a doll's house by henrik ibsen edited by e. haldeman-julius ten cent pocket series no. haldeman-julius company girard, kansas dramatis personae torvald helmer. nora, his wife. doctor rank. mrs. linde. nils krogstad. helmer's three young children. anne, their nurse. a housemaid. a porter. (_the action takes place in helmer's house_.) act i (scene.--_a room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not extravagantly. at the back, a door to the right leads to the entrance-hall, another to the left leads to helmer's study. between the doors stands a piano. in the middle of the left-hand wall is a door, and beyond it a window. near the window are a round table, armchairs and a small sofa. in the right-hand wall, at the farther end, another door; and on the same side, nearer the footlights, a stove, two easy chairs and a rocking-chair; between the stove and the door, a small table. engravings on the wall; a cabinet with china and other small objects; a small book-case with well-bound books. the floors are carpeted, and a fire burns in the stove. it is winter._ _a bell rings in the hall; shortly afterwards the door is heard to open. enter_ nora, _humming a tune and in high spirits. she is in out-door dress and carries a number of parcels; these she lays on the table to the right. she leaves the outer door open after her, and through it is seen a_ porter _who is carrying a christmas tree and a basket, which he gives to the_ maid _who has opened the door_.) _nora_. hide the christmas tree carefully, helen. be sure the children do not see it till this evening, when it is dressed. (_to the_ porter, _taking out her purse_.) how much? _porter_. sixpence. _nora_. there is a shilling. no, keep the change. (_the_ porter _thanks her, and goes out_. nora _shuts the door. she is laughing to herself, as she takes off her hat and coat. she takes a packet of macaroons from her pocket and eats one or two; then goes cautiously to her husband's door and listens_.) yes, he is in. (_still humming, she goes to the table on the right_.) _helmer_ (_calls out from his room_). is that my little lark twittering out there? _nora_ (_busy opening some of the parcels_). yes, it is! _helmer_. is it my little squirrel bustling about? _nora_. yes! _helmer_. when did my squirrel come home? _nora_. just now. (_puts the bag of macaroons into her pocket and wipes her mouth_.) come in here, torvald, and see what i have bought. _helmer_. don't disturb me. (_a little later, he opens the door and looks into the room, pen in hand_.) bought, did you say? all these things? has my little spendthrift been wasting money again? _nora_. yes, but, torvald, this year we really can let ourselves go a little. this is the first christmas that we have not needed to economize. _helmer_. still, you know, we can't spend money recklessly. _nora_. yes, torvald, we may be a wee bit more reckless now, mayn't we? just a tiny wee bit! you are going to have a big salary and earn lots and lots of money. _helmer_. yes, after the new year; but then it will be a whole quarter before the salary is due. _nora_. pooh! we can borrow till then. _helmer_. nora! (_goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear_.) the same little featherhead! suppose, now, that i borrowed fifty pounds today, and you spent it all in the christmas week, and then on new year's eve a slate fell on my head and killed me, and-- _nora_ (_putting her hands over his mouth_). oh! don't say such horrid things. _helmer_. still, suppose that happened,--what then? _nora_. if that were to happen, i don't suppose i should care whether i owed money or not. _helmer_. yes, but what about the people who had lent it? _nora_. they? who would bother about them? i should not know who they were. _helmer_. that is like a woman! but seriously, nora, you know what i think about that. no debt, no borrowing. there can be no freedom or beauty about a home life that depends on borrowing and debt. we two have kept bravely on the straight road so far, and we will go on the same way for the short time longer that there need be any struggle. _nora_ (_moving towards the stove_). as you please, torvald. _helmer_ (_following her_). come, come, my little skylark must not droop her wings. what is this! is my little squirrel out of temper? (_taking out his purse_.) nora, what do you think i have got here? _nora_ (_turning round quickly_). money! _helmer_. there you are. (_gives her some money_.) do you think i don't know what a lot is wanted for housekeeping at christmas-time? _nora_ (_counting_). ten shillings--a pound--two pounds! thank you, thank you, torvald; that will keep me going for a long time. _helmer_. indeed it must. _nora_. yes, yes, it will. but come here and let me show you what i have bought. and ah so cheap! look, here is a new suit for ivar, and a sword; and a horse and a trumpet for bob; and a doll and dolly's bedstead for emmy.--they are very plain, but anyway she will soon break them in pieces. and here are dress-lengths and handkerchiefs for the maids; old anne ought really to have something better. _helmer_. and what is in this parcel? _nora_ (_crying out_). no, no! you mustn't see that till this evening. _helmer_. very well. but now tell me, you extravagant little person, what would you like for yourself? _nora_. for myself? oh, i am sure i don't want anything. _helmer_. yes, but you must. tell me something reasonable that you would particularly like to have. _nora_. no, i really can't think of anything--unless, torvald-- _helmer_. well? _nora_ (_playing with his coat buttons, and without raising her eyes to his_). if you really want to give me something, you might--you might-- _helmer_. well, out with it! _nora_ (_speaking quickly_). you might give me money, torvald. only just as much as you can afford; and then one of these days i will buy something with it. _helmer_. but, nora-- _nora_. oh, do! dear torvald; please, please do! then i will wrap it up in beautiful gilt paper and hang it on the christmas tree. wouldn't that be fun? _helmer_. what are little people called that are always wasting money? _nora_. spendthrifts--i know. let us do as you suggest, torvald, and then i shall have time to think what i am most in want of. that is a very sensible plan, isn't it? _helmer_ (_smiling_). indeed it is--that is to say, if you were really to save out of the money i give you, and then really buy something for yourself. but if you spend it all on the housekeeping and any number of unnecessary things, then i merely have to pay up again. _nora_. oh but, torvald-- _helmer_. you can't deny it, my dear, little nora. (_puts his arm round her waist_.) it's a sweet little spendthrift, but she uses up a deal of money. one would hardly believe how expensive such little persons are! _nora_. it's a shame to say that. i do really save all i can. _helmer_ (_laughing_). that's very true,--all you can. but you can't save anything! _nora_ (_smiling quietly and happily_). you haven't any idea how many expenses we skylarks and squirrels have, torvald. _helmer_. you are an odd little soul. very like your father. you always find some new way of wheedling money out of me, and, as soon as you have got it, it seems to melt in your hands. you never know where it has gone. still, one must take you as you are. it is in the blood; for indeed it is true that you can inherit these things, nora. _nora_. ah, i wish i had inherited many of papa's qualities. _helmer_. and i would not wish you to be anything but just what you are, my sweet little skylark. but, do you know, it strikes me that you are looking rather--what shall i say--rather uneasy today? _nora_. do i? _helmer_. you do, really. look straight at me. _nora_ (_looks at him_). well? _helmer_ (_wagging his finger at her_). hasn't miss sweet-tooth been breaking rules in town today? _nora_. no; what makes you think that? _helmer_. hasn't she paid a visit to the confectioner's? _nora_. no, i assure you, torvald-- _helmer_. not been nibbling sweets? _nora_. no, certainly not. _helmer_. not even taken a bite at a macaroon or two? _nora_. no, torvald, i assure you really-- _helmer_. there, there, of course i was only joking. _nora_ (_going to the table on the right_). i should not think of going against your wishes. _helmer_. no, i am sure of that; besides, you gave me your word--(_going up to her_.) keep your little christmas secrets to yourself, my darling. they will all be revealed tonight when the christmas tree is lit, no doubt. _nora_. did you remember to invite doctor rank? _helmer_. no. but there is no need; as a matter of course he will come to dinner with us. however, i will ask him when he comes in this morning. i have ordered some good wine. nora, you can't think how i am looking forward to this evening. _nora_. so am i! and how the children will enjoy themselves, torvald! _helmer_. it is splendid to feel that one has a perfectly safe appointment, and a big enough income. it's delightful to think of, isn't it? _nora_. it's wonderful! _helmer_. do you remember last christmas? for a full three weeks beforehand you shut yourself up every evening till long after midnight, making ornaments for the christmas tree and all the other fine things that were to be a surprise to us. it was the dullest three weeks i ever spent! _nora_. i didn't find it dull. _helmer_ (_smiling_). but there was precious little result, nora. _nora_. oh, you shouldn't tease me about that again. how could i help the cat's going in and tearing everything to pieces? _helmer_. of course you couldn't, poor little girl. you had the best of intentions to please us all, and that's the main thing. but it is a good thing that our hard times are over. _nora_. yes, it is really wonderful. _helmer_. this time i needn't sit here and be dull all alone, and you needn't ruin your dear eyes and your pretty little hands-- _nora_ (_clapping her hands_). no, torvald, i needn't any longer, need i! it's wonderfully lovely to hear you say so! (_taking his arm_.) now i will tell you how i have been thinking we ought to arrange things, torvald. as soon as christmas is over--(_a bell rings in the hall_.) there's the bell. (_she tidies the room a little_.) there's someone at the door. what a nuisance! _helmer_. if it is a caller, remember i am not at home. _maid_ (_in the doorway_). a lady to see you, ma'am,--a stranger. _nora_. ask her to come in. _maid_ (_to_ helmer). the doctor came at the same time, sir. _helmer_. did he go straight into my room? _maid_. yes, sir. (helmer _goes into his room. the_ maid _ushers in_ mrs. linde, _who is in traveling dress, and shuts the door_.) _mrs linde_ (_in a dejected and timid voice_). how do you do, nora? _nora_ (_doubtfully_). how do you do-- _mrs. linde_. you don't recognize me, i suppose. _nora_ no, i don't know--yes, to be sure, i seem to--(_suddenly_.) yes! christine! is it really you? _mrs. linde_. yes, it is i. _nora_. christine! to think of my not recognising you! and yet how could i--(_in a gentle voice_.) how you have altered, christine! _mrs. linde_. yes, i have indeed. in nine, ten long years-- _nora_. is it so long since we met? i suppose it is. the last eight years have been a happy time for me, i can tell you. and so now you have come into the town, and have taken this long journey in winter--that was plucky of you. _mrs. linde_. i arrived by steamer this morning. _nora_. to have some fun at christmas-time, of course. how delightful! we will have such fun together! but take off your things. you are not cold, i hope. (_helps her_.) now we will sit down by the stove, and be cosy. no, take this arm-chair; i will sit here in the rocking-chair. (_takes her hands_.) now you look like your old self again; it was only the first moment--you are a little paler, christine, and perhaps a little thinner. _mrs. linde_. and much, much older, nora. _nora_. perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much. (_stops suddenly and speaks seriously_.) what a thoughtless creature i am, chattering away like this. my poor, dear christine, do forgive me. _mrs. linde_. what do you mean, nora? _nora_ (_gently_). poor christine, you are a widow. _mrs. linde_. yes; it is three years ago now. _nora_. yes, i knew; i saw it in the papers. i assure you, christine, i meant ever so often to write to you at the time, but i always put it off and something always prevented me. _mrs. linde_. i quite understand, dear. _nora_. it was very bad of me, christine. poor thing, how you must have suffered. and he left you nothing? _mrs. linde_. no. _nora_. and no children? _mrs. linde_. no. _nora_. nothing at all, then? _mrs. linde_. not even any sorrow or grief to live upon. _nora_ (_looking incredulously at her_). but, christine, is that possible? _mrs. linde_ (_smiles sadly and strokes her hair_). it sometimes happens, nora. _nora_. so you are quite alone. how dreadfully sad that must be. i have three lovely children. you can't see them just now, for they are out with their nurse. but now you must tell me all about it. _mrs. linde_. no, no; i want to hear about you. _nora_. no, you must begin. i mustn't be selfish today; today i must only think of your affairs. but there is one thing i must tell you. do you know we have just had a great piece of good luck? _mrs. linde_. no, what is it? _nora_. just fancy, my husband has been made manager of the bank! _mrs. linde_. your husband? what good luck! _nora_. yes tremendous! a barrister's profession is such an uncertain thing, especially if he won't undertake unsavoury cases; and naturally torvald has never been willing to do that, and i quite agree with him. you may imagine how pleased we are! he is to take up his work in the bank at the new year, and then he will have a big salary and lots of commissions. for the future we can live quite differently--we can do just as we like. i feel so relieved and so happy, christine! it will be splendid to have heaps of money and not need to have any anxiety, won't it? _mrs. linde_. yes, anyhow i think it would be delightful to have what one needs. _nora_. no, not only what one needs, but heaps and heaps of money. _mrs. linde_ (_smiling_). nora, nora, haven't you learnt sense yet? in our schooldays you were a great spendthrift. _nora_ (_laughing_). yes, that is what torvald says now. (_wags her finger at her_.) but "nora, nora" is not so silly as you think. we have not been in a position for me to waste money. we have both had to work. _mrs. linde_. you too? _nora_. yes; odds and ends, needlework, crochet-work, embroidery, and that kind of thing. (_dropping her voice_.) and other things as well. you know torvald left his office when we were married? there was no prospect of promotion there, and he had to try and earn more than before. but during the first year he overworked himself dreadfully. you see, he had to make money every way he could, and he worked early and late; but he couldn't stand it, and fell dreadfully ill, and the doctors said it was necessary for him to go south. _mrs. linde_. you spent a whole year in italy, didn't you? _nora_. yes. it was no easy matter to get away, i can tell you. it was just after ivar was born; but naturally we had to go. it was a wonderfully beautiful journey, and it saved torvald's life. but it cost a tremendous lot of money, christine. _mrs. linde_. so i should think. _nora_. it cost about two hundred and fifty pounds. that's a lot, isn't it? _mrs. linde_. yes, and in emergencies like that it is lucky to have the money. _nora_. i ought to tell you that we had it from papa. _mrs. linde_. oh, i see. it was just about that time that he died, wasn't it? _nora_. yes; and, just think of it, i couldn't go and nurse him. i was expecting little ivar's birth every day and i had my poor sick torvald to look after. my dear, kind father--i never saw him again, christine. that was the saddest time i have known since our marriage. _mrs. linde_. i know how fond you were of him. and then you went off to italy? _nora_. yes; you see we had money then, and the doctors insisted on our going, so we started a month later. _mrs. linde_. and your husband came back quite well? _nora_. as sound as a bell! _mrs linde_. but--the doctor? _nora_. what doctor? _mrs linde_. i thought your maid said the gentleman who arrived here just as i did, was the doctor? _nora_. yes, that was doctor rank, but he doesn't come here professionally. he is our greatest friend, and comes in at least once every day. no, torvald has not had an hour's illness since then, and our children are strong and healthy and so am i. (_jumps up and claps her hands_.) christine! christine! it's good to be alive and happy!--but how horrid of me; i am talking of nothing but my own affairs. (_sits on a stool near her, and rests her arms on her knees_.) you mustn't be angry with me. tell me, is it really true that you did not love your husband? why did you marry him? _mrs. linde_. my mother was alive then, and was bedridden and helpless, and i had to provide for my two younger brothers; so i did not think i was justified in refusing his offer. _nora_. no, perhaps you were quite right. he was rich at that time, then? _mrs. linde_. i believe he was quite well off. but his business was a precarious one; and, when he died, it all went to pieces and there was nothing left. _nora_. and then?-- _mrs. linde_. well, i had to turn my hand to anything i could find--first a small shop, then a small school, and so on. the last three years have seemed like one long working-day, with no rest. now it is at an end, nora. my poor mother needs me no more, for she is gone; and the boys do not need me either; they have got situations and can shift for themselves. _nora_. what a relief you must feel it-- _mrs. linde_. no, indeed; i only feel my life unspeakably empty. no one to live for any more. (_gets up restlessly_.) that is why i could not stand the life in my little backwater any longer. i hope it may be easier here to find something which will busy me and occupy my thoughts. if only i could have the good luck to get some regular work--office work of some kind-- _nora_. but, christine, that is so frightfully tiring, and you look tired out now. you had far better go away to some watering-place. _mrs. linde_ (_walking to the window_). i have no father to give me money for a journey, nora. _nora_ (_rising_). oh, don't be angry with me. _mrs. linde_ (_going up to her_). it is you that must not be angry with me, dear. the worst of a position like mine is that it makes one so bitter. no one to work for, and yet obliged to be always on the look-out for chances. one must live, and so one becomes selfish. when you told me of the happy turn your fortunes have taken--you will hardly believe it--i was delighted not so much on your account as on my own. _nora_. how do you mean?--oh, i understand. you mean that perhaps torvald could get you something to do. _mrs. linde_. yes, that was what i was thinking of. _nora_. he must, christine. just leave it to me; i will broach the subject very cleverly--i will think of something that will please him very much. it will make me so happy to be of some use to you. _mrs. linde_. how kind you are, nora, to be so anxious to help me! it is doubly kind in you, for you know so little of the burdens and troubles of life. _nora_. i--? i know so little of them? _mrs linde_ (_smiling_). my dear! small household cares and that sort of thing!--you are a child, nora. _nora_ (_tosses her head and crosses the stage_). you ought not to be so superior. _mrs. linde_. no? _nora_. you are just like all the others. they all think that i am incapable of anything really serious-- _mrs. linde_. come, come-- _nora_.--that i have gone through nothing in this world of cares. _mrs. linde_. but, my dear nora, you have just told me all your troubles. _nora_. pooh!--those were trifles. (_lowering her voice_.) i have not told you the important thing. _mrs. linde_. the important thing? what do you mean? _nora_. you look down upon me altogether, christine--but you ought not to. you are proud, aren't you, of having-worked so hard and so long for your mother? _mrs. linde_. indeed, i don't look down on any one. but it is true that i am both proud and glad to think that i was privileged to make the end of my mother's life almost free from care. _nora_. and you are proud to think of what you have done for your brothers. _mrs. linde_. i think i have the right to be. _nora_. i think so, too. but now, listen to this; i too have something to be proud and glad of. _mrs. linde_. i have no doubt you have. but what do you refer to? _nora_. speak low. suppose torvald were to hear! he mustn't on any account--no one in the world must know, christine, except you. _mrs. linde_. but what is it? _nora_. come here. (_pulls her down on the sofa beside her_.) now i will show you that i too have something to be proud and glad of. it was i who saved torvald's life. _mrs. linde_. "saved"? how? _nora_. i told you about our trip to italy. torvald would never have recovered if he had not gone there-- _mrs. linde_. yes, but your father gave you the necessary funds. _nora_ (_smiling_). yes, that is what torvald and all the others think, but-- _mrs. linde_. but.-- _nora_. papa didn't give us a shilling. it was i who procured the money. _mrs. linde_. you? all that large sum? _nora_. two hundred and fifty pounds. what do you think of that? _mrs. linde_. but, nora, how could you possibly do it? did you win a prize in the lottery? _nora_ (_contemptuously_). in the lottery? there would have been no credit in that. _mrs. linde_. but where did you get it from, then? _nora_ (_humming and smiling with an air of mystery_). hm, hu! aha! _mrs. linde_. because you couldn't have borrowed it. _nora_. couldn't i? why not? _mrs. linde_. no, a wife cannot borrow without her husband's consent. _nora_ (_tossing her head_). oh, if it is a wife who has any head for business--a wife who has the wit to be a little bit clever-- _mrs. linde_. i don't understand it at all, nora. _nora_. there is no need you should. i never said i had borrowed the money. i may have got it some other way. (_lies back on the sofa._) perhaps i got it from some other admirer. when anyone is as attractive as i am-- _mrs. linde_. you are a mad creature. _nora_. now, you know you're full of curiosity, christine. _mrs. linde_. listen to me, nora dear. haven't you been a little bit imprudent? _nora_ (_sits up straight_). is it imprudent to save your husband's life? _mrs. linde_. it seems to me imprudent, without his knowledge, to-- _nora_. but it was absolutely necessary that he should not know! my goodness, can't you understand that? it was necessary he should have no idea what a dangerous condition he was in. it was to me that the doctors came and said that his life was in danger, and that the only thing to save him was to live in the south. do you suppose i didn't try, first of all, to get what i wanted as if it were for myself? i told him how much i should love to travel abroad like other young wives; i tried tears and entreaties with him; i told him that he ought to remember the condition i was in, and that he ought to be kind and indulgent to me; i even hinted that he might raise a loan. that nearly made him angry, christine. he said i was thoughtless, and that it was his duty as my husband not to indulge me in my whims and caprices--as i believe he called them. very well, i thought, you must be saved--and that was how i came to devise a way out of the difficulty-- _mrs. linde_. and did your husband never get to know from your father that the money had not come from him? _nora_. no, never. papa died just at that time. i had meant to let him into the secret and beg him never to reveal it. but he was so ill then--alas, there never was any need to tell him. _mrs. linde_. and since then have you never told your secret to your husband? _nora_. good heavens, no! how could you think so? a man who has such strong opinions about these things! and besides, how painful and humiliating it would be for torvald, with his manly independence, to know that he owed me anything! it would upset our mutual relations altogether; our beautiful happy home would no longer be what it is now. _mrs. linde_. do you mean never to tell him about it? _nora_ (_meditatively, and with a half smile._) yes--some day, perhaps, after many years, when i am no longer as nice-looking as i am now. don't laugh at me! i mean, of course, when torvald is no longer as devoted to me as he is now; when my dancing and dressing-up and reciting have palled on him; then it may be a good thing to have something in reserve--(_breaking off,_) what nonsense! that time will never come. now, what do you think of my great secret, christine? do you still think i am of no use? i can tell you, too, that this affair has caused me a lot of worry. it has been by no means easy for me to meet my engagements punctually. i may tell you that there is something that is called, in business, quarterly interest, and another thing called payment in instalments, and it is always so dreadfully difficult to manage them. i have had to save a little here and there, where i could, you understand. i have not been able to put aside much from my housekeeping money, for torvald must have a good table. i couldn't let my children be shabbily dressed; i have felt obliged to use up all he gave me for them, the sweet little darlings! _mrs. linde_. so it has all had to come out of your own necessaries of life, poor nora? _nora_. of course. besides, i was the one responsible for it. whenever torvald has given me money for new dresses and such things, i have never spent more than half of it; i have always bought the simplest and cheapest things. thank heaven, any clothes look well on me, and so torvald has never noticed it. but it was often very hard on me, christine--because it is delightful to be really well dressed, isn't it? _mrs. linde_. quite so. _nora_. well, then i have found other ways of earning money. last winter i was lucky enough to get a lot of copying to do; so i locked myself up and sat writing every evening until quite late at night. many a time i was desperately tired; but all the same it was a tremendous pleasure to sit there working and earning money. it was like being a man. _mrs. linde_. how much have you been able to pay off in that way? _nora_. i can't tell you exactly. you see, it is very difficult to keep an account of a business matter of that kind. i only know that i have paid every penny that i could scrape together. many a time i was at my wits' end. (_smiles._) then i used to sit here and imagine that a rich old gentleman had fallen in love with me-- _mrs. linde_. what! who was it? _nora_. be quiet!--that he had died; and that when his will was opened it contained, written in big letters, the instruction: "the lovely mrs. nora helmer is to have all i possess paid over to her at once in cash." _mrs. linde_. but, my dear nora--who could the man be? _nora_. good gracious, can't you understand? there was no old gentleman at all; it was only something that i used to sit here and imagine, when i couldn't think of any way of procuring money. but it's all the same now; the tiresome old person can stay where he is, as far as i am concerned; i don't care about him or his will either, for i am free from care now. (_jumps up_.) my goodness, it's delightful to think of, christine! free from care! to be able to be free from care, quite free from care; to be able to play and romp with the children; to be able to keep the house beautifully and have everything just as torvald likes it! and, think of it, soon the spring will come and the big blue sky! perhaps we shall be able to take a little trip--perhaps i shall see the sea again! oh, it's a wonderful thing to be alive and be happy. (_a bell is heard in the hall_.) _mrs. linde_ (_rising_). there is the bell; perhaps i had better go. _nora_. no, don't go; no one will come in here; it is sure to be for torvald. _servant_ (_at the hall door_). excuse me, ma'am--there is a gentleman to see the master, and as the doctor is with him-- _nora_. who is it? _krogstad_ (_at the door_). it is i, mrs. helmer. (_mrs._ linde _starts, trembles, and turns to the window_.) _nora_ (_takes a step towards him, and speaks in a strained low voice_). you? what is it? what do you want to see my husband about? _krogstad_. bank business--in a way. i have a small post in the bank, and i hear your husband is to be our chief now-- _nora_. then it is-- _krogstad_. nothing but dry business matters, mrs. helmers; absolutely nothing else. _nora_. be so good as to go into the study then. (_she bows indifferently to him and shuts the door into the hall; then comes back and makes up the fire in the stove_.) _mrs. linde_. nora--who was that man? _nora_. a lawyer, of the name of krogstad. _mrs. linde_. then it really was he. _nora_. do you know the man? _mrs. linde_. i used to--many years ago. at one time he was a solicitor's clerk in our town. _nora_. yes, he was. _mrs. linde_. he is greatly altered. _nora_. he made a very unhappy marriage. _mrs. linde_. he is a widower now, isn't he? _nora_. with several children. there now, it is burning up. (_shuts the door of the stove and moves the rocking-chair aside_.) _mrs. linde_. they say he carries on various kinds of business. _nora_. really! perhaps he does; i don't know anything about it. but don't let us think of business; it is so tiresome. _doctor rank_ (_comes out of_ helmer's _study. before he shuts the door he calls to him_). no, my dear fellow, i won't disturb you; i would rather go in to your wife for a little while. (_shuts the door and sees_ mrs. linde.) i beg your pardon; i am afraid i am disturbing you too. _nora_. no, not at all. (_introducing him_.) doctor rank, mrs. linde. _rank_. i have often heard mrs. linde's name mentioned here. i think i passed you on the stairs when i arrived, mrs. linde? _mrs. linde_. yes, i go up very slowly; i can't manage stairs well. _rank_. ah! some slight internal weakness? _mrs. linde_. no, the fact is i have been overworking myself. _rank_. nothing more than that? then i suppose you have come to town to amuse yourself with our entertainments? _mrs. linde_. i have come to look for work. _rank_. is that a good cure for overwork? _mrs. linde_. one must live, doctor rank. _rank_. yes, the general opinion seems to be that it is necessary. _nora_. look here, doctor rank--you know you want to live. _rank_. certainly. however wretched i may feel, i want to prolong the agony as long as possible. all my patients are like that. and so are those who are morally diseased; one of them, and a bad case, too, is at this very moment with helmer-- _mrs. linde_ (_sadly_). ah! _nora_. whom do you mean? _rank_. a lawyer of the name of krogstad, a fellow you don't know at all. he suffers from a diseased moral character, mrs. helmer; but even he began talking of its being highly important that he should live. _nora_. did he? what did he want to speak to torvald about? _rank_. i have no idea; i only heard that it was something about the bank. _nora_. i didn't know this--what's his name--krogstad had anything to do with the bank. _rank_. yes, he has some sort of appointment there. (_to_ mrs. linde.) i don't know whether you find also in your part of the world that there are certain people who go zealously snuffing about to smell out moral corruption, and, as soon as they have found some, put the person concerned into some lucrative position where they can keep their eye on him. healthy natures are left out in the cold. _mrs. linde_. still i think the sick are those who most need taking care of. _rank_ (_shrugging his shoulders_). yes, there you are. that is the sentiment that is turning society into a sick-house. (nora, _who has been absorbed in her thoughts, breaks out into smothered laughter and claps her hands_.) _rank_. why do you laugh at that? have you any notion what society really is? _nora_. what do i care about tiresome society? i am laughing at something quite different, something extremely amusing. tell me, doctor rank, are all the people who are employed in the bank dependent on torvald now? _rank_. is that what you find so extremely amusing? _nora_ (_smiling and humming_). that's my affair! (_walking about the room_.) it's perfectly glorious to think that we have--that torvald has so much power over so many people. (_takes the packet from her pocket_.) doctor rank, what do you say to a macaroon? _rank_. what, macaroons? i thought they were forbidden here. _nora_. yes, but these are some christine gave me. _mrs. linde_. what! i?-- _nora_. oh, well, don't be alarmed! you couldn't know that torvald had forbidden them. i must tell you that he is afraid they will spoil my teeth. but, bah!--once in a way--that's so, isn't it, doctor rank? by your leave! (_puts a macaroon into his mouth.)_ you must have one too, christine. and i shall have one, just a little one--or at most two. (_walking about_.) i am tremendously happy. there is just one thing in the world now that i should dearly love to do. _rank_. well, what is that? _nora_. it's something i should dearly love to say, if torvald could hear me. _rank_. well, why can't you say it? _nora_, no, i daren't; it's so shocking. _mrs. linde_. shocking? _rank_. well, i should not advise you to say it. still, with us you might. what is it you would so much like to say if torvald could hear you? _nora_. i should just love to say--well, i'm damned! _rank_. are you mad? _mrs. linde_. nora, dear--! _rank_. say it, here he is! _nora_ (_hiding the packet_). hush! hush! hush! (helmer _comes out of his room, with his coat over his arm and his hat in his hand_.) _nora_. well, torvald dear, have you got rid of him? _helmer_. yes, he has just gone. _nora_. let me introduce you--this is christine, who has come to town. _helmer_. christine--? excuse me, but i don't know-- _nora_. mrs. linde, dear; christine linde. _helmer_. of course. a school friend of my wife's, i presume? _mrs. linde_. yes, we have known each other since then. _nora_. and just think, she has taken a long journey in order to see you. _helmer_. what do you mean? _mrs. linde_. no, really, i-- _nora_. christine is tremendously clever at book-keeping, and she is frightfully anxious to work under some clever man, so as to perfect herself-- _helmer_. very sensible, mrs. linde. _nora_. and when she heard you had been appointed manager of the bank--the news was telegraphed, you know--she traveled here as quick as she could, torvald, i am sure you will be able to do something for christine, for my sake, won't you? _helmer_. well, it is not altogether impossible. i presume you are a widow, mrs. linde? _mrs. linde_. yes. _helmer_. and have had some experience of bookkeeping? _mrs. linde_. yes, a fair amount. _helmer_. ah! well it's very likely i may be able to find something for you-- _nora_ (_clapping her hands_). what did i tell you? what did i tell you? _helmer_. you have just come at a fortunate moment, mrs. linde. _mrs. linde_. how am i to thank you? _helmer_. there is no need. (_puts on his coat_.) but today you must excuse me-- _rank_. wait a minute; i will come with you. (_brings his fur coat from the hall and warms it at the fire_.) _nora_. don't be long away, torvald dear. _helmer_. about an hour, not more. _nora_. are you going too, christine? _mrs. linde_ (_putting on her cloak_). yes, i must go and look for a room. _helmer_. oh, well then, we can walk down the street together. _nora_ (_helping her_). what a pity it is we are so short of space here; i am afraid it is impossible for us-- _mrs. linde_. please don't think of it! good-bye, nora dear, and many thanks. _nora_. good-bye for the present. of course you will come back this evening. and you too, dr. rank. what do you say? if you are well enough? oh, you must be! wrap yourself up well. (_they go to the door all talking together. children's voices are heard on the staircase._) _nora_. there they are. there they are! (_she runs to open the door. the_ nurse _comes in with the children._) come in! come in! (_stoops and kisses them._) oh, you sweet blessings! look at them, christine! aren't they darlings? _rank_. don't let us stand here in the draught. _helmer_. come along, mrs. linde; the place will only be bearable for a mother now! (rank, helmer, _and_ mrs. linde _go downstairs. the_ nurse _comes forward with the children;_ nora _shuts the hall door._) _nora_. how fresh and well you look! such red cheeks!--like apples and roses. (_the children all talk at once while she speaks to them._) have you had great fun? that's splendid! what, you pulled both emmy and bob along on the sledge?--both at once?--that _was_ good. you are a clever boy, ivar. let me take her for a little, anne. my sweet little baby doll! (_takes the baby from the_ maid _and dances it up and down._) yes, yes, mother will dance with bob too. what! have you been snow-balling? i wish i had been there too! no, no, i will take their things off, anne; please let me do it, it is such fun. go in now, you look half frozen. there is some hot coffee for you on the stove. (_the_ nurse _goes into the room on the left. nora takes off the children's things and throws them about, while they all talk to her at once_.) _nora._ really! did a big dog run after you? but it didn't bite you? no, dogs don't bite nice little dolly children. you mustn't look at the parcels, ivar. what are they? ah, i daresay you would like to know. no, no--it's something nasty! come, let us have a game. what shall we play at? hide and seek? yes, we'll play hide and seek. bob shall hide first. must i hide? very well, i'll hide first. (_she and the children laugh and shout, and romp in and out of the room; at last nora hides under the table the children rush in and look for her, but do not see her; they hear her smothered laughter run to the table, lift up the cloth and find her. shouts of laughter. she crawls forward and pretends to frighten them. fresh laughter. meanwhile there has been a knock at the hall door, but none of them has noticed it. the door is half opened, and krogstad appears. he waits a little; the game goes on._) _krogstad_. excuse me, mrs. helmer. _nora_ (_with a stifled cry, turns round and gets up on to her knees_). ah! what do you want? _krogstad_. excuse me, the outer door was ajar; i suppose someone forgot to shut it. _nora_ (_rising_). my husband is out, mr. krogstad. _krogstad_. i know that. _nora_. what do you want here, then? _krogstad_. a word with you. _nora_. with me?--(_to the children, gently_.) go in to nurse. what? no, the strange man won't do mother any harm. when he has gone we will have another game. (_she takes the children into the room on the left, and shuts the door after them._) you want to speak to me? _krogstad_. yes, i do. _nora_. today? it is not the first of the month yet. _krogstad_. no, it is christmas eve, and it will depend on yourself what sort of a christmas you will spend. _nora_. what do you want? today it is absolutely impossible for me-- _krogstad_. we won't talk about that till later on. this is something different. i presume you can give me a moment? _nora_. yes--yes, i can--although-- _krogstad_. good. i was in olsen's restaurant and saw your husband going down the street-- _nora_. yes? _krogstad_. with a lady. _nora_. what then? _krogstad_. may i make so bold as to ask if it was a mrs. linde? _nora_. it was. _krogstad_. just arrived in town? _nora_. yes, today. _krogstad_. she is a great friend of yours, isn't she? _nora_: she is. but i don't see-- _krogstad_. i knew her too, once upon a time. _nora_. i am aware of that. _krogstad_. are you? so you know all about it; i thought as much. then i can ask you, without beating about the bush--is mrs. linde to have an appointment in the bank? _nora_. what right have you to question me, mr. krogstad?--you, one of my husband's subordinates! but since you ask, you shall know. yes, mrs. linde _is_ to have an appointment. and it was i who pleaded her cause, mr. krogstad, let me tell you that. _krogstad_. i was right in what i thought, then. _nora_ (_walking up and down the stage_). sometimes one has a tiny little bit of influence, i should hope. because one is a woman, it does not necessarily follow that--. when anyone is in a subordinate position, mr. krogstad, they should really be careful to avoid offending anyone who--who-- _krogstad_. who has influence? _nora_. exactly. _krogstad_ (_changing his tone_). mrs. helmer, you will be so good as to use your influence on my behalf. _nora_. what? what do you mean? _krogstad_. you will be so kind as to see that i am allowed to keep my subordinate position in the bank. _nora_. what do you mean by that? who proposes to take your post away from you? _krogstad_. oh, there is no necessity to keep up the pretence of ignorance. i can quite understand that your friend is not very anxious to expose herself to the chance of rubbing shoulders with me; and i quite understand, too, whom i have to thank for being turned off. _nora_. but i assure you-- _krogstad_. very likely; but, to come to the point, the time has come when i should advise you to use your influence to prevent that. _nora_. but, mr. krogstad, i _have_ no influence. _krogstad_. haven't you? i thought you said yourself just now-- _nora_. naturally i did not mean you to put that construction on it. i! what should make you think i have any influence of that kind with my husband? _krogstad_. oh, i have known your husband from our student days. i don't suppose he is any more unassailable than other husbands. _nora_. if you speak slightly of my husband, i shall turn you out of the house. _krogstad_. you are bold, mrs. helmer. _nora_. i am not afraid of you any longer, as soon as the new year comes, i shall in a very short time be free of the whole thing. _krogstad_ (_controlling himself_). listen to me, mrs. helmer. if necessary, i am prepared to fight for my small post in the bank as if i were fighting for my life. _nora_. so it seems. _krogstad_. it is not only for the sake of the money; indeed, that weighs least with me in the matter. there is another reason--well, i may as well tell you. my position is this. i daresay you know, like everybody else, that once, many years ago, i was guilty of an indiscretion. _nora_. i think i have heard something of the kind. _krogstad_. the matter never came into court; but every way seemed to be closed to me after that. so i took to the business that you know of. i had to do something; and, honestly, don't think i've been one of the worst. but now i must cut myself free from all that. my sons are growing up; for their sake i must try and win back as much respect as i can in the town. this post in the bank was like the first step up for me--and now your husband is going to kick me downstairs again into the mud. _nora_. but you must believe me, mr. krogstad; it is not in my power to help you at all. _krogstad_. then it is because you haven't the will; but i have means to compel you. _nora_. you don't mean that you will tell my husband that i owe you money? _krogstad_. hm!--suppose i were to tell him? _nora_. it would be perfectly infamous of you. (_sobbing_.) to think of his learning my secret, which has been my joy and pride, in such an ugly, clumsy way--that he should learn it from you! and it would put me in a horribly disagreeable position-- _krogstad_. only disagreeable? _nora_ (_impetuously_). well, do it, then!--and it will be the worse for you. my husband will see for himself what a blackguard you are, and you certainly won't keep your post then. _krogstad_. i asked you if it was only a disagreeable scene at home that you were afraid of? _nora_. if my husband does get to know of it, of course he will at once pay you what is still owing, and we shall have nothing more to do with you. _krogstad_ (_coming a step nearer_). listen to me, mrs. helmer. either you have a very bad memory or you know very little of business. i shall be obliged to remind you of a few details. _nora_. what do you mean? _krogstad_. when your husband was ill, you came to me to borrow two hundred and fifty pounds. _nora_. i didn't know any one else to go to. _krogstad_. i promised to get you that amount-- _nora_. yes, and you did so. _krogstad_. i promised to get you that amount, on certain conditions. your mind was so taken up with your husband's illness, and you were so anxious to get the money for your journey, that you seem to have paid no attention to the conditions of our bargain. therefore it will not be amiss if i remind you of them. now, i promised to get the money on the security of a bond which i drew up. _nora_. yes, and which i signed. _krogstad_. good. but below your signature there were a few lines constituting your father a surety for the money; those lines your father should have signed. _nora_. should? he did sign them. _krogstad_. i had left the date blank; that is to say your father should himself have inserted the date on which he signed the paper. do you remember that? _nora_. yes, i think i remember-- _krogstad_. then i gave you the bond to send by post to your father. is that not so? _nora_. yes. _krogstad_. and you naturally did so at once, because five or six days afterwards you brought me the bond with your father's signature. and then i gave you the money. _nora_. well, haven't i been paying it off regularly? _krogstad_. fairly so, yes. but--to come back to the matter in hand--that must have been a very trying time for you, mrs. helmer? _nora_. it was, indeed. _krogstad_. your father was very ill, wasn't he? _nora_. he was very near his end. _krogstad_. and died soon afterwards? _nora_. yes. _krogstad_. tell me, mrs. helmer, can you by any chance remember what day your father died?--on what day of the month, i mean. _nora_. papa died on the th of september. _krogstad_. that is correct; i have ascertained it for myself. and, as that is so, there is a discrepancy (_taking a paper from his pocket_) which i cannot account for. _nora_. what discrepancy? i don't know-- _krogstad_. the discrepancy consists, mrs. helmer, in the fact that your father signed this bond three days after his death. _nora_. what do you mean? i don't understand-- _krogstad_. your father died on the th of september. but, look here; your father dated his signature the nd of october. it is a discrepancy, isn't it? (nora _is silent_.) can you explain it to me? (nora _is still silent_.) it is a remarkable thing, too, that the words " nd of october," as well as the year, are not written in your father's handwriting but in one that i think i know. well, of course it can be explained; your father may have forgotten to date his signature, and someone else may have dated it haphazard before they knew of his death. there is no harm in that. it all depends on the signature of the name; and _that_ is genuine, i suppose, mrs. helmer? it was your father himself who signed his name here? _nora_ (_after a short pause, throws her head up and looks defiantly at him_). no, it was not. it was i that wrote papa's name. _krogstad_. are you aware that is a dangerous confession? _nora_. in what way? you shall have your money soon. _krogstad_. let me ask you a question; why did you not send the paper to your father? _nora_. it was impossible; papa was so ill. if i had asked him for his signature, i should have had to tell him what the money was to be used for; and when he was so ill himself i couldn't tell him that my husband's life was in danger--it was impossible. _krogstad_. it would have been better for you if you had given up your trip abroad. _nora_. no, that was impossible. that trip was to save my husband's life; i couldn't give that up. _krogstad_. but did it never occur to you that you were committing a fraud on me? _nora_. i couldn't take that into account; i didn't trouble myself about you at all. i couldn't bear you, because you put so many heartless difficulties in my way, although you knew what a dangerous condition my husband was in. _krogstad_. mrs. helmer, you evidently do not realise clearly what it is that you have been guilty of. but i can assure you that my one false step, which lost me all my reputation, was nothing more or nothing worse than what you have done. _nora_. you? do you ask me to believe that you were brave enough to run a risk to save your wife's life. _krogstad_. the law cares nothing about motives. _nora_. then it must be a very foolish law. _krogstad_. foolish or not, it is the law by which you will be judged, if i produce this paper in court. _nora_. i don't believe it. is a daughter not to be allowed to spare her dying father anxiety and care? is a wife not to be allowed to save her husband's life? i don't know much about law; but i am certain that there must be laws permitting such things as that. have you no knowledge of such laws--you who are a lawyer? you must be a very poor lawyer, mr. krogstad. _krogstad_. maybe. but matters of business--such business as you and i have had together--do you think i don't understand that? very well. do as you please. but let me tell you this--if i lose my position a second time, you shall lose yours with me. (_he bows, and goes out through the hall_.) _nora_ (_appears buried in thought for a short time, then tosses her head)_. nonsense! trying to frighten me like that!--i am not so silly as he thinks. (_begins to busy herself putting the children's things in order_.) and yet--? no, it's impossible! i did it for love's sake. _the children_ (_in the doorway on the left.)_ mother, the stranger man has gone out through the gate. _nora_. yes, dears, i know. but, don't tell anyone about the stranger man. do you hear? not even papa. _children_. no, mother; but will you come and play again? _nora_. no no,--not now. _ children_. but, mother, you promised us. _nora_. yes, but i can't now. run away in; i have such a lot to do. run away in, sweet little darlings. (_she gets them into the room by degrees and shuts the door on them; then sits down on the sofa, takes up a piece of needlework and sews a few stitches, but soon stops_.) no! (_throws down the work, gets up, goes to the hall door and calls out_.) helen, bring the tree in. (_goes to the table on the left, opens a drawer, and stops again_.) no, no! it is quite impossible! _maid_ (_coming in with the tree_). where shall i put it, ma'am? _nora_. here, in the middle of the floor. _maid_. shall i get you anything else? _nora_. no, thank you. i have all i want. [_exit_ maid _nora_ (_begins dressing the tree_). a candle here--and flowers here--. the horrible man! it's all nonsense--there's nothing wrong. the tree shall be splendid! i will do everything i can think of to please you, torvald!--i will sing for you, dance for you--(helmer _comes in with some papers under his arm_.) oh! are you back already? _helmer_. yes. has anyone been here? _nora_. here? no. _helmer_. that is strange. i saw krogstad going out of the gate. _nora_. did you? oh yes, i forgot krogstad was here for a moment. _helmer_. nora, i can see from your manner that he has been here begging you to say a good word for him. _nora_. yes. _helmer_. and you were to appear to do it of your own accord; you were to conceal from me the fact of his having been here; didn't he beg that of you too? _nora_. yes, torvald, but-- _helmer_. nora, nora, and you would be a party to that sort of thing? to have any talk with a man like that, and give him any sort of promise? and to tell me a lie into the bargain? _nora_. a lie--? _helmer_. didn't you tell me no one had been here? (_shakes his finger at her_.) my little song-bird must never do that again. a song-bird must have a clean beak to chirp with--no false notes! (_puts his arm round her waist._) that is so, isn't it? yes, i am sure it is. (_lets her go_.) we will say no more about it. (_sits down by the stove_.) how warm and snug it is here! (_turns over his papers_.) _nora_ (_after a short pause, during which she busies herself with the christmas tree_). torvald! _helmer_. yes. _nora_: i am looking forward tremendously to the fancy dress ball at the stensborgs' the day after tomorrow. _helmer_. and i am tremendously curious to see what you are going to surprise me with. _nora_. it was very silly of me to want to do that. _helmer_. what do you mean? _nora_. i can't hit upon anything that will do; everything i think of seems so silly and insignificant. _helmer_. does my little nora acknowledge that at last? _nora_ (_standing behind his chair with her arms on the back of it_). are you very busy, torvald? _helmer_. well-- _nora_. what are all those papers? _helmer_. bank business. _nora_. already? _helmer_. i have got authority from the retiring manager to undertake the necessary changes in the staff and in the rearrangement of the work; and i must make use of the christmas week for that, so as to have everything in order for the new year. _nora_. then that was why this poor krogstad-- _helmer_. hm! _nora_ (_leans against the back of his chair and strokes his hair_). if you hadn't been so busy i should have asked you a tremendously big favour, torvald. _helmer_. what is that? tell me. _nora_. there is no one has such good taste as you. and i do so want to look nice at the fancy-dress ball. torvald, couldn't you take me in hand and decide what i shall go as, and what sort of a dress i shall wear? _helmer_. aha! so my obstinate little woman is obliged to get someone to come to her rescue? _nora_. yes, torvald, i can't get along a bit without your help. _helmer_ very well, i will think it over, we shall manage to hit upon something. _nora_. that _is_ nice of you. (_goes to the christmas tree. a short pause.)_ how pretty the red flowers look--. but, tell me, was it really something very bad that this krogstad was guilty of? _helmer_. he forged someone's name. have you any idea what that means? _nora_. isn't it possible that he was driven to do it by necessity? _helmer_. yes; or, as in so many cases, by imprudence. i am not so heartless as to condemn a man altogether because of a single false step of that kind. _nora_. no you wouldn't, would you, torvald? _helmer_. many a man has been able to retrieve his character, if he has openly confessed his fault and taken his punishment. _nora_. punishment--? _helmer_. but krogstad did nothing of that sort; he got himself out of it by a cunning trick, and that is why he has gone under altogether. _nora_. but do you think it would--? _helmer_. just think how a guilty man like that has to lie and play the hypocrite with everyone, how he has to wear a mask in the presence of those near and dear to him, even before his own wife and children. and about the children--that is the most terrible part of it all, nora. _nora_. how? _helmer_. because such an atmosphere of lies infects and poisons the whole life of a home. each breath the children take in such a house is full of the germs of evil. _nora_ (_coming nearer him_). are you sure of that? _helmer_. my dear, i have often seen it in the course of my life as a lawyer. almost everyone who has gone to the bad early in life has had a deceitful mother. _nora_. why do you only say--mother? _helmer_. it seems most commonly to be the mother's influence, though naturally a bad father's would have the same result. every lawyer is familiar with the fact. this krogstad, now, has been persistently poisoning his own children with lies and dissimulation; that is why i say he has lost all moral character. (_holds out his hands to her.)_ that is why my sweet little nora must promise me not to plead his cause. give me your hand on it. come, come, what is this? give me your hand. there now, that's settled. i assure you it would be quite impossible for me to work with him; i literally feel physically ill when i am in the company of such people. _nora_ (_takes her hand out of his and goes to the opposite side of the christmas tree_). how hot it is in here; and i have such a lot to do. _helmer_ (_getting up and putting his papers in order_). yes, and i must try and read through some of these before dinner; and i must think about your costume, too. and it is just possible i may have something ready in gold paper to hang up on the tree. (_puts his hand on her head.)_ my precious little singing-bird! (_he goes into his room and shuts the door after him.)_ _nora_ (_after a pause, whispers_). no, no--it isn't true. it's impossible; it must be impossible. (_the_ nurse _opens the door on the left._) _nurse_. the little ones are begging so hard to be allowed to come in to mamma. _nora_. no, no, no! don't let them come in to me! you stay with them, anne. _nurse_. very well, ma'am. (_shuts the door._) _nora_ (_pale with terror_). deprave my little children? poison my home? (_a short pause. then she tosses her head._) it's not true. it can't possibly be true. act ii (the same scene--_the christmas tree is in the corner by the piano, stripped of its ornaments and with burnt-down candle-ends on its dishevelled branches._ nora's _cloak and hat are lying on the sofa. she is alone in the room, walking about uneasily. she stops by the sofa and takes up her cloak._) _nora_ (_drops the cloak_). someone is coming now! (_goes to the door and listens._) no--it is no one. of course, no one will come today, christmas day--nor tomorrow either. but, perhaps--(_opens the door and looks out_.) no, nothing in the letter-box; it is quite empty. (_comes forward._) what rubbish! of course he can't be in earnest about it. such a thing couldn't happen; it is impossible--i have three little children. (_enter the_ nurse _from the room on the left, carrying a big cardboard box._) _nurse_. at last i have found the box with the fancy dress. _nora_. thanks; put it on the table. _nurse_ (_doing so_). but it is very much in want of mending. _nora_. i should like to tear it into a hundred thousand pieces. _nurse_. what an idea! it can easily be put in order--just a little patience. _nora_. yes, i will go and get mrs. linde to come and help me with it. _nurse_. what, out again? in this horrible weather? you will catch cold, ma'am, and make yourself ill. _nora_. well, worse than that might happen. how are the children? _nurse_. the poor little souls are playing with their christmas presents, but-- _nora_. do they ask much for me? _nurse_. you see, they are so accustomed to have their mamma with them. _nora_. yes, but, nurse, i shall not be able to be so much with them now as i was before. _nurse_. oh well, young children easily get accustomed to anything. _nora_. do you think so? do you think they would forget their mother if she went away altogether? _nurse_. good heavens!--went away altogether? _nora_. nurse, i want you to tell me something i have often wondered about--how could you have the heart to put your own child out among strangers? _nurse_. i was obliged to, if i wanted to be little nora's nurse. _nora_. yes, but how could you be willing to do it? _nurse_. what, when i was going to get such a good place by it? a poor girl who has got into trouble should be glad to. besides, that wicked man didn't do a single thing for me. _nora_. but i suppose your daughter has quite forgotten you. _nurse_. no, indeed she hasn't. she wrote to me when she was confirmed, and when she was married. _nora_ (_putting her arms round her neck_). dear old anne, you were a good mother to me when i was little. _nurse_. little nora, poor dear, had no other mother but me. _nora_. and if my little ones had no other mother, i am sure you would--what nonsense i am talking! (_opens the box._) go in to them. now i must--. you will see tomorrow how charming i shall look. _nurse_. i am sure there will be no one at the ball so charming as you, ma'am. (_goes into the room on the left._) _nora_ (_begins to unpack the box, but soon pushes it away from her_). if only i dared go out. if only no one would come. if only i could be sure nothing would happen here in the meantime. stuff and nonsense! no one will come. only i mustn't think about it. i will brush my muff. what lovely, lovely gloves! out of my thoughts, out of my thoughts! one, two, three, four, five, six--(_screams._) ah! there is someone coming--. (_makes a movement towards the door, but stands irresolute_.) (_enter_ mrs. linde _from the hall, where she has taken off her cloak and hat_.) _nora_. oh, it's you, christine. there is no one else out there, is there? how good of you to come! _mrs. linde_. i heard you were up asking for me. _nora_. yes, i was passing by. as a matter of fact, it is something you could help me with. let us sit down here on the sofa. look here. tomorrow evening there is to be a fancy-dress ball at the stenborgs', who live above us; and torvald wants me to go as a neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the tarantella that i learnt at capri. _mrs. linde_. i see; you are going to keep up the character. _nora_. yes, torvald wants me to. look, here is the dress; torvald had it made for me there, but now it is all so torn, and i haven't any idea-- _mrs. linde_. we will easily put that right. it is only some of the trimming come unsewn here and there. needle and thread? now then, that's all we want. _nora_. it _is_ nice of you. _mrs. linde_ (_sewing_). so you are going to be dressed up tomorrow, nora. i will tell you what--i shall come in for a moment and see you in your fine feathers. but i have completely forgotten to thank you for a delightful evening yesterday. _nora_ (_gets up, and crosses the stage_). well i don't think yesterday was as pleasant as usual. you ought to have come to town a little earlier, christine. certainly torvald does understand how to make a house dainty and attractive. _mrs. linde_. and so do you, it seems to me; you are not your father's daughter for nothing. but tell me, is doctor rank always as depressed as he was yesterday? _nora_. no; yesterday it was very noticeable. i must tell you that he suffers from a _very_ dangerous disease. he has consumption of the spine, poor creature. his father was a horrible man who committed all sorts of excesses; and that is why his son was sickly from childhood, do you understand? _mrs. linde_ (_dropping her sewing_). but, my dearest nora, how do you know anything about such things? _nora_ (_walking about_). pooh! when you have three children, you get visits now and then from--from married women, who know something of medical matters, and they talk about one thing and another. _mrs. linde_ (_goes on sewing. a short silence_). does doctor rank come here every day? _nora_. every day regularly. he is torvald's most intimate friend, and a great friend of mine too. he is just like one of the family. _mrs. linde_. but tell me this--is he perfectly sincere? i mean, isn't he the kind of a man that is very anxious to make himself agreeable? _nora_. not in the least. what makes you think that? _mrs. linde_. when you introduced him to me yesterday, he declared he had often heard my name mentioned in this house; but afterwards i noticed that your husband hadn't the slightest idea who i was. so how could doctor rank--? _nora_. that is quite right, christine. torvald is so absurdly fond of me that he wants me absolutely to himself, as he says. at first he used to seem almost jealous if i mentioned any of the dear folk at home, so naturally i gave up doing so. but i often talk about such things with doctor rank, because he likes hearing about them. _mrs. linde_. listen to me, nora. you are still very like a child in many ways, and i am older than you in many ways and have a little more experience. let me tell you this--you ought to make an end of it with doctor rank. _nora_. what ought i to make an end of? _mrs. linde_. of two things, i think. yesterday you talked some nonsense about a rich admirer who was to leave you money-- _nora_. an admirer who doesn't exist, unfortunately! but what then? _mrs. linde_. is doctor rank a man of means? _nora_. yes, he is. _mrs. linde_. and has no one to provide for? _nora_. no, no one; but-- _mrs. linde_. and comes here every day? _nora_. yes, i told you so. _mrs. linde_. but how can this well-bred man be so tactless? _nora_. i don't understand you at all. _mrs. linde_. don't prevaricate, nora. do you suppose i don't guess who lent you the two hundred and fifty pounds. _nora_. are you out of your senses? how can you think of such a thing! a friend of ours, who comes here every day! do you realise what a horribly painful position that would be? _mrs. linde_. then it really isn't he? _nora_. no, certainly not. it would never have entered into my head for a moment. besides, he had no money to lend then; he came into his money afterwards. _mrs. linde_. well, i think that was lucky for you, my dear nora. _nora_. no, it would never have come into my head to ask doctor rank. although i am quite sure that if i had asked him-- _mrs. linde_. but of course you won't. _nora_. of course not. i have no reason to think it could possibly be necessary. but i am quite sure that if i told doctor rank-- _mrs. linde_. behind your husband's back? _nora_. i must make an end of it with the other one, and that will be behind his back too. i _must_ make an end of it with him. _mrs. linde_. yes, that is what i told you yesterday, but-- _nora_ (_walking up and down_). a man can put a thing like that straight much easier than a woman-- _mrs. linde_. one's husband, yes. _nora_. nonsense! (_standing still_.) when you pay off a debt you get your bond back, don't you? _mrs. linde_. yes, as a matter of course. _nora_. and can tear it into a hundred thousand pieces, and burn it up--the nasty, dirty paper! _mrs. linde_ (_looks hard at her, lays down her sewing and gets up slowly_). nora, you are concealing something from me. _nora_. do i look as if i were? _mrs. linde_. something has happened to you since yesterday morning. nora, what is it? _nora_ (_going nearer to her_). christine! (_listens_.) hush! there's torvald come home. do you mind going in to the children for the present? torvald can't bear to see dressmaking going on. let anne help you. _mrs. linde_ (_gathering some of the things together_). certainly--but i am not going away from here till we have had it out with one another. (_she goes into the room, on the left, as helmer comes in from, the hall_.) _nora_ (_going up to_ helmar). i have wanted you so much, torvald dear. _helmer_. was that the dressmaker? _nora_. no, it was christine; she is helping me to put my dress in order. you will see i shall look quite smart. _helmer_. wasn't that a happy thought of mine, now? _nora_. splendid! but don't you think it is nice of me, too, to do as you wish? _helmer_. nice?--because you do as your husband wishes? well, well, you little rogue, i am sure you did not mean it in that way. but i am not going to disturb you; you will want to be trying on your dress, i expect. _nora_. i suppose you are going to work. _helmer_. yes. (_shows her a bundle of papers_.) look at that. i have just been into the bank. (_turns to go into his room_.) _nora_. torvald. _helmer_. yes. _nora_. if your little squirrel were to ask you for something very, very prettily--? _helmer_. what then? _nora_. would you do it? _helmer_. i should like to hear what it is, first. _nora_. your squirrel would run about and do all her tricks if you would be nice, and do what she wants. _helmer_. speak plainly. _nora_. your skylark would chirp about in every room, with her song rising and falling-- _helmer_. well, my skylark does that anyhow. _nora_. i would play the fairy and dance for you in the moonlight, torvald. _helmer_. nora--you surely don't mean that request you made of me this morning? _nora_ (_going near him_). yes, torvald, i beg you so earnestly-- _helmer_. have you really the courage to open up that question again? _nora_. yes, dear, you _must_ do as i ask; you _must_ let krogstad keep his post in the bank. _helmer_. my dear nora, it is his post that i have arranged mrs. linde shall have. _nora._ yes, you have been awfully kind about that; but you could just as well dismiss some other clerk instead of krogstad. _helmer._ this is simply incredible obstinacy! because you chose to give him a thoughtless promise that you would speak for him, i am expected to-- _nora._ that isn't the reason, torvald. it is for your own sake. this fellow writes in the most scurrilous newspapers; you have told me so yourself. he can do you an unspeakable amount of harm. i am frightened to death of him-- _helmer._ ah, i understand; it is recollections of the past that scare you. _nora._ what do you mean? _helmer._ naturally you are thinking of your father. _nora._ yes--yes, of course. just recall to your mind what these malicious creatures wrote in the papers about papa, and how horribly they slandered him. i believe they would have procured his dismissal if the department had not sent you over to inquire into it, and if you had not been so kindly disposed and helpful to him. _helmer._ my little nora, there is an important difference between your father and me. your father's reputation as a public official was not above suspicion. mine is, and i hope it will continue to be so, as long as i hold my office. _nora._ you never can tell what mischief these men may contrive. we ought to be so well off, so snug and happy here in our peaceful home, and have no cares--you and i and the children, torvald! that is why i beg you so earnestly-- _helmer_. and it is just by interceding for him that you make it impossible for me to keep him. it is already known at the bank that i mean to dismiss krogstad. is it to get about now that the new manager has changed his mind at his wife's bidding-- _nora_. and what if it did? _helmer_. of course!--if only this obstinate little person can get her way! do you suppose i am going to make myself ridiculous before my whole staff, to let people think that i am a man to be swayed by all sorts of outside influence? i should very soon feel the consequences of it, i can tell you. and besides, there is one thing that makes it quite impossible for me to have krogstad in the bank as long as i am manager. _nora_. whatever is that? _helmer_. his moral failings i might perhaps have overlooked, if necessary-- _nora_. yes, you could--couldn't you? _helmer_. and, i hear he is a good worker, too. but i knew him when we were boys. it was one of those rash friendships that so often prove an incubus in after life. i may as well tell you plainly, we were once on very intimate terms with one another. but this tactless fellow lays no restraint upon himself when other people are present. on the contrary, he thinks it gives him the right to adopt a familiar tone with me, and every minute it is "i say, helmer, old fellow!" and that sort of thing. i assure you it is extremely painful to me. he would make my position in the bank intolerable. _nora_. torvald, i don't believe you mean that. _helmer_. don't you? why not? _nora_. because it is such a narrow-minded way of looking at things. _helmer_. what are you saying? narrow-minded? do you think i am narrow-minded? _nora_. no, just the opposite, dear--and it is exactly for that reason. _helmer_. it's the same thing. you say my point of view is narrow-minded, so i must be so, too. narrow-minded! very well--i must put an end to this. (_goes to the hall door and calls.)_ helen! _nora_. what are you going to do? _helmer_ (_looking among his papers)_. settle it. (_enter_ maid.) look here; take this letter and go downstairs with it at once. find a messenger and tell him to deliver it, and be quick. the address is on it, and here is the money. _maid_. very well, sir. (_exit with the letter_.) _helmer_ (_putting his papers together_). now, then, little miss obstinate. _nora_ (_breathlessly_). torvald--what was that letter? _helmer_. krogstad's dismissal. _nora_. call her back, torvald! there is still time. oh torvald, call her back! do it for my sake--for your own sake, for the children's sake! do you hear me, torvald? call her back! you don't know what that letter can bring upon us. _helmer_. it's too late. _nora_. yes, it's too late. _helmer_. my dear nora, i can forgive the anxiety you are in, although really it is an insult to me. it is, indeed. isn't it an insult to think that i should be afraid of a starving quill-driver's vengeance? but i forgive you, nevertheless, because it is such eloquent witness to your great love for me. (_takes her in his arms.)_ and that is as it should be, my own darling nora. come what will, you may be sure i shall have both courage and strength if they be needed. you will see i am man enough to take everything upon myself. _nora_ (_in a horror-stricken voice_). what do you mean by that? _helmer_. everything i say-- _nora_ (_recovering herself_). you will never have to do that. _helmer_. that's right. well, we will share it, nora, as man and wife should. that is how it shall be. (_caressing her_.) are you content now? there! there!--not these frightened dove's eyes! the whole thing is only the wildest fancy!--now, you must go and play through the tarantella and practice with your tambourine. i shall go into the inner office and shut the door, and i shall hear nothing; you can make as much noise as you please. (_turns back at the door.)_ and when rank comes, tell him where he will find me. (_nods to her, takes his papers and goes into his room, and shuts the door after him_.) _nora_ (_bewildered with anxiety, stands as if rooted to the spot, and whispers_). he was capable of doing it. he will do it. he will do it in spite of everything.--no, not that! never, never! anything rather than that! oh, for some help, some way out of it. (_the door-bell rings_.) doctor rank! anything rather than that--anything, whatever it is! (_she puts her hands over her face, pulls herself together, goes to the door and opens it. _rank_ is standing without, hanging up his coat. during the following dialogue it begins to grow dark_.) _nora_. good-day, doctor rank. i knew your ring. but you mustn't go into torvald now; i think he is busy with something. _rank_. and you? _nora_ (_brings him in and shuts the door after him_). oh, you know very well i always have time for you. _rank_. thank you. i shall make use of as much of it as i can. _nora_. what do you mean by that? as much of it as you can. _rank_. well, does that alarm you? _nora_. it was such a strange way of putting it. is anything likely to happen? _rank_. nothing but what i have long been prepared for. but i certainly didn't expect it to happen so soon. _nora_ (_gripping him by the arm_). what have you found out? doctor rank, you must tell me. _rank_ (_sitting down by the stove_). it is all up with me. and it can't be helped. _nora_ (_with a sigh of relief_). is it about yourself? _rank_. who else? it is no use lying to one's self. i am the most wretched of all my patients, mrs. helmer. lately i have been taking stock of my internal economy. bankrupt! probably within a month i shall lie rotting in the church-yard. _nora_. what an ugly thing to say! _rank_. the thing itself is cursedly ugly, and the worst of it is that i shall have to face so much more that is ugly before that. i shall only make one more examination of myself; when i have done that, i shall know pretty certainly when it will be that the horrors of dissolution will begin. there is something i want to tell you. helmer's refined nature gives him an unconquerable disgust of everything that is ugly; i won't have him in my sick-room. _nora_. oh, but, doctor rank-- _rank_. i won't have him there. not on any account. i bar my door to him. as soon as i am quite certain that the worst has come, i shall send you my card with a black cross on it, and then you will know that the loathsome end has begun. _nora_. you are quite absurd to-day. and i wanted you so much to be in a really good humour. _rank_. with death stalking beside me?--to have to pay this penalty for another man's sin! is there any justice in that? and in every single family, in one way or another, some such inexorable retribution is being exacted-- _nora_ (_putting her hands over her ears_). rubbish! do talk of something cheerful. _rank_. oh, it's a mere laughing matter, the whole thing. my poor innocent spine has to suffer for my father's youthful amusements. _nora_ (_sitting at the table on the left_). i suppose you mean that he was too partial to asparagus and pate de foie gras, don't you? _rank_. yes, and to truffles. _nora_. truffles, yes. and oysters too, i suppose? _rank_. oysters, of course, that goes without saying. _nora_. and heaps of port and champagne. it is sad that all these nice things should take their revenge on our bones. _rank_. especially that they should revenge themselves on the unlucky bones of those who have not had the satisfaction of enjoying them. _nora_. yes, that's the saddest part of it all. _rank_ (_with a searching look at her_). hm!-- _nora_ (_after a short pause_). why did you smile? _rand_. no, it was you that laughed. _nora_. no, it was you that smiled, doctor rank! _rank_ (_rising_). you are a greater rascal than i thought. _nora_. i am in a silly mood today. _rank_. so it seems. _nora_ (_putting her hands on his shoulders_). dear, dear doctor rank, death mustn't take you away from torvald and me. _rank_. it is a loss you would easily recover from. those who are gone are soon forgotten. _nora_ (_looking at him anxiously_). do you believe that? _rank_. people form new ties, and then-- _nora_. who will form new ties? _rank_. both you and helmer, when i am gone. you yourself are already on the high road to it, i think. what did that mrs. linde want here last night? _nora_. oho!--you don't mean to say you are jealous of poor christine? _rank_. yes, i am. she will be my successor in this house. when i am done for, this woman will-- _nora_. hush! don't speak so loud. she is in that room. _rank_. to-day again. there, you see. _nora_. she has only come to sew my dress for me. bless my soul, how unreasonable you are! (_sits down on the sofa_.) be nice now, doctor rank, and to-morrow you will see how beautifully i shall dance, and you can imagine i am doing it all for you--and for torvald too, of course. (_takes various things out of the box._) doctor rank, come and sit down here, and i will show you something. _rank_ (_sitting down_). what is it? _nora_. just look at those. _rank_. silk stockings. _nora_. flesh-coloured. aren't they lovely? it is so dark here now, but to-morrow--. no, no, no! you must only look at the feet. oh, well, you may have leave to look at the legs too. _rank_. hm!-- _nora_. why are you looking so critical? don't you think they will fit me? _rank_. i have no means of forming an opinion about that. _nora_ (_looks at him for a moment_). for shame! (_hits him lightly on the ear with the stockings_.) that's to punish you. (_folds them up again_.) _rank_. and what other nice things am i to be allowed to see? _nora_. not a single thing more, for being so naughty. (_she looks among the things, humming to herself_.) _rank_ (_after a short silence_). when i am sitting here, talking to you as intimately as this, i cannot imagine for a moment what would have become of me if i had never come into this house. _nora_ (_smiling_). i believe you do feel thoroughly at home with us. _rank_ (_in a lower voice, looking straight in front of him_). and to be obliged to leave it all-- _nora_. nonsense, you are not going to leave it. _rank_ (_as before_). and not be able to leave behind one the slightest token of one's gratitude, scarcely even a fleeting regret--nothing but an empty place which the first comer can fill as well as any other. _nora_. and if i asked you now for a--? no! _rank_. for what? _nora_. for a big proof of your friendship-- _rank_. yes, yes. _nora_. i mean a tremendously big favour-- _rank_. would you really make me so happy for once? _nora_. ah, but you don't know what it is yet. _rank_. no--but tell me. _nora_. i really can't, doctor rank. it is something out of all reason; it means advice, and help, and a favour-- _rank_. the bigger a thing it is the better. i can't conceive what it is you mean. do tell me. haven't i your confidence? _nora_. more than anyone else. i know you are my truest and best friend, and so i will tell you what it is. well, doctor rank, it is something you must help me to prevent. you know how devotedly, how inexpressibly deeply torvald loves me; he would never for a moment hesitate to give his life for me. _rank_ (_leaning toward her_). nora--do you think he is the only one--? _nora_ (_with a slight start_). the only one--? _rank_. the only one who would gladly give his life for your sake. _nora_ (_sadly_). is that it? _rank_. i was determined you should know it before i went away, and there will never be a better opportunity than this. now you know it, nora. and now you know, too, that you can trust me as you would trust no one else. _nora_ (_rises deliberately and quietly_). let me pass. _rank_ (_makes room for her to pass him, but sits still_). nora! _nora_ (_at the hall door_). helen, bring in the lamp. (_goes over to the stove_.) dear doctor rank, that was really horrid of you. _rank_. to have loved you as much as anyone else does? was that horrid? _nora_. no, but to go and tell me so. there was really no need-- _rank_. what do you mean? did you know--? (maid _enters with lamp, puts it down on the table, and goes out_.) nora--mrs. helmer--tell me, had you any idea of this? _nora_. oh, how do i know whether i had or whether i hadn't. i really can't tell you--to think you could be so clumsy, doctor rank! we were getting on so nicely. _bank_. well, at all events you know now that you can command me, body and soul. so won't you speak out? _nora_ (_looking at him_). after what happened? _rank_. i beg you to let me know what it is. _nora_. i can't tell you anything now. _rank_. yes, yes. you mustn't punish me in that way. let me have permission to do for you whatever a man may do. _nora_. you can do nothing for me now. besides, i really don't need any help at all. you will find that the whole thing is merely fancy on my part. it really is so--of course it is! (_sits down in the rocking-chair, and looks at him with a smile_.) you are a nice sort of man, doctor rank!--don't you feel ashamed of yourself, now the lamp has come? _rank_. not a bit. but perhaps i had better go--forever? _nora_. no, indeed, you shall not. of course you must come here just as before. you know very well torvald can't do without you. _rank_. yes, but you? _nora_. oh, i am always tremendously pleased when you come. _rank_. it is just that, that put me on the wrong track. you are a riddle to me. i have often thought that you would almost as soon be in my company as in helmer's. _nora_. yes--you see there are some people one loves best, and others whom one would almost always rather have as companions. _rank_. yes, there is something in that. _nora_. when i was at home, of course i loved papa best. but i always thought it tremendous fun if i could steal down into the maids' room, because they never moralized at all, and talked to each other about such entertaining things. _rank_. i see--it is their place i have taken. _nora_ (_jumping-up and going to him_). oh, dear, nice doctor rank, i never meant that at all. but surely you can understand that being with torvald is a little like being with papa--(_enter_ maid _from the hall_.) _maid_. if you please, ma'am. (_whispers and hands her a card_.) _nora_ (_glancing at the card_). oh! (_puts it in her pocket_.) _rank_. is there anything wrong? _nora_. no, no, not in the least. it is only something--it is my new dress-- _rank_. what? your dress is lying there. _nora_. oh, yes, that one; but this is another. i ordered it. torvald mustn't know about it-- _rank_. oho! then that was the great secret. _nora_. of course. just go in to him; he is sitting in the inner room. keep him as long as-- _rank_. make your mind easy; i won't let him escape. (_goes into_ helmer's _room_.) _nora_ (_to the_ maid). and he is standing waiting in the kitchen? _maid_. yes; he came up the back stairs. _nora_. but didn't you tell him no one was in? _maid_. yes, but it was no good. _nora_. he won't go away? _maid_. no; he says he won't until he has seen you, ma'am. _nora_. well, let him come in--but quietly. helen, you mustn't say anything about it to any one. it is a surprise for my husband. _maid_. yes, ma'am, i quite understand. (_exit_.) _nora_. this dreadful thing is going to happen. it will happen in spite of me! no, no, no, it can't happen--it shan't happen! (_she bolts the door of_ helmer's _room. the_ maid _opens the hall door for_ krogstad _and shuts it after him. he is wearing a fur coat, high boots and a fur cap_.) _nora_ (_advancing towards him_). speak low--my husband is at home. _krogstad_. no matter about that. _nora_. what do you want of me? _krogstad_. an explanation of something. _nora_. make haste then. what is it? _krogstad_. you know, i suppose, that i have got my dismissal. _nora_. i couldn't prevent it, mr. krogstad. i fought as hard as i could on your side, but it was no good. _krogstad_. does your husband love you so little, then? he knows what i can expose you to, and yet he ventures-- _nora_. how can you suppose that he has any knowledge of the sort? _krogstad_. i didn't suppose so at all. it would not be the least like our dear torvald helmer to show so much courage-- _nora_. mr. krogstad, a little respect for my husband, please. _krogstad_. certainly--all the respect he deserves. but since you have kept the matter so carefully to yourself, i make bold to suppose that you have a little clearer idea than you had yesterday, of what it actually is that you have done? _nora_. more than you could ever teach me. _krogstad_. yes, such a bad lawyer as i am. _nora_. what is it you want of me? _krogstad_. only to see how you were, mrs. helmer. i have been thinking about you all day long. a mere cashier--a quill-driver, a--well, a man like me--even he has a little of what is called feeling, you know. _nora_. show it, then; think of my little children. _krogstad_. have you and your husband thought of mine? but never mind about that. i only wanted to tell you that you need not take this matter too seriously. in the first place there will be no accusation made on my part. _nora_. no, of course not; i was sure of that. _krogstad_. the whole thing can be arranged amicably; there is no reason why anyone should know anything about it. it will remain a secret between us three. _nora_. my husband must never get to know anything about it. _krogstad_. how will you be able to prevent it? am i to understand that you can pay the balance that is owing? _nora_. no, not just at present. _krogstad_. or perhaps that you have some expedient for raising the money soon? _nora_. no expedient that i mean to make use of. _krogstad_. well, in any case, it would have been of no use to you now. if you stood there with ever so much money in your hand, i would never part with your bond. _nora_. tell me what purpose you mean to put it to. _krogstad_. i shall only preserve it--keep it in my possession. no one who is not concerned in the matter shall have the slightest hint of it. so that if the thought of it has driven you to any desperate resolution-- _nora_. it has. _krogstad_. if you had it in your mind to run away from your home-- _nora_. i had. _krogstad_. or even something worse-- _nora_. how could you know that? _krogstad_. give up the idea. _nora_. how did you know i had thought of _that?_ _krogstad_. most of us think of that at first. i did, too--but i hadn't the courage. _nora_ (_faintly_). no more had i. _krogstad_ (_in a tone of relief)_. no, that's it, isn't it--you hadn't the courage either? _nora_. no, i haven't--i haven't. _krogstad_. besides, it would have been a great piece of folly. once the first storm at home is over--. i have a letter for your husband in my pocket. _nora_. telling him everything? _krogstad_. in as lenient a manner as i possibly could. _nora_ (_quickly)_. he mustn't get the letter. tear it up. i will find some means of getting money. _krogstad_. excuse me, mrs. helmer, but i think i told you just how-- _nora_. i am not speaking of what i owe you. tell me what sum you are asking my husband for, and i will get the money. _krogstad_. i am not asking your husband for a penny. _nora_. what do you want, then? _krogstad_. i will tell you. i want to rehabilitate myself, mrs. helmer; i want to get on; and in that your husband must help me. for the last year and a half i have not had a hand in anything dishonourable, and all that time i have been struggling in most restricted circumstances. i was content to work my way up step by step. now i am turned out, and i am not going to be satisfied with merely being taken into favour again. i want to get on, i tell you. i want to get into the bank again, in a higher position. your husband must make a place for me-- _nora_. that he will never do! _krogstad_. he will; i know him; he dare not protest. and as soon as i am in there again with him, then you will see! within a year i shall be the manager's right hand. it will be nils krogstad and not torvald helmer who manages the bank. _nora_. that's a thing you will never see! _krogstad_. do you mean that you will--? _nora_. i have courage enough for it now. _krogstad_. oh, you can't frighten me. a fine, spoilt lady like you-- _nora_. you will see, you will see. _krogstad_. under the ice, perhaps? down into the cold, coal-black water? and then, in the spring, to float up to the surface, all horrible and unrecognizable, with your hair fallen out-- _nora_. you can't frighten me. _krogstad_. nor you me. people don't do such things, mrs. helmer. besides, what use would it be? i should have him completely in my power all the same. _nora_. afterwards? when i am no longer-- _krogstad_. have you forgot that it is i who have the keeping of your reputation? (_nora stands speechlessly looking at him.)_ well, now, i have warned you. do not do anything foolish. when helmer has had my letter, i shall expect a message from him. and be sure you remember that it is your husband himself who has forced me into such ways as this again. i will never forgive him for that. good-bye, mrs. helmer. (_exit through the hall.)_ _nora_ (_goes to the hall door, opens it slightly and listens_). he is going. he is not putting the letter in the box. oh, no, no, that's impossible! (_opens the door by degrees._) what is that? he is standing outside. he is not going downstairs. is he hesitating? can he--? (_a letter drops into the box; then_ krogstad's _footsteps are heard, till they die away as he goes downstairs._ nora _utters a stifled cry, and runs across the room to the table by the sofa. a short pause_.) _nora_. in the letter-box. (_steals across to the hall-door_.) there it lies--torvald, torvald, there is no hope for us now! (mrs. linde _comes in from the room on the left, carrying the dress_.) _mrs. linde_. there, i can't see anything more to mend now. would you like to try it on--? _nora_ (_in a hoarse whisper_). christine, come here. _mrs. linde_ (_throwing the dress down on the sofa_). what is the matter with you? you look so agitated! _nora_. come here. do you see that letter? there, look--you can see it through the glass in the letter-box. _mrs. linde_. yes, i see it. _nora_. that letter is from krogstad. _mrs. linde_. nora--it was krogstad who lent you the money! _nora_. yes, and now torvald will know all about it. _mrs. linde_. believe me, nora, that's the best thing for both of you. _nora_. you don't know all. i forged a name. _mrs. linde_. good heavens--! _nora_. i only want to say this to you, christine--you must be my witness. _mrs. linde_. your witness! what do you mean? what am i to--? _nora_. if i should go out of my mind--and it might easily happen-- _mrs. linde_. nora! _nora_. or if anything else should happen to me--anything, for instance, that might prevent my being here-- _mrs. linde_. nora! nora! you are quite out of your mind. _nora_. and if it should happen that there were someone who wanted to take all the responsibility, all the blame, you understand-- _mrs. linde_. yes, yes--but how can you suppose--? _nora_. then you must be my witness, that it is not true, christine. i am not out of my mind at all; i am in my right senses now, and i tell you no one else has known anything about it; i and i alone, did the whole thing. remember that. _mrs. linde_. i will, indeed. but i don't understand all this. _nora_. how should you understand it? a wonderful thing is going to happen. _mrs. linde_. a wonderful thing? _nora_. yes, a wonderful thing!--but it is so terrible, christine; it _mustn't_ happen, not for all the world. _mrs. linde_. i will go at once and see krogstad. _nora_. don't go to him; he will do you some harm. _mrs. linde_. there was a time when he would gladly do anything for my sake. _nora_. he? _mrs. linde_. where does he live? _nora_. how should i know--? yes (_feeling in her pocket_) here is his card. but the letter, the letter--! _helmer_ (_calls from his room, knocking at the door_). nora. _nora_ (_cries out anxiously_). oh, what's that? what do you want? _helmer_. don't be so frightened. we are not coming in; you have locked the door. are you trying on your dress? _nora_. yes, that's it. i look so nice, torvald. _mrs. linde_ (_who has read the card_) i see he lives at the corner here. _nora_. yes, but it's no use. it is hopeless. the letter is lying there in the box. _mrs. linde_. and your husband keeps the key? _nora_. yes, always. _mrs. linde_. krogstad must ask for his letter back unread, he must find some pretence-- _nora_. but it is just at this time that torvald generally-- _mrs. linde_. you must delay him. go in to him in the meantime. i will come back as soon as i can. (_she goes out hurriedly through the hall door_.) _nora_ (_goes to_ helmer's _door, opens it and peeps in_). torvald! _helmer_ (_from the inner room_). well? may i venture at last to come into my own room again? come along, rank, now you will see--(_ halting in the doorway_.) but what is this? _nora_. what is what, dear? _helmer_. rank led me to expect a splendid transformation. _rank_ (_in the doorway_). i understood so, but evidently i was mistaken. _nora_. yes, nobody is to have the chance of admiring me in my dress until to-morrow. _helmer_. but, my dear nora, you look so worn out. have you been practising too much? _nora_. no, i have not practised at all. _helmer_. but you will need to-- _nora_. yes, indeed i shall, torvald. but i can't get on a bit without you to help me; i have absolutely forgotten the whole thing. _helmer_. oh, we will soon work it up again. _nora_. yes, help me, torvald. promise that you will! i am so nervous about it--all the people--. you must give yourself up to me entirely this evening. not the tiniest bit of business--you mustn't even take a pen in your hand. will you promise, torvald dear? _helmer_. i promise. this evening i will be wholly and absolutely at your service, you helpless little mortal. ah, by the way, first of all i will just--(_goes toward the hall-door_.) _nora_. what are you going to do there? _helmer_. only see if any letters have come. _nora_. no, no! don't do that, torvald! _helmer_. why not? _nora_. torvald, please don't. there is nothing there. _helmer_. well, let me look. (_turns to go to the letter-box._ nora, _at the piano, plays the first bars of the tarantella_. helmer _stops in the doorway_.) aha! _nora_. i can't dance to-morrow if i don't practise with you. _helmer_ (_going up to her_). are you really so afraid of it, dear? _nora_. yes, so dreadfully afraid of it. let me practise at once; there is time now, before we go to dinner. sit down and play for me, torvald dear; criticise me, and correct me as you play. _helmer_. with great pleasure, if you wish me to. (_sits down at the piano_.) _nora_ (_takes out of the box a tambourine and a long variegated shawl. she hastily drapes the shawl round her. then she springs to the front of the stage and calls out_). now play for me! i am going to dance! (helmer _plays and_ nora _dances_. rank _stands by the piano behind_ helmer, _and looks on_.) _helmer_ (_as he plays_). slower, slower! _nora_. i can't do it any other way. _helmer_. not so violently, nora! _nora_. this is the way. _helmer_ (_stops playing_). no, no--that is not a bit right. _nora_ (_laughing and swinging the tambourine_). didn't i tell you so? _rank_. let me play for her. _helmer_ (_getting up_). yes, do. i can correct her better then. (rank _sits down at the piano and plays. nora dances more and more wildly_. helmer _has taken up a position beside the stove, and during her dance gives her frequent instructions. she does not seem to hear him; her hair comes down and falls over her shoulders; she pays no attention to it, but goes on dancing. enter_ mrs. linde.) _mrs. linde_ (_standing as if spell-bound in the doorway_). oh!-- _nora_ (_as she dances_). such fun, christine! _helmer_. my dear darling nora, you are dancing as if your life depended on it. _nora_. so it does. _helmer_. stop, rank; this is sheer madness. stop, i tell you. (rank _stops playing, and,_ nora _suddenly stands still_. helmer _goes up to her._) i could never have believed it. you have forgotten everything i taught you. _nora_ (_throwing away the tambourine_). there, you see. _helmer_. you will want a lot of coaching. _nora_. yes, you see how much i need it. you must coach me up to the last minute. promise me that, torvald! _helmer_. you can depend on me. _nora_. you must not think of anything but me, either to-day or to-morrow; you mustn't open a single letter--not even open the letter-box-- _helmer_. ah, you are still afraid of that fellow---- _nora_. yes, indeed i am. _helmer_. nora, i can tell from your looks that there is a letter from him lying there. _nora_. i don't know; i think there is; but you must not read anything of that kind now. nothing horrid must come between us till this is all over. _rank_ (_whispers to_ helmer). you mustn't contradict her. _helmer_ (_taking her in his arms_). the child shall have her way. but to-morrow night, after you have danced-- _nora_. then you will be free. (_the_ maid _appears in the doorway to the right_.) _maid_. dinner is served, ma'am. _nora_. we will have champagne, helen. _maid_. very good, ma'am. _helmer_. hullo!