?" "a native-born is a citizen when he or she reaches maturity. foreigners are treated as minors until they have lived as long under the government as it takes for a child to come of age. it is thus," he added, facetiously, "that we punish people for presuming to be born outside our happy country." "excuse me," i said, "but do i understand you to say that your women have the right of suffrage?" "assuredly. do not yours?" "indeed no!" i replied, the masculine instinct of superiority swelling within me. severnius wears spectacles. he adjusted them carefully on his nose and looked at me. "but did you not tell me just now that your country is a republic?" "it is, but we do not hold that women are our political equals," i answered. his face was an exclamation and interrogation point fused into one. "indeed! and how do you manage it,--how, for instance, can you prevent them from voting?" "o, they don't often try it," i said, laughing. "when they do, we simply throw their ballots out of the count." "is it possible! that seems to me a great unfairness. however, it can be accounted for, i suppose, from the fact that things are so different on the earth to what they are here. our government, you see, rests upon a system of taxation. we tax all property to defray governmental expenses, and for many other purposes tending toward the general good; which makes it necessary that all our citizens shall have a voice in our political economy. but you say your women have no property, and so--" "i beg your pardon!" i interposed; "i did not say that. we have a great many very rich women,--women whose husbands or fathers have left them fortunes." "then they of course have a vote?" "they do not. you can't make a distinction like that." "no? but you exempt their property, perhaps?" "of course not." "do you tell me that you tax property, to whatever amount, and for whatever purpose, you choose, without allowing the owner her fractional right to decide about either the one or the other?" "their interests are identical with ours," i replied, "so what is the difference? we men manage the government business, and i fancy we do it sufficiently well." i expanded my chest after this remark, and severnius simply looked at me. i think that at that moment i suffered vicariously in his scornful regard for all my countrymen. i did not like the socratic method he had adopted in this conversation, and i turned the tables on him. "do your women hold office, other than in the school board and the council?" i asked. "o, yes, fully half our offices are filled by women." "and you make no discrimination in the kind of office?" "the law makes none; those things adjust themselves. fitness, equipment, are the only things considered. a woman, the same as a man, is governed by her taste and inclination in the matter of office-holding. do women never take a hand in state affairs on the earth?" "yes, in some countries they do,--monarchies. there have been a good many women sovereigns. there are a few now." "and are they successful rulers?" "some are, some are not." "the same as men. that proves that your women are not really inferior." "well, i should say not!" i retorted. "our women are very superior; we treat them more as princesses than as inferiors,--they are angels." i was carried away in the heat of resentment, and knew that what i had said was half cant. "i beg your pardon!" said severnius quickly; "i got a wrong impression from your statements. i fear i am very stupid. are they all angels?" i gave him a furtive glance and saw that he was in earnest. his brows were drawn together with a puzzled look. i had a sudden vision of a scene in five points; several groups of frowsled, petticoated beings, laughing, joking, swearing, quarreling, fighting, and drinking beer from dirty mugs. "no, not all of them," i replied, smiling. "that was a figure of speech. there are so many classes." "let us confine our discussion to one, then," he returned. "to the women who might be of your own family; that will simplify matters. and now tell me, please, how this state of things came about, this subjection of a part of your people. i cannot understand it,--these subjects being of your own flesh and blood. i should think it would breed domestic discontent, where some of the members of a family wield a power and enjoy a privilege denied to the others. fancy my shaking a ballot over elodia's head!" "o, elodia!" i said, and was immediately conscious that my accent was traitorous to my countrywomen. i made haste to add, "your sister is--incomparable. she is unusual even here. i have seen none others like her." "how do you mean?" "i mean that she is as responsible as a man; she is not inconsequent." "are your women inconsequent?" "they have been called so, and we think it rather adds to their attractiveness. you see they have always been relieved of responsibility, and i assure you the large majority of them have no desire to assume it,--i mean in the matter of government and politics." "yes?" i dislike an interrogative "yes," and i made no reply. severnius added, "i suppose they have lost the faculty which you say they lack,--the faculty that makes people responsible,--through disuse. i have seen the same thing in countries on the other side of our globe, where races have been held as slaves for several centuries. they seem to have no ideas about personal rights, or liberties, as pertaining to themselves, and no inclination in that direction. it always struck me as being the most pathetic feature of their condition that they and everybody else accepted it as a matter of course, as they would a law of nature. in the place of strength and self-assertion there has come to them a dumb patience, or an unquestioning acquiescence like that of people born blind. are your women happy?" "you should see them!" i exclaimed, with certain ball-room memories rushing upon me, and visions of fair faces radiant with the joy of living. but these were quickly followed by other pictures, and i felt bound to add, "of late, a restless spirit has developed in certain circles,--" "the working circles, i suppose," interrupted severnius. "you spoke of the working women getting into the professions." "not those exclusively. even the women of leisure are not so satisfied as they used to be. there has been, for a great many years, more or less chaffing about women's rights, but now they are beginning to take the matter seriously." "ah, they are waking up, perhaps?" "yes, some of them are waking up,--a good many of them. it is a little ridiculous, when one thinks of it, seeing they have no power to enforce their 'rights', and can never attain them except through the condescension of men. tell me, severnius, when did your women wake up?" severnius smiled. "my dear sir, i think they have never been asleep!" we stalked along silently for a time; the subject passed out of my mind, or was driven out by the beauties of the landscape about us. i was especially impressed with the magnificence of the trees that hedged every little patch of farm land, and threw their protecting arms around houses and cottages, big and little; and with the many pellucid streams flowing naturally, or divided like strands of silk and guided in new courses, to lave the roots of trees or run through pasture lands where herds were feeding. a tree is something to be proud of in paleveria, more than a fine residence; more even than ancient furniture and cracked china. perhaps because the people sit out under their trees a great deal, and the shade of them has protected the heads of many generations, and they have become hallowed through sacred memories and traditions. in paleveria they have tree doctors, whose business it is to ward off disease, heal wounded or broken boughs, and exterminate destructive insects. severnius startled me suddenly with another question: "what, may i ask, is your theory of man's creation?" "god made man, and from one of his ribs fashioned woman," i replied catechetically. "ours is different," said he. "it is this: a pair of creatures, male and female, sprang simultaneously from an enchanted lake in the mountain region of a country called caskia, in the northern part of this continent. they were only animals, but they were beautiful and innocent. god breathed a soul into them and they were man and woman, equals in all things." "a charming legend!" said i. later on i learned the full breadth of the meaning of the equality he spoke of. at that time it was impossible for me to comprehend it, and i can only convey it to you in a complete account of my further experiences on that wonderful planet. chapter . the auroras' annual. it was winter, and snow was on the ground; white and sparkling, and as light as eider-down. elodia kept a fine stable. four magnificent white horses were harnessed to her sleigh, which was in the form of an immense swan, with a head and neck of frosted silver. the body of it was padded outside with white varnished leather, and inside with velvet of the color of a dove's breast. the robes were enormous skins of polar bears, lined with a soft, warm fabric of wool and silk. the harness was bestrung with little silver bells of most musical and merry tone; and all the trappings and accoutrements were superb. elodia had luxurious tastes, and indulged them. every day we took an exhilarating drive. the two deep, comfortable seats faced each other like seats in a landau. severnius and i occupied one, and elodia the other; so that i had the pleasure of looking at her whenever i chose, and of meeting her eyes in conversation now and then, which was no small part of my enjoyment. the mere sight of her roused the imagination and quickened the pulse. her eyes were unusually dark, but they had blue rays, and were as clear and beautiful as agates held under water. in fact they seemed to swim in an invisible liquid. her complexion had the effect of alabaster through which a pink light shines,--deepest in the cheeks, as though they were more transparent than the rest of her face. her head, crowned with a fascinating little cap, rose above her soft furs like a regal flower. she was so beautiful that i wondered at myself that i could bear the sight of her. strange to say, the weather was not cold, it was simply bracing,--hardly severe enough to make the ears tingle. the roads were perfect everywhere, and we often drove into the country. the horses flew over the wide white stretches at an incredible speed. one afternoon when, at the usual hour, the coachman rang the bell and announced that he was ready, i was greatly disappointed to find that we were not to have elodia. but i said nothing, for i was shy about mentioning her name. when we were seated, severnius gave directions to the driver. "time yourself, giddo, so that you will be at the public square at precisely three o'clock," said he, and turned to me. "we shall want to see the parade." "what parade?" i inquired. "oh! has not elodia told you? this is the auroras' annual,--a great day. the parade will be worth seeing." in the excitement of the drive, and in my disappointment about not having elodia with us, i had almost forgotten about the auroras' annual, when three o'clock came. i had seen parades in new york city, until the spectacle had calloused my sense of the magnificent, and i very much doubted whether mars had anything new to offer me in that line. punctual to the minute, giddo fetched up at the square,--among a thousand or so of other turnouts,--with such a flourish as all jehus love. we were not a second too soon. there was a sudden burst of music, infinitely mellowed by distance; and as far up the street as the eye could well reach there appeared a mounted procession, advancing slowly. every charger was snow white, with crimped mane and tail, long and flowing, and with trappings of various colors magnificent in silver blazonry. the musicians only were on foot. they were beating upon drums and blowing transcendent airs through silver wind instruments. i do not know whether it was some quality of the atmosphere that made the strains so ravishing, but they swept over one's soul with a rapture that was almost painful. i could hardly sit still, but i was held down by the thought that if i should get up i would not know what to do. it is a peculiar sensation. on came the resplendent column with slow, majestic movement; and i unconsciously kept time with the drums, with browning's stately lines on my tongue, but unspoken: "steady they step adown the slope, steady they climb the hill." there was no hill, but a very slight descent. as they drew nearer the splendor of the various uniforms dazzled my eyes. you will remember that everything about us was white; the buildings all of white stone or brick, the ground covered with snow, and the crowds of people lining the streets all dressed in the national color, or no-color. there were several companies in the procession, and each company wore distinguishing badges and carried flags and banners peculiar to itself. the housings on the horses of the first brigade were of yellow, and all the decorations of the riders corresponded; of the second pale blue, and of the third sky-pink. the uniforms of the riders were inconceivably splendid; fantastic and gorgeous head-gear, glittering belts, silken scarfs and sashes, badges and medals flashing with gems, and brilliant colors twisted into strange and curious devices. as the first division was about to pass, i lost my grip on myself and half started to my feet with a smothered exclamation, "elodia!" severnius put out his hand as though he were afraid i was going to leap out of the sleigh, or do something unusual. "what is it?" he cried, and following my gaze he added, "yes, that is elodia in front; she is the supreme sorceress of the order of the auroras." "the--_what_!" "don't be frightened," he laughed; "the word means nothing,--it is only a title." i could not believe him when i looked at the advancing figure of elodia. she sat her horse splendidly erect. her fair head was crowned with a superb diadem of gold and topazes, with a diamond star in the centre, shooting rays like the sun. her expression was grave and lofty; she glanced neither to right nor left, but gazed straight ahead--at nothing, or at something infinitely beyond mortal vision. her horse champed its bits, arched its beautiful neck, and stepped with conscious pride; dangling the gold fringe on its sheeny yellow satin saddle-cloth, until one could hardly bear the sight. "the words mean nothing!" i repeated to myself. "it is not so; severnius has deceived me. his sister is a sorceress; a--i don't know what! but no woman could preserve that majestic mien, that proud solemnity of countenance, if she were simply--playing! there is a mystery here." i scrutinized every rider as they passed. there was not a man among them,--all women. their faces had all borrowed, or had tried to borrow, elodia's queenly look. many of them only burlesqued it. none were as beautiful as she. when it was all over, and the music had died away in the distance, we drove off,--giddo threading his way with consummate skill, which redounded much to his glory in certain circles he cared for, through the crowded thoroughfares. i could not speak for many minutes, and severnius was a man upon whom silence always fell at the right time. i never knew him to break in upon another's mood for his own entertainment. nor did he spy upon your thoughts; he left you free. by-and-by, i appealed to him: "tell me, severnius, what does it mean?" "this celebration?" returned he. "with pleasure. giddo, you may drive round for half an hour, and then take us to the auroras' temple,--it is open to visitors to-day." we drew the robes closely, and settled ourselves more comfortably, as we cleared the skirts of the crowd. it was growing late and the air was filled with fine arrows of frost, touched by the last sunbeams,--their sharp little points stinging our faces as we were borne along at our usual lively speed. "this society of the auroras," said severnius, "originated several centuries ago, in the time of a great famine. in those days the people were poor and improvident, and a single failure in their crops left them in a sorry condition. some of the wealthiest women of the country banded themselves together and worked systematically for the relief of the sufferers. their faces appeared so beautiful, and beamed with such a light of salvation as they went about from hut to hut, that they got the name of 'auroras' among the simple poor. and they banished want and hunger so magically, that they were also called 'sorcerers'." "o, then, it is a charitable organization?" i exclaimed, much relieved. "it was," replied severnius. "it was in active operation for a hundred or so years. finally, when there was no more need of it, the state having undertaken the care of its poor, it passed into a sentiment, such as you have seen to-day." "a very costly and elaborate sentiment," i retorted. "yes, and it is growing more so, all the time," said he. "i sometimes wonder where it is going to stop! for those who, like elodia, have plenty of money, it does not matter; but some of the women we saw in those costly robes and ornaments can ill afford them,--they mean less of comfort in their homes and less of culture to their children." "i should think their husbands would not allow such a waste of money," i said, forgetting the social economy of mars. "it does not cost any more than membership in the orders to which the husbands themselves belong," returned he. "they argue, of course, that they need the recreation, and also that membership in such hightoned clubs gives them and their children a better standing and greater influence in society." severnius did not forget his usual corollary,--the question with which he topped out every explanation he made about his country and people. "have you nothing of the sort on the earth?" he asked. "among the women?--we have not," i answered. "i did not specify," he said. "o, well, the men have," i admitted; "i belong to one such organization myself,--the city guards." "and you guard the city?" "no; there is nothing to guard it against at present. it's a 'sentiment,' as you say." "and do you parade?" "yes, of course, upon occasion,--there are certain great anniversaries in our nation's history when we appear." "and why not your women?" i smiled to myself, as i tried to fancy some of the new york ladies i knew, arrayed in gorgeous habiliments for an equestrian exhibition on broadway. i replied, "really, severnius, the idea is entirely new to me. i think they would regard it as highly absurd." "do they regard you as absurd?" he asked, in that way of his which i was often in doubt about, not knowing whether he was in earnest or not. "i'm sure i do not know," i said. "they may,--our women have a keen relish for the ludicrous. still, i cannot think that they do; they appear to look upon us with pride. and they present us with an elaborate silken banner about once a year, stitched together by their own fair fingers and paid for out of their own pocket money. that does not look as though they were laughing at us exactly." i said this as much to convince myself as severnius. the half-hour was up and we were at the temple gate. the building, somewhat isolated, reared itself before us, a grand conception in chiseled marble, glinting in the brilliant lights shot upon it from various high points. already it was dark beyond the radius of these lights,--neither of the moons having yet appeared. severnius dismissed the sleigh, saying that we would walk home,--the distance was not far,--and we entered the grounds and proceeded to mount the flight of broad steps leading up to the magnificent arched entrance. the great carved doors,--the carvings were emblematic,--swung back and admitted us. the temple was splendidly illuminated within, and imagination could not picture anything more imposing than the great central hall and winding stairs, visible all the way up to the dome. below, on one side of this lofty hall, there were extensive and luxurious baths. severnius said the members of the order were fond of congregating here,--and i did not wonder at that; nothing that appertains to such an establishment was lacking. chairs and sofas that we would call "turkish," thick, soft rugs and carpets, pictures, statuary, mirrors, growing plants, rare flowers, books, musical instruments. and severnius told me the waters were delightful for bathing. the second story consisted of a series of spacious rooms divided from each other by costly portieres, into which the various emblems and devices were woven in their proper tinctures. all of these rooms were as sumptuously furnished as those connected with the baths; and the decorations, i thought, were even more beautiful, of a little higher or finer order. in one of the rooms a lady was playing upon an instrument resembling a harp. she dropped her hands from the strings and came forward graciously. "perhaps we are intruding?" said severnius. "ah, no, indeed," she laughed, pleasantly; "no one could be more welcome here than the brother of our supreme sorceress!" "happy the man who has a distinguished sister!" returned he. "i am unfortunate," she answered with a slight blush. "severnius is always welcome for his own sake." he acknowledged the compliment, and with a certain reluctance, i thought, said, "will you allow me, claris, to introduce my friend--from another planet?" she took a swift step toward me and held out her hand. "i have long had a great curiosity to meet you, sir," she said. i bowed low over her hand and murmured that her curiosity could not possibly equal the pleasure i felt in meeting her. she gave severnius a quick, questioning look. i believe she thought he had told me something about her. he let her think what she liked. "how is it you are here?" he asked. "you mean instead of being with the others?" she returned. "i have not been well lately, and i thought--or my husband thought--i had better not join the procession. i am awaiting them here." as she spoke, i noticed that she was rather delicate looking. she was tall and slight, with large, bright eyes, and a transparent complexion. if elodia had not filled all space in my consciousness i think i should have been considerably interested in her. i liked her frank, direct way of meeting us and talking to us. we soon left her and continued our explorations. i wanted to ask severnius something about her, but i thought he avoided the subject. he told me, however, that her husband, massilia, was one of his closest friends. and then he added, "i wonder that she took his advice!" "why so," i asked; "do not women here ever take their husbands' advice?" "claris is not in the habit of doing so," he returned with, i thought, some severity. and then he immediately spoke of something else quite foreign to her. the third and last story comprised an immense hall or assembly room, and rows of deep closets for the robes and paraphernalia of the members of the order. in one of these closets a skeleton was suspended from the ceiling and underneath it stood a coffin. on a shelf were three skulls with their accompanying cross-bones, and several cruel-looking weapons. severnius said he supposed these hideous tokens were employed in the initiation of new members. it seemed incredible. i thought that, if it were so, the marsian women must have stronger nerves than ours. a great many beautiful marble columns and pillars supported the roof of the hall, and the walls had a curiously fluted appearance. there was a great deal of sculpture, not only figures, but flowers, vines, and all manner of decorations,--even draperies chiseled in marble that looked like frozen lace, with an awful stillness in their ghostly folds. there was a magnificent canopied throne on an elevation like an old-fashioned pulpit, and seats for satellites on either side, and at the base. if i had been alone, i would have gone up and knelt down before the throne,--for of course that was where elodia sat,--and i would have kissed the yellow cushion on which her feet were wont to rest when she wielded her jeweled scepter. the scepter, i observed, lay on the throne-chair. there was an orchestra, and there were "stations" for the various officials, and the walls were adorned with innumerable cabalistic insignia. i asked severnius if he knew the meaning of any of them. "how should i know?" he replied in surprise. "only the initiates understand those things." "then these women keep their secrets," said i. "yes, to be sure they do," he replied. the apartment to the right, on the entrance floor, opposite the baths, was the last we looked into, and was a magnificent banquet hall. a servant who stood near the door opened it as though it had been the door of a shrine, and no wonder! it was a noble room in its dimensions and in all its unparalleled adornments and appurtenances. the walls and ceiling bristled with candelabra all alight. the tables, set for a banquet, held everything that could charm the eye or tempt the appetite in such a place. i observed a great many inverted stemglasses of various exquisite styles and patterns, including the thin, flaring goblets, as delicate as a lily-cup, which mean the same thing to marsians as to us. "do these women drink champagne at their banquets?" i asked, with a frown. "o, yes," replied severnius. "a banquet would be rather tame without, wouldn't it? the auroras are not much given to drink, ordinarily, but on occasions like this they are liable to indulge pretty freely." "is it possible!" i could say no more than this, and severnius went on: "the auroras, you see, are the cream of our society,--the _elite_,--and costly drinks are typical, in a way, of the highest refinement. do you people never drink wine at your social gatherings?" "the men do, of course, but not the women," i replied in a tone which the whole commonwealth of paleveria might have taken as a rebuke. "ah, i fear i shall never be able to understand!" said he. "it is very confusing to my mind, this having two codes--social as well as political--to apply separately to members of an identical community. i don't see how you can draw the line so sharply. it is like having two distinct currents in a river-bed. don't the waters ever get mixed?" "you are facetious," i returned, coldly. "no, really, i am in earnest," said he. "do no women in your country ever do these things,--parade and drink wine, and the like,--which you say you men are not above doing?" i replied with considerable energy: "i have never before to-day seen women of any sort dress themselves up in conspicuous uniforms and exhibit themselves publicly for the avowed purpose of being seen and making a sensation, except in circuses. and circus women,--well, they don't count. and of course we have a class of women who crack champagne bottles and even quaff other fiery liquors as freely as men, but i do not need to tell you what kind of creatures those are." at that moment there were sounds of tramping feet outside, and the orchestra filed in at the farther end of the _salon_ and took their places on a high dais. at a given signal every instrument was in position and the music burst forth, and simultaneously the banqueters began to march in. they had put off their heavy outside garments but retained their ornaments and insignia. their white necks and arms gleamed bewitchingly through silvered lace. they moved to their places without the least jostling or awkwardness, their every step and motion proving their high cultivation and grace. "we must get out of here," whispered severnius in some consternation. but a squad of servants clogged the doorway and we were crowded backward, and in the interest of self-preservation we took refuge in a small alcove behind a screen of tall hot-house plants with enormous leaves and fronds. "good heavens! what shall we do?" cried severnius, beginning to perspire. "let us sit down," said i, who saw nothing very dreadful in the situation except that it was warm, and the odor of the blossoms in front of us was overpowering. there was a bench in the alcove, and we seated ourselves upon it,--i with much comfort, for it was a little cooler down there, and my companion with much fear. "would it be a disgrace if we were found here?" i asked. "i would not be found here for the world!" replied severnius. "it would not be a disgrace, but it would be considered highly improper. or, to put it so that you can better understand it, it would be the same as though they were men and we women." "that is clear!" said i; and i pictured to myself two charming new york girls of my acquaintance secreting themselves in a hall where we city guards were holding a banquet,--ye gods! as the feast progressed, and as my senses were almost swept away by the scent of the flowers, i sometimes half fancied that it _was_ the city guards who were seated at the tables. during the first half-hour everything was carried on with great dignity, speakers being introduced--this occurred in the interim between courses--in proper order, and responding with graceful and well-prepared remarks, which were suitably applauded. but after the glasses had been emptied a time or two all around, there came a change with which i was very familiar. jokes abounded and jolly little songs were sung,--o, nothing you would take exception to, you know, if they had been men; but women! beautiful, cultivated, charming women, with eyes like stars, with cheeks that matched the dawn, with lips that you would have liked to kiss! and more than this: the preservers of our ideals, the interpreters of our faith, the keepers of our consciences! i felt as though my traditionary idols were shattered, until i remembered that these were not my countrywomen, thank heaven! severnius was not at all surprised; he took it all as a matter of course, and was chiefly concerned about how we were going to get out of there. it was more easily accomplished than we could have imagined. the elegant candelabra were a cunningly contrived system of electric lights, and, as sometimes happens with us, they went out suddenly and left the place in darkness for a few convenient seconds. "quick, now!" cried severnius with a bound, and there was just time for us to make our escape. we had barely reached the outer door when the whole building was ablaze again. severnius offered no comments on the events of the evening, except to say we were lucky to get out as we did, and of course i made none. at my suggestion we stopped at the observatory and spent a few hours there. lost among the stars, my soul recovered its equilibrium. i have found that little things cease to fret when i can lift my thoughts to great things. it must have been near morning when i was awakened by the jingling of bells, and a sleigh driving into the _porte cochere_. a few moments later i heard elodia and her maid coming up the stairs. her maid attended her everywhere, and stationed herself about like a dummy. she was the sign always that elodia was not far off; and i am sure she would have laid down her life for her mistress, and would have suffered her tongue to be cut out before she would have betrayed her secrets. i tell you this to show you what a power of fascination elodia possessed; she seemed a being to be worshiped by high and low. severnius and i ate our breakfast alone the following morning. the supreme sorceress did not get up, nor did she go down town to attend to business at all during the day. at lunch time she sent her maid down to tell severnius that she had a headache. "quite likely," he returned, as the girl delivered her message; "but i am sorry to hear it. if there is anything i can do for her, tell her to let me know." the girl made her obeisance and vanished. "we have to pay for our fun," said severnius with a sigh. "i should not think your sister would indulge in such 'fun'!" i retorted as a kind of relief to my hurt sensibilities, i was so cruelly disappointed in elodia. "why my sister in particular?" returned he with a look of surprise. "well, of course, i mean all those women,--why do they do such things? it is unwomanly, it--it is disgraceful!" i could not keep the word back, and for the first time i saw a flash of anger in my friend's eyes. "come," said he, "you must not talk like that! that term may have a different signification to you, but with us it means an insult." i quickly begged his pardon and tried to explain to him. "our women," i said, "never do things of that sort, as i have told you. they have no taste for them and no inclination in that direction,--it is against their very nature. and if you will forgive me for saying so, i cannot but think that such indulgence as we witnessed last night must coarsen a woman's spiritual fibre and dull the fine moral sense which is so highly developed in her." "excuse me," interposed severnius. "you have shown me in the case of your own sex that human nature is the same on the earth that it is on mars. you would not have me think that there are two varieties of human nature on your planet, corresponding with the sexes, would you? you say 'woman's' spiritual fibre and fine moral sense, as though she had an exclusive title to those qualities. my dear sir, it is impossible! you are all born of woman and are one flesh and one blood, whether you are male or female. i admit all you say about the unwholesome influence of such indulgence as wine drinking, late hours, questionable stories and songs,--a night's debauch, in fact, which it requires days sometimes to recover from,--but i must apply it to men as well as women; neither are at their best under such conditions. i think," he went on, "that i begin to understand the distinction which you have curiously mistaken for a radical difference. your women, you say, have always been in a state of semi-subjection--" "no, no," i cried, "i never said so! on the contrary, they hold the very highest place with us; they are honored with chivalrous devotion, cared for with the tenderest consideration. we men are their slaves, in reality, though they call us their lords; we work for them, endure hardships for them, give them all that we can of wealth, luxury, ease. and we defend them from danger and save them every annoyance in our power. they are the queens of our hearts and homes." "that may all be," he replied coolly, "but you admit that they have always been denied their political rights, and it follows that their social rights should be similarly limited. long abstinence from the indulgences which you regard as purely masculine, has resulted in a habit merely, not a change in their nature." "then thank heaven for their abstinence!" i exclaimed. "that is all very well," he persisted, "but you must concede that in the first place it was forced upon them, and that was an injustice, because they were intelligent beings and your equals." "they ought to thank us for the injustice, then," i retorted. "i beg your pardon! they ought not. no doubt they are very lovely and innocent beings, and that your world is the better for them. but they, being restricted in other ways by man's authority, or his wishes, or by fear of his disfavor perhaps, have acquired these gentle qualities at the expense of--or in the place of--others more essential to the foundation of character; i mean strength, dignity, self-respect, and that which you once attributed to my sister,--responsibility." i was bursting with indignant things which i longed to say, but my position was delicate, and i bit my tongue and was silent. i will tell you one thing, my heart warmed toward my gentle countrywomen! with all their follies and frivolities, with all their inconsistencies and unaccountable ways, their whimsical fancies and petty tempers, their emotions and their susceptibility to new isms and religions, they still represented my highest and best ideals. and i thought of elodia, sick upstairs from her last night's carousal, with contempt. chapter . elodia. "if to her lot some female errors fall, look to her face and you'll forget them all." --pope. my contempt for elodia vanished at the first intimation of her presence. i had expected to meet her with an air of cold superiority, but when she entered the dining-room that evening with her usual careless aplomb, the glance with which she favored me reduced me to my customary attitude toward her,--that of unquestioning admiration. our physical nature is weak, and this woman dominated my senses completely, with her beauty, with her melodious voice, her singular magnetic attraction, and every casual expression of her face. on that particular evening, her dress was more than ordinarily becoming, i thought. she had left off some of the draperies she usually wore about her shoulders, and her round, perfect waist was more fully disclosed in outline. she was somewhat pale, and her eyes seemed larger and darker than their wont, and had deeper shadows. and a certain air of languor that hung about her was an added grace. she had, however, recovered sufficiently from the dissipations of the day before to make herself uncommonly agreeable, and i never felt in a greater degree the charm and stimulus of her presence and conversation. after dinner she preceded us into the parlor,--which was unusual, for she was always too sparing of her society, and the most we saw of her was at dinner or luncheon time,--and crossed over to an alcove where stood a large and costly harp whose strings she knew well how to thrum. "elodia, you have never sung for our friend," said severnius. she shook her head, and letting her eyes rest upon me half-unconsciously--almost as if i were not there in fact, for she had a peculiar way of looking at you without actually seeing you,--she went on picking out the air she had started to play. i subjoined a beseeching look to her brother's suggestive remark, but was not sure she noted it. but presently she began to sing and i dropped into a chair and sat spell-bound. her voice was sweet, with a quality that stirred unwonted feelings; but it was not that alone. as she stood there in the majesty of her gracious womanhood, her exquisite figure showing at its best, her eyes uplifted and a something that meant power radiating from her whole being, i felt that, do what she might, she was still the grandest creature in that world to me! soon after she had finished her song, while i was still in the thrall of it, a servant entered the room with a packet for severnius, who opened and read it with evident surprise and delight. "elodia!" he cried, "those friends of mine, those caskians from lunismar, are coming to make us a visit." "indeed!" she answered, without much enthusiasm, and severnius turned to me. "it is on your account, my friend, that i am to be indebted to them for this great pleasure," he explained. "on my account?" said i. "yes, they have heard about you, and are extremely anxious to make your acquaintance?" "they must be," said elodia, "to care to travel a thousand miles or so in order to do it." "who are they, pray?" i asked. "they are a people so extraordinarily good," she said with a laugh, "so refined and sublimated, that they cast no shadow in the sun." severnius gave her a look of mild protest. "they are a race exactly like ourselves, outwardly," he said, "who inhabit a mountainous and very picturesque country called caskia, in the northern part of this continent." "o, that is where the perfect pair came from," i rejoined, remembering what he had told me about man's origin on mars. elodia smiled. "has severnius been entertaining you with our religious fables?" she asked. i glanced at him and saw that he had not heard; he was finishing his letter. "you will be interested in these caskians," he said to me animatedly as he folded it up; "i was. i spent some months in lunismar, their capital, once, studying. they have rare facilities for reading the heavens there,--i mean of their own contrivance,--beside their natural advantages; their high altitude and the clearness of the air." "and they name themselves after the planetoids and other heavenly bodies," interjected elodia, "because they live so near the stars. what is the name of the superlative creature you were so charmed with, severnius?" "i suppose you mean my friend calypso's wife, clytia," returned he. "o, yes, i remember,--clytia. is she to favor us?" "yes, and her husband and several others." "any other women?" "one or two, i think." "and how are we to conduct ourselves during the visitation?" "as we always do; you will not find that they will put any constraint upon you." "no, hardly," said elodia, with a slight curl of the lip. i was eager to hear more about these singular people,--the more eager, perhaps, because the thought of them seemed to arouse elodia to an unwonted degree of feeling and interest. her eyes glowed intensely, and the color flamed brightly in her cheeks. i pressed a question or two upon severnius, and he responded: "according to the traditions and annals of the caskians, they began many thousands of years ago to train themselves toward the highest culture and most perfect development of which mankind is capable. their aim was nothing short of the ideal, and they believed that the ideal was possible. it took many centuries to counteract and finally to eradicate hereditary evils, but their courage and perseverance did not give way, and they triumphed. they have dropped the baser natural propensities--" "as, in the course of evolution, it is said, certain species of animals dropped their tails to become man," interrupted elodia. she rose from the divan on which she had gracefully disposed herself when she quit playing, and glided from the room, sweeping a bow to us as she vanished, before severnius or i could interpose an objection to her leaving us. although there was never any appearance of haste in her manner, she had a swift celerity of movement which made it impossible to anticipate her intention. severnius, however, did not care to interpose an objection, i think. he felt somewhat hurt by her sarcastic comments upon his friends, and he expanded more after she had gone. "you must certainly visit lunismar before you leave mars," he said. "you will feel well repaid for the trouble. it is a beautiful city, wonderful in its cleanness, in its dearth of poverty and squalor, and in the purity and elevation of its social tone. i think you will wish you might live there always." there seemed to be a regret in his voice, and i asked: "why did not you remain there?" "because of my sister," he answered. "but she will marry, doubtless." for some occult reason i hung upon his reply to this. he shook his head. "i do not think she will," he said. "and she and i are all that are left of our family." "she does not like,--or she does not believe in these caskians?" i hoped he would contradict me, and he did. i had come to found my judgments of people and of things upon elodia's, even against the testimony of my reason. if she disapproved of her brother's extraordinary friends and thought them an impossible people, why, then, i knew i should have misgivings of them, too; and i wanted to believe in them, not only on severnius' account, but because they presented a curious study in psychology. "o, yes, she does," he said. "she thinks that their principles and their lives are all right for themselves, but would not be for her--or for us; and our adoption of them would be simply apish. she is genuine, and she detests imitation. she accepts herself--as she puts it--as she found herself. god, who made all things, created her upon a certain plane of life, and with certain tastes, faculties, passions and propensities, and that it is not her office to disturb or distort the order of his economy." "she does not argue thus in earnest," i deprecated. "it is difficult to tell when elodia is in earnest," he replied. "she thinks my sanctuary in the top story of the house here, is a kind of weakness, because i brought the idea from lunismar." "o, then, it is not common here in thursia for people to have things of that sort in their homes!" i said in surprise. "yes, it has gotten to be rather common," he replied. "since you put in yours?" he admitted that to be the case. "you must think that you have done your country a great good," i began enthusiastically, "in introducing so beautiful an innovation, and--" "you are mistaken," he interrupted, "i think the contrary; because our rich people, and some who are not rich but only ambitious, took it up as a fad, and i believe it has really worked evil. it is considered aristocratic to have one's own private shrine, and not to go to church at all except in condescension, to patronize the masses. elodia saw clearly just how it would be, before i began to carry out my plan. she has a logical mind, and her thought travels from one sequence to the next with unfailing accuracy. i recall her saying that one cannot superinduce the customs and habits of one society upon another of a different order, without affectation; and that you cannot put on a new religion, like a new garment, and feel yourself free in it." "does she not believe, then, in progress, development?" "only along the familiar lines. she thinks you can reach outward and upward from your natural environment, but you must not tear yourself out of it with violence. however, she admitted that my sanctuary was well enough for me, because of my having lived among the caskians and studied their sublime ethics until i grew into the meanings of them. but no person can take them second-hand from me, because i could not bring away with me the inexpressible something which holds those people together in a perfect unit. i can go to caskia and catch the spirit of their religion, but i cannot bring caskia here. it was a mistake in so far as my neighbors are concerned, since they only see in it, as i have said, a new fashion, a new diversion for their ennuied thoughts." "what is there peculiar about the religion of those people?" i asked. "the most peculiar thing about it is that they live it, rather than profess it," he replied. "i don't think i understand," said i, and after a moment's consideration of the matter in his own mind, he tried to make his meaning clear to me. "do you often hear an upright man professing his honesty? it is a part of himself. he is so free of the law which enjoins honesty that he never gives it a thought. so with the man who is truly religious, he has flung off the harness and no longer needs to guide himself by bit and rein, or measure his conduct by the written code. my friends, the caskians, have emancipated themselves from the thraldom of the law by absorbing its principles into themselves. it was like seed sown in the ground, the germs burst from the husk and shot upward; they are enjoying the flower and the fruit. that which all nations and peoples, and all individuals, prize and desire above everything else in life, is liberty. but i have seen few here in paleveria who have any conception of the vast spiritual meanings of the word. we limit it to the physical; we say 'personal' liberty, as though that were all. you admire the man of high courage, because in that one thing he is free. so with all the virtues, named and unnamable; he is greatest who has loosed himself the most, who weighs anchor and sails away triumphant and free. but this is but a general picture of the caskians; let me particularize: we are forbidden to steal, by both our civil and religious canons,--the coarseness of such a command would offend them as much as a direct charge of theft would offend you or myself, so exquisite is their sense of the rights of others, not only in the matter of property but in a thousand subtle ways. robbery in any form is impossible with them. they would think it a crying sin for one to take the slightest advantage of another,--nay, to neglect an opportunity to assist another in the accomplishment of his rightful purpose would be criminal. we, here on mars, and you upon the earth, have discovered very sensitive elements in nature; they have discovered the same in their own souls. their perceptions are singularly acute, their touch upon each other's lives finely delicate. in this respect we compare with them as the rude blacksmith compares with the worker in precious metals." "but do they also concern themselves with science?" i asked. "assuredly," he answered. "their inventions are remarkable, their methods infinitely superior to ours. they believe in the triple nature,--the spiritual, the intellectual, and the physical,--and take equal pains in the development and culture of all." "how wonderful!" i said, remembering that upon the earth we have waves of culture breaking over the land from time to time, spasmodic, and never the same; to-day it may be physical, to-morrow intellectual, and by-and-by a superfine spiritual bloom. but, whichever it is, it sacrifices the other two and makes itself supreme. severnius went on. as he proceeded, i was struck by the fact that the principles of our christian civilization formed the basis of paleverian law. "i wanted to give you some other instances," he said, "of the 'peculiarities' of the caskians, as we started out with calling them. there is a law with us against bearing false witness; they hold each other in such honor and in such tenderness, that the command is an idle breath. there is nothing mawkish or sentimental about this, however; they, in fact, make no virtue of it, any more than you or i make a virtue of the things we do habitually--perhaps from unanalyzed motives of policy. you would not strike a man if you knew he would hit back and hurt you worse than he himself was hurt; well, these people have sensibilities so finely developed, that a wrong done to another reacts upon themselves with exquisite suffering. the law and its penalties are both unseen forces, operating on an internal not an external plane. with us, the authority which declares, 'thou shalt not commit adultery,' becomes powerless at the threshold of marriage. like other such laws which hold us together in an outward appearance of decency and good order, it is a dead letter to them up to the point where we drop and trample upon it; here they take it up and carry it into their inmost lives and thoughts in a way almost too fine for us to comprehend. because we have never so much as dreamed of catching the spirit of that law." "what do you mean?" i demanded, with a wide stare. "why, that marriage does not sanction lust. the caskians hold that the exercise of the procreative faculty is a divine function, and should never be debased to mere animal indulgence. it has been said upon divine authority--as we believe--that if a man look upon a woman to lust after her, he has committed adultery in his heart. the caskians interpret that to mean a man's wife, the same as any other woman, because--they hold--one who owes his being to lust and passion naturally inherits the evil and the curse, just as surely as though wedlock had not concealed the crime. their children are conceived in immaculate purity." my look of prolonged amazement called out the usual question: "have you no such class in any of your highly civilized countries?" "no, i think not. with us, children do not come in answer to an intelligent desire for their existence, but are too often simply the result of indulgence, and so unwelcome that their pre-natal life is overshadowed by sorrow and crime." "well," said he, "it is the same here; our people believe that conception without lust is an impossibility in nature, and that instances of it are supernatural. and certainly it is incredible unless your mind can grasp the problem, or rather the great fact, of a people engaged for centuries in eliminating the purely animal instincts from their consciousness." after a moment he added: "in caskia it would be considered shocking if a pair contemplating marriage were to provide themselves with only one suite of rooms, to be shared together day and night. even the humblest people have their respective apartments; they think such separateness is absolutely essential to the perfect development of the individual,--for in the main we each must stand alone,--and to the preservation of moral dignity, and the fine sentiment and mutual respect which are almost certain to be lost in the lawlessness of undue familiarity. the relation between my friend calypso and his wife is the finest thing i ever saw; they are lovers on the highest plane. it would be an impossibility for either of them to say or do a coarse or improper thing in the other's presence, or to presume, in any of the innumerable ways you and i are familiar with in our observations of husbands and wives, upon the marriage bond existing between them. this matter of animal passion," he went on, after a little pause, "has been at the bottom of untold crimes, and unnumbered miseries, in our land. i doubt if any other one thing has been prolific of more or greater evils,--even the greed of wealth. men, and women, too, have sacrificed kingdoms for it, have bartered their souls for it. countless homes have been desolated because of it, countless lives and hearts have been laid on its guilty altar. we ostracize the bastard; he is no more impure than the offspring of legalized licentiousness, and the law which protects the one and despises the other, cannot discriminate in the matter of after effects, cannot annul or enforce the curse of heredity. with these people the law of chastity is graven in the inmost heart, and in this matter, as in all others, each generation acknowledges its obligation to the next." chapter . the vaporizer. "portable ecstasies ... corked up in a pint bottle." --de quincey. i was glad when spring came, when the trees began to bud, the grass to grow, the flowers to bloom; for, of all the seasons, i like it best,--this wonderful resurrection of life and sweetness! thursia is a fine city,--not only in its costly and architecturally and æsthetically perfect buildings, public and private, but in its shaded avenues, its parks, lawns, gardens, fountains, its idyllic statues, and its monuments to greatness. severnius took pains to exhibit all its attractions to me, driving with me slowly through the beautiful streets, and pointing out one conspicuous feature and another. of course there were some streets which were not beautiful, but he avoided those as much as possible,--as i have done myself when i have had friends visiting me in new york. it is a compliment to your guest to show him the best there is and to spare him the worst. but often, too, we took long walks through fields and woods. when elodia accompanied us, which she did a few times, the whole face of nature smiled, and i thought paleveria the most incomparably charming country i had ever seen. her presence gave importance to everything,--the song of a bird, the opening of a humble little flower, the babbling of water. but other things absorbed most of her time,--we only got the scraps, the remnants. when she was with us she relaxed, as though we were in some sort a recreation. she amused herself with us just as i have seen a busy father amuse himself with his family for an hour or so of an evening. and i think we really planned our little theatricals of evening conversation for her,--at least i did. i saved up whatever came to me of thought or incident to give to her at the dinner table. and she appreciated it; her mind bristled with keen points, upon which any ideas let loose were caught in a flash. the sudden illumination of her countenance when a new thing, or even an old thing in a new dress, was presented to her, was of such value to me that i found myself laying traps for it, inventing stories and incidents to touch her fancy. besides her banking interests, over which she kept a close surveillance, she had a great many other matters that required to be looked after. as soon as the weather was fine enough, and business activities in the city began to be redoubled, especially in the matter of real estate, she made a point of driving about by herself to inspect one piece of property and another, and to make plans and see that they were carried out according to her ideas. and she was just as conscientious in the discharge of her official duties. she was constantly devising means for the betterment of the schools, both as to buildings and methods of instruction. i believe she knew every teacher personally,--and there must have been several thousand,--and her relations with all of them were cordial and friendly. her approbation was a thing they strove for and valued,--not because of her official position and the authority she held in her hands, but because of a power which was innate in herself and that made her a leader and a protector. but i was too selfish to yield my small right to her society,--the right only of a guest in her house,--to these greater claims with absolute sweetness and patience. "why does she take all these things upon herself?" i asked of severnius. "because she has a taste for them," he replied. "or, as she would say, a need of them. it is an internal hunger. it is her nature to exert herself in these ways." "i cannot believe it is her nature; it is no woman's nature," i retorted. "it is a habit which she has cultivated until it has got the mastery of her." "perhaps," returned severnius, who was never much disposed to argue about his sister's vagaries--as they seemed to me. "all this is mannish," i went on. "there are other things for women to do. why does she not give her time and attention to the softer graces, to feminine occupations?" "i see," he laughed; "you want her to drop these weighty matters and devote herself to amusing us! and you call that 'feminine.'" i joined in his laugh ruefully. "perhaps i am narrow, and selfish, too," i admitted; "but she is so charming, she brings so much into our conversations whenever we can entice her to spend a moment with us." "yes, that is true," he answered. "she gleans her ideas from a large and varied field." "i do not mean her ideas, so much as--well, as the delicious flavor of her presence and personality." "her presence and her personality would not have much flavor, my friend, if she had no ideas, i am thinking." "o, yes, they would," i insisted. "they are the ether in which our own thoughts expand and take shape and color. they are the essence of her supreme beauty." he shook his head. "beauty is nothing without intelligence. what is the camellia beside the rose? elodia is the rose. she has several pleasing qualities that appeal to you at one and the same time." this was rather pretty, but a man's praises of his sister always sound tame to me. "she is adorable!" i cried with fervor. we were walking toward a depot connected with a great railway. for the first time i was to try the speed of a marsian train. severnius wanted me to visit the city of frambesco, some two hundred miles from thursia, in another state. after a short, ruminating silence i broke out again: "we don't even have her company evenings, to any extent. what does she do with her evenings?" "who? o, elodia! why, she goes to her club. for recreation, you know." "that is complimentary to you and me," i said coolly. he brought his spectacles to bear upon me somewhat sharply. "don't you think you are a little unreasonable?" he demanded. "you have curious ideas about individual liberty! now, we hold that every soul shall be absolutely free,--that is, in its relations to other souls; it shall not be coerced by any other. it is as though souls were stars suspended in space, each moving in its appointed orbit. no one has the right to disturb the poise and equilibrium of another, not even the one nearest it. that is a caskian idea, by the way; about the only one elodia is enamored of. these souls, or spheres, are extremely sensitive; and they may, and do, exert a tremendous influence, one upon another,--but without violence." "your meaning is clear," i said coldly. "my powers of attraction in this case are feeble. is the club you speak of composed entirely of women?" "certainly." "do not the men here have clubs?" "o, yes; i belong to one, though i do not often attend. i will take you to visit it,--i wonder i had not thought of it before! but those things are disturbing; we scientists like to keep our minds clear, like the lenses of our telescopes." "is elodia's club a literary one?" i asked, though i was almost sure it was not. "o, no; it is for recreation purely, as i said. the same kind of a club, i suppose, that you men have. of course, they have the current literature, which they skim over and discuss, so as to keep themselves informed about what is going on in the world. it is the only way you can keep up with the times, i think, for no one can read everything. they have games and various diversions. elodia's clubhouse is furnished with elegant baths, for women have an extraordinary fondness for bathing. and they have a gymnasium,--you notice what splendid figures most of our women have!--and of course a wine cellar." "severnius!" i cried. "you don't mean to tell me that these women have wines in their clubhouse?" "why, yes," said he. "and it is tolerated, allowed, nobody objects?" "o, yes, there are plenty of objectors," he replied. "there is a very strong anti-intoxicant element here, but it has no actual force and exerts but little influence in--in our circles." severnius was too modest a man to boast of belonging to the upper class of society, but that was what "our circles" meant. "but do not the male relatives of these women object,--their husbands, fathers, brothers?" "no, indeed, why should they? we do the same things they do, without demur from them." "but they should be looking after their domestic affairs, their children, their homes." "my dear sir! they have servants to attend to those matters." it seemed useless to discuss these things with severnius, his point of view concerning the woman question was so different from mine. nevertheless, i persisted. "tell me, severnius, do women on this planet do everything that men do?" "they have that liberty," he replied, "but there is sometimes a difference of tastes." "i am glad to hear it!" "for instance, they do not smoke. by the way, have a cigar?" he passed me his case and we both fired up. there is a peculiarly delightful flavor in marsian tobacco. "they have a substitute though," he added, removing the fragrant weed from his lips to explain. "they vaporize." "they what?" "they have a small cup, a little larger than a common tobacco pipe, which they fill with alcohol and pulverized valerian root. this mixture when lighted diffuses a kind of vapor, a portion of which they inhale through the cup-stem, a slender, tortuous tube attached to the cup. the most of it, however, goes into the general air." "good heavens!" i cried, "valerian! the most infernal, diabolical smell that was ever emitted from any known or unknown substance." "it is said to be soothing to the nerves," he replied. "but do you not find it horribly disagreeable, unbearable?" i suddenly recollected that, in passing through the upper hall of the house, i had once or twice detected this nauseating odor, in the neighborhood of elodia's suite of rooms. "yes, i do," he answered, "when i happen to come in contact with it, which is seldom. they are careful not to offend others to whom the vapor is unpleasant. elodia is very delicate in these matters; she is fond of the vapor habit, but she allows no suggestion of it to cling to her garments or vitiate her breath." "it must be a great care to deodorize herself," i returned, with ill-concealed contempt. "that is her maid's business," said he. "is it not injurious to health?" i asked. "quite so; it often induces frightful diseases, and is sometimes fatal to life even." "and yet they persist in it! i should think you would interfere in your sister's case." "well," said he, "the evils which attend it are really no greater than those that wait upon the tobacco habit; and, as i smoke, i can't advise with a very good grace. i have a sort of blind faith that these good cigars of mine are not going to do me any harm,--though i know they have harmed others; and i suppose elodia reasons in the same friendly way with her vapor cup." the train stood on the track ready to start. i was about to spring up the steps of the last car when severnius stopped me. "not that one," he said; "that is the woman's special." i stepped back, and read the word _vaporizer_,--printed in large gilt letters,--bent like a bow on the side of the car. "do you mean to tell me, severnius," i exclaimed, "that the railroad company devotes one of these magnificent coaches exclusively to the use of persons addicted to the obnoxious habit we have been speaking of?" "that is about the size of it," he returned,--he borrowed the phrase from me. "come, make haste, or we shall be left; the next car is the smoker; we'll step into that and finish these cigars, after which i'll show you what sumptuous parlor coaches we have." as we mounted to the platform i could not resist glancing into the _vaporizer_. there were only two or three ladies there, and one of them held in her ungloved hand the little cup with the tortuous stem which my friend had described to me. from it there issued a pale blue smoke or vapor, and oh! the smell of it! i held my breath and hurried after severnius. "that is the most outrageous, abominable thing i ever heard of!" i declared, as we entered the smoker and took our seats. "o, it is nothing," he returned, smiling; "you are a very fastidious fellow. i saw you look into that car; did you observe the lady in blue?" "i should think i did! she was in the act," i replied. "and i recognized her, too; she is that madam claris you introduced me to in the auroras' temple, is she not?" "yes; but did you notice her cup?" "not particularly." "it is carved out of the rarest wood we have,--wood that hardens like stone with age,--and has an indestructible lining and is studded with costly gems; the thing is celebrated, an heirloom in claris' family. they like to sport those things, the owners of them do. they are a mark of distinction,--or, as they might say in some of your countries, a patent of nobility." "i suppose, then, that only the rich and the aristocratic 'vaporize'?" "by no means; whatever the aristocracy do, humble folk essay to imitate. these vapor cups are made in great quantities, of the commonest clay, and sold for a penny apiece." "then it must be a natural taste, among your women?" said i. "no, no more than smoking is among men. they say it is nauseating in the extreme, at first, and requires great courage and persistence to continue in it up to the point of liking. there is no doubt that it becomes very agreeable to them in the end, and that it is almost impossible to break the habit when once it is fixed." "and what do they do with their cups,--i mean, how do they carry them about when they are not using them?" i asked. "put them in a morocco case, the same as you would a meerschaum, and drop them into a fanciful little bag which they wear on the arm, suspended by a chain or ribbon." frambesco could not compare with thursia either in size or beauty; and it had a totally different air, a kind of swagger, you might say. i felt the mercury in my moral barometer drop down several degrees as we walked about the streets amid much filth, and foul odors, and unsightly spectacles. i made the natural comments to my friend, and he replied that neither frambesco nor any other city on the continent could hold a candle to thursia, where the best of every thing was centered. we observed a great many enormous placards posted about conspicuously, announcing a game of fisticuffs to take place that afternoon in an amphitheatre devoted to such purposes; and we decided to look in upon it. i think it was i who suggested it, for i had no little curiosity about the "tactics" of the manly art in that country, having seen sullivan and several other famous hitters in our own. severnius had considerable difficulty in procuring tickets, and finally paid a fabulous price to a speculator for convenient seats. the great cost of admission of course kept out the rabble, and, in a way, it was an eminently respectable throng that was assembled,--i mean in so far as money and rich clothes make for respectability. but there was an unmistakable coarseness in most of the faces, or if not that, a curiosity which bordered on coarseness. i was amazed to see women in the audience; but this was nothing to the horror that quivered through me like a deadly wound, when the combatants sprang into the arena and squared off for action. for they, too, were women,--women with tender, rosy flesh; with splendid dark eyes gleaming with high excitement. their long, fair hair was braided and twisted into a hard knot on top of the head. they wore no gloves. ah, a woman's hands are soft enough without padding!--i thought. they went at it in scientific fashion and were careful to observe the etiquette of the game; it was held "foul" to attack the face. in fact it was more of a wrestling than a sparring match,--a test of strength, prowess, agility. but i recoiled from it with loathing, and feeling myself grow sick and faint, i muttered something to severnius and rushed out of the place. he followed me, of course; the performance was quite as distasteful to him as to me, the only difference being that he was familiar with the idea and i was not. as i passed out, i observed that many of the women were vaporizing and many of the men smoking. i suppose it was, in part, the intolerable abomination of these commingled smells that affected me, for i experienced a physical as well as moral nausea. i did not get over it for hours, and i was as glad as a child when it came time to take the train back to thursia. my disgust was so great that i could not discuss the matter with severnius, as i was wont to discuss other matters with him. there was one thing for which i was supremely thankful,--that elodia was not there. a few days later, the subject accidentally came up, and i had the satisfaction of hearing her denounce the barbarity as emphatically as i could denounce it,--and more sweepingly, for she included male fighters in her condemnation, and i was unable to make her see that that was quite another matter. chapter . cupid's gardens. "o, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose." --shakspeare. during the time that intervened before the arrival of the caskians, to make their proposed visit, i gleaned many more interesting hints from severnius relative to their life and conduct, which greatly whetted my curiosity to meet them. for instance, we were one day engaged in a conversation, he, elodia, and myself, upon the subject of the province of poetry in history,--but that does not matter,--when dinner was announced in the usual way; that is, the way which assumes without doubt that nothing else in the world is so important as dinner. it may be a bell, or a gong, or a verbal call, but it is as imperative as the command of an autocrat. it brings to the ground, with the suddenness of a mental shock, the finest flights of the imagination. it wakes the soul from transcendent dreams, cools the fervor of burning eloquence, breaks the spell of music. more than this: it destroys the delicate combination of mental states and forces sometimes induced when several highly trained minds have fallen into an attitude of acute sympathy toward one another,--a rare and ineffable thing!--and are borne aloft through mutual helpfulness to regions of thought and emotion infinitely exalted, which can never be reproduced. i have often had this experience myself, and have wished that the cook was a creature of supernatural intuitions, so that he could divine the right moment in which to proclaim that the soup was served! there is a right moment, a happy moment, when the flock of intellectual birds, let loose to whirl and circle and soar in the upper air, descend gracefully and of their own accord to the agreeable level of soup. on the occasion to which i have referred, i tried to ignore, and to make my companions ignore, the discordant summons--by a kind of dominant action of my mind upon theirs--in order that we might continue the talk a little longer. we three had never before shown ourselves off to each other to such striking advantage; we traveled miles in moments, we expanded, we unrolled reams of intelligence which were apprehended in a flash, as a whole landscape is apprehended in a glare of lightning. it was as if our words were tipped with flame and carried their illumination along with them. i knew that there never would, never could, come another such time, but elodia thwarted my effort to hold it a moment longer. "come!" she cried gayly, rising to her feet and breaking off in the middle of a beautiful sentence, the conclusion of which i was waiting for with tremors of delight,--for her views, as it happened, accorded with mine,--"the ideal may rule in art, but not in life; it is very unideal to eat, but the stomach is the dial of the world." "we make it so," said severnius. "of course, we make all our sovereigns," she returned. "we set the dial to point at certain hours, and it simply holds us to our agreement,--it and the _chef_." "that reminds me of our caskian friends," said severnius. "they have exceedingly well-ordered homes, but occasionally one of the three natures waits upon another; the mind may yield to some contingency connected with the body, or the body waive its right in favor of the spirit." "i had supposed they were more machine-like," commented elodia, with her usual air of not being able to take a great interest in the caskians. "they are the farthest from that of any people i know," he answered. "they have great moments, now and then, when a few people are gathered together, and their thought becomes electrical and their minds mingle as you have seen the glances of eyes mingle in a language more eloquent than speech,--and, to tell the truth, we ourselves have such moments, i'll not deny that; but the difference is, that they appreciate the value of them and hold them fast, while we open our hands and let them fly away like uncoveted birds, or worthless butterflies. i have actually known a meal to be dropped out entirely in calypso's house, forgotten in the felicity of an intellectual or spiritual delectation!" "thank heaven, that we live in thursia!" cried elodia, "where such lapses are impossible." "they are next to impossible there," said severnius; "but they do happen, which proves a great deal. they are in the nature of miracles, they are so wonderful,--and yet not so wonderful. we forget sometimes that we have a soul, and they forget that they have a body; there's no great difference." "there is a mighty difference," answered elodia. "we are put into a material world, to enjoy material benefits. i should think those people would miss a great deal of the actual good of life in the pursuit of the unactual,--always taking their flights from lofty pinnacles, and skipping the treasures that lie in the valleys." "on the contrary," he returned, "the humblest little flower that grows, the tiniest pebble they pick up on the beach, the smallest voice in nature, all have place in their economy. they miss nothing; they gather up into their lives all the treasures that nature scatters about. if a bird sings, they listen and say, 'that song is for me;' or, if a blossom opens, 'i will take its beauty into my heart.' these things, which are free to all, they accept freely. their physical senses are supplemented,--duplicated as it were, in finer quality,--by exquisite inner perceptions." the morning after this conversation, severnius and i took a long drive in a new direction. we went up the river a mile or so, the road winding through an avenue of century-old elms, whose great, graceful branches interlocked overhead and made a shade so dense that the very atmosphere seemed green. we were so earnestly engaged in conversation that i did not observe when we left the avenue and entered a wood. we drove some distance through this, and then the road branched off and skirted round a magnificent park,--the finest i had seen,--bordered by a thick hedge, all abloom with white, fragrant flowers, and fenced with a fretwork of iron, finished with an inverted fringe of bristling points. within, were evidences of costly and elaborate care; the trees were of noble growth and the greensward like stretches of velvet over which leaf-shadows flickered and played. the disposition of shrubbery and flowers, the chaste and beautiful statuary, the fountains, brooklets, arbors, and retreats; the rustic effects in bridges, caves, grottoes, and several graceful arches, hidden in wreathed emerald, from which snow-white cherubs with wings on their shoulders peeped roguishly, all betokened ingenious design, and skilful and artistic execution. beyond, seen vaguely through the waving foliage, were handsome buildings, of the elegant cream-colored stone so much in vogue in thursia. here and there, i espied a fawn; one pretty creature, with a ribbon round its neck, was drinking at a fountain, and at the same time some beautiful birds came and perched upon the marble rim and dipped into the sparkling water. "how lovely! how idyllic!" i cried. "what place is it, severnius, and why have i never seen it before?" his answer came a little reluctantly, i thought. "it is called cupid's gardens." "and what does it mean?" i asked. "does not its name and those naked imps sufficiently explain it?" he replied. as i looked at him, a blush actually mantled his cheek. "it is a rendezvous," he explained, "where women meet their lovers." "how curious! i never heard of such a thing," said i. "do you mean that the place was planned for that purpose, or did the name get fastened upon it through accident? surely you are joking, severnius; women can receive their lovers in their homes here, the same as with us!" "their suitors, not their lovers," he replied. "you make a curious distinction!" said i. "women sometimes marry their suitors, never their lovers,--any more than men marry their mistresses." "great heavens, severnius!" i felt the blood rush to my face and then recede, and a cold perspiration broke out all over me. there was a question in my mind which i did not dare to ask, but severnius divined it. "is it a new idea to you?" said he. "have you no houses of prostitution in your country, licensed by law, as this is?" "for men, not for women," said i. "ah! another of your peculiar discriminations!" he returned. "well, surely you will agree with me that in this matter, at least, there should be discrimination?" i urged. he shook his head with that exasperating stubbornness one occasionally finds in sweet-tempered people. "no, i cannot agree with you, even in this," he replied. "what possible reason is there why men, more than women, should be privileged to indulge in vice?" "why, in the very nature of things!" i cried. "there is a hygienic principle involved; you know,--it is a statistical fact,--that single men are neither so vigorous nor so long-lived as married men, and a good many men do not marry." "well, a good many more women do not marry; what of those?" "severnius! i cannot believe you are in earnest. women!--that is quite another matter. women are differently constituted from men; their nature--" "o, come!" he interrupted; "i thought we had settled that question--that their nature is of a piece with our own. it happens in your world, my friend, that your women were kept to a strict line of conduct, according to your account, by a severe discipline,--including even the death penalty,--until their virtue, from being long and persistently enforced, grew into a habit and finally became a question of honor." "yes, stronger than death, thank god!" i affirmed. "well, then, it seems to me that the only excuse men have to offer for their lack of chastity--i refer to the men on your planet--is that they have not been hedged about by the wholesome restraints that have developed self-government in women. i cannot admit your 'hygienic' argument in this matter; life is a principle that needs encouragement, and a man of family has more incentives to live, and usually his health is better cared for, than a single man, that is all." we rode in silence for some time. i finally asked, nodding toward the beautiful enclosure still in view: "how do they manage about this business; do they practice any secrecy?" "of course!" he replied. "i hope you do not think we live in open and shameless lawlessness? usually it is only the very wealthy who indulge in such 'luxuries,' and they try to seal the lips of servants and go-betweens with gold. but it does not always work; it is in the nature of those things to leak out." "and if one of these creatures is found out, what then?" i asked. he answered with some severity: "'creatures' is a harsh name to apply to women, some of whom move in our highest circles!" "i beg your pardon! call them what you like, but tell me, what happens when there is an _exposé_? are they denounced, ostracized, sat upon?" i inquired. "no, not so bad as that," said he. "of course there is a scandal, but it makes a deal of difference whether the scandal is a famous or an infamous one. if the woman's standing is high in other respects,--if she has money, political influence, talent, attractiveness,--there is very little made of it; or if society feels itself particularly insulted, she may conciliate it by marrying an honest man whose respectability and position protect her." "what! does an honest man--a gentleman--ever marry such a woman as that?" i cried. "frequently; and sometimes they make very good wives. but it is risky. i have a friend, a capital fellow, who was so unfortunate as to attract such a woman, and who finally yielded to her persuasions and married her." "heavens! do the women propose?" "certainly, when they choose to do so; what is there objectionable in that?" i made no reply, and he continued, "my friend, as i said, succumbed to her pleadings partly--as i believe--because she threw herself upon his mercy, though she is a beautiful woman, and he might have been fascinated to some extent. she told him that his love and protection would be her salvation, and that his denial of her would result in her total ruin; and that for his sake she would reform her life. he is both chivalrous and tender, and, withal, a little romantic, and he consented. my opinion is that, if she could have had him without marriage, she would have preferred it; but he is a true man, a man of honor. women of her sort like virtuous men, and seldom marry any other. her love proved to be an ephemeral passion--such as she had had before--and the result has been what you might expect, though claris is not, by any means, the worst woman in the world." "claris?" i exclaimed. "ah! i did not mean to speak her name," he returned in some confusion; "and i had forgotten that you knew her. well, yes, since i have gone so far, it is my friend massilia's wife that i have been speaking of. in some respects she is an admirable woman, but she has broken her husband's heart and ruined his life." "admirable!" i repeated with scorn; "why, in my country, such conduct would damn a woman eternally, no matter what angelic qualities she might possess. she would be shown no quarter in any society--save the very lowest." "and how about her counterpart of the other sex?" asked severnius, slyly. i disregarded this, and returned: "did he not get a divorce?" "no; the law does not grant a divorce in such a case. there was where claris was shrewder than her husband; she made herself safe by confessing her misdeeds to him, and cajoling him into marrying her in spite of them." "i beg your pardon, but what a fool he was!" severnius acquiesced in this. "i tried to dissuade him," he said, "before the miserable business was consummated,--he made me his confidant,--but it was too late, she had him under her influence." another silence fell upon us, which i broke by asking, "who were those pretty youngsters we saw lounging about on the lawn back there?" i referred to several handsome young men whom i had observed strolling through the beautiful grounds. he looked at me in evident surprise at the question, and replied: "why, those are some of the professional 'lovers'." "great cæsar's ghost!" "yes," he went on; "some of our most promising youths are decoyed into those places. it is a distressing business,--a hideous business! and, on the other hand, there are similar institutions where lovely young girls are the victims. i do not know which is the more deplorable,--sometimes i think the latter is. a tender mother would wish that her daughter had never been born, if she should take up with such a life; and an honorable father would rather see his son gibbeted than to find him inside that railing." "i should think so!" i responded, and inquired, "what kind of standing have these men in the outside world?" "about the same that a leper would have. they are ignored and despised by the very women who court their caresses here. in fact, they are on a level with the common, paid courtesan,--the lowest rank there is. i have often thought it a curious thing that either men or women should so utterly despise these poor instruments of their sensual delights!" my friend saw that i was too much shocked to moralize on the subject, and he presently began to explain, and to modify the facts a little. "you see, these fellows, when they begin this sort of thing, are mostly mere boys, with the down scarcely started on their chins; in the susceptible, impressionable stage, when a woman's honeyed words--ay, her touch, even--may turn the world upside down to them. the life, of course, has its attractions,--money and luxury; to say nothing of the flattery, which is sweeter. still, few, if any, adopt it deliberately. often they are wilily drawn into 'entanglements' outside; for the misery of it is, that good society, as i have said before, throws its cloak around these specious beguilers, and the unfortunate dupe does not dream whither he is being led,--youth has such a sincere faith in beauty, and grace, and feminine charm! sometimes reverses and disaster, of one kind or another, or a cheerless home environment, drive a young man into seeking refuge and lethean pleasures here. it is a form of dissipation similar to the drink habit, only a thousand times worse." "worse?" i cried. "it is infernal, diabolical, damnable! and it is woman who accomplishes this horrible ruin!--and is 'received' in society, which, if too flagrantly outraged, will not forgive her unless she marries some good man!" "o, not always that," protested severnius; "the unlucky sinner sometimes recovers caste by a course of penitence, by multiplying her subscriptions to charities, and by costly peace-offerings to the aforesaid outraged society." "what sort of peace-offerings?" i asked. "well, an entertainment, perhaps, something superb, something out of the common; or may be a voyage in her private yacht. bait of that sort is too tempting for any but the high and mighty, the real aristocrats, to withstand. the simply respectable, but weak-hearted,--who are a little below her level in point of wealth, position, or ancestry,--fall into her net. i have observed that a woman who has forfeited her place in the highest rank of society usually begins her reascent by clutching hold of the skirts of honest folk who are flattered by her condescension, and whose sturdy arms assist her to rise again." "i have observed the same thing myself," i rejoined, but he had not finished; there was a twinkle in his eye as he went on: "if you were to reveal the secret of your air-ship to a woman of this kind she would probably seize upon it as a means of salvation; she would have one constructed, on a large and handsome scale, and invite a party to accompany her on an excursion to the earth. and though she were the worst of her class, every mother's son--and daughter--of us would accept! for none of us hold our self-respect at a higher figure than that, i imagine." "yes, severnius, you do," i replied emphatically. "i beg your pardon! i would knock off a good deal for a visit to your planet," he said, laughing. by this time we had left cupid's gardens far behind. the road bent in again toward the river, which we presently crossed. if it had not been for the dreadful things i had just listened to, i think i should have been in transports over the serene loveliness of the prospect around us. the view was especially fine from the summit of the bridge; it is a "high" bridge, for the gyro is navigated by great steam-ships and high-masted schooners. severnius bade the driver stop a moment that we might contemplate the scene, but i had little heart for its beauties. and yet i can recall the picture now with extraordinary clearness. the river has many windings, and the woods often hide it from view; but it reappears, again and again, afar off, in green meadows and yellowing fields,--opalescent jewels in gold or emerald setting. here and there, in the distance, white sails were moving as if on land. far beyond were vague mountain outlines, and over all, the tender rose-blush of the sky. the sweetness of it, contrasted with the picture newly wrought in my mind, saddened me. some distance up the river, on the other side, we passed an old, dilapidated villa, or group of buildings jumbled together without regard to effect evidently, but yet picturesque. they were half hidden in mammoth forest trees that had never been trimmed or trained, but spread their enormous limbs wheresoever they would. unpruned shrubbery and trailing vines rioted over the uneven lawn, and the rank, windblown grass, too long to stand erect, lay in waves like a woman's hair. in a general way, the lawn sloped downward toward the road, so that we could see nearly the whole of it over the high, and ugly, board fence which inclosed it. under the trees, a little way back, i observed a group of young girls lolling in hammocks and idling in rustic chairs. they caught sight of us and sprang up, laughing boistterously. i thought they were going to run away in pretended and playful flight; but instead, they came toward us, and blew kisses at us off their fingers. i looked at severnius. "what does this mean?" i asked. "why," he said, and the blush mantled his handsome face again, "this place is the counterpart of cupid's gardens,--a resort for men." "i thought so," i replied. by-and-by he remarked, "i hope you will not form too bad an opinion of us, my friend! you have learned to-day what horrible evils exist among us, but i assure you that the sum total of the people who practice them constitutes but a small proportion of our population. and the good people here, the great majority, look upon these things with the same aversion and disgust that you do, and are doing their best--or they think they are--to abolish them." "how?--by legislation?" i asked. "partly; but more through education. our preachers and teachers have taken the matter up, but they are handicapped by the delicacy of the question and the privacy involved in it, which seems to hinder discussion even, and to forestall advice. though this is the only way to accomplish anything, i think. i have very little faith in legislative measures against secret vices; it is like trying to dam a stream which cannot be dammed but must break out somewhere. i am convinced that my friends, the caskians, have solved the question in the only possible way,--by elevating and purifying the marriage relation. i hope some good may be accomplished by the visit of the few who are coming here!" "will they preach or lecture?" i asked, with what seemed to me a moment later to be stupid simplicity. "o, no!" replied severnius, with the same air of modest but emphatic protest which they themselves would have doubtless assumed had the question been put to them. "it was simply their personal influence i had reference to. i do not know that i can make you understand, but their presence always seemed to me like a disinfectant of evil. with myself, when i was among them, all the good that was in me responded to their nobility; the evil in me slept, i suppose." i made a skeptical rejoinder to the implication in his last sentence, for to me he seemed entirely devoid of evil; and we finished the drive in silence. chapter . new friends. "having established his equality with class after class, of those with whom he would live well, he still finds certain others, before whom he cannot possess himself, because they have somewhat fairer, somewhat grander, somewhat purer, which extorts homage of him."--emerson. it is scarcely egotistical for me to say that i was much sought after, not only by the citizens of thursia, but by many distinguished people from other cities and countries. among them were many men and women of great scientific learning, who made me feel that i ought to have provided myself with a better equipment of knowledge relative to my own world, before taking my ambitious journey to mars! they were exceedingly polite, but i fear they were much disappointed in many of my hazy responses to their eager questionings. i learned by this experience the great value of exact information. in a country like ours, where so much, and so many sorts, of knowledge are in the air, a person is apt, unless he is a student of some particular thing, to get little more than impressions. there was i,--an average (let me hope!) american citizen,--at the mercy of inquisitive experts in a hundred different arts and trades, concerning which, in the main, my ideas might be conservatively described as "general." you may imagine how unsatisfactory this was to people anxious to know about our progress in physics and chemistry, botany, and the great family of "ologies,"--or rather about our processes in developing the principles of these great sciences. with the astronomers and the electricians i got along all right; and i was also able to make myself interesting,--or so i fancied--in describing our social life, our educational and political institutions, and our various forms of religion. our modes of dress were a matter of great curiosity to most of these people, and i was often asked to exhibit my terrestrial garments. it was when the crowd of outside visitors was at its thickest that the caskians arrived, and as their stay was brief, covering only two days, you may suppose that we did not advance far on the road to mutual acquaintance. but to tell the truth, there was not a moment's strangeness between us after we had once clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes. it might have been partly due to my own preparedness to meet them with confidence and trust; but more, i think, to their singular freedom from the conventional barriers with which we hedge round our selfness. their souls spoke to mine, and mine answered back, and the compact of friendship was sealed in a glance. i cannot hope to give you a very clear idea of their perfect naturalness, their perfect dignity, their kindliness, or their delightful gayety,--before which stiffness, formality, ceremony, were borne down, dissolved as sunshine dissolves frost. no menstruum is so wonderful as the quality of merriment, take it on any plane of life; when it reaches the highest, and is subtilized by cultured and refined intellects, it creates an atmosphere in which the most frigid autocrat of society, and of learning, too, must thaw. the haughtiest dame cannot keep her countenance in the face of this playful spirit toying with her frills. the veriest old dry-as-dust, hibernating in mouldy archæological chambers, cannot resist the blithesome thought which dares to illumine his antique treasures with a touch of mirth. i was struck by clytia's beauty, which in some ways seemed finer than elodia's. the two women were about the same height and figure. but clytia's coloring was pure white and black, except for the healthy carmine of her lips, and occasional fluctuations of the rose tint in her cheeks. i was present when they first met, in the drawing-room. elodia rose to her full stature, armed cap-a-pie with her stateliest manner, but with a gracious sense of hospitality upon her. i marked with pleasure that clytia did not rush upon her with any exuberance of gladness,--as some women would have done in a first meeting with their friend's sister,--for that would have disgusted elodia and driven her to still higher ground. how curious are our mental attitudes toward our associates, and how quickly adjusted! here had i been in elodia's house, enjoying her companionship--if not her friendship--for months; and yet, you see, i secretly did not wish any advantage to be on her side. it could not have been disloyalty, for the impulse was swift and involuntary. i would like to suppose that it sprang from my instantaneous recognition of the higher nature; but it did not. it was due, no doubt, to a fear for the more timid one--as i fancied it to be. i had a momentary sensation as of wanting to "back" clytia,--knowing how formidable my proud hostess could be, and, i feared, would be,--but the beautiful caskian did not need my support. she was not timid. i never saw anything finer than her manner; the most consummate woman of the world could not have met the situation with more dignity and grace, and with not half so much simplicity. her limpid dark eyes met elodia's blue-rayed ones, and the result was mutual respect, with a slight giving on elodia's part. i felt that i had, for the first time in my life, seen a perfect woman; a woman of such fine proportions, of such nice balance, that her noble virtues and high intelligence did not make her forget even the smallest amenities. she kept in hand every faculty of her triple being, so that she was able to use each in its turn and to give to everything about her its due appreciation. she had, as balzac says, the gift of admiration and of comprehension. that which her glance rested upon, that which her ear listened to, responded with all that was in them. i thought it a wonderful power that could so bring out the innate beauties and values of even inanimate things. elodia's eyes rested upon her, from time to time, with a keen and questioning interest. i think that, among other things, she was surprised--as i was--at the elegance, the "style" even, of clytia's dress. although there is very little fashion on that planet, as we know the word, there is a great deal of style. i had speedily mastered all its subtle gradations, and could "place" a woman with considerable certainty, by, let me say, her manner of wearing her clothes, if not the clothes themselves. i have never studied woman's apparel in detail, it always seems as mysterious to me as woman herself does; but i have a good eye for effects in that line, as most men have, and i knew that clytia's costume was above criticism. she wore, just where they seemed to be needed,--as the keystone is needed in an arch,--a few fine gems. i could not conceive of her putting them on to arouse the envy of any other woman, or to enhance her personal charms in the eyes of a man. she dressed well, as another would sing well. sight is the sense we value most, but how often is it offended! you can estimate the quality of a woman by the shade of green she chooses for her gown. and there is poetry in the fit of a gown, as there is in the color of it. clytia knew these things, these higher principles of dress, as the nightingale knows its song,--through the effortless working of perfected faculties. but not she alone. my description of her will answer for the others; the caskians are a people, you see, who neglect nothing. we upon the earth are in the habit of saying, with regretful cadence, life is short. it is because our life is all out of proportion. we are trying to cheat time; we stuff too much plunder into our bags, and discriminate against the best. clytia and calypso and their friend ariadne, a young girl, stayed with us throughout their visit; the others of their party were entertained elsewhere. on each of the two evenings they were with us, elodia invited a considerable company of people,--not so many as to crowd the rooms, nor so few as to make them seem empty. those gatherings were remarkable events, i imagine, in a good many lives. they were in mine. at the close of each evening i retired to my room in a state of high mental intoxication; my unaccustomed brain had taken too large a draught of intellectual champagne. and when i awoke in the morning, it was with a sense of fatigue of mind, the same as one feels fatigue of body the day after extraordinary feats of physical exertion. but not so the guests! who came down into the breakfast room as radiant as ever and in full possession of themselves. with them fatigue seemed impossible. we do not know--because we are so poorly trained--the wonderful elasticity of a human being, in all his parts. we often see it exemplified in single faculties,--the voice of a singer, the legs of a runner, the brain of a lawyer, the spirit of a religionist. but, as i have said before, we are all out of proportion, and any slight strain upon an unused faculty gives us the cramp. the fact is, the most of us are cripples in some sense. we lack a moral leg, a spiritual arm; there are parts of us that are neglected, withered, paralyzed. one thing in the caskians which especially pleased me, and which i am sure made a strong--and favorable--impression upon elodia, too, was that their conduct and conversation never lacked the vital human interest without which all philosophy is cold, and all religion is asceticism. it appeared that these people had taken the long journey not only to meet me, but that they might extend to me in person a cordial invitation to visit their country. severnius warmly urged me to accept, assuring me, with unmistakable sincerity, that it would give him pleasure to put his purse at my disposal for the expenses of the journey,--i having brought up this point as a rather serious obstacle. as it would only add one more item to the great sum of my indebtedness to my friend, i took him at his word, and gave my promise to the caskians to make the journey to lunismar sometime in the near future. and with that they left us, and left behind them matter for conversation for many a day. chapter . a talk with elodia. "it behoveth us also to consider the nature of him that offendeth."--seneca. the longer i delayed my visit to caskia, the more difficult it became for me to tear myself away from thursia. you may guess the lodestar that held me back. it was as if i were attached to elodia by an invisible chain which, alas! in no way hindered her free movements, because she was unconscious of its existence. sometimes she treated me with a charmingly frank _camaraderie_, and at other times her manner was simply, almost coldly, courteous,--which i very well knew to be due to the fact that she was more than usually absorbed in her business or official affairs; she was never cold for a purpose, any more than she was fascinating for a purpose. she was singularly sincere, affecting neither smiles nor frowns, neither affability nor severity, from remote or calculating motives. in brief, she did not employ her feminine graces, her sexpower, as speculating capital in social commerce. the social conditions in thursia do not demand that women shall pose in a conciliatory attitude toward men--upon whose favor their dearest privileges hang. marriage not being an economic necessity with them, they are released from certain sordid motives which often actuate women in our world in their frantic efforts to avert the appalling catastrophe of missing a husband; and they are at liberty to operate their matrimonial campaigns upon other grounds. i do not say higher grounds, because that i do not know. i only know that one base factor in the marriage problem,--the ignoble scheming to secure the means of living, as represented in a husband,--is eliminated, and the spirit of woman is that much more free. we men have a feeling that we are liable at any time to be entrapped into matrimony by a mask of cunning and deceit, which heredity and long practice enable women to use with such amazing skill that few can escape it. we expect to be caught with chaff, like fractious colts coquetting with the halter and secretly not unwilling to be caught. another thing: woman's freedom to propose--which struck me as monstrous--takes away the reproach of her remaining single; the supposition being, as in the case of a bachelor, that it is a matter of choice with her. it saves her the dread of having it said that she has never had an opportunity to marry. courtship in thursia may lack some of the tantalizing uncertainties which give it zest with us, but marriage also is robbed of many doubts and misgivings. still i could not accustom myself with any feeling of comfort to the situation there,--the idea of masculine pre-eminence and womanly dependence being too thoroughly ingrained in my nature. elodia, of course, did many things and held many opinions of which i did not approve. but i believed in her innate nobility, and attributed her defects to a pernicious civilization and a government which did not exercise its paternal right to cherish, and restrain, and protect, the weaker sex, as they should be cherished, and restrained, and protected. and how charming and how reliable she was, in spite of her defects! she had an atomic weight upon which you could depend as upon any other known quantity. her presence was a stimulus that quickened the faculties and intensified the emotions. at least i may speak for myself; she awoke new feelings and aroused new powers within me. her life had made her practical but not prosaic. she had imagination and poetic feeling; there were times when her beautiful countenance was touched with the grandeur of lofty thought, and again with the shifting lights of a playful humor, or the flashings of a keen but kindly wit. she had a laugh that mellowed the heart, as if she took you into her confidence. it is a mark of extreme favor when your superior, or a beautiful woman, admits you to the intimacy of a cordial laugh! even her smiles, which i used to lie in wait for and often tried to provoke, were not the mere froth of a light and careless temperament; they had a significance like speech. though she was so busy, and though she knew so well how to make the moments count, she could be idle when she chose, deliciously, luxuriously idle,--like one who will not fritter away his pence, but upon occasion spends his guineas handsomely. at the dinner hour she always gave us of her best. her varied life supplied her with much material for conversation,--nothing worth noticing ever escaped her, in the life and conduct of people about her. she was fond of anecdote, and could garnish the simplest story with an exquisite grace. upon one of her idle days,--a day when severnius happened not to be at home,--she took up her parasol in the hall after we had had luncheon, and gave me a glance which said, "come with me if you like," and we went out and strolled through the grounds together. her manner had not a touch of coquetry; i might have been simply another woman, she might have been simply another man. but i was so stupid as to essay little gallantries, such as had been, in fact, a part of my youthful education; she either did not observe them or ignored them, i could not tell which. once i put out my hand to assist her over a ridiculously narrow streamlet, and she paid no heed to the gesture, but reefed her skirts, or draperies, with her own unoccupied hand and stepped lightly across. again, when we were about to ascend an abrupt hill, i courteously offered her my arm. "o, no, i thank you!" she said; "i have two, which balance me very well when i climb." "you are a strange woman," i exclaimed with a blush. "am i?" she said, lifting her brows. "well, i suppose--or rather you suppose--that i am the product of my ancestry and my training." "you are, in some respects," i assented; and then i added, "i have often tried to fancy what effect our civilization would have had upon you." "what effect do you think it would have had?" she asked, with quite an unusual--i might say earthly--curiosity. "i dare not tell you," i replied, thrilling with the felicity of a talk so personal,--the first i had ever had with her. "why not?" she demanded, with a side glance at me from under her gold-fringed shade. "it would be taking too great a liberty." "but if i pardon that?" there was an archness in her smile which was altogether womanly. what a grand opportunity, i thought, for saying some of the things i had so often wanted to say to her! but i hesitated, turning hot and then cold. "really," i said, "i cannot. i should flatter you, and you would not like that." for the first time, i saw her face crimson to the temples. "that would be very bad taste," she replied; "flattery being the last resort--when it is found that there is nothing in one to compliment. silence is better; you have commendable tact." "pardon my stupid blunder!" i cried; "you cannot think i meant that! flattery is exaggerated, absurd, unmeaning praise, and no praise, the highest, the best, could do you justice, could--" she broke in with a disdainful laugh: "a woman can always compel a pretty speech from a man, you see,--even in mars!" "you did not compel it," i rejoined earnestly, "if i but dared,--if you would allow me to tell you what i think of you, how highly i regard--" she made a gesture which cut short my eloquence, and we walked on in silence. whenever there has been a disturbance in the moral atmosphere, there is nothing like silence to restore the equilibrium. i, watching furtively, saw the slight cloud pass from her face, leaving the intelligent serenity it usually wore. but still she did not speak. however, there was nothing ominous in that, she was never troubled with an uneasy desire to keep conversation going. on top of the hill there were benches, and we sat down. it was one of those still afternoons in summer when nature seems to be taking a siesta. overhead it was like the heart of a rose. the soft, white, cottony clouds we often see suspended in our azure ether, floated--as soft, as white, as fleecy--in the pink skies of mars. elodia closed her parasol and laid it across her lap and leaned her head back against the tree in whose shade we were. it was an acute pleasure, a rapture indeed, to sit so near to her and alone with her, out of hearing of all the world. but she was calmly unconscious, her gaze wandering dreamily through half-shut lids over the wide landscape, which included forests and fields and meadows, and many windings of the river, for we had a high point of observation. i presently broke the silence with a bold, perhaps an inexcusable question, "elodia, do you intend ever to marry?" it was a kind of challenge, and i held myself rigid, waiting for her answer, which did not come immediately. she turned her eyes toward me slowly without moving her head, and our glances met and gradually retreated, as two opposing forces might meet and retreat, neither conquering, neither vanquished. hers went back into space, and she replied at last as if to space,--as if the question had come, not from me alone, but from all the voices that urge to matrimony. "why should i marry?" "because you are a woman," i answered promptly. "ah!" her lip curled with a faint smile, "your reason is very general, but why limit it at all, why not say because i am one of a pair which should be joined together?" the question was not cynical, but serious; i scrutinized her face closely to make sure of that before answering. "i know," i replied, "that here in mars there is held to be no difference in the nature and requirements of the sexes, but it is a false hypothesis, there is a difference,--a vast difference! all my knowledge of humanity, my experience and observation, prove it." "prove it to you, no doubt," she returned, "but not to me, because my experience and observation have been the reverse of yours. will you kindly tell me," she added, "why you think i should wish to marry any more than a man,--or what reasons can be urged upon a woman more than upon a man?" an overpowering sense of helplessness fell upon me,--as when one has reached the limits of another's understanding and is unable to clear the ground for further argument. "o, elodia! i cannot talk to you," i replied. "it is true, as you say, that our conclusions are based upon diverse premises; we are so wide apart in our views on this subject that what i would say must seem to you the merest cant and sentiment." "i think not; you are an honest man," she rejoined with an encouraging smile, "and i am greatly interested in your philosophy of marriage." i acknowledged her compliment. "well," i began desperately, letting the words tumble out as they would, "it is woman's nature, as i understand it, to care a great deal about being loved,--loved wholly and entirely by one man who is worthy of her love, and to be united to him in the sacred bonds of marriage. to have a husband, children; to assume the sweet obligations of family ties, and to gather to herself the tenderest and purest affections humanity can know, is surely, indisputably, the best, the highest, noblest, province of woman." "and not of man?" "these things mean the same to men, of course," i replied, "though in lesser degree. it is man's office--with us--to buffet with the world, to wrest the means of livelihood, of comfort, luxury, from the grudging hand of fortune. it is the highest grace of woman that she accepts these things at his hands, she honors him in accepting, as he honors her in bestowing." i was aware that i was indulging in platitudes, but the platitudes of earth are novelties in mars. her eyes took a long leap from mine to the vague horizon line. "it is very strange," she said, "this distinction you make, i cannot understand it at all. it seems to me that this love we are talking about is simply one of the strong instincts implanted in our common nature. it is an essential of our being. marriage is not, it is a social institution; and just why it is incumbent upon one sex more than upon the other, or why it is more desirable for one sex than the other, is inconceivable to me. if either a man, or a woman, desires the ties you speak of, or if one has the vanity to wish to found a respectable family, then, of course, marriage is a necessity,--made so by our social and political laws. it is a luxury we may have if we pay the price." i was shocked at this cold-blooded reasoning, and cried, "o, how can a woman say that! have you no tenderness, elodia? no heart-need of these ties and affections,--which i have always been taught are so precious to woman?" she shrugged her shoulders, and, leaning forward a little, clasped her hands about her knees. "let us not make it personal," she said; "i admitted, that these things belong to our common nature, and i do not of course except myself. but i repeat that marriage is a convention, and--i am not conventional." "as to that," i retorted, "all the things that pertain to civilization, all the steps which have ever been taken in the direction of progress, are conventions: our clothing, our houses, our religions, arts, our good manners. and we are bound to accept every 'convention' that makes for the betterment of society, as though it were a revelation from god." i confess that this thought was the fruit of my brief intercourse with the caskians, who hold that there is a divine power continually operating upon human consciousness,--not disclosing miracles, but enlarging and perfecting human perceptions. i was thinking of this when elodia suddenly put the question to me: "are you married?" "no, i am not," i replied. the inquiry was not agreeable to me; it implied that she had been hitherto altogether too indifferent as to my "eligibility,"--never having concerned herself to ascertain the fact before. "well, you are perhaps older than i am," she said, "and you have doubtless had amours?" i was as much astounded by the frankness of this inquiry as you can be, and blushed like a girl. she withdrew her eyes from my face with a faint smile and covered the question by another: "you intend to marry, i suppose?" "i do, certainly," i replied, the resolution crystallizing on the instant. she drew a long sigh. "well, i do not, i am so comfortable as i am." she patted the ground with her slipper toe. "i do not wish to impose new conditions upon myself. i simply accept my life as it comes to me. why should i voluntarily burden myself with a family, and all the possible cares and sorrows which attend the marriage state! if i cast a prophetic eye into the future, what am i likely to see?--let us say, a lovely daughter dying of some frightful malady; an idolized son squandering my wealth and going to ruin; a husband in whom i no longer delight, but to whom i am bound by a hundred intricate ties impossible to sever. i think i am not prepared to take the future on trust to so great an extent! why should the free wish for fetters? affection and sympathy are good things, indispensable things in fact,--but i find them in my friends. and for this other matter: this need of love, passion, sentiment,-which is peculiarly ephemeral in its impulses, notwithstanding that it has such an insistent vitality in the human heart,--may be satisfied without entailing such tremendous responsibilities." i looked at her aghast; did she know what she was saying; did she mean what her words implied? "you wrong yourself, elodia," said i; "those are the sentiments, the arguments, of a selfish person, of a mean and cowardly spirit. and you have none of those attributes; you are strong, courageous, generous--" "you mistake me," she interrupted, "i am entirely selfish; i do not wish to disturb my present agreeable pose. tell me, what is it that usually prompts people to marry?" "why, love, of course," i answered. "well, you are liable to fall in love with my maid--" "not after having seen her mistress!" i ejaculated. "if she happens to possess a face or figure that draws your masculine eye," she went on, the rising color in her cheek responding to my audacious compliment; "though there may be nothing in common between you, socially, intellectually, or spiritually. what would be the result of such a marriage, based upon simple sex-love?" i had known many such marriages, and was familiar with the results, but i did not answer. we tacitly dropped the subject, and our two minds wandered away as they would, on separate currents. she was the first to break this second silence. "i can conceive of a marriage," she said, "which would not become burdensome, any more than our best friendships become burdensome. beside the attraction on the physical plane--which i believe is very necessary--there should exist all the higher affinities. i should want my husband to be my most delightful companion, able to keep my liking and to command my respect and confidence as i should hope to his. but i fear that is ideal." "the ideal is only the highest real," i answered, "the ideal is always possible." "remotely!" she said with a laugh. "the chances are many against it." "but even if one were to fall short a little in respect to husband or wife, i have often observed that there are compensations springing out of the relation, in other ways," i returned. "you mean children? o, yes, that is true, when all goes well. i will tell you," she added, her voice dropping to the tone one instantly recognizes as confidential, "that i am educating several children in some of our best schools, and that i mean to provide for them with sufficient liberality when they come of age. so, you see, i have thrown hostages to fortune and shall probably reap a harvest of gratitude,--in place of filial affection." she laughed with a touch of mockery. i suppose every one is familiar with the experience of having things--facts, bits of knowledge,--"come" to him, as we say. something came to me, and froze the marrow in my bones. "elodia," i ventured, "you asked me a very plain question a moment ago, will you forgive me if i ask you the same,--have you had amours?" the expression of her face changed slightly, which might have been due to the expression of mine. "we have perhaps grown too frank with each other," she said, "but you are a being from another world, and that must excuse us,--shall it?" i bowed, unable to speak. "one of the children i spoke of, a little girl of six, is my own natural child." she made this extraordinary confession with her glance fixed steadily upon mine. i am a man of considerable nerve, but for a moment the world was dark to me and i had the sensation of one falling from a great height. and then suddenly relief came to me in the thought, she is not to be judged by the standards that measure morality in my country! when i could command my voice again i asked: "does this little one know that she is your child,--does any one else know?" "certainly not," she answered in a tone of surprise, and then with an ironical smile, "i have treated you to an exceptional confidence. it is a matter of etiquette with us to keep these things hidden." as i made no response she added: "is it a new thing to you for a parent not to acknowledge illegitimate children?" "even the lowest class of mothers we have on earth do not often abandon their offspring," i replied. "neither do they here," she said. "the lowest class have nothing to gain and nothing to lose, and consequently there is no necessity that they should sacrifice their natural affections. in this respect, the lower classes are better off than we aristocrats." "you beg the question," i returned; "you know what i mean! i should not have thought that you, elodia, could ever be moved by such unworthy considerations--that you would ever fear the world's opinions! you who profess manly qualities, the noblest of which is courage!" "am i to understand by that," she said, "that men on your planet acknowledge their illegitimate progeny, and allow them the privileges of honored sons and daughters?" pushed to this extremity, i could recall but a single instance,--but one man whose courage and generosity, in a case of the kind under discussion, had risen to the level of his crime. i related to her the story of his splendid and prolonged life, with its one blot of early sin, and its grace of practical repentance. and upon the other hand, i told her of the one distinguished modern woman, who has had the hardihood to face the world with her offenses in her hands, as one might say. "are you not rather unjust to the woman?" she asked. "you speak of the man's acknowledgment of his sin as something fine, and you seem to regard hers as simply impudent." "because of the vast difference between the moral attitude of the two," i rejoined. "he confessed his error and took his punishment with humility; she slaps society in the face, and tries to make her genius glorify her misdeeds." "possibly society is to blame for that, by setting her at bay. if i have got the right idea about your society, it is as unrelenting to the one sex as it is indulgent to the other. doubtless it was ready with open arms to receive back the offending, repentant man, but would it not have set its foot upon the woman's neck if she had given it the chance, if she had knelt in humility as he did? a tree bears fruit after its kind; so does a code of morals. gentleness and forgiveness breed repentance and reformation, and harshness begets defiance." she added with a laugh, "what a spectacle your civilization would present if all the women who have sinned had the genius and the spirit of a bernhardt!" "or all the men had the magnanimity of a franklin," i retorted. "true!" she said, and after a moment she continued, "i am not so great as the one, nor have i the 'effrontery' of the other. but it is not so much that i lack courage; it is rather, perhaps, a delicate consideration for, and concession to, the good order of society." i regarded her with amazement, and she smiled. "really, it is true," she said. "i believe in social order and i pay respect to it--" "by concealing your own transgressions," i interpolated. "well, why not? suppose i and my cult--a very large class of eminently respectable sinners!--should openly trample upon this time-honored convention; the result would eventually be, no doubt, a moral anarchy. we have a very clear sense of our responsibility to the masses. we make the laws for their government, and we allow ourselves to seem to be governed by them also,--so that they may believe in them. we build churches and pay pew rent, though we do not much believe in the religious dogmas. and we leave off wine when we entertain temperance people." "but why do you do these things?" i asked; "to what end?" "simply for the preservation of good order and decency. you must know that the pleasant vices of an elegant person are brutalities in the uncultured. the masses have no tact or delicacy, they do not comprehend shades, and refinements of morals and manners. they can understand exoteric but not esoteric philosophy. we have really two codes of laws." "i think it would be far better for the masses--whom you so highly respect!--" i said, "if you were to throw off your masks and stand out before them just as you are. let moral anarchy come if it must, and the evil be consumed in its own flame; out of its ashes the ph[oe]nix always rises again, a nobler bird." "how picturesque!" she exclaimed; "do you know, i think your language must be rich in imagery. i should like to learn it." i did not like the flippancy of this speech, and made no reply. after a brief pause she added, "there is truth in what you say, a ball must strike hard before it can rebound. society must be fearfully outraged before it turns upon the offender, if he be a person of consequence. but you cannot expect the offender to do his worst, to dash himself to pieces, in order that a better state of morals may be built upon his ruin. we have not yet risen to such sublimity of devotion and self-sacrifice. i think the fault and the remedy both, lie more with the good people,--the people who make a principle of moral conduct. they allow us to cajole them into silence, they wink at our misdeeds. they know what we are up to, but they conceal the knowledge,--heaven knows why!--as carefully as we do our vices. contenting themselves with breaking out in general denunciations which nobody accepts as personal rebuke." this was such a familiar picture that for a moment i fancied myself upon the earth again. and i thought, what a difficult position the good have to maintain everywhere, for having accepted the championship of a cause whose standards are the highest and best! we expect them to be wise, tender, strong, just, stern, merciful, charitable, unyielding, forgiving, sinless, fearless. "elodia," i said presently, "you can hardly understand what a shock this--this conversation has been to me. i started out with saying that i had often tried to fancy what our civilization might have done for you. i see more clearly now. you are the victim of the harshest and cruelest assumption that has ever been upheld concerning woman,--that her nature is no finer, holier than man's. i have reverenced womanhood all my life as the highest and purest thing under heaven, and i will, i must, hold fast to that faith, to that rock on which the best traditions of our earth are founded." "do your women realize what they have got to live up to?" she asked ironically. "there are things in men which offset their virtues," i returned, in justice to my own sex. "where men are strong, women are gentle, where women are faithful, men are brave, and so on." "how charming to have the one nature dovetail into the other so neatly!" she exclaimed. "i seem to see a vision, shall i tell it to you,--a vision of your earth? in the beginning, you know that is the way in which all our traditions start out, there was a great heap of qualities stacked in a pyramid upon the earth. and the human creatures were requested to step up and help themselves to such as suited their tastes. there was a great scramble, and your sex, having some advantages in the way of muscle and limb,--and not having yet acquired the arts of courtesy and gallantry for which you are now so distinguished,--pressed forward and took first choice. naturally you selected the things which were agreeable to possess in themselves, and the exercise of which would most redound to your glory; such virtues as chastity, temperance, patience, modesty, piety, and some minor graces, were thrust aside and eventually forced upon the weaker sex,--since it was necessary that all the qualities should be used in order to make a complete human nature. is not that a pretty fable?" she arose and shook out her draperies and spread her parasol. there were crimson spots in her cheeks, i felt that i had angered her,--and on the other hand, she had outraged my finest feelings. but we were both capable of self-government. "it must be near dinner time," she said, quietly. i walked along by her side in silence. as we again crossed the brooklet, she stooped and picked a long raceme of small white, delicately odorous flowers, and together we analyzed them, and i recognized them as belonging to our family of _convallaria majalis_. this led to a discussion of comparative botany on the two planets,--a safe, neutral topic. in outward appearance our mutual attitude was unchanged. inwardly, there had been to me something like the moral upheaval of the universe. for the first time i had melancholy symptoms of nostalgia, and passionately regretted that i had ever exchanged the earth for mars. severnius had returned. after dinner he invited me out onto the veranda to smoke a cigar,--he was very particular not to fill the house with tobacco smoke. elodia, he said, did not like the odor. i wondered whether he took such pains out of consideration for her, or whether he simply dreaded her power to retaliate with her obnoxious vapor. the latter supposition, however, i immediately repudiated as being unjust to him; he was the gentlest and sweetest of men. my mind was so full of the subject elodia and i had discussed that i could not forbear repeating my old question to him: "tell me, my friend," i entreated, "do you in your inmost soul believe that men and women have one common nature,--that women are no better at all than men, and that men may, if they will, be as pure as--well as women ought to be?" severnius smiled. "if you cannot find an answer to your first question here in paleveria, i think you may in any of the savage countries, where i am quite positive the women exhibit no finer qualities than their lords. and for a very conclusive reply to your second question,--go to caskia!" "does the same idea of equality, or likeness rather, exist in caskia that prevails here?" i asked. "o, yes," said he, "but their plane of life is so much higher. i cannot but believe in the equality" he added, "bad as things are with us. we hope that we are progressing onward and upward; all our teaching and preaching tend toward that, as you may find in our churches and schools, and in our literature. i am so much of an optimist as to believe that we are getting better and better all the time. one evidence is that there is less of shamelessness than there used to be with respect to some of the grossest offences against decency. people do not now glory in their vices, they hide them." "then you approve of concealment!" i exclaimed. "it is better than open effrontery, it shows that the moral power in society is the stronger; that it is making the way of the transgressor hard, driving him into dark corners." i contrasted this in my mind with elodia's theory on the same subject. the two differed, but there was a certain harmony after all. severnius added, apropos of what had gone before, "it does not seem fair to me that one half of humanity should hang upon the skirts of the other half; it is better that we should go hand in hand, even though our progress is slow." "but that cannot be," i returned; "there are always some that must bear the burden while others drag behind." "o, certainly; that is quite natural and right," he assented. "the strong should help the weak. what i mean is that we should not throw the burden upon any particular class, or allow to any particular class special indulgences. that--pardon me!--is the fault i find with your civilization; you make your women the chancellors of virtue, and claim for your sex the privilege of being virtuous or not, as you choose." he smiled as he added, "do you know, your loyalty and tender devotion to individual women, and your antagonistic attitude toward women in general--on the moral plane--presents the most singular contrast to my mind!" "no doubt," i said; "it is a standing joke with us. we are better in the sample than in the whole piece. as individuals, we are woman's devoted slaves, and lovers, and worshipers; as a political body, we are her masters, from whom she wins grudging concessions; as a social factor, we refuse her dictation." i was not in a mood to discuss the matter further. i was sick at heart and angry,--not so much with elodia as with the conditions that had made her what she was, a woman perfect in every other respect, but devoid of the one supreme thing,--the sense of virtue. she was now to me simply a splendid ruin, a temple without holiness. i went up to my room and spent the night plunged in the deepest sadness i had ever known. when one is suffering an insupportable agony, he catches at the flimsiest delusions for momentary relief. he says to himself, "my friend is not dead!" "my beloved is not false!" so i tried to cheat myself. i argued, "why, this is only a matter of education with me, surely; how many women, with finer instincts than mine, have loved and married men of exactly the same stamp as elodia!" but i put away the thought with a shudder, feeling that it would be a far more dreadful thing to relax my principles and to renounce my faith in woman's purity than to sacrifice my love. the tempter came in another form. suppose she should repent? but my soul revolted. no, no; jesus might pardon a magdalene, but i could not. elodia was dead; elodia had never been! that night i buried her; i said i would never look upon her face again. but the morning brought resurrection. how hard a thing it is to destroy love! chapter . journeying upward. "the old order changeth, giving place to the new, and god fulfils himself in many ways." --tennyson. my conversation with elodia had the effect of crystallizing my nebulous plans about visiting the caskians into a sudden resolve. i could not remain longer in her presence without pain to myself; and, to tell the truth, i dreaded lest her astounding lack of the moral sense--which should be the foundation stone of woman's character--would eventually dull my own. men are notoriously weak where women are concerned--the women they worship. as soon as i had communicated with the caskians and learned that they were still anticipating my coming, with--they were so kind as to say it--the greatest pleasure, i prepared to set forth. in the meantime, an event occurred which further illustrated the social conditions in paleveria. claris, the wife of massilla, died very suddenly, and i was astonished at the tremendous sensation the circumstance occasioned throughout the city. it seemed to me that the only respect it was possible to pay to the memory of such a woman must be that which is expressed in absolute silence,--even charity could not be expected to do more than keep silent. but i was mistaken, claris had been a woman of distinction, in many ways; she was beautiful, rich, and talented, and she had wielded an influence in public and social affairs. immediately, the various periodicals in thursia, and in neighboring cities, flaunted lengthy eulogistic obituaries headed with more or less well executed portraits of the deceased. it seemed as if the authors of these effusions must have run through dictionaries of complimentary terms, which they culled lavishly and inserted among the acts and facts of her life with a kind of journalistic sleight-of-hand. and private comment took its cue from these authorities. it was said that she was a woman of noble traits, and pretty anecdotes were told of her, illustrating her generous impulses, her wit, her positiveness. she had had great personal magnetism, many had loved her, many had also feared her, for her tongue could cut like a sword. it was stated that her children had worshiped her, and that her death had prostrated her husband with grief. of the chief blackness of her character none spoke. severnius invited me to attend the funeral obsequies which took place in the auroras' temple, where the embalmed body lay in state; with incense burning and innumerable candles casting their pallid light upon the bier. i observed as we drove through the streets that the closed doors of all the business houses exhibited the emblems of respect and sorrow. the auroras were assembled in great numbers, having come from distant parts of the country to do honor to the dead. they were in full regalia, with mourning badges, and carried inverted torches. the religious ceremonies and mystic rites of the order were elaborate and impressive. the dirge which followed, and during which the members of the order formed in procession and began a slow march, was so unutterably and profoundly sad that i could not keep back the tears. a little sobbing voice directly in front of me wailed out "mamma! mamma!" a woman stooped down and whispered, "do you want to go up and kiss mamma 'good-by' before they take her away?" but the child shrank back, afraid of the pomp and ghostly magnificence surrounding the dead form. elodia was of course the chief figure in the procession, and she bore herself with a grave and solemn dignity in keeping with the ceremonies. the sight of her beautiful face, with its subdued but lofty expression, was more than i could bear. i leaned forward and dropped my face in my hands, and let the sorrow-laden requiem rack my soul with its sweet torture as it would. that was my last day in thursia. i had at first thought of taking my aeroplane along with me, reflecting that i might better begin my homeward flight from some mountain top in caskia; but severnius would not hear of that. "no indeed!" said he, "you must return to us again. i wish to get ready a budget for you to carry back to your astronomers, which i think will be of value to them, as i shall make a complete map of the heavens as they appear to us. then we shall be eager to hear about your visit. and besides, we want to see you again on the ground of friendship, the strongest reason of all!" "you are too kind!" i responded with much feeling. i knew that he was as sincere as he was polite. this was at the last moment, and elodia was present to bid me "good-by." she seconded her brother's invitation,--"o, yes, of course you must come back!" and turned the whole power of her beautiful face upon me, and for the first time gave me her hand. i had coveted it a hundred times as it lay lissome and white in her lap. i clasped it, palm to palm. it was as smooth as satin, and not moist,--i dislike a moist hand. i felt that up to that moment i had always undervalued the sense of touch,--it was the finest of all the senses! no music, no work of art, no wondrous scene, had ever so thrilled me and set my nerves a-quiver, as did the delicate, firm pressure of those magic fingers. the remembrance of it made my blood tingle as i went on my long journey from thursia to lunismar. it was a long journey in miles, though not in time, we traveled like the wind. both clytia and calypso were at the station to meet me, with their two children, freya and eurydice. i learned that nearly all caskians are named after the planetoids or other heavenly bodies,--a very appropriate thing, since they live so near the stars! my heart went out to the children the moment my eyes fell upon their faces. they were as beautiful as raphael's cherubs, you could not look upon them without thrills of delight. they were two perfect buds of the highest development humanity has ever attained to,--so far as we know. i felt that it was a wonderful thing to know that in these lovely forms there lurked no germs of evil, over their sweet heads there hung no adam's curse! they were seated in a pretty pony carriage, with a white canopy top lined with blue silk. freya held the lines. it appeared that eurydice had driven down and he was to drive back. the father and mother were on foot. they explained that it was difficult to drive anything but the little carriage up the steep path to their home on the hillside, half a mile distant. "who would wish for any other means of locomotion than nature has given him, in a country where the buoyant air makes walking a luxury!" i cried, stretching my legs and filling my lungs, with an unwonted sense of freedom and power. i had become accustomed to the atmosphere of paleveria, but here i had the same sensations i had experienced when i first landed there. "if you would rather, you may take my place, sir?" said the not much more than knee-high freya, ready to relinquish the lines. i felt disposed to laugh, but not so the wise parents. "the little ponies could not draw our friend up the hill, he is too heavy," explained clytia. "thank you, my little man, all the same!" i added. it was midsummer in paleveria, but here i observed everything had the newness and delightful freshness of spring. a busy, bustling, joyous, tuneful spring. the grass was green and succulent; the sap was in the trees and their bark was sleek and glossy, their leaves just unrolled. of the wild fruit trees, every branch and twig was loaded with eager buds crowding upon each other as the heads of children crowd at a cottage window when one goes by. every thicket was full of bird life and music. i heard the roar of a waterfall in the distance, and calypso told me that a mighty river, the eudosa, gathered from a hundred mountain streams, was compressed into a deep gorge or canyon and fell in a succession of cataracts just below the city, and finally spread out into a lovely lake, which was a wonder in its way, being many fathoms deep and as transparent as the atmosphere. we paused to listen,--the children also. "how loud it is to-day, mamma," exclaimed freya. his mother assented and turned to me with a smile. "the falls of eudosa constitute a large part of our life up here," she said; "we note all its moods, which are many. sometimes it is drowsy, and purrs and murmurs; again it is merry, and sings; or it is sublime, and rises to a thunderous roar. always it is sound. do you know, my ears ached with the silence when i was down in paleveria!" i have said clytia's eyes were black; it was not an opaque blackness, you could look through them down into her soul. i likened them in my mind to the waters of the eudosa which calypso had just described. every moment something new attracted our attention and the brief journey was full of incident; the children were especially alive to the small happenings about us, and i never before took such an interest in what i should have called insignificant things. sometimes the conversation between my two friends and myself rose above the understanding of the little ones, but they were never ignored,--nor were they obtrusive; they seemed to know just where to fit their little questions and remarks into the talk. it was quite wonderful. i understood, of course, that the children had been brought down to meet me in order that i might make their acquaintance immediately and establish my relations with them, since i was to be for some time a member of the household. they had their small interests apart from their elders--carefully guarded by their elders--as children should have; but whenever they were permitted to be with us, they were of us. they were never allowed to feel that loneliness in a crowd which is the most desolate loneliness in the world. clytia especially had the art of enveloping them in her sympathy, though her intellectual faculties were employed elsewhere. and how they loved her! i have seen nothing like it upon the earth. perhaps i adapt myself with unusual readiness to new environments, and assimilate more easily with new persons than most people do. i had, as you know, left paleveria with deep reluctance, under compulsion of my will--moved by my better judgment; and throughout my journey i had deliberately steeped myself in sweet and bitter memories of my life there, to the exclusion of much that might have been interesting and instructive to me on the way,--a foolish and childish thing to have done. and now, suddenly, paleveria dropped from me like a garment. some moral power in these new friends, and perhaps in this city of lunismar,--a power i could feel but could not define,--raised me to a different, unmistakably a higher, plane. i felt the change as one feels the change from underground to the upper air. we first walked a little way through the city, which quite filled the valley and crept up onto the hillsides, here and there. each building stood alone, with a little space of ground around it, upon which grass and flowers and shrubbery grew, and often trees. each such space bore evidence that it was as tenderly and scrupulously tended as a japanese garden. it was the cleanest city i ever saw; there was not an unsightly place, not a single darksome alley or lurking place for vice, no huddling together of miserable tenements. i remarked upon this and calypso explained: "our towns used to be compact, but since electricity has annihilated distance we have spread ourselves out. we have plenty of ground for our population, enough to give a generous slice all round. lunismar really extends through three valleys." crystal streams trickled down from the mountains and were utilized for practical and æsthetic purposes. small parks, exquisitely pretty, were very numerous, and in them the sparkling water was made to play curious pranks. each of these spots was an ideal resting place, and i saw many elderly people enjoying them,--people whom i took to be from sixty to seventy years of age, but who, i was astonished to learn, were all upwards of a hundred. perfect health and longevity are among the rewards of right living practiced from generation to generation. the forms of these old people were erect and their faces were beautiful in intelligence and sweetness of expression. i remarked, apropos of the general beauty and elegance of the buildings we passed: "this must be the fine quarter of lunismar." "no, not especially," returned calypso, "it is about the same all over." "is it possible! then you must all be rich?" said i. "we have no very poor," he replied, "though of course some have larger possessions than others. we have tried, several times in the history of our race, to equalize the wealth of the country, but the experiment has always failed, human nature varies so much." "what, even here?" i asked. "what do you mean?" said he. "why, i understand that you caskians have attained to a most perfect state of development and culture, and--" i hesitated and he smiled. "and you think the process eliminates individual traits?" he inquired. clytia laughingly added: "i hope, sir, you did not expect to find us all exactly alike, that would be too tame!" "you compliment me most highly," said calypso, seriously, "but we must not permit you to suppose that we regard our 'development' as anywhere near perfect, in fact, the farther we advance, the greater, and the grander, appears the excellence to which we have not yet attained. though it would be false modesty--and a disrespect to our ancestors--not to admit that we are conscious of having made some progress, as a race. we know what our beginnings were, and what we now are." after a moment he went on: "i suppose the principle of differentiation, as we observe it in plant and animal life, is the same in all life, not only physical, but intellectual, moral, spiritual. cultivation, though it softens salient traits and peculiarities, may develop infinite variety in every kind and species." i understood this better later on, after i had met a greater number of people, and after my perceptions had become more delicate and acute,--or when a kind of initiatory experience had taught me how to see and to value excellence. a few years ago a border of nasturtiums exhibited no more than a single color tone, the pumpkin yellow; and a bed of pansies resembled a patch of purple heather. observe now the chromatic variety and beauty produced by intelligent horticulture! a group of commonplace people--moderately disciplined by culture--might be compared to the pansies and nasturtiums of our early recollection, and a group of these highly refined caskians to the delicious flowers abloom in modern gardens. we crave variety in people, as we crave condiments in food. for me, this craving was never so satisfied--and at the same time so thoroughly stimulated--as in caskian society, which had a spiciness of flavor impossible to describe. formality was disarmed by perfect breeding, there was nothing that you could call "manner." the delicate faculty of intuition produced harmony. i never knew a single instance in which the social atmosphere was disagreeably jarred,--a common enough occurrence where we depend upon the machinery of social order rather than upon the vital principle of good conduct. i inquired of calypso, as we walked along, the sources of the people's wealth. he replied that the mountains were full of it. there were minerals and precious stones, and metals in great abundance; and all the ores were manufactured in the vicinity of the mines before being shipped to the lower countries and exchanged for vegetable products. this prompted me to ask the familiar question: "and how do you manage the labor problem?" he did not understand me until after i had explained about our difficulties in that line. and then he informed me that most of the people who worked in mines and factories had vested interests in them. "physical labor, however," he added, "is reduced to the minimum; machinery has taken the place of muscle." "and thrown an army of workers out of employment and the means of living, i suppose?" i rejoined, taking it for granted that the small share-holders had been squeezed out, as well as the small operators. "o, no, indeed," he returned, in surprise. "it has simply given them more leisure. everybody now enjoys the luxury of spare time, and may devote his energies to the service of other than merely physical needs." he smiled as he went on, "this labor problem the creator gave us was a knotty one, wasn't it? but what a tremendous satisfaction there is in the thought--and in the fact--that we have solved it." i was in the dark now, and waited for him to go on. "to labor incessantly, to strain the muscles, fret the mind, and weary the soul, and to shorten the life, all for the sake of supplying the wants of the body, and nothing more, is, i think, an inconceivable hardship. and to have invoked the forces of the insensate elements and laid our burdens upon them, is a glorious triumph." "yes, if all men are profited by it," i returned doubtfully. "they are, of course," said he, "at least with us. i was shocked to find it quite different in paleveria. there, it seemed to me, machinery--which has been such a boon to the laborers here--has been utilized simply and solely to increase the wealth of the rich. i saw a good many people who looked as though they were on the brink of starvation." "i don't see how you manage it otherwise," i confessed. "it belongs to the history of past generations," he replied. "perhaps the hardest struggle our progenitors had was to conquer the lusts of the flesh,--of which the greed of wealth is doubtless the greatest. they began to realize, generations ago, that mars was rich enough to maintain all his children in comfort and even luxury,--that none need hunger, or thirst, or go naked or houseless, and that more than this was vanity and vain-glory. and just as they, with intense assiduity, sought out and cultivated nature's resources--for the reduction of labor and the increase of wealth--so they sought out and cultivated within themselves corresponding resources, those fit to meet the new era of material prosperity; namely, generosity and brotherly love." "then you really and truly practice what you preach!" said i, with scant politeness, and i hastened to add, "severnius told me that you recognize the trinity in human nature. well, we do, too, upon the earth, but the three have hardly an equal chance! we preach the doctrine considerably more than we practice it." "i understand that you are a highly intellectual people," remarked calypso, courteously. "yes, i suppose we are," said i; "our achievements in that line are nothing to be ashamed of. and," i added, remembering some felicitous sensations of my own, "there is no greater delight than the travail of intellect which brings forth great ideas." "pardon me!" he returned, "the travail of soul which brings forth a great love--a love willing to share equally with others the fruits of intellectual triumph--is, to my mind, infinitely greater." we had reached the terrace, or little plateau, on which my friends' house stood; it was like a strip of green velvet for color and smoothness. the house was built of rough gray stone which showed silver glintings in the sun. here and there, delicate vines clung to the walls. there was a carriage porch--into which the children drove--and windows jutting out into the light, and many verandas and little balconies, that seemed to give the place a friendly and hospitable air. above there was a spacious observatory, in which was mounted a very fine telescope that must have cost a fortune,--though my friends were not enormously rich, as i had learned from severnius. but these people do not regard the expenditure of even very large sums of money for the means of the best instruction and the best pleasures as extravagance, if no one suffers in consequence. i cannot go into their economic system very extensively here, but i may say that it provides primarily that all shall share bountifully in the general good; and after that, individuals may gratify their respective tastes--or rather, satisfy their higher needs; for their tastes are never fanciful, but always real--as they can afford. i do not mean that this is a written law, a formal edict, to be evaded by such cunning devices as we know in our land, or at best loosely construed; nor is it a mere sentiment preached from pulpits and glorified in literature,--a beautiful but impracticable conception! it is purely a moral law, and being such it is a vital principle in each individual consciousness. the telescope was calypso's dearest possession, but i never doubted his willingness to give it up, if there should come a time when the keeping of it would be the slightest infringement of this law. i may add that in all the time i spent in caskia, i never saw a man, woman, or child, but whose delight in any possession would have been marred by the knowledge that his, or her, gratification meant another's bitter deprivation. the question between thou and i was always settled in favor of thou. and no barriers of race, nationality, birth, or position, affected this universal principle. i made a discovery in relation to the caskians which would have surprised and disappointed me under most circumstances; they had no imagination, and they were not given to emotional excitation. their minds touched nothing but what was real. but mark this: their real was our highest ideal. the moral world was to them a real world; the spiritual world was to them a real world. they had no need of imagery. and they were never carried away by floods of feeling, for they were always up to their highest level,--i mean in the matter of kindness and sympathy and love. moreover, their intellectual perceptions were so clear, and the mysteries of nature were unrolled before their understanding in such orderly sequence, that although their increase of knowledge was a continuous source of delight, it never came in shocks of surprise or excited childish wonderment. i cannot hope to give you more than a faint conception of the dignity and majesty of a people whose triple nature was so highly and so harmoniously developed. one principle governed the three: truth. they were true to every law under which they had been created and by which they were sustained. they were taught from infancy--but of this further on. i wish to reintroduce ariadne to you and let her explain some of the wonders of their teaching, she being herself a teacher. the observatory was a much used apartment, by both the family and by guests. it was a library also, and it contained musical instruments. a balcony encircled it on the outside, and here we often sat of evenings, especially if the sky was clear and the stars and moon were shining. the heavens as seen at night were as familiar to clytia and calypso, and even to the children, as a friend's face. it was pleasant to sit out upon the balcony even on moonless nights and when the stars were hidden, and look down upon the city all brilliantly alight, and listen to the unceasing music of the falls of eudosa. i, too, soon learned his many "moods." back of the house there rose a long succession of hills, ending finally in snow-capped mountains, the highest of which was called the spear, so sharply did it thrust its head up through the clouds into the heavens. the lower hills had been converted into vineyards. a couple of men were fixing the trellises, and calypso excused himself to his wife and me and went over to them. a neatly dressed maid came out of the house and greeted the children, who had much important news to relate concerning their drive; and a last year's bird-nest to show her, which they took pains to explain was quite useless to the birds, who were all making nice new nests. the sight of the maid,--evidently an intelligent and well-bred girl,--whose face beamed affectionately upon the little ones, prompted a question from me: "how do you manage about your servants, i mean house servants," i asked; "do you have people here who are willing to do menial work?" clytia looked up at me with an odd expression. her answer, coming from any one less sincere, would have sounded like cant. "we do not regard any work as mean." "but some kinds of work are distasteful, to say the least," i insisted. "not if you love those for whom you labor," she returned. "a mother does not consider any sort of service to her child degrading." "o, i know that," said i; "that is simply natural affection." "but natural affection, you know, is only the germ of love. it is narrow,--only a little broader than selfishness." "well, tell me how it applies in this question of service?" i asked. "i am not able to comprehend it in the abstract." "we do not require people to do anything for us which we would not do for ourselves, or for them," she said. "and then, we all work. we believe in work; it means strength to the body and relief to the mind. no one permits himself to be served by another for the unworthy reason, openly or tacitly confessed, that he is either too proud, or too indolent, to serve himself." "then why have servants at all?" i asked. "my husband explained to you," she returned, "that our people are not all equally rich; and they are not all adapted to what you would call, perhaps, the higher grades of service. you see the little maid yonder with the children; she has the gifts of a teacher,--our teachers are very carefully chosen, and as carefully instructed. she has been placed with me for our mutual benefit,--i could not intrust my little ones to the care of a mere paid nurse who thought only of her wages. nor could she work simply for wages. the money consideration is the smallest item in the arrangement. my husband superintends some steel works in which he has some shares. the man he is talking with now--who is attending to the grape vines--has also a large interest in the steel works, but he has no taste or faculty for engaging in that kind of business. he might spend his whole life in idleness if he chose, or in mental pursuits, for he is a very scholarly man, but he loves the kind of work he is doing now, and our vineyard is his especial pride. moreover," a beautiful smile touched her face as she looked up at the two men on the hillside, "fides loves my calypso, they are soul friends!" when i became more familiar with the household, i found that the same relations existed all round; mutual pleasure, mutual sympathy, mutual helpfulness. first there seemed to be on the part of each employe a distinct preference and liking for the kind of work he or she had undertaken to do; second, a fitness and careful preparation for the work; and last, the love of doing for those who gave appreciation, love, and another sort of service or assistance in return. i heard one of them say one day: "i ask nothing better than to be permitted to cook the meals for these dear people!" this was a woman who wrote monthly articles on chemistry and botany for one of the leading scientific journals. she was a middle-aged woman and unmarried, who did not wish to live alone, who abhorred "boarding," and who had found just such a comfortable nest in clytia's home as suited all her needs and desires. of course she did not slave in the kitchen all day long, and her position did not debar her from the best and most intelligent society, nor cut her off from the pleasure and privileges that sweeten life. she brought her scientific knowledge to the preparation of the food she set before us, and took as much pride in the results of her skill as an inventor takes in his appliances. and such wholesome, delicious, well-cooked dishes i have never eaten elsewhere. clytia believed in intelligently prepared food, as she believed in intelligent instruction for her children; she would have thought it a crime to set an ignorant person over her kitchen. and this woman of whom i am speaking knew that she held a place of honor and trust, and she filled it not only with dignity but lovingness. she had some younger women to assist her, whom she was instructing in the science and the art of cooking, and who would by-and-by take responsible positions themselves. these women, or girls, assisted also in the housekeeping, which was the most perfect system in point of cleanliness, order and beauty that it is possible to conceive of in a home; because skill, honesty and conscientiousness enter into every detail of the life of these people. the body is held in honor, and its needs are respected. life is sacred, and physical sins,--neglect or infringement of the laws of health,--are classed in the same category with moral transgressions. in fact, the same principles and the same mathematical rules apply in the three natures of man,--refined of course to correspond with the ascending scale from the lowest to the highest, from the physical to the spiritual. but so closely are the three allied that there are no dividing lines,--there is no point where the mind may say, "here my responsibility ends," or where the body may affirm, "i have only myself to please." day by day these truths became clear to me. there was nothing particularly new in anything that i heard,--indeed it was all singularly familiar, in sound. but the wonder was, that the things we idealize, and theorize about, they accept literally, and absorb into their lives. they have made living facts of our profoundest philosophy and our sublimest poetry. are we then too philosophical, too poetical,--and not practical? a good many centuries have rolled up their records and dropped them into eternity since we were given the simple, wonderful lesson, "whatsoever a man sows that shall he also reap,"--and we have not learned it yet! st. paul's voice rings through the earth from age to age, "work out your own salvation," and we do not comprehend. these people have never had a christ--in flesh and blood--but they have put into effect every precept of our great teacher. they have received the message, from whence i know not,--or rather by what means i know not,--"a new commandment i give unto you, that ye love one another." chapter . the master. "i spoke as i saw. i report, as a man may report god's work--all's love, yet all's law." -- browning. i have spoken of ariadne, and promised to re-introduce her to you. you will remember her as the graceful girl who accompanied clytia and her husband to thursia. she had not made quite so strong an impression upon me as had the elder woman, perhaps because i was so preoccupied with, and interested in watching the latter's meeting with elodia. certainly there was nothing in the young woman herself, as i speedily ascertained, to justify disparagement even with clytia. i was surprised to find that she was a member of our charming household. she was an heiress; but she taught in one of the city schools, side by side with men and women who earned their living by teaching. i rather deprecated this fact in conversation with clytia one day; i said that it was hardly fair for a rich woman to come in and usurp a place which rightfully belonged to some one who needed the work as a means of support,--alas! that _i_ should have presumed to censure anything in that wonderful country. with knowledge came modesty. clytia's cheeks crimsoned with indignation. "our teachers are not beneficiaries," she replied; "nor do we regard the positions in our schools--the teachers' positions--as charities to be dispensed to the needy. the profession is the highest and most honorable in our land, and only those who are fitted by nature and preparation presume to aspire to the office. there is no bar against those who are so fitted,--the richest and the most distinguished stand no better, and no poorer, chance than the poorest and most insignificant. we must have the best material, wherever it can be found." we had but just entered the house, clytia and i, when ariadne glided down the stairs into the room where we sat, and approached me with the charming frankness and unaffectedness of manner which so agreeably characterizes the manners of all these people. she was rather tall, and slight; though her form did not suggest frailty. she resembled some elegant flower whose nature it is to be delicate and slender. she seemed even to sway a little, and undulate, like a lily on its stem. i regarded her with attention, not unmixed with curiosity,--as a man is prone to regard a young lady into whose acquaintance he has not yet made inroads. my chief impression about her was that she had remarkable eyes. they were of an indistinguishable, dark color, large horizontally but not too wide open,--eyes that drew yours continually, without your being able to tell whether it was to settle the question of color, or to find out the secret of their fascination, or whether it was simply that they appealed to your artistic sense--as being something finer than you had ever seen before. they were heavily fringed at top and bottom, and so were in shadow except when she raised them toward the light. her complexion was pale, her hair light and fluffy; her brows and lashes were several shades darker than the hair. her hands were lovely. her dress was of course white, or cream, of some soft, clinging material; and she wore a bunch of blue flowers in her belt, slightly wilted. there is this difference in women: some produce an effect simply, and others make a clear-cut, cameo-like impression upon the mind. ariadne was of the latter sort. whatever she appropriated, though but a tiny blossom, seemed immediately to proclaim its ownership and to swear its allegiance to her. from the moment i first saw her there, the blue flowers in her belt gave her, in my mind, the supreme title to all of their kind. i could never bear to see another woman wear the same variety,--and i liked them best when they were a little wilted! her belongings suggested herself so vividly that if one came unexpectedly upon a fan, a book, a garment of hers, he was affected as by a presence. i soon understood why it was that my eyes sought her face so persistently, drawn by a power infinitely greater than the mere power of beauty; it was due to the law of moral gravitation,--that by which men are attracted to a leader, through intuitive perception of a quality in him round which their own energies may nucleate. we all recognize the need of a centre, of a rallying-point,--save perhaps the few eccentrics, detached particles who have lost their place in the general order, makers of chaos and disturbers of peace. it is this power which constitutes one of the chief qualifications of a teacher in lunismar; because it rests upon a fact universally believed in,--spiritual royalty; an august force which cannot be ignored, and is never ridiculed--as galileo was ridiculed, and punished, for his wisdom; because there ignorance and prejudice do not exist, and the superstition which planted the martyr's stake has never been known. ariadne said that she had been up in the observatory, and that there were indications of an approaching storm. "i hope it may be a fine one!" exclaimed clytia. i thought this rather an extraordinary remark--coming from one of the sex whose formula is more likely to be, "i hope it will not be a severe one." at that moment a man appeared in the doorway, the majesty of whose presence i certainly felt before my eyes fell upon him. or it might have been the reflection i saw in the countenances of my two companions,--i stood with my back to the door, facing them,--which gave me the curious, awe-touched sensation. i turned round, and clytia immediately started forward. ariadne exclaimed in an undertone, with an accent of peculiar sweetness,--a commingling of delight, and reverence, and caressing tenderness: "ah! the master!" clytia took him by the hand and brought him to me, where i stood rooted to my place. "father, this is our friend," she said simply, without further ceremony of introduction. it was enough. he had come on purpose to see me, and therefore he knew who i was. as for him--one does not explain a king! the title by which ariadne had called him did not at the moment raise an inquiry in my mind. i accepted it as the natural definition of the man. he was a man of kingly proportions, with eyes from which clytia's had borrowed their limpid blackness. his glance had a wide compresiveness, and a swift, sure, loving insight. he struck me as a man used to moving among multitudes, with his head above all, but his heart embracing all. you may think it strange, but i was not abashed. perfect love casteth out fear; and there was in this divine countenance--i may well call it divine!--the lambent light of a love so kindly and so tender, that fear, pride, vanity, egotism, even false modesty--our pet hypocrisy--surrendered without a protest. i think i talked more than any one else, being delicately prompted to furnish some account of the world to which i belong, and stimulated by the profound interest with which the master attended to every word that i said. but i received an equal amount of information myself,--usually in response to the questions with which i rounded up my periods, like this: we do so, and so, upon the earth; how is it here? the replies threw an extraordinary light upon the social order and conditions there. i naturally dwelt upon the salient characteristics of our people,--i mean, of course, the american people. i spoke of our enormous grasp of the commercial principle; of our manipulation of political and even social forces to great financial ends; of our easy acquisition of fortunes; of our tremendous push and energy, directed to the accumulation of wealth. and of our enthusiasms, and institutions; our religions and their antagonisms, and of the many other things in which we take pride. and i learned that in caskia there is no such thing as speculative enterprise. all business has an actual basis most discouraging to the adventurous spirit in search of sudden riches. there is no monetary skill worthy the dignified appellation of financial management,--and no use for that particular development of the talent of ingenuity. all the systems involving the use of money conduct their affairs upon the simplest arithmetical rules in their simplest form; addition, subtraction, multiplication, division. there are banks, of course, for the mutual convenience of all, but there are no magnificent delusions called "stocks;" no boards of trade, no bulls and bears, no "corners," no mobilizing of capital for any questionable purposes; no gambling houses; no pitfalls for unwary feet; and no mad fever of greed and scheming coursing through the veins of men and driving them to insanity and self-destruction. more than all, there are no fictitious values put upon fads and fancies of the hour,--nor even upon works of art. the caskians are not easily deceived. an impostor is impossible. because the people are instructed in the quality of things intellectual, and moral, and spiritual, as well as in things physical. they are as sure of the knowableness of art, as they are--and as we are--of the knowableness of science. art is but refined science, and the principles are the same in both, but more delicately, and also more comprehensively, interpreted in the former than in the latter. one thing more: there are no would-be impostors. the law operates no visible machinery against such crimes, should there be any. the master explained it to me in this way: "the law is established in each individual conscience, and rests securely upon self-respect." "great heavens!" i cried, as the wonder of it broke upon my understanding, "and how many millions of years has it taken your race to attain to this perfection?" "it is not perfection," he replied, "it only approximates perfection; we are yet in the beginning." "well, by the grace of god, you are on the right way!" said i. "i am familiar enough with the doctrines you live by, to know that it is the right way; they are the same that we have been taught, theoretically, for centuries, but, to tell the truth, i never believed they could be carried out literally, as you appear to carry them out. we are tolerably honest, as the word goes, but when honesty shades off into these hair-splitting theories, why--we leave it to the preachers, and--women." "then you really have some among you who believe in the higher truths?" the master said, and his brows went up a little in token of relief.--my picture of earth-life must have seemed a terrible one to him! "o, yes, indeed," said i, taking my cue from this. and i proceeded to give some character sketches of the grand men and women of earth whose lives have been one long, heroic struggle for truth, and to whom a terrible death has often been the crowning triumph of their faith. i related to him briefly the history of america from its discovery four hundred years ago; and told him about the splendid material prosperity,--the enormous wealth, the extraordinary inventions, the great population, the unprecedented free-school system, and the progress in general education and culture,--of a country which had its birth but yesterday in a deadly struggle for freedom of conscience; and of our later, crueller war for freedom that was not for ourselves but for a despised race. i described the prodigious waves of public and private generosity that have swept millions of money into burned cities for their rebuilding, and tons of food into famine-stricken lands for the starving. i told him of the coming together in fellowship of purpose, of the great masses, to face a common danger, or to meet a common necessity; and of the moral and intellectual giants who in outward appearance and in the seeming of their daily lives are not unlike their fellows, but to whom all eyes turn for help and strength in the hour of peril. but i did not at that time undertake any explanation of our religious creeds, for it somehow seemed to me that these would not count for much with a people who expressed their theology solely by putting into practice the things they believed. i had the thought in mind though, and determined to exploit it later on. as i have said before, the master listened with rapt attention, and when i had finished, he exclaimed, "i am filled with amazement! a country yet so young, so far advanced toward truth!" he gave himself up to contemplation of the picture i had drawn, and in the depths of his eyes i seemed to see an inspired prophecy of my country's future grandeur. presently he rose and went to a window, and, with uplifted face, murmured in accents of the sublimest reverence that have ever touched my understanding, "o, god, all-powerful!" and a wonderful thing happened: the invocation was responded to by a voice that came to each of our souls as in a flame of fire, "here am i." the velocity of worlds is not so swift as was our transition from the human to the divine. but it was not an unusual thing, this supreme triumph of the spirit; it is what these people call "divine worship,"--a service which is never perfunctory, which is not ruled by time or place. one may worship alone, or two or three, or a multitude, it matters not to god, who only asks to be worshiped in spirit and in truth,--be the time sabbath or mid-week, the place temple, or field, or closet. a little later i remarked to the master,--wishing to have a point cleared up,-- "you say there are no fictitious values put upon works of art; how do you mean?" he replied, "inasmuch as truth is always greater than human achievement--which at best may only approximate the truth,--the value of a work of art should be determined by its merit alone, and not by the artist's reputation, or any other remote influence,--of course i do not include particular objects consecrated by association or by time. but suppose a man paints a great picture, for which he recieves a great price, and thereafter uses the fame he has won as speculating capital to enrich himself,--i beg the pardon of every artist for setting up the hideous hypothesis!--but to complete it: the moment a man does that, he loses his self-respect, which is about as bad as anything that can happen to him; it is moral suicide. and he has done a grievous wrong to art by lowering the high standard he himself helped to raise. but his crime is no greater than that of the name-worshipers, who, ignorantly, or insolently, set up false standards and scorn the real test of values. however, these important matters are not left entirely to individual consciences; artists, and so-called art-critics, are not the only judges of art. we have no mysterious sanctuaries for a privileged few; all may enter,--all are indeed made to enter, not by violence, but by the simple, natural means employed in all teaching. all will not hold the brush, or the pen, or the chisel; but from their earliest infancy our children are carefully taught to recognize the forms of truth in all art; the eye was made to see, the ear to hear, the mind to understand." the visit was at an end. when he left us it was as though the sun had passed under a cloud. clytia went out with him, her arm lovingly linked in his; and i turned to ariadne. "tell me," i said, "why is he called master? is it a formal title, or was it bestowed in recognition of the quality of the man?" "both," she answered. "no man receives the title who has not the 'quality.' but it is in one way perfunctory; it is the distinguishing title of a teacher of the highest rank." "and what are teachers of the highest rank, presidents of colleges?" i asked. "o, no," she replied with a smile, "they are not necessarily teachers of schools--old and young alike are their pupils. they are those who have advanced the farthest in all the paths of knowledge, especially the moral and the spiritual." "i understand," said i; "they are your priests, ministers, pastors,--your doctors of divinity." "perhaps," she returned, doubtfully; our terminology was not always clear to those people. "usually," she went on, "they begin with teaching in the schools,--as a kind of apprenticeship. but, naturally, they rise; there is that same quality in them which forces great poets and painters to high positions in their respective fields." "then they rank with geniuses!" i exclaimed, and the mystery of the man in whose grand company i had spent the past hour was solved. ariadne looked at me as though surprised that i should have been ignorant of so natural and patent a fact. "excuse me!" said i, "but it is not always the case with us; any man may set up for a religious teacher who chooses, with or without preparation,--just as any one may set up for a poet, or a painter, or a composer of oratorio." "genius must be universal on your planet then," she returned innocently. i suppose i might have let it pass, there was nobody to contradict any impressions i might be pleased to convey! but there is something in the atmosphere of lunismar which compels the truth, good or bad. "no," said i, "they do it by grace of their unexampled self-trust,--a quality much encouraged among us,--and because we do not legislate upon such matters. the boast of our country is liberty, and in some respects we fail to comprehend the glorious possession. too often we mistake lawlessness for liberty. the fine arts are our playthings, and each one follows his own fancy, like children with toys." "follows-his-own-fancy," she repeated, as one repeats a strange phrase, the meaning of which is obscure. "by the way," i said, "you must be rather arbitrary here. is a man liable to arrest or condign punishment, if he happens to burlesque any of the higher callings under the impression that he is a genius?" she laughed, and i added, "i assure you that this is not an uncommon occurrence with us." "it would be impossible here," she replied, "because no one could so mistake himself, though it seems egotistical for one of us to say so! but"--a curious expression touched her face, a questioning, doubting, puzzled look--"we are speaking honestly, are we not?" i wondered if i had betrayed my american characteristic of hyperbole, and i smiled as i answered her: "my countrymen are at my mercy, i know; but had i a thousand grudges against them, i beg you to believe that i am not so base as to take advantage of my unique opportunity to do them harm! we are a young people, as i said awhile ago, a very young people; and in many respects we have the innocent audacity of babes. yes," i added, "i have told you the truth,--but not all of it; earth, too, is pinnacled with great names,--of masters, like yours, and poets, and painters, and scientists, and inventors. even in the darkest ages there have been these points of illumination. what i chiefly wonder at here, is the universality of intelligence, of understanding. you are a teacher of children, pray tell me how you teach. how do you get such wonderful results? i can comprehend--a little--'what' you people are, i wish to know the 'how,' the 'why'." "all our teaching," she said, "embraces the three-fold nature. the physical comes first of course, for you cannot reach the higher faculties through barriers of physical pain and sickness, hunger and cold. the child must have a good body, and to this end he is taught the laws that govern his body, through careful and attentive observance of cause and effect. and almost immediately, he begins to have fascinating glimpses of similar laws operating upon a higher than the physical plane. children have boundless curiosity, you know, and this makes the teacher's work easy and delightful,--for we all love to tell a piece of news! through this faculty, the desire to know, you can lead a child in whatever paths you choose. you can almost make him what you choose. a little experience teaches a child that every act brings consequences, good or bad; but he need not get all his knowledge by experience, that is too costly. the reasoning faculty must be aroused, and then the conscience,--which is to the soul what the sensatory nerves are to the body. but the conscience is a latent faculty, and here comes in the teacher's most delicate and important work. conscience is quite dependent upon the intellect; we must know what is right and what is wrong, otherwise conscience must stagger blindly." "yes, i know," i interrupted, "the consciences of some very good people in our world have burned witches at the stake." "horrible!" she said with a shudder. she continued: "this, then, is the basis. we try, through that simple law of cause and effect, which no power can set aside, to supply each child with a safe, sure motive for conduct that will serve him through life, as well in his secret thought as in outward act. no one with this principle well-grounded in him will ever seek to throw the blame of his misdeeds upon another. we teach the relative value of repentance; that though it cannot avert or annul the effects of wrong-doing, it may serve to prevent repetition of the wrong." "do you punish offenders?" i asked. she smiled. "punishment for error is like treating symptoms instead of the disease which produced them, is it not?--relief for the present, but no help for the future. punishment, and even criticism, are dangerous weapons, to be used, if at all, with a tact and skill that make one tremble to think of! they are too apt to destroy freedom of intercourse between teacher and pupil. unjust criticism, especially, shuts the teacher from an opportunity to widen the pupil's knowledge. too often our criticisms are barriers which we throw about ourselves, shutting out affection and confidence; and then we wonder why friends and family are sealed books to us!" "that is a fact," i assented, heartily, "and no one can keep to his highest level if he is surrounded by an atmosphere of coldness and censure. even christ, our great teacher, affirmed that he could not do his work in certain localities because of prevailing unbelief." "there is one thing which it is difficult to learn," went on ariadne, "discrimination, the fitness of things. i may not do that which is proper for another to do,--why? because in each individual consciousness is a special and peculiar law of destiny upon which rests the burden of personal responsibility. it is this law of the individual that makes it an effrontery for any one to constitute himself the chancellor of another's conscience, or to sit in judgment upon any act which does not fall under the condemnation of the common law. it is given to each of us to create a world,--within ourselves and round about us,--each unlike all the others, though conforming to the universal principles of right, as poets, however original, conform to the universal principles of language. we have choice--let me give you a paradox!--every one may have first choice of inexhaustible material in infinite variety. but how to choose!" i quoted milton's lines: "he that has light within his own clear breast, may sit in the center and enjoy bright day; but he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, benighted walks under the mid-day sun; himself is his own dungeon." she thanked me with a fine smile. clytia had come in a few moments before, but her entrance had been such that it had caused no disturbing vibrations in the current of sympathetic understanding upon which ariadne and myself were launched. now, however, we came ashore as it were, and she greeted us as returned voyagers love to be greeted, with cordial welcome. she informed us that dinner was ready, and i was alarmed lest we might have delayed that important function. the children had disappeared for the day, having already had their dinner in the nursery under the supervision of their mother. calypso had invited in his friend fides. he was a man of powerful frame, and strong, fine physionomy; with a mind as virile as the former, and as clear-cut as the latter. the woman who had created the dinner--i do not know of a better word--also sat at table with us, and contributed many a gem to the thought of the hour. thought may seem an odd word to use in connection with a dinner conversation,--unless it is a "toast" dinner! but even in their gayest and lightest moods these people are never thoughtless. their minds instead of being lumbering machinery requiring much force and preparation to put in motion, are set upon the daintiest and most delicate wheels. their mental equipment corresponds with the astonishing mechanical contrivances for overcoming friction in the physical world. and this exquisite machinery is applied in exactly the same ways,--sometimes for utility, and sometimes for simple enjoyment. ariadne's prediction had been correct, the storm-king was mustering his forces round the mountain-tops, and the eudosa was answering the challenge from the valley. after dinner we went up into the observatory, and from thence passed out onto the balcony, thrilled by the same sense of delightful expectancy you see in the unennuied eyes of youth, waiting for the curtain to go up at a play. all save myself had of course seen thunder-storms in lunismar, but none were _blasé_. there was eagerness in every face. we took our station at a point which gave us the best view of the mountains, and saw the lightning cut their cloud-enwrapped sides with flaming swords, and thrust gleaming spears down into the darkling valley, as if in furious spite at the blackness which had gathered everywhere. for the sun had sunk behind a wall as dense as night and left the world to its fate. before the rain began to fall there was an appalling stillness, which even the angry mutterings of the eudosa could not overcome. and then, as though the heavens had marshaled all their strength for one tremendous assault, the thunder broke forth. i have little physical timidity, but the shock struck me into a pose as rigid as death. the others were only profoundly impressed, spiritually alive to the majesty of the performance. that first explosion was but the prelude to the mighty piece played before us, around us, at our feet, and overhead. earth has been spared the awfulness--(without destruction)--and has missed the glory of such a storm as this. but the grandest part was yet to come. the rain lasted perhaps twenty minutes, and then a slight rent was made in the thick and sombre curtain that covered the face of the heavens, and a single long shaft of light touched the frozen point of the spear and turned its crystal and its snow to gold. the rest of the mountain was still swathed in cloud. a moment more, and a superb rainbow, and another, and yet another, were flung upon the shoulder of the spear, below the glittering finger. the rent in the curtain grew wider, and beyond, all the splendors of colors were blazoned upon the shimmering draperies that closed about and slowly vanished with the sun. we sat in silence for a little time. i happened to be near fides, and i presently turned to him and said: "that was a most extraordinary manifestation of the almighty's power!" he looked at me but did not reply. ariadne, who had heard my remark, exclaimed laughingly: "fides thinks the opening of a flower is a far more wonderful manifestation than the stirring up of the elements!" in the midst of the storm i had discovered the master standing at the farther end of the balcony, and beside him a tall, slender woman with thick, white hair, whom i rightly took to be his wife. i was presented to her shortly, and the mental comment i made at the moment, i never afterward reversed,--"she is worthy to be the master's wife!" although the rain had ceased, the sky was a blank, as night settled upon the world. not a star shone. but it was cool and pleasant, and we sat and talked for a couple of hours. suddenly, a band of music on the terrace below silenced our voices. it was most peculiar music: now it was tone-pictures thrown upon the dark background of shadows; and now it was a dance of sprites; and now a whispered confidence in the ear. it made no attempt to arouse the emotions, to produce either sadness or exaltation. it was a mere frolic of music. when it was over, i went down stairs, with the others, humming an inaudible tune, as though i had been to the opera. chapter . a comparison. "he who rests on what he is, has a destiny above destiny, and can make mouths at fortune." --emerson. "work out your own salvation." --st. paul. i had a feeling, when i retired to my room that night, as if years lay between me and the portion of my life which i had spent in paleveria. but across the wide gulf my soul embraced severnius. all that was beautiful, and lovable, and noble in that far-off country centered in him, as light centres in a star. but of elodia i could not think without pain. i even felt a kind of helpless rage mingling with the pain,--remembering that it was simply the brutality of the social system under which she had been reared, that had stamped so hideous a brand upon a character so fair. i contrasted her in my mind with the women asleep in the rooms about me, whose thoughts were as pure as the thoughts of a child. had she been born here, i reflected, she would have been like clytia, like ariadne. and oh! the pity of it, that she had not! i was restless, wakeful, miserable, thinking of her; remembering her wit, her intelligence, her power; remembering how charming she was, how magnetic, and alas! how faulty! she gave delight to all about her, and touched all life with color. but she was like a magnificent bouquet culled from the gardens of wisdom and beauty; a thing of but temporary value, whose fragrance must soon be scattered, whose glory must soon pass away. ariadne was the white and slender lily, slowly unfolding petal after petal in obedience to the law of its own inner growth. should the blossom be torn asunder its perfume would rise as incense about its destroyer, and from the life hidden at its root would come forth more perfect blossoms and more delicate fragrance. i had arrived at this estimate of her character by a process more unerring and far swifter than reason. you might call it spiritual telegraphy. the thought of her not only restored but immeasurably increased my faith in woman; and i fell asleep at last soothed and comforted. i awoke in the morning to the sound of singing. it was ariadne's voice, and she was touching the strings of a harp. all caskians sing, and all are taught to play upon at least one musical instrument. every household is an orchestra. ariadne's voice was exceptionally fine--where all voices were excellent. its quality was singularly bird-like; sometimes it was the joyous note of the lark, and again it was the tenderly sweet, and passionately sad, dropping-song of the mocking-bird. when i looked out of my window, the sun was just silvering the point of the spear, and light wreaths of mist were lifting from the valleys. i saw the master, staff in hand, going up toward the mountains, and fides was coming across the hills. i had wondered, when i saw the master and his wife on the balcony the night before, how they came to be there at such an hour on such a night. i took the first opportunity to find out. the only way to find out about people's affairs in caskia, is by asking questions, or, by observation--which takes longer. they speak with their lives instead of their tongues, concerning so many things that other people are wordy about. they are quite devoid of theories. but they are charmingly willing to impart what one wishes to know. i learned that clytia's parents lived within a stone's throw of her house on one side, and calypso's grandparents at about the same distance on the other. and i also learned that it was an arrangement universally practiced; the clustering together of families, in order that the young might always be near at hand to support, and protect, and to smooth the pathway of the old. certain savage races upon the earth abandon the aged to starvation and death; certain other races, not savage, abandon them to a loneliness that is only less cruel. but these extraordinarily just people repay to the helplessness of age, the tenderness and care, the loving sympathy, which they themselves received in the helplessness of infancy. the grandparents happened to be away from home, and i did not meet them for some days. on that first morning we had clytia's parents to breakfast. immediately after breakfast the circle broke up. it was clytia's morning to visit and assist in the school which her little ones attended; ariadne started off to her work, with a fresh cluster of the delicious blue flowers in her belt; and i had the choice of visiting the steel-works with calypso, or taking a trip to lake eudosa, on foot, with the master. i could hardly conceal the delight with which i decided in favor of the latter. we set off at once, and what a walk it was! a little way through the city, and then across a strip of lush green meadow, starred with daisies, thence into sweet-smelling woods, and then down, down, down, along the rocky edge of the canyon, past the deafening waterfalls to the wonderful lake! we passed, on our way through the city, a large, fine structure which, upon inquiry, i found to be the place where the master "taught" on the sabbath day. "do you wish to look in?" he asked, and we turned back and entered. the interior was beautiful and vast, capacious enough to seat several thousand people; and every sunday it was filled. i thought it a good opportunity for finding out something about the religion of this people, and i began by asking: "are there any divisions in your church,--different denominations, i mean?" he seemed unable to comprehend me, and i was obliged to enter into an explanation, which i made as simple as possible, of course, relative to the curse of adam and the plan of redemption. in order that he might understand the importance attaching to our creeds, i told him of the fierce, sanguinary struggles of past ages, and the grave controversies of modern times, pertaining to certain dogmas and tenets,--as to whether they were essential, or non-essential to salvation. "salvation from what?" he asked. "why, from sin." "but how? we know only one way to be saved from sin." "and what is that?" i inquired. "not to sin." "but that is impossible!" i rejoined, feeling that he was trifling with the subject. though that was unlike him. "yes, it is impossible," he replied, gravely. "god did not make us perfect. he left us something to do for ourselves." "that is heretical," said i. "don't you believe in the fall of man?" "no, i think i believe in the rise of man," he answered, smiling. "o, i keep forgetting," i exclaimed, "that i am on another planet!" "and that this planet has different relations with god from what your planet has?" returned he. "i cannot think so, sir; it is altogether a new idea to me, and--pardon me!--an illogical one. we belong to the same system, and why should not the people of mars have the sentence for sin revoked, as well as the people of earth? why should not we have been provided with an intercessor? but tell me, is it really so?--do you upon the earth not suffer the consequences of your acts?" "why, certainly we do," said i; "while we live. the plan of salvation has reference to the life after death." he dropped his eyes to the ground. "you believe in that life, do you not?" i asked. "believe in it!"--he looked up, amazed. "all life is eternal; as long as god lives, we shall live." a little later he said: "you spoke of the fall of man,--what did you mean?" "that man was created a perfect being, but through sin became imperfect, so that god could not take him back to himself,--save by redemption." "and god sent his only son to the earth, you say, to redeem your race from the consequences of their own acts?" "so we believe," said i. after another brief silence, he remarked: "man did not begin his life upon this planet in perfection." at this moment we passed a beautiful garden, in which there was an infinite profusion of flowers in infinite variety. "look at those roses!" he exclaimed; "god planted the species, a crude and simple plant, and turned it over to man to do what he might with it; and in the same way he placed man himself here,--to perfect himself if he would. i am not jealous of god, nor envious of you; but just why he should have arranged to spare you all this labor, and commanded us to work out our own salvation, i cannot comprehend." it struck me as a remarkable coincidence that he should have used the very words of one of our own greatest logicians. a longer silence followed. the master walked with his head inclined, in the attitude of profound thought. at last he drew a deep breath and looked up, relaxing his brows. "it may be prodigiously presumptuous," he said, "but i am inclined to think there has been a mistake somewhere." "how, a mistake?" i asked. he paid no heed to the question, but said: "tell me the story,--tell me the exact words, if you can, of this great teacher whom you believe to be the son of god?" i gave a brief outline of the saviour's life and death, and it was a gratification to me--because it seemed, in some sort, an acknowledgment, or concession to my interpretation,--to see that he was profoundly affected. "oh!" he cried,--his hands were clenched and his body writhed as with the actual sufferings of the man of sorrows,--"that a race of men should have been brought through such awful tribulation to see god! why could they not accept the truth from his lips?" "because they would not. they kept crying 'give us a sign,' and he gave himself to death." i grouped together as many of the words of christ as i could recall, and i was surprised, not only that his memory kept its grasp on them all, but that he was able to see at once their innermost meaning. it was as if he dissolved them in the wonderful alembic of his understanding, and instantly restored them in crystals of pure truth, divested alike of mysticism and remote significance. he took them up, one by one, and held them to the light, as one holds precious gems. he knew them, recognized them, and appraised them with the delight, and comprehensiveness, and the critical judgment of a connoisseur of jewels. "you believe that christ came into your world," he said, "that you 'might have life.' that is, he came to teach you that the life of the soul, and not the body, is the real life. he died 'that you might live,' but it was not the mere fact of his death that assured your life. he was willing to give up his life in pledge of the truth of what he taught, that you might believe that truth, and act upon that belief, and so gain life. he taught only the truth,--his soul was a fountain of truth. hence, when he said, suffer the little children to come unto me, it was as though he said, teach your children the truths i have taught you. and when he cried in the tenderness of his great and yearning love, come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest, he meant,--oh! you cannot doubt it, my friend,--he meant, come, give up your strifes, and hatreds, your greeds, and vanities, and selfishness, and the endless weariness of your pomps and shows; come to me and learn how to live, and where to find peace, and contentment. 'a new commandment i give unto you, that ye love one another.' this was the 'easy yoke,' and the 'light burden,' which your christ offered to you in place of the tyranny of sin. 'whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' there is nothing finer than that,--there is no law above that! we caskians have been trying to work upon that principle for thousands of years. it is all that there is of religion, save the spiritual perception of abstract truths which we may conceive of; more or less clearly, as attributes of god. your great teacher explained to you that god is a spirit, and should be worshiped in spirit and in truth. hence we may worship him where and when we will. worship is not a ceremony, but profound contemplation of the infinite wisdom, the infinite power, and the infinite love of god. the outdoor world,--here, where we stand now, with the marvelous sky above us, the clouds, the sun; this mighty cataract before us; and all the teeming life, the beauty, the fragrance, the song,--is the best place of all. i pity the man who lacks the faculty of worship! it means that though he may have eyes he sees not, and ears he hears not." "do you believe in temples of worship?" i asked. "yes," he replied, "i believe in them; for though walls and stained windows shut out the physical glories of the world, they do not blind the eyes of the spirit. and if there is one in the pulpit who has absorbed enough of the attributes of god into his soul to stand as an interpreter to the people, it is better than waiting outside. then, too, there is grandeur in the coming together of a multitude to worship in oneness of spirit. and all things are better when shared with others. i believe that art should bring its best treasures to adorn the temples of worship, and that music should voice this supreme adoration. but in this matter, we should be careful not to limit god in point of locality. what does the saying mean, 'i asked for bread, and ye gave me a stone?' i think it might mean, for one thing, 'i asked where to find god, and you pointed to a building.' the finite mind is prone to worship its own creations of god. there are ignorant races upon this planet,--perhaps also upon yours,--who dimly recognize deity in this way; they bring the best they have of skill in handiwork, to the making of a pitiful image to represent god; and then, forgetting the motive, they bow down to the image. we call that idolatry. but it is hard even for the enlightened to avoid this sin." he paused a moment and then went on: "i cannot comprehend the importance you seem to place upon the forms and symbols, nor in what way they relate to religion, but they may have some temporary value, i can hardly judge of that. baptism, you say, is a token and a symbol, but do a people so far advanced in intelligence and perception, still require tokens and symbols? and can you not, even yet, separate the spiritual meaning of christ's words from their literal meaning? you worship the man--the god, if you will,--instead of that for which he stood. he himself was a symbol, he stood for the things he wished to teach. 