--are we going to have a banquet? (_exit._) _nora_. yes, a champagne banquet till the small hours. (_calls out_.) and a few macaroons, helen--lots, just for once! _helmer_. come, come, don't be so wild and nervous. be my own little skylark, as you used. _nora_. yes, dear, i will. but go in now and you too, doctor rank. christine, you must, help me to do up my hair. _rank_ (_whispers to_ helmer _as they go out_). i suppose there is nothing--she is not expecting anything? _helmer_. far from it, my dear fellow; it is simply nothing more than this childish nervousness i was telling you of. (_they go into the right-hand room_.) _nora_. well! _mrs. linde_. gone out of town. _nora_. i could tell from your face. _mrs. linde_. he is coming home tomorrow evening. i wrote a note for him. _nora_. you should have let it alone; you must prevent nothing. after all, it is splendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen. _mrs. linde_. what is it that you are waiting for? _nora_, oh, you wouldn't understand. go in to them. i will come in a moment. (mrs. linde _goes into the dining-room._ nora _stands still for a little while, as if to compose herself. then she looks at her watch_.) five o'clock. seven hours till midnight; and then four-and-twenty hours till the next midnight. then the tarantella will be over. twenty-four and seven? thirty-one hours to live. _helmer_ (_from the doorway on the right_). where's my little skylark? _nora_ (_going to him with her arms out-stretched_). here she is! act iii (the same scene--_the table has been placed in the middle of the stage, with chairs around it. a lamp is burning on the table. the door into the hall stands open. dance music is heard in the room above_. mrs. linde _is sitting at the table idly turning over the leaves of a book; she tries to read, but does not seem able to collect her thoughts. every now and then she listens intently for a sound at the outer door_.) _mrs. linde_ (_looking at her watch_). not yet--and the time is nearly up. if only he does not--. (_listens again_.) ah, there he is. (_goes into the hall and opens the outer door carefully. light footsteps are heard on the stairs. she whispers_.) come in. there is no one here. _krogstad_ (_in the doorway_). i found a note from you at home. what does this mean? _mrs. linde_. it is absolutely necessary that i should have a talk with you. _krogstad_. really? and is it absolutely necessary that it should be here? _mrs. linde_. it is impossible where i live; there is no private entrance to my rooms. come in; we are quite alone. the maid is asleep, and the helmers are at the dance upstairs. _krogstad_ (_coming into the room_). are the helmers really at a dance tonight? _mrs. linde_. yes, why not? _krogstad_. certainly--why not? _mrs. linde_. now, nils, let us have a talk. _krogstad_. can we two have anything to talk about? _mrs. linde_. we have a great deal to talk about. _krogstad_. i shouldn't have thought so. _mrs. linde_. no, you have never properly understood me. _krogstad_. was there anything else to understand except what was obvious to all the world--a heartless woman jilts a man when a more lucrative chance turns up. _mrs. linde_. do you believe i am as absolutely heartless as all that? and do you believe that i did it with a light heart? _krogstad_. didn't you? _mrs. linde_. nils, did you really think that? _krogstad_. if it were as you say, why did you write to me as you did at the time? _mrs. linde_. i could do nothing else. as i had to break with you, it was my duty also to put an end to all that you felt for me. _krogstad_ (_wringing his hands_). so that was it. and all this--only for the sake of money. _mrs. linde_. you must not forget that i had a helpless mother and two little brothers. we couldn't wait for you, nils; your prospects seemed hopeless then. _krogstad_. that may be so, but you had no right to throw me over for any one else's sake. _mrs. linde_. indeed i don't know. many a time did i ask myself if i had a right to do it. _krogstad_ (_more gently_). when i lost you, it was as if all the solid ground went from under my feet. look at me now--i am a shipwrecked man clinging to a bit of wreckage. _mrs. linde_. but help may be near. _krogstad_. it _was_ near; but then you came and stood in my way. _mrs. linde_. unintentionally, nils. it was only today that i learnt it was your place i was going to take in the bank. _krogstad_. i believe you, if you say so. but now that you know it, are you not going to give it up to me? _mrs. linde_. no, because that would not benefit you in the least. _krogstad_. oh, benefit, benefit--i would have done it whether or no. _mrs. linde_. i have learnt to act prudently. life, and hard, bitter necessity have taught me that. _krogstad_. and life has taught me not to believe in fine speeches. _mrs. linde_. then life has taught you something very reasonable. but deeds you must believe in? _krogstad_. what do you mean by that? _mrs. linde_. you said you were like a shipwrecked man clinging to some wreckage. _krogstad_. i had good reason to say so. _mrs. linde_. well, i am like a shipwrecked woman clinging to some wreckage--no one to mourn for, no one to care for. _krogstad_. it was your own choice. _mrs. linde_. there was no other choice, then. _krogstad_. well, what now? _mrs. linde_. nils, how would it be if we two shipwrecked people could join forces? _krogstad_. what are you saying? _mrs. linde_. two on the same piece of wreckage would stand a better chance than each on their own. _krogstad_. christine! _mrs. linde_. what do you suppose brought me to town? _krogstad_. do you mean that you gave me a thought? _mrs. linde_. i could not endure life without work. all my life, as long as i can remember, i have worked, and it has been my greatest and only pleasure. but now i am quite alone in the world--my life is so dreadfully empty and i feel so forsaken. there is not the least pleasure in working for one's self. nils, give me someone and something to work for. _krogstad_. i don't trust that. it is nothing but a woman's overstrained sense of generosity that prompts you to make such an offer of your self. _mrs. linde_. have you ever noticed anything of the sort in me? _krogstad_. could you really do it? tell me--do you know all about my past life? _mrs. linde_. yes. _krogstad_. and do you know what they think of me here? _mrs. linde_. you seemed to me to imply that with me you might have been quite another man. _krogstad_. i am certain of it. _mrs. linde_. is it too late now? _krogstad_. christine, are you saying this deliberately? yes, i am sure you are. i see it in your face. have you really the courage, then--? _mrs. linde_. i want to be a mother to someone, and your children need a mother. we two need each other. nils, i have faith in your real character--i can dare anything together with you. _krogstad_ (_grasps her hands_). thanks, thanks, christine! now i shall find a way to clear myself in the eyes of the world. ah, but i forgot-- _mrs. linde_ (_listening_). hush! the tarantella! go, go! _krogstad_. why? what is it? _mrs. linde_. do you hear them up there? when that is over, we may expect them back. _krogstad_. yes, yes--i will go. but it is all no use. of course you are not aware what steps i have taken in the matter of the helmers. _mrs. linde_. yes, i know all about that. _krogstad_. and in spite of that have you the courage to--? _mrs. linde_. i understand very well to what lengths a man like you might be driven by despair. _krogstad_. if i could only undo what i have done! _mrs. linde_. you cannot. your letter is lying in the letter-box now. _krogstad_. are you sure of that? _mrs. linde_. quite sure, but-- _krogstad_ (_with a searching look at her_). is that what it all means?--that you want to save your friend at any cost? tell me frankly. is that it? _mrs. linde_. nils, a woman who has once sold herself for another's sake, doesn't do it a second time. _krogstad_. i will ask for my letter back. _mrs. linde_. no, no. _krogstad_. yes, of course i will. i will wait here till helmer comes; i will tell him he must give me my letter back--that it only concerns my dismissal--that he is not to read it-- _mrs. linde_. no, nils, you must not recall your letter. _krogstad._ but, tell me, wasn't it for that very purpose that you asked me to meet you here? _mrs. linde_. in my first moment of fright, it was. but twenty-four hours have elapsed since then, and in that time i have witnessed incredible things in this house. helmer must know all about it. this unhappy secret must be enclosed; they must have a complete understanding between them, which is impossible with all this concealment and falsehood going on. _krogstad_. very well, if you will take the responsibility. but there is one thing i can do in any case, and i shall do it at once. _mrs. linde_ (_listening_). you must be quick and go! the dance is over; we are not safe a moment longer. _krogstad_. i will wait for you below. _mrs. linde_. yes, do. you must see me back to my door. _krogstad_. i have never had such an amazing piece of good fortune in my life! (_goes out through the outer door. the door between the room and the hall remains open_.) _mrs. linde_ (_tidying up the room and laying her hat and cloak ready_). what a difference! what a difference! someone to work for and live for--a home to bring comfort into. that i will do, indeed. i wish they would be quick and come. (_listens._) ah, there they are now. i must put on my things. (_takes up her hat and cloak_. helmer's _and_ nora's _voices are heard outside; a key is turned, and_ helmer _brings_ nora _almost by force into the hall. she is in an italian costume with a large black shawl round her; he is in evening dress, and a black domino which is flying open_.) _nora_ (_hanging back in the doorway, and struggling with him_). no, no, no!--don't take me in. i want to go upstairs again; i don't want to leave so early. _helmer_. but, my dearest nora-- _nora_. please, torvald dear--please, _please_--only an hour more. _helmer_. not a single minute, my sweet nora. you know that was our agreement. come along into the room; you are catching cold standing there. (_he brings her gently into the room, in spite of her resistance_.) _mrs. linde_. good evening. _nora_. christine! _helmer_. you here, so late, mrs. linde? _mrs. linde_. yes, you must excuse me; i was so anxious to see nora in her dress. _nora_. have you been sitting here waiting for me? _mrs. linde_. yes, unfortunately i came too late, you had already gone upstairs; and i thought i couldn't go away again without having seen you. _helmer_ (_taking off_ nora's _shawl_). yes, take a good look at her. i think she is worth looking at. isn't she charming, mrs. linde? _mrs. linde_. yes, indeed she is. _helmer_. doesn't she look remarkably pretty? everyone thought so at the dance. but she is terribly self-willed, this sweet little person. what are we to do with her? you will hardly believe that i had almost to bring her away by force. _nora_. torvald, you will repent not having let me stay, even if it were only for half an hour. _helmer_. listen to her, mrs. linde! she had danced her tarantella, and it had been a tremendous success, as it deserved--although possibly the performance was a trifle too realistic--little more so, i mean, than was strictly compatible with the limitations of art. but never mind about that! the chief thing is, she had made a success--she had made a tremendous success. do you think i was going to let her remain there after that, and spoil the effect? no, indeed! i took my charming little capri maiden--my capricious little capri maiden, i should say--on my arm; took one quick turn round the room; a curtsey on either side, and, as they say in novels, the beautiful apparition disappeared. an exit ought always to be effective, mrs. linde; but that is what i cannot make nora understand. pooh! this room is hot. (_throws his domino on a chair, and opens the door of his room_.) hullo! it's all dark in here. oh, of course--excuse me--. (_he goes in, and lights some candles_.) _nora_ (_in a hurried and breathless whisper_). well? _mrs. linde._ (_in a low voice_). i have had a talk with him. _nora._ yes, and-- _mrs. linde_. nora, you must tell your husband all about it. _nora_ (_in an expressionless voice_). i knew it. _mrs. linde._ you have nothing to be afraid of as far as krogstad is concerned; but you must tell him. _nora_. i won't tell him. _mrs. linde_. then the letter will. _nora_. thank you, christine. now i know what i must do. hush--! _helmer_ (_coming in again_). well, mrs. linde, have you admired her? _mrs. linde_. yes, and now i will say good-night. _helmer_. what, already? is this yours, this knitting? _mrs. linde_ (_taking it_). yes, thank you, i had very nearly forgotten it. _helmer_. so you knit? _mrs. linde_. of course. _helmer_. do you know, you ought to embroider? _mrs. linde_. really? why? _helmer_. yes, it's far more becoming. let me show you. you hold the embroidery thus in your left hand, and use the needle with the right--like this--with a long, easy sweep. do you see? _mrs. linde_. yes, perhaps-- _helmer_. but in the case of knitting--that can never be anything but ungraceful; look here--the arms close together, the knitting-needles going up and down--it has a sort of chinese effect--. that was really excellent champagne they gave us. _mrs. linde_. well,--good-night, nora, and don't be self-willed any more. _helmer_. that's right, mrs. linde. _mrs. linde_. good-night, mr. helmer. _helmer_ (_accompanying her to the door_). good-night, good-night. i hope you will get home all right. i should be very happy to--but you haven't any great distance to go. good-night, good-night. (_she goes out; he shuts the door after her and comes in again_.) ah!--at last we have got rid of her. she is a frightful bore, that woman. _nora_. aren't you very tired, torvald? _helmer_. no, not in the least. _nora_. nor sleepy? _helmer_. not a bit. on the contrary, i feel extraordinarily lively. and you?--you really look both tired and sleepy. _nora_. yes, i am very tired. i want to go to sleep at once. _helmer_. there, you see it was quite right of me not to let you stay there any longer. _nora_. everything you do is quite right, torvald. _helmer_ (_kissing her on the forehead_). now my little skylark is speaking reasonably. did you notice what good spirits rank was in this evening? _nora_. really? was he? i didn't speak to him at all. _helmer_. and i very little, but i have not for a long time seen him in such good form. (_looks for a while at her and then goes nearer to her_.) it is delightful to be at home by ourselves again, to be all alone with you--you fascinating, charming little darling! _nora_. don't look at me like that, torvald. _helmer_. why shouldn't i look at my dearest treasure?--at all the beauty that is mine, all my very own? _nora_ (_going to the other side of the table_). you mustn't say things like that to me tonight. _helmer_ (_following her_). you have still got the tarantella in your blood, i see. and it makes you more captivating than ever. listen--the guests are beginning to go now. (_in a lower voice_.) nora--soon the whole house will be quiet. _nora_. yes, i hope so. _helmer_. yes, my own darling nora. do you know, when i am out at a party with you like this, why i speak so little to you, keep away from you, and only send a stolen glance in your direction now and then?--do you know why i do that? it is because i make believe to myself that we are secretly in love, and you are my secretly promised bride, and that no one suspects there is anything between us. _nora_. yes, yes--i know very well your thoughts are with me all the time. _helmer_. and when we are leaving, and i am putting the shawl over your beautiful young shoulders--on your lovely neck--then i imagine that you are my young bride and that we have just come from the wedding, and i am bringing you for the first time into our home--to be alone with you for the first time--quite alone with my shy little darling! all this evening i have longed for nothing but you. when i watched the seductive figures of the tarantella, my blood was on fire; i could endure it no longer, and that was why i brought you down so early-- _nora_. go away, torvald! you must let me go. i won't-- _helmer_. what's that? you're joking, my little nora! you won't--you won't? am i not your husband--? (_a knock is heard at the outer door_.) _nora_ (_starting_). did you hear--? _helmer_ (_going into the hall_). who is it? _rank_ (_outside_). it is i. may i come in for a moment? _helmer_ (_in a fretful whisper_). oh, what does he want now? (_aloud_.) wait a minute? (_unlocks the door_.) come, that's kind of you not to pass by our door. _rank_. i thought i heard your voice, and felt as if i should like to look in. (_with a swift glance round_.) ah, yes!--these dear familiar rooms. you are very happy and cosy in here, you two. _helmer_. it seems to me that you looked after yourself pretty well upstairs too. _rank_. excellently. why shouldn't i? why shouldn't one enjoy everything in this world?--at any rate as much as one can, and as long as one can. the wine was capital-- _helmer_. especially the champagne. _rank_. so you noticed that too? it is almost incredible how much i managed to put away! _nora_. torvald drank a great deal of champagne tonight, too. _rank_. did he? _nora_. yes, and he is always in such good spirits afterwards. _rank_. well, why should one not enjoy a merry evening after a well-spent day? _helmer_. well spent? i am afraid i can't take credit for that. _rank_ (_clapping him on the back_). but i can, you know! _nora_. doctor rank, you must have been occupied with some scientific investigation today. _rank_. exactly. _helmer_. just listen!--little nora talking about scientific investigations! _nora_. and may i congratulate you on the result? _rank_. indeed you may. _nora_. was it favourable, then. _rank_. the best possible, for both doctor and patient--certainty. _nora_ (_quickly and searchingly_). certainty? _rank_. absolute certainty. so wasn't i entitled to make a merry evening of it after that? _nora_. yes, you certainly were, doctor rank. _helmer_. i think so too, so long as you don't have to pay for it in the morning. _rank_. oh well, one can't have anything in this life without paying for it. _nora_. doctor rank--are you fond of fancy-dress balls? _rank_. yes, if there is a fine lot of pretty costumes. _nora_. tell me--what shall we two wear at the next? _helmer_. little featherbrain!--are you thinking of the next already? _rank_. we two? yes, i can tell you. you shall go as a good fairy-- _helmer_. yes, but what do you suggest as an appropriate costume for that? _rank_. let your wife go dressed just as she is in every-day life. _helmer_. that was really very prettily turned. but can't you tell us what you will be? _rank_. yes, my dear friend, i have quite made up my mind about that. _helmer_. well? _rank_. at the next fancy-dress ball i shall be invisible. _helmer_ that's a good joke! _rank_. there is a big black hat--have you never heard of hats that make you invisible? if you put one on, no one can see you. _helmer_ (_suppressing a smile_). yes, you are quite right. _rank_. but i am clean forgetting what i came for. helmer, give me a cigar--one of the dark havanas. _helmer_. with the greatest pleasure. (_offers him his case_.) _rank_ (_takes a cigar and cuts off the end_). thanks. _nora_ (_striking a match_). let me give you a light. _rank_. thank you. (_she holds the match for him to light his cigar_.) and now good-bye! _helmer_. good-bye, good-bye, dear old man! _nora_. sleep well, doctor rank. _rank_. thank you for that wish. _nora_. wish me the same. _rank_. you? well, if you want me to sleep well! and thanks for the light. (_he nods to them both and goes out_.) _helmer_ (_in a subdued voice_). he has drunk more than he ought. _nora_ (_absently_). maybe. (helmer _takes a bunch of keys out of his pocket and goes into the hall_.) torvald! what are you going to do there? _helmer_. empty the letter-box; it is quite full; there will be no room to put the newspaper in to-morrow morning. _nora._ are you going to work to-night? _helmer_. you know quite well i'm not. what is this? some one has been at the lock. _nora_. at the lock? _helmer_. yes, someone has. what can it mean? i should never have thought the maid--. here is a broken hairpin. nora, it is one of yours. _nora_ (_quickly_). then it must have been the children-- _helmer_. then you must get them out of those ways. there, at last i have got it open. (_takes out the contents of the letter-box, and calls to the kitchen_.) helen!--helen, put out the light over the front door. (_goes back into the room and shuts the door into the hall. he holds out his hand full of letters_.) look at that--look what a heap of them there are. (_turning them over_.) what on earth is that? _nora_ (_at the window_). the letter--no! torvald, no! _helmer._ two cards--of rank's. _nora._ of doctor rank's? _helmer_ (_looking at them_). doctor rank. they were on the top. he must have put them in when he went out. _nora._ is there anything written on them? _helmer._ there is a black cross over the name. look there--what an uncomfortable idea! it looks as if he were announcing his own death. _nora._ it is just what he is doing. _helmer._ what? do you know anything about it? has he said anything to you? _nora._ yes. he told me that when the cards came it would be his leave-taking from us. he means to shut himself up and die. _helmer._ my poor old friend. certainly i knew we should not have him very long with us. but so soon! and so he hides himself away like a wounded animal. _nora._ if it has to happen, it is best it should be without a word--don't you think so, torvald? _helmer_ (_walking up and down_). he has so grown into our lives. i can't think of him as having gone out of them. he, with his sufferings and his loneliness, was like a cloudy background to our sunlit happiness. well, perhaps it is best so. for him, anyway. (_standing still._) and perhaps for us too, nora. we two are thrown quite upon each other now. (_puts his arms around her._) my darling wife, i don't feel as if i could hold you tight enough. do you know, nora, i have often wished that you might be threatened by some great danger, so that i might risk my life's blood, and everything, for your sake. _nora_ (_disengages herself, and says firmly and decidedly_). now you must read your letters, torvald. _helmer._ no, no; not tonight. i want to be with you, my darling wife. _nora._ with the thought of your friend's death-- _helmer._ you are right, it has affected us both. something ugly has come between us--the thought of the horrors of death. we must try and rid our minds of that. until then--we will each go to our own room. _nora_ (_hanging on his neck_). good-night, torvald--good-night! _helmer_ (_kissing her on the forehead_). good-night, my little singing-bird. sleep sound, nora. now i will read my letters through. (_he takes his letters and goes into his room, shutting the door after him._) _nora_ (_gropes distractedly about, seizes_ helmer's _domino, throws it round her, while she says in quick, hoarse, spasmodic whispers_). never to see him again. never! never! (_puts her shawl over her head._) never to see my children again either--never again. never! never!--ah! the icy, black water--the unfathomable depths--if only it were over! he has got it now--now he is reading it. good-bye, torvald and my children! (_she is about to rush out through the hall, when_ helmer _opens his door hurriedly and stands with an open letter in his hand._) _helmer._ nora! _nora._ ah!-- _helmer._ what is this? do you know what is in this letter? _nora._ yes, i know. let me go! let me get out! _helmer_ (_holding her back_). where are you going? _nora_ (_trying to get free_). you shan't save me, torvald! _helmer_ (_reeling_). true? is this true, that i read here? horrible! no, no--it is impossible that it can be true. _nora._ it is true. i have loved you above everything else in the world. _helmer._ oh, don't let us have any silly excuses. _nora_ (_taking a step towards him_). torvald--! _helmer._ miserable creature--what have you done? _nora._ let me go. you shall not suffer for my sake. you shall not take it upon yourself. _helmer._ no tragedy airs, please. (_locks the hall door._) here you shall stay and give me an explanation. do you understand what you have done? answer me? do you understand what you have done? _nora_ (_looks steadily at him and says with a growing look of coldness in her face_). yes, now i am beginning to understand thoroughly. _helmer_ (_walking about the room_). what a horrible awakening! all these eight years--she who was my joy and pride--a hypocrite, a liar--worse, worse--a criminal! the unutterable ugliness of it all!--for shame! for shame! (nora _is silent and looks steadily at him. he stops in front of her._) i ought to have suspected that something of the sort would happen. i ought to have foreseen it. all your father's want of principle--be silent!--all your father's want of principle has come out in you. no religion, no morality, no sense of duty--how i am punished for having winked at what he did! i did it for your sake, and this is how you repay me. _nora._ yes, that's just it. _helmer._ now you have destroyed all my happiness. you have ruined all my future. it is horrible to think of! i am in the power of an unscrupulous man; he can do what he likes with me, ask anything he likes of me, give me any orders he pleases--i dare not refuse. and i must sink to such miserable depths because of a thoughtless woman! _nora._ when i am out of the way, you will be free. _helmer._ no fine speeches, please. your father had always plenty of those ready, too. what good would it be to me if you were out of the way, as you say? not the slightest. he can make the affair known everywhere; and if he does, i may be falsely suspected of having been a party to your criminal action. very likely people will think i was behind it all--that it was i who prompted you! and i have to thank you for all this--you whom i have cherished during the whole of our married life. do you understand now what it is you have done for me? _nora_ (_coldly and quietly_). yes. _helmer._ it is so incredible that i can't take it in. but we must come to some understanding. take off that shawl. take it off, i tell you. i must try and appease him some way or another. the matter must be hushed up at any cost. and as for you and me, it must appear as if everything between us were as before--but naturally only in the eyes of the world. you will still remain in my house, that is a matter of course. but i shall not allow you to bring up the children; i dare not trust them to you. to think that i should be obliged to say so to one whom i have loved so dearly, and whom i still--. no, that is all over. from this moment happiness is not the question; all that concerns us is to save the remains, the fragments, the appearance-- (_a ring is heard at the front-door bell._) _helmer_ (_with a start_). what is that? so late! can the worst--? can he--? hide yourself, nora. say you are ill. (nora _stands motionless._ helmer _goes and unlocks the hall door._) _maid_ (_half-dressed, comes to the door_). a letter for the mistress. _helmer._ give it to me. (_takes the letter, and shuts the door._) yes, it is from him. you shall not have it; i will read it myself. _nora._ yes, read it. _helmer_ (_standing by the lamp_). i scarcely have the courage to do it. it may mean ruin for both of us. no, i must know. (_tears open the letter, runs his eye over a few lines, looks at a paper enclosed, and gives a shout of joy._) nora! (_she looks at him, questioningly._) nora! no, i must read it once again--. yes, it is true! i am saved! nora, i am saved! _nora._ and i? _helmer._ you too, of course; we are both saved, both saved, both you and i. look, he sends you your bond back. he says he regrets and repents--that a happy change in his life--never mind what he says! we are saved, nora! no one can do anything to you. oh, nora, nora!--no, first i must destroy these hateful things. let me see--. (_takes a look at the bond._) no, no, i won't look at it. the whole thing shall be nothing but a bad dream to me. (_tears up the bond and both letters, throws them all into the stove, and watches them burn._) there--now it doesn't exist any longer. he says that since christmas eve you--. these must have been three dreadful days for you, nora. _nora._ i have fought a hard fight these three days. _helmer._ and suffered agonies, and seen no way out but--. no, we won't call any of the horrors to mind. we will only shout with joy, and keep saying, "it's all over! it's all over!" listen to me, nora. you don't seem to realise that it is all over. what is this?--such a cold, set face! my poor little nora, i quite understand; you don't feel as if you could believe that i have forgiven you. but it is true, nora, i swear it; i have forgiven you everything. i know that what you did, you did out of love for me. _nora._ that is true. _helmer._ you have loved me as a wife ought to love her husband. only you had not sufficient knowledge to judge of the means you used. but do you suppose you are any the less dear to me, because you don't understand how to act on your own responsibility? no, no; only lean on me; i will advise you and direct you. i should not be a man if this womanly helplessness did not just give you a double attractiveness in my eyes. you must not think any more about the hard things i said in my first moment of consternation, when i thought everything was going to overwhelm me. i have forgiven you, nora; i swear to you i have forgiven you. _nora._ thank you for your forgiveness. (_she goes out through the door to the right._) _helmer._ no, don't go--. (_looks in._) what are you doing in there? _nora_ (_from within_). taking off my fancy dress. _helmer_ (_standing at the open door_). yes, do. try and calm yourself, and make your mind easy again, my frightened little singing-bird. be at rest, and feel secure; i have broad wings to shelter you under. (_walks up and down by the door._) how warm and cosy our home is, nora. here is shelter for you; here i will protect you like a hunted dove that i have saved from a hawk's claws; i will bring peace to your poor beating heart. it will come, little by little, nora, believe me. to-morrow morning you will look upon it all quite differently; soon everything will be just as it was before. very soon you won't need me to assure you that i have forgiven you; you will yourself feel the certainty that i have done so. can you suppose i should ever think of such a thing as repudiating you, or even reproaching you? you have no idea what a true man's heart is like, nora. there is something so indescribably sweet and satisfying, to a man, in the knowledge that he has forgiven his wife--forgiven her freely, and with all his heart. it seems as if that had made her, as it were, doubly his own; he has given her a new life, so to speak; and she is in a way become both wife and child to him. so you shall be for me after this, my little scared, helpless darling. have no anxiety about anything, nora; only be frank and open with me, and i will serve as will and conscience both to you--. what is this? not gone to bed? have you changed your things? _nora_ (_in everyday dress_). yes, torvald, i have changed my things now. _helmer._ but what for?--so late as this. _nora._ i shall not sleep tonight. _helmer._ but, my dear nora-- _nora_ (_looking at her watch_). it is not so very late. sit down here, torvald. you and i have much to say to one another. (_she sits down at one side of the table_.) _helmer._ nora--what is this?--this cold, set face? _nora._ sit down. it will take some time; i have a lot to talk over with you. _helmer_ (_sits down at the opposite side of the table_). you alarm me, nora!--and i don't understand you. _nora._ no, that is just it. you don't understand me, and i have never understood you either--before tonight. no, you mustn't interrupt me. you must simply listen to what i say. torvald, this is a settling of accounts. _helmer._ what do you mean by that? _nora_ (_after a short silence_). isn't there one thing that strikes you as strange in our sitting here like this? _helmer._ what is that? _nora._ we have been married now eight years. does it not occur to you that this is the first time we two, you and i, husband and wife, have had a serious conversation? _helmer._ what do you mean by serious? _nora._ in all these eight years--longer than that--from the very beginning of our acquaintance, we have never exchanged a word on any serious subject. _helmer._ was it likely that i would be continually and forever telling you about worries that you could not help me to bear? _nora._ i am not speaking about business matters. i say that we have never sat down in earnest together to try and get at the bottom of anything. _helmer._ but, dearest nora, would it have been any good to you? _nora._ that is just it; you have never understood me. i have been greatly wronged, torvald--first by papa and then by you. _helmer._ what! by us two--by us two, who have loved you better than anyone else in in the world? _nora_ (_shaking her head_). you have never loved me. you have only thought it pleasant to be in love with me. _helmer._ nora, what do i hear you saying? _nora._ it is perfectly true, torvald. when i was at home with papa, he told me his opinion about everything, and so i had the same opinions; and if i differed from him i concealed the fact, because he would not have liked it. he called me his doll-child, and he played with me just as i used to play with my dolls. and when i came to live with you-- _helmer._ what sort of an expression is that to use about our marriage? _nora_ (_undisturbed_). i mean that i was simply transferred from papa's hands into yours. you arranged everything according to your own taste, and so i got the same tastes as you--or else i pretended to, i am really not quite sure which--i think sometimes the one and sometimes the other. when i look back on it, it seems to me as if i had been living here like a poor woman--just from hand to mouth. i have existed merely to perform tricks for you, torvald. but you would have it so. you and papa have committed a great sin against me. it is your fault that i have made nothing of my life. _helmer_. how unreasonable and how ungrateful you are, nora! have you not been happy here? _nora_. no, i have never been happy. i thought i was, but it has never really been so. _helmer_. not--not happy! _nora_. no, only merry. and you have always been so kind to me. but our home has been nothing but a playroom. i have been your doll-wife, just as at home i was papa's doll-child; and here the children have been my dolls. i thought it great fun when you played with me, just as they thought it great fun when i played with them. that is what our marriage has been, torvald. _helmer_. there is some truth in what you say--exaggerated and strained as your view of it is. but for the future it shall be different. playtime shall be over, and lesson-time shall begin. _nora_. whose lessons? mine, or the children's? _helmer_. both yours and the children's, my darling nora. _nora_. alas, torvald, you are not the man to educate me into being a proper wife for you. _helmer_. and you can say that! _nora_. and i--how am i fitted to bring up the children? _helmer_. nora! _nora_. didn't you say so yourself a little while ago--that you dare not trust me to bring them up? _helmer_. in a moment of anger! why do you pay any heed to that? _nora_. indeed, you were perfectly right. i am not fit for the task. there is another task i must undertake first. i must try and educate myself--you are not the man to help me in that. i must do that for myself. and that is why i am going to leave you now. _helmer_ (_springing up_). what do you say? _nora_. i must stand quite alone, if i am to understand myself and everything about me. it is for that reason that i cannot remain with you any longer. _helmer_. nora, nora! _nora_. i am going away from here now, at once. i am sure christine will take me in for the night-- _helmer_. you are out of your mind! i won't allow it! i forbid you! _nora_. it is no use forbidding me anything any longer. i will take with me what belongs to myself. i will take nothing from you, either now or later. _helmer_. what sort of madness is this! _nora_. tomorrow i shall go home--i mean to my old home. it will be easiest for me to find something to do there. _helmer_. you blind, foolish woman! _nora_. i must try and get some sense, torvald. _helmer_. to desert your home, your husband and your children! and you don't consider what people will say! _nora_. i cannot consider that at all. i only know that it is necessary for me. _helmer_. it's shocking. this is how you would neglect your most sacred duties. _nora_. what do you consider my most sacred duties? _helmer_. do i need to tell you that? are they not your duties to your husband and your children? _nora_. i have other duties just as sacred. _helmer_. that you have not. what duties could those be? _nora_. duties to myself. _helmer_. before all else, you are a wife and mother. _nora_. i don't believe that any longer. i believe that before all else i am a reasonable human being, just as you are--or, at all events, that i must try and become one. i know quite well, torvald, that most people would think you right, and that views of that kind are to be found in books; but i can no longer content myself with what most people say, or with what is found in books. i must think over things for myself and get to understand them. _helmer_. can you not understand your place in your own home? have you not a reliable guide in such matters as that?--have you no religion? _nora_. i am afraid, torvald, i do not exactly know what religion is. _helmer_. what are you saying? _nora_. i know nothing but what the clergyman said, when i went to be confirmed. he told us that religion was this, and that, and the other. when i am away from all this, and am alone, i will look into that matter too. i will see if what the clergyman said is true, or at all events if it is true for me. _helmer_. this is unheard of in a girl of your age! but if religion cannot lead you aright, let me try and awaken your conscience. i suppose you have some moral sense? or--answer me--am i to think you have none? _nora_. i assure you, torvald, that is not an easy question to answer. i really don't know. the thing perplexes me altogether. i only know that you and i look at it in quite a different light. i am learning, too, that the law is quite another thing from what i supposed; but i find it impossible to convince myself that the law is right. according to it a woman has no right to spare her old dying father, or to save her husband's life. i can't believe that. _helmer_. you talk like a child. you don't understand the conditions of the world in which you live. _nora_. no, i don't. but now i am going to try. i am going to see if i can make out who is right, the world or i. _helmer_. you are ill, nora; you are delirious; i almost think you are out of your mind. _nora_. i have never felt my mind so clear and certain as to-night. _helmer_. and is it with a clear and certain mind that you forsake your husband and your children? _nora_. yes, it is. _helmer_. then there is only one possible explanation. _nora_. what is that? _helmer_. you do not love me any more. _nora_. no, that is just it. _helmer_. nora!--and you can say that? _nora_. it gives me great pain, torvald, for you have always been so kind to me, but i cannot help it. i do not love you any more. _helmer_ (_regaining his composure_). is that a clear and certain conviction too? _nora_. yes, absolutely clear and certain. that is the reason why i will not stay here any longer. _helmer_. and can you tell me what i have done to forfeit your love? _nora_. yes, indeed i can. it was to-night, when the wonderful thing did not happen; then i saw you were not the man i had thought you. _helmer_. explain yourself better--i don't understand you. _nora_. i have waited so patiently for eight years; for, goodness knows, i knew very well that wonderful things don't happen every day. then this horrible misfortune came upon me; and then i felt quite certain that the wonderful thing was going to happen at last. when krogstad's letter was lying out there, never for a moment did i imagine that you would consent to accept this man's conditions. i was so absolutely certain that you would say to him: publish the thing to the whole world. and when that was done-- _helmer_. yes, what then?--when i had exposed my wife to shame and disgrace? _nora_. when that was done, i was so absolutely certain, you would come forward and take everything upon yourself, and say: i am the guilty one. _helmer_. nora--! _nora_. you mean that i would never have accepted such a sacrifice on your part? no, of course not. but what would my assurances have been worth against yours? that was the wonderful thing which i hoped for and feared; and it was to prevent that, that i wanted to kill myself. _helmer_. i would gladly work night and day for you, nora--bear sorrow and want for your sake. but no man would sacrifice his honour for the one he loves. _nora_. it is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done. _helmer_. oh, you think and talk like a heedless child. _nora_. maybe. but you neither think nor talk like the man i could bind myself to. as soon as your fear was over--and it was not fear for what threatened me, but for what might happen to you--when the whole thing was past, as far as you were concerned it was exactly as if nothing at all had happened. exactly as before, i was your little skylark, your doll, which you would in future treat with doubly gentle care, because it was so brittle and fragile. (_getting up_.) torvald--it was then it dawned upon me that for eight years i had been living here with a strange man, and had borne him three children--. oh! i can't bear to think of it! i could tear myself into little bits! _helmer_ (_sadly_). i see, i see. an abyss has opened between us--there is no denying it. but, nora, would it not be possible to fill it up? _nora_. as i am now, i am no wife for you. _helmer_. i have it in me to become a different man. _nora_. perhaps--if your doll is taken away from you. _helmer_. but to part!--to part from you! no, no, nora, i can't understand that idea. _nora_ (_going out to the right_). that makes it all the more certain that it must be done. (_she comes back with her cloak and hat and a small bag which she puts on a chair by the table_.) _helmer_. nora, nora, not now! wait till tomorrow. _nora_ (_putting on her cloak_). i cannot spend the night in a strange man's room. _helmer_. but can't we live here like brother and sister--? _nora_ (_putting on her hat_). you know very well that would not last long. (_puts the shawl round her_.) good-bye, torvald. i won't see the little ones. i know they are in better hands than mine. as i am now, i can be of no use to them. _helmer_. but some day, nora--some day? _nora_. how can i tell? i have no idea what is going to become of me. _helmer_. but you are my wife, whatever becomes of you. _nora_. listen, torvald. i have heard that when a wife deserts her husband's house, as i am doing now, he is legally freed from all obligations towards her. in any case i set you free from all your obligations. you are not to feel yourself bound in the slightest way, any more than i shall. there must be perfect freedom on both sides. see, here is your ring back. give me mine. _helmer_. that too? _nora_. that too. _helmer_. here it is. _nora_. that's right. now it is all over. i have put the keys here. the maids know all about everything in the house--better than i do. tomorrow, after i have left her, christine will come here and pack up my own things that i brought with me from home. i will have them sent after me. _helmer_. all over! all over!--nora, shall you never think of me again? _nora_. i know i shall often think of you and the children and this house. _helmer_. may i write to you, nora? _nora_. no--never. you must not do that. _helmer_. but at least let me send you-- _nora_. nothing--nothing-- _helmer_. let me help you if you are in want. _nora_. no. i can receive nothing from a stranger. _helmer_. nora--can i never be anything more than a stranger to you? _nora_ (_taking her bag_). ah, torvald, the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen. _helmer_. tell me what that would be! _nora_. both you and i would have to be so changed that--. oh, torvald, i don't believe any longer in wonderful things happening. _helmer_. but i will believe in it. tell me? so changed that--? _nora_. that our life together would be a real wedlock. good-bye. (_she goes out through the hall_.) _helmer_ (_sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in his hands_). nora! nora! (_looks round, and rises_.) empty. she is gone. (_a hope flashes across his mind_.) the most wonderful thing of all--? (_the sound of a door shutting is heard from below_.) this etext was created by douglas levy, _littera scripta manet_ the romance of isabel lady burton vol. ii. the story of her life told in part by herself and in part by w. h. wilkins volume two. contents of vol. ii. book ii. (continued). chapter. xi. in and about damascus. xii. early days at damascus. xiii. through the desert to palmyra. xiv. bludan in the anti-lebanon. xv. gathering clouds. xvi. jerusalem and the holy land. xvii. the recall. xviii. the true reasons of burton's recall. xix. the passing of the cloud. xx. early years at trieste. xxi. the journey to bombay. xxii. india. xxiii. trieste again. xxiv. the shadows lengthen. xxv. gordon and the burtons. xxvi. the sword hangs. xxvii. the sword falls. book iii. widowed. chapter. i. the truth about "the scented garden." ii. the return to england. iii. the tinkling of the camel's bell. book ii. wedded (continued). chapter xi. in and about damascus. ( ). when i nighted and day'd in damascus town, time sware such another he ne'er should view; and careless we slept under wing of night, till dappled morn 'gan her smiles renew, and dewdrops on branch in their beauty hung like pearls to be dropt when the zephyr blew, and the lake was the page where birds read and wrote, and the clouds set points to what breezes roll. _alf laylah wa laylah_ (burton's"arabian nights"). during the first weeks at damascus my only work was to find a suitable house and to settle down in it. our predecessor in the consulate had lived in a large house in the city itself, and as soon as he retired he let it to a wealthy jew. in any case it would not have suited us, nor would any house within the city walls; for though some of them were quite beautiful--indeed, marble palaces gorgeously decorated and furnished after the manner of oriental houses--yet there is always a certain sense of imprisonment about damascus, as the windows of the houses are all barred and latticed, and the gates of the city are shut at sunset. this would not have suited our wild-cat proclivities; we should have felt as though we were confined in a cage. so after a search of many days we took a house in the environs, about a quarter of an hour's ride from damascus, high up the hill. just beyond it was the desert sand, and in the background a saffron-hued mountain known as the camomile mountain; and camomile was the scent which pervaded our village and all damascus. our house was in the suburb of salahiyyeh, and we had good air and light, beautiful views, fresh water, quiet, and above all liberty. in five minutes we could gallop out over the mountains, and there we pitched our tent. i should like to describe our house at salahiyyeh, once more, though i have described it before, and frederick leighton once drew a sketch of it, so that it is pretty well known. our house faced the road and the opposite gardens, and it was flanked on one side by the mosque and on the other by the hammam (turkish bath), and there were gardens at the back. on the other side of the road were apricot trees, whose varying beauty of bud and leaf and flower and fruit can be better imagined than described. among these apricot orchards i had a capital stable for twelve horses, and a good room attached to it for any number of _saises_, or grooms; and beyond that again was a little garden, through which the river wended its way. so much for the exterior. now to come indoors. as one entered, first of all came the courtyard, boldly painted in broad stripes of red and white and blue, after the manner of all the courtyards in damascus. here too splashed the fountain, and all around were orange, lemon, and jessamine trees. two steps took one to the _liwan_, a raised room open one side to the court, and spread with carpets, divans, and eastern stuffs. it was here, in the summer, i was wont to receive. on the right side of the court was a dining-room, when it was too hot to live upstairs. all the rest of the space below was left to the servants and offices. upstairs the rooms ran around two sides of the courtyard. a long terrace occupied the other two sides, joining the rooms at either end. this terrace formed a pleasant housetop in the cool evenings. we spread it with mats and divans, and used to sit among the flowers and shrubs, and look over damascus and sniff the desert air beyond. of course this house was not the consulate, which was in the city, close to the serai, or government house. i think the charm of our house lay chiefly in the gardens around it. we made a beautiful arbour in the garden opposite--a garden of roses and jessamine; and we made it by lifting up overladen vines and citrons, and the branches of lemon and orange trees, and supporting them on a framework, so that no sun could penetrate their luxuriant leafage. we put a divan in this arbour, which overlooked the rushing river; and that and the housetop were our favourite places to smoke on cool summer evenings. by this time you will probably have discovered my love for animals, and as soon as i had arranged our house at damascus the first thing i did was to indulge in my hobby of collecting a menagerie. first of all we bought some horses, three-quarter-breds and half-breds. thorough-bred arabs, especially mares, were too dear for our stable, and would have made us an object of suspicion. in the east, where there are official hands not clean of bribes, an arab mare is a a favourite bribe, and i had many such offers before i had been at damascus long; but i refused them all. richard always gave me entire command of the stable, and so it was my domain. living in solitude as i did very much, i discovered how companionable horses could be. there was no speech between us, but i knew everything they said and thought and felt, and they knew everything i said to them. i did not confine my purchases entirely to horses. i bought a camel and a snow-white donkey, which latter is the most honourable mount for grand visiting. i also picked up a splendid persian cat in the bazars, and i had brought over with me a young pet st. bernard dog, two brindle bull-terriers and two of the yarborough breed, and i added later a kurdish pup. i bought three milk goats for the house, and i had presents of a pet lamb and a _nimr_ (leopard), which became the idol of the house. the domestic hen-yard was duly stocked with all kinds of fowls, turkeys, geese, ducks, and guinea-fowls, and in the garden and on the terrace and the house-top i kept my pigeons. this collection was my delight. i cannot say that they were a happy family. after a time i trained them into living together in something like harmony, but it took a very long time. i added to my family also from time to time half-famished dogs which i had rescued from the streets, or ill-treated and broken-down donkeys, which i purchased from some cruel master. in the course of time it became a truly wonderful gathering. the animals in the east seem to me to be almost more intelligent than those at home. they certainly have a way of showing their likes and dislikes very strongly. when i first came to damascus, fond though i was of animals, i found that most of them shied at me. i do not think that they had been accustomed to an englishwoman at close quarters. for instance, i went for a walk one day, and met a small boy leading a donkey laden with radishes, as high as a small tree. i suppose that i was strange-looking, for at the sight of me the donkey kicked up his heels and threw all the radishes about a hundred yards around. the poor little boy set up a howl. i ran to help him, but the more i tried the more the donkey ran away, and at last i understood by signs that the donkey was shying at me, so i threw the boy a coin and retreated, and sent another boy to help him. we called to an old man riding a shabby-looking horse, but the moment the horse saw me it did exactly the same thing, and nearly flung the old man off. my sides ached with laughing. fancy being so queer that the animals take fright at one! i think before i go further i ought to give some general idea of the city of damascus as it appeared to me. i have already said that my first sight of the city was one of disappointment; but when i got to know it better its charm grew upon me, and i shall never till i die like any place so well. damascus, as i suppose every one knows, is the largest town in syria. in shape it is rather like a boy's kite, with a very long tail. the tail of the kite is the maydan, the poorest part of damascus, but rich in ruined mosques and hammams, and houses which at first sight look as though they are in decay. but when we got to know these houses better, we found that marble courts, inlaid chambers, arabesque ceilings, often lay behind the muddy exteriors. the city itself is divided into three districts: the jewish in the southern part, the moslem in the northern and western, and the christian in the eastern. the moslem quarter is clean, the christian quarter dirty, and the jewish simply filthy. i often had to gallop through the last-named holding my handkerchief to my mouth, and the kawwasses running as though they had been pursued by devils. everywhere in damascus, but especially in this quarter, the labyrinthine streets are piled with heaps of offal, wild dogs are gorged with carrion, and dead dogs are lying about. one must never judge damascus, however by externals: every house has a mean aspect in the way of entrance and approach. this is done purposely to deceive the government, and not to betray what may be within in times of looting. you often approach through a mean doorway into a dirty passage; you then enter a second court, and you behold a marvellous transformation. you find the house thoroughly cleaned and perfumed, paved courts with marble fountains and goldfish, orange and jessamine trees, furniture inlaid with gold and ebony and mother-o'-pearl, and stained-glass windows. in the interior of one of the most beautiful houses i visited in damascus the show-room was very magnificent, upholstered in velvet and gold, and with divans inlaid with marble, mother-o'-pearl, ebony, and walnut, and there were tesselated marble floors and pavements and fountains; but _en revanche_, god knows where they sleep at all. one of the ladies i went to call on first was a very pretty bride, only a fortnight married. she was gaudily dressed, with about , pounds sterling worth of diamonds on her head and neck, but the stones were so badly set they looked like rubbish. she strolled from side to side in her walk, which is a habit very chic. notwithstanding her internal grandeur, damascus is but a wreck of her former splendour, albeit a beautiful wreck. ichabod! her glory has departed; not even the innumerable domes and minarets of multitudinous mosques can reinstate her. i think i ought to touch on the bazars, as they form such an integral part of the life of damascus. many of them were very beautiful, all huddled together in a labyrinth of streets, and containing almost everything which one could want. i used to love to go with my arab maid and wander through them. there was the saddlery bazar, where one could buy magnificent trappings for one's arab steeds, saddle-cloths embossed with gold, bridles of scarlet silk, a single rein which makes you look as if you were managing a horse by a single thread, and bridles of silver and ivory. there was a shoemaker's bazar. how different from a shoe shop in england! the stalls were gorgeous with lemon-coloured slippers, stiff red shoes, scarlet boots with tops and tassels and hangings, which form part of the bedawin dress. there was a _marqueterie_ bazar, where one found many lovely things inlaid with choice woods, mother-o'-pearl, and steel. and there was the gold and silver bazar, where the smiths sat round in little pens, hammering at their anvils. here one could pick up some most beautiful barbarous and antique ornaments, filigree coffee-cup holders, raki cups of silver inlaid with gold, and many other beautiful things too numerous to mention. there was another bazar where they sold attar and sandle-wood oil; and yet another where one could buy rich eastern stuffs and silks, the most beautiful things, which would make a fine smoking suit for one's husband, or a _sortie de bal_ for oneself. here also you can buy izars to walk about the bazars _incognita_. they are mostly brilliantly hued and beautifully worked in gold. there was also the divan, where one bought beautiful stuffs, gaudy persian rugs, and prayer-carpets for furnishing the house. there was the bazar where one bought henna, wherewith to stain the hands, the feet, and the finger- nails. and last, but by no means least, there was the pipe or narghileh bazar, which contained the most beautiful pipe-sticks i ever saw, and the most lovely narghilehs, which were made in exquisite shapes and of great length in the tube. the longer the _narbish_, or tube, the higher your rank, and the greater compliment you pay to your guest. i used to order mine to be all of dark chocolate and gold, and to measure from four to six yards in length, and i never had less than twelve narghilehs in the house at once, one of which i kept for my own particular smoking, and a silver mouthpiece which i kept in my pocket for use when visiting. i cannot hope in a short space to exhaust the treasures of these gorgeous bazars. i can only say in conclusion that there were also the bazars for sweetmeats, most delectable; for coffee, of which one never tastes the like out of damascus; and every kind of _bric-a-brac_. no account of damascus, not even a bird's-eye-view, would be complete without some mention of the great mosque, whither i was wont now and again to repair. when i went, i of course took off my boots at the entrance, and put on my lemon-coloured slippers, and i was always careful to be as respectful and as reverent as if i were in my own church, and to never forget to tip when i went out. the mosque was a magnificent building, with a ceiling of beautiful arabesques; the floor of limestone like marble, covered with mats and prayer-carpets. one of the most beautiful domes had windows of delicately carved wood, whose interstices were filled with crystal. there was a large paved court with a marble dome and fountain; and there were three minarets, which it was possible to ascend and from them to look down upon damascus. it was up one of these minarets that the duchesse de persigny ascended, and when prayer was called she refused to come down. the shaykh sent all kinds of emissaries and entreaties, to whom she replied: "dites as shaykh que je suis la duchesse de persigny, que jet me trouve fort bien ici, et que je ne descendrai que quan cela me plaira." she did not please for three- quarters of an hour. she also visited _cafes_ which moslem women do not visit, and shocked the kawwasses so much that they begged the french consul not to send them to guard her, as they were losing their reputation! but to return to our muttons. this superb mosque has alternately served as a place of worship for many creeds: for the pagans as a temple, for the christians as a cathedral, and for the moslems as a mosque. like damascus, it has had its vicissitudes, and it has been taken captive by babylonians, greeks, persians, assyrians, and turks. the hammam, or turkish bath, is another feature of damascus, and was one of my favourite haunts. i first went to the hammam out of curiosity, and was warmly welcomed by the native women; but i was rather shocked. they squat naked on the floor, and, despoiled of their dress and hair and make-up, are, most of them, truly hideous. their skins are like parchment, and baggy; their heads as bald as billiard-balls. what little hair they have is dyed an orange red with henna. they look like witches in macbeth, or at least as if they had been called up from out of the lower regions. they sit chatting with little bundles of sweets and narghilehs before them. an average englishwoman would look like an _houri_ amongst them; and their customs were beastly, to use the mildest term. the hammam was entered by a large hall, lit by a skylight, with a huge marble tank in the centre and four little fountains, and all around raised divans covered with cushions. here one wraps oneself in silk and woollen sheets, and after that proceeds to pass through the six marble rooms. the first is the cold room, the next warmer, the third warmer still, until you come to the _sudarium_, the hottest room of all. first they lather you, then they wash you with a _lif_ and soap, then they douche you with tubs of hot water, then they shampoo you with fresh layers of soap, and then douche again. they give you iced sherbet, and tie towels dipped in cold water round your head, which prevent you fainting and make you perspire. they scrub your feet with pumice- stone, and move you back through all the rooms gradually, douche you with water, and shampoo you with towels. you now return to the large hall where you first undressed, wrap in woollen shawls, and recline on a divan. the place is all strewn with flowers, incense is burned around, and a cup of hot coffee is handed and a narghileh placed in your mouth. a woman advances and kneads you as though you were bread, until you fall asleep under the process, as though mesmerized. when you wake up, you find music and dancing, the girls chasing one another, eating sweetmeats, and enjoying all sorts of fun. moslem women go through a good deal more of the performance than i have described. for instance, they have their hair hennaed and their eyebrows plucked. you can also have your hands and feet hennaed, and, if you like it, be tattooed. the whole operation takes about four hours. it is often said by the ignorant that people can get as good a hammam in london or paris as in the east. i have tried all, and they bear about as much relation to one another as a puddle of dirty water does to a pellucid lake. and the pellucid lake is in the east. then the harims. i often spent an evening in them, and i found them very pleasant; only at first the women used to ask me such a lot of inconvenient questions that i became quite confused. they were always puzzled because i had no children. one cannot generalize on the subject of harims; they differ in degree just as much as families in london. a first-class harim at constantinople is one thing, at damascus one of the same rank is another, while those of the middle and lower classes are different still. as a rule i met with nothing but courtesy in the harims, and much hospitality, cordiality, and refinement. i only twice met with bad manners, and that was in a middle-class harim. twice only the conversation displeased me, and that was amongst the lower class. one of the first harims i visited in damascus was that of the famous abd el kadir (of whom more anon), which of course was one of the best class. he had five wives: one of them was very pretty. i asked them how they could bear to live together and pet each other's children. i told them that in england, if a woman thought her husband had another wife or mistress, she would be ready to kill her and strangle the children if they were not her own. they all laughed heartily at me, and seemed to think it a great joke. i am afraid that abd el kadir was a bit of a tartar in his harim, for they were very prim and pious. so much for the city of damascus. in the environs there were many beautiful little roads, leading through gardens and orchards, by bubbling water, and under the shady fig and vine, pomegranate and walnut. you emerged from these shady avenues on to the soft yellow sand of the desert, where you could gallop as hard as you pleased. there were no boundary-lines, no sign-posts, nothing to check one's spirits or one's energy. the breath of the desert is liberty. chapter xii. early days at damascus. ( ). though old as history itself, thou art fresh as breath of spring, blooming as thine own rosebud, as fragrant as thine own orange flower, o damascus, pearl of the east! as soon as we had settled in our house i had to accustom myself to the honours of my position, which at first were rather irksome to me; but as they were part of the business i had to put up with them. i found my position as the wife of the british consul in damascus very different from what it had been in brazil. a consul in the east as _envoye_ of a great power is a big man, and he ranks almost as high as a minister would in europe. nearer home a consul is often hardly considered to be a gentleman, while in many countries he is not allowed to go to court. in the east, however, the consular service was, at the time i write, an honoured profession, and the _envoyes_ of the great powers were expected to keep up a little state, especially the english and the french. they had a certain number of consular dragomans, or gentleman secretaries, in distinction to the travelling dragoman, who bears the same relation as a courier in europe. they also had a certain number of kawwasses, who look like cavalry soldiers. the consulate at damascus was then quite like a diplomatic post, and i felt like a minister's wife, and was treated accordingly. for instance, every time i went outside my door i was attended by four kawwasses, with swords and uniforms much ornamented, also a dragoman interpreter. the duty of these four attendants was to clear the way before and behind me, and i assure you it was far more pain than pleasure to me to see mules, horses, donkeys, camels, little children, and poor old men thrust out of the way, as if i were sacred and they were all dirt. how they must have cursed me! i told my kawwasses that i did not wish them to show themselves officious by doing more than was absolutely necessary for the dignity of the british consulate and the custom of the country. but their escort certainly was necessary to a great extent. when the common people saw a kawwass, they knew one was of importance, and made way for one; otherwise a woman could not walk the streets of damascus without being molested: even the famished herds of dogs seemed to know the difference between kawwass and no kawwass. the danger from dogs was that they collected and ran in packs, and you were almost caught in the eddy of wild and half-starved dogs if you were not guarded. i hate pomp and ceremony of all kinds, except where it is absolutely necessary; but in this case i could not dispense with it. the french minister's wife was hissed in the streets of constantinople because she chose to dispense with her escort. a protestant clergyman's wife was nearly struck by a turkish soldier for brushing against him with her petticoats, thus rendering him, according to his religion, unclean. besides, women in the east want a guard. a missionary young lady who came up in the _coupe_ of the diligence from beyrout to damascus had an unpleasant experience. a persian, who called himself a gentleman, was inside, and kissed her all the way up. she, poor little idiot! saw no way out of the transaction, but came and threw herself on richard's protection several days after, and there was an ugly row. she had the persian arrested, and tried him. if anybody had tried that sort of game on with me, i should have made an example of him myself, and taken the law in my own hands, whoever he was. an escort was therefore necessary. i can understand how some consuls' wives, sometimes vulgar, ill- conditioned women, might get elated at this newly acquired importance, and presume upon it until they became unbearable. i found the lack of privacy very trying at first, but i was anxious to bear it because i saw that english influence at damascus required lifting a great many pegs higher than our predecessor left it. the only member or our english _noblesse_ the people had hitherto known in damascus was lady ellenborough, of whom more anon. as soon as we were settled down i had to begin my receptions. i fixed my reception day on wednesday; and it was no trifle, for the visitors came all day long. one native lady told me indignantly that she had been to see me three times on my reception day, and had been refused. i said, "when did you come? and how could it happen that i had never heard of it?" she answered almost angrily, "i came at daylight, and again at sunrise, and again at eight o'clock." i said it was rather early; and though i was an early riser, it was just possible that i had not made a suitable toilet to receive her. on my reception day the dragomans interpreted for me. the kawwasses, in full dress of scarlet and gold, kept guard by turns, and the servants were engaged incessantly in bringing up relays of narghilehs, chibouques, cigarettes, sweet-meats, sherbet, turkish coffee and tea. my visitors sat on the divans, cross- legged or not, according to their nation, and smoked and chatted. if there were moslem women, i had two separate reception-rooms, and went from one to the other, as the women will not unveil before strange men. it was a most tiring day; for not only did people come all through the day, but i was obliged to concentrate all my thought not to make a mistake in etiquette. there were many grades and ranks to be considered, and the etiquette in receiving each guest was different according to the rank. the dragoman in attendance upon me would whisper until i knew it, "one step," or "two steps," or "half across the room," or "the door." i thus knew exactly the visitor's rank, and by what term to address him, from the lowest to the highest. of course, in receiving natives, the method of receiving men and women was different. i advanced to meet the women; we mutually raised our finger-tips to our hearts, lips, and foreheads. they then seized my hand, which i snatched away to prevent their kissing it (it sounds rude, but it isn't; it is the essence of politeness), and i kissed them on both cheeks. i personally removed their veils and their izars. when they took their leave, i reveiled them, and accompanied them to the door. with the men i did not shake hands: we saluted at a distance. if my visitor was a well-bred man, he would not expect me to rise, but would come and kiss my hand, and had to be pressed two or three times before he would consent to sit down. the only man i was in the habit of rising for was the wali, or governor- general of syria, because he represented the sultan, and he in his turn paid me a similar respect. when he left, i accompanied him to the door of the room, but never to the street door. moreover, it was _de rigueur_ every time a visitor came that coffee, tea, or sherbet should be offered him, and that i should take it with him and drink first. it was a custom with the natives, and i could not omit it; but when i first held my receptions i found it a great tax upon me, and mixing so many drinks gave me indigestion. afterwards i grew more wary, and merely moistened my lips. another thing i used to do at my earlier receptions was to make tea and coffee and carry them round myself, while the dragomans would lazily sit and look on. i didn't understand this at all, so i told them to get up and help me, and they willingly handed tea and coffee to any european, man or woman, but not to their native ladies, who blushed, begged the dragomans' pardon, and stood up, looking appealingly at me, and praying not to be served. so i found it the easiest thing to wait on the native women myself, though i felt very indignant that any man should feel himself degraded by having to wait on a woman. i must now mention three of my principal visitors, each of whom afterwards played a large part, though a very different part, in our life at damascus. first of all was the wali, or governor-general of syria. i received him in state one day. he came in full uniform with a great many attendants. i seated him in proper form on a divan with pipes and coffee. he was very amiable and polite. he reminded me of an old tom-cat: he was dressed in furs; he was indolent and fat, and walked on his toes and purred. at first sight i thought him a kind-hearted old creature, not very intelligent and easily led. the last quality was true enough; for what disgusted me was that syria was really governed by dragomans, and the wali or other great man was a puppet. for instance, if the consul wanted to see the wali, he had to send one of his dragomans to the wali's dragomans, and they arranged between them just what they liked. the two chief men met each other, attended by two dragomans, who reported every word of the conversation round damascus. these men easily made people enemies; and the lies, mischief, and scandal they originated were beyond imagination. i have said that my first impression of the wali was as of a well-fed cat; but i soon discovered that the cat had claws, for he quickly became jealous of richard's influence, and during our two years' sojourn at damascus he was one or our worst enemies. another, and the most interesting of all the personages who attended my receptions, was lady ellenborough, known at damascus as the honourable jane digby el mezrab.[ ] she was the most romantic and picturesque personality: one might say she was lady hester stanhope's successor. she was of the family of lord digby, and had married lord ellenborough, governor-general of india, a man much older than herself, when she was quite a girl. the marriage was against her wish. she was very unhappy with him, and she ran away with prince schwartzenburg when she was only nineteen, and lord ellenborough divorced her. she lived with prince schwartzenburg for some years, and had two or three children by him, and then he basely deserted her. i am afraid after that she led a life for a year or two over which it is kinder to draw a veil. she then tired of europe, and conceived the idea of visiting the east, and of imitating lady hester stanhope and other european ladies, who became more eastern than the easterns. she arrived at beyrout, and went to damascus, where she arranged to go to baghdad, across the desert. for this journey a bedawin escort was necessary; and as the mezrab tribe occupied the ground, the duty of commanding the escort devolved upon shaykh mijwal, a younger brother of the chief of this tribe. on the journey the young shaykh fell in love with this beautiful woman, and she fell in love with him. the romantic picture of becoming a queen of the desert suited her wild and roving fancy. she married him, in spite of all opposition, according to the mohammedan law. at the time i came to damascus she was living half the year in a house just within the city gates; the other half of the year she passed in the desert in the tents of the bedawin tribe, living absolutely as a bedawin woman. when i first saw her she was a most beautiful woman, though sixty-one years of age. she wore one blue garment, and her beautiful hair was in two long plaits down to the ground. when she was in the desert, she used to milk the camels, serve her husband, prepare his food, wash his hands, face, and feet, and stood and waited on him while he ate, like any arab woman, and gloried in so doing. but at damascus she led a semi-european life. she blackened her eyes with kohl, and lived in a curiously untidy manner. but otherwise she was not in the least extraordinary at damascus. but what was incomprehensible to me was how she could have given up all she had in england to live with that dirty little black--or nearly so--husband. i could understand her leaving a coarse, cruel husband, much older than herself, whom she never loved (every woman has not the strength of mind and the pride to stand by what she has done); i could understand her running away with schwartzenburg; but the contact with that black skin i could not understand. her shaykh was very dark--darker than a persian, and much darker than an arab generally is. all the same, he was a very intelligent and charming man in any light but as a husband. that made me shudder. it was curious how she had retained the charming manner, the soft voice, and all the graces of her youth. you would have known her at once to be an english lady, well born and bred, and she was delighted to greet in me one of her own order. we became great friends, and she dictated to me the whole of her biography, and most romantic and interesting it is. i took a great interest in the poor thing. she was devoted to her shaykh, whereat i marvelled greatly. gossip said that he had other wives, but she assured me that he had not, and that both her brother lord digby and the british consul required a legal and official statement to that effect before they were married. she appeared to be quite foolishly in love with him (and i fully comprehend any amount of sacrifice for the man one loves--the greater the better), though the object of her devotion astonished me. her eyes often used to fill with tears when talking of england, her people, and old times; and when we became more intimate, she spoke to me of every detail of her erring but romantic career. it was easy to see that schwartzenburg had been the love of her life, for her eyes would light up with a glory when she mentioned him, and she whispered his name with bated breath. it was his desertion which wrecked her life. poor thing! she was far more sinned against than sinning. our other friend at damascus was the famous abd el kadir. every one knows his history: every one has heard of his hopeless struggles for the independence of algeria; his capture and imprisonment in france from to , when he was set free by louis napoleon on the intercession of lord londonderry. more than that louis napoleon was magnanimous enough to pension him, and sent him to damascus, where he was living when we came, surrounded by five hundred faithful algerians. he loved the english, but was very loyal to louis napoleon. he was dark, and a splendid-looking man with a stately bearing, and perfectly self possessed. he always dressed in snow white turban and _burnous_, with not a single ornament except his jewelled arms, which were superb. he was every inch a soldier and a sultan, and his mind was as beautiful as his face. both he and richard were master-sufi, and they greatly enjoyed a talk together, both speaking purest arabic. when i look back on those dear days and friends in damascus, my eyes fill and my heart throbs at the memories which crowd upon me. when i think of all those memories, none is dearer to me than the recollection of the evenings which we four--lady ellenborough, abd el kadir, richard, and myself--used to spend together on the top of our house. often after my reception was over and the sun was setting, we used to ask these two to stay behind the others and have a little supper with us, and we would go up to the roof, where it was prepared, and where mattresses and the cushions of the divans were spread about, and have our evening meal; and after that we would smoke our narghilehs, and talk and talk and talk far into the night, about things above, things on the earth, and things under the earth. i shall never forget the scene on the housetop, backed as it was by the sublime mountain, a strip of sand between it and us, and on the other three sides was the view over damascus and beyond the desert. it was all wild, romantic, and solemn; and sometimes we would pause in our conversation to listen to the sounds around us: the last call to prayer on the minaret-top, the soughing of the wind through the mountain- gorges, and the noise of the water-wheel in the neighbouring orchard. i have said we smoked, and that included lady ellenborough and myself. i must confess to the soft impeachment, despite insular prejudices; and i would advise any woman who sojourns in the east to learn to smoke, if she can. i am no admirer of a big cigar in a woman's mouth, or a short clay; but i know of nothing more graceful or enjoyable than a cigarette, and even more so in the narghileh, or even the chibouque, which, however, is quite a man's pipe. i must add that when we were in the east richard and i made a point of leading two lives. we were always thoroughly english in our consulate, and endeavoured to set an example of the way in which england should be represented abroad, and in our official life we strictly conformed to english customs and conventions; but when we were off duty, so to speak, we used to live a great deal as natives, and so obtained experience of the inner eastern life. richard's friendship with the mohammedans, and his perfect mastery of the arabic and persian languages and literature, naturally put him into intimate relations with the oriental authorities and the arab tribes, and he was always very popular among them, with one exception, and that was the turkish wali, or governor, aforesaid. richard was my guide in all things; and since he adapted himself to the native life, i endeavoured to adapt myself to it also, not only because it was my duty, but because i loved it. for instance, though we always wore european dress in damascus and beyrout, we wore native dress in the desert. i always wore the men's dress in our expeditions in the desert and up the country. by that i mean the dress of arab men. this is not so dreadful as mrs. grundy may suppose, as it was all drapery, and does not show the figure. there was nothing but the face to show the curious whether you were a man or a woman, i used to tuck my _kuffiyyah_ up to only show my eyes. when we wore eastern clothes, we always ate as the easterns ate. if i went to a bazar, i frequently used to dress like a moslem woman with my face covered, and sit in the shops and let my arab maid do the talking. they never suspected me, and so i heard all their gossip and entered into something of their lives. the woman frequently took me into the mosque in this garb, but to the harim i always went in my european clothes. richard and i lived the eastern life thoroughly, and we loved it. we went to every kind of ceremony, whether it was a circumcision, or a wedding, or a funeral, or a dervish dance, or anything that was going on; and we mixed with all classes, and religions, and races, and tongues. i remember my first invitation was to a grand _fete_ to celebrate the circumcision of a youth about ten years of age. he was very pretty, and was dressed in gorgeous garments covered with jewellery. singing, dancing, and feasting went on for about three days. the ceremony took place quite publicly. there was a loud clang of music and firing of guns to drown the boy's cries, and with one stroke of a circular knife the operation was finished in a second. the part cut off was then handed round on a silver salver, as if to force all present to attest that the rite had been performed. i felt quite sick, and english modesty overpowered curiosity, and i could not look. later on, when i grew more used to eastern ways, i was forced to accept the compliment paid to the highest rank, and a great compliment to me as a christian, to hold the boy in my arms whilst the ceremony was being performed. it was rather curious at first to be asked to a circumcision, as one might be asked to a christening in england or a "small and early." for the first three months of my life at damascus i only indulged in short excursions, but richard went away on longer expeditions, often for days, sometimes on business and sometimes to visit the druze chiefs. i have said that our house was about a quarter of an hour from damascus, and whilst richard was away on one of these expeditions i broke through a stupid rule. it was agreed that i could never dine out or go to a _soiree_ in damascus, because after sunset the roads between damascus and our house on the hillside were infested with kurds. i was tired of being "gated" in this way, so i sent to the chief of police, and told him i intended to dine out when i chose and where i chose, and to return at all hours--any hours i pleased. he looked astonished, so i gave him a present. he looked cheerful, and i then told him to make it his business that i was never to be attacked or molested. i showed him my revolver, and said, "i will shoot the first man who comes within five yards of me or my horse." i went down twice to damascus while richard was away the first time, and i found all the gates of the city open and men posted with lanterns everywhere. i took an escort of four of my servants, and i told them plainly that the first man who ran away i would shoot from behind. i came back one night at eleven o'clock, and another at two o'clock in the morning, and nothing happened. when i knew that richard was coming back from the desert, i rode out to meet him about eight miles. i did not meet him until sunset. he said he knew a short cut to damascus across the mountains, but we lost our way. night came on, and we were wandering about amongst the rocks and precipices on the mountains. we could not see our hands before our faces. our horses would not move, and we had to dismount, and grope our way, and lead them. richard's horse was dead-beat, and mine was too fiery; and we had to wait till the moon rose, reaching home at last half dead with fatigue and hunger. our daily life at damascus, when we were not engaged in any expedition or excursion, was much a follows: we rose at daybreak. richard went down every day to his consulate in the city at twelve o'clock, and remained there till four or five. we had two meals a day--breakfast at a.m., and supper at dusk. at the breakfast any of our friends and acquaintances who liked used to drop in and join us; and immediately after our evening meal we received friends, if any came. if not, richard used to read himself to sleep, and i did the same. of richard's great and many activities at damascus, of his difficult and dangerous work, of his knowledge of eastern character and eastern languages, of his political and diplomatic talents, all of which made him just the man for the place, i have written elsewhere. here i have to perform the infinitely harder task of speaking of myself. but in writing of my daily life at damascus i must not forget that my first and best work was to interest myself in all my husband's pursuits, and to be, as far as he would allow me to be, his companion, his private secretary, and his _aide-de-camp_. thus i saw and learnt much, not only of native life, but also of high political matters. i would only say that my days were all too short: i wish they had been six hours longer. when not helping richard, my work consisted of looking after my house, servants, stables and horses, of doing a little gardening, of reading, writing, and studying, of trying to pick up arabic, of receiving visits and returning them, of seeing and learning damascus thoroughly, and looking after the poor and sick who came in my way. i often also had a gallop over the mountains and plains; or i went shooting, either on foot or on horseback. the game was very wild round damascus, but i got a shot at redlegged partridges, wild duck, quail, snipe, and woodcock, and i seldom came home with an empty bag. the only time i ever felt lonely was during the long winter nights when richard was away. in the summer i did not feel lonely, because i could always go and smoke a narghileh with the women at the water-side in a neighbour's garden. but in the winter it was not possible to do this. so i used to occupy myself with music or literature, or with writing these rough notes, which i or some one else will put together some day. but more often than not i sat and listened to the stillness, broken ever and anon by weird sounds outside. so passed our life at damascus. notes: . miss stisted speaks of her as "jane digby, who capped her wild career by marrying a camel-driver," and animadverts on lady burton for befriending her. the shaykh was never a camel-driver in his life, and few, i think, will blame lady burton for her kindness to this poor lady, her countrywoman, in a strange land. chapter xiii. through the desert to palmyra. ( ). who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? _the song of solomon_. the oracles are dumb; no voice or hideous hum runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. milton. richard had wished ever since he came to damascus to visit palmyra, or tadmor, in the wilderness. it is about one hundred and fifty miles distant in the open desert. his main reason for going there was his private wish to explore, but it was also his official duty to open up the country, now infested with hordes of wild bedawin tribes, who attacked, robbed, and killed right and left. several englishmen had been to palmyra, but always with a large escort of the tribe of el mezrab, and richard wanted to break through the system which this tribe had of practically levying blackmail upon travellers, which often meant as much as six thousand francs, as each man in the escort costs about pounds sterling a head. we decided therefore to go without any bedawin escort, to show that it could be done, and thus to throw open this most interesting part of syria to travellers. at first a lot of people wanted to join us in the expedition; but when it came to the point they gradually sneaked away, and many of them wept and wished us good-bye, and thought it madness. indeed, so much was said that i set out with more than a suspicion that we were marching to our deaths. but richard wished it, and that was enough for me. he never permitted any obstacle to hinder his progress. he made up his mind to travel without the tribe of el mezrab, and he gave me the option of going with him, and i said, as i always said, "i will follow you to the death." it was rather funny to find the excuses which people made for not going with us. one had business in beyrout, another was ill, the third had married, and so on. so when the day of departure dawned (april ; i had been in damascus three months) our faithful friends dwindled down to two--the russian consul, and a french traveller, the vicomte de perrochel. on the morning of our departure we had a very lively breakfast. as i have said, it was our custom to let our friends drop in for this meal, and on this occasion we found ourselves surrounded by every kind of eastern figure. they evidently thought us mad--especially me. my dress was very picturesque, and i was vain enough to turn myself round and round, at their request, that they might view it, which they did with cries of admiration. it consisted of large yellow button boots and gaiters, and english riding-habit with the long ends of the skirt tucked in to look like their eastern baggy trousers, an eastern belt with revolver, dagger, and cartridges. my hair was all tucked up under the _tarbash_, and i wore one of the bedawin veils to the waist, only showing a bit of face. the veil was of all colours, chiefly gold braid, bound by a chocolate and gold circlet near the forehead. richard slung over my back and round my neck a whistle and compass, in case of my being lost. i had brought out two first-rate horses, both stallions, one half-bred, the other three-quarters; they were called salim and harpash. an arab was to ride one, and lead the second when i was riding something else. the first stallion would be good for travelling and fighting, and the second for bolting, if needful. i knew i had to ride erect half a day at a stretch, which meant about fifteen or twenty miles. we set forth with great pomp and ceremony; for the mushir, or commander- in-chief, and a large cavalcade saw us out of the city, and exchanged affectionate farewells outside the gates, evidently not expecting to see us again. this being the first day, we made only a three hours' march; it cleared us of damascus and its environs, and we camped early on the edge of the desert. i cannot convey to you the charm of a syrian camp. i shall never forget my first night in the desert. the horses were all picketed about; the men were lying here and there in the silvery moonlight, which lit up our tripod and kettle; and the jackals howled and capered as they sniffed the savoury bones. people talk of danger when surrounded by jackals, but i have always found them most cowardly; they would run away if a pocket-handkerchief were shaken at them. it was the prettiest thing to see them gambolling about in the moonlight; but after we had turned in a strange effect was produced when a jackal, smelling the cookery, ran up round the tent, for the shadow on the white canvas looked as large as a figure exaggerated in a magic lantern. during my first night under canvas i was awakened by hearing a pack coming--a wild, unearthly sound. i thought it was a raid of the bedawin rushing down upon us, and that this was the war-cry; but the weird yell swept down upon us, passed, and died away in the distance. i grew to love the sound. the next morning the camp began stirring at dawn. it was bitterly cold. we boiled water and made some tea. we hurried our dressing, saw the animals fed and watered, tents struck, things packed up, and the baggage animals loaded and sent on ahead with orders to await us at jayrud. we always found it better to see our camp off ahead of us, otherwise the men loitered and did not reach the night-halt in time. we started a little later. the way to jayrud was across a sandy plain, with patches of houses here and there, and a village at long intervals. a village on the outskirts of the desert means twenty or thirty huts of stones and mud, each shaped like a box, and exactly the same colour as the ground. we breakfasted in a ruined mosque. after that we started again, and came to a vast plain of white sand and rock, which lasted until we reached jayrud. it was about fifteen hours' ride from damascus. a little way outside jayrud we were caught in a sand-storm, which i shall never forget. richard and i were both well mounted. when it came on, he made a sign in which direction i was to go. there was no time to speak, and we both galloped into the storm as hard as we could pelt. the sand and wind blinded me, and i had no idea where i was going. once i did not see that i was riding straight at a deep pit; and though arab horses seldom or never leap, mine cleared it with one bound. after that i was wiser, and i threw the reins on salim's neck, for his eyes were better than mine. this continued for three hours, and at last we reached jayrud, where we had arranged to halt for the night. jayrud is a large clean village in the middle of the salt and sandy plain. we stopped for the night with da'as agha, who was a border chieftain, and a somewhat wild and dangerous character, though richard knew how to tame him. his house was large and roomy, with spacious walls and high-raftered ceilings. while we were at supper crowds of villagers collected to see us, and the courtyard and the house were filled with and surrounded by all sorts of guests from different bedawin tribes. camels were lying about, baggage was piled here and there, and horses were picketed in all directions; it was a thoroughly oriental picture. an unpleasant incident happened. i had engaged a confidential man as a head servant and interpreter. he was an arab, but he spoke french. he was an exceedingly clever, skilful man, and richard told him off to wait on me during the journey, and to ride after me when needful. when we got to jayrud, as soon as i dismounted, i took richard's horse and my own and walked them up and down to cool. as soon as my man and another came up i gave them the reins, saying, "after our hard ride in the sand-storm take as much care of the horses as though they were children." he answered, "be rested, sitti"; but an unpleasant smile came across his face, which might have warned me. i ought to have mentioned that three times since we had set out from damascus he had ridden short across me when we were at full gallop. the first time i begged him not to do so, as it was very dangerous, and the second time i threatened him, and the third time i broke my hunting-whip across his face. he merely said, "all is finished," and hung back. however, i did not think anything more of it, and i went in and had my supper. while we were eating, and my back was turned, he threw the reins of my horse to a bystander, and, drawing a sword, he cut the throat of the good, useful, little horse which i had hired for him, and which he had been riding all day. i saw people running, and heard a certain amount of confusion while i was eating; but being very tired and hungry, i did not look round. presently somebody let it out. i rose in a rage, determined to dismiss the man at once; but richard checked me with a word, and pointed out the unwisdom of making him an open enemy, and desired me to put a good face on the matter till the end of the journey. the explanation of the little beast's conduct was this. he had really wanted to ride a thorough-bred horse, but it was ridden instead by my dragoman's brother, and his rage had been uncontrollable when he saw the coveted animal caracolling before him. moreover, he had a spite against me, and he thought that if he killed his own horse i should give him a better one, by some process of oriental reasoning which i do not pretend to understand. however, he was, mistaken, for i mounted him after that on the vilest old screw in the camp. next morning we woke early. mules, donkeys, camels, horses, and mares were screaming and kicking, and the men running about cursing and swearing. in such a babel it was impossible to feel drowsy. i felt very faint as we set out from jayrud. the salt marshes in the distance were white and glistening, and the heat spread over them in a white mist which looked like a mirage bearing fantastic ships. we breakfasted at the next village, atneh, in a harim, the women having all gone out. it was the house of a bride, and she had hung all her new garments round the walls, as we display our wedding presents _pour encourager les autres_. when the women came back, the men retired from the harim. atneh was the last settlement, the last water, the last human abode between jayrud and karyatyn--a long distance. after this we had a lengthy desert ride in wind and rain, sleet and hail, and the ground was full of holes; but it was a splendid ride all the same. the arabs, in their gaudy jackets, white trousers, and gold turbans, galloped about furiously, brandishing and throwing their lances, and playing the usual tricks of horsemanship --_jerid_. we met a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, and between-whiles the fiery sun sent down his beams upon a parched plain. the desert ground was alternately flint, limestone, and smooth gravel; not a tree or shrub, not a human being or animal, was to be seen. the colours were yellow sand and blue sky, blue sky and yellow sand, yellow and blue for ever. we arrived at dusk at the spot where we had told our advance guard to pitch the tents. we found everything ready, and after our horses were cared for we dined. that night for the first time we slept in our clothes, with revolvers and guns by our sides. the men took turns to keep watch, so that we might not be surprised by a ghazu, a tribe of six or seven hundred bedawin, who go out for marauding purposes. the ghazis charge furiously, with their lances couched. if you have the pluck to stand still until they are within an inch of your nose, and ask what they want, they drop their lances; for they respect courage, but there is no mercy if you show the white feather. we meant to say to them, "we are the english and russian consuls travelling on business. if you touch us, there will be consequences; if you want a present you shall have it; but you are not to shame us by taking our horses and arms, and if you insist we well fight." there was a driving wind that night, and i feared the exposure and hardship if the tents were blown down and the fire blown out, as it threatened. we could scarcely keep a lamp or candle alight. no ghazis came. we rose next morning in the cold, dark, misty, and freezing dawn. we had some difficulty in starting our camp; the horses were shivering, and the muleteers and camel-men objected. we had a long and lonely ride through the same desolate valley plain as yesterday, banked on either side in the distance by naked, barren mountains, and we were very thankful when the sun came out. we breakfasted at a ruined khan, and changed our horses. then we rode on and on, seemingly for an age, with no change; not a bird nor a tree nor a sound save the clattering of our horses' hoofs. at length, when within an hour of karyatayn, we got a little excitement. on slightly rising ground about five miles off we espied, by the aid of field-glasses, something which we discovered to be a large party of mounted bedawin. we sounded our whistles, and our stragglers came in till we all were collected. i ought to mention here that from the time of our leaving damascus, stragglers had joined us continually from every village. naturally the number of our camp-followers became great, until we assumed a most formidable appearance, numbering nearly eighty in all. as soon as our stragglers reached us we formed a line, and the opposite party did the same. they then galloped to meet us, and we did likewise. when within a quarter mile of each other we pulled up, and they pulled up. we fully expected a charge and a skirmish, so we halted in a line and consulted; they did the same. three of us then rode out to meet them; three horsemen of their line then did likewise. they hailed us, and asked us who we were and what we wanted. we told them we were the english and russian consuls passing to palmyra, and asked in our turn who they were. they replied that they were the representatives of the shaykh of karyatayn, and his fighting men, and that they bore invitations to us. they then jumped down from their horses and kissed my hand. we were greeted on all sides, and escorted in triumph to the village; the men riding _jerid_--that is, firing from horseback at full speed, hanging over by one stirrup with the bridle in their mouths, quivering their long lances in the air, throwing and catching them again at full gallop, yelling and