'i am the truth,' 'i am the life.' do you not see that he meant, 'i am the exponent of truth, i teach you how to live; hearken unto me.' in those days in which he lived, perhaps, language was still word-pictures, and the people whom he taught could not grasp the abstract, hence he used the more forcible style, the concrete. he could not have made this clearer, than in those remarkable words, 'inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'" "i know," i replied, as he paused for some response from me; "my intellect accepts your interpretation of these things, but this symbolic religion of ours is ingrained in our very consciences, so that neglect of the outward forms of christianity seems almost worse than actual sin." "and it will continue to be so," he said, "until you learn to practice the truth for truth's sake,--until you love your neighbor--not only because christ commanded it, but because the principle of love is 'ingrained in your consciences.' as for belonging to a church, i can only conceive of that in the social sense, for every soul that aspires upward belongs to christ's church universal. they are the lambs of his flock, the objects of his tenderest care. but i can see how a great number of religious societies, or organizations, are possible, as corresponding with the requirements of different groups of people." "yes," i said, glad of this admission, "and these societies are all aiming at the same thing that you teach,--the brotherhood of man. they clothe the poor, they look after the sick, they send missionaries to the heathen, they preach morality and temperance,--all, in his name, because, to tell the truth, they cannot conceive of any virtue disassociated from the man, jesus. jesus is the great leader of the spiritual forces marshaled under the banners of truth upon the earth. in all their good works, which are so great and so many, good christians give christ the glory, because, but for him, they would not have had the truth, the life,--the world was so dark, so ignorant. all the ancient civilizations upon the earth,--and some of them were magnificent!--have perished, because they did not possess this truth and this spiritual life which christ taught. there was a great deal of knowledge, but not love; there was a great deal of philosophy, but it was cold. there was mysticism, but it did not satisfy. do you wonder, sir, that a world should love the man who brought love into that world,--who brought peace, good-will, to men?" "no, no," said the master, "i do not wonder. it is grand, sublime! and he gave his body to be destroyed by his persecutors, in order to prove to the world that there is a life higher than the physical, and indestructible,--and that physical death has no other agony than physical pain. ah, i see, i understand, and i am not surprised that you call this man your redeemer! i think, my friend," he added, "that you have now a civilization upon the earth, which will not perish!" after a moment, he remarked, turning to me with a smile, "we are not so far apart as we thought we were, when we first started out, are we?" "no," said i, "the only wonder to me is, that you should have been in possession, from the beginning, of the same truths that were revealed to us only a few centuries ago, through, as we have been taught to believe, special divine favor." "say, rather, infinite divine love," he returned; "then we shall indeed stand upon the same plane, all alike, children of god." as we continued our walk, his mind continued to dwell upon the teachings of christ, and he sought to make clear to me one thing after another. "pray without ceasing," he repeated, reflectively. "well, now, it would be impossible to take that literally; the literal meaning of prayer is verbal petition. the real meaning is, the sincere desire of the soul. you are commanded to pray in secret, and god will reward you openly. put the two together and you have this: desire constantly, within your secret soul, to learn and to practice the truth; and your open reward shall be the countless blessings which are attracted to the perfect life, the inner life. 'ask whatsoever you will, in my name, and it shall be granted you.' that is, 'ask in the name of truth and love.' shall you pray for a personal blessing or favor which might mean disaster or injury to another? prayer is the desire and effort of the soul to keep in harmony with god's great laws of the universe." * * * * * as it had been in thursia, so it was here; people came to see me from all parts, and there were some remarkable companies in clytia's parlors! usually they were spontaneous gatherings, evening parties being often made up with little or no premeditation. there was music always, in great variety, and of the most delightful and elevated character,--singing, and many kinds of bands. and sometimes there was dancing,--not of the kind which awakened in de quincey's soul, "the very grandest form of passionate sadness,"--but of a kind that made me wish i had been the inventor of the phrase, "poetry of motion," so that i could have used it here, fresh and unhackneyed. in all, there was no more voluptuousness than in the frolic of children. conversation might--and often was--as light as the dance of butterflies, but it was liable at any moment to rise, upon a hint, or a suggestion, to the most sublimated regions of thought,--for these people do not leave their minds at home when they go into society. and here, in society, i saw the workings of the principle of brotherly love, in a strikingly beautiful aspect. there was no disposition on the part of any one to outdo another; rather there seemed to be a general conspiracy to make each one rise to his best. the spirit of criticism was absent, and the spirit of petty jealousy. the women without exception were dressed with exquisite taste, because this is a part of their culture. and every woman was beautiful, for loving eyes approved her; and every man was noble, for no one doubted him. if the sky was clear, a portion of each evening was spent in the observatory, or out upon the balcony, as the company chose, and the great telescope was always in requisition, and always pointed to the earth!--if the earth was in sight. the last evening i spent in lunismar was such an one as i have described. ariadne and i happened to be standing together, and alone, in a place upon the balcony which commanded a view of our world. it was particularly clear and brilliant that night, and you may imagine with what feelings i contemplated it, being about to return to it! we had been silent for some little time, when she turned her eyes to me--those wonderful eyes!--and said, a little sadly, i thought: "i shall never look upon earth again, without happy memories of your brief visit among us." a strange impulse seized me, and i caught her hands and held them fast in mine. "and i, o, ariadne! when i return to earth again, and lift my eyes toward heaven, it will not be mars that i shall see, but only--ariadne!" a strange light suddenly flashed over her face and into her eyes as she raised them to mine, and in their clear depths was revealed to me the supreme law of the universe, the law of life, the law of love. in a voice tremulous with emotion--sad, but not hopeless--she murmured: "and i, also, shall forget my studies in the starry fields of space to watch for your far-distant planet--the earth--which shall forever touch all others with its glory." and there, under the stars, with the plaintive music of the eudosa in our ears, and seeing dimly through the darkness the white finger of the snowy peaks pointing upward, we looked into each other's eyes and--"i saw a new heaven and a new earth." the end. [illustration: books] _from the press of the arena publishing company._ the rise of the swiss republic. by w. d. mccrackan, a.m. it contains over four hundred pages, printed from new and handsome type, on a fine quality of heavy paper. the margins are wide, and the volume is richly bound in cloth. price, postpaid, $ . . sultan to sultan. by m. french-sheldon (bebe bwana). being a thrilling account of a remarkable expedition to the masai and other hostile tribes of east africa, which was planned and commanded by this intrepid woman. =a sumptuous volume of travels.= handsomely illustrated; printed on coated paper and richly bound in african red silk-finished cloth. price, postpaid, $ . . the league of the iroquois. by benjamin hathaway. it is instinct with good taste and poetic feeling, affluent of picturesque description and graceful portraiture, and its versification is fairly melodious.--_harper's magazine._ has the charm of longfellow's "hiawatha."--_albany evening journal._ of rare excellence and beauty.--_american wesleyan._ evinces fine qualities of imagination, and is distinguished by remarkable grace and fluency.--_boston gazette._ the publication of this poem alone may well serve as a mile-post in marking the pathway of american literature. the work is a marvel of legendary lore, and will be appreciated by every earnest reader.--_boston times._ price, postpaid, cloth, $ . ; red line edition, $ . . copley square series. i. bond-holders and bread-winners. by s. s. king, esq., kansas city, kansas. the most powerful book of the year. its argument is irresistible. you should read it. president l. l. polk, national f. a. and i. u., says: "it should be placed in the hands of every voter of this country." price, postpaid, cents; per hundred, $ . . ii. money, land, and transportation. contents: . a new declaration of rights. _hamlin garland._ . the farmer, investor, and the railway. _c. wood davis._ . the independent party and money at cost. _r. b. hassell._ price, single copy, cents; per hundred, $ . iii. industrial freedom. the triple demand of labor. contents: . the money question. _hon. john davis._ . the sub-treasury plan. _c. c. post._ . the railroad problem. _c. wood davis and ex-gov. lionel a. sheldon._ price, single copy, cents; per hundred, $ . iv. esau; or, the banker's victim. 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"the sturdy spirit of true democracy runs through this book."--_review of reviews._ price: paper, cents; cloth, $ . . irrepressible conflict between two world-theories. by rev. minot j. savage. the most powerful presentation of theistic evolution _versus_ orthodoxy that has ever appeared. price: paper, cents; cloth, $ . . _for sale by all booksellers. sent postpaid upon receipt of the price._ arena publishing company, copley square, boston, mass. adeline mowbray or the mother and daughter mrs opie chapter i in an old family mansion, situated on an estate in gloucestershire known by the name of rosevalley, resided mrs mowbray, and adeline her only child. mrs mowbray's father, mr woodville, a respectable country gentleman, married, in obedience to the will of his mother, the sole surviving daughter of an opulent merchant in london, whose large dower paid off some considerable mortgages on the woodville estates, and whose mild and unoffending character soon gained that affection from her husband after marriage, which he denied her before it. nor was it long before their happiness was increased, and their union cemented, by the birth of a daughter; who continuing to be an only child, and the probable heiress of great possessions, became the idol of her parents, and the object of unremitted attention to those who surrounded her. consequently, one of the first lessons which editha woodville learnt was that of egotism, and to consider it as the chief duty of all who approached her, to study the gratification of her whims and caprices. but, though rendered indolent in some measure by the blind folly of her parents, and the homage of her dependents, she had a taste above the enjoyments which they offered her. she had a decided passion for literature, which she had acquired from a sister of mr woodville, who had been brought up amongst literary characters of various pursuits and opinions; and this lady had imbibed from them a love of free inquiry, which she had little difficulty in imparting to her young and enthusiastic relation. but, alas! that inclination for study, which, had it been directed to proper objects, would have been the charm of miss woodville's life, and the safeguard of her happiness, by giving her a constant source of amusement within herself; proved to her, from the unfortunate direction which it took, the abundant cause of misery and disappointment. for her, history, biography, poetry, and discoveries in natural philosophy, had few attractions, while she pored with still unsatisfied delight over abstruse systems of morals and metaphysics, or new theories in politics; and scarcely a week elapsed in which she did not receive, from her aunt's bookseller in london, various tracts on these her favourite subjects. happy would it have been for miss woodville, if the merits of the works which she so much admired could have been canvassed in her presence by rational and unprejudiced persons: but, her parents and friends being too ignorant to discuss philosophical opinions or political controversies, the young speculator was left to the decision of her own inexperienced enthusiasm. to her, therefore, whatever was bold and uncommon seemed new and wise; and every succeeding theory held her imagination captive till its power was weakened by one of equal claims to singularity. she soon, however, ceased to be contented with reading, and was eager to become a writer also. but, as she was strongly imbued with the prejudices of an ancient family, she could not think of disgracing that family by turning professed author: she therefore confined her little effusions to a society of admiring friends, secretly lamenting the loss which the literary world sustained in her being born a gentlewoman. nor is it to be wondered at, that, as she was ambitious to be, and to be thought, a deep thinker, she should have acquired habits of abstraction, and absence, which imparted a look of wildness to a pair of dark eyes, that beamed with intelligence, and gave life to features of the most perfect regularity. to reverie, indeed, she was from childhood inclined; and her life was long a life of reverie. to her the present moment had scarcely ever existence; and this propensity to lose herself in a sort of ideal world, was considerably increased by the nature of her studies. fatal and unproductive studies! while, wrapt in philosophical abstraction, she was trying to understand a metaphysical question on the mechanism of the human mind, or what constituted the true nature of virtue, she suffered day after day to pass in the culpable neglect of positive duties; and while imagining systems for the good of society, and the furtherance of general philanthropy, she allowed individual suffering in her neighbourhood to pass unobserved and unrelieved. while professing her unbounded love for the great family of the world, she suffered her own family to pine under the consciousness of her neglect; and viciously devoted those hours to the vanity of abstruse and solitary study, which might have been better spent in amusing the declining age of her venerable parents, whom affection had led to take up their abode with her. let me observe, before i proceed further, that mrs mowbray scrupulously confined herself to theory, even in her wisest speculations; and being too timid, and too indolent, to illustrate by her conduct the various and opposing doctrines which it was her pride to maintain by turns, her practice was ever in opposition to her opinions. hence, after haranguing with all the violence of a true whig on the natural rights of man, or the blessings of freedom, she would 'turn to a tory in her elbow chair', and govern her household with despotic authority; and after embracing at some moments the doubts of the sceptic, she would often lie motionless in her bed, from apprehension of ghosts, a helpless prey to the most abject superstition. such was the mother of adeline mowbray! such was the woman who, having married the heir of rosevalley, merely to oblige her parents, saw herself in the prime of life a rich widow, with an only child, who was left by mr mowbray, a fond husband, but an ill-judging parent, entirely dependent on her! at the time of mr mowbray's death, adeline mowbray was ten years old, and mrs mowbray thirty; and like an animal in an exhausted receiver, she had during her short existence been tormented by the experimental philosophy of her mother. now it was judged right that she should learn nothing, and now that she should learn every thing. now, her graceful form and well-turned limbs were to be free from any bandage, and any clothing save what decency required,--and now they were to be tortured by stiff stays, and fettered by the stocks and the back-board. all mrs mowbray's ambition had settled in one point, one passion, and that was education. for this purpose she turned over innumerable volumes in search of rules on the subject, on which she might improve, anticipating with great satisfaction the moment when she should be held up as a pattern of imitation to mothers, and be prevailed upon, though with graceful reluctance, to publish her system, without a name, for the benefit of society. but, however good her intentions were, the execution of them was continually delayed by her habits of abstraction and reverie. after having over night arranged the tasks of adeline for the next day,--lost in some new speculations for the good of her child, she would lie in bed all the morning, exposing that child to the dangers of idleness. at one time mrs mowbray had studied herself into great nicety with regard to the diet of her daughter; but, as she herself was too much used to the indulgences of the palate to be able to set her in reality an example of temperance, she dined in appearance with adeline at one o'clock on pudding without butter, and potatoes without salt; but while the child was taking her afternoon's walk, her own table was covered with viands fitted for the appetite of opulence. unfortunately, however, the servants conceived that the daughter as well as the mother had a right to regale clandestinely; and the little adeline used to eat for her supper, with a charge not to tell her mamma, some of the good things set by from mrs mowbray's dinner. it happened that, as mrs mowbray was one evening smoothing adeline's flowing curls, and stroking her ruddy cheek, she exclaimed triumphantly, raising adeline to the glass, 'see the effect of temperance and low living! if you were accustomed to eat meat, and butter, and drink any thing but water, you would not look so healthy, my love, as you do now. o the excellent effects of a vegetable diet!' the artless girl, whose conscience smote her during the whole of this speech, hung her blushing head on her bosom:--it was the confusion of guilt; and mrs mowbray perceiving it earnestly demanded what it meant, when adeline, half crying, gave a full explanation. nothing could exceed the astonishment and mortification of mrs mowbray; but, though usually tenacious of her opinions, she in this case profited by the lesson of experience. she no longer expected any advantage from clandestine measures:--but adeline, her appetites regulated by a proper exertion of parental authority, was allowed to sit at the well-furnished table of her mother, and was precluded, by a judicious and open indulgence, from wishing for a secret and improper one; while the judicious praises which mrs mowbray bestowed on adeline's ingenuous confession endeared to her the practice of truth, and laid the foundation of a habit of ingenuousness which formed through life one of the ornaments of her character--would that mrs mowbray had always been equally judicious! another great object of anxiety to her was the method of clothing children; whether they should wear flannel, or no flannel; light shoes, to give agility to the motions of the limbs; or heavy shoes, in order to strengthen the muscles by exertion;--when one day, as she was turning over a voluminous author on this subject, the nurserymaid hastily entered the room, and claimed her attention, but in vain; mrs mowbray went on reading aloud:-- 'some persons are of opinion that thin shoes are most beneficial to health; others, equally worthy of respect, think thick ones of most use: and the reasons for these different opinions we shall class under two heads--' 'dear me, ma'am!' cried bridget, 'and in the meantime miss adeline will go without any shoes at all.' 'do not interrupt me, bridget,' cried mrs mowbray, and proceeded to read on. 'in the first place, it is not clear, says a learned writer, whether children require any clothing at all for their feet.' at this moment adeline burst open the parlour door, and, crying bitterly, held up her bleeding toes to her mother. 'mamma, mamma!' cried she, 'you forget to send for a pair of new shoes for me; and see, how the stones in the gravel have cut me!' this sight, this appeal, decided the question in dispute. the feet of adeline bleeding on a new turkey carpet proved that some clothing for the feet was necessary; and even mrs mowbray for a moment began to suspect that a little experience is better than a great deal of theory. chapter ii meanwhile, in spite of all mrs mowbray's eccentricities and caprices, adeline, as she grew up, continued to entertain for her the most perfect respect and affection. her respect was excited by the high idea which she had formed of her abilities,--an idea founded on the veneration which all the family seemed to feel for her on that account,--and her affection was excited even to an enthusiastic degree by the tenderness with which mrs mowbray had watched over her during an alarming illness. for twenty-one days adeline had been in the utmost danger; nor is it probable that she would have been able to struggle against the force of the disease, but for the unremitting attention of her mother. it was then, perhaps, for the first time that mrs mowbray felt herself a mother:--all her vanities, all her systems, were forgotten in the danger of adeline,--she did not even hazard an opinion on the medical treatment to be observed. for once she was contented to obey instructions in silence; for once she was never caught in a reverie; but, like the most common-place woman of her acquaintance, she lived to the present moment:--and she was rewarded for her cares by the recovery of her daughter, and by that daughter's most devoted attachment. not even the parents of mrs mowbray, who, because she talked on subjects which they could not understand, looked up to her as a superior being, could exceed adeline in deference to her mother's abilities; and when, as she advanced in life, she was sometimes tempted to think her deficient in maternal fondness, the idea of mrs mowbray bending with pale and speechless anxiety over her sleepless pillow used to recur to her remembrance, and in a moment the recent indifference was forgotten. nor could she entirely acquit herself of ingratitude in observing this seeming indifference: for, whence did the abstraction and apparent coldness of mrs mowbray proceed? from her mind's being wholly engrossed in studies for the future benefit of adeline. why did she leave the concerns of her family to others? why did she allow her infirm but active mother to superintend all the household duties? and why did she seclude herself from all society, save that of her own family, and dr norberry, her physician and friend, but that she might devote every hour to endeavours to perfect a system of education for her beloved and only daughter, to whom the work was to be dedicated? 'and yet,' said adeline mentally, 'i am so ungrateful sometimes as to think she does not love me sufficiently.' but while mrs mowbray was busying herself in plans for adeline's education, she reached the age of fifteen, and was in a manner educated; not, however, by her,--though mrs mowbray would, no doubt, have been surprised to have heard this assertion. mrs mowbray, as i have before said, was the spoiled child of rich parents; who, as geniuses were rarer in those days than they are now, spite of their own ignorance, rejoiced to find themselves the parents of a genius; and as their daughter always disliked the usual occupations of her sex, the admiring father and mother contented themselves with allowing her to please herself; say to each other, 'she must not be managed in a common way; for you know, my dear, she is one of your geniuses,--and they are never like other folks.' mrs woodville, the mother, had been brought up with all the ideas of economy and housewifery which at that time of day prevailed in the city, and influenced the education of the daughters of citizens. 'my dear,' said she one day to adeline, 'as you are no genius, you know, like your mother, (and god forbid you should! for one is quite enough in a family,) i shall make bold to teach you every thing that young women in my young days used to learn, and my daughter may thank me for it some time or other: for you know, my dear, when i and my good man die, what in the world would come of my poor edith, if so be she had no one to manage for her! for, lord love you! she knows no more of managing a family, and such-like, than a newborn babe.' 'and can you, dear grandmother, teach me to be of use to my mother?' said adeline. 'to be sure, child; for as you are no genius, no doubt you can learn all them sort of things that women commonly know:--so we will begin directly.' in a short time adeline, stimulated by the ambition of being useful, (for she had often heard her mother assert that utility was the foundation of all virtue,) became as expert in household affairs as mrs woodville herself: even the department of making pastry was now given up to adeline, and the servants always came to her for orders, saying, that 'as their mistress was a learned lady, and that, and so could not be spoken with except here and there on occasion, they wished their young mistress, who was more easy spoken, would please to order:' and as mr and mrs woodville's infirmities increased every day, adeline soon thought it right to assume the entire management of the family. she also took upon herself the office of almoner to mrs woodville, and performed it with an activity unknown to her; for she herself carried the broth and wine that were to comfort the infirm cottager; she herself saw the medicine properly administered that was to preserve his suffering existence: the comforts the poor required she purchased herself; and in sickness she visited, in sorrow she wept with them. and though adeline was almost unknown personally to the neighbouring gentry, she was followed with blessings by the surrounding cottagers; while many a humble peasant watched at the gate of the park to catch a glimpse of his young benefactress, and pray to god to repay to the heiress of rosevalley the kindness which she had shown to him and his offspring. thus happy, because usefully employed, and thus beloved and respected, because actively benevolent, passed the early years of adeline mowbray; and thus was she educated, before her mother had completed her system of education. it was not long before adeline took on herself a still more important office. mrs mowbray's steward was detected in very dishonest practices; but, as she was too much devoted to her studies to like to look into her affairs with a view to dismiss him, she could not be prevailed on to discharge him from her service. fortunately, however, her father on his death-bed made it his request that she would do so; and mrs mowbray pledged herself to obey him. 'but what shall i do for a steward in davison's place?' said she soon after her father died. 'is one absolutely necessary?' returned adeline modestly. 'surely farmer jenkins would undertake to do all that is necessary for half the money; and, if he were properly overlooked--' 'and pray who can overlook him properly?' asked mrs mowbray. 'my grandmother and i,' replied adeline timidly: 'we both like business and--' 'like business!--but what do you know of it?' 'know!' cried mrs woodville, 'why, daughter, lina is very clever at it, i assure you!' 'astonishing! she knows nothing yet of accounts.' 'dear me! how mistaken you are, child! she knows accounts perfectly well.' 'impossible!' replied mrs mowbray: 'who should have taught her? i have been inventing an easy method of learning arithmetic, by which i was going to teach her in a few months.' 'yes, child: but i, thinking it a pity that the poor girl should learn nothing, like, till she was to learn every thing, taught her according to the old way; and i cannot but say she took to it very kindly. did not you, lina?' 'yes, grandmother,' said adeline; 'and as i love arithmetic very much, i am quite anxious to keep all my mother's accounts, and overlook the accounts of the person whom she shall employ to manage her estates in future.' to this mrs mowbray, half pleased and half mortified, at length consented; and adeline and farmer jenkins entered upon their occupations. shortly after mrs woodville was seized with her last illness; and adeline neglected every other duty, and mrs mowbray her studies, 'to watch, and weep, beside a parent's bed.' but watch and weep was all that mrs mowbray did: with every possible wish to be useful, she had so long given way to habits of abstraction, and neglect of everyday occupations, that she was rather a hindrance than a help in the sick room. during adeline's illness, excessive fear of losing her only child had indeed awakened her to unusual exertion; and as all that she had to do was to get down, at stated times, a certain quantity of wine and nourishment, her task though wearisome was not difficult: but to sooth the declining hours of an aged parent, to please the capricious appetite of decay, to assist with ready and skilful alacrity the shaking hand of the invalid, jealous of waiting on herself and wanting to be cheated into being waited upon;--these trifling yet important details did not suit the habits of mrs mowbray. but adeline was versed in them all; and her mother, conscious of her superiority in these things, was at last contented to sit by inactive, though not unmoved. one day, when mrs mowbray had been prevailed upon to lie down for an hour or two in another apartment, and adeline was administering to mrs woodville some broth which she had made herself, the old lady pressed her hand affectionately, and cried, 'ah! child, in a lucky hour i made bold to interfere, and teach you what your mother was too clever to learn. wise was i to think one genius enough in a family,--else, what should i have done now? my daughter, though the best child in the world, could never have made such nice broth as this to comfort me, so hot, and boiled to a minute like! bless her! she'd have tried, that she would, but ten to one but she'd have smoked it, overturned it, and scalt her fingers into the bargain.--ah, lina, lina! mayhap the time will come when you, should you have a sick husband or a child to nurse, may bless your poor grandmother for having taught you to be useful.' 'dear grandmother,' said adeline tenderly, 'the time has come: i am, you see, useful to you; and therefore i bless you already for having taught me to be so.' 'good girl, good girl! just what i would have you! and forgive me, lina, when i own that i have often thanked god for not making you a genius! not but what no child can behave better than mine; for, with all her wit and learning, she was always so respectful, and so kind to me and my dear good man, that i am sure i could not but rejoice in such a daughter; though, to be sure, i used to wish she was more conversible like; for, as to the matter of a bit of chat, we never gossiped together in our lives. and though, to be sure, the squires' ladies about are none of the brightest, and not to compare with my edith, yet still they would have done for me and my dear good man to gossip a bit with. so i was vexed when my daughter declared she wanted all her time for her studies, and would not visit any body, no, not even mrs norberry, who is to be sure a very good sort of a woman, though a little given to speak ill of her neighbours. but then so we are all, you know: and, as i say, why, if one spoke well of all alike, what would be the use of one person's being better than his neighbours, except for conscience's sake? but, as i was going to say, my daughter was pleased to compliment me, and declare she was sure i could amuse myself without visiting women so much inferior to me; and she advised my beginning a course of study, as she called it.' 'and did you?' asked adeline with surprise. 'yes. to oblige her, my good man and i began to read one mr locke on the conduct of the human understanding; which my daughter said would teach us to think.' 'to think?' said adeline. 'yes.--now, you must know, my poor husband did not look upon it as very respectful like in edith to say that, because it seemed to say that we had lived all these years without having thought at all; which was not true, to be sure, because we were never thoughtless like, and my husband was so staid when a boy that he was called a little old man.' 'but i am sure,' said adeline, half smiling, 'that my mother did not mean to insinuate that you wanted proper thought.' 'no, i dare say not,' resumed the old lady, 'and so i told my husband, and so we set to study this book: but, dear me! it was hebrew greek to us--and so dull!' 'then you did not get through it, i suppose?' 'through it, bless your heart! no--not three pages! so my good man says to edith, says he, "you gave us this book, i think, child, to teach us to think?" "yes, sir," says she. "and it has taught us to think," says he:--"it has taught us to think that it is very dull and disagreeable." so my daughter laughed, and said her father was witty; but, poor soul! he did not mean it. 'well, then: as, to amuse us, we liked to look at the stars sometimes, she told us we had better learn their names, and study astronomy; and so we began that: but that was just as bad as mr locke; and we knew no more of the stars and planets, than the man in the moon. yet that's not right to say, neither; for, as he is so much nearer the stars, he must know more about them than any one whomsoever. so at last my daughter found out that learning was not our taste; so she left us to please ourselves, and play cribbage and draughts in an evening as usual.' here the old lady paused, and adeline said affectionately, 'dear grandmother, i doubt you exert yourself too much: so much talking can't be good for you.' 'o! yes, child!' replied mrs. woodville: 'it is no trouble at all to me, i assure you, but quite natural and pleasant like: besides, you know i shall not be able to talk much longer, so let me make the most of my time now.' this speech brought tears into the eyes of adeline; and seeing her mother re-enter the room, she withdrew to conceal the emotion which she felt, lest the cheerful loquacity of the invalid, which she was fond of indulging, should be checked by seeing her tears. but it had already received a check from the presence of mrs mowbray, of whose superior abilities mrs woodville was so much in awe, that, concluding her daughter could not bear to hear her nonsense, the old lady smiled kindly on her when with a look of tender anxiety she hastened to her bedside, and then, holding her hand, composed herself to sleep. in a few days more, she breathed her last on the supporting arm of adeline; and lamented in her dying moments, that she had nothing valuable in money to leave, in order to show adeline how sensible she was of her affectionate attentions: 'but you are an only child,' she added, 'and all your mother has will be yours.' 'no doubt,' observed mrs mowbray eagerly; and her mother died contented. chapter iii at this period adeline's ambition had led her to form new plans, which mrs woodville's death left her at liberty to put in execution. whenever the old lady reminded her that she was no genius, adeline had felt as much degraded as if she had said that she was no conjuror; and though she was too humble to suppose that she could ever equal her mother, she was resolved to try to make herself more worthy of her, by imitating her in those pursuits and studies on which were founded mrs mowbray's pretensions to superior talents. she therefore made it her business to inquire what those studies and pursuits were; and finding that mrs mowbray's noted superiority was built on her passion for abstruse speculations, adeline eagerly devoted her leisure hours to similar studies: but, unfortunately, these new theories, and these romantic reveries, which only served to amuse mrs mowbray's fancy, her more enthusiastic daughter resolved to make conscientiously the rules of her practice. and while mrs mowbray expended her eccentric philosophy in words, as mr shandy did his grief, adeline carefully treasured up hers in her heart, to be manifested only by its fruits. one author in particular, by a train of reasoning captivating though sophistical, and plausible though absurd, made her a delighted convert to his opinions, and prepared her young and impassioned heart for the practice of vice, by filling her mind, ardent in the love of virtue, with new and singular opinions on the subject of moral duty. on the works of this writer adeline had often heard her mother descant in terms of the highest praise; but she did not feel herself so completely his convert on her own conviction, till she had experienced the fatal fascination of his style, and been conveyed by his bewitching pen from the world as it is, into a world as it _ought_ to be. this writer, whose name was glenmurray, amongst other institutions, attacked the institution of marriage; and after having elaborately pointed out its folly and its wickedness, he drew so delightful a picture of the superior purity, as well as happiness, of an union cemented by no ties but those of love and honour, that adeline, wrought to the highest pitch of enthusiasm for a new order of things, entered into a solemn compact with herself to act, when she was introduced into society, according to the rules laid down by this writer. unfortunately for her, she had no opportunity of hearing these opinions combated by the good sense and sober experience of dr norberry then their sole visitant; for at this time the american war was the object of attention to all europe: and as mrs mowbray, as well as dr norberry, were deeply interested in this subject, they scarcely ever talked on any other; and even glenmurray and his theories were driven from mrs mowbray's remembrance by political tracts and the eager anxieties of a politician. nor had she even leisure to observe, that while she was feeling all the generous anxiety of a citizen of the world for the sons and daughters of american independence, her own child was imbibing, through her means, opinions dangerous to her well-being as a member of any civilized society, and laying, perhaps, the foundation to herself and her mother of future misery and disgrace. alas! the astrologer in the fable was but too like mrs mowbray! but even had adeline had an opportunity of discussing her new opinions with dr norberry, it is not at all certain that she would have had the power. mrs mowbray was, if i may be allowed the expression, a showing-off woman, and loved the information which she acquired, less for its own sake than for the supposed importance which it gave her amongst her acquaintance, and the means of displaying her superiority over other women. before she secluded herself from society in order to study education, she had been the terror of the ladies in the neighbourhood; since, despising small talk, she would always insist on making the gentlemen of her acquaintance (as much terrified sometimes as their wives) engage with her in some literary or political conversation. she wanted to convert every drawing-room into an arena for the mind, and all her guests into intellectual gladiators. she was often heard to interrupt two grave matrons in an interesting discussion of an accouchement, by asking them if they had read a new theological tract, or a pamphlet against the minister? if they softly expatiated on the lady-like fatigue of body which they had endured, she discoursed in choice terms on the energies of the mind; and she never received or paid visits without convincing the company that she was the most wise, most learned, and most disagreeable of companions. but adeline, on the contrary, studied merely from the love of study, and not with a view to shine in conversation; nor dared she venture to expatiate on subjects which she had often heard mrs woodville say were very rarely canvassed, or even alluded to, by women. she remained silent, therefore, on the subject nearest her heart, from choice as well as necessity, in the presence of dr norberry, till at length she imbibed the political mania herself, and soon found it impossible to conceal the interest which she took in the success of the infant republic. she therefore one day put into the doctor's hands some _bouts rimes_ which she had written on some recent victory of the american arms; exclaiming with a smile, 'i, too, am a politician!' and was rewarded by an exclamation of 'why girl--i protest you are as clever as your mother!' this unexpected declaration fixed her in the path of literary ambition: and though wisely resolved to fulfil, as usual, every feminine duty, adeline was convinced that she, like her mother, had a right to be an author, a politician, and a philosopher; while dr norberry's praises of her daughter convinced mrs mowbray, that almost unconsciously she had educated her into a prodigy, and confirmed her in her intention of exhibiting herself and adeline to the admiring world during the next season at bath; for at bath she expected to receive that admiration which she had vainly sought in london. soon after their marriage, mr mowbray had carried his lively bride to the metropolis, where she expected to receive the same homage which had been paid to her charms at the assize-balls in her neighbourhood. what then must have been her disappointment, when, instead of hearing as she passed, 'that is miss woodville, the rich heiress--or the great genius--or the great beauty'--or, 'that is the beautiful mrs mowbray,' she walked unknown and unobserved in public and in private, and found herself of as little importance in the wide world of the metropolis, as the most humble of her acquaintance in a country ball-room. true, she had beauty, but then it was unset-off by fashion; nay, more, it was eclipsed by unfashionable and tasteless attire; and her manner, though stately and imposing in an assembly where she was known, was wholly unlike the manners of the world, and in a london party appeared arrogant and offensive. her remarks, too, wise as they appeared to her and mr mowbray, excited little attention,--as the few persons to whom they were known in the metropolis were wholly ignorant of her high pretensions, and knew not that they were discoursing with a professed genius, and the oracle of a provincial circle. some persons, indeed, surprised at hearing from the lips of eighteen, observations on morals, theology, and politics, listened to her with wonder, and even attention, but turned away observing-- 'such things, 'tis true, are neither new nor rare, the only wonder is, how they got there:' till at length, disappointed, mortified, and disgusted, mrs mowbray impatiently returned to rosevalley, where in beauty, in learning, and in grandeur she was unrivalled, and where she might deal out her dogmas, sure of exciting respectful attention, however she might fail of calling for a more flattering tribute from her auditors. but in the narrower field of bath she expected to shine forth with greater éclat than in london, and to obtain admiration more worthy of her acceptance than any which a country circle could offer. to bath, therefore, she prepared to go; and the young heart of adeline beat high with pleasure at the idea of mixing with that busy world which her fancy had often clothed in the most winning attractions. but her joy, and mrs mowbray's was a little over-clouded at the moment of their departure, by the sight of dr norberry's melancholy countenance. what was to be, as they fondly imagined, their gain, was his loss, and with a full heart he came to bid them adieu. for adeline he had conceived not only affection, but esteem amounting almost to veneration; for she appeared to him to unite various and opposing excellencies. though possessed of taste and talents for literature, she was skilled in the minutest details of housewifery and feminine occupations: and at the same time she bore her faculties so meekly, that she never wounded the self-love of any one, by arrogating to herself any superiority. such adeline appeared to her excellent old friend; and his affection for her was, perhaps, increased by the necessity which he was under of concealing it at home. the praises of mrs mowbray and adeline were odious to the ears of mrs norberry and her daughters,--but especially the praises of the latter,--as the merit of adeline was so uniform, that even the eye of envy could not at that period discover any thing in her vulnerable to censure: and as the sound of her name excited in his family a number of bad passions and corresponding expressions of countenance, the doctor wisely resolved to keep his feelings, with regard to her, locked up in his own bosom. but he persisted in visiting at the park daily; and it is no wonder, therefore, that the loss, even for a few months, of the society of its inhabitants should by him be anticipated as a serious calamity. 'pshaw!' cried he, as adeline, with an exulting bound sprung after her mother into the carriage, 'how gay and delighted you are! though my heart feels sadly queer and heavy.' 'my dear friend,' cried mrs mowbray, 'i must miss your society wherever i go.'--'i wish you were going too,' said adeline: 'i shall often think of you.' 'pshaw, girl! don't lie,' replied dr norberry, swallowing a sigh as he spoke: 'you will soon forget an old fellow like me.'--'then i conclude that you will soon forget us.'--'he! how! what! think so at your peril.'--'i must think so, as we usually judge of others by ourselves.'--'go to--go, miss mal-a-pert.--well, but, drive on, coachman--this taking leave is plaguey disagreeable, so shake hands and be off.' they gave him their hands, which he pressed very affectionately, and the carriage drove on. 'i am an old fool,' cried the doctor, wiping his eyes as the carriage disappeared. 'well: heaven grant, sweet innocent, that you may return to me as happy and spotless as you now are!' mrs mowbray had been married at a very early age, and had accepted in mr mowbray the first man who addressed her: consequently that passion for personal admiration, so natural to women, had in her never been gratified, nor even called forth. but seeing herself, at the age of thirty-eight, possessed of almost undiminished beauty, she recollected that her charms had never received that general homage for which nature intended them; and she who at twenty had disregarded, even to a fault, the ornaments of dress, was now, at the age of thirty-eight, eager to indulge in the extremes of decoration, and to share in the delights of conquest and admiration with her youthful and attractive daughter. attractive, rather than handsome, was the epithet best suited to describe adeline mowbray. her beauty was the beauty of expression of countenance, not regularity of feature, though the uncommon fairness and delicacy of her complexion, the lustre of her hazel eyes, her long dark eye-lashes, and the profusion of soft light hair which curled over the ever-mantling colour of her cheek, gave her some pretensions to what is denominated beauty. but her own sex declared she was plain--and perhaps they were right--though the other protested against the decision--and probably they were right also: but women criticize in detail, men admire in the aggregate. women reason, and men feel, when passing judgment on female beauty: and when a woman declares another to be plain, the chances are that she is right in her opinion, as she cannot, from her being a woman, feel the charm of that power to please, that 'something than beauty dearer,' which often throws a veil over the irregularity of features and obtains, for even a plain woman, from men at least, the appellation of pretty. whether adeline's face were plain or not, her form could defy even the severity of female criticism. she was indeed tall, almost to a masculine degree; but such were the roundness and proportion of her limbs, such the symmetry of her whole person, such the lightness and gracefulness of her movements, and so truly feminine were her look and manner, that superior height was forgotten in the superior loveliness of her figure. it is not to be wondered at, then, that miss mowbray was an object of attention and admiration at bath, as soon as she appeared, nor that her mother had her share of flattery and followers. indeed, when it was known that mrs mowbray was a rich widow, and adeline dependent upon her, the mother became, in the eyes of some people, much more attractive than her daughter. it was impossible, however, that, in such a place as bath, mrs mowbray and adeline could make, or rather retain, a general acquaintance. their opinions on most subjects were so very different from those of the world, and they were so little conscious, from the retirement in which they lived, that this difference existed, or was likely to make them enemies, that not a day elapsed in which they did not shock the prejudices of some, and excite the contemptuous pity of others; and they soon saw their acquaintance coolly dropped by those who, as persons of family and fortune, had on their first arrival sought it with eagerness. but this was not entirely owing to the freedom of their sentiments on politics, or on other subjects; but, because they associated with a well-known but obnoxious author;--a man whose speculations had delighted the inquiring but ignorant lover of novelty, terrified the timid idolater of ancient usages, and excited the regret of the cool and rational observer:--regret, that eloquence so overwhelming, powers of reasoning so acute, activity of research so praise-worthy, and a love of investigation so ardent, should be thrown away on the discussion of moral and political subjects, incapable of teaching the world to build up again with more beauty and propriety, a fabric, which they were perhaps, calculated to pull down: in short, mrs mowbray and adeline associated with glenmurray, that author over whose works they had long delighted to meditate, and who had completely led their imagination captive, before the fascination of his countenance and manners had come in aid of his eloquence. chapter iv frederic glenmurray was a man of family, and of a small independent estate, which, in case he died without children, was to go to the next male heir; and to that heir it was certain it would go, as glenmurray on principle was an enemy to marriage, and consequently not likely to have a child born in wedlock. it was unfortunate circumstance for glenmurray, that, with the ardour of a young and inexperienced mind, he had given his eccentric opinions to the world as soon as they were conceived and arranged,--as he, by so doing, prejudiced the world against him in so unconquerable a degree, that to him almost every door and heart was shut; and he by that means excluded from every chance of having the errors of his imagination corrected by the arguments of the experienced and enlightened--and corrected, no doubt, they would have been, for he had a mild and candid spirit, and mind open to conviction. 'i consider myself,' he used to say, 'as a sceptic, not as a man really certain of the truth of any thing which he advances. i doubt of all things, because i look upon doubt as the road to truth; and do but convince me what is the truth, and at what risk, whatever sacrifice, i am ready to embrace it.' but, alas! neither the blamelessness of his life, nor even his active virtue, assisted by the most courteous manners, were deemed sufficient to counteract the mischievous tendency of his works; or rather, it was supposed impossible that his life could be blameless and his seeming virtues sincere:--and unheard, unknown, this unfortunate young man was excluded from those circles which his talents would have adorned, and forced to lead a life of solitude, or associate with persons unlike to him in most things, except in a passion for the bold in theory, and the almost impossible in practice. of this description of persons he soon became the oracle--the head of a sect, as it were; and those tenets which at first he embraced, and put forth more for amusement than from conviction, as soon as he began to suffer on their account, became as clear to him as the cross to the christian martyr: and deeming persecution a test of truth, he considered the opposition made to him and his doctrines, not as the result of dispassionate reason striving to correct absurdity, but as selfishness and fear endeavouring to put out the light which showed the weakness of the foundation on which were built their claims to exclusive respect. when mrs mowbray and adeline first arrived at bath, the latter had attracted the attention and admiration of colonel mordaunt, an irishman of fortune, and an officer in the guards; and adeline had not been insensible to the charms of the very fine person and engaging manners, united to powers of conversation which displayed an excellent understanding improved by education and reading. but colonel mordaunt was not a _marrying man_, as it is called: therefore, as soon as he began to feel the influence of adeline growing too powerful for his freedom, and to observe that his attentions were far from unpleasing to her,--too honourable to excite an attachment in her which he resolved to combat in himself, he resolved to fly from the danger, which he knew he could not face and overcome; and after a formal but embarrassed adieu to mrs mowbray and adeline, he suddenly left bath. this unexpected departure both surprised and grieved adeline; but, as her feelings of delicacy were too strong to allow her to sigh for a man who, evidently, had no thoughts of sighing for her, she dismissed colonel mordaunt from her remembrance, and tried to find as much interest still in the ball-rooms, and the promenades, as his presence had given them: nor was it long before she found in them an attraction and an interest stronger than any which she had yet felt. it is naturally to be supposed that adeline had often wished to know personally an author whose writings delighted her as much as glenmurray's had done, and that her fancy had often portrayed him: but though it had clothed him in a form at once pleasing and respectable,--still, from an idea of his superior wisdom, she had imagined him past the meridian of life, and not likely to excite warmer feelings than those of esteem and veneration: and such continued to be adeline's idea of glenmurray, when he arrived at bath, having been sent thither by his physicians for the benefit of his health. glenmurray, though a sense of his unpopularity had long banished him from scenes of public resort in general, was so pleased with the novelties of bath, that, though he walked wholly unnoticed except by the lovers of genius in whatsoever shape it showed itself, he frequented daily the pump-room, and the promenades; and adeline had long admired the countenance and dignified person of this young and interesting invalid, without the slightest suspicion of his being the man of all others whom she most wished to see. nor had glenmurray been slow to admire adeline: and so strong, so irresistible was the feeling of admiration which she had excited in him, that, as soon as she appeared, all other objects vanished from his sight; and as women are generally quick-sighted to the effect of their charms, adeline never beheld the stranger without a suffusion of pleasurable confusion on her cheek. one morning at the pump-room, when glenmurray, unconscious that adeline was near, was reading the newspaper with great attention, and adeline for the first time was looking at him unobserved, she heard the name of glenmurray pronounced, and turned her head towards the person who spoke, in hopes of seeing glenmurray himself; when mrs mowbray, turning round and looking at the invalid, said to a gentleman next her, 'did you say, sir, that that tall, pale, dark, interesting-looking young man is mr glenmurray, the celebrated author?' 'yes, ma'am,' replied the gentleman with a sneer: 'that is mr glenmurray, the celebrated author.' 'oh! how i should like to speak to him!' cried mrs mowbray. 'it will be no difficult matter,' replied her informant: 'the gentleman is always quite as much at leisure as you see him now; for _all_ persons have not the same taste as mrs mowbray.' so saying, he bowed and departed, leaving mrs mowbray, to whom the sight of a great author was new, so lost in contemplating glenmurray, that the sarcasm with which he spoke entirely escaped her observation. nor was adeline less abstracted: she too was contemplating glenmurray, and with mixed but delightful feelings. 'so then he is young and handsome too!' said she mentally: 'it is a pity he looks so _ill_,' added she _sighing_: but the sigh was caused rather by his looking so _well_--though adeline was not conscious of it. by this time glenmurray had observed who were his neighbours, and the newspaper was immediately laid down. 'is there any news to-day?' said mrs mowbray to glenmurray, resolved to make a bold effort to become acquainted with him. glenmurray, with a bow and a blush of mingled surprise and pleasure, replied that there was a great deal,--and immediately presented to her the paper which he had relinquished, setting chairs at the same time for her and adeline. mrs mowbray, however, only slightly glanced her eye over the paper:--her desire was to talk to glenmurray; and in order to accomplish this point, and prejudice him in her favour, she told him how much she rejoiced in seeing an author whose works were the delight and instruction of her life. 'speak, adeline,' cried she, turning to her blushing daughter; 'do we not almost daily read and daily admire mr glenmurray's writings?'--'yes, certainly,' replied adeline, unable to articulate more, awed no doubt by the presence of so superior a being; while glenmurray, more proud of being an author than ever, said internally, 'is it possible that that sweet creature should have read and admired my works?' but in vain, encouraged by the smiles and even by the blushes of adeline, did he endeavour to engage her in conversation. adeline was unusually silent, unusually bashful. but mrs mowbray made ample amends for her deficiency; and mr glenmurray, flattered and amused, would have continued to converse with her and look at adeline, had he not observed the impertinent sneers and rude laughter to which conversing so familiarly with him exposed mrs mowbray. as soon as he observed this, he arose to depart; for glenmurray was, according to rochefoucault's maxim, so exquisitely selfish, that he always considered the welfare of others before his own; and heroically sacrificing his own gratification to save mrs mowbray and adeline from further censure, he bowed with the greatest respect to mrs mowbray, sighed as he paid the same compliment to adeline, and, lamenting his being forced to quit them so soon, with evident reluctance left the room. 'what an elegant bow he makes!' exclaimed mrs mowbray. adeline had observed nothing but the sigh; and on that she did not choose to make any comment. the next day mrs mowbray, having learned glenmurray's address, sent him a card for a party at her lodgings. nothing but glenmurray's delight could exceed his astonishment at this invitation. he had observed mrs mowbray and adeline, even before adeline had observed him; and, as he gazed upon the fascinating adeline, he had sighed to think that she too would be taught to avoid the dangerous and disreputable acquaintance of glenmurray. to him, therefore, this mark of attention was a source both of consolation and joy. but, being well convinced that it was owing to her ignorance of the usual customs and opinions of those with whom she associated, he was too generous to accept the invitation, as he knew that his presence at a rout at bath would cause general dismay, and expose the mistress to disagreeable remarks at least: but he endeavoured to make himself amends for his self-denial, by asking leave to wait on them when they were alone. chapter v a day or two after, as adeline was leaning on the arm of a young lady, glenmurray passed them, and to his respectful bow she returned a most cordial salutation. 'gracious me! my dear,' said her companion, 'do you know who that man is?' 'certainly:--it is mr glenmurray.' 'and do you speak to him?' 'yes:--why should i not?' 'dear me! why, i am sure! why--don't you know what he is?' 'yes, a celebrated writer, and a man of genius.' 'oh, that may be, miss mowbray: but they say one should not notice him, because he is--' 'he is what?' said adeline eagerly. 'i do not exactly know what; but i believe it is a french spy, or a jesuit.' 'indeed?' replied adeline laughing. 'but i am used to have better evidence against a person than a _they say_ before i neglect an acknowledged acquaintance: therefore, with your leave, i shall turn back and talk a little to poor mr glenmurray.' it so happened that _poor mr glenmurray_ heard every word of this conversation; for he had turned round and followed adeline and her fair companion, to present to the former the glove which she had dropped; and as they were prevented from proceeding by the crowd on the parade, which was assembled to see some unusual sight, he, being immediately behind them, could distinguish all that passed; so that adeline turned round to go in search of him before the blush of grateful admiration for her kindness had left his cheek. 'then she seeks me because i am shunned by others!' said glenmurray to himself. in a moment the world to him seemed to contain only two beings, adeline mowbray and frederic glenmurray; and that adeline, starting and blushing with joyful surprise at seeing him so near her, was then coming in search of him!--of him, the neglected glenmurray! scarcely could he refrain catching the lovely and ungloved hand next him to his heart; but he contented himself with keeping the glove that he was before so eager to restore, and in a moment it was lodged in his bosom. nor could 'i can't think what i have done with my glove,' which every now and then escaped adeline, prevail on him to own that he had found it. at last, indeed, it became unnecessary; for adeline, as she glanced her eye towards glenmurray, discovered it in the hiding-place: but, as delicacy forbade her to declare the discovery which she had made, he was suffered to retain his prize; though a deep and sudden blush which overspread his cheek, and a sudden pause which she made in her conversation, convinced glenmurray that she had detected his secret. perhaps he was not sorry--nor adeline; but certain it is that adeline was for the remainder of the morning more lost in reverie than ever her mother had been; and that from that day every one, but adeline and glenmurray, saw that they were mutually enamoured. glenmurray was the first of the two lovers to perceive that they were so; and he made the discovery with a mixture of pain and pleasure. for what could be the result of such an attachment? he was firmly resolved never to marry; and it was very unlikely that adeline, though she had often expressed to him her approbation of his writings and opinions, should be willing to sacrifice everything to love, and become his mistress. but a circumstance took place which completely removed his doubts on this subject. several weeks had elapsed since the first arrival of the mowbrays at bath, and in that time almost all their acquaintances had left them one by one; but neither mrs mowbray nor adeline had paid much attention to this circumstance. mrs mowbray's habits of abstraction, as usual, made her regardless of common occurrences; and to these were added the more delightful reverie occasioned by the attentions of a very handsome and insinuating man, and the influence of a growing passion. mrs mowbray, as we have before observed, married from duty, not inclination; and to the passion of love she had remained a total stranger, till she became acquainted at bath with sir patrick o'carrol. yes; mrs mowbray was in love for the first time when she was approaching her fortieth year! and a woman is never so likely to be the fool of love, as when it assails her late in life, especially if a lover be as great a novelty to her as the passion itself. though not, alas! restored to a second youth, the tender victim certainly enjoys a second childhood, and exhibits but too openly all the little tricks and _minaudieres_ of a love-sick girl, without the youthful appearance that in a degree excuses them. this was the case with mrs mowbray; and while, regardless of her daughter's interest and happiness, she was lost in the pleasing hopes of marrying the agreeable baronet, no wonder the cold neglect of her bath associates was not seen by her. adeline, engrossed also by the pleasing reveries of a first love, was as unconscious of it as herself. indeed she thought of nothing but love and glenmurray; else, she could not have failed to see, that, while sir patrick's attentions and flatteries were addressed to her mother, his ardent looks and passionate sighs were all directed to herself. sir patrick o'carrol was a young irishman, of an old family but an encumbered estate; and it was his wish to set his estate free by marrying a rich wife, and one as little disagreeable as possible. with this view he came to bath; and in mrs mowbray he not only beheld a woman of large independent fortune, but possessed of great personal beauty, and young enough to be attractive. still, though much pleased with the wealth and appearance of the mother, he soon became enamoured of the daughter's person; and had he not gone so far in his addresses to mrs mowbray as to make it impossible she should willingly transfer him to adeline, and give her a fortune at all adequate to his wants, he would have endeavoured honourably to gain her affections, and entered the lists against the favoured glenmurray. but, as he wanted the mother's wealth, he resolved to pursue his advantage with her, and trust to some future chance for giving him possession of the daughter. in his dealings with men, sir patrick was a man of honour; in his dealings with women, completely the reverse: he considered them as a race of subordinate beings, and that if, like horses, they were well lodged, fed, and kept clean, they had no right to complain. constantly therefore did he besiege mrs. mowbray with his conversation, and adeline with his eyes; and the very libertine gaze with which he often beheld her, gave a pang to glenmurray which was but too soon painfully increased. sir patrick was the only man of fashion who did not object to visit at mrs. mowbray's on account of her intimacy with glenmurray; but he had his own private reasons for going thither, and continued to visit at mrs mowbray's though glenmurray was generally there, and sometimes he and the latter gentleman were the whole of their company. one evening they and two ladies were drinking tea at mrs mowbray's lodgings, when mrs mowbray was unusually silent and adeline unusually talkative. adeline scarcely ever spoke in her mother's presence, from deference to her abilities; and whatever might be mrs mowbray's defects in other respects, her conversational talents and her uncommon command of words were indisputable. but this evening, as i before observed, adeline, owing to her mother's tender abstractions, was obliged to exert herself for the entertainment of the guests. it so happened, also, that something was said by one of the party which led to the subject of marriage, and adeline was resolved not to let so good an opportunity pass of proving to glenmurray how sincerely she approved his doctrine on that subject. immediately, with an unreserve which nothing but her ignorance of the world, and the strange education which she had received, could at all excuse, she began to declaim against marriage, as an institution at once absurd, unjust, and immoral, and to declare that she would never submit to so contemptible a form, or profane the sacred ties of love by so odious and unnecessary a ceremony. this extraordinary speech, though worded elegantly and delivered gracefully, was not received by any of her hearers, except sir patrick, with any thing like admiration. the baronet, indeed, clapped his hands, and cried 'bravo! a fine spirited girl, upon my word!' in a manner so loud, and so offensive to the feelings of adeline, that, like the orator of old, she was tempted to exclaim, 'what foolish thing can i have said, that has drawn forth this applause?' but mrs mowbray, though she could not help admiring the eloquence which she attributed to her example,--was shocked at hearing adeline declare that her practice should be consonant to her theory; while glenmurray, though adeline had only expressed his sentiments, and his reason approved what she had uttered, felt his delicacy and his feelings wounded by so open and decided an avowal of her opinions, and intended conduct in consequence of them; and he was still more hurt, when he saw how much it delighted sir patrick, and offended the rest of the company; who, after a silence, the result of surprise and disgust, suddenly arose, and, coldly wishing mrs mowbray good night, left the house. by mrs mowbray the cause of this abrupt departure was unsuspected: but adeline, who had more observation, was convinced that she was the cause of it; and sighing deeply at the prejudices of the world, she sought to console herself by looking at glenmurray, expecting to find in his eyes an expression of delight and approbation. to her great disappointment, however, his countenance was sad; while sir patrick, on the contrary, had an expression of impudent triumph in his look, which made her turn blushing from his ardent gaze, and indignantly follow her mother, who was then leaving the room. as she passed him, sir patrick caught her hand rapturously to his lips (an action which made glenmurray start from his chair), and exclaimed, 'really you are the only honest little woman i ever knew! i always was sure that what you just now said was the opinion of all your sex, though they were so confounded coy they would not own it.' 'own what sir?' asked the astonished adeline. 'that they thought marriage a cursed bore, and preferred leading the life of honour, to be sure.' 'the life of honour! what is that?' demanded adeline, while glenmurray paced the room in agitation. 'that life, my dear girl, which you mean to lead;--love and liberty with the man of your heart.' 'sir patrick,' cried glenmurray impatiently, 'this conversation is--' 'prodigiously amusing to me,' returned the baronet, 'especially as i never could hold it to a modest woman before.' 'nor shall you now, sir,' fiercely interrupted glenmurray. 'shall not, sir?' vociferated sir patrick. 'pray, gentlemen, be less violent,' exclaimed the terrified and astonished adeline. 'i can't think what could offend you, mr glenmurray, in sir patrick's original observation: the life of honour appears to me a very excellent name for the pure and honourable union which it is my wish to form; and--' 'there; i told you so;' triumphantly interrupted sir patrick: 'and i never was better pleased in life:--sweet creature! at once so lovely, so wise, and so liberal!' 'sir,' cried glenmurray, 'this is a mistake: your life of honour and miss mowbray's are as different as possible; you are talking of what you are grossly ignorant of.' 'ignorant! i ignorant! look you, mr glenmurray, do you pretend to tell me i know not what the life of honour is, when i have led it so many times with so many different women?' 'how, sir!' replied adeline: 'many times? and with many different women? my life of honour can be led with one only.' 'well, my dear soul, i only led it with one at a time.' 'o sir! you are indeed ignorant of my meaning,' she rejoined: 'it is the individuality of an attachment that constitutes its purity; and--' 'ba-ba-bu, my lovely girl! which has purity to do in the business?' 'indeed, sir patrick,' meekly returned adeline, 'i--' 'miss mowbray,' angrily interrupted glenmurray, 'i beg, i conjure you to drop this conversation: your innocence is no match for--' 'for what, sir?' furiously demanded sir patrick. 'your licentiousness,' replied glenmurray. 'sir, i wear a sword,' cried the baronet.--'and i a cane,' said glenmurray calmly, 'either to defend myself or chastise insolence.' 'mr glenmurray! sir patrick!' exclaimed the agitated adeline: 'for my sake, for pity's sake desist!' 'for the present i will, madam,' faltered out sir patrick;--'but i know mr glenmurray's address, and he shall hear from me.' 'hear from you! why, you do not mean to challenge him? you can't suppose mr glenmurray would do so absurd a thing as fight a duel? sir, he has written a volume to prove the absurdity of the custom.--no, no! you threaten his life in vain,' she added, giving her hand to glenmurray; who, in the tenderness of the action and the tone of her voice, forgot the displeasure which her inadvertency had caused, and pressing her hand to his lips, secretly renewed his vows of unalterable attachment. 'very well, madam,' exclaimed sir patrick in a tone of pique: 'then, so as mr glenmurray's life is safe, you care not what becomes of mine!' 'sir,' replied adeline, 'the safety of a fellow-creature is always of importance in my eyes.' 'then you care for me as a fellow-creature only,' retorted sir patrick, 'not as sir patrick o'carrol?--mighty fine, truly, you dear ungrateful--' seizing her hand; which he relinquished, as well as the rest of his speech, on the entrance of mrs mowbray. soon after adeline left the room, and glenmurray bowed and retired; while sir patrick, having first repeated his vows of admiration to the mother, returned home to muse on the charms of the daughter, and the necessity of challenging the moral glenmurray. sir patrick was a man of courage, and had fought several duels: but as life at this time had a great many charms for him, he resolved to defer at least putting himself in the way of getting rid of it; and after having slept late in the morning, to make up for the loss of sleep in the night, occasioned by his various cogitations, he rose, resolved to go to mrs mowbray's, and if he had an opportunity, indulge himself in some practical comments on the singular declaration made the evening before by her lovely daughter. glenmurray meanwhile had passed the night in equal watchfulness and greater agitation. to fight a duel would be, as adeline observed, contrary to his principles; and to decline one, irritated as he was against sir patrick, was repugnant to his feelings. to no purpose did he peruse and re-peruse nearly the whole of his own book against duelling; he had few religious restraints to make him resolve on declining a challenge, and he felt moral ones of little avail: but in vain did he sit at home till the morning was far advanced, expecting a messenger from sir patrick;--no messenger came:--he therefore left word with his servant, that, if wanted, he might be found at mrs mowbray's, and went thither, in hopes of enjoying an hour's conversation with adeline; resolving to hint to her, as delicately as he could, that the opinions which she had expressed were better confined, in the present dark state of the public mind, to a select and discriminating circle. chapter vi sir patrick had reached mrs mowbray's some time before him, and had, to his great satisfaction, found adeline alone; nor did it escape his penetration that her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure, at his approach. but he would not have rejoiced in this circumstance, had he known that adeline was pleased to see him merely because she considered his appearance as a proof of glenmurray's safety; for, in spite of his having written against duelling, and of her confidence in his firmness and consistency, she was not quite convinced that the reasoning philosopher would triumph over the feeling man. 'you are welcome, sir patrick!' cried adeline, as he entered, with a most winning smile: 'i am very glad to see you: pray sit down.' the baronet, who, audacious as his hopes and intentions were, had not expected so kind a reception, was quite thrown off his guard by it, and catching her suddenly in his arms, endeavoured to obtain a still kinder welcome. adeline as suddenly disengaged herself from him, and, with the dignity of offended modesty, desired him to quit the room, as, after such an insolent attempt, she could not think herself justified in suffering him to remain with her. but her anger was soon changed into pity, when she saw sir patrick lay down his hat, seat himself, and burst into a long deliberate laugh. 'he is certainly mad!' she exclaimed; and, leaning against the chimney-piece, she began to contemplate him with a degree of fearful interest. 'upon my soul! now,' cried the baronet, when his laugh was over, 'you do not suppose, my dear creature, that you and i do not understand one another! telling a young fellow to leave the house on such occasions, means, in the pretty no meaning of your sex, "stay, and offend again," to be sure.' 'he is certainly mad!' said adeline, more confirmed than before in her idea of his insanity, and immediately endeavoured to reach the door: but in so doing she approached sir patrick, who, rather roughly seizing her trembling hand, desired her to sit down, and hear what he had to say to her. adeline, thinking it not right to irritate him, instantly obeyed. 'now, then, to open my mind to you,' said the baronet, drawing his chair close to hers: 'from the very first moment i saw you, i felt that we were made for one another; though, being bothered by my debts, i made up to the old duchess, and she nibbled the bait directly,--deeming my clean inches (six feet one, without shoes) well worth her dirty acres.' 'how dreadfully incoherent he is!' thought adeline, not suspecting for a moment that, by the old duchess, he meant her still blooming mother. 'but, my lovely dear!' continued sir patrick, most ardently pressing her hand, 'so much have your sweet person, and your frank and liberal way of thinking, charmed me, that i here freely offer myself to you, and we will begin the life of honour together as soon as you please.' still adeline, who was unconscious how much her avowed opinions, had exposed her to insult, continued to believe sir patrick insane; a belief which the wildness of his eyes confirmed. 'i really know not,--you surprise me, sir patrick,--i--' 'surprise you, my dear soul! how could you expect anything else from a man of my spirit, after your honest declaration last night?--all i feared was, that glenmurray should get the start of me.' adeline, though alarmed, bewildered, and confounded, had still recollection enough to know that, whether sane or insane, the words and looks of sir patrick were full of increasing insult. 'i believe, i think i had better retire', faltered out adeline. 'retire!--no, indeed,' exclaimed the baronet; rudely seizing her. this outrage restored adeline to her usual spirit and self-possession; and bestowing on him the epithet of 'mean-soul'd ruffian!' she had almost freed herself from his grasp, when a quick step was heard on the stairs, and the door was thrown open by glenmurray. in a moment adeline, bursting into tears, threw herself into his arms, as if in search of protection. glenmurray required no explanation of the scene before him: the appearance of the actors in it was explanation sufficient; and while with one arm he fondly held adeline to his bosom, he raised the other in a threatening attitude against sir patrick, exclaiming as he did it, 'base, unmanly villain!' 'villain!' echoed sir patrick--'but it is very well--very well for the present--good morning to you, sir!' so saying he hastily withdrew. as soon as he was gone, glenmurray for the first time declared to adeline the ardent passion with which she had inspired him; and she, with equal frankness, confessed that her heart was irrevocably his. from this interesting tête-à-tête adeline was summoned to attend a person on business to her mother; and during her absence glenmurray received a challenge from the angry baronet, appointing him to meet him that afternoon at five o'clock, about two miles from bath. to this note, for fear of alarming the suspicions of adeline, glenmurray returned only a verbal message, saying he would answer it in two hours: but as soon as she returned he pleaded indispensable business; and before she could mention any fears respecting the consequences of what had passed between him and sir patrick, he had left the room, having, to prevent any alarm, requested leave to wait on her early the next day. as soon as glenmurray reached his lodgings, he again revolved in his mind the propriety of accepting the challenge. 'how can i expect to influence others by my theories to act right, if my practice sets them a bad example?' but then again he exclaimed, 'how can i expect to have any thing i say attended to, when, by refusing to fight, i put it in the power of my enemies to assert i am a poltroon, and worthy only of neglect and contempt? no, no; i must fight:--even adeline herself, especially as it is on her account, will despise me if i do not:'--and then, without giving himself any more time to deliberate, he sent an answer to sir patrick, promising to meet him at the time appointed. but after he had sent it he found himself a prey to so much self-reproach, and after he had forfeited his claims to consistency of conduct, he felt himself so strongly aware of the value of it, that, had not the time of the meeting been near at hand, he would certainly have deliberated upon some means of retracting his consent to it. being resolved to do as little mischief as he could, he determined on having no second in the business; and accordingly repaired to the field accompanied only by a trusty servant, who had orders to wait his master's pleasure at a distance. contrary to glenmurray's expectations, sir patrick also came unattended by a second; while his servant, who was with him, was, like the other, desired to remain in the back ground. 'i wish, mr glenmurray, to do every thing honourable,' said the baronet, after they had exchanged salutations: 'therefore, sir, as i concluded you would find it difficult to get a second, i am come without one, and i _conclude_ that i _concluded_ right.--aye, men of your principle can have but few friends.' 'and men of your practice ought to have none, sir patrick,' retorted glenmurray: 'but, as i don't think it worth while to explain to you my reasons for not having a second, as i fear that you are incapable of understanding them, i must desire you to take your ground.' 'with all my heart,' replied his antagonist; and then taking aim, they agreed to fire at the same moment. they did so; and the servants, hearing the report of the pistols, ran to the scene of action, and saw sir patrick bleeding in the sword-arm, and glenmurray, also wounded, leaning against a tree. 'this is cursed unlucky,' said sir patrick coolly: 'you have disabled my right arm. i can't go on with this business at present; but when i am well again command me. your wound, i believe, is as slight as mine; but as i can walk, and you cannot, and as i have a chaise, and you not, you shall use it to convey you and your servant home, and i and mine will go on foot.' to this obliging offer glenmurray was incapable of giving denial; for he became insensible from loss of blood, and with the assistance of his antagonist was carried to the chaise, and supported by his terrified servant, conveyed back to bath. it is not to be supposed that an event of this nature should be long unknown. it was soon told all over the city that sir patrick o'carrol and mr glenmurray had fought a duel, and that the latter was dangerously wounded; the quarrel having originated in mr glenmurray's scoffing at religion, king, and constitution, before the pious and loyal baronet. this story soon reached the ears of mrs mowbray, who, in an agony of tender sorrow, and in defiance of all decorum, went in person to call on her admired sir patrick; and adeline, who heard of the affair soon after, as regardless of appearances as her mother, and more alarmed, went in person to inquire concerning her wounded glenmurray. by the time that she had arrived at his lodgings, not only his own surgeon but sir patrick's had seen him, as his antagonist thought it necessary to ascertain the true state of his wound, that he might know whether he ought to stay, or fly his country. the account of both the surgeons was, however, so favourable, and glenmurray in all respects so well, that sir patrick's alarms were soon quite at an end; and the wounded man was lying on a sofa, lost in no very pleasant reflections, when adeline knocked at his door. glenmurray at that very moment was saying to himself, 'well;--so much for principle and consistency! now, my next step must be to marry, and then i shall have made myself a complete fool, and the worst of all fools,--a man presuming to instruct others by his precepts, when he finds them incapable of influencing even his own actions.' at this moment his servant came up with miss mowbray's compliments, and, if he was well enough to see her, she would come up and speak to him. in an instant all his self-reproaches were forgotten; and when adeline hung weeping and silent on his shoulder, he could not but rejoice in an affair which had procured him a moment of such heartfelt delight. at first adeline expressed nothing but terror at the consequences of his wound, and pity for his sufferings; but when she found that he was in no danger, and in very little pain, the tender mistress yielded to the severe monitress, and she began to upbraid glenmurray for having acted not only in defiance of her wishes and principles, but of his own; of principles laid down by him to the world in the strongest point of view, and in a manner convincing to every mind. 'dearest adeline, consider the provocation,' cried glenmurray:--'a gross insult offered to the woman i love!' 'but who ever fought a duel without provocation, glenmurray? if provocation be a justification, your book was unnecessary; and did not you offer an insult to the understanding of the woman you love, in supposing that she could be obliged to you for playing the fool on her account?' 'but i should have been called a coward had i declined the challenge; and though i can bear the world's hatred, i could not its contempt:--i could not endure the loss of what the world calls honour.' 'is it possible,' rejoined adeline, 'that i hear the philosophical glenmurray talking thus, in the silly jargon of a man of the world?' 'alas! i am a man, not a philosopher, adeline!' 'at least be a sensible one;--consistent i dare not now call you. but have you forgotten the distinction which, in your volume on the subject of duels, you so strongly lay down between real and apparent honour? in which of the two classes do you put the honour of which, in this instance, you were so tenacious? what is there in common between the glory of risking the life of a fellow-creature, and testimony of an approving conscience?' 'an excellent observation that of yours, indeed, my sweet monitress,' said glenmurray. 'an observation of mine; it is your own,' replied adeline: 'but see, i have the book in my muff; and i will punish you for the badness of your practice, by giving you a dose of your theory.' 'cruel girl!' cried glenmurray, 'i am not ordered a sleeping draught!' adeline was however resolved; and, opening the book, she read argument after argument with unyielding perseverance, till glenmurray, who, like the eagle in the song, saw on the dart that wounded him his own feathers, cried 'quarter!' 'but tell me, dear adeline,' said glenmurray, a little piqued at her too just reproofs, 'you, who are so severe on my want of consistency, are you yourself capable of acting up in every respect to your precepts?' 'after your weakness,' replied adeline, smiling, 'it becomes me to doubt my own strength; but i assure you that i make it a scruple of conscience, to show by my conduct my confidence in the truth of my opinions.' 'then, in defiance of the world's opinion, that opinion which i, you see, had not resolution to brave, you will be mine--not according to the ties of marriage, but with no other ties or sanction than those of love and reason?' 'i will,' said adeline: 'and may he whom i worship' (raising her fine eyes and white arms to heaven) 'desert me when i desert you!' who that had seen her countenance and gesture at that moment, could have imagined she was calling on heaven to witness an engagement to lead a life of infamy? rather would they have thought her a sublime enthusiast breathing forth the worship of a grateful soul. it may be supposed that glenmurray's heart beat with exultation at this confession from adeline, and that he forgot, in the promised indulgence of his passion, those bounds which strict decorum required. but glenmurray did her justice; he beheld her as she was--all purity of feeling and all delicacy; and, if possible, the slight favours by which true love is long contented to be fed, though granted by adeline with more conscious emotion, were received by him with more devoted respect: besides, he again felt that mixture of pain with pleasure, on this assurance of her love, which he had experienced before. for he knew, though adeline did not, the extent of the degradation into which the step which her conscience approved would necessarily precipitate her; and experience alone could convince him that her sensibility to shame, when she was for the first time exposed to it, would not overcome her supposed fortitude and boasted contempt of the world's opinion, and change all the roses of love into the thorns of regret and remorse. and could he who doted on her;--he, too, who admired her as much for her consummate purity as for any other of her qualities;--could he bear to behold this fair creature, whose open eye beamed with the consciousness of virtue, casting her timid glances to the earth, and shrinking with horror from the conviction of having in the world's eye forfeited all pretensions to that virtue which alone was the end of her actions! would the approbation of her own mind be sufficient to support her under such a trial, though she had with such sweet earnestness talked to him of its efficacy! these reflections had for some time past been continually occurring to him, and now they came across his mind blighting the triumphs of successful passion:--nay, but from the dread of incurring yet more ridicule, on account of the opposition of his practice to his theory, and perhaps the indignant contempt of adeline, he could have thrown himself at her feet, conjuring her to submit to the degradation of being a wife. but, unknown to glenmurray, perhaps, another reason prompted him to desire this concession from adeline. we are never more likely to be in reality the slaves of selfishness, than when we fancy ourselves acting with most heroic disinterestedness.--egotism loves a becoming dress, and is always on the watch to hide her ugliness by the robe of benevolence. glenmurray thought that he was willing to marry adeline merely for _her_ sake! but i suspect it was chiefly for _his_. the true and delicate lover is always a monopolizer, always desirous of calling the woman of his affections his own: it is not only because he considers marriage as a holy institution that the lover leads his mistress to the altar; but because it gives him a right to appropriate the fair treasure to himself,--because it sanctions and perpetuates the dearest of all monopolies, and erects a sacred barrier to guard his rights,--around which, all that is respectable in society, all that is most powerful and effectual in its organization, is proud and eager to rally. but while glenmurray, in spite of his happiness, was sensible to an alloy of it, and adeline was tenderly imputing to the pain of his wound the occasionally mournful expression of his countenance, adeline took occasion to declare that she would live with glenmurray only on condition that such a step met with her mother's approbation. 'then are my hopes for ever at an end,' said glenmurray:--'or,--or' (and spite of himself his eyes sparkled as he spoke)--'or we must submit to the absurd ceremony of marriage.' 'marriage!' replied the astonished adeline: 'can you think so meanly of my mother, as to suppose her practice so totally opposite to her principles, that she would require her daughter to submit to a ceremony which she herself regards with contempt?--impossible. i am sure, when i solicit her consent to my being yours, she will be pleased to find that her sentiments and observations have not been thrown away on me.' glenmurray thought otherwise: however, he bowed and was silent; and adeline declared that, to put an end to all doubt on the subject, she would instantly go in search of mrs mowbray and propose the question to her: and glenmurray, feeling himself more weak and indisposed than he chose to own to her, allowed her, though reluctantly, to depart. chapter vii mrs mowbray was but just returned from her charitable visit when adeline entered the room. 'and pray, miss mowbray, where have you been?' she exclaimed, seeing adeline with her hat and cloak on. 'i have been visiting poor mr glenmurray,' she replied. 'indeed!' cried mrs mowbray: 'and without my leave! and pray who went with you?' 'nobody, ma'am.' 'nobody!--what! visit a man alone at his lodgings, after the education which you have received!' 'indeed, madam,' replied adeline meekly, 'my education never taught me that such conduct was improper; nor, as you did the same this afternoon, could i have dared to think it so.' 'you are mistaken, miss mowbray,' replied her mother: 'i did not do the same; for the terms which i am upon with sir patrick made my visiting him no impropriety at all.' 'if you think i have acted wrong,' replied adeline timidly, 'no doubt i have done so; though you were quite right in visiting sir patrick, as the respectability of your age and character, and sir patrick's youth, warranted the propriety of the visit:--but, surely the terms which i am upon with mr glenmurray--' 'the terms which you are upon with mr glenmurray! and my age and character! what can you mean?' angrily exclaimed mrs mowbray. 'i hope, my dear mother,' said adeline tenderly, 'that you had long ere this guessed the attachment which subsists between mr glenmurray and me;--an attachment cherished by your high opinion of him and his writings; but which respect has till now made me hesitate to mention to you.' 'would to heaven!' replied mrs mowbray, 'that respect had made you for ever silent on the subject! do you suppose that i would marry my daughter to a man of small fortune,--but more especially to one who, as sir patrick informs me, is shunned for his principles and profligacy by all the world?' 'to what sir patrick says of mr glenmurray i pay no attention,' answered adeline; 'nor are you, my dear mother, capable, i am sure, of being influenced by the prejudices of the world.--but you are quite mistaken in supposing me so lost to consistency, and so regardless of your liberal opinions and the books which we have studied, as to think of _marrying_ mr glenmurray.' 'grant me patience!' cried mrs mowbray; 'why, to be sure you do not think of living with him _without_ being married?' 'certainly, madam; that you may have the pleasure of beholding one union founded on rational grounds and cemented by rational ties.' 'how!' cried mrs mowbray, turning pale. 'i!--i have pleasure in seeing my daughter a kept mistress!--you are mad, quite mad.--_i_ approve such unhallowed connexions!' 'my dearest mother,' replied adeline, 'your agitation terrifies me,--but indeed what i say is strictly true; and see here, in mr glenmurray's book, the very passage which i so often have heard you admire.' as she said this, adeline pointed to the passage; but in an instant mrs mowbray seized the book and threw it on the fire. before adeline had recovered her consternation mrs mowbray fell into a violent hysteric; and long was it before she was restored to composure. when she recovered she was so exhausted that adeline dared not renew the conversation; but leaving her to rest, she made up a bed on the floor in her mother's room, and passed a night of wretchedness and watchfulness,--the first of the kind which she had ever known.--would it had been the last! in the morning mrs mowbray awoke, refreshed and calm; and, affected at seeing the pale cheek and sunk eye of adeline, indicative of a sleepless and unhappy night, she held out her hand to her with a look of kindness; adeline pressed it to her lips, as she knelt by the bed-side, and moistened it with tears of regret for the past and alarm for the future. 'adeline, my dear child,' said mrs mowbray in a faint voice, 'i hope you will no longer think of putting a design in execution so fraught with mischief to you, and horror to me. little did i think that you were so romantic as to see no difference between amusing one's imagination with new theories and new systems, and acting upon them in defiance of common custom, and the received usages of society. i admire the convenient trousers and graceful dress of the turkish women; but i would not wear them myself, lest it should expose me to derision.' 'is there no difference,' thought adeline, 'between the importance of a dress and an opinion!--is the one to be taken up, and laid down again, with the same indifference as the other!' but she continued silent, and mrs mowbray went on. 'the poetical philosophy which i have so much delighted to study, has served me to ornament my conversation, and make persons less enlightened than myself wonder at the superior boldness of my fancy, and the acuteness of my reasoning powers;--but i should as soon have thought of making this little gold chain round my neck fasten the hall-door, as act upon the precepts laid down in those delightful books. no; though i think all they say is true, i believe the purity they inculcate too much for this world.' adeline listened in silent astonishment and consternation. conscience, and the conviction of what is right, she then for the first time learned, were not to be the rule of action; and though filial tenderness made her resolve never to be the mistress of glenmurray, she also resolved never to be his wife, or that of any other man; while, in spite of herself, the great respect with which she had hitherto regarded her mother's conduct and opinions began to diminish. 'would to heaven, my dear mother,' said adeline, when mrs mowbray had done speaking, 'that you had said all this to me ere my mind had been indelibly impressed with the truth of these forbidden doctrines; for now my conscience tells me that i ought to act up to them!' 'how!' exclaimed mrs mowbray, starting up in her bed, and in a voice shrill with emotion, 'are you then resolved to disobey me, and dishonour yourself?' 'oh! never, never!' replied adeline, alarmed at her mother's violence, and fearful of a relapse. 'be but the kind affectionate parent that you have ever been to me; and though i will never marry out of regard to my own principles, i will also never contract any other union, out of respect to your wishes,--but will lead with you a quiet, if not a _happy_ life; for never, never can i forget glenmurray.' 'there speaks the excellent child i always thought you to be!' replied mrs mowbray; 'and i shall leave it to time and good counsels to convince you, that the opinions of a girl of eighteen, as they are not founded on long experience, may possibly be erroneous.' mrs mowbray never made a truer observation; but adeline was not in a frame of mind to assent to it. 'besides,' continued mrs mowbray, 'had i ever been disposed to accept of mr glenmurray as a son-in-law, it is very unlikely that i should be so now; as the duel took place not only, i find, from the treasonable opinions which he put forth, but from some disrespectful language which he held concerning me.' 'who could dare to invent so infamous a calumny!' exclaimed adeline. 'my authority is unquestionable, miss mowbray; i speak from sir patrick himself.' 'then he adds falsehood to his other villanies!' returned adeline, almost inarticulate with rage:--'but what could be expected from a man who could dare to insult a young woman under the roof of her mother with his licentious addresses?' 'what mean you?' cried mrs mowbray, turning pale. 'i mean that sir patrick yesterday morning insulted me by the grossest familiarities, and--' 'my dear child,' replied mrs mowbray laughing, 'that is only the usual freedom of his manner; a manner which your ignorance of the world led you to mistake. he did not mean to insult you, believe me, i am sure that, spite of his ardent passion for me, he never, even when alone with me, hazarded any improper liberty.' 'the ardent passion which he feels for you, madam!' exclaimed adeline, turning pale in her turn. 'yes, miss mowbray! what, i suppose you think me too old to inspire one!--but, i assure you, there are people who think the mother handsomer than the daughter!' 'no doubt, dear mother, every one ought to think so,--and would to heaven sir patrick were one of those! but he, unfortunately--' 'is of that opinion,' interrupted mrs mowbray angrily: 'and to convince you--so tenderly does he love me, and so fondly do i return his passion, that in a few days i shall become his wife.' adeline, on hearing this terrible information, fell insensible on the ground. when she recovered she saw mrs mowbray anxiously watching by her, but not with that look of alarm and tenderness with which she had attended her during her long illness; that look which was always present to her graceful and affectionate remembrance. no; mrs mowbray's eye was cast down with a half-mournful, half-reproachful, and half-fearful expression, when it met that of adeline. the emotion of anguish which her fainting had evinced was a reproach to the proud heart of mrs mowbray, and adeline felt that it was so; but when she recollected that her mother was going to marry a man who had so lately declared a criminal passion for herself, she was very near relapsing into insensibility. she however struggled with her feelings, in order to gain resolution to disclose to mrs mowbray all that had passed between her and sir patrick. but as soon as she offered to renew the conversation, mrs mowbray sternly commanded her to be silent; and insisting on her going to bed, she left her to her own reflections, till wearied and exhausted she fell into a sound sleep: nor, as it was late in the evening when she awoke, did she rise again till the next morning. mrs mowbray entered her room as she was dressing and inquired how she did, with some kindness. 'i shall be better, dear mother, if you will but hear what i have to say concerning sir patrick,' replied adeline, bursting into tears. 'you can say nothing that will shake my opinion of him, miss mowbray,' replied her mother coldly: 'so i advise you to reconcile yourself to a circumstance which it is not in your power to prevent.' so saying, she left the room: and adeline, convinced that all she could say would be vain, endeavoured to console herself, by thinking that, as soon as sir patrick became the husband of her mother, his wicked designs on her would undoubtedly cease; and that, therefore, in one respect, that ill-assorted union would be beneficial to her. sir patrick, meanwhile, was no less sanguine in his expectations from his marriage. unlike the innocent adeline, he did not consider his union with the mother as a necessary check to his attempts on the daughter; but, emboldened by what to him appeared the libertine sentiments of adeline, and relying on the opportunities of being with her, which he must infallibly enjoy under the same roof in the country, he looked on her as his certain prey. though he believed glenmurray to be at that moment preferred to himself, he thought it impossible that the superior beauty of his person should not, in the end, have its due weight: as a passion founded in esteem, and the admiration of intellectual beauty, could not, in his opinion, subsist: besides, adeline appeared in his eyes not a deceived enthusiast, but a susceptible and forward girl, endeavouring to hide her frailty under fine sentiments and high-sounding theories. nor was sir patrick's inference an unnatural one. every man of the world would have thought the same; and on very plausible grounds. chapter viii as sir patrick was not 'punctual as lovers to the moment sworn', mrs mowbray resolved to sit down and write immediately to glenmurray; flattering herself at the same time, that the letter which was designed to confound glenmurray would delight the tender baronet;--for mrs mowbray piqued herself on her talents for letter-writing, and was not a little pleased with an opportunity of displaying them to a celebrated author. but never before did she find writing a letter so difficult a task. her eager wish of excelling deprived her of the means; and she who, in a letter to a friend or relation, would have written in a style at once clear and elegant, after two hours' effort produced the following specimen of the obscure, the pedantic, and affected.-- 'sir, 'the light which cheers and attracts, if we follow its guidance, often leads us into bogs and quagmires:--verbum sapienti. your writings are the lights, and the practice to which you advise my deluded daughter is the bog and quagmire. i agree with you in all you have said against marriage;--i agree with the savage nations in the total uselessness of clothing; still i condescend to wear clothes, though neither becoming nor useful, because i respect public opinion; and i submit to the institution of marriage for reasons equally cogent. such being my sentiments, sir, i must desire you never to see my daughter more. nor could you expect to be received with open arms by me, whom the shafts of your ridicule have pierced, though warded off by the shield of love and gallantry;--but for this i thank you! now shall i possess, owing to your baseness, at once a declared lover and a tried avenger; and the chains of hymen will be rendered more charming by gratitude's having blown the flame, while love forged the fetters. 'but with your writings i continue to amuse my imagination.--lovely is the flower of the nightshade, though its berry be poison. still shall i admire and wonder at you as an author, though i avoid and detest you as a man. 'editha mowbray.' this letter was just finished when sir patrick arrived, and to him it was immediately shown. 'heh! what have we here?' cried he laughing violently as he perused it. 'here you talk of being pierced by shafts which were warded off. now, had i said that, it would have been called a bull. as to the concluding paragraph--' 'o! that, i flatter myself,' said mrs mowbray, 'will tear him with remorse.' 'he must first understand it,' cried sir patrick: 'i can but just comprehend it, and am sure it will be all botheration to him.' 'i am sorry to find such is your opinion,' replied mrs mowbray; 'for i think that sentence the best written of any.' 'i did not say it was not fine writing,' replied the baronet, 'i only said it was not to be understood.--but, with your leave, you shall send the letter, and we'll drop the subject.' so said, so done, to the great satisfaction of sir patrick, who felt that it was for his interest to suffer the part of mrs mowbray's letter which alluded to glenmurray's supposed calumnies against her to remain obscurely worded, as he well knew that what he had asserted on this subject was wholly void of foundation. glenmurray did not receive it with equal satisfaction. he was indignant at the charge of having advised adeline to become his mistress rather than his wife; and as so much of the concluding passage as he could understand seemed to imply that he had calumniated her mother, to remain silent a moment would have been to confess himself guilty: he therefore answered mrs mowbray's letter immediately. the answer was as follows:-- 'madam, 'to clear myself from the charge of having advised miss mowbray to a step contrary to the common customs, however erroneous, of society at this period, i appeal to the testimony of miss mowbray herself; and i here repeat to you the assurance which i made to her, that i am willing to marry her when and where she chooses. i love my system and my opinions, but the respectability of the woman of my affections _more_. allow me, therefore, to make you a little acquainted with my situation in life: 'to you it is well known, madam, that wealth, honours, and titles have no value in my eyes; and that i reverence talents and virtues, though they wear the garb of poverty, and are born in the most obscure stations. but you, or rather those who are so fortunate as to influence your determinations, may consider my sentiments on this subject as romantic and absurd. it is necessary, therefore, that i should tell you, as an excuse in their eyes for presuming to address your daughter, that, by the accident of birth, i am descended from an ancient family, and nearly allied to a noble one; and that my paternal inheritance, though not large enough for splendour and luxury, is sufficient for all the purposes of comfort and genteel affluence. i would say more on this subject, but i am impatient to remove from your mind the prejudice which you seem to have imbibed against me. i do not perfectly understand the last paragraph in your letter. if you will be so kind as to explain it to me, you may depend on my being perfectly ingenuous: indeed, i have no difficulty in declaring, that i have neither encouraged a feeling, nor uttered a word, capable of giving the lie to the declaration which i am now going to make--that i am, 'with respect and esteem, 'your obedient servant, 'f. glenmurray.' this letter had an effect on mrs mowbray's feelings so much in favour of glenmurray, that she was almost determined to let him marry adeline. she felt that she owed her some amends for contracting a marriage so suddenly, and without either her knowledge or approbation; and she thought that, by marrying her to the man of her heart, she should make her peace both with adeline and herself. but, unfortunately, this design, as soon as it began to be formed, was communicated to sir patrick. 'so then!' exclaimed he, 'you have forgotten and forgiven the impertinent things which the puppy said! things which obliged me to wear this little useless appendage in a sling thus (pointing to his wounded arm).' 'o! no, my dear sir patrick! but though what mr glenmurray said might alarm the scrupulous tenderness of a lover, perhaps it was a remark which might only suit the sincerity of a friend. perhaps, if mr glenmurray had made it to me, i should have heard it with thanks, and with candour have approved it.' 'my sweet soul!' replied sir patrick, 'you may be as candid and amiable as ever you please, but, 'by st. patrick!' never shall sir patrick o'carrol be father-in-law to the notorious and infamous glenmurray--that subverter of all religion and order, and that scourge of civilized society!' so saying, he stalked about the room; and mrs mowbray, as she gazed on his handsome person, thought it would be absurd for her to sacrifice her own happiness to her daughter's, and give up sir patrick as her husband in order to make glenmurray her son. she therefore wrote another letter to glenmurray, forbidding him any further intercourse with adeline, on any pretence whatever; and delayed not a moment to send him her final decision. 'that is acting like the sensible woman i took you for,' said sir patrick: 'the fellow has now gotten his quietus, i trust, and the dear little adeline is reserved for happier fate. sweet soul! you do not know how fond she will be of me! i protest that i shall be so kind to her, it will be difficult for people to decide which i love best, the daughter or the mother.' 'but i hope _i_ shall always know, sir patrick,' said mrs mowbray gravely. 'you!--o yes, to be sure. but i mean that my fatherly attentions shall be of the warmest kind. but now do me the favour of telling me what hour tomorrow i may appoint the clergyman to bring the license?' the conversation that followed, it were needless and tedious to describe. suffice, that eight o'clock the next morning was fixed for the marriage; and mrs mowbray, either from shame or compassion, resolved that adeline should not accompany her to church, nor even know of the ceremony till it was over. nor was this a difficult matter. adeline remained in her own apartment all the preceding day, endeavouring, but in vain, to reconcile herself to what she justly termed the degradation of her mother. she felt, alas! the most painful of all feelings, next to that of self-abasement, the consciousness of the abasement of one to whom she had all her life looked up with love and veneration. to write to glenmurray while oppressed by such contending emotions she knew to be impossible; she therefore contented herself with sending a verbal message, importing that he should hear from her the next day: and poor glenmurray passed the rest of that day and the night in a state little better than her own. the next morning adeline, who had not closed her eyes till daylight, woke late, and from a sound but unrefreshing sleep. the first object she saw was her maid, smartly dressed, sitting by her bed-side; and she also saw that she had been crying. 'is my mother ill, evans?' she exclaimed. 'o! no, miss adeline, quite well,' replied the girl, sighing. 'but why are you so much dressed?' demanded adeline. 'i have been out,' answered the maid. 'not on unpleasant business?' 'that's as it may be,' she cried, turning away; and adeline, from delicacy, forebore to press her further. ''tis very late--is it not?' asked adeline, 'and time for me to rise!' 'yes, miss--i believe you had better get up.' adeline immediately rose.--'give me the dark gown i wore yesterday,' said she. 'i think, miss, you had better put on your new white one,' returned the maid. 'my new white one!' exclaimed adeline, astonished at an interference so new. 'yes, miss--i think it will be taken kinder, and look better.' at these words adeline's suspicions were awakened. 'i see, evans,' she cried, 'you have something extraordinary to tell me:--i partly guess; i,--my mother--' here, unable to proceed, she lay down on the bed which she had just quitted. 'yes, miss adeline--'tis very true; but pray compose yourself, i am sure i have cried enough on your account, that i have.' 'what is true, my good evans?' said adeline faintly. 'why, miss, my lady was married this morning to sir patrick o'carrol!--mercy on me, how pale you look! i am sure i wish the villain was at the bottom of the sea, so i do.' 'leave me,' said adeline faintly, struggling for utterance. 'no--that i will not,' bluntly replied evans; 'you are not fit to be left; and they are rejoicing below with sir pat's great staring servant. but, for my part, i had rather stay here and cry with you than laugh with them.' adeline hid her face in the pillow, incapable of further resistance, and groaned aloud. 'who should ever have thought my lady would have done so!' continued the maid.--'only think, miss! they say, and i doubt it is too true, that there have been no writings, or settlements, i think they call them, drawn up; and so sir pat have got all, and he is over head and ears in debt, and my lady is to pay him out on't! at this account, which adeline feared was a just one, as she had seen no preparations for a wedding going on, and had observed no signs of deeds, or any thing of the kind, she started up in an agony of grief--'then has my mother given me up, indeed!' she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, 'and the once darling child may soon be a friendless outcast!' 'you want a friend, miss adeline!' said the kind girl, bursting into tears.--'never, while i live, or any of my fellow-servants.' and adeline, whose heart was bursting with a sense of forlornness and abandonment, felt consoled by the artless sympathy of her attendant; and, giving way to a violent flood of tears, she threw her arms round her neck, and sobbed upon her bosom. having thus eased her feelings, she recollected that it was incumbent on her to exert her fortitude; and that it was a duty which she owed her mother not to condemn her conduct openly herself, nor suffer any one else to do it in her presence: still, at that moment, she could not find in her heart to reprove the observations by which, in spite of her sense of propriety, she had been soothed and gratified; but she hastened to dress herself as became a bridal dinner, and dismissed, as soon as she could, the affectionate evans from her presence. she then walked up and down her chamber, in order to summon courage to enter the drawing-room.--'but how strange, how cruel it was,' said she, 'that my mother did not come to inform me of this important event herself!' in this respect, however, mrs mowbray had acted kindly. reluctant, even more than she was willing to confess to her own heart, to meet adeline alone, she had chosen to conclude that she was still asleep, and had desired she might not be disturbed; but soon after her return from church, being assured that she was in a sound slumber, she had stolen to her bed-side and put a note under her pillow, acquainting her with what had passed: but this note adeline in her restlessness had, with her pillow, pushed on the floor, and there unseen it had remained. but, as adeline was pacing to and fro, she luckily observed it; and, by proving that her mother had not been so very neglectful of her, it tended to fortify her mind against the succeeding interview. the note began:-- 'my dearest child! to spare you, in your present weak state, the emotion which you would necessarily feel in attending me to the altar, i have resolved to let the ceremony be performed unknown to you. but, my beloved adeline, i trust that your affection for me will make you rejoice in a step, which you may, perhaps, at present disapprove, when convinced that it was absolutely necessary to my happiness, and can, in no way, be the means of diminishing yours. 'i remain 'your ever affectionate mother.' 'she loves me still then!' cried adeline, shedding tears of tenderness, 'and i accused her unjustly.--o my dear mother, if this event should indeed increase your happiness, never shall i repine at not having been able to prevent it.' and then, after taking two or three hasty turns round the room, and bathing her eyes to remove in a degree the traces of her tears, she ventured into the drawing-room. but the sight of her mother seated by sir patrick, his arm encircling her waist, in that very room which had so lately witnessed his profligate attempts on herself, deprived her of the little resolution which she had been able to assume, and pale and trembling she sunk speechless with emotion on the first chair near her. mrs mowbray, or, as we must at present call her, lady o'carrol, was affected by adeline's distress, and, hastening to her, received the almost fainting girl in her arms; while even sir patrick, feeling compassion for the unhappiness which he could more readily understand than his bride, was eager to hide his confusion by calling for water, drops, and servants. 'i want neither medicine nor assistance now,' said adeline, gently raising her head from her mother's shoulder: 'the shock is over, and i shall, i trust, behave in future with proper self-command.' 'better late than never,' muttered lady o'carrol, on whom the word _shock_ had not made a pleasant impression; while sir patrick, approaching adeline, exclaimed, 'if you have not self-command, miss mowbray, it is the only command which you cannot boast; for your power of commanding others no one can dispute, who has ever had the happiness of beholding you.' so saying, he took her hand; and, as her mother's husband, claimed the privilege of saluting her,--a privilege which adeline, though she almost shrunk with horror from his touch, had _self-command_ enough not to deny him: immediately after he claimed the same favour from his bride; and they resumed their position on the sofa. but so embarrassing was the situation of all parties that no conversation took place; and adeline, unable any longer to endure the restraint to which she was obliged, rose, to return to her own room, in order to hide the sorrow which she was on the point of betraying, when her mother in a tone of reproach exclaimed, 'it grieves me to the soul, miss mowbray, to perceive that you appear to consider as a day of mourning the day which i consider as the happiest of my life.' 'oh! my dearest mother!' replied adeline, returning and approaching her, 'it is the dread of your deceiving yourself, only, that makes me sad at a time like this: if this day in its consequences prove a happy one--' 'and wherefore should you doubt that it will, miss mowbray?' 'miss mowbray, do you doubt my honour?' cried sir patrick hastily. adeline instantly fixed her fine eyes on his face with a look which he knew how to interpret, but not how to support: and he cast his to the ground with painful consciousness. she saw her triumph, and it gave her courage to proceed:--'o sir!' she cried, 'it is in your power to convert all my painful doubts into joyful certainties; make but my mother happy, and i will love and bless you ever.--promise me, sir,' she continued, her enthusiasm and affection kindling as she spoke, 'promise me to be kind and indulgent to her;--she has never known contradiction; she has been through life the darling object of all who surrounded her; the pride of her parents, her husband, and her child: neglect, injury, and unkindness she would inevitably sink under: and i conjure you (here she dropped on her knees and extended her arms in an attitude of entreaty) by all your hopes of happiness hereafter, to give her reason to continue to name this the happiest day of her life.' here she ceased, overcome by the violence of her emotions; but continued her look and attitude of entreaty, full of such sweet earnestness, that the baronet could hardly conceal the variety of feelings which assailed him; amongst which, passion for the lovely object before him predominated. to make a jest of adeline's seriousness he conceived to be the best way to conceal what he felt; and while mrs mowbray, overcome with adeline's expressions of tenderness, was giving way to them by a flood of tears, and grasping in both hers the clasped hands of adeline, he cried, in an ironical tone,--'you are the most extraordinary motherly young creature that i ever saw in my life, my dear girl! instead of your mother giving the nuptial benediction to you, the order of nature is reversed, and you are giving it to her. upon my word i begin to think, seeing you in that posture, that you are my bride begging a blessing of mamma on our union, and that i ought to be on my knees too.' so saying, he knelt beside adeline at lady o'carrol's feet, and in a tone of mock solemnity besought her to bless both her affectionate children: and as he did this, he threw his arm round the weeping girl, and pressed her to his bosom. this speech, and this action, at once banished all self-command from the indignant adeline, and in an instant she sprung from his embrace; and forgetting how much her violence must surprise, if not alarm and offend, her mother, she rushed out of the room, and did not stop till she had reached her own chamber. when there, she was alarmed lest her conduct should have occasioned both pain and resentment to lady o'carrol; and it was with trembling reluctance that she obeyed the summons to dinner; but her fears were groundless. the bride had fallen into one of her reveries during sir patrick's strange speech, from which she awakened only at the last words of it, viz. 'affectionate children:' and seeing sir patrick at her feet, with a very tender expression on his face, and hearing the words 'affectionate children,' she conceived that he was expressing his hopes of their being blest with progeny, and that a selfish feeling of fear at such a prospect had hurried adeline out of the room. she was therefore disposed to regard her daughter with pity, but not with resentment, when she entered the dinner-room, and adeline's tranquillity in a degree returned: but when she retired for the night she could not help owning to herself, that that day, her mother's wedding day, had been the most painful of her existence--and she literally sobbed herself to sleep. the next morning a new trial awaited her; she had to write a final farewell to glenmurray. many letters did she begin, many did she finish, and many did she tear; but recollecting that the longer she delayed sending him one, the longer she kept him in a state of agitating suspense, she resolved to send the last written, even though it appeared to her not quite so strong a transcript of her feelings as the former ones. whether it was so or not, glenmurray received it with alternate agony and transport;--with agony because it destroyed every hope of adeline's being his,--and with transport, because every line breathed the purest and yet most ardent attachment, and convinced him that, however long their separation, the love of adeline would experience no change. many days elapsed before glenmurray could bear any companion but the letter of adeline; and during that time she was on the road with the bride and bridegroom to a beautiful seat in berkshire, called the pavilion, hired by sir patrick, the week before his marriage, of one of his profligate friends. as the road lay through a very fine country, adeline would have thought the journey a pleasant one, had not the idea of glenmurray ill and dejected continually haunted her. sir patrick appeared to be engrossed by his bride, and she was really wholly wrapt up in him; and at times the beauties of the scenery around had power to engage adeline's attention: but she immediately recollected how much glenmurray would have participated in her delight, and the contemplation of the prospect ended in renewed recollections of him. chapter ix at length they arrived at the place of their destination; and sir patrick, warmly embracing his bride, bade her welcome to her new abode; and immediately approaching adeline, he bestowed on her an embrace no less cordial:--or, to say the truth, so ardent seemed the welcome, even to the innocent adeline, that she vainly endeavoured to persuade herself that, as her father-in-law, sir patrick's tenderness was excusable. spite of her efforts to be cheerful she was angry and suspicious, and had an indistinct feeling of remote danger; which though she could not define even to herself, it was new and painful to her to experience. but as the elastic mind of eighteen soon rebounds from the pressure of sorrow, and forgets in present enjoyment the prospect of evil, adeline gazed on the elegant apartment she was in with joyful surprise; while, through folding doors on either side of it, she beheld a suite of rooms, all furnished with a degree of tasteful simplicity such as she had never before beheld: and through the windows, which opened on a lawn that sloped to the banks of a rapid river, she saw an amphitheatre of wooded hills, which proved that, how great soever had been the efforts of art to decorate their new habitation, the hand of nature had done still more to embellish it; and all fear of sir patrick was lost in gratitude for his having chosen such a retirement. with eager curiosity adeline hurried from room to room; admired in the western apartments the fine effect of the declining sun shining through rose-coloured window curtains; gazed with delight on the statues and pictures that every where met the eye, and reposed with unsuspecting gaiety on the couches of eider down which were in profusion around. every thing in the house spoke it to be the temple of pleasure: but the innocent adeline and her unobservant mother saw nothing but elegant convenience in an abode in which the disciples of epicurus might have delighted; and while �olian harps in the windows, and perfumes of all kinds, added to the enchantment of the scene, the bride only beheld in the choice of the villa a proof of her husband's desire of making her happy; and adeline sighed for virtuous love and glenmurray, as all that was wanting to complete her fascination. sir patrick, meanwhile, was not blind to the impressions made on adeline by the beauty of the spot which he had chosen, though he was far from suspecting the companion she had pictured to herself as most fitted to enjoy and embellish it; and pleased because she was pleased, and delighted to be regarded by her with such unusual looks of complacency, he gave himself up to his natural vivacity; and adeline passed a merry, if not a happy, evening with the bride and bridegroom. but the next morning she arose with the painful conviction as fresh as ever on her mind, that day would succeed to day; and yet she should not behold glenmurray: and that day would succeed to day, and still should she see o'carrol, still be exposed to his noisy mirth, to his odious familiarities, which, though she taught herself to believe they proceeded merely from the customs of his country, and the nearness of their relationship, it was to her most painful to endure. her only resource, therefore, from unpleasant thoughts was reading; and she eagerly opened the cases of books in the library, which were unlocked. but, on taking down some of the books, she was disappointed to find none of the kind to which she had been accustomed. mrs mowbray's peculiar taste had led her, as we have before observed, to the perusal of nothing but political tracts, systems of philosophy, and scuderi's and other romances. scarcely had the works of our best poets found their way to her library; and novels, plays, and works of a lighter kind she was never in the habit of reading herself, and consequently had not put in the hands of her daughter. adeline had, therefore, read rousseau's _contrat social_, but not his _julie_; montesquieu's _esprit des loix_, but not his _lettres persanes_; and had glowed with republican ardour over the scenes of voltaire's _brutus_, but had never had her mind polluted by the pages of his romances. different had been the circumstances, and consequently the practice, of the owner of sir patrick's new abode. of all rousseau's works, he had in his library only the _new heloise_ and his _confessions_; of montesquieu, none but the glowing letters above-mentioned; and while voltaire's chaste and moral tragedies were excluded, his profligate tales attracted the eye by the peculiar elegance of their binding, while dangerous french novels of all descriptions met the view under the downy pillows of the inviting sofas around, calculated to inflame the fancy and corrupt the morals. but adeline, unprepared by any reading of the kind to receive and relish the poison contained in them, turned with disgust from pages so uncongenial to her feelings; nor did her eye dwell delighted on any of the stores which the shelves contained. disappointment in her hopes of finding amusement in reading, adeline had recourse to walking; and none of the beautiful scenes around remained long unexplored by her. in her rambles she but too frequently saw scenes of poverty and distress, which ill contrasted with the beauty of the house which she inhabited; scenes, which even a small portion of the money expended there in useless decoration would have entirely alleviated: and they were scenes, too, which adeline had been accustomed to relieve. the extreme of poverty in the cottage did not disgrace, on the mowbray estate, the well-furnished mansion-house; but adeline, as we have observed before, was allowed to draw on her mother for money sufficient to prevent industrious labour from knowing the distress of want. 'and why should i not draw on her here for money for the same purposes?' cried adeline to herself, as she beheld one spectacle of peculiar hardships.--'surely my mother is not dependent on her husband? and even if she were, sir patrick has not a hard heart, and will not refuse my prayer': and therefore, promising the sufferers instant relief, she left them, saying she should soon reach the pavilion and be back again; while the objects of her bounty were silent with surprise at hearing that their relief was to come from the pavilion, a place hitherto closed to the solicitations of poverty, though ever open to the revels and the votaries of pleasure. adeline found her mother alone; and with a beating heart and a flushed cheek, she described the scene which she had witnessed, and begged to be restored to her old office of almoner on such occasions. 'a sad scene, indeed, my dear adeline!' replied the bride in evident embarrassment, 'and i will speak to sir patrick about it.' 'speak to sir patrick, madam! cannot you follow the impulse of humanity without consulting him?' 'i can't give the relief you ask without his assistance,' replied her mother; 'for, except a guinea or so, i have no loose cash about me for my own uses.--sir patrick's benevolence has long ago emptied his purse, and i gladly surrendered mine to him.' 'and shall you in future have no money for the purposes of charity but that you must claim from sir patrick?' asked adeline mournfully. 'o dear! yes,--i have a very handsome allowance settled on me; but then at present he wants it himself (adeline involuntarily clasped her hands together in an agony, and sighed deeply.) but, however, child,' added the bride, 'as you seem to make such a point of it, take this guinea to the cottage you mention, _en attendant_!' adeline took the guinea: but it was very insufficient to pay for medical attendance, to discharge the rent due to a clamorous landlord, and to purchase several things necessary for the relief of the poor sufferers: therefore she added another guinea to it, and, not liking to relate her disappointment, sent the money to them, desiring the servant to say that she would see them the next morning, when she resolved to apply to sir patrick for the relief which her mother could not give; feeling at the same time the mournful conviction, that she herself, as well as her mother, would be in future dependent on his bounty. though disposed to give way to mournful reflections on her own account, adeline roused herself from the melancholy abstraction into which she was falling, by reflecting that she had still to plead the cause of the poor cottagers with sir patrick; and hearing he was in the house, she hastened to prefer her petition. sir patrick listened to her tone of voice, and gazed on her expressive countenance with delight; but when she had concluded her narration a solitary half-guinea was all he bestowed on her, saying, 'i am never roused to charity by the descriptions of others; i must always see the distress which i am solicited to relieve.' 'then go with me to the cottage,' exclaimed adeline; but to her great mortification he only smiled, bowed, and disappeared: and when he returned to supper, adeline could scarcely prevail on herself to look at him without displeasure, and could not endure the unfeeling vivacity of his manner. mortified and unhappy, she next morning went to the cottage, reluctant to impart to its expecting inhabitants the ill success she had experienced. but what was her surprise when they came out joyfully to meet her, and told her that a gentleman had been there that morning very early, had discharged their debts, and given them a sum of money for their future wants! 'his name, his name?' eagerly inquired adeline: but that they said he refused to give; and as he was in a horseman's large coat, and held a hankerchief to his face, they were sure they should not know him again. a pleasing suspicion immediately came across adeline's mind that this benevolent unknown might be glenmurray: and the idea that he was perhaps unseen hovering round her, gave her one of the most exquisite feelings which she had ever known. but this agreeable delusion was soon dissipated by one of the children's giving her a card which the kind stranger had dropped from his pocket; and this card had on it 'sir patrick o'carrol.' at first it was natural for her to be hurt and disappointed at finding that her hopes concerning glenmurray had no foundation in truth; but her benevolence, and indeed regard for her mother's happiness as well as her own, led her to rejoice in this unexpected proof of excellence in sir patrick.--he had evidently proved that he loved to do good by stealth, and had withdrawn himself even from her thanks. in a moment, therefore, she banished from her mind every trace of his unworthiness. she had done him injustice, and she sought refuge from the remorse which this consciousness inflicted on her, by going into the opposite extreme. from that hour, indeed, her complaisance to his opinions, and her attentions to him, were so unremitting and evident, that sir patrick's passion became stronger than ever, and his hopes of a return to it seemed to be built on a very strong foundation. adeline had given all her former suspicions to the wind; daily instances of his benevolence came to her knowledge, and threw such a charm over all he said and did, that even the familiarity in his conduct, look, and manner towards her, appeared to her now nothing more than the result of the free manners of his countrymen:--and she sometimes could not help wishing sir patrick to be known to, and intimate with, glenmurray. but the moment was now at hand that was to unveil the real character of sir patrick, and determine the destiny of adeline. one day sir patrick proposed taking his bride to see a beautiful _ferme ornee_ at about twelve miles' distance; and if it answered the expectations which he had formed of it, they were determined to spend two or three days in the neighbourhood to enjoy the beauty of the grounds;--in that case he was to return in the evening to the pavilion, and drive adeline over the next morning to partake in their pleasure. to this scheme both the ladies gladly consented, as it was impossible for them to suspect the villainous design which it was intended to aid. the truth was, that sir patrick, having, as he fondly imagined, gained adeline's affections, resolved to defer no longer the profligate attempt which he had long meditated; and had contrived this excursion in order to insure his wife's absence from home, and a tête-à-tête with her daughter. at an early hour the curricle was at the door, and sir patrick, having handed his lady in, took leave of adeline. he told her that he should probably return early in the evening, pressed her hand more tenderly than usual, and, springing into the carriage, drove off with a countenance animated with expected triumph. adeline immediately set out on a long walk to the adjoining villages, visited the cottages near the pavilion, and, having dined at an early hour, determined to pass the rest of the day in reading, provided it was possible for her to find any book in the house proper for her perusal. with this intention she repaired to an apartment called the library, but what in these times would be denominated a _boudoir_, and this, even in paris, would have been admired for its voluptuous elegance.--on the table lay several costly volumes, which seemed to have been very lately perused by sir patrick, as some of them were open, some turned down at particular passages: but as soon as she glanced her eye over their contents, adeline indignantly threw them down again; and, while her cheek glowed with the blush of offended modesty she threw herself on a sofa, and fell into a long and mournful reverie on the misery which awaited her mother, in consequence of her having madly dared to unite herself for life to a young libertine, who could delight in no other reading but what was offensive to good morals and to delicacy. nor could she dwell upon this subject without recurring to her former fears for herself; and so lost was she in agonizing reflections, that it was some time before she recollected herself sufficiently to remember that she was guilty of an indecorum, in staying so long in an apartment which contained books that she ought not even to be suspected of having had an opportunity to peruse. having once entertained this consciousness, adeline hastily arose, and had just reached the door when sir patrick himself appeared at it. she started back in terror when she beheld him, on observing in his countenance and manner evident marks not only of determined profligacy, but of intoxication. her suspicions were indeed just. bold as he was in iniquity, he dared not in a cool and sober moment put his guilty purpose in execution; and he shrunk with temporary horror from an attempt on the honour of the daughter of his wife, though he believed that she would be a willing victim. he had therefore stopped on the road to fortify his courage with wine; and, luckily for adeline, he had taken more than he was aware of; for when, after a vehement declaration of the ardour of his passion, he dared irreverently to approach her, adeline, strong in innocence, aware of his intention, and presuming on his situation, disengaged herself from his grasp with ease; and pushing him with violence from her, he fell with such force against the brass edge of one of the sofas, that, stunned and wounded by the fall, he lay bleeding on the ground. adeline involuntarily was hastening to his assistance: but recollecting how mischievous to her such an exertion of humanity might be, she contented herself with ringing the bell violently to call the servants to his aid. then, in almost frantic haste, she rushed out of the house, ran across the park, and when she recovered her emotion she found herself, she scarcely knew how, sitting on a turf seat by the road side. 'what will become of me!' she wildly exclaimed: 'my mother's roof is no longer a protection to me;--i cannot absent myself from it without alleging a reason for my conduct, which will ruin her peace of mind for ever. wretch that i am! whither can i go, and where can i seek for refuge?' at this moment, as she looked around in wild dismay, and raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she saw a man's face peeping from between the branches of a tree opposite to her, and observed that he was gazing on her intently. alarmed and fluttered, she instantly started from her seat, and was hastening away, when the man suddenly dropped from his hiding-place, and, running after her, called her by her name, and conjured her to stop; while, with an emotion of surprise and delight, she recognized in him arthur, the servant of glenmurray! instantly, scarcely knowing what she did, she pressed the astonished arthur's rough hand in hers; and by this action confused and confounded the poor fellow so much, that the speech which he was going to make faltered on his tongue. 'oh! where is your master?' eagerly inquired adeline. 'my master has sent you this, miss,' replied arthur, holding out a letter, which adeline joyfully received; and, spite of her intended obedience to her mother's will, glenmurray himself could not have met with a more favourable reception, for the moment was a most propitious one to his love: nor, as it happened, was glenmurray too far off to profit by it. on his way from bath he went a few miles out of his road, in order, as he said, and perhaps as he thought, to pay a visit to an old servant of his mother's, who was married to a respectable farmer; but, fortunately, the farm commanded a view of the pavilion, and glenmurray could from his window gaze on the house that contained the woman of his affections. but to return to adeline, who, while hastily tearing open the letter, asked arthur where his master was, and heard with indescribable emotion that he was in the neighbourhood. 'here! so providentially!' she exclaimed, and proceeded to read the letter; but her emotion forbade her to read it entirely. she only saw that it contained banknotes; that glenmurray was going abroad for his health; and, in case he should die there, had sent her the money which he had meant to leave her in his will,--lest she should be, in the meanwhile, any way dependent on sir patrick. numberless conflicting emotions took possession of adeline's heart while the new proof of her lover's attentive tenderness met her view: and, as she contrasted his generous and delicate attachment with the licentious passion of her mother's libertine husband, a burst of uncontrollable affection for glenmurray agitated her bosom; and, rendered superstitious by her fears, she looked on him as sent by providence to save her from the dangers of her home. 'this is the second time,' cried she, 'that glenmurray, as my guardian angel, has appeared at the moment when i was exposed to danger from the same guilty quarter! ah! surely there is more than accident in this! and he is ordained to be my guide and my protector!' when once a woman has associated with an amiable man the idea of protection, he can never again be indifferent to her: and when the protector happens to be the chosen object of her love, his power becomes fixed on a basis never to be shaken. 'it is enough,' said adeline in a faltering voice, pressing the letter to her lips, and bursting into tears of grateful tenderness as she spoke: 'lead me to your master directly.' 'bless my heart! will you see him then, miss?' cried arthur. 'see him?' replied adeline--'see the only friend i now can boast?--but let us be gone this moment, lest i should be seen and pursued.' instantly, guided by arthur, adeline set off full speed for the farm-house, nor stopped till she found herself in the presence of glenmurray! 'o! i am safe now!' exclaimed adeline, throwing herself into his arms; while he was so overcome with surprise and joy that he could not speak the welcome which his heart gave her: and adeline, happy to behold him again, was as silent as her lover. at length glenmurray exclaimed:-- 'do we then meet again, adeline!' 'yes,' replied she; 'and we meet to part no more.' 'do not mock me,' cried glenmurray starting from his seat, and seizing her extended hand; 'my feelings must not be trifled with.' 'nor am i a woman to trifle with them. glenmurray, i come to you for safety and protection;--i come to seek shelter in your arms from misery and dishonour. you are ill, you are going into a foreign country: and from this moment look on me as your nurse, your companion;--your home shall be my home, your country my country!' glenmurray, too much agitated, too happy to speak, could only press the agitated girl to his bosom, and fold his arms round her, as if to assure her of the protection which she claimed. 'but there is not a moment to be lost,' cried adeline: 'i may be missed and pursued: let us be gone directly.' the first word was enough for glenmurray: eager to secure the recovered treasure which he had thought for ever lost, his orders were given, and executed by the faithful arthur with the utmost dispatch; and even before adeline had explained to him the cause of her resolution to elope with him they were on their road to cornwall, meaning to embark at falmouth for lisbon. but arthur, who was going to marry, and leave glenmurray's service, received orders to stay at the farm till he had learned how sir patrick was: and having obtained the necessary information, he was to send it to glenmurray at falmouth. the next morning he saw sir patrick himself driving full speed past the farm; and having written immediately to his master, adeline had the satisfaction of knowing that she had not purchased her own safety by the sufferings or danger of her persecutor, and the consequent misery of her mother. chapter x but glenmurray's heart needed no explanation of the cause of adeline's elopement. she was with him--with him, as she said, for ever. true, she had talked of flying from misery and dishonour; but he knew they could not reach her in his arms,--not even dishonour according to the ideas of society,--for he meant to make adeline legally his as soon as they were safe from pursuit, and his illness was forgotten in the fond transport of the present moment. adeline's joy was of a much shorter duration. recollections of a most painful nature were continually recurring. true it was that it was no longer possible for her to reside under the roof of her mother: but was it necessary for her to elope with glenmurray? the man whom she had solemnly promised her mother to renounce! then, on the other side, she argued that the appearance of love for glenmurray was an excuse sufficient to conceal from her deluded parent the real cause of her elopement. 'it was my sole alternative,' said she mentally:--'my mother must either suppose me an unworthy child, or know sir patrick to be an unworthy husband; and it will be easier for her to support the knowledge of the one than the other: then, when she forgives me, as no doubt she will in time, i shall be happy: but that i could never be, while convinced that i had made her miserable by revealing to her the wickedness of sir patrick.' while this was passing in her mind, her countenance was full of such anxious and mournful expression, that glenmurray, unable to keep silence any longer, conjured her to tell him what so evidently weighed upon her spirits. 'the difficulty that oppressed me is past,' she replied, wiping from her eyes the tears which the thought of having left her mother so unexpectedly, and for the first time, produced. 'i have convinced myself, that to leave home and commit myself to your protection was the most proper and virtuous step that i could take: i have not obeyed the dictates of love, but of reason.' 'i am very sorry to hear it,' said glenmurray mournfully. 'it seems to me so very rational to love you,' returned adeline tenderly, shocked at the sad expression of his countenance, 'that what seems to be the dictates of reason may be those of love only.' to a reply like this, glenmurray could only answer by close involvement not intelligible expressions of fondness to the object of them, which are so delightful to lovers themselves, and so uninteresting to other people: nay, so entirely was glenmurray again engrossed by the sense of present happiness, that his curiosity was still suspended, and adeline's story remained untold. but adeline's pleasure was damped by painful recollections, and still more by her not being able to hide from herself the mournful consciousness that the ravages of sickness were but too visible in glenmurray's face and figure, and that the flush of unexpected delight could but ill conceal the hollow paleness of his cheek, and the sunk appearance of his eyes. meanwhile the chaise rolled on,--post succeeded to post; and though night was far advanced, adeline, fearful of being pursued, would not consent to stop, and they travelled till morning. but glenmurray, feeling himself exhausted, prevailed on her, for his sake, to alight at a small inn on the road side near marlborough. there adeline narrated the occurrences of the past day; but with difficulty could she prevail on herself to own to glenmurray that she had been the object of such an outrage as she had experienced from sir patrick. a truly delicate woman feels degraded, not flattered, by being the object of libertine attempts; and, situated as adeline and glenmurray now were, to disclose the insult which had been offered to her was a still more difficult task: but to conceal it was impossible. she felt that, even to him, some justification of her precipitate and unsolicited flight was necessary; and nothing but sir patrick's attempt could justify it. she, therefore, blushing and hesitating, revealed the disgraceful secret; but such was its effect on the weak spirits and delicate health of glenmurray, that the violent emotions which he underwent brought on a return of his most alarming symptoms; and in a few hours adeline, bending over the sick bed of her lover, experienced for the first time that most dreadful of feelings, fear for the life of the object of her affections. two days, however, restored him to comparative safety, and they reached a small and obscure village within a short distance from falmouth, most conveniently situated. there they took up their abode, and resolved to remain till the wind should change, and enable them to sail for lisbon. in this retreat, situated in air as salubrious as that of the south of france, glenmurray was soon restored to health, especially as happy love was now his, and brought back the health of which hopeless love had contributed to deprive him. the woman whom he loved was his companion and his nurse; and so dear had the quiet scene of their happiness become to them, that, forgetful there was still a danger of their being discovered, it was with considerable regret that they received a summons to embark, and saw themselves on their voyage to portugal. but before she left england adeline wrote to her mother. after a pleasant and short voyage the lovers found themselves at lisbon; and glenmurray, pursuant to his resolution, immediately proposed to adeline, to unite himself to her by the indissoluble ties of marriage. nothing could exceed adeline's surprise at this proposal: at first she could not believe glenmurray was in earnest; but seeing that he looked not only grave but anxious, and as if earnestly expecting an answer, she asked him whether he had convinced himself that what he had written against marriage was a tissue of mischievous absurdity. glenmurray, blushing, with the conceit of an author replied 'that he still thought his arguments unanswerable.' 'then, if you still are convinced your theory is good, why let your practice be bad? it is incumbent on you to act up to the principles that you profess, in order to give them their proper weight in society--else you give the lie to your own declarations.' 'but it is better for me to do that, than for you to be the sacrifice to my reputation.' 'i,' replied adeline, 'am entirely out of the question: you are to be governed by no other law but your desire to promote general utility, and are not to think at all of the interest of an individual.' 'how can i do so, when that individual is dearer to me than all the world beside?' cried glenmurray passionately. 'and if you but once recollect that you are dearer to me than all the world beside, you will cease to suppose that my happiness can be affected by the opinion entertained of my conduct by others.' as adeline said this, she twisted both her hands in his arms so affectionately, and looked up in his face with so satisfied and tender an expression, that glenmurray could not bear to go on with a subject which evidently drew a cloud across her brow; and hours, days, weeks, and months passed rapidly over their heads before he had resolution to renew it. hours, days, weeks, and months spent in a manner most dear to the heart and most salutary to the mind of adeline!--her taste for books, which had hitherto been cultivated in a partial manner, and had led her to one range of study only, was now directed by glenmurray to the perusal of general literature; and the historian, the biographer, the poet, and the novelist, obtained alternately her attention and her praises. in her knowledge of the french and italian languages, too, she was now considerably improved by the instructions of her lover; and while his occasional illnesses were alleviated by her ever watchful attentions, their attachment was cemented by one of the strongest of all ties--the consciousness of mutual benefit and assistance. chapter xi one evening, as they were sitting on a bench in one of the public walks, a gentleman approached them, whose appearance bespoke him to be an englishman, though his sun-burnt complexion showed that he had been for years exposed to a more ardent climate than that of britain. as he came nearer, glenmurray thought his features were familiar to him; and the stranger, starting with joyful surprise, seized his hand, and welcomed him as an old friend. glenmurray returned his salutation with great cordiality, and recognized in the stranger, a mr maynard, an amiable man, who had gone to seek his fortune in india, and was returned a nabob, but with an irreproachable character. 'so, then,' cried mr maynard gaily, 'this is the elegant young english couple that my servant, and even the inn-keeper himself, was so loud in praise of! little did i think the happy man was my old friend,--though no man is more deserving of being happy: but i beg you will introduce me to your lady.' glenmurray, though conscious of the mistake he was under, had not resolution enough to avow that he was not married; and adeline, unaware of the difficulty of glenmurray's situation, received mr maynard's salutation with the utmost ease, though the tremor of her lover's voice, and the blush on his cheek, as he said--'adeline, give me leave to introduce to you mr maynard, an old friend of mine,'--were sufficient indications that the rencontre disturbed him. in a few minutes adeline and mr maynard were no longer strangers. mr maynard, who had not lived much in the society of well-informed women, and not at all in that of women accustomed to original thinking, was at once astonished and delighted at the variety of adeline's remarks, at the playfulness of her imagination, and the eloquence of her expressions. but it was very evident, at length, to mr maynard, that in proportion as adeline and he became more acquainted and more satisfied with each other, glenmurray grew more silent and more uneasy. the consequence was unavoidable: as most men would have done on a like occasion, mr maynard thought glenmurray was jealous of him. but no thought so vexatious to himself, and so degrading to adeline, had entered the confiding and discriminating mind of glenmurray. the truth was, he knew that mr maynard, whom he had seen in the walks, though he had not known him again, had ladies of his party; and he expected that the more mr maynard admired his supposed wife, the more would he be eager to introduce her to his companions. nor was glenmurray wrong in his conjectures. 'i have two sisters with me, madam,' said mr maynard, 'whom i shall be happy and proud to introduce to you. one of them is a widow, and has lived several years in india, but returned with me in delicate health, and was ordered hither: she is not a woman of great reading, but has an excellent understanding, and will admire you. the other is several years younger; and i am sure she would be happy in an opportunity of profiting by the conversation of a lady, who, though not older than herself, seems to have had so many more opportunities of improvement.' adeline bowed, and expressed her impatience to form this new acquaintance; and looked triumphantly at glenmurray, meaning to express--'see, spite of the supposed prejudices of the world, here is a man who wants to introduce me to his sisters.' little did she know that maynard concluded she was a wife: his absence from england had made him ignorant of the nature of glenmurray's works, or even that he was an author; so that he was not at all likely to suppose that the moral, pious youth, whom he had always respected, was become a visionary philosopher, and, in defiance of the laws of society, was living openly with a mistress. 'but my sister will wonder what is become of me;' suddenly cried maynard; 'and as emily is so unwell as to keep her room to-day, i must not make her anxious. but for her illness, i should have requested your company to supper.' 'and i should have liked to accept the invitation,' replied adeline; 'but i will hope to see the ladies soon.' 'oh! without fail, to-morrow,' cried maynard: 'if emily be not well enough to call on you, perhaps you will come to her apartments.' 'undoubtedly: expect me at twelve o'clock.' maynard then shook his grave and silent friend by the hand and, departed,--his vanity not a little flattered by the supposed jealousy of glenmurray. 'there now,' said adeline, when he was out of hearing. 'i hope some of your tender fears are done away. you see there are liberal and unprejudiced persons in the world; and mr maynard, instead of shunning me, courts my acquaintance for his sisters.' glenmurray shook his head, and remained silent; and adeline was distressed to feel by his burning hand that he was seriously uneasy. 'i shall certainly call on these ladies to-morrow,' continued adeline:--'i really pine for the society of amiable women.' glenmurray sighed deeply: he dreaded to tell her that he could not allow her to call on them, and yet he knew that this painful task awaited him. besides, she wished, she said, to know some amiable women; and, eager as he was to indulge all her wishes, he felt but too certainly that in this wish she could never be indulged. even had he been capable of doing so dishonourable an action as introducing his mistress as his wife, he was sure that adeline would have spurned at the deception; and silent and sad he grasped adeline's hand as her arm rested within his, and complaining of indisposition, slowly returned to the inn. the next morning at breakfast, adeline again expressed her eagerness to form an acquaintance with the sisters of mr maynard; when glenmurray, starting from his seat, paced the room in considerable agitation. 'what is the matter!' cried adeline, hastily rising and laying her hand on his arm. glenmurray grasped her hand, and replied with assumed firmness: 'adeline, it is impossible for you to form an acquaintance with mr maynard's sisters: propriety and honour both forbid me to allow it.' 'indeed!' exclaimed adeline, 'are they not as amiable, then, as he described them? are they improper acquaintances for me? well then--i am disappointed: but you are the best judge of what is right, and i am contented to obey you.' the simple, ingenuous and acquiescent sweetness with which she said this, was a new pang to her lover:--had she repined, had she looked ill-humoured, his task would not have been so difficult. 'but what reason can you give for declining this acquaintance?' resumed adeline. 'aye! there's the difficulty,' replied glenmurray: 'pure-minded and amiable as i know you to be, how can i bear to tell these children of prejudice that you are not my wife, but my mistress?' adeline started; and, turning pale, exclaimed, 'are you sure, then, that they do not know it already?' 'quite sure--else maynard would not have thought you a fit companion for his sisters.' 'but surely--he must know your principles;--he must have read your works?' 'i am certain he is ignorant of both, and does not even know that i am an author.' 'is it possible?' cried adeline: 'is there any one so unfortunate to be unacquainted with your writings?' glenmurray at another time would have been elated at a compliment like this from the woman whom he idolized; but at this moment he heard it with a feeling of pain which he would not have liked to define to himself, and casting his eyes to the ground he said nothing. 'so then,' said adeline mournfully, 'i am an improper companion for them, not they for me!' and spite of herself her eyes filled with tears.--at this moment a waiter brought in a note for glenmurray;--it was from maynard, and as follows:-- my dear friend, emily is better to-day; and both my sisters are so impatient to see, and know, your charming wife, that they beg me to present their compliments to mrs glenmurray and you; and request the honour of your company to a late breakfast:--at eleven o'clock we hope to see you. ever yours, g. m. 'we will send an answer,' said glenmurray: but the waiter had been gone some minutes before either adeline or glenmurray spoke. at length adeline, struggling with her feelings, observed, 'mr maynard seems so amiable a man, that i should think it would not be difficult to convince him of his errors: surely, therefore, it is your duty to call on him, state our real situation, and our reasons for it, and endeavour to convince him that our attachment is sanctioned both by reason and virtue.' 'but not by the church,' replied glenmurray, 'and maynard is of the old school: besides, a man of forty-eight is not likely to be convinced by the arguments of a young man of twenty-eight, and the example of a girl of nineteen.' 'if age be necessary to give weight to arguments,' returned adeline, 'i wonder that you thought proper to publish four years ago.' 'would to god i never had published!' exclaimed glenmurray, almost pettishly. 'if you had not, i probably should never have been yours,' replied adeline, fondly leaning her head on his shoulder, and then looking up in his face. glenmurray clasped her to his bosom; but again the pleasure was mixed with pain. 'all this time,' rejoined adeline, 'your friends are expecting an answer: you had better carry it in person.' 'i cannot,' replied glenmurray, 'and there is only one way of getting out of this business to my satisfaction.' 'name it; and rest assured that i shall approve it.' 'then i wish to order horses immediately, and set off on our road to france.' 'so soon,--though the air agrees with you so well?' 'o yes;--for when the mind is uneasy no air can be of use to the body.' 'but why is your mind uneasy?' 'here i should be exposed to see maynard, and--and--he would see you too.' 'and what then?' 'what then?--why, i could not bear to see him look on you with an eye of disrespect.' 'and wherefore should he?' 'o adeline, the name of wife imposes restraint even on a libertine; but that of mistress--' 'is mr maynard a libertine?' said adeline gravely: and glenmurray, afraid of wounding her feelings by entering into a further explanation, changed the subject, and again requested her consent to leave lisbon. 'i have often told you,' said adeline sighing, 'that my will is yours; and if you will give strict orders to have letters sent after us to the towns that we shall stop at, i am ready to set off immediately.' glenmurray then gave his orders; wrote a letter explaining his situation to maynard, and in an hour they were on their journey to france. chapter xii in the meanwhile mr maynard, miss maynard, and mrs wallington his widowed sister, were impatiently expecting glenmurray's answer, and earnestly hoping to see him and his lovely companion,--but from different motives. maynard was impatient to see adeline because he really admired her; his sisters, because they hoped to find her unworthy of such violent admiration. their vanity had been piqued, and their envy excited, by the extravagant praises of their brother; and they had interrupted him by the first questions which all women ask on such occasions,--'is she pretty?' and he answered, 'very pretty.' 'is she tall?' 'very tall, taller than i am.' 'i hate tall women,' replied miss maynard (a little round girl of nineteen). 'is she fair?' 'exquisitely fair.' 'i like brown women,' cried the widow: 'fair people always look silly.' 'but mrs glenmurray's eyes are hazel, and her eyelashes long and dark.' 'hazel eyes are always bold-looking,' cried miss maynard. 'not mrs glenmurray's; for her expression is the most pure and ingenuous that i ever saw. some girls, indecent in their dress, and very licentious in their manner, passed us as we sat on the walk; and the comments which i made on them provoked from mrs glenmurray some remarks on the behaviour and dress of women; and, as she commented on the disgusting expression of vice in women, and the charm of modest dignity both in dress and manners, her own dress, manners, and expression, were such an admirable comment on her words, and she shone so brightly, if i may use the expression, in the graceful awfulness of virtue, that i gazed with delight, and somewhat of apprehension lest this fair perfection should suddenly take flight to her native skies, toward which her fine eyes were occasionally turned.' 'bless me! if our brother is not quite poetical! this prodigy has inspired him,' replied the widow with a sneer. 'for my part, i hate prodigies,' said miss maynard: 'i feel myself unworthy to associate with them.' when one woman calls another a prodigy, and expresses herself as unworthy to associate with her, it is very certain that she means to insult rather than compliment her; and in this sense mr maynard understood his sister's words: therefore after having listened with tolerable patience to a few more sneers at the unconscious adeline, he was provoked to say that, ill-disposed as he found they were toward his new acquaintance, he hoped that when they became acquainted with her they would still give him reason to say, as he always had done, that he was proud of his sisters; for, in his opinion, no woman ever looked so lovely as when she was doing justice to the merits and extenuating the faults of a rival. 'a rival!' exclaimed the sisters at once:--'and, pray, what rivalship could there be in this case?' 'my remark was a general one: but since you choose to make it a particular one, i will answer to it as such,' continued mr maynard. 'all women are rivals in one sense--rivals for general esteem and admiration; and she only shall have my suffrage in her favour, who can point out a beauty or a merit in another woman without insinuating at the same time a counterbalancing effect.' 'but mrs glenmurray, it seems, has no defects!' 'at least i have not known her long enough to find them out; but you, no doubt, will, when you know her, very readily spare me that trouble.' how injudiciously had maynard prepared the minds of his sisters to admire adeline. it was a preparation to make them hate her; and they were very impatient to begin the task of depreciating both her _morale_ and her _physique_, when glenmurray's note arrived. 'it is not glenmurray's hand,' said maynard--(indeed, from agitation of mind the writing was not recognizable). 'it must be hers then,' continued he, affecting to kiss the address with rapture. 'it is the hand of a sloven,' observed mrs wallington, studying the writing. 'but in dress she is as neat as a quaker,' retorted the brother, eagerly snatching the letter back, 'and her mind seems as pure as her dress.' he then broke the seal, and read out what follows:-- 'dear maynard, 'when you receive this, adeline and i shall be on our road to france, and you,--start not!--are the occasion of our abrupt departure.' 'so, so, jealous indeed,' said maynard to himself, and more impressed than ever with the charms of adeline; for he concluded that glenmurray had discovered in her an answering prepossession. 'you the occasion, brother!' cried both sisters. 'have patience.' 'you saw adeline; you admired her; and wished to introduce her to your sisters--this, honour forbad me to allow'--(the sisters started from their seats) 'for adeline is not my wife, but my companion.' here maynard made a full pause--at once surprised and confounded. his sisters, pleased as well as astonished, looked triumphantly at each other; and mrs wallington exclaimed. 'so, then, this angel of purity turns out to be a kept lady!' at this remark miss maynard laughed heartily, but maynard, to hide his confusion, commanded silence, and went on with the letter: 'but spite of her situation, strange as it may seem to you, believe me, no wife was ever more pure than adeline.' at this passage the sisters could no longer contain themselves, and they gave way to loud bursts of laughter, which maynard could hardly help joining in; but being angry at the same time he uttered nothing but an oath, which i shall not repeat, and retreated to his chamber to finish the letter alone. during his absence the laughters redoubled;--but in the midst of it maynard re-entered, and desired they would allow him to read the letter to the end. the sisters immediately begged that he would proceed, as it was so amusing that they wished to hear more.--glenmurray continued thus: 'you have no doubt yet to learn that some few years ago i commenced author, and published opinions contrary to the established usage of society: amongst other things i proved the absurdity of the institution of marriage; and adeline, who at an early age read my works, became one of my converts.' 'the man is certainly mad,' cried maynard, 'and how dreadful it is that this angelic creature should have been his victim.' 'but perhaps this _fallen_ angel, brother, for such you will allow she is, spite of her _purity_, was as wicked as he. i know people in general only blame the seducer, but i always blame the seduced equally.' 'i do not doubt it,' said her brother sneeringly, and going on with the letter. 'no wonder then, that, being forced to fly from her maternal roof, she took refuge in my arms.' 'lucky dog!' 'but though adeline was the victim neither of her own weakness nor of my seductions, but was merely urged by circumstances to act up to the principles which she openly professed, i felt so conscious that she would be degraded in your eyes after you were acquainted with her situation, though in mine she appears as spotless as ever, that i could not bear to expose her even to a glance from you less respectful than those with which you beheld her last night. i therefore prevailed on her to leave lisbon; nor had i any difficulty in so doing, when she found that your wish of introducing her to your sisters was founded on your supposition of her being my wife, and that all chance of your desiring her acquaintance for them would be over, when you knew the nature of her connexion with me. i shall now bid you farewell. i write in haste and agitation, and have not time to say more than god bless you! 'f. g.' 'yes, yes, i see how it is,' muttered mr maynard to himself when he had finished the letter, 'he was jealous of me. i wish (raising his voice) that he had not been in such a hurry to go away.' 'why, brother,' replied mrs wallington, 'to be sure you would not have introduced us to this piece of angelic purity a little the worse for the wear!' 'no,' replied he; 'but i might have enjoyed her company myself.' 'and perhaps, brother, you might have rivalled the philosophic author in time,' observed miss maynard. 'if i had not, it would have been from no want of good will on my part,' returned maynard. 'well, then i rejoice that the creature is gone,' replied mrs wallington, drawing up. 'and i too,' said miss maynard disdainfully: 'but i think we had better drop this subject; i have had quite enough of it.' 'and so have i,' cried mrs wallington: 'but i must observe, before we drop it entirely, that when next my brother comes home and wearies his sisters by exaggerated praises of another woman, i hope he will take care that his goddess, or rather his angel of purity, does not turn out to be a kept mistress.' so saying she left the room, and miss maynard, tittering, followed her; while maynard, too sore on this subject to bear to be laughed at, took his hat in a pet, and, flinging the door after him with great violence, walked out to muse on the erring but interesting companion of glenmurray. chapter xiii while these conversations were passing at lisbon, glenmurray and adeline were pursuing their journey to france; and insensibly did the charm of being together obliterate from the minds of each the rencontre which had so much disturbed them. but adeline began to be uneasy on a subject of much greater importance; she every day expected an answer from her mother, but no answer arrived; and they had been stationary at perpignan some days, to which place they had desired their letters to be addressed, _poste restante_, and still none were forwarded thither from lisbon. the idea that her mother had utterly renounced her now took possession of her imagination, and love had no charm to offer her capable of affording her consolation: the care which she had taken of her infancy, the affectionate attentions that had preserved her life, and the uninterrupted kindness which she had shown towards her till her attachment to sir patrick took place,--all these pressed powerfully and painfully on her memory, till her elopement seemed wholly unjustifiable in her eyes, and she reprobated her conduct in terms of the most bitter self-reproach. at these moments even glenmurray seemed to become the object of her aversion. her mother had forbidden her to think of him; yet, to make her flight more agonizing to her injured parent, she had eloped with _him_. but as soon as ever she beheld him he regained his wonted influence over her heart, and her self-reproaches became less poignant: she became sensible that sir patrick's guilt and her mother's imprudent marriage were the causes of her own fault, and not glenmurray; and could she but receive a letter of pardon from england, she felt that her conscience would again be at peace. but soon an idea of a still more harassing nature succeeded and overwhelmed her. perhaps her desertion had injured her mother's health; perhaps she was too ill to write; perhaps she was dead:--and when this horrible supposition took possession of her mind she used to avoid even the presence of her lover; and as her spirits commonly sunk towards evening, when the still renewed expectations of the day had been deceived, she used to hasten to a neighbouring church when the bell called to vespers, and, prostrate on the steps of the altar, lift up her soul to heaven in the silent breathings of penitence and prayer. having thus relieved her heart she returned to glenmurray, pensive but resigned. one evening after she had unburthened her feelings in this manner, glenmurray prevailed on her to walk with him to a public promenade; and being tired they sat down on a bench in a shady part of the mall. they had not sat long before a gentleman and two ladies seated themselves beside them. glenmurray instantly rose up to depart; but the gentleman also rose and exclaimed, ''tis he indeed! glenmurray, have you forgotten your old friend willie douglas?' glenmurray, pleased to see a friend whom he had once so highly valued, returned the salutation with marked cordiality; while the ladies with great kindness accosted adeline, and begged she would allow them the honour of her acquaintance. taught by the rencontre at lisbon, adeline for a moment felt embarrassed; but there was something so truly benevolent in the countenance of both ladies, and she was so struck by the extreme beauty of the younger one, that she had not resolution to avoid, or even to receive their advances coldly; and while the gentlemen were commenting on each other's looks, and in an instant going over the occurrences of past years, the ladies, pleased with each other, had entered into conversation. 'but i expected to see you and your lady,' said major douglas; 'for maynard was writing to me from lisbon when he laid by his pen and took the walk in which he met you; and on his return he filled up the rest of his letter with the praises of mrs glenmurray, and expressions of envy at your happiness.' glenmurray and adeline both blushed deeply. 'so!' said adeline to herself, 'here will be another letter to write when we get home;' for, though ingenuousness was one of her most striking qualities, she had not resolution enough to tell her new acquaintance that she was not married: besides, she flattered herself, that, could she once interest these charming women in her favour, they would not refuse her their society even when they knew her real situation; for she thought them too amiable to be prejudiced, as she called it, and was not yet aware how much the perfection of the female character depends on respect even to what may be called the prejudices of others. the day began to close in; but major douglas, though glenmurray was too uneasy to answer him except by monosyllables, would not hear of going home, and continued to talk with cheerfulness and interest of the scenes of his and glenmurray's early youth. he too was ignorant of his friend's notoriety as an author: he had lived chiefly at his estates in the highlands; nor would he have left them, but because he was advised to travel for his health: and the lovely creature whom he had married, as well as his only sister, was anxious on his account to put the advice in execution. he therefore made no allusions to glenmurray's opinions that could give him an opportunity of explaining his real situation; and he saw with confusion, that every moment increased the intimacy of adeline and the wife and sister of his friend. at length his feelings operated so powerfully on his weak frame, that a sudden faintness seized him, and supported by adeline and the major, and followed by his two kind companions, he returned to the inn: there, to get rid of the douglases and avoid the inquiries of adeline, who suspected the cause of his illness, he immediately retired to bed. his friends also returned home, lamenting the apparently declining health of glenmurray, and expatiating with delight on the winning graces of his supposed wife; for these ladies were of a different class of women to the sisters of maynard.--mrs douglas was so confessedly a beauty, so rich in acknowledged attractions, that she could afford to do justice to the attractions of another: and miss douglas was so decidedly devoid of all pretensions to the lovely in person, that the idea of competition with the beautiful never entered her mind, and she was always eager to admire what she knew that she was incapable of rivalling. unexposed, therefore, to feel those petty jealousies, those paltry competitions which injure the character of women in general, emma douglas's mind was the seat of benevolence and candour,--as was her beautiful sister's from a different cause; and they were both warmer even than the major in praise of adeline. but a second letter from mr maynard awaited major douglas at the inn, which put a fatal stop to their self-congratulations at having met glenmurray and his companion. mr maynard, full of glenmurray's letter, and still more deeply impressed than ever with the image of adeline, could not forbear writing to the major on the subject; giving as a reason, that he wished to let him know the true state of affairs, in order that he might avoid glenmurray.--the letter came too late. 'and i have seen him, have welcomed him as a friend, and he has had the impudence to introduce his harlot to my wife and sister!' so spoke the major in the language of passion,--and passion is never accurate.--glenmurray had _not_ introduced adeline: and this was gently hinted by the kind and candid emma douglas; while the younger and more inexperienced wife sat silent with consternation, at having pressed with the utmost kindness the hand of a kept mistress. vain were the representations of his sister to sooth the wounded pride of major douglas. without considering the difficulty of such a proceeding, he insisted upon it that glenmurray should have led adeline away instantly, as unworthy to breathe the same air with his wife and sister. 'you find by that letter, brother,' said miss douglas, 'that this unhappy adeline is still an object of respect in his eyes, and he could not wound her feelings so publicly, especially as she seems to be more ill-judging than vicious.' she spoke in vain.--the major was a soldier, and so delicate in his ideas of the honour of women, that he thought his wife and sister polluted from having, though unconsciously, associated with adeline; being violently irritated therefore at the supposed insult offered him by glenmurray, he left the room, and, having dispatched a challenge to him, told the ladies he had letters to write to england till bed-time arrived: then, after having settled his affairs in case he should fall in the conflict, he sat brooding alone over the insolence of his former friend. there was a consciousness too which aggravated his resentment. calumny had been busy with his reputation; and, though he deserved it not, had once branded him with the name of coward. besides, his elder sister had been seduced by a man of very high rank, and was then living with him as his mistress. made still more susceptible therefore of affront by this distressing consciousness, he suspected that glenmurray, from being acquainted with these circumstances, had presumed on them, and dared to take a liberty with him, situated as he then was, which in former times he would not have ventured to offer. as adeline and glenmurray were both retired for the night when the major's note arrived, it was not delivered till morning,--nor then, luckily, till adeline, supposing glenmurray asleep, was gone to take her usual walk to the post-office: glenmurray, little aware of its contents, opened it, and read as follows:-- 'sir, 'for your conduct in introducing your mistress to my wife and sister, i demand immediate satisfaction. as you may possibly not have recovered your indisposition of last night, and i wish to take no unfair advantages, i do not desire you to meet me till evening; but at six o'clock, a mile out of the north side of the town, i shall expect you.--i can lend you pistols if you have none.' 'there is only one step to be taken,' said glenmurray mentally, starting up and dressing himself: and in a few moments he was at major douglas's lodgings. the major had just finished dressing, when glenmurray was announced. he started and turned pale at seeing him; then, dismissing his servant and taking up his hat and his pistols, he desired glenmurray to walk out with him. 'with all my heart,' replied glenmurray. but recollecting himself, 'no, no,' said he: 'i come hither now, merely to talk to you; and if, after what has passed, the ladies should see us go out together, they would be but too sure of what was going to happen, and might follow us.' 'well, then sir,' cried the major, 'we had better separate till evening.' 'i shall not leave you, major douglas,' replied glenmurray solemnly, 'whatever harsh things you may say or do, till i have made you listen to me.' 'how can i listen to you, when nothing you can say can be a justification of your conduct?' 'i do not mean to offer any.--i am only come to tell you my story, with that of my companion, and my resolutions in consequence of my situation; and i conjure you, by the recollections of our early days, of our past pleasures and fatigues, those days when fatigue itself was a pleasure, and i was not the weak emaciated being that i am now, unable to bear exertion, and overcome even to female weakness by agitation of mind such as i experienced last night--' 'for god's sake sit down,' cried the major, glancing his eye over the faded form of glenmurray.--glenmurray sat down. 'i say, i conjure you by these recollections,' he continued, 'to hear me with candour and patience. weakness will render me brief.' here he paused to wipe the damps from his forehead; and douglas, in a voice of emotion, desired him to say whatever he chose, but to say it directly. 'i will,' replied glenmurray; 'for indeed there is one at home who will be alarmed at my absence.' the major frowned; and, biting his lip, said, 'proceed, mr glenmurray,' in his usual tone. glenmurray obeyed. he related his commencing author,--the nature of his works,--his acquaintance with adeline,--its consequences,--her mother's marriage,--sir patrick's villany,--adeline's elopement, her refusal to marry him, and the grounds on which it was founded. 'and now,' cried glenmurray when his narration was ended, 'hear my firm resolve. let the consequences to my reputation be what they may, let your insults be what they may, i will not accept your challenge; i will not expose adeline to the risk of being left without a protector in a foreign land, and probably without one in her own. i fear that, in the natural course of things, i shall not continue with her long; but while i can watch over and contribute to her happiness, no dread of shame, no fear for what others may think of me, no selfish consideration whatever shall induce me to hazard a life which belongs to her, and on which at present her happiness depends. i think, douglas, you are incapable of treating me with dignity; but even to that i will patiently submit, rather than expose my life; while consoled by my motive, i will triumphantly exclaim--'see, adeline, what i can endure for thy sake!' here he paused; and the major, interested and affected, had involuntarily put out his hand to him; but, drawing it back, he said, 'then i may be sure that you meant no affront to me by suffering my wife and sister to converse with miss mowbray?' glenmurray having put an end to these suspicions entirely, by a candid avowal of his feelings, and of his wish to have escaped directly if possible, the major shook him affectionately by the hand, and told him that though he firmly believed too much learning had made him mad, yet, that he was as much his friend as ever. 'but what vexes me is,' said he, 'that you should have turned the head of that sweet girl. the opinion of the world is every thing to a woman.' 'aye, it is indeed,' replied glenmurray; 'and, spite of ridicule, i would marry adeline directly, as i said before, to guaranty her against reproach,--i wish you would try to persuade her to be mine legally.' 'that i will,' eagerly replied the major; 'i am sure i shall prevail with her. i am sure i shall soon convince her that the opinions she holds are nothing but nonsense.' 'you will find,' replied glenmurray, blushing, 'that her arguments are unanswerable notwithstanding.' 'what, though taken from the cursed books you mentioned?' 'you forget that i wrote these books.' 'so i did; and i wish she could forget it also: and then they would appear to her, as they must do no doubt to all people of common sense, and that is, abominable stuff.' glenmurray bit his lips,--but the author did not long absorb the lover, and he urged the major to return with him to his lodgings. 'aye, that i will,' cried he: 'and what is more, my sister emma, who writes admirably, shall write her a letter to convince her that she had better be married directly.' 'she had better converse with her,' said glenmurray. the major looked grave, and observed that they would do well to go and consult the women on the subject, and tell them the whole story. so saying, he opened the door of a closet leading to their apartment: but there, to their great surprise, they found mrs douglas and emma, and as well informed of everything as themselves;--for, expecting that a duel might be the consequence of the major's impetuosity, and hearing mr glenmurray announced, they resolved to listen to the conversation, and, if it took the turn which they expected, to rush in and endeavour to mollify the disputants. 'so, ladies; this is very pretty indeed! eaves-droppers, i protest,' cried major douglas: but he said no more; for his wife, affected by the recital which she had heard, and delighted to find that there would be no duel, threw her arms round his neck, and burst into tears. emma, almost equally affected, gave her hand to glenmurray, and told him nothing on her part should be omitted to prevail on adeline to sacrifice her opinions to her welfare. 'i said so,' cried the major. 'you will write to her.' 'no; i will see her, and argue with her.' 'and so will i,' cried the wife. 'that you shall not,' bluntly replied the major. 'why not? i think it my duty to do all i can to save a fellow-creature from ruin; and words spoken from the heart are always more powerful than words written.' 'but what will the world say, if i permit you to converse with a kept mistress?' 'the world here to us, as we associate with none and are known to none, is mr glenmurray and miss mowbray; and of their good word we are sure.' 'aye,' cried emma, 'and sure of succeeding with this interesting adeline too; for if she likes us, as i think she does--' 'she adores you,' replied glenmurray. 'so much the better:--then, when we shall tell her that we cannot associate with her, much as we admire her, unless she consents to become a wife, surely she will hear reason.' 'no doubt,' cried mrs douglas; 'and then we will go to church with her, and you, emma, shall be bride's maid.' 'i see no necessity for that,' observed the major gravely. 'but i do,' replied emma. 'she will repeat her vows with more heartfelt reverence, when two respectable women, deeply impressed themselves with their importance, shall be there to witness them.' 'but there is no protestant church here,' exclaimed glenmurray: 'however, we can go back to lisbon, and you are already resolved to return thither.' this point being settled, it was agreed that glenmurray should prepare adeline for their visit; and with a lightened heart he went to execute his commission. but when he saw adeline he forgot his commission and every thing but her distress; for he found her with an open letter in her hand, and an unopened one on the floor, in a state of mind almost bordering on phrensy. chapter xiv as soon as adeline beheld glenmurray, 'see!' she exclaimed in a hoarse and agitated tone, 'there is my letter to my mother, returned unopened, and here is a letter from dr norberry which has broken my heart:--however, we must go to england directly.' the letter was as follows:-- 'you have made a pretty fool of me, deluded but still dear girl! for you have made me believe in forebodings. you may remember with what a full heart i bade you adieu, and i recollect what a devilish queer sensation i had when the park-gates closed on your fleet carriage. i almost swore at the postillions for driving so fast, as i wished to see you as long as i could; and now i protest that i believe i was actuated by a foreboding that at that house, and on that spot, i should never behold you again. (here a tear had fallen on the paper, and the word, '_again_' was nearly blotted out.) dear, lost adeline, i prayed for you too! i prayed that you might return as innocent and happy as you left me. heaven have mercy on us! who should have thought it?--but this is nothing to the purpose, and i suppose you think you have done nought but what is right and clever.' he then proceeded to inform adeline, who had written to him to implore his mediation between her and her mother, 'that the latter had sent express for him on finding, by the hasty scrawl which came the day after adeline's departure from the farm-house, that she had eloped, and who was the companion of her flight; that he found her in violent agitation, as sir patrick, stung to madness at the success of his rival, had with an ingenuousness worthy a better cause avowed to her his ardent passion for her daughter, his resolution to follow the fugitives, and by every means possible separate adeline from her lover; and that, after having thanked lady o'carrol for her great generosity to him, he had taken his pistols, mounted his horse, attended by his groom also well armed, and vowed that he would never return unless accompanied by the woman whom he adored.' 'no wonder therefore,' continued the doctor, 'that i was an unsuccessful advocate for you,--especially as i was not inclined to manage the old bride's self-love; for i was so provoked at her folly in marrying the handsome profligate, that, if she had not been in distress, i never meant to see her again. but, poor silly you! she suffers enough for her folly, and so do you;--for, her affections and her self-love being equally wounded by sir patrick's confession, you are at present the object of her aversion. to you she attributes all the misery of having lost the man on whom she still dotes; and when she found from your last letter to me that you are not the wife but the mistress of glenmurray, (by the bye, your letter to her from lisbon she desires me to return unopened,) and that the child once her pride is become her disgrace, she declared her solemn resolution never to see you more, and to renounce you for ever--(terrible words, adeline, i tremble to write them.) but a circumstance has since occurred which gives me hopes that she may yet forgive, and receive you on certain conditions. about a fortnight after sir patrick's departure, a letter from ireland, directed to him in a woman's hand, arrived at the pavilion. your mother opened it, and found it was from a wife of her amiable husband, whom he had left in the north of ireland, and who, having heard of his second marriage, wrote to tell him that, unless he came quickly back to her, she would prosecute him for bigamy, as he knew very well that undoubted proofs of the marriage were in her possession. at first this new proof of her beautiful spouse's villany drove your mother almost to phrensy, and i was again sent for; but time, reflection, and perhaps my arguments, convinced her, that to be able to free herself from this rascal for ever, and consequently her fortune, losing only the ten thousand pounds which she had given him to pay his debts, was in reality a consoling circumstance. accordingly, she wrote to the real lady o'carrol, promising to accede quietly to her claim, and wishing that she would spare her and herself the disgrace of a public trial; especially as it must end in the conviction of sir patrick. she then, on hearing from him that he had traced you to falmouth, and was going to embark for lisbon when the wind was favourable, enclosed him a copy of his wife's letter, and bade him an eternal farewell!--but be not alarmed lest this insane profligate should overtake and distress you. he is gone to his final account. in his hurry to get on board, overcome as he was with the great quantity of liquor which he had drunk to banish care, he sprung from the boat before it was near enough to reach the vessel; his foot slipped against the side, he fell into the water, and, going under the ship, never rose again. i leave you to imagine how the complicated distresses of the last three months, and this awful climax to them, have affected your mother's mind; even i cannot scold her, now, for the life of me: she is not yet, i believe, disposed in your favour; but were you here, and were you to meet, it is possible that, forlorn, lonely, and deserted as she now feels, the tie between you might be once more cemented; and much as i resent your conduct, you may depend on my exertions.--o adeline, child of my affection, why must i blush to subscribe myself 'your sincere friend, 'j. n.?' words cannot describe the feelings of anguish which this letter excited in adeline: nor could she make known her sensations otherwise than by reiterated requests to be allowed to set off for england directly--requests to which glenmurray, alarmed for her intellects, immediately assented. therefore, leaving a hasty note for the douglases, they soon bade farewell to perpignan; and after a long laborious journey, but a short passage, they landed at brighton. it was a fine evening; and numbers of the gay and fashionable of both sexes were assembled on the beach, to see the passengers land. adeline and glenmurray were amongst the first: and while heartsick, fatigued, and melancholy, adeline took the arm of her lover, and turned disgusted from the brilliant groups before her, she saw, walking along the shore, dr norberry, his wife, and his two daughters. instantly, unmindful of every thing but the delight of seeing old acquaintances, and of being able to gain some immediate tiding of her mother, she ran up to them: and just as they turned round, she met them, extending her hand in friendship as she was wont to do.--but in vain;--no hand was stretched out to meet hers, nor tongue nor look proclaimed a welcome to her; dr norberry himself coldly touched his hat, and passed on, while his wife and daughters looked scornfully at her, and, without deigning to notice her, pursued their walk. astonished and confounded, adeline had not power to articulate a word; and had not glenmurray caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to the ground. 'then now i am indeed an outcast! even my oldest and best friend renounces me,' she exclaimed. 'but i am left to you,' cried glenmurray. adeline sighed. she could not say, as she had formerly done, 'and you are all to me.' the image of her mother, happy as the wife of a man she loved, could not long rival glenmurray; but the image of her mother, disgraced and wretched, awoke all the habitual but dormant tenderness of years; every feeling of filial gratitude revived in all its force; and, even while leaning on the shoulder of her lover, she sighed to be once more clasped to the bosom of her mother. glenmurray felt the change, but, though grieved, was not offended:--'i shall die in peace,' he cried, 'if i can but see you restored to your mother's affection, even though the surrender of my happiness is to be the purchase.' 'you shall die in peace!' replied adeline shuddering. the phrase was well-timed, though perhaps undesignedly so. adeline clung close to his arm, her eyes filled with tears, and all the way to the inn she thought only of glenmurray with an apprehension which she could not conquer. 'what do you mean to do now?' said glenmurray. 'write to dr norberry. i think he will at least have humanity enough to let me know where to find my mother.' 'no doubt; and you had better write directly.' adeline took up her pen. a letter was written,--and as quickly torn. letter succeeded to letter; but not one of them answered her wishes. the dark hour arrived, and the letter remained unwritten. 'it is too soon to ring for candles,' said glenmurray, putting his arm round her waist and leading her to the window. the sun was below the horizon, but the reflection of his beams still shone beautifully on the surrounding objects. adeline, reclining her cheek on glenmurray's arm, gazed in silence on the scene before her: when the door suddenly opened, and a gentleman was announced. it was now so dark that all objects were indistinctly seen, and the gentleman had advanced close to adeline before she knew him to be dr norberry: and before she could decide how she should receive him, she felt herself clasped to his bosom with the affection of a father. surprised and affected, she could not speak; and glenmurray had ordered candles before adeline had recovered herself sufficiently to say these words, 'after your conduct on the beach, i little expected this visit.' 'pshaw!' replied the doctor: 'when a man out of regard to society has performed a painful task, surely he may be allowed, out of regard to himself, to follow the dictates of his heart.--i obeyed my head when i passed you so cavalierly, and i thought i should never have gone through my task as i did;--but then for the sake of my daughters, i gave a gulp, and called up a fierce look. but i told madam that i meant to call on you, and she insisted, very properly, that it should be in the dark hour.' 'but what of my mother?' 'she is a miserable woman, as she deserved to be--an old fool.' 'pray do not call her so; to hear she is miserable is torment sufficient to me:--where is she?' 'still at the pavilion: but she is going to let rosevalley, retire to her estate in cumberland, and live unknown and unseen.' 'but will she not allow me to live with her?' 'what! as mr glenmurray's mistress? receive under her roof the seducer of her daughter?' 'sir, i am no seducer.' 'no,' cried adeline: 'i became the mistress of mr glenmurray from the dictates of my reason, not my weakness or his persuasions.' 'humph!' replied the doctor, 'i should expect to find such reason in moorfields: besides, had not mr glenmurray's books turned your head, you would not have thought it pretty and right to become the mistress of any man: so he is your seducer, after all.' 'so far i plead guilty,' replied glenmurray; 'but whatever my opinions are, i have ever been willing to sacrifice them to the welfare of miss mowbray, and have, from the first moment that we were safe from pursuit, been urgent to marry her.' 'then why are you not married?' 'because i would not consent,' said adeline coldly. 'mad, certainly mad,' exclaimed the doctor: 'but you, 'faith, you are an honest fellow after all,' turning to glenmurray and shaking him by the hand; 'weak of the head, not bad in the heart; burn your vile books, and i am your friend for ever.' 'we will discuss that point another time,' replied glenmurray: 'at present the most interesting subject to us is the question whether mrs mowbray will forgive her daughter or not?' 'why, man, if i may judge of mrs mowbray by myself, one condition of her forgiveness will be your marrying her daughter.' 'o blest condition!' cried glenmurray. 'i should think,' replied adeline coldly, 'my mother must have had too much of marriage to wish me to marry; but if she should insist on my marrying, i will comply, and on no other account.' 'strange infatuation! to me appears only justice and duty. but your reasons, girl, your reasons?' 'they are few, but strong. glenmurray, philanthropically bent on improving the state of society, puts forth opinions counteracting its received usages, backed by arguments which are in my opinion incontrovertible.' 'in your opinion!--pray, child, how old are you?' 