shouting their war-cries. it was a wild and picturesque scene. so we entered karyatayn, went to the house of the shaykh, and dispatched a note to him. his dwelling was a big mud house, with a large reception-room, where we found a big fire. there was a separate house for the harim, which appeared numerous, and i was to sleep there in a room to myself. before dinner, while we were enjoying the fire and sitting round the rug, a fat young turkish officer entered with an insolent look. thinking he had come with a message from omar beg, a hungarian brigadier-general in the turkish service who was stationed here, we saluted in the usual manner. without returning it, he walked up, stepped across us, flung himself on our rug, leaned on his elbow, and with an impertinent leer stared in our faces all round until he met richard's eye, which partook of something of the tiger kind, when he started and turned pale. richard called out, "kawwasses!" the kawwasses and two wardis ran into the room. "remove that son of a dog." they seized him, fat and big as he was, as if he had been a rabbit; and although he kicked and screamed lustily, carried him out of the house. i saw them give him some vicious bumps against the walls as they went out of the door into the village, where they dropped him into the first pool of mud, which represented the village horse-pond. by-and-by omar beg came down to dine with us. we all sat round on the ground and ate of several dishes, chiefly a kid stuffed with rice and pistachios. after dinner we reported to omar beg the conduct of his _sous-officier_, and he said that we had done very well, and he was glad of the opportunity of making an example of him, for he was a bad lot; and a turkish soldier when he is bad is bad indeed. he had committed a gross insult against us, and it is always best in the east to resent an insult at once. our next day was a pleasant, lazy day, during which we inspected karyatayn at our leisure. we rested, read, and wrote, and made a few extra preparations for the march. i went to call on the wife of omar beg, who was the daughter of the well-known german _savant_ herr mordtmann. she was living with her husband quite contentedly in this desolate place, in a mud hut, and her only companions were a hyena and a lynx, which slept on her bed. the hyena greeted me at the gate; and though i was not prepared for it, i innocently did the right thing. it came and sniffed at my hands, and then jumped up and put its paws on my shoulder and smelt my face. "oh," i thought, "if it takes a bit out of my cheek, what shall i do?" but i stood as still as a statue, and tried not to breathe, looking steadily in its eyes all the while. at last it made up its mind to be friendly, jumped down, and ran before me into the house. here i found the lynx on the divan, which sprang at me, mewed, and lashed its tail till madame omar came. she was a charming german lady; but her husband kept her secluded in the harim like a moslem woman. she told me i had done quite the right thing with the hyena. if people began to scream, it took a pleasure in frightening them. i found this out a little later, for it got into richard's room, and i found him, the russian consul, and the vicomte de perrochel all sitting on the divan with their legs well tucked under them, clutching their sticks, and looking absurdly uncomfortable at the _affreuse bete_, as the vicomte called it. i had had a tiring day, and was glad to go to the harim that night and turn into my little room. but, alas! no sooner had i got in there than about fifty women came to pay me a visit. by way of being gracious, i had given a pair of earrings to the head wife of the shaykh, and that caused the most awful jealousy and quarrelling among them. i was dying to go to bed, but they went on nagging at one another, until at last a man, a husband or a brother, came of his own accord to tell them to take leave, and upon their refusing he drove them all out of the room like a flock of sheep. fortunately i had a bolt to my door, so that i was able to shut them out. my sleep, however, was very much disturbed, for they kept on trying the doors and the shutters nearly all night. they have an intense curiosity concerning european women, and during my toilet next morning i could see fifty pairs of eyes at fifty chinks in the windows and doors. it was really very embarrassing, because i could not tell the sex of the eyes, though i imagined that they belonged to my visitors of the night before. dressing as i did __en amazone_ seemed to afford them infinite glee; and when i arrived at the cloth nether garments of my riding-habit, they went into shrieks of laughter. however, i put a bold face on it, and sallied forth to the square of the village, where i found the rest of our party. our horses were being led up and down by the soldiers; our camels with water in goats' skins, and our baggage beasts, our camp-followers, and our free-lances, were drawn up on one side. omar beg accompanied us out of the village with a troop of cavalry, and started us with forty dromedaries, each carrying two soldiers. the cavalcade looked very fine, and when omar beg took his leave of us we were about one hundred and sixty strong. we had a long day's march through the desert. it was very hot. we went through a wild defile, rested, and climbed up a mountain. we then returned to the plains, and in the afternoon we saw a mirage--castles and green fields. we were late in finding our tents, and very tired. again we did not undress, but slept with our weapons by our sides. the next morning we set out again at : . we rode towards a mountain in the distance, and defiled by a picturesque and dangerous ledge amongst craggy peaks. we had heard that the bedawin knew of a well hereabouts, and we determined to find it. we discovered it, and so abolished the worst difficulty which travellers had to undergo in visiting palmyra. we rested by the well, which was full of the purest water. when sitting by it, we heard guns echoing like thunder in the mountains. we thought it might mean a bedawin attack; but probably it was a signal, and they found us too strong. they were on our track the whole time. after an hour we descended once more into the arid plain, and rode on and on. at last we descried dimly the khan which was to be our night halt. it seemed quite close, but the nearer we rode the farther it seemed. we reached it at last, a fine old pile, deserted and solitary, which looked splendid in the sunset. our camp by moonlight will ever live in my memory: the black tents, the animals picketed, the camels resting, the turkish soldiery seated around, and the wild men and muleteers singing and dancing. on this night, as on all nights, i had always plenty to do. it was richard's business to take the notes and sketches, observations and maps, and to gather all the information. i acted as his secretary and _aide- de-camp_. my other business was to take care of the stable, see that the horses were properly groomed, and look after any sick or wounded men. my duties varied according to the place in which we halted for the night. if it were near an inhabited place, richard sat in state on his divan, and received the chiefs with narghilehs and sherbet. i saluted, and walked off with the horses, and saw that they were properly groomed and fed. sometimes i groomed my own horse and richard's too, if i did not feel sure that they would be properly attended to. i would then go back to my husband, sit on the divan at a respectful distance and in a respectful attitude, speak if spoken to, and accept, if invited, a little sherbet or a narghileh. i then saluted, went again to see that the horses were properly picketed for the night, prepared my husband's supper, and returned to his tent for supper and bed; and the next day the same over again. so far as i could i made myself useful, and adapted myself to my surroundings as an eastern woman would have done. the next day, our eighth from leaving damascus, we went out of camp at . , and rode over the hot stony desert for five hours. suddenly we descried a small lake, but about one hundred and fifty bedawin were there before us. at first we thought it was a ghazu; but we found afterwards that it was only a party of one hundred and fifty watering their animals; they could not attack us until they had time to collect their men, and mustered some six hundred strong. however, they looked "nasty"; and as our stragglers were all over the place, to attract their attention, and bring us together, asked richard's leave to make a display of _tir_. we put an orange on a lance-point seventy yards off. i had the first shot. by good luck i hit, and by better luck still they did not ask for a second, which i might have missed, so that i came off with a great reputation. everybody fired in turns, and all our people came up by degrees, until we mustered enough to fight any ghazu, if necessary. we then formed into a single line, and rode until the remainder of the day. we approached palmyra thus, cheering and singing warsongs; and i am sure that we must have looked very imposing. the first sight of palmyra is like a regiment of cavalry drawn up in a single line; but as we got nearer gradually the ruins began to stand out one by one in the sunlight, and a grander sight i have never looked upon, so gigantic, so extensive, so desolate was this splendid city of the dead rising out of, and half buried in, a sea of sand. one felt as if one were wandering in some forgotten world. the shaykh of palmyra and his people came out to greet us, and he conducted us to his house. we approached it over the massive blocks of stone that formed the pavement and by a flight of broad steps. the interior of palmyra resembles a group of wasps' nests on a large scale, clinging to the gigantic walls of a ruined temple. the people were hideous, poor, ragged, dirty, and diseased, nearly every one of them afflicted with ophthalmia. what have the descendants of the great zenobia done to come to this? we dined at the shaykh's house, and had our coffee and pipes. later we returned to our camp, which consisted of our five tents and ten for the eighty soldiers. it was picturesquely placed, close to the east of the grand colonnade of palmyra, for the sake of being near the wells, and the animals were picketed as much as possible in the shelter, for during our sojourn there we suffered from ice and snow, sirocco, burning heat, and furious sou'westers. we had two sulphurous wells, one to bathe in, and the other to drink out of. everybody felt a little tired, and we went to bed early. it was the first night for eight days that we had really undressed and bathed and slept, and it was such a refreshment that i did not wake for twelve hours. my journal of the following morning contains a very short notice. we were considerably refreshed, and attended to our horses and several camp wants. we lounged about till breakfast and wrote our diaries. it was scorchingly hot weather. we were here for five days, so we did not begin serious work until noon. so many travellers have described palmyra that it is not necessary for me to describe it again, and i suppose that everybody knows that at one time it was ruled over in the days of its splendour by zenobia, a great queen of the east. she was an extraordinary woman, full of wisdom and heroic courage. she was conquered by the romans after a splendid reign, and the emperor aurelian caused her to be led through rome bound in fetters of gold. the city must once have been magnificent, but it was now a ruin. the chief temple was that of the sun. the whole city was full of columns and ruined colonnades. one of the great colonnades is a mile long. i saw something of the inner life of palmyra, the more so because i wore a dress very much like that of a man. so attired i could go almost where i liked, and enter all the places which women are not deemed worthy to see. my chief difficulty was that my toilet always had to be performed in the dead of night. the others never appeared to make any, except in the stream, which was too public for me, and i did not wish to appear singular. in another way my masculine garment had its drawbacks, for i always used to forget that they regarded me as a boy, and i never could remember not to go into the harims. once or twice i went into them, and the women ran away to hide themselves screaming and laughing at my appearance; and i remember once or twice, on being remonstrated with, pointing to my chin to plead my youth, and also my ignorance of their customs. i passed palmyra as richard's son; and though it was a little awkward at first, i soon fell into my part, and remembered always to be very respectful to my father, and very silent before him and the elders. often in my character of boy i used to run and hold richard's stirrup as he alighted from his horse, and sat on the edge of the divan while he talked to the shaykhs of palmyra. i always tried to adapt myself as far as possible to the customs of the country where i found myself, and i think i may say without flattery that i had a good many capabilities for being a traveller's wife. i could ride, walk, swim, shoot, and defend myself if attacked, so that i was not dependent on my husband; and i could also make myself generally useful--that is to say, i could make the bed, arrange the tent, cook the dinner, if necessary wash the clothes by the river-side, and mend them and spread them to dry, nurse the sick, bind and dress wounds, pick up a smattering of the language, make the camp of natives respect and obey me, groom my own horse, saddle him, learn to wade him through the rivers, sleep on the ground with the saddle for a pillow, and generally to rough it and do without comforts. we spent five days at palmyra. the first was devoted to a general inspection of the place. the second we visited the temple of the sun and the towers of the tombs. these latter are tall square towers, four storeys in height; and each tower contains apertures for bodies like a honeycomb. i noticed that all the carving was of the rudest and coarsest kind. there was no trace of civilization anywhere, no theatre, no forum, nothing but a barbarous idea of splendour, worked out on a colossal scale in columns and temples. the most interesting thing was the tombs. these were characteristic of palmyra, and lined the wild mountain-defile entrance to the city, and were dotted about on the mountain-sides. it was a city of tombs, a city of the dead. i was much struck too with the dirtiness of the people of palmyra, which dirtiness results in pestilence, ophthalmia, and plagues of flies. the third day two officers, the shaykh of palmyra and another, dined with us in our tents, and after dinner we strolled about the ruins by moonlight, and when we were tired we sat down in a large ring on the sand, and the soldiers and muleteers danced a sword-dance with wild cries to musical accompaniments and weird songs. i shall never forget the exceeding beauty of the ruins of palmyra by moonlight. the following day we explored the caves, and found human bones and things, which i helped richard to sort, much to the disgust of the vicomte de perrochel, who was shocked at my want of sensibility, and said that a frenchwoman would certainly have had hysteria. we also explored the ruins, and wrote descriptions of our journey to palmyra. we had all retired to rest, when i was aroused by hearing a roaring like that of a camel. i ran out of my tent to see what was the matter; and being guided by a noise to the servants' quarters, i found the kitchen assistant in convulsions, and the rest holding him down. it was a syrian disease, a sort of epilepsy. they all wanted to tread on his back, but i would not let them do it. i got some hot brandy and restoratives, and gave him a good dosing between his clenched teeth. the result was he came to in an hour and a half, sensible, but very tipsy; but he managed to kiss my hand and thank me. the last day was easter sunday. we performed our sunday service in one of the ruined temples, we wrote our journals, and prepared for departure on the morrow. the next day we left palmyra. we should have done better to have remained there fifteen days instead of five. i wish we had taken ropes and ladders, planks to bridge over broken staircases, and a crowbar. we might then have thoroughly examined three places which we could not otherwise do: the palace of the pretty, the palace of the maiden, and the palace of the bride, the three best tower tombs. we left camp at dawn, and a terribly hot day it was. we encamped at p.m. in a mountain defile. we were all dead-beat, and so were the horses. at night i had fever, and a hurricane of wind and rain nearly carried our tents away. on the second day we rode from dawn to sunset, with the driving wind and the sand in our faces, filling eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. i felt so cold, tired, and disheartened, that as i sat in my saddle and rode along i cried for about two hours, and richard and the others laughed at me. whilst i was crying we saw a body of mounted bedawin dodging about in the mountains. so i dried my eyes, and rode on as hard as i could pelt until we reached karyatayn at sunset; but i had to be lifted off my horse, and could not stand for minutes. all clamoured to rest one day at karyatayn. we had already been riding for two days hard, and were simply done up. the muleteers mutinied, and said that their backs were broken and their beasts dead-beat. there was only one person in the camp not tired, and that was richard, who seemed made of cast iron. he said, "you may all remain here, but i shall ride on to damascus alone, for on friday the english and baghdad mails come in, and i must be at my post." all the responsibility then fell upon me, for they all said if i would remain they would be glad. but the idea of richard riding on alone through the desert infested with bedawin was not to be entertained by me for one moment, so i said, "on we go." the next morning we left early. i tried at first to ride in the panniers of one of the camels; but it bumped me so unmercifully that after half an hour i begged to be let down. camel-riding is pleasant if it is at a long trot; but a slow walk is very tedious, and i should think that a gallop would be annihilation. when i got down from my camel, i mounted my horse, and galloped after the rest, and in time got to my place behind richard. i always rode a yard or two behind him. in the east it would not have been considered respectful for either wife or son to ride beside a husband. we got to jayrud at dark, and we saw hovering near us a party of bedawin, armed and mounted; they eventually retired into the mountains. but when we got back to damascus, we heard that all through our journey the bandits had been watching us, and would have attacked us, only they were afraid that our rifles would carry too far. the next day was the last. we started at sunrise, and rode all day, reaching home at p.m. i had not realized the beauty of damascus until then. after all those days in the desert it seemed a veritable garden of paradise. first of all we saw a belt of something dark lining the horizon; then we entered by degrees under the trees, the orchards, and the gardens. we smelt the water from afar like a thirsty horse; we heard its gurgling long before we came to it; we scented and saw the limes, citrons, and watermelons. we felt a mad desire to jump into the water, to eat our fill of fruit, to lie down and sleep under the delicious shade. at last we reached our door. the house seemed to me like a palace of comfort. a warm welcome greeted us on all sides; and as every one (except richard) and all the horses were dead-beat, they all stayed with us for the night. chapter xiv. bludan in the anti-lebanon. ( ). come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages. let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will i give thee my loves. the mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old, which i have laid up for thee, o my beloved. _the song of solomon_. during the next few weeks at damascus there was an outbreak of cholera, which gave me a great deal of trouble at the time. several people died in great agony, and i did what i could to check the outbreak. i made the peasants wash and fumigate their houses and burn the bedding, and send to me for medicine the moment a person was taken ill. fortunately these precautions checked the spread of the disease; but along the cottages at the river-side there was also an epidemic of scarlet fever more difficult to keep within bounds. i secured the services of a kind-hearted french surgeon, who attended the patients, and i myself nursed them. i wore an outside woollen dress when attending cases, and this i hung on a tree in the garden, and never let it enter my house. i also took a bag of camphor with me to prevent infection. however, after a time i was struck down by one of those virulent, nameless illnesses peculiar to damascus, which, if neglected, end in death, and i could not move without fainting. an instinct warned me to have a change of air, and i determined to go to beyrout. two hours out of damascus i was able to rise, and at the half-way house at buka'a i could eat, and when i arrived at beyrout after fourteen hours' journey i felt almost well. i had three weeks' delicious sea-bathing at beyrout; and while there we kept her majesty's birthday at the consulate-general with great pomp and ceremony. we also made several little expeditions. richard went farther afield than i did, to tyre, sidon, carmel, and juneh. i was too weak to go with him, which i regretted very much, as i would have given a great deal to have visited the grave of lady hester stanhope. on june we turned our faces homewards to damascus, and as we journeyed over the lebanons and descended into the plain i could not help feeling the oriental charm of the scene grow upon me. beyrout is demi- fashionable, semi-european; but damascus is the heart of the east, and there is no taint of europeanism about it. as i was nearing damascus in the evening i fell in love with it. the first few weeks i had disliked it, but gradually it had grown upon me, and now it took a place in my heart from which it could never be thrust forth. i saw how lovely it was, bathed in the evening sun, and it seemed to me like home--the home that i had dreamed of in my childhood long ago. i cannot tell what worked this charm in me; but henceforth my affections and interests, my life and work, knitted and grew to that damascus home of ours, where i would willingly have remained all my days. i knew that mine was to be the wanderer's life, and that it is fatal for the wanderer to make ties and get attached to places or things or people; but in spite of this presentiment, i greedily drank in whilst i could all the truths which the desert breathes, and set my hands to do all the good work they could find, until they were full to overflowing. ten days after our return to salahiyyeh we had a severe shock of earthquake. richard and i were sitting in an inner room, when suddenly the divan began to see-saw under us, and the wardrobe opposite to bow down to us. fortunately no harm was done; but it was an unpleasant sensation, like being at sea in a gale of wind. as damascus began to be very hot about this time we moved to our summer quarters at bludan, about twenty-seven miles across country from damascus in the anti-lebanon. it was a most beautiful spot, right up in the mountains, and comparatively cool. we threaded the alleys of bludan, ascended steep places, and soon found ourselves beyond the village, opposite a door which opened into a garden cultivated in ridges up the mountain. in the middle stood a large barn-like limestone hall, with a covered dutch verandah, from which there was a splendid view. this was our summer-house; it had been built by a former consul. everybody who came to see us said, "well, it is glorious; but the thing is to get here." it was a veritable eagle's nest. we soon settled down and made ourselves comfortable. the large room was in the middle of the house, looking on to the verandah, which overhung the glorious view. we surrounded it with low divans, and the walls became an armoury of weapons. the rooms on either side of this large room were turned into a study for richard, a sleeping-room, and a study and dressing-room for me. we had stabling for eight horses. there were no windows in the house, only wooden shutters to close at night. the utter solitude and the wildness of the life made it very soothing and restful. one of my earliest experiences there was a deputation from the shaykhs and chiefs of the villages round, who brought me a present of a sheep, a most acceptable present. often when alone at bludan provisions ran short. i remember once sending my servants to forage for food, and they returned with an oath, saying there was nothing but "arab's head and onions." i don't know about the arab's head, but there was no doubt about the onions. i often used to dine off a big raw onion and an oatmeal cake, nothing being forthcoming. in many ways our days at bludan were the perfection of living. we used to wake at dawn, make a cup of tea, and then sally forth accompanied by the dogs, and take long walks over the mountains with our guns in search of sport. the larger game were bears, gazelles, wolves, wild boars, and a small leopard. the small game nearer home were partridges, quail, and woodcock, with which we replenished our larder. i am fond of sport; and, though i say it, i was not a bad shot in those days. the hotter part of the day we spent indoors reading, writing, and studying arabic. at twelve we had our first meal, which served as breakfast and luncheon, on the terrace. sometimes in the afternoon native shaykhs or people from beyrout and damascus would come and visit us. when the sun became cooler, all the sick and poor within fifteen or sixteen miles round would come to be doctored and tended. the hungry, the thirsty, the ragged, the sick, and the sore filled our garden, and i used to make it my duty and pleasure to be of some little use to them. i seldom had fewer than fifteen patients a day, half of them with eye diseases, and i acquired a considerable reputation as a doctor. we used to dine at seven o'clock on the terrace. after dinner divans were spread on the housetop, and we would watch the moon lighting up hermon whilst the after-dinner pipe was being smoked. a pianette from damascus enabled us to have a little music. then i would assemble the servants, read the night prayers to them, with a little bit of scripture or of thomas a kempis. the last thing was to go round the premises and see that everything was right, and turn out the dogs on guard. and so to bed. richard used to ride down into damascus every few days to see that all was going well; so i was often left alone. i must not linger too long over our life at bludan. mr. e. h. palmer, afterwards professor of arabic at cambridge, and mr. charles tyrwhitt- drake, who had done much good work in connexion with the palestine exploration, came to us about this time on a visit, and we made many excursions from bludan with them, some short and some long. we used to saunter or gypsy about the country round, pitching our tents at night. i kept little reckoning of time during these excursions. we generally counted by the sun. i only know that we used to start at dawn, and with the exception of a short halt we would ride until sunset, and often until dusk, and sleep in the desert. one of our most interesting excursions was to ba'albak, which is far more beautiful, though smaller, than palmyra; and it can be seen without danger--palmyra cannot. the ruins are very beautiful. the village hangs on to the tail of the ruins--not a bad village either, but by comparison it looks like a tatter clinging to an empress's diamond-bespangled train. the scenery around is wild, rocky, and barren. when we arrived at ba'albak, the governor and the chief people rode out to receive us. our horses' hoofs soon rang under a ruined battlement, and we entered in state through the dark tunnels. horses were neighing, sabres were clanking; it was a noisy, confusing, picturesque scene. we tented for the night in the midst of the grand court of the ruins. in the morning the ladies of the governor's harim paid me a visit in my tent. with their blue satin and diamonds, they were the most elaborately dressed women i had seen for a long time. we stayed at ba'albak several days, and explored the ruins thoroughly. it is the ancient heliopolis. one of the most striking things amid its rocky tombs and sepulchral caves and its doric columns and temples was the grand old eagle, the emblem of baal. on sunday i heard mass at the maronite chapel, and returned the call of the ladies aforesaid. in the evening we dined with the governor, who illuminated his house for us. we passed a most enjoyable evening. i spent most of the time in the harim with the ladies. they wished me to tell them a story; but as i could not recite one fluently in arabic, the governor allowed me as a special favour to blindfold our dragoman, and take him into the harim as an interpreter, the governor himself being present the whole time to see that the bandage did not come off. one night mr. drake and i lit up the ruins with magnesium. the effect was very beautiful. it was like a gigantic transformation scene in a desert plain. every night the jackals played round our tents in the moonlight, and made the ruins weird with strange sights and sounds. we left ba'albak at dawn one morning, and rode to the source of the lebweh. the water bursts out from the ground, and divides into a dozen sparkling streams. of all the fountains i have ever seen, there is not one so like liquid diamonds as this. we picketed our horses under a big tree, and slept for a while through the heat of the day. at . p.m., when it was cooler, we rode on again to er ras. when we arrived we met with a furious rising wind. we stopped there for the night, and the next morning galloped across the plain to buka'a. we had a long, tiring ride, finally reaching a clump of trees on a height, where we pitched our camp. the maronite chiefs were _jeriding_ in the hollow. they came to dinner with us, and i gave them a present of some cartridges, which appeared to make them very happy. the next day we continued to ride up a steep ascent. at last we stood upon a mountain-range of crescent form, ourselves in the centre, and the two cusps to the sea. turning to the side which we had ascended and looking below, the horizon was bounded by the anti-lebanon, with the plain of buka'a and the ruins of ba'albak beneath and far away. from this point we could see the principal heights of the lebanon, for which we were bound, to make excursions from the cedars. we had a painful descent for an hour and a half, when we reached the famous cedars of lebanon, and camped beneath them. we pitched our tents among the cedars, under the largest trees. they are scattered over seven mounds in the form of a cross. there are five hundred and fifty-five trees, and they exude the sweetest odours. we spent a very pleasant time camping under their grateful shade. at last the day came for our party to break up, mr. palmer and mr. tyrwhitt-drake _en route_ for england and richard and i to return to bludan. so we parted. it took richard and myself many days to get back to our home. after parting with our friends, we resolved to visit the patriarch, primate of antioch and of all the east; and escorted by a priest and the shaykh we travelled by way of a short cut and terrible descent of three hours. it was no better than a goat-path. we at last arrived at diman, the summer residence of the patriarch, a conventual yet fortress-like building on an eminence commanding a view of the whole of his jurisdiction. we were charmed with the reception which his beatitude gave us. we were received by two bishops and endless retainers. the patriarch, dressed in purple, sat in a long, narrow room like a covered terrace. we of the faith knelt and kissed his hands, and the others bowed low. his beatitude seemed delighted with richard, and at dinner he sat at the head of the table, with me on his right and richard on his left. we then went to see the chapel and the monks, and the view from the terrace, where we had coffee. his beatitude gave me a number of pious things, amongst others a bit of the true cross, which i still wear. after we left the patriarch's we found a dreadful road. our horses had literally to jump from one bit of rock to another. it consisted of nothing but _debris_ of rocks. the horses were dead-beat long before we had done our day's work, and we had to struggle forward on foot. night found us still scrambling in the dark, worn out with fatigue and heat. i felt unable to go another step. at last, about nine o'clock, we saw a light, and we hoped it was our camp. we had yet some distance to go, and when we reached the light we found a wretched village of a few huts. it was so dark that we could not find our way into the shedlike dwellings. we had lost our camp altogether. at last, by dint of shouting, some men came out with a torch and welcomed us. tired as i was, i saw all the horses groomed, fed, watered and tethered in a sheltered spot for the night. we were then able to eat a water-melon, and were soon sound asleep on our saddle-cloths in the open. the next day's ride was as bad. the scenery, however, was very wild and beautiful. we breakfasted at the place we ought to have arrived at the previous night, and then we resumed our second bad day in the kasrawan, the worst desert of syria. the horses were tired of jumping from ledge to ledge. we passed some arab tents, and camped for the night. the following morning we rode to the top of jebel sunnin, one of the three highest points in syria, and we had another six hours of the kasrawan, which is called by the syrians "the road of genna." we were terribly thirsty, and at last we found a little khan, which gave us the best _leben_ i ever tasted. i was so thirsty that i seemed as if i could never drink enough. i could not help laughing when, after drinking off my third big bowl, the poor woman of the khan, in spite of arab courtesies, was obliged to utter a loud "mashallah!" we were still surrounded by amphitheatre-shaped mountains, with the points to the sea of sidon. the sunset was splendid, and the air was cool and pleasant. we debated whether to camp or to go on; but the place was so tempting that we ended by remaining, and were repaid by a charming evening. the next day we rode quietly down the mountains. we enjoyed a grand view and a pleasant ride, but it was as steep as a railway-bank; and we came at last to another little khan, where we breakfasted. the anti- lebanon rose on the opposite side. miss ellen wilson, who had a protestant mission at zahleh in this district, asked us to her house, and we accepted her hospitality for the night, instead of remaining in our tents. we stayed at miss wilson's for a few days; and we visited and were visited by the governor of zahleh, the bishop, and other dignitaries. richard was taken with fever. i nursed him all night, and caught the complaint. we both suffered horribly, in spite of every attention on the part of our friends. richard soon shook off his illness, but i did not; i fancied i could not get well unless i went home to bludan. so at sunset on august , after we had been at miss wilson's rather more than a week, our horses were made ready. i was lifted out of bed and put into a litter. we wound out of zahleh, descended into the plain, and began to cross it. i was so sorry for the men who had to carry my litter that i begged to be allowed to ride. i told my arab stallion salim to be very quiet. we went at foot's pace till o'clock a.m. in bright moonlight across the plain. then we passed regular defiles, where once or twice the horses missed their footing, and struck fire out of the rocks in their struggles to hold up. at two o'clock in the morning i felt that i was going to drop out of my saddle, and cried for quarter. the tents were hastily half pitched, and we lay down on the rugs till daylight. by that time i had to repair to my litter again, but i felt so happy at coming near home that i thought i was cured. as we neared bludan i was carried along in the litter, and i lay so still that everybody thought that my corpse was coming home to be buried. the news spread far and wide, so i had the pleasure of hearing my own praises and the people's lamentations. we had not long returned to bludan before a great excitement arose. when we had been home about a fortnight, on august , richard received at night by a mounted messenger two letters, one from mr. wright, chief protestant missionary at damascus, and one from the chief dragoman at the british consulate, saying that the christians at damascus were in great alarm; most of them had fled from the city, or were flying, and everything pointed to a wholesale massacre. only ten years before (in ) there had been the most awful slaughter of christians at damascus; and though it had been put down at last, the embers of hatred were still smoldering, and might at any time burst into a flame. now it seemed there had been one of those eruptions of ill-feeling which were periodical in damascus, resulting from so many religions, tongues, and races being mixed up together. the chief hatred was between the moslems and the christians, and the jews were fond of stirring up strife between them, because they reaped the benefit of the riot and anarchy. it appeared that the slaughter day was expected on august --on the morrow. it had been so timed. all the chief authorities were absent from damascus, as well as the consuls, and therefore there would be nobody to interfere and nobody to be made responsible. we only got notice on the night before, the th. richard and i made our plans and arrangements in ten minutes, and then saddled the horses and cleaned the weapons. richard would not take me to damascus, however, because, as he said, he intended to protect damascus, and he wanted me to protect bludan and zebedani. the feeling that i had something to do took away all that remained of my fever. in the night i accompanied richard down the mountain. he took half the men, and left me half. when we got into the plain, we shook hands like two brothers, and parted, though it might have been that we should never see one another again. there were not tears, nor any display of affection, for emotion might have cost us dear. richard rode into damascus, put up his horse, and got to business. when he stated what he had heard, the local authorities affected to be surprised; but he said to them, "i must telegraph to constantinople unless measures are taken at once." this had the desired effect, and they said, "what will you have us do?" he said, "i would have you post a guard of soldiers in every street, and order a patrol at night. issue an order that no jew or christian shall leave their houses until all is quiet." these measure were taken at once, and continued for three days; not a drop of blood was shed, and the flock of frightened christians who had fled to the mountains began to come back. in this way the massacre at damascus was averted. but i may mention that some of the christians who had run away in panic to beyrout, as soon as they were safe, declared that there had been no danger whatever, and they had not been at all frightened. i grieve to say it, but the eastern christian is often a poor thing. but all this is to anticipate. when i had parted from richard in the plain, i climbed up to my eagle's nest at bludan, the view from which commanded the country, and i felt that as long as our ammunition lasted we could defend ourselves, unless overpowered by numbers. night was coming on, and of course i had not the slightest idea of what had happened at the previous massacre of christians at damascus; and flying, excited stragglers dropped in, and from what they said one would have supposed that damascus was already being deluged in blood, and that eventually crowds of moslems would surge up to bludan and exterminate us also. i fully expected an attack, so i collected every available weapon and all the ammunition. i had five men in the house; to each one i gave a revolver, and a bowie-knife. i put one on the roof with a pair of elephant guns carrying four-ounce balls, and a man to each of the four sides of the house, and i commanded the terrace myself. i planted the union jack on the flagstaff at the top of the house, and i turned my bull terriers into the garden to give notice of any approach. i locked up a little syrian girl whom i had taken into my service, and who was terribly frightened, in the safest room; but my english maid, who was as brave as any man, i told off to supply us with provisions and make herself generally useful. i then rode down the hill to the american mission and begged them to come up and take shelter with me, and then into the village of bludan to tell the christians to come up to me on the slightest sign of danger. i gave the same message to the handful of christians at zebedani. i rode on to the shaykhs, and asked them how it would be if the news proved true. they told me that there would be a fight, but they also said, "they shall pass over our dead bodies before they reach you." it was a brave speech and kindly meant; but if anything had happened i should have been to the fore. i did not wish the shaykhs to think i was afraid, or wanted their protection against their co-religionists. when all preparations were completed, i returned to the house, and we waited for three days. nobody came, except more flying stragglers with exaggerated news. after having made all my preparations, i can hardly explain my sensations, whether they were of joy or of disappointment. the suspense and inaction were very trying. i was never destined to do anything worthy of my ancestress, blanche lady arundell, who defended wardour castle against the parliamentary forces. during the three days we were in suspense a monster vulture kept hovering over our house. the people said it was a bad omen, and so i fetched my little gun, though i rather begrudged the cartridge just then; and when it was out of what they call reach, i had the good luck to bring it down. this gave them great comfort, and we hung the vulture on the top of the tallest tree. at last at midnight on the third day a mounted messenger rode up with a letter from richard, saying that all was well at damascus, but that he would not be back for a week. after this excitement life fell back into its normal course at bludan, and the only variations were small excursions and my doctoring. _a propos_ of the latter, i can tell some amusing anecdotes. once a girl sent to me saying she had broken her leg. i had a litter constructed, hired men, and went down to see her. when i came near the place where she was, i met her walking. "how can you be walking with a broken leg?" i said. she lifted up her voice and wept; she also lifted up her petticoat and showed me a scratch on her knee that an english baby would not have cried for. sometimes women would come and ask me for medicine to make them young again, others wished me to improve their complexions, and many wanted me to make them like sarai of old. i gently reminded them of their ages, and said that i thought that at such a time of life no medicines or doctors could avail. "my age!" screamed one: "why, what age do you take me for?" "well," i answered politely, "perhaps you might be sixty" (she looked seventy-five). "i am only twenty-five," she said in a very hurt tone of voice. "well then," i said, "i congratulate you on your early marriage, for your youngest daughter is seventeen, and she is working in my house. anyway it is really too late to work a miracle." on another occasion i received a very equivocal compliment. a woman came to me and begged for medicines, and described her symptoms. the doctor was with me, but she did not know him. he said in french, "do not give her anything but a little effervescing magnesia. i won't have anything to do with her; it is too late, and risks reputation." i did as he bade me, simply not to seem unkind. the next day she was dead. soon afterwards a young man of about twenty came to me and said, "ya sitti, will you give me some of that nice white bubbling powder for my grandmother that you gave to umm saba the day before yesterday? she is so old, and has been in her bed these three months, and will neither recover nor die." "oh thou wicked youth!" i answered; "begone from my house! i did but give umm saba a powder to calm her sickness, for it was too late to save her, and it was the will of allah that she should die." i will here mention again my little syrian maid, to whom i had taken a fancy at miss wilson's mission, where i first met her, and i took her into my service. she was a thorough child of nature, quite a little wild thing, and it took me a long time to break her into domestic habits. she was about seventeen years of age, just the time of life when a girl requires careful guiding. when she first came to us, she used to say and do the queerest things. some of them i really do not think are suited to ears polite; but here are a few. one day, when we were sitting at work, she startled me by asking: "lady, why don't you put your lip out so?" pouting a very long under-lip. "why, o moon?" "look, my lip so large. why all the men love her so because she pout." "but, o moon, my lip is not made like yours; and, besides, i never think of men." "but do think, lady. look, your pretty lip all sucked under." i know now how to place my lip, and i always remember her when i sit at work. on another occasion, seeing my boxes full of dresses and pretty trinkets, and noticing that i wore no jewellery, and always dressed in riding- habits and waterproofs for rough excursions, and looked after the stables instead of lying on a divan and sucking a narghileh, after the manner of eastern women, she exclaimed: "o lady, ya sitti, my happiness, why do you not wear this lovely dress?" --a _decolletee_ blue ball-dress, trimmed with tulle and roses. "i hate the black. when the beg will come and see his wife so darling, he will be so jealous and ashamed of himself. i beg of you keep this black till you are an old woman, and instead be joyful in your happy time." after she had been in the house a fortnight, her ideas grew a little faster; and speaking of an old sedate lady, and hoping she would do something she wished, she startled me by saying, "if she do, she do; and if she don't, go to hell!" the girl was remarkably pretty, with black plaits of hair confined by a coloured handkerchief, a round baby face, large eyes, long lashes, small nose, and pouting lips, with white teeth, of which she was very proud: a temperament which was all sunshine or thunder and lightning in ten minutes. she had a nice, plump little figure, encased in a simple, tight-fitting cotton gown, which, however, showed a stomach of size totally disproportionate to her figure. seeing this, i said gently: "o moon, do wear stays! when you get older, you will lose your pretty figure. you are only seventeen, and i am past thirty, and yet i have no stomach. do let me give you some stays." she burst into a storm of tears and indignation at being supposed to have a fault of person, which brought on a rumbling of the stomach. she pointed to it, and said: "hush! do you hear, lady? she cry because she is so great." our kawwass having picked up a little bad language on board ship from the sailors, was in the habit of saying wicked words when angry, and the moon imitated him. the moon, on being told to do something one day by my english maid, rapped out a volley of fearful oaths, and my maid fled to me in horror. i was obliged to speak very seriously to the moon, and told her that these were bad words used by the little gutter-boys in england when they had bad parents and did not know god. our dragoman, i regret to say, once took liberties with her. she complained to me. "o lady, all the men want my lip and my breast. hanna he pulled me, and i told him, 'what you want? i am a girl of seventeen. i have to learn how i shall walk. you know the arab girl. not even my brother kiss me without leave. wait till i run and tell ya sitti.'" this frightened hanna, a man like a little old walnut, with a wife and children, and he begged her not to do so. but she came and told me, and i replied: "o moon, the next time he does it, slap his face and scream, and i will come down and ask him what he takes my house to be. he shall get more than he reckons on." there was a great deal of ill-feeling simmering between the moslems and christians all this summer, and there were many squabbles between them. sometimes the christians were to blame, and needlessly offended the susceptibilities of the moslems. i was always very careful about this, and would not eat pig for fear of offending the moslems and jews, though we were often short of meat, and i hungered for a good rasher of bacon. i used to ride down to zebedani, the next village to bludan, to hear mass, attended by only one servant, a boy of twenty. the people loved me, and my chief difficulty was to pass through the crowd that came to kiss my hand or my habit, so i might really have gone alone. i would not mention this but that our enemies misreported the facts home, and it went forth to the world that i behaved like a female tyrant, and flogged and shot the people. how this rumour arose i know not, for i never shot anybody, and the only time i flogged a man was as follows. i do not repent it, and under similar circumstances should do the same over again. one day i was riding alone through the village of zebedani; as usual every one rose up and saluted me, and i was joined by several native christians. suddenly hasan, a youth of about twenty-two, thrust himself before my horse; the natives dropped on their knee, praying me not to be angry, and kissed my hands, which meant, "for allah's sake bear it patiently! we are not strong enough to fight for you." by this time quite a crowd had collected, and i was the centre of all eyes. "what is the meaning of this?" i asked hasan. "it means," he answered, "that i want to raise the devil to-day, and i will pull you off your horse and duck you in the water. i am a beg, and you are a beg. salute me!" salute him indeed! i did salute him, but hardly in the way he bargained for. i had only an instant to think over what i could do. i knew that to give him the slightest advantage over me would be to bring on a consular and european row, and a christian row too, and that if i evinced the smallest cowardice i should never be able to show my face again. i had a strong english hunting-whip, and was wearing a short riding-habit. so i sprang nimbly from my saddle, and seized him by the throat, twisting his necktie tightly, and at the same time showering blows upon his head, face, and shoulders with the butt-end of my whip till he howled for mercy. my servant, who was a little way behind, heard the noise at this moment, and, seeing how i was engaged thought that i was attacked, and flew to the rescue. six men flung themselves upon him, and during the struggle his pistol or blunderbuss went off, and the ball whizzed past our heads to lodge in the plaster wall. it might have shot me as well as hasan, though afterwards this fact was used against me. the native christians all threw themselves on the ground, as they often do when there is any shooting. the brother of hasan then dragged him howling away from me. i mounted my horse again, and rode on amid the curses of his brothers. "we will follow you," they shouted, "with sticks and stones and guns, and at night we will come in a party and burn your house, and whenever we meet an english son of a pig we will kill him." "thank you for your warning," i said; "you may be quite sure i shall be ready for you." i went home and waited to see if any apology would be offered, but none came. the shaykhs came up, and the christians told me if i allowed this insult to pass in silence they would be unable to stay in the village, they were too few. i waited, however, some time, and then wrote an account of the affair and sent it to damascus to the wali. the wali, who at that time was not ill-disposed towards richard, behaved like a gentleman. he expressed regret at the incident, and sent soldiers up to burn and sack the home of hasan and his family, but i interceded and got them off with only a few weeks' imprisonment. the father of the youth hasan, accompanied by about fifty of the principal people, came up to beg my pardon the morning after the insult. i, however, received them coldly, and merely said the affair had passed out of my hands. but i begged them off all the same. there was a sequel to this story, which i may as well mention here. the following summer, when we were at bludan, hasan and i became great friends. one day, after doctoring him for weak eyes, i said, "what made you want to hurt me, o hasan, last summer?" he replied, "i don't know; the devil entered my heart. i was jealous to see you always with the shaykhs and never noticing us. but since i have got to know you i could kill myself for it." he had an excellent heart, but was apt to be carried off his head by the troubles of the times. i may mention that i reported the matter to the consul-general, who had also received the story in another form; to wit, that i had seen a poor arab beggar sitting at my gate, and because he did not rise and salute me i had drawn a revolver and shot him dead. this is a specimen of turkish falsehood. chapter xv. gathering clouds. ( - ). one who never turned his back, but marched breast forward; never doubted clouds would break; never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph held, we fall to rise again; are baffled, to fight better; sleep, to wake! browning. in october richard and i left bludan to return to our winter quarters at salahiyyeh, damascus. but as we were in a mood for excursions, we went by a longer and roundabout route. we had a delightful ride across the anti-lebanon, and then we went by way of shtora across a mountain called jebel baruk, and then a long scramble of six hours led us to the village of baruk, a druze stronghold in a wild glen on the borders of the druze territory. we did not find our tents; but it did not signify, as we were among friends and allies, who welcomed us. we went at once to the shaykh's house. richard was always friendly with the druzes; and as they played an important part in our life at damascus, i think that i had better give some description of them. they are a fine, brave people, very athletic. the men are tall, broad, and stalwart, with splendid black eyes, and limbs of iron. they have proud and dignified manners, and their language is full of poetry. they wear a long blue garment and a white veil. the whole face is hidden except one eye. i remember once asking them if it took a long time to decide which was the prettier eye, at which small joke they were much amused. we remained for the night with the shaykh, and had breakfast with him in the morning, and then went on to mukhtara, which is the centre of the lebanon druzes. it was a most interesting ride; and whilst we were still in the barren plain a band of horsemen came out to meet us in rich druze dress, and escorted us through a deep defile, and then up a rocky ascent to a syrian palace, the house of the sitt jumblatt, which is situated in olive groves on the heights. arrived at the house, we were cordially received by the sitt jumblatt--a woman who was the head of the princely family of the lebanon druzes--with all the gracious hospitality of the east, and with all the well-bred ease of a european _grande dame_. she took us into the reception-room, when water and scented soap were brought in carved brass ewers and basins, incense was waved before us, and we were sprinkled with rose-water, whilst an embroidered gold canopy was held over our heads to concentrate the perfume. coffee, sweets, and sherbet were served, and then i was shown to a very luxurious room. the following morning we spent in visiting the village schools and stables, and in listening to the sitt's grievances, on which she waxed eloquent. at night we had a great dinner, and after dinner there were dancing and war-songs between the druzes of the lebanon and the druzes of the hauran. they also performed pantomimes and sang and recited tales of love and war until far into the night. the next day we started early. i was sorry to leave, for the sitt jumblatt and i had formed a great friendship. we rode to b'teddin, the palace of the governor of the lebanon, where we were received with open arms. five hundred soldiers were drawn up in a line to salute us, and the governor, franco pasha, welcomed us with all his family and suite. after our reception we were invited to the divan, where we drank coffee. whilst so engaged invisible bands struck up "god save the queen"; it was like an electric shock to hear our national hymn in that remote place-- we who had been so long in the silence of the anti-lebanon. we sprang to our feet, and i was so overcome i burst into tears. in the morning we rode back to mukhtara, where we went to the house of the principal druze shaykh, and were most graciously received. i love the druzes and their charming, courteous ways. whilst staying here we made several excursions, and among others we ascended mount hermon. the druze chiefs came from all parts to visit us. after some days we left. richard was to go home by a way of his own, and i was to return escorted by a druze shaykh. poor jiryus, my _sais_, walked by my side for a mile when i started, and after kissing my hand with many blessings, he threw his arms round salim's neck and kissed his muzzle. then he sat down on a rock and burst into tears. richard had dismissed him for disobeying orders. my heart ached for him, and i cried too. shaykh ahmad and i descended the steep mountain-side and then galloped over the plain till we came to water and some bedawin feeding their flocks. the shaykh gave one fine fellow a push, and roughly ordered him to hold my horse and milk his goats for me. the man refused. "what," i said very gently, "do you, a bedawin, refuse a little hospitality to a tired and thirsty woman?" "o lady," he replied quickly, "i will do anything for you--you speak so softly; but i won't be ordered about by this druze fellow." i was pleased with his manliness, and he attended to my wants and waited on me hand and foot. we camped out that night, and the night after. i was always fond of sleeping in the tent, and would never go into the house unless compelled to do so. this time, however, our tents were pitched on low ground close to the river, with burning heat by day and cold dews by night. so i got the fever, and i lay in a kind of stupor all day. the next morning i heard a great row going on outside my tent. it turned out to be the druze shaykh and our dragoman quarrelling. shortly after shaykh ahmad came into my tent, and in a very dignified way informed me that he wished to be relieved of his duty and return home. i laughed, and refused to allow him to depart. "what, o shaykh," said i, "will you leave a poor, lone woman to return with no escort but a dragoman"; and he immediately recanted. richard joined me here for a night, and then in the morning went off by another route to explore some district round about. i also did some exploring in another direction. so we went on from day to day, camping about, or rather gypsying, in the desert among the bedawin. i got to love it very much. i often think with regret of the strange scenes which became a second nature to me: of those dark, fierce men, in their gaudy, flowing costumes, lying about in various attitudes; of our encampments at night, the fire or the moonlight lighting them up, the divans and the pipes, the narghilehs and coffee; of their wild, mournful songs; of their war-dances; of their story-telling of love and war, which are the only themes. i got to know the bedawin very well during that time, both men and women; and the more i knew them the better i liked them. i remember one night, when richard and i were in our tent, we lay down on our respective rugs, and i put out the light. suddenly richard called to me, "come quick! i am stung by a scorpion." i struck a match and ran over to his rug, and looked at the place he pointed to; but there was a mere speck of blue, and i was convinced it was only a big black ant. he did not mind that, so i lay down again. hardly had i done so when he called out, "quick, quick, again! i know it is a scorpion." i again struck a light, ran over, plunged my hand inside his shirt near the throat, and drew it out again quickly with a scorpion hanging by its crablike claws to my finger. i shook it off and killed it; but it did not sting me, being, i suppose, unable to manage a third time. i rubbed some strong smelling salts into richard's wounds, and i found some _raki_, which i made him drink, to keep the poison away from his heart. he then slept, and in the morning was well. while we were gypsying about in this way we received an invitation to a druze wedding at arneh, near mount hermon. richard went to it one way and i another. whenever we separated, the object was to get information of both routes to our meeting-place, and thus save time and learn more. on meeting, we used to join our notes together. the wedding was a very pretty one. the bridegroom was a boy of fifteen; and the bride, a shaykh's daughter, was about the same age. there was a great deal of singing and dancing, and they were all dressed in their best costumes and jewellery. i was invited to the harim of the bride's house, where we had a merry time of it. whilst we were enjoying our fun the girls blew out all our lights, and we were left in the darkness. the bride ran and threw her arms round me, for protection perhaps, and then commenced such a romping and screaming and pinching and pulling that i hardly knew where i was. it was evidently considered a great frolic. after a few minutes they lit the candles again. at last the bride, robed in an izar and veiled, mounted a horse astraddle, and went round to pay her last visit to her neighbours as a maiden. coming back, the bride and the bridegroom met in the street, and then we all adjourned to her father's house, where there were more ceremonies and festivities. at midnight we formed a procession to take the bride to her bridegroom's house, with singing, dancing, snapping of fingers, and loud cries of "yallah! yallah!" which lasted till a.m. then the harim proceeded to undress the bride. we were up all night, watching and joining in different branches of festivities. the wedding over, we returned home to salahiyyeh by slow stages. it was a terribly hot road through the desert. i suffered with burning eyeballs and mouth parched with a feverish thirst. i know nothing to equal the delight with which one returns from the burning desert into cool shades with bubbling water. our house seemed like a palace; and our welcome was warm. so we settled down again at damascus. we had a troublesome and unpleasant time during the next few months, owing to a continuation of official rows. there were people at damascus always trying to damage us with the government at home, and sending lying reports to the foreign office. they were most unscrupulous. one man, for instance, complained to the foreign office that i had been heard to say that i had "finished my dispatches," meaning that i had finished the work of copying richard's. imagine a man noting down this against a woman, and twisting it the wrong way. i think that the first shadow on our happy life came in july of this year, , when i was at bludan. an amateur missionary came to damascus and attempted to proselytize. damascus was in a very bad temper just then, and it was necessary to put a stop to these proceedings, because they endangered the safety of the christian population. richard was obliged to give him a caution, with the result that he made the missionary an enemy, and gave him a grievance, which was reported home in due course. another way in which we made enemies was because richard found it necessary to inform the jews that he would not aid and abet them in their endeavours to extort unfair usury from the syrians. some of the village shaykhs and peasantry, ignorant people as they were, were in the habit of making ruinous terms with the jews, and the extortion was something dreadful. moreover, certain jewish usurers were suspected of exciting massacres between the christians and the moslems, because, their lives being perfectly safe, they would profit by the horrors to buy property at a nominal price. it was brought to the notice of richard about this time that two jewish boys, servants to jewish masters who were british- protected subjects, had given the well-understood signal by drawing crosses on the walls. it was the signal of the massacre of . he promptly investigated the matter, and took away the british protection of the masters temporarily. certain israelite money-lenders, who hated him because he would not wink at their sweating and extortions, saw in this an opportunity to overthrow him; so they reported to some leading jews in england that he had tortured the boys, whom he had not, in point of fact, punished in any way beyond reproving them. the rich jews at home, therefore, were anxious to procure our recall, and spread it about that we were influenced by hatred of the jews. one of them had even the unfairness to write to the foreign office as follows: "i hear that the lady to whom captain burton is married is believed to be a bigoted roman catholic, and to be likely to influence him against the jews." in spite of woman's rights i was not allowed to answer him publicly. when i heard of it, i could not forbear sending a true statement of the facts of the case to lord granville, together with the following letter: "h. b. m. consulate, damascus, "november , . "my lord, "i have always understood that it is a rule amongst gentlemen never to drag a lady's name into public affairs, but i accept with pleasure the compliment which sir ---- ---- pays me in treating me like a man, and the more so as it enables me to assume the privilege of writing to you an official letter, a copy of which perhaps you will cause to be transmitted to him. "sir ---- ---- has accepted the tissue of untruths forwarded by three persons, the chief money-lenders of damascus, because they are his co- religionists. he asserts that i am a bigoted roman catholic, and must have influenced my husband against them. i am not so bigoted as sir ---- ----; for if three catholics were to do one-half of what these three jews have done, i would never rest until i had brought them to justice. i have not a prejudice in the world except against hypocrisy. perhaps, as damascus is divided into thirty-two religions, my husband and i are well suited to the place. we never ask anybody's religion, nor make religion our business. my husband would be quite unfitted for public life if he were to allow me to influence him in the manner described, and i should be unworthy to be any good man's wife if i were to attempt it. my religion is god's poor. there is no religious war between us and the jews, but there is a refusal to use the name of england to aid three rich and influential jews in acts of injustice to, and persecution of, the poor; to imprison and let them die in gaol in order to extort what they have not power to give; and to prevent foreign and fraudulent money transactions being carried on in the name of her majesty's government. also it has been necessary once or twice to prevent the jews exciting the moslems to slaughter, by which they have never suffered, but by which they gratify their hatred of the christians, who are the victims. i think nobody has more respect for the jewish religion than my husband and myself, or of the jews, as the most ancient and once chosen people of god; but in all races some must be faulty, and these must be punished. there are three mouths from which issue all these complaints and untruths; and what one jew will say or sign the whole body will follow without asking a question why or wherefore, nor in damascus would their consent be asked. it is a common saying that 'everybody says yes to them because they have the money.' these three men count on the influence of men like sir ---- ----, and one or two others, and impose upon their credulity and religious zeal to get their misdeeds backed up and hidden. but will such men as these protect a fraudulent usurer because he is a jew? "i enclose a true statement of the case, and also some private letters, one from our chief and best missionary, which will show you something of the feeling here in our favour. "i have the honour to be, my lord, "your most obedient and humble servant, "isabel burton. "to the earl granville, etc., etc., "secretary of state for foreign affairs." to this i can only add: if the shylocks of damascus hated me, so much then more to my credit. there were many temptations to turn us from the path of right, if we had a mind to go. politics at damascus were most corrupt, and bribes were freely offered to us both from all sides. they did not seem to understand our refusal of anything of the kind. it had evidently been the custom. richard had as much as , pounds sterling offered him at once, and personally i had no end of temptations to accept money when i first came to damascus. if we had taken gold and ignored wrongs, we might have feathered our nests for ever, and doubtless have retired with much honour and glory. but we would not. in this way i refused several arab horses which i would have given worlds to accept, for i was passionately fond of arab horses, and could not afford to buy them; but as we should have been expected to do unjust things in return, or rather to allow unjust things to be done, i refused them. i had more jewels offered me than i should have known what to do with, but refused them all; and i take some credit to myself in this matter, because i might have accepted them as gifts without any conditions, and i like diamonds as much as most women, or rather i like their value. in november we had quite an event in damascus--the wedding of the wali's daughter. it was the most splendid wedding i ever beheld. it lasted five days and nights. the men celebrated it in one house, and the women in another. we mustered several hundred in all. i was among the _intimes_, and was treated _en famille_. by my side throughout was lady ellenborough, looking like an oriental queen, and the charming young wife of our italian consul, whose dress was fresh from italy. the dresses were wonderful in richness, diamonds blazing everywhere. but one custom took my fancy: the best women wore simply a plain cashmere robe and no ornaments, but loaded all their jewels on one or two of their slaves, who followed them, as much as to say, "if you want to see all my fine things, look behind me; it is too great a bore to carry them myself." on the eve of the wedding there was a long procession of female relatives, and we all sat round in the large hall. every woman in the procession bore branches of lights; and the bride was in the middle, a beautiful girl of fifteen or sixteen. her magnificent chestnut hair swept in great tresses below her waist, and was knotted and seeded with pearls. she was dressed in red velvet, and blazed all over with precious stones. diamond stars were also glued to her cheeks, her chin, and her forehead. and they were rather in the way of our kissing her, for they scratched our faces. she was a determined-looking girl, but she had been crying bitterly, because she did not want to be married. she sat on the divan, and received our congratulations sullenly, looking as though she would rather scream and scratch. on the marriage morn we were up betimes. the harim had begged of me to wear an english ball-dress, that they might see what it was like. i said, "i will do what you ask, but i know that you will be shocked." "oh no," they replied; "we are quite sure we shall be delighted." so i wore a white glace silk skirt, a turquoise blue tunic and corsage, the whole affair looped up and trimmed with blush roses, and the same flowers in my hair. thus arrayed i appeared before the harim. they turned me round and round, and often asked me if i were not very cold about the shoulders; if it were really true that strange men danced with us and put their arms round our waists, and if we didn't feel dreadfully ashamed, and if we really sat and ate and drank with them. i could not answer all these questions over and over again, so i said i would describe a european ball by interpreter. they hailed the idea with delight. i stood up and delivered as graphic an account as i could of my first ball at almack's, and they greeted me at intervals with much applause. the marriage was a simple but most touching ceremony. we were all assembled in the great hall. the wali entered, accompanied by the women of the family; the bride advanced, weeping bitterly, and knelt and kissed her father's feet. the poor man, with emotion, raised her and clasped a girdle of diamonds round her waist, which was before ungirdled; it was part of her dower. no one could unclasp it but her husband, and this concluded the ceremony. shortly afterwards the bride was borne in procession to the congratulations of all the women present. after about half an hour she was conducted to a private room by a female relative, and the bridegroom to the same room by a male relative. the door was shut, and the band played a joyous strain. i asked what was going to happen, and they told me that the bridegroom was allowed to raise her veil, to unclasp her belt, and to speak a few words to her in the presence of their relatives. this was the first time they had really seen one another. what an anxious moment for a moslem woman! shortly after this we went on an expedition to visit the wuld ali, a chief who was much dreaded by those of other tribes. richard and i rode into the encampment alone. when first the tribe saw our two dusky figures galloping across the sand in the evening, they rode out to meet us with their lances couched; but as soon as they were close enough to recognize richard they lowered their weapons, jumped off their horses and kissed our hands, galloped in with us, and held our stirrups to alight. i need not say that we received all the hospitality of a bedawin life. richard wanted to patch up a peace between the wuld ali and the mezrab tribe, but in this he did not succeed. we had a delightful ride when leaving one encampment for another, and several of the bedawin accompanied us. as we mounted richard whispered to me, "let's show those fellows that the english can ride. they think that nobody can ride but themselves, and that nothing can beat their mares." i looked round, and saw their thorough-bred mares with their lean flanks. i did not know how it would be with our half-breds; but they were in first-rate condition, full of corn and mad with spirits. so i gave richard my usual answer to everything he said: "all right; where you lead i will follow." as soon as the "yallah!" was uttered for starting, we simply laid our reins on our horses necks, and neither used spur nor whip nor spoke to them. they went as though we had long odds on our ride. we reached the camp for which we were bound an hour and a half before the bedawin who were to have come with us. neither we nor our horses had turned a hair. their mares were broken down, and the men were not only blown and perspiring, but they complained bitterly that their legs were skinned. "ya sitti," said one, "el shaitan himself could not follow you." "i am sorry," i replied, "but our _kaddishes_ would go; _we_ wanted to ride with _you_." when we returned from this expedition we went to beyrout, where we spent our christmas. we ate our christmas dinner with the consul-general, and his dragoman told me an astounding story about myself which was news to me, as such stories generally are. he said that, a certain jewish usurer at damascus had told him that, when i met his wife at the wedding of the wali's daughter, i tore her diamonds off her head, flung them on the ground, and stamped on them, saying that they were made out of the blood of the poor. i was amused at this monstrous fabrication, but i was also annoyed. in england there may be much smoke but little fire, but in the east the smoke always tells that the fire is fierce, and one must check a lie before it has time to travel far. knowing what certain jews in england had reported about me before, i lost no time in putting matters to rights with the authorities, and dispatched the following letter to the foreign office: "january , . "my lord, "i trust you will exempt me from any wish to thrust myself into public affairs, but it is difficult for captain burton to notice anything in an official letter concerning his wife, neither can we expect the damascus jews to know the habits of gentlemen. they respect their own harims, yet this is the second time i am mentioned discreditably in their public correspondence. in one sense it may be beneficial, as i can give you a better idea of the people captain burton has to deal with than official language allows of, and from which my sex absolves me. "my offences against the jews are as follows: "i once said 'not at home' to ---- ---- because i heard that he had written unjust complaints to the government about my husband. later on the wali gave a _fete_ to celebrate the marriage of his daughter. i was invited to the harim during the whole feast, which lasted five days and nights. the wali's harim and the others invited made, i dare say, a party of three hundred and fifty ladies. i need not say that men were not admitted; their festivities were carried on in another house. the ---- harim was amongst the invited. as i supposed that they knew nothing of what was going on, i was not desirous of mortifying them by any coldness in public, and accordingly i was as cordial to them as i had always been. on the last day the wife of ---- separated herself from her party, and intruded herself into the consulesses' divan. we were all together; but there was often a gathering of the consulesses for the sake of talking more freely in european languages, turkish being the language spoken generally, and arabic being almost excluded. i received her very warmly, begging her to be seated, and conversed with her; but she would talk of nothing but her husband's business. i said to her, 'pray do not let us discuss this now; it is not the time and place in public, where all can hear us.' she replied, 'i want to talk of this and nothing else. i came for that only.' i said, 'you are a good woman, and i like you, and do not want to quarrel with you. why speak of it? we are two women. what do we know of business? leave it for our husbands.' she replied, 'i know business very well, and so do you. i will speak of it.' i then said, 'if you do, i fear i shall say something unpleasant.' she replied, 'i do not mind that, and i will come and see you.' i said, 'pray do; i shall be delighted.' and so we shook hands and parted. "six weeks after i came to beyrout, and found that it was popularly reported by the jews that i had torn madame ----'s diamonds from her hair on this occasion, thrown them on the ground, and stamped upon them. ---- ---- arrived soon after me; and hearing from some mutual friends that this report had reached me, he came to see me, and told me that it had been invented by his enemies. i replied that i thought it very likely, and that he need not mind. he then told me that his family, and his wife in particular, were very fond of me, and that she had recounted our interview at the wedding to him just as above, and as a proof of their friendly feelings they were coming to see me to invite me to a _soiree_. "with many regrets for trespassing so long on your valuable time, "i am, my lord, "your faithful and obedient servant, "isabel burton. "the earl granville, "secretary of state for foreign affairs." a gentleman, mr. kennedy, from the foreign offices at home, was staying at the consul-general's at beyrout, so we thought it right to invite him to damascus, and he accepted our invitation a few weeks later. as this was an official visit we made every preparation. i met him at shtora, the half-way house between beyrout and damascus, and travelled with him in the diligence. at the last station we found the wali's carriage and a troop of soldiers as a guard of honour, and we then journeyed in it to our house. the next morning mr. kennedy visited the consulate, and apparently found everything straightforward and satisfactory, and he paid official calls with richard. during the next few days i showed him most of the sights of damascus, and one evening i gave a large _soiree_ in his honour. mr. kennedy was fain to own that in its way it was unique. he had never seen a party like the one i was able to assemble. we had thirty-six different races and creeds and tongues: grey-bearded moslems, fierce-looking druzes, a rough kurdish chief, a bedawin shaykh, a few sleek jewish usurers, every one of the fourteen castes of christians, the protestant missionaries, and all the consuls and their staffs; in fact, everything appertaining to public life and local authority, culminating in the various church dignitaries, bishops, and patriarchs. the triple-roomed hall, with fountains in the middle, lighted with coloured lamps; the bubbling of the water in the garden; the sad weird music in the distance; the striking costumes; the hum of the narghilehs; the guttural sound of the conversation; the kawwasses in green, red, blue, and gold, gliding about with trays of sherbet, sweets, and coffee,--all combined to make the quaintest scene. i should like to mention an anecdote here. in the garden next to ours there was a large wooden door, which swung always on its hinges. it made such a noise that it kept mr. kennedy awake at night. the garden belonged to an old woman, and i asked her to have her gate fastened. she sent back an answer that she could not, as it had been broken for years, and she had not the money to spare to mend it. so i took the law into my own hands. the next night mr. kennedy slept well. at breakfast he remarked the circumstance, and asked how i had managed about the door. "if you look out of the window," i answered, "you will see it in the courtyard. i sent two kawwasses yesterday to pull it down at sunset." he put on that long official face, with which all who are in the service of her majesty's government are familiar, and said, "oh, but you must really not treat people like that. supposing they knew of these things at home?" "suppose they did!" i said, laughing. i had ordered that, after mr. kennedy's departure that day, the gate was to be replaced and mended at my expense. the next time the old woman saw me she ran out exclaiming, "o thou light of my eyes, thou sunbeam, come and sit a little by the brook in my garden, and honour me by drinking coffee; and allah grant that thou mayest break something else of mine, and live for ever; and may allah send back the great english pasha to thy house to bring me more good luck!" however, the "great english pasha" did not return, for that evening a mounted escort with torches and the wali's carriage came to convey him and myself to the _gare_ of the diligence, and we reached beyrout that evening. nothing of importance happened at damascus during the next few months. it was a terribly cold winter. we were pleasantly surprised by the arrival of lord stafford and mr. mitford, to whom we showed the sights. we had a few other visitors; but on the whole it was a sad winter, for there was famine in the land. the jewish usurers had bought up wheat and corn cheap, and they sold grain very dear; it was practically locked up in the face of the starving, dying multitude. it was terrible to see the crowds hanging round the bakers' shops and yearning for bread. i used to save all the money i could--alas that i could not save more!--and telling a kawwass and man to accompany me with trays, i used to order a couple of sovereigns' worth of bread and distribute it in the most destitute part of our suburb. i never saw anything like the ravenous, hungry people. they would tear the trays down, and drag the bread from one another's mouths. i have sat by crying because i felt it mockery to bring so little; yet had i sold everything we possessed, i could not have appeased the hunger of our village for a single day. i wondered how those men who literally murdered the poor, who kept the granaries full, and saw unmoved the vitals of the multitude quivering for want, could have borne the sight! surely it will be more tolerable for the cities of the plain in the day of judgment than for them. chapter xvi. jerusalem and the holy land. ( ). thy servant take pleasure in her stones, and favour the dust thereof. psalm cii. . it had long been our desire to visit palestine and the holy land thoroughly, and so in march, , we determined to set out. richard wished me to go by sea and meet him at jerusalem, as he was going by land with mr. drake, who had now returned from england; so i travelled across to beyrout, with the intention of going from there by sea to jaffa at once. but when i reached the harbour of beyrout there was such a rough sea that i judged it better to wait for another steamer. so i put up at the hotel at beyrout, where i made my first acquaintance with cook's tourists. they swarmed like locusts over the town, in number about one hundred and eighty; and the natives said of them, "these are not travellers; these are cookii." certainly they were a menagerie of curious human bipeds. i lunched and dined with them every day at the _table d'hote_, and mingled with them as freely as possible, for they interested me greatly, and i used try and classify them much as an entomologist would classify his beetles and insects. one lady of forbidding appearance was known as "the sphinx." when on an expedition, it was the custom to call the "cookii" at a.m., and strike the tents at six. it appears that her bower falling at the stroke of six disclosed the poor thing in a light toilet, whence issued a serious quarrel. she wore an enormous, brown, mushroom hat, like a little table, decorated all over with bunches of brown ribbon. then there was a rich vulgarian, who had inveigled a poor gentleman into being his travelling companion, in return for his expenses. and didn't he let us know it! this was his line of conversation at the dinner table: "you want wine, indeed! i dare say. who brought you out, i should like to know? no end of expense. who pays for the dinner? who paid for the ticket? what do i get in return? no end of expense." and so on, and so on. i longed to drop a little caustic into dives, but i was afraid that poor lazarus would have to pay for it afterwards. i embarked on the next steamer bound for jaffa. she was the smallest, dirtiest, and most evil smelling i have ever boarded, and that is saying a good deal. we had a horrid night, very rough, and the first-class cabin became so abominable that i joined the deck passengers, and i longed to be a drover and lie with the cattle. my little syrian maid was with me, and she was very ill. jaffa was a rough place for landing, but we accomplished it after some little difficulty. it is a pretty, fez-shaped town on the hillside. we remained twenty-four hours in jaffa, and then rode on to ramleh. the gardens around this town were exceedingly beautiful, groves of orange trees, citrons and pomegranates. we soon entered the plain of sharon. the whole road was green and pretty. the country was a beautiful carpet of wild flowers. we reached ramleh early, and i went at once to the franciscan monastery. the monk who acted as porter received me very stiffly at first, until he knew all about me, and then he became very expansive. they put my syrian girl and me into a clean bedroom with embroidered muslin curtains and chintz tops. at night the monastery was full, and we were served by the monks. when i saw the company assembled in the refectory at supper, i did not wonder at the porter receiving me with such caution. they snorted and grunted and spat and used their forks for strange purposes. if i had not been so hungry, i could not have eaten a bit, though i am pretty well seasoned through living with all kinds of people. we started early next morning in delightful weather, and i was highly excited by our near approach to jerusalem. there were several other travellers along the road, all bound for the holy city. we occupied seven and a half hours on the journey. we passed two _cafes_ on the road, impromptu donkey sheds, where we found good turkish coffee and narghilehs; and there were shady groves, and fields of marigolds, poppies, and such-like. at last i reached the crest of the hill, and beheld jerusalem beneath me. i reined in my horse, and with my face towards the sepulchre gazed down upon the city of my longing eyes with silent emotion and prayer. every christian bared his head; every moslem and jew saluted. we rode towards the jaffa gate, outside of which were stalls of horses and donkeys, and a motley crowd, including lines of hideous-looking lepers. i went to the damascus hotel, a comfortable and very quiet hostel, with no tourists or trippers, of which i was glad, for i had come on a devotional pilgrimage. in the evening i was able to sit on the terrace and realize the dream of my life. the sun was setting on the mount of olives, where our saviour's feet last touched the earth; the arch of ecce homo lay beneath; the cross of the sepulchre caught the ruddy glow; out beyond were the mountains of moab, purple and red in the dying day; and between me and them, deep down i knew, lay the dead sea. my reverie was awakened by the arrival of richard with the horses and the _sais_ and habib. charles tyrwhitt-drake was with him. the next morning we were out early. first we rode to see the stone of colloquy on the road to bethany, so called because it is believed that, when martha came to tell jesus that her brother lazarus was dead, the saviour sat upon this stone whilst he conversed with her. it is a little table of rock about a yard long. we then went over a jagged country to bethany, a short hour's journey from jerusalem. bethany is now nothing but a few huts and broken walls in a sheltered spot. we went to see the tomb of lazarus, which is a small empty rock chamber. about forty yards to the south we were shown the supposed house of martha and mary. we passed a little field where christ withered the tree, marked by an excavation in the rock, where there is always a fig. the way we returned to jerusalem was that by which jesus rode upon the ass in triumph upon palm sunday, down the mount of olives, and in at the golden gate of the temple. on the south of the american cemetery there is a little spot of desolate land, which is the site of a house where, when all was over, our blessed lady lived with st. john. here she passed her last fifteen years; here she died at the age of sixty-three, and was buried near the garden of gethsemane. all that remains of the site of this small dwelling are some large stones, said to be the foundations. we then visited the coelnaculum, or the room of the last supper. an ancient church, which is now converted into a mosque, is built on the site of the last supper room. it is a long hall with a groined roof, and some say that it is the actual site, built with other materials. we then visited the house of caiaphas, and in the afternoon we sat in the english burial-ground on mount zion, talking and picking a flower here and there. charles tyrwhitt-drake was our dear friend and travelling companion. he was a young man full of promise for a brilliant eastern and scientific career. he was tall, powerful, fair, manly, distinguished for athletic and field sports; his intellectual qualities, and his mastery of languages, arabic and others, were so great that he made me wonder how at twenty-four years of age a young man could know so much. he was a thorough englishman, the very soul of honour. i should weary and not edify if i were to describe all we saw at jerusalem. i have written of it more fully elsewhere,[ ] and i can never hope to convey the remarkably vivid way in which it brought home to me the truth of the gospel narrative. but i think there are two spots which i ought to describe: one is the calvary church, and the other is the holy sepulchre. there are six holy spots on mount calvary. in the church itself, about four or five yards on the right hand, at the head of the staircase before you advance up the church, the black-and-white rose in the marble shows where our saviour was stripped. three yards farther, before an altar, a slab covers the spot where they nailed him to the cross; and a little farther on, at the high altar, the sacrifice was consummated. the high altar is resplendent; but one wishes it were not there, for all one's interest is concentrated upon a large silver star underneath it. on hands and knees i bowed down to kiss it, for it covered the hole in the rock where the cross, with our dying lord upon it, was planted. i put my arm into the hole, and touched it for a blessing. on the right hand is the hole of the good thief's cross, and on the left the bad thief's, each marked by a black marble cross. the cleft in the solid rock which opened when "jesus, crying with a loud voice, gave up the ghost," and "the earth quaked and the rocks were rent," is still visible. you can see it again below, in the deepest part of the church, where lies adam's tomb. the surface looks as if it were oxidized with blood, and tradition says that this colour has ever remained upon it. we will now proceed from calvary to the holy sepulchre. entering the basilica, the vast church where the holy sepulchre is, we find a little chapel enclosing the grave. it stands under the centre of the great dome, which covers the whole basilica. the holy sepulchre itself, all of it cut in one solid rock, consists of a little ante-chamber and an inner chamber containing a place for interment. it is carved out of the stone in the form of a trough, which had a stone slab for a covering, and it is roofed by a small arch, also cut in the rock. when st. helena prepared for building the basilica with the holy sepulchre and calvary, she separated the room containing the sacred tomb from the mass of rock, and caused an entrance vestibule to be carved out of the remainder. would that st. helena had contented herself with building indestructible walls round the sacred spots and left them to nature, marking them only with a cross and an inscription! they would thus have better satisfied the love and devotion of christendom, than the little, ornamented chapels which one shuts one's eyes not to see, trying to realize what had once been. in the middle is the stone on which the angel sat when it was rolled back from the sepulchre. christians of every race, tongue, and creed burn gold and silver lamps day and night before the grave, so that the chapel inside is covered with them, and priests of each form of christian faith officiate here in turn. the exterior of the sepulchre is also covered with gold and silver lamps, burnt by different christians. fifteen lamps of gold hang in a row about the grave itself. the turks hold the keys. in going in or coming out all kneel three times and kiss the ground. after you cross the vestibule, which is dark, you crouch to pass through the low, rock-cut archway by which you enter the tomb. you kneel by the sepulchre, which appears like a raised bench of stone; you can put your hands upon it, lean your face upon it, if you will, and think and pray. i was in jerusalem all through holy week, from palm sunday until easter day, and i attended all the services that i could attend, and so kept the week of our lord's passion in the holy city. on good friday i went to the "wailing-place of the jews" by the west wall of the enclosure around the mosque of omar, an old remain of the temple of solomon, and listened to their lamentations, tears, prayers and chants. they bewailed their city, their temple, their departed glory, on the anniversary of the day when their crime was accomplished and christ was crucified. the scene and the hour made me think deeply. i shall never forget either the scene in the basilica on holy saturday, when the patriarch undressed to show that he had nothing with him to produce the greek fire, and bared his head and feet, and then, in a plain surplice, entered the sepulchre alone. five minutes later the "sacred fire" issued, and a really wonderful scene followed. all the congregation struggled to catch the first fire. they jumped on each other's heads, shoulders, and backs; they hunted each other round the church with screams of joy. they pass it to one another; they rub it over their faces, they press it to their bosoms, they put it in their hair, they pass it through their clothes, and not one of this mad crowd feels himself burnt. the fire looked to me like spirits on tow; but it never went out, and every part of the basilica is in one minute alight with the blaze. i once believed in this fire, but it is said now to be produced in this manner: in one of the inner walls of the sepulchre there is a sliding panel, with a place to contain a lamp, which is blessed, and for centuries the greeks have never allowed this lamp to go out, and from it they take their "sacred fire." richard was assured by educated greeks that a lucifer box did the whole business, and that is probable; but be that so or not, there was a man-of-war waiting at jaffa to convey the "sacred fire" to st. petersburg. it was later on in the day, after we had made an excursion to see the convent of the cross, that richard, charles tyrwhitt-drake, and i went off to explore the magharat el kotn, also called the royal caverns. they are enormous quarries, the entrance to which looks like a hole in the wall outside jerusalem, not far from the gate of damascus. we crept in, and found ourselves lost in endless artificial caves and galleries. richard and mr. drake were delighted with them; but i soon left the enthusiasts, for the caves did not interest me. i had kept lent fasting; i had attended all the long ceremonies of holy week; and i was therefore very tired on this day, holy saturday, the more so because i had not only attended my own church's ceremonies, but all those of every sect in, jerusalem. so i gave up exploring the caves, and sauntered away to the northernmost point of mount bezetha, and saw the cave of the prophet jeremias. it was here that he wrote his lamentations. i then climbed up to a large cave somewhat to the left, above that of jeremias, where i could look down upon jerusalem. here, worn out with fatigue, fasting, and over-excitement, i lay down with my head upon the stone, and slept a long sleep of two hours, during which time i dreamed a long, vivid dream. its details in full would occupy a volume. byron says: "dreams in their development have breath and tears and torture and the touch of joy. they leave a weight upon our waking thoughts and look like heralds of eternity. they pass like the spirits of the past; they speak like sibyls of the future." the spirit of jeremias might have touched the stone upon which i slept, or baruch might have dwelt there. i dreamed for hours, and then i awoke. a goat-herd had entered the cave, and i half fancy he had shaken me, for he looked scared and said, "pardon, ya sitti; i thought you were dead." the bells of the sepulchre were giving out their deep-tongued notes and re-echoing over the hills. i looked at my watch; it was the ave maria-- sunset. i came back with a rush to reality; all my dream views vanished, and the castles in the air tumbled down like a pack of cards. nothing remained of my wondrous dream, with its marvellous visions, its stately procession of emperors, kings, queens, pontiffs, and ministers--nothing remained of them all, but only my poor, humble self, private and obscure, still to toil on and pray and suffer. i had to rouse myself at once, and almost to run, so as to pass the gates before i was locked out of the city for the