'nineteen.' 'and at that age you set up for a reformer? well,--go on.' 'but though it be important to the success of his opinions, and indeed to the respectability of his character, that he should act according to his precepts, he, for the sake of preserving to me the notice of persons whose narrowness of mind i despise, would conform to an institution which both he and i think unworthy of regard from a rational being.--and shall not i be as generous as he is? shall i scruple to give up for his honour and fame the petty advantages which marriage would give me? never--his honour and fame are too dear to me; but the claims which my mother has on me are in my eyes so sacred that, for her sake, though not for my own, i would accept the sacrifice which glenmurray offers. if, then, she says that she will never see or pardon me till i am become a wife, i will follow him to the altar directly; but till then i must insist on remaining as i am. it is necessary that i should respect the man i love; and i should not respect glenmurray were he not capable of supporting with fortitude the consequences of his opinions; and could he, for motives less strong than those he avows, cease to act up to what he believes to be right. for, never can i respect or believe firmly in the truth of those doctrines, the followers of which shrink from a sort of martyrdom in support of them.' 'o mr glenmurray!' cried the doctor shaking his head, 'what have you to answer for! what a glorious champion would that creature have been in the support of truth, when even error in her looks so like to virtue!--and then the amiable disinterestedness of you both!--what a powerful thing must true love be, when it can make a speculative philosopher indifferent to the interests of his system, and ready to act in direct opposition to it, rather than injure the respectability of the woman he loves! well, well, the lord forgive you, young man, for having taken it into your head to set up for a great author!' glenmurray answered by a deep-drawn sigh; and the doctor continued: 'then there is that girl again, with a heart so fond and true that her love comes in aid of her integrity, and makes her think no sacrifice too great, in order to prove her confidence in the wisdom of her lover,--urging her to disregard all personal inconveniences rather than let him forfeit, for her sake, his pretensions to independence and consistency of character! girl, i can't help admiring you, but no more i could a malabar widow, who with fond and pious enthusiasm, from an idea of duty, throws herself on the funeral pile of her husband. but still i should think you a great fool, notwithstanding, for professing the opinions that led to such an exertion of duty. and now here are you, possessed of every quality both of head and heart to bless others and to bless yourself--owing to your foolish and pernicious opinions;--here you are, i say blasted in reputation in the prime of your days, and doomed perhaps to pine through existence in--pshaw! i can't support the idea!' added he, gulping down a sob as he spoke, and traversing the room in great emotion. adeline and glenmurray were both of them deeply and painfully affected; and the latter was going to express what he felt, when the doctor seizing adeline's hand, affectionately exclaimed, 'well, my poor child! i will see your mother once more; i will go to london tomorrow--by this time she is there--and you had better follow me; you will hear of me at the old hummums; and here is a card of address to an hotel near it, where i would advise you to take up your abode.' so saying he shook glenmurray by the hand; when, starting back, he exclaimed 'why, man! here is a skin like fire, and a pulse like lightning. my dear fellow, you must take care of yourself.' adeline burst into tears. 'indeed, doctor, i am only nervous.' 'nervous!--what, i suppose you think you understand my profession better than i do. but don't cry, my child: when your mind is easier, perhaps, he will do very well; and, as one thing likely to give him immediate ease, i prescribe a visit to the altar of the next parish church.' so saying he departed; and all other considerations were again swallowed up in adeline's mind by the idea of glenmurray's danger. 'is it possible that my marrying you would have such a blessed effect on your health?' cried adeline after a pause. 'it certainly would make my mind easier than it now is,' replied he. 'if i thought so,' said adeline: 'but no--regard for my supposed interest merely makes you say so; and indeed i should not think so well of you as i now do, if i imagined that you could be made easy by an action by which you forfeited all pretensions to that consistency of character so requisite to the true dignity of a philosopher.' a deep sigh from glenmurray, in answer, proved that he was no philosopher. in the morning the lovers set off for london, dr norberry having preceded them by a few hours. this blunt but benevolent man had returned the evening before slowly and pensively to his lodgings, his heart full of pity for the errors of the well-meaning enthusiasts whom he had left, and his head full of plans for their assistance, or rather for that of adeline. but he entered his own doors again reluctantly--he knew but too well that no sympathy with his feelings awaited him there. his wife, a woman of narrow capacity and no talents or accomplishments, had, like all women of that sort, a great aversion to those of her sex who united to feminine graces and gentleness, the charms of a cultivated understanding and pretensions to accomplishments or literature. of mrs mowbray, as we have before observed, she had always been peculiarly jealous, because dr norberry spoke of her knowledge with wonder, and of her understanding with admiration; not that he entertained one moment a feeling of preference towards her, inconsistent with an almost idolatrous love of his wife, whose skill in all the domestic duties, and whose very pretty face and person, were the daily themes of his praise. but mrs norberry wished to engross all his panegyrics to herself, and she never failed to expatiate on mrs mowbray's foibles and flightiness as long as the doctor had expatiated on her charms. sometimes, indeed, this last subject was sooner exhausted than the one which she had chosen; but when adeline grew up, and became as it were the rival of her daughters in the praises of her husband, she found it difficult as we have said before, to bring faults in array against excellencies. mrs norberry could with propriety observe, when the doctor, was exclaiming, 'what a charming essay mrs mowbray has just written!' 'aye,--but i dare say she can't write a market bill.' when he said, 'how well she comprehends the component parts of the animal system!' she could with great justice reply, 'but she knows nothing of the component parts of a plum pudding.' but when adeline became the object of the husband's admiration and the wife's enmity, mrs norberry could not make these pertinent remarks, as adeline was as conversant with all branches of housewifery as herself; and, though as learned in all systems as her mother, was equally learned in the component parts of puddings and pies. she was therefore at a loss what to say when adeline was praised by the doctor; and all she could observe on the occasion was, that the girl might be clever, but was certainly very ugly, very affected, and very conceited. it is not to be wondered at, therefore, that mrs mowbray's degrading and unhappy marriage, and adeline's elopement, should have been sources of triumph to mrs norberry and her daughters; who, though they liked mrs mowbray very well, could not bear adeline. 'so dr norberry, these are your uncommon folks!'--exclaimed mrs norberry on hearing of the marriage and of the subsequent elopement;--'i suppose you are now well satisfied at not having a genius for your wife, or geniuses for your daughters?' 'i always was, my dear,' meekly replied the mortified and afflicted doctor, and dropped the subject as soon as possible; nor had it been resumed for some time when adeline accosted them on the beach at brighton. but her appearance called forth their dormant enmity; and the whole way to their lodgings the good doctor heard her guilt expatiated upon with as much violence as ever: but just as they got home he coldly and firmly observed, 'i shall certainly call on the poor deluded girl this evening.' and mrs norberry, knowing by the tone and manner in which he spoke, that this was a point which he would not give up, contented herself with requiring only that he should go in the dark hour. chapter xv it was to a wife and daughters such as these that he was returning, with the benevolent wish of interesting them for the guilty adeline. 'so, dr norberry, you are come back at last!' was his first salutation, 'and what does the creature say for herself?' 'the creature!--your fellow-creature, my dear, says very little--grief is not wordy.' 'grief!--so then she is unhappy, is she?' cries miss norberry; 'i am monstrous glad of it.' the doctor started; and an oath nearly escaped his lips. he did say, 'why, zounds, jane!'--but then he added, in a softer tone, 'why do you rejoice in a poor girl's affliction?' 'because i think it is for the good of her soul.' 'good girl!' replied the father:--'jane, (seizing her hand,) may your soul never need such a medicine!' 'it never will,' said her mother proudly: 'she has been differently brought up.' 'she has been well brought up, you might have added,' observed the doctor, 'had modesty permitted it. mrs mowbray, poor woman, had good intentions; but she was too flighty. had adeline, my children, had such a mother as yours, she would have been like you.' 'but not half so handsome,' interrupted the mother in a low voice. 'but as our faults and our virtues, my dear, depend so much on the care and instruction of others, we should look with pity, as well as aversion on the faults of those less fortunate in instructors than we have been.' 'certainly;--very true,' said mrs norberry, flattered and affected by this compliment from her husband: 'but you know, james norberry,' laying her hand on his, 'i always told you you overrated mrs mowbray; and that she was but a dawdle after all.' 'you always did, my good woman,' replied he, raising her hand to his lips. 'but you men think yourselves much wiser than we are!' 'we do so,' replied the doctor. the tone was equivocal--mrs norberry felt it to be so, and looked up in his face.--the doctor understood the look: it was one of doubt and inquiry; and, as it was his interest to sooth her in order to carry his point, he exclaimed, 'we men are, indeed, too apt to pride ourselves in our supposed superior wisdom: but i, you will own, my dear, have always done your sex justice; and you in particular.' 'you have been a good husband indeed, james norberry,' replied his wife in a faltering voice; 'and i believe you to be, to every one, a just and honourable man.' 'and i dare say, dame, i do no more than justice to you, when i think you will approve and further a plan for adeline mowbray's good, which i am going to propose to you.' mrs norberry withdrew her hand; but returning it again:--'to be sure, my dear,' she cried. 'any thing you wish; that is, if i see right to--' 'i will explain myself,' continued the doctor gently. 'i have promised this poor girl to endeavour to bring about a reconciliation between her and her mother; but though adeline wishes to receive her pardon on any terms, and even, if it be required, to renounce her lover, i fear mrs mowbray is too much incensed against her, to see or forgive her.' 'hard-hearted woman!' cried mrs norberry. 'cruel, indeed!' cried her daughters. 'but a mother ought to be severe, very severe, on such occasions, young ladies,' hastily added mrs norberry: 'but go on, my dear.' 'now it is but too probable,' continued the doctor, 'that glenmurray will not live long, and then this young creature will be left to struggle unprotected with the difficulties of her situation; and who knows but that she may, from poverty, and the want of a protector, be tempted to continue in the paths of vice?' 'well, dr norberry, and what then?--who or what is to prevent it?--you know we have three children to provide for; and i am a young woman as yet.' 'true, hannah,' giving her a kiss, 'and a very pretty woman too.' 'well, my dear love, anything we can do with prudence i am ready to do; i can say no more.' 'you have said enough,' cried the doctor exultingly; 'then hear my plan: adeline shall, in the event of glenmurray's death, which though not certain seems likely--to be sure, i did not inquire into the nature of his nocturnal perspirations, his expectoration, and so forth--' 'dear papa, you are so professional!' affectedly exclaimed his youngest daughter. 'well, child, i have done; and to return to my subject--if glenmurray lives or dies, i think it advisable that adeline should go into retirement to lie-in. and where can she be better than in my little cottage now empty, within a four-miles ride of our house? if she wants protection, i can protect her; and if she wants money before her mother forgives her, you can give it to her.' 'indeed, papa,' cried both the girls, 'we shall not grudge it.' the doctor started from his chair, and embraced his daughters with joy mixed with wonder; for he knew they had always disliked adeline.--true; but then, she was prosperous, and their superior. little minds love to bestow protection; and it was easy to be generous to the fallen adeline mowbray: had her happiness continued, so would their hatred. 'then it is a settled point, is it not dame?' asked the doctor, chucking his wife under the chin; when, to his great surprise and consternation, she threw his hand indignantly from her, and vociferated, 'she shall never live within a ride of our house, i can assure you, dr norberry.' the doctor was petrified into silence, and the girls could only articulate 'la! mamma?' but what could produce this sudden and violent change? nothing but a simple and natural operation of the human mind. though a very kind husband, and an indulgent father, dr norberry was suspected, though unjustly, of being a very gallant man: and some of mrs norberry's good-natured friends had occasionally hinted to her their sorrow at hearing such and such reports; reports which were indeed destitute of foundation; but which served to excite suspicions in the mind of the tenacious mrs norberry. and what more likely to re-awaken them than the young and frail adeline mowbray living in a cottage of her husband's, protected, supported, and visited by him! the moment this idea occurred, its influence was unconquerable; and with a voice and manner of determined hostility she made known her resolves in consequence of it. after a pause of dismay and astonishment, the doctor cried, 'dame, what have you gotten in your head? what, all on a sudden, has had such an ugly effect on you?' 'second thoughts are best, doctor; and i now feel that it would be highly improper for you, with daughters grown up, to receive with such marked kindness a single young woman at a cottage of yours, who is going to lie-in.' 'but, my dear, it is a different case, when i do it to keep her out of the way of further harm.' 'that is more than i know, dr norberry,' replied the wife bridling, and fanning herself. 'whew!' whistled the doctor; and then addressing his daughters, 'girls, you had better go to bed; it grows late.' the young ladies obeyed; but first hung round their mother's neck, as they bade her good night, and hoped she would not be so cruel to the poor deluded adeline. mrs norberry angrily shook them off, with a peevish--'get along, girls.' the doctor cordially kissed, and bade god bless them; while the door closed and left the loving couple alone. what passed, it were tedious to repeat: suffice that after a long altercation, continued even after they were retired to rest, the doctor found his wife, on this subject, incapable of listening to reason, and that, as a finishing stroke, she exclaimed, 'it does not signify talking, dr norberry, while i have my senses, and can see into a mill-stone a little, the hussey shall never come near us.' the doctor sighed deeply; turned himself round, not to sleep but to think, and rose the next morning to go in search of mrs mowbray, dreading the interview which he was afterwards to have with adeline; for he did not expect to succeed in his application to her mother, and he could not now soften his intelligence with a 'but,' as he intended. 'true,' he meant to have said to her, 'your mother will not receive you; but if you ever want a home or a place of retirement, i have a cottage, and so forth.' 'pshaw!' cried the doctor to himself, as these thoughts came across him on the road, and made him hastily let down the front window of the post-chaise for air. 'did your honour speak?' cries the post-boy. 'not i. but can't you drive faster and be hanged to you?' the boy whipped his horses.--the doctor then found that it was up hill--down went the glass again:--'hold, you brute, why do you not see it is up hill?' for find fault he must; and with his wife he could not, or dared not, even in fancy. 'dear me! why, your honour bade me put it on.' 'devilishly obedient,' muttered the doctor: 'i wish every one was like you in that respect.'--and in a state of mind not the pleasantest possible the doctor drove into town, and to the hotel where mrs mowbray was to be found. dr norberry was certainly now not in a humour to sooth any woman whom he thought in the wrong, except his wife; and, whether from carelessness or design, he did not, unfortunately for adeline, manage the self-love of her unhappy mother. he found mrs mowbray with her heart shut up, not softened by sorrow. the hands once stretched forth with kindness to welcome him, were now stiffly laid one upon the other; and 'how are you, sir?' coldly articulated, was followed by as cold a 'pray sit down.' 'why, how ill you look!' exclaimed the doctor. 'i attend more to my feelings than my looks,' with a deep sigh, answered mrs mowbray. 'your feelings are as bad as your looks, i dare say.' 'they are worse, sir,' said mrs mowbray piqued. 'there was no need of that,' replied the doctor: 'but i am come to point out to you one way of getting rid of some of your unpleasant feelings:--see, and forgive your daughter.' mrs mowbray started, changed colour, and exclaimed with quickness, 'is she in england?' but added instantly, 'i have no daughter:--she, who was my child, is my most inveterate foe; she has involved me in disgrace and misery.' 'with a little of your own help she has,' replied the doctor. 'come, come, my old friend, you have both of you something to forget and forgive; and the sooner you set about it the better. now do write, and tell adeline, who is by this time in london, that you forgive her.' 'never:--after having promised me not to hold converse with that villain without my consent? had i no other cause of complaint against her;--had she not by her coquettish arts seduced the affections of the man i loved:--never, never would i forgive her having violated the sacred promise which she gave me.' 'a promise,' interrupted the doctor, 'which she would never have violated, had not you first violated that sacred compact which you entered into at her birth.' 'what mean you, sir?' 'i mean, that though a parent does not, at a child's birth, solemnly make a vow to do all in his or her power to promote the happiness of that child,--still, as he has given it birth, he has tacitly bound himself to make it happy. this tacit agreement you broke, when at the age of forty, you, regardless of your daughter's welfare, played the fool and married a pennyless profligate, merely because he had a fine person and a handsome leg.' mrs mowbray was too angry and too agitated to interrupt him, and he went on: 'well, what was the consequence? the young fellow very naturally preferred the daughter to the mother; and, as he could not have her by fair, was resolved to have her by foul means; and so he--' 'i beg, dr norberry,' interrupted mrs mowbray in a faint voice, 'that you would spare the disgusting recital.' 'well, well, i will. now do consider the dilemma your child was in: she must either elope, or by her presence keep alive a criminal passion in her father-in-law, which you sooner or later must discover; and be besides exposed to fresh insults.--well, glenmurray by chance happened to be on the spot just as she escaped from that villanous fellow's clutches, and--' 'he is dead, dr norberry,' interrupted mrs mowbray; 'and you know the old adage, "do not speak ill of the dead."' 'and a very silly adage it is. i had rather speak ill of the dead than the living, for my part: but let me go on.--well, love taking the name and habit of prudence and filial piety, (for she thought she consulted your happiness, and not her own,) bade her fly to and with her lover; and now there she is, owing to the pretty books which you let her read, living with him as his mistress, and glorying in it, as if it was a notable praiseworthy action.' 'and you would have me forgive her?' 'certainly: a fault which both your precepts and conduct occasioned. not but what the girl has been wrong, terribly wrong:--no one ought to do evil that good may come. you had forbidden her to have any intercourse with glenmurray; and she therefore knew that disobeying you would make you unhappy--that was a certainty. that fellow's persevering in his attempts, after the fine rebuff which she had given him, was an uncertainty; and she ought to have run the risk of it, and not committed a positive fault to avoid a possible evil. but then hers was a fault which she could not have committed had not you married that--but i forbear. and as to her not being married to glenmurray, that is no fault of his; and with your consent, he will marry your daughter to-morrow morning. that ever so good, cleanly-hearted a youth should have poked his nose into the filthy mess of eccentric philosophy!' 'have you done, doctor?' cried mrs mowbray haughtily: 'have you said all that miss mowbray and you have invented to insult me?' 'your child send me to insult you!--she!--adeline!--why, the poor soul came broken-hearted and post haste from france, when she heard of your misfortunes, to offer her services to console you.' 'she console me?--she, the first occasion of them?--but for her, i might still have indulged the charming delusion, even if it were delusion, that love of me, not of my wealth, induced the man i doted upon to commit a crime to gain possession of me.' 'why!' hastily interrupted the doctor, 'everyone saw that he loved her long before he married you.' the storm, long gathering, now burst forth; and rising, with the tears, high colour, and vehement voice of unbridled passion, mrs mowbray exclaimed, raising her arm and clenching her fist as she spoke, 'and it is being the object of that cruel preference, which i never, never will forgive her!' the doctor, after ejaculating 'whew!' as much as to say 'the murder is out,' instantly took his hat and departed, convinced his labour was vain. 'there,' muttered he as he went down stairs, 'two instances in one day! ah, ah,--that jealousy is the devil.' he then slowly walked to the hotel, where he expected to find adeline and glenmurray. they had arrived about two hours before; and adeline in a frame of mind but ill fitted to bear the disappointment which awaited her. for, with the sanguine expectations natural to her age, she had been castle-building as usual; and their journey to london had been rendered a very short one, by the delightful plans, for the future, which she had been forming and imparting to glenmurray. 'when i consider,' said she, 'the love which my mother has always shown for me, i cannot think it possible that she can persist in renouncing me; and however her respect for the prejudices of the world, a world which she intended to live in at the time of her unfortunate connexion, might make her angry at my acting in defiance of its laws,--now that she herself, from a sense of injury and disgrace, is about to retire from it, she will no longer have a motive to act contrary to the dictates of reason herself, or to wish me to do so.' 'but your ideas of reason and hers may be so different--' 'no. our practice may be different, but our theory is the same, and i have no doubt but that my mother will now forgive and receive us; and that, living in a romantic solitude, being the whole world to each other, our days will glide away in uninterrupted felicity.' 'and how shall we employ ourselves?' said glenmurray smiling. 'you shall continue to write for the instruction of your fellow-creatures; while my mother and i shall be employed in endeavouring to improve the situation of the poor around us, and perhaps in educating our children.' adeline, when animated by any prospect of happiness, was irresistible: she was really hope herself, as described by collins-- 'but thou, oh hope, with eyes so fair, what was thy delighted measure!' and glenmurray, as he listened to her, forgot his illness; forgot every thing, but what adeline chose to imagine. the place of their retreat was fixed upon. it was to be a little village near falmouth, the scene of their first happiness. the garden was laid out; mrs mowbray's library planned; and so completely were they lost in their charming prospects for the future, that every turnpike-man had to wait a longer time than he was accustomed to for his money; and the postillion had driven into london in the way to the hotel, before adeline recollected that she was, for the first time, in a city which she had long wished most ardently to see. they had scarcely taken up their abode at the hotel recommended to them by dr norberry, when he knocked at the door. adeline from the window had seen him coming; and sure as she thought herself to be of her mother's forgiveness, she turned sick and faint when the decisive moment was at hand; and, hurrying out of the room, she begged glenmurray to receive the doctor, and apologize for her absence. glenmurray awaited him with a beating heart. he listened to his step on the stairs: it was slow and heavy; unlike that of a benevolent man coming to communicate good news. glenmurray began immediately to tremble for the peace of adeline; and, hastily pouring out a glass of wine, was on the point of drinking it when dr norberry entered. 'give me a glass,' cried he: 'i want one, i am sure, to recruit my spirits.' glenmurray in silence complied with his desire. 'come, i'll give you a toast,' cried the doctor: 'here is--' at this moment adeline entered. she had heard the doctor's last words, and she thought he was going to drink to the reconciliation of her mother and herself; and hastily opening the door she came to receive the good news which awaited her. but, at sight of her, the toast died unfinished on her old friend's lips; he swallowed down the wine in silence, and then taking her hand led her to the sofa. adeline's heart began to die within her; and before the doctor, after having taken a pinch of snuff and blowed his nose full three times, was prepared to speak, she was convinced that she had nothing but unwelcome intelligence to receive; and she awaited in trembling expectation an answer to a 'well, sir,' from glenmurray, spoken in a tone of fearful emotion. 'no, it is not well, sir,' replied the doctor. 'you have seen my mother?' said adeline, catching hold of the arm of the sofa for support: and in an instant glenmurray was by her side. 'i have seen mrs mowbray, but not your mother: for i have seen a woman dead to every graceful impulse of maternal affection, and alive only to a selfish sense of rivalship and hatred. my poor child! god forgive the deluded woman! but i declare she detests you!' 'detests me?' exclaimed adeline. 'yes; she swears that she can never forgive the preference which that vile fellow gave you, and i am convinced that she will keep her word;' and here the doctor, turning round, saw adeline lying immoveable in glenmurray's arms. but she did not long remain so, and with a frantic scream kept repeating the words 'she detests me!' till unable to contend any longer with the acuteness of her feelings, she sunk, sobbing convulsively, exhausted on the bed to which they carried her. 'my good friend, my only friend,' cried glenmurray, 'what is to be done? will she scream again, think you, in that most dreadful and unheard-of manner? for, if she does, i must run out of the house.' 'what, then, she never treated you in this pretty way before, heh?' 'never, never. her self-command has always been exemplary.' 'indeed?--lucky fellow! my wife and daughters often scream just as loud, on very trifling occasions: but that scream went to my heart; for i well know how to distinguish between the shriek of agony and that of passion.' when adeline recovered, she ardently conjured dr norberry to procure her an interview with her mother; contending that it was absolutely impossible to suppose, that the sight of a child so long and tenderly loved should not renew a little of her now dormant affection. 'but you were her rival, as well as her child; remember that. however, you look so ill, that now, if ever, she will forgive you, i think: therefore i will go back to mrs mowbray; and while i am there do you come, ask for me, and follow the servant into the room.' 'i will,' replied adeline: and leaning on the arm of her lover, she slowly followed the doctor to her mother's hotel. chapter xvi 'this is the most awful moment of my life,' said adeline. 'and the most anxious one of mine,' replied glenmurray. 'if mrs mowbray forgives you, it will be probably on condition that--' 'whatever be the conditions, i must accept them,' said adeline. 'true,' returned glenmurray, wiping the cold dews of weakness from his forehead: 'but no matter--at any rate, i should not have been with you long.' adeline, with a look of agony, pressed the arm she held to her bosom. glenmurray's heart smote him immediately--he felt he had been ungenerous; and, while the hectic of a moment passed across his cheek, he added, 'but i do not do myself justice in saying so. i believe my best chance of recovery is the certainty of your being easy. let me but see you happy, and so disinterested is my affection, as i have often told you, that i shall cheerfully assent to any thing that may ensure your happiness.' 'and can you think,' answered adeline, 'that my happiness can be independent of yours? do you not see that i am only trying to prepare my mind for being called upon to surrender my inclinations to my duty?' at this moment they found themselves at the door of the hotel. neither of them spoke; the moment of trial was come; and both were unable to encounter it firmly. at last adeline grasped her lover's hand, bade him wait for her at the end of the street, and with some degree of firmness she entered the vestibule, and asked for dr norberry. dr norberry, meanwhile, with the best intentions in the world, had but ill prepared mrs mowbray's mind for the intended visit. he had again talked to her of her daughter; and urged the propriety of forgiving her; but he had at the same time renewed his animadversions on her own conduct. 'you know not, dr norberry,' observed mrs mowbray, 'the pains i took with the education of that girl; and i expected to be repaid for it by being styled the happiest as well as best of mothers.' 'and so you would, perhaps, had you not wished to be a wife as well as mother.' 'no more on that subject, sir,' haughtily returned mrs mowbray.--'yes, --adeline was indeed my joy, my pride.' 'aye, and pride will have a fall; and a pretty tumble yours has had, to be sure, my old friend; and it has broke its knees--never to be sound again.' at this unpropitious moment 'a lady to dr norberry' was announced, and adeline tottered into the room. 'what strange intrusion is this?' cried mrs mowbray: 'who is this woman?' adeline threw back her veil, and falling on her knees, stretched out her arms in an attitude of entreaty: speak she could not, but her countenance was sufficiently expressive of her meaning; and her pale sunk cheek spoke forcibly to the heart of her mother.--at this moment, when a struggle which might have ended favourably for adeline was taking place in the mind of mrs mowbray, dr norberry injudiciously exclaimed, 'there,--there she is! look at her, poor soul! there is little fear, i think, of her ever rivalling you again.' at these words mrs mowbray darted an angry look at the doctor, and desired him to take away that woman; who came, no doubt instigated by him, to insult her. 'take her away,' she said, 'and never let me see her again.' 'o my mother, hear me, in pity hear me!' exclaimed adeline. 'as it is for the last time, i will hear you,' replied mrs mowbray; 'for never, no never will i behold you more! hear me vow--' 'mother, for mercy's sake, make not a vow so terrible!' cried adeline, gathering courage from despair, and approaching her: 'i have grievously erred, and will cheerfully devote the rest of my life to endeavour, by the most submissive obedience and attention, to atone for my past guilt.' 'atone for it! impossible; for the misery which i owe to you, no submission, no future conduct can make me amends. away! i say: your presence conjures up recollections which distract me, and i solemnly swear--' 'hold, hold, if you have any mercy in your nature,' cried adeline almost frantic: 'this is, i feel but too sensibly, the most awful and important moment of my life: on the result of this interview depends my future happiness or misery. hear me, o my mother! you, who can so easily resolve to tear the heart of a child that adores you, hear me! reflect that, if you vow to abandon me for ever, you blast all the happiness and prospects of my life; and at nineteen 'tis hard to be deprived of happiness for ever. true, i may not long survive the anguish of being renounced by my mother, a mother whom i love with even enthusiastic fondness; but then could you ever know peace again with the conviction of having caused my death? oh! no, save then yourself and me from these miseries, by forgiving my past errors, and deigning sometimes to see and converse with me!' the eager and animated volubility with which adeline spoke made it impossible to interrupt her, even had mrs mowbray been inclined to do so: but she was not; nor, when adeline had done speaking, could she find in her heart to break silence. it was evident to dr norberry that mrs mowbray's countenance expressed a degree of softness which augured well for her daughter; and, as if conscious that it did so, she covered her face suddenly with her handkerchief. 'now then is the time,' thought the doctor. 'go nearer her, my child,' said he in a low voice to adeline, 'embrace her knees.' adeline rose, and approached mrs mowbray; she seized her hand, she pressed it to her lips. mrs mowbray's bosom heaved violently: she almost returned the pressure of adeline's hand. 'victory, victory!' muttered the doctor to himself, cutting a caper behind mrs mowbray's chair. mrs mowbray took the handkerchief from her face. 'my mother, my dear mother! look on me, look on me with kindness only one moment, and only say that you do not hate me!' mrs mowbray turned round and fixed her eyes on adeline with a look of kindness, and adeline's began to sparkle with delight; when, as she threw back her cloak, which, hanging over her arm, embarrassed her as she knelt to embrace her mother's knees, mrs mowbray's eyes glanced from her face to her shape. in an instant the fierceness of her look returned: 'shame to thy race, disgrace to thy family!' she exclaimed, spurning her kneeling child from her: 'and canst thou, while conscious of carrying in thy bosom the proof of thy infamy, dare to solicit and expect my pardon?--hence! ere i load thee with maledictions.' adeline wrapped her cloak round her, and sunk terrified and desponding to the ground. 'why, what a ridiculous caprice is this!' cried the doctor. 'is it a greater crime to be in a family way, than to live with a man as his mistress?--you knew your daughter had done the last: therefore it is nonsense to be so affected at the former.--come, come, forget and forgive!' 'never: and if you do not leave the house with her this moment, i will not stay in it. my injuries are so great that they cannot admit forgiveness.' 'what a horrible, unforgiving spirit yours must be!' cried dr norberry: 'and after all, i tell you again, that adeline has something to forgive and forget too; and she sets you an example of christian charity in coming hither to console and comfort you, poor forsaken woman as you are!' 'forsaken!' exclaimed mrs mowbray: 'aye; why, and for whom, was i forsaken? there's the pang! and yet you wonder that i cannot instantly forgive and receive the woman who injured me where i was most vulnerable.' 'o my mother!' cried adeline, almost indignantly, 'and can that wretch, though dead, still have power to influence my fate in this dreadful manner? and can you still regret the loss of the affection of that man whose addresses were a disgrace to you?' at these unguarded words, and too just reproaches, mrs mowbray lost all self-command; and, in a voice almost inarticulate with rage, exclaimed:--'i loved that wretch, as you are pleased to call him. i gloried in the addresses which you are pleased to call my disgrace. but he loved you--he left me for you--and on your account he made me endure the pangs of being forsaken and despised by the man whom i adored. then mark my words: i solemnly swear,' dropping on her knees as she spoke, 'by all my hopes of happiness hereafter, that until you shall have experienced the anguish of having lost the man whom you adore, till _you_ shall have been as wretched in love, and as disgraced in the eye of the world, as i have been, i never will see you more, or pardon your many sins against me--no--not even were you on your death-bed. yet, no; i am wrong there--yes; on your death-bed,' she added, her voice faltering as she spoke, and passion giving way in a degree to the dictates of returning nature,--'yes, there; there i should--i should forgive you.' 'then i feel that you will forgive me soon,' faintly articulated adeline sinking on the ground; while mrs mowbray was leaving the room, and dr norberry was standing motionless with horror, from the rash oath which he had just heard. but adeline's fall aroused him from his stupor. 'for pity's sake, do not go and leave your daughter dying!' cried he: 'your vow does not forbid you to continue to see her now.' mrs mowbray turned back, and started with horror at beholding the countenance of adeline. 'is she really dying?' cried she eagerly, 'and have i killed her?' these words, spoken in a faltering tone, and with a look of anxiety, seemed to recall the fleeting spirit of adeline. she looked up at her mother, a sort of smile quivered on her lip; and faintly articulating 'i am better,' she burst into a convulsive flood of tears, and laid her head on the bosom of her compassionate friend. 'she will do now,' cried he exultingly to mrs mowbray: 'you need alarm yourself no longer.' but alarm was perhaps a feeling of enjoyment, to the sensations which then took possession of mrs mowbray. the apparent danger of adeline had awakened her long dormant tenderness: but she had just bound herself by an oath not to give way to it, except under circumstances the most unwelcome and affecting, and had therefore embittered her future days with remorse and unavailing regret.--for some minutes she stood looking wildly and mournfully on adeline, longing to clasp her to her bosom, and pronounce her pardon, but not daring to violate her oath. at length, 'i cannot bear this torment,' she exclaimed, and rushed out of the room: and when in another apartment, she recollected, and uttered a scream of agony as she did so, that she had seen adeline probably for the last time; for, voluntarily, she was now to see her no more. the same recollections occurred to adeline; and as the door closed on her mother, she raised herself up, and looked eagerly to catch the last glimpse of her gown, as the door shut it from her sight. 'let us go away directly now,' said she, 'for the air of this room is not good for me.' the doctor, affected beyond measure at the expression of quiet despair with which she spoke, went out to order a coach; and adeline instantly rose, and kissed with fond devotion the chair on which her mother had sat. suddenly she heard a deep sigh--it came from the next room--perhaps it came from her mother; perhaps she could still see her again: and with cautious step she knelt down and looked through the key-hole of the door. she did see her mother once more. mrs mowbray was lying on the bed, beating the ground with her foot, and sighing as if her heart would break. 'o that i dare go in to her!' said adeline to herself: 'but i can at least bid her farewell here.' she then put her mouth to the aperture, and exclaimed, 'mother, dearest mother! since we meet now for the last time--' (mrs mowbray started from the bed) 'let me thank you for all the affection, all the kindness which you lavished on me during eighteen happy years. i shall never cease to love and pray for you.' (mrs mowbray sobbed aloud.) 'perhaps, you will some day or other think you have been harsh to me, and may wish that you had not taken so cruel a vow.' (mrs mowbray beat her breast in agony: the moment of repentance was already come.) 'it may therefore be a comfort to you at such moments to know, that i sincerely, and from the bottom of my heart, forgive this rash action:--and now, my dearest mother, hear my parting prayers for your happiness!' at this moment a noise in the next room convinced adeline that her mother had fallen down in a fainting fit, and the doctor entered the room. 'what have i done?' she exclaimed. 'go to her this instant.'--he obeyed. raising up mrs mowbray in his arms, he laid her on the bed, while adeline bent over her in silent anguish, with all the sorrow of filial anxiety. but when the remedies which dr norberry administered began to take effect, she exclaimed, 'for the last time! cruel, but most dear mother!' and pressed her head to her bosom, and kissed her pale lips with almost frantic emotion. mrs mowbray opened her eyes; they met those of adeline and instantly closed again. 'she has looked at me for the last time,' said adeline; 'and now this one kiss, my mother, and farewell for ever!' so saying she rushed out of the room, and did not stop till she reached the coach, which glenmurray had called, and springing into it, was received into the arms of glenmurray. 'you, are my all now,' said she. 'you have long been mine,' replied he: but respecting the anguish and disappointment depicted on her countenance, he forbore to ask for an explanation; and resting her pale cheek on his bosom, they reached the inn in silence. adeline had walked up and down the room a number of times, had as often looked out of the window, before dr norberry, whom she had been anxiously expecting and looking for, made his appearance. 'thank god, you are come at last!' said she, seizing his hand as he entered. 'i left mrs mowbray,' replied he, 'much better both in mind and body.' 'a blessed hearing! replied adeline. 'and you, my child, how are you?' asked the doctor affectionately. 'i know not yet,' answered adeline mournfully: 'as yet i am stunned by the blow which i have received; but pray tell me what has passed between you and my mother since we left the hotel.' 'what has passed?' cried dr norberry, starting from his chair, taking two hasty strides across the room, pulling up the cape of his coat, and muttering an oath between his shut teeth--'why, this passed:--the deluded woman renounced her daughter; and her friend, her old and faithful friend, has renounced her.' 'oh! my poor mother!' exclaimed adeline. 'girl! girl! don't be foolish,' replied the doctor; 'keep your pity for more deserving objects; and, as the wisest thing you can do, endeavour to forget your mother.' 'forget her! never.' 'well, well, you will be wiser in time; and now you shall hear all that passed. when she recovered entirely, and found that you were gone, she gave way to an agony of sorrow, such as i never before witnessed; for i believe that i never beheld before the agony of remorse.' 'my poor mother!' cried adeline, again bursting into tears. 'what! again!' exclaimed the doctor. (adeline motioned to him to go on, and he continued.) 'at sight of this, i was weak enough to pity her; and, with the greatest simplicity, i told her, that i was glad to see that she felt penitent for her conduct, since penitence paved the way to amendment; when, to my great surprise, all the vanished fierceness and haughtiness of her look returned, and she told me, that so far from repenting she approved of her conduct; and that remorse had no share in her sorrow; that she wept from consciousness of misery inflicted by the faults of others, not her own.' 'oh! dr norberry,' cried adeline reproachfully, 'i doubt, by awakening her pride, you destroyed the tenderness returning towards me.' 'may be so. however, so much the better; for anger is a less painful state of mind to endure than that of remorse: and while she thinks herself only injured and aggrieved, she will be less unhappy.' 'then,' continued adeline in a faltering voice, 'i care not how long she hates me.' dr norberry looked at adeline a moment with tears in his eyes, and evidently gulped down a rising sob, 'good child! good child!' he at length articulated. 'but she'll forget and forgive all in time, i do not doubt.' 'impossible: remember her oath.' 'and do you really suppose that she will think herself bound to keep so silly and rash an oath; an oath made in the heat of passion?' 'undoubtedly i do; and i know, that were she to break it, she would never be otherwise than wretched all her life after. therefore, unless glenmurray forsakes me (she added, trying to smile archly as she spoke), and this i am not happy enough to expect, i look on our separation in this world to be eternal.' 'you do?--then, poor devil! how miserable she will be, when her present resentment shall subside! well; when that time comes i may perhaps see her again,' added the doctor, gulping again. 'heaven bless you for that intention!' cried adeline. 'but how could you ever have the heart to renounce her?' 'girl! you are almost as provoking as your mother. why, how could i have the heart to do otherwise, when she whitewashed herself and blackened you? to be sure, it did cause me a twinge or two to do it; and had she been an iota less haughty, i should have turned back and said, "kiss and be friends again." but she seemed so provokingly anxious to get rid of me, and waved me with her hand to the door in such a tragedy queen sort of a manner, that, having told her very civilly to go to the devil her own way, i gulped down a sort of a tender choking in my throat, and made as rapid an exit as possible. and now another trial awaits me. i came to town, at some inconvenience to myself, to try to do you service. i have failed, and i have now no further business here: so we must part, and i know not when we shall meet again. for i rarely leave home, and may not see you again for years.' 'indeed!' exclaimed adeline, 'surely,' looking at glenmurray, 'we might settle in dr norberry's neighbourhood?' glenmurray said nothing, but looked at the doctor; who seemed confused, and was silent. 'look ye, my dear girl,' said he at length: 'the idea of your settling near me occurred to me, but--' here he took two hasty strides across the room--'in short, that's an impossible thing; so i beg you to think no more about it. if, indeed, you mean to marry mr glenmurray--' 'which i shall not do,' replied adeline coldly. 'there again, now!' cried the doctor pettishly: 'you, in your way, are quite as obstinate and ridiculous as your mother. however, i hope you will know better in time. but it grows late--'tis time i should be in my chaise, and i hear it driving up. mr glenmurray,' continued he in an altered tone of voice, 'to your care and your tenderness i leave this poor child; and, zounds, man! if you will but burn your books before her face, and swear they are stuff, why, 'sdeath, i say, i would come to town on purpose to do you homage.--adeline, my child, god bless you! i have loved you from your infancy, and i wish, from my soul, that i left you in a better situation. but you will write to me, heh?' 'undoubtedly.' 'well, one kiss:--don't be jealous, glenmurray. your hand, man.--woons, what a hand! my dear fellow, take care of yourself, for that poor child's sake: get the advice which i recommended, and good air.' a rising sob interrupted him--he hemmed it off, and ran into his chaise. chapter xvii 'now then,' said adeline, her tears dropping fast as she spoke, 'now, then, we are alone in the world; henceforward we must be all to each other.' 'is the idea a painful one, adeline?' replied glenmurray reproachfully. 'not so,' returned adeline, 'still i can't yet forget that i had a mother, and a kind one too.' 'and may have again.' 'impossible:--there is a vow in heaven against it. no--my plans for future happiness must be laid unmindful and independent of her. they must have you and your happiness for their sole object; i must live for you alone: and you,' added she in a faltering voice, 'must live for me.' 'i will live as long as i can,' replied glenmurray sighing, 'and as one step towards it i shall keep early hours: so to rest, dear adeline, and let us forget our sorrows as soon as possible.' the next morning adeline's and glenmurray's first care was to determine on their future residence. it was desirable that it should be at a sufficient distance from london, to deserve the name and have the conveniences of a country abode, yet sufficiently near it for glenmurray to have the advice of a london physician if necessary. 'suppose we fix at richmond?' said glenmurray: and adeline, to whom the idea of dwelling on a spot at once so classical and beautiful was most welcome, joyfully consented; and in a few days they were settled there in a pleasant but expensive lodging. but here, as when abroad, glenmurray occasionally saw old acquaintances, many of whom were willing to renew their intercourse with him for the sake of being introduced to adeline; and who, from a knowledge of her situation, presumed to pay her that sort of homage, which, though not understood by her, gave pangs unutterable to the delicate mind of glenmurray. 'were she my wife, they dared not pay her such marked attention,' said he to himself; and again, as delicately as he could, he urged adeline to sacrifice her principles to the prejudices of society. 'i thought,' replied adeline gravely, 'that, as we lived for each other, we might act independent of society, and serve it by our example even against its will.' glenmurray was silent.--he did not like to own how painful and mischievous he found in practice the principles which he admired in theory--and adeline continued: 'believe me, glenmurray, ours is the very situation calculated to urge us on in the pursuit of truth. we are answerable to no one for our conduct; and we can make any experiments in morals that we choose. i am wholly at a loss to comprehend why you persist in urging me to marry you. take care, my dear glenmurray--the high respect i bear your character was shaken a little by your fighting a duel in defiance of your principles; and your eagerness to marry, in further defiance of them, may weaken my esteem, if not my love.' adeline smiled as she said this: but glenmurray thought she spoke more in earnest than she was willing to allow; and, alarmed at the threat, he only answered, 'you know it is for your sake merely that i speak,' and dropped the subject; secretly resolving, however, that he would not walk with adeline in the fashionable promenades, at the hours commonly spent there by the beau monde. but, in spite of this precaution, they could not escape the assiduities of some gay men of fashion, who knew glenmurray and admired his companion; and adeline at length suspected that glenmurray was jealous. but in this she wronged him; it was not the attention paid her, but the nature of it, that disturbed him. nor is it to be wondered at that adeline herself was eager to avoid the public walks, when it is known that one of her admirers at richmond was the colonel mordaunt whom she had become acquainted with at bath. colonel mordaunt, 'curst with every granted prayer,' was just beginning to feel the tedium of life, when he saw adeline unexpectedly at richmond; and though he felt shocked at first, at beholding her in so different a situation from that in which he had first beheld her, still that very situation, by holding forth to him a prospect of being favoured by her in his turn, revived his admiration with more than its original violence, and he resolved to be, if possible, the lover of adeline, after glenmurray should have fallen a victim, as he had no doubt but he would, to his dangerous illness. but the opportunities which he had of seeing her suddenly ceased. she no longer frequented the public walks; and him, though he suspected it not, she most studiously avoided; for she could not bear to behold the alteration in his manner when be addressed her, an alteration perhaps unknown to himself. true, it was not insulting; but adeline, who had admired him too much at bath not to have examined with minute attention the almost timid expression of his countenance, and the respectfulness of his manner when he addressed her, shrunk abashed from the ardent and impassioned expression with which he now met her--an expression which adeline used to call 'looking like sir patrick;' and which indicated even to her inexperience, that the admiration which he then felt was of a nature less pure and flattering than the one which she excited before; and though in her own eyes she appeared as worthy of respect as ever, she was forced to own even to herself, that persons in general would be of a contrary opinion. but in vain did she resolve to walk very early in a morning only, being fully persuaded that she should then meet with no one. colonel mordaunt was as wakeful as she was; and being convinced that she walked during some part of the day, and probably early in a morning, he resolved to watch near the door of her lodgings, in hopes to obtain an hour's conversation with her. the consequence was, that he saw adeline one morning walk pensively alone, down the shady road that leads from the terrace to petersham. this opportunity was not to be overlooked; and he overtook and accosted her with such an expression of pleasure on his countenance, as was sufficient to alarm the now suspicious delicacy of adeline; and, conscious as she was that glenmurray beheld colonel mordaunt's attentions with pain, a deep blush overspread her cheek at his approach, while her eyes were timidly cast down. colonel mordaunt saw her emotion, and attributed it to a cause flattering to his vanity; it even encouraged him to seize her hand; and, while he openly congratulated himself on his good fortune in meeting her alone, he presumed to press her hand to his lips. adeline indignantly withdrew it, and replied very coldly to his inquiries concerning her health. 'but where have you hidden yourself lately?' cried he.--'o miss mowbray! loveliest and, i may add, most beloved of women, how have i longed to see you alone, and pour out my whole soul to you!' adeline answered this rhapsody by a look of astonishment only--being silent from disgust and consternation,--while involuntarily she quickened her pace, as if wishing to avoid him. 'o hear me, and hear me patiently!' he resumed. 'you must have noticed the effect which your charms produced on me at bath; and may i dare to add that my attentions then did not seem displeasing to you?' 'sir!' interrupted adeline, sighing deeply, 'my situation is now changed; and--' 'it is so, i thank fortune that it is so,' replied colonel mordaunt; 'and i am happy to say, it is changed by no crime of mine.' (here adeline started and turned pale.) 'but i were unworthy all chance of happiness, were i to pass by the seeming opportunity of being blest, which the alteration to which you allude holds forth to me.' here he paused, as if in embarrassment, but adeline was unable to interrupt him. 'miss mowbray,' he at length continued, 'i am told that you are not on good terms with your mother; nay, i have heard that she has renounced you; may i presume to ask if this be true?' 'it is,' answered adeline trembling with emotion. 'then, as before long it is probable that you will be without--without a protector--' (adeline turned round and fixed her eyes wildly upon him.) 'to be sure,' continued he, avoiding her steadfast gaze, 'i could wish to call you mine this moment; but, unhappy as you appear to be in your present situation, i know, unlike many women circumstanced as you are, you are too generous and noble-minded to be capable of forsaking in his last illness the man whom in his happier moments you have honoured with your love.' as he said this, adeline, her lips parched with agitation, and breathing short, caught hold of his arm; and pressing her cold hand, he went on: 'therefore, i will not venture even to wish to be honoured with a kind look from you till mr glenmurray is removed to a happier world. but then, dearest of women, you whom i loved without hope of possessing you, and whom now i dote upon to madness, i conjure you to admit my visits, and let my attentions prevail on you to accept my protection, and allow me to devote the remainder of my days to love and you!' 'merciful heaven!' exclaimed adeline, clasping her hands together, 'to what insults am i reserved!' 'insults!' echoed colonel mordaunt. 'yes, sir,' replied adeline: 'you have insulted me, grossly insulted me, and know not the woman whom you have tortured to the very soul.' 'hear me, hear me, miss mowbray!' exclaimed colonel mordaunt, almost as much agitated as herself: 'by heaven i meant not to insult you! and perhaps i--perhaps i have been misinformed--no! yes, yes, it must be so; your indignation proves that i have--you are, no doubt--and on my knees i implore your pardon--you are the wife of mr glenmurray.' 'and suppose i am _not_ his wife,' cried adeline, 'is it then given to a wife only to be secure from being insulted by offers horrible to the delicacy, and wounding to the sensibility, like those which i have heard from you?' but before colonel mordaunt could reply, adeline's thoughts had reverted to what he had said of glenmurray's certain danger; and, unable to bear this confirmation of her fears, with the speed of phrensy she ran towards home, and did not stop till she was in sight of her lodging, and the still closed curtain of her apartment met her view. 'he is still sleeping, then,' she exclaimed, 'and i have time to recover myself, and endeavour to hide from him the emotion of which i could not tell the reason.' so saying, she softly entered the house, and by the time glenmurray rose she had regained her composure. still there was a look of anxiety on her fine countenance, which could not escape the penetrating eye of love. 'why are you so grave this morning?' said glenmurray, as adeline seated herself at the breakfast table:--'i feel much better and more cheerful to-day.' 'but are you, indeed, better?' replied adeline, fixing her tearful eyes on him. 'or i much deceive myself,' said glenmurray. 'thank heaven!' devoutly replied adeline. 'i thought--i thought--' here tears choked her utterance, and glenmurray drew from her a confession of her anxious fears for him, though she prudently resolved not to agitate him by telling him of the rencontre with colonel mordaunt. but when the continued assurances of glenmurray that he was better, and the animation of his countenance, had in a degree removed her fears for his life, she had leisure to revert to another source of uneasiness, and to dwell on the insult which she had experienced from colonel mordaunt's offer of protection. 'how strange and irrational,' thought adeline, 'are the prejudices of society! because an idle ceremony has not been muttered over me at the altar, i am liable to be thought a woman of vicious inclinations, and to be exposed to the most daring insults.' as these reflections occurred to her, she could scarcely help regretting that her principles would not allow her delicacy and virtue to be placed under the sacred shelter bestowed by that ceremony which she was pleased to call idle. and she was not long without experiencing still further hardships from the situation in which she had persisted so obstinately to remain. their establishment consisted of a footman and a maid servant; but the latter had of late been so remiss in the performance of her duties, and so impertinent when reproved for her faults, that adeline was obliged to give her warning. 'warning, indeed!' replied the girl: 'a mighty hardship, truly! i can promise you i did not mean to stay long; it is no such favour to live with a kept miss; and if you come to that, i think i am as good as you.' shocked, surprised, and unable to answer, adeline took refuge in her room. never before had she been accosted by her inferiors without respectful attention; and now, owing to her situation, even a servant-maid thought herself authorised to insult her, and to raise herself to her level! 'but surely,' said adeline mentally, 'i ought to reason with her, and try to convince her that i am in reality as virtuous as if i were glenmurray's wife, instead of his mistress.' accordingly she went back into the kitchen; but her resolution failed her when she found the footman there, listening with a broad grin on his countenance to the relation which mary was giving him of the 'fine trimming' which she had given 'madam.' scarcely did the presence of adeline interrupt or restrain her; but at last she turned round and said, 'and, pray, have you got anything to say to me?' 'nothing more now,' meekly replied adeline, 'unless you will follow me to my chamber.' 'with all my heart,' cried the girl; and adeline returned to her own room. 'i wish, mary, to set you right,' said adeline, 'with respect to my situation. you called me, i think, a kept miss, and seemed to think ill of me.' 'why, to be sure, ma'am,' replied mary, a little alarmed--'every body says you are a kept lady, and so i made no bones of saying so; but i am sure if so be you are not so, why i ax pardon.' 'but what do you mean by the term kept lady?' 'why, a lady who lives with a man without being married to him, i take it; and that i take to be your case, ain't it, i pray?' adeline blushed and was silent:--it certainly was her case. however, she took courage and went on. 'but mistresses, or kept ladies in general, are women of bad character, and would live with any man; but i never loved, nor ever shall love, any man but mr glenmurray. i look on myself as his wife in the sight of god; nor will i quit him till death shall separate us.' 'then if so be that you don't want to change, i think you might as well be married to him.' adeline was again silent for a moment, but continued-- 'mr glenmurray would marry me to-morrow, if i chose.' 'indeed! well, if master is inclined to make an honest woman of you, you had better take him at his word, i think.' 'gracious heaven!' cried adeline, 'what an expression! why will you persist to confound me with those deluded women who are victims of their own weakness?' 'as to that,' replied mary, 'you talk too fine for me; but a fact is a fact--are you or are you not my master's wife?' 'i am not.' 'why then you are his mistress, and a kept lady to all intents and purposes: so what signifies argufying the matter? i lived with a kept madam before; and she was as good as you, for aught i know.' adeline, shocked and disappointed, told her she might leave the room. 'i am going,' pertly answered mary, 'and to seek for a place; but i must beg that you will not own you are no better than you should be, when a lady comes to ask my character; for then perhaps i should not get any one to take me. i shall call you mrs glenmurray.' 'but i shall not call _myself_ so,' replied adeline. 'i will not say what is not true, on any account.' 'there now, there's spite! and yet you pretend to call yourself a gentlewoman, and to be better than other kept ladies! why, you are not worthy to tie the shoestrings of my last mistress--she did not mind telling a lie rather than lose a poor servant a place; and she called herself a married woman rather than hurt me.' 'neither she nor you, then,' replied adeline gravely, 'were sensible of what great importance a strict adherence to veracity is, to the interests of society. i am;--and for the sake of mankind i will always tell the truth.' 'you had better tell one innocent lie for mine,' replied the girl pertly. 'i dare to say the world will neither know nor care anything about it: and i can tell you i shall expect you will.' so saying she shut the door with violence, leaving adeline mournfully musing on the distress attending on her situation, and even disposed to question the propriety of remaining in it. the inquietude of her mind, as usual, showed itself in her countenance, and involved her in another difficulty: to make glenmurray uneasy by an avowal of what had passed between her and mary was impossible; yet how could she conceal it from him? and while she was deliberating on this point, glenmurray entered the room, and tenderly inquired what had so evidently disturbed her. 'nothing of any consequence,' she faltered out, and burst into tears. 'could "nothing of consequence" produce such emotion?' answered glenmurray. 'but i am ashamed to own the cause of my uneasiness.' 'ashamed to own it to me, adeline? to be sure, you have a great deal to fear from my severity!' said he, faintly smiling. adeline for a moment resolved to tell him the whole truth; but fearful of throwing him into a degree of agitation hurtful to his weak frame, she, who had the moment before so nobly supported the necessity of a strict adherence to truth, condescended to equivocate and evade; and turning away her head, while a conscious blush overspread her cheek, she replied, 'you know that i look forward with anxiety and uneasiness to the time of my approaching confinement.' glenmurray believed her; and overcome by some painful feelings, which fears for himself and anxiety for her occasioned him, he silently pressed her to his bosom; and, choked with contending emotions, returned to his own apartment. 'and i have stooped to the meanness of disguising the truth!' cried adeline, clasping her hands convulsively together: 'surely, surely, there must be something radically wrong in a situation which exposes one to such a variety of degradations!' mary, meanwhile, had gone in search of a place; and having found the lady to whom she had been advised to offer herself, at home, she returned to tell adeline that mrs pemberton would call in half an hour to inquire her character. the half-hour, an anxious one to adeline, having elapsed, a lady knocked at the door, and inquired, in adeline's hearing for mrs glenmurray. 'tell the lady,' cried adeline immediately from the top of the staircase, 'that miss mowbray will wait on her directly.' the footman obeyed, and mrs pemberton was ushered into the parlour: and now, for the first time in her life, adeline trembled to approach a stranger; for the first time she was going to appear before a fellow-creature, conscious she was become an object of scorn, and, though an enthusiast for virtue, would be considered as a votary of vice. but it was a mortification which she must submit to undergo; and hastily throwing a large shawl over her shoulders, to hide her figure as much as possible, with a trembling hand she opened the door, and found herself in the dreaded presence of mrs pemberton. nor was she at all re-assured when she found that lady dressed in the neat, modest garb of a strict quaker--a garb which creates an immediate idea in the mind, of more than common rigidness of principles and sanctity of conduct in the wearer of it. adeline curtsied in silence. mrs pemberton bowed her head courteously; then, with a countenance of great sweetness, and a voice calculated to inspire confidence, said, 'i believe thy name is mowbray; but i came to see mrs glenmurray; and as on these occasions i always wish to confer with the principal, wouldst thou, if it be not inconvenient, ask the mistress of mary to let me see her?' 'i am myself the mistress of mary,' replied adeline in a faint voice. 'i ask thine excuse,' answered mrs pemberton, re-seating herself: 'as thou art mrs glenmurray, thou art the person i wanted to see.' here adeline changed colour, overcome with the consciousness that she ought to undeceive her, and the sense of the difficulty of doing so. 'but thou art very pale, and seemest uneasy,' continued the gentle quaker--'i hope thy husband is not worse?' 'mr glenmurray, but not my husband,' said adeline, 'is better to-day.' 'art thou not married?' asked mrs pemberton with quickness. 'i am not.' 'and yet thou livest with the gentleman i named, and art the person whom mary called mrs glenmurray!' 'i am,' replied adeline, her paleness yielding to a deep crimson, and her eyes filling with tears. mrs pemberton sat for a minute in silence; then rising with an air of cold dignity, 'i fear thy servant is not likely to suit me,' she observed, 'and i will not detain thee any longer.' 'she can be an excellent servant,' faltered out adeline. 'very likely--but there are objections.' so saying she reached the door: but as she passed adeline she stopped, interested and affected by the mournful expression of her countenance, and the visible effort she made to retain her tears. adeline saw, and felt humbled at the compassion which her countenance expressed: to be an object of pity was as mortifying as to be an object of scorn, and she turned her eyes on mrs pemberton with a look of proud indignation: but they met those of mrs pemberton fixed on her with a look of such benevolence, that her anger was instantly subdued; and it occurred to her that she might make the benevolent compassion visible in mrs pemberton's countenance serviceable to her discarded servant. 'stay, madam,' she cried, as mrs pemberton was about to leave the room, 'allow me a moment's conversation with you.' mrs pemberton, with an eagerness which she suddenly endeavoured to check, returned to her seat. 'i suspect,' said adeline, (gathering courage from the conscious kindness of her motive,) 'that your objection to take mary warner into your service proceeds wholly from the situation of her present mistress.' 'thou judgest rightly,' was mrs pemberton's answer. 'nor do i wonder,' continued adeline, 'that you make this objection, when i consider the present prejudices of society.' 'prejudices!' softly exclaimed the benevolent quaker. adeline faintly smiled, and went on--'but surely you will allow, that in a family quiet and secluded as ours, and in daily contemplation of an union uninterrupted, faithful, and virtuous, and possessing all the sacredness of marriage, though without the name, it is not likely that the young woman in question should have imbibed any vicious habits or principles?' 'but in contemplating thy union itself, she has lived in the contemplation of vice; and thou wilt own, that, by having given it an air of respectability, thou hast only made it more dangerous.' 'on this point,' cried adeline, 'i see we must disagree--i shall therefore, without further preamble, inform you, madam, that mary, aware of the difficulty of procuring a service, if it were known that she had lived with a kept mistress, as the phrase is,' (here an indignant blush overspread the face of adeline,) 'desired me to call myself the wife of glenmurray: but this, from my abhorrence of all falsehood, i peremptorily refused.' 'and thou didst well,' exclaimed mrs pemberton, 'and i respect thy resolution.' 'but my sincerity will, i fear, prevent the poor girl's obtaining other reputable places; and i, alas! am not rich enough to make her amends for the injury which my conscience forces me to do her. but if you, madam, could be prevailed upon to take her into your family, even for a short time only, to wipe away the disgrace which her living with me has brought upon her--' 'why can she not remain with thee?' asked mrs pemberton hastily. 'because she neglected her duty, and, when reproved for it, replied in very injurious language.' 'presuming probably on thy way of life?' 'i must confess that she has reproached me with it.' 'and this was all her fault?' 'it was:--she can be an excellent servant.' 'thou hast said enough; thy conscience shall not have the additional burthen to bear, of having deprived a poor girl of her maintenance--i will take her.' 'a thousand thanks to you,' replied adeline: 'you have removed a weight off my mind; but my conscience, has none to bear.' 'no?' returned mrs pemberton: 'dost thou deem thy conduct blameless in the eyes of that being whom thou hast just blessed?' 'as far as my connexion with mr glenmurray is concerned, i do.' 'indeed?' 'nay, doubt me not--believe me that i never wantonly violate the truth; and that even an evasion, which i, for the first time in my life, was guilty of to-day, has given me a pang to which i will not again expose myself.' 'and yet, inconsistent beings as we are,' cried mrs pemberton, 'straining at a gnat, and swallowing a camel, what is the guilt of the evasion which weighs on thy mind, compared to that of living, as thou dost, in an illicit commerce? surely, surely, thine heart accuses thee; for thy face bespeaks uneasiness, and thou wilt listen to the whispers of penitence, and leave, ere long, the man who has betrayed thee.' 'the man who has betrayed me! mr glenmurray is no betrayer--he is one of the best of human beings. no, madam: if i had acceded to his wishes, i should long ago have been his wife, but, from a conviction of the folly of marriage, i have preferred living with him without the performance of a ceremony which, in the eye of reason, can confer neither honour nor happiness.' 'poor thing!' exclaimed mrs pemberton, rising as she spoke, 'i understand thee now--thou art one of the enlightened, as they call themselves--thou art one of those wise in their own conceit, who, disregarding the customs of ages, and the dictates of experience, set up their own opinions against the hallowed institutions of men and the will of the most high.' 'can you blame me,' interrupted adeline, 'for acting according to what i think right?' 'but hast thou well studied the subject on which thou hast decided? yet, alas! to thee how vain must be the voice of admonition!' (she continued, her countenance kindling into strong expression as she spoke)--'from the poor victim of passion and persuasion, penitence and amendment might be rationally expected; and she, from the path of frailty, might turn again to that of virtue: but for one like thee, glorying in thine iniquity, and erring, not from the too tender heart, but the vain-glorious head,--for thee there is, i fear, no blessed return to the right way; and i, who would have tarried with thee even in the house of sin, to have reclaimed thee, penitent, now hasten from thee, and for ever--firm as thou art in guilt.' as she said this she reached the door; while adeline, affected by her emotion, and distressed by her language, stood silent and almost abashed before her. but with her hand on the lock she turned round, and in a gentler voice said, 'yet not even against a wilful offender like thee, should one gate that may lead to amendment be shut. thy situation and thy fortunes may soon be greatly changed; affliction may subdue thy pride, and the counsel of a friend of thine own sex might then sound sweetly in thine ears. should that time come, i will be that friend. i am now about to set off for lisbon with a very dear friend, about whom i feel as solicitous as thou about thy glenmurray; and there i shall remain some time. here then is my address; and if thou shouldest want my advice or assistance write to me, and be assured that rachel pemberton will try to forget thy errors in thy distresses.' so saying she left the room, but returned again, before adeline had recovered herself from the various emotions which she had experienced during her address, to ask her christian name. but when adeline replied, 'my name is adeline mowbray,' mrs pemberton started, and eagerly exclaimed, 'art thou adeline mowbray of gloucestershire--the young heiress, as she was called, of rosevalley?' 'i was once,' replied adeline, sinking back into a chair, 'adeline mowbray of rosevalley.' mrs pemberton for a few minutes gazed on her in mournful silence: 'and art thou,' she cried, 'adeline mowbray? art thou that courteous, blooming, blessed being, (for every tongue that i heard name thee blessed thee,) whom i saw only three years ago bounding over thy native hills, all grace, and joy, and innocence?' adeline tried to speak, but her voice failed her. 'art thou she,' continued mrs pemberton, 'whom i saw also leaning from the window of her mother's mansion, and inquiring with the countenance of a pitying angel concerning the health of a wan labourer who limped past the door?' adeline hid her face with her hands. mrs pemberton went on in a lower tone of voice,--'i came with some companions to see thy mother's grounds, and to hear the nightingales in her groves; but' (here mrs pemberton's voice faltered) 'i have seen a sight far beyond that of the proudest mansion, said i to those who asked me of thy mother's seat; i have heard what was sweeter to my ear than the voice of the nightingale; i have seen a blooming girl nursed in idleness and prosperity, yet active in the discharge of every christian duty; and i have heard her speak in the soothing accents of kindness and of pity, while her name was followed by blessings, and parents prayed to have a child like her. o lost, unhappy girl! such _was_ adeline mowbray: and often, very often, has thy graceful image recurred to my remembrance: but, how art thou changed! where is the open eye of happiness? where is the bloom that spoke a heart at peace with itself? i repeat it, and i repeat it with agony. father of mercies! is this thy adeline mowbray?' here, overcome with emotion, mrs pemberton paused; but adeline could not break silence: she rose, she stretched out her hand as if going to speak, but her utterance failed her, and again she sunk on a chair. 'it was thine,' resumed mrs pemberton in a faint and broken voice, 'to diffuse happiness around thee, and to enjoy wealth unhated, because thy hand dispensed nobly the riches which it had received bounteously: when the ear heard thee, then it blessed thee; when the eye saw thee, it gave witness to thee; and yet--' here again she paused, and raised her fine eyes to heaven for a few minutes, as if in prayer; then, pressing adeline's hand with an almost convulsive grasp, she drew her bonnet over her face, as if eager to hide the emotion which she was unable to subdue, and suddenly left the house; while adeline, stunned and overwhelmed by the striking contrast which mrs pemberton had drawn between her past and present situation, remained for some minutes motionless on her seat, a prey to a variety of feelings which she dared not venture to analyse. but, amidst the variety of her feelings, adeline soon found that sorrow, sorrow of the bitterest kind, was uppermost. mrs pemberton had said that she was about to be visited by affliction--alluding, there was no doubt, to the probable death of glenmurray--and was his fate so certain that it was the theme of conversation at richmond? were only _her_ eyes blind to the certainty of his danger? on these ideas did adeline chiefly dwell after the departure of her monitress; and in an agony unspeakable she entered the room where glenmurray was sitting, in order to look at him, and form her own judgment on a subject of such importance. but, alas! she found him with the brilliant deceitful appearance that attends his complaint--a bloom resembling health on his cheek, and a brightness in his eye rivalling that of the undimmed lustre of youth. surprised, delighted, and overcome by these appearances, which her inexperience rendered her incapable of appreciating justly, adeline threw herself on the sofa by him; and, as she pressed her cold cheek to his glowing one, her tearful eye was raised to heaven with an expression of devout thankfulness. 'mrs pemberton paid you a long visit,' said glenmurray, 'and i thought once, by the elevated tone of her voice, that she was preaching to you.' 'i believe she was,' cheerfully replied adeline, 'and now i have a confession to make; the season of reserve shall be over, and i will tell you all the adventures of this day without _evasion_.' 'aye, i thought you were not ingenuous with me this morning,' replied glenmurray: 'but better late than never.' adeline then told him all that had passed between her and mary and mrs pemberton, and concluded with saying, 'but the surety of your better health, which your looks give me, has dissipated every uneasiness; and if you are but spared to me, sorrow cannot reach me, and i despise the censure of the ignorant and the prejudiced. the world approve! what is the world to me?'-- 'the conscious mind is its own awful world!' glenmurray sighed deeply as she concluded her narration. 'i have only one request to make,' said he--'never let that mary come into my presence again; and be sure to take care of mrs pemberton's address.' adeline promised that both his requests should be attended to. mary was paid her wages, and dismissed immediately; and a girl being hired to supply her place, the ménage went on quietly again. but a new mortification awaited glenmurray and adeline. in spite of glenmurray's eccentricities and opinions, he was still remembered with interest by some of the female part of his family; and two of his cousins, more remarkable for their beauty than their virtue, hearing that he was at richmond, made known to him their intention of paying him a morning visit on their way to their country-seat in the neighbourhood. 'most unwelcome visitors, indeed!' cried glenmurray, throwing the letter down; 'i will write to them and forbid them to come.' 'that's impossible,' replied adeline, 'for by this time they must be on the road, if you look at the date of the letter: besides, i wish you to receive them; i should like to see any relations or friends of yours, especially those who have liberality of sentiment enough to esteem you as you deserve.' 'you!--you see them!' exclaimed glenmurray, pacing the room impatiently: 'o adeline, that is _impossible_!' 'i understand you,' replied adeline, changing colour: 'they will not deem me worthy,' forcing a smile, 'to be introduced to them.' 'and therefore would i forbid their coming. i cannot bear to _exclude_ you from my presence in order that i may receive them. no: when they arrive, i will send them word that i am unable to see them.' 'while they will attribute the refusal to the influence of the _creature_ who lives with you! no, glenmurray, for my sake i must insist on your not being denied to them; and, believe me, i should consider myself as unworthy to be the choice of your heart, if i were not able to bear with firmness a mortification like that which awaits me.' 'but you allow it to be a mortification?' 'yes; it is mortifying to a woman who knows herself to be virtuous, and is an idolater of virtue, to pay the penalty of vice, and be thought unworthy to associate with the relations of the man whom she loves.' 'they shall not come, i protest,' exclaimed glenmurray. but adeline was resolute; and she carried her point. soon after this conversation the ladies arrived, and adeline shut herself up in her own apartment, where she gave way to no very pleasant reflections. nor was she entirely satisfied with glenmurray's conduct:--true, he had earnestly and sincerely wished to refuse to see his unexpected and unwelcome guests; but he had never once expressed a desire of combating their prejudices for adeline's sake, and an intention of requesting that she might be introduced to them; but, as any common man would have done under similar circumstances, he was contented to do homage to 'things as they are,' without an effort to resist the prejudice to which he was superior. 'alas!' cried adeline, 'when can we hope to see society enlightened and improved, when even those who see and strive to amend its faults in theory, in practice tamely submit to the trammels which it imposes?' an hour, a tedious hour to adeline, having elapsed, glenmurray's visitors departed; and by the disappointment that adeline experienced at hearing the door close on them, she felt that she had had a secret hope of being summoned to be presented to them; and, with a bitter feeling of mortification, she reflected, that she was probably to the man whom she adored a shame and a reproach. 'yet i should like to see them,' she said, running to the window as the carriage drove up, and the ladies entered it. at that moment they, whether from curiosity to see her, or accident, looked up at the window where she was. adeline started back indignant and confused; for, thrusting their heads eagerly forward, they looked at her with the bold unfeeling stare of imagined superiority; and adeline, spite of her reason, sunk abashed and conscious from their gaze. 'and this insult,' exclaimed she, clasping her hands and bursting into tears, 'i experience from glenmurray's _relations_! i think i could have borne it better from any one else.' she had not recovered her disorder when glenmurray entered the room, and, tenderly embracing her, exclaimed, 'never, never again, my love, will i submit to such a sacrifice as i have now made;' when seeing her in tears, too well aware of the cause, he gave way to such a passionate burst of tenderness and regret, that adeline, terrified at his agitation, though soothed by his fondness, affected the cheerfulness which she did not feel, and promised to drive the intruders from her remembrance. had glenmurray and adeline known the real character of the unwelcome visitors, neither of them would have regretted that adeline was not presented to them. one of them was married, and to so accommodating a husband, that his wife's known gallant was his intimate friend; and under the sanction of his protection she was received every where, and visited by every one, as the world did not think proper to be more clear-sighted than the husband himself chose to be. the other lady was a young and attractive widow, who coquetted with many men, but intrigued with only one at a time; for which self-denial she was rewarded by being allowed to pass unquestioned through the portals of fashionable society. but these ladies would have scorned to associate with adeline; and adeline, had she known their private history, would certainly have returned the compliment. the peace of adeline was soon after disturbed in another way. glenmurray finding himself disposed to sleep in the middle of the day, his cough having kept him waking all night, adeline took her usual walk, and returned by the church-yard. the bell was tolling; and as she passed she saw a funeral enter the church-yard, and instantly averted her head. in so doing her eyes fell on a decent-looking woman, who with a sort of angry earnestness was watching the progress of the procession. 'aye, there goes your body, you rogue!' she exclaimed indignantly, 'but i wonder where your soul is now?--where i would not be for something.' adeline was shocked, and gently observed, 'what crime did the person of whom you are speaking, that you should suppose his soul so painfully disposed of?' 'what crime?' returned the woman: 'crime enough, i think:--why, he ruined a poor girl here in the neighbourhood: and then, because he never chose to make a will, there is she lying-in of a little by-blow, with not a farthing of money to maintain her or the child, and the fellow's money is gone to the heir-at-law, scarce of kin to him, while his own flesh and blood is left to starve.' adeline shuddered:--if glenmurray were to die, she and the child which she bore would, she knew, be beggars. 'well, miss, or madam, belike, by the look of you,' continued the woman glancing her eye over adeline's person, 'what say you? don't you think the fellow's soul is where we should not like to be? however, he had his hell here too, to be sure! for, when speechless and unable to move his fingers, he seemed by signs to ask for pen and ink, and he looked in agonies; and there was the poor young woman crying over him, and holding in her arms the poor destitute baby, who would as he grew up be taught, he must think, to curse the wicked father who begot him, and the naughty mother who bore him!' adeline turned very sick, and was forced to seat herself on a tombstone. 'curse the mother who bore him!' she inwardly repeated,--'and will my child curse me? rather let me undergo the rites i have despised!' and instantly starting from her seat she ran down the road to her lodgings, resolving to propose to glenmurray their immediate marriage. 'but is the possession of property, then,' she said to herself as she stopped to take breath, 'so supreme a good, that the want of it, through the means of his mother, should dispose a child to curse that mother?--no: my child shall be taught to consider nothing valuable but virtue, nothing disgraceful but _vice_.--fool that i am! a bugbear frightened me; and to my foolish fears i was about to sacrifice my own principles, and the respectability of glenmurray. no--let his property go to the heir-at-law--let me be forced to labour to support my babe, when its father--' here a flood of tears put an end to her soliloquy, and slowly and pensively she returned home. but the conversation of the woman in the church-yard haunted her while waking, and continued to distress her in her dreams that night, and she was resolved to do all she could to relieve the situation of the poor destitute girl and child, in whose fate she might possibly see an anticipation of her own: and as soon as breakfast was over, and glenmurray was engaged in his studies, she walked out to make the projected inquiries. the season of the year was uncommonly fine; and the varied scenery visible from the terrace was, at the moment of adeline's approach to it, glowing with more than common beauty. adeline stood for some minutes gazing on it in silent delight; when her reverie was interrupted by the sound of boyish merriment, and she saw, at one end of the terrace, some well-dressed boys at play. 'alas! regardless of their doom the little victims play!' immediately recurred to her: for, contemplating the probable evils of existence, she was darkly brooding over the imagined fate of her own offspring, should it live to see the light; and the children at their sport, having no care of ills to come, naturally engaged her attention. but these happy children ceased to interest her, when she saw standing at a distance from the group, and apparently looking at it with an eye of envy, a little boy, even better dressed than the rest; who was sobbing violently, yet evidently trying to conceal his grief. and while she was watching the young mourner attentively, he suddenly threw himself on a seat; and, taking out his handkerchief, indignantly and impatiently wiped away the tears that would no longer be restrained. 'poor child!' thought adeline, seating herself beside him; 'and has affliction reached thee so soon!' the child was beautiful: and his clustering locks seemed to have been combed with so much care; the frill of his shirt was so fine, and had been so very neatly plaited; and his sun-burnt neck and hands were so very very clean, that adeline was certain he was the darling object of some fond mother's attention. 'and yet he is unhappy!' she inwardly exclaimed. 'when my fate resembled his, how happy i was!' but from the recollections like these she always hastened; and checking the rising sigh, she resolved to enter into conversation with the little boy. 'what is the matter?' she cried.--no answer. 'why are you not playing with the young gentlemen yonder?' she had touched the right string:--and bursting into tears, he sobbed out, 'because they won't let me.' 'no? and why will they not let you?' to this he replied not; but sullenly hung his blushing face on his bosom. 'perhaps you have made them angry?' gently asked adeline. 'oh! no, no,' cried the boy; 'but--' 'but what?' here he turned from her, and with his nail began scratching the arm of the seat. 'well; this is very strange, and seems very unkind,' cried adeline: 'i will speak to them.' so saying, she drew near the other children, who had interrupted their play to watch adeline and their rejected playmate. 'what can be the reason,' said she, 'that you will not let that little boy play with you?' the boys looked down, and said nothing. 'is he ill-natured?' 'no.' 'does he not play fair?' 'yes.' 'don't you like him?' 'yes.' 'then why do you make him unhappy, by not letting him join in your sport?' 'tell the lady. jack,' cries one; and jack, the biggest boy of the party, said: 'because he is not a gentleman's son like us, and is only a little bastard.' 'yes,' cried one of the other children; 'and his mamma is so proud she dresses him finer than we are, for all he is base-born: and our papas and mammas don't think him fit company for us.' they might have gone on for an hour--adeline could not interrupt them. the cause of the child's affliction was a dagger in her heart; and, while she listened to the now redoubled sobs of the disgraced and proudly afflicted boy, she was driven almost to phrensy: for 'such,' she exclaimed, 'may one time or other be the pangs of my child, and so to him may the hours of childhood be embittered!' again she seated herself by the little mourner--and her tears accompanied his. 'my dear child, you had better go home,' said she, struggling with her feelings; 'your mother will certainly be glad of your company.' 'no, i won't go to her; i don't love her: they say she is a bad woman, and my papa a bad man, because they are not married.' again adeline's horrors returned. 'but, my dear, they love you, no doubt; and you ought to love them,' she replied with effort. 'there, there comes your papa,' cried one of the boys; 'go and cry to him;--go.' at these words adeline looked up, and saw an elegant-looking man approaching with a look of anxiety. 'charles, my dear boy, what has happened?' said he, taking his hand; which the boy sullenly withdrew. 'come home directly,' continued his father, 'and tell me what is the matter, as we go along.' but again snatching his hand away, the proud and deeply wounded child resentfully pushed the shoulder next him forward, whenever his father tried to take his arm, and elbowed him angrily as he went. adeline felt the child's action to the bottom of her heart. it was a volume of reproach to the father; and she sighed to think what the parents, if they had hearts, must feel, when the afflicted boy told the cause of his grief. 'but, unhappy boy, perhaps my child may live to bless you!' she exclaimed, clasping her hands together: 'never, never will i expose my child to the pangs which you have experienced to-day.' so saying, she returned instantly to her lodgings; and having just strength left to enter glenmurray's room, she faintly exclaimed: 'for pity's sake, make me your wife to-morrow!' and fell senseless on the floor. on her recovery she saw glenmurray pale with agitation, yet with an expression of satisfaction in his countenance, bending over her. 'adeline! my dearest love!' he whispered as her head lay on his bosom, 'blessed be the words you have spoken, whatever be their cause! to-morrow you shall be my wife.' 'and then our child will be legitimate, will he not?' she eagerly replied. 'it will.' 'thank god!' cried adeline, and relapsed into a fainting fit. for it was not decreed that the object of her maternal solicitude should ever be born to reward it. anxiety and agitation had had a fatal effect on the health of adeline; and the day after her encounter on the terrace she brought forth a dead child. as soon as adeline, languid and disappointed, was able to leave her room, glenmurray, whom anxiety during her illness had rendered considerably weaker, urged her to let the marriage ceremony be performed immediately. but with her hopes of being a mother vanished her wishes to become a wife, and all her former reasons against marriage recurred in their full force. in vain did glenmurray entreat her to keep her lately formed resolution: she still attributed his persuasions to generosity, and the heroic resolve of sacrificing his principles, with the consistency of his character, to her supposed good, and it was a point of honour with her to be as generous in return: consequently the subject was again dropped; nor was it likely to be soon renewed; and anxiety of a more pressing nature disturbed their peace and engrossed their attention. they had been three months at richmond, and had incurred there a considerable debt; and glenmurray, not having sufficient money with him to discharge it, drew upon his banker for half the half-year's rents from his estate, which he had just deposited in his hands; when to his unspeakable astonishment he found that the house had stopped payment, and that the principal partner had gone off with the deposits! scarcely could the firm mind of glenmurray support itself under the stroke. he looked forward to the certainty of passing the little remainder of his life not only in pain but in poverty, and of seeing increase as fast as his wants the difficulty of supplying them; while the woman of his heart bent in increased agony over his restless couch; for he well knew that to raise money on his estate, or to anticipate the next half-year's rents, was impossible, as he had only a life interest in it; and, as he held the fatal letter in his hand, his frame shook with agitation. 'i could not have believed,' cried adeline, 'that the loss of any sum of money could have so violently affected you.' 'not the loss of my all! my support during the tedious scenes of illness!' 'your all!' faltered out adeline; and when she heard the true state of the case she found her agitation equalled that of glenmurray, and in hopeless anguish she leaned on the table beside him. 'what is to be done,' said she, 'till the next half-year's rents become due? where can we procure money?' 'till the next half-year's rents become due!' replied he, looking at her mournfully: 'i shall not be distressed for money then.' 'no?' answered adeline (not understanding him): 'our expenses have never yet been more than that sum can supply.' glenmurray looked at her, and, seeing how unconscious she was of the certainty of the evil that awaited her, had not the courage to distress her by explaining his meaning; and she went on to ask him what steps he meant to take to raise money. 'my only resource,' said he, 'is dunning a near relation of mine who owes me three hundred pounds: he is now, i believe, able to pay it. he is in holland, indeed, at present; but he is daily expected in england, and will come to see me here. i have named him to you before, i believe. his name is berrendale.' it was then agreed that glenmurray should write to mr berrendale immediately; and that, to prevent the necessity of incurring a further debt for present provisions and necessaries, some of their books and linen should be sold:--but week after week elapsed, and no letter was received from mr berrendale. glenmurray grew rapidly worse;--and their landlord was clamorous for his rent;--advice from london also became necessary to quiet adeline's mind,--though glenmurray knew that he was past cure: and after she had paid a small sum to quiet the demands of the landlord for a while, she had scarcely enough left to pay a physician: however, she sent for one recommended by dr norberry, and by selling a writing-desk inlaid with silver, which she valued because it was the gift of her father, she raised money sufficient for the occasion. dr. ---- arrived, but not to speak peace to the mind of adeline. she saw, though he did not absolutely say so, that all chance of glenmurray's recovery was over: and though with the sanguine feelings of nineteen she could 'hope though hope were lost,' when she watched dr. ----'s countenance as he turned from the bed-side of glenmurray, she felt the coldness of despair thrill through her frame; and, scarcely able to stand, she followed him into the next room, and awaited his orders with a sort of desperate tranquillity. after prescribing alleviations of the ill beyond his power to cure, dr. ---- added that terrible confirmation of the fears of anxious affection. 'let him have whatever he likes; nothing can hurt him now; and all your endeavours must be to make the remaining hours of his existence as comfortable as you can, by every indulgence possible: and indeed, my dear madam,' he continued, 'you must be prepared for the trial that awaits you.' 'prepared! did you say?' cried adeline in the broken voice of tearless and almost phrensied sorrow. 'o god! if he must die, in mercy let me die with him. if i have sinned,' (here she fell on her knees,) 'surely, surely, the agony of this moment is atonement sufficient.' dr. ----, greatly affected, raised her from the ground, and conjured her for the sake of glenmurray, and that she might not make his last hours miserable, to bear her trial with more fortitude. 'and can you talk of his "last hours" and yet expect me to be composed?--o sir! say but there is one little little gleam of hope for me, and i will be calm.' 'well,' replied dr. ----, 'i _may_ be mistaken; mr glenmurray is young, and--and--' here his voice faltered, and he was unable to proceed; for the expression of adeline's countenance, changing as it instantly did from misery to joy,--joy of which he knew the fallacy,--while her eyes were intently fixed on him, was too much for a man of any feeling to support; and when she pressed his hand in the convulsive emotions of her gratitude, he was forced to turn away his head to conceal the starting tear. 