night. no one would have thought of looking for me in the cave. i should certainly have been reported as murdered. when i arrived home it was long past sunset, but richard and mr. tyrwhitt-drake had not returned from their visit to the caves of magharat el kotn. the gates of jerusalem were shut, and i felt seriously alarmed, lest they should have met with some accident; so before settling myself to write my dream, i ordered my horse and rode back to the damascus gate to propitiate the guard and to post a kawwass at the gate, that i might get into the city again. it was pitch dark; so i went down myself to the caves, which were miles long and deep, with lights and ropes. after a quarter of an hour's exploration i met them coming back, safe. as soon as we got home i locked myself in my room and wrote down the incidents of my dream. the next morning, easter sunday, i was up before dawn, and had the happiness of hearing two masses and receiving holy communion in the sepulchre. i was the only person present besides the celebrant and the acolyte. during the day we walked round about jerusalem, and visited many sacred spots. on easter monday in the afternoon we rode over bad country to the cave of st. john the baptist, where he led the life of a hermit and prepared for his preaching. it was a small cave, and there is a bench in it cut in the stone, which served the baptist as a bed. the priests now celebrate mass on it. on easter tuesday one of her majesty's men-of-war arrived at jaffa, and a number of sailors rode up to jerusalem in the evening, and kept high festival. it sounded strange in the solemn silence of the holy city to hear the refrains of "we won't go home till morning" until past midnight. but a truce to sentiment; it did me good to hear their jolly english voices, so i ordered some drink for them, and sent a message to them to sing "rule britannia" and "god save the queen" for me, which they did with a hearty good-will. they made the old walls ring again. on wednesday we went to bethlehem. there is a monastery over the holy places where the nativity took place. you descend a staircase into the crypt, which must have formed part of the old khan, or inn, where mary brought forth our lord. the centre of attraction is a large grotto, with an altar and a silver star under it, and around the star is written, "hic de virgine maria jesus christus natus est." the manger where the animals fed is an excavation in the rock. the next day, having exhausted the objects of interest in and about bethlehem, we continued our travels. we rode on to hebron, an ancient town lying in a valley surrounded by hills. the houses are old and ruinous. one cannot go out upon one's roof without all the other roofs being crowded, and cries of "bakshish" arise like the cackle of fowls. there is a mosque of some interest, which we explored; but it was very disappointing that richard, who had made the pilgrimage to mecca, and who was considered as having a right to enter where moslems enter, could not be admitted by the hebronites to the cave below the mosque, the only part which was not visited by travellers. the answer was, "if we went, you should go too; but even we dare not go now. the two doors have been closed, one for seventy years, and the other for one hundred and fifty years." speaking generally, we found hebron a dirty, depressing place, full of lazy, idle people, and a shaykh told us that there was not a christian in the place, as though that were something to be proud of. on low sunday we left hebron and rode back to jerusalem, where i enjoyed several days quietly among the holy sites. while we were there we were invited by the anglican bishop gobat to a _soiree_, which we enjoyed very much indeed, including mr. holman hunt. on april we left jerusalem. quite a company went with us as far as bir ayyub--joab's well. then our friends rode back to jerusalem; richard and mr. tyrwhitt-drake went in another direction; and i remained alone with servants, horses, and baggage. i sent them on in advance, and turned my horse's head round to take a long, last look at the sacred walls of jerusalem. i recited the psalm "super flumina babylonis illic sedimus," and then after a silent meditation i galloped after my belongings. after half an hour's riding through orchards and grass i came to a wide defile two or three miles long, winding like a serpent, and the sides full of caves. i climbed up to some to describe them to richard. the country was truly an abomination of desolation, nothing but naked rockery for miles and miles, with the everlasting fire of the sun raining upon it. there was a monastery in the defile at the end, a greek orthodox monastery. they say that whatever woman enters the monastery dies. i had a great mind to enter it as a boy, for i was very curious to see it. however, i thought better of it, and pulled the ends of my habit out of my big boots and presented myself at the door of the monastery in my own character. the monk who played janitor eyed me sternly, and said, "we do not like women here, my daughter; we are afraid of them." "you do not look afraid, father," i said. "well," he answered, laughing, "it is our rule, and any woman who passes this door dies." "will you let me risk it, father?" i asked. "no, my daughter, no. go in peace." and he slammed the door in a hurry, for fear that i should try. so i strolled off and perched myself on an airy crag, from which i could look down upon the monastery, and i thought that at any rate the monks liked to look at the forbidden article, woman, for about sixty of them came out to stare at me. when richard and charles tyrwhitt-drake arrived, they were admitted to the monastery, and shown over everything, which i thought very hard, and i was not greatly reconciled by being told that there was really nothing to see. we camped here for the night. the sun was still tinting the stone-coloured hills, the dark blue range of moab, when a gong sounded through the rocks, and i saw flocks of jackals clamber up to the monastery to be fed, followed by flights of birds. the monks tame all the wild animals. next day we went off to the dead sea. we had read in guide-books that the way to it was very difficult, but we did not believe it. i wish we had, for our ride to it across the desert was terrible. the earth was reeking with heat, and was salt, sulphurous, and stony. we were nearly all day crossing the desert of judah, and at last our descent became so rugged and bad that our baggage mules stuck fast in the rocks and sand. we had to cut away traps and cords, and sacrifice boxes to release them. we could see the bright blue dead sea long before we reached it, but we had to crawl and scramble down on foot as best we could under the broiling sun. it reminded me more of a bleak and desolate lake geneva than anything else. while we were waiting for the mules and baggage we tried to hide from the sun, and tied the horses to bits of rocks. then we plunged into the sea, and had a glorious swim. you cannot sink. you make very little way in the water, and tire yourself if you try to swim fast. if a drop of the water happens to get into your eye, nose, or mouth, it is agonizing; it is so salt, hard, and bitter. next day i felt very ill from the effects of my bath. in the first place, i was too hot to have plunged into the cold water at once; and, in the second place, i stopped in too long, because, being the only woman, and the place of disrobing being somewhat public, the others kept out of sight until i was well in the water, and when the bath was ended i had to stay in the water until richard and charles tyrwhitt-drake had gone out and dressed, all the time keeping my head of course discretely in the other direction, so that by the time they had finished i had been nearly an hour in the dead sea, and the result was i suffered from it. after bathing we dined on the borders of the sea. the colours of the water were beautiful, like the opal; and the mountains of moab were gorgeous in the dying light. the next day we rode over very desolate country to neby musa, the so- called tomb of moses, and we camped for the night on the banks of the jordan. i was very feverish, weak, and ill. all the others bathed in the sacred river, but i only dipped my head in and filled three bottles to bring home for baptisms. i was most anxious to bathe in jordan, and i cried with vexation at not being able to do so in consequence of my fever. in the cool of the following afternoon we rode to jericho, which consists of a few huts and tents; a small part of it is surrounded by pleasant orchards. it was hard to imagine this poor patch of huts was ever a royal city of palaces, where cruel herod ruled and luxurious cleopatra revelled. next morning we rode out of the valley of the jordan, which, fringed with verdure, winds like a green serpent through the burning plain of the desert. we encamped for the night at bethel, where jacob dreamed of his ladder. i felt so ill--all that dead sea again--that it was proposed that we should ride on to nablus next day, about ten hours distant, and that we should encamp there for four or five days to let me recover. we rode over endless stony hills, relieved by fruitful valleys. i felt very ill, and could scarcely go on; but at last we arrived at our camping ground. it was by a stream amidst olive groves and gardens outside nablus. as this was the boundary between the damascus and the jerusalem consular jurisdiction, we now considered ourselves once more upon our own ground. we stayed at nablus four days, and visited all the places of interest in it and around it, which i have not time to dwell upon now. we left nablus in the early morning, and after a delightful ride through groves and streams we entered samaria, where, however, we did no more than halt for a space, but rode on to jennin, where we camped for the night. there were several other camps at jennin besides our own--two of englishmen, and likewise an american and a german camp--five camps in all. we had quite a foregathering in the evening; and a glorious evening it was, with a may moon. the little white village with its mosque peeped out of the foliage of palm trees and mulberry groves. we left early next morning, and rode to scythopolis, where we camped. the next morning richard and mr. drake went on ahead to take some observations; i jogged on more leisurely behind, and our camp was sent on to nazareth. everywhere the earth was beautifully green, and carpeted with wild flowers. the air was fresh and balmy, and laden with the scents of spring. i passed the black tents of some arabs, who gave me milk to drink. we also passed one well, where we watered the horses. it was a perfect day, but i was alone. we rode on until we came to nain, and thence to endor. here we reposed under some fig trees for an hour, and were twice insulted for so doing. the district around nazareth was very turbulent. first came some "big-wig" with a long name, who, thinking i was only an englishwoman, told me to "get up," and said he "didn't care for consuls, nor english, nor dawwasses." a poor woman standing by begged me to go out again into the sun, and not shade myself under the figs, and thus displease this great man. you see, when i was sitting down, he thought that by my voice and face i was a woman, and as long as my servants only addressed me in coarse arabic he bounced accordingly. but when i arose in my outraged dignity, and he saw my riding-habit tucked into my boots, he thought that i was a boy, or rather a youth; and i flourished my whip and cried, "you may not, o shaykh, care for consuls, nor english, nor kawwasses, but i am going to make you care for something." thereupon he jumped up as nimble as a monkey, and ran for his life. then the villagers, thinking me the better man of the two, brought milk for driving him away. he was soon succeeded by a fellah with half a shirt, who came out of his way to insult a stranger, and asked me by what right we sat under the shady figs; but the _sais_ gave him a knock with his knobbed stick, and after that we were left in peace. endor consists of about twenty wretched huts on the side of a hill, and the women look like descendants of the original witch. i went to a big fountain where crones were drawing water, dreadful old women, who accused me of having the evil eye, which made my servant very nervous. blue eyes are always considered to be dangerous in the east. i said, "you are quite right, o ye women of endor; i was born with the evil eye"; whereupon they became very civil, that i might not hurt them. we then descended into the plain between endor and nazareth, and it was so hot and close that i fell asleep on my horse for fully an hour. at last we reached the vale of nazareth. i was glad to ride into the camp, where i found all our former travellers. they were very hospitable, and gave me shelter until our tents were pitched. the camps were all pitched in a small plain without the town. our camp was near the greek orthodox church, and hidden from the others by a slight eminence. at sunrise next morning a copt wanted to enter my tent, either for stealing or some other purpose. i was still in bed, half awake, and i heard the servants tell him to go. he refused, and was very insolent. he took up stones, and threw them, and struck the men. the noise awoke me thoroughly. i got up, and watched the proceedings through the top of my tent wall. i called out to my servants to leave him alone; but by this time they were angry, and began to beat the copt. a little affair of this sort among the people would hardly be noticed in the usual way; but as ill-luck would have it, the greeks, whom it didn't concern, were coming out of church, and seeing a quarrel they joined in it and sided with the copt. our servants were only six, and the greeks were one hundred and fifty. richard and mr. tyrwhitt-drake, hearing the noise, ran out of their tents half dressed to see what was the matter, and said and did everything to calm the people. they were received with a hail- storm of stones, each the size of a melon, which seemed to darken the air for several minutes. a rich and respectable greek called out, "kill them all; i'll pay the blood money." our druze muleteer called out, "shame! this is the english consul of damascus on his ground." another greek shouted, "so much the worse for him." i put on some clothes while the fighting was going on, and watched richard. as an old soldier accustomed to fire, he stood perfectly calm, though the stones hit him right and left. most men under such pain and provocation would have fired, but he contented himself with marking out the ringleaders, to take them afterwards. i ran out to give him two six-shot revolvers, but before i got within stone's reach he waved me back; so i kept near enough to carry him off if he were badly wounded, and put the revolvers in my belt, meaning to have twelve lives for his if he were killed. seeing that he could not appease the greeks, and three of the servants were badly hurt, and one lay for dead on the ground, richard pulled a pistol out of habib's belt and fired a shot into the air. i understood the signal, and flew round to the other camps and called all the english and americans with their guns. when they saw a reinforcement of ten armed english and americans running down to them, the cowardly crew of one hundred and fifty greeks turned and fled. but for this timely assistance, we none of us should have been left alive. the whole affair did not last ten minutes. we found out afterwards that the cause of the greek ill-feeling originated with the greek orthodox bishop of nazareth, who had snatched away a synagogue and cemetery from british-protected jews, against which arbitrary proceeding richard had strongly protested. richard went later in the day to report what had happened to the turkish official, the kaim-makam, and to ask for redress, but he was unable to do anything. he had only twelve zaptiyeh (policemen), armed with canes! so we had to wait at nazareth five days, until richard sent to st. jean d'acre for soldiers. the greeks were at first very insolent; but when they found that richard was in earnest about having the offenders punished, they came in a body to beg pardon. the bishop also sent to say that he deeply regretted the part he had taken. but whilst the greeks were so occupied in our presence, they were manufacturing the most untruthful and scandalous report of the affair, which they sent to damascus and beyrout, to st. jean d'acre and to constantinople, which was signed and sealed by the bishop and endorsed by the wali of syria, who never waited or asked for one word of explanation from richard. the greeks said, in their report, that we began the quarrel, and many other things absolutely false. for instance, they stated that richard fired upon them several times when they were playing games; that he entered the church armed to profane it, tore down the pictures, broke the lamps, and shot a priest; and that i also went forth in my nightgown, and, sword in hand, tore everything down, and jumped and shrieked upon the _debris_, and did many other unwomanly things. this report was actually signed and sealed by the bishop and by the wali, and forwarded, unknown to us, to constantinople and london. naturally richard's few enemies at home tried to make capital out of the accident. the whole day after the brutal attack upon us we had to do all the work of our tents and the cooking and attend to our horses ourselves. even if we had wished to move away from nazareth we could not have done so with four of our servants disabled and helpless. dr. varden and myself were entirely occupied with the suffering men. richard and mr. tyrwhitt-drake took charge of the tents and horses, and the doctor sent me a woman to help to cook, as it was necessary to prepare soup and invalid food for the wounded, who, in consequence of their injuries, suffered from fever. richard's sword arm was injured by stones, and the sprained muscles were not thoroughly cured for two years afterwards. besides this, we had to be prepared for a night attack of revenge. and what with the whispering of the turkish soldiers, who had come from st. jean d'acre, the evident excitement prevailing in the town, and the barking of dogs, the nights were not peaceful enough to admit of sleep. on may we left nazareth, and every one came out to see our departure. our exit was over a steep country composed of slabs of slippery rock, but we soon got into a better district, over flowery plains, now and then varied by difficult passes and tracks. we camped for the night by the lake of tiberias, the sea of galilee. next day we hired a boat and went round the lake. towards night there was a glare behind the mountains, as if some town in the neighbourhood was on fire. we could not sleep in consequence of the stifling heat, and flies and mosquitoes were numerous. the day after i went off to the hot baths of hamath, or emmaus. they were salt and sulphuric. in the middle of the bath-house was a large marble basin, through which the water passed, with little rooms around. here people bathed for bone-aches. the women advised me to enter cautiously. i laughed; and by way of showing them that englishwomen were accustomed to water and were not afraid, i plunged in for a swim. but i soon repented. i felt as if i had jumped into boiling water. my skin was all burnt red, and i began to faint. however, on leaving the bath i felt much invigorated, and lost all the fever and illness resulting from my swim in the dead sea. the next morning we galloped round the northern end of the sea of galilee. in the afternoon we rode to safed, where we camped for the night. safed is a town of considerable size, and surrounded by beautiful gardens. there is a large jewish quarter, and from the hour of our coming the jews were all hospitality and flocked to our tents to greet us. it was very hot at safed in the daytime; and when we left the next day we had a most trying ride across a country burnt black with the recent prairie fire. we encamped for the night in a lonely spot, which turned out to be a perfect paradise for mosquitoes, spiders, scorpions, and other pests, but a perfect hell for us. we could do nothing but wrap ourselves up completely in sheets, and walk up and down all night long by the camp-fires, while the jackals howled outside. when the morning light came, we were able to laugh at one another's faces, all swollen with bites and stings. mine was like the face one sees in a spoon. i need not dwell upon the next three days, because they were all exactly alike. we rode all day and camped at night until the morning of may dawned. we halted for breakfast under a favourite fig tree, where were shade, water, and grass. we then ambled for three and a half hours over the barren plain, until at last we arrived on the borders of the green groves around damascus. we entered our own oasis. oh how grateful were the shade, the cool water, and the aromatic smells! one hour more and we entered our own little paradise again, and met with a cordial greeting from all. it was a happy day. i did not know it then, but our happy days at damascus were numbered. notes: . the inner life of syria, palestine, and the holy land, by isabel burton, vols. chapter xvii. the recall. ( ). i call to mind the parting day that rent our lives in twain. alf laylah wa laylah (burton's "arabian nights"). on returning to damascus, richard made the necessary explanations concerning the riot at nazareth to the authorities, and he concluded that the "village row" was ended. i also wrote a full and accurate account of the affair to sir henry elliot, our ambassador at constantinople (who had kindly expressed his willingness to hear from me when i had anything special to communicate), to supplement richard's report. sir henry had telegraphed to know what it all meant. as richard had still a fortnight's leave on hand, he thought he would use it by going to return the visit of the druzes, who had paid us many friendly visits during our two years' sojourn at damascus, and had asked richard to come and see them in the hauran. he called upon the wali before his departure, and told him of his projected visit. the wali expressed his gladness, and said, "go soon, or there will be no water." he also wrote to the consul-general at beyrout to acquaint him of his intention, and started with mr. tyrwhitt-drake. i was left behind. a few days after richard had gone, the wali, with whom i had always been on friendly terms, wrote me an extraordinary letter. he accused richard of having made a political meeting with the druze chiefs in the hauran, and of having done great harm to the turkish government. i knew that he had done nothing of the kind, and so i wrote to the wali and told him that he had been deceived, and asked him to wait until richard came home. i pointed out to him how fond people were of inventing and circulating falsehoods to make mischief between him and the consuls. he pretended to be satisfied. but a turkish plot had been laid on foot of which i knew nothing. a disturbance had been purposely created between the bedawin and the druzes, which enabled the turkish government to attack the druzes in the hauran. the wali let richard go in order to accuse him of meddling. the fact was, the wali had intended a little campaign against the druzes, and was endeavouring, by means known only to the unspeakable turk, to stir up sedition among them, in order to have an excuse for slaughtering them; but richard had, unknowingly, spoiled the whole plan by counselling the druzes to submit. it was that which made the wali so angry, for it spoilt his plot; and he reported that richard meddled with turkish affairs and agitated for his recall. i wrote again to sir henry elliot, stating the true facts of the case. for, as i told our ambassador, i heard that the "home government is actually contemplating pleasing a handful of bad people, headed by the wali, by probably removing my husband from the very place for which his natural gifts and knowledge fit him," and i asked him, who knew the east, to acquaint lord granville how matters stood. one day while richard was still away, a european, who was a favourite of the wali, asked me what day richard would return to damascus, and by what road. i asked why he wanted to know. "because," he said, "my child is to be baptized, and i want him to be present." i found out the next day that the christening was fixed for the day before richard's return, and i was asked; so that the man had not given me the true reason for wanting to know when richard was coming back. i scented danger, and by a trusty messenger i instantly dispatched a warning to richard to "look out for tricks." by god's blessing it was in time. richard changed his road, and from a concealed shelter he watched the progress of a ghazu, or armed band, beating the country, looking for some one. by whom they were sent, whom they were looking for, and for what fell purpose may be imagined. my heart was torn with anxiety. nevertheless i went to the christening, and kept a calm exterior. i felt a qualm when a certain greek said to me, with a meaning, unpleasant smile, "there is a telegram or something important arrived for you." "oh, is there?" i said coolly; "well, i dare say i shall get it when i go home." presently a kawwass came in, and saluted and said, "the consul is returned, sitti, and wants you." making my excuses, i retired from the festivities; and jumping on my horse, i galloped home, where i found richard safe and sound. the telegram, which was quite unimportant, did not arrive until several hours later. had the ghazu fallen in with richard, the verdict would have been, "fallen a prey to his wild and wandering habits in the desert." but it was not god's will that he should be removed in this way. about this time the trouble with the shazlis also came to a head. the shazlis were sufis, or mystics, esoterics of el islam, who tried to spiritualize its material portions. richard was most interested in them, and he used to study them and their history. the mystic side of their faith especially appealed to him. he thought he saw in it a connexion between sufiism in its highest form and catholicism; and indeed it was so. he followed it up unofficially, disguised as a shazli, and unknown to any mortal except myself. he used to mix with them, and passed much of his time in the maydan at damascus with them. many of the shazlis were secretly converted to christianity in the spring of . it was only natural that it should be so, for there was a link between the highest form of sufiism and the true catholic church. before long the news of these conversions leaked out, and the wali determined to crush conversion, because it would add to european influence, of which he was already jealous, and he persecuted and imprisoned the converts. richard endeavoured to protect them, and thus brought himself into conflict with the wali. richard thought very seriously of this revival of christianity in syria, and wrote to the protestant missionaries about it. he also wrote to sir henry elliot and to lord granville on the subject, so impressed was he with its vigour and vitality. and indeed there was a remarkable revival going on below the surface. the persecutions to which the shazlis had been subjected had caused the movement to grow with redoubled force, and the number of converts increased from day to day. many were secretly baptized, and many more were yearning for baptism. richard knew all this, and sympathized with the converted shazlis heart and soul. indeed i think he was never nearer a public profession of catholicity than at that time. what he might have done for them, if he had had the chance, i know not; but the chance was denied him. the next week or two went by without anything important happening. on june we went by the wali's invitation to a grand review at el haneh, the first ever seen in syria. nothing could exceed the kindness and courtesy of the wali. indeed every one was very kind to me, the only woman present. we had fireworks and dinner, and then wild native dances, and after a pleasant drive home to damascus in abd el kadir's carriage. about this time the heat was very great; not a breath of air was stirring, night or day. we felt like the curled-up leaves of a book. food or sleep was impossible to us. every one who could fled from damascus. i refused to go to summer quarters because richard could not go too, and i would not shirk anything he had to bear. at last, however, i fell ill of fever, and richard sent me away to bludan. one night, when i was sitting alone, i heard a great noise against the door. i seized the only thing handy, a big stick, and ran out. a large serpent had been attracted by a bowl of milk put on the terrace for my large white persian cat, who was valiantly defending her milk against the snake. it raised up its long neck and hissed at me; but i hit it with my stick a foot away from its tail, which is the proper place to paralyze a snake. it tried to make away, but was unable, and then i killed it. it was two yards and a half long, and as thick as a child's arm. it had a flat head, and was of a bluish silver colour. another night, when i went up to the housetop, a large wolf sprang over my head. i ran in for my gun, but though i was not gone an instant the wolf was out of my reach. after a few weeks richard came up and joined me at bludan with charles tyrwhitt-drake. during this summer we made many excursions to pleasant spots around bludan, and we used to invite the shaykhs and principal people to meet us. we would choose a spot near water, or near bedawin tents, or a melon plantation; and arriving at the appointed place, we would eat and drink, make a fire, roast and prepare our coffee, and have a siesta. these impromptu picnics were very pleasant, and we always found the bedawin charming. those days were very pleasant ones; our lives were peaceful, useful, and happy. but suddenly there came a bolt from the blue. on august , , the blow fell. that morning at bludan the horses were saddled at the door, and we were going for a ride, when a ragged messenger on foot stopped to drink at the spring, and then came up to me with a note. i saw it was for richard, and took it into the house to him, never thinking what it contained. it was a curt letter from the vice-consul of beyrout, informing richard that, by orders of his consul-general, he had arrived at damascus the previous day, and had taken charge of the consulate. richard and charles tyrwhitt-drake were in the saddle in five minutes, and galloped into damascus without drawing rein. richard would not let me go with him. a few hours later a mounted messenger came back to bludan with these few written words: "do not be frightened. i am recalled. pay, pack, and follow at convenience." i was not frightened; but i shall never forget what my feelings were when i received that note. perhaps it is best not to try to remember them. the rest of the day i went about trying to realize what it all meant. when i went to bed that night, my mind was full of richard, and i had one of my dreams, a terribly vivid dream. i dreamed that something pulled me by the arm. i sat up in bed, and i could still see and feel it, and it said in a loud whisper "why do you lie there? your husband wants you. get up and go to him." i lay down again, and tried to sleep; but again it happened, and yet again--three successive times; and big drops of sweat were on my forehead. my english maid, who slept in the room, said, "are you walking about and talking, madam?" "no," i said; "but somebody is. are you?" "no," she answered, "i have not stirred; but you've been talking in your sleep." i could bear it no longer, for i believed that the presence was real. i sprang out of bed, dressed, went to the stable, saddled my horse, and though everybody said i was mad, and wanted to thrust me back to bed again, i galloped out into the night. i rode for five hours across country, as though it were a matter of life and death, over rock and through swamps, making for shtora, the diligence station. i shall never forget that night's ride. those who know the ground well will understand what it meant to tear over slippery boulders and black swamps in the darkness of the night. my little horse did it all, for i scarcely knew where i was going half the time. but no one will ever persuade me that in that ride i was alone. another presence was with me and beside me, and guarded my ways, lest i dashed my foot against a stone. three or four of my servants were frightened, and followed me afar off, but i did not know it then. at last i came in sight of shtora, the diligence station. the half-hour's rest had expired, the travellers had taken their places, and the diligence was just about to start. but god was good to me. just as the coachman was about to raise his whip, he turned his head in the direction whence i was galloping. i was hot, torn, and covered with mud and dust from head to foot; but he knew me. i was too exhausted to shout, but i dropped the reins on my horse's neck, and held up both my arms as they do to stop a train. the coachman saw the signal, he pulled in his horses and took me into the diligence, and told the ostler to lead my dead-beat horse to the stable. the diligence rumbled over the lebanon, and reached beyrout twenty-four hours before the steamer sailed--the steamer by which richard was going back to england. for when once he had received his recall, he never looked behind him, nor packed up anything, but went straight away from damascus, though it was the place where he had spent two of the happiest years of his life. as the diligence turned into beyrout i caught sight of him, walking alone about the streets, and looking sad and serious. not even a kawwass was sent to attend him, though this is always the usual courtesy paid a consul in the east, nor was there any show of honour or respect. the jackals are always ready to slight the dead lion. but i was there, thank god; and he was so surprised and rejoiced when he greeted me that his whole face was illuminated. but he only said, "thank you. bon sang ne peut mentir." we had twenty-four hours to take comfort and counsel together. it was well that i was with him. everybody called, and everybody regretted, except our consul- general, who cut us. the french consul-general made us take up our abode with him for those twenty-four hours. i do not know whether richard felt the neglect or not. i only know that i felt it terribly. any consul with one atom of good feeling would at least have paid his fallen colleague proper respect until he had quitted eastern ground; but the disgrace was to himself, not to richard. at four o'clock the following day i went on board the steamer off to england. on returning to the quay, i found his faithful servant habib, who had also followed richard all the way, but had arrived just ten minutes too late, only in time to see the steamer go out. he flung himself down on the quay in a passion of tears. i took the night diligence back to damascus. in spite of the august weather it was a cold, hard, seven hours' drive over the lebanon. i had brought nothing with me; my clothes were dry and stiff, and i was dead tired. on the road i passed our honorary dragoman. from sheer habit i called out to him, but he shook his head and rode on. it was one of my reminders that "le roi est mort." i suppose the rule extends everywhere, but perhaps the king's widow feels it most. it was not all like this though, for i shall never forget the kindness which was showered upon me by many during my last days in syria. in due time i arrived at the khan, or diligence station, where i had left my horse two days previously. i slept there for two hours. early next morning i rode to see a friend, who kindly insisted on my staying a day with her. here charles tyrwhitt-drake, a kawwass, and servant and horse met me, and escorted me back to bludan. i arrived home ill, tired, and harassed. i was thankful to find there a woman friend who had come over to keep me company. she was as much grieved as i was myself, and we wept together. after the insults and neglect which had been meted out to us at beyrout, i expected in damascus, where official position is everything, and where women are of no account, that i should be, figuratively speaking, trampled underfoot. i was mistaken. i can never describe the gratitude, affection, and respect which were showered upon me during my last days in syria. the news of our recall spread like wildfire. all the surrounding villagers poured in. the house and gardens at bludan were always full of people--my poor of course, but others too. moslems flung themselves on the ground, shedding bitter tears, and tearing their beards with grief for the loss of the man whose life the wali had the audacity to report they wished to take. they kept asking, "what have we done that your government should take him away from us?" "let some of us go over to your land, and kneel at the feet of your queen, and pray that he may be sent back to us again." this thing went on for days and days, and i received from nearly all the country round little deputations of shaykhs, who bore letters of affection or condolence or praise. i loved syria so dearly it broke my heart to leave it, and always with me was the gnawing thought: how shall i tear the east out of my heart, and adapt myself again to the bustling, struggling, everyday life of europe? i lost no time in settling our affairs at bludan. i paid all the bills, packed richard's boxes and sent them to england, broke up our establishment at bludan, and had all that was to accompany me transferred to damascus. two nights before i left bludan i had another dream. again something came to me in the night, and pulled me and whispered, "go and look after that bedawi boy, whose grandmother took him away when you were treating him for rheumatic fever." i was tired and miserable, and tried to sleep. i was pulled again. i remonstrated. a third time i was pulled by the wrist. "go, go, go!" said the voice. "i will go," i answered. at dawn i rode out in the direction where i knew his tribe was encamped. after three hours i saw some black tents in the distance, but before i got to them i met an old crone with a burden covered with sacking on her back. "is that the boy?" i asked. "yes," she said; "he is very bad, and wanted to be taken to you so i was bringing him." i got down from my horse, and assisted her to lay the boy on the sand. i saw that death was near; he looked so wistfully at me with his big black eyes. "is it too late?" he whispered. "yes, my boy, it is," i said, taking hold of his cold hand. "would you like to see allah?" "yes," he said, "i should. can i?" "are you very sorry for the times you have been naughty and said bad words?" "yes," he said; "if i get well, i will be better and kinder to grandmother." i parted his thick, matted hair, and, kneeling, i baptized him from the flask of water i always carried about at my side. "what is that?" asked the old woman, after a minute's silence. "it is a blessing," i answered, "and may do him good." i remained with him until he seemed insensible. i could not wait longer, as night was coming on; so i rode back, for i could do no good. i felt sure he would not see the sun rise. when all my sad preparations were finished at bludan, i bade adieu to the anti-lebanon with a heavy heart, and for the last time, choking with emotion, i rode down the mountain and through the plain of zebedani, with a very large train of followers. i had a sorrowful ride into damascus. just outside the city gates i met the wali, driving in state with all his suite. he looked radiant, and saluted me with much _empressement_. i did not return his salute. however, the next time we met i had the laugh of him, for he looked very much less radiant a few days later, when the news of his own recall reached him. he fought hard to stay; and i do not wonder, for he had a splendid position. but none of richard's enemies have ever flourished. at damascus i had to go through the same sad scenes, on a much larger scale, that i had gone through at bludan. many kind friends, native and european, came to stay about me till the last; in fact, my farewells threatened to assume the character of a demonstration. this i was most anxious to avoid. my one anxiety now was to get away as quietly as possible. i made my preparations for departure from damascus in the same way as i had done at bludan. i arranged to sell everything, pay all debts, and pack and dispatch to england our personal effects. i made innumerable adieux, and tried to make provision and find a happy home for every single being, man or beast, that had been dependent on us. two moslems came to me, and offered to shoot down certain official enemies of mine from behind a rock as they passed in their carriage. a jew also came to me, and offered to put poison in their coffee. i declined both offers, which they did not seem to understand; and they said that i was threatened and in danger, but i slept in perfect security, with all the windows and doors open. my last act was to go into our little chapel, and dress it with all the pious things in my possession. when the day of the sale of our goods arrived, i could not bear to sit in the house; so i went up to the mountain behind, and gazed down on my salahiyyeh in its sea of green, and my pearl-like damascus and the desert sand, and watched the sunset on the mountains for the last time. my preparations for departure necessarily took some time. but richard having gone, i had no place, no business, at damascus, and i felt that it would be much better taste to leave. i began to perceive that the demonstrations in our favour were growing, and threatened to become embarrassing. the moslems were assembling in cliques at night, and were having prayers in the mosques for richard's return. they continually thronged up to the house with tears and letters begging him to return, and i saw that my presence and my distress excited them the more. unfortunately i did not complete everything until september , which obliged me to brave the unlucky th. as half the town wanted to accompany me part of the road, and i was afraid that a demonstration might result, i determined to slip away quietly by night. abd el kadir and lady ellenborough were in the secret, and they accompanied me as far as the city gates, where i bade them an affectionate farewell. the parting with lady ellenborough affected me greatly. i was the poor thing's only woman friend. as she wrung my hand these were her last word: "do not forget your promise if i die and we never meet again."[ ] i replied, "inshallah, i shall soon return." she rode a black thorough- bred arab mare; and as far as i could see anything in the moonlight, her large sorrowful blue eyes, glistening with tears, haunted me. it was thus, accompanied on my journey by mr. drake and two faithful dragomans, who had never deserted me, and who put themselves and all they possessed at my disposal, that i stole away from damascus an hour before dawn. i shall never forget that ride across the desert. i felt my heart sink as i jogged along for weary miles, wishing mental good-byes to every dearly loved object. i had felt fever coming on for some days, but i had determined not to be ill at damascus. now that i had left it, however, a reaction set in. when i reached that part of the lebanon looking down upon the sea far above beyrout, my fever had increased to such an extent that i became delirious, and i had to be set down on the roadside. half an hour farther on the road was the village of my little syrian girl, who was accompanying me back to england. i was carried to her father's house and lay there for ten days very ill, and was nursed by her and my english maid. it was a trying time; but the whole family showed me every kindness and attention, and i had every comfort that the place could afford. many friends, both english and native, came to visit me from beyrout and from the villages round about. from here i wrote a long letter to lord derby, who had appointed us to damascus, stating the true facts of the case, and exposing the falsehoods, so far as i knew them, which had led lord granville to weakly consent to our recall. i never rested till that cloud was lifted. i went down to beyrout as soon as i was well enough to move, and embarked in the russian ship _ceres_; the same ship, strange to say, that had brought me from alexandria to beyrout, when i first turned my face towards damascus. as we were about to steam out an english vice-consul in the levant gaily waved his hand to me, and cried out, "good-bye, mrs. burton; i have been sixteen years in the service, and i have known twenty scoundrels go unpunished, but i never saw a consul recalled except for something disgraceful--certainly never for an eastern pasha. you will find it is all right when you get home; they would hardly do such a thing to a man like burton." we arrived at alexandria, and i went to a hotel. i dislike alexandria very much, and was glad to get away on board of a p. & o., the _candia_, to southampton. it was all right as far as malta, but after that we had some very rough weather. at last our ship sighted the lights of portland bill, and i knew that i was at home again. these lights at night look like two great eyes, and there is always excitement when they are first seen. all the english on board rushed on deck and cheered hurrah! it is odd how we exiles love our country, our home, and our friends; it is curious how little they think about us. on october , , i landed again in old england. notes: . lady ellenborough referred to her biography, which she had dictated to lady burton--the true story of her life, which lady burton had promised to publish for her, to clear away misrepresentations. in consequence of difficulties which subsequently arose lady burton did not publish it. chapter xviii. the true reasons of burton's recall. no might nor greatness in mortality can censure 'scape: back-wounding calumny the whitest virtue strikes. what king so strong, can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? shakspeare. at this point of the narrative it is necessary to turn aside to deal with miss stisted's impeachment of lady burton, in the matter of her husband's recall from damascus. miss stisted asserts that the true cause of burton's recall was isabel his wife, who had espoused with more zeal than discretion the cause of the shazli converts to christianity. she adds: "and while her husband, continually absent exploring or attending to the duties of his consulate, knew nothing, or next to nothing, about her dangerous proceedings, she impressed upon the people that she acted with his full permission and approval."[ ] it was (according to miss stisted) isabel's "imprudence and passion for proselytizing" which so enraged the moslems and the turkish authorities against burton that they clamoured for his recall. thus it is argued that "the true cause of the terrible crash in " was isabel, and isabel alone. this, in brief, is the sum and substance of stisted's indictment of lady burton on this point. she makes her accusation without adducing a scrap or shred of evidence in support of it, and she makes it in the teeth of the most positive evidence on the other side. let us examine her charges in the light of facts. fortunately, in searching for the true reasons of burton's recall from damascus, i am not dependent, like miss stisted, on a mere opinion of my own, nor am i dependent on the testimony of lady burton, which, though correct in every detail, might be refused acceptance, on the plea that it was biassed. the true reasons are to be found in an official blue book,[ ] which contains a review of the whole case. this book publishes the complete correspondence, official and otherwise, for and against burton, and comprises a review of his consulship at damascus from the time he was appointed, in november, , to the day of his recall, in august, . it is impossible to read this correspondence dispassionately without wondering how it was that burton was not removed from his post at damascus before. in the brief space of two years he seems to have managed to set against himself almost every creed, nationality, and interest in damascus. from the time he went there to the day he was recalled it was little but one long strife. complaints to his consul- general at beyrout, to his ambassador at constantinople, to his chief at the foreign office, were incessant; and as they came not from one part of the community of damascus only, but from several, it is a marvel that the authorities at the foreign office, who love nothing better than that things should run, or seem to run, smoothly at the embassies and consulates, were so patient and long-suffering. that they were so forbearing was, i think, largely due to his wife--this same isabel who, according to miss stisted, was responsible for her husband's recall and the consequent ruin of his official career. it was isabel who fought burton's battles on every charge against him, and she defended him against every attack. her letters to lord granville, to sir henry elliot, ambassador at constantinople, to the consul- general at beyrout, to lord derby and other influential friends in england, and to the permanent officials at the foreign office, explaining and defending her husband's action in every particular, are marvels of special pleading. they are not published, because they would fill volumes; but they can be produced, if necessary. my contention is, that isabel had nothing to do with her husband's recall from damascus. on the contrary, had it not been for her, he would have been recalled long before. i also submit that she had very little to do in the matter of the shazlis, and that little she did with her husband's full consent and approval. burton alone was responsible for his recall in that he managed to offend nearly every part of the community at damascus, and so gave the turkish authorities, who disliked him from the first, an excuse for demanding his recall. i do not say the he was wrong in every instance--far from it; he was often in the right; only it is possible to do the right thing in the wrong way, and this burton generally did. and now for the proofs. it is necessary to begin at the beginning. from the first burton took up his work at damascus with "pinioned arms," to use his own phrase. in other words, he started with a prejudice against him. lord derby (then lord stanley), as we know, gave him the appointment; but before it was confirmed lord clarendon succeeded lord stanley at the foreign office, and in the interval burton's enemies, chiefly protestant missionaries, who feared he was anti-missionary, took steps to work upon lord clarendon to prevent his appointment going forward. so strong and influential was this opposition that lord clarendon sent for burton specially, and had a long conversation with him. he told him that "very serious objections" to his appointment at damascus had reached the foreign office, and, although he allowed the appointment to go forward, on receiving from burton assurances that the objections were unfounded, he warned him that, if the feeling stated to exist against him on the part of the authorities and people at damascus should prevent the proper performance of his consular duties, it would be the duty of the government immediately to recall him. in a subsequent letter lord clarendon directed his secretary to repeat to burton what he had already told him verbally.[ ] to this letter burton replied: "i once more undertake to act with unusual prudence, and under all circumstances to hold myself, and myself only, answerable for the consequences.[ ] whether or not he acted with "unusual prudence" the following will show: . _his difference with the english missionaries_.--the first unpleasantness occurred in june and july, , with the superintendent of the british syrian school at beyrout. this gentleman, who was a protestant missionary, came to damascus to proselytize, and to distribute tracts among the moslems, and doubtless acted with little discretion. burton reprimanded him, and reported him to the foreign office. in this no doubt he was right; but his manner of doing it apparently inflamed many against him, especially the wife of the missionary aforesaid, who vigorously espoused her husband's cause, and in this was supported officially by the consul-general at beyrout. the matter blew over for a time, but the attack was renewed again in , and there was constant friction going on the whole time of burton's sojourn at damascus between himself and the missionary and his wife and their friends, who were very influential persons in syria. . _his squabble with the druzes_.--this occurred in . here we find burton protecting the missionaries against certain druzes, who had plundered and maltreated two english missionaries travelling amongst them. burton's method of punishing the druzes was summary. he wished to impose a fine upon them. this the consul-general at beyrout refused to impose, and again burton came into conflict with his consul-general. it was obvious that, whether the druzes deserved to be fined or not, the man to impose the fine was not the british consul, but the turkish governor-general, as they were turkish subjects. in this matter therefore, although burton acted with the best intentions, he exceeded his jurisdiction. . _his dispute with the jews_.--this was one of the most serious affairs in which burton was engaged; and here again, though there is no doubt that he was perfectly right in what he did, his manner of doing it gave dire offence. he curbed the rapacity of some jewish money-lenders, under british protection, who wished to "sweat" the native peasantry for the payment of their unjust debts, and desired the british consul to help them in their extortions. this burton rightly refused to do. and a little later he arrested two jewish boys, servants of british-protected jews, for drawing crosses on the walls--the usual sign for an outbreak of christian persecution at damascus--and took away temporarily the british protection from their masters. this gave the usurers the opportunity they had been waiting for, and they wrote to the foreign office an untrue and unjust report, saying that the consul was full of hatred against the jews, and demanding his recall. lord granville sent a special letter, requesting to know the truth of these charges, which he described as "most serious." fortunately burton was able to satisfy him, and the storm blew over. but the jews neither forgot it nor forgave him. . _the greeks stone him at nazareth_.--lady burton has already given a long account of this incident, and there is no reason to doubt the correctness of her description. here we find that the greek bishop and his people disliked burton because he had exposed a fraudulent transaction of theirs with the jews. but whatever was the cause, there was no doubt that they were opposed to him; and the riot, which arose from an apparently accidental cause, was really an outbreak of bitterly hostile feeling against the british consul. the greek bishop of nazareth at once drew up a grossly exaggerated report of the proceedings, which was endorsed by the wali of syria, and forwarded to the authorities at home. will it be believed that burton never sent home any report of the affair until some weeks afterwards, when he returned to damascus, and found a telegram awaiting him from the british ambassador at constantinople, asking what it all meant? his silence in this matter though not intentional, created the very worst impression among the authorities at home. sir henry elliot wrote to isabel subsequently: "i received versions of the affair from different quarters, without having a word of explanation from captain burton, from whom i got letters of a date much subsequent to the occurrence."[ ] considering how very fond burton was of referring all sorts of questions on the internal government of syria, with which he had nothing to do, to his ambassador at constantinople, his silence on this occasion, in a matter with which he had all to do, was, to say the least, somewhat unfortunate. . _his dispute with the wali_.--the wali (the turkish governor-general of syria) was, from the first, exceedingly jealous of burton, because of his knowledge of eastern affairs, and his habit of interfering with the internal government of the country, with which he had no concern. corrupt though turkish rule undoubtedly was, and is, it was not part of the british consul's duty to be perpetually meddling in disputes between the wali and his subjects. sir henry elliot wrote to isabel, in reply to a letter of hers excusing her husband: "i should not be frank if i allowed you to suppose that your letters had satisfied me that there were not grounds for the complaints which have been made of captain burton going beyond the proper attributions of a consul, who ought to be very careful to avoid encroaching upon the domain of the legitimate authorities, who are for the administration of their district, when he is not. he can be of great service as long as there is a proper understanding with the government, but a very dangerous state of things is created if he makes himself a rival authority to whom the disaffected think that they can look for redress."[ ] this (there is no doubt about it) burton was always doing; and his knowledge of oriental affairs and methods made him all the more formidable to the wali. matters came to a head when burton went to visit the druzes in the hauran, a month or two before his recall. by some means or other he spoiled the wali's game in that quarter; and this incensed the governor so much against him that he tried first to have him assassinated in the desert, and that failing, demanded his recall. of the incident burton himself says: "i was not aware that the wali (governor-general) had a political move in the hauran which he did not wish me to see, or that, seeing, it was the signal for him to try and obtain my recall.[ ] if this matter had stood alone, perhaps it would not have been sufficient ground for his recall; but coming as it did on the top of all the others, it was, i think, the most potent factor. there was another little annoyance too about this time--that is, just before burton's recall. it had reference to the case of one hasan, a moslem converted to christianity, whom the wali wanted to punish, but whom burton protected against him. burton's action in this matter was chivalrous and generous no doubt, but it did not tend to make him any better friends with the wali at a time when the irritation between them was already at its height. with regard to what followed, i think that i had better give burton's own words, as they will show very distinctly what were the culminating causes of his recall: "he (the wali) actually succeeded in causing the foreign office to confine me to damascus at a time when the climate was peculiarly hot and unwholesome--mid-july. i was suffering from fever, and the little english colony was all in summer quarters. he affected to look upon a trip to the hauran as an event pregnant with evil to his administration, and actually composed a circular from me to the druzes. i was actually compelled, in return, to make known rashid pasha's maladministration of syria, his prostitution of rank, his filling every post with his own sycophants, who are removed only when they have made money enough to pay for being restored; his fatuous elevation of a kurdish party; his perjuries against the druzes; his persistent persecution of moslem converts to christianity in the teeth of treaties and firmans; his own sympathy with the greeks, and through them with russia; and, finally, his preparations for an insurrection in syria, should egypt find an opportunity of declaring her independence. i meanwhile continued to push my demand for the six million piastres claimed by british subjects in syria. my list shows a grand total of eleven, and of these five are important cases. on july , , i wrote to the foreign office and to the ambassador, urging that a commission be directed to inquire into the subject and to settle the items found valid. i expressed a hope that i might be permitted personally to superintend the settlement of these debts, with whose every item the study of twenty-one months had made me familiar, and another six months would have seen syria swept clean and set in order. on august , , i was recalled suddenly, on the ground that the moslems were fanatical enough to want my life. i have proved that to be like all the rest of rashid pasha's reports-- utterly false."[ ] with regard to the reasons given by lord granville for burton's recall, i may say that, in a letter which he sent under flying seal, dated july , , and which reached burton on the day of his recall, he recapitulated the dispatch written to burton by lord clarendon on his appointment to damascus, reminding him of the conditions under which he was appointed to the post, and saying that the turkish government in regard to his recent conduct and proceedings rendered it impossible that he should allow him to continue to perform any consular functions in syria, and requesting him to make his preparations for returning to england with as little delay as possible.[ ] i think that the foregoing statements will fully explain the true reasons which led to the recall of burton from damascus. it will be seen that in the above charges against burton the question of the shazlis does not enter; and in the face of all this evidence, how is it possible to maintain that isabel was the true cause of her husband's recall? the converted shazlis, whose cause she is supposed to have espoused with fanatical zeal, hardly entered into the matter at all. indeed, in the whole of the blue book from which i have quoted, there is only one reference to the shazlis, and that is in a letter which burton addressed to sir henry elliot on the revival of christianity among them. miss stisted says that burton was as likely to assist in increasing the number of the syrian christians, "of whom he had the lowest opinion," "as to join in a shakers' dance." yet in this letter to his official chief burton dwells at length on the revival of christianity in syria, and calls attention to the persecution and increasing number of the converted shazlis, and asks for instructions as to what he is to do. "the revival," he says, "is progressing," and "this persecution," and he regards it in the "gravest light."[ ] also in a special letter to the protestant missionaries burton writes: "meanwhile i take the liberty of recommending to your prudent consideration the present critical state of affairs in syria. a movement which cannot but be characterized as a revival of christianity in the land of its birth seems to have resulted from the measure adopted by the authorities and from the spirit of inquiry which your missions have awakened in the breasts of the people. the new converts are now numbered by thousands: men of rank are enrolling themselves on the lists, and proselytizing has extended even to the turkish soldiery."[ ] all this bears out isabel's statement that her husband was interested in the shazlis; but, all the same, it does not enter into the question of the recall. even if it did, so far from acting without her husband's consent in this matter (and she really did very little), she did nothing without his approval, for he actively sympathized in the case of the shazlis. his letters to the missionaries and to sir henry elliot form proof of this; and in face of this documentary evidence the "shakers' dance" theory does not hold good. miss stisted, however, makes her assertion without any evidence, and says that lord granville evaded the main question when sounded on the subject of burton's recall. how she became aware of the inner mind of lord granville is not apparent, and under the circumstances dispassionate readers will prefer the testimony of the blue book to her cool assumption of superior knowledge. something more than mere assertion is needed to support a charge like this. equally baseless too is the insinuation against isabel contained in the following passage: "significant enough it is to any unprejudiced reader that the next appointment [i.e. of burton's] was to a roman catholic country.[ ] the "unprejudiced reader" would probably see the significance in another light--the significance of refusing to appoint burton again to a mohammedan country, and of repeatedly refusing him the post he coveted at morocco. none of these accusations or innuendoes against isabel can be entertained when confronted with sober facts; they are in short nothing but the outcome of a jealous imagination. isabel the cause of her husband's recall, the ruin of his career! she through whose interest burton had obtained the coveted post at damascus; she who fought his battles for him all round; she who shielded him from the official displeasure; she who obeyed his lightest wish, and whose only thought from morning to night was her husband's welfare and advancement; she who would have died for him,--this same woman, according to miss stisted, deliberately behind her husband's back ran counter to his wishes, fanned the flame of fanaticism, and brought about the crash which ruined his career! was there ever a more improbable charge? but the accusation has overshot the mark, and, like the boomerang, it returns and injures no one but its author. notes: . miss stisted's life of sir richard burton, p. . this book was published december, , eight months after lady burton's death. . the case of captain burton, late k. b. m. consul at damascus. clayton & co., parliamentary printing works, . . _vide_ letter from foreign office to captain burton, june , (blue book, p. ). . letter of captain burton to foreign office, june , (blue book, p. ). . letter from sir henry elliot to lady burton, july , . . letter from sir henry elliot to lady burton, july , . . blue book, p. . . blue book, pp. , . . _vide_ letter from lord granville to captain burton, under flying seal, care of consul-general eldridge, july , (blue book, p. ). . _vide_ letter of captain burton to sir henry elliot, july , (blue book, pp. , ). . letter from captain burton to the rev. e. b. frankel, rev. j. orr scott, miss james, rev. w. wright, and rev. john crawford, bludan, july , (blue book, p. ). . miss stisted's life of burton, p. . chapter xix. the passing of the cloud. ( - ). tell whoso hath sorrow grief shall never last: e'en as joy hath no morrow, so woe shall go past. alf laylah wa laylah (burton's "arabian nights"). the recall from damascus was the hardest blow that ever befell the burtons. they felt it acutely; and when time had softened the shock, a lasting sense of the injury that had been done to them remained. isabel felt it perhaps even more keenly than her husband. the east had been the dream of her girlhood, the land of her longing from the day when she and her lover first plighted their troth in the botanical gardens, and the reality of her maturer years. but the reality had been all too short. to the end of her life she never ceased to regret damascus; and even when in her widowed loneliness she returned to england twenty years after the recall, with her life's work well-nigh done, and waiting as she used to say, for the "tinkling of his camel's bell," her eyes would glow and her voice take a deeper note if she spoke of those two years at damascus. it was easy to see that they were the crowning years of her life--the years in which her nature had full play, when in the truest sense of the term she may be said to have lived. from the time they left damascus, though there were many years of happiness and usefulness in store for her husband and herself, things were never quite the same again. the recall seems to mark a turning-point in her life. many of the dreams and enthusiasms of her youth were gone, though her life's unfinished work and stern reality remained. to use her own words, "our career was broken." isabel felt the slur on her husband which the recall involved more acutely than he. burton, though stung to the quick at the treatment the foreign office meted out to him for doing what he conceived to be his duty (and certainly the manner of his recall was ungracious almost to the point of brutality), was not a man given to show his feelings to the world, and he possessed a philosophy which enabled him to present a calm and unmoved front to the reverses of fortune. with his wife it was different. she was not of a nature to suffer in silence, nor to sit down quietly under a wrong. as she put it, "since richard would not fight his own battles, i fought them for him," and she never ceased fighting till she had cleared away as much as possible of the cloud that shadowed her husband's official career. on arriving in london, she set to work with characteristic energy. it was a very different home-coming to the one she had anticipated. two years before she had set out in the best of health and spirits, with every prospect of a long and prosperous career at damascus for her husband and herself. now, almost without warning, they had come home with their prospects shattered and their career broken. nevertheless these untoward circumstances served in no way to weaken her energies; on the contrary, they seemed to lend her strength. she found her husband occupying one room in an obscure hotel off manchester square, engaged as usual with his writings, and apparently absorbed in them. he seemed to have forgotten that such a place as damascus existed. she found that he had accepted his recall literally. he had made no defence to the foreign office, nor sought for any explanation. he had treated the affair _de haut en bas_, and had left things to take their course. he in fact expressed himself to her as "sick of the whole thing," and he took the darkest view of the future. "are you not afraid?" he asked her, referring to their gloomy prospects. "afraid?" she echoed. "what, when i have you?" this was the day she came back. he did not refer to the subject again, but returned to his manuscripts, and apparently wanted nothing but to be left alone. but his wife knew him better; she knew that deep down under his seeming indifference there was a rankling sense of injustice. her first step was to arouse him to a sense of the position. to discuss verbally matters of this kind with him, she had learnt by experience, was not easy; so she wrote to him to the following effect, and put the note between the leaves of a book he was reading: "you tell me you have no wish to re-enter official life. putting my own interests quite out of the question, when there are so few able men, and still fewer gentlemen, left in england, and one cannot help foreseeing very bad times coming, it makes one anxious and nervous to think that the one man whom i and others regard as a born leader of men should retire into private life just when he is most wanted. now you are not going to be angry with me; you must be scolded. you have fairly earned the right to five or six months of domestic happiness and retirement, but not the right to be selfish. when the struggle comes on, instead of remaining, as you think, you will come to the fore and nobly take your right place. remember i have prophesied three times for you, and this is the fourth. you are smarting under a sense of injustice now, and you talk accordingly. if i know anything of men in general, and you in particular, you will grow dissatisfied with yourself, if your present state of inaction lasts long." what the immediate result of this remonstrance was it is not possible to say; but isabel's next move was to go down to the foreign office, where she was already well known as one with whom the usual official evasions were of no avail. she always called herself "a child of the foreign office," and she had many friends there among the permanent officials. she brought every influence she could think of to bear. she went to the foreign office day after day, refusing to take "no" for an answer, until at last she simply forced lord granville to see her; and when he saw her, she forced him to hear what she had to say. the interview resulted in his saying "that he would be happy to consider anything she might lay before him on the subject of captain burton's recall from damascus." he could hardly have said less, and he could not well have said more. however, she took him very promptly at his word. she occupied herself for three months in getting up her husband's case, and in inducing him to consent to its being put clearly before lord granville. by way of going to the root of the matter she insisted on knowing from the foreign office the true reasons of his recall. they gave her a long list--the list set forth in the previous chapter. she answered them point by point. burton of course helped, and the thing was done in his name. the whole matter was subsequently published in the form of a blue book--the book before referred to. the controversy between isabel and the foreign office, if it can so be called, ended in january, , three months after her return to england; and it terminated in a dialectical triumph for her, and the offer of several small posts for her husband, which he indignantly refused. among others, burton was offered para, but would not take it. "too small a place for me after damascus," he said. the burtons went into inexpensive lodgings, and waited for the brighter days which were slow in dawning. with characteristic pride and independence they kept their difficulties to themselves, and none knew how hard their struggle was at this time. the burtons received a good deal of kindness in the way of hospitality. there was a general impression that they had been unfairly treated by the government, and their friends were anxious to make it up to them. they paid many pleasant visits; among others, to one of their kindest friends, lady marian alford. at her house they met lord beaconsfield; and at one of her parties, when the prince of wales and the duke of edinburgh were present, by request of the hostess burton dressed as a bedawin shaykh, and isabel as a moslem woman of damascus. she was supposed to have brought the shaykh over to introduce him to english society; and though many of those present knew burton quite well, none of them recognized him in his arab dress until he revealed himself. the burtons also attended a banquet at the mansion house, which interested them more than a little; and when they wanted to make remarks--and they were in the habit of expressing themselves very freely--they spoke arabic, thinking no one would understand it. suddenly a man next them interrupted their criticisms by saying also in arabic, "you are quite right; i was just thinking the same thing": the which shows how careful one should be at public dinners. early in june, , burton sailed for iceland at the request of a certain capitalist, who wished to obtain reports of some sulphur mines there, and who promised him a liberal remuneration, which eventually he did not pay. he, however, paid for burton's passage and travelling expenses; but as he did not pay for two isabel was unable to accompany her husband, and during his absence she took up her abode with her father and mother. afterwards she was very glad that she had done this. for some time past the health of mrs. arundell had given cause for anxiety. she had been a confirmed invalid since her stroke of paralysis ten years before, but she had borne up marvellously until the last few months, when it was visible to every one that she was failing. the end came very suddenly. her dearly loved daughter isabel was with her at the last. the loss of her mother, to whom she was devotedly attached, was a severe blow to isabel. mrs. arundell was a woman of strength of character, ability, and piety, and possessed rare qualities of head and heart. it is scarcely necessary to say that the little cloud which had arisen between mother and daughter on the occasion of isabel's marriage had long since passed away; indeed it was of the briefest duration, and mrs. arundell came to love burton as a son, and was very proud of him. at the end of june, about ten months after the date of the recall from damascus, official favour smiled upon the burtons again. lord granville wrote and asked isabel if her husband would accept the consulate of trieste, just vacant by the death of charles lever, the novelist. isabel was praying by her mother's coffin that their troubles might pass away when the letter arrived, and it came to her like an answer to prayer, for their prospects were just then at their gloomiest. she at once wrote to her husband in iceland, and was able soon after to send his acceptance of the post to lord granville. trieste, a small commercial consulate with pounds sterling a year salary and pounds office allowance, was a sad drop after damascus, at , pounds a year and work of a diplomatic order. but the burtons could not afford to refuse the offer, for their needs were pressing, and they took it in the hope of better things, which never came. burton had a great desire to become consul at morocco, and he thought trieste might lead thither. alas! it did not; and the man who had great talents, a knowledge of more than a score of languages, and an unrivalled experience in the ways of eastern life and oriental methods, was allowed to drag out eighteen years in the obscurity of a second-rate seaport town, where his unique qualifications were simply thrown away. he had had his chance, and had lost it. he was not a "safe man"; and england, or rather the government, generally reserves--and wisely--the pick of the places in the public service for "safe men." officialdom distrusts genius--perhaps rightly; and burton was a wayward genius indeed. however, at trieste he could hardly get into hot water. the post was a purely commercial one; there was no work which called for any collision with the local authorities. austria, the land of red tape, was very different to syria. there was no wali to quarrel with; there were no missionaries to offend, no druzes or greeks to squabble with; and though there were plenty of jews, their money-lending proclivities did not come within the purview of the british consul, and the austrian authorities would have resented in a moment the slightest meddling with their jurisdiction. but if burton could do no harm, he could also do little good; and his energies were cribbed, cabined, and confined. on the other hand, he was following at trieste a distinguished man in charles lever, and one who, like himself, had literary tastes. it is impossible to deny that lord granville showed discrimination in appointing him there at the time. trieste was virtually a sinecure; the duties were light, and every liberty was given to burton. he was absent half his time, and he paid a vice-consul to do most of his work, thus leaving himself ample leisure for travel and his literary labours. if his lot had been thrown in a more active sphere, his great masterpiece, _alf laylah wa laylah (the arabian nights)_, might never have seen the light. isabel and her husband lost no time in making preparations for their departure. in the month of september burton returned from iceland, and the third week in october he left england for trieste by sea. his wife was to adhere to her usual plan of "pay, pack, and follow"--to purchase in london the usual stock of necessary things, and follow as soon as might be by land. in november isabel crossed the channel, and ran straight through to cologne. at cologne she saw the sights, and proceeded by easy stages down the rhine to mayence, and thence to frankfort. from frankfort she went to wurzburg, where she called on the famous dr. dollinger. thence to innsbruck, and so to venice. the last occasion was during the tour which she had taken with her sister and brother-in-law before her marriage. she says: "it was like a dream to come back again. it was all there as i left it, even to the artificial flowers at the _table d'hote_: it was just the same, only less gay and brilliant. it had lost the austrians and henry v. court. i was older, and all the friends i knew were dispersed." her first act was to send a telegram to trieste announcing her arrival, and the next to gondola all over venice. towards evening she thought it would be civil to call on the british consul, sir william perry. the old gentleman, who was very deaf, and apparently short-sighted, greeted her kindly, and mumbled something about "captain burton." isabel said, "oh, he is at trieste; i am just going to join him." "no," said sir william, "he has just left me." thinking he was rather senile, she concluded that he did not understand, and bawled into his ear for the third time, "i am mrs. burton, not captain burton, just arrived from london, and am on my way to join my husband at trieste." "i know all that," he said impatiently. "you had better come with me in my gondola; i am just going to the _morocco_ now, a ship that will sail for trieste." isabel said, "certainly"; and much puzzled, got into the gondola, and went on board. as soon as she got down to the ships saloon, lo! there was her husband writing at a table. "halloo!" he said; "what the devil are you doing here?" "halloo!" she said; "what are _you_ doing here?" and then they began to explain. it turned out that neither of them had received the other's telegrams or letters. a few days later they crossed over to trieste. the vice-consul and the consular chaplain came on board to greet them, but otherwise they arrived at trieste without ceremony; in fact, so unconventional was their method of arrival, that it was rumoured in the select circles of the town that "captain burton, the new consul, and mrs. burton took up their quarters at the hotel de la ville, he walking along with his gamecock under his arm, and she with her bull-terrier under hers." it was felt that they must be a very odd couple, and they were looked at rather askance. this distrust was probably reciprocated, for at first both isabel and her husband felt like fish out of water, and did not like trieste at all. chapter xx. early years at trieste. ( - ). turn thee from grief nor care a jot, commit thy needs to fate and lot, enjoy the present passing well, and let the past be clean forgot. for what so haply seemeth worse shall work thy weal as allah wot; allah shall do whate'er he will, and in his will oppose him not. alf laylah wa laylah(burton's "arabian nights"). isabel soon began to like trieste; the place grew upon her, and later she always spoke of it as "my beloved trieste." she has left on record in her journal her early impressions: "trieste is a town of threes. it has three quarters: the oldest, citta vecchia, is filthy and antiquated in the extreme. it has three winds: the _bora_, the winter wind, cold, dry, highly electrical, very exciting, and so violent that sometimes the quays are roped, and some of the walls have iron rails set in, to prevent people being blown into the sea; the _sirocco_, the summer wind, straight from africa, wet, warm, and debilitating; and the _contraste_, which means the two blowing at once and against each other, with all the disadvantages of both. it has three races: italians, austrians, and slavs. they are all ready to cut each other's throats, especially the italians and the austrians; and the result is that trieste, wealthy though she is, wants all modern improvements, simply because the two rival parties act like the two bundles of hay in the fable, and between them the ass starves. north of ponte rosso is germania, or the austrian colony, composed of the authorities, the _employes_, and a few wealthy merchants who had a crazy idea of germanizing their little world, an impossible dream, for there are twelve thousand italians in trieste, who speak a sort of corrupted venetian. one thousand of these are very rich, the others very poor. however, whether rich or poor, the _italianissimi_ hate their austrian rulers like poison; and in this hatred they are joined by the mass of the wealthy israelites, who divide the commerce with the greeks. the wealthy _italianissimi_ subscribe handsomely to every italian charity and movement, and periodically and anonymously memorialize the king of italy. the poor take a delight in throwing large squibs, called by courtesy 'torpedoes,' amongst the unpatriotic petticoats who dare to throng the austrian balls; for though trieste is austrian nominally, it is italian at heart. the feud between the italians and the austrians goes to spoil society in trieste; they will not intermingle. the slavs also form a distinct party. "i found these discordant elements a little difficult to harmonize at first. but richard desired me to form a neutral house, as at damascus, where politics and religion should never be mentioned, and where all might meet on a common ground. i did so, with the result that we had friends in all camps. there was an abundance of society of all kinds: austrian, italian, and what ouida has called the _haute fuiverie_. we were in touch with them all, and they were all good-natured and amiable. society in trieste did not care whether you were rich or poor, whether you received or did not receive; it only asked you to be nice, and it opened its arms to you. i dare say my visiting list, private and consular, comprised three hundred families; but we had our own little _clique intime_, which was quite charming, and included some sixty or seventy persons. "we women had what richard used to call 'hen parties' (_kaffee gesellschaft_), which is really five o'clock tea, where we would dance together, play, sing, recite, and have refreshments; but a man, except the master of the house, was never seen at these gatherings. _en revanche_, we had plenty of evening entertainments for both sexes. "some curious little local customs still lingered at trieste. one of them was, when two friends or relations met in society, after embracing affectionately, they were wont to drop one another an elaborate curtsey. the visiting hours were from twelve till two, an impossible time; and men were expected to call in white cravats, kid gloves and evening dress. when i first came to trieste, i was often invited _en intime_ to afternoon tea, and was told to come 'just as you are, my dear.' i took the invitation literally of course; and when i arrived, i used to find the other ladies _decolletees_, and blazing with diamonds. i remember feeling very awkward at appearing in an ordinary costume, but my hostess said to me, 'you know, my dear, we are so fond of our jewels; it gives us pleasure to dress even for one another; but do not do it if it bores you.' however, later i always took care to do it, on the principle that when one is at rome one should do as rome does. apart from these little social peculiarities trieste was the most hospitable and open-hearted town, and people entertained there, if they entertained at all, on a lavish scale and right royally. "the population of trieste was very interesting, though a strange medley. to the east of the town the wallachian _cici_, or charcoal-dealers, wore the dress of the old danubian homes whence they came. then there was the friulano, with his velvet jacket and green corduroys (the most estimable race in trieste). he was often a roaster of chestnuts at the corners of the street, and his wife was the best _balie_ (wet nurse). she was often more bravely attired than her mistress. the slav market- women were also very interesting. i loved to go down and talk with them in the market-place. they drove in from neighbouring villages with their produce for sale in a kind of drosky, the _carretella_ as it was called, with its single pony harnessed to the near side of the pole. some of the girls, especially those of servola, were quite beautiful, with a greek profile, and a general delicacy of form and colour which one would hardly expect to find amongst the peasantry. but their eyes were colourless; and their blonde hair was like tow--it lacked the golden ray. the dresses were picturesque: a white triangular head-kerchief, with embroidered ends hanging down the back; a bodice either of white flannel picked out with splashes of colour, or of a black glazed and plaited stuff; a skirt of lively hue, edged with a broad belt of even livelier green, blue, pink, or yellow; white stockings; and short, stout shoes. the ornaments on high days and holidays were gold necklaces and crosses, a profusion of rings and pendants. this of course was the _contadina_, or peasant girl. opposed to her was the _sartorella_, or little tailoress, which may be said to be synonymous with the french _grisette_. i always called trieste _il paradiso delle sartorelle_, because the _sartorella_ was a prominent figure in trieste, and fortune's favourite. she was wont to fill the streets and promenades, especially on _festa_ days, dressed _a quatre epingles_, powdered and rouged and _coiffee_ as for a ball, and with or without a veil. she was often pretty, and generally had a good figure; but she did not always look 'nice'; and her manners, to put it mildly, were very _degagees_. there were four thousand of these girls in trieste, and they filled the lower-class balls and theatres. there was a _sartorella_ in every house, off and on. for example, a family in trieste always had a dress to make or petticoat, and the _sartorella_ came for a florin a day and her food, and she worked for twelve hours, leaving off work at six, when she began her 'evening out.' i am fain to add the _sartorella_ was often a sort of whited sepulchre. she was gorgeously clad without, but as a rule had not a rag, not even a chemise, underneath, unless she were 'in luck.' 'in luck,' i grieve to say, meant that every boy, youth, and man in trieste, beginning at twelve and up to twenty-five and twenty-eight, had an _affaire_ with a _sartorella_; and i may safely assert, without being malicious, that she was not wont to give her heart--if we may call it so--gratis. she was rather a nuisance, because there was always some mending or sewing to be done. she generally turned the servants' heads by telling them that she was going to be married to a real _graf_ (count) as soon as he was independent of his parents--a sort of king cophetua and the beggar maid over again, i suppose. "trieste was a beautiful place, especially the view round the bay. the hills were covered with woodland and verdure; the deep blue adriatic was in the foreground, dotted with lateen sails; and the town filled the valley and straggled up the slopes. the sky was softly blue on a balmy day; the bees and birds, the hum of insects, the flowers and fresh air, and the pretty, animated peasants, combined to form a picture which made one feel glad to live. "the charm of trieste is that one can live exactly as one pleases. richard and i drew out a line for ourselves when we first went to trieste, and we always kept to it as closely as we could. we rose at or a.m. in summer, and at a.m. in winter. he read, wrote, and studied all day out of the consular, and took occasional trips for his health; and i learned italian, german, and singing, and attended to my other duties. we took our daily exercise in the shape of an hour's swimming in the sea, or fencing at the school, according to the weather. what with reading, writing, looking after the poor, working for the church or for the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, my day was all too short. "the prettiest thing in trieste was the swimming school. it was moored out at the entrance to the harbour. we used to reach it in a boat, and get hold of tonina, the old woman who provided us with the _camerino_, or little stall to undress in, and who would grin from ear to ear at our chaff and the thought of her _bakshish_. the women's costumes were short trousers, with bodice or belt of blue serge or white alpaca trimmed with red. we plunged into the great _vasca_ or basin, an acre of sea, bottomless, but enclosed on all sides with a loaded net, to keep out the sharks. there were twelve soldiers to teach beginners. they used to begin with a pole and rope, like a fishing-rod and line, and at the end of the rope was a broad belt, which went round the waist of the beginner, and you heard the incessant, 'eins, zwei, drei' of the drill. next they would lead the beginners round the edge of the basin with a rope, like pet dogs. but we adepts in swimming plunged in head first from a sort of trapeze, or from the roofs of the dressing-rooms, making a somersault on the way. the swimmers did the prettiest tricks in the water. young married women met in the middle to shake hands and hold long conversations. scores of young girls used to romp about, ducking each other under and climbing on each other's backs for support, and children of three or four used to swim about like white-bait, in and out, among us all. one stout old lady used to sit lazily in the water, like a blubber fish, knitting, occasionally moving her feet. we used to call her 'the buoy,' and held on to her when we were tired." it was the custom of isabel and her husband, whenever they went to a new place, to look out for a sort of sanatorium, to which they might repair when they wanted a change or were seedy or out of sorts. thus, when burton was sent to santos, they chose sao paulo; when they were at damascus, they pitched on bludan; and as soon as they arrived at trieste, they lighted upon opcina. opcina was a slav village high above trieste, and about an hour's drive from it. this height showed trieste and the adriatic spread out like a map below, with hill and valley and dale waning faintly blue in the distance, and far away the carnian alps topped with snow. there was an old inn called daneus's, close to an obelisk. they took partly furnished rooms, and brought up some of their own furniture to make up deficiencies and give the place a homelike air. it was their wont to come up to opcina from saturday to monday, and get away from trieste and worries. they always kept some literary work on hand there; and sometimes, if they were in the mood for it, they would stay at opcina for six weeks on end. the climate was very bracing. isabel always looked back on these few first years at trieste as pleasant ones. after the storm and stress of damascus, and the anxiety and depression consequent upon their recall, she found trieste a veritable "restful harbour." they varied their life by many journeys and excursions. their happy hunting-ground was venice. whenever they could they would cross over there, order a gondola, and float lazily about the canals. she says of this time: "we lived absolutely the jolly life of two bachelors, as it might be an elder or a younger brother. when we wanted to go away, we just turned the key and left." it was not until they had been at trieste six months that they settled down in a house, or rather in a flat at the top of a large building close to the sea. they began their housekeeping with very modest ideas; in fact, they had only six rooms. but burton and his wife were fond of enlarging their boundaries, and in course of time these six rooms grew until they ran round the whole of the large block of the building. here they lived for ten years, and then they moved to the most beautiful house in trieste, a palazzo a little way out of the town. one of their first expeditions was to loretto. thence they went to rome, where they made the acquaintance of the english ambassador to the austrian court and his wife, sir augustus and lady paget, with whom they remained great friends all the time they were at trieste. isabel also met cardinal howard, who was a cousin of hers. he was one of her favourite partners in the palmy days of almack's, when he was an officer in the guards and she was a girl. now the whirligig of time had transformed him into a cardinal and her into the wife of the british consul at trieste. as a devout catholic isabel delighted in rome and its churches, though the places which she most enjoyed visiting were the catacombs and the baths of caracalla. at rome she got blood-poisoning and fever, which she took on with her to florence, where they stayed for some little time. at florence they saw a good deal of ouida, whom they had known for some years. from florence they went to venice, crossed over to trieste just to change their baggage, and then proceeded to vienna. there was a great exhibition going on at vienna, and burton went as the reporter to some newspaper. they were at vienna three weeks, and were delighted with everything viennese except the prices at the hotel, which were stupendous. they enjoyed themselves greatly, and were well received in what is perhaps the most exclusive society in europe. among other things they went to court. isabel attended as an austrian countess, and took place and precedence accordingly, for the name arundell of wardour is inscribed in the austrian official lists of the counts of the empire. there was a difficulty raised about burton, because consuls are not admissible at the court of vienna. isabel was not a woman to go to places where her husband was not admitted, and she insisted upon having the matter brought before the notice of the emperor, though the british embassy clearly told her the thing was impossible--burton could not be admitted. when the emperor heard of the difficulty through the court officials, he at once solved it by saying that burton might attend as an officer of the english army. the incident is a trifling one, but it is one more illustration of the untiring devotion of isabel to her husband, and her sleepless vigilance that nothing should be done which would seem to cast a slur upon his position.[ ] when the burtons returned to trieste, charles tyrwhitt-drake, who had been with them much at damascus, and had accompanied them on their tour in the holy land and many other journeys in the syrian desert, arrived. the visit of their friend and fellow-traveller seemed to revive their old love of exploration as far as the limits of trieste would admit, and among other excursions they went to see a great _fete_ at the adelsberg caverns. these caves were stalactite caverns and grottoes not far from trieste, and on the day of the _fete_ they were lighted by a million candles. one of the caverns was a large hall like a domed ballroom, and austrian bands and musicians repaired thither, and the peasants flocked down in their costumes, and made high revelry. burton maintained that these caves were the eighth wonder of the world, but the description of them here would occupy too much space. suffice it to say, in the words of isabel, "when god almighty had finished making the earth, he threw all the superfluous rocks together there." from these caves they went to fiume, and explored the colosseum there, which, though not so famous as that of rome, almost rivals it in its ruins and its interest. another excursion was to lipizza, the emperor of austria's stud farm. it was about two hours from trieste, and the stables and park were full of herds of thorough-bred mares, chiefly hungarians and croats. lipizza was always a favourite drive of the burtons. "charley's" visit revived many memories of damascus, and he was the bearer of news from many friends there. he seemed to bring with him "a breath from the desert," and they were loath to let him go. they accompanied him to venice, where he took his leave of them; and they never saw him again. he died the following year at jerusalem, at the age of twenty-eight. he was buried in the english burial-ground on mount zion, the place where they had all three sat and talked together and picked flowers one afternoon three years before. it was largely at his suggestion that isabel determined to write her _inner life of syria_, and she unearthed her note-books and began to write the book soon after he left. he was a great friend, almost a son to them, and they both felt his loss bitterly. about this time maria theresa, contessa de montelin, ex-queen of spain, when she was on her death-bed, sent for isabel, and charged her to keep up, maintain, and promote certain pious societies which she had started in trieste. one of these was "the apostleship of prayer," whose members, women, were to be active in doing good works, corporally and spiritually, in trieste. this guild was one of two good works to which isabel chiefly devoted herself during her life at trieste. the other was a branch of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals and the care of animals generally, a subject always very near her heart. "the apostleship of prayer," the legacy of the queen of spain, so grew under isabel's hand that the members increased to fifteen thousand. they elected her president, and she soon got the guild into thorough working order, dividing the members into bands in various quarters of the city of trieste. there is not much to relate concerning isabel's life at trieste for the first few years. it was uneventful and fairly happy: it would have been quite happy, were it not for the regret of damascus, where they were then hoping to return, and the desire for a wider sphere of action. both she and her husband managed to keep in touch with world in a wonderful way, and did not let themselves drop out of sight or out of mind. one of the reliefs to the monotony of their existence was that, whenever an english ship came into port with a captain whom they knew, they would dine on board and have the delight of seeing english people, and they generally invited the captain and officers and the best passengers back again. the burtons had a good many visitors from england, most of them well-known personages, who, when they stopped at trieste, a favourite resting- place for birds of passage, always made a point of calling upon them. among others was lord llandaff, then mr. henry matthews, who had many things in common with isabel. owing to their lives being cast on different lines, they only saw one another at intervals, but they always entertained a feeling of mutual friendship. from the many letters he wrote to her i am permitted to publish this one: temple, december , . "dear mrs. burton, "of course i have not forgotten you. i never forget. was it last week, or sixteen years ago, that you were standing in this room with the chequered sunlight shining through the venetian blind upon you, as you discoursed about heaven and grace and an attorney in the city who was not one of the elect? "i never knew you were in venice this autumn, and, as it happened, it was fortunate i did not go to trieste to see you, since you were away. i grieve very much to hear of your bad health. it seems to me you do too much. the long list of occupations which you call 'repose' is enough to wear out any constitution, even one which is so admirably knit as yours. don't be like the lady in pope's satire, and 'die of nothing but a rage to live.' there is one part of your labours, however, for which i, with all the rest of the world, shall be thankful; and that is your new book. i shall look for it with impatience, and feel sure of its success. "i wish you were not going to arabia; but i know how you understand and fulfil the part of wife to a knight-errantry of discovery. be as prudent and sparing of yourself as you can. "yours ever, "henry matthews." after they had been at trieste two years, at the end of burton proposed that his wife should go to england and transact some business for him, and bring out certain books which he had written. he would join her later on. isabel was exceedingly unwilling to go; but "whenever he put his foot down i had to do it, whether i would or no." so she went, and arrived in london in december, after an uneventful journey. isabel found her work cut out for her in london. her husband had given her several pages of directions, and she tried to carry them out as literally as possible. she had to see a number of publishers for one thing, and to work up an interest in a sulphur mine for another. she says: "i got so wrapped up in my work at this time that sometimes i worked for thirteen hours, feeling my head whirling, and being quite alarmed. then i suddenly remembered that i had forgotten to eat all day." she had also the proof-sheets to correct of her own book, which was going through the press. she was in london without her husband for four months, and during that time she had a great shock. a paragraph appeared in _the scotsman_ announcing burton's death, and speaking of her as his widow. she telegraphed to trieste at once, and packed up. just as she was starting she got a telegram from him saying, "i am eating a very good dinner at _table d'hote_." early in may burton joined her on a lengthy leave of absence, and they did a great deal of visiting, and enjoyed themselves generally. isabel's _inner life of syria_ was published at this time, and she was very anxious about it. it had taken sixteen months to write. the evening of the day on which it made its appearance she went to a party, and the first person she saw whom she knew was a well-known editor, who greeted her with warm congratulations on her book. she says, "it made me as happy as if somebody had given me a fortune." the favourable reception which was accorded to _the inner life of syria_, which was largely devoted to a defence of her husband's action when consul at damascus, encouraged isabel to proceed further on his behalf. so she wrote to, or interviewed, every influential friend she knew, with a view of inducing the government to make burton k. c. b., and she prepared a paper setting forth his claims and labours in the public service, which was signed by thirty or forty of the most influential personages of the day. she also induced them to ask that burton should either return to damascus, or be promoted to morocco, cairo, tunis, or teheran. unfortunately her efforts met with no success, though she renewed them again through another source three years later. in one sense, however, she succeeded; for though she could not convert the government to her view, the press unanimously took up the cause for burton, and complained that the government did not give him his proper place in official life, and called him the "neglected englishman." as for burton himself, he took no part in this agitation, except to thank his friends and the press generally for their exertions on his behalf. they went down to oxford at commemoration to visit professor jowett and others. at oxford they met with an ovation. in london they passed a very pleasant season, for private personages seemed anxious to make up for official neglect. among other celebrated people whom they met was mr. gladstone, at lord houghton's. of burton's meeting with mr. gladstone isabel relates the following: "very late in the evening mrs. gladstone said to me, 'i don't know what it is; i cannot get mr. gladstone away this evening'; and i said to her, 'i think i know what it is; he has got hold of my husband, richard burton, and they are both so interested in one another, and have so many points of interest to talk over that i hope you will not take him away.'" the season over, burton started on another trip to iceland; and isabel was left alone, during which time she paid some visits to the duke and duchess of somerset at bulstrode, always kind friends of hers, and to madame von bulow at reigate. madame von bulow was the wife of the danish minister in london, and one of isabel's most intimate friends-- a friendship which lasted all her life. when burton returned from iceland, he went off to vichy for a cure, and rejoined his wife in london in the autumn; and they went out a great deal, chiefly in scientific, literary, and artistic circles. this year was in some respects one of the pleasantest of isabel's life. her book had come out, and was a great success; she had been _feted_ by all her friends and relations; and though her efforts to obtain promotion for her husband had not met with the success which they deserved, yet the kind encouragement which she received from influential friends, who, though not members of the government, were yet near the rose, made her hope that better days were soon to come. in december burton, finding that he had still six months' leave, asked his wife where she would like to go best. she answered, "india." it had long been her desire to go there with her husband, and get him to show her all the familiar spots which he had described to her as having visited or lived at during his nineteen years' service in india. burton was delighted with the idea. so they got a map, cut india down the middle lengthways from cashmere to cape comorin, and planned out how much they could manage to see on the western side, intending to leave the eastern side for another time, as the season was already too far advanced for them to be able to see the whole of india. notes: . lady burton thus describes her visit to the austrian court: "i was very much dazzled by the court. i thought everything was beautifully done, so arranged as to give every one pleasure, and somehow it was the graciousness that was in itself a welcome. i shall never forget the first night that i saw the empress--a vision of beauty, clothed in silver, crowned with water-lilies, with large rows of diamonds and emeralds round her small head and her beautiful hair, and descending all down her dress in festoons. the throne-room is immense, with marble columns down each side-- all the men arranged on one side and all the women on the other, and the new presentations with their ambassadors and embassadresses nearest the throne. when the emperor and empress came in, they walked up the middle, the empress curtseying most gracefully and smiling a general gracious greeting. they then ascended the throne, and presently the empress turned to our side. the presentations first took place, and she spoke to each one in her own language, and on her own particular subject. i was quite entranced with her beauty, her cleverness, and her conversation. she passed down the ladies' side, and then came up that of the men, the emperor doing exactly the same as she had done. he also spoke to us. then some few of us whose families the empress knew about were asked to sit down, and refreshments were handed to us--the present georgina lady dudley sitting by the empress. it was a thing never to be forgotten to have seen those two beautiful women sitting side by side. the empress frederick of germany--crown princess she was then--was also there, and sent for some of us on another day, which was in many ways another memorable event, and her husband also came in."(_life of sir richard burton_, by isabel his wife, vol. ii., pp. , ). chapter xxi.[ ] the journey to bombay. ( - ). as we meet and touch each day the many travellers on the way, let every such brief contact be a glorious helpful ministry-- the contact of the soil and seed, each giving to the other's need, each helping on the other's best, and blessing each, as well as blest. on december , , we left london for trieste, _en route_ for india. it was not a cheerful day for saying good-bye to old england and dear friends. there was a fog as black as midnight, thick snow was lying about the streets, and a dull red gloom only rendered the darkness visible and horrible. the great city was wrapped in the sullen splendours of a london fog. "it looks," said richard, "as if the city were in mourning for some great national crime." "no," i said, "rather let us think that our fatherland wears mourning for our departure into exile once more." i felt as if i could never rise and face the day that morning. however, we _had_ to go, so there was nothing to do but put our shoulders to the wheel. we lunched with my father and family by lamplight at one o'clock in the day. we prolonged the "festive" meal as much as we could, and then set out, a large family party, by the . train to folkestone. we all had supper together at folkestone, and enjoyed ourselves immensely. the next day my relations wished me good-bye--always a hard word to say. one parting in particular wrung my heart: i little thought then i should meet no more my brother rudolph, the last of my four dear brothers, all of whom died young by untoward accidents. it was strange i was always bidding good-bye to them every three or four years. one ought to have been steeled to parting by now. nevertheless every time the wrench was as keen as ever. we stopped in folkestone until tuesday, and then richard and i got into a sleigh, which took us over the snow from the hotel to the boat. we had a very cold crossing, but not a rough one; and as we neared boulogne we even saw a square inch or so of pale blue sky, a sight which, after london, made us rejoice. the old port at boulogne stretched out its two long lean arms to our cockle-shell steamer, as though anxious to embrace it. i thought, as we came into the harbour, how much of this quaint old town had been bound up with my life. i could never see it without recalling the two years which i had spent in boulogne years ago, and going over again in my mind the time when i first saw richard--the day of my life which will always be marked with a great white stone. he was a young lieutenant then on furlough from india, who had seen nothing of life but one hurried london season. we stayed at boulogne two days, and wandered about all over the place together, calling back to our memory the scenes of our bygone youth. we walked on the old ramparts where we first made acquaintance, where richard used to follow my sister blanche and myself when we were sent out to learn our lessons _al fresco_. we even saw the wall where he chalked up, "may i speak to you?" and i chalked back, "no; mother will be angry." i hunted out my little brother's grave too, and planted it with fresh rose trees; and i visited my old friend carolina, the queen of the poissardes. she was still a beautiful creature, magnificent in her costume. she reminded me of a promise i had made her in the old days, that if ever i went to jerusalem i would bring her a rosary. i little dreamt then that i should marry richard burton, or that he would be consul at damascus, or that i should go to jerusalem. yet all these things had come to pass. and so i was able to fulfil my promise, to her great delight. from boulogne we went to paris, which i found terribly changed since the franco-german war. the marks of the terrible siege were still burnt upon its face; and this applied not only to the city itself, but to the people. the radical changes of the last five years, and the war and the commune, had made a new world of paris. the light, joyous character of the french was no doubt still below the surface, but the upper crust was then (at least so it struck me) one of sulkiness, silence, and economy run mad, a rage for lucre, and a lust _pour la revanche_. even the women seemed to have given up their pretty dresses, though of course there were some to be seen. yet things were very different now to what they had been under the splendours of the second empire, that empire which went "like a dream of the night." the women seemed to have become careless, an unusual thing in parisiennes: they even painted badly; and it is a sin to paint--badly. i am afraid that i am one of the very few women who do not like paris. i never liked it, even in its palmy days; and now at this time i liked it less than ever. i was so glad to leave at the end of the week, and to move out of the raw, white fog sunwards. we had a most comfortable journey from paris to modane, and the officials at the customs seemed to delight in irritating and insulting one. when i was passing into the custom-pen, i was gruffly addressed, "on ne passe pas!" i said, "on ne passe pas? comment on ne passe pas?" the only thing wanting, it seemed, was a visiting-card; but the opportunity of being safely insolent was too tempting to the jack-in-office for him to pass it over. i could not help feeling glad these braves had never reached berlin; they would have made europe uninhabitable. france was charming as an empire or as a monarchy, but as a brand-new republic it was simply detestable. we went on to turin, where we stayed for a day or two; and while here i sent a copy of my _inner life of syria_ to the princess margherita of savoy, now queen of italy, who was pleased to receive the same very graciously. from turin we went to milan, where we lapsed into the regular routine of italian society, so remarkable for the exquisite amenity of its old civilization (as far as manners are concerned), and for the stiffness and mediaeval semi-barbarism of its surroundings. as an instance of this we had occasion to call on a personage to whom we had letters of introduction. we sent in our letters with a visiting- card by the porter, asking when we should call. the reply was, "va bene," which was pleasant, but vague. we took heart of grace, and asked at the door, "is the signor conte visible?" the janitor replied, "his excellency receives at o'clock p.m." we replied, "at that time we shall be on the railway." the domestic, with leisurely movement, left us in the hall, and dawdled upstairs to report the remarkable case of the importunate english. by-and-by he returned, and showed us into the saloon, a huge, bare, fireless room, with a few grotesque photographs and french prints on the walls, and a stiff green sofa and chairs. the signor conte kept us waiting twenty minutes, whilst he shaved and exchanged his dressing-gown for the suit of sables which is the correct raiment of the latin race. nothing could be more polished than his manners. he received us with a cordiality which at once won our hearts. but we were introduced to him by a bosom friend; our pursuits and tastes were the same. why then could not he ask us up to his cosy study to give us coffee and a cigarette? "sarebbe proprio indecente" ("it would really be too rude"), was the reply, although both he and we would have liked it extremely. so for want of time to crack this hard nutshell we never got at the kernel. from milan we went to venice, which we found enveloped in a white fog, with a network of lagoons meandering through streets of the foulest mud. venice is pre-eminently a hot-weather city. in winter, with her cold canals and wet alleys, deep rains and dense mists, her huge, unwarmed palaces, and her bare, draughty hotels, she is a veritable wet place of punishment. we stayed in venice for some days, and made several pleasant acquaintances. i had with me a german maid, who had never seen venice. she went in a gondola for the first time, and was at the highest pitch of excitement at finding that all was water. she marvelled at the absence of cabs and dust, and exclaimed perpetually, "nothing but water, water everywhere"; which we naturally capped with, "but not a drop to drink," until i believe she fancied that drink was the only thing we english ever thought of. on december we went across to trieste by the midnight boat, and next morning i was at trieste again, my much-loved home of four years and a half. i found it all to a hair as i had left it just a year ago, for i had been absent twelve months in england. christmas night, however, was a little sad. we had accepted an invitation for a christmas dinner, and had given the servants leave to go out to see their friends; but richard was unfortunately taken ill, and could not dine out, and he went to bed. of course i stayed with him; but we had nobody to cook for us, nor anything to eat in the house except bread and olives. i went to the pantry and foraged, and with this simple fare ate my christmas dinner by his bedside. we stopped in trieste eight days, just to pack up and complete arrangements for our tour; and on the last day of the old year we left for jeddah. we were aware that we were starting for india two or three months too late, and would have to encounter the heat and fatal season to accomplish it; but as richard said, "consuls, like beggars, can't be choosers," and we were only too glad to be able to go at all. everybody was most kind to us, and a lot of friends came to a parting midday dinner, and accompanied us to our ship to see us off. the government boat, containing the _capitaine du port_ and the sailors, in uniform, took us to our ship, an honour seldom accorded to any but high austrian officials; and the duke of wurtemberg, command-in-chief at trieste, and several others came to wish us "god-speed." i shall never forget their kindness, for i appreciated the honour which they did to richard. it is strange how much more willing those in authority abroad were to do him justice than the government at home. the run from trieste to port said occupied six days and six nights. our ship was the calypso (austrian lloyd's), a good old tub, originally built for a cattleboat. we were the only passengers, and, with the captain and his officers, we made a family party, and i was never more comfortable on board ship in my life. the voyage to port said has been so often described that i need not dwell upon it again. we had fair weather for the first five days, and then there was a decided storm, which, however, did not last long. one gets so knocked about in a steamer that baths are impossible; one can only make a hasty toilet at the most, being obliged to hold on to something, or be knocked the while from one end of the cabin to the other; one dines, so to speak, on the balance, with the food ever sliding into one's lap. our boat danced about throughout the voyage in a most extraordinary manner, which made me think that she had but little cargo. i spent most of the time on deck, "between blue sea and azure air," and i did a good deal of reading. i read moore's _veiled prophet of khorassan_ and other books, including _lalla rookh_ and _the light of the harim_; also smollet's _memoirs of a lady of quality, which_ i found coarse, but interesting. some one told me that a course of smollett was more or less necessary to form one for novel-writing, so i took that and _the adventures of roderick random_ on board to study, in case i should ever write a novel. i felt rather displeased when smollett's lady of quality married her second husband, and quite _bouleversee_ long before i arrived at her fifteenth lover. port said shows itself upon the southern horizon in two dark lines, like long piles or logs of wood lying upon the sea, one large and one small. these are the white town and the black town, apparently broken by an inlet of sea, and based upon a strip of yellow sand. the sea is most unwholesome and stagnant. the houses of port said looked like painted wooden toys. the streets were broad, but the shops were full of nothing but rubbish, and were surround by dogs and half-naked, dark-brown gutter-boys. there is a circular garden in the centre of the european part, with faded flowers, and a kiosk for the band to play in. the most picturesque and the dirtiest part is the arab town, with its tumble-down houses and bazar. the people wear gaudy prints and dirty mantles bespangled with gold. there were a great many low-class music-halls and gambling- and dancing-saloons. port said is in fact a sort of egyptian wapping, and i am told the less one knows about its morals the better. while we were strolling about the arab part, my german maid, who was in an eastern place for the first time, came upon a man filling a goat-skin with water. she saw a pipe and the skin distending, and heard the sound. she often heard me say how cruel the easterns were to animals; and knowing my tenderness on that point, she ran after me in a great state of excitement, and pulled my arm, crying out, "_o euer gnaden_! the black man is filling the poor sow with gas! do come back and stop him!" the next morning early we began to steam slowly up the long ditch called the canal, and at last to the far east we caught a gladdening glimpse of the desert--the wild, waterless wilderness of sur, with its waves and pyramids of sand catching the morning rays, with it shadows of mauve, rose pink, and lightest blue, with its plains and rain-sinks, bearing brown dots, which were tamarisks (manna trees). the sky was heavenly blue, the water a deep band of the clearest green, the air balmy and fresh. the golden sands stretched far away; an occasional troop of bedawin with their camels and goats passed, and reminded me of those dear, dead days at damascus. it all came back to me with a rush. once more i was in the east. i had not enjoyed myself so much with nature for four years and a half. with the smell of the desert air in our nostrils, with eastern pictures before our eyes, we were even grateful for the slowness of the pace at which we travelled. they were the pleasantest two days imaginable, like a river picnic. we reached suez, with its air of faded glory, at length; and there we shipped a pious pilot, who said his prayers regularly, and carefully avoided touching my dog. of course he was from mecca; but, unhappily for his reputation, the first night spent at jeddah gave him a broken nose, the result of a scrimmage in some low coffee-house. at last we neared jeddah, the port of mecca. the approach was extraordinary. for twenty miles it is protected by nature's breakwaters, lines of low, flat reefs, barely covered, and not visible until you are close upon them. there was no mark or lighthouse save two little white posts, which might easily be mistaken for a couple of gulls. in and out of these reefs the ship went like a serpent. there was barely passage for it between them; but of course no pilot would attempt it save in broad daylight. at length we reached the inner reef. we found the open roadstead full of ships, with hardly room to swing, and a strong north- west wind, so that we could not get a place. we ran right into the first at anchor, the _standard_, a trading-ship of shields, built of iron. richard and i were standing on the bridge, and he touched my arm and said: "by jove! we're going right into that ship." "oh no," i answered; "with the captain and the pilot on the bridge, and all the crew in the forecastle, it can only be a beautiful bit of steering. we shall just shave her." the words were scarcely out of my mouth when smash went our bulwarks like brown paper, and our yardarms crumpled like umbrellas. i had jokingly threatened with the "thirteenth" the day before, but they had laughed at me. "il tredici!" shouted the second officer, as he flew by us. the crews of both ships behaved splendidly, and the cry on board our ship was, "where is the english captain? i do not see him." "no," we answered, "you do not see him, but we can hear him." and sure enough there he was all right, and swearing quite like himself. there is nothing like an englishman for a good decisive order; and who can blame him if he adds at such times a little powder to drive the shot home? we were about three hours disentangling ourselves. i was delighted with my first view of jeddah. it is the most _bizarre_ and fascinating town. it looks as if it were an ancient model carved in old ivory, so white and fanciful are the houses, with here and there a minaret. it was doubly interesting to me, because richard came here by land from his famous pilgrimage to mecca. mecca lies in a valley between two distant ranges of mountains. my impression of jeddah will always be that of an ivory town embedded in golden sand. we anchored at jeddah for eight days, which time we spent at the british consulate on a visit. the consulate was the best house in all jeddah, close to the sea, with a staircase so steep that it was like ascending the pyramids. i called it the eagle's nest, because of the good air and view. it was a sort of bachelors' establishment; for in addition to the consul and vice-consul and others, there were five bachelors who resided in the building, whom i used to call the "wreckers," because they were always looking out for ships with a telescope. they kept a pack of bull- terriers, donkeys, ponies, gazelles, rabbits, pigeons; in fact a regular menagerie. they combined eastern and european comfort, and had the usual establishment of dragomans, kawwasses, and servants of all sizes, shapes, and colour. i was the only lady in the house, but we were nevertheless a very jolly party. our first excursion was to eve's tomb, as it is called, a large curious building in a spacious enclosure. two or three holy people are buried here, and the place commands a lovely view of the distant mountains, beyond which lies mecca. the inhabitants of jeddah are very interesting in many ways. there are some two hundred nautch-girls there; but they are forbidden to dance before men, though i have heard that the law can be evaded on occasions. in the plains there are two different types of arabs: the, bedawin, and the "settled men." the latter are a fine, strong, healthy race, though very wild and savage. we used frequently to ride out into the desert and make excursions. i would have given anything to have gone to mecca. it was hard to be so near, and yet to have to turn round and come back. there was a rumour that two englishmen had gone up to mecca for a lark, and had been killed. this was not true. but all the same mecca was not safe for a european woman, and it was not the time to show my blue eyes and broken arabic on holy ground. i therefore used to console myself by returning from our expeditions in the desert through the mecca gate of jeddah, and then riding through the bazars, half dark and half lit, to see the pilgrims' camels. the bazars literally swarmed with a picturesque and variegated mob, hailing from all lands, and of every race and tongue. we were not interfered with in any way; though had it been , the year when richard went to mecca, to have taken these rides in the desert, and to have walked through the mecca gate, would most certainly have cost us our lives. i also saw the khan where richard lived as one of these pilgrims in , and the minaret which he sketched in his book on mecca. while we were at jeddah the governor and all those who knew the story of his pilgrimage to mecca called on us, and were very civil. our days at jeddah were very pleasant ones. in the evening we used to sit outside the consulate, and have some sherry and a cigarette, and play with the dogs. one evening richard came in and discovered me anxiously nursing what i thought was a dying negro. he was very angry, for he found him to be only drunk, and there was a great shout of merriment among all our colony in the consulate--"my boys," as i used to call them--when the truth came out. these terrible boys teased the negro by putting snuff up his nose. they were awful boys, but such fun. they were always up to all sorts of tricks. when the food was bad, they used to call the cook in, and make him eat it. "what's this?" they would say. "no! no! massa; me lose caste." "hold your tongue, you damned scoundrel! eat it directly." one day it was seven big _smoked_ onions which the cook had to consume. i am bound to say that it had a good effect upon him, for the table was certainly excellent after this. i wish we could follow some such plan in england with our cooks. even more did i wish we could do so at trieste. i thought the dogs were worse than the boys. there were about ten bull-dogs in the house. they used to worry everything they saw, and sent every pariah flying out of the bazars. since i left jeddah i heard that the natives had poisoned all these dogs, which i really think served the boys right, but not the dogs. i remember too, on one or two occasions, when we were riding out meccawards, my horse was so thin and the girths so large that my saddle came round with me, and i had a spill on the sand, which greatly delighted the boys, but did not hurt me. i was so sorry to part with them all; we were good friends together. but after eight exceedingly pleasant days at jeddah we received notice to embark, and we had to say good-bye and go on board the _calypso_. the sea was very rough, and i sat on a chair lashed to the deck. the _calypso_ was bound for bombay, and had taken on board at jeddah and stowed away some eight hundred pilgrims, who were returning to india from mecca. they were packed like cattle, and as the weather was very rough the poor pilgrims suffered terribly. the waves were higher than the ship. i crawled about as well as i could, and tried to help the pilgrims a little. the second day one of them died, and was buried at sunset. i shall never forget that funeral at sea. they washed the body, and then put a strip of white stuff round the loins, and a bit of money to show that he is not destitute when he arrives in the next world. then they tied him up in a sheet, and with his head and feet tied he looked just like a big white cracker. he was then laid upon a shutter with a five- pound bar of iron bound to his feet, and after a short arabic prayer they took him to the side and hurled him over. there was no mourning or wailing among the pilgrims. on the contrary, they all seemed most cheerful over this function; and of course, according to their way of thinking, a man would be glad to die, as he went straight to heaven. but i am bound to say that it had a most depressing effect upon me, for we had twenty-three funerals in twelve days. they seemed to take it very much as a matter of course; but i kept saying to myself, "that poor indian and i might both be lying dead to-day. there would be a little more ceremony over me, and (not of course including my husband) my death would cast a gloom over the dinner-table possibly a couple of days. once we were shunted down the ship's side, the sharks would eat us both, and perhaps like me a little better, as i am fat and well fed, and do not smell of cocoa-nut oil; and then we would both stand before the throne of god to be judged--he with his poverty, hardships, sufferings, pilgrimage, and harmless life, and i with all my faults, my happy life, my luxuries, and the little wee bit of good i have ever done or ever thought, to obtain mercy with; only equal that our saviour died for us both." i can hardly express what i suffered during the fortnight's voyage on board the pilgrim-ship. it was an experience which i would never repeat again. imagine eight hundred moslems, ranging in point of colour through every shade from lemon or _cafe au lait_ to black as ebony; races from every part of the world, covering every square inch of deck, and every part of the hold fore and aft, packed liked sardines, men, women, and babies, reeking of cocoa-nut oil. it was a voyage of horror. i shall never forget their unwashed bodies, their sea-sickness, their sores, the dead and the dying, their rags, and last, but not least, their cookery. except to cook or fetch water or kneel in prayer, none of them moved out of the small space or position which they assumed at the beginning of the voyage. those who died did not die of disease so much as of privation and fatigue, hunger, thirst, and opium. they died of vermin and misery. i shall never forget the expression of dumb, mute, patient pain which most of them wore. i cannot eat my dinner if i see a dog looking wistfully at it. i therefore spent the whole day staggering about our rolling ship with sherbet and food and medicines, treating dysentery and fever. during my short snatches of sleep i dreamt of these horrors too. but it was terribly disheartening work, owing to their fanaticism. many of them listened to me with more faith about food and medicines because i knew something of the koran, and could recite their bismillah and their call to prayer. at last we arrived at aden, where a troop of somali lads came on board, with their bawling voices and their necklaces and their mop-heads of mutton wool, now and then plastered with lime. they sell water, firewood, fowls, eggs, and so forth. we landed at aden for a few hours. it is a wild, desolate spot; the dark basalt mountains give it a sombre look. richard and i spent some hours with the wife of the governor, or station commandant, at her house. it was terribly hot. i think it was aden where the sailors reappeared who had died and gone to a certain fiery place; and on being asked why they came back, they replied that they had caught cold, and had got leave to come home and fetch their blankets! we returned at half-past four in the afternoon to our ship and the pilgrims. the weather that night became very rough, and during the night a bengali fell overboard. his companion, who witnessed the accident, said nothing; and on being asked later where he was, replied casually, "i saw him fall overboard about three hours ago." such are the ways of these peculiar pilgrims. they have no more sympathy for one another than cattle. none would give a draught of water to the dying; and as for praying over the corpses before throwing them overboard, if they could help it they would scarcely take the trouble. it was too rough all the next day for reading or writing; and to add to our discomfort two russian passengers got drunk, and fought at the table, and called each other "liar and coward," "snob and thief," "spy and menial," and other choice epithets. however, their bark was worse than their bite, for they cooled down after they had succeeded in upsetting us all. i staggered about on deck for the next few days as much as possible, and again did what i could for pilgrims; but our russian passengers aforesaid brought me word later that when those who must in any case have expired, died, the others said it was i who poisoned them; and that was all the thanks i got for my pains. if it were so, i wonder why did the whole ship run after me for help? one old man said, "come, o bountiful one, and sit a little amongst us and examine my wife, who has the itch, and give her something to cure it." but i got wary, and i said, "if i were to give her any medicine, she will presently die of weakness, and i shall be blamed for her death." however, i did what i could. in some of the cases i asked my maid to come and help me; but she turned away in disgust, and said, "no thank you; i have the nose of a princess, and cannot do such work." and really it was horrible, for many came to me daily to wash, clean, anoint, and tie up their feet, which were covered with sores and worms. on january a north-east wind set in with violence. every one was dreadfully sick. the ship danced like a cricket-ball, and the pilgrims howled with fright, and six died. the next day the weather cleared up, and it lasted fine until we reached bombay. we had a delightful evening, with balmy air, crescent moon, and stars, and the dalmatian sailors sang glees. that day another pilgrim died, and was robbed. his body was rifled of his bit of money as he lay dying, and they fought like cats before his eyes for the money he had been too avaricious to buy food with and keep himself alive. at last, betimes, on february , the thirty-third day after leaving trieste, a haze of hills arose from the eastward horizon, and we knew it to be india. then the blue water waxed green, greenish, and brown, like to liquid mud. the gulls became tamer and more numerous, and jetsam and flotsam drifted past us. we sighted land very early. as we were running in the pilot came alongside, and called up to the captain, "have you any sickness on board?" the answer was, "yes." "then," said the pilot, "run up the yellow flag. i will keep alongside in a boat, and you make for butcher's island" (a horrible quarantine station). i was standing on the bridge, and, seeing the yellow flag hoisted, and hearing the orders, felt convinced that there was a mistake. so i made a trumpet with my hands, and holloaed down to the pilot, "why have you run up that flag? we have got no disease." "oh yes you have; either cholera or small-pox or yellow jack." "we have nothing of the sort," i answered. "then why did the captain answer 'yes'?" he replied. "because it is the only english word he knows," i cried. then he asked me for particulars, and said he would go off for the doctor, and we were to stand at a reasonable distance from bombay. this took place in a spacious bay, surrounded by mountains, a poor imitation of the bay of rio. presently the doctor arrived. richard explained, and we were allowed to land. i shall never forget the thankfulness of the pilgrims, or the rush they made for the shore. they swarmed like rats down the ropes, hardly waiting for the boats. they gave richard and me a sort of cheer, as they attributed their escape from quarantine to our intervention. indeed, if we had been herded together a few more days, some disease must have broken out. and thus we set foot in india. chapter xxii. india. ( ). where'er i roam, whatever realms to see, my heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee. goldsmith. on arriving at bombay, we housed ourselves at watson's esplanade hotel, a very large building. we went to see the sights of the town, and i was very much interested in all that i saw, though the populace struck me as being stupid and uninteresting, not like the arabs at all. as i was new to india i was much struck by the cows with humps; by brown men with patches of mud on their foreheads, a stamp showing their brahmin caste; by children, and big children too, with no garments except a string of silver bells; and by men lying in their palanquins, so like our hospital litter that i said, "dear me! the small-pox must be very bad, for i see some one being carried to the hospital every minute." the picturesque trees, the coloured temples, and the parsee palaces, garnished for weddings, also impressed themselves upon my mind. the next day we made an excursion to see the caves of elephanta. these caves are on an island about an hour's steaming from bombay. they are very wonderful, and are natural temples, or chapels, to shiva in his triune form, brahma, vishnu, and shiva, and other gods, and are carved or hewn out of the solid rock. the entrance to the caves is clothed with luxuriant verdure. the day following a friend drove us with his own team out to bandora, about twelve miles from bombay, where he had a charming bungalow in a wild spot close to the sea. we drove through the mahim woods--a grand, wild, straggling forest of palms of all kinds, acacias, and banyan trees. the bungalow was rural, solitary, and refreshing, something after the fashion of the eagle's nest we had made for ourselves at bludan in the old days in syria. towards sunset the duke of sutherland (who, then lord stafford, had visited us at damascus) and other friends arrived, and we had a very jolly dinner and evening. it was the eve of a great feast, and young boys dressed like tigers came and performed some native dancing, with gestures of fighting and clawing one another, which was exceedingly graceful. the feast was the _tabut_, or muharram, a moslem miracle play; and on our return to bombay i went to see it. i had to go alone, because richard had seen it before, and none of the other europeans apparently cared to see it at all. the crowd was so great i had to get a policeman's help. they let me into the playhouse at last. the whole place was a blaze of lamps and mirrors. a brazier filled with wood was flaring up, and there was a large white tank of water. it was an extraordinary sight. the fanaticism, frenzy, and the shrieks of the crowd made a great impression on me. the play was a tragedy, a passion play; and the religious emotion was so intense and so contagious that, although i could not understand a word, i found myself weeping with the rest. among other things, during our stay at bombay, we went to the races at byculla, a very pretty sight, though not in the least like an english racecourse. the eastern swells were on the ground and in carriages, and the europeans in the club stand. there was only one good jockey, and whatever horse he rode won, even when the others were more likely. there was an arab horse which ought to have beaten everything, but the clumsy black rider sat like a sack and ruined his chances. i saw that at once, and won nine bets one after another. we went to a great many festivities during our stay at bombay. among other things we breakfasted with a persian mirza, who knew richard when he was at bombay in . after breakfast--quite a persian feast--i visited his harim, where we women smoked a narghileh and discussed religious topics, and they tried to convert me to el islam. i also went to the wedding feast of the daughter of one of the most charming hindu gentlemen, whose name is so long that i do not quote it, a most brilliant entertainment. i also went to some steeplechases and a garden party at parell (government house). there was a large attendance, and much dressing; it was something like a mild chiswick party. i amused myself with talking to the bishop. i also went to the byculla ball, which was very well done. while at bombay i saw the mango trick for the first time. it is apt to astonish one at first to see a tree planted and grow before one's eyes without any apparent means to accomplish it. the indian jugglers are clever, but i have seen better at cairo. we were tired of the child being killed in the basket, and the mango trick soon became stale. on february we left bombay for matheran, up in the mountains. we went by train to narel; but the last stage of the journey, after narel, had to be performed on horseback, or rather pony-back. we rode through seven miles of splendid mountain scenery, an ascent of two thousand seven hundred feet. carriages would not come here unless they were carried upon the head like the philanthropist's wheelbarrows by the africans of sierra leone. our road was very rough, and our ponies stumbled and shied at the dogs. i was badly dressed for the occasion. my small hired saddle cut me; it was loose, and had too long a stirrup; and although we were only two hours ascending, and six hours out, i was tired by the time we arrived at matheran. the next day we were up betimes. i was delighted with the wooded lanes and the wild flowers, the pure atmosphere, and the lights and shadows playing on the big foliage. we looked down on magnificent ravines among buttressed-shaped mountains. the fantastic ghats rose up out of the plain before us. on clear days there was a lovely view of bombay and the sea with the bright sun shining upon it. the scenery everywhere was grand and bold. we made several excursions in the neighbourhood, and i found the natives, or jungle people, very interesting. on the rd we left matheran. we started early in the morning for narel, walked down the steep descent from matheran, then rode. we arrived hot and a little tired at narel station, and the train came in at a.m. we mounted the break, and much enjoyed the ascent of the highlands, arriving in about three hours at lanauli on the bhor ghat. at lanauli we found a fairly comfortable hotel, though it was terribly hot. what made the heat worse was that most of the houses at lanauli were covered with corrugated -iron roofs which were bad for clothes, as they sweated rusty drops all over the room, which left long stains on one's linen and dresses. i came away with everything ruined. the air was delicious, like that of sao paulo or damascus in the spring. the next morning we were up and off at dawn to the karla caves. there was brought to the door at dawn for richard a jibbing, backing pony, with vicious eyes, and for me a mangy horse like a knifeboard, spavined, with weak legs, and very aged, but nevertheless showing signs of "blood." on top of this poor beast was a saddle big enough for a girl of ten, and i, being eleven stone, felt ashamed to mount. however, there was nothing else to be done. we rode four miles along the road, and then crossed a river valley of the mountains. here we descended, and had to climb a goatlike path until we came to what looked like a gash or ridge in the mountain-side, with a belt of trees. when we got to the top, we sat on the stones, facing one of the most wonderful buddhist temples in india. it was shaped just like our cathedrals, with a horseshoe roof of teak-wood, which has defied the ravages of time. the brahmins keep this temple. on either side of the entrances are splendid carved lions, larger than life. a little temple outside is consecrated by the brahmins to devi. we were not allowed to go nearer to this goddess than past a triangular ornament covered with big bells; but they lit it for us and let us peep in, and it disclosed a woman's face and figure so horribly ugly as to give one a nightmare--a large, round, red face, with squinting eyes, open mouth, hideous teeth, and a gash on her cheek and forehead. she is the goddess of destruction, and is purposely made frightful. it was very hot returning. my poor horse suddenly faltered, giving a wrench to my back, and bringing my heart into my mouth when it almost sat down behind. we passed troops of brinjari, whose procession lasted for about two miles. this is a very strong, wild race, which only marries among its own tribe. the women were very picturesquely dressed, and glared at me defiantly when i laughed and spoke to them. they carried their babies in baskets on their heads. we got home about a.m., so that we had made our excursion betimes. after breakfast and bath we went to the station. soon our train came up, and after a two and a half hours' journey through the indrauni river valley we arrived at poonah. the next day we drove all about poonah, and went to see the palace of the peshwas, in the indian bazar. it is now used as a library below and a native law courts above. then we went to parbat, the maharatta chief's palace. there are three pagodas in this building, and one small temple particularly struck me. as it was sunset the wild yet mournful sound of tom-tom and kettle and cymbal and reed suddenly struck up. i could have shut my eyes and fancied myself in camp again in the desert, with the wild sword-dances being performed by the arabs. the following day at evening we left poonah for hyderabad. we travelled all night and next day, and arrived towards evening. hyderabad lies eighteen hundred feet above sea-level. as most people know, it is by far the largest and most important native city in india, and is ruled over by our faithful ally the nizam. richard and i were to be the guests of major and mrs. nevill; and our kind friends met us cordially at the station. in those days major nevill was the english officer who commanded the nizam's troops; and though he ranked as major, he was really commander-in-chief, having no one over him except sir salar jung. mrs. nevill was the eldest daughter of our talented predecessor in the consulate at trieste, charles lever, the novelist. she was most charming, and a perfect horsewoman. we had delightful quarters in major nevill's "compound." the rooms were divided into sleeping- and bath- rooms, and tents were thrown out from either entrance. the front opened into the garden. two servants, a man and a woman, were placed at our disposal. in short, nothing was wanting to our comfort. that night we went to a dinner-party and ball at government house--sir richard and lady meade's. next morning we were up betimes, and out on elephants to see the town. it was my first mount on an elephant, and my sensations were decidedly new. the beasts look very imposing with their gaudy trappings; and as we rode through hyderabad we were most cordially greeted by all. the houses were flat, something like those of damascus; and the streets were broad and spanned by high arches, whose bold simplicity was very striking. the nizam's palace, at least a mile long, was covered with delicate tracery; and many a mosque, like lacework, rose here and there. but the _cachet_ of all in hyderabad was size, boldness, and simplicity. after inspecting the town we proceeded to the palace of sir salar jung. we found him a noble, chivalrous, large-hearted arab gentleman, of the very best stamp; and throughout our stay at hyderabad he was most kind to us. his palace contained about seven courts with fountains, and was perfectly magnificent; but unfortunately, instead of being furnished with oriental luxury, which is so grand and rich, it was full of european things--glass, porcelain, and bad pictures. one room, however, was quite unique: the ceiling and walls were thickly studded with china-- cups, saucers, plates, and so forth--which would have aroused the envy of any china-maniac in london. sir salar entertained us to a most luxurious breakfast, and when that was over showed us a splendid collection of weapons, consisting of swords, sheaths, and daggers, studded with gorgeous jewels. after that we inspected the stables, which reminded me somewhat of the burlington arcade, for they were open at both ends, and the loose boxes, where the shops would be, opened into a passage running down the centre. there were about a hundred thorough-bred arab and persian horses. when we left sir salar, he presented me with four bottles of attar of roses. the next few days formed a round of festivity. there were breakfasts, dinner-parties at the residency and elsewhere, with a little music to follow, and many excursions. sir salar jung lent me a beautiful grey arab, large, powerful and showy. he had never before had a side-saddle on, but he did not seem to mind it a bit. among other places we visited the palace of the wikar shums ool umara, one of the three great dignitaries of the nizam's country, where we were received with great honour by a guard of soldiers and a band of music. the wikar was a thin, small, well-bred old gentleman, with a yellow silk robe and a necklace of large emeralds. he was attended by a fat, jolly son in a green velvet dressing-gown, and one tall, thin, sallow-faced youth, who looked like a bird with the pip. we had a capital breakfast. the hall was full of retainers and servants, who pressed me to eat as they served the dishes, and "take mutton cutlet, 'im very good" was whispered in my ear with an excellent english accent. we then visited the jewellery of the palace, a most beautiful collection; and the sacred armour, which surpasses description. at last we saw something unique--an ostrich race. the man mounts, sits back, puts his legs under the wings, and locks his feet under the breast. the birds go at a tremendous pace, and kick like a horse. the next day we witnessed an assault-of-arms. there were about two hundred performers, and three hundred to look on. there were some very good gymnastics, sword exercises, single-stick, and so on. they also showed us some cock-fighting, and indeed all sorts of fighting. they fight every kind of animal, goats, birds, even quails and larks, which are very plucky, and want to fight; but they pull them off if they want to ill-use one another too much. i did not care to see this, and went away. the next day we drove to the country palace of the amir el kebir. he was the third of the three great men in hyderabad, who jointly managed the nizam's affairs. the other two were sir salar jung, regent and prime minister, and the wikar shums ool umara. they were all relations of the nizam. here again was a beautiful palace in gardens, full of storks, pigeons, and other birds. besides birds, there were flowers; and all the gardens and terraces were covered with honeysuckle. we inspected the town also, each riding on a separate elephant. and when that was over every one went back to breakfast with the amir; and a charming breakfast it was, with delicious mangoes. our host wore a lovely cashmere robe, like a dressing-gown, and gorgeous jewels. our last recollections of hyderabad were brilliant, for sir salar jung gave a magnificent evening _fete_. one of the large courts of the palace was illuminated: the starlight was above us, the blaze of wax lights and chandeliers lit up every hall around the court, and coloured lamps and flowers were everywhere. there was a nautch, which i thought very stupid, for the girls did nothing but eat sweetmeats, and occasionally ran forward and twirled round for a moment with a half-bold, semi- conscious look; and only one was barely good-looking. perhaps that is the nautch to dance before ladies; but in syria, i remember, they danced much better without being "shocking." we had a most delicious dinner afterwards, at which we were waited on by retainers in wild, picturesque costumes. when that was over, the band played. we walked about and conversed, were presented with attar of roses, and went home. in the morning we struck out for secunderabad. it was a prosperous european station, with three regiments, but nothing interesting. we proceeded on elephants to golconda, a most interesting place; but as no european has ever been permitted to enter it, i can only describe what we were allowed to see without. we viewed the town from outside, and saw a hill covered with buildings. the throne-hall, with arched windows, they say is a mere shell. the king's palace and defences occupy the mound which is in the midst of the town. the town proper is on the flat ground. it is surrounded by walls, battlements and towers, and reminded me of old damascus and jerusalem. in it dwells many an old feudal chief. past these walls no european or christian has ever been allowed. the tombs of the kings are very ancient, and are situated outside the town. we were admitted to these, and they reminded me of the tower tombs of palmyra. they were enormous domes, set on a square, broad base, the upper section beautifully carved, or covered with persian tiles, which bore arabic and hindustani inscriptions. abdullah's tomb and that of his mother are the best. the prevailing style in both is a dome standing on an oblong or square, both of grey granite. the predominant colour is white, and in some cases picked out with green. there was also a beautiful garden of palm trees and a labyrinth of arches. we wandered about this romantic spot, of which we had heard so much, and thought of all the mines and riches of golconda. it was a balmy night when we were there; fireflies spangled the domed tombs in the palm gardens, lit by a crescent moon. i could not forget that i was in the birthplace of the famed koh-i-noor. we returned to hyderabad, and next morning we rose at four o'clock, and took the train at seven to return to bombay. our kind host and hostess, the nevills, and sir richard meade, the governor, came to see us off. we had a comfortable carriage, and the railway officials were most kind and civil; but the heat was so great that they were walking up and down periodically to arouse the passengers, as they have occasionally been found dead, owing to the heat; and two or three cases happened about that time. when we got down to bombay, we found it all _en fete_ for the departure of the prince of wales, who was then doing his celebrated indian tour. i shall never forget the enthusiasm on that occasion. the prince was looking strong and well, brown, handsome, and happy, and every inch a royal imperial prince and future emperor. he went away taking with him the hearts of all his subjects and the golden opinions of all true men and women. we stayed at bombay some little time, and among other things we visited the towers of silence, or parsee charnel-house, the burying-place of the "fire worshippers," which are situated on a hill-summit outside bombay. we ascended by a giant staircase, half a mile long, overhung by palms and tropical vegetation. we obtained a splendid view of bombay from this eminence, which we should have enjoyed had it not been that the palms immediately around us were thick with myriads of large black vultures, gorged with corpses of the small-pox and cholera epidemic, which was then raging in bombay. the air was so heavy with their breath that (though people say it was impossible) i felt my head affected as long as we remained there. these myriads of birds feed only on corpses, and of necessity they must breathe and exhale what they feed upon. they fattened upon what bare contact would kill us; they clustered in thousands. this burying-place, or garden, was full of public and private family towers. the great public tower is divided into three circles, with a well in the middle. it has an entrance and four outlets for water. first, there is a place for clothes, and a tank, like a huge metal barrel lying on its side. here the priests, who are the operators, leave their garments. a large procession of parsees, having accompanied the body as far as this spot, turn and wait outside the tower. the priests then place the body, if a man, in the first circle; if a woman, in the second circle; if a child, in the third: in the centre there is the door, well covered with a grating. the priests then stay and watch. the vultures descend; they fly round the moment they see a procession coming, and have to be kept at bay until the right moment. the body is picked clean in an hour by these vultures. it is considered very lucky if they pick out the right eye first instead of the left, and the fact is reported by the priests to the sorrowing relatives. when the bones are perfectly clean, a parsee priest pushes them into the well. when rain comes, it carries off the ashes and bones; and the water runs through these four outlets, with charcoal at the mouths to purify it, before entering and defiling the earth, which would become putrid and cause fever. the parsees will not defile the earth by being buried in it, and consider it is an honour to have a _living sepulchre_. the vultures have on an average, when there is no epidemic, about three bodies a day, so that they can never be said to starve. the whole thing struck me as being revolting and disgusting in the extreme, and i was glad to descend from this melancholy height to bombay. we had a good deal of gaiety during our stay in bombay, and every one was most kind. we saw many interesting people, and made many pleasant excursions which were too numerous to be mentioned in detail here. i have given a description of the parsee burial-ground, and i think at the risk of being thought morbid that i must also describe our visit to the hindu smashan, or burning-ground, in the sonapur quarter, where we saw a funeral, or rather a cremation. the corpse was covered with flowers, the forehead reddened with sandalwood, and the mouth blackened. the bier was carried by several men, and one bore sacred fire in an earthenware pot. the body was then laid upon the pyre; every one walked up and put a little water in the mouth of the corpse, just as we throw dust on the coffin; they then piled more layers of wood on the body, leaving it in the middle of the pile. then the relatives, beginning with the nearest, took burning brands to apply to the wood, and the corpse was burned. the ashes and bones are thrown into the sea. it was unpleasant, but not nearly so revolting to me as the vultures in the parsee burying-ground. all the mourners were hindu except ourselves, and they stayed and watched the corpse burning. shortly the clothes caught fire, and then the feet. after that we saw no more except a great blaze, and smelt a smell of roasted flesh, which mingles with the sandalwood perfume of bombay. the smashan, or burning-ground, is dotted with these burning-places. a very interesting visit for me was to the pinjarpole, or hospital for animals sick, maimed, and incurable. it was in the centre of the native quarter of bombay, and was founded forty years ago by sir jamsetji jijibhoy, who also left money for its support. i was told that the animals here were neglected and starved; but we took them quite unawares, and were delighted to find the contrary the case. there were old bullocks here that had been tortured and had their tails wrung off, which is the popular way in bombay of making them go faster. there were orphan goats and calves, starving kittens and dogs. the blind, the maimed, the wounded of the animal creation, here found a home. i confess that i admire the religion that believes in animals having a kind of soul and a future, and permits their having a refuge where at least no one can hurt them, and where they can get food and shelter. god is too just to create things, without any fault of their own, only for slow and constant torture, for death, and utter annihilation. turning now to society at bombay, and indeed indian society generally, i must say that it is not to be outdone for hospitality. there is a certain amount of formality about precedence in all english stations, and if one could only dispense with it society would be twice as charming and attractive. i do not mean of course the formality of etiquette and good-breeding, but of all those silly little conventions and rules which arise for the most part from unimportant people trying to make themselves of importance. of course they make a great point about what is called "official rank" in india, and the women squabble terribly over their warrants of precedence: the gradations thereof would puzzle even the chamberlain of some petty german court. the anglo-indian ladies of bombay struck me for the most part as spiritless. they had a faded, washed-out look; and i do not wonder at it, considering the life they lead. they get up about nine, breakfast and pay or receive visits, then tiffen, siesta, a drive to the apollo bunder, to hear the band, or to meet their husbands at the fort, dine and bed--that is the programme of the day. the men are better because they have cricket and polo. i found nobody stiff individually, but society very much so in the mass. the order of precedence seemed to be uppermost in every mind, and as an outsider i thought how tedious "ye manners and customs of the anglo-indians" would be all the year round. i found the native populace much more interesting. the great mass consists of konkani moslems, with dark features and scraggy beards. they were clad in chintz turbans, resembling the parsee headgear, and in long cotton coats, with shoes turned up at the toes, and short drawers or pyjamas. there were also persians, with a totally different type of face, and clothed in quite a different way, mainly in white with white turbans. there were arabs from the persian gulf, sitting and lolling in the coffee-houses. there were athletic afghans, and many other strange tribes. there were conjurers and snake-charmers, vendors of pipes and mangoes, and hindu women in colours that pale those of egypt and syria. there were two sorts of parsees, one white-turbaned, and the other whose headgear was black, spotted with red. i was much struck with the immense variety of turban on the men, and the _choli_ and headgear on the women. some of the turbans were of the size of a moderate round tea-table. others fit the head tight. some are worn straight, and some are cocked sideways. some are red and horned. the _choli_ is a bodice which is put on the female child, who never knows what stays are. it always supports the bosom and she is never without it day or night, unless after marriage, and whilst she is growing it is of course changed to her size from time to time. they are of all colours and shapes, according to the race. no englishwoman could wear one, unless it were made on purpose for her; but i cannot explain why. bombay servants are dull and stupid. they always do the wrong thing for preference. they break everything they touch, and then burst into a "yah, yah, yah!" like a monkey. if you leave half a bottle of sherry, they will fill it up with hock, and say, "are they not both white wines, sa'b?" if you call for your tea, the servant will bring you a saucer, and stare at you. if you ask why your tea is not ready, he will run downstairs and bring you a spoon, and so on. as he walks about barefoot you never hear him approach. you think you are alone in the room, when suddenly you are made to jump by seeing a black face close to you, star- gazing. if you have a visitor, you will see the door slowly open, and a black face protruded at least six times in a quarter of an hour. they are intensely curious, but otherwise as stolid as owls. on april we started for mahabaleshwar, the favourite of all the sanatoria in india, save the neilgherries, which are so far off as to be a very expensive journey from bombay. mahabaleshwar, in the western ghats, is therefore largely visited by europeans from bombay. we left bombay by the . express train, reaching poonah in seven hours. the air was like blasts out of a heated furnace. we dined at poonah at a very comfortable inn. the distance from poonah to mahabaleshwar was seventy five miles by road; so as we were going on the same evening we ordered a trap, and after dinner we set forth. i cannot say it was a comfortable journey, for the springs of the trap were broken, and projections were sticking through the hard, narrow cushions in all directions into our unhappy bodies. nevertheless we enjoyed the drive very much. it was a charming night, the moon late, being in first quarter. we saw a great moslem _fete_ coming out of poonah at night. the hills were illuminated in patterns and letters. we slept when it was dark, and i remember we drank a great deal of water, for it was a most thirsty night. at a.m. we passed a wayside bungalow at soorool, where we brought out our basket and tea, and had milk from the cow belonging to the old soldier who kept the bungalow. at the foot of the third steep mountain, pasarni, we passed through wye (wahi), one of the prettiest and most interesting places, with the prettiest women in western india, besides being a village of temples and holy tanks. the general effect of the temples, which were strewn about in all sizes and shapes, was that of a series of _blancmange_ moulds. at wahi we alighted from the trap, and our ascent up the steep pasarni ghat was performed for us by sixteen coolies. it occupied us about two hours, and was very hot and dusty, and cruelly hard work; but the coolies did it much better than horses could have done. once we came to a travelling bungalow, and stopped a few minutes to tie up some of our broken springs. after this we were very tired, and the last thirteen miles seemed almost insupportable. at last we entered the verdure of mahabaleshwar at the summit, , feet above sea-level but the inaccessibility of the place is compensated for by its interest when you arrive there, just as palmyra is more precious than ba'albak. when at last we arrived we were thoroughly tired out. we dined, and went to bed. we had been out twenty-five hours, and had had no sleep for forty-one hours. i did not even remember the end of my dinner, and i have no recollection of how i got into bed for very sleepiness. we lodged at the mahabaleshwar hotel, which was very cheap, clean, and comfortable. the next morning we were up at a.m., and drove in a _tonga_, a sort of tea-cart, with small _tattoo_ ponies, to elphinstone point, and to see the temples. it was a most enjoyable excursion; but it was quite spoiled for me by the brutal way in which the driver beat the poor little "tats" with his thick cowhide whip. it was misery to me. i got quite nervous; i bullied the driver, took his whip away, promised _bakshish_ if he would not do it, and finally tried to drive myself. then the foolish ponies stood stock-still directly i took the reins, and would not budge without the whip. at this point richard cut in, and swore at the driver for being so cruel, and scolded me for spoiling an excursion by my ridiculous sensibilities. then my fox- terrier put in her oar, and tried to bite the coachman for beating the ponies; and not being allowed, she laid her head on my shoulder and went into hysterics--the tears actually ran down her cheeks. we had a grand view from elphinstone point, and the temples also were interesting. we were glad to get back again at a.m., for the sun was very trying. we made several pleasant excursions during our stay, and people were very kind. all the same, i did not greatly care for mahabaleshwar. there was too much society; one could not ruralize enough. "sets" are the rule, and priggishness is rampant, even in the primeval forest. our visit was a brief one, and then we returned to bombay. after two days at bombay richard and i set sail in the british indian steamship company's _rajpootna_ for distant and deserted goa, a thirty- six hours' passage. it was a calm, fine evening when we started, but intensely hot. the next day there was a heavy swell, and many were ill. i went to bed thoroughly tired out, expecting to land the next morning. about five o'clock, as the captain told me overnight not to hurry myself, i got up leisurely. presently a black steward came down, and said: "please, ma'am, the agent's here with your boat to convey you ashore. the captain desired me to say that he's going to steam on directly." i was just at the stage of my toilet which rendered it impossible for me to open the door or come out, so i called through the keyhole: "please go with my compliments to the captain, and beg him to give me ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and tell my husband what is the matter." "i will go, ma'am," he answered; "but i am afraid the captain can't wait. it is his duty to go on." "go!" i shouted; and he went. in two minutes down came the negro again. "captain says it's impossible; in fact the ship's moving now." well, as we were tied to time and many other things, and could not afford to miss our landing, i threw on a shawl and a petticoat, as one might in a shipwreck, and rushed out with my hair down, crying to the steward: "bundle all my things into the boat as well as you can; and if anything is left, take it back to the hotel at bombay." i hurried on deck, and to my surprise found that the steamer was not moving at all. richard and the captain were quietly chatting together, and when they saw me all excited and dishevelled they asked me the cause of my undress and agitation. when i told them, the captain said: "i never sent any message of the kind. i told you last night i should steam on at seven, and it is now only five." i was intensely angry at the idea of a negro servant playing such a practical joke. i was paying pounds sterling for a thirty-six hour's passage; and as i always treated everybody courteously, it was quite uncalled for and unprovoked. i thought it exceedingly impertinent, and told the captain so. nevertheless he did not trouble to inquire into the matter. the bishop of ascalon, vicar-apostolic at bombay, was on board, and i told him about it, and he said that he had been treated just in the same way a year before on the same spot. the idea that such things should be allowed is a little too outrageous. suppose that i had been a delicate and nervous passenger with heart complaint, it might have done me a great deal of harm. a large boat arrived to take us and our baggage ashore. we were cast adrift in the open sea on account of a doubtful shoal. we had eight miles to row before we could reach goa. fortunately there was no storm. we rowed a mile and a half of open sea, five miles of bay, and one and a half of winding river, and at last landed on a little stone pier jutting a few yards into the water. we found a total absence of anything at goa but the barest necessaries of life. there was no inn and no tent. we had either to sleep in our filthy open boat, or take our tents and everything with us. goa is not healthy enough to sleep out _al fresco_. fortunately a kind-hearted man, who was the agent of the steamers, and his wife, seeing the plight we were in, conceded us a small room in their house with their only spare bed. luckily we had one of those large straw pondicherry reclining-chairs, which i just bought from the captain of the steamer, and a rug; so richard and i took the bed in turns night about, the other in the chair. we did not mind much, for we had come to see goa, and were used to roughing it better out of doors than inside. there was little to be bought in goa; but all that the residents had to give they offered with alacrity. it is the worst climate i ever was in, and i have experienced many bad ones. the thermometer was not nearly so high as i have known it in other places, but the depression was fearful. there was not a breath of air in goa even at night, and the thirst was agonizing; even the water was hot, and the more one drank the more one wanted: it was a sort of purgatory. i cannot think how the people manage to live there: the place was simply _dead_; there is no other word for it. of all the places i have ever been to, in sandy deserts and primeval forests, goa was the worst. however, richard wanted to revisit it, and i wanted to see it also with a particular object, which was to pay my respects to the shrine of the apostle of india, st. francis xavier, which is situated in old goa. we hired the only horse in the country, a poor old screw of a pony, broken down by mange and starvation and sores; and we harnessed him to the only vehicle we could find, a small open thing of wood made in the year b.c., with room for two persons only. the wheels were nearly off, and the spring of one side was broken. the harness was made of old rusty chains and bits of string tied together. our coachman and footman were two boys in little dirty shirts, with something round the loins kept together with bits of twine, and bare legs peeping out underneath like two sticks of chocolate. our first drive was to cazalem, a place which reminded me of the barra at santos, in brazil. here several europeans lived, i mean native portuguese, mainly officials of the government. as richard wrote a book about goa when he was there some thirty years before, there is not much that i can add to his description of the place. our next drive was to old goa, where is the tomb of st. francis xavier. nothing is left of old goa but churches and monasteries. in the distance, with its glittering steeples and domes, it looks a grand place; but when we entered it, i found it to be a city of the dead--indeed it was the very abomination of desolation. the bom jesus is the church dedicated to st. francis xavier, my favourite saint, on account of his conversion of so many unbelievers. it is after the same pattern as all other portuguese churches, a long, whitewashed, barn-shaped building. the object of my devotion, the tomb, is contained in a recess on a side of the altar dedicated to xavier, and consists of a magnificently carved silver sarcophagus, enriched with _alto relievi_, representing different acts of the saint's life. inside is a gold box containing the remains of the saint, shown to people with a great feast once in a century. we made many excursions around and about goa. in consequence of the dreadful climate they had of course to be either very early or very late. i shall never forget the moonlight scenery of the distant bay. the dull grey piles of ruined, desolate habitations, the dark hills clothed with a semi-transparent mist, the little streams glistening like lines of silver over the plain, and the purple surface of the creek--such was our night picture of goa. we made two boat expeditions together--one to see a coffee plantation, in which is a petrified forest. each expedition occupied two or three days. we embarked for the first in a filthy boat, full of unmentionable vermin, and started down the river in the evening, with storms of thunder and lightning and wind preluding the monsoon. on arrival we toiled up two miles of steep, rocky paths through cocoa groves. at the bottom of the hill was a little rivulet, and pieces of petrified wood were sticking to the bank. as we ascended the hill again we found the petrification scattered all over the ground; they were composed chiefly of palms and pines; and most interesting they were. we returned from this expedition with our skins in a state of eruption from the bites of the lice and the stings of the mosquitoes. our last day at goa was a very pleasant one. we had received a telegram saying the steamer would pass outside goa at midnight, and would pick us up for the return journey to bombay. these steamers are due once in a fortnight, and this one was long past her time. everybody was sorry that we were leaving, and we had great hospitality. in the morning we were entertained at breakfast by a gentleman who owned the largest and the best house in goa. we had every variety of native food and fruit in abundance, good cool air and water--the latter produced by hanging the earthen water-bottles in the window, clothed with wet hay or grass. we were, in all, ten at table, native and european. then the heat came on, and we had to retire. in the evening we were taken for an excursion in a boat to cazalem. we coasted along for an hour, and sang glees under a fine moon, accompanied by a heavy swell. we were carried ashore on the shoulders of the natives, and were heralded first by the watch- dogs and then by the european inmates, who did not expect us. they were assembled in the verandah playing cards by the light of torches. we passed a merry evening and returned to goa by carriage. the seat gave way, and we had to sit on the edges. on our return the night was dark, but we at once started in a large open boat, with four men to row and one to steer, to reach our steamer bound for bombay, which, as i have already explained, did not pass nearer goa than eight miles. we rowed down the river, and then across the bay for three hours, against wind and tide, bow on to heavy rollers, and at last reached the mouth of the bay, where is the fort. we remained bobbing about in the open sea in the trough of the great waves for a considerable time, and a violent storm of rain, thunder, and lightning came on, so we put back to the fort to find shelter under some arches. then we went to sleep, leaving the boat _wala_ to watch for the steamer. at . i was awakened by the sound of a gun booming across the water. i sprang up and aroused the others; but we could not see the lights of the steamer, and turned to sleep. an officer passed out of the fort, and i fancied he said to another man that the ship was in; but he only looked at us and passed on. presently i felt more fidgety, and making a trumpet of my hands i called out to the secretary, who answered back that the ship had been laying to three-quarters of an hour, and that we should have gone off when the gun fired. people are so lazy and indolent in this climate that he did not trouble to let us know it before, though he was left there for that purpose. if we had not happened to have the mails and the agent with us in the boat, the ship would have gone on without us, which would have been an appalling disaster. so i stirred them up, and we were soon under way again and out to sea. by-and-by i saw the lights of the steamer, which looked about three miles off. knowing the independence of these captains and the futility of complaints, i trembled lest the steamer should put farther to sea, and determined that no effort of mine should be spared to prevent it. richard slept or pretended to sleep, and so did some of the others; but i managed adroitly to be awkward with the boat-hook, and occasionally to prick their shins. i urged the boat _walas_ on with perpetual promises of _bakshish_. everybody except myself was behaving with oriental calm, and leaving it to kismet. it was of no use doing anything to richard, so i pitched into the secretary, who really had been most kind. "can't you shout 'mails?'" i cried to him, as we got nearer. "they might hear you. you can shout loud enough when nobody wants to hear you." at last, after an hour of anxiety, we reached the ship; but heavy seas kept washing us away from the ladder. no one had the energy to hold on to the rope, or hold the boat-hook to keep us close to her, so at last i did it myself, richard laughing all the while at their supineness, and at my making myself so officious and energetic. but it was absolutely necessary. an english sailor threw me the rope. "thanks," i cried, as i took advantage of an enormous wave to spring on to the ladder; "i am the only man in the boat to-night." all came on board with us, and we had a parting stirrup-cup, in which they drank my health as "the only man in the boat." we then said farewell to our friends and to goa. we stayed at bombay no longer than was absolutely necessary, and we embarked on our return journey to trieste in the austrian lloyd's _minerva_. it was an uneventful voyage, take it altogether. there were a good many passengers on board, who grumbled greatly at the food, as the manner is, and it was certainly a very hot and uncomfortable voyage. we stopped at aden again, and passed jeddah. thence we steamed to suez, where we anchored. here richard and myself and six others left the ship to have a little run through egypt, and we were soon surrounded by a number of richard's old friends of the mecca days. it was a lovely evening when we landed, familiar to all who know suez, with its blue sea, yellow sands, azure sky, and pink-and-purple mountains. our visit was to moses' wells, about three miles in the arabian desert--a most picturesque spot, surrounded by tropical verdure, intermingled with fellah huts. the most romantic spot was a single tiny spring under an isolated palm tree, all alone on a little hillock of sand in the desert, far from all else. i said to richard, "that tree and that spring have been created for each other, like you and i." we took our _kayf_ for some hours with the arabs, and we had some delicious arab coffee and narghileh with them. we remained a fortnight in egypt, or rather more; and after then we embarked in another lloyd's, the _apollo_, for trieste, where we arrived very quickly. i was glad to get back to the beautiful little city again, to receive the ever-warm greetings of our friends. chapter xxiii. trieste again. ( - ). the busy fingers fly; the eyes may see only the glancing needle that they hold; but all my life is blossoming inwardly, and every breath is like a litany; while through each labour, like a thread of gold, is woven the sweet consciousness of thee. on their return from india isabel and her husband settled down at trieste, and pursued for the most part a quiet literary life. it was summer, and they swam a good deal by way of recreation, and went frequently to opcina. they started a habit of not dining at home, and of asking their intimates to meet them at one _cafe_ or another, where they would sup in the open air, and drink the wine of the country and smoke cigarettes. these pleasant evenings were quite a feature of their life at this time. their house too became the centre of many a _reunion_, and a mecca to which many a literary pilgrim and social, scientific, and political celebrity turned his steps when travelling by way of trieste. there is no better description of the burtons' life at trieste at this time than that which appeared in _the world_ in , written by burton's old oxford friend, mr. alfred bates richards. lady burton has quoted it in full in her life of her husband; but i think that a small part of it which relates to herself will bear repeating here: "captain and mrs. burton are well, if airily, lodged in a flat composed of ten rooms, separated by a corridor, with a picture of our saviour, a statuette of st. joseph with a lamp, and the madonna with another lamp burning before it. thus far the belongings are all of the cross; but no sooner are we landed in the little drawing-rooms than signs of the crescent appear. small, but artistically arranged, the rooms, opening in to one another, are bright with oriental hangings, with trays and dishes of gold and silver, brass trays and goblets, chibouques with great amber mouthpieces, and all kinds of eastern treasures mingled with family souvenirs. there is no carpet; but a bedawin rug occupies the middle of the floor, and vies in brilliancy of colour with persian enamels and bits of good old china. there are no sofas, but plenty of divans covered with damascus stuffs. thus far the interior is as mussulman as the exterior is christian; but a curious effect is produced among the oriental _mise en scene_ by the presence of a pianoforte and a compact library of well- chosen books. there is too another library here, greatly cherished by mrs. burton; to wit, a collection of her husband's work in about fifty volumes. on the walls there are many interesting relics, medals, and diplomas for honour, one of which is especially prized by captain burton. it is the _brevet de pointe_ earned in france for swordsmanship. near this hangs a picture of the damascus home of the burtons, by frederick leighton. "as the guest is inspecting this bright bit of colour, he will be aroused by the full strident tones of a voice skilled in many languages, but never so full and hearty as when bidding a friend welcome. the speaker, richard burton, is a living proof that intense work, mental and physical, sojourn in torrid and frozen climes, danger from dagger and from pestilence, 'age' a person of good sound constitution far less than may be supposed. . . . "leading the way from the drawing-rooms, or divans, he takes us through bedrooms and dressing-rooms furnished in spartan simplicity, with the little iron bedsteads covered with bear-skins, and supplied with writing- tables and lamps, beside which repose the bible, the shakspeare, the euclid, and the breviary, which go with captain and mrs. burton on all their wanderings. his gifted wife, one of the arundells of wardour, is, as becomes a scion of an ancient anglo-saxon and norman catholic house, strongly attached to the church of rome; but religious opinion is never allowed to disturb the peace of the burton household, the head of which is laughingly accused of mohammedanism by his friends. the little rooms are completely lined with rough deal shelves, containing perhaps eight thousand or more volumes in every western language, as well as in arabic, persian, and hindustani. every odd corner is piled with weapons, guns, pistols, boar-spears, swords of every shape and make, foils and masks, chronometers, barometers, and all kinds of scientific instruments. one cupboard is full of medicines necessary for oriental expeditions or for mrs. burton's trieste poor, and on it is written 'the pharmacy.' idols are not wanting, for elephant-nosed gumpati is there cheek by jowl with vishnu. "the most remarkable objects in the room just alluded to are the rough deal tables, which occupy most of the floor space. they are almost like kitchen or ironing tables. there may be eleven of them, each covered with writing materials. at one of them sits mrs. burton, in morning _neglige_, a gray choga--the long loose indian dressing-gown of camel's hair--topped by a smoking-cap of the same material. she rises and greets her husband's old friend with the cheeriest voice in the world. 'i see you are looking at our tables; every one does. dick likes a separate table for every book, and when he is tired of one he goes to another. there are no tables of any size in trieste, so i had these made as soon as i came. they are so nice. we may upset the ink-bottles as often as we like without anybody being put out of the way. these three little rooms are our "den," where we live, work and receive our _intimes_; and we leave the doors open, so that we may consult over our work. look at our view!' from the windows, looking landward, one may see an expanse of country extending over thirty or forty miles, the hills covered with foliage, through which peep trim villas. beyond the hills higher mountains dotted with villages, a bit of the wild karso peering from above. on the other side lies spread the adriatic, with miramar, poor maximilian's home and hobby, lying on a rock projecting into the blue water, and on the opposite coast are the carnian alps, capped with snow. 'why we live so high up,' explained captain burton, 'is easily explained. to begin with we are in good condition, and run up and down stairs like squirrels. we live on the fourth story because there is no fifth. if i had a _campagna_, and gardens and servants, and horses and carriages, i should feel tied, weighed down in fact. with a flat and two or three maid-servants one has only to lock the door and go. it feels like "light marching order," as if we were always ready for an expedition; and it is a comfortable place to some back to. look at our land-and-sea-scape: we have air, light, and tranquillity; no dust, no noise, no street smells. here my wife receives something like seventy very intimate friends every friday--an exercise of hospitality to which i have no objection save one, and that is met by the height we live at. there is in every town a lot of old women of both sexes, who sit for hours talking about the weather and the scandal of the place and this contingent cannot face the stairs.' . . . "the _menage burton_ is conducted on the early rising principle. about four or five o'clock our hosts are astir, and already in their 'den,' drinking tea made over a spirit-lamp, and eating bread and fruit, reading and studying languages. by noon the morning's work is over, including the consumption of a cup of soup, the ablution without which no true believer is happy, and the obligations of a frankish toilet. then comes a stroll to the fencing-school, kept by an excellent broadswordsman, and old german trooper. for an hour captain and mrs. burton fence in the school, if the weather be cold; if it be warm, they make for the water, and often swim for a couple of hours. "then comes a spell of work at the consulate. 'i have my consulate,' the chief explains, 'in the heart of the town. i do not want my jack tar in my sanctum; and when he wants me he has generally been on the spree, and got into trouble.' while the husband is engaged in his official duties, the wife is abroad promoting a society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, a necessary institution in southern countries, where, on the purely gratuitous hypothesis that the so-called lower animals have no soul, the utmost brutality is shown in the treatment of them. 'you see,' remarks our host, 'that my wife and i are like an elder and younger living _en garcon_. we divide the work. i take all the hard and the scientific part, and make her do all the rest. when we have worked all day, and have said all we have to say to each other, we want relaxation. to that end we have formed a little "mess" with fifteen friends at the _table d'hote_ of the hotel de la ville, where we get a good dinner and a pint of the country wine made on the hillside for a florin and a half. by this plan we escape the bore of housekeeping, and are relieved from the curse of domesticity, which we both hate. at dinner we hear the news if any, take our coffee, cigarettes, and _kirsch_ outside the hotel, then go home and read ourselves to sleep, and to-morrow _da capo_.'" this summer, while at gorizia, isabel saw again the comte de chambord (henri v. of france) and the comtesse. she had been received by them at venice before her marriage, and they remembered her and sent for her. they were staying at gorizia with a small court. isabel had an audience of them twice, and they desired that she should dine with them. she had to explain that she had nothing but a travelling-dress; but they waived that objection, and allowed her to "come as she was." this incident will seem a small thing to many; but it was a great thing to isabel, for like many members of old english catholic families, she was a strong legitimist, and she appreciated the kindness which was shown to her by this king and queen _de jure_ with their shadowy court and handful of faithful followers, more than if they had come into their own and received her royally at the tuileries. a little later burton took it into his head to make an expedition to midian in arabia. many years before, in his arab days, burton had come upon this golden land (though at that time he thought little of gold and much of reputation); and a quarter of a century later, seeing egypt suffering from lack of the precious metal, and knowing that midian belonged to egypt, he asked leave of the foreign office to go to cairo, where he imparted his views on the subject of the wealth of the mines of midian to khedive ismail. his highness was so much impressed that he equipped an expedition in a few days, and sent burton to explore the land. his report of the possibilities of the mines of midian was so promising that the khedive engaged him to come back the following winter, and himself applied to the english foreign office for the loan of burton's services. burton accordingly went again to midian, and discovered the region of gold and silver and precious stones. he sketched the whole country, planned an expedition, and brought back various metals for analysis. the khedive was delighted with the prospect of wealth untold, and he made contracts with burton which, had they been carried out, would have placed him and his wife in luxury for their lives. it used to be a joke with the burtons at this time that they would die "duke and duchess of midian." unfortunately ismail khedive abdicated just when the third expedition was about to come off, and the new khedive, tewfik, did not consider himself bound by any act of his father. the english government would not stir in the matter, and so burton not only lost his chance of realizing a large fortune, but also the money which he and his wife had got together for paying expenses in connexion with the expedition, and which they thought would surely have been refunded. the only gain was that burton wrote some interesting books on the land of midian, its history, and its inhabitants. until the day of her death lady burton never ceased to believe in the vast wealth which was lying waste in the mines of midian, and used to wax quite enthusiastic about it. isabel was anxious to accompany her husband on his first expedition to midian; but as there was not enough money for both of them, she had to make the usual sacrifice and stay at home. during her husband's absence she spent most of her time at opcina and up in the mountains, as she was busily engaged in correcting the proofs of one of his books. when burton started on his second expedition to midian, it was arranged between him and his wife that, as ismail khedive was in such a very good humour, isabel should make her way out to cairo, and induce the khedive to send her after her husband to midian. she was eager and impatient to start, and as soon as she could possibly complete her arrangements she went on board an austrian lloyd's and made the voyage from trieste to alexandria. when she arrived at the latter place, she found a letter from her husband, "you are not to attempt to join me unless you can do so in proper order." this rather upset her plans, as she did not know what "proper order" meant. she therefore went on at once to cairo, made her representations in the proper quarter, and then returned to suez. after remaining there some time in a state of great impatience, she was informed that a ship was going to be sent out, and that she was to have the offer of going in her, though it was intimated to her privately that the khedive and the governor, said bey, very much hoped that she would refuse. she had no intention of refusing, and the next morning she went down to the ship, which was an egyptian man-of-war, the _senaar_. it was to anchor off the coast until the expedition returned from the desert, and then bring them back. the captain, who was astonished at her turning up, received her with honour. all hands were piped on deck, and a guard and everything provided for her. notwithstanding their courtesy, isabel's woman's instinct told her that she was a most unwelcome guest--far more unwelcome than she had anticipated. she saw at once that the situation was impossible, and prepared to beat a graceful retreat. so, after looking round the quarters prepared for her, she thanked the captain and officers exceedingly for their courtesy, and explained, to their evident relief, that she would not trouble them after all. she returned to the town, took some small rooms at the suez hotel, and applied herself to literary work. the reason she gave as an excuse for her change of mind was that her expedition would be too dangerous, as she would have to cross the red sea in an open _sambuk_ with head-winds blowing, and then to find her way alone across the desert upon a camel to midian. the danger, however, would hardly have weighed with her, for she was always careless of her own safety. the real reason was that she was afraid of injuring her husband's prospects with the khedive. she was at suez some time. at last, after many weeks, the governor sent her a slip of paper saying, "the _senaar_ is in sight." it was the ship by which burton returned. she went on board to welcome him, and found him looking very ill and tired. the khedive sent a special train to meet him on his return from midian, and the burtons went at once to cairo, where they were received with great _eclat_. from cairo the burtons went back to trieste, or rather to opcina, for a brief rest, and then proceeded to london. from london they went to dublin, where they joined the annual meeting of the british association. burton delivered several lectures, and isabel was busy writing her _a. e. i._ (_arabia, egypt, and india_). from dublin they returned to london, which they made their headquarters for some time, breaking their stay in town by many country visits. the most memorable of these was a visit to lord and lady salisbury at hatfield, where they again met lord beaconsfield, who, strange to say, though he had much in common with the burtons--notably a love of the east and mysticism, and had a liking for them, and for isabel especially, with whom he was wont to discuss her favourite _tancred_, his book--never did anything for them, though he must have known better than most men how burton was thrown away at a place like trieste. perhaps burton's strong anti- semitic views had something to do with the neglect. it was during this stay in london that the burtons attended a meeting on spiritualism, at which burton read a paper. on the subject of lady burton's attitude towards spiritualism we shall have something to say later; but it is better to interpolate here a speech which she made at this meeting, as it explains her views in her own words: "it appears to me that spiritualism, as practised in england, is quite a different matter to that practised in the east, as spoken of by captain burton. easterns are organized for such manifestations, especially the arabs. it causes them no surprise; they take it as a natural thing, as a matter of course; in short, it is no religion to them. easterns of this organization exhale the force; it seems to be an atmosphere surrounding the individual; and i have frequently in common conversation had so strong a perception of it as to withdraw to a distance on any pretext, allowing a current of air to pass from door or window between them and myself. there is no doubt that some strange force or power is at work, trying to thrust itself up in the world, and is well worthy of attention. when i say 'new,' i mean in our hemisphere. i believe it to be as old as time in eastern countries. i think we are receiving it wrongly. when handled by science, and when it shall become stronger and clearer, it will rank very high. hailed in our matter-of-fact england as a new religion by people who are not organized for it, by people who are wildly, earnestly seeking for the truth, when they have it at home--some on their domestic hearth, and others next door waiting for them--it can only act as a decoy to a crowd of sensation-seekers, who yearn to see a ghost as they would go to a pantomime; and this can only weaken and degrade it, and distract attention from its possible true object--science. used vulgarly, as we have all sometimes seen it used, after misleading and crazing a small portion of sensitive persons, it must fall to the ground."