'well, i may be mistaken--mr glenmurray is young,' adeline repeated again and again, as his carriage drove off; and she flew to glenmurray's bed-side to impart to him the satisfaction which he rejoiced to see her feel, but in which he could not share. her recovered security did not, however, last long; the change in glenmurray grew every day more visible; and to increase her distress, they were forced, to avoid disagreeable altercations, to give the landlord a draft on mr berrendale for the sum due to him, and remove to very humble lodgings in a closer part of the town. here their misery was a little alleviated by the unexpected receipt of twenty pounds, sent to glenmurray by a tenant who was in arrears to him, which enabled adeline to procure glenmurray every thing that his capricious appetite required; and at his earnest entreaty, in order that she might sometimes venture to leave him, lest her health should suffer, she hired a nurse to assist her in her attendance upon him. a hasty letter too was at length received from mr berrendale, saying, that he should very soon be in england, and should hasten to richmond immediately on his landing. the terror of wanting money, therefore, began to subside; but day after day elapsed, and mr berrendale came not; and adeline, being obliged to deny herself almost necessary sustenance that glenmurray's appetite might be tempted, and his nurse, by the indulgence of hers, kept in good humour, resolved, presuming on the arrival of mr berrendale, to write to dr norberry and solicit the loan of twenty pounds. having done so, she ceased to be alarmed, though she found herself in possession of only three guineas to defray the probable expenses of the ensuing week; and in somewhat less misery than usual, she, at the earnest entreaty of glenmurray, set out to take a walk. scarcely conscious what she did, she strolled through the town, and seeing some fine grapes at the window of a fruiterer, she went in to ask the price of them, knowing how welcome fruit was to the feverish palate of glenmurray. while the shopman was weighing the grapes, she saw a pine-apple on the counter, and felt a strong wish to carry it home as a more welcome present; but with unspeakable disappointment she heard that the price of it was two guineas--a sum which she could not think herself justified in expending, in the present state of their finances, even to please glenmurray, especially as he had not expressed a wish for such an indulgence; besides, he liked grapes; and, as medicine, neither of them could be effectual. it was fortunate for adeline's feelings that she had not overheard what the mistress of the shop said to her maid as she left it. 'i should have asked another person only a guinea; but as those sort of women never mind what they give, i asked two, and i dare say she will come back for it.' 'i have brought you some grapes,' cried adeline as she entered glenmurray's chamber, 'and i would have brought you a pine-apple, but that it was too dear.' 'a pine-apple!' said glenmurray, languidly turning over the grapes, and with a sort of distaste putting one of them in his mouth, 'a pine-apple!--i wish you had brought it with all my heart! i protest that i feel as if i could eat a whole one.' 'well,' replied adeline, 'if you would enjoy it so much, you certainly ought to have it.' 'but the price, my dear girl!--what was it?' 'only two guineas,' replied adeline, forcing a smile. 'two guineas!' exclaimed glenmurray: 'no,--that is too much to give--i will not indulge my appetite at such a rate--but, take away the grapes--i can't eat them.' adeline, disappointed, removed them from his sight; and, to increase her vexation, glenmurray was continually talking of pine-apples, and in that way that showed how strongly his diseased appetite wished to enjoy the gratification of eating one. at last, unable to bear to see him struggling with an ungratified wish, she told him that she believed they could afford to buy the pine-apple, as she had written to borrow some money of dr norberry, to be paid as soon as mr berrendale arrived. in a moment the dull eye of glenmurray lighted up with expectation; and he, who in health was remarkable for self-denial and temperance, scrupled not, overcome by the influence of the fever which consumed him, to gratify his palate at a rate the most extravagant. adeline sighed as she contemplated this change effected by illness; and, promising to be back as soon as possible, she proceeded to a shop to dispose of her lace veil, the only ornament which she had retained; and that not from vanity, but because it concealed from the eye of curiosity the sorrow marked on her countenance. but she knew a piece of muslin would do as well; and for two guineas sold a veil worth treble that sum; but it was to give a minute's pleasure to glenmurray, and that was enough for adeline. on her way to the fruiterer's she saw a crowd at the door of a mean-looking house, and in the midst of it she beheld a mulatto woman, the picture of sickness and despair, supporting a young man who seemed ready to faint every moment, but whom a rough-featured man, regardless of his weakness, was trying to force from the grasp of the unhappy woman; while a mulatto boy, known in richmond by the name of the tawny boy, to whom adeline had often given halfpence in her walks, was crying bitterly, and hiding his face in the poor woman's apron. adeline immediately pressed forward to inquire into the cause of a distress only too congenial to her feelings; and as she did so, the tawny boy looked up, and, knowing her immediately, ran eagerly forward to meet her, seeming, though he did not speak, to associate with her presence an idea of certain relief. 'oh! it is only a poor man,' replied an old woman in answer to adeline's inquiries, 'who can't pay his debts,--and so they are dragging him to prison--that's all.' 'they are dragging him to his death too,' cried a younger woman in a gentle accent; 'for he is only just recovering from a bad fever: and if he goes to jail the bad air will certainly kill him, poor soul!' 'is that his wife?' said adeline. 'yes, and my mammy,' said the tawny boy, looking up in her face, 'and she so ill and sorry.' 'yes, unhappy creatures,' replied her informant, 'and they have known great trouble; and now, just as they had got a little money together, william fell ill, and in doctor's stuff savanna (that's the mulatto's name) has spent all the money she had earned, as well as her husband's; and now she is ill herself, and i am sure william's going to jail will kill her. and a hard-hearted, wicked wretch mr davis is, to arrest him--that he is--not but what it is his due, i cannot say but it is--but, poor souls! he'll die, and she'll die, and then what will become of their poor little boy?' the tawny boy all this time was standing, crying, by adeline's side, and had twisted his fingers in her gown, while her heart sympathized most painfully in the anguish of the mulatto woman. 'what is the amount of the sum for which he is taken up?' said adeline. 'oh! trifling: but mr davis owes him a grudge, and so will not wait any longer. it is in all only ten pounds; and he says if they will pay part he will wait for the rest; but then he knows they could as well pay all as part.' adeline, shocked at the knowledge of a distress which she was not able to remove, was turning away as the woman said this, when she felt that the little boy pulled her gown gently, as if appealing to her generosity; while a surly-looking man, who was the creditor himself, forcing a passage through the crowd, said, 'why, bring him along, and have done with it; here is a fuss to make indeed about that idle dog, and that ugly black toad!' adeline till then had not recollected that she was a mulatto; and this speech, reflecting so brutally on her colour,--a circumstance which made her an object of greater interest to adeline,--urged her to step forward to their joint relief with an almost irresistible impulse; especially when another man reproached the fellow for his brutality, and added, that he knew them both to be hard-working, deserving persons. but to disappoint glenmurray of his promised pleasure was impossible; and having put sixpence in the tawny boy's hand, she was hastening to the fruiterer's, when the crowd, who were following william and the mulatto to the jail, whither the bailiffs were dragging rather than leading him, fell back to give air to the poor man, who had fainted on savanna's shoulder, and seemed on the point of expiring--while she, with an expression of fixed despair, was gazing on his wan cheek. adeline thought on glenmurray's danger, and shuddered as she beheld the scene; she felt it but a too probable anticipation of the one in which she might soon be an actor. at this moment a man observed, 'if he goes to prison he will not live two days, that every one may see;' and the mulatto uttered a shriek of agony. adeline felt it to her very soul; and, rushing forward, 'sir, sir,' she exclaimed to the unfeeling creditor, 'if i were to give you a guinea now, and promise you two more a fortnight hence, would you release this poor man for the present?' 'no: i must have three guineas this moment,' replied he. adeline sighed, and withdrew her hand from her pocket. 'but were glenmurray here, he would give up his indulgence, i am sure, to save the lives of, probably two fellow-creatures,' thought adeline: 'and he would not forgive me if i were to sacrifice such an opportunity to the sole gratification of his palate.'--but then again, glenmurray eagerly expecting her with the promised treat, so gratifying to the feverish taste of sickness, seemed to appear before her, and she turned away; but the eyes of the mulatto, who had heard her words, and had hung on them breathless with expectation, followed her with a look of such sad reproach for the disappointment which she had occasioned her, and the little boy looked up so wistfully in her face, crying, 'poor fader, and poor mammy!' that adeline could not withstand the force of the appeal; but almost exclaiming 'glenmurray would upbraid me if i did not act thus,' she gave the creditor the three guineas, paid the bailiffs their demand, and then made her way through the crowd, who respectfully drew back to give her room to pass, saying, 'god bless you, lady! god bless you!' but william was too ill, and savanna felt too much to speak; and the surly creditor said, sneeringly, 'if i had been you, i would, at least, have thanked the lady.' this reproach restored savanna to the use of speech; and (but with a violent effort) she uttered in a hoarse and broken voice, '_i_ tank her! god tank her! i never can:' and adeline, kindly pressing her hand, hurried away from her in silence, though scarcely able to refrain exclaiming, 'you know not the sacrifice which you have cost me!' the tawny boy still followed her, as loath to leave her. 'god bless you, my dear!' said she kindly to him: 'there, go to your mother, and be good to her.' his dark face glowed as she spoke to him, and holding up his chin, 'tiss me!' cried he, 'poor tawny boy love you!' she did so; and then reluctantly, he left her, nodding his head, and saying, 'dood bye' till he was out of sight. with him, and with the display of his grateful joy, vanished all that could give adeline resolution to bear her own reflections at the idea of returning home, and of the trial that awaited her. in vain did she now try to believe that glenmurray would applaud what she had done.--he was now the slave of disease, nor was it likely that even his self-denial and principle benevolence could endure with patience so cruel a disappointment--and from the woman whom he loved too!--and to whom the indulgence of his slightest wishes ought to have been the first object. 'what shall i do?' cried she: 'what will he say?--no doubt he is impatiently expecting me; and, in his weak state, disappointment may--' here, unable to hear her apprehensions, she wrung her hands in agony; and when she arrived in sight of her lodgings she dared not look up, lest she should see glenmurray at the window watching for her return. slowly and fearfully did she open the door; and the first sound she heard was glenmurray's voice from the door of his room, saying, 'so, you are come at last!--i have been so impatient!' and indeed he had risen and dressed himself, that he might enjoy his treat more than he could do in a sick-bed. 'how can i bear to look him in the face!' thought adeline, lingering on the stairs. 'adeline, my love! why do you make me wait so long?' cried glenmurray. 'here are knives and plates ready; where is the treat i have been so long expecting?' adeline entered the room and threw herself on the first chair, avoiding the sight of glenmurray, whose countenance, as she hastily glanced her eyes over it, was animated with the expectation of a pleasure which he was not to enjoy. 'i have not brought the pine-apple,' she faintly articulated. 'no!' replied glenmurray, 'how hard upon me!--the only thing for weeks that i have wished for, or could have eaten with pleasure! i suppose you were so long going that it was disposed of before you got there?' 'no,' replied adeline, struggling with her tears at this first instance of pettishness in glenmurray. 'pardon me the supposition,' replied glenmurray, recovering himself: 'more likely you met some dun on the road, and so the two guineas were disposed of another way--if so, i can't blame you. what say you? am i right?' 'no.' 'then how was it?' gravely asked glenmurray. 'you must have had a very powerful and a sufficient reason, to induce you to disappoint a poor invalid of the indulgence which you had yourself excited him to wish for.' 'this is terrible, indeed!' thought adeline, 'and never was i so tempted to tell a falsehood.' 'still silent! you are very unkind, miss mowbray,' said glenmurray; 'i see that i have tired even _you_ out.' these words, by the agony which they excited, restored to adeline all her resolution. she ran to glenmurray; she clasped his burning hands in hers; and as succinctly as possible she related what had passed. when she had finished, glenmurray was silent; the fretfulness of disease prompted him to say, 'so then, to the relief of strangers you sacrificed the gratification of the man whom you love, and deprived him of the only pleasure he may live to enjoy!' but the habitual sweetness and generosity of his temper struggled, and struggled effectually, with his malady; and while adeline, pale and trembling, awaited her sentence, he caught her suddenly to his bosom, and held her there a few moments in silence. 'then you forgive me?' faltered out adeline. 'forgive you! i love and admire you more than ever! i know your heart, adeline; and i am convinced that depriving yourself of the delight of giving me the promised treat, in order to do a benevolent action, was an effort of virtue of the highest order; and never, i trust, have you known, or will you know again, such bitter feelings as you this moment experienced.' adeline, gratified by his generous kindness, and charmed with his praise, could only weep her thanks. 'and now,' said glenmurray, laughing, 'you may bring back the grapes--i am not like sterne's dear jenny; if i cannot get pine-apple, i will not insist on eating crab.' the grapes were brought; but in vain did he try to eat them. at this time, however, he did not send them away without highly commending their flavour, and wishing that he dared give way to his inclinations, and feast upon them. 'o god of mercy!' cried adeline, bursting into an agony of grief as she reached her own apartment, and throwing herself on her knees by the bed-side, 'must that benevolent being be taken from me for ever, and must i, must i survive him!' she continued for some minutes in this attitude, and with her heart devoutly raised to heaven; till every feeling yielded to resignation, and she arose calm, if not contented; when, on turning round, she saw glenmurray leaning against the door, and gazing on her. 'sweet enthusiast!' cried he smiling: 'so, thus, when you are distressed, you seek consolation.' 'i do,' she replied: 'sceptic, wouldst thou wish to deprive me of it?' 'no, by heaven!' warmly exclaimed glenmurray; and the evening passed more cheerfully than usual. the next post brought a letter, not from dr. norberry, but from his wife; it was as follows, and contained three pound-notes:-- 'mrs norberry's compliments to miss mowbray, having opened her letter, poor dr norberry being dangerously ill of a fever, find her distress; of which shall not inform the doctor, as he feels so much for his friend's misfortunes, specially when brought on by misconduct. but, out of respect for your mother, who is a good sort of woman, though rather particular, as all learned ladies are, have sent three pound-notes; the miss norberrys giving one a-piece, not to lend, but a gift, and they join mrs norberry in hoping miss mowbray will soon see the error of her ways; and, if so be, no doubt dr norberry will use his interest to get her into the magdalen.' this curious epistle would have excited in glenmurray and adeline no other feelings save those of contempt, but for the information it contained of the doctor's being dangerously ill; and, in fear for the worthy husband, they forgot the impertinence of the wife and daughters. the next day, fortunately, mr berrendale arrived, and with him the three hundred pounds. consequently, all glenmurray's debts were discharged, better lodgings procured, and the three pound-notes returned in a blank cover to mrs norberry. charles berrendale was first-cousin to glenmurray, and so like him in face, that they were, at first, mistaken for brothers: but to a physiognomist they must always have been unlike; as glenmurray was remarkable for the character and expression of his countenance, and berrendale for the extreme beauty of his features and complexion. glenmurray was pale and thin, and his eyes and hair dark. berrendale's eyes were of a light blue; and though his eye-lashes were black, his hair was of a rich auburn; glenmurray was thin and muscular; berrendale, round and corpulent: still they were alike; and it was not ill observed of them, that berrendale was glenmurray in good health. but berrendale could not be flattered by the resemblance, as his face and person were so truly what is called handsome, that, partial as our sex is said to be to beauty, any woman would have been excused for falling in love with him. whether his mind was equal to his person we shall show hereafter. the meeting between berrendale and glenmurray was affectionate on both sides; but berrendale could scarcely hide the pain he felt on seeing the situation of glenmurray, whose virtues he had always loved, whose talents he had always respected, and to whose active friendship towards himself he owed eternal gratitude. but he soon learnt to think glenmurray, in one respect, an object of envy, when he beheld the constant, skilful, and tender attentions of his nurse, and saw in that nurse every gift of heart, mind, and person, which could make a woman amiable. berrendale had heard that his eccentric cousin was living with a girl as odd as himself; who thought herself a genius, and pretended to universal knowledge; great then was his astonishment to find this imagined pedant, and pretender, not only an adept in every useful and feminine pursuit, but modest in her demeanour, and gentle in her manners: little did he expect to see her capable of serving the table of glenmurray with dishes made by herself, not only tempting to the now craving appetite of the invalid but to the palate of an epicure,--while all his wants were anticipated by her anxious attention, and many of the sufferings of sickness alleviated by her inventive care. adeline, meanwhile, was agreeably surprised to see the good effect produced on glenmurray's spirits, and even his health, by the arrival of his cousin; and her manner became even affectionate to berrendale, from gratitude for the change which his presence seemed to have occasioned. adeline had now a companion in her occasional walks;--glenmurray insisted on her walking, and insisted on berrendale's accompanying her. in these tête-à-têtes adeline unburthened her heart, by telling berrendale of the agony she felt at the idea of losing glenmurray; and while drowned in tears she leaned on his arm, she unconsciously suffered him to press the hand that leaned against him; nor would she have felt it a freedom to be reproved, had she been conscious that he did so. but these trifling indulgences were fuel to the flame that she had kindled in the heart of berrendale; a flame which he saw no guilt in indulging, as he looked on glenmurray's death as certain, and adeline would then be free. but though adeline was perfectly unconscious of his attachment, glenmurray had seen it even before berrendale himself discovered it; and he only waited a favourable opportunity to make the discovery known to the parties. all he had as yet ventured to say was, 'charles, my adeline is an excellent nurse!--you would like such as one during your fits of the gout;' and berrendale had blushed deeply while he assented to glenmurray's remarks, because he was conscious that, while enumerating adeline's perfections, he had figured her to himself warming his flannels, and leaning tenderly over his gouty couch. one day, while adeline was reading to glenmurray, and berrendale was attending not to what she read, but to the beauty of her mouth while reading, the nurse came in, and said that 'a mulatto woman wished to speak to miss mowbray.' 'show her up,' immediately cried glenmurray; 'and if her little boy is with her, let him come too.' in vain did adeline expostulate--glenmurray wished to enjoy the mulatto's expressions of gratitude; and, in spite of all she could say, the mother and child were introduced. 'so!' cried the mulatto, (whose looks were so improved that adeline scarcely knew her again,) 'so! me find you at last; and, please god! we not soon part more.' as she said this, she pressed the hem of adeline's gown to her lips with fervent emotion. 'not part from her again!' cried glenmurray, 'what do you mean, my good woman?' 'oh! when she gave tree guinea for me, me tought she mus be rich lady, but now dey say she be poor, and me mus work for her.' 'and who told you i was poor?' 'dat cross man where you live once--he say you could not pay him, and you go away--and he tell me that your love be ill; and me so sorry, yet so glad! for my love be well aden, and he have good employ; and now i can come and serve you, and nurse dis poor gentleman, and all for nothing but my meat and drink; and i know dat great fat nurse have gold wages, and eat and drink fat beside,--i knowd her well.' all this was uttered with volubility, and in a tone between laughing and crying. 'well, adeline,' said glenmurray when she had ended, 'you did not throw away your kindness on an unworthy and ungrateful object; so i am quite reconciled to the loss of the pine-apple; and i will tell your honest friend here the story,--to show her, as she has a tender heart herself, the greatness of the sacrifice you made for her sake.' adeline begged him to desist; but he went on; and the mulatto could not keep herself quiet on the chair while he related the circumstance. 'and did she do dat to save me?' she passionately exclaimed: 'angel woman! i should have let poor man go to prison, before disappoint my william!' 'and did you forgive her immediately?' said berrendale. 'yes, certainly.' 'well, that was heroic too,' returned he. 'and no one but glenmurray would have been so heroic, i believe,' said adeline. 'but, lady, you break my heart,' cried the mulatto, 'if you not take my service. mr william and me, too poor to live togedder of some year perhaps. here, child, tawny boy, down on knees, and vow wid me to be faithful and grateful to this our mistress, till our last day; and never to forsake her in sickness or in sorrow! i swear dis to my great god:--and now say dat after me.' she then clasped the little boy's hands, bade him raise his eyes to heaven, and made him repeat what she had said, ending it with 'i swear dis, to my great god.' there was such an affecting solemnity in this action, and in the mulatto such a determined enthusiasm of manner incapable of being controlled, that adeline, glenmurray, and berrendale observed what passed in respectful silence: and when it was over, glenmurray said, in a voice of emotion, 'i think, adeline, we must accept this good creature's offer; and as nurse grows lazy and saucy, we had better part with her: and as for your young knight there,' (the tawny boy had by this time nestled himself close to adeline, who, with no small emotion, was playing with his woolly curls,) 'we must send him to school; for, my good woman, we are not so poor as you imagine.' 'god be thanked!' cried the mulatto. 'but what is your name?' 'i was christened savanna,' replied she. 'then, good savanna,' cried adeline, 'i hope we shall both have reason to bless the day when first we met; and to-morrow you shall come home to us.' savanna, on hearing this, almost screamed with joy, and as she took her leave berrendale slipped a guinea into her hand: the tawny boy meanwhile slowly followed his mother, as if unwilling to leave adeline, even though she gave him halfpence to spend in cakes: but on being told that she would let him come again the next day, he tripped gaily down after savanna. the quiet of the chamber being then restored, glenmurray fell into a calm slumber. adeline took up her work; and berrendale, pretending to read, continued to feed his passion by gazing on the unconscious adeline. while they were thus engaged, glenmurray, unobserved, awoke; and he soon guessed how berrendale's eyes were employed, as the book which he held in his hand was upside down; and through the fingers of the hand which he held before his face, he saw his looks fixed on adeline. the moment was a favourable one for glenmurray's purpose: and just as he raised himself from his pillow, adeline had discovered the earnest gaze of berrendale; and a suspicion of the truth that instant darting across her mind, disconcerted and blushing, she had cast her eyes on the ground. 'that is an interesting study which you are engaged in, charles,' cried glenmurray smiling. berrendale started; and, deeply blushing, faltered out, 'yes.' adeline looked at glenmurray, and seeing a very arch and meaning expression on his countenance, suspected that he had made the same discovery as herself: yet, if so, she wondered at his looking so pleasantly on berrendale as he spoke. 'it is a book, charles,' continued glenmurray, 'which the more you study the more you will admire; and i wish to give you a clue to understand some passages in it better than you can now do.' this speech deceived adeline, and made her suppose that glenmurray really alluded to the book which lay before berrendale: but it convinced _him_ that glenmurray spoke metaphorically; and as his manner was kind, it also made him think that he saw and did not disapprove his attachment. for a few minutes, each of them being engrossed in different contemplations, there was a complete silence; but glenmurray interrupted it by saying, 'my dear adeline, it is your hour for walking; but, as i am not disposed to sleep again, will you forgive me if i keep your walking companion to myself to-day?--i wish to converse with him alone.' 'oh! most cheerfully,' she replied with quickness: 'you know i love a solitary ramble of all things.' 'not very flattering that to my cousin,' observed glenmurray. 'i did not wish to flatter him,' said adeline gravely; and berrendale, fluttered at the idea of the coming conversation with glenmurray, and mortified by adeline's words and manner, turned to the window to conceal his emotion. adeline, then, with more than usual tenderness, conjured glenmurray not to talk too much, nor do anything to destroy the hopes on which her only chance of happiness depended, viz. the now possible chance of his recovery, and then set out for her walk; while, with a restraint and coldness which she could not conquer, she bade berrendale farewell for the present. the walk was long, and her thoughts perturbed:--'what could glenmurray want to say to mr berrendale?'--'why did mr berrendale sit with his eyes so intently and clandestinely, as it were, fixed on me?' were thoughts perpetually recurring to her: and half impatient, and half reluctant, she at length returned to her lodgings. when she entered the apartment, she saw signs of great emotion in the countenance of both the gentlemen; and in berrendale's eyes the traces of recent tears. the tone of glenmurray's voice too, when he addressed her, was even more tender than usual, and berrendale's attentions more marked, yet more respectful; and adeline observed that glenmurray was unusually thoughtful and absent, and that the cough and other symptoms of his complaint were more troublesome than ever. 'i see you have exerted yourself and talked too much during my absence,' cried adeline, 'and i will never leave you again for so long a time.' 'you never shall,' said glenmurray. 'i must leave _you_ for so long a time at last, that i will be blessed with the sight of you as long as i can.' adeline whose hopes had been considerably revived during the last few days, looked mournfully and reproachfully in his face as he uttered these words. 'it is even so, my dearest girl,' continued glenmurray, 'and i say this to guard you against a melancholy surprise:--i wish to prepare you for an event which to me seems unavoidable.' 'prepare me!' exclaimed adeline wildly. 'can there be any preparation to enable one to bear such a calamity? absurd idea! however, i shall derive consolation from the severity of the stroke: i feel that i shall not be able to survive it.' so saying, her head fell on glenmurray's pillow; and for some time, her sorrow almost suspended the consciousness of suffering. from this state she was aroused by glenmurray's being attacked with a violent paroxysm of his complaint, and all selfish distress was lost in the consciousness of his sufferings: again he struggled through, and seemed so relieved by the effort, that again adeline's hopes revived; and she could scarcely return, with temper, berrendale's 'good night,' when glenmurray expressed a wish to rest, because his spirits had not risen in any proportion to hers. the nurse had been dismissed that afternoon; and adeline, as savanna was not to come home till the next morning, was to sit up alone with glenmurray that night; and, contrary to his usual custom, he did not insist that she should have a companion. for a few hours his exhausted frame was recruited by a sleep more than usually quiet, and but for a few hours only. he then became restless, and so wakeful and disturbed, that he professed to adeline an utter inability to sleep, and therefore he wished to pass the rest of the night in serious conversation with her. adeline, alarmed at this intention, conjured him not to irritate his complaint by so dangerous an exertion. 'my mind will irritate it more,' replied he, 'if i refrain from it; for it is burthened, my adeline, and it longs to throw off its burthen. now, then, ere my senses wander, hear what i wish to communicate to you, and interrupt me as little as possible.' adeline, oppressed and awed beyond measure at the unusual solemnity of his manner, made no answer; but, leaning her cheek on his hand, awaited his communication in silence. 'i think,' said glenmurray, 'i shall begin with telling you berrendale's history; it is proper that you should know all that concerns him.' adeline raising her head, replied hastily,--'not to satisfy any curiosity of mine; for i feel none, i assure you.' 'well, then,' returned glenmurray, sighing, 'to please me, be it.--berrendale is the son of my mother's sister, by a merchant of the neighbourhood of the 'change, who hurt the family pride so much by marrying a tradesman, that i am the only one of the clan who has noticed her since. he ran away, about four years ago, with the only child of a rich west indian from a boarding-school. the consequence was, that her father renounced her; but, when, three years ago, she died in giving birth to a son, the unhappy parent repented of his displeasure, and offered to allow berrendale, who from the bankruptcy and sudden death of both his parents had been left destitute, an annuity of _l._ for life, provided he would send the child over to jamaica, and allow him to have all the care of his education. to this berrendale consented.' 'reluctantly, i hope,' said adeline, 'and merely out of pity for the feelings of the childless father.' 'i hope so too,' continued glenmurray; 'for i do not think the chance of inheriting all his grandfather's property a sufficient reason to lead him to give up to another, and in a foreign land too, the society and education of his child: but, whatever were his reasons, berrendale acceded to the request, and the infant was sent to jamaica; and ever since the _l._ has been regularly remitted to him: besides that, he has recovered two thousand and odd hundred pounds from the wreck of his father's property; and with economy, and had he a good wife to manage his affairs for him, berrendale might live very comfortably.' 'my dear glenmurray,' cried adeline impatiently, 'what is this to me? and why do you weary yourself to tell me particulars so little interesting to me?' glenmurray bade her have patience, and continued thus: 'and now, adeline,' (here his voice evidently faltered,) 'i must open my whole heart to you, and confess that the idea of leaving you friendless, unprotected, and poor, your reputation injured, and your peace of mind destroyed, is more than i am able to bear, and will give me, in my last moments, the torments of the damned.' here a violent burst of tears interrupted him; and adeline, overcome with emotion and surprise at the sight of the agitation which his own sufferings could never occasion in him, hung over him in speechless woe. 'besides,' continued glenmurray, recovering himself a little, 'i--o adeline!' seizing her cold hand, 'can you forgive me for having been the means of blasting all your fair fame and prospects in life?' 'for the sake of justice, if not of mercy,' exclaimed adeline, 'forbear thus cruelly to accuse yourself. you know that from my own free, unbiassed choice i gave myself to you, and in compliance with my own principles.' 'but who taught you those principles?--who led you to a train of reasoning, so alluring in theory, so pernicious in practice? had not i, with the heedless vanity of youth, given to the world the crude conceptions of four-and-twenty, you might at this moment have been the idol of a respectable society; and i, equally respected, have been the husband of your heart; while happiness would perhaps have kept the fatal disease at bay, of which anxiety has facilitated the approach.' he was going on: but adeline, who had till now struggled successfully with her feelings, wound up almost to phrensy at the possibility that anxiety had shortened glenmurray's life, gave way to a violent paroxysm of sorrow, which, for a while, deprived her of consciousness; and when she recovered she found berrendale bending over her, while her head lay on glenmurray's pillow. the sight of berrendale in a moment roused her to exertion:--his look was so full of anxious tenderness, and she was at that moment so ill disposed to regard it with complacency, that she eagerly declared she was quite recovered, and begged mr berrendale would return to bed; and glenmurray seconding her request, with a deep sigh he departed. 'poor fellow!' said glenmurray, 'i wish you had seen his anxiety during your illness!' 'i am glad i did _not_,' replied adeline: 'but how can you persist in talking to me of any other person's anxiety, when i am tortured with yours? your conversation of to-night has made me even more miserable than i was before. by what strange fatality do you blame yourself for the conduct worthy of admiration?--for giving to the world, as soon as produced, opinions which were calculated to enlighten it?' 'but,' replied glenmurray, 'as those opinions militated against the experience and custom of ages, ought i not to have paused before i published, and kept them back till they had received the sanction of my maturer judgment?' 'and does your maturer judgment condemn them?' 'four years cannot have added much to the maturity of my judgment,' replied glenmurray: 'but i will own that some of my opinions are changed; and that, though i believe those which are unchanged are right in theory, i think, as the mass of society could never _at once_ adopt them, they had better remain unacted upon, than that a few lonely individuals should expose themselves to certain distress, by making them the rules of their conduct. you, for instance, you, my adeline, what misery--!' here his voice again faltered, and emotion impeded his utterance. 'live--do but live,' exclaimed adeline passionately, 'and i can know of misery but the name.' 'but i cannot live, i cannot live,' replied glenmurray, 'and the sooner i die the better;--for thus to waste your youth and health in the dreadful solitude of a sick-room is insupportable to me.' 'o glenmurray!' replied adeline, fondly throwing herself on his neck, 'could you but live free from any violent pain, and were neither you nor i ever to leave this room again, believe me, i should not have a wish beyond it. to see you, to hear you, to prove to you how much i love you, would, indeed it would, be happiness sufficient for me!' after this burst of true and heartfelt tenderness, there was a pause of some moments: glenmurray felt too much to speak, and adeline was sobbing on his pillow. at length she pathetically again exclaimed, 'live! only live! and i am blest!' 'but i _cannot_ live, i _cannot_ live,' again replied glenmurray; 'and when i die, what will become of you?' 'i care not,' cried adeline: 'if i lose you, may the same grave receive us!' 'but it _will_ not, my dearest:--grief does not kill; and, entailed as my estate is, i have nothing to leave you: and though richly qualified to undertake the care of children, in order to maintain yourself, your unfortunate connexion, and singular opinions, will be an eternal bar to your being so employed. o adeline! these cutting fears, these dreadful reflections, are indeed the bitterness of death: but there is one way of alleviating my pangs.' 'name it,' replied adeline with quickness. 'but you must promise then to hear me with patience.--had i been able to live through my illness, i should have conjured you to let me endeavour to restore you to your place in society, and consequently to your usefulness, by making you my wife: and young, and i may add innocent and virtuous, as you are, i doubt not but the world would at length have received you into its favour again.' 'but you must, you will, you shall live,' interrupted adeline, 'and i shall be your happy wife.' 'not _mine_' replied glenmurray, laying an emphasis on the last word. adeline started, and, fixing her eyes wildly on his, demanded what he meant. 'i mean,' replied he, 'to prevail on you to make my last moments happy, by promising, some time hence, to give yourself a tender, a respectable, and a legal protector.' 'o glenmurray!' exclaimed adeline, 'and can you insult my tenderness for you with such a proposal? if i can even survive you, do you think that i can bear to give you a successor in my affection? or, how can you bear to imagine that i shall?' 'because my love for you is without selfishness, and i wish you to be happy even though another makes you so. the lover, or the husband, who wishes the woman of his affection to form no second attachment, is, in my opinion, a selfish, contemptible being. perhaps i do not expect that you will ever feel, for another man, an attachment like that which has subsisted between us--the first affection of young and impassioned hearts; but i am sure that you may again feel love enough to make yourself and the man of your choice perfectly happy; and i hope and trust that you will be so.' 'and forget you, i suppose?' interrupted adeline reproachfully. 'not so: i would have you remember me always, but with a chastized and even a pleasing sorrow; nay, i would wish you to imagine me a sort of guardian spirit watching your actions and enjoying your happiness.' 'i have _listened_ to you,' cried adeline in a tone of suppressed anguish, 'and, i trust, with tolerable patience: there is one thing yet for me to learn--the name of the object whom you wish me to marry, for i suppose _he_ is found.' 'he is,' returned glenmurray, 'berrendale loves you; and he it is whom i wish you to choose.' 'i thought so,' exclaimed adeline, rising and traversing the room hastily, and wringing her hands. 'but wherefore does his name,' said glenmurray, 'excite such angry emotion? perhaps self-love makes me recommend him,' continued he, forcing a smile, 'as he is reckoned like me, and i thought that likeness might make him more agreeable to you.' 'only the more odious,' impatiently interrupted adeline. 'to look like you, and not _be_ you, oh! insupportable idea!' she exclaimed, throwing herself on glenmurray's pillow, and pressing his burning temples to her cold cheek. 'adeline,' said glenmurray solemnly, 'this is, perhaps, the last moment of confidential and uninterrupted intercourse that we shall ever have together;' adeline started, but spoke not; 'allow me, therefore, to tell you it is my _dying request_, that you would endeavour to dispose your mind in favour of berrendale, and to become in time his wife. circumstanced as you are, your only chance for happiness is becoming a wife: but it is too certain that few men worthy of you, in the most essential points, will be likely to marry you after your connexion with me.' 'strange prejudice!' cried adeline, 'to consider as my disgrace, what i deem my glory!' glenmurray continued thus: 'berrendale himself has a great deal of the old school about him, but i have convinced him that you are not to be classed with the frail of your sex; and that you are one of the purest as well as loveliest of human beings.' 'and did he want to be convinced of this?' cried adeline indignantly; 'and _yet_ you advise me to marry him?' 'my dearest love,' replied glenmurray, 'in all cases the most we can expect is, to choose the best _possible_ means of happiness. berrendale is not perfect; but i am convinced that you would commit a fatal error in not making him your husband; and when i tell you it is my _dying request_ that you should do so--' 'if you wish me to retain my senses,' exclaimed adeline, 'repeat that dreadful phrase no more.' 'i will not say any more at all now,' faintly observed glenmurray, 'for i am exhausted:--still, as morning begins to dawn, i should like to sit up in my bed and gaze on it, perhaps for--' here adeline put her hand to his mouth: glenmurray kissed it, sighed, and did not finish the sentence. she then opened the shutters to let in the rising splendour of day, and, turning round towards glenmurray, almost shrieked with terror at seeing the visible alteration a night had made in his appearance; while the yellow rays of the dawn played on his sallow cheek, and his dark curls, once crisped and glossy, hung faint and moist on his beating temples. 'it is strange, adeline,' said glenmurray (but with great effort), 'that, even in my situation, the sight of morning, and the revival as it were of nature, seems to invigorate my whole frame. i long to breathe the freshness of its breeze also.' adeline, conscious for the first time that all hope was over, opened the window, and felt even her sick soul and languid frame revived by the chill but refreshing breeze. to glenmurray it imparted a feeling of physical pleasure, to which he had long been a stranger: 'i breathe freely,' he exclaimed, 'i feel alive again!'--and, strange as it may seem, adeline's hopes began to revive also.--'i feel as if i could sleep now,' said glenmurray, 'the feverish restlessness seems abated; but, lest my dreams be disturbed, promise me, ere i lie down again, that you will behave kindly to berrendale.' 'impossible! the only tie that bound me to him is broken:--i thought he sincerely sympathized with me in my wishes for your recovery; but now that, as he loves me, his wishes must be in direct opposition to mine,--i cannot, indeed i cannot, endure the sight of him.' glenmurray could not reply to this natural observation: he knew that, in a similar situation, his feelings would have been like adeline's; and, pressing her hand with all the little strength left him, he said 'poor berrendale!' and tried to compose himself to sleep; while adeline, lost in sad contemplation, threw herself in a chair by his bed-side, and anxiously awaited the event of his re-awaking. but it was not long before adeline herself, exhausted both in body and mind, fell into a deep sleep; and it was mid-day before she awoke: for no careless, heavy-treading, and hired nurse now watched the slumbers of the unhappy lovers; but the mulatto, stepping light as air, and afraid even of breathing lest she should disturb their repose, had assumed her station at the bed-side, and taken every precaution lest any noise should awake them. hers was the service of the heart; and there is none like it. at twelve o'clock adeline awoke; and her first glance met the dark eyes of savanna kindly fixed upon her. adeline started, not immediately recollecting who it could be; but in a moment the idea of the mulatto, and of the service which she had rendered her, recurred to her mind, and diffused a sensation of pleasure through her frame. 'there is a being whom i have served,' said adeline to herself, and, extending her hand to savanna, she started from her seat, invigorated by the thought: but she felt depressed again by the consciousness that she, who had been able to impart so much joy and help to another, was herself a wretch for ever; and in a moment her eyes filled with tears, while the mulatto gazed on her with a look of inquiring solicitude. 'poor savanna!' cried adeline in a low and plaintive tone. there are moments when the sound of one's own voice has a mournful effect on one's feelings--this was one of those moments to adeline; the pathos of her own tone overcame her, and she burst into tears: but glenmurray slept on; and adeline hoped nothing would suddenly disturb his rest, when berrendale opened the door with what appeared unnecessary noise, and glenmurray hastily awoke. adeline immediately started from her seat, and, looking at him with great indignation, demanded why he came in in such a manner, when he knew mr glenmurray was asleep. berrendale, shocked and alarmed at adeline's words and expression, so unlike her usual manner, stammered out an excuse. 'another time, sir', replied adeline coldly, 'i hope you will be more _careful_.' 'what is the matter?' said glenmurray, raising himself in the bed. 'are you scolding, adeline? if so, let me hear you: i like novelty.' here adeline and berrendale both hastened to him, and adeline almost looked with complacency on berrendale; when glenmurray, declaring himself wonderfully refreshed by his long sleep, expressed a great desire for his breakfast, and said he had a most voracious appetite. but to all berrendale's attentions she returned the most forbidding reserve; nor could she for a moment lose the painful idea, that the death of glenmurray would be to him a source of joy, not of anguish. berrendale was not slow to observe this change in her conduct; and he conceived that, as he knew glenmurray had mentioned his pretensions to her, his absence would be of more service to his wishes than his presence; and he resolved to leave richmond that afternoon,--especially as he had a dinner engagement at a tavern in london, which, in spite of love and friendship, he was desirous of keeping. he was not mistaken in his ideas: the countenance of adeline assumed less severity when he mentioned his intention of going away, nor could she express regret at his resolution, even though glenmurray with anxious earnestness requested him to stay. but glenmurray entreated in vain: used to consider his own interest and pleasure in preference to that of others, berrendale resolved to go; and resisted the prayers of a man who had often obliged him with the greatest difficulty to himself. 'well, then,' said glenmurray mournfully, 'if you must go, god bless you! i wish you, charles, all possible earthly happiness; nay, i have done all i can to ensure it you: but you have disappointed me. i hoped to have joined your hand, in my last moments, to that of this dear girl, and to have bequeathed her in the most solemn manner to your care and tenderness; but no matter, farewell! we shall probably meet no more.' here berrendale's heart failed him, and he almost resolved to stay: but a look of angry repugnance which he saw on adeline's countenance, even amidst her sorrow, got the better of his kind emotions, by wounding his self-love; and grasping glenmurray's hand, and saying 'i shall be back in a day or two,' he rushed out of the room. 'i am sorry mr berrendale is forced to go,' said adeline involuntarily when the street door closed after him. 'had you condescended to tell him so, he would undoubtedly have staid,' replied glenmurray rather peevishly. adeline instantly felt, and regretted, the selfishness of her conduct. to avoid the sight of a disagreeable object, she had given pain to glenmurray; or, rather, she had not done her utmost to prevent his being exposed to it. 'forgive me,' said adeline, bursting into tears: 'i own i thought only of myself, when i forbore to urge his stay. alas! with you, and you alone, i believe, is the gratification of self always a secondary consideration.' 'you forget that i am a philanthropist,' replied glenmurray, 'and cannot bear to be praised, even by you, at the expense of my fellow-creatures. but come, hasten dinner; my breakfast agreed with me so well, that i am impatient for another meal.' 'you certainly are better to-day,' exclaimed adeline with unwonted cheerfulness. 'my feelings are more tolerable, at least,' replied glenmurray: and adeline and the mulatto began to prepare the dinner immediately. how often during her attendance on glenmurray had she recollected the words of her grandmother, and blessed her for having taught her to be _useful_! as soon as dinner was over, glenmurray complained of being drowsy: still he declared he would not go to bed till he had seen the sun set, as he had that day, for the second time since his illness, seen it rise; and therefore, when it was setting, adeline and savanna led him into a room adjoining, which had a western aspect. glenmurray fixed his eyes on the crimson horizon with a peculiar expression; and his lips seemed to murmur, 'for the last time! let me breathe the evening air, too, once more,' said he. 'it is too chill, dear glenmurray.' 'it will not hurt me,' replied glenmurray; and adeline complied with his request. 'the breeze of evening is not refreshing like that of morning,' he observed; 'but the beauty of the setting is, perhaps, superior to that of the rising sun:--they are both glorious sights, and i have enjoyed them both to-day, nor have i for years experienced so strong a feeling of devotion.' 'thank god!' cried adeline. 'o glenmurray! there has been one thing only wanting to the completion of our union; and that was, that we should worship together.' 'perhaps, had i remained longer here,' replied glenmurray, 'we might have done so; for, believe me, adeline, though my feelings have continually hurried me into adoration of the supreme being, i have often wished my homage to be as regular and as founded on immutable conviction as it once was: but it is too late now for amendment, though, alas! not for _regret_, _deep_ regret: yet he who reads the heart knows that my intentions were pure, and that i was not fixed in the stubbornness of error.' 'let us change this discourse,' cried adeline, seeing on glenmurray's countenance an expression of uncommon sadness, which he, from a regard to her feelings, struggled to cover. he did indeed feel sadness--a sadness of the most painful nature; and while adeline hung over him with all the anxious and soothing attention of unbounded love, he seemed to shrink from her embrace with horror, and, turning away his head, feebly murmured. 'o adeline! this faithful kindness wounds me to the very soul. alas! alas! how little have i deserved it!' if glenmurray, who had been the means of injuring the woman he loved, merely by following the dictates of his conscience, and a love of what he imagined to be truth, without any view of his own benefit or the gratification of his personal wishes, felt thus acutely the anguish of self-upbraiding,--what ought to be, and what must be, sooner or later, the agony and remorse of that man, who, merely for the gratification of his own illicit desires, has seduced the woman whom he loved from the path of virtue, and ruined for ever her reputation and her peace of mind! 'it is too late now for you to sit at an open window, indeed it is,' cried adeline, after having replied to glenmurray's self-reproaches by the touching language of tears, and incoherent expressions of confiding and unchanged attachment; 'and as you are evidently better to-day, do not, by breathing too much cold air, run the risk of making yourself worse again.' 'would i were really better! would i could live!' passionately exclaimed glenmurray: 'but indeed i do feel stronger to-night than i have felt for many months.' in a moment the fine eyes of adeline were raised to heaven with an expression of devout thankfulness; and, eager to make the most of a change so favourable, she hurried glenmurray back to his chamber, and, with a feeling of renewed hope, sat by to watch his slumbers. she had not sat long before the door opened, and the little tawny boy entered. he had watched all day to see the good lady, as he called adeline; but, as she had not left glenmurray's chamber except to prepare dinner, he had been disappointed: so he was resolved to seek her in her own apartment. he had bought some cakes with the penny which adeline had given him, and he was eager to give her a piece of them. 'hush!' cried adeline, as she held out her hand to him; and he in a whisper crying 'bite,' held his purchase to her lips. adeline tasted it, said it was very good, and, giving him a halfpenny, the tawny boy disappeared again: the noise he made as he bounded down the stairs woke glenmurray. adeline was sitting on the side of the bed; and as he turned round to sleep again he grasped her hand in his, and its feverish touch damped her hopes, and re-awakened her fears. for a short time she mournfully gazed on his flushed cheek, and then, gently sliding off the bed, and dropping on one knee, she addressed the deity in the language of humble supplication. insensibly she ceased to pray in thought only, and the lowly-murmured prayer became audible. again glenmurray awoke, and adeline reproached herself as the cause. 'my rest was uneasy,' cried he, 'and i rejoice that you woke me: besides, i like to hear you--go on, my dearest girl; there is a something in the breathings of your pious fondness that soothes me,' added he, pressing the hand he held to his parched lips. adeline obeyed: and as she continued, she felt ever and anon, by the pressure of glenmurray's hand, how much he was affected by what she uttered. 'but must he be taken from me!' she exclaimed in one part of her prayer. 'father, if it be possible, permit this cup to pass by me untasted.' here she felt the hand of glenmurray grasp hers most vehemently; and, delighted to think that he had pleasure in hearing her, she went on to breathe forth all the wishes of a trembling yet confiding spirit, till overcome with her own emotions she ceased and arose, and leaning over glenmurray's pillow was going to take his hand:--but the hand which she pressed returned not her pressure; the eyes were fixed whose approving glance she sought; and the horrid truth rushed at once on her mind, that the last convulsive grasp had been an eternal farewell, and that he had in that grasp expired. alas! what preparation however long, what anticipation however sure, can enable the mind to bear a shock like this! it came on adeline like a thunder-stroke: she screamed not; she moved not; but, fixing a dim and glassy eye on the pale countenance of her lover, she seemed as insensible as poor glenmurray himself; and hours might have elapsed--hours immediately fatal both to her senses and existence--ere any one had entered the room, since she had given orders to be disturbed by no one, had not the tawny boy, encouraged by his past success, stolen in again, unperceived, to give her a piece of the apple which he had bought with her last bounty. the delighted boy tripped gaily to the bed-side, holding up his treasure; but he started back, and screamed in all the agony of terror, at the sight which he beheld--the face of glenmurray ghastly, and the mouth distorted as if in the last agony, and adeline in the stupor of despair. the affectionate boy's repeated screams soon summoned the whole family into the room, while he, vainly hanging on adeline's arm, begged her to speak to him. but nothing could at first rouse adeline, not even savanna's loud and extravagant grief. when, however, they tried to force her from the body, she recovered her recollection and her strength; and it was with great difficulty she could be carried out of the room, and kept out when they had accomplished their purpose. but savanna was sure that looking at such a sad sight would kill her mistress; for she should die herself if she saw william dead, she declared; and the people of the house agreed with her. they knew not that grief is the best medicine for itself; and that the overcharged heart is often relieved by the sight which standers-by conceive likely to snap the very threads of existence. as adeline and glenmurray had both of them excited some interest in richmond, the news of the death of the latter was immediately abroad; and it was told to mrs pemberton, with a pathetic account of adeline's distress, just as the carriage was preparing to convey her and her sick friend on their way to lisbon. it was a relation to call forth all the humanity of mrs pemberton's nature. she forgot adeline's crime in her distress; and knowing she had no female friend with her, she hastened on the errand of pity to the abode of vice. alas! mrs pemberton had learnt but too well to sympathize in grief like that of adeline. she had seen a beloved husband expire in her arms, and had afterwards followed two children to the grave. but she had taken refuge from sorrow in the active duties of her religion, and was enabled to become a teacher of those truths to others, by which she had so much benefited herself. mrs pemberton entered the room just as adeline, on her knees, was conjuring the persons with her to allow her to see glenmurray once more. adeline did not at all observe the entrance of mrs pemberton, who, in spite of the self-command which her principles and habits gave her, was visibly affected when she beheld the mourner's tearless affliction: and the hands which, on her entrance, were quietly crossed on each other, confining the modest folds of her simple cloak, were suddenly and involuntarily separated by the irresistible impulse of pity; while, catching hold of the wall for support, she leaned against it, covering her face with her hands. 'let me see him! only let me see him once more!' cried adeline, gazing on mrs pemberton, but unconscious who she was. 'thou shalt see him,' replied mrs pemberton with considerable effort; 'give me thy hand, and i will go with thee to the chamber of death.' adeline gave a scream of mournful joy at this permission, and suffered herself to be led into glenmurray's apartment. as soon as she entered it she sprang to the bed, and, throwing herself beside the corpse, began to contemplate it with an earnestness and firmness which surprised every one. mrs pemberton also fixedly gazed on the wan face of glenmurray: 'and art thou fallen!' she exclaimed, 'thou, wise in thine own conceit, who presumedst, perhaps, sometimes to question even the existence of the most high, and to set up thy vain chimeras of yesterday against the wisdom and experience of centuries? child of the dust! child of error! what art thou now, and whither is thy guilty spirit fled? but balmy is the hand of affliction; and she, thy mourning victim, may learn to bless the hand that chastizes her, nor add to the offences which will weigh down thy soul, a dread responsibility for hers!' here she was interrupted by the voice of adeline; who, in a deep and hollow tone, was addressing the unconscious corpse. 'for god's sake, speak! for this silence is dreadful--it looks so like death.' 'poor thing!' said mrs pemberton, kneeling beside her, 'and is it even thus with thee? would thou couldst shed tears, afflicted one!' 'it is very strange,' continued adeline: 'he loved me so tenderly, and he used to speak and look so tenderly, and now, see how he neglects me! glenmurray, my love! for mercy's sake, speak to me!' as she said this, she laid her lips to his: but, feeling on them the icy coldness of death, she started back, screaming in all the violence of phrensy; and, recovered to the full consciousness of her misfortune, she was carried back to her room in violent convulsions. 'would i could stay and watch over thee!' said mrs pemberton, as she gazed on adeline's distorted countenance; 'for thou, young as thou art, wert well known in the chambers of sorrow and of sickness; and i should rejoice to pay back to thee part of the debt of those whom thy presence so often soothed: but i must leave thee to the care of others.' 'you leave her to my care,' cried savanna reproachfully,--who felt even her violent sorrow suspended while mrs pemberton spoke in accents at once sad yet soothing,--'you leave her to my care, and who watch, who love her more than me?' 'good savanna!' replied mrs pemberton, pressing the mulatto's hand as she returned to her station beside adeline, who was fallen into a calm slumber, 'to thy care, with confidence, i commit her. but perhaps there may be an immediate necessity for money, and i had better leave this with thee,' she added, taking out her purse: but savanna assured her that mr berrendale was sent for, and to him all those concerns were to be left. mrs pemberton stood for a few moments looking at adeline in silence, then slowly left the house. when adeline awoke, she seemed so calm and resigned, that her earnest request of being allowed to pass the night alone was granted, especially as mrs pemberton had desired that her wish, even to see glenmurray again, should be complied with: but the faithful mulatto watched till morning at the door. no bed that night received the weary limbs of adeline. she threw herself on the ground, and in alternate prayer and phrensy passed the first night of her woe: towards morning, however, she fell into a perturbed sleep. but when the light of day darting into the room awakened her to consciousness; and when she recollected that he to whom it usually summoned her existed no longer; that the eyes which but the preceding morning had opened with enthusiastic ardour to hail its beams, were now for ever closed; and that the voice which used to welcome her so tenderly, she should never, never hear again; the forlornness of her situation, the hopelessness of her sorrow burst upon her with a violence too powerful for her reason: and when berrendale arrived, he found glenmurray in his shroud, and adeline in a state of insanity. for six months her phrensy resisted all the efforts of medicine, and the united care which berrendale's love and savanna's grateful attachment could bestow; while with adeline's want of their care seemed to increase their desire of bestowing it, and their affection gathered new strength from the duration of her helpless malady. so true is it, that we become attached more from the aid which we give than that which we receive; and that the love of the obliger is more apt to increase than that of the obliged by the obligation conferred. at length, however, adeline's reason slowly yet surely returned; and she, by degrees, learnt to contemplate with firmness, and even calmness, the loss which she had sustained. she even looked on berrendale and his attentions not with anger, but gratitude and complacency; she had even pleasure in observing the likeness he bore glenmurray; she felt that it endeared him to her. in the first paroxysms of her phrensy, the sight of him threw her into fits of ravings; but as she grew better she had pleasure in seeing him: and when, on her recovery, she heard how much she was indebted to his persevering tenderness, she felt for him a decided regard, which berrendale tried to flatter himself might be ripened into love. but he was mistaken; the heart of adeline was formed to feel violent and lasting attachments only. she had always loved her mother with a tenderness of a most uncommon nature; she had felt for glenmurray the fondest enthusiasm of passion: she was now separated from them both. but her mother still lived: and though almost hopeless of ever being restored to her society, all her love for her returned; and she pined for that consoling fondness, those soothing attentions, which, in a time of such affliction, a mother on a widowed daughter can alone bestow. 'yet, surely,' cried she in the solitude of her own room, 'her oath cannot now forbid her to forgive me; for, am i not as wretched in love, nay more, far more so, than _she_ has been? yes--yes; i will write to her: besides he wished me to do so' (meaning glenmurray, whom she never named); and she did write to her, according to the address which dr norberry sent soon after he returned to his own house. still week after week elapsed, and month after month, but no answer came. again she wrote, and again she was disappointed; though her loss, her illness in consequence of it, her pecuniary distress, and the large debt which she had incurred to berrendale, were all detailed in a manner calculated to move the most obdurate heart. what then could adeline suppose? perhaps her mother was ill; perhaps she was dead: and her reason was again on the point of yielding to this horrible supposition, when she received her two letters in a cover, directed in her mother's hand-writing. at first she was overwhelmed by this dreadful proof of the continuance of mrs mowbray's deep resentment; but, ever sanguine, the circumstance of mrs mowbray's having written the address herself appeared to adeline a favourable symptom; and with renewed hope she wrote to dr norberry to become her mediator once more: but to this letter no answer was returned; and adeline concluded her only friend had died of the fever which mrs norberry had mentioned in her letter. 'then i have lost my only friend!' cried adeline, wringing her hands in agony, as this idea recurred to her. 'your only friend?' repeated berrendale, who happened to be present, 'o adeline!' her heart smote her as he said this. 'my oldest friend i should have said,' she replied, holding out her hand to him; and berrendale thought himself happy. but adeline was far from meaning to give the encouragement which this action seemed to bestow: wholly occupied by her affliction, her mind had lost its energy, and she would not have made an effort to dissipate her grief by employment and exertion, had not that virtuous pride and delicacy, which in happier hours had been the ornament of her character, rebelled against the consciousness of owing pecuniary obligations to the lover whose suit she was determined to reject, and urged her to make some vigorous attempt to maintain herself. many were the schemes which occurred to her; but none seemed so practicable as that of keeping a day-school in some village near the metropolis.--true, glenmurray had said, that her having been his mistress would prevent her obtaining scholars; but his fears, perhaps, were stronger than his justice in this case. these fears, however, she found existed in berrendale's mind also, though he ventured only to hint them with great caution. 'you think, then, no prudent parents, if my story should be known to them, would send their children to me?' said adeline to berrendale. 'i fear--i--that is to say, i am sure they would not.' 'under such circumstances,' said adeline, 'you yourself would not send a child to my school?' 'why--really--i--as the world goes,' replied berrendale. 'i am answered,' said adeline with a look and tone of displeasure; and retired to her chamber, intending not to return till berrendale was gone to his own lodging. but her heart soon reproached her with unjust resentment; and, coming back, she apologized to berrendale for being angry at his laudable resolution of acting according to those principles which he thought most virtuous, especially as she claimed for herself a similar right. berrendale, gratified by her apology, replied, 'that he saw no objection to her plan, if she chose to deny him the happiness of sharing his income with her, provided she would settle in a village where she was not likely to be known, and change her name.' 'change my name! never. concealment of any kind almost always implies the consciousness of guilt; and while my heart does not condemn me, my conduct shall not seem to accuse me. i will go to whatever place you shall recommend; but i beg your other request may be mentioned no more.' berrendale, glad to be forgiven on any terms, promised to comply with her wishes; and he having recommended to her to settle at a village some few miles north of london, adeline hired there a small but commodious lodging, and issued immediately cards of advertisement, stating what she meant to teach, and on what terms; while berrendale took lodgings within a mile of her, and the faithful mulatto attended her as a servant of all-work. fortunately, at this time, a lady at richmond, who had a son the age of the tawny boy, became so attached to him, that she was desirous of bringing him up to be the play-fellow and future attendant on her son; and the mulatto, pleased to have him so well disposed of, resisted the poor little boy's tears and reluctance at the idea of being separated from her and adeline: and before she left richmond she had the satisfaction of seeing him comfortably settled in the house of his patroness. adeline succeeded in her undertaking even beyond her utmost wishes. though unknown and unrecommended, there was in her countenance and manner a something so engaging, so strongly inviting confidence, and so decisively bespeaking the gentlewoman, that she soon excited in the village general respect and attention: and no sooner were scholars entrusted to her care, than she became the idol of her pupils; and their improvement was rapid in proportion to the love which they bore her. this fortunate circumstance proved a balm to the wounded mind of adeline. she felt that she had recovered her usefulness--that desideratum in morals; and life, spite of her misfortunes, acquired a charm in her eyes. true it was, that she was restored to her capability of being useful, by being where she was unknown; and because the mulatto, unknown to her, had described her as reduced to earn her living, on account of the death of the man to whom she was about to be married: but she did not revert to the reasons of her being so generally esteemed; she contented herself with the consciousness of being so; and for some months she was tranquil, though not happy. but her tranquillity was destined to be of short duration. chapter xviii the village in which adeline resided happened to be the native place of mary warner, the servant whom she had been forced to dismiss at richmond; and who having gone from mrs pemberton to another situation, which she had also quitted, came to visit her friends. the wish of saying lessening things of those of whom one hears extravagant commendations, is, i fear, common to almost every one, even where the object praised comes in no competition with oneself:--and when mary warner heard from every quarter of the grace and elegance, affability and active benevolence of the new comer, it was no doubt infinitely gratifying to her to be able to exclaim,--'mowbray! did you say her name is? la! i dares to say it is my old mistress, who was kept by one mr glenmurray!' but so greatly were her auditors prepossessed in favour of adeline, that very few of them could be prevailed upon to believe mary's supposition was just; and so much was she piqued at the disbelief which she met with, that she declared she would go to church the next sunday to shame the hussey, and go up and speak to her in the church-yard before all the people. 'ah! do so, if you ever saw our miss mowbray before,' was the answer: and mary eagerly looked forward to the approaching sunday. meanwhile, as we are all of us but too apt to repeat stories to the prejudice of others, even though we do not believe them, this strange assertion of mary was circulated through the village even by adeline's admirers; and the next sunday was expected by the unconscious adeline alone with no unusual eagerness. sunday came; and adeline, as she was wont to do, attended the service: but from the situation of her pew, she could neither see mary nor be seen by her till church was over. adeline then, as usual, was walking down the broad walk of the church-yard, surrounded by the parents of the children who came to her school, and receiving from them the customary marks of respect, when mary, bustling through the crowd, accosted her with:--'so!--your sarvant, miss mowbray, i am glad to see you here in such a respectable situation.' adeline, though in the gaily-dressed lady who accosted her she had some difficulty in recognizing her quondam servant, recollected the pert shrill voice and insolent manner of mary immediately; and involuntarily starting when she addressed her, from painful associations and fear of impending evil, she replied, 'how are you, mary?' in a faltering tone. 'then it is mary's miss mowbray,' whispered mary's auditors of the day before to each other; while mary, proud of her success, looked triumphantly at them, and was resolved to pursue the advantage which she had gained. 'so you have lost mr glenmurray, i find!' continued mary. adeline spoke not, but walked hastily on:--but mary kept pace with her, speaking as loud as she could. 'and did the little one live, pray?' still adeline spoke not. 'what sort of a getting-up had you, miss mowbray?' at this mischievously-intended question adeline's other sensations were lost in strong indignation; and resuming all the modest but collected dignity of her manner, she turned round, and fixing her eyes steadily on the insulting girl, exclaimed aloud, 'woman, i never injured you either in thought, word, or deed:--whence comes it, then, that you endeavour to make the finger of scorn point at me, and make me shrink with shame and confusion from the eye of observation?' 'woman! indeed!' replied mary--but she was not allowed to proceed; for a gentleman hastily stepped forward, crying, 'it is impossible for us to suffer such insults to be offered to miss mowbray:--i desire, therefore, that you will take your daughter away (turning to mary's father); and, if possible, teach her better manners.' having said this, he overtook the agitated adeline; and offering her his arm, saw her home to her lodgings: while those who had heard with surprise and suspicion the strange and impertinent questions and insolent tone of mary, resumed in a degree their confidence in adeline, and turned a disgusted and deaf ear to the hysterical vehemence with which the half-sobbing mary defended herself, and vilified adeline, as her father and brother-in-law, almost by force, led her out of the church-yard. the gentleman who had so kindly stepped forward to the assistance of adeline was mr beauclerc, the surgeon of the village, a man of considerable abilities and liberal principles; and when he bade adeline farewell, he said, 'my wife will do herself the pleasure of calling on you this evening:' then, kindly pressing her hand, he with a respectful bow took his leave. luckily for adeline, berrendale was detained in town that day; and she was spared the mortification of showing herself to him, writhing as she was under the agonies of public shame, for such it seemed to her. convinced as she was of the light in which she must have appeared to the persons around her from the malicious interrogatories of mary;--convinced too, as she was more than beginning to be, of the fallacy of the reasoning which had led her to deserve, and even to glory in, the situation which she now blushed to hear disclosed;--and conscious as she was, that to remain in the village, and expect to retain her school, was now impossible--she gave herself up to a burst of sorrow and despondence; during which her only consolation was, that it was not witnessed by berrendale. it never for a moment entered into the ingenuous mind of adeline, that her declaration would have more weight than that of mary warner; and that she might, with almost a certainty of being believed, deny her charge entirely: on the contrary, she had no doubt but that mrs beauclerc was coming to inquire into the grounds for mary's gross address; and she was resolved to confess to her all the circumstances of her story. after church in the afternoon mrs beauclerc arrived, and adeline observed, with pleasure, that her manner was even kinder than usual; it was such as to ensure the innocent of the most strenuous support, and to invite the guilty to confidence and penitence. 'never, my dear miss mowbray,' said mrs beauclerc, 'did i call on you with more readiness than now; as i come assured that you will give me not only the most ample authority to contradict, but the fullest means to confute, the vile calumnies which that malicious girl, mary warner, has, ever since she entered the village, been propagating against you: but, indeed, she is so little respected in her rank of life, and you so highly in yours, that your mere denial of the truth of her statement will, to every candid mind, be sufficient to clear your character.' adeline never before was so strongly tempted to violate the truth; and there was a friendly earnestness in mrs beauclerc's manner, which proved that it would be almost cruel to destroy the opinion which she entertained of her virtue. for a moment adeline felt disposed to yield to the temptation, but it was only for a moment,--and in a hurried and broken voice she replied, 'mary warner has asserted of me nothing but--' here her voice faltered. 'nothing but falsehoods, no doubt, interrupted mrs beauclerc triumphantly,--'i thought so.' 'nothing but the truth!' resumed adeline. 'impossible!' cried mrs beauclerc, dropping the cold hand which she held: and adeline, covering her face, and throwing herself back in the chair, sobbed aloud. mrs beauclerc was herself for some time unable to speak; but at length she faintly said--'so sensible, so pious, so well-informed, and so pure-minded as you seem!--to what strange arts, what wicked seductions, did you fall a victim?' 'to no arts--to no seductions'--replied adeline, recovering all her energy at this insinuation against glenmurray. 'my fall from virtue as you would call it, was, i may say, from love of what i thought virtue; and if there be any blame, it attaches merely to my confidence in my lover's wisdom and my own too obstinate self-conceit. but you, dear madam, deserve to hear my whole story; and, if you can favour me with an hour's attention, i hope, at least, to convince you that i was worthy of a better fate than to be publicly disgraced by a malicious and ignorant girl.' mrs beauclerc promised the most patient attention; and adeline related the eventful history of her life, slightly dwelling on those parts of it which in any degree reflected on her mother, and extolling most highly her sense, her accomplishments, and her maternal tenderness. when she came to the period of glenmurray's illness and death, she broke abruptly off and rushed into her own chamber; and it was some minutes before she could return to mrs beauclerc, or before her visitor could wish her to return, as she was herself agitated and affected by the relation which she had heard:--and when adeline came in she threw her arms round her neck, and pressed her to her heart with a feeling of affection that spoke consolation to the wounded spirit of the mourner. she then resumed her narration;--and, having concluded it, mrs beauclerc, seizing her hand, exclaimed, 'for god's sake, marry mr berrendale immediately; and adjure for ever, at the foot of the altar, those errors in opinion to which all your misery has been owing!' 'would i could atone for them some other way!' she replied. 'impossible! and if you have any regard for me you will become the wife of your generous lover; for then, and not till then, can i venture to associate with you.' 'i thought so,' cried adeline; 'i thought all idea of remaining here, with any chance of keeping my scholars, was now impossible.' 'it would not be so,' replied mrs beauclerc, 'if every one thought like me: i should consider your example as a warning to all young people; and to preserve my children from evil i should only wish them to hear your story, as it inculcates most powerfully how vain are personal graces, talents, sweetness of temper, and even active benevolence, to ensure respectability and confer happiness, without a strict regard to the long-established rules for conduct, and a continuance in those paths of virtue and decorum which the wisdom of ages has pointed out to the steps of every one.--but others will, no doubt, consider, that continuing to patronize you, would be patronizing vice; and my rank in life is not high enough to enable me to countenance you with any chance of leading others to follow my example; while i should not be able to serve you, but should infallibly lose myself. but some time hence, as the wife of mr berrendale, i might receive you as your merits deserve: till then--' here mrs beauclerc paused, and she hesitated to add, 'we meet no more.' indeed it was long before the parting took place. mrs beauclerc had justly appreciated the merits of adeline, and thought she had found in her a friend and companion for years to come: besides, her children were most fondly attached to her; and mrs beauclerc, while she contemplated their daily improvement under her care, felt grateful to adeline for the unfolding excellencies of her daughters. still, to part with her was unavoidable; but the pang of separation was in a degree soothed to adeline by the certainty which mrs beauclerc's sorrow gave her, that, spite of her errors, she had inspired a real friendship in the bosom of a truly virtuous and respectable woman; and this idea gave a sensation of joy to her heart to which it had long been a stranger. the next morning some of the parents, whom mary's tale had not yet reached, sent their children as usual. but adeline refused to enter upon any school duties, bidding them affectionately farewell, and telling them that she was going to write to their parents, as she was obliged to leave her present situation, and, declining keeping school, meant to reside, she believed in london. the children on hearing this looked at each other with almost tearful consternation; and adeline observed, with pleasure, the interest which she had made to herself in their young hearts. after they were gone she sent a circular letter to her friends in the village, importing that she was under the necessity of leaving her present residence; but that, whatever her future situation might be, she should always remember, with gratitude, the favours which she had received at ----. the necessity that drove her away was, by this time, very well understood by every one; but mrs beauclerc took care to tell those who mentioned the subject to her, the heads of adeline's story; and to add always, 'and i have reason to believe that, as soon as she is settled in town, she will be extremely well married.' to the mulatto the change in adeline's plans was particularly pleasing, as it would bring her nearer her son, and nearer william, from whom nothing but a sense of grateful duty to adeline would so long have divided her. but savanna imagined that adeline's removal was owing to her having at last determined to marry mr berrendale; an event which she, for adeline's sake, earnestly wished to take place, though for her own she was undecided whether to desire it or not, as mr berrendale might not, perhaps, be as contented with her services as adeline was. while these thoughts were passing in savanna's mind, and her warm and varying feelings were expressed by alternate smiles and tears, mr berrendale arrived from town: and as savanna opened the door to him, she, half whimpering, half smiling, dropped him a very respectful curtsey, and looked at him with eyes full of unusual significance. 'well, savanna, what has happened?--anything new or extraordinary since my absence?' said berrendale. 'me tink not of wat hav appen, but what will happen,' replied savanna. 'and what is going to happen?' returned berrendale, seating himself in the parlour, 'and where is your mistress?' 'she dress herself, that dear misses,' replied savanna, lingering with the door in her hand, 'and i,--ope to have a dear massa too.' 'what!' cried berrendale, starting wildly from his seat, 'what did you say?' 'why me ope my misses be married soon.' 'married! to whom?' cried berrendale, seizing her hand, and almost breathless with alarm. 'why, to you, sure,' exclaimed savanna, 'and den me hope you will not turn away poor savanna?' 'what reason you have, my dear savanna, for talking thus, i cannot tell; nor dare i give way to the sweet hopes which you excite: but, if it be true that i may hope, depend on it you shall cook my wedding dinner, and then i am sure it will be a good one.' 'can full joy eat?' asked the mulatto thoughtfully. 'a good dinner is a good thing, savanna,' replied berrendale, 'and ought never to be slighted.' 'me good dinner day i marry, but i not eat it.--o sir, pity people look best in dere wedding clothes, but my william look well all day and every day, and perhaps you will too, sir; and den i ope to cook your wedding dinner, next day dinner, and all your dinners.' 'and so you shall, savanna,' cried berrendale, grasping her hand, 'and i--' here the door opened, and adeline appeared; who, surprised at berrendale's familiarity with her servant, looked gravely, and stopped at the door with a look of cold surprise. berrendale, awed into immediate respect--for what is so timid and respectful as a man truly in love?--bowed low, and lost in an instant all the hopes which had elevated his spirits to such an unusual degree. adeline with an air of pique observed, that she feared she interrupted them unpleasantly, as something unusually agreeable and enlivening seemed to occupy them as she came in, over which her entrance seemed to have cast a cloud. the mulatto had by this time retreated to the door, and was on the point of closing it when berrendale stammered out, as well as he could, 'savanna was, indeed, raising my hopes to such an unexpected height, that i felt almost bewildered with joy; but the coldness of your manner, miss mowbray, has sobered me again.' 'and what did savanna say to you?' cried adeline. 'i--i say,' cried savanna returning, 'dat is, he say, i should be let cook de wedding dinner.' adeline, returning even paler than she was before, desired her coldly to leave the room; and, seating herself at the greatest possible distance from berrendale, leaned for some time in silence on her hand--he not daring to interrupt her meditations. but at last she said, 'what could give rise to this singular conversation between you and savanna i am wholly at a loss to imagine: still i--i must own that it is not so ill-timed as it would have been some weeks ago. i will own, that since yesterday i have been considering your generous proposals with the serious attention which they deserve.' on hearing this, which adeline uttered with considerable effort, berrendale in a moment was at her side, and almost at her feet. 'i--i wish you to return to your seat,' said adeline coldly: but hope had emboldened him, and he chose to stay where he was. 'but, before i require you to renew your promises, or make any on my side, it is proper that i should tell you what passed yesterday; and if the additional load of obloquy which i have acquired does not frighten you from continuing your addresses--' here adeline paused:--and berrendale, rather drawing back, then pushing his chair nearer her as he spoke, gravely answered, that his affection was proof against all trials. adeline then briefly related the scene in the church-yard, and her conversation with mrs beauclerc, and concluded thus:--'in consequence of this, and of the recollections of his advice, and his decided opinion, that by becoming the wife of a respectable man i could alone expect to recover my rank in society, and consequently my usefulness, i offer you my hand; and promise, in the course of a few months, to become yours in the sight of god and man.' 'and from no other reason?--from no preference, no regard for me?' demanded berrendale reproachfully. 'oh! pardon me; from decided preference; there is not another being in the creation whom i could bear to call husband.' berrendale, gratified and surprised, attempted to take her hand; but, withdrawing it, she continued thus;--'still i almost scruple to let you, unblasted as your prospects are, take a wife a beggar, blasted in reputation, broken in spirits, with a heart whose best affections lie buried in the grave, and which can offer you in return for your faithful tenderness nothing but cold respect and esteem; one too who is not only despicable to others, but also self-condemned.' while adeline said this, berrendale, almost shuddering at the picture which she drew, paced the room in great agitation; and even the gratification of his passion, used as he was to the indulgence of every wish, seemed, for a moment, a motive not sufficiently powerful to enable him to unite his fate to that of a woman so degraded as adeline appeared to be; and he would, perhaps, have hesitated to accept the hand she offered, had she not added, as a contrast to the picture which she had drawn--'but if, in spite of all these unwelcome considerations, you persist in your resolution of making me yours, and i have resolution enough to conquer the repugnance that i feel to make a second connexion, you may depend on possessing in me one who will study your happiness and wishes in the minutest particulars;--one who will cherish you in sickness and in sorrow;--' (here a twinge of the gout assisted adeline's appeal very powerfully;) 'and who, conscious of the generosity of your attachment, and her own unworthiness, will strive, by every possible effort, not to remain your debtor even in affection.' saying this, she put out her hand to berrendale; and that hand, and the arm belonging to it, were so beautiful, and he had so often envied glenmurray while he saw them tenderly supporting his head, that while a vision of approaching gout, and adeline bending over his restless couch, floated before him, all his prudent considerations vanished; and, eagerly pressing the proffered hand to his lips, he thanked her most ardently for her kind promise; and, putting his arm round her waist, would have pressed her to his bosom. but the familiarity was ill-timed;--adeline was already surprised, and even shocked, at the lengths to which she had gone; and starting almost with loathing from his embrace, she told him it grew late, and it was time for him to go to his lodgings. she then retired to her own room, and spent half the night at least in weeping over the remembrance of glenmurray, and in loudly apostrophizing his departed spirit. the next day adeline, out of the money which she had earned, discharged her lodgings; and having written a farewell note to mrs beauclerc, begging to hear of her now and then, she and the mulatto proceeded to town, with berrendale, in search of apartments; and having procured them, adeline began to consider by what means, till she could resolve to marry berrendale, she should help to maintain herself, and also contrive to increase their income if she became his wife. the success which she had met with in instructing children, led her to believe that she might succeed in writing little hymns and tales for their benefit; a method of getting money which she looked upon to be more rapid and more lucrative than working plain or fancy works: and, in a short time, a little volume was ready to be offered to a bookseller:--nor was it offered in vain. glenmurray's bookseller accepted it; and the sum which he gave, though trifling, imparted a balsam to the wounded mind of adeline: it seemed to open to her the path of independence; and to give her, in spite of her past errors, the means of serving her fellow-creatures. but month after month elapsed, and glenmurray had been dead two years, yet still adeline could not prevail on herself to fix a time for her marriage. but next to the aversion she felt to marrying at all, was that which she experienced at the idea of having no fortune to bestow on the disinterested berrendale; and so desirous was she of his acquiring some little property by his union with her, that she resolved to ask counsel's opinion on the possibility of her claiming a sum of money which glenmurray had bequeathed to her, but without, as berrendale had assured her, the customary formalities. the money was near £ ; but berrendale had allowed it to go to glenmurray's legal heir, because he was sure that the writing which bequeathed it would not hold good in law. still adeline was so unwilling to be under so many pecuniary obligations to a man whom she did not love, that she resolved to take advice on the subject, much against the will of berrendale, who thought the money for fees might as well be saved; but as a chance for saving the fee he resolved to let adeline go to the lawyer's chambers alone, thinking it likely that no fee would be accepted from so fine a woman. accordingly, more alive to economy than to delicacy or decorum, berrendale, when adeline, desiring a coach to be called, summoned him to accompany her to the temple, pleaded terror of an impending fit of the gout, and begged her to excuse his attendance; and adeline, unsuspicious of the real cause of his refusal, kindly expressing her sorrow for the one he feigned, took the counsellor's address, and got into the coach, berrendale taking care to tell her, as she got in, that the fare was but a shilling. the gentleman, mr langley, to whom adeline was going, was celebrated for his abilities as a chamber counsellor, and no less remarkable for his gallantries: but berrendale was not acquainted with this part of his history: else he would not, even to save a lawyer's fee, have exposed his intended wife to a situation of such extreme impropriety; and adeline was too much a stranger to the rules of general society, to feel any great repugnance to go alone on an errand so interesting to her feelings. the coach having stopped near the entrance of the court to which she was directed, adeline, resolving to walk home, discharged the coach, and knocked at the door of mr langley's chambers. a very smart servant out of livery answered the knock; and mr langley being at home, adeline was introduced into his apartment. mr langley, though surprised at seeing a lady of a deportment so correct and of so dignified an appearance enter his room unattended, was inspired with so much respect at the sight of adeline, whose mourning habit added to the interest which her countenance never failed to excite, that he received her with bows down to the ground, and, leading her to a chair, begged she would do him the honour to be seated, and impart her commands. adeline, embarrassed, she scarcely knew why, at the novelty of her situation, drew the paper from her pocket, and presented it to him. 'mr berrendale recommended me to you, sir,' said adeline faintly. 'berrendale, berrendale, o, aye,--i remember--the cousin of mr glenmurray: you know mr glenmurray too, ma'am, i presume; pray how is he?'--adeline, unprepared for this question, could not speak; and the voluble counsellor went on--'oh!--i ask your pardon, madam, i see;--pray, might i presume so far, how long has that extraordinary clever man been lost to the world?' 'more than two years, sir,' replied adeline faintly. 'you are,--may i presume so far,--you are his widow?'--adeline bowed. there was a something in mr langley's manner and look so like sir patrick's, that she could not bear to let him know she was only glenmurray's companion. 'gone more than two years, and you still in deep mourning!--amiable susceptibility!--how unlike the wives of the present day! but i beg pardon.--now to business.' so saying, he perused the paper which adeline had given him, in which glenmurray simply stated, that he bequeathed to adeline mowbray the sum of £ in the per cents, but it was signed by only one witness. 'what do you wish to know, madam?' asked the counsellor. 'whether this will be valid, as it is not signed by two witnesses, sir?' 'why,--really not,' replied langley; 'though the heir-at-law, if we have either equity or gallantry, could certainly not refuse to fulfil what evidently was the intention of the testator:--but then, it is very surprising to me that mr glenmurray should have wished to leave any thing from the lady whom i have the honour to behold. pray, madam,--if i may presume to ask,--who is adeline mowbray?' 'i--i am adeline mowbray,' replied adeline in great confusion. 'you, madam! bless me, i presumed;--and pray, madam,--if i may make so bold,--what was your relationship to that wonderfully clever man?--his niece,--his cousin,--or,--?' 'i was no relation of his,' said adeline still more confused; and this confusion confirmed the suspicions which langley entertained, and also brought to his recollection something which he had heard of glenmurray's having a very elegant and accomplished mistress. 'pardon me, dear madam,' said mr langley, 'i perceive now my mistake; and i now perceive why mr glenmurray was so much the envy of those who had the honour of visiting at his house. 'pon my soul,' taking her hand, which adeline indignantly, withdrew, 'i am grieved beyond words at being unable to give you a more favourable opinion.' 'but you said, sir,' said adeline, 'that the heir-at-law, if he had any equity, would certainly be guided by the evident intention of the testator.' 'i did, madam,' replied the lawyer, evidently piqued by the proud and cold air which adeline assumed;--'but then,--excuse me,--the applicant would not stand much chance of being attended to, who is neither the _widow_ nor _relation_ of mr glenmurray.' 'i understand you, sir,' replied adeline, 'and need trouble you no longer.' 'trouble! my sweet girl!' returned mr langley, 'call it not trouble; i--' here his gallant effusions were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a very showy woman, highly rouged, and dressed in the extremity of the fashion; and who in no very pleasant tone of voice exclaimed,--'i fear i interrupt you.' 'oh! not in the least,' replied langley, blushing even more than adeline, 'my fair client was just going. allow me, madam, to see you to the door,' continued he, attempting to take adeline's hand, and accompanying her to the bottom of the first flight of stairs. 'charming fine woman upon my soul!' cried he, speaking through his shut teeth, and forcibly squeezing her fingers as he spoke; 'and if you ever want advice i should be proud to see you here, (with a significant smile).' here adeline, too angry to speak, put the fee in his hand, which he insisted on returning, and, in the struggle, he forcibly kissed the ungloved hand which was held out, praising its beauty at the same time, and endeavouring to close her fingers on the money: but adeline indignantly threw it on the ground, and rushed down the remaining staircase; over-hearing the lady, as she did so, exclaim, 'langley! is not that black mawkin gone yet! come up this moment, you devil!' while langley obsequiously replied, 'coming this moment, my angel!' adeline felt so disappointed, so ashamed, and so degraded, that she walked on some way without knowing whither she was going; and when she recollected herself, she found that she was wandering from court to court, and unable to find the avenue to the street down which the coach had come: while her very tall figure, heightened colour, and graceful carriage, made her an object of attention to every one whom she met. at last she saw herself followed by two young men; and as she walked very fast to avoid them, she by accident turned into the very lane which she had been seeking: but her pursuers kept pace with her; and she overheard one of them say to the other, 'a devilish fine girl! moves well too,--i cannot help thinking that i have seen her before.' 'and i think so too!--by her height, it must be that sweet creature who lived at richmond with that crazy fellow, glenmurray.' here adeline relaxed in her pace: the name of glenmurray--that name which no one since his death had ventured to pronounce in her presence,--had, during the last half hour, been pronounced several times; and, unable to support herself from a variety of emotions, she stopped, and leaned for support against the wall. 'how do you do, my fleet and swift girl?' said one of the gentlemen:--and adeline, roused at the insult, looked at him proudly and angrily, and walked on. 'what! angry! if i may be so bold,' (with a sneering smile), 'fair creature, may i ask where you live now?' 'no, sir,' replied adeline; 'you are wholly unknown to me.' 'but were you to tell me where you live, we might cease to be strangers; pray who is your friend now?' here, as his companion gave way to a loud fit of laughter, adeline clearly understood what he meant by the term 'friend;' and summoning up all her spirit, she called a coach which luckily was passing; and turning round to her tormentor, with great dignity said,--'though the situation, sir, in which i once was, may in the eyes of the world, and in yours, authorize and excuse your present insulting address, yet, when i tell you that i am on the eve of marriage with a most respectable man, i trust that you will feel the impropriety of your conduct, and be convinced of the fruitlessness and impertinence of the questions which you have put to me.' 'if this be the case, madam,' cried the gentleman, 'i beg your pardon, and shall take my leave, wishing you all possible happiness, and begging you to attribute my impertinence wholly to my ignorance.' so saying, he bowed and left her, and adeline was driven to her lodgings. 'now,' said adeline, 'the die is cast;--i have used the sacred name of wife to shield me from insult; and i am therefore pledged to assume it directly. yes, he was right--i find i must have a legal protector.' she found berrendale rather alarmed at her long absence; and, with a beating heart, she related her adventures to him: but when she said that langley was not willing to take the fee, he exclaimed, 'very genteel in him, indeed! i suppose you took him at his word?' 'good heavens!' replied adeline, 'do you think i would deign to owe such a man a pecuniary obligation?--no, indeed; i threw it with proud indignation on the floor.' 'what madness!' returned berrendale: 'you had much better have put it in your pocket.' 'mr berrendale,' cried adeline gravely, and with a look bordering on contempt, 'i trust that you are not in earnest: for if these are your sentiments,--if this is your delicacy, sir--' 'say no more, dearest of women,' replied berrendale pretending to laugh, alarmed at the seriousness with which she spoke: 'how could you for one moment suppose me in earnest? insolent coxcomb!--i wish i had been there.' 'i wish you had,' said adeline, 'for then no one would have dared to insult me:' and berrendale, delighted at this observation, listened to the rest of her story with a spirit of indignant knight-errantry which he never experienced before; and at the end of her narration he felt supremely happy; for adeline assured him that the next week she would make him her protector for life:--and this assurance opened his heart so much, that he vowed he would not condescend to claim of the heir-at-law the pitiful sum which he might think proper to withhold. to be brief.--adeline kept her word: and resolutely struggling with her feelings, she became the next week the wife of berrendale. for the first six months the union promised well. adeline was so assiduous to anticipate her husband's wishes, and contrived so many dainties for his table, which she cooked with her own hands, that berrendale, declaring himself completely happy for the first time in his life, had not a thought or a wish beyond his own fireside; while adeline, happy because she conferred happiness, and proud of the name of wife, which she had before despised, began to hope that her days would glide on in humble tranquillity. it was natural enough that adeline should be desirous of imparting this change in her situation to mrs pemberton, whose esteem she was eager to recover, and whose kind intentions towards her, at a moment when she was incapable of appreciating them, savanna had, with great feeling, expatiated upon. she therefore wrote to her according to the address which mrs pemberton had left for her, and received a most friendly letter in return. in a short time adeline had again an expectation of being a mother; and though she could not yet entertain for her husband more than cold esteem, she felt that as the father of her child he would insensibly become more dear to her. but berrendale awoke from his dream of bliss, on finding to what a large sum the bills for the half-year's housekeeping amounted. nor was he surprised without reason. adeline, more eager to gratify berrendale's palate than considerate as to the means, had forgotten that she was no longer at the head of a liberal establishment like her mother's, and had bought for the supply of the table many expensive articles. in consequence of this terrible discovery berrendale remonstrated very seriously with adeline; who meekly answered, 'my dear friend, good dinners cannot be had without good ingredients, and good ingredients cannot be had without money.' 'but, madam,' cried berrendale, knitting his brows, but not elevating his voice, for he was one of those soft-speaking beings who in the sweetest tones possible can say the most heart-wounding things, and give a mortal stab to your self-love in the same gentle manner in which they flatter it:--'there must have been great waste, great mismanagement here, or these expenses could not have been incurred.' 'there may have been both,' returned adeline, 'for i have not been used to economize, but i will try to learn;--but i doubt, my dear berrendale, you must endeavour to be contented with plainer food; for not all the economy in the world can make rich gravies and high sauces cheap things.' 'oh! care and skill can do much,' said berrendale;--'and i find a certain person deceived me very much when he said you were a good manager.' 'he only said,' replied adeline sighing deeply, 'that i was a good cook, and you yourself allow that; but i hope in time to please your appetite at less expense: as to myself, a little suffices me, and i care not how plain that food is.' 'still, i think i have seen you eat with a most excellent appetite,' said berrendale, with a very significant expression. adeline shocked at the manner more than the words, replied in a faltering voice, 'as a proof of my being in health, no doubt you rejoiced in the sight.' 'certainly; but less robust health would suit our finances better.' adeline looked up, wishing, though not expecting, to see by his face that he was joking: but such serious displeasure appeared on it, that the sordid selfishness of his character was at once unveiled to her view; and clasping her hands in agony, she exclaimed, 'oh glenmurray!' and ran into her own room. it was the first time that she had pronounced his name since the hour of his death, and now it was wrung from her by a sensation of acute anguish; no wonder, then, that the feelings which followed completely overcame her, and that berrendale had undisputed and solitary possession of his supper. but he, on his side, was deeply irritated. the 'oh, glenmurray!' was capable of being interpreted two ways:--either it showed how much she regretted glenmurray, and preferred him to his successor in spite of the superior beauty of his person, of which he was very vain; or it reproached glenmurray for having recommended her to marry him. in either case it was an unpardonable fault; and this unhappy conversation laid the foundation of future discontent. adeline arose the next day dejected, pensive, and resolved that her appetite should never again, if possible, force a reproach from the lips of her husband. she therefore took care that whatever she provided for the table, besides the simplest fare, should be for berrendale alone; and she flattered herself that he would be shamed into repentance of what he had observed, by seeing her scrupulous self-denial:--she even resolved, if he pressed her to partake of his dainties, that she would, to show that she forgave him, accept what he offered. but berrendale gave her no such opportunity of showing her generosity;--busy in the gratification of his own appetite, he never observed whether any other persons ate or not, except when by eating they curtailed his share of good things:--besides, to have an exclusive dish to himself seemed to him quite natural and proper; he had been a pampered child; and, being no advocate for the equality of the sexes, he thought it only a matter of course that he should fare better than his wife. adeline, though more surprised and more shocked than ever, could not help laughing internally, at her not being able to put her projected generosity in practice; but her laughter and indignation soon yielding to contempt, she ate her simple meal in silence: and while her pampered husband sought to lose the fumes of indigestion in sleep, she blessed god that temperance, industry and health went hand-in-hand, and, retiring to her own room, sat down to write, in order to increase, if possible, her means of living, and consequently her power of being generous to others. but though adeline resolved to forget, if possible, the petty conduct of berrendale, the mulatto, who, from the door's being open, had heard every word of the conversation which had so disturbed adeline, neither could nor would forget it; and though she did not vow eternal hatred to her master, she felt herself very capable of indulging it, and from that moment it was her resolution to thwart him. whenever he was present, she was always urging adeline to eat some refreshments between meals, and drink wine or lemonade, and tempting her weak appetite with some pleasant but expensive sweetmeats. in vain did adeline refuse them; sometimes they were bought, sometimes only threatened to be bought; and once when adeline had accepted some, rather than mortify savanna by a refusal, and berrendale, by his accent and expression, showed how much he grudged the supposed expense,--the mulatto, snapping her fingers in his face, and looking at him with an expression of indignant contempt, exclaimed, 'i buy dem, and pay for dem wid mine nown money; and my angel lady sall no be oblige to you!' this was a declaration of war against berrendale, which adeline heard with anger and sorrow, and her husband with rage. in vain did adeline promise that she would seriously reprove savanna (who had disappeared) for her impertinence; berrendale insisted on her being discharged immediately; and nothing but adeline's assurances that she, for slender wages, did more work than two other servants would do for enormous ones, could pacify his displeasure: but at length he was appeased. and as berrendale, from a principle of economy, resumed his old habit of dining out amongst his friends, getting good dinners by that means without paying for them, family expenses ceased to disturb the quiet of their marriage; and after she had been ten months a wife adeline gave birth to a daughter. that moment, the moment when she heard her infant's first cry, seem to repay her for all she had suffered; every feeling was lost in the maternal one; and she almost fancied that she loved, fondly loved, the father of her child: but this idea vanished when she saw the languid pleasure, if pleasure it could be called, with which berrendale congratulated her on her pain and danger being passed, and received his child in his arms. the mulatto was wild with joy: she almost stifled the babe with her kisses, and talked even the next day of sending for the tawny boy to come and see his new mistress, and vow to her, as he had done to her mother, eternal fealty and allegiance. but adeline saw on berrendale's countenance a mixed expression,--and he had mixed feelings. true, he rejoiced in adeline's safety; but he said within himself, 'children are expensive things, and we may have a large family;' and, leaving the bedside as soon as he could, he retired, to endeavour to lose in an afternoon's nap his unpleasant reflections. 'how different,' thought adeline, 'would have been his feelings and his expressions of them at such a time! oh!--' but the name of glenmurray died away on her lips; and hastily turning to gaze on her sleeping babe, she tried to forget the disappointed emotions of the wife in the gratified feelings of the mother. still adeline, who had been used to attentions, could not but feel the neglect of berrendale. even while she kept her room he passed only a few hours in her society, and dined out; and when she was well enough to have accompanied him on his visits, she found that he never even wished her to go with him, though the friends whom he visited were married; and he met, from his own confessions, other ladies at their tables. she therefore began to suspect that berrendale did not mean to introduce her as his wife; nay, she doubted whether he avowed her to be such; and at last she brought him to own that, ashamed of having married what the world must consider as a kept mistress, he resolved to keep her still in the retirement to which she was habituated. this was a severe disappointment indeed to adeline: she longed for the society of the amiable and accomplished of her own sex; and hoped that, as mr berrendale's wife, that intercourse with her own sex might be restored to her which she had forfeited as the mistress of glenmurray. nor could she help reproaching berrendale for the selfish ease and indifference with which he saw her deprived of those social enjoyments which he daily enjoyed himself, convinced as she was that he might, if he chose, have introduced her at least to his intimate friends. but she pleaded and reasoned in vain. contented with the access which he had to the tables of his friends, it was of little importance to him that his wife ate her humble meal alone. his habits of enjoyment had ever been solitary: the school-boy, who had at school eaten his tart and cake by stealth in a corner, that he might not be asked to share them with another, had grown up with the same dispositions to manhood: and as his parents, thought opulent, were vulgar in their manners and low in their origin, he had never been taught those graceful self-denials inculcated into the children of polished life, which, though taught from factitious and not real benevolence, have certainly a tendency, by long habit, to make that benevolence real which at first was only artificial. adeline had both sorts of kindness and affection, those untaught of the heart, and those of education;--she was polite from the situation into which the accident of birth had thrown her, and also from the generous impulse of her nature. to her, therefore, the uncultivated and unblushing _personnalité_, as the french call it, of berrendale, was a source of constant wonder and distress: and often, very often did she feel the utmost surprise at berrendale's having appeared to glenmurray a man likely to make her happy. often did she wonder how the defects of berrendale's character could have escaped his penetrating eyes. adeline forgot that the faults of her husband were such as could be known only by an intimate connexion, and which cohabitation could alone call forth;--faults, the existence of which such a man as glenmurray, who never considered himself in any transaction whatever, could not suppose possible; and which, though they inflicted the most bitter pangs on adeline, and gradually untwisted the slender thread which had began to unite her heart with berrendale's, were of so slight a fabric as almost to elude the touch, and of a nature to appear almost too trivial to be mentioned in the narration of a biographer. but though it has been long said that trifles make the sum of human things, inattention to trifles continues to be the vice of every one; and many a conjugal union which has never been assailed by the battery of crime, has fallen a victim to the slowly undermining power of petty quarrels, trivial unkindnesses and thoughtless neglect;--like the gallant officer, who, after escaping unhurt all the rage of battle by land and water, tempest on sea and earthquake on shore, returns perhaps to his native country, and perishes by the power of a slow fever. but adeline, who, amidst all the chimaeras of her fancy and singularities of her opinions, had happily held fast her religion, began at this moment to entertain a belief that soothed in some measure the sorrows which it could not cure. she fancied that all the sufferings she underwent were trials which she was doomed to undergo, as punishments for the crime she had committed in leaving her mother and living with glenmurray. she therefore welcomed her afflictions, and lifted up her meek eyes to her god and saviour, in every hour of her trials, with the look of tearful but grateful resignation. meanwhile her child, whom, after her mother, she called editha, was nursed at her own bosom, and thrived even beyond her expectations. even berrendale beheld its growing beauty with delight, and the mulatto was wild in praise of it; while adeline, wholly taken up all day in nursing and in working for it, and every evening in writing stories and hymns to publish, which would, she hoped, one day be useful to her own child as well as to the children of others, soon ceased to regret her seclusion from society; and by the time editha was a year old she had learnt to bear with patience the disappointment she had experienced in berrendale. soon after she became a mother she again wrote to mrs pemberton, as she longed to impart to her sympathizing bosom those feelings of parental delight which berrendale could not understand, and the expression of which he witnessed with contemptuous and chilling gravity. to this letter she anticipated a most gratifying return; but month after month passed away, and no letter from lisbon arrived. 'no doubt my letter miscarried,' said adeline to savanna, 'and i will write again:' but she never had resolution to do so; for she felt that her prospects of conjugal happiness were obscured, and she shrunk equally from the task of expressing the comfort which she did not feel, or unveiling to another the errors of her husband. the little regard, meanwhile, which she had endeavoured to return for berrendale soon vanished, being unable to withstand a new violence offered to it. editha was seized with the hooping-cough; and as adeline had sold her last little volume to advantage, berrendale allowed her to take a lodging at a short distance from town, as change of air was good for the complaint. she did so, and remained there two months. at her return she had the mortification to find that her husband, during her absence, had intrigued with the servant of the house:--a circumstance of which she would probably have remained ignorant, but for the indiscreet affection of savanna, who, in the first transports of her indignation on discovering the connexion, had been unable to conceal from her mistress what drove her almost frantic with indignation. but adeline, though she felt disgust and aversion swallowing up the few remaining sparks of regard for berrendale which she felt, had one great consolation under this new calamity.--berrendale had not been the choice of her heart: 'but, thank heaven! i never loved this man,' escaped her lips as she ran into her own room; and pressing her child to her bosom, she shed on its unconscious cheeks the tears which resentment and a deep sense of injury wrung from her.--'oh! had i loved him,' she exclaimed, 'this blow would have been mortal!' she, however, found herself in one respect the better for berrendale's guilt. conscious that the mulatto was aware of what had passed, and afraid lest she should have mentioned her discovery to adeline, berrendale endeavoured to make amends for his infidelity by attention such as he had never shown her since the first weeks of his marriage; and had she not been aware of the motive, the change in his behaviour would have re-awakened her tenderness. however, it claimed at least complaisance and gentleness from her while it lasted: which was not long; for berrendale, fancying from the apparent tranquillity of adeline (the result of indifference, not ignorance,) that she was not informed of his fault, and that the mulatto was too prudent to betray him, began to relapse into his old habits; and one day, forgetting his assumed liberality, he ventured, when alone with savanna, who was airing one of editha's caps, to expatiate on the needless extravagance of his wife in trimming her child's caps with lace. this was enough to rouse the quick feelings of the mulatto, and she poured forth all her long concealed wrath in a torrent of broken english, but plain enough to be well understood.--'you man!' she cried at last, 'you will kill her; she pine at your no kindness;--and if she die, mind me, man! never you marry aden.--you marry, forsoot! you marry a lady! true bred lady like mine! no, man!--you best get a cheap miss from de street and be content--' as she said this, and in an accent so provoking that berrendale was pale and speechless with rage, adeline entered the room; and savanna, self-condemned already from what she had uttered, was terrified when adeline, in a tone of voice unusually severe, said, 'leave the room; you have offended me past forgiveness.' these words, in a great measure, softened the angry feelings of berrendale, as they proved that adeline resented the insult offered to him as deeply as he could wish; and with some calmness he exclaimed, 'then i conclude, mrs berrendale, that you will have no objection to discharge your mulatto directly?' this conclusion, though a very natural one, was both a shock and a surprise to adeline; nor could she at first reply. 'you are _silent_, madam,' said berrendale; 'what is your answer? yes, or no?' 'yes,--yes,--certainly,' faltered out adeline; 'she--she ought to go--i mean that she has used very improper language to you.' 'and, therefore, a wife who resents as she ought to do, injuries offered to her husband cannot hesitate for a moment to discharge her.' 'true, very true in some measure,' replied adeline; 'but--' 'but what?' demanded berrendale. 'o berrendale!' cried adeline, bursting into an agony of frantic sorrow, 'if she leaves me, what will become of me! i shall lose the only person now in the world, perhaps, who loves me with sincere and faithful affection!' berrendale was wholly unprepared for an appeal like this; and, speechless from surprise not unmixed with confusion, staggered into the next chair. he was conscious, indeed, that his fidelity to his wife had not been proof against a few weeks' absence; but then, being, like most men, not over delicate in his idea on such subjects, as soon as adeline returned he had given up the connexion which he had formed, and therefore he thought she had not much reason to complain. in all other respects he was sure that he was an exemplary husband, and she had no just grounds for doubting his affection. he was sure that she had no reason to accuse him of unkindness; and, unless she wished him to be always tied to her apron-string, he was certain he had never omitted to pay her all proper attention. alas! he felt not the many wounds he had inflicted by 'the word whose meaning kills; yet, told, the speaker wonders that you thought it cold.' and he had yet to learn, that in order to excite or testify affection, it is necessary to seem to derive exclusive enjoyment from the society of the object avowed to be beloved, and to seek its gratification in preference to one's own, even in the most trivial things. he knew not that opportunities of conferring large benefits, like bank-bills for £ , , rarely come into use; but little attentions, friendly participations and kindnesses, are wanted daily, and like small change, are necessary to carry on the business of life and happiness. a minute more perhaps, elapsed, before berrendale recovered himself sufficiently to speak: and the silence was made still more awful to adeline, by her hearing from the adjoining room the sobs of the mulatto. at length, 'i cannot find words to express my surprise at what you have just uttered,' exclaimed berrendale. 'my conscience does not reproach me with deserving the reproof it contained.' 'indeed!' replied adeline, fixing her penetrating eyes on his, which shrunk downcast and abashed from her gaze. adeline saw her advantage, and pursued it. 'mr berrendale,' continued she, 'it is indeed true, that the mulatto has offended both of us; for in offending _you_ she has offended _me_; but, have you committed no fault, nothing for _me_ to forgive? i know that you are too great a lover of truth, too honourable a man, to declare that you have not deserved the just anger of your wife: but you know that i have never reproached you, nor should you ever have been aware that i was privy to the distressing circumstance to which i allude, but for what has just passed: and, now, do but forgive the poor mulatto, who sinned only from regard for me, and from supposed slight offered to her mistress, and i will not only assure you of my forgiveness, but, from this moment, will strenuously endeavour to blot from my remembrance every trace of what has passed.' berrendale, conscious and self-condemned, scarcely knew what to answer; but, thinking that it was better to accept adeline's offer even on her own conditions, he said, that if savanna would make a proper apology, and adeline would convince her that she was seriously displeased with her, he would allow her to stay; and adeline having promised every thing which he asked, peace was again restored. 'but what can you mean, adeline,' said berrendale, 'by doubting my affection? i think i gave a sufficient proof of that, when, disregarding the opinion of the world, i married you, though you had been the mistress of another: and i really think that, by accusing me of unkindness, you make me a very ungrateful return.' to this indelicate and unfeeling remark adeline vainly endeavoured to reply; but, starting from her chair, she paced the room in violent agitation. 'answer me,' continued berrendale, 'name one instance in which i have been unkind to you.' adeline suddenly stopped, and, looking steadfastly at him, smiled with a sort of contemptuous pity, and was on the point of saying, 'is not what you have now said an instance of unkindness?' but she saw that the same want of delicacy, and of that fine moral _tact_ which led him to commit this and similar assaults on her feelings, made him unconscious of the violence which he offered. finding, therefore, that he could not understand her causes of complaint, even if it were possible for her to define them, she replied, 'well, perhaps i was too hasty, and in a degree unjust: so let us drop the subject; and, indeed, my dear berrendale, you must bear with my weakness: remember, i have always been a spoiled child.' here the image of glenmurray and that of _home_, the home which she once knew, the home of her childhood, and of her _earliest_ youth, pressed on her recollection. she thought of her mother, of the indulgencies which she had once known, of the advantages, of opulence, the value of which she had never felt till deprived of them; and, struck with the comparative forlornness of her situation--united for life to a being whose sluggish sensibilities could not understand, and consequently not soothe, the quick feelings and jealous susceptibility of her nature--she could hardly forbear falling at the feet of her husband, and conjuring him to behave, at least, with forbearance to her, and to speak and look at her with kindness. she did stretch out her hand to him with a look of mournful entreaty, which, though not understood by berrendale, was not lost upon him entirely. he thought it was a confession of her weakness and his superiority; and, flattered by the thought into unusual softness, he caught her fondly to his bosom, and gave up an engagement to sup at an oyster club, in order to spend the evening tête-à-tête with his wife. nay, he allowed the little editha to remain in the room for a whole hour, though she cried when he attempted to take her in his arms, and, observing that it was a cold evening, allowed adeline her due share of the fire-side. these circumstances, trivial as they were, had more than their due effect on adeline, whose heart was more alive to kindness than unkindness; and those paltry attentions of which happy wives would not have been conscious, were to her a source of unfeigned pleasure.--as sailors are grateful, after a voyage unexpectedly long, for the muddy water which at their first embarking they would have turned from with disgust. that very night adeline remonstrated with the mulatto on the impropriety of her conduct; and, having convinced her that in insulting her husband she failed in respect to her, savanna was prevailed upon the next morning to ask pardon of berrendale; and, out of love for her mistress, she took care in future to do nothing that required forgiveness. as adeline's way of life admitted of but little variety, berrendale having persisted in not introducing her to his friends, on the plea of not being rich enough to receive company in return, i shall pass over in silence what occurred to her till editha was two years old; premising that a series of little injuries on the part of berrendale, and a quick resentment of them on the part of adeline, which not even her habitual good humour could prevent, had, during that time, nearly eradicated every trace of love for each other from their hearts. one evening adeline as usual, in the absence of her husband, undressed editha by the parlour fire, and, playing with the laughing child, was enjoying the rapturous praises which savanna put forth of its growing beauty; while the tawny boy, who had spent the day with them, built houses with cards on the table, which editha threw down as soon as they were built, and he with good-humoured perseverance raised up again. adeline, alive only to the maternal feeling, at this moment had forgotten all her cares; she saw nothing but the happy group around her, and her countenance wore the expression of recovered serenity. at this moment a loud knock was heard at the door, and adeline, starting up, exclaimed, 'it is my husband's knock!' 'o! no:--he never come so soon,' replied the mulatto running to the door; but she was mistaken--it was berrendale: and adeline, hearing his voice, began instantly to snatch up editha's clothes, and to knock down the tawny boy's newly-raised edifice: but order was not restored when berrendale entered; and, with a look and tone of impatience, he said, 'so! fine confusion indeed! here's a fire-side to come to! pretty amusement too, for a literary lady--building houses of cards! shame on your extravagance, mrs berrendale, to let that brat spoil cards in that way!' the sunshine of adeline's countenance on hearing this vanished: to be sure, she was accustomed to such speeches; but the moment before she had felt happy, for the first time, for years. she, however, replied not; but hurrying editha to bed, ordering the reluctant tawny boy into the kitchen, and setting berrendale's chair, as usual, in the warmest place, she ventured in a faint voice to ask, what had brought him home so early. 'more early than welcome,' replied berrendale, 'if i may judge from the bustle i have occasioned.' 'it is very true,' replied adeline, 'that, had i expected you, i should have been better prepared for your reception; and then you, perhaps, would have spoken more kindly to me.' 'there--there you go again.--if i say but a word to you, then i am called unkind, though i never speak without just provocation: and, i declare, i came home in the best humour possible, to tell you what may turn out of great profit to us both:--but when a man has an uncomfortable home to come to, it is enough to put him out of humour.' the mulatto, who was staying to gather up the cards which had fallen, turned herself round on hearing this, and exclaimed, 'home was very comfortable till you come;' and then with a look of the most angry contempt she left the room, and threw the door to with great violence. 'but what is this good news, my dear?' said adeline, eager to turn berrendale's attention from savanna's insolent reply. 'i have received a letter,' he replied, 'which, by the by, i ought to have had some weeks ago, from my father-in-law in jamaica, authorizing me to draw on his banker for £ , and inviting me to come over to him; as he feels himself declining, and wishes to give me the care of his estate, and of my son, to whom all his fortune will descend: and of whose interest, he properly thinks, no one can be so likely to take good care as his own father.' 'and do you mean that i and editha should go with you?' said adeline turning pale. 'no, to be sure not,' eagerly replied berrendale; 'i must first see how the land lies. but if i go--as the old man no doubt will make a handsome settlement on me--i shall be able to remit to you a very respectable annuity.' adeline's heart, spite of herself, bounded with joy at this discovery; but she had resolution to add,--and if duplicity can ever be pardonable, this was,--'so then the good news which you had to impart to me was, that we were going to be separated!' but as she said this, the consciousness that she was artfully trying to impress berrendale with an idea of her feeling a sorrow which was foreign to her heart, overcame her; and affected also at being under the necessity of rejoicing at the departure of that being who ought to be the source of her comfort, she vainly struggled to regain composure, and burst into an agony of tears. but her consternation cannot be expressed, when she found that berrendale imputed her tears to tender anguish at the idea of parting with him: and when, his vanity being delighted by this homage to his attractions, he felt all his fondness for her revive, and, overwhelming her with caresses, he declared that he would reject the offer entirely if by accepting it he should give her a moment's uneasiness; adeline, shocked at his error, yet not daring to set him right, could only weep on his shoulder in silence: but, in order to make real the distress which he only fancied so, she enumerated to herself all the diseases incident to the climate, and the danger of the voyage. still the idea of berrendale's departure was so full of comfort to her, that, though her tears continued to flow, they flowed not for his approaching absence. at length, ashamed of fortifying him in so gross an error, she made an effort to regain her calmness, and found words to assure him, that she would no longer give way to such unpardonable weakness, as she could assure him that she wished his acceptance of his father-in-law's offer, and had no desire to oppose a scheme so just and so profitable. but berrendale, to whose vanity she had never before offered such a tribute as her tears seemed to be, imputed these assurances to disinterested love and female delicacy, afraid to own the fondness which it felt; and the rest of the evening was spent in professions of love on his part, which, on adeline's, called forth at least some grateful and kind expressions in return. still, however, she persisted in urging berrendale to go to jamaica: but, at the same time, she earnestly begged him to remember, that temperance could alone preserve his health in such a climate:--'or the use of pepper in great quantities,' replied he, 'to counteract the effects of good living?'--and adeline, though convinced temperance was the _best_ preservation, was forced to give up the point, especially as berrendale began to enumerate the number of delicious things for the table which jamaica afforded. to be brief: berrendale, after taking a most affectionate leave of his wife and child, a leave which almost made the mulatto his friend, and promising to allow them £ , a-year till he should be able to send over for them, set sail for jamaica; while adeline, the night of his departure, endeavoured, by conjuring up all the horrors of a tempest at sea on his passage, and of a hurricane and an earthquake on shore when he arrived, to force herself to feel such sorrow as the tenderness which he had expressed at the moment of parting seemed to make it her duty to feel. but morning came, and with it a feeling of liberty and independence so delightful, that she no longer tried to grieve on speculation as it were; but giving up her whole soul to the joys of maternal fondness, she looked forward with pious gratitude to days of tranquil repose, save when she thought with bitter regret of the obdurate anger of her mother, and with tender regret of the lost and ever lamented glenmurray. berrendale had been arrived at jamaica some months, when adeline observed a most alarming change in savanna. she became thin, her appetite entirely failed, and she looked the image of despondence. in vain did adeline ask the reason of a change so apparent: the only answer she could obtain was, 'me better soon;' and, continuing every day to give this answer, she in a short time became so languid as to be obliged to lie down half the day. adeline then found that it was necessary to be more serious in her interrogatories; but the mulatto at first only answered, 'no, me die, but me never break my duty vow to you: no, me die, but never leave you.' these words implying a wish to leave her, with a resolution not to do so how much soever it might cost her, alarmed in a moment the ever disinterested sensibility of adeline; and she at length wrung from her a confession that her dear william, who was gone to jamaica as a servant to a gentleman, was, she was credibly informed, very ill and like to die. 'you therefore wish to go and nurse him, i suppose, savanna?' 'oh! me no wish; me only tink dat me like to go to jamaica, see if be true dat he be so bad; and if he die, i den return and die wid you.' 'live with me, you mean, savanna; for, indeed, i cannot spare you. remember, you have given me a right to claim your life as mine; nor can i allow you to throw away my property in fruitless lamentations, and the indolent indulgence of regret. you shall go to jamaica, savanna: heaven forbid that i should keep a wife from her duty! you shall see and try to recover william if he be really ill,' (savanna here threw herself on adeline's neck,) 'and then you shall return to me, who will either warmly share in your satisfaction or fondly sooth your distress.' 'den you do love poor savanna?' 'love you! indeed i do, next to my child, and,--and my mother,' replied adeline, her voice faltering. 'name not dat woman,' cried savanna hastily; 'me will never see, never speak to her even in heaven.' 'savanna, remember, she is my mother.' 'yes, and mr berrendale be your husban; and yet, who dat love you can love dem?' 'savanna,' replied adeline, 'these proofs of your regard, though reprehensible, are not likely to reconcile me to your departure; and i already feel that in losing you--' here she paused, unable to proceed. 'den me no go--me no go:--yet, dearest lady, you have love yourself.' 'aye, savanna, and can feel for you: so say no more. the only difficulty will be to raise money enough to pay for your passage, and expenses while there.' 'oh! me once nurse the captain's wife who now going to jamaica, and she love me very much; and he tell me yesterday that he let me go for nothing, because i am good nurse to his wife, if me wish to see william.' 'enough,' replied adeline: 'then all i have to do is to provide you with money for your maintenance when you arrive; and i have no doubt but that what i cannot supply the tawny boy's generous patroness will.' adeline was not mistaken. savanna obtained from her son's benefactress a sum equal to her wants; and almost instantly restored to her wonted health, by her mind's being lightened of the load which oppressed it, she took her passage on board her friend's vessel, and set sail for jamaica, carrying with her letters from adeline to berrendale; while adeline felt the want of savanna in various ways, so forcibly, that not even editha could, for a time at least, console her for her loss. it had been so grateful to her feelings to meet every day the eyes of one being fixed with never-varying affection on hers, that, when she beheld those eyes no longer, she felt alone in the universe,--nor had she a single female friend to whom she could turn for relief or consolation. mrs beauclerc, to whose society she had expected to be restored by her marriage, had been forced to give up all intercourse with her, in compliance with the peremptory wishes of a rich old maid, from whom her children had great expectations, and who threatened to leave her fortune away from them, if mrs beauclerc persisted in corresponding with a woman so bad in principle, and so wicked in practice, as adeline appeared to her to be. but, at length, from a mother's employments, from writing, and, above all, from the idea that by suffering she was making some atonement for her past sins, she derived consolation, and became resigned to every evil that had befallen, and to every evil that might still befall her. perhaps she did not consider as an evil what now took place: increasing coldness in the letters of berrendale, till he said openly at last, that as they were, he was forced to confess, far from happy together, and as the air of jamaica agreed with him, and as he was resolved to stay there, he thought she had better remain in england, and he would remit her as much money occasionally as his circumstances would admit of. but she thought this a greater evil than it at first appeared; when an agent of berrendale's father-in-law in england, and a friend of berrendale himself, called on her, pretending that he came to inquire concerning her health, and raised in her mind suspicions of a very painful nature. after the usual compliments:--'i find, madam,' said mr drury, 'that our friend is very much admired by the ladies in jamaica.' 'i am glad to hear it, sir,' coolly answered adeline. 'well, that's kind and generous now,' replied drury, 'and very disinterested.' 'i see no virtue, sir, in my rejoicing of what must make mr berrendale's abode in jamaica pleasant to him.' 'may be so; but most women, i believe, would be apt to be jealous on the occasion.' 'but it has been the study of my life, sir, to endeavour to consider my own interest, when it comes in competition with another's, as little as possible;--i doubt i have not always succeeded in my endeavours: but on this occasion i am certain that i have expressed no sentiment which i do not feel.' 'then, madam, if my friend should have an opportunity, as indeed i believe he has, of forming a most agreeable and advantageous marriage, you would not try to prevent it?' 'good heavens! sir,' replied adeline; 'what can you mean? mr berrendale form an advantageous marriage when he is already married to me?' 'married to you, ma'am!' answered mr drury with a look of incredulity. 'excuse me, but i know that such marriages as yours may be easily dissolved.' at first adeline was startled at this assertion; but recollecting that it was impossible any form or ceremony should have been wanting at the marriage, she recovered herself, and demanded, with an air of severity, what mr drury meant by so alarming and ill-founded a speech. 'my meaning, ma'am,' replied he, 'must be pretty evident to you: i mean that i do not look upon you, though you bear mr berrendale's name, to be his lawful wife; but that you live with him on the same terms on which you lived with mr glenmurray.' 'and on what, sir, could you build such an erroneous supposition?' 'on mr berrendale's own words, madam; who always spoke of his connexion with you, as of a connexion which he had formed in compliance with love and in defiance of prudence.' 'and is it possible that he could be such a villain?' exclaimed adeline. 'oh my child! and does thy father brand thee with the stain of illegitimacy?--but, sir, whatever appellation mr berrendale might choose to give his union with me to his friends in england, i am sure he will not dare to incur the penalty attendant on a man's marrying one wife while he has another living; for, that i am his wife, i can bring pretty sufficient evidence to prove.' 'indeed, madam! you can produce a witness of the ceremony, then, i presume?' 'no, sir; the woman who attended me to the altar, and the clergyman who married us, are dead; and the only witness is a child now only ten years old.' 'that is unfortunate!' (with a look of incredulity) 'but, no doubt, when you hear that mr berrendale is married to a west indian heiress, you will come forward with incontrovertible proofs of your prior claims; and if you do that, madam, you may command my good offices:--but, till then, i humbly take my leave.'--saying this, with a very visible sneer on his countenance he departed, leaving adeline in a state of distress--the more painful to endure from her having none to participate in it,--no one to whom she could impart the cause of it. that mr drury did not speak of the possible marriage of berrendale from mere conjecture, was very apparent; and adeline resolved not to delay writing to her husband immediately, to inform him of what had passed, and put before his eyes, in the strongest possible manner, the guilt of what he was about to do; and also the utter impossibility of its being successful guilt, as she was resolved to assert her claims for the sake of her child, if not for her own. this letter she concluded, and with truth too, with protestations of believing all mr drury said to be false: for, indeed, the more she considered berrendale's character, the more she was convinced that, however selfish and defective his disposition might be, it was more likely mr drury should be mistaken, than berrendale be a villain. but, where a man's conduct is not founded on virtuous motives and immutable principles, he may not err while temptation is absent; but once expose him to her presence, and he is capable of falling into the very vices the most abhorrent to his nature: and though adeline knew it not, such a man was berrendale. adeline, having relieved her mind by this appeal to her husband, and being assured that berrendale could not be married before her letter could reach him, as it was impossible that he should dare to marry while the mulatto was in the very town near which he resided, felt herself capable of attending to her usual employments again, and had recovered her tranquillity, when an answer to her letter arrived; and adeline, being certain that the letter itself would be a proof of the marriage, had resolved to show it, in justification of her claims, to mr drury. what then must have been her surprise, to find it exactly such a letter as would be evidence against a marriage between her and berrendale having ever taken place! he thanked her for the expressions of fond regret which her letter contained, and for the many happy hours which he owed to her society; but hoped that, as fate had now separated their destinies, she could be as happy without him as she had been with him; and assuring her that he should, according to his promise, regularly remit her £ a-year if possible, but that he could at present only inclose a draft for £ . adeline was absolutely stupified with horror at reading this apparent confirmation of the villany of her husband and the father of her child; but roused to indignant exertion by the sense of berrendale's baseness, and of what she owed her daughter, she resolved to take counsel's opinion in what manner she should proceed to prove her marriage, as soon as she was assured that berrendale's (which she had no doubt was fixed upon) should have taken place; and this intelligence she received a short time after the mulatto herself, who, worn out with sorrow, sickness, and hardship, one day tottered into the house, seeming as if she indeed only returned to die with her mistress. at first the joy of seeing savanna restored to her swallowed up every other feeling; but tender apprehension for the poor creature's health soon took possession of her mind, and adeline drew from her a narrative, which exhibited berrendale to her eyes as capable of most atrocious actions. chapter xix it is very certain that when berrendale left england, though he meant to conceal his marriage entirely, he had not even the slightest wish to contract another; and had any one told him that he was capable of such wicked conduct, he would have answered, like hazael, 'is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' but he was then unassailed by temptations:--and habituated as he was to selfish indulgence, it was impossible that to strong temptation he should not fall an immediate victim. this strong temptation assailed him soon after his arrival, in the person of a very lovely and rich widow, a relation of his first wife, who, having no children of her own, had long been very fond of his child, then a very fine boy, and with great readiness transferred to the father the affection which she bore the son. for some time conscience and adeline stood their ground against this new mistress and her immense property; but at length, being pressed by his father-in-law, who wished the match, to assign a sufficient reason for his coldness to so fine a woman, and not daring to give the true one, he returned the lady's fondness: and though he had not yet courage enough to name the marriage day, it was known that it would some time or other take place. but all his scruples soon yielded to the dominion which the attractions of the lady, who was well versed in the arts of seduction, obtained over his senses, and to the strong power which the sight of the splendour in which she lived, acquired over his avarice; when, just as every thing was on the point of being concluded, the poor mulatto, who had found her husband dead, arrived almost broken-hearted at the place of berrendale's abode, and delivered to him letters from adeline. terrified and confounded at her presence, he received her with such evident marks of guilty confusion in his face, that savanna's apprehensive and suspicious attachment to her mistress took the alarm; and, as she had seen a very fine woman leave the room as she entered, she, on pretence of leaving berrendale alone to read his letters, repaired to the servants' apartments, where she learnt the intended marriage. immediately forgetting her own distresses in those of adeline, she returned to berrendale, not with the languid, mournful pace with which she had first entered, but with the firm, impetuous and intrepid step of conscious integrity going to confound vice in the moment of its triumph. berrendale read his doom, the moment he beheld her, in her dark and fiery eye, and awaited in trembling silence the torrent of reproaches that trembled on her lip. but i shall not repeat what passed. suffice that berrendale pretended to be moved by what she said, and promised to break off the marriage,--only exacting from savanna, in return, a promise of not imparting to the servants, or to any one, that he had a wife in england. in the meanwhile he commended her most affectionately to the care of the steward; and confessing to his intended bride that he had a mistress in england, who had sent the mulatto over to prevent the match if possible, by persuading her he was already married, he conjured her to consent to a private marriage; and to prevent some dreadful scene, occasioned by the revenge of disappointed passion, should his mistress, as she had threatened, come over in person, he entreated her to let every splendid preparation for their nuptials be laid aside, in order to deceive savanna, and induce her to return quietly to england. the credulous woman, too much in love to believe what she did not wish, consented to all he proposed: but berrendale, still fearful of the watchful jealousy of savanna, contrived to find out the master to whom she belonged before she had escaped, early in life, with her first husband to england; and as she had never been made free, as soon as he arrived, he, on a summons from berrendale, seized her as his property; and poor savanna, in spite of her cries and struggles, was conveyed some miles up the country. at length, however, she found means to escape to the coast; and, having discovered an old acquaintance in an english sailor on board a vessel then ready to sail, and who had great influence with the captain, she was by him concealed on board, with the approbation of the commander, and was on her way to england before berrendale was informed of her escape. i will not endeavour to describe adeline's feelings on hearing this narration, and on finding also that savanna before she left the island had been assured that berrendale was really married, though privately, but that the marriage could not long be attempted to be concealed, as the lady even before it took place was likely to become a mother; and, that as a large estate depended on her giving birth to a son, the event of her confinement was looked for with great anxiety. still, in the midst of her distress, a sudden thought struck adeline, which converted her anger into joy, and her sorrow into exultation. 'yes, my mother may now forgive me without violating any part of her oath,' she exclaimed.--'i am now forsaken, despised and disgraced!'--and instantly she wrote to mrs mowbray a letter calculated to call forth all her sympathy and affection. then, with a mind relieved beyond expression, she sat down to deliberate in what manner she should act to do herself justice as a wife and a mother, cruelly aggrieved in both these intimate relations. nor could she persuade herself that she should act properly by her child, if she did not proceed vigorously to prove herself berrendale's wife, and substantiate editha's claim to his property; and as mr langley was, she knew, a very great lawyer, she resolved, in spite of his improper conduct to her, to apply to him again. indeed she could not divest herself of a wish to let him know that she was become a wife, and no longer liable to be treated with that freedom with which, as a mistress, he had thought himself at liberty to address her. however, she wished that she had not been obliged to go to him alone; but, as the mulatto was in too weak a state of health to allow of her going out, and she could not speak of business like hers before any one else, she was forced to proceed unaccompanied to the temple; and on the evening of the day after savanna's return, she with a beating heart, repaired once more to mr langley's chambers. luckily, however, she met the tawny boy on her way, and took him for her escort. 'tell your master,' said she to the servant, 'that mrs berrendale wishes to speak to him:' and in a few minutes she was introduced. 'mrs berrendale!' cried langley with a sarcastic smile; 'pray be seated, madam! i hope mr berrendale is well.' 'he is in jamaica, sir,' replied adeline. 'indeed!' returned langley. 'may i presume so far as to ask,--hem, hem,--whether your visit to me be merely of a professional nature?' 'certainly, sir,' replied adeline: 'of what other nature should it be?' langley replied to this only by a significant smile. at this moment the tawny boy asked leave to walk in the temple gardens; and adeline, though reluctantly, granted his request. 'oh! à propos, john,' cried langley to the servant, 'let mrs montgomery know that her friend miss mowbray, mrs berrendale i mean, is here--she is walking in the garden.' 'my friend mrs montgomery, sir! i have no friend of that name.' 'no, my sweet soul? you may not know her by that name; but names change, you know. you, for instance, are mrs berrendale now, but when i see you again you may be mrs somebody else.' 'never, sir,' cried adeline indignantly; 'but, though i do not exactly understand your meaning, i feel as if you meant to insult me, and therefore--' 'oh no--sit down again, my angel; you are mistaken, and so apt to fly off in a tangent! but--so--that wonderfully handsome man, berrendale, is off--heh? your friend and mine, heh! pretty one!' 'if, sir, mr berrendale ever considered you as his friend, it is very strange that you should presume to insult his wife.' 'madam,' replied langley with a most provoking sneer, 'mr berrendale's wife shall always be treated by me with proper respect.' 'gracious heaven!' cried adeline, clasping her hands and looking upwards with tearful eyes, 'when shall my persecutions cease! and how much greater must my offences be than even my remorse paints them, when their consequences still torment me so long after the crime which occasioned them has ceased to exist! but it is thy will, and i will submit even to indignity with patience.' there was a touching solemnity in this appeal to heaven, an expression of truth, which it was so impossible for art to imitate, that langley felt in a moment the injustice of which he had been guilty, and an apology was on his lips, when the door opened, and a lady rouged like a french countess of the ancien régime, her hair covered with a profusion of brown powder, and dressed in the height of fashion, ambled into the room; and saying, 'how d'ye do, miss mowbray?' threw herself carelessly on the sofa, to the astonishment of adeline, who did not recollect her, and to the confusion of langley, who now, impressed with involuntary respect for adeline, repented of having exposed her to the scene that awaited her: but to prevent it was impossible; he was formed to be a slave of woman, and had not courage to protect another from the insolence to which he tamely yielded himself. adeline at first did not answer this soi-disant acquaintance of hers; but, in looking at her more attentively, she exclaimed, 'what do i see? is it possible that this can be mary warner!' 'yes, it is, my dear, indeed,' replied she with a loud laugh, 'mary warner, alias mrs montgomery; as you, you know, are miss mowbray, alias mrs berrendale.' adeline, incapable of speaking, only gazed at her in silence, but with 'a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.' 'but, come sit down, my dear,' cried mary; 'no ceremony, you know, among friends and equals, you know; and you and i have been mighty familiar, you know, before now. the last time we met you called me _woman_, you know--yes, "woman!" says you--and i have not forgotten it, i assure you,' she added with a sort of loud hysterical laugh, and a look of the most determined malice. 'come, come, my dear montgomery,' said langley, 'you must forget and forgive;--i dare say miss mowbray, that is to say mrs berrendale, did not mean--' 'what should you know about the matter, lang.?' replied mary; 'i wish you would mind your own business, and let me talk to my dumb friend here.--well, i suppose you are quite surprised to see how smart i am!--seeing as how i once overheard you say to glenthingymy, "how very plain mary is!" though, to be sure, it was never a barrel the better herring, and 'twas the kettle in my mind calling the pot--heh, lang.?' here was the clue to the inveterate dislike which this unhappy girl had conceived against adeline. so true is it that little wounds inflicted on the self-love are never forgotten or forgiven, and that it is safer to censure the morals of acquaintances than to ridicule them on their dress, or laugh at a defect in their person. adeline, indeed, did not mean that her observation should be overheard by the object of it,--still she was hated: but many persons make mortifying remarks purposely, and yet wonder that they have enemies! motionless and almost lifeless adeline continued to stand and to listen, and mary went on-- 'well, but i thank you for one thing. you taught me that marriage was all nonsense, you know; and so, thought i, miss mowbray is a learned lady, she must know best, and so i followed your example--that's all, you know.' this dreadful information roused the feelings of adeline even to phrensy, and with a shriek of anguish she seized her hand, and conjured her by all her hopes of mercy to retract what she had said, and not to let her depart with the horrible consciousness of having been the means of plunging a fellow-being into vice and infamy. a loud unfeeling laugh, and an exclamation of 'the woman is mad,' was all the answer to this. 'this then is the completion of my sufferings,' cried adeline,--'this only was wanted to complete the misery of my remorse.' 'this is too much,' exclaimed langley. 'mary, you know very well that--' 'hold your tongue, lang.; you know nothing about the matter: it is all nothing, but that miss mowbray, like a lawyer, can change sides, you see, and attack one day what she defended the day before, you know; and she has made you believe that she thinks now being kept a shameful thing.' 'i do believe so,' hastily replied adeline; 'and if it be true that my sentiments and my example led you to adopt your present guilty mode of life,--oh! save me from the pangs of remorse which i now feel, by letting my present example recall you from the paths of error to those of virtue.' 'well pleaded,' cried the cold-hearted mary--'lang., you could not have done't so well--not up to that.' 'mrs montgomery,' said langley with great severity, 'if you cannot treat mrs berrendale with more propriety and respect, i must beg you to leave the room; she is come to speak to me on business, and--' 'i sha'nt stir, for all that: and mark me, lang., if you turn me out of the room, you know, hang me if ever i enter it again!' 'but your little boy may want you; you have left him now some time.' 'aye, that may be true, to be sure, poor little dear! have you any family, miss mowbray?'--when, without waiting for an answer, she added, 'my little boy have got the small-pox very bad, and has been likely to die from convulsion fits, you know. poor dear! i had been nursing it so long that i could not bear the stench of the room, and so i was glad, you know, to come and get a little fresh air in the gardens.' at this speech adeline's fortitude entirely gave way. _her_ child had not had the small-pox, and she had been for some minutes in reach of the infection; and with a look of horror, forgetting her business, and every thing but editha, she was on the point of leaving the room, when a servant hastily entered, and told mary that her little boy was dead. at hearing this, even her cold heart was moved, and throwing herself back on the sofa she fell into a strong hysteric; while adeline, losing all remembrance of her insolence in her distress, flew to her assistance; and, in pity for a mother weeping the loss of her infant, forgot for a moment that she was endangering the life of her own child. mr langley, mean time, though grieved for the death of the infant, was alive to the generous forgiving disposition which adeline evinced; and could not help exclaiming. 'oh, mrs berrendale! forgive us! we deserved not such kindness at your hands:' and adeline, wanting to loosen the tight stays of mary, and not choosing to undress her before such a witness, coldly begged him to withdraw, advising him at the same time to go and see whether the child was really dead, as it might possibly only appear so. revived by this possibility, mr langley left mary to the care of adeline, and left the room. but whether it was that mary had a mind to impress her lover and the father of her child with an idea of her sensibility, or whether she had overheard adeline's supposition, certain it is, that as soon as langley went away, and adeline began to unlace her stays, she hastily recovered, and declared her stays should remain as they were: but still exclaiming about her poor dear benny, she kept her arms closely clasped round adeline's waist, and reposed her head on her bosom. adeline's fears and pity for her being thus allayed, she began to have leisure to feel and fear for herself; and the idea, that, by being in such close contact with mary, she was imbibing so much of the disease as must inevitably communicate it to editha, recurred so forcibly to her mind, that, begging for mercy's sake she would loose her hold, she endeavoured to break from the arms of her tormentor. but in vain.--as soon as mary saw that adeline wished to leave her, she was the more eager to hold her fast; and protesting she should die if she had the barbarity to leave her alone, she only hugged her the closer. 'well, then, i'll try to stay till mr langley returns,' cried adeline: but some minutes elapsed, and mr langley did not return; and then adeline, recollecting that when he did return he would come fresh fraught with the pestilence from the dead body of his infant, could no longer master her feelings, but screaming wildly,--'i shall be the death of my child; let me go,'--she struggled with the determined mary. 'you will drive me mad if you detain me,' cried adeline. 'you will drive me mad if you go,' replied mary, giving way to a violent hysterical scream, while with successful strength she parried all adeline's endeavours to break from her. but what can resist the strength of phrensy and despair? adeline, at length worked up to madness by the fatal control exercised over her, by one great effort threw the sobbing mary from her, and, darting down stairs with the rapidity of phrensy, nearly knocked down mr langley in her passage, who was coming to announce the restoration of the little boy. she soon reached fleet-street, and was on her road home before langley and mary had recovered their consternation: but she suddenly recollected that homewards she must not proceed; that she carried death about her; and wholly bewildered by this insupportable idea, she ran along the strand, muttering the incoherencies of phrensy as she went, till she was intercepted in her passage by some young men of _ton_, who had been dining together, and, being half intoxicated, were on their way to the theatre. two of these gentlemen, with extended arms, prevented her further progress. 'where are you going, my pretty girl,' cried one, 'in this hurry? shall i see you home? heh!' 'home!' replied adeline; 'name it not. my child! my child! thy mother has destroyed thee.' 'so!' cried another, 'actress, by all that's tragical!' 'unhand me!' exclaimed adeline wildly. 'do not you know, poor babe, that i carry death and infection about with me!' 'the devil you do!' returned the gentleman; 'then the sooner you take yourself off the better.' 'i believe the poor soul is mad,' said a third, making way for adeline to pass. 'but,' cried the first who spoke, catching hold of her, 'if so, there is method and meaning in her madness; for she called jaby here a poor babe, and we all know he is little better.' by this time adeline was in a state of complete phrensy, and was again darting down the street in spite of the gentleman's efforts to hold her, when another gentleman, whom curiosity had induced to stop and listen to what passed, suddenly seized hold of her arm, and exclaimed, 'good heavens! what can this mean? it is--it can be no other than miss mowbray.' at the sound of her own name adeline started: but in a moment her senses were quite lost again; and the gentleman, who was no other than colonel mordaunt, being fully aware of her situation, after reproving the young men for sporting with distress so apparent, called a coach which happened to be passing, and desired to know whither he should have the honour of conducting her. but she was too lost to be able to answer the question: he therefore, lifting her into the coach, desired the man to drive towards dover-street; and when there, he ordered him to drive to margaret-street, oxford-street; when, not being able to obtain one coherent word from adeline, and nothing but expressions of agony, terror, and self-condemnation, he desired him to stop at such a house, and, conducting adeline up stairs, desired the first assistance to be procured immediately. it was not to his own lodgings that colonel mordaunt had conducted adeline, but to the house of a convenient friend of his, who, though not generally known as such, and bearing a tolerably good character in the world, was very kind to the tender distresses of her friends, and had no objection to assist the meetings of two fond lovers. it is to be supposed, then, that she was surprised at seeing colonel mordaunt with a companion, who was an object of pity and horror rather than of love: but she did not want humanity; and when the colonel recommended adeline to her tenderest care, she with great readiness ordered a bed to be prepared, and assisted in prevailing on adeline to lie down on it. in a short time a physician and a surgeon arrived; and adeline, having been bled and made to swallow strong opiates, was undressed by her attentive landlady; and though still in a state of unconsciousness, she fell into a sound sleep which lasted till morning. but colonel mordaunt passed a sleepless night. the sight of adeline, even frantic and wretched as she appeared, had revived the passion which he had conceived for her; and if on her awaking the next morning she should appear perfectly rational, and her phrensy merely the result of some great fright which she had received, he resolved to renew his addresses, and take advantage of the opportunity now offered him, while she was as it were in his power. but to return to the temple.--soon after mr langley had entered his own room, and while mary and he were commenting on the frantic behaviour of adeline, the tawny boy came back from his walk, and heard with marks of emotion, apparently beyond his age, (for though near twelve he did not look above eight years old,) of the sudden and frantic disappearance of adeline. 'oh! my dear friend,' cried he, 'if, you are not gone home you will break my poor mother's heart!' 'and who is your mother?' 'her name is savanna; and she lives with mrs berrendale.' 'mrs berrendale!' cried mary, 'miss mowbray you mean.' 'no, i do not; her name was mowbray, but is now berrendale.' 'what! is she really married?' asked langley. 'yes to be sure.' 'but how do you know that she is?' 'oh! because i went to church with them, and my mother cooked the wedding-dinner, and i ate plum-pudding and drank punch, and we were very merry,--only my mother cried, because my father could not come.' 'very circumstantial evidence indeed!' cried langley, 'and i am very sorry that i did not know so much before. so you and your mother love this extraordinary fine woman, mrs berrendale, heh?' 'love her! to be sure--we should be very wicked if we did not. did you never hear the story of the pineapple?' said the tawny boy. 'not i. what was it?' and the tawny boy, delighted to tell the story, with sparkling eyes sat down to relate it. 'you must know, mr glenmurray longed for a pineapple.' 'mrs glenmurray you mean,' said mary laughing immoderately. 'i know what i say,' replied the tawny boy angrily; 'and so miss adeline, as she was then called, went out to buy one;--well, and so she met my poor father going to prison, and i was crying after her, and so--' here he paused, and bursting into tears exclaimed, 'and perhaps she is crying herself now, and i must go and see for her directly.' 'do so, my fine fellow,' cried langley: 'you had better go home, tell your mother what has passed, and to-morrow' (accompanying him down stairs, and speaking in a low voice) 'i will either write a note of apology or call on mrs berrendale myself.' the tawny boy instantly set off, running as fast as he could, telling langley first, that if any harm had happened to his friend, both he and his mother should lie down and die. and this further proof of adeline's merit did not tend to calm langley's remorse for having exposed her to the various distresses which she had undergone at his chambers. chapter xx adeline awoke early the next morning perfectly sane, though weakened by the exertions which she had experienced the night before, and saw with surprise and alarm that she was not in her own lodging. but she had scarcely convinced herself that she was awake, when mrs selby, the mistress of the house, appeared at her bed-side, and, seeing what was passing in her mind by her countenance, explained to her as delicately as she could the situation in which she had been brought there. 'and who brought me hither?' replied adeline, dreadfully agitated, as the remembrance of what had passed by degrees burst upon her. 'colonel mordaunt of the guards,' was the answer; and adeline was shocked to find that he was the person to whom she was under so essential an obligation. she then hastily arose, being eager to return home; and in a short time she was ready to enter the drawing-room, and to express her thanks to colonel mordaunt. but in vain did she insist on going home directly, to ease the fears of her family. the physician, who arrived at the moment, forbade her going out without having first taken both medicine and refreshment; and by the time that, after the most earnest entreaties, she obtained leave to depart, she recollected that, as her clothes were the same, she might still impart disease to her child, and therefore must on no account think of returning to editha. 'whither, whither then can i go?' cried she, forgetting she was not alone. 'why not stay here?' said the colonel, who had been purposely left alone with her. 'o dearest of women! that you would but accept the protection of a man who adores you; who has long loved you; who has been so fortunate as to rescue you from a situation of misery and danger, and the study of whose life it shall be to make you happy.' he uttered this with such volubility, that adeline could not find an opportunity to interrupt him; but when he concluded, she calmly replied, 'i am willing to believe, colonel mordaunt, from a conversation which i once had with you, that you are not aware of the extent of the insult which you are now offering to me. you probably do not know that i have been for years a married woman?' colonel mordaunt started and turned pale at this intelligence; and in a faltering voice replied, that he was indeed a stranger to her present situation;--for that, libertine as he confessed himself to be, he had never yet allowed himself to address the wife of another. this speech restored him immediately to the confidence of adeline. 'then i hope,' cried she, holding out her hand to him, which in spite of his virtue he passionately kissed, 'that, as a friend, you will have the kindness to procure me a coach to take me to a lodging a few miles out of town, where i once was before; and that you will be so good as to drive directly to my lodgings, and let my poor maid know what is become of me. i dread to think,' added she bursting into tears, 'of the agony that my unaccountable absence must have occasioned her.' the colonel, too seriously attached to adeline to know yet what he wished, or what he hoped on this discovery of her situation, promised to obey her, provided she would allow him to call on her now and then; and adeline was too full of gratitude to him for the service which he had rendered her, to have resolution enough to deny his request. he then called a coach for himself, and for adeline, as she insisted on his going immediately to her lodgings; and also begged that he would tell the mulatto to send for advice, and prepare her little girl for inoculation directly. adeline drove directly to her old lodgings in the country, where she was most gladly received; and the colonel went to deliver his commission to the mulatto. he found her in strong hysterics; the tawny boy crying over her, and the woman of the house holding her down on the bed by force, while the little editha had been conveyed to a neighbour's house, that she might not hear the screams which had surprised and terrified her. colonel mordaunt had opened the door, and was witnessing this distressing scene, before any one was conscious of his presence; but the tawny boy soon discovered him, and crying out-- 'oh! sir, do you bring us news of our friend?' sprang to him, and hung almost breathless on his arm. savanna, who was conscious enough to know what passed, though too much weakened from her own sufferings and anxieties to be able to struggle with this new affliction, started up on hearing these words, and screamed out 'does she live? blessed man! but say so, dat's all,' in a tone so affecting, and with an expression of agonized curiosity so overwhelming to the feelings, that colonel mordaunt, whose spirits were not very high, was so choked that he could not immediately answer her; and when at last he faltered out, 'she lives, and is quite well,' the frantic joy of the mulatto overcame him still more. she jumped about his neck, she hugged the tawny boy; and her delight was as extravagant as her grief had been; till exhausted and silent she sunk upon the bed, and was unable for some minutes to listen quietly to the story which colonel mordaunt came to relate. when she was composed enough to listen to it, she did not long remain so; for as soon as she heard that colonel mordaunt had met adeline in her phrensy, and conveyed her to a place of safety, she fell at his feet, embraced his knees, and, making the tawny boy kneel down by her, invoked the blessing of god on him so fervently and so eloquently that colonel mordaunt wept like a child, and, exclaiming, 'upon my soul, my good woman, i cannot bear this,' was forced to run out of the house to recover his emotion. when he returned, savanna said 'well--now, blessed sir, take me to my dear lady.' 'indeed,' replied he, 'i must not; you are forbidden to see her.' 'forbidden!' replied she, her eyes flashing fire; 'and who dare to keep savanna from her own mistress?--i will see her.' 'not if she forbids it, savanna; and if her child's life should be endangered by it?' 'o, no, to be sure not,' cried the tawny boy, who doted upon editha, and, having fetched her back from the next house, was lulling her to sleep in his arms. colonel mordaunt started at sight of the child, and, stooping down to kiss its rosy cheek, sighed deeply as he turned away again. 'well,' cried savanna, 'you talk very strange--me no understand.' 'but you shall, my excellent creature,' replied the colonel, 'immediately.' he then entered on a full explanation to savanna; who had no sooner heard that her mistress feared that she had been so much exposed to the infection of the small-pox, as to make her certain of giving it to her child, than she exclaimed, 'oh, my good god! save and protect her own self! she never have it, and she may get it and die!' 'surely you must be mistaken,' replied the colonel, 'mrs berrendale must have recollected and mentioned her own danger if this be the case.' 'she!' hastily interrupted the mulatto, 'she tink of herself! never--she only mind others' good. do you tink, if she be one selfish beast like her husban, savanna love her so dear? no, mr colonel, me know her, and me know though we may save the child we may lose the mother.' here she began to weep bitterly; while the colonel, more in love than ever with adeline from these proofs of her goodness, resolved to lose no time in urging her to undergo herself the operation which she desired for editha. then, begging the mulatto to send for a surgeon directly, in spite of the tears of the tawny boy, who thought it cruel to run the risk of spoiling miss editha's pretty face, he took his leave, saying to himself, 'what a heart has this adeline! how capable of feeling affection! for no one can inspire it who is not able to feel it: and this creature is thrown away on a man undeserving her, it seems!' on this intelligence he continued to muse till he arrived at adeline's lodgings, to whom he communicated all that had passed; and from whom he learned, with great anxiety, that it was but too true that she had never had the small-pox; and that, therefore, she should probably show symptoms of the disease in a few days: consequently, as she considered it too late for her to be inoculated, she should do all that now remained to be done for her security, by low living and good air. that same evening colonel mordaunt returned to savanna, in hopes of learning from her some further particulars respecting adeline's husband; as he felt that his conscience would not be much hurt by inducing adeline to leave the protection of a man who was unworthy of possessing her. fortunately for his wishes, he could not wish to hear more than savanna wished to tell every thing relating to her adored lady: and colonel mordaunt heard with generous indignation of the perfidious conduct of berrendale; vowing, at the same time, that his time, his interest, and his fortune, should all be devoted to bring such a villain to justice, and to secure to the injured editha her rightful inheritance. the mulatto was in raptures:--she told colonel mordaunt that he was a charming man, and infinitely handsomer than berrendale, though she must own he was very good to look at; and she wished with all her soul that colonel mordaunt was married to her lady; for then she believed she would have never known sorrow, but been as happy as the day was long. colonel mordaunt could not hear this without a secret pang. 'had i followed,' said he mentally, 'the dictates of my heart when i saw adeline at bath, i might now, perhaps, instead of being a forlorn unattached being, have been a happy husband and father; and adeline, instead of having been the mistress of one man, the disowned wife of another, might have been happy and beloved, and as respectable in the eyes of the world as she is in those of her grateful mulatto.' however, there was some hope left for him yet.--adeline, he thought, was not a woman likely to be over-scrupulous in her ideas; and might very naturally think herself at liberty to accept the protection of a lover, when, from no fault of hers, she had lost that of her husband. it is natural to suppose that, while elevated with these hopes, he did not fail to be very constant in his visits to adeline; and that at length, more led by passion than policy, he abruptly, at the end of ten days, informed adeline that he knew her situation, and that he trusted that she would allow him to hope that in due time his love, which had been proof against time, absence, and disdain, would meet with reward; and that, on his settling a handsome income on her and her child for their joint lives, she would allow him to endeavour to make her as happy as she, and she only, could make him. to this proposal, which was in form of a letter, colonel mordaunt did not receive an immediate answer; nor was it at first likely that he should ever receive an answer to it at all, as adeline was at the moment of its arrival confined to her bed, according to her expectations, with the disease which she had been but too fearful of imbibing: while the half-distracted mulatto was forced to give up to others the care of the sickening editha, to watch over the delirious and unconscious adeline. but the tawny boy's generous benefactress gave him leave to remain at adeline's lodgings, in order to calm his fears for editha, and assist in amusing and keeping her quiet; and if attention had any share in preserving the life and beauty of editha, it was to the affectionate tawny boy that she owed them; and he was soon rewarded for all his care and anxiety by seeing his little charge able to play about as usual. colonel mordaunt and the mulatto meanwhile did not obtain so speedy a termination to their anxieties: adeline's recovery was for a long time a matter of doubt; and her weakness so great after the crisis of the disorder was past, that none ventured to pronounce her, even then, out of danger. but at length she was in a great measure restored to health, and able to determine what line of conduct it was necessary for her to pursue.--to return an answer to colonel mordaunt's proposals was certainly her first business; but as she felt that the situation in which he had once known her made his offer less affronting than it would have been under other circumstances, she resolved to speak to him on the subject with gentleness, not severity; especially as during her illness, to amuse the anxiety that had preyed upon him, he had taken every possible step to procure evidence of the marriage, and gave into savanna's hands, the first day that he was permitted to see her, an attested certificate of it. chapter xxi the first question which adeline asked on her recovery was, whether any letter had come by the general-post during her illness; and savanna gave one to her immediately. it was the letter so ardently desired; for the direction was in her mother's hand-writing! and she opened it full of eager expectation, while her whole existence seemed to depend on the nature of its contents. what then must have been her agony on finding that the _enveloppe_ contained nothing but her own letter returned! for some time she spoke not, she breathed not; while savanna mixed with expressions of terror, at sight of her mistress's distress, poured execrations on the unnatural parent who had so cruelly occasioned it. after a few days' incessant struggle to overcome the violence of her sorrow, adeline recovered the shock, in appearance at least: yet to savanna's self-congratulations she could not help answering (laying her hand on her heart) 'the blow is here, savanna, and the wound incurable.' soon after she thought herself well enough to see colonel mordaunt, and to thank him for the recent proof of his attention to her and her interest. but no obligation, however great, could shut the now vigilant eyes of adeline to the impropriety of receiving further visits from him, or to the guilt of welcoming to her house a man who made open professions to her of illicit love. she however thought it her duty to see him once more, in order to try to reconcile him to the necessity of the rule of conduct which she was going to lay down for herself; nor was she without hope that the yet recent traces of the disease, to which she had so nearly fallen a victim, would make her appearance so unpleasing to the eyes of her lover, that he would be very willing to absent himself from the house, for some time at least, and probably give up all thoughts of her. but she did neither herself nor colonel mordaunt justice.--she was formed to inspire a real and lasting passion--a passion that no external change could destroy--since it was founded on the unchanging qualities of the heart and mind: and colonel mordaunt felt for her such an attachment in all its force. he had always admired the attractive person and winning graces of adeline, and felt for her what he denominated love; but that rational though enthusiastic preference, which is deserving of the name of true love, he never felt till he had had an opportunity to appreciate justly the real character of adeline: still there were times when he felt almost gratified to reflect that she could not legally be his; for, whatever might have been the cause and excuse of her errors, she had erred, and the delicacy of his mind revolted at the idea of marrying the mistress of another. but when he saw and heard adeline, this repugnance vanished; and he knew that, could he at those moments lead her to the altar, he should not have hesitated to bind himself to her for ever by the sacred ties which the early errors of her judgment had made her even in his opinion almost unworthy to form. at length a day was fixed for his interview with adeline, and with a beating heart he entered the apartment; nor was his emotion diminished when he beheld not only the usual vestiges of her complaint, but symptoms of debility, and a death-like meagreness of aspect, which made him fear that though one malady was conquered, another, even more dangerous, remained. the idea overcame him; and he was forced to turn to the window to hide his emotion: and his manner was so indicative of ardent yet respectful attachment, that adeline began to feel in spite of herself that her projected task was difficult of execution. for some minutes neither of them spoke: mordaunt held the hand which she gave him to his heart, kissed it as she withdrew it, and again turned away his head to conceal a starting tear: while adeline was not sorry to have a few moments in which to recover herself, before she addressed him on the subject at that time nearest to the heart of both. at length she summoned resolution enough to say:-- 'much as i have been mortified and degraded, colonel mordaunt, by the letter which i have received from you, still i rejoice that i did receive it:--in the first place, i rejoice, because i look on all the sufferings and mortifications which i meet with as merciful chastisements, as expiations inflicted on me in mercy by the being whom i adore, for the sins of which i have been guilty; and, in the second place, because it gives me an opportunity of proving, incontrovertibly, my full conviction of the fallacy of my past opinions, and that i became a wife, after my idle declamations against marriage, from change of principle, on assurance of error, and not from interest, or necessity.' here she paused, overcome with the effort which she had made; and colonel mordaunt would have interrupted her, but, earnestly conjuring him to give her a patient hearing, she proceeded thus:-- 'had the change in my practice been the result of any thing but rational conviction, i should now, unfortunate as i have been in the choice of a husband, regret that ever i formed so foolish a tie, and perhaps be induced to enter into a less sacred connexion, from an idea that that state which forced me to drag out existence in hopeless misery was contrary to reason, justice, and the benefit of society; and that, the sooner its ties were dissolved, the better it would be for individual happiness and for the world at large.' 'and do you not think so?' cried colonel mordaunt; 'cannot your own individual experience convince you of it?' 'far from it,' replied adeline: 'and i bless god that it does not: for thence, and thence only, do i begin to be reconciled to myself. i have no doubt that there is a great deal of individual suffering in the marriage state, from a contrariety of temper and other causes; but i believe that the mass of happiness and virtue is certainly increased by it. individual suffering, therefore, is no argument for the abolition of marriage, than the accidental bursting of a musket would be for the total abolition of fire-arms.' 'but, surely, dear mrs berrendale, you would wish divorce to be made easier than it is?' 'by no means.' interrupted adeline, understanding what he was going to say: 'to bear and forbear i believe to be the grand secret of happiness, and that it ought to be the great study of life: therefore, whatever would enable married persons to separate on the slightest quarrel or disgust, would make it so much the less necessary for us to learn this important lesson; a lesson so needful in order to perfect the human character, that i believe the difficulty of divorce to be one of the greatest blessings of society.' 'what can have so completely changed your opinions on this subject?' replied colonel mordaunt. 'not my own experience,' returned adeline; 'for the painful situations in which i have been placed, i might attribute, not to the fallacy of the system on which i have acted, but to those existing prejudices in society which i wish to see destroyed.' 'then, to what else is the change in your sentiments to be attributed?' 'to a more serious, unimpassioned, and unprejudiced view of the subject than i had before taken: at present i am not equal to expatiate on matters so important: however, some time or other, perhaps, i may make known to you my sentiments on them in a more ample manner: but i have, i trust, said enough to lead you to conclude, that though mr berrendale's conduct to me has been atrocious, and that you are in many respects entitled to my gratitude and thanks, you and i must henceforward be strangers to each other.' colonel mordaunt, little expecting such a total overthrow to his hopes, was, on receiving it, choked with contending emotions; and his broken sentences and pale cheek were sufficiently expressive of the distress which he endured. but i shall not enter into a detail of all he urged in favour of his passion; nor the calm, dignified, manner in which adeline replied. suffice that, at last, from a sort of intuitive knowledge of the human heart, as it were, which persons of quick talent and sensibilities possess however defective their experience, adeline resolved to try to soothe the self-love which she had wounded, knowing that self-love is scarcely to be distinguished in its effects from love itself; and that the agony of disappointed passion is always greater when it is inflicted by the coldness or falsehood of the beloved object, than when it proceeds from parental prohibition, or the cruel separation enjoined by conscious poverty. she therefore told colonel mordaunt that he was once very near being the first choice of her heart: when she first saw him, she said, his person, and manners, and attentions, had so strongly prepossessed her in his favour, that he himself, by ceasing to see and converse with her, could alone have saved her from the pain of a hopeless attachment. 'in pity, spare me,' cried mordaunt, 'the contemplation of the happiness i might have enjoyed!' 'but you know you were not a marrying-man, as it is called; and forgive me if i say, that men who can on system suppress the best feelings of their nature, and prefer a course of libertine indulgence to a virtuous connexion, at that time of life when they might become happy husbands and fathers, with the reasonable expectation of living to see their children grown up to manhood, and superintending their education themselves--such men, colonel mordaunt, deserve, in the decline of life, to feel that regret and that self-condemnation which you this moment anticipate.' 'true--too true!' replied the colonel; 'but, for mercy's sake, torture me no more.' 'i would not probe where i did not intend to make a cure,' replied adeline. 'a cure!--what mean you!' 'i mean to induce you, ere it be yet too late, to endeavour to form a virtuous attachment, and to unite yourself for life with some amiable young woman who will make you as happy as i would have endeavoured to make you, had it been my fortunate lot to be yours: for, believe me, colonel mordaunt,' and her voice faltered as she said it, 'had _he_, whom i still continue to love with unabated tenderness, though years have elapsed since he was taken from me,--had he bequeathed me to you on his death-bed, the reluctance with which i went to the altar would have been more easily overcome.' saying this, she suddenly left the room, leaving colonel mordaunt surprised, gratified, and his mind struggling between hopes and fears; for adeline was not conscious that she imparted hope as well as consolation by the method which she pursued; and though she sent savanna to tell the colonel she could see him no more that evening, he departed in firm expectation that adeline would not have resolution to forbid him to see her again. in this, however, he was mistaken; adeline had learnt the best of all lessons, distrust of her own strength:--and she resolved to put it out of her power to receive visits which a regard to propriety forbade, and which might injure her reputation, if not her peace of mind. therefore, as soon as colonel mordaunt was gone, she summoned savanna, and desired her to proceed to business. 'what!' cried the delighted mulatto, 'are we going to prosecu massa?' 'no,' replied adeline, 'we are going into the country: i am come to a determination to take no legal steps in this affair, but leave mr berrendale to the reproaches of his own conscience.' 'a fiddle's end!' replied savanna, 'he have no conscience, or he no leave you: better get him hang, if you can; den you marry de colonel.' 'i had better hang the father of my child, had i, savanna?' 'oh! no, no, no, no,--me forget dat.' 'but i do not, nor can i even bear to disgrace the father of editha: therefore, trusting that i can dispose of her, and secure her interest better than by forcing her father to do her justice, and bastardize the poor innocent whom his wife will soon bring into the world, i am going to bury myself in retirement, and live the short remainder of my days unknowing and unknown.' chapter xxii savanna was going to remonstrate, but the words 'short remainder of my days' distressed her so much, that tears choked her words; and she obeyed in silence her mistress's orders to pack up, except when she indulged in a few exclamations against her lady's cruelty in going away without taking leave of colonel mordaunt, who, sweet gentleman, would break his heart at her departure, especially as he was not to know whither she was going. a postchaise was at the door the next morning at six o'clock; and as adeline had not much luggage, having left the chief part of her furniture to be divided between the mistresses of her two lodgings, in return for their kind attention to her and her child, she took an affectionate leave of her landlady, and desired the post-boy to drive a mile on the road before him: and when he had done so, she ordered him to go on to barnet; while the disappointed mulatto thanked god that the tawny boy was gone to scotland with his protectress, as it prevented her having the mortification of leaving him behind her, as well as the colonel.--'o had i such a lover,' cried she, (her eyes filling with tears,) 'me never leave him, nor he me!' and for the first time she thought her angel-lady hard-hearted. for some miles they proceeded in silence, for adeline was too much engrossed to speak; and the little editha, being fast asleep in the mulatto's arms, did not draw her mother out of the reverie into which she had fallen. 'and where now?' said the mulatto, when the chaise stopped. 'to the next stage on the high north road.' and on they went again; nor did they stop, except for refreshments, till they had travelled thirty miles; when adeline, worn out with fatigue, staid all night at the inn where the chaise stopped, and the next morning they resumed their journey, but not their silence. the mulatto could no longer restrain her curiosity; and she begged to know whither they were going, and why they were to be buried in the country? adeline, sighing deeply, answered, that they were going to live in cumberland; and then sunk into silence again, as she could not give the mulatto her true reasons for the plan that she was pursuing without wounding her affectionate heart in a manner wholly incurable. the truth was, that adeline supposed herself to be declining: she thought that she experienced those dreadful languors, those sensations of internal weakness, which, however veiled to the eye of the observer, speak in forcible language to the heart of the conscious sufferer. indeed, adeline had long struggled, but in vain, against feelings of a most overwhelming nature; amongst which, remorse and horror, for having led by her example and precepts an innocent girl into a life of infamy, were the most painfully predominant: for, believing mary warner's assertion when she saw her at mr langley's chambers, she looked upon that unhappy girl's guilt as the consequence of her own; and mourned, incessantly mourned, over the fatal errors of her early judgment, which had made her, though an idolater of virtue, a practical assistant to the cause of vice. when adeline imagined the term of her existence to be drawing nigh, her mother, her obdurate but still dear mother, regained her wonted ascendancy over her affections; and to her, the approach of death seemed fraught with satisfaction. for that parent, so long, so repeatedly deaf to her prayers, and to the detail of those sufferings which she had made one of the conditions of her forgiveness, had promised to see and to forgive her on her _death-bed_; and her heart yearned, fondly yearned, for the moment when she should be pressed to the bosom of a relenting parent. to cumberland, therefore, she was resolved to hasten, and into the very neighbourhood of mrs mowbray; while, as the chaise wheeled them along to the place of their destination, even the prattle of her child could not always withdraw her from the abstraction into which she was plunged, as the scenes of her early years thronged upon her memory, and with them the recollection of those proofs of a mother's fondness, for a renewal of which, even in the society of glenmurray, she had constantly and despondingly sighed. as they approached penrith, her emotion redoubled, and she involuntarily exclaimed--'cruel, but still dear, mother, you little think your child is so near!' 'heaven save me!' cried savanna; 'are we to go and be near dat woman?' 'yes,' replied adeline. 'did she not say she would forgive me on my death-bed?' 'but you not there yet, dear missess,' sobbed savanna; 'you not there of long years!' 'savanna,' returned adeline, 'i should die contented to purchase my mother's blessing and forgiveness.' savanna, speechless with contending emotions, could not express by words the feeling of mixed sorrow and indignation which overwhelmed her; but she replied by putting editha in adeline's arms; then articulating with effort, 'look there!' she sobbed aloud. 'i understand you,' said adeline, kissing away the tears gathering in editha's eyes, at sight of savanna's distress: 'but perhaps i think my death would be of more service to my child than my life.' 'and to me too, i suppose,' replied savanna reproachfully. 'well,--me go to scotland; for no one love me but the tawny boy.' 'you will stay and close my eyes first, i hope!' observed adeline mournfully. in a moment savanna's resentment vanished. 'me will live and die vid you,' she replied, her tears redoubling, while adeline again sunk into thoughtful silence. as soon as they reached penrith, adeline inquired for lodgings out of the town, on that side nearest to her mother's abode; and was so fortunate, as she esteemed herself, to procure two apartments at a small house within two miles of mrs mowbray's. 'then i breathe once more the same air with my mother!' exclaimed adeline as she took possession of her lodging. 'savanna, methinks i breathe freer already!' 'me more choked,' replied the mulatto, and turned sullenly away. 'nay, i--i feel so much better, that to-morrow i will--i will take a walk,' said adeline hesitatingly. 'and where?' asked savanna eagerly. 'oh, to-night i shall only walk to bed,' replied adeline smiling; and with unusual cheerfulness she retired to rest. the next morning she arose early; and being informed that a stile near a peasant's cottage commanded a view of mrs mowbray's house, she hired a man and cart to convey her to the bottom of the hill, and with editha by her side she set out to indulge her feelings by gazing on the house which contained her mother. when they alighted, editha gaily endeavoured to climb the hill, and urged her mother to follow her; but adeline, rendered weak by illness and breathless by emotion, felt the ascent so difficult, that no motive less powerful than the one which actuated her could have enabled her to reach the summit. at length, however, she did reach it:--and the lawn before mrs mowbray's white house, her hay-fields, and the running stream at the bottom of it, burst in all their beauty on her view.--'and this is my mother's dwelling!' exclaimed adeline: 'and there was i born: and near here--' shall i die, she would have added, but her voice failed her. 'oh! what a pretty house and garden!' cried editha in the unformed accents of childhood;--'how i should like to live there!' this artless remark awakened a thousand mixed and overpowering feelings in the bosom of adeline; and, after a pause of strong emotion, she exclaimed, catching the little prattler to her heart--'you _shall_ live there, my child!--yes, yes, you _shall_ live there!' 'but when?' resumed editha. 'when i am in my grave,' answered adeline. 'and when shall you be there?' replied the unconscious child, fondly caressing her: 'pray, mamma--pray be there soon!' adeline turned away, unable to answer her. 'look--look, mamma!'--resumed editha: 'there are ladies.--oh! do let us go there now!--why can't we?' 'would to god we could!' replied adeline; as in one of the ladies she recognized mrs mowbray, and stood gazing on her till her eyes ached again: but what she felt on seeing her she will herself describe in the succeeding pages: and i shall only add, that, as soon as mrs mowbray returned into the house, adeline, wrapped in a long and mournful reverie, returned, full of a new plan, to her lodgings. there is no love so disinterested as parental love; and adeline had all the keen sensibilities of a parent. to make, therefore, 'assurance doubly sure' that mrs mowbray should receive and should love her orphan when she was no more, she resolved to give up the gratification to which she had looked forward, the hope, before she died, of obtaining her forgiveness--that she might not weaken, by directing any part of them to herself, those feelings of remorse, fruitless tenderness, and useless regret in her mother's bosom, which she wished should be concentrated on her child. 'no,' said adeline to herself, 'i am sure that she will not refuse to receive my orphan to her love and protection when i am no more, and am become alike insensible of reproaches and of blessings; and i think that she will love my child the more tenderly, because to me she will be unable to express the compunction which, sooner or later, she will feel from the recollection of her conduct towards me: therefore, i will make no demands on her love for myself; but, in a letter to be given her after my decease, bequeath my orphan to her care;'--and with this determination she returned from her ride. 'have you see her?' said savanna, running out to meet her. 'yes--but not spoken to her; nor shall i see her again.' 'what--i suppose she see you, and not speak?' 'oh, no; she did not see me, nor shall i urge her to see me: my plans are altered,' replied adeline. 'and we go back to town and colonel mordaunt?' 'no,' resumed adeline, sighing deeply, and preparing to write to mrs mowbray. but it is necessary that we should for a short time go back to berrendale, and relate that, while adeline and editha were confined with the small-pox, mr drury received a summons from his employer in jamaica to go over thither, to be intrusted with some particular business: in consequence of this he resolved to call again on adeline, and inquire whether she still persisted in styling herself mrs berrendale; as he concluded that berrendale would be very glad of all the information relative to her and her child which he could possibly procure, whether his curiosity on the subject proceeded from fear or love. it so happened, that as soon as editha, as well as her mother, was in the height of the disorder, mr drury called; and finding that they were both very bad, he thought that his friend berrendale was likely to get rid of both his encumbrances at once; and being eager to communicate good news to a man whose influence in the island might be a benefit to him, he every day called to inquire concerning their health. the second floor in the house where adeline lodged was then occupied by a young woman in indigent circumstances, who, as well as her child, had sickened with the distemper the very day that editha was inoculated: and when drury, just as he was setting off for portsmouth, ran to gain the latest intelligence of the invalids, a charwoman, who attended to the door, not being acquainted with the name of the poor young woman and her little girl, concluding that mr drury, by mrs berrendale and miss who were ill with the small-pox, meant them, replied to his inquiries,--'ah, poor things! it is all over with them, they died last night.' on which, not staying for any further intelligence, drury set off for portsmouth, and arrived at jamaica just as berrendale was going to remit to adeline a draft for a hundred pounds. for adeline and the injury which he had done her, had been for some days constantly present to his thoughts. he had been ill; and as indigestion, the cause of his complaints, is apt to occasion disturbed dreams, he had in his dreams been haunted by the image of glenmurray, who, with a threatening aspect, had reproached him with cruelty and base ingratitude to him, in deserting in such a manner the wife whom he had bequeathed to him. the constant recurrence of these dreams had depressed his spirits and excited his remorse so much, that he could calm his feelings in no other way than by writing a kind letter to adeline, and enclosing her a draft on his banker. this letter was on the point of being sent when drury arrived, and, with very little ceremony, informed him that adeline was dead. 'dead!' exclaimed berrendale, falling almost sensless on his couch: 'dead!--oh! for god's sake, tell me of what she died!--surely, surely, she--' here his voice failed him. drury coolly replied, that she and her child both died of the small-pox. 'but _when_? my dear fellow!--when? say that they died nine months ago' (that was previous to his marriage) 'and you make me your friend for life!' drury, so _bribed_, would have said _any thing_; and, with all the coolness possible, he replied, 'then be my friend for life:--they died rather better than nine months ago.' berrendale, being then convinced that bigamy was not likely to be proved against him, soon forgot, in the joy which this thought occasioned him, remorse for his conduct to adeline, and regret for her early fate: besides, he concluded that he saved £ by the means; for he knew not that the delicate mind of adeline would have scorned to owe pecuniary obligations to the husband who had basely and unwarrantably deserted her. but he was soon undeceived on this subject, by a letter which colonel mordaunt wrote in confidence to a friend in jamaica, begging him to inquire concerning mr berrendale's second marriage; and to inform him privately that his injured wife had zealous and powerful friends in england, who were continually urging her to prosecute him for bigamy. this intelligence had a fatal effect on the health of berrendale; for though the violent temper and overbearing disposition of his second wife had often made him regret the gentle and compliant adeline, and a separation from her, consequently, would be a blessing, still he feared to encounter the disgrace of a prosecution, and still more the anger of his west indian wife; who, it was not improbable, might even attack his life in the first moment of ungoverned passion. and to these fears he soon fell a sacrifice; for a frame debilitated by intemperance could not support the assaults made on it by the continued apprehensions which colonel mordaunt's friend had excited in him; and he died in that gentleman's presence, whom in his last moments he had summoned to his apartment to witness a will, by which he owned adeline mowbray to be his lawful wife, and left editha, his acknowledged and only heir, a very considerable fortune. but this circumstance, an account of which, with the will, was transmitted to colonel mordaunt, did not take place till long after adeline took up her abode in cumberland. chapter xxiii but to return to colonel mordaunt. though adeline had said that he must discontinue his visits, he resolved to disobey her; and the next morning, as soon as he thought she had breakfasted, he repaired to her lodgings; where he heard, with mixed sorrow and indignation, that she had set off in a post-chaise at six o'clock, and was gone no one knew whither. 'but, surely she has left some note or message for me!' exclaimed colonel mordaunt. 'neither the one nor the other,' was the answer; and he returned home in no very enviable state of mind. various, indeed, and contradictory were his feelings: yet still affection was uppermost; and he could not but respect in adeline the conduct which drove him to despair. nor was self-love backward to suggest to him, that had not adeline felt his presence and attentions to be dangerous, she would not so suddenly have withdrawn from them; and this idea was the only one on which he could at all bear to dwell: for, when he reflected that day after day might pass without his either seeing or hearing from her, existence seemed to become suddenly a burthen, and he wandered from place to place with joyless and unceasing restlessness. at one time he resolved to pursue her; but the next, piqued at not having received from her even a note of farewell, he determined to endeavour to forget her: and this was certainly the wiser plan of the two: but the succeeding moment he determined to let a week pass, in hopes of receiving a letter from her, and, in case he did not, to set off in search of her, being assured of succeeding in his search of her, because the singularity of savanna's appearance, and the traces of the small-pox visible in the face of adeline, made them liable to be observed, and easy for him to describe. but before the week elapsed, from agitation of mind, and from having exposed himself unnecessarily to cold, by lying on damp grass at midnight, after having heated himself by immoderate walking, colonel mordaunt became ill of a fever; and when, after a confinement of several weeks, he was restored to health, he despaired of being able to learn tidings of the fugitives; and disappointed and dejected, he sought in the gayest scenes of the metropolis and its environs to drown the remembrances, from which in solitude he had vainly endeavoured to fly. at this time a faded but attractive woman of quality, with whom he had formerly been intimate, returned from abroad, and, meeting colonel mordaunt at the house of a mutual friend, endeavoured to revive in him his former attachment: but it was a difficult task for a woman, who had never been able to touch the heart, to excite an attachment in a man already sentimentally devoted to another. her advances, however, flattered colonel mordaunt, and her society amused him, till, at length, their intimacy was renewed on its former footing: but soon tired of his mistress, and displeased with himself, he took an abrupt leave of her, and throwing himself into his post-chaise, retired to the seat of a relation in herefordshire. near this gentleman's house lived mr maynard and his two sisters, who had taken up their abode there immediately on their return from portugal. major douglas, his wife, and emma douglas, were then on a visit to them. mordaunt had known major douglas in early life; and as soon as he found that he was in the neighbourhood, he rode over to renew his acquaintance with him; and received so cordial a welcome, not only from the major, but the master of the house and his sisters, that he was strongly induced to repeat his visits, and not a day passed in which he was not, during some part of it, a guest at mr maynard's. mrs wallington and miss maynard, indeed, received him with such pointed marks of distinction and preference, as to make it visible to every observer that it was not as a friend only they were desirous of considering colonel mordaunt; while, by spiteful looks and acrimonious remarks directed to each other, the sisters expressed the jealousy which rankled in their hearts, whenever he seemed by design or inadvertency to make one of them the particular object of his attention. of emma douglas's chance for his favour, they were not at all fearful:--they thought her too plain, and too unattractive, to be capable of rivalling them; especially in the favour of an officer, a man of fashion; and therefore they beheld without emotion the attention which colonel mordaunt paid to her whenever she spoke, and the deference which he evidently felt for her opinion, as her remarks on whatever subject she conversed were formed always to interest, and often to instruct. one evening, while major douglas was amusing himself in looking over some magazines which had lately been bound up together, and had not yet been deposited in mr maynard's library, he suddenly started, laid down the book, and turning to the window, with an exclamation of--'poor fellow!'--passed his hand across his eyes, as if meaning to disperse an involuntary tear. 'what makes you exclaim "poor fellow?"' asked his lovely wife: 'have you met with an affecting story in those magazines?' 'no, louisa,' replied he, 'but i met in the obituary with a confirmation of the death of an old friend, which i suspected must have happened by this time, though i never knew it before; i see by this magazine that poor glenmurray died a very few months after we saw him at perpignan.' 'poor fellow!' exclaimed mrs douglas. 'i wish i knew what is become of his interesting companion, miss mowbray,' said emma douglas. 'i wish i did too,' secretly sighed colonel mordaunt: but his heart palpitated so violently at this unexpected mention of the woman for whom he still pined in secret, that he had not resolution to say that he knew her. 'become of her!' cried miss maynard sneeringly: 'you need not wonder, i think, what her fate is: no doubt mr glenmurray's _interesting companion_ has not lost her companionable qualities, and is a companion still.' 'yes,' observed mrs wallington; 'or, rather, i dare say that angel of purity is gone upon the town.' it was the dark hour, else colonel mordaunt's agitation, on hearing these gross and unjust remarks, must have betrayed his secret to every eye; while indignation now impeded his utterance as much as confusion had done before. 'surely, surely,' cried the kind and candid emma douglas, 'i must grossly have mistaken miss mowbray's character, if she was capable of the conduct which you attribute to her!' 'my dear creature!' replied mrs wallington, 'how should you know any thing of her character, when it was gone long before you knew her?--_character_, indeed! you remind me of my brother--mr davenport,' continued she to a gentleman present, 'did you ever hear the story of my brother and an angel of purity whom he met with abroad?' 'no--never.' 'be quiet,' said maynard; 'i will not be laughed at.' however, mrs wallington and miss maynard, who had not yet forgiven the deep impression which adeline's graces had made on their brother, insisted on telling the story; to which colonel mordaunt listened with eager and anxious curiosity. it received all the embellishments which female malice could give it; and if it amused any one, certainly that person was neither mordaunt, nor emma douglas, nor her gentle sister. 'but how fortunate it was,' added miss maynard, 'that we were not with my brother! as we should unavoidably have walked and talked with this angel.' mordaunt longed to say, 'i think the good fortune was all on miss mowbray's side.' but adeline and her cause were in good hands: emma douglas stood forth as her champion.--'we feel very differently on that subject,' she replied. 'i shall ever regret, not that i saw and conversed with miss mowbray, but that i did not see and converse with her again and again.' at this moment emma was standing by colonel mordaunt, who involuntarily caught her hand and pressed it eagerly; but tried to disguise his motives by suddenly seating her in a chair behind her, saying, 'you had better sit down; i am sure you must be tired with standing so long.' 'no; really, emma,' cried major douglas, 'you go too far there; though to be sure, if by seeing and conversing with miss mowbray you could have convinced her of her errors, i should not have objected to your seeing her once more or so.' 'surely,' said mrs douglas timidly, 'we ought, my love, to have repeated our visits till we had made a convert of her.' 'a _convert_ of her!' exclaimed mr maynard's sisters, 'a convert of a kept mistress!' bursting into a violent laugh, which had a most painful effect on the irritable nerves of colonel mordaunt, whose tongue, parched with emotion, cleaved to the roof of his mouth whenever he attempted to speak. 'pray, to what other circumstance, yet untold, do you allude?' said mr davenport. 'oh, we too had a rencontre with the philosopher and his charming friend,' said major douglas, 'and--but, emma, do you tell the story.--'sdeath!--poor fellow!--well, but we parted good friends,' added the kind-hearted caledonian, dispersing a tear; while emma, in simple but impressive language, related all that passed at perpignan between themselves, adeline, and glenmurray; and concluded with saying, that, 'from the almost idolatrous respect with which glenmurray spoke and apparently thought of adeline, and from the account of her conduct and its motives, which he so fully detailed, she was convinced that, so far from being influenced by depravity in connecting herself with glenmurray, adeline was the victim of a romantic, absurd, and false conception of virtue; and she should have thought it her duty to have endeavoured, assisted by her sister, to have prevailed on her to renounce her opinions, and, by becoming the wife of glenmurray, to restore to the society of her own sex, a woman formed to be its ornament and its example. 'poor thing!' she added in a faltering voice, 'would that i knew her fate!' 'i can guess it, i tell you,' said mrs wallington. 'we had better drop the subject, madam,' replied emma douglas indignantly, 'as it is one that we shall never agree upon. if i supposed miss mowbray happy, i should feel for her, and feel interest sufficient in her fate to make me combat your prejudices concerning her; but now that she is perhaps afflicted, poor, friendless, and scorned, though unjustly, by every "virtuous she that knows her story," i cannot command my feelings when she is named with sarcastic respect, nor can i bear to hear an unhappy woman supposed to be plunged in the lowest depths of vice, whom i, on the contrary, believe to be at this moment atoning for the error of her judgment by a life of lonely penitence, or sunk perhaps already in the grave, the victim of a broken heart.' colonel mordaunt, affected and delighted, hung on emma douglas's words with breathless attention, resolving when she had ended her narration to begin his, and clear adeline from the calumnies of mrs wallington and miss maynard: but after articulating with some difficulty--'ladies,--i --miss douglas,--i--' he found that his feelings would not allow him to proceed: therefore, suddenly raising emma's hand to his lips, imprinted on it a kiss, at once fervent and respectful, and, making a hasty bow, ran out of the house. every one was astonished; but none so much as emma douglas. 'why, emma!' cried the major, 'who should have thought it? i verily believe you have turned mordaunt's head;--i protest that he kissed your hand:--i suppose he will be here to-morrow, making proposals in form.' 'i wish he may!' exclaimed mrs douglas. 'it is not very likely, i think,' cried miss maynard. mrs wallington said nothing; but she fanned herself violently. 'how do you know that?' said maynard. 'he kissed your hand very tenderly--did he not, miss douglas? and took advantage of the dark hour: that looks very lover-like.' emma douglas, who, in spite of her reason, was both embarrassed and flattered by colonel mordaunt's unexpected mode of taking leave, said not a word; but mrs wallington, in a voice hoarse with angry emotion, cried: 'it was very free in him, i think, and very unlike colonel mordaunt; for he was not a sort of man to take liberties but where he met with encouragement.' 'then i am sure he would be free with you, sister, sometimes,' sarcastically observed miss maynard. 'nay, with both of you, i think,' replied maynard, who had not forgiven the laugh at his expense which they had tried to excite; on which an angry dialogue took place between the brother and sisters: and the douglases, disgusted and provoked, retired to their apartment. 'there was something very strange and uncommon,' said mrs douglas, detaining emma in her dressing-room, 'in colonel mordaunt's behaviour--do you not think so, emma?--if it should have any meaning!' 'meaning!' cried the major: 'what meaning should it have? why, my dear, do you think mordaunt never kissed a woman's hand before?' 'but it was so _particular_.--well, emma, if it should lead to consequences!' 'consequences!' cried the major: 'my dear girl, what can you mean?' 'why, if he should _really love_ our emma?' 'why then i hope our emma will love him.--what say you, emma?' 'i say?--i--' she replied: 'really i never thought it possible that colonel mordaunt should have any thoughts of me, nor do i now;--but it is very strange that he should kiss my hand!' the major could not help laughing at the _naiveté_ of this reply, and in a mutual whisper they agreed how much they wished to see their sister so happily disposed of; while emma paced up and down her own apartment some time before she undressed herself; and after seeming to convince herself, by recollecting all colonel mordaunt's conduct towards her, that he could not possibly _mean_ any thing by his unusual adieu, she went to sleep, exclaiming, 'but it is very strange that he should kiss my hand!' chapter xxiv the next morning explained the mystery: for breakfast was scarcely over, when colonel mordaunt appeared; and his presence occasioned a blush, from different causes, on the cheeks of all the ladies, and a smile on the countenances of both the gentlemen. 'you left us very abruptly last night,' said major douglas. 'i did so,' replied mordaunt with a sort of grave smile. 'were you taken ill?' asked maynard. 'i--i was not quite easy,' answered he: 'but, miss douglas, may i request the honour of seeing you alone for a few minutes?' again the ladies blushed, and the gentlemen smiled. but emma's weakness had been temporary: she had convinced herself that colonel mordaunt's action had been nothing more than a tribute to what he fancied her generous defence of an unfortunate woman: and with an air of embarrassed dignity she gave him her hand to lead her into an adjoining apartment. 'this is very good of you,' cried colonel mordaunt: 'but you are all goodness!--my dear miss douglas, had i not gone away as i did last night, i believe i should have fallen down and worshipped you, or committed some other extravagance.' 'indeed!--what could i say to excite such enthusiasm!' replied emma deeply blushing. 'what!--oh, miss douglas!'--then after a few more ohs, and other exclamations, he related to her the whole progress of his acquaintance with an attachment to adeline, adding as he concluded, 'now then judge what feelings you must have excited in my bosom:--yes, miss douglas, i reverenced you before for your own sake, i now adore you for that of my lost adeline.' 'so!' thought emma, 'the kiss of the hand is explained,'--and she sighed as she thought it; nor did she much like the word _reverenced_: but she had ample amends for her mortification by what followed. 'really,' cried colonel mordaunt, gazing very earnestly at her, 'i do not mean to flatter you, but there is something in your countenance that reminds me very strongly of adeline.' 'is it possible?' said emma, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling as she spoke: 'you may not mean to flatter me, but i assure you i am flattered; for i never saw any woman whom in appearance i so much wished to resemble.' 'you do resemble her indeed,' cried colonel mordaunt, 'and the likeness grows stronger and stronger.' emma blushed deeper and deeper. 'but come,' exclaimed he, 'let us go; and i will--no, _you_ shall--relate to the party in the next room what i have been telling you, for i long to shame those d--' 'fye!' said emma smiling, and holding up her hand as if to stop the coming word. and she did stop it; for colonel mordaunt conveyed the reproving hand to his lips; and emma said to herself, as she half frowning withdrew it, 'i am glad my brother was not present.' their return to the breakfast-room was welcome to every one, from different causes, as colonel mordaunt's motives for requesting a tête-à-tête had given rise to various conjectures. but all conjecture was soon lost in certainty: for emma douglas, with more than usual animation of voice and countenance, related what colonel mordaunt had authorized her to relate; and the envious sisters heard, with increased resentment, that adeline, were she unmarried, would be the choice of the man whose affections they were eagerly endeavouring to captivate. 'you can't think,' said colonel mordaunt, when emma had concluded, leaving him charmed with the manner in which she had told his story, and with the generous triumph which sparkled in her eyes at being able to exhibit adeline's character in so favourable a point of view, 'you can't think how much miss douglas reminds me of mrs berrendale!' 'lord!' said miss maynard with a toss of the head, 'my brother told us that she was handsome!' 'and so she is,' replied the colonel, provoked at this brutal speech: 'she has one of the finest countenances that i ever saw,--a countenance never distorted by those feelings of envy, and expressions of spite, which so often disfigure some women,--converting even a beauty into a fiend; and in this respect no one will doubt that miss douglas resembles her: 'what's female beauty--but an air divine, thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine?' says one of our first poets: therefore, in dr young's opinion, madam,' continued mordaunt, turning to emma, 'you would have been a perfect beauty.' this speech, so truly gratifying to the amiable girl to whom it was addressed, was a dagger in the heart of both the sisters. nor was emma's pleasure unalloyed by pain; for she feared that mordaunt's attentions might become dangerous to her peace of mind, as she could not disguise to herself, that his visits at mr maynard's had been the chief cause of her reluctance to return to scotland whenever their journey home was mentioned. for, always humble in her ideas of her own charms, emma douglas could not believe that mordaunt would ever entertain any feeling for her at all resembling love, except when he fancied that she looked like adeline. but however unlikely it seemed that mordaunt should become attached to her, and however resolved she was to avoid his society, certain it is that he soon found he could be happy in the society of no other woman, since to no other could he talk on the subject nearest his heart; and emma, though blaming herself daily for her temerity, could not refuse to receive mordaunt's visits: and her patient attention to his conversation, of which adeline was commonly the theme, seemed to have a salutary effect on his wounded feelings. but the time for their departure arrived, much to the joy of mrs wallington and her sister, who hoped when emma was gone to have a chance of being noticed by mordaunt. what then must have been their confusion and disappointment, when colonel mordaunt begged to be allowed to attend the douglases on their journey home, as he had never seen the highlands, and wished to see them in such good company! major douglas and his charming wife gave a glad consent to this proposal: but emma douglas heard it with more alarm than pleasure; for, though her heart rejoiced at it, her reason condemned it. a few days, however, convinced her apprehensive delicacy, that, if she loved colonel mordaunt, it was not without hope of a return. colonel mordaunt declared that every day seemed to increase her resemblance to adeline in expression and manner; and in conduct his reason told him that she was her superior; nor could he for a moment hesitate to prefer as a wife, emma douglas who had never erred, to adeline who had. colonel mordaunt felt, to borrow the words of a celebrated female writer,[ ] that 'though it is possible to love and esteem a woman who has expiated the faults of her youth by a sincere repentance; and though before god and man her errors may be obliterated; still there exists one being in whose eyes she can never hope to efface them, and that is her lover or her husband.' he felt that no man of acute sensibility can be happy with a woman whose recollections are not pure: she must necessarily be jealous of the opinion which he entertains of her; and he must be often afraid of speaking, lest he utter a sentiment that may wound and mortify her. besides, he was, on just grounds, more desirous of marrying a woman whom he 'admired, than one whom he forgave;' and therefore, while he addressed emma, he no longer regretted adeline. : madame de stael, _recueil de morceaux détachés_, page . in short, he at length ceased to talk of emma's resemblance to adeline, but seemed to admire her wholly for her own sake; and having avowed his attachment, and been assured of emma's in return, by major douglas, he came back to england in the ensuing autumn, the happy husband of one of the best of women. chapter xxv we left adeline preparing to address mrs mowbray and recommend her child to her protection:--but being deeply impressed with the importance of the task which she was about to undertake, she timidly put it off from day to day; and having convinced herself that it was her duty to endeavour to excite her husband to repentance, and make him acknowledge editha as his legitimate child, she determined to write to him before she addressed her mother, and also to bid a last farewell to colonel mordaunt, whose respectful attachment had soothed some of the pangs which consciousness of her past follies had inflicted, and whose active friendship deserved her warmest acknowledgment. little did she think the fatal effect which one instance of his friendly zeal in her cause had had on berrendale; unconscious was she that the husband, whose neglect she believed to be intentional, great as were his crimes against her, was not guilty of the additional crime of suffering her to pine in poverty without making a single inquiry concerning her, but was convinced that both she and her child were no longer in existence. in her letter to him, she conjured him by the love which he _always_ bore glenmurray, by the love he _once_ bore her, and by the remorse which he would sooner or later feel for his conduct towards her and her child, to acknowledge editha to be his lawful heir, but to suffer her to remain under that protection to which she meant to bequeath her; and on these conditions she left him her blessing and her pardon. the letter to colonel mordaunt was long, and perhaps diffuse: but adeline was jealous of his esteem, though regardless of his love; and as he had known her while acting under the influence of a fatal error of opinion, she wished to show him that on conviction she had abandoned her former way of thinking, and was candid enough to own that she had been wrong. 'you, no doubt,' she said, 'are well acquainted with the arguments urged by different writers in favour of marriage. i shall therefore only mention the argument which carried at length full conviction to _my_ mind, and conquered even my deep and heartfelt reverence for the opinions of one who long was, and ever will be, the dearest object of my love and regret. but _he_, had he lived, would i am sure have altered his sentiments; and had he been a parent, the argument i allude to, as it is founded on a consideration of the interest of children, would have found its way to his reason, through his affections. 'it is evident that on the education given to children must depend the welfare of the community; and, consequently, that whatever is likely to induce parents to neglect the education of their children must be _hurtful_ to the welfare of the community. it is also certain, that though the agency of the _passions_ be necessary to the existence of all society, it is on the cultivation and influence of the _affections_ that the happiness and improvement of social life depend. 'hence it follows that marriage must be more beneficial to society in its consequences, than connexions capable of being dissolved at pleasure; because it has a tendency to call forth and exercise the affections, and control the passions. it has been said, that, were we free to dissolve at will a connexion formed by love, we should not wish to do it, as constancy is natural to us, and there is in all of us a tendency to form an exclusive attachment. but though i believe, from my own experience, that the few are capable of unforced constancy, and could love for life one dear and honoured object, still i believe that the many are given to the love of change;--that, in men especially, a new object can excite new passion; and, judging from the increasing depravity of both sexes, in spite of existing laws, and in defiance of shame,--i am convinced, that if the ties of marriage were dissolved, or it were no longer to be judged infamous to act in contempt of them, unbridled licentiousness would soon be in general practice. what, then, in such a state of society, would be the fate of the children born in it?--what would their education be? parents continually engrossed in the enervating but delightful egotism of a new and happy love, lost in selfish indulgence, the passions awake, but the affections slumbering, and the sacred ties of parental feeling not having time nor opportunity to fasten on the heart,--their offspring would either die the victims of neglect, and the very existence of the human race be threatened; or, without morals or instruction, they would grow up to scourge the world by their vices, till the whole fabric of civilized society was gradually destroyed. 'on this ground, therefore, this strong ground, i venture to build my present opinion, that marriage is a wise and ought to be a sacred institution; and i bitterly regret the hour when, with the hasty and immature judgment of eighteen, and with a degree of presumption scarcely pardonable at any time of life, i dared to think and act contrary to this opinion and the reverend experience of ages, and became in the eyes of the world an example of vice, when i believed myself the champion of virtue.' she then went on to express the following sentiments. 'you will think, perhaps, that i ought to struggle against the weakness which is hurrying me to the grave, and live for the sake of my child.--alas! it is for her sake that i most wish to die. 'there are two ways in which a mother can be of use to her daughter: the one is by instilling into her mind virtuous principles, and by setting her a virtuous example: the other is, by being to her in her own person an awful warning, a melancholy proof of the dangers which attend a deviation from the path of virtue. but, oh! how jealous must a mother be of her child's esteem and veneration! and how could she bear to humble herself in the eyes of the beloved object, by avowing that she had committed crimes against society, however atoned for by penitence and sorrow! i can never, now, be a correct example for my editha, nor could i endure to live to be a warning to her.--nay, if i lived, i should be most probably a dangerous example to her; for i should be (on my death-bed i think i may be allowed the boast) respected and esteemed; while the society around me would forget my past errors, in the sincerity of my repentance. 'if then a strong temptation should assail my child, might she not yield to it from an idea that "one false step may be retrieved," and cite her mother as an example of this truth? while, unconscious of the many secret heart-aches of that repentant mother, unconscious of the sorrows and degradations she had experienced, she regarded nothing but the present respectability of her mother's life, and contented herself with hoping one day to resemble her. 'believe me, that were it possible for me to choose between life and death, for my child's sake, the choice would be the latter. now, when she shall see in my mournful and eventful history, written as it has been by me in moments of melancholy leisure, that all my sorrows were consequent on one presumptuous error of judgment in early youth, and shall see a long and minute detail of the secret agonies which i have endured, those agonies wearing away my existence, and ultimately hurrying me to an untimely grave; she will learn that the woman who feels justly, yet has been led even into the practice of vice, however she may be forgiven by others, can never forgive herself; and though she may dare to lift an eye of hope to that being who promises pardon on repentance, she will still recollect with anguish the fair and glorious course which she might have run: and that, instead of humbly imploring forbearance and forgiveness, she might have demanded universal respect and esteem. 'true it is, that i did not act in defiance of the world's opinion, from any depraved feeling, or vicious inclinations: but the world could not be expected to believe this, since motives are known only to our own hearts, and the great searcher of hearts: therefore, as far as example goes, i was as great a stumbling-block to others as if the life i led had been owing to the influence of lawless desires; and society was right in making, and in seeing, no distinction between me and any other woman living in an unsanctioned connexion. 'but methinks i hear you say, that editha might never be informed of my past errors. alas! wretched must that woman be whose happiness and respectability depend on the secrecy of others! besides, did i not think the concealment of crime in itself a crime, how could i know an hour of peace while i reflected that a moment's malice, or inadvertency, in one of editha's companions might cause her to blush at her mother's disgrace?--that, while her young cheek was flushed perhaps with the artless triumphs of beauty, talent, and virtue, the parent who envied me, or the daughter who envied her might suddenly convert her joy into anguish and mortification, by artfully informing her, with feigned pity for my sorrows and admiration of my penitence, that i had once been a _disgrace_ to that family of which i was now the pride?--no--even if i were not for ever separated in this world from the only man whom i ever loved with passionate and well-founded affection, united for life to the object of my just aversion, and were i not conscious (horrible and overwhelming thought!) of having by my example led another into the path of sin,--still, i repeat it, for my child's sake i should wish to die, and should consider, not early death, but lengthened existence, as a curse.' so adeline reasoned and felt in her moments of reflection: but the heart had sometimes dominion over her; and as she gazed on editha, and thought that mrs mowbray might be induced to receive her again to her favour, she wished even on any terms to have her life prolonged. chapter xxvi having finished her letter to colonel mordaunt and berrendale, she again prepared to write to her mother; a few transient fears overcoming every now and then those hopes of success in her application, which, till she took up her pen, she had so warmly encouraged. alas! little did she know how erroneously for years she had judged of mrs mowbray. little did she suspect that her mother had long forgiven her; had pined after her; had sought, though in vain, to procure intelligence of her; and was then wearing away her existence in solitary woe, a prey to self-reproach, and to the corroding fear that her daughter, made desperate by her renunciation of her, had, on the death of glenmurray, plunged into a life of shame, or sunk, broken-hearted, into the grave! for not one of adeline's letters had ever reached mrs mowbray; and the mother and daughter had both been the victims of female treachery and jealousy. mrs mowbray, as soon as she had parted with adeline for the last time, had dismissed all her old servants, the witnesses of her sorrows and disgrace, and retired to her estate in cumberland,--an estate where adeline had first seen the light, and where mrs mowbray had first experienced the transport of a mother. this spot was therefore ill calculated to banish adeline from her mother's thoughts, and to continue her seclusion from her affections. on the contrary, her image haunted mrs mowbray:--whithersoever she went, she still saw her in an attitude of supplication; she still heard the plaintive accents of her voice;--and often did she exclaim, 'my child, my child! wretch that i am! must i never see thee more!' these ideas increased to so painful a degree, that, finding her solitude insupportable, she invited an orphan relation in narrow circumstances to take up her abode with her. this young woman, whose ruling passion was avarice, and whose greatest talent was cunning, resolved to spare no pains to keep the situation which she had gained, even to the exclusion of adeline, should mrs mowbray be weak enough to receive her again. she therefore intercepted all the letters which were in or like adeline's hand-writing; and having learnt to imitate mrs mowbray's, she enclosed them in a blank cover to adeline, who, thinking the direction was written in her mother's hand, desisted, as the artful girl expected she would do, from what appeared to her a hopeless application. and she exulted in her contrivance;--when mrs mowbray, on seeing in a magazine that glenmurray was dead, (full a year after his decease,) bursting into a passion of tears, protested that she would instantly invite adeline to her house. 'yes,' cried she, 'i can do so without infringement of my oath.--she is disgraced in the eye of the world by her connexion with glenmurray, and she is wretched in love; nay, more so, perhaps, than i have been; and i can, i will invite her to lose the remembrance of her misfortunes in my love!' thus did her ardent wish to be re-united to adeline deceive her conscience; for by the phrase 'wretched in love,' she meant, forsaken by the object of her attachment,--and that adeline had not been: therefore her oath remained in full force against her. but where could she seek adeline? dr norberry could, perhaps, give her this information; and to him she resolved to write--though he had cast her from his acquaintance: 'but her pride,' as she said, 'fell with her fortunes;' and she scrupled not to humble herself before the zealous friend of her daughter. but this letter would never have reached him, had not her treacherous relation been ill at the time when it was written. dr norberry had recovered the illness of which adeline supposed him to have died: but as her letter to him, to which she received no answer, alluded to the money transaction between her and mrs norberry; and as she commented on the insulting expressions in mrs norberry's note, that lady thought proper to suppress the second letter as well as the first; and when the doctor, on his recovery, earnestly demanded to know whether any intelligence had been received of miss mowbray, mrs norberry, with pretended reluctance, told him that she had written to him in great distress, while he was delirious, to borrow money; that she had sent her ten pounds, which adeline had returned, reproaching her for her parsimony, and saying that she had found a friend who would not suffer her to want. 'but did you tell her that you thought me in great danger?' 'i did.' 'why, what, woman! did she not, after that, write to know how i was?' 'never.' 'i could not have thought it of her!' answered the doctor--who could not but believe this story for the sake of his own peace, as it was less destructive to his happiness to think adeline in fault, than his wife or children guilty of profligate falsehood: he therefore, with a deep sigh, begged adeline's name might never be mentioned to him again; and though he secretly wished to hear of her welfare, he no longer made her the subject of conversation. but mrs mowbray's letter recalled her powerfully both to his memory and affections, while, with many a deep-drawn sigh, he regretted that he had no possible means of discovering where she was;--and with a heavy heart he wrote the following letter, which miss woodville, mrs mowbray's relation, having first contrived to open and read it, ventured to give into her hands, as it contained no satisfactory information concerning adeline. 'i look on the separation of my mother and me in this world to be eternal,' said the poor dear lost adeline to me, the last time we met. 'you do!' replied i: 'then, poor devil! how miserable will your mother be when her resentment subsides!--well, when that time comes, i may, perhaps see her again,' added i, with a queer something rising in my throat as i said it, and your poor girl blessed me for the kind intention.--(pshaw! i have blotted the paper: at my years it is a shame to be so watery-eyed.) well,--the time above-mentioned is come--you are miserable, you are repentant--and you ask me to forget and forgive.--i do forget, i do forgive: some time or other, too, i will tell you so in person; and were the lost adeline to know that i did so, she would bless me for the act, as she did before for the intention. but, alas! where she is, what she is, i know not, and have not any means of knowing. to say the truth, her conduct to me and mine has been odd, not to say wrong. but, poor thing! she is either dead or miserable, and i forgive her:--so i do you, as i said before, and the lord give you all the consolation which you so greatly need! yours once more, in true kindness of spirit, james norberry.' this letter made mrs mowbray's wounds bleed afresh, at the same time that it destroyed all her expectations of finding adeline; and the only hope that remained to cheer her was, that she might perhaps, if yet alive, write sooner or later, to implore forgiveness, but month after month elapsed, and no tidings of adeline reached her despairing mother. she then put an advertisement in the paper, so worded that adeline, had she seen it, must have known to whom it alluded; but it never met her eyes, and mrs mowbray gave herself up to almost absolute despair; when accident introduced her to a new acquaintance, whose example taught her patience, and whose soothing benevolence bade her hope for happier days. one day as mrs mowbray, regardless of a heavy shower, and lost in melancholy reflections, was walking with irregular steps on the road to penrith, with an unopened umbrella in her hand, she suddenly raised her eyes from the ground, and beheld a quaker lady pursued by an over-driven bullock, and unable any longer to make an effort to escape its fury. at this critical moment mrs mowbray, from a sort of irresistible impulse, as fortunate in its effects as presence of mind, yet scarcely perhaps to be denominated such, suddenly opened her umbrella; and, approaching the animal, brandished it before his eyes. alarmed at this unusual appearance, he turned hastily and ran towards the town, where she saw that he was immediately met and secured. 'thou hast doubtless saved my life,' said the quaker, grasping mrs mowbray's hand with an emotion which she vainly tried to suppress; 'and i pray that thine may be blest!' mrs mowbray returned the pressure of her hand, and burst into tears; overcome with joy for having saved a fellow-creature's life; with terror, which she was now at leisure to feel for the danger to which she had herself been exposed; and with mournful emotion from the consciousness how much she needed the blessing which the grateful quaker invoked on her head. 'thou tremblest even more than i do,' observed the lady, smiling, but seeming ready to faint; 'i believe we had better, both of us, sit down on the bank; but it is so wet that perhaps we may as well endeavour to reach my house, which is only at the end of yon field.' mrs mowbray bowed her assent; and, supporting each other, they at length arrived at a neat white house, to which the quaker cordially bade her welcome. 'it was but this morning,' said mrs mowbray, struggling for utterance, 'that i called upon death to relieve me from an existence at once wretched and useless.' here she paused:--and her new acquaintance, cordially pressing her hand, waited for the conclusion of her speech;--'but now,' continued mrs mowbray, 'i revoke, and repent my idle and vicious impatience of life. i have probably saved your life, and something like enjoyment now seems to enliven mine.' 'i suspect,' replied the lady, 'that thou hast known deep affliction; and i rejoice that at this moment, and in so providential a manner, i have been introduced to thy acquaintance:--for i too have known sorrow, and the mourner knows how to speak comfort to the heart of the mourner. my name is rachel pemberton; and i hope that when i know thy name, and thy story, thou wilt allow me to devote to thy comfort some hours of the existence which thou hast preserved.' she then hastily withdrew, to pour forth in solitude the breathings of devout gratitude:--while mrs mowbray, having communed with her own thoughts, felt a glow of unwonted satisfaction steal over her mind; and by the time mrs pemberton returned, she was able to meet her with calmness and cheerfulness. 'thou knowest my name,' said mrs pemberton as she entered, seating herself by mrs mowbray, 'but i have yet to learn thine.' 'my name is mowbray,' she replied sighing deeply. 'mowbray!--the lady of rosevalley in gloucestershire; and the mother of adeline mowbray?' exclaimed mrs pemberton. 'what of adeline mowbray? what of my child?' cried mrs mowbray, seizing mrs pemberton's hand. 'blessed woman! tell me,--do you indeed know her?--can you tell me where to find her?' 'i will tell thee all that i know of her,' replied mrs pemberton in a faltering voice; 'but thy emotion overpowers me.--i--i was once a mother, and i can feel for thee.' she then turned away her head to conceal a starting tear; while mrs mowbray, in incoherent eagerness, repeated her questions, and tremblingly awaited her answer. 'is she well? is she happy?--say but that!' she exclaimed, sobbing as she spoke. 'she was well and contented when i last heard from her,' replied mrs pemberton calmly. 'heard from her? then she writes to you! oh, blessed, blessed woman! show me her letters, and tell me only that she has forgiven me for all my unkindness to her--' as she said this, mrs mowbray threw her arms round mrs pemberton, and sunk half-fainting on her shoulder. 'i will tell thee all that has ever passed between us, if thou wilt be composed,' gravely answered mrs pemberton; 'but this violent expression of thy feelings is unseemly and detrimental.' 'well--well--i will be calm,' said mrs mowbray; and mrs pemberton began to relate the interview which she had with adeline at richmond. 'how long ago did this take place?' eagerly interrupted mrs mowbray. 'full six years.' 'oh, god!' exclaimed she, impatiently,--'six years! by this time then she may be dead--she may--' 'thou art incorrigible, i fear,' said mrs pemberton, 'but thou art afflicted, and i will bear with thy impatience:--sit down again and attend to me, and thou wilt hear much later intelligence of thy daughter.' 'how late?' asked mrs mowbray with frantic eagerness;--and mrs pemberton, overcome with the manner in which she spoke, could scarcely falter out, 'within a twelvemonth i have heard of her.' 'within a twelvemonth!' joyfully cried mrs mowbray: but, recollecting herself, she added mournfully--'but in that time what--what may not have happened!' 'i know not what to do with thee nor for thee,' observed mrs pemberton; 'but do try, i beseech thee, to hear me patiently!' mrs mowbray then re-seated herself; and mrs pemberton informed her of adeline's premature confinement at richmond; of her distress on glenmurray's death, and of her having witnessed it. 'ah! you acted a mother's part--you did what i ought to have done,' cried mrs mowbray, bursting into tears,--'but, go on--i will be patient.' yet that was impossible; for, when she heard of adeline's insanity, her emotions became so strong that mrs pemberton, alarmed for her life, was obliged to ring for assistance. when she recovered,--'thou hast heard the worst now,' said mrs pemberton, 'and all i have yet to say of thy child is satisfactory.' she then related the contents of adeline's first letter, informing her of her marriage:--and mrs mowbray, clasping her hands together, blessed god that adeline was become a wife. the next letter mrs pemberton read informed her that she was the mother of a fine girl. 'a mother!' she exclaimed, 'oh, how i should like to see her child!'--but at the same moment she recollected how bitterly she had reviled her when she saw her about to become a mother, at their last meeting; and, torn with conflicting emotions, she was again insensible to aught but her self-upbraidings. 'well--but where is she now? where is the child? and when did you hear from her last?' cried she. 'i have not heard from her since,' hesitatingly replied mrs pemberton. 'but can't you write to her?' 'yes;--but in her last letter she said she was going to change her lodgings, and would write again when settled in a new habitation.' again mrs mowbray paced the room in wild and violent distress: but her sorrows at length yielded to the gentle admonitions and soothings of mrs pemberton, who bade her remember, that when she rose in the morning she had not expected the happiness and consolation which she had met with that day; and that a short time might bring forth still greater comfort. 'for,' said mrs pemberton, 'i can write to the house where she formerly lodged, and perhaps the person who keeps it can give us intelligence of her.' on hearing this, mrs mowbray became more composed, and diverted her sorrow by a thousand fond inquiries concerning adeline, which none but a mother could make, and none but a mother could listen to with patience. while this conversation was going on, a knock at the door was heard, and miss woodville entered the room in great emotion; for she had heard, on the road, that a mad bullock had attacked a lady; and also that mrs mowbray, scarcely able to walk, had been led into the white house in the field by the road side. miss woodville was certainly as much alarmed as she pretended to be: but there was a somewhat in the expression of her alarm which, though it gratified mrs mowbray, was displeasing to the more penetrating mrs pemberton. she could not indeed guess that miss woodville's alarm sprung merely from apprehension lest mrs mowbray should die before she had provided for her in her will: yet, notwithstanding, she felt that her expressions of concern and anxiety had no resemblance to those of real affection; and in spite of her habitual candour, she beheld miss woodville with distrust. but this feeling was considerably increased on observing, that when mrs mowbray exultingly introduced her, not only as the lady whose life she had been the means of preserving, but as the friend and correspondent of her daughter, she evidently changed colour; and, in spite of her habitual plausibility, could not utter a single coherent sentence of pleasure or congratulation:--and it was also evident, that, being conscious of mrs pemberton's regarding her with a scrutinizing eye, she was not easy till, on pretence of mrs mowbray's requiring rest after her alarm, she had prevailed on her to return home. but she could not prevent the new friends from parting with eager assurances of meeting again and again; and it was agreed between them, that mrs pemberton should spend the next day at the lawn. mrs pemberton, who is thus again introduced to the notice of my readers, had been, as well as mrs mowbray, the pupil of adversity. she had been born and educated in fashionable life; and she united to a very lovely face and elegant form, every feminine grace and accomplishment. when she was only eighteen, mr pemberton, a young and gay quaker, fell in love with her; and having inspired her with a mutual passion, he married her, notwithstanding the difference of their religious opinions, and the displeasure of his friends. he was consequently disowned by the society: but being weaned by the happiness which he found at home from those public amusements which had first lured him from the strict habits of his sect, he was soon desirous of being again admitted a member of it; and in process of time he was once more received into it; while his amiable wife, having no wish beyond her domestic circle, and being disposed to think her husband's opinions right, became in time a convert to the same profession of faith, and exhibited in her manners the rare union of the easy elegance of a woman of the world with the rigid decorum and unadorned dress of a strict quaker. but in the midst of her happiness, and whilst looking forward to a long continuance of it, a fever, caught in visiting the sick bed of a cottager, carried off her husband, and next two lovely children; and mrs pemberton would have sunk under the stroke, but for the watchful care and affectionate attentions of the friend of her youth, who resided near her, and who, in time, prevailed on her to receive with becoming fortitude and resignation the trials which she was appointed to undergo. during this season of affliction, as we have before stated, she became a minister in the quaker society: but at the time of her meeting adeline at richmond, she had been called from the duties of her public profession to watch over the declining health of her friend and consoler, and to accompany her to lisbon. there, during four long years, she bent over her sick couch, now elated with hope, and now sunk into despondence; when, at the beginning of the fifth year, her friend died in her arms, and she returned to england, resolved to pass her days, except when engaged in active duties, on a little estate in cumberland, bequeathed to her by her friend on her death-bed. but ill health and various events had detained her in the west of england since her return; and she had not long taken possession of her house near penrith, when she became introduced in so singular a manner to mrs mowbray's acquaintance--an acquaintance which would, she hoped, prove of essential service to them both; and as soon as her guest departed, mrs pemberton resolved to inquire what character mrs mowbray bore in the neighbourhood, and whether her virtues at all kept pace with her misfortunes. her inquiries were answered in the most satisfactory manner; as, fortunately for mrs mowbray, with the remembrance of her daughter had recurred to her that daughter's benevolent example. she remembered the satisfaction which used to beam from adeline's countenance when she returned from her visits to the sick and the afflicted; and she resolved to try whether those habits of charitable exertion which could increase the happiness of the young and light-hearted adeline, might not have power to alleviate the sorrows of her own drooping age, and broken joyless heart. 'sweet are the uses of adversity!'--she who, while the child of prosperity, was a romantic, indolent theorist, an inactive speculator, a proud contemner of the dictates of sober experience, and a neglecter of that practical benevolence which can in days produce more benefit to others than theories and theorists can accomplish in years--this erring woman, awakened from her dreams and reveries, to habits of useful exertion, by the stimulating touch of affliction, was become the visitor of the sick, the consoler of the sorrowful, the parent of the fatherless, while virtuous industry looked up to her with hope; and her name, like that of adeline in happier days, was pronounced with prayers and blessings. but, alas! she felt that blessing could reach her only in the shape of her lost child: and though she was conscious of being useful to others, though she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had but the day before been the means of preserving a valuable life, she met mrs pemberton, when she arrived at the lawn, with a countenance of fixed melancholy, and was at first disposed to expect but little success from the project of writing to adeline's former lodgings in order to inquire. the truth was, that miss woodville had artfully insinuated the improbability of such an inquiry's succeeding; and, though mrs mowbray had angrily asserted her hopes when miss woodville provokingly asserted her _fears_, the treacherous girl's insinuations had sunk deeply into her mind, and mrs pemberton saw, with pain and wonder, an effect produced of which the cause was wholly unseen. but she at length succeeded in awakening mrs mowbray's hopes; and in a letter written by mrs pemberton to the mistress of the house whence adeline formerly dated, she enclosed one to her daughter glowing with maternal tenderness, and calculated to speak peace to her sorrows. these letters were sent, as soon as written, to the post by mrs mowbray's footman; but miss woodville contrived to meet him near the post-office, and telling him she would put the letter in the receiver, she gave him a commission to call at a shop in penrith for her, at which she had not time to call herself. thus was another scheme for restoring adeline to her afflicted mother frustrated by the treachery of this interested woman; who, while mrs pemberton and mrs mowbray looked anxiously forward to the receipt of an answer from london, triumphed with malignant pleasure in the success of her artifice.--but, spite of herself, she feared mrs pemberton, and was not at all pleased to find that, till the answer from london could arrive, that lady was to remain at the lawn. she contrived, however, to be as little in her presence as possible; for, contrary to mrs pemberton's usual habits, she felt a distrust of miss woodville, which her intelligent eye could not help expressing, and which consequently alarmed the conscious heart of the culprit. being left therefore, by miss woodville's fears, alone with mrs mowbray, she drew from her, at different times, ample details of adeline's childhood, and the method which mrs mowbray had pursued in her education. 'ah! 'tis as i suspected,' interrupted mrs pemberton during one of these conversations. 'thy daughter's _faults_ originated in thee! her education was cruelly defective.' 'no!' replied mrs mowbray with almost angry eagerness, 'whatever my errors as a mother have been, and for the rash marriage which i made i own myself culpable in the highest degree, i am sure that i paid the greatest attention to my daughter's education. if you were but to see the voluminous manuscript on the subject, which i wrote for her improvement--' 'but where was thy daughter; and how was she employed during the time that thou wert writing a book by which to educate her?' mrs mowbray was silent: she recollected that, while she was gratifying her own vanity in composing her system of education, adeline was almost banished her presence; and, but for the humble instruction of her grandmother, would, at the age of fifteen, have run a great risk of being both an ignorant and useless being. 'forgive me, friend mowbray,' resumed mrs pemberton, aware in some measure of what was passing in mrs mowbray's mind--'forgive me if i venture to observe, that till of late years a thick curtain of self-love seems to have been dropped between thy heart and maternal affection. it is now, and now only, that thou hast learned to feel like a true and affectionate mother!' 'perhaps you are right,' replied mrs mowbray mournfully, 'still, i always meant well; and hoped that my studies would conduce to the benefit of my child.' 'so they might, perhaps, to that of thy second, third, or fourth child, hadst thou been possessed of so many; but, in the meanwhile, thy first-born must have been fatally neglected. a child's education begins almost from the hour of its birth; and the mother who understands her task, knows that the circumstances which every moment calls forth, are the tools with which she is to work in order to fashion her child's mind and character. what would you think of the farmer who was to let his fields lie fallow for years, while he was employed in contriving a method of cultivating land to increase his gains ten-fold?' 'but i did not suffer adeline's mind to lie fallow.--i allowed her to read, and i directed her studies.' 'thou didst so; but what were those studies? and didst thou acquaint thyself with the deductions which her quick mind formed from them? no--thou didst not, as parents should do, inquire into the impressions made on thy daughter's mind by the books which she perused. prompt to feel, and hasty to decide, as adeline was, how necessary was to her the warning voice of judgment and experience!' 'but how could i imagine that a girl so young should dare to act, whatever her opinions might be, in open defiance of the opinions of the world?' 'but she had not lived in the world; therefore, scarcely knew how repugnant to it her opinions were; nor, as she did not mix in general society, could she care sufficiently for its good opinion, to be willing to act contrary to her own ideas of right, rather than forfeit it: besides, thou ownest that thou didst openly profess thy admiration of the sentiments which she adopted; nor, till they were confirmed irrevocably hers, didst thou declare, that to act up to them was, in thy opinion, vicious. and then it was too late: she thought thy timidity, and not thy wisdom, spoke, and she set thee the virtuous example of acting up to the dictates of conscience. but adeline and thou are both the pupils of affliction and experience; and i trust that, all your errors repented of, you will meet once more to expiate your past follies by your future conduct.' 'i hope so too,' meekly replied mrs mowbray, whose pride had been completely subdued by self-upbraidings and distress: 'oh! when--when will an answer arrive from london?' chapter xxvii alas! day after day elapsed, and no letter came; but while mrs mowbray was almost frantic with disappointment and anxiety, mrs pemberton thought that she observed in miss woodville's countenance a look of triumphant malice, which ill accorded with the fluent expressions of sympathy and regret with which she gratified her unsuspicious relation, and she determined to watch her very narrowly; for she thought it strange that adeline, however she might respect her mother's oath, should never, in the bitterness of her sorrows, have unburthened her heart by imparting them to her: one day, when, as usual, the post had been anxiously expected, and, as usual, had brought no letter from london concerning adeline; and while miss woodville was talking on indifferent subjects with ill suppressed gaiety, though mrs mowbray, sunk into despondence, was lying on the sofa by her; mrs pemberton suddenly exclaimed--'there is only one right way of proceeding, friend mowbray,--thou and i must go to london, and make our inquiries in person, and then we shall have a great chance of succeeding.' as she said this, she looked steadfastly at miss woodville, and saw her turn very pale, while her eye was hastily averted from the penetrating glance of mrs pemberton; and when she heard mrs mowbray, in a transport of joy, declare that they had better set off that very evening,--unable to conceal her terror and agitation, she hastily left the room. mrs pemberton instantly followed her into the apartment to which she had retired, and the door of which she had closed with much violence. she found her walking to and fro, and wringing her hands, as if in agony. on seeing mrs pemberton, she started, and sinking into a chair, she complained of being very ill, and desired to be left alone. 'thou art ill, and thy illness is of the worst sort, i fear,' replied mrs pemberton; 'but i will stay, and be thy physician.' '_you_, my physician?' replied miss woodville, with fury in her looks; 'you?' 'yes--_i_--i see that thou art afraid lest adeline should be restored to her paternal roof.' 'who told you so, officious, insolent woman?' returned miss woodville. 'thy own looks--but all this is very natural in thee: thou fearest that adeline's favour should annihilate thine.' 'perhaps i do,' cried miss woodville, a little less alarmed, and catching at this plausible excuse for her uneasiness; 'for, should i be forced to leave my cousin's house, i shall be reduced to comparative poverty and solitude again.' 'but why shouldest thou be forced to leave it? art thou not adeline's friend?' 'ye--yes,' faltered out miss woodville. 'but it is uncertain whether we can find adeline--still we shall be very diligent in our inquiries; yet it is so strange that she should never have written to her mother, if alive, that perhaps--' 'oh, i dare say she is dead,' hastily interrupted miss woodville. 'has she been dead long, thinkest thou?' 'no--not long--not above six months, i dare say.' 'no!--hast thou any reason then for knowing that she was alive six months ago?' asked mrs pemberton, looking steadily at miss woodville, as she spoke. 'i?--lord--no--how should i know?' she replied, her lip quivering, and her whole frame trembling. 'i tell thee how.--art thou not conscious of having intercepted letters from thy cousin to her relenting parent?' mrs pemberton had scarcely uttered these words, when miss woodville fell back nearly _insensible_ in her chair--a proof that the accusation was only too well founded. as soon as she recovered, mrs pemberton said, with great gentleness, 'thou art ill,--ill indeed, but, as i suspected, thy illness is of the mind; there is a load of guilt on it; throw it off then by a full confession, and be the sinner that repenteth.' in a few moments miss woodville, conscious that her emotion had betrayed her, and suspecting that mrs pemberton had by some means or other received hints of her treachery, confessed that she had intercepted and destroyed letters from adeline to her mother; and also owned, to the great joy of mrs pemberton, that adeline's last letter, the letter in which she informed mrs mowbray, that all the conditions were then fulfilled, without which alone she had sworn never to forgive her, had arrived only two months before; and that it was dated from such a street, and such a number, in london. 'my poor friend will be so happy!' said mrs pemberton; and, her own eyes filling with tears of joy, she hastened to find mrs mowbray. 'but what will become of _me_?' exclaimed miss woodville, detaining her--'_i_ am ruined--ruined for ever!' 'not so,' replied mrs pemberton, 'thou art _saved_,--saved, i trust, for _ever_--thou hast confessed thy guilt, and made all the atonement now in thy power. go to thine own room, and i will soon make known to thee thy relation's sentiments towards thee.' so saying, she hastened to mrs mowbray, whom she found giving orders, with eager impatience, to have post horses sent for immediately. 'then thou art full of expectation, i conclude, from the event of our journey to town?' said mrs pemberton, smiling. 'to be sure i am,' replied mrs mowbray. 'and so am i,' she answered,--'for i think that i know the present abode of thy daughter.' mrs mowbray started--her friend's countenance expressed more joy and exultation than she had ever seen on it before; and, almost breathless with new hope, she seized her hand and conjured her to explain herself. the explanation was soon given; and mrs mowbray's joy, in consequence of it, unbounded. 'but what is thy will,' observed mrs pemberton, 'with regard to thy guilty relation?' 'i cannot--cannot see her again now, if ever;--and she must immediately leave my house.' 'immediately?' 'yes,--but i will settle on her a handsome allowance; for my conscience tells me, that, had i behaved like a mother to my child, no one could have been tempted to injure her thus,--i put this unhappy woman into a state of temptation, and she yielded to it:--but i feel only too sensibly, that no one has been such an enemy to my poor adeline as i have been; nor, conscious of my own offences towards her, dare i resent those of another.' 'i love, i honour thee for what thou hast now uttered,' cried mrs pemberton with unusual animation.--'i see that thou art now indeed a christian; such are the breathings of a truly contrite spirit; and, verily, she who can so easily forgive the crimes of others may hope to have her own forgiven.' mrs pemberton then hastened to speak hope and comfort to the mind of the penitent offender, while mrs mowbray ran to meet her servant, who, to her surprise, was returning without horses, for none were to be procured; and mrs mowbray saw herself obliged to delay her journey till noon the next day, when she was assured of having horses from penrith. but when, after a long and restless night, she arose in the morning, anticipating with painful impatience the hour of her departure, mrs pemberton entered her room, and informed her that she had passed nearly all the night at miss woodville's bed-side, who had been seized with a violent delirium at one o'clock in the morning, and in her ravings was continually calling on mrs mowbray, and begging to see her once more. 'i will see her directly,' replied mrs mowbray, without a moment's hesitation; and hastened to miss woodville's apartment, where she found the medical attendant whom mrs pemberton had sent for just arrived. he immediately declared the disorder to be an inflammation on the brain, and left them with little or no hope of her recovery. mrs mowbray, affected beyond measure at the pathetic appeals for pardon addressed to her continually by the unconscious sufferer, took her station at the bed-side; and, hanging over her pillow, watched for the slightest gleam of returning reason, in order to speak the pardon so earnestly implored: and while thus piously engaged, the chaise that was to convey her and her friend to london, and perhaps to adeline, drove up to the gate. 'art thou ready?' said mrs pemberton, entering the room equipped for her journey. at this moment the poor invalid reiterated her cries for pardon, and begged mrs mowbray not to leave her without pronouncing her forgiveness. mrs mowbray burst into tears; and though sure that she was not even conscious of her presence, she felt herself almost unable to forsake her:--still it was in search of her daughter that she was going--nay, perhaps, it was to her daughter that she was hastening; and, as this thought occurred to her, she hurried to the door of the chamber, saying she should be ready in a moment. but the eye of the phrensied sufferer followed her as she did so, and in a tone of unspeakable agony she begged, she entreated that she might not be left to die in solitude and sorrow, however guilty she might have been.--then again she implored mrs mowbray to speak peace and pardon to her drooping soul; while, unable to withstand these solicitations, though she knew them to be the unconscious ravings of the disorder, she slowly and mournfully returned to the bed-side. 'it is late,' said mrs pemberton--'we ought ere now to be on the road.' 'how can i go, and leave this poor creature in such a state?--but then should we find my poor injured child at the end of the journey! such an expectation as that!--' 'thou must decide quickly,' replied mrs pemberton gently. 'decide! then i will go with you.--yet still should anna recover her senses before her death, and wish to see me, i should never forgive myself for being absent--it might soothe the anguish of her last moments to know how freely i pardon her.--no, no:--after all, if pleasure awaits me, it is only delaying it a few days; and this, this unhappy girl is on her _death-bed_.--you, you must go _without_ me.' as she said this, mrs pemberton pressed her hand with affectionate eagerness, and murmured out in broken accents, 'i honour thy decision, and may i return with comfort to thee!' 'yet though i wish you to go,' cried mrs mowbray, 'i grieve to expose you to such fatigue and trouble in your weak state of health, and--' 'say no more,' interrupted mrs pemberton, 'i am only doing my duty; and reflect on my happiness if i am allowed to restore the lost sheep to the fold again!'--so saying she set off on her journey, and arrived in london only four days after adeline had arrived in cumberland. mrs pemberton drove immediately to adeline's lodgings, but received the same answer as colonel mordaunt had received; namely, that she was gone no one knew whither. still she did not despair of finding her: she, like the colonel, thought that a mulatto, a lady just recovered from the small-pox, and a child, were likely to be easily traced; and having written to mrs mowbray, owning her disappointment, but bidding her not despair, she set off on her journey back, and had succeeded in tracing adeline as far as an inn on the high north road,--when an event took place which made her further inquiries needless. chapter xxviii adeline, after several repeated trials, succeeded in writing the following letter to her mother:-- 'dearest of mothers, 'when this letter reaches you, i shall be no more; and however i may hitherto have offended you, i shall then be able to offend you no longer; and that child, whom you bound yourself by oath never to see or forgive but on the most cruel of conditions while living, dead you may perhaps deign to receive to your pardon and your love.--nay, my heart tells me that you will do more,--that you will transfer the love which you once felt for me, to my poor helpless orphan; and in full confidence that you will be this indulgent, i bequeath her to you with my dying breath.--o! look on her, my mother, nor shrink from her with disgust, although you see in her my features; but rather rejoice in the resemblance, and fancy that i am restored to you pure, happy, and beloved as i once was.--yes, yes,--it will be so: i have known a great deal of sorrow--let me then indulge the little ray of pleasure that breaks in upon me when i think that you will not resist my dying prayer, but bestow on my child the long arrears of tenderness due to me. 'yes, yes, you will receive, you will be kind to her; and by so doing you will make me ample amends for all the sorrow which your harshness caused me when we met last.--that was a dreadful day! how you frowned on me! i did not think you could have frowned so dreadfully--but then i was uninjured by affliction, unaltered by illness. were you to see me now, you would not have the heart to frown on me: and yet my letters being repeatedly returned, and even the last unnoticed and unanswered, though it told you that even on your own conditions i could now claim your pardon, for that i had been "wretched in love," and had experienced "the anguish of being forsaken, despised, and disgraced in the eye of the world," proves but too surely that the bitterness of resentment is not yet passed!--but on my _death-bed_ you promised to see and forgive me--_and i am there, my mother_!! yet will i not claim that promise;--i will not weaken, by directing it towards myself, the burst of sorrow, of too late regret, of self-upbraidings, and long-restrained affection, which must be directed towards my child when i am not alive to profit by it. no:--though i would give worlds to embrace you once more, for the sake of my child i resign the gratification. 'oh, mother! you little think that i saw you, only a few days ago, from the stile by the cottage which overlooks your house: you were walking with a lady, and my child was with me (my editha, for i have called her after you.) you seemed, methought, even cheerful, and i was so selfish that i felt shocked to think i was so entirely forgotten by you; for i was sure that if you thought of me you could not be cheerful. but your companion left you; and then you looked so very sad, that i was wretched from the idea that you were then thinking too much of me, and i wished you to resume your cheerfulness again. '_i_ was not cheerful, and editha by her artless prattle wounded me to the very soul.--she wished, she said, to live in that sweet house, and asked why she should not live there? _i could_ have told her why, but dared not do it; but i assured her, and do not for mercy's sake prove that assurance false! that she _should_ live there _one day_. '"but when--when?" she asked. '"when i am in my grave,"' replied i: and, poor innocent! throwing herself into my arms with playful fondness, she begged me to go to my grave directly. i feel but too sensibly that her desire will soon be accomplished. 'but must i die unblest by you? true, i am watched by the kindest of human beings! but then she is not my mother--that mother, who, with the joys of my childhood and my home, is so continually recurring to my memory. oh! i forget all your unkindness, my mother, and remember only your affection. how i should like to feel your hand supporting my head, and see you perform the little offices which sickness requires!--and must i never, never see you more? yes! you will come, i am sure you will: but come, come quickly, or i shall die without your blessing. 'i have had a fainting fit--but i am recovered, and can address you again.--oh! teach my editha to be humble, teach her to be slow to call the experience of ages contemptible prejudices; teach her no opinions that can destroy her sympathies with general society, and make her an alien to the hearts of those amongst whom she lives. 'be above all things careful that she wanders not in the night of scepticism. but for the support of religion, what, amidst my various sorrows, what would have become of _me_? 'there is something more that i would say. should my existence be prolonged even but a few days, i shall have to struggle with poverty as well as sickness; and the anxious friend (i will not call her servant) who is now my all of earthly comfort, will scarcely have money sufficient to pay me the last sad duties; and i owe her, my mother, a world of obligation! she will make my last moments easy, and _you_ must reward her. from her you will receive this letter when i am no more, and to your care and protection i bequeath her. she is--my eyes grow dim, and i must leave off for the present.' on the very evening in which adeline had written this address to her mother, mrs mowbray had received mrs pemberton's letter; and as miss woodville had been interred that morning, she felt herself at liberty to join mrs pemberton in her search after adeline. while various plans for this purpose presented themselves to her mind, and each of them was dismissed in its turn as fruitless or impracticable,--full of these thoughts she pensively walked along the lawn before her door, till sad and weary she leaned on a little gate at the bottom of it; which, as she did so, swung slowly backwards and forwards, responsive as it were to her feelings. but, as she continued to muse, and to recall the varied sorrows of her past life, the gate on which she leaned began to vibrate more quickly; till, unable to bear the recollections which assailed her, she was hastening with almost frantic speed towards the house, when she saw a cottager approaching, to whose sick daughter and helpless family she had long been a bountiful benefactress. 'what is the matter, john?' cried mrs mowbray, hastening forward to meet him--'you seem agitated.' 'my poor daughter, madam;' replied the man, bursting into tears. at the sight of his distress, his _parental_ distress, mrs mowbray sighed deeply, and asked if lucy was worse. 'i doubt she is dying,' said the afflicted father. 'heaven forbid!' exclaimed mrs mowbray, throwing her shawl over her shoulders; 'i will go and see her myself.' 'what, really?--but the way is so long, and the road is so miry?' 'no matter--i must do my duty.' 'god bless you, and reward you!' cried the grateful father--'that is so like you! lucy said you would come!' mrs mowbray then filled a basket with medicine and refreshments, and set out on her charitable visit. she found the poor girl in a very weak and alarming state; but the sight of her benefactress, and the tender manner in which she supported her languid head, and administered wine and other cordials to her, insensibly revived her; and while writhing under the feelings of an unhappy parent herself, mrs mowbray was soothed by the blessings of the parent whom she comforted. at this moment they were alarmed by a shriek from a neighbouring cottage, and a woman who was attending on the sick girl ran out to inquire into the cause of it. she returned, saying that a poor sick young gentlewoman, who lodged at the next house, was fallen back in a fit, and they thought she was dead. 'a young gentlewoman,' exclaimed mrs mowbray, 'at the next cottage!' rising up. 'aye sure,' cried the woman, 'she looks like a lady for certain, and she has the finest child i ever saw.' 'perhaps she is not dead,' said mrs mowbray:--'let us go see.' chapter xxix little did mrs mowbray think that it was her own child whom she was hastening to relieve; and that, while meditating a kind action, recompense was so near. adeline, while trying to finish her letter to her mother, had scarcely traced a few illegible lines, when she fell back insensible on her pillow; and at the moment of mrs mowbray's entering the cottage, savanna, who had uttered the shriek which had excited her curiosity, had convinced herself that she was gone for ever. the woman who accompanied mrs mowbray entered the house first; and opening a back chamber, low-roofed, narrow, and lighted only by one solitary and slender candle, mrs mowbray, beheld through the door the lifeless form of the object of her solicitude, which savanna was contemplating with loud and frantic sorrow. 'here is a lady come to see what she can do for your mistress,' cried the woman, while savanna turned hastily round:--'here she is--here is good madam mowbray.' 'madam mowbray!' shrieked savanna, fixing her dark eyes on mrs mowbray, and raising her arm in a threatening manner as she approached her: then snatching up the letter which lay on the bed,--'woman!' she exclaimed, grasping mrs mowbray's arm with frightful earnestness, 'read that--'tis for you!' mrs mowbray, speechless with alarm and awe, involuntarily seized the letter--but scarcely had she read the first words, when uttering a deep groan she sprung forward, to clasp the unconscious form before her, and fell beside it equally insensible. but she recovered almost immediately to a sense of her misery; and while, in speechless agony, she knelt by the bed-side, savanna, beholding her distress, with a sort of dreadful pleasure exclaimed, 'ah! have you at last learn to feel?' 'but is she, is she _indeed_ gone?' cried mrs mowbray, 'is there _no_ hope?' and instantly seizing the cordial which she had brought with her, assisted by the woman, she endeavoured to force it down the throat of adeline. their endeavours were for some time vain: at length however, she exhibited signs of life, and in a few minutes more she opened her sunk eye, and gazed unconsciously around her. 'my god! i thank you!' exclaimed mrs mowbray, falling on her knees; while savanna, laying her mistress's head on her bosom, sobbed with fearful joy. 'adeline! my child, my dear, dear child!' cried mrs mowbray, seizing her clammy hand. that voice, those words which she had so long wished to hear, though hopeless of ever hearing them again, seemed to recall the fast fading recollection of adeline: she raised her head from savanna's bosom, and, looking earnestly at mrs mowbray, faintly smiled, and endeavoured to throw herself into her arms,--but fell back again exhausted on the pillow. but in a few minutes she recovered so far as to be able to speak; and while she hung round her mother's neck, and gazed upon her with eager and delighted earnestness, she desired savanna to bring editha to her immediately. 'will you, will you--,' said adeline, vainly trying to speak her wishes, as savanna put the sleeping girl in mrs mowbray's arms: but she easily divined them; and, clasping her to her heart, wept over her convulsively--'she shall be dear to me as my own soul!' said mrs mowbray. 'then i die contented,' replied adeline. 'die!' exclaimed mrs mowbray hastily: 'no, you must not, shall not die; you must live to see me atone for--' 'it is in vain,' said adeline faintly. 'i bless god that he allows me to enjoy this consolation--say that you forgive me.' 'forgive you! oh, adeline! for years have i forgiven and pined after you; but a wicked woman intercepted all your letters; and i thought you were dead, or had renounced me for ever.' 'indeed!' cried adeline. 'oh! had i suspected that!' 'nay more, mrs pemberton is now in london, in search of you, in order to bring you back to happiness!' as mrs mowbray said this, savanna, drawing near, took her hand and gently pressed it. adeline observed the action, and seeing by it that savanna's heart relented towards her mother, said, 'i owe that faithful creature more than i can express; but to your care i bequeath her.' 'i will love her as my child,' said mrs mowbray, 'and behave to her better than i did to--' 'hush!' cried adeline, putting her hand to mrs mowbray's lips. 'but you _shall_ live! i will send for dr norberry; you shall be moved to my house, and all will be well--all our past grief be forgotten,' returned mrs mowbray with almost convulsive eagerness. adeline faintly smiled, but repeated that every hope of that kind was over, but that her utmost wish has gratified in seeing her mother, and receiving her full forgiveness. 'but you must live for my sake!' cried mrs mowbray: 'and for mine,' sobbed out savanna. 'could you not be moved to my house?' said mrs mowbray. 'there every indulgence and attention that money can procure shall be yours. is this a place,--is this poverty--this--' here her voice failed her, and she burst into tears. 'mother, dearest mother,' replied adeline, 'i see you, i am assured of your love again, and i have not a want beside. still, i could like, i could wish, to be once more under a _parent's roof_.' in a moment, the cottager who was present, and returning with usury to mrs mowbray's daughter the anxious interest which she had taken in his, proposed various means of transporting adeline to the lawn; a difficult and a hazardous undertaking: but the poor invalid was willing to risk the danger and the fatigue; and her mother could not but indulge her. at length the cottager, as it was for the _general benefactress_, having with care procured even more assistance than was necessary, adeline was conveyed on a sort of a litter, along the valley, and found herself once more in the house of her mother; while savanna, sharing in the joy which adeline's countenance expressed, threw herself on mrs mowbray's neck, and exclaimed, 'now i forgive you!' 'mother, dear mother,' cried adeline, after having for some minutes vainly endeavoured to speak--'i am so happy! no more an outcast, but under my mother's roof!--nay, i even think i _can_ live now,' added she with a faint smile. had adeline risen from her bed in complete health and vigour, she would scarcely have excited more joy in her mother, and in savanna, than she did by this expression. 'can live!' cried mrs mowbray, 'o! you shall, you must live.' and an express was sent off immediately to dr norberry too, who was removed to kendal, to be near his elder daughter, lately married in the neighbourhood. dr norberry arrived in a few hours. mrs mowbray ran out to meet him; but a welcome died on her tongue, and she could only speak by her tears. 'there, there, my good woman, don't be foolish,' replied he: 'it is very silly to blubber, you know: besides, it can do no good,' giving her a kiss, while the tears trickled down his rough cheek. 'so, the lost sheep is found?' 'but, o! she will be lost again,' faltered mrs mowbray; 'i doubt nothing can save her!' 'no!' cried the old man, with a gulp, 'no! not my coming so many miles on purpose?--well, but where is she?' 'she will see you presently, but begged to be excused for a few minutes.' 'you see,' said he, 'by my dress, what has happened,' gulping as he spoke. 'i have lost the companion of thirty years!--and--and--' here he paused, and after an effort went on to say, that his wife in her last illness had owned that she had suppressed adeline's letters, and had declared the reason of it--'but, poor soul!' continued the doctor, 'it was the only sin against me, i believe, or any one else, that she ever committed--so i forgave her: and i trust that god will.' soon after they were summoned to the sick room, and dr norberry beheld with a degree of fearful emotion, which he vainly endeavoured to hide under a cloak of pleasantry, the dreadful ravages which sorrow and sickness had made in the face and form of adeline. 'so, here you are at last!' cried he, trying to smile while he sobbed audibly, 'and a pretty figure you make, don't you?--but we have you again, and we will not part with you so soon, i can tell you (almost starting as the faint but rapid pulse met his fingers)--that is, i mean,' added he, 'unless it please god.' mrs mowbray and savanna, during this speech, gazed on his countenance in breathless anxiety, and read in it a confirmation of their fears. 'but who's afraid?' cried the doctor, forcing a laugh, while his tone and his looks expressed the extreme of apprehension, and his laugh ended in a sob. mrs mowbray turned away in a sort of desperate silence; but the mulatto still kept her penetrating eye fixed upon him, and with a look so full of woe! 'i'll trouble you, mistress, to take those formidable eyes of yours off my face,' cried the doctor pettishly; 'for i can't stand their inquiry!--but who the devil are you?' 'she is my nurse, my consoler, and my friend,' said adeline. 'then she is mine of course,' cried the doctor, 'though she has a terrible stare with her eyes:--but give me your hand, mistress. what is your name?' 'me be name savanna,' replied the mulatto; 'and me die and live wid my dear mistress,' she added, bursting into tears. 'pshaw!' cried the doctor, 'i can't bear this--here i came as a physician, and these blubberers melt me down into an old woman. adeline, i must order all these people out of the room, and have you to myself, or i can do nothing.' he was obeyed; and on inquiring into all adeline's symptoms, he found little to hope and every thing to fear--'but your mind is relieved, and you have youth on your side; and who knows what good air, good food, and good nurses may do for you!' 'not to mention a good physician,' added adeline, smiling, 'and a good friend in that physician.' 'this it be to have money,' said savanna, as she saw the various things prepared and made to tempt adeline's weak appetite:--'poor savanna mean as well--her heart make all these, but her hand want power.' during this state of alarming suspense mrs pemberton was hourly expected, as she had written word that she had traced adeline into lancashire, and suspected that she was in her mother's neighbourhood.--it may be supposed that mrs mowbray, adeline, and savanna, looked forward to her arrival with eager impatience; but not so dr norberry--he said that no doubt she was a very good sort of woman, but that he did not like pretensions to righteousness over much, and had a particular aversion to a piece of formal drab-coloured morality. adeline only laughed at these prejudices, without attempting to confute them; for she knew that mrs pemberton's appearance and manners would soon annihilate them. at length she reached the lawn; and savanna, who saw her alight, announced her arrival to her mistress, and was commissioned by her to introduce her immediately into the sick chamber.--she did so; but mrs pemberton, almost overpowered with joy at the intelligence which awaited her, and ill fortified by savanna's violent and mixed emotions against the indulgence of her own, begged to compose herself a few moments before she met adeline: but savanna was not to be denied; and seizing her hand she led her up to the bedside of the invalid.--adeline smiled affectionately when she saw her; but mrs pemberton started back, and, scarcely staying to take the hand which she offered her, rushed out of the room, to vent in solitude the burst of uncontrollable anguish which the sight of her altered countenance occasioned her.--alas! her eye had been but too well tutored to read the characters of death in the face, and it was some time before she recovered herself sufficiently to appear before the anxious watchers by the bed of adeline with that composure which on principle she always endeavoured to display.--at length, however, she re-entered the room, and approaching the poor invalid, kissed in silence her wan flushed cheek. 'i am very different now, my kind friend, to what i was when you _first_ saw me,' said adeline, faintly smiling. to the moment when they _last_ met, adeline had not resolution enough to revert, for then she was mourning by the dead body of glenmurray. mrs pemberton was silent for a moment; but, making an effort, she replied, 'thou art now more like what thou wert in _mind_, when i _first_ met thee at rosevalley, than when i first saw thee at richmond. at rosevalley i beheld thee innocent, at richmond guilty, and here i see thee penitent, and, i hope, resigned to thy fate.'--she spoke the word _resigned_ with emphasis, and adeline _understood_ her. 'i am indeed resigned,' replied adeline in a low voice: 'nay, i feel that i am much favoured in being spared so long. but there is one thing that weighs heavily on my mind; mary warner is leading a life of shame, and she told me when i last saw her, that she was corrupted by my precept and example: if so--' 'set thy conscience at rest on that subject,' interrupted mrs pemberton: 'while she lived with me, i discovered, long before she ever saw thee, that she had been known to have been faulty.' 'oh! what a load have you removed from my mind!' replied adeline. 'still it would be more relieved, if you would promise to find her out; and she may be heard of at mr langley's chambers in the temple. offer her a yearly allowance for life, provided she will quit her present vicious habits; i am sure my mother will gladly fulfil my wishes in this respect.' 'and so will i,' replied mrs pemberton. 'is there any thing else that i can do for thee?' 'yes: i have two pensioners at richmond,--a poor young woman, and her orphan boy,--an illegitimate child,' she added, deeply sighing, as she recollected what had interested her in their fate. 'i bequeath them to your care: savanna knows where they are to be found. and now, all that disturbs my thoughts at this awful moment is, the grief which my poor mother and savanna will feel;--nay, they will be quite unprepared for it; for they persist to hope still, and i believe that even dr norberry allows his wishes to deceive his judgment.' 'they will suffer, indeed!' cried mrs pemberton: 'but i give thee my word, that i will never leave thy mother, and that savanna shall be our joint care.' 'it is enough--i shall now die in peace,' said adeline; and mrs pemberton turned away to meet mrs mowbray, who, with dr norberry at that moment entered the room. mrs mowbray met her, and welcomed her audibly and joyfully: but mrs pemberton, aware of the blow which impended over her, vainly endeavoured to utter a congratulation; but throwing herself into mrs mowbray's extended arms, she forgot her usual self-command, and sobbed loudly on her bosom. dr norberry gazed at the benevolent quaker with astonishment. true, she was '_drab-coloured_;' but where was the repulsive formality that he had expected? 'this woman can feel like other women, and is as good a hand at a crying-bout as myself.' but mrs pemberton did not long give way to so violent an indulgence of her feelings; and gently withdrawing herself from mrs mowbray's embrace, she turned to the window, while mrs mowbray hastened to the bed-side of adeline. mrs pemberton then turned round again, and, seizing dr norberry's hand, which she fervently pressed, said in a faltering voice, 'would thou couldst _save_ her!' 'and--and _can't_ i? can't i?' replied he, gulping. mrs pemberton looked at him with an expression which he could neither mistake nor endure; but muttering in a low tone, 'no! dear, sweet soul! i doubt i can't, i doubt i can't, by the lord!' he rushed out of the room. from that moment he never was easy but when he could converse with mrs pemberton; for he knew that she, and she only, sympathized in his feelings, as she only knew that adeline was not likely to recover. the invalid herself observed his attention to her friend, nor could she forbear to rally him on the total disappearance of his prejudices against the fair quaker; for, such was the influence of mrs pemberton's dignified yet winning manners, and such was the respect with which she inspired him, that, if he had his hat on, he always took it off when she entered the room, and never uttered any thing like an oath, without humbly begging her pardon; and he told adeline, that were all quakers like mrs pemberton, he should be tempted to cry. 'drab is your only wear.' another and another day elapsed, and adeline still lived.--on the evening of the third day, as she lay half-slumbering with her head on savanna's arm, and mrs mowbray, lulling editha to sleep on her lap, was watching beside her, glancing her eye alternately with satisfied and silent affection from the child to the mother, whom she thought in a fair way of recovery; while dr norberry, stifling an occasional sob, was contemplating the group, and mrs pemberton, her hands clasped in each other, seemed lost in devout contemplation, adeline awoke, and as she gazed on editha, who was fondly held to mrs mowbray's bosom, a smile illumined her sunk countenance. mrs mowbray at that moment eagerly and anxiously pressed forward to catch her weak accents, and inquire how she felt. 'i have seen that fond and anxious look before,' she faintly articulated, 'but in happier times! and it assures me that you love me still.' 'love you still!' replied mrs mowbray with passionate fondness:--'never, never were you so dear to me as now!' adeline tried to express the joy which flushed her cheek at these words, and lighted up her closing eyes: but she tried in vain. at length she grasped mrs mowbray's hand to her lips, and in imperfect accents exclaiming 'i thank thee, blessed lord!' she laid her head on savanna's bosom, and expired. end of adeline mowbray. transcriber's note the period spelling has generally been retained along with the often inconsistent hyphenation. obvious spelling errors (e.g. patrtick, diety, solioquy, forigve, loking, pwoerfully) have been silently corrected. the following additional changes were made to the text, in some of the subtler cases with reference to the edition. in each instance, the corrected version follows the original. adeline was leaning o the arm of a young lady. adeline was leaning on the arm of a young lady. little tricks and minauderies little tricks and minaudieres adeline, bursting into tears, threw himself into his arms adeline, bursting into tears, threw herself into his arms he dreaded to tell her that he could now allow her to call on them he dreaded to tell her that he could not allow her to call on them the slight favours by which true love is long contended to be fed the slight favours by which true love is long contented to be fed though i think all they say are true though i think all they say is true your writing are the lights your writings are the lights as a author as an author but in the mildst of it maynard re-entered but in the midst of it maynard re-entered continued to feel his passion continued to feed his passion he had brought some cakes with the penny which adeline had given he had bought some cakes with the penny which adeline had given who felt even her violet sorrow suspended who felt even her violent sorrow suspended it was more likely mr drury should be mistaken, than berrendale to be a villain it was more likely mr drury should be mistaken, than berrendale be a villain berrendale, (...) scarcely know what to answer berrendale, (...) scarcely knew what to answer though near twelve he did not look about eight years old though near twelve he did not look above eight years old no motive less powerful (...) could have enable her to reach the summit no motive less powerful (...) could have enabled her to reach the summit for mercy's safe, torture me no more for mercy's sake, torture me no more she hurried to the door of the chamber, saving she should be ready she hurried to the door of the chamber, saying she should be ready po! dear, sweet soul! i doubt i can't no! dear, sweet soul! i doubt i can't