[ ] early in february, , her book _a. e. i._ came out, and the publisher was so pleased with it that he gave a party in honour of the authoress. there were seventeen guests, and there were seventeen copies of the book piled in a pyramid in the middle of the table. after supper one was given to each guest. they must have made a merry night of it, for isabel notes that the gaieties began at p.m. and did not end until a.m. notwithstanding this auspicious send-off, the book did not reach anything like the success achieved by her first work, _the inner life of syria_. the longest leave comes to an end, and it was now time to return to trieste. burton started ahead as was his wont, leaving his wife to "pay, pack, and follow." she paid and she packed, and when she was leaving the house to follow a beggar woman asked her for charity. she gave her a shilling, and the woman said, "god bless you! may you reach your home without an accident." she must have had the evil eye; for the day after, when isabel arrived in paris, en route for trieste, she tumbled down the hotel stairs from top to bottom, arriving at the bottom unconscious. she was picked up and put to bed. when she came to herself she exclaimed, "do not send the carriage away; i must get my work done and go on." but when she attempted to rise, she fainted again. the visible injuries resolved themselves into a bad sprain and twisted ankle. after the fourth day she had herself bound up and conveyed to the train. she travelled straight through to turin. there she had to be carried to an inn, as she was too ill to go on. the next day she insisted on being packed up again, and travelled to mestre. the heat was intense, and she had to wait four hours in the wretched station at mestre, during which she suffered great pain. then she travelled on by the _post-zug_, a slow train, and arrived at trieste at half-past eight in the morning where her eyes were gladdened by seeing her husband waiting to receive her on the platform. she was carried home and promptly put to bed. this illustrates the literal way in which she used to obey her husband's slightest directions. he told her to follow him "at once," and she followed him, not even resting on account of her accident. in fact it is absolutely true to say that nothing short of death would have prevented her from carrying out his slightest instructions to the letter. the accident which she met with in paris turned out to be more serious than she had at first supposed. it was a long time before she could leave her bed. she had injured her back and ankle very badly, and she underwent a long course of massage and baths; but she never permanently got quite well again. she said herself, "strength, health, and nerve i had hitherto looked upon as a sort of right of nature, and supposed that everybody had them; i never felt grateful for them as a blessing, but i began to learn what suffering was from this date." henceforth we see her not as the woman who was ready to share any dare-devil adventure or hair- breadth escape, and who revelled in a free and roving life of travel, but rather as the wife, whose thought now turned more than ever to the delights of home, and how to add to her husband's domestic comforts. expressions of sympathy and goodwill were called forth by her accident from friends far and wide. among others, lady salisbury wrote: "chalet cecil, puys, dieppe, september . "dear mrs. burton, "we were all very sorry to hear of your misfortunes, and i hope that the viennese doctors and their baths have now cured you and restored you to perfect health. it was indeed most trying to have that accident at paris just as you were recovering from your illness in london. i suppose you are now thinking of the preparations for your egyptian trip, unless the new khedive has stopped it, which he is not at all likely to have done, as its success would redound so much to his own advantage. we have been here for the last two months, and are beginning to think our holiday is over, and that we ought to go back to england again. "of course we have all been talking and thinking of nothing but cabul lately. the afghans really seem like the constantinople dogs, quite untamable. i suppose we shall soon hear of the english troops entering cabul and all the horrors of the punishment, which, as is usual in such cases, is almost sure to fall on the innocent instead of the guilty. "this country seems very prosperous. people are rich and orderly, and every one seems as busy and happy as possible; the harbour is full of ships, and new houses are being built and new shops opened; and, according to m. waddington, who was here the other day, this is the same all over france. what is the real truth about count a----'s resignation? is it health or weariness, or what is it? we are all puzzled at it here. i suppose prince bismarck's visit will lead to some _eclaircissement_. "we hear occasionally from lord beaconsfield, who seems very well. he is at hughenden. we often think of the pleasant days you spent with us at hatfield when he was there. "with kind regards to captain burton and your self from us all, "believe me very sincerely yours, "g. salisbury." in the autumn isabel went to venice on a brief visit; but had to return shortly, as burton had made up his mind to go once more to egypt to try his luck about the midian mines. there was nothing for her to do but to see him off (there was no money for two) and remain behind to spend her christmas alone at trieste. soon after the new year isabel began to get ill again. she had not really recovered from her fall in paris nine months before. the doctors advised her to see a bone-setter. she wrote and told her husband, who was then in egypt, and he replied by telegram ordering her to go home to london at once. she reached london, and went through a course of medical treatment. she notes during this dreary period a visit from martin tupper, who came to see her on the subject of cruelty to animals. (burton always joked with his wife about "tupper and the animals.") he presented her with a copy of his _proverbial philosophy_, and also wrote her the letter which is reproduced here: "west croydon, january , . "my dear madam, "i hope you will allow a personal stranger, though haply on both sides a book friend, to thank you for your very graphic and interesting _a. e. i._ travels; may the volume truly be to you and yours an everlasting possession! but the special reason i have at present for troubling you with my praise is because in to-day's reading of your eleventh chapter i cannot but feel how one we are in pity and hope for the dear and innocent lower animals so cruelly treated by their savage monarch, man, everywhere during this evil aeon of the earth. to prove my sympathy as no new feeling, i may refer your kindly curiosity to my proverbial chapters on 'the future of animals,' to many of my occasional poems, and to the enclosed, which i hope it may please you to accept. you may like to know also, as a kindred spirit (and pray don't think me boastful), that years ago, through a personal communication with louis napoleon, i have a happy reason to believe that the undersigned was instrumental in stopping the horrors of altorf, besides other similar efforts for poor animals in america and elsewhere. i believe, with you, that they have a good future in prospect (perhaps in what is called the millennial era of our world), that they understand us and our language, especially as to oaths, and that those humble friends will be met and known by us in our happier state to come. "but i must not weary you with what might be expanded into a treatise; i am confident we agree; and i know in my own experiences (as doubtless you do in yours) that the poor horses and dogs we have pitied and helped, love and appreciate and may hereafter be found capable of rewarding--in some small way--those who are good to them in this our mutual stage of trial. "with my best regards then, and due thanks, allow me to subscribe myself "your very sincere servant, "martin f. tupper." isabel was anxious about her husband, as things in egypt were in a very unsettled condition. ismail khedive had now abdicated, and tewfik had succeeded him. this, as we know, upset burton's plans; he got no farther than egypt on his way to midian, and remained at alexandria eating out his heart in despair at his bad luck. one night on coming home from dinner he was attacked by a band of roughs, who hit him over the head from behind with a sharp instrument. it was supposed to be foul play with a motive, as the only thing they stole was his divining-rod for gold, which he carried about with him, and they did not take his money. he kept the loss a secret, in order that it should be no hindrance to him if he had the chance to go back to work the mines of midian. but that chance never came. he returned to trieste, and did not let his wife know of the assault until she joined him there on her return from london. in the meantime she had not been idle. despite her ill-health when in london she had been agitating for her husband's promotion, and had built high hopes on the kind interest of lord beaconsfield and lord salisbury. unfortunately for her lord beaconsfield's last administration collapsed in april with a crash, and her hopes were buried in the ruins. lord granville, who had recalled burton from damascus, succeeded lord salisbury at the foreign office, and she knew that she could not hope for much from lord granville. when she saw the turn the general election of had taken, she made a last despairing effort to induce the out- going government to do something for her husband before the ministers gave up their seals. she received the following kind letter from lady salisbury: "hatfield house, hatfield, herts, april . "my dear mrs. burton, "i received your note here yesterday, and fear it is too late to do anything, as the lists went in yesterday, and lord beaconsfield is with the queen to-day. so we must bear our misfortunes as best we can, and hope for better days. i cannot help feeling that this change is too violent to last long. but who can say? it is altogether so astonishing. as regards captain burton, i hope you will not lose anything. so valuable a public servant will, i hope, be sure of recognition whatever government may be in office. "with our united kind regards to him and to you, "yours very sincerely, "g. salisbury." it was a sad home-coming for isabel; for not only were her hopes, so near fruition, dashed to the ground, but she found her husband very ill from the effects of his accident and from gout. the first thing she did was to send for a doctor, and take him off to opcina. it is sad to note that from this time we find in their letters and diaries frequent complaints of sickness and suffering. they, who had rarely known what illness meant, now had it with them as an almost constant companion. from opcina they went to oberammergau to see the passion play, which impressed them both very much, though in different ways. isabel wrote a long description of this play, which has never been published. burton also wrote an account, which has seen the light. when they returned to trieste, they had a good many visitors, among others the late mr. w. h. smith and his family. he was always a kind friend to isabel, as indeed he was to every one he liked. and that (like lord beaconsfield, lord salisbury, lord clarendon, lord derby, and many other leading statesmen) he had a high opinion of her abilities is, i think evident from the following letter. men do not write in this way to stupid women: " , grosvenor place, s.w., march , . "dear mrs. burton, "your kind letters have reached us since our arrival here. we were earlier in our return than we had at first intended, as parliament was called together so soon; but our house was not ready, and my family had to stay in the country for some little time. it is very good of you to send me the _lusiads_. i am keeping them for those delightful days of quiet and enjoyment which are to be had sometimes in the country, but not in these stormy days in london. are we to have peace and quiet? ireland will be sullenly quiet now under coercion, after having been stimulated by oratory almost to madness. south africa is a very serious matter indeed. i am told the dutch colonists within the cape will remain loyal; but our reputation as an invincible race suffers with all the natives. and then the european east, nothing at present can look blacker, and all because of passionate words and hatred. i am afraid too we are low in the estimation of the people of the west, and likely to remain so. "your good christmas wishes reached us long after the new year; but we had a very pleasant christmas at malta with many of our old naval friends, and we spent our new year's day at a little port in elba. what a charming island it is! small, no doubt; but not a bad prison for an emperor if he had books and papers and some powers of self- control. coming up to nice we had very heavy weather; but the yacht behaved well, and it was certainly pleasanter at sea with a strong easterly wind than on shore. "there is to be a great candahar debate in the lords to-night. lord lytton speaks remarkably well--as an old debater would--and great interest is felt in the event. all the same candahar will be given up; and some time hence, if we have soldiers left, we shall probably have to fight our way back again to it. "pray give our united kind regards to captain burton. i shall be so glad to hear any news if anything transpires at trieste. "yours very sincerely, "w. h. smith." notes: . speech at the british national association of spiritualists, december , . chapter xxiv. the shadows lengthen. ( - ). o tired heart! god knows, not you nor i. the next four or five years were comparatively uneventful. there was little hope of promotion from the new government, so the burtons resigned themselves to trieste with what grace they might; and though they were constantly agitating for promotion and change, neither the promotion nor the change came. burton hated trieste; he chafed at the restricted field for his energies which it afforded him; and had it not been for frequent expeditions of a more or less hazardous nature, and his literary labours, life at the austrian seaport would have been intolerable for him. with isabel it was different. as the years went on she grew to love the place and the people, and to form many ties and interests which it would have been hard for her to break. notwithstanding this she warmly seconded her husband's efforts to obtain from the foreign office some other post, and she was never weary of bringing his claims before the notice of the government, the public, and any influential friends who might be likely to help. indeed the record of her diary during these years is one of continuous struggle on her husband's behalf, which is varied only by anxiety for his health. "i am like a swimmer battling against strong waves," she writes to a friend about this time, "and i think my life will always be thus. were i struggling only for myself, i should long before have tired; but since it is for my dear one's sake i shall fight on so long as life lasts. every now and then one seems to reach the crest of the wave, and that gives one courage; but how long a time it is when one is in the depths!" to another friend she wrote: "we have dropped into our old triestine lives. we have made our opcina den very comfortable. we have taken the big room and dick's old one, opened them, and shut the end one, which is too cold, and put in lamps, stoves, and stores and comforts of all kinds; in fact partly refurnished. i am much better, and can walk a little now; so i walk up half-way from trieste on saturday, dick all the way; sunday mass in village, and walk; and monday walk down. we keep all the week's letters for here (opcina) and all the week's newspapers to read, and do our translations. i have begun _ariosto_, but am rather disheartened. we have set up a _tir au pistolet_ in the rooms, which are long enough (opened) to give twenty-two paces, and we have brought up some foils. the triestines think us as mad as hatters to come up here, on account of the weather, which is 'seasonable'--_bora_, snow, and frozen fingers. i am interesting myself in the two hundred and twenty badly behaved slav children in the village. dick's _lusiads_ are making a stir. my indian sketches and our oberammergau have gone to the bad. my publisher, as i told you, took to evil ways, failed, and eventually died december . however, i hope to rise like a phoenix out of the ashes. the rest of our week is passed in fencing three times a week, twice a week italian, twice a week german. friday i receive the trieste world from twelve noon to p.m., with accompaniments of arab coffee, cigarettes, and liqueurs. dick is always grinding at literature as usual; so what with helping dick (we are studying something together), literature, looking after the little _menage_, and philanthropic business, church work, the animals, and the poor, i am very happy and busy, and i think stronger; albeit i have little rest or _amusement_, according to the doctor's ideas. in fact i have a winter i love, a quiet darby and joan by our fireside, which i seldom get."[ ] the principal event at trieste in appears to have been the arrival of the british squadron in july. burton and his wife were always of a most hospitable nature; they would have spent their last penny in entertaining their friends. the first thing they did on the arrival of the squadron was to invite the captains and officers of every ship to an evening _fete champetre_ and ball at opcina. in addition to this they sent out about eight hundred invitations to the captains and officers of the austrian navy and other men-of-war anchored at trieste, the officers of the austrian regiments stationed there, the governor and staff, and the austrian authorities, the consular corps, and all their private friends, to the number of about one hundred and fifty of the principal people of trieste. they turned the gardens of the little inn at opcina into a sort of vauxhall or rosherville for the occasion. there were refreshment tents, and seats, and benches, and barrels of wine and beer, and elaborate decorations of flowers, and coloured lamps and flags, and no end of fireworks. when the eventful evening arrived, and everything was in full swing, the weather, which had been perfectly fine heretofore, broke up with the startling suddenness which is peculiar to the adriatic. the heavens opened, and to the accompaniment of thunder and lightning the rain descended in torrents, flooding the tents, quenching the illuminations, and reducing the whole ground to a slough of despond. the guests naturally rushed for shelter to the little inn, which was much too small to accommodate them. the police made for the barrels of beer, and were soon incapable of keeping order, and a mob of villagers who had assembled to witness the festivities from without, broke through the barricades, made a raid on the refreshment tent, smashed the dishes, and carried off all the best things to eat and drink. burton took it very philosophically; but isabel, overcome with vexation and disappointment, burst into tears. the sight, however, of the raiders soon turned her grief to anger. she pulled herself together, got a party of young braves, sallied forth into the grounds, and made a rush for the tent. with her little band she rescued all that was left of the food and drink, and then cleared away the furniture in the lower part of the inn, told the band to play, and set her guests dancing, while she rigged up an impromptu supper- room in the garret. this spirited conduct soon restored the chaos to something like order. the guests--the majority of whom were english-- unconscious of the havoc which had been wrought, enjoyed themselves right merrily, and the party did not break up until five o'clock in the morning. the british squadron, both officers and men were well received at trieste, and became most popular during their stay there. isabel made great friends with the sailors, and she rescued one of them from what might have been a serious squabble. one day she saw a sailor picking the apples off a tree in the austrian admiral's garden, which overhung the road. the sentry came out, and a crowd of people assembled. jack tar looked at them scornfully, and went on munching his apple until they laid hands on him, when he gave a sweeping backhander, which knocked one or two of them over. everything was ripe for a row, when isabel stepped in between the combatants, and said to the sailor, "i am your consul's wife, and they are trying to make you understand that these are the austrian admiral's apples, and you must not eat them." the sailor apologized, said he did not know he had done any wrong, and did not understand what they were all jabbering about; and he saluted and went. then isabel explained to the sentry, and generally poured oil on the troubled waters. the sailor told the story to his comrades, and thus she became very popular among them. the sailors liked trieste so much that, when the squadron was to leave, eighteen of them did not join their ship; and when they were caught isabel went and interceded for them, and begged the captain not to punish them severely. he said, "oh no, the darlings; wait till i get them on board ship! i will have them tucked up comfortably in bed with nice hot grog." whether her intercession availed is not related. in august, , the burtons started on a trip somewhat farther afield than was their wont for short expeditions. they went up to veldes, a lovely spot, where there was a good inn and first-rate fishing. burton was absent without leave from the foreign office; and though he had left the consulate in charge of the vice-consul, his conduct was, officially speaking, irregular, and both he and his wife were afraid of meeting any one they knew. the first person they saw at the inn was the chaplain of the british embassy at vienna, who might have reported the absentee consul to his ambassador. burton bolted up to bed to avoid him; but isabel thought that the better plan would be to take the bull by the horns. so she went to the chaplain, and made a frank confession that they were truants. he burst out laughing, and said, "my dear lady, i am doing exactly the same thing myself." she then went upstairs, brought burton down again, and the three had a convivial evening together. after this they went on by stages to ischl, where they parted company, burton going to vienna, and isabel to marienbad for a cure. her stay at marienbad she notes as mainly interesting because she made the acquaintance of madame olga novikoff. her cure over, with no good result, she joined her husband at trieste. they stopped there one night to change baggage, and went across to venice, where there was a great meeting of the geographical congress. burton was not asked to meet his fellow-geographers, or to take any part in the congress. the slight was very marked, and both he and his wife felt it keenly. it was only one more instance of the undying prejudice against him in certain quarters. they met many friends, including captain verney lovett cameron. in november burton went with him to the west coast of africa, to report on certain mines which burton had discovered when consul at fernando po. isabel was anxious to accompany them; but it was the usual tale, "my expenses are not paid, and we personally hadn't enough money for two, so i was left behind." the first part of isabel spent without her husband, as he was absent on the guinea coast. she fretted very much at his long absence, and made herself ill with disappointment because she was not able to join him. the following letter shows _inter alia_ how much she felt the separation[ ]: "i was so pleased you liked the scourging i gave the reviewers.[ ] no one has answered me, and it has well spread. i don't know how they could. all dick's friends were very glad. the commentary is out, two vols. (that makes four out and four to come). the 'reviewers reviewed' is a postscript to the commentary, and the glossary is in that too. i wrote the 'reviewers' at duino in june last, and i enjoyed doing it immensely. i put all the reviews in a row on a big table, and lashed myself into a spiteful humour one by one, so that my usually suave pen was dipped with gall and caustic. you will have had my last, i think, from marienbad. i then joined dick at vienna, where we spent a few days; and then went to venice for the _fetes_, which were marvellous, and the queen was lovely. then we came home, and had two charming, quiet, delicious months together; and to my joy he gave up dining out and dined at home _tete-a-tete_; but of course it was overshadowed by the knowledge of the coming parting, which i feel terribly this time, as i go on getting older. we left together in the cunarder _demerara_. her route was trieste, venice, fiume, patras, gibraltar, england. by dropping off at fiume i got ten days on board with him. he leaves her at gibraltar about the th; goes to cadiz, lisbon, madeira, and axim on the west coast. he has to change ship four times, and this is a great anxiety to me in this stormy weather. god keep him safe! once at axim, the mines are all round the coast, and then i dread fever for him. he wishes to make a little trip to the kong mountains, and then i fear natives and beasts. perhaps cameron will be with him; but _entre nous_ cameron is not very solid, and requires a leading hand. if all goes well (d.v., and may he be merciful), we are to meet in london in march, and i hope we shall get a glimpse of you. "i am, as you may think, fearfully sad. i have been nowhere; i neither visit, nor receive, nor go out. men drink when they are sad, women fly into company; but i must fight the battle with my own heart, learn to live alone and work, and when i have conquered i will allow myself to see something of my friends. i dreaded my empty home without children or relatives; but i have braved the worst now. i am cleaning and tidying his room, putting each thing down in its own place; but i won't make it luxurious this time; i have learnt by experience." isabel passed the next three months at trieste busily studying, writing, and carrying out the numerous directions contained in her husband's letters. early in april her doctor discovered that she had the germs of the internal complaint of which she ultimately died. she had noticed all the year that she had been getting weaker and weaker in the fencing-school, until one day she turned faint, and the fencing-master said to her, "why, what's the matter with you? your arms are getting quite limp in using the broad-sword." she did not know what was the matter with her at the time; but soon after she became so ill that she had to take to her bed, and then her doctor discovered the nature of the malady. she did not go to the fencing-school any more after that. in the life of her husband, speaking of the matter, lady burton says that her internal complaint possibly resulted from her fall downstairs in paris in ; but in talking the matter over with her sister, mrs. fitzgerald, a year or two before her death, she recalled another accident which seems the more likely origin of her distressing malady. once when she was riding alone in the woods in brazil she was pursued by a brigand. as she was unarmed, she fled as fast as her horse would carry her. the brigand gave chase, and in the course of an hour's exciting ride isabel's horse stumbled and threw her violently against the pommel of her saddle. fortunately the horse recovered its footing, and she was able to get safely away from her pursuer; but the bruise was a serious one (though she thought little of it at the time), and many years later she came to the conclusion that this was the probable origin of her illness. the third week in april she left trieste for england to meet her husband, who was due at liverpool in may. while she was in london she consulted an eminent surgeon on the subject of her illness, which was then at its beginning. he advised an operation, which he said would be a trifling matter. there is every probability, if she had consented, that she would have recovered, and been alive to this day. but she had a horror of the knife and anaesthetics. nevertheless she would have braved them if it had not been for another consideration, which weighed with her most of all. she knew that an operation of this kind would lay her up for some time, and she would not be able to look after her husband on his return from his long absence. she was afraid too that the knowledge of her illness might worry him, so for his sake she refused the operation, and she kept the knowledge of her malady a secret from him. it is perhaps a little far-fetched to say that by doing this she sacrificed her life for her husband's sake, yet in a sense she may be said to have done so. her first thought, and her only thought, was always of him, and it is literally true to say that she would at any moment cheerfully have laid down her life that he might gain. isabel went to liverpool to meet burton on his return from africa. he came back with captain lovett cameron. there was a great dinner given at liverpool to welcome the wanderers. the next day the burtons went to london, where they stayed for a couple of months through the season, met many interesting people, and were entertained largely. on the last day of july they returned to trieste. in september isabel went again to marienbad for the baths, which did her no good. while there she wrote a letter to _vanity fair_ anent a certain article which spoke of burton and his "much-prized post." she took occasion to point out his public services, and to show that the "much-prized post" was "the poor, hard-earned, little six hundred a year, well earned by forty years' hard toil in the public service." on returning to trieste, she entertained many friends who arrived there for the exhibition, and after that settled down to the usual round again. in october burton was suddenly ordered by the foreign office to go to ghazzeh in syria in search of professor palmer, their old friend and travelling companion, who was lost in the desert. there was then a chance of his being still alive, though the bodies of his companions had been found. burton's knowledge of the bedawin and sinai country was of course specially valuable in such a quest. he started at once. after he had left isabel went into retreat at the convent della osolini at gorzia. the following were among her reflections at this period[ ]: "in retreat at last. i have so long felt the want of one. my life seems to be like an express train, every day bringing fresh things which _must_ be done. i am goaded on by time and circumstances, and god, my first beginning and last end, is always put off, thrust out of the way, to make place for the unimportant, and gets served last and badly. this cannot continue. what friend would have such long-enduring patience with me? none! certainly less a king! far less a husband! how then? shall god be kept waiting until nobody else wants me? how ashamed and miserable i feel! how my heart twinges at the thought of my ingratitude, and the poor return i make for such favours and graces as i have received! god has called me into retreat once more, perhaps for the last time. he has created an unexpected opportunity for me, since my husband has been sent to look for poor palmer's body. i thought i heard him cry, 'beware! do not wait until i drive you to misfortune, but go voluntarily into solitude, prepare for me, and wait for me, till i come to abide with you.' "i am here, my god, according to thy command; thou and i, i and thou, face to face in the silence. oh, speak to my heart, and clear out from it everything that is not of thee, and let me abide with thee awhile! not only speak, but make me understand, and turn my body and spirit and soul into feelings and actions, not words and thoughts alone. "my health and nerves for the past three years have rendered me less practical and assiduous in religion than i was. then i used to essay fine, large, good works, travel, write, and lead a noble and virile life. now i am weaker, and feel a lassitude incidental to my time of life, and i seem to have declined to petty details, small works, dreaming, and making lists and plans of noble things not carried out. it looks like the beginning of the end. "i ask for two worldly petitions, quite submitted to god's will" ( ) that i may be cured, and that dick and i may have good, strong health to be able to work and do good--if we are destined to live. ( ) that if it be god's will, and not bad for us we may get a comfortable independence, without working any more for our bread, and independent of any master save god." isabel returned to trieste when her retreat was concluded; and soon after--much sooner than she expected--her husband returned to her. when he reached gazzeh, burton found sir charles warren already in the field, and he did not want to be interfered with, so that burton came home again and spent christmas with his wife at trieste. thus ended . isabel notes: "after this year misfortunes began to come upon us all, and we have never had another like it." early next year the burtons left their flat in trieste, where they had been for over ten years. something went wrong with the drainage for one thing, and burton took an intense dislike to it for another; and when he took a dislike to a house nothing would ever induce him to remain in it. the only thing to do was to move. they looked all over trieste in search of something suitable, and only saw one house that would do for them, and that was a palazzo, which then seemed quite beyond their means; yet six months later they got into it. it was a large house in a large garden on a wooded eminence looking out to the sea. it had been built in the palmy days of trieste by an english merchant prince, and was one of the best houses in the place. it had a good entrance, so wide that it would have been possible to drive a carriage into the hall. a marble staircase led to the interior, which contained some twenty large rooms, magnificent in size. the house was full of air and light, and the views were charming. one looked over the adriatic, one over the wooded promontory, another towards the open country, and the fourth into gardens and orchards. the early part of was sad to isabel by reason of her husband's failing health and her own illness. in may she went alone to bologna, at her husband's request, for she then told him of the nature of her illness, to consult count mattei, of whom they had heard much from their friend lady paget, ambassadress at vienna. when she arrived at bologna, she found he had gone on to riola, and she followed him thither. mattei's castle was perched on a rock, and to it isabel repaired. "first," she says, "i had to consult a very doubtful-looking mastiff; then appeared a tall, robust well-made, soldierlike-looking form in english costume of blue serge, brigand felt hat, with a long pipe, who looked fifty, and not at all like a doctor. he received me very kindly, and took me up flights of stairs, through courts, into a wainscoted oak room, with fruits and sweets on the table, with barred-iron gates and drawbridges and chains in different parts of the room, that looked as if he could pull one up and put one down into a hole. he talked french and italian; but i soon perceived that he liked italian better, and stuck to it; and i also noticed that, by his mouth and eyes, instead of fifty, he must be about seventy-five. a sumptuous dinner-table was was laid out in an adjoining room, with fruit and flowers. i told him i could not be content, having come so far to see him, to have only a passing quarter of an hour. he listened to all my long complaints about my health most patiently, asked me every question; but he did not ask to examine me, nor look at my tongue, nor feel my pulse, as other doctors do. he said that i did not look like a person with the complaint mentioned, but as if circulation and nerves were out of order. he prescribed four internal and four external remedies and baths. i wrote down all his suggestions, and rehearsed them that he might correct any mistakes."[ ] after the interview with count mattei isabel did not remain at riola, but with all her medicines returned to trieste. the remedies were not, however, of any avail. in june isabel presided over a _fete_ of her society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, and made a long speech, in which she reviewed the work from the beginning, and the difficulties and successes. she wound up as follows: "may none of you ever know the fatigue, anxiety, disgust, heartaches, nervousness, self-abnegation and disappointments of this mission, and the small good drawn out of years of it; for so it seems to me. old residents, and people living up the country, do say that you would not know the town to be the same it was eleven years ago, when i first came. they tell me there is quite a new stamp or horse, a new mode of working and treatment and feeling. i, the workwoman, cannot see it or feel it. i think i am always rolling a stone uphill. i know that you all hear something of what i have to put up with to carry it out--the opposition, and contentions, treachery, abuse, threats and ridicule; and therefore i all the more cherish the friendly hand such a large assembly has gathered together to hold out to me to-day to give me fresh courage. you all know how fond i am of trieste; but it is the very hardest place i ever worked in, and eleven years of it have pretty nearly broken me up. nevertheless i shall always, please god, wherever i am, 'open my mouth for the dumb,' and adhere to my favourite motto: 'fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra.'" for the first time this summer isabel and her husband found the swimming in the sea, which had been one of their favourite recreations at trieste, no longer agreed with them, and they came reluctantly to the conclusion that their swimming must go the way of the fencing, and that the days of their more active physical exercises were over. for the first time also in all the twenty-two years of their married life they began to shirk the early rising, and now no longer got up at or a.m., but at the comparatively late hour of or . a.m. in november burton had a serious attack of gout, which gave him agonies of pain; and it was at last borne in upon him that he would have to make up his mind henceforth to be more or less of an invalid. simultaneously isabel was ill from peritonitis. there seemed to be a curious sympathy between the two, which extended to all things, even to their physical health. on december burton put the following in his diary in red ink: "_this day eleven years i came here. what a shame!_" early in isabel came in for a small legacy of pounds sterling, which was useful to them at the time, as they were far from being well off, and had incurred many expenses consequent on their change of house. she expended the whole of it in additional comforts for her husband during his illness, which unfortunately seemed to get more serious as time went on. in february he quite lost the use of his legs for eight months, which of necessity kept him much in the house. it was during this period that he began his great work _alf laylah wa laylah_, or _the arabian nights_. when i say he began it, that is not strictly speaking correct, for he had been gathering material for years. he merely took in hand the matter which he had already collected thirty years before. he worked at it _con amore_, and it was very soon necessary to call in an amanuensis to copy his manuscript. this year was uneventful. they were absent from trieste a good deal on "cures" and short excursions. burton's health gave him a great deal of trouble; but whenever he was well enough, or could find time from his official duties, he devoted himself to his translation of _the arabian nights_. isabel also worked hard in connexion with it in another way. she had undertaken the financial part of the business, and sent out no less than thirty-four thousand circulars to people with a view to their buying copies of the book. in january and february, , burton was so ill that his wife implored him to throw up the consular service, and live in a place which suited him, away from trieste. of course that meant that they would have to live in a very small way; for if they gave up their appointment at that time and forfeited the salary, they would have been very poor. still, so impressed was isabel that the winter in trieste did not agree with her husband, that she said, "you must never winter here again"; but he said, "i quite agree with you there--we will never winter here again; but i won't throw up the service until i either get morocco or they let me retire on full pension." she then said, "when we go home again, that is what we will try for, that you may retire on full pension, which will be only six years before your time." henceforth she tried for only two things: one, that he might be promoted to morocco, because it was his pet ambition to be consul there before he died, the other, failing morocco, he should be allowed to retire on full pension on account of his health. notwithstanding that she moved heaven and earth to obtain this latter request, it was never granted. in the meantime they were busy writing together the index to _the arabian nights_. on thursday, february , she said to him, "now mind, to-morrow is friday the th. it is our unlucky day, and we have got to be very careful." when the morning dawned, they heard of the death of one of their greatest friends, general gordon, which had taken place on january at kartoum; but the news had been kept from them. at this sad event isabel writes, "we both collapsed together, were ill all day, and profoundly melancholy." notes: . letter to miss bishop from opcina, january , . . letter to miss bishop from trieste, december , . . this refers to _camoens: the commentary, life, and lusiads_. englished by r. f. burton. two vols. containing a glossary, and reviewers reviewed, by isabel burton. . . from her devotional book _lamed_, pp. , . . _life of sir richard burton_, by isabel his wife, vol.ii., p. . chapter xxv. gordon and the burtons. oh! bring us back once more when the world with faith was filled; bring back the fervid zeal, the hearts of fire and steel, the hands that believe and build. the mention of gordon's death suggests that this would be the fittest place to bring to notice the relations which existed between him and the burtons. their acquaintance, which ripened into a strong liking and friendship, may be said to have existed over a period of ten years (from to ), from the time when gordon wrote to ask burton for information concerning victoria nyanza and the regions round about, to the day when he went to his death at kartoum. long before they met in the flesh, gordon and burton knew each other in the spirit, and gordon thought he saw in burton a man after his own heart. in many respects he was right. the two men were curiously alike in their independence of thought and action, in their chivalrous devotion to honour and duty, in their absolute contempt for the world's opinion, in their love of adventure, in their indifference to danger, in their curious mysticism and fatalism, and in the neglect which each suffered from the government until it was too late. they were both born leaders of men, and for that reason indifferent followers, incapable of running quietly in the official harness. least of all could they have worked together, for they were too like one another in some things, and too unlike in others. burton saw this from the first, and later gordon came to see that his view was the right one. but it never prevented either of them from appreciating the great qualities in the other. the correspondence between gordon and the burtons was voluminous. lady burton kept all gordon's letters, intending to publish them some day. i am only carrying out her wishes in publishing them here. both gordon and burton were in the habit of writing quite freely on men and things, and therefore it has been found necessary to suppress some of the letters; but those given will, i think, be found of general interest. the first letter gordon wrote to burton was about fifteen months after he had taken up the governorship of the equatorial provinces. it was as follows: "bedden, south of gondorkoro[ ] miles, "july , . "my dear captain burton, "though i have not had the honour of meeting you, i hope you will not object to give me certain information which i imagine you are most capable of doing. i will first relate to you my proposed movements. at this moment i am just starting from this station for the south. you are aware that hitherto the nile from about eighteen miles south of gondokoro to the junction of it with the unyame hor (apuddo, hiameye, dufte, or mahade, as different people call it) has been considered impassable and a torrential stream. being very much bothered with the difficulties of the land route for this distance, i thought i would establish ports along the river, hoping to find it in steps with portions which might be navigable, instead of what it was supposed to be--viz. a continuous rapid. happily i came on the river at the commencement of its rise at end of march, and found it navigable as far as kerri, which is forty-six miles south of gondokoro, and about forty miles north of the point where the nile is navigable to the lake. as far south as one can see from kerri the river looks good, for the highlands do not approach one another. i have already a station at mahade, and one at kerri, and there remains for me to make another midway between kerri and mahade, to complete my communication with the lake. i go very slowly, and make my stations as i proceed. i cannot reconnoitre between kerri and mahade, but am obliged, when once i move, to move for a permanent object. if i reconnoitred, it would cost me as much time as if i was going to establish myself permanently, and also would alarm the natives, who hitherto have been quiet enough. i do not think that there are any properly so-called cataracts between kerri and the lake. there may be bad rapids; but as the bed of the river is so narrow there will be enough water for my boats, and if the banks are not precipices i count on being able to haul my boats through. we have hauled them through a gap sixty-five yards wide at kerri, where the nile has a tremendous current. now kerri is below the junction of the nile and the asua; while mahade, where all agree the other rapids are, is above the junction; so that i may hope at mahade to have a less violent current to contend with, and to have the asua waters in some degree cushioning up that current. i have little doubt of being able to take my steamer (the one constructed by baker's[ ] engineers at gondokoro) up to kerri, for i have already there boats of as great a draught of water. from mahade it is some one hundred and thirty miles to magungo. about seventy miles south of mahade a split takes place in the river: one branch flows from east, another from west. i imagine that to north of the lake a large accumulation of aquatic vegetation has taken place, and eventually has formed this isle. through this vegetation the victoria nile has cut a passage to the east, and the lake waters have done this to the west. baker passed through a narrow passage from the lake to victoria channel. from magungo to the victoria nile is said to be a torrent to within eighteen miles of karuma falls. perhaps it is also in steps. karuma falls may be passable or not. and then we have isamba and ripon falls. if they are downright cataracts, nothing remains but to make stations at them, and to have an upper and a lower flotilla. if they are rapids, there must be depth of water in such a river in the rainy season to allow of the passage of boats, if you have power to stem the current. "i now come to victoria nyanza; and about this i want to ask you some questions--viz. what is the north frontier of zanzibar? and have we any british interests which would be interfered with by a debouch of the egyptians on the sea? another query is, if the coast north of the equator does not belong to zanzibar, in whose hands is it? are the arabs there refugees from wahhabees of arabia?--for if so, they would be deadly hostile to egypt. to what limit inland are the people acquainted with partial civilization, or in trade with the coast, and accordingly supplied with firearms? could i count on virgin native tribes from lake baringo or ngo to mount kenia--tribes not in close communication with the coast arabs? "my idea is, that till the core of africa is pierced from the coast but little progress will take place among the hordes of natives in the interior. personally i would wish a route to sea, for the present route is more or less hampered by other governors of provinces. by the sea route i should be free. the idea is entirely my own; and i would ask you not to mention it, as (though you are a consul and i have also been one) you must know that nothing would delight the zanzibar consul better than to have the thwarting of such a scheme, inasmuch as it would bring him into notice and give him opportunity to write to f. o. i do not myself wish to go farther east than lake baringo or ngo. but whether egypt is allowed a port or not on the coast, at any rate i may be allowed to pass my caravans through to zanzibar and to get supplies thence. "when i contrast the comparative comfort of my work with the miseries you and other travellers have gone through, i have reason to be thankful. dr. kraft talks of the river dana--debouching into sea under the name of river--as navigable from mount kenia. if so--and rivers are considered highways and free to all flags--i would far sooner have my frontier at mount kenia than descend to the lower lands. "believe me, with many excuses for troubling you, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." burton, who possessed a great and personal knowledge of the nile basin and the tribes inhabiting it, cordially answered gordon's letter, giving him full information and many valuable hints. henceforward the two men frequently corresponded, and got to know one another very well on paper. the next letter of gordon's which i am permitted to give was written the following year: "lardo, october , . "my dear captain burton, "thank you for your letter july , which i received proceeding from the lake albert to this place. i came down from magungo here in eight days. this is a great comfort to me, and i am proud of my road and of the herds of cattle the natives pasture along either side of it without fear. i have been up the victoria nile--viz. lake mesanga. it is a vast lake, but of still shallow water. the river seems to lose itself entirely in it. a narrow passage, scarcely nine feet wide, joins the north end of the victoria nile near mrooli; and judging from the murchison falls-- which are rapids, not falls--i should say victoria lake and victoria nile contribute very little to the true nile. the branch piaggia saw is very doubtful. i could not find it, and the boatmen seem very hazy as to its existence. as for gessi's branch north of albert lake, i could not find that either. and, _entre nous_, i believe in neither of the two branches. the r. g. s. will have my maps of the whole nile from berber to urmdogani on a large scale, and they will show the nature of the river. i go home on leave (d.v.) in january for six months, and then come out again to finish off. you would learn my address from cox & co., craig's court. i would be glad to meet you; for i believe you are not one of those men who bother people, and who pump you in order that they, by writing, might keep themselves before the world. if it was not such a deadly climate, you would find much to interest you in these parts; but it is _very deadly_. an arab at mtesa's[ ] knows you very well. he gave the doctor a letter for you. his name is either ahmed bin hishim or abdullah bin habib. i have had, _entre nous_, a deal of trouble, not yet over, with mtesa, who, as they will find out, is a regular native. i cannot write this, but will tell you. stanley knows it, i expect, by this time. the mission will stay there (mtesa's) about three months: that will settle them, i think. "believe me, with kind regards "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." shortly after this, in december, gordon determined to resign his official position and return to england, as he had great difficulty in adjusting matters, so far as finances were concerned, with the governor-general at kartoum. he went to cairo, and announced his intention of going home to the khedive (ismail), who, however, induced him to promise that he would return to egypt. burton wrote to ask gordon to come, on his journey back to england, round by way of trieste, and talk over matters. gordon replied as follows: "on board 'sumatra', december , . "my dear captain burton, "i received your kind note as i was leaving for brindisi. i am sorry i cannot manage the trieste route. i am not sure what will be my fate. personally, the whole of the future exploration, or rather opening, of the victoria lake to egypt has not a promising future to me, and i do not a bit like the idea of returning. i have been humbugged into saying i would do so, and i suppose must keep my word. i, however, have an instinctive feeling that something may turn up ere i go back, and so feel pretty comfortable about it. i gave gessi a letter to you. he is a zealous and energetic, sharp fellow. i shall not, however, take him back with me even if i go. i do not like having a man with a family hanging on one. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." burton then wrote to gordon, urging him to write a book on his experiences in equatorial africa, and asking what his intentions were about returning. in his reply gordon first broaches the idea which he afterwards returned to again and again--namely, that burton should take up work in egypt. " , cecil street, strand, january , . "thank you for your kind note. gessi wrote to me from trieste, dating his letter only 'trieste,' and i replied to that address, so i suppose the postoffice know him. yes; i am back, but i have escaped persecution. wilson i have heard nothing of. i have not the least intention of publishing anything.[ ] my life and work there was a very humdrum one; and, unlike you, i have no store of knowledge to draw on. (i may tell you your book was thought by us all out in africa as by far the best ever written.) i am not going back to h. h. it is a great pang to me, i assure you; but it is _hopeless, hopeless_ work. why do not you take up the work? you may not be so sensitive as i am. "good-bye, and believe me, "yours very truly, "c. g. gordon." gordon duly returned to egypt, for the khedive held him to his promised word. he was made governor-general of the soudan, darfur, and the equatorial provinces, which were now reunited into one great whole. it was necessary for good administration that gordon should have three governors under him, one for the soudan proper, one for the equatorial provinces, and one for darfur. as soon as gordon had arranged matters with the khedive and entered upon his governor-generalship he wrote to burton, offering him the post of governor-general of darfur. "oomchanga, darfur, june, , . "my dear captain burton, "you now, i see, have pounds sterling a year, a good climate, quiet life, good food, etc., and are engaged in literary inquiries, etc., etc. i have no doubt that you are very comfortable, but i cannot think entirely satisfied with your present small sphere. i have therefore written to the khedive to ask him to give you darfur as governor-general, with , pounds a year, and a couple of secretaries at pounds a year each. darfur is _l'enfer_. the country is a vast sand plain, with but little water; the heat is very great; there is little shooting. the people consist of huge bedawin tribes, and of a settled population in the larger villages. their previous history under the sultans would show them fanatical. i have not found them the least so; in fact i think them even less so than the arabs of cairo. if you got two years' leave from h.m.'s government, you would lose nothing. you know the position of darfur; its frontier through wadi is only fifteen days from lake tchad. on the other side of lake tchad you come on another sultanate, that of bowmon, and you then near the gulf of guinea. darfur is healthy. you will (d.v.) soon have the telegraph to your capital, el tascher. if the khedive asks you, accept the post, and you will do a mint of good, and benefit these poor people. you will also see working out curious problems; you will see these huge tribes of bedawins, to whom the bedawin tribes of arabia are as naught; you will trace their history, etc.; and you will open relations with wadai baginni, etc. i know that you have much important work at the consulate, with the ship captains, etc., and of course it would not be easy to replace you; but it is not every day you use your knowledge of asiatics or of arabia. now is the time for you to make your indelible mark in the world and in these countries. you will be remembered in the literary world, but i would sooner be remembered in egypt as having made darfur. i hope, if his highness writes to you, you will ask for two years' leave and take the post as governor-general. you are commandant of civil and military and finance, and have but very little to do with me beyond demanding what you may want. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." burton's reply was very characteristic: "my dear gordon, "you and i are too much alike. i could not serve under you, nor you under me. i do not look upon the soudan as a lasting thing. i have nothing to depend upon but my salary; and i have a wife, and you have not." perhaps too burton was a little annoyed at gordon apparently taking it for granted that he would jump at darfur. much as he loathed trieste and the life of forced inaction there, he felt this might be to exchange the frying-pan for the fire. pending burton's answer, gordon followed up his first letter by two more: "oomchanga, darfur, june , . "my dear burton, "thanks for your letter may , received to-day. i have answered. . . . _would you be bothered with him?_ i feel certain you would not. what is the use of such men in these countries; they are, as speke was to you, infinitely more bother than use. then why do you put him on me? i have had enough trouble with them already. "you will have my letter about darfur. i must say your task will not be pleasant; but you talk arabic, which i do not; and you will have much to interest you, for most of the old darfur families are of mohammed's family. "i dare say you wonder how i can get on without an interpreter and not knowing arabic. i do not believe in man's free-will, and therefore believe all things are from god and preordained. such being the case, the judgments or decisions i give are fixed to be thus or thus, whether i have exactly hit off all the circumstances or not. this is my raft, and on it i manage to float along, thanks to god, more or less successfully. i do not pretend my belief could commend itself to any wisdom or science, or in fact anything; but as i have said elsewhere, a bag of rice jolting along these roads could, if it had the gift of speech, and if it were god's will, do as well as i do. you may not agree with me. keep your own belief. i get my elixir from mine--viz. that with these views i am comfortable, whether i am a failure or not, and can disregard the world's summary of what i do, or of what i do not do. "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." "dara, july , . "my dear burton, "i have got round to dara _via_ toashia, and hope in four or five days to get to tascher. the _soi-disant_ sultan haroun is said to have left tamee. the people are very good. the fors, or original natives of the land, are the only people partially in revolt. dar for is the land of fors, as dar fertit is the land of the fertits. you would find much to interest you here, for the ulemas are well-read people, and know the old history. i found a lot of chain armour here, just like the armour of saladin's people, time of the crusades, with old helmets, some embossed with gold. they were taken from the sultan ibrahim's bodyguard when he was killed. the sheep are wonderful; some with a regular mane. the people would delight in the interest you would take in them. when the egyptians took the country here, they seized an ancient mosque for a mug. i have given it back and endowed it. there was a great ceremony, and the people are delighted. it is curious how these arab tribes came up here. it appears those of biernan and bagerini came from tripoli; the others came up the nile. the dar fertit lies between these semi- mussulman lands and the negro lands proper. on the border are the niam-niam, who circumcise. i suppose they took it from these arab tribes. i only hope you will come up. you will (d.v.) find no great trouble here by that time, and none of the misery i have had. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." a few weeks later burton's laconic refusal of darfur reached gordon. that gordon was nettled a little is apparent from the opening paragraph of the following letter. but he was far too just not to understand; and so far from resenting burton's frankness, as a lesser man might have done, this incident only served to make him appreciate his rare qualities the more: "en route to berber, october , . "my dear captain burton, " , pounds or indeed , , would never compensate a man for a year spent actively in darfur. but i considered you, from your independence, one of nature's nobility, who did not serve for money. excuse the mistake--if such it is. "i am now going to dongola and assouan, and thence to massowah to see johannis,[ ] and then to berberah _vis-a-vis_ aden, near your old friends the somalis. (now there is a government which might suit you, and which you might develop, paying off old scores by the way for having thwarted you; it is too far off for me to hope to do anything.) i then return to kartoum, and then go to darfur and return to kartoum, and then go to the lakes. why do people die in these countries? do not you, who are a philosopher, think it is due to moral prostration more than to the climate? i think so, and have done so for a long time. my assistant, prout,[ ] has been lingering on the grave's brink for a long time, and i doubt if he will go up again. i have no fear of dying in any climate. 'men now seek honours, not honour.' you put that in one of your books. do you remember it? how true it is! i have often pirated it, and not acknowledged the author, though i believe _you_ stole it. i see wilson is now sir andrew. is it on account of his father's decease? how is he? he wanted to come out, but he could not bear the fatigue. all these experiments of the king of the belgians will come to grief, in spite of the money they have; the different nationalities doom them. kaba rega,[ ] now that we have two steamers on lake albert (which, by the way is, according to mason, one hundred and twenty miles longer than gessi made it), asks for peace, which i am delighted at; he never was to blame, and you will see that, if you read how baker treated him and his ambassadors. baker certainly gave me a nice job in raising him against the government so unnecessarily, even on his own showing (_vide_ his book _ismailia_). _judge justly_. little by little we creep on to our goal--viz. the two lakes; _and nothing can stop us, i think_. mtesa is very good friends, and agrees much more with us than with your missionaries. you know the hopelessness of such a task, till you find a st. paul or st. john. their representatives nowadays want so much a year and a contract. it is all nonsense; no one will stay four years out there. i would like to hear you hold forth on the idol 'livingstone,' etc., and on the slave-trade. setting aside the end to be gained, i think that slave convention is a very just one in many ways towards the people; but we are not an over-just nation towards the weak. i suppose you know that old creature grant, who for seventeen or eighteen years has traded on his wonderful walk. i am grateful to say he does not trouble me now. i would also like to discuss with you the wonderful journey of cameron, but we are too far apart; though when you are at akata or for, i shall be at berenice or suakin. it was very kind of you offering me faulkner. do you remember his uncle in r. n.? stanley will give them some bother; they cannot bear him, and in my belief rather wished he had not come through safe. he will give them a dose for their hard speeches. he is to blame for _writing_ what he did (as baker was). these things may be done, but not advertised. i shall now conclude with kind regards, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." while lady burton was alone at suez in the march of the following year ( ), waiting to meet her husband on his return from the expedition to midian, gordon arrived there. he of course hastened to make the acquaintance of burton's wife. he stayed a week at suez, and during that time isabel and he saw one another every day. she found him "very eccentric, but very charming. i say eccentric, until you got to know and understand him." a warm friendship sprang up between the two, for they had much to talk about and much in common. they were both christian mystics (i use the term in the highest sense); and though they differed on many points of faith (for isabel held that catholicism was the highest form of christian mysticism, and in this gordon did not agree with her), they were at one in regarding religion as a vital principle and a guiding rule of life and action. they were at one too in their love of probing things more true and deep than we mortals know. with regard to more mundane matters, gordon did not scruple to pour cold water on the burtons' golden dream of wealth from the mines of midian, and frankly told isabel that the "midian myth" was worth very little, and that burton would do much better to throw in his lot with him. isabel, however, did not see things in the same light, and she was confident of the future of midian, and had no desire to go to darfur. when burton returned from midian in april, and he and his wife went to cairo at the request of the khedive, they saw a good deal of gordon again. he and burton discussed affairs thoroughly--especially egyptian affairs-- and gordon again expressed his regret that burton did not see his way to joining him. when burton was in london later in the year, he received the following letter from gordon, in which he renewed his offer, increasing the the salary from , pounds to , pounds a year. "kartoum, august , . "my dear burton, "please date, or rather put address on your letters. thanks for yours of july , received to-day. i am very sorry mrs. burton is not well, but hope england has enabled her to regain her health. my arrangement is _letter for letter_. if you write, i will answer. i wish you could undertake the government of zeyla, harar, and berberah, and free me of the bother. why cannot you get two years' leave from f. o., then write (saying it is a suggestion) to h.h., and offer it? i could give, say, , pounds a year from london to your government. do do something to help me, and do it without further reference to me; you would lift a burthen off my shoulders. i have now to stay at kartoum for the finances. i am in a deplorable state. i have a nasty revolt of slandralus at bahr gazelle, which will cost me some trouble; i mean not to fight them, but to blockade them into submission. i am now hard at work against the slave caravans; we have caught fifteen in two months, and i hope by a few judicious hangings to stop their work. i hanged a man the other day for making a eunuch without asking h.h.'s leave. emin effendi, now governor of equator province, is dr. sneitzer; but he is furious if you mention it, and denies that is his name to me; he declares he is a turk. there is something queer about him which i do not understand; he is a queer fellow, very cringing in general, but sometimes bursts out into his natural form. he came up here in a friendless state. he is perhaps the only riddle i have met with in life. he is the man amspldt spoke to you about. amspldt was a useless fellow, and he has no reason to complain of emin effendi. i have sent gessi up to see after the slave-dealers' outbreak. he was humble enough. good-bye! kind regards to mrs. burton. "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." burton again refused, giving the same reasons as before, and reiterating his opinion that the existing state of affairs in the soudan could not last. gordon, seeing his decision was not to be shaken, acquiesced, and did not ask him again. moreover he was losing faith in the soudan himself. a few months later we have him writing as follows: "kartoum, november , . "my dear burton, "thanks for your letter of october , received to-day. i have not forgotten the manuscript from harar, nor the coins. "i wish much i could get a european to go to berberah, zeyla, and harar, at , pounds, or , pounds, a really good man. they keep howling for troops, and give me a deal of trouble. our finances take up all my time; i find it best to look after them myself, and so i am kept close at work. we owe , pounds floating debt, but not to europeans, and our _present_ expenditure exceeds revenue by , pounds. "rossit, who took your place in darfur, died the other day there, after three and a half months' residence; he is a serious loss to me, for the son of zebahr with his slave-dealers is still in revolt. cairo and nubia never take any notice of me, nor do they answer my questions. "i have _scotched_ the slave-trade, and wyld of jeddah says that scarcely any slaves pass over, and that the people of jeddah are disgusted. it is, however, only _scotched_. i am blockading all roads to the slave districts, and i expect to make the slave-dealers now in revolt give in, for they must be nearly out of stores. i have indeed a very heavy task, for i have to do everything myself. kind regards to mrs. burton and yourself. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." "p.s.--personally i am very weary and tired of the inaction at kartoum, with its semi-state, a thing which bores me greatly." the following year burton's prescience proved true. the soudan was "not a lasting thing," so far as gordon was concerned. ismail khedive had abdicated, and tewfik his son ruled in his stead; and gordon, dissatisfied with many things, finally threw up his post on account of the slave convention. though he placed his resignation in the khedive's hands, tewfik begged him to undertake a mission to abyssinia. while he was on the journey he wrote the following to burton: "en route to massowah, red sea, "august , . "my dear burton, "thanks for several little notes from you, and one from mrs. burton, and also for the papers you sent me. i have been on my travels, and had not time to write. an italian has egged on johannis to be hostile, and so i have to go to massowah to settle the affair if i can. i then hope to go home for good, for the slave-hunters (thanks to gessi) have collapsed, and it will take a long time to rebuild again, even if fostered by my successor. i like the new khedive immensely; but i warn you that all midian guiles will be wasted on him, and mrs. burton ought to have taken the , pounds i offered her at suez, and which she scoffed at, saying, 'you would want that for gloves.' do you wear those skin coverings to your paws? i do not! no, the days of arabian nights are over, and stern economy now rules. tewfik seeks 'honour, not honours.' i do not know what he will do with the soudan; he is glad, i think (indeed feel sure), i am going. i was becoming a too powerful satrap. the report at cairo was that i meditated rebellion even under ismail the 'incurable,' and now they cannot imagine why i am so well received by the new khedive. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." gordon was not the only one who suffered by the change of khedive. burton, as gordon had foretold, came to grief over the mines of midian, for tewfik declined to be bound by any promise of his father; and though burton went to egypt to interview the khedive, to see if he could do anything, his efforts were of no avail. meanwhile isabel, who had come to london mainly for medical treatment, was moving heaven and earth to see if she could induce the english government to stir in the matter; but they naturally declined. isabel wrote to gordon, who had now come home from egypt, on this and other matters. she received from him the following letters in answer to her request and inquiries concerning the state of affairs in egypt: "u.s. club, pall mall, " . . . "my dear mrs. burton, "you write to an orb which is setting, or rather is set. i have no power to aid your husband in any way. i went to f. o. to-day, and, as you know, lord ---- is very ill. well! the people there were afraid of me, for i have written hard things to them; and though they knew all, they would say naught. i said, 'who is the personification of foreign office?' they said, 'x is.' i saw 'x'; but he tried to evade my question--_i.e._ would f. o. do anything to prevent the soudan falling into chaos? it was no use. i cornered him, and he then said, '_i am merely a clerk to register letters coming in and going out_.' so then i gave it up, and marvelled. i must say i was surprised to see such a thing; a great government like ours governed by men who dare not call their souls their own. lord ---- rules them with a rod of iron. if your husband would understand that f. o. at present is lord ---- (and he is _ill_), he would see that i can do nothing. i have written letters to f. o. that would raise a corpse; it is no good. i have threatened to go to the french government about the soudan; it is no good. in fact, my dear mrs. burton, i have done for myself with this government, and you may count me a feather, for i am worth no more. will you send this on to your husband? he is a first-rate fellow, and i wish i had seen him long ago (scratch this out, for he will fear i am going to borrow money); and believe me, my dear mrs. burton (pardon me about suez), "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." "hotel taucan, lausanne, " . . . "my dear mrs. burton, "excuse my not answering your kind note of . . before; but to be quiet i have come abroad, and did not have a decided address, so i only got your letter to-day. i will come and see you when i (d.v.) come home; but that is undecided. of course your husband failed with tewfik. i scent carrion a long way off, and felt that the hour of my departure from egypt had come, so i left quietly. instead of a (ismail), who was a good man, you have b (tewfik), who may be good or bad, as events will allow him. b is the true son of a; but has the inexperience of youth, and may be smarter. the problem working out in the small brains of tewfik is this: 'my father lost his throne because he scented the creditors, i may govern the country as i like.' no doubt tewfik is mistaken; but these are his views, backed up by a ring of pashas. now look at his ministry. are they not aliens to egypt? they are all slaves or of low origin. put their price down: riaz pasha, a dancing-boy of abbas pasha, value. . . . a slave, osman, minister of war, turned out by me. . . etc., etc., etc., each--five . . . . . . . . . = , total = , so that the value of the ministry (which _we_ think an enlightened one) is pounds. what do they care for the country? not a jot. we ought to sweep all this lot out, and the corresponding lot at stamboul. it is hopeless and madness to think that with such material you can do anything. good-bye. kind regards to your husband. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." "paris, . . . "my dear mrs. burton, "thanks for your telegram and your letter. excuse half-sheet (economy). no, i will not write to cairo, and your letters are all torn up. i am going to brussels in a few days, and after a stay there i come over to england. i do not like or believe in nubar. he is my horror; for he led the old ex-khedive to his fall, though nubar owed him everything. when ismail became khedive, nubar had pounds a month; he now owns , , pounds. things will not and cannot go straight in egypt, and i would say, 'let them glide.' before long time elapses things will come to a crisis. the best way is to let all minor affairs rest, and to consider quietly how the ruin is to fall. it must fall ere long. united bulgaria, syria france, and egypt england. france would then have as much interest in repelling russia as we have. supposing you got out riaz, why, you would have riaz's brother; and if you got rid of the latter, you would have riaz's nephew. le plus on change, le plus c'est la meme chose. we may, by stimulants, keep the life in them; but as long as the body of the people are unaffected, so long will it be corruption in high places, varying in form, not in matter. egypt is usurped by the family of the sandjeh of salonique, and (by our folly) _we_ have added a ring of circassian pashas. the whole lot should go; they are as much strangers as we would be. before we began muddling we had only to deal with the salonique family; now we have added the ring, who say, '_we are egypt_.' we have made cairo a second stamboul. so much the better. let these locusts fall together. as well expect any reform, any good sentiment, from these people as water from a stone; the extract you wish to get does not and cannot exist in them. remember i do not say this of the turkish peasantry or of the egyptian-born poor families. it is written, egypt shall be the prey of nations, and so she has been; she is the servant; in fact egypt does not really exist. it is a nest of usurpers. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." a day or two after the date of this last letter gordon returned to london, and went several times to see isabel, who was ill in lodgings in upper montagu street, and very anxious about her husband and the midian mines. gordon's prospects too were far from rosy at this time, so that they were companions in misfortune. they discussed egypt and many things. isabel writes: "i remember on april , , he asked me if i knew the origin of the union jack, and he sat down on my hearth-rug before the fire, cross-legged, with a bit of paper and a pair of scissors, and he made me three or four union jacks, of which i pasted one in my journal of that day; and i never saw him again."[ ] she also writes elsewhere; "i shall never forget how kind and sympathetic he was; but he always said, 'as god has willed it, so will it be.'" in may burton wrote to lord granville, pointing out that riaz pasha was undoing all gordon's anti-slavery work, and asking for a temporary appointment as slave commissioner in the soudan and red sea, to follow up the policy of anti-slavery which gordon had begun. this lord granville refused. gordon went to many places--india, china, the cape--and played many parts during the next three years; but he still continued to correspond with isabel and her husband at intervals, though his correspondence referred mainly to private matters, and was of no public interest. in he wrote the following to burton from jerusalem, anent certain inquiries in which he was much interested: "jerusalem, june , . "my dear burton, "i have a favour to ask, which i will begin with, and then go on to other subjects. in (i think) i sent you a manuscript in arabic, copy of the manuscript you discovered in harar. i want you to lend it to me for a month or so, and will ask you in sending it to register it. this is the favour i want from you. i have time and means to get it fairly translated, and i will do this for you. i will send you the translation and the original back; and if it is worth it, you will publish it. i hope you and mrs. burton are well. sorry _s.d_. pounds sterling keep you from the east, for there is much to interest here in every way, and you would be useful to me as an encyclopaedia of oriental lore; as it is, greek is looked on by me as hieroglyphics. "here is result of my studies: the whole of the writers on jerusalem, with few exceptions, fight for zion on the western hill, and put the whole jerusalem in tribe benjamin! i have worked this out, and to me it is thus: the whole question turns on the position of en-shemesh, which is generally placed, for no reason i know of, at ain hand. i find kubbat el sama, which corresponds to baethsamys of the septuagint, at the north of jerusalem, and i split jerusalem by the tyropoean valley (_alias_ the gibeon of eden, of which more another time). "anyway one can scarcely cut judah out of jerusalem altogether; yet that is always done, except by a few. if the juncture is as i have drawn it, it brings gibeon, nob, and mizpah all down too close to jerusalem on the western hills. this is part of my studies. here is the skull hill north of the city (traced from map, ordnance of ), which i think is the golgotha; for the victims were to be slain on north of altar, not west, as the latin holy sepulchre. this hill is close to the old church of st. stephen, and i believe that eventually near here will be found the constantine churches. "i have been, and still am, much interested in these parts, and as it is cheap i shall stop here. i live at ain karim, five mile from jerusalem. there are few there who care about antiquities. schink, an old german, is the only one who is not a bigot. have you ever written on palestine? i wondered you never followed up your visit to harar; that is a place of great interest. my idea is that the pison is the blue nile, and that the sons of joktan were at harar, abyssinia, godjam; but it is not well supported. "the rock of harar was the platform adam was moulded on out of clay from the potter's field. he was then put in seychelles (eden), and after fall brought back to mount moriah to till the ground in the place he was taken from. noah built the ark twelve miles from jaffa, at ain judeh; the flood began; the ark floated up and rested on mount baris, afterwards antonia; he sacrificed on the rock (adam was buried on the skull hill, hence the skull under the cross). it was only a.d. that mount ararat of armenia became the site of the ark's descent. koran says al judi (ararat) is holy land. after flood the remnants went east to plain of shimar. had they gone east from the al judi, near mosul, or from armenian ararat, they could never have reached shimar. shem was melchizedek, etc., etc. "with kind regards to mrs. burton and you, and the hope you will send me the manuscript, "believe me, "yours sincerely, "c. g. gordon." "p.s.--did you ever get the , pounds i offered you on part of ex-khedive for the mines of midian?" some six months after the date of this letter gordon left england for the soudan, and later went to kartoum, with what result all the world knows. burton said, when the government sent gordon to kartoum, they failed because they sent him alone. had they sent him with five hundred soldiers there would have been no war. it was just possible at the time that burton might have been sent instead of gordon; and isabel, dreading this wrote privately to the foreign office, unknown to her husband, to let them know how ill he then was. the burtons were profoundly moved at the death of gordon; they both felt it with a keen sense of personal loss. isabel relates that in one of the illustrated papers there was a picture of gordon lying in the desert, his bible in one hand, his revolver in the other, and the vultures hovering around. burton said, "take it away! i can't bear to look at it. i have had to feel that myself; i know what it is." but upon reflection burton grew to disbelieve in gordon's death, and he died believing that he had escaped into the desert, but disgusted at his betrayal and abandonment he would never let himself be discovered or show himself in england again. in this conviction burton was of course mistaken; but he had formed it on his knowledge of gordon's character. i am aware that this chapter dealing with gordon and his letters is something of an interpolation, and has little to do with the main thread of the story; but lady burton wished it to be so, and its irrelevance may be pardoned for the sake of the light it throws upon the friendship which existed between three very remarkable personages, each curiously alike in some respects, and in others widely dissimilar. notes: . gondokoro was the seat of government of the province of the equator. . sir samuel baker, whom gordon succeeded as governor of the tribes which inhabit the nile basin in . . romalus gessi (gessi pasha), a member of gordon's staff. . mtesa, king of uganda. . mr. rivers wilson. . nevertheless he permitted dr. birkbeck hill to edit and publish his letters in , which give a good account of his work in central africa. . johannis, king of abyssinia. . colonel prout, of the american army, for some time in command of the equatorial provinces. . king of unyoro, a powerful and treacherous savage. sir samuel baker attempted to depose him, but kaha rega maintained his power. . _life of sir richard burton_, by isabel his wife, col. ii., p. . chapter xxvi. the sword hangs. ( - ). life is no holiday: therein are want and woe and sin, death with nameless fears; and over all our pitying tears must fall. the hour draws near, howe'er delayed or late, when, at the eternal gate, we leave the words and works we call our own, and lift void hands alone. for love to fill. our nakedness of soul brings to that gate no toll: giftless we come to him who all things gives; and live because he lives. whittier. in may, , isabel started with her husband for england. they travelled together as far as venice, and here as often, they parted, and went their separate ways. burton was ordered to go by sea for his health, and his wife arranged to proceed by land. she went round by way of bologna, and thence travelled _via_ milan and paris, and arrived in london on june . her husband joined her twelve days later. they had two objects in coming to london at this time--one was to consult physicians concerning burton's health, the other to make arrangements concerning _the arabian nights_. the production of this book may be described as a joint affair; for though the lion's share of the work of translating, writing, and correcting proofs devolved upon burton alone, the financial part of the work fell upon his wife, and that it was a big thing no one who has had any experience of writing or publishing would deny. there were several editions in the field; but they were all abridged or "bowdlerized" ones, adapted more or less for "family and domestic reading." burton's object in bringing out this great work was not only to produce a literal translation but to reproduce it faithfully in the arabian manner. he preserved throughout the orientation of the verses and figures of speech instead of anglicising them. it is this, combined with his profound oriental scholarship, his fine old-world style, and the richness, variety, and quaintness of vocabulary, which has given to his original edition its unique value. in burton the immortal tales had at last found a translator who would do them justice, and who was not afraid of prejudices of anglo-saxon puritanism. burton's view of this matter is sufficiently expressed in the following speech: "i do not care a button about being prosecuted; and if the matter comes to a fight, i will walk into court with my bible and my shakspeare and my rabelais under my arm, and prove to them that before they condemn me they must cut half of _them_, and not allow them to be circulated to the public."[ ] he expressed his views in this matter to his wife; and though at his wish she did not read the original edition of _the arabian nights_, she set to work to help him in every way that she could. in fact it may be truly said that it was she who did all the difficult work of evading the "vigilance" of certain persons, and of arranging for the publication of this important book. in order that her husband's original text might be copyrighted, she herself brought out an expurgated edition, which was called the "household edition." by this means she was enabled to copyright three thousand pages of her husband's original text, and only excluded two hundred and fifteen. she says, "richard forbade me to read these pages until he blotted out with ink the worst words, and desired me to substitute not english but arab society words, which i did to his complete satisfaction." of course to bring out a work of this kind, and to bear the whole burden of the labour and initial expense of it, was no ordinary task, and it is to isabel's efforts and to her marvellous business capacity that the credit of publishing the book is due. from a financial point of view the burtons had no reason to regret their venture. at the beginning a publisher had offered burton pounds for the book; but isabel said, "no, let me do it." it was seventeen months' hard work, and during that time they had to find the means for printing and binding and circulating the volumes as they came out. the burtons were their own printers and their own publishers, and they made between september, , and november, , sixteen thousand guineas, six thousand of which went towards the expenses of publishing and ten thousand guineas into their own pockets. isabel writes, "it came just in time to give my husband the comforts and luxuries and freedom which gilded the last five years of his life. when he died there were four florins left, which i put into the poor-box." they had a very pleasant season in london. they were mainly occupied in preparing _the arabian nights_; but their labours over for the day, they went out in society a great deal. perhaps the most noteworthy event at this time was that isabel made a long speech at st. james's hall at a meeting for the purpose of appealing to the pope for a circular letter on the subject of the protection of animals. the meeting was in vain. the first volume of _the arabian nights_ came out on december , , and the sixteenth volume, the last of the supplementals, on november , . thus in a period of three years they produced twenty-two volumes--namely, ten originals, six supplementals, and lady burton's six volumes of the household edition. in october, , they went down to hatfield on a visit to lord and lady salisbury. a week before this burton, having heard that sir john drummond hay, consul at morocco, was about to retire, applied for the post. it was the one thing that he had stayed on in the consular service in hope of obtaining. he wrote a letter to the foreign secretary, which was backed up by about fifty of the best names in england, whom his wife had canvassed; and indeed it seemed that the post was as good as assured to him. in the third week in november burton started for morocco in order to spy out the promised land, or rather the land which he hoped would have been his. isabel was left behind to bring out some volumes of _the arabian nights_. she brought them out up to the seventh volume, and then made ready to join her husband at gibraltar on his way to tangiers in january. she says _a propos_ of her labours in this respect: "i was dreadfully spied upon by those who wished to get richard into trouble about it, and once an unaccountable person came and took rooms in some lodgings which i took after richard left, and i settled with the landlord that i should leave or that person should not have the rooms, and of course he did not have any hesitation between the two, and i took the whole of the rooms during my stay." in january, , just as she was leaving london, she received a telegram from her husband saying that there was cholera at gibraltar, and she could get no quarantine there, and would not be allowed to land. but she was not a woman to be stopped; so she at once telegraphed to sir john ayde, who was then commanding gibraltar, and asked if he would allow a government boat to take her off the p. & o. and put her straight on the morocco boat. he telegraphed back, "yes," whereat she rejoiced greatly, as she wanted especially to reach her husband in time for them to celebrate their silver wedding together. when she arrived at gibraltar, burton, who was staying there, came off in a boat to meet her, and they called together on sir john ayde to thank him for his kindness. a few days later the news came to them that the government had at last recognized burton's public services. it came in the form of a telegram addressed to "sir richard burton." isabel says: "he tossed it over to me, and said, 'some fellow is playing me a practical joke, or else it is not for me. i shall not open it, so you may as well ring the bell and give it back again.'" his wife said, "oh no; i shall open it if you don't." so it was opened. it was from lord salisbury, conveying in the kindest terms that the queen, at his recommendation, had made him k.c.m.g. in reward for his services. he looked very serious and quite uncomfortable, and said, "oh, i shall not accept it." she said, "you had better accept it, jemmy, because it is a certain sign that they are going to give you the place--tangiers, morocco." there is only one thing to be said about this honour--it came too late. too late for him, because he had never at any time cared much for these things. "honour, not honours" was his motto; and now the recognition of his services, which might have been a great encouragement ten of fifteen years earlier, and have spurred him on to fresh efforts, found him broken by sickness, and with life's zest to a great extent gone. too late for her because her only pleasure in these things was that they reflected credit upon her husband; and if he did not appreciate them, she did not care. yet of course she was glad that at last there had come some return for her unceasing efforts, and some admission, though tardy, of the services which her husband had rendered. it was a sign too that the prejudice against him in certain quarters was at last lived down. she wrote to a friend: "you will have seen from the papers, and i know what pleasure it will give you, that the conservatives on going out made dick sir richard burton, k.c.m.g. . . . . the queen's recognition of dick's forty-four years of service was sweetly done at last, sent for our silver wedding, and she told a friend of mine that she was pleased to confer something that would include both husband and wife." the burtons crossed over to morocco from gibraltar in a flat-bottomed cattle-tug, only fit for a river; and as the sea was exceedingly heavy, and the machinery had stopped, the sailors said for want of oil, the seas washed right over the boat, and the passage was prolonged from two hours to five. they made many excursions round about tangiers; but on the whole they were disappointed with morocco. they disliked tangiers itself, and the consulate seemed to them a miserable little house after the palazzo at trieste. lady burton had expected to find tangiers a second damascus; but in this she was sorely disappointed. she wrote to a friend from there, "trieste will seem like paris after it. it has none of the romance or barbaric splendour of damascus. nevertheless," she says, "i would willingly have lived there, and put out all my best capabilities, if my husband could have got the place he wanted, and for which i had employed every bit of interest on his side and mine to obtain." they received a great deal of hospitality in tangiers, and inspected the place and the natives thoroughly. most of the people looked forward to welcoming them. on their departure they went to genoa, which they reached after a rough voyage, and thence they proceeded by easy stages to trieste. lady burton arrived home alone at ten o'clock in the evening; and as she was accustomed to be met by a crowd of friends on her return, she was surprised to find no one to meet her. when she got to the house, their absence was explained. three telegrams were handed to her. the first was, "father very ill; can you come?" the second was, "father died to- day"; the third, "father buried to-day at mortlake." as her friends were unaware of her address the telegrams had not been forwarded, and they had kept away, so as not to intrude on her grief. the blow was not altogether unexpected, for mr. arundell had been ill for some time; but it was none the less severe, for she had always been devotedly attached to her father, and his house had been made a rallying-point for them when they were wont to return home. they remained at trieste three months, during which time the english colony presented them with a silver cup and congratulations on their hardly earned honours. then, as burton had to consult a particular manuscript which would supply two volumes of his "supplemental" _arabian nights_, they left again for england. on their return to london they took up their work where they had left it a few months before. in july they had the mortification of finding that lord rosebery had given away the coveted post of morocco, which had been as good as promised to them by lord salisbury, to some one else. it was during their few months' absence from england that the change of government had taken place, and lord salisbury's brief-lived administration of had yielded place to a liberal government. such are the vicissitudes of official life. had lord salisbury been in office, sir richard would probably have got morocco. it was perhaps all for the best that he did not get the post, although it was a sore disappointment to them at the time. even lady burton came to take this view. she writes: "i sometimes now think that it was better so, and that he would not have lived so long had he had it, for he was decidedly breaking up. the climate did not appear to be the one that suited him, and the anxiety and responsibilities of the post might have hurried on the catastrophe. . . . it was for the honour of the thing, and we saw for ourselves how uneasy a crown it would be." perhaps there was another reason too, for when lady burton remonstrated a minister wrote to her in friendly chaff: "we don't want to annex morocco, and we know that you two would be emperor and empress in about six months." this was an evident allusion to the part which they had played during their brief reign at damascus. at trieste there was no room for the eagles to soar; their wings clipped. seeing that the last hope was over, and the one post which sir richard burton had coveted as the crown of his career was denied him, his wife set to work to induce the government to allow him to retire on his pension four years before his time. she had good grounds for making this request, for his health was breaking, and this last disappointment about morocco seemed to have broken him even more. when he told her that it was given to another man, he said, "there is no room for me now, and i do not want anything; but i have worked forty-four years for nothing. i am breaking up, and i want to go free." so she at once set to work to draw up what she called "the last appeal," enumerating the services which her husband had rendered to his country, and canvassing her friends to obtain the pension. the petition was backed as usual by forty-seven or fifty big names, who actively exerted themselves in the matter. it was refused notwithstanding that public feeling and the press seemed unanimously in favour of its being granted. the ground on which it was refused, apparently, was that it was contrary to precedent, and that it was not usual; but then the case was altogether an unusual one, and sir richard burton was altogether an unusual man. even supposing that there had been a difficulty about giving him full consular pension, it would have been easy for the government, if they had been so minded, to have made up to him the sum--only a few hundred pounds a year--from the civil list, on the ground of his literary and linguistic labours and services. it should be added that this petition was refused both by liberal and conservative governments, for lord salisbury's second administration came into office before the burtons left england. but there was this difference: whereas lord rosebery reprimanded burton for his frequent absence from his post, lord salisbury was very indulgent in the matter of leave. he recognized that burton's was an exceptional case, and gave him exceptional privileges. they remained in london until the end of the year, and on january ., , they left england for cannes, where they spent a few pleasant weeks, rejoicing in the sun and blue sea and sky. they enjoyed a good deal of society at cannes, where they met the prince of wales and many friends. on ash wednesday occurred the earthquake which made such a commotion on the riviera at the time, and of which sir richard burton gave the following account: "a little before a.m., on the finest of mornings, with the smoothest of seas, the still sleeping world was aroused by a rumbling and shaking as of a thousand express trains hissing and rolling along, and in a few minutes followed a shock, making the hotel reel and wave. the duration was about one minute. my wife said to me, 'why, what sort of express train have they got on to-day?' it broke on to us, upheaving and making the earth undulate, and as it came i said, 'by jove! that is a good earthquake.' she called out, 'all the people are rushing out into the garden undressed shall we go too?' i said, 'no, my girl; you and i have been in too many earthquakes to show the white feather at our age.' 'all right,' she answered; and i turned round and went to sleep again." the result of the earthquake was a great and sudden exodus from cannes, and indeed from all the riviera. visitors fled in panic, but sir richard and lady burton went about their usual business, and were amused at seeing the terrified people rush off to the railway-station, and the queer garments in which they were clad. shortly after lady burton was terribly frightened from another cause. her husband had an epileptic fit, and it was some time before she and the doctors could bring him round again. henceforth it became necessary for them to have always with them a resident doctor. they both of them disliked the idea of having a stranger spying about them very much; but it was inevitable, for the epilepsy was a new development, and as burton says, "my wife felt, though she had successfully nursed me through seven long illnesses since our marriage, that this was a case beyond her ken." so dr. ralph leslie was telegraphed for, and came out from england to cannes, where he joined them. then commenced what they called their _via crucis_ to trieste. lady burton thus describes her troubles at that time: "on february we were shaken to a jelly by the earthquakes--three strong shocks and three weeks of palpitating earth in the riviera. on february my poor darling dick had an epileptic fit, or, more properly speaking, an epileptiform convulsion, which had lasted about half an hour, and endangered his life. i had six doctors and two nurses, and we watched and tended him for fifteen days; and i telegraphed for an english doctor to england by express, who came, and lives and travels with us, as richard insisted on coming to trieste, not to england, and will return with us. it took us, _after his arrival_, twenty- eight days to accomplish the twenty-eight hours of express between cannes and trieste in toil, anguish, and anxiety. we arrived april at home in rest and comfort. he has been making daily progress to health. he is now out walking with his doctor. we had a consultation a few days ago. he will always require _great care and watching_ all his life--diet and internal health; must not climb, as his heart is weak, nor take turkish baths, nor overwork; and he may so live fifteen years, but he may die any moment of heart disease. and i need not say that i shall never have a really happy, peaceful moment again. in the midst of this my uncle,[ ] who was like my father to me, was found dead in his bed. then i have had a bad lip and money losses, and altogether a bad time of it."[ ] at trieste burton led the life of a confirmed invalid, and his wife attended him with unfailing devotion, which was in no way abated by the presence of the resident doctor "a disagreeable luxury," as she called him. they used to sit a good deal under their favourite linden tree in the garden and receive visitors. burton's love for his wife, always deep, though never demonstrative, seems to have shown itself more at this time; and in the few remaining years he came to lean on her more and more, making her his _confidante_ in all things. in june they celebrated the jubilee of queen victoria, and owing to her husband's illness, nearly all the arrangements fell upon lady burton. it was she who drew up the address which was sent to her majesty, and she also prepared the speech to deliver in case her husband was too unwell to attend the public dinner in celebration of the event. as lady burton has been accused of being such a bigoted roman catholic, it is only fair to mention that on this auspicious occasion she accompanied her husband to the official service in the anglican church. her loyalty to her queen was unswerving. she was not required to make the speech, as burton was well enough to be carried down to the dinner, and he delivered the oration. it was the only occasion on which he ever wore his order of st. michael and st. george. the effort was so great that he had to be carried upstairs again the moment his speech was over. the rest of was chiefly taken up by a dreary record of failing health. the burtons went away for a summer holiday as usual, and during their absence from trieste many english royalties arrived there with the squadron; but they were unable to receive them. on their return dr. leslie had to leave them, and his place was supplied by another doctor. it became more than ever necessary that a medical man should be in attendance, for lady burton seemed to suffer in sympathy with her husband, and as he got worse she became worse too. she writes about this time: "i am unable to take anything which might be called a walk. driving was sometimes very painful to him, and it would not have been safe to let him go alone." it was one of her sorest trials that she could not minister to her husband as formerly; but disease had laid its hand on her too. their life at trieste at this time was naturally uneventful. instead of getting up, as they used to do, and beginning their labours in the small hours of the morning, the burtons now rose at seven, and did as much literary work as they could until nine, when the doctor would come in. at twelve o'clock they had breakfast, and after that the time was devoted either to more literary work or recreation. at four they would receive any friends who came to see them. at half- past seven they dined no longer at the hotel as formerly, but at home; and at nine o'clock they retired to rest. it was about this time that sir richard finished the last volume of his "supplemental" _arabian nights_. the weather was so bad at trieste, and his health so uncertain, that the foreign office again gave him leave. he and his wife came by a roundabout route to england, and saw many old friends. on october they went down to folkestone, where they stayed a few days with his relatives. they crossed on october to boulogne. it was sir richard's last visit to england; he never saw his country again. at boulogne they visited once more the old haunts where they had met for the first time years ago, and renewed acquaintance with the scenes of their vanished youth. it is worthy of notice how often husband and wife went to boulogne together during their married life. it seemed as though the place was endeared to them by the recollection that it was here that they had first come together. from boulogne they went to switzerland, where they passed christmas. when they were at montreux they celebrated their wedding day (january ), and the people in the hotel overwhelmed them with presents and flowers and pretty speeches. lady burton says, "i got quite choky, and richard ran away and locked himself up." a rather ludicrous incident occurred here. they were expecting a visit from the famous elisee reclus. lady burton prepared herself to receive him with honour, and she had beforehand been warned of his little peculiarities. suddenly the door was thrown open, and some one was announced whose name she did not catch. she greeted the new-comer with effusion, saying, "dear monsieur reclus, i am so delighted to make your acquaintance; such a pleasure to know such a distinguished man." her greeting was acknowledged with equal effusion by her visitor, who then proceeded to pull a key out of his pocket, and went up to the clock. lady burton was somewhat surprised, but she put it down to a great man's peculiarity; so she went on talking to him, and explaining the pleasure which it would give sir richard to make his acquaintance, when the door was opened again,and the servant announced, "monsieur reclus." the man she had been talking to was the clockwinder. from montreux they toured about switzerland for some few weeks, and in march they returned again to trieste, where they remained off and on until november. during the summer burton's health, fortified by continual change of air and scene, improved a good deal. the foreign office was most indulgent in the amount of liberty which it gave to him. lord salisbury was now at the head of affairs; and though the government did not see their way to allowing burton to retire on full pension, they granted him what was almost the same thing--frequent and extended leaves; and it must be remembered too the time of his consular service was now fast drawing to a close. lady burton always said that, next to lord derby, lord and lady salisbury were their best friends. about this time lady salisbury wrote to her: "hatfield house, hatfield, herts, july , . "my dear lady burton, "i am very glad to hear so good an account of you and sir richard. we are here as busy as usual at this time of year. we have had great doings for the shah, who is still in this country. he dined and slept here one night about a fortnight ago, and we had a garden-party for him next day. he behaved very well, and gives me the idea of being an able man; though whether he will think england a stronger friend than russia remains to be seen. i sometimes fear he will carry away a greater idea of our riches and luxury than of our strength, but _qui vivra, verra_. "we are now up to our lips in a royal marriage. it is to take place next saturday, and will i dare say be a very pretty sight. the young lady[ ] is very happy by all accounts, and looks quite radiant. politics are pretty quiet, and there are as few mistakes made as you can expect in the fourth year of a government. i think we are rather losing in london, but are gaining in other places. on the whole all things are very quiet. with kind regards to sir richard, "believe me, "yours very sincerely, "g. salisbury." in november the burtons started, _via_ brindisi, for malta, where they passed a pleasant month, met many friends, and enjoyed themselves very much. from malta they went to tunis, and renewed their acquaintance with the bedawin and the arab tents. it was their last glimpse of the desert life which they loved so well. among other places they visited the ruins of carthage, and made as many excursions into the interior as it was possible, considering the state of sir richard's health. from tunis they went by train to algiers, starting on the journey at . on a cold january morning. when they reached algiers, they were delighted with it at first; but they soon tired. even an expedition to the baths of hammam r'irha did not reconcile them to the place, and they left it early in march, going by boat to marseilles, and then travelling homewards by way of the riviera to genoa, and thence to venice. they crossed to trieste the following day, having been absent more than four months. they remained at trieste until july , when they started for their last summer trip. the heat in trieste during july and august is almost insupportable. they went to innsbruck, zurich, davos platz, regatz, and other places. they were counting the months to the day when burton would complete his term in the consular service, and would be permitted to retire on his pension. from zurich lady burton wrote to a friend[ ]: "we go back (d.v.) september or thereabouts, stay three months, and then winter in greece and constantinople. in march dick's service is ended, and between that and august we pack up, settle our affairs, and come home for good. in one sense i am glad, because he yearns for a little flat in london; we shall be in the land of good advice and nourishment; and, god willing, i shall have brought him home safe and sound after thirty years' perils and dangers by health and land and sea. on the other hand, it is a wrench to give up my nice home. i have the whole of the second and top floor now, and i have made it so pretty, and i love trieste and the life of my friends. i don't know how i shall concentrate myself and my belongings into a vulgar little flat--on small means. if you see any flat likely to suit us, let me know." it was during this time in switzerland that burton made his wife his literary executrix. he called her into his room one day, and dictated to her a list of private papers which he wished to be burned in the event of his death, and gave her three signed documents, one of which ran as follows: "in the event of my death, i bequeath especially to my wife, isabel burton, every book, paper, or manuscript, to be overhauled and examined by her only, and to be dealt with entirely at her own discretion, and in the manner she thinks best, having been my sole helper for thirty years. (signed) "richard f. burton." on september they returned to trieste together for the last time. they were both very much better for the good air in switzerland, and settled down again to their quiet literary life, full of occupations for the present and plans for the future. lady burton was especially busy during these six weeks in helping her husband to sort and arrange his manuscripts and papers, and he worked as usual at three or four books at a time, especially his _scented garden_, which was now nearing completion. i should like to interpolate here a beautiful and characteristic letter lady burton wrote, on october , to a friend, madame de gutmansthal- benvenuti, who had just lost her husband: "you need no letter from me to tell you how my heart is grieving for you, and with you, in this greatest trial woman can ever know--the trial before which my own head is ever bowed down, and my heart shrinking from in terror. and it has fallen on you, my best and dearest friend. but you have such consolations. he was a religious man, and died with the sacraments, and you are sure of a happy meeting, just as if he had gone on a journey to wait for you; but _more surely to meet_ than if he had gone on an earthly journey. you have your dear children to live for, and that must now be your _only_ thought, and taking care of your health for that purpose. all of us, who love you, are thinking of you and praying for you." ten days later the trial she so much dreaded had come upon her. and here for a space lady burton will speak in her own words. notes: . he actually compiled a book of quotations from the bible and shakspeare for use in case of need, which he called _the black book_. . letter to miss bishop from tangiers, morocco, february , . . the late lord gerard. . letter to miss bird from trieste, april , . . the duchess of fife. . letter to miss bishop, july , . chapter xxvii. the sword falls. . life is a sheet of paper white, whereon each one of us may write his word or two, and then comes night. lowell. "let me recall the last happy day of my life. it was sunday, october , . i went out to communion and mass at eight o'clock, came back, and kissed my husband at his writing. he was engaged on the last page of _the scented garden_, which had occupied him seriously only six actual months, not thirty years, as the press said. he said to me, 'to-morrow i shall have finished this, and i promise you that i will never write another book on the subject. i will take to our biography.' and i said, 'what a happiness that will be!' he took his usual walk of nearly two hours in the morning, breakfasting well. "that afternoon we sat together writing an immense number of letters, which, when we had finished, i put on the hall table to be posted on monday morning. each letter breathed of life and hope and happiness; for we were making our preparations for a delightful voyage to greece and constantinople, which was to last from november to march . we were to return to trieste from march till july . he would be a free man on march , and those three months and a half we were to pack up, make our preparations, wind up all our affairs, send our heavy baggage to england, and, bidding adieu to trieste, we were to pass july and august in switzerland, arrive in england in september, , look for a little flat and a little cottage, unpack, and settle ourselves to live in england. "the only difference remarkable on this particular sunday, october , was, that whereas my husband was dreadfully punctual, and with military precision as the clock struck we had to be in our places at the table at half-past seven, he seemed to dawdle about the room putting things away. he said to me, 'you had better go in to table'; and i answered, 'no, darling, i will wait for you'; and we went in together. he dined well, but sparingly; he laughed, talked, and joked. we discussed our future plans and preparations, and he desired me on the morrow to write to sir edmund monson, and several other letters, to forward the preparations. we talked of our future life in london, and so on. about half-past nine he got up and went to his bedroom, accompanied by the doctor and myself, and we assisted him at his toilet. i then said the night prayers to him, and whilst i was saying them a dog began that dreadful howl which the superstitious say denotes a death. it disturbed me so dreadfully that i got up from the prayers, went out of the room, and called the porter to go out and see what was the matter with the dog. i then returned, and finished the prayers, after which he asked me for a novel. i gave him robert buchanan's _martyrdom of madeleine_. i kissed him and got into bed, and he was reading in bed. "at twelve o'clock, midnight, he began to grow uneasy. i asked him what ailed him, and he said, 'i have a gouty pain in my foot. when did i have my last attack?' i referred to our journals, and found it was three months previously that he had had a real gout, and i said, 'you know that the doctor considers it a safety-valve that you should have a healthy gout in your feet every three months for your head and your general health. your last attack was three months ago at zurich, and your next will be due next january.' he was then quite content; and though he moaned and was restless, he tried to sleep, and i sat by him magnetizing the foot locally, as i had the habit of doing, to soothe the pain, and it gave him so much relief that he dozed a little, and said, 'i dreamt i saw our little flat in london, and it had quite a nice large room in it.' between whiles he laughed and talked and spoke of our future plans, and even joked. "at four o'clock he got more uneasy, and i said i should go for the doctor. he said, 'oh no, don't disturb him; he cannot do anything.' and i answered, 'what is the use of keeping a doctor if he is not to be called when you are suffering?' the doctor was there in a few moments, felt his heart and pulse, found him in perfect order--that the gout was healthy. he gave him some medicine and went back to bed. about half-past four he complained that there was no air. i flew back for the doctor, who came and found him in danger. i went at once, called up all the servants, sent in five directions for a priest, according to the directions i had received, hoping to get one; and the doctor, and i and lisa[ ] under the doctor's orders, tried every remedy and restorative, but in vain. "what harasses my memory, what i cannot bear to think of, what wakes me with horror every morning from four till seven, when i get up, is that for a minute or two he kept on crying, "oh, puss, chloroform--ether--or i am a dead man!' my god! i would have given him the blood out of my veins, if it would have saved him; but i had no answer, 'my darling, the doctor says it will kill you; he is doing all he knows.' i was holding him in my arms, when he got heavier and heavier, and more insensible, and we laid him on the bed. the doctor said he was quite insensible, and assured me he did not suffer. i trust not; i believe it was a clot of blood to the heart. "my one endeavour was to be useful to the doctor, and not impede his actions by my own feelings. the doctor applied the electric battery to the heart, and kept it there till seven o'clock; and i knelt down at his left side, holding his hand and pulse, and prayed my heart out to god to keep his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance) till the priest arrived. i should say that he was insensible in thirty minutes from the time he said there was no air. "it was a country slav priest, lately promoted to be our parish priest, who came. he called me aside, and told me that he could not give extreme unction to my husband, because he had not declared himself; but i besought him not to lose a moment in giving the sacrament, for the soul was passing away, and that i had the means of satisfying him. he looked at us all three, and asked if he was dead, and we all said no. god was good, for had he had to go back for the holy materials it would have been too late, but he had them in his pocket, and he immediately administered extreme unction--_'si vivis,'_ or _'si es capax,'_ 'if thou art alive'-- and said the prayers for the dying and the departing soul. the doctor still kept the battery to the heart all the time, and i still held the left hand with my finger on the pulse. by the clasp of the hand, and a little trickle of blood running under the finger, i judged there was a little life until seven, and then i knew that . . . i was alone and desolate for ever."[ ] * * * * * * * * * i have given the foregoing in lady burton's own words, as unfortunately a fierce controversy has raged round her husband's death-bed, and therefore it is desirable to repeat her testimony on the subject. this testimony was given to the world in , when all the witnesses of sir richard burton's death were living, and it was never publicly contradicted or called into question until december of last year ( ), eight months after lady burton's death, when miss stisted's book made its appearance. in consequence of the attack made upon lady burton by her niece, which has been repeated and echoed elsewhere, it is necessary to defend lady burton on this point, since she is no longer able to defend herself. but i should like to reiterate that the question of sir richard burton's religion did not enter into the original scheme of this book. i only approach it now with reluctance, and that not so much for the purpose of arguing as to what was sir richard burton's religion (that was a matter for himself alone) as of upholding the good faith of his wife. in view also of the peculiar bitterness of the _odium theologicum_, perhaps it may be permitted me to say at the outset that i have no prejudice on this subject. i am not a roman catholic, and therefore cannot be accused of approaching the controversy with what paley was wont to call an "antecedent bias." in this i have the advantage of miss stisted, who appears to be animated by a bitter hostility not only against her aunt but against the church of rome. in her book she asserts that sir richard burton died before the priest arrived on the scene, and that the sacrament of extreme unction was administered to a corpse. she also goes on to say: the terrible shock of so fatal a termination to what seemed an attack of little consequence, would have daunted most romanists desirous of effecting a death-bed conversion. it did not daunt isabel. no sooner did she perceive that her husband's life was in danger, than she sent messengers in every direction for a priest. mercifully, even the first to arrive, a man of peasant extraction, who had just been appointed to the parrish, came too late to molest one then far beyond the reach of human folly and superstition. but isabel had been too well trained by the society of jesus not see that a chance yet remained of glorifying her church--a heaven-sent chance which was not to be lost. her husband's body was not yet cold, and who could tell for certain whether some spark of life yet lingered in that inanimate form? the doctor declared that no doubt existed regarding the decease, but doctors are often mistaken. so hardly had the priest crossed the threshold than she flung herself at his feet, and implored him to administer extreme unction. the father, who seems to have belonged to the ordinary type of country-bred ecclesiastic so common abroad, and who probably in the whole course of his life had never before availed himself of so startling a method of enrolling a new convert, demurred. there had been no profession of faith, he urged; there could be none now, for--and he hardly liked to pronounce the cruel words--burton was dead. but isabel would listen to no arguments, would take no refusal; she remained weeping and wailing on the floor, until at last, to terminate a disagreeable scene, which most likely would have ended in hysterics he consented to perform the rite. rome took formal possession of richard burton's corpse, and pretended, moreover, with insufferable insolence, to take under her protection his soul. from that moment an inquisitive mob never ceased to disturb the solemn chamber. other priests went in and out at will, children from a neighbouring orphanage sang hymns and giggled alternately, pious old women recited their rosaries, gloated over the dead, and splashed the bed with holy water; the widow, who had regained her composure, directing the innumerable ceremonies. . . . after the necessary interval had elapsed, burton's funeral took place in the largest church in trieste, and was made the excuse for an ecclesiastical triumph of a faith he had always loathed.[ ] these statements of lady burton and miss stisted have been placed one after another, in order that the dispassionate reader may be able to judge not only of their conflicting nature, but of the different spirit which animates them. lady burton writes from her heart, reverently, as a good woman would write of the most solemn moments of her life, and of things which were to her eternal verities. would she be likely to perjure herself on such a subject? miss stisted writes with an unconcealed animus, and is not so much concerned in defending the purity of her uncle's protestantism as in vilifying her aunt and the faith to which she belonged. it may be noted too that miss stisted has no word of womanly sympathy for the wife who loved her husband with a love passing the love of women, and who was bowed down by her awful sorrow. on the contrary, with revolting heartlessness and irreverence, she jeers at her aunt's grief and the last offices of the dead. we may agree with the doctrines of the church of rome, or we may not; the solemn rites may be unavailing, or they may be otherwise; but at least they can do no harm, and the death-chamber should surely be sacred from such vulgar ribaldry! good taste, if no higher consideration, might have kept her from mocking the religious convictions of others. miss stisted's indictment of lady burton on this point falls under three heads: first, that sir richard was dead before the priest arrived. secondly, that he was never a catholic at all, and so his wife acted in bad faith. thirdly, that he "loathed" the catholic religion. it is better to deal with these charges _seriatim_. with regard to the first, we have the positive and public testimony of lady burton, which was never contradicted during her lifetime, to the effect that her husband was alive when the sacrament of extreme unction was administered to him. as, however, this testimony had been publicly called in question, though not until eight months after her death, we obtained through the kindness of the baroness paul de ralli, a friend of lady burton at trieste, the following written attestation from the priest who attended sir richard burton's death-bed, and who is still living: declaration.[ ] "on october , , at six o'clock in the morning, i was called in to assist at the last moments of sir richard burton, british consul. "knowing that he had been brought up, or born in, the evangelical religion, before repairing to his house i went to see dr. giovanni sust, the provost of this cathedral, in order to find out from him what i was to do in the matter. he replied that i should go, and act accordingly as the circumstances might seem to require. "so i went. "entering into the room of the sick man, i found him in bed with the doctor and lady burton beside him. "at first sight it seemed that i was looking, not at a sick man, but rather at a corpse. my first question was, 'is he alive or dead?' lady burton replied that he was still living, and the doctor nodded his head, to confirm what she had said. "and in fact the doctor was seated on the bed holding in his hands the hand of sir richard burton to feel the beat of his pulse, and from time to time he administered some _corroborante_,[ ] or gave an injection. which of these two things he did i cannot now recollect, but it was certainly one or the other of them. these are things which one would certainly not do to a corpse, but only to a person still living; or if these acts were performed with knowledge that the person in question was already dead, they could not be done without laying oneself open to an accusation of deception, all the more reprehensible if put in operation at such a solemn moment. "in such a case all the responsibility would fall upon the doctor in charge, who with a single word, or even a sign given secretly to the priest, would have been able to prevent the administration of the holy sacrament of extreme unction. "the second observation which i made to lady burton was one concerning religion--namely, "that whoever was of the evangelical persuasion could not receive the holy sacraments in this manner." "to this observation of mine she answered that some years ago he had received extreme unction, being, if i mistake not, at cannes, and that on this occasion he had abjured the heresy and professed himself as belonging to the catholic church. on such a declaration from lady burton, i did that which a minister of god ought to do, and decided to administer to the dying man the last comforts of our holy religion. as it seemed to me that there was not much time to lose, i wished to administer the extreme unction by means of one single anointing on the forehead, as is done in urgent cases; but lady burton said that death was not so imminent; therefore she begged me to carry out the prescribed ceremony of extreme unction. "this completed, together with the other customary prayers for the dying, i took my departure. i returned to the house of the provost, dr. sust, and laid everything before him, and he said i had done quite right. "in a certificate of death drawn up by the visitatore dei morti,[ ] inspector corani, in the register, under the head of religion, is written 'catholic.' the funeral also was conducted according to the rites of the catholic church. i am convinced that sir richard burton really became a catholic, but that outwardly he did not wish this to be known, having regard to his position as a consul to a government of the evangelical persuasion; and i have built up the hope that the innumerable prayers for her husband's conversion and good works of his pious wife lady burton will have been heeded by that lord who said unto us, 'pray, and your prayers shall be answered,' and that his soul will now have been received by the good god, together with that of the saintly lady his wife. "one question i permit myself to ask of those who have now published the life of sir richard burton, which is this, 'why did they not publish it during the lifetime of lady burton? who better than she would have been able to enlighten the world on this point of much importance? why publish it now when she is no longer here to speak?' "trieste, january , , "pietro martelani, "formerly parish priest of the b.v. del soccorso, now prebenday and priest of the cathedral of triest."[ ] i am further able to state that the gross travesty of lady burton's grief --"her weeping and wailing on the floor," etc., etc.--is the outcome of a malevolent imagination, from which nothing is sacred, not even a widow's tears. lady burton bore herself through the most awful trial of her life with quietude, fortitude, and resignation. and now to turn to the second charge--to wit, that sir richard was never a catholic at all; from which, if true, it follows that he was in fact "kidnapped" by his wife and the priest on his death-bed. if this charge did not involve a suggestion of bad faith on the part of lady burton, i should have ignored it; for i hold most strongly that a man's religion is a matter for himself alone, a matter between himself and his god, one in which no outsider has any concern. burton himself took this view, for he once said: "my religious opinion is of no importance to anybody but myself. no one knows what my religious views are. i object to confession, and i will not confess. my standpoint is, and i hope ever will be, the truth, as it is in me, known only to myself."[ ] this attitude he maintained to the world to the day of his death; but to his wife he was different. let me make my meaning quite clear. i do not say burton was a catholic or that he was not; i offer no opinion. but what i do assert with all emphasis is that _he gave his wife reason to believe that he had become a catholic_; and in this matter she acted in all good faith, in accordance with the highest dictates of her conscience and her duty. burton knew how strongly his wife felt on this subject, and how earnest were her convictions. he knew that his conversion to catholicism was her daily and nightly prayer. these considerations probably weighed with him when he signed the following paper (reproduced in facsimile on the opposite page). he signed it on the understanding that she was to keep it secret till he was a dying man: "gorizia, february , . "should my husband, richard burton, be on his death-bed unable to speak i perhaps already dead--and that he may wish to have the grace to retract and recant his former errors, and to join the catholic church, and also to receive the sacraments of penance, extreme unction, and holy eucharist, he might perhaps be able to sign this paper, or make the sign of the cross to show his need. (signed) "richard f. burton." i do not analyse the motives which led burton to sign this paper. he may have done it merely to satisfy his wife (for, from the agnostic point of view, the sacraments would not have mattered much either way), or he may have done it from honest conviction, or from a variety of causes, for human motives are strangely commingled; _but that he did sign it there is no doubt_. lady burton, at any rate, took it all in good faith, and acted accordingly in sending for the priest; the priest, on receiving her assurance, acted in good faith in administering to sir richard burton the last rites of the church; and the bishop of trieste also acted in good faith in conceding to him a catholic funeral. it is difficult to see how any of them could have acted otherwise. lastly, it has been asserted that sir richard burton "loathed" the roman catholic church; and though he was indifferent to most religions, he entertained a "positive aversion" to this one, and therefore to "kidnap" him on his death-bed was peculiarly cruel. i have read most of burton's writings, and it is true, especially in his earlier books, that he girds against what he conceives to be certain abuses in the roman catholic church and her priesthood in out-of-the-way countries; but then he attacks other forms of christianity and other religions too. he had a great hatred of cant and humbug under the cloak of religion, and denounced them accordingly. there is nothing remarkable in this. we all denounce cant and humbug in the abstract, often most loudly when we are humbugs ourselves. if burton attacked christianity more than other religions, and catholicism more than other forms of christianity, he probably did so because they came more in his way. his religious acts generally appear to have been guided by the principle of "when one is at rome, do as rome does." he was a mohammedan among mohammedans, a mormon among mormons, a sufi among the shazlis, and a catholic among the catholics. one thing he certainly was not in his later years--a member of the church of england. he was baptized and brought up in the anglican communion. he entered at trinity college, oxford, and he joined the indian army as a member of the church of england; but when he was at goa in he left off "sitting under" that garrison chaplain and betook himself to the roman catholic chapel, and availed himself of the ministrations of the goanese priest. from that time, except officially, he never seems to have availed himself of the services of the church of england. i do not unduly press the point of his attendance at the roman catholic chapel at goa, for it may simply have meant that burton merely went to the chapel and worshipped as a catholic among catholics, just as when he was at mecca he worshipped as a mohammedan among the mohammedans; but it tells against the theory that he "loathed" catholicism, as the same necessity did not exist at goa as at mecca. it was a purely voluntary act on his part. henceforward it would seem that, so far from being prejudiced against catholicism, burton was always coquetting with it; and if he took any religion seriously at all, he may be said to have taken this one seriously. the following facts also go to prove this theory. he married a catholic wife, of whose strong religious views he was well aware. before the marriage he signed a paper to the effect that his children, if any, should be brought up in the roman catholic faith. he obtained and used the following letter from cardinal wiseman, with whom he was on friendly terms: "london, june , . "dear sir, "allow me to introduce to you captain burton, the bearer of this note, who is employed by the government to make an expedition to africa, at the head of a little band of adventurers. captain burton has been highly spoken of in the papers here; and i have been asked to give him this introduction to you as a catholic officer. "i am, dear sir, "yours sincerely in christ, "n. card. wiseman. "colonel hammerton," etc., etc., etc. he habitually wore a crucifix, which his wife had given him, next his skin; he championed the cause of the catholic converts in syria; and when staying with his wife's family, he would frequently attend a service in a roman catholic church, and behave in all things as a catholic worshipper. i am not saying that these things prove that burton was a catholic, but they afford strong presumptive evidence that he had leanings in the direction of catholicism; and undoubtedly they go to prove that he did not "loathe" the catholic religion. one thing is certain, he was too much of a scholar to indulge in any vulgar prejudice against the roman catholic church, and too much of a gentleman to insult her priests. after all there is nothing inherently improbable in burton's conversion to catholicism. most of his life had been spent in countries where catholicism is practically the only form of christianity; and such a mind as his, if on the rebound from agnosticism, would be much more likely to find a refuge in the bosom of the roman catholic church than in the half-way house of evangelical protestantism. to a temperament like burton's, steeped in eastern mysticism and sufiism, catholicism would undoubtedly have offered strong attractions; for the links between the highest form of sufiism and the gospel of st. john, the _ecstasis_ of st. bernard, and other writings of the fathers of the church who were of the alexandrian school, are well known, and could hardly have been ignored by burton, who made a comparative study of religions. this, however, is by the way, and has only an indirect bearing on his wife's action. she, who knew him best, and from whom he had no secrets, believed that, in his later years at least, her husband was at heart a catholic. he gave her ample grounds for this belief, and she acted upon it in all good faith. that he may have deceived her is possible, though not probable; but that she would have deceived a priest of her church at the most solemn moment of her life, and on one of the most sacred things of her religion, is both impossible and improbable. the whole nature of the woman, her transparent truthfulness, her fervent piety, rise up in witness against this charge, and condemn it. and to what end would she have done this thing? no one knew better than lady burton that there is one whom she could not deceive; for with her the things invisible were living realities, and the actualities of this life were but passing things which come and fade away. notes: . lady burton's maid, now dead. . _life of sir richard burton,_ by isabel his wife, vol. ii., pp. - . this work was published in may, . . miss stisted's life of burton, pp. - . . translated from the italian. . a tonic, a strengthening restorative. . an official (generally a physician) who visits the dead, and assures himself that the death is real, and not an apparent one. . the baroness paul de ralli, who procured the above attestation from the priest, sent it in the first instance to cardinal vaughan together with the following letter: "trieste, austria, january , . "my lord cardinal, "there has lately been published a so-called 'true' life of the late sir richard burton, written by his niece. since my letter to _the catholic times_, which appeared in the issue of december , it has been pointed out to me that it would be well if i could procure a written attestation of the priest who gave extreme unction to the late sir richard burton. i am authorized by monseigneur sterk to place in the hands of your eminence the enclosed manuscript, written by monseigneur martelani, who is now prebendary of the cathedral here. as an intimate friend of the burtons, i beg to say that everything said about the life of the burtons at this place in the 'true' life has been written by dictation, and, furthermore, that i could name the authoress's informant, which makes the book worthless for those who know the source from which the authoress has gathered her information--the same source which has made lady burton's life hideous from the day of her husband's death to the time she left this place. as regards those who claim to have known all about sir richard burton--'they knew the man well,'etc.--allow me to point out that the exoteric subtleties of his character were only exceeded by the esoteric; and to what an extent this is true is only known to those who were at the same time his friends and his wife's intimate friends, of whom there are several here beside myself. my position at the villa gosslett was perhaps a little exceptional. having come here from england in after my marriage, i was looked upon by the burtons as a sort of ex-subject of theirs. "believe me to be, my lord cardinal, "yours faithfully, "catherine de ralli." . speech at the anthropological society, london, . book iii. widowed. ( - ). "_el maraa min ghayr zaujuga mislaha tayaran maksus el jenakk._" ("the woman without her husband is like a bird with one wing.") chapter i. the truth about "the scented garden." now i indeed will hide desire and all repine, and light up this my fire that neighbours see no sign: accept i what befalls by order of my lord, haply he too accept this humble act of mine. alf laylah wa laylah (_burton's "arabian nights"_). sir richard burton's funeral was attended by a great crowd of mourners and representatives of every class in trieste. the austrian authorities accorded him military honours, and the bishop of trieste conceded all the rites of the church. his remains were laid, with much pomp and circumstance, in their temporary resting-place--a small chapel in the burial-ground--until his widow could take them back with her to england. the funeral over, lady burton returned to her desolate house-- a home no longer, for the loved presence which had made the palazzo a home, as it would have made a home to her of the humblest hut on earth, was gone for ever. the house was but an empty shell. sir richard burton's death had been so sudden and unexpected that none of lady burton's near relatives, her sisters, were able to reach her in time; and though they had telegraphed to her offering to come at once, she had replied asking them not to undertake the journey. and so it came about that, in this hour of sorest trial, she was absolutely alone. she had no one to turn to in her grief; she had no children's love to solace her; she had no son to say, "mother, lean on me"; no daughter to share her sorrow. friends she had in plenty, and friends such as the world rarely gives, but they could not intrude their sympathy overmuch at such a time as this. moreover, she had concentrated all her affections on her husband; she had lived so entirely for him, and in him, that she had not formed any of those intimate friendships in which some women delight. she had, in short, put all her earthly happiness in one frail barque, and it had foundered. hitherto we have followed her through her wedded life, that beautiful union which was more like a poem than an ordinary marriage. we have seen how the love which she bore her husband had sanctified her life, and his, lifting it above and beyond the ordinary love of men and women, glorifying all things, even her meanest tasks, for they were done in love's holy name. we have seen how she knew no fear, spared herself no pain, heeded no rebuff in the service of the man she loved. we have followed her in journeyings often, in perils of sea, in perils of robbers, in perils of the heathen, in perils of the wilderness, in weariness and sorrow, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, and besides these things that were without, bearing those secret sorrows-- "my beloved secret cross," she called them--which are known only to the soul and its god. we have seen all this, the full, perfect glorious life which she lived by the side of the man she loved; in the brief survey of the few broken years left to her on earth, we shall henceforth see her alone--alone, yet not alone, for the divine love went with her, and with her also was ever present the memory of an earthly love, a love purified and holy, growing nearer and nearer to the love of the perfect day. if we were to search the wide world over, ransack history, dive deep into the annals of the past, i doubt if there would be found any more perfect example of unselfish love than that which is exemplified in the wedded life of this woman. with her it was always "richard only." it is with this thought in our minds that we approach her crowning act of self- sacrifice, her last supreme offering on the altar of love. i refer to the act whereby she deliberately sacrificed the provision her husband had made for her, and faced poverty, and the contumely of her enemies, for the sake of his fair memory. lady burton's first act after her husband's death was to lock up his manuscripts and papers to secure them against all curious and prying eyes--a wise and necessary act under the circumstances, and one which was sufficient to show that, great though her grief was, it did not rob her for one moment of her faculties. as soon as her husband's funeral was over, she went back to his rooms, locked the door securely, and examined carefully all his books and papers, burning those which he had desired to be burnt, and sorting and classifying the others. among the manuscripts was sir richard's translation of the notorious _scented garden, men's hearts to gladden, of the shaykh el nafzawih_, which he had been working at the day before his death, completed all but one page, and the proceeds of which he had told his wife were to form her jointure. as his original edition of _the arabian nights_ had brought in , pounds profit, the _scented garden_, beside which _the arabian nights_ was a "baby tale," might reasonably have been expected to have produced as much, if not more. indeed, a few days after sir richard's death, a man offered lady burton six thousand guineas down for the manuscript as it stood, and told her that he would relieve her of all risk and responsibility in the matter. she might, therefore, easily have closed with this offer without any one being the wiser, and if she had been inclined to drive a bargain, she would doubtless have had no difficulty in securing double the price. as her husband's death had reduced her to comparative poverty, the temptation to an ordinary woman, even a good and conscientious woman, would have been irresistible; she could have taken the money, and have quieted her conscience with some of those sophistries which we can all call to our aid on occasion. but lady burton was not an ordinary woman, and the money side of the question never weighed with her for one moment. how she acted at this crisis in her life is best told by herself. "my husband had been collecting for fourteen years information and materials on a certain subject. his last volume of _the supplemental nights_ had been finished and out on november , . he then gave himself up entirely to the writing of this book which was called _the scented garden_, a translation from the arabic. it treated of a certain passion. do not let any one suppose for a moment that richard burton ever wrote a thing from the impure point of view. he dissected a passion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body, showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good, and its proper uses, as designed by providence and nature, as the great academician watts paints them. in private life he was the most pure, the most refined and modest man that ever lived, and he was so guileless himself that he could never be brought to believe that other men said or used these things from any other standpoint. i, as a woman, think differently. the day before he died he called me into his room and showed me half a page of arabic manuscript upon which he was working, and he said, 'to-morrow i shall have finished this, and i promise you after this i will never write another book upon this subject. i will take to our biography.' i told him it would be a happy day when he left off that subject, and that the only thing that reconciled me to it was, that the doctors had said that it was so fortunate, with his partial loss of health, that he could find something to interest and occupy his days. he said, 'this is to be your jointure, and the proceeds are to be set apart for an annuity for you'; and i said, 'i hope not; i hope you will live to spend it like the other.' he said, 'i am afraid it will make a great row in england, because _the arabian nights_ was a baby tale in comparison to this, and i am in communication with several men in england about it.' the next morning, at a.m., he had ceased to exist. some days later, when i locked myself up in his rooms, and sorted and examined the manuscripts, i read this one. no promise had been exacted from me, because the end had been so unforeseen, and i remained for three days in a state of perfect torture as to what i ought to do about it. during that time i received an offer from a man whose name shall be always kept private, of six thousand guineas for it. he said, 'i know from fifteen hundred to two thousand men who will buy it at four guineas, _i.e._ at two guineas the volume; and as i shall not restrict myself to numbers, but supply all applicants on payment, i shall probably make , pounds out of it.' i said to myself, 'out of fifteen hundred men, fifteen will probably read it in the spirit of science in which it was written; the other fourteen hundred and eighty-five will will read it for filth's sake, and pass it to their friends, and the harm done may be incalculable.' 'bury it,' said one adviser; 'don't decide.' 'that means digging it up again and reproducing at will.' 'get a man to do it for you,' said no. ; 'don't appear in it.' 'i have got that,' i said. 'i can take in the world, but i cannot deceive god almighty, who holds my husband's soul in his hands.' i tested one man who was very earnest about it: 'let us go and consult so-and-so'; but he, with a little shriek of horror, said, 'oh, pray don't let me have anything to do with it; don't let my name get mixed up in it, but it is a beautiful book i know.' "i sat down on the floor before the fire at dark, to consult my own heart, my own head. how i wanted a brother! my head told me that sin is the only rolling stone that gathers moss; that what a gentleman, a scholar, a man of the world may write when living, he would see very differently to what the poor soul would see standing naked before its god, with its good or evil deeds alone to answer for, and their consequences visible to it for the first moment, rolling on to the end of time. oh for a friend on earth to stop and check them! what would he care for the applause of fifteen hundred men now--for the whole world's praise, and god offended. my heart said, 'you can have six thousand guineas; your husband worked for you, kept you in a happy home with honour and respect for thirty years. how are you going to reward him? that your wretched body may be fed and clothed and warmed for a few miserable months or years, will you let that soul, which is part of your soul, be left out in cold and darkness till the end of time, till all those sins which may have been committed on account of reading those writings have been expiated, or passed away perhaps for ever? why, it would be just parallel with the original thirty pieces of silver!' i fetched the manuscript and laid it on the ground before me, two large volumes' worth. still my thoughts were, was it a sacrilege? it was his _magnum opus_, his last work that he was so proud of, that was to have been finished on the awful morrow--that never came. will he rise up in his grave and curse me or bless me? the thought will haunt me to death, but sadi and el shaykh el nafzawih, who were pagans, begged pardon of god and prayed not to be cast into hell fire for having written them, and implored their friends to pray for them to the lord, that he would have mercy on them. and then i said, 'not only not for six thousand guineas, but not for six million guineas will i risk it.' sorrowfully, reverently, and in fear and trembling, i burnt sheet after sheet, until the whole of the volumes were consumed."[ ] as to the act itself i am not called upon to express any opinion. but there can be no two opinions among fair-minded people as to the heroism, the purity, and the sublime self-sacrifice of the motives which prompted lady burton to this deed. absolutely devoted to her husband and his interests as she had been in his lifetime, she was equally jealous of his honour now that he was dead. nothing must tarnish the brightness of his good name. it was this thought, above all others, which led her to burn _the scented garden_. for this act the vials of misrepresentation and abuse were poured on lady burton's head. she was accused of the "bigotry of a torquemada, the vandalism of a john knox." she has been called hysterical and illiterate. it has been asserted that she did it from selfish motives, "for the sake of her own salvation, through the promptings of a benighted religion," for fear of the legal consequences which might fall upon her if she sold the book, for love of gain, for love of notoriety, for love of "posing as a martyr," and so on, and so on. she was publicly vilified and privately abused, pursued with obscene, anonymous, and insulting letters until the day of her death. in fact, every imputation was hurled at her, and she who might have answered all her persecutors with a word, held her peace, or broke it only to put them on another track. it was not merely the act itself which caused her suffering; it was the long persecution which followed her from the day her letter appeared in _the morning post_ almost to the day she died. how keenly she felt it none but those who knew her best will ever know. a proud, high-spirited woman, she had never schooled herself to stay her hand, but generally gave her adversaries back blow for blow; but these cowardly attacks she bore in silence, nay more, she counted all the suffering as gain, for she was bearing it for the sake of the man she loved. and this silence would never have been broken, and the true reasons which led lady burton to act as she did would never have been told to the world, had it not been that, after her death, a woman, whom she had never injured by thought, word, or deed, has seen fit to rake up this unpleasant subject again, for the purpose of throwing mud on her memory, impugning her motives, and belittling the magnitude of her sacrifice. it is solely in defence that the truth is now told. i have never read sir richard's translation of _the scented garden_, for the simple reason there is none in existence (notwithstanding all that has been said to the contrary); the only two copies were destroyed by his widow. but i have read another translation of the book, mainly the work of a man who was also an orientalist and a distinguished soldier, which, though doubtless inferior to burton's, is more than sufficient to give one full knowledge of the character of the book. i have read also burton's original and unexpurgated edition of _alf laylah wa laylah_ and his terminal essay, including the section which is omitted in all later editions, and certain other unpublished notes of his on the same subject. lady burton also talked with me freely on the matter. i know therefore of what i speak, and am not in the same position as lady burton's latest accuser, who declares with quite unnecessary emphasis that she has never read _the arabian nights_, and of course never saw the burnt manuscript of _the scented garden_. she is therefore obviously disqualified to express any opinion on the subject. so far as i can gather from all i have learned, the chief value of burton's version of _the scented garden_ lay not so much in his translation of the text, though that of course was admirably done, as in the copious notes and explanations which he had gathered together for the purpose of annotating the book. he had made this subject a study of years, though his actual translation of it only took him eighteen months. the theme of _the scented garden_ is one which is familiar to every student of oriental literature. burton, who was nothing if not thorough in all he undertook, did not ignore this. in fact, one may say that from his early manhood he had been working at it, as he commenced his inquiries soon after his arrival in india. lady burton, it will be seen, says he "dissected a passion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body, showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good, and its proper uses, as designed by providence and nature"; that is, burton pursued his inquiries on this subject in the same spirit as that which has animated kraft-ebbing and moll, and other men of science. but from what i have read in _the arabian nights_ and elsewhere, it seems to me that burton's researches in this direction were rather of an ethnological and historical character than a medical or scientific one. his researches had this peculiarity, that whereas most of the writers on this subject speak from hearsay, burton's information was obtained at first hand, by dint of personal inquiries. thus it came about that he was misunderstood. for a man, especially a young soldier whose work is not generally supposed to lie in the direction of scientific and ethnological investigation, to undertake such inquiries was to lay himself open to unpleasant imputations. his contemporaries and comrades in india did not understand him, and what people do not understand they often dislike. in his regiment he soon incurred odium, and a cloud of prejudice enveloped him. unfortunately, too, he was not overwise; and he had a habit of telling tales against himself, partly out of bravado, which of course did not tend to improve matters. people are very apt to be taken at their own valuation, especially if their valuation be a bad one. it must not be supposed that i am giving countenance, colour, or belief to these rumours against burton for a moment: on the contrary, i believe them to be false and unjust; but false and unjust though they were, they were undoubtedly believed by many, and herein was the gathering of the cloud which hung over burton's head through the earlier part of his official career. to prove that i am not drawing on my own imagination with regard to this theory, i quote the following, told in burton's own words:-- "in , when sir charles napier had conquered and annexed sind, . . . it was reported to me that karachi, a townlet of some two thousand souls, and distant not more than a mile from camp. . . . being then the only british officer who could speak sindi, i was asked indirectly to make inquiries, and to report upon the subject; and i undertook the task on the express condition that my report should not be forwarded to the bombay government, from whom supporters of the conqueror's policy could expect scant favour, mercy, or justice. accompanied by a munshi, mirza mohammed hosayn shiraz, and habited as a merchant, mirza abdullah the bushiri passed many an evening in the townlet, visited all the porneia, and obtained the fullest details, which were duly dispatched to government house. but the 'devil's brother' presently quitted the sind, leaving in his office my unfortunate official; this found its way with sundry other reports to bombay, and produced the expected result. a friend in the secretariat informed me that my summary dismissal had been formally proposed by one of sir charles napier's successors, whose decease compels me _parcere sepulto_, but this excess of outraged modesty was not allowed."[ ] burton was not dismissed from the service, it is true, but the unfavourable impression created by the incident remained. he was refused the post he coveted--namely, to accompany the second expedition to mooltan as interpreter; and seeing all prospect of promotion at an end for the present, he obtained a long furlough, and came home from india under a cloud. evil rumour travels fast; and when he went to boulogne (the time and place where he first met isabel), there were plenty of people ready to whisper ill things concerning him. when he returned to india two years after, notwithstanding his mecca exploit, he found prejudice still strong against him, and nothing he could do seemed to remove it. his enemies in india and at home were not slow to use it against him. one can trace its baleful influence throughout his subsequent career. lady burton, whose vigilance on her husband's behalf never slept, and who would never rest until she confronted his enemies, got to know of it. when i know not, in what way i know not, but the fact that sooner or later she did get to know of it is indisputable. how she fought to dispel this cloud none but herself will ever know. official displeasure she could brave, definite charges she could combat; but this baseless rumour, shadowy, indefinite, intangible, ever eluded her, but eluded her only to reappear. she could not grasp it. she was conscious that the thing was in the air, so to speak, but she could not even assume its existence. she could only take her stand by her husband, and point to his blameless life and say, "you are all the world to me; i trust you and believe in you with all my heart and soul." and in this her wisdom was justified, for at last the calumny died down, as all calumnies must die, for lack of sustenance. when _the arabian nights_ came out, at which she had worked so hard to manage the business arrangements, lady burton did not read the book throughout; she had promised her husband not to do so. she had perhaps a vague idea of some of its contents, for she raised objections. he explained them away, and she then worked heart and soul to ensure its success. the success which the book achieved, and the praise with which it was greeted, were naturally gratifying to her, and did much to dispel any objections which she might have had, especially when it is remembered that this book yielded profits which enabled her to procure for her husband every comfort and luxury for his declining years. it has been urged against her that she was extravagant because, when burton died, only four florins remained of the , pounds which they had netted by _the arabian nights; but when it is borne in mind that she spent every penny upon her husband and not a penny upon herself, it is not possible that the charge of extravagance can be maintained against her--certainly not in a selfish sense. when burton took to translating _the scented garden_, he acquainted his wife to some extent with its contents, and she objected. but he overcame her objections, as he had done before, and the thought that the money would be needed to maintain her husband in the same comfort as he enjoyed during the last few years weighed down her scruples; besides which, though she had a general idea that the book was not _virginibus purisque_, she had no knowledge of its real character. when therefore she read it for the first time, in the lonely days of her early widowhood, with the full shock of her sudden loss upon her, and a vivid sense of the worthlessness of all earthly gain brought home to her, she naturally did not look at things from the worldly point of view. she has told with graphic power how she sat down with locked doors to read this book, and how she read it through carefully, page by page; and it must be remembered that it was not burton's translation alone which she read, but also the notes and evidence which he had collected on the subject. then it was that the real nature of its contents was brought home to her, and she determined to act. it has been said that she only "half understood" what she read. alas! she understood but too well, for here was the nameless horror which she had tried to track to earth leaping up again and staring her in the face. she knew well enough what interpretations her husband's enemies--those enemies whom even the grave does not silence--would place upon this book; how they would turn and twist it about, and put the worst construction upon his motives, and so blur the fair mirror of his memory. burton wrote as a scholar and an ethnologist writing to scholars and ethnologists. but take what precautions he would, sooner or later, and sooner rather than later the character of his book would ooze out to the world, and the ignorant world judges harshly. so she burnt the manuscript leaf by leaf; and by the act she consummated her life sacrifice of love. i repeat that her regard for her husband's memory was her supreme reason for this act. that there were minor reasons is not denied: she herself has stated them. there was the thought of the harm a book of this kind might do; there was the thought of her responsibility to god and man; there was the thought of the eternal welfare of her husband's soul. she has stated, "it is my belief that by this act, if my husband's soul were weighed down, the cords were cut, and it was left free to soar to its native heaven." it is easy to sneer at such a sentiment as this, but the spiritual was very real with lady burton. all these minor considerations, therefore, weighed with her in addition to the greatest of them all. on the other hand, there came to her the thought that it was the first time she had ever gone against her husband's wishes, and now that he was dead they were doubly sacred to her. the mental struggle which she underwent was a terrible one: it was a conflict which is not given to certain lower natures to know, and not knowing it, they can neither understand nor sympathize. i make bold to say that the sacrifice which she made, and the motives which prompted her to make it, will stand to her honour as long as her name is remembered. there remain two other considerations: the first is--why did she make this act known to the world at all? surely it would have been better from every point of view to have veiled it in absolute secrecy. she has given the answer in her own words: "i was obliged to confess this because there were fifteen hundred men expecting the book, and i did not quite know how to get at them; also i wanted to avoid unpleasant hints by telling the truth." in other words, there was a large number of burton's supporters, persons who had subscribed to _the arabian nights_, and all his literary friends, with whom he was in constant communication, who knew that he was working at _the scented garden_, and were eagerly expecting it. lady burton burned the manuscript in october, ; she did not make her public confession of the act in _the morning post_ until june, , nearly nine months after the event. during all this time she was continually receiving letters asking what had become of the book which she knew that she had destroyed. what course was open to her? one answer suggests itself: send a circular or write privately to all these people, saying the book would not come out at all. but this was impossible because she did not know all of "the little army of her husband's admiring subscribers"; she neither knew their names nor their addresses; and apart from the endless worry and difficulty of answering letters which such a course would have entailed, a garbled version of the facts would be sure to have leaked out, and then she would have had to contradict the misstatements publicly. or perhaps spurious copies of _the scented garden_ professing to be sir richard's translation might have been foisted upon the public, and she would have been under the necessity of denouncing them. so she argued that it was best to have the thing over and done with once for all, to make a clean breast of it, and let the world say what it pleased. in this i cannot but think that she was right, though she often said, "i have never regretted for a moment having burned it, but i shall regret all my life having made it known publicly, though i could hardly have done otherwise. i did not know my public, i did not know england." here i think she was wrong in confusing england with a few anonymous letter- writers and scurrilous persons; for however opinions may differ upon the act itself, its wisdom or unwisdom, all right-thinking people honoured her for the sacrifice which she had made. they would have honoured her even more if they had known that she had done it for the sake of her husband's name! her latest and most malevolent accuser, miss stisted, has also urged against her that by this act she conveyed a "wrong impression concerning the character of the book," and so cast a slur upon her husband's memory. a wrong impression! the ignorance and animus of this attack are obvious. the character of the manuscript was well known: it was the translation of a notorious book. the story of burton's inquiries in this unpleasant field was known too, if not to the many at least to the few, and his enemies had not scrupled to place the worst construction on his motives. his wife knew this but too well, and she fought the prejudice with sleepless vigilance all the years of her married life, and by this last act of hers did her best to bury it in oblivion. surely it is cruelly unjust to say that it was she who cast the slur! and now to refer to another matter. miss stisted animadverts on lady burton's having sold the library edition of _the arabian nights_ in "with merely a few excisions absolutely indispensable." "coming as it did so soon," she says, "after her somewhat theatrical destruction of _the scented garden_," this act "could not be permitted to pass unchallenged." she not only charges lady burton with inconsistency, but hints at pecuniary greed, for she mentions the sum she received. yet there was nothing inconsistent in lady burton's conduct in this connexion. on the contrary, it is one more tribute to her consistency, one more proof of the theory i have put forward in her defence, for the excisions which lady burton made were only those which referred to the subject which was the theme of _the scented garden_. lady burton was no prude: she knew also that her husband did not write as "a young lady to young ladies"; but she drew the line at a certain point, and she drew it rigidly. by her husband's will she had full power to bring out any editions she might please of _the arabian nights_ or any other book of his. she therefore sanctioned the library edition with certain excisions, and the reasons which prompted her to make these excisions in _the arabian nights_ were the same as those which led her to burn _the scented garden_. notes: . lady burton's letter to _the morning post_, june , . . vol. x. _arabian nights_, terminal essay, section d, pp. , , . chapter ii. the return to england. ( - ). not yet, poor soul! a few more darksome hours and sore temptations met and overcome, a few more crosses bravely, meekly carried, ere i can proudly call the tried one home. nerve then thy heart; the toil will soon be done, the crown of self-denial nobly earned and won. from lady burton's devotional book "tan." lady burton remained at trieste three months after her husband's death. we have seen how she spent the first weeks of her bereavement, locked up with his manuscripts and papers. during that time she would see no one, speak to no one. when her work was done, all her husband's wishes as to the disposal of his private papers carried out, and the manuscripts duly sorted and arranged, she came out from her seclusion, and put herself a little in touch with the world again. she was deeply touched at the sympathy which was shown to her. the burtons had been so many years at trieste, and were so widely known there and respected, that sir richard's death was felt as a public loss. a eulogy of sir richard was delivered in the diet of trieste, and the house adjourned as a mark of respect to his memory. the city had three funeral requiems for him, and hundreds of people in trieste, from the highest to the lowest, showed their sympathy with his widow. her friends rallied round her, for they knew that her loss was no ordinary one, and she had consigned to the grave all that made life worth living for her. nor was this sympathetic regard confined to trieste alone; the english press was full of the "dead lion," and the dominant note was that he had not been done justice to while he was alive. lady burton was greatly gratified by all this, and she says a little bitterly: "it shows how truly he was appreciated except by the handful who could have made his life happy by success." her first public act after her husband's death was a defence of his memory. she had fought so hard for him when living that it seemed only natural to her to go on fighting for him now that he was beyond the reach of praise or blame. colonel grant had written a letter to _the times_ anent an obituary notice of sir richard burton, in which he defended speke, and spoke of the "grave charges" which speke communicated against burton to his relatives and to the geographical society. lady burton saw this letter some time after it appeared. she knew well enough what it hinted at, and she lost no time in sending a reply wherein she defended her husband's character, and prefaced her remarks with the characteristic lines: he had not dared to do it, except he surely knew my lord was dead. lady burton had soon to face, in these first days of her widowhood, the problem of her altered circumstances. with her husband's death his salary as a consul came to an end, and there was no pension for his widow. for the last three or four years, since they had netted , pounds by _the arabian nights_, the burtons had been living at the rate of , - , pounds a year, and had kept up their palazzo at trieste and a large staff of servants, in addition to continually travelling _en prince_, with all the luxuries of the best hotels, servants, and a resident doctor who always accompanied them. lady burton had sanctioned this expenditure because she wished, as she said, to give her husband every comfort during his declining days. moreover, burton had looked forward to _the scented garden_ to replenish his exchequer. now lady burton found herself face to face with these facts: the whole of the money of _the arabian nights_ was gone, her husband's salary was gone, _the scented garden_ was gone, and there was nothing left for her but a tiny patrimony. it was therefore necessary that she should rouse herself to a sense of the position. she did so without delay. she determined as far as possible to carry out the plans which she and her husband had made when they were looking forward to his retirement to leave trieste, to return to london, take a little flat, and occupy herself with literary work. it was a sore pang to her to give up the beautiful home on which she had expended so much care and taste, and to part with her kind friends at trieste, many of whom she had known for eighteen years. at trieste she was a personage. every one knew her and loved her. she knew well enough that when she came back to london after such a long absence, except by a few faithful friends, she might be forgotten and overlooked in the rush and hurry of modern life. nevertheless her course was plain; she had but one desire; that was to get away from trieste as quickly as might be, take her husband's remains with her, and lay them to rest in english soil, a rest which she hoped to share with him before long. after her husband's funeral at trieste, lady burton's first step should have been the dismissal of her house-hold, except one or two servants. she did not feel equal to this, however, and difficulties arose which are touched on in the following letter: "from the time i lost my all, my earthly god of thirty-five years, in two hours, i have been like one with a blow on the head. i cannot write about him; i must tell of myself. having been eighteen years in trieste, it was difficult to leave so many dependent on me, so many friends to bid farewell, so many philanthropic works to wind up the affairs of, and i had to settle twenty rooms full of things i could not throw away. it took me fourteen weeks to do it. during that time i swam in a sea of small horrors--wickedness, treachery, threats; but my triestine friends stuck to me. the authorities behaved nobly, and i pulled through and got off."[ ] the next few months were busy ones for lady burton. it is hard under any circumstances to break up a home of eighteen years, and harder still when it has to be done as economically and expeditiously as possible. she placed out all her old and trusted servants; she endeavoured to find friends to take on the care of many of the aged and poor people who were more or less dependent on her; she wound up the institutions of which she was president; she paid her debts, and said good-bye to all her friends. she refused to sell any of the furniture or effects of the home she had loved so well. she said it would be like selling her friends. so she packed the few things she thought she would want to furnish her flat in london, and all her manuscripts, and she gave away the rest of the furniture where she thought it would be useful or valued. these duties occupied her fourteen weeks in all, and she worked every day early and late, the only break in her labours being her frequent visits to the _chapelle ardente_ where the remains of her husband were reposing, preparatory to being carried to england. the only comfort to her in this time of sorrow was a visit from her cousin, canon waterton of carlisle, a scholarly and cultured ecclesiastic, who, in addition to providing her with spiritual consolation, also gave her much valuable advice as to the disposition of the books and manuscripts. in order to guard against any misconception, however, i should like to add that canon waterton did not come to trieste until some time after _the scented garden_ had been burned. that act, in spite of all that has been said to the contrary, was entirely lady burton's own act, influenced by no priest, layman, or any person whatever. she spoke of it afterwards as a secret between herself and the dead husband. so this year ( ) the saddest in lady burton's life, came to an end. on january , , she caused her husband's remains to be removed from the chapel and conveyed on board the cunard steamer _palmyra_. she herself was going to england by the quicker route overland. her work now being done, a few days later lady burton left trieste for the last time. the evening before her departure twenty of her friends came up to spend the last hours with her. she walked round every room, recalling her life in her happy home. she visited every nook and cranny of the garden; she sat under the linden tree where she and her husband had spent so many quiet hours, and she gazed at the beautiful views for the last time. this went on till the time came for her to leave. many friends came to accompany her to the station. when she arrived she found that she had to face quite a demonstration. all the leading people in trieste and the authorities of the city, all the children of the orphanage in which she had taken so keen an interest, all the poor whom she had helped, and all her private friends, who were many, were there to bid her good-bye and offer her flowers. she says: "it was an awful trial not to make an exhibition of myself, and i was glad when the train steamed out; but for a whole hour, ascending the beautiful road close to the sea and miramar and trieste, i never took my misty eyes off trieste and our home where i had been so happy for eighteen years." on arriving in england, lady burton's first care was to go and see sir richard's sister and niece, lady and miss stisted, and acquaint them with the circumstances of her husband's death, and her intentions. we will draw a veil over that meeting. she then went on to london and stayed at the langham hotel, intending to remain there a few days until she could find a lodging. at the langham her three sisters were waiting for her. two days after her arrival in london, lady burton went to see about a monument to her husband. this monument has been already described, and it is unnecessary to repeat the description at any length here. suffice it to say that it is a tomb, shaped like an arab tent, of dark forest of dean stone, lined inside with white carrara marble. the tent is surmounted by a large gilt star, and over the flap door is a white marble crucifix. the fringe is composed of gilt crescents and stars. the door supports an open book of white marble: on one page is an inscription to sir richard burton; the opposite page was then left blank. lady burton had the tomb fitted up with an altar and other accessories, so as to make it as much like a _chapelle ardente_ as possible, while preserving its eastern character. there was room in the tent for two coffins, those of her husband and herself. finding that her purse was too slender to carry out this somewhat elaborate design, lady burton was encouraged by her friends to ask for a public subscription, with the result that she received the greater part of the money, but the appeal was not responded to as it might have been. she found that, owing to the state of the weather, the monument could not be completed for some months, but she selected the site in mortlake cemetery, the spot which she and her husband had chosen many years before, and had the ground pegged out. the next day, though very ill, she, with her sister mrs. fitzgerald, went down to liverpool to meet her husband's remains, which were arriving by sea. lord and lady derby, who had always been her kind friends, had arranged everything for her, and the next morning lady burton went on board ship. she says, "i forgot the people when i saw my beloved case, and i ran forward to kiss it." it was taken to the train, and to mortlake, where they arrived that evening. the coffin was conveyed by torchlight to a temporary resting- place in the crypt under the altar of the church, where it remained until the tent was erected. the same evening lady burton returned to london, and, her work being done, the reaction set in. she broke down and took to her bed that night, where she remained for many weeks. she says "i cannot describe the horror of the seventy-six days enhanced by the fog, which, after sunlight and air, was like being buried alive. the sense of desolation and loneliness and longing for him was cruel, and it became the custom of the day and the haunting of the night. my altered circumstances, and the looking into and facing my future, had also to be borne." in the meantime her friends, notably the dowager lady stanley of alderley, the royal geographical and other societies, had not been idle, and her claims had been brought before the queen, who was graciously pleased to grant lady burton a pension of pounds a year from the civil list. this pension, which she enjoyed to the day of her death, came to her as a surprise, and was not due to any effort of her own. she would never have asked anything for herself: the only thing she did ask for was that the nation should help her in raising a monument to her husband's honour; but, as we have seen, the nation was somewhat lukewarm on that point. at the end of april lady burton recovered sufficiently to leave the hotel, and joined her sister, mrs. fitzgerald. she was chiefly occupied during the next few months in looking out for a house, and in completing the arrangements for her husband's final resting-place. about the middle of june the tent was finished. sir richard burton's remains were transferred from the crypt under the church to the mausoleum where they now rest. at the funeral service lady burton occupied a _prie-dieu_ by the side, and to the right was captain st. george burton, of the black watch, a cousin of sir richard. there was a large gathering of representatives of both families and many friends. the widow carried a little bunch of forget-me-nots, which she laid on the coffin. this simple offering of love would doubtless have been far more acceptable to the great explorer than the "wreath from royalty" the absence of which his latest biographer so loudly deplores. when the ceremony was over, lady burton went away at once to the country for a ten days' rest to the convent of the canonesses of the holy sepulchre, new hall, chelmsford, where she had been educated, and which had received within its walls many of the arundells of wardour. she left new hall much refreshed and invigorated in mind and body, and for the next month was busy arranging a house which she had taken in baker street. she moved into it in september, , and so entered upon the last chapter of her life. notes: . letter to madame de gutmansthal-benvenuti, from london, march , . chapter iii. the tinkling of the camel's bell. ( - ). friends of my youth, a last adieu! haply some day we meet again; yet ne'er the self-same men shall meet; the years shall make us other men: the light of morn has grown to noon, has paled with eve, and now farewell! go, vanish from my life as dies the tinkling of the camel's bell. richard burton (_the kasidah_). the next few months lady burton mainly occupied herself by arranging in her new house the things which she had brought with her from trieste. when all was finished, her modest quarters in baker street were curiously characteristic of the woman. like many of the houses in her beloved damascus, the one in baker street was unpretentious, not to say unprepossessing, when viewed from without, but within totally different, for lady burton had managed to give it an oriental air, and to catch something of the warmth and colouring of the east. this was especially true of her little drawing-room, which had quite an oriental aspect. eastern curtains veiled the windows, the floor was piled with persian carpets, and a wide divan heaped with cushions and draped with bright bedawin rugs ran along one side of the room. there were narghilehs and chibouques, and cups of filigree and porcelain for the dispensing of delectable arab coffee. quaint brackets of morocco work, eastern pictures, portraits, persian enamels, and curios of every description covered the walls. the most striking object in the room was a life- size portrait of sir richard burton, dressed in white, with a scarlet cummerbund, flanked on either side by a collection of rare books, most of them his works. many other relics of him were scattered about the room; and all over the house were to be found his books and pictures, and busts of him. in fact, she made a cult of her husband's memory, and there were enough relics of him in the house to fill a little museum. in this house lady burton settled down with her sister, mrs. fitzgerald, to her daily life in england, which was mostly a record of work--arduous and unceasing work, which began at . in the morning, and lasted till . at night. sometimes, indeed, she would work much later, far on into the night, and generally in the morning she would do a certain amount of work before breakfast, for the old habit of early rising clung to her still, and until her death she never broke herself of the custom of waking at five o'clock in the morning. at the top of her baker street house lady burton built out a large room, or rather loft. it was here she housed her husband's manuscripts, which she knew, as she used to say, "as a shepherd knew his sheep." they lined three sides of the room, and filled many packing-cases on the floor. to this place she was wont to repair daily, ascending a tortuous staircase, and finally getting into the loft by means of a ladder. later she had to abandon this steep ascent, but so long as it was possible she scaled the ladder daily, and would sit on a packing-case surrounded by her beloved manuscripts for hours together. lady burton was scarcely settled in baker street before her sister (the one next to her in age), mrs. smyth pigott, of brockley court, somerset, died. she had to go down to weston-super-mare for the funeral. when that was over she came back to baker street, where she remained over christmas. she wrote to a friend of hers about this time: "i dream always of my books and the pile of work. i am worrying on as well as i can with my miscellaneous writing. fogs have kept us in black darkness and pea-soup thickness for five days without a lift, and with smarting eyes and compressed head i have double work at heart. i passed christmas night in the convent of the holy souls. i went in my cab-- the streets were one sheet of ice--and two flambeaux on each side. in regent's park the fog was black and thick. we had communion and three masses at midnight. it was too lovely: in the dead silence a little before midnight you heard the shepherd's pipe, or reed, in the distance, and echo nearer and nearer, and then the soft, clear voices burst into 'glory be to god in the highest,' and this was the refrain all through the service. i passed the time with our lord and my darling, who had many masses said for him in london and all over england that night. i am better and have stronger nerves, and am perhaps more peaceful."[ ] in january, , lady burton went down to her cottage at mortlake, which she called "our cottage." in taking this house she had followed the plan which her husband when living had always adopted, of having a retreat a little way from their work, where they could go occasionally for rest and change. they had intended to follow this plan when they settled down in london. another motive drew lady burton to mortlake too: this cottage was close to the mausoleum of her husband, and she could visit it when she chose. it was a tiny cottage, plainly but prettily furnished. most of her relics and curios were housed at baker street, and this place had few associations for her beyond those which connected it with her husband's grave. the cottage was covered with creepers outside, and trees grew all round it. she had a charming little garden at the back, in which she took a good deal of pride; and when the summer came she had a big tent erected in the garden, and would sit there for many hours together, doing her work and frequently taking her meals out there. she had always lived an outdoor life, and this tent recalled to her the days in the east. here, too, she received a great many friends who found their way down to mortlake; she was fond of asking them to come and take tea with her in her tent. from this arose a silly rumour, which i mention only to contradict, that lady burton was in the habit of receiving her visitors in her husband's tomb, which, as we have seen, was also fashioned like an arab tent, though of stone. lady burton stayed down at mortlake for a few months, and came back to baker street in march, , where she remained for two or three months. for the first year of her life in england she lived like a recluse, never going out anywhere except on business or to church, never accepting an invitation or paying visits; but about this time she gradually came out of her seclusion, and began to collect around her a small circle of near relatives and friends. always fond of society, though she had now abjured it in a general sense, she could not live alone, so in addition to the companionship of her favourite sister mrs. fitzgerald, who lived with her and shared all her thoughts, she widened her circle a little and received a few friends. she was fond of entertaining, and gave many little informal gatherings, which were memorable from the grace and charm of the hostess. lady burton was always a picturesque and fascinating personality, but never more so than in these last years of her life. she possessed a fine and handsome presence, which was rendered even more effective by her plain black dress and widow's cap, with its long white veil which formed an effective background to her finely cut features. she reminded me of some of the pictures one sees of mary stuart. i do not think the resemblance ceased altogether with her personal appearance, for her manners were always queenly and gracious; and when she became interested in anything, her face would light up and her blue eyes would brighten, and one could see something of the courage and spirit which she shared in common with the ill-fated queen. she was a most accomplished woman and a clever linguist. she could write and speak fluently french, italian, arabic, and portuguese. german she knew also, though not so well, and she had more than a smattering of yiddish. she was well-read in the literature of all these (save yiddish, of course), yet never was a woman less of a "blue-stocking." she was a brilliant talker, full of wit and charm in her conversation, and there was nothing she liked better than to relate, in her inimitable way, some of her many adventures in the past. in fact, though singularly well-informed on all the current questions of the hour, one could see that her heart was ever in the past, and her thoughts seldom strayed far from her husband. thus it came about, after his death as in his life, she devoted herself wholly to glorifying his name, and i do not think it is any disparagement to sir richard burton to say that his personality would never have impressed itself upon the public imagination in the way it did, if it had not been for the efforts of his wife. in the summer of this year lady burton went to ventnor, and also paid a few visits, and in the autumn she stayed at ascot with her sister mrs. van zeller, whose husband had just died. in november she went to mortlake, where she settled down in earnest to write the biography of her husband, a work which occupied her eight months. when once she began, she worked at it morning, noon, and night, from early till late, and except for a flying visit to baker street for christmas, she never ceased her labours until the book was finished at the end of march, . she wrote to a friend at this time: "i finished the book last night, and have never left mortlake. it has taken me eight months. i hope it will be out the end of may. i do not know if i can harden my heart against the curs,[ ] but i can put out my tongue and point my pen and play pussy cat about their eyes and ears. i am to have six months' rest, but you know what that means."[ ] lady burton received a substantial sum from the publishers for the book, and it was published in may. the success which it achieved was immediate and unqualified, and, what is more, deserved, for with all its faults it is a great book--the last great work in the life of the woman who never thought of self, and her supreme achievement to raise aloft her husband's name. its success was very grateful to lady burton's heart, not on her own account, but her husband's; in fact, it may be said to have gilded with brightness the last years of her life. she felt now that her work was done and that nothing remained. she wrote to a friend early in the new year ( )[ ]: "i have had my head quite turned by the great success of my book. first came about a hundred half-nasty, or wholly nasty, critiques; then the book made its way. i had three leading articles, over a thousand charming reviews, and have been inundated with the loveliest letters and invitations. . . . with my earnings i am embellishing his mausoleum, and am putting up in honour of his poem, _kasidah_, festoons of camel bells from the desert, in the roof of the tent where he lies, so that when i open or shut the door, or at the elevation of the mass, the 'tinkling of the camel bell' will sound just as it does in the desert. on january i am going down to pass the day in it, because it is my thirty-third wedding day, and the bells will ring for the first time. i am also carrying out all his favourite projects, and bringing out by degrees all his works hitherto published or unpublished, as of the former only small quantities were published, and these are mostly extinct. if god gives me two years, i shall be content. i live in my little _chaumiere_ near the mausoleum on the banks of the thames for the six good months of the year, and in my warm dry home in london six bad months, with my sister. you cannot think how the picture of richard by you was admired at the grosvenor gallery, and i put your name over it. i have now got it home again, and i thought he smiled as i brought him back in the cab for joy to get home. . . . there is a great waxwork exhibition in england which is very beautifully done (tussaud's). they have now put richard in the meccan dress he wore in the desert. they have given him a large space with sand, water, palms, and three camels, and a domed skylight, painted yellow, throws a lurid light on the scene. it is quite life-like. i gave them the real clothes and the real weapons, and dressed him myself. when it was offered to him during his life, his face beamed, and he said, 'that will bring me in contact with the people." the other works of sir richard's which lady burton brought out after the life of her husband included _il pentamerone_ and _catullus_. she also arranged for a new edition of his _arabian nights_, and she began what she called the "memorial library," which was mainly composed of the republication of half-forgotten books which he had written in the days before he became famous. she also recalled, at great pecuniary sacrifice to herself, another work which she thought was doing harm to his memory, and destroyed the copies. upon the publication of the life of her husband lady burton was overwhelmed with letters from old acquaintances who had half-forgotten her, from tried and trusted friends of her husband and herself, and from people whom she had never known, but who were struck by the magnitude of her self-sacrificing love. all these letters were pleasant. but she also received a number of letters of a very doubtful nature, which included begging letters and applications requesting to see her from quacks and charlatans of different kinds, who by professing great admiration for her husband and veneration for his memory, thought they would find in lady burton an easy prey. in this they were mistaken. although generous and open-hearted as the day, she always found out charlatans in the long run. she used to say she "liked to give them rope enough." unfortunately, though, it must be admitted that lady burton had the defects of her qualities. absolutely truthful herself, she was the last in the world to suspect double-dealing in others, and the result was that she sometimes misplaced her confidence, and put her trust in the wrong people. this led her into difficulties which she would otherwise have avoided. the publication of the life of her husband seemed also to arouse a number of dormant animosities, and it led, among other things, to a large increase in the number of abusive and insulting letters which she received from anonymous writers, chiefly with regard to her burning of _the scented garden_. they gave her great pain and annoyance. but many approved of her action, and among others who wrote to her a generous letter of sympathy was lady guendolen ramsden, the daughter of her old friends the duke and duchess of somerset. i give lady burton's reply because it shows how much she appreciated the kindness of her friends: "october , . "my dear lady guendolen, "i cannot tell you what pleasure your very kind letter gave me. i feared that you and all your family had forgotten me long ago. i was, and so was richard, very much attached to the duke and duchess; they always made us welcome, they always made us feel at home. i delighted in the duke-- so clever, so fascinating, and he was my _beau ideal_ of a gentleman of the old school, whilst the kindness of heart, the high breeding, and the wit of the duchess attached us both greatly to her. you were such a very young girl that i knew you the least, and yet you are the one to be kind to me now. the ones i knew best were poor lord st. maur and lady ulrica. let me now thank you for speaking so truly and handsomely of my dear husband, and your kindness and sympathy with me and my work. it is quite true! if you knew what a small section of people have made me suffer, and the horrible letters that they have written me, you would feel sorry to think that there were such people in the world, and when i reflect that it was that class of people who would have received the manuscript with joy, i know how right i was to burn it. it was not the _learned_ people, as you imagine, who regret this, because there was no learning to be gained from it. my dear husband did it simply to fill our purse again. the people who were angry were the people who loathe good, and seek for nothing but that class of literature. my husband had no vicious motive in writing it; he dissected these things as a doctor would a body. i was calculating what effect it would have on the mass of uneducated people who _might_ read it. i did receive many beautiful letters on the subject, and the papers have more or less never let me drop, but often much blame. i was so astonished to find myself either praised or blamed; it seemed to me the natural thing for a woman to do; but i see now how mistaken i was to have confessed it, and to imagine it was my duty to confess, which i certainly did. i know that he, being dead, would not have wished it published; if so, why did he leave it to me? . . . you are quite right; it has pleased me more than i can say that you should approve and confirm my ideas, and i am so thankful that the life has succeeded. i got my best reward in a review which said that 'richard burton's widow might comfort herself, as england now knew the man inside and out, that she had lifted every cloud from his memory, and his fame would shine as a beacon in all future ages.' i remember so well the party at lady margaret beaumont's. i can shut my eyes and see the whole dinner-table; we were twenty-five in party. and i remember well also the party at bulstrode. if i am alive in the summer, i shall be only too glad to pass a few days with you at bulstrode, if you will let me. i feel that a talk to you would carry me back to my happy days. "believe me, with warmest thanks, "yours sincerely, "isabel burton." after the publication of the life of her husband lady burton spent most of her time at baker street, with intervals at mortlake, and a few visits to friends, including lady windsor, lord arundell of wardour, lady guendolen ramsden at bulstrode, and canon waterton at carlisle. the year which followed ( ) may be said to have been her last active year, and it was the pleasantest year of her life in england. the success which had attended her book had brought her more into contact with the world than she had been at any time since her husband's death, and she saw that there was a field of usefulness still before her. this was the year in which she saw most friends, entertained most, and went about most. her health, never good, seemed to rally, and she was far less nervous than usual. she may be said about this time to have taken almost to literature as a profession, for she worked at it eight hours every day, in addition to keeping up a large correspondence, chiefly on literary and business matters. she went frequently to the play, got all the new books, and kept herself well in touch with the current thought of the day. she was not in sympathy with a good deal of it, and her way of expressing her opinions was delightfully frank and original. despite her abiding sense of her loss, there was nothing morbid about lady burton. she was bright and cheerful, full of interest in things, and perfectly happy in the society of her dearly loved sister. i think that here one might mention a few characteristics of lady burton. she was always very generous, but her generosity was not of the kind which would commend itself to the charity organization society. for instance, she had an incurable propensity of giving away to beggars in the street. she never let one go. the result was that she frequently returned home with an empty purse; indeed, so aware was she of her weakness, she took out little money with her as a rule, so that she might not be tempted too far. when people remonstrated with her on this indiscriminate almsgiving, she used to say, "i would rather give to ten rogues than turn one honest man away; i should be amply repaid if there were one fairly good one amongst them." she was very fond of children --that is, _en bloc_; she did not care to be troubled with them at too close quarters. she often took out the poor children of the roman catholic schools to treats on wimbledon common. she would hire drags, and go up there for the afternoon with them. she never forgot them at christmas, and she would always set aside a day or two for buying them toys. her way of doing this was somewhat peculiar. she had been so used to buying things of itinerant vendors in the streets abroad that she could not break herself of the habit in england. so, instead of going to a toy shop, she used to take a four-wheel cab, and drive slowly down oxford street and regent street; and whenever she came across a pedlar with toys on a tray, she would pull up her cab and make her purchases. these purchases generally took a good deal of time, for lady burton had been so much in the habit of dealing at bazars in the east that she was always under the impression that the pedlars in england asked double or treble what they really thought they would get. the result was a good deal of bargaining between her and the vendors. she used to make wholesale purchases; and during her bargaining, which was carried on with much animation, a crowd assembled, and not infrequently the younger members of it came in for a share of the spoils. to the day of her death she always felt strongly on the subject of the prevention of cruelty to animals, and indeed engaged in a fierce controversy with father vaughan on the subject of vivisection. she was never tired of denouncing the "barbarism of bearing-reins," and so forth. when she went out in a cab, she invariably inspected the horse carefully first, to see if it looked well fed and cared for; if not, she discharged the cab and got another one, and she would always impress upon the driver that he must not beat his horse under any consideration when he was driving her. she would then get into the cab, let the window down, and keep a watch. if the driver forgot himself so far as to give a flick with his whip, lady burton would lunge at him with her umbrella from behind. upon the cabby remonstrating at this unlooked-for attack, she would retort, "yes, and how do you like it?" on one occasion though she was not consistent. she took a cab with her sister from charing cross station, and was in a great hurry to get home. of course she impressed as usual upon the jehu that he was not to beat his horse. the horse, which was a wretched old screw, refused, in consequence, to go at more than a walking pace; and as lady burton was in a hurry to get back, and was fuming with impatience inside, she at last forgot herself so far as to put her head out of the window and cry to the driver, "why don't you beat him? why don't you make him go?" in politics lady burton described herself as a progressive conservative, which, being interpreted, would seem to signify that, though she was intensely conservative with regard to the things which she had at heart, such as religion and the importance of upholding the old _regime_, she was exceedingly progressive in smaller matters. her views on social questions especially were remarkably broad, and it may safely be said that there never was a woman who had less narrowness or bigotry in her composition. she was fond of saying, "let us hear all sides of the question, for that is the only way in which we can hope to arrive at the truth." i should like to add a few words as to her spiritual life, because it entered so profoundly into all that she said and did, that no record of her would be complete which ignored it. we have seen how in every crisis of her life, through all her perils, trials, and difficulties, she turned instinctively to that source where many look for strength and some find it. lady burton was one of those who found it: though all else might fail her, this consolation never failed. in her fervent faith is to be found the occult force which enabled her to dare all things, hope all things. we may agree with her religious views or not, but we are compelled to admit their power to sustain her through life's battle. the secret of her strength was this: to her the things spiritual and invisible--which to many of us are unreal, however loudly we may profess our belief in them--were living realities. it is difficult for some of us perhaps, in this material, sceptical world of ours, to realize a nature like hers. yet there are many such, and they form the strongest proof of the living force of christianity to-day. "transcendental," the world remarks, with a sneer. but who is there among us who would not, an he could, exchange uncertainty and unrest for the possession of a peace which the world cannot give? there are some natures who _can_ believe, who _can_ look forward to a prize so great and wonderful as to hold the pain and trouble of the race of very small account when weighed against the hope of victory. lady burton was one of these; she had her feet firm set upon the everlasting rock. the teaching of her church was to her divinest truth. the supernatural was real, the spiritual actual. the conflict between the powers of light and the powers of darkness, between good angels and evil angels, between benign influences and malefic forces, was no figure of speech with her, but a reality. in these last years of her life more especially the earthly veil seemed to have fallen over her eyes. she seemed to have grasped something of the vision of the servant of elisha, for whom the prophet prayed: "_lord, i pray thee, open his eyes, that he may see. and the lord opened the eyes of the young man; and he saw: and, behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire round about elisha_." because of all this, because her religion was such an actuality to her, is, i think, due half the misunderstandings which have arisen with regard to lady burton's attitude towards so-called "spiritualism." she always held that catholicism was the highest form of spiritualism--using the word in its highest meaning--and from this attitude she never wavered. she had lived much in the east, and had come much into contact with oriental occult influences, but what she saw only served to convince her more of the truths of her religion. lady burton was a christian mystic, not in the vulgar sense of the word, but only in the sense that many devout and religious women have been christian mystics too. like saint catherine of sienna, saint teresa, and other holy women, she was specially attracted to the spiritual and devotional aspect of the catholic faith. neither did her devotion to the spiritual element unfit her for the practical side of things: quite the contrary. like saint teresa, side by side with her religious life, she was a remarkably shrewd woman of business. it need scarcely be added that between so- called "spiritualism" as practised in england and the catholicism of lady burton there was a great gulf fixed, and one which she proved to be unbridgable. this lower form of spiritualism, to use her own words, "can only act as a decoy to a crowd of sensation-seekers, who yearn to see a ghost as they would go to see a pantomime." such things she considered, when not absolutely farcical, worked for evil, and not for good. as she wrote to a friend: "that faculty you have about the spirits, though you may ignore it, is the cause of your constant misfortunes. i have great experience and knowledge in these matters. as soon as you are happy these demons of envy, spite, and malicious intention attack you for evil ends, and ruin your happiness to get hold of your body and soul. never practise or interest yourself in these matters, and debar them from your house by prayer and absolute non-hearing or seeing them. . . . do not treat my words lightly, because i have had experience of it myself, and i had untold misfortune until i did as i advise you. the more god loves you, the more will this spirit hate and pursue you and want you for his own. drive him forth and resist him. . . . there is a spiritualism (i hate the word!) that comes from god, but it does not come in this guise. this sort is from the spirits of evil."[ ] i have dwelt on this side of lady burton's character in order to contradict many foolish rumours. during the last years of her life in england, when her health was failing, she was induced against her better judgment to have some dealings with certain so-called "spiritualists," who approached her under the plea of "communicating" with her husband, thus appealing to her at the least point of resistance. lady burton told her sister that she wanted to see "if there was anything in it," and to compare it with the occultism of the east. in the course of her inquiries she unfortunately signed certain papers which contained ridiculous "revelations." on thinking the matter over subsequently, the absurdity of the thing struck her. she came to the conclusion that there was nothing in it at all, and that, as compared with the occultism of the east, this was mere _kindergarten_. she then wished to recall the papers. she was very ill at the time, and unable to write herself; but she mentioned the matter to her sister at eastbourne a short time before her death, and said, "the first thing i do when i get back to london will be to recall those silly papers." she was most anxious to return to london for this purpose; but the day after her return she died. mrs. fitzgerald at once communicated with lady burton's dying wishes to the person in whose charge the papers were, and requested that they should not be published. but with a disregard alike for the wishes of the dead and the feelings of the living, the person rushed some of these absurd "communications" into print within a few weeks of lady burton's death, and despite all remonstrance was later proceeding to publish others, when stopped by a threat of legal proceedings from the executors. early in lady burton was struck down with the prevailing epidemic of influenza; and though she rallied a little after a month or two, she never recovered. she was no longer able to walk up and down stairs without assistance, or even across the room. her decline set in rapidly after this illness; for the influenza gave a fresh impetus to her internal malady, which she knew must be fatal to her sooner or later. she remained in baker street a sad invalid the first six months of the year, and then she recovered sufficiently to be removed to eastbourne for a change. it was in july that i saw her last, just before she left for eastbourne. she asked me to come and see her. i went one sunday afternoon, and i was grieved to see the change which a few months had worked in her. she was lying on a couch in an upper room. her face was of waxen whiteness, and her voice weak, but the brave, indomitable spirit shone from her eyes still, and she talked cheerfully for a long time about her literary labours and her plans and arrangements for some time ahead. at eastbourne she took a cottage, and remained there from september, , to march , . it was evident to her sister and all around her that she was fast failing; but when ever she was well enough she did some work. at this time she had begun her autobiography. when she was free from pain, she was always bright and cheerful, and enjoyed a joke as much as ever. early in the new year, , she became rapidly worse, and her one wish was to recover sufficiently to go home. one of the last letters she ever wrote was to her friend madame de gutmansthal-benvenuti: "i never forget you, and i wish our thoughts were telephones. i am very bad, and my one prayer is to be able to get home to london. the doctor is going to remove me on the first possible day. i work every moment i am free from pain. you will be glad to hear that i have had permission from rome for mass and communion in the house, which is a great blessing to me. i have no strength to dictate more."[ ] the second week in march lady burton rallied a little, and the doctor thought her sufficiently well to be removed to london. she accordingly travelled on march . she was moved on a bed into an invalid carriage, and was accompanied by her sister, who never left her side, and the doctor and a priest. she was very cheerful during the journey; and when she got to victoria, she said she felt so much better that she would walk along the platform to the cab. mrs. fitzgerald got out first; but on turning round to help her sister, she found that she had fainted. the doctor administered restoratives; and when she had recovered a little, she was carried to a cab, and driven to her house in baker street. towards the evening she seemed better, and was glad to be back in her familiar surroundings again. she kept saying to her sister, "thank god, i am at home again!" she had a haunting fear latterly at eastbourne that she would not have the strength to come home. by this time it was of course known that she could not possibly recover, and the end would only be a question of a little time. but that evening no one thought that death was imminent. during the night, however, she grew worse. the next morning (passion sunday, march ) her sister saw a great change in her. she asked her what she wished, and lady burton answered, "it depends on whether i receive the last sacraments." the priest was summoned at once, and administered extreme unction and the holy viaticum. she followed all the prayers, and was conscious to the last. when all was over, she bowed her head and whispered, "thank god." a smile of peace and trusting came over her face, and with a faint sigh she breathed her last. she had heard the "tinkling of his camel's bell." * * * * * * * * * she was buried in the little cemetery at mortlake one bright spring afternoon, when all nature seemed waking from its winter sleep. she was laid to rest in the arab tent by the side of him whom she had loved so dearly, there to sleep with the quiet dead until the great resurrection day. she was buried with all the rites of her church. the coffin was taken down to mortlake the evening before, and rested before the altar in the little church all night. the next morning high mass was celebrated in the presence of her relatives and friends; and after the benediction, the procession, headed by the choir singing _in paradiso_, wound its way along the path to the mausoleum, where the final ceremony took place. as the door was opened, the camel bells began to tinkle, and they continued ringing throughout the ceremony. they have never rung since. the door of the tent is now closed, and on the opposite page of the marble book which sets forth the deeds and renown of her husband are written these words only: isabel his wife. notes: . letter to miss bishop, december , . . burton's enemies. . letter to miss bishop from mortlake, march , . . letter to madame de gutmansthal-benvenuti, january , . . letter of lady burton written from trieste to mrs. francis joly, april , . . holywell lodge, eastbourne, march , . of the digital library@villanova university (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) pages.] published semi-monthly. [complete. beadle's [illustration: dime novels united states of america one dime] no. . the choicest works of the most popular authors. sybil chase; or, the valley ranche. by mrs. ann s. stephens. author of "malaeska," "fashion and famine," etc., etc. new-york and london: beadle and company, william st. n. y. a. williams & co., wash. st., boston entered according to act of congress, in the year , by beadle and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states, for the southern district of new york. an enticing story. beadle's dime novels number . will issue wednesday, may first, the maid of esopus; or, the trials and triumphs of the revolution. by n. c. iron. the era of the american revolution is so fraught with romance that it ever will prove a chosen one to novelists. in this present instance the author has selected unusually stirring historic incidents, around whose facts he has woven a most beautiful and enticing story of love, devotion and patriotism. such tales fire the love of our country in the hearts of all, old and young; while they fill, in the highest degree, the love for romance, which _all persons_ possess. the "maid of esopus" is a _purely historical_ fiction, written with a thorough knowledge of the men and women of those times which truly tried and tempered souls, and embodies all the interest which attaches to that most eventful era. it will be found not only unexceptionable as a novel, but _unusually_ good in its literary merits, as well as intensely exciting and absorbing in its narrative. it will become a household favorite. for sale by all news dealers. beadle and company, publishers, william st., new york. [illustration: the valley ranche.] sybil chase; or, the valley ranche. a tale of california life. by mrs. ann s. stephens. [illustration] new york and london: beadle and company, publishers, william st., corner of fulton, n. y. paternoster row, london. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by beadle and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. the valley ranche. contents chapter i. the bridle-path. chapter ii. a face from the past. chapter iii. husband and wife. chapter iv. two confederates, in council. chapter v. a short ride and a long walk. chapter vi. the welcome that awaits ralph hinchley. chapter vii. arrival of the guest. chapter viii. the gambler's fate. chapter ix. a canter and a fall. chapter x. the game at chess. chapter xi. the female iago. chapter xii. mother and daughter. chapter xiii. highcliff. chapter xiv. the jail. chapter xv. the duel. chapter xvi. the battery. chapter xvii. the valley ranche. chapter i. the bridle-path. a small valley cutting through a range of mountains in california--a green oasis that looked strange and picturesque in the midst of that savage scenery. the cliffs rose in a solid wall on one side to the height of many hundred feet. dwarfed fir-trees and dead cedars were scattered along the summit, stretching up their gaunt limbs and adding to the lonely grandeur of the scene. great masses of broken rocks, which, in some conflict of the elements, had been wrenched from their bed, projected from the rifted precipices and lay in great moss-covered boulders in the lap of the valley. on the southeastern side a break in the heart of the cliffs was covered with thrifty verdure, and, over the rocks that obstructed it, a mountain torrent rushed thundering into the valley, dividing that cradle of verdure in the middle, and abruptly disappearing through another gorge, breaking to the open country somewhat lower down, where it plunged over a second precipice with the sound of distant artillery. just above the spot where this mountain stream cut the valley in twain, a collection of huts, tents and rickety frame houses composed one of those new villages that are so often found in a frontier country, and half a mile above stood a small ranche, with its long, low-roofed dwelling half buried in heavy vines that clambered up the rude cedar pillars of the veranda, and crept in leafy masses along the roof. beyond this, great oaks sheltered the dwelling, and the precipice that loomed behind it was broken with rifts of verdure, which saved this portion of the valley from the savage aspect of the mountains lower down. the sunset was streaming over this picturesque spot; great masses of gorgeous clouds, piled up in the west, were casting their glory down the valley, turning the waters to gold, and, flashing against the metallic sides of the mountains, changed them into rifts and ledges of solid gems. standing upon the rustic veranda, and looking down over the beautiful valley dotted with tents and picturesque cabins, the waters singing pleasantly, the evening wind fluttering the greenness of the trees, that mountain pass appeared so tranquil and quiet, a stranger could hardly have believed the repose only an occasional thing. in truth, it is the heavenly aspect of the valley that i have given you, and that was truly beautiful. only a few miles off, still higher up among the rugged mountains, the "gold diggings" commenced, and from this point, every saturday night of that beautiful summer, came down crowds of wild, reckless men with their bowie-knives, revolvers, and the gold-dust which soon changed hands either at the liquor-bar, set up in some log-cabin, or the gambling-table, established in an opposite shanty. before the gold excitement, that pretty ranche had been the abode of a quiet family, whose cattle were fed on the luxuriant herbage of the valley; but the reckless adventurers that crowded there soon drove the household into less turbulent quarters, and the dwelling changed its occupants many times. thus its quiet walls soon became accustomed to scenes of strife and dissipation, which destroyed its respectable, home-like appearance entirely; and the place that had originally been a pleasing feature in the valley shared the general aspect of the neighborhood. still, nature will assert her rights; and, amid the wild riot of the valley, vines grew luxuriantly as ever, flowers blossomed in the turf, and the water fall sounded loud and clear above the shouts of savage men, however turbulently they might be raised. by one of the upper windows of this dwelling stood a woman, leaning idly against the rude sill and looking down the sweep of the valley. hers was no attitude of expectation; there was no eagerness in the great eyes that wandered slowly from one object to another, nor did the glance betray any enjoyment of the beautiful scene. the woman was evidently lost in deep and melancholy thought; each moment the lines about her mouth deepened, and the cold sadness of the eyes settled into a hard, bitter expression which gave something almost repulsive to the whole face. she looked very unlike the sort of woman one would have expected to find in that solitary place. she was tall and slender, and her form would have appeared almost fragile had it not been for a certain flexibility and force visible in every line even in that attitude of repose. she was young still; but from her face it would have been impossible to guess at her real age. at one moment it looked fairly girlish; the next the shadow of some heavy thought swept across it and appeared to accomplish the work of years upon the features. it was evident that her fate had been very different from that which met most of the women who followed husbands and fortune into the eldorado of the new world. the hand which lay upon the window-frame was delicate and white; the colorless pallor of the cheek bore no evidence of hardship or exposure. she was plainly dressed, but her garments were made in a picturesque fashion, and the few ornaments she wore were heavy and rich. her long, golden hair was brushed smoothly back from her forehead and gathered in shining bands at the back of her head, and made the chief beauty of her person. only those who have seen the tress of lucretia borgia's hair, preserved still in a foreign gallery, can form any idea of the peculiar color which i desire to describe. i was wrong to call it golden; it was too pale for that. in the shadow it had the colorless tint one seldom sees, except in the locks of very young children; but when she moved, so that the sun struck its loose ripples, it flashed out so brightly that it crowned her forehead like a halo. the sunset deepened, but still the lady remained leaning out of the window and giving herself up to that gloomy meditation, which sometimes seemed to deepen into absolute pain. suddenly a new object at the upper end of the valley attracted her attention, and she gazed with more eagerness than she had before manifested. leading by the place where the mountain torrent had cleft its way through the rocks, there ran a bridle-path, worn by the miners' feet, from the gold diggings down the valley. it was toward that spot the lady's eyes were directed, as a small cavalcade wound slowly down the rocky path and took the grassy plain which led toward the ranche. an expression of displeasure disturbed the stillness of the woman's face. she shaded her eyes with her hand and looked eagerly toward the advancing group; but at that distance it was impossible to distinguish more than that it consisted of three men mounted on mules, followed by several persons on foot. she moved quickly from the window and passed into another room; in a moment she returned, carrying a spyglass which she directed toward the procession. after the first glance she drew a heavy breath and muttered: "it is not they! i shall have an hour more to myself, at all events." she still continued to watch the slowly approaching group, and saw that one of the equestrians was supported in his saddle by two of the guides, while another led the mule by the bridle. the rider had evidently met with some accident on the road. slowly the party moved on; they were in recognizable distance from the house; by the aid of her glass, the lady could distinguish the lineaments of each face. suddenly she grasped the glass hard in both hands and looked steadily at the injured man. a great change passed over her; she trembled violently and her face grew ashen. her fingers shook so that she was obliged to support the glass against the window-sill. at length her hands fell to her side and a cry broke from her lips like the angry moan of some wounded animal. "oh! i must be mad!" she exclaimed. "this can not be--i fancied it! this is one of my wild dreams!" with a powerful effort she controlled herself sufficiently to raise the glass once more. nearer and nearer the group advanced; her eyes were fastened upon it with a look of unutterable fear and agony. "laurence!" she exclaimed again; "laurence in this place! oh! i shall go mad! they are coming to the house--they mean to spend the night here!" the words broke unconsciously from her lips; all the while her strained gaze was fastened upon the group. "he has been hurt--he has fainted!" she dropped the glass and started to her full height, striking her forehead violently with her clenched hand, as if searching for some plan or device, which, in her agitation and terror, she could not find. "fool!" she muttered, bitterly. "is this your strength? does it desert you now?" she walked hurriedly up and down the room, flinging her arms about, so overcome that any thing like connected thought was impossible. "he must not see me--i would rather be hurled over the precipice! he must not stay here. oh! mercy--mercy! if philip should come home!" she cast one more feverish glance through the window and hurried out of the room, nerved to action by the near approach of pain and danger. but directly she came back again, looking wild and frightened, like a bird coming back to the branch where it has been wounded. she took up the glass again, steadied it firmly. she was evidently doubtful still if she had seen aright. chapter ii. a face from the past. the party of strangers were slowly winding their way across the plain, and had arrived within a short distance of the house. the woman gazed on them through her glass till the man supported on his mule became quite visible to the naked eye; she then dropped her hand heavily, and drew a deep breath. "how white he is! there has been violence. he has fainted. see how his head falls on the guide's shoulder," she murmured, sweeping a hand across her eyes as if some dimness had come over them. the lady was quite alone in her dwelling. the indian women who acted as the household servants had gone to the hills in search of berries, and thus she was compelled to descend and open the door, when a summons was made by the party whose approach had given her so much anxiety. at another time, knowing, as she did, the lawless nature of the population around, she would have allowed the besiegers to knock unanswered, and go away at their leisure; but now she descended the stairs, trembling violently as she went. she had thrown a black silk scarf over her head, thus giving her dress a spanish effect, and, unclosing the door, stood framed in the opening--and a more remarkable picture was never presented in the wilderness of any country. it was not that the woman was so beautiful, in fact, but the color of her hair and the wild anxiety in her eyes gave that to her person which no artist could ever have caught. the guide, who had come in advance of his party, stepped back in amazement as she presented herself, for it was seldom that the people of the region had obtained a glimpse of her person, and her presence took him by surprise. the party were now within a few minutes' ride of the ranche, and a weary, travel-soiled band it was. the mules were stained far above their fetlocks with yellow mud, through which they had floundered all day long; and the travelers, in their slouched hats, rude, blue flannel shirts, and heavy boots, engulfing the nether garments to the knees, were liberally bespattered with the same compound. the mules were huddled close together, for one of the riders was supporting the wounded man on his saddle; the other had dismounted when the guide left him, and was leading the sick man's mule, while his own tired beast followed submissively in the wake of the party. before the guide had recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to address the lady, who seemed perfectly unconscious of his presence, the party halted in front of the veranda. the two gentlemen sprung forward to assist their companion, who lay helpless in his saddle, his head falling upon the shoulder of the man that supported him. with the assistance of the guides he was removed from the mule and carried up the steps of the veranda. they laid him upon a bench under the windows, then the two companions of the insensible man turned toward the lady. she had not stirred; her eyes were fastened upon the motionless figure over which the guides were bending with rough solicitude; the strained, eager look in her face seemed to demand an explanation which her lips had no power to frame. the two gentlemen moved toward her, struck, even in that moment of anxiety, by her appearance, and saluted her with the courtesy which proved their station and high-breeding. "we owe you a thousand apologies, madam," said the foremost, "for this abrupt proceeding; but our friend here had a hurt." she started at his words, instinctively drew the folds of the mantle more closely about her face, and said, quickly: "no apology is necessary; in this region strangers consider themselves at home in every house." "i thought you'd say so, ma'am," said one of the guides, approaching and looking curiously at her. "i s'pose mr. yates ain't to hum." "no; i believe he is at the mines," she answered; then added quickly, pointing to the injured man: "has he fainted?" "you see he got a fall," answered the guide, before either of the gentlemen could speak, "a-coming over that rough pass on the mountain; but i think he's only stunted like." "i am afraid his arm is broken," said the elder gentleman. the lady hurried toward the injured man; her face was turned away, so that none of the party could see how ghastly it became. she bent over the still form, dextrously cut open the sleeve of his coat with a pair of scissors which she drew from her pocket, and took the injured limb between her trembling hands. "it is only a sprain," she said; "the agony and the shock have been too much for him." "he bore it very well at first," said the gentleman who had followed her; "but fainted quite suddenly, just as we got down into the valley." the lady made him no answer; she directed the guides where to find water and spirits. going into the house herself, she brought out a large napkin, which she saturated with water, and bound upon the wounded arm. while she was bending over him, the man gave signs of returning consciousness. she started back, and shrouded her face completely in the mantle. "laurence," called one of his friends, stooping over him, "are you better?" there was a faint murmur; the injured man raised his head, but it sunk back, and he was insensible again. "is there no physician near?" demanded the gentleman. "i am very anxious. he is not strong, like the rest of us." "you will find one at wilson's ranche," replied the lady. "how far is that?" "good seven miles," answered the guide. "it will take so long to get him here," exclaimed the first speaker. "your best way will be to go there," observed the lady, coldly. the whole party turned toward her in astonishment; hospitality is the chief virtue of wild countries, and it was an unparalleled thing in the experience of those old guides, to hear a woman so coolly turning a stranger, sick or injured, from her door. "my dear madam," pleaded the gentleman, "he can not ride; it will be dangerous--death, perhaps." "he will come to himself, shortly," she answered. "i assure you i have proposed the best mode. i do not mean it unkindly. heaven knows how sorry i am." the eldest guide absolutely whistled, and the men stared at each other, while she busied herself over laurence, although her whole frame shook so violently that she could scarcely stand. "can't you give us a bed for our friend?" asked the gentleman. "the rest of us will sleep anywhere, or go away altogether." "no--no," she replied, hastily; "you must ride on, i say." "wal, i'm shot if ever i heerd the beat of that!" muttered a guide. "the road from here is very good," she continued; "your friend will suffer little; these men can easily make a litter and carry him." "he's coming to," whispered the other gentleman. the woman stepped quickly back, and when she saw the injured man open his eyes, retreated into the room. "how are you now, laurence?" asked his friends, bending over him. "better, i think; i am dizzy, but my arm isn't so very painful. did i faint?" while they answered his questions, the guides held a grumbling consultation, and finally summoned the elder gentleman to the conference. "what'll we do?" they asked. "it'll be pitch dark afore long, and that fellar can't set his horse." "i will speak to the lady again," he answered. "i am sure she can not turn us out." "it's a queer house," said the head guide, "and that's the fact. there ain't a place in californy i wouldn't ruther stop at." "i s'pose that's yates's wife," said the man who had first reached the house. "as often as i've passed here, i never seed her afore." "'tisn't often she shows herself," replied the leader. "but will you go and speak to her?" he added, turning to the gentleman. "certainly; of course she will permit us to stay." he went into the house, but the lady was not visible. he opened the door of an inner room, and there she stood, wringing her hands in wild distress. she turned at the sound of his footstep, and demanded, angrily: "what do you wish more? i have done all that i can for your friend." "i have come to urge you to give us one night's lodging," he said; "it seems impossible for us to go on--" "you must," she said, interrupting him passionately; "you must!" "this is very singular," he said, so startled by her manner that he was almost inclined to believe her insane. "in the name of humanity, i ask--" she stopped him with an impatient gesture, went close to him, and grasped his arm. "i tell you," she whispered, "this place is not safe for you; get on toward wilson's as fast as your mules can carry you." "surely you can not mean--" "no matter what! sir, i ask you, for my sake, a poor, defenseless woman, to go! i have done all for your friend that is in my power; you only endanger his life--mine too, by staying here." he bowed, stupefied by her words. "certainly," he said; "after that i can not urge you." "i knew you would not; only go--don't wait an instant!" she spoke with feverish haste, and her whole appearance was that of a person driven to the verge of distraction by fear and anxiety. "i can give you food," she added, "or spirits--" "thank you; we have every thing with us that will be necessary." "then go! your road leads by the river--keep that napkin about his arm wet with water, and he will do very well." she motioned him away with wild energy. he saw the insane dread in her eyes, left the room without a word, and joined the party upon the veranda. "do we stay?" demanded the guides. the gentleman shook his head, and, without waiting to hear their angry expostulations, moved toward his friend. laurence was sitting up, and, although still very pale, looked stronger and greatly recovered. "could you ride a few miles further, ned?" he asked. "possibly; but can't we stay here?" "no--no; there's a deuced mystery about the whole matter! but we must start, or i believe that woman will go crazy; don't let's wait a moment, if you can manage to get on to your mule." the lady's strange anxiety had infected him; he felt an unaccountable eagerness to leave that quiet old house far behind, and would rather have spent the whole night in the woods than again encounter the frenzied pleading of her eyes. in a few moments, their preparations were concluded. laurence was seated upon his mule in the most commodious manner that could be devised, and the party rode slowly off down the valley, the guides looking back with muttered execrations as long as the old house was in sight. from an upper window the woman watched them start, shivering and white, with her hands pressed hard against her lips to keep back the moans that shuddered from her heart. as the cavalcade reached a turn in the road, and began to disappear from her sight, she extended her arms with a low cry: "laurence! laurence!" the words were pronounced in a whisper, but to her affrighted senses they sounded strangely clear. she cowered into a seat, and covered her face with her hands. no tears fell from her eyes; she could not even weep--could only sit there, trembling at every sound, looking eagerly out to be certain that the travelers had indeed disappeared, then glancing up the valley, as if expecting each moment to see some one approach by the path which led from the mountains. chapter iii. husband and wife. night had come on; the full moon was up, filling the valley with a flood of radiance and lending a mysterious beauty to the scene. as the silver beams shot against the mountain sides, the streaks of quartz and glittering minerals emitted long rays of light that shone so brilliantly the cliffs seemed encircled with flame. above rose the jagged trunks of the fir-trees, looking like wierd shapes holding counsel upon the summit of the peaks. at length sounds from without broke the stillness--the tramp of horses, the loud, reckless conversation of coarse men. the watcher in that room only cowered lower into her seat, as if those tones had deprived her of the last gleam of strength which had been her support during the previous hours. there were voices from the room beneath--drinking songs chanted with such energy that the words were distinctly audible where she sat--the ring of glasses, rude toasts and the tumult in which heedless, hardened men are wont to indulge in the midst of a bacchanalian revel. very soon there was a step upon the stairs, which made the woman spring to her feet and throw aside the mantle in which she had been shrouding her face. the door was pushed open and a man entered carrying a candle, which flared uncertainly in the draught from the passage. he did not at first perceive her, and called angrily: "sybil! sybil! where the deuce are you, i say?" "i am here," she replied, with a coldness and composure of which she had appeared incapable a moment before. "what do you want of me?" "what is a man likely to want when he comes home tired and hungry, i should like to know?" "the women are getting supper; it will be ready very soon." "and what are you doing up here in the dark?" "this is the room where i usually sit, and it certainly is not dark," she replied, quietly as before, although her hands trembled nervously, and the expression of her eyes betrayed something akin to absolute fear. "sitting in the moonlight like a school-girl!" he sneered. "i should think you might have got over your romance by this time." she did not answer; he approached, and held the light close to her face, with a sneering laugh. "who has been here to-day?" he asked. "now, don't tell that lie you have ready on your lips. i know there was a party of men here about sunset." "some people who wished to stay all night," she replied. "why didn't you keep them?" "i did not suppose you would like it, as i knew you would be back with a party from the mines." "how innocent she is!" he exclaimed, laughing again. "by the powers, sybil, i have made a mistake! i ought to have put you on the stage. that sort of talent would have made a fortune for us both." "it is not too late," she said, with a certain eagerness. "oh, isn't it? well, we can talk about that some other time. just now i want to know what brought that laurence here?" she tried to look at him with astonishment, but, actress as she was, her craft failed for once; the lids drooped over her eyes and her lips refused to utter the words she struggled to force upon them. "now stop that," said he. "just tell the truth, or i'll follow him, and he shall have a taste of my bowie-knife before morning. what did he want? make a short story of it, for i am hungry." "he had been traveling among the mountains with some friends, and got hurt. they wanted to stay here, but i would not keep them and they went away." "so far so good! you was afraid i should kill him, eh?" "yes," she answered; "but more afraid that he would recognize me." "then you didn't speak to him?" "no; he had fainted. i was not likely to make myself known to any of my former friends," she added, bitterly. "as phil yates the gambler's wife? no, i suppose not. well, he is gone, so let the matter rest. come, you're a rather good girl. i want you to dress yourself and come down to supper--look your prettiest." "who is there?" "oh, mostly our set of fellows." "then i shall not go down." "indeed! i haven't time to make a scene. there are a couple of young chaps fresh from the mines with lots of gold-dust. now will you come?" "will you promise to conduct yourselves like men?" "upon my word, she is making terms! yes, i will. i tell you, sybil, the gold we win from them to-night will help to shorten your stay here. think of that, and come." "i don't wish any supper. i will come down afterward." "so be it. put on the pink dress with all those flounces, that i brought you from san francisco, and look young, and do try and be handsome again." "shall we be able to go from here soon, philip?" she asked. "not a day before i please," he replied, irritated by the question. "show any anxiety, and you shall spend your life here. i promise you it shall not be a pleasant one." "have i complained?" she demanded, sinking her voice to a tone of singular sweetness. "have i not clung to you as few women would have done? can you blame me for longing to have another home than this?" "it is natural enough; but patience, sybil, patience." "i have had patience," she muttered, while a dangerous light shot into her eyes, "so long--so long!" "you are a great woman, sybil, i always admit that; but you know very well that if you left me i should have hunted you like a wolf--aha! my bird!" the gleam in her eyes died into a look of cold terror; she extended her hand for the light, saying: "go down to your guests. i will follow very soon." he gave her the candle, laughing again in that mocking way. "poor sybil!" he said. "it is hard to have old memories stirred up as they have come upon you this evening." "stop!" she said, with a quiet resolution. "you shall not worry my life out, philip yates! you know there is a point beyond which i will not bear a word or look. reach it, and though you murdered me, i would desert you!" he gave her a glance of careless admiration, but did not annoy her further. yates was a remarkable-looking man as he stood there in his rough mountain dress, which was sufficiently picturesque in effect to atone for the coarseness of its materials and make. he could not have been over thirty-five--very possibly not so much; but a life of reckless dissipation had long ago worn the youth out from his face. he had once been handsome--was so still, in spite of his heavy, undressed beard and the desperate expression of his features. he was tall and remarkably well formed, with sinewy limbs and a full, broad chest. the exposure and action which he had experienced in that wild california existence had increased his manly beauty in strength and proportion, to make amends for sweeping the delicacy and refinement from his face. the eyes were gray, not prominent, usually half vailed by the lids, with a cold, quiet expression which could warm into eagerness or flame with passion, but were utterly incapable of any thing like softness or sensibility. the lower part of the face was hidden by the flowing beard of a rich chestnut brown; but the massive contour of the under jaw, the firm-set mouth, betrayed enough to have justified a physiognomist in ascribing to him the hard, reckless character which in reality belonged to him. without again addressing his wife, he left the room. she heard him whistling an opera air--some reminiscence of the old life--as he descended the stairs, and the notes carried her back to the pleasant existence which had been hers for a season, and from which that man had so ruthlessly dragged her. the light which kindled in her eyes was ominous; the expression of her face, could he have seen it, might have awakened a deeper distrust in his mind than had ever before troubled him. it would have justified a fear for his personal safety. there was all that and more in the single glance which she cast into the gloom. no murmur escaped her; she did not even sigh, as a weaker or gentler woman would have done; but, knowing her destiny, looked it full in the face and went forward to meet it without a tear! she took up the candle and passed into her chamber, proceeding to change her dress and follow her husband's commands in the adornment of her person. she knew very well what was required of her--a part that she had often before performed at his bidding, and one from which her moral sensibilities did not always shrink. this woman had simply to make herself pleasant and agreeable--to sit by and converse sweetly while those two strangers were cheated of their hard-earned gold at a card-table. she was to bewilder them by her smiles and conversation--nothing more; and, as i have said, she did not always shrink from this _rôle_. sybil yates was not a good woman, and yet there was something in her nature which, under other training and circumstances, might have dignified her into a very different person. her phrenological developments would have puzzled the most devoted lover of that unsatisfactory science. she was capable of great endurance and self-sacrifice, not only to secure her own interests, but she was earnest in the service of any one for whom she felt affection or attachment. her nature was essentially reticent and secretive; she had a faculty which few women possess, that of waiting patiently and for a long time, in order to attain any object which fastened itself on her desire. but it is useless attempting any description of the woman's character. it will best develop itself in the course of this narrative, in which it was her fate to act a prominent part. that she must have loathed the life to which she found herself condemned is certain. sybil's heart was more depraved than her intellect or her moral character, and any thing like coarseness or open vice was essentially distasteful to her. it was this womanly refinement which had made the presence of her husband a torment. probably hatred of this man had grown to be one of the strongest feelings in her nature; yet she was kind and forbearing--every thing that even a good and affectionate wife could have been in her domestic life. true, she stood in mortal terror of him--base, physical terror, for he had become degraded beyond belief, and had more than once raised his hand against her in his drunken wrath. still she clung to him--put her old life resolutely aside, and looked only forward to the time when he would take her from that dreary wilderness and go out into the world where she had first keenly enjoyed the sweets of refined life. she had fine talents, a splendid education, and was well endowed for any station in which destiny could have placed her. let me do her the justice to acknowledge that under better influences she would probably have been simply a far-sighted, diplomatic woman of the world, reducing all about her to obedience by the incomprehensible fascination which made all men who approached her admirers or slaves. satisfied with her position and influence, the under depths of her nature would have been so little excited, that in all probability she herself would have been forever unconscious of the dark traits which lay hidden in her restless heart. but it was useless to speculate upon what she might have been. she was--alas! for her--philip yates's wife, far from any who could have aided her, even if she would have permitted the slightest interposition in her fate. doomed to obey his commands, she was apparently ready enough to gratify him, and managed, even in that secluded spot, to win all the pleasure and cheerfulness out of her life which it was possible to obtain. she dressed herself, according to her promise. when her toilet was completed, it was astonishing to see how brilliantly she came out of the cloud which had appeared to envelop her. her face caught its most girlish expression--the large eyes grew luminous--the smile about her mouth was playful and sweet. those tresses of billowy hair, woven in luxuriant braids back of her head, would of themselves have relieved her face from any charge of plainness. this woman put out her candle and turned to the window. for many moments she stood looking out into the glorious night and watching every effect with the sensations an artist could have understood. then, in spite of herself, back into the past fled her soul, and the chill waves of memory rushed over her. she flung her white arms aloft, and cried out in her pain. once more that man's name died on her lips in a passionate echo, which frightened even herself: "laurence! laurence!" a burst of merriment from below recalled her to the present, and the hard destiny which lay before her. with the strong self-command acquired in her strange life, she banished from her features every trace of care; the soft light crept into her eyes again, the pleasant smile settled upon her lips. she took from the table a thin blue scarf, and, flinging it gracefully over her shoulders, as we see drapery in guido's pictures, passed down stairs toward the room where her husband and his guests were seated, already, as she could detect by the broken words which reached her ear, occupied with the fatal games which had driven so many men to ruin within those very walls. chapter iv. two confederates, in council. philip yates and his wife were sitting upon the veranda of their house one pleasant evening, some time after the events described in the last chapter. he was in unusually good humor and fine spirits that night. probably, during the past weeks, his successes had been numerous; and however much his wife might have deplored the cause had she been a woman to feel the sin and degradation, she could but have congratulated herself upon the effect which it produced. he was smoking and talking at intervals to sybil, who sat in a low chair at a little distance, looking down the valley with the earnest, absent gaze habitual with her. "sing me something, sybil," he said, at last; "it's deuced dull sitting here alone. i can't see what keeps tom." "do you expect him back to-night?" she asked, indifferently, more as if fearful of offending him by her silence than from any desire of her own for conversation. "i did, but it is growing so late i begin to think he won't come; it's always the way if one wants a man." "you have no business on hand?" "not to-night; i need him for that very reason. what's the use of a man's smoking his cigar and drinking his glass all alone." sybil smiled, not bitterly even, with a sort of careless scorn, which would have irritated the man had he seen it--but her face was partially turned away; he saw only the outlines of her colorless cheek, which took a singular grace and softness in the moonlight. "are you going to sing?" he asked, after a moment's silence, broken only by a malediction upon his cigar. "how many times must one ask you to do a thing before you condescend to pay attention?" she made no answer, but began at once a spanish song, in a powerful contralto voice, which rung pleasantly through the stillness, as if a score of birds in the neighboring almond thicket had been awakened by the beauty of the night, and were joining their notes in a delicious harmony. when the song was finished she began another without waiting for him to speak, and for a full half hour she continued her efforts to amuse him, without the slightest appearance of distaste or weariness. suddenly, another sound came up through the night--the tread of heavy feet and voices, evidently approaching the house. "hush!" said yates, quickly. "somebody is coming." sybil paused, with the words unfinished upon her lips, and both listened intently. "it must be tom," exclaimed philip; "nobody but he ever whistles like that." he listened for an instant longer, then called out: "hello, i say!" the echo came back distinctly, then a human voice answered the salutation. "it is tom," yates said. "i hope to the lord there's somebody with him. i'm frantic to be at work." just then several figures became visible in a turn of the path; yates went down the steps and walked forward to meet them, while sybil leaned her cheek against the low railing and looked quietly down, humming fragments of the air which her husband had so unceremoniously interrupted. yates joined the party, and they stood for a few moments in conversation; then the whole group moved toward the house, sybil watching them still with that careless yet singular expression which few men could look upon without emotion. there was no one with the new-comer, except two or three of the men who were employed by yates and his friend about the place, more probably by way of making a security of numbers than from any actual necessity that existed for their services. these men passed toward another entrance, while yates and his companion ascended the steps of the veranda. "good evening, mrs. yates," the man called out. she answered his greeting civilly enough, but without changing her attitude, and began even whispering the pretty song, as if she found something soothing in the simple words. "you haven't had any supper, tom?" yates asked. "none, and i am hungry as a wolf." yates went to the house door and called vigorously: "yuba! yuba! you old fool, get supper ready at once." when an answering cry assured him that his summons had been heard and would receive attention, he brought from the hall a japan tray, upon which were placed several bottles and glasses. "you may as well wet your throat, tom, while you're waiting for supper; it's deuced warm to-night." the man assented with a guttural laugh, the two seated themselves near the table on which yates had placed the waiter, and filled their glasses, clashing them against each other. "will you have a little wine, mrs. yates?" asked the stranger. "i know how you like it mixed." but she declined the offer, leaned her head still lower upon the railing, and looked away across the valley where the moonlight played, far off in the very center of the flat, lying so unbroken and silvery that it had the effect of a small lake hidden among the great trees and luxuriant vines. as the two men sat opposite each other, tilted back in their great wicker-chairs, it was curious to notice the resemblance between them. they might have been taken for twin brothers, yet it was one of those accidental likenesses which one occasionally sees in all countries. there was no tie of blood between them, or any reason for this look of consanguinity. the chances of their reckless lives had thrown them together, a similarity of tastes and a series of mutual benefits preserved the intimacy which had sprung up among the rank weeds of human life. dickinson had not the claims to manly beauty which yates had once possessed, yet his features bore the same type of countenance on a larger, coarser scale; but in form or movement they were so much alike, that when their backs were turned, it would have puzzled even a person who knew them well to have told one from the other. while they conversed, sybil did not appear to listen, yet not a word escaped her vigilant ear, and sometimes she turned her face partially, and flashed toward them that strange look which so entirely changed the expression of her countenance. "but i haven't heard what kept you all this while up at the diggings," yates was saying, as sybil turned again toward the table. "i know you haven't been at work--you're too lazy for that, and too wise; fools work, and cute men, like you and i, catch gold easier." dickinson laughed, and pulled out an old wallet, rattled the coins which it contained, and held up to view a shot-bag, apparently containing a large quantity of gold dust. "all from a quiet game under a clump of myrtle bushes," he said, with another laugh. "but that hasn't kept you all this time." "no; i was over to sancher's ranche. i knew there was nothing going on here, and we are apt to get cross when it is stupid--eh, mrs. yates?" "did you speak?" she asked, as if suddenly aroused by his voice. "i say phil and i are not two angels for temper in dull times; do you think so?" "oh, yes," she answered, good-naturedly enough; "fallen angels, you know, twice degraded." the men laughed heartily, and dickinson gave her a glance of honest admiration; she was evidently a woman for whom he felt sincere respect--the sentiment which a dull rogue has for a clear-headed, acute person whom he is willing to acknowledge as his superior. "ah, it's of no use to clash tongues with you," he said. "i learned that a great while ago." sybil rose from her seat, and walked slowly down the veranda toward the door, paused an instant, flung back some mocking speech in answer to his words and philip's laugh, and passed into the house. "that's a wonderful woman!" exclaimed dickinson, when she had disappeared through the doorway. "i tell you what, phil, there ain't three men in california with a head-piece equal to that on her handsome shoulders." "she's well enough," replied yates, carelessly; "it would be odd if she hadn't learned a few things since the time she married me, and took to life." "you be blessed!" retorted tom. "her head is a deuced sight longer and clearer than yours. i tell you, a keen woman like that is more than a match for any man." "she had better not try any thing of that sort with me!" exclaimed yates, sullenly. "nonsense; she doesn't want to! i never saw a woman more devoted to a fellow, or so ready to help him along in every way. i tell you, i'm not very fond of chains or ministers, but i'd get married in a legal way to-morrow if i could find a female like her to yoke myself to." "wait till she's my widow, tom," yates replied, with a laugh. "sybil's well enough, but she'd play the deuce, like any woman, if she dared. she knows better than to put on any airs with me. if another sort of man owned her, he'd see stars!" "oh, you're cross as a bear to her--i'll say that for you; and you never had any more feeling, phil yates--" "there, thomas, that will do. drink before supper never did suit your head--so just hush up!" "nonsense; don't let's have any of your confounded sneers. a fellow can't speak without being treated to something of the sort, and i hate it!" he set his glass down on the table with an energy that made the bottles dance; but yates only laughed, and dickinson soon smoked himself into a state of reasonable tranquillity. thus much of their conversation sybil paused in the hall to hear. she lifted her hand and shook it menacingly toward her husband, while the fire kindled and leaped in her blue eyes, rendering them ten times more cruel and ferocious than anger can orbs of a darker color. but, after that momentary spasm of anger, she passed on; and, as she walked slowly back and forth through the silent rooms, the coldness and quiet came back to her face. "i've a bit of news, phil," said dickinson, after a few moments, "and it is worth hearing." "tell it then, by all means." "this isn't just the place. who knows how many listeners we may have?" "fiddlesticks! the men are busy eating, and the women looking at them. there's nobody to listen unless it be sybil--" "she never takes the trouble," interrupted tom. "if we tell her a thing, well and good; if not, she never bothers her head about the matter." "i believe that is true. but what is your news?" dickinson rose and walked toward the hall, to be certain that there was no intruder within hearing; then he returned to the table and drew his chair close to that of his friend. "it's that which kept me up at the diggings," said he. "i wanted to hear all i could." "well?" "there's a chap over at scouter's point that's come on from san francisco to attend to some claims for wilmurt's widow. he's sold out her right, and he's got the stuff in his pocket--a good round sum it is, too!" "yes," yates said, quietly, holding his glass up to the moonlight, as if admiring the color of the liquor. "he is coming on with his guide and servant to our diggings on some business; and there's several chaps who know him mean to take that opportunity to send away a lot of nuggets and dust." yates set the glass down quickly, and leaned toward his friend. "does he touch these?" he made a motion as if shuffling a pack of cards; but dickinson shook his head. "not a bit of use. i saw a fellow that knows him well. he's a new york lawyer that came out here on some business, and took up this affair just for the fun of the thing, and so as to have a chance to see the diggings." "then what's the use of talking about it," exclaimed yates, angrily, "if he won't drink or play?" "i don't know," said tom, artfully. "i told you of it because i thought you would like to hear. you are always complaining that we never have any adventure, and that you might as well be promenading broadway for all the sport there is to be found." yates whistled an opera air, from beginning to end, in the most elaborate manner. at the close he said: "when will he be at the diggings?" "day after to-morrow, at the latest." "this is monday, isn't it?" "of course it is." "i wasn't certain. one fairly loses the day of the week in this confounded desert. monday be it. on wednesday he will reach the diggings." "yes; he means to stay there a couple of days." "on saturday, then, he will pass through the valley." "exactly so, philip. your arithmetic is wonderful." "no doubt of it. i may be professor in a college yet!" "he will have to stop here all night, for he can't leave the diggings before noon. old jones asked me if i thought you would keep him." "what did you say?" "that you didn't keep a tavern, and that your wife was mighty particular. but if he was a gentleman, i didn't suppose either you or she would send him on after dark." "no," said yates; "oh no!" "there'll be a crowd in the valley," continued dickinson. "there's more gold been dug these last days than there has in months, and they'll be down to the tents and over here to get rid of it, you may bet your life." "so be it," returned yates. "they couldn't dispose of it to more worthy people." then they laughed immoderately, as if the words had covered an excellent jest. before the conversation could be resumed, a dwarfish old indian woman, who was a miracle of ugliness, appeared at the door and announced that their supper was waiting. "come in, tom," said yates, rising with the utmost alacrity. "i couldn't eat any dinner for lack of company. you know sybil picks like a sparrow--and i shall be glad of something myself." they passed into the house, and, at dickinson's request, sybil was summoned to grace the board with her presence. she complied with her customary obedience; but during the repast no allusion was made to the stranger or the ambiguous conversation which had been held on the porch a little while before. chapter v. a short ride and a long walk. two days passed without any event worthy of record. every thing at the ranche went on quietly enough, and a stranger happening there might have believed it an orderly and well regulated family as any that could be found in the state. the two men held long conversations in private. even sybil was not made acquainted with their cause; and although she was too acute not to have perceived that there was a secret from which she was excluded, she betrayed neither interest nor curiosity, evidently quite willing to allow affairs to take their own course, and await the pleasure of her husband and his confederate to hear a disclosure of the scheme which they might be revolving in their minds. on the third day the two made preparations to go up to the mines. yates owned a claim which he did not work himself, for labor was not a thing he actually enjoyed, but he had hired men to work it, being able, even in that rage for gold which had taken possession of all, to find men who preferred secure daily wages to the uncertainty of working upon their own account. yates was in the habit of making weekly visits to the place, so that sybil received the information of the departure as a matter of course, and supper was prepared before sunset, that they might make their journey during the cool of the evening. the mules were brought out, and sybil followed her husband and his friend out on to the veranda to see them mount and ride away. "you will have a beautiful night," she said. "the wind blows cool and refreshing." "you had better ride a little way with us, mrs. yates," said dickinson. "i would, but i have a headache," she answered, sweetly. "now, why can't you be honest and say you are glad to see us start?" returned her husband. "because i never tell stories," she replied, with her pleasant laugh; "i was always taught to consider it wicked." "what heavenly principles!" sneered yates. "i declare, sybil, you are too good for this world." "well," exclaimed tom, "she's needed in it, anyhow! smart, handsome women are too scarce for her to be spared." sybil swept him a courtesy, and yates laughed outright. "tom waxes gallant," said he. "you ought to be grateful, syb, for his compliments. he isn't given to flattering you women, i can tell you." "i am very grateful," she replied, giving tom one of her flashing glances. "admiration is as rare a thing in this region as mr. dickinson considers bright women." tom was quite abashed; like many another bad man, he was never at ease in the presence of a well-bred woman--and that sybil was a lady no one could have denied; it was perceptible in every word and movement. yates had to go through his usual routine of maledictions upon his servants and mules; then he mounted his own particular beast, blew a kiss to sybil, and called out: "come, tom, are you going to stand all night flirting with my wife, i should like to know?" "what abominable things you do say!" exclaimed tom, coloring like a girl, and making all haste to get on to his mule, by way of covering his confusion. "oh, mr. dickinson," said sybil, "i would not have believed you so ungallant!" "as how?" questioned tom. "you said that it was an abominable thing to admire me. really, i am astonished!" "that wasn't what i meant," he replied. "but you know i never can say what i want to, i'm such a stupid fool of a fellow--always was, among women folks." "there, tom, that will do! you have got out of the scrape beautifully," said yates, lending his friend's mule a cut with his black whip. "you have danced attendance on the graces long enough for one day." the mule started off with dickinson, at a sharp canter, and deprived him of an opportunity to reply even if he had wished it. yates gathered up his reins, nodded to sybil, and prepared to follow. "when shall i expect you?" she asked. "to-morrow night, at the furtherest. i only want to see how the men get on." "good-by, then, till to-morrow." he rode away, and sybil stood watching them for some time; but her face had lost the sweet expression which possessed so great a charm for dickinson. "how long must this continue?" she muttered. "will there never be an end? oh, sybil--sybil! what a weak, miserable fool you have been! this is the end of your art and talent--a home in the wilderness, a gambler's wife! but it shall change--oh! it shall change, i say!" she clasped her hands hard over her heart, gave one other glance toward the retreating riders, and entered the house. she went up to her own room, and remained there a long time. at length she rose and glanced out of the window. the sun had set, and the twilight would have been gloomy and gray but for a faint glory heralding the moon which had not yet appeared in sight over the towering mountains. "i must be gone!" she exclaimed. "i can not bear this any longer--i should go crazy!" she went to a chest of drawers that stood in a corner of the room, unlocked them, and took out a small and richly mounted revolver--one of those charming death trifles that col. colt has fashioned so exquisitely. it was so elaborate in its workmanship, and so delicately pretty, that it looked rather like a plaything than the dangerous implement it really was. but, small and fanciful as it was, the weapon would have been a dangerous instrument in the hands of that woman had interest or self-preservation rendered it necessary for her to use it. she loaded the several barrels with dexterity and quickness, which betrayed a perfect knowledge of her task, locked the drawers again, and hid the pistol in her pocket. she put on a pretty gipsy hat, threw a mantle over her shoulders, and went out of her room, locking the door behind her that any one who chanced to try the door might suppose her occupied within. down stairs she stole with her quick, stealthy tread, passed through the hall, and saw the men-servants at their supper in the kitchen, with the two indian women obediently attending to their wants. she gave one glance, retraced her steps, hurried out of the front door, and followed the path opposite that which her husband and his companion had taken an hour before. she was speedily concealed from the view of those within the house by a thicket of almond-trees, and passed fearlessly and rapidly along the path which she had trodden in many a long walk when the wretched isolation of her life had become unendurable. the night came on; the moon was up, giving forth a brilliant but fitful light, for a great troop of clouds were sweeping through the sky and at intervals obscured her beams completely, leaving only traces of struggling light on the edges of the clouds. the path was rugged and broken--a greater portion of the way led through a heavy forest; but sybil walked quickly on, disturbed by none of the forest-sounds which might have terrified a less determined woman from following out the end she had set her heart upon. the wind sighed mournfully among the great trees over her head and dashed the swaying vines against her face; but she resolutely pushed them aside and forced for herself a passage. lonely night-birds sent forth their cries, so like human wails that they were fairly startling; noisome reptiles, disturbed by her approach, slid away through the gloom with venomous hisses; but still sybil passed on, upright, defiant, her hand clenching the weapon concealed in her dress with a tight grasp, and her eyes flashing with the fearful enjoyment which the scene produced upon her mind, to which excitement was necessary as oxygen is to the air. it would have been a singular study, the manner in which this woman's determination overcame her physical cowardice when any cause for prompt action was presented to her. upon ordinary occasions nothing could have induced her to enter that wood after nightfall; but, under the influence of the insane desire which had been upon her for days, she trod its recesses as untremblingly as the boldest pioneer who ever crossed the rocky mountains could have done. the greater portion of her way led along the bank of the stream, which flowed in the woods after breaking through the heart of the valley and forcing its way between the narrow of the mountains, that gave it an unwilling egress. the waters rung pleasantly in the shadow, but sybil did not pause to listen, although her rare nature contained enough of ideality to have led her away into many a romance, had she been thrown among these picturesque shades when her mind was at rest. it was a weary walk, but in her excitement sybil thought little of the fatigue. she reached the end of her journey, at length. it was the ranche to which she had directed the party who came with that wounded man to ask shelter of her. sybil did not go directly to the house. at a considerable distance from the dwelling was a rude hut where the family of one of the workmen lived. sybil knew the woman; she had once taken a fancy to be very kind to a sick child of the poor creature, and that favor had never been forgotten. when sybil knocked at the door, a querulous voice bade her enter, and she went into the miserable abode. the woman was nursing her baby, and two older children sat crouching at her feet, munching black crusts of bread with the sharp appetite which follows a long fast. the room was so bare that it could hardly be called untidy; but the appearance of the female and her children was famished and miserable enough. she started up--a haggard, raw-boned creature--with a cry at the sight of her visitor, exclaiming: "mrs. yates!" "hush!" said sybil, motioning her back. "i want to ask you a few questions, about which you are to say nothing to any living soul." "i will," replied the woman. "you were good to my boy. i don't forget that." sybil waved that claim to consideration carelessly aside, and went on: "there was a party of strangers at the house one night last week?" "yes," said the woman; "i was up at the ranche when they come in; they had been to your place, and said you wouldn't let them stop. i didn't believe it." "go on," said sybil, breathlessly; she had waited for nearly a week to gain information--waited with the patience which was one of her most remarkable characteristics; but now that the moment was at hand, she could hardly give the woman time to speak. "one of the gentlemen had a hurt--" "was the doctor here?" "yes; it wasn't nothing but a sprain." "you are certain?" "sartin of it, ma'am. they staid here that night and the next; he was quite well by that time, and then they went on--that's all i know about them; i wish it was more, if it could oblige you." "that is enough," said sybil. she appeared satisfied; she had walked five miles through the forest to obtain those meager crumbs of information--braved dangers from which even a man might have shrunk; but in that lonely, miserable life of hers, it was something even to have gained those brief tidings. a few more questions she asked: how the gentleman looked; if he had quite recovered; if the woman had heard him speak. "pretty much, ma'am, and he seemed as full of fun as a boy; i guess he didn't mind. oh, them that's rich can afford to be funny, and folks say he's got a mighty heap of gold." sybil made no answer to the woman's remark, but sat for a time in silence, looking straight before her after her old fashion. "i wish i could give you a bite to eat or drink," said the woman, "but we hain't got a living thing." sybil roused herself at once. "i am in want of nothing," she said; "i must go home now." "dear me, you ain't rested; it's a hard ride." sybil did not inform her that she had come alone and on foot. she placed some money in the woman's hand, and said kindly, but with emphasis: "you need not say that i have been here." "nobody'll ask," replied the woman; "if they did, it wouldn't do no good--i hain't forgot! oh, ma'am, i ain't a good woman; i'm a poor, ignorant, bad-tempered critter, that joe often says would be better off in my grave; but god bless you, that can't do you no harm, forlorn as i be. god bless you, ma'am!" sybil hurried away to escape the wound these words gave her. her better feelings were aroused, and somehow that simple, uncouth benediction jarred upon her ear; it made her more nervous than she had been while threading her way through the lonely woods, and she hastened out into the night once more. a change had passed over the sky; great masses of heavy clouds were piled up against the horizon and scattered over the heavens, through which the moon rushed in frightened haste. the wind had fallen, and an oppressive sultriness superseded the cool of the woods which had been so apparent a few hours before. once or twice distant peals of thunder rolled afar off, and the jagged edges of the precipice of clouds were colored with blue lightning. sybil struck into the path and took her way homeward. the feeling which supported her had in a measure subsided, and the fears natural to a place and scene like that began to force themselves on her imagination. since the day that laurence and his party stopped at her house, she had been half mad to learn if his injury had proved of little consequence, and if he had been enabled to pursue his journey. there was no one at the ranche whom she dared to trust; for well she knew, although he had not again alluded to the subject, that her husband was watching every movement, and that the slightest show of anxiety on her part would be followed by a repetition of cruelties that since her marriage and removal to that wild place had been of frequent occurrence. she was afraid of this now, and fear took its usual result, craft and concealment. she had borne her fears and suffering in silence up to this time; but when yates left home, so keen was her anxiety that she could not have lived another hour without starting forth to obtain such information as could be gathered; had the distance been quadrupled she would have undertaken the journey, for in that mood no danger or fatigue could have deterred her. long before sybil reached the edge of the forest the clouds had gathered force, and swept up to the very zenith; suddenly the moon plunged down behind them, and the woods were buried in darkness. the thunder pealed out again, rolling and booming through the heavens like parks of artillery; terrible flashes of lightning ran like fiery serpents through the clouds, and made every object fearfully distinct. every shrub and tree took spectral shapes. the path seemed to lose itself in dizzy windings, and sybil could only cover her face with both hands and rush blindly on, terrified but still courageous. great drops of rain began to fall; the thunder increased in violence, and the lightning flashes succeeded each other in such rapid succession that the whole forest was wrapped in flame. still sybil hurried on, panting for breath, half crazed with fear, and keeping the path more from instinct than any thought or power of reason. the storm grew stronger, gathered its mighty powers among the gorges, and surged up into one of those fearful tempests which desolate mountain regions so suddenly. the wind howled through the forest, the thunder pealed and broke directly overhead, and renewed lightning leaped and blazed before her very eyes till she was blinded and stunned. there was no hope of shelter; the thickets which lined the path might conceal wild beasts, frightened into seeking refuge within their depths, but to her they threatened death; she could only totter on, feeling her strength fail with every gust of the storm beat against her. many times her feet struck against fragments of broken rocks, or became entangled in the rank vines, which brought her heavily to the ground, tearing her garments and bruising her limbs; but in her fright and anguish she did not heed the pain, and, catching at the branches for support, would stagger to her feet again, and plunge on through the darkness, growing more and more desperate each moment. her drenched garments clung about her form like a shroud--the cold touch made her shudder; and when, in a sudden pause of the tempest, a great owl rushed past her with his ill-omened cry, her senses almost forsook her in the fright. she heard the cracking of branches, the thunder of giant trees, as they came crashing to the earth, and their mangled boughs fell close to her as she tottered on. long briars, blown out into the road, tore her face and pierced her arms; she shrieked with fear as she forced herself away from their clutches, that were like the talons of wild animals tearing at her life. the tempest was of short duration; suddenly as it had sprung up the wind died in the depths of the forest; the rain ceased; the black wall of clouds tottered and crumbled against the horizon, breaking away like mountains in a dream. as sybil left the wood, the moon soared up again from the prison of clouds where it had been confined, and the night grew serene and quiet, as if no blast had swept through it. feeble, weary and faint, sybil toiled on until she reached her home. the lights were out, the doors fastened, but she had means of entrance, and made her way up to her chamber so stealthily that even the great dogs who bayed and kept watch upon the veranda were not disturbed by her tread. once in her room, and feeling that she was safe, the desperation that had nerved her gave way, and she fell a dead weight upon the floor. she had not fainted, but it was a long time before she could find strength to rise; her limbs were stiffened--her very heart was chilled. she could only lie there, staring out at the moon, while her troubled senses heard still the roar of the tempest, and dismal shapes came out of the gloom to torture her more sorely than the storm had done--cold specters from the past that refused to lie quiet in their graves; painful memories, blighted hopes--every sight and sound from which her tortured soul strove to escape but had no power--she could only look through her strained, glaring eyes, and watch the pale procession in its course. she shook off the weakness and that terrible fear, at last; struggled to her feet, threw off her drenched garments, and crept into bed chilled and trembling, only to renew in sleep the mournful images from which she had tried to escape during her waking hours. chapter vi. the welcome that awaits ralph hinchley. on the appointed day, yates and his companion returned home. sybil went down to meet them as calm and smiling as though the season of their absence had been fraught with no incident of interest, or no terrible conflict had shaken her whole soul to its center. true, very little had happened in acts; but the greatest changes of life occur when all is still. supper was over, and sybil had gone up to her room, leaving the two men smoking upon the veranda. there was a low, eager conversation between them after her departure. at length dickinson raised his voice: "you had better go now and talk to her." "oh, these women," muttered yates; "there's no telling how she may take any thing." "she'll take it as you would," replied dickinson. "be careful how you tell your story--don't frighten her at first. why, you may bring a woman to any thing if you don't upset her nerves at the start." "you are wonderfully wise," mused yates. tom did not seem inclined to provoke a discussion, and after a little hesitation yates went into the house and mounted the stairs. he entered sybil's chamber abruptly, and found her, as usual, seated in a low chair by the window. "i want to talk to you a little," he said, "and i expect you to act like a sensible woman." "let me hear," she answered. "it's a short story," said he, bluntly. "to-morrow night, then, a man will stop here loaded with money and dust enough to make us all rich for the rest of our lives." "well?" the red lips lost their color, and shut hard together; that cruel light shot into the blue eyes. "it isn't well," retorted yates, angrily. "he won't drink, and he won't gamble; so what's to be done? tom talks about taking the fellow in hand." "no, no," interrupted sybil, putting up her hands as if to shut out some horrible object. "i have not forgotten san francisco--don't talk of it, philip." "i knew that would be the way!" he exclaimed. "i was a fool to tell you of it. no woman can be trusted when it comes to the pinch; but that goose, tom, said you would take it kindly, and be the first to hit on some plan that would settle every thing." "i will help you as i always have," she said, trembling violently; "but not that--oh! heavens, no." "there, there, you foolish child!" he replied, not ill-naturedly. "that wasn't your fault or mine; the men got to quarreling in the house, and we killed the other--" "but it was so terrible; that dying man's face has haunted me ever since--i can see his eyes glaring, and hear his breath struggling and gurgling yet--see him clutching and tearing at the bed--" "don't, for god's sake!" he exclaimed, catching hold of her; "you'll drive a man mad!" she had risen from her seat, and was pointing wildly at the floor as she spoke, but his voice seemed to recall her to herself. she sunk back into her chair panting for breath, while yates vainly endeavored to conceal his own discomposure. "you will go crazy in one of these abominable fits," he said, brushing his hand across his forehead, and sweeping the great drops of perspiration away. "then don't bring such memories back," she shuddered. after all, the woman was the first to regain her usual manner, while yates walked slowly up and down the room, his mind divided between the recollections her words had aroused and the plans which had been arranged during the past days. "so we must give it up," he said, at length, "and all for your confounded folly." "do you call it folly?" cried sybil, with a miserable specter of a laugh. "yes, i do! there is one thing certain; your obstinacy and cowardice will lengthen your stay here by ten good years." "i am not a coward--" "call yourself what you please! i say, before we can afford to leave this place, the youth will be gone out of your face, the brightning from your eyes--you'll be an old woman, sybil." she did not appear moved by his threats, and, as was customary with him when thwarted, he began to pass into a violent rage. she did not answer the harsh words and maledictions which he heaped upon her; but once, when he made a movement as if to give her a blow, as had often happened before, she turned upon him with something in her face from which he shrunk in spite of himself. "don't do that!" she exclaimed, in an awful whisper; "i warn you never to attempt that again!" the victory was more nearly won to her than it had been for many a day. yates dropped his hand and turned to go out. "well, let every thing slide," he said; "this comes of trusting a woman with secrets! i must sit in my chair and see sixty thousand dollars good slip out of my hands, and ralph hinchley go by without lifting a finger." sybil sprung forward and clutched his arm; the face she bent toward him was like that of a corpse. "speak that name again," she whispered; "speak it." "ralph hinchley," he repeated, pushing her aside with a feeling like absolute fear. "confound you, what do you look like that for?" sybil still held him fast, and her voice rung out hollow and unnatural: "why, if you murder him, i will avenge it; so god help us both!" "what is he to you? do you know him?" she forced back the whirlwind of passion, and stood up, cold and white. "i never saw him," she replied; "but if you wish his money, i shall not stand between you and him; his life you shall not take." "are you in earnest?" she answered him with a look. "but we have not settled on that; i propose to follow him--" "fools!" exclaimed sybil. "to-morrow night the house and the valley will be full of mad and drunken men. there may be half a dozen robberies--will one more make any great difference?" "what a woman you are!" exclaimed yates, with that sort of admiring dread with which a bad man watches a superior in coldness and courage. "it will be impossible to say who did it! what a mind you have when it works in earnest." "there will be a score of people here wanting lodgings to-morrow night; surely, your way is clear." she waved him impatiently off when he would have pursued the subject. "go down stairs," she said; "i am tired of this. i am coming in a moment." he went out. she stood still in the gloom, while that terrible look of ferocity came back to her face. "either of them, or both," she muttered; "i don't care! hinchley is margaret's cousin--sybil yates will save him; but not till they have gone far enough to prove the attempt. then let them arrest philip if they will--oh! i am sick of this life, and do so loathe him." she swept out of the room, cold and stern as a nemesis, descending to the presence of those men who sat together whispering of things which they dared not speak aloud. they had excited themselves with drink; but sybil was not afraid to look the reality in the face--her resolve was taken, she would not falter. if she reasoned with her conscience it was thus: "the plan is not mine--i could not help it. these men are false and desperate; i can guide but not defeat them. when it is done--oh, how my heart beats; its chains are falling off. his petty sins shall bind me here no longer." chapter vii. arrival of the guest. it was saturday evening; the moon rose upon a scene which utterly changed the whole aspect of the ranche. since early in the afternoon the road from the mines had been filled with men, who poured down into the valley to seek relaxation after their week's successful toil, and relieve themselves, perhaps, of every ounce of the yellow dust which they had labored so hard to gain. about the tents and cabins were grouped scores of men from every nation of the civilized world. long tables had been set out in the open air, covered with such food as the owners of the huts could procure; barrels of liquor were standing under the trees, ready broached, and moist at the tap from frequent applications. a great fire had been kindled near the cabins, at which quarters of beef, joints of venison, and groups of wild game were roasting with a slow success that filled the air with appetizing odors. in fact, the whole valley took the appearance of a political barbecue or gipsy encampment. the miners, in the slouched hats, red shirts, and muddy boots, gave picturesque effect to the scene which a philosopher would have condemned and an artist forgiven at the first glance. the ranche had its full share of visitors; food and drink were bountifully provided. yates and dickinson moved about among the men, excited by liquor and evil passions, and urging them on to every species of excess, like fiends seeking to drag down humanity to their own base level. secure in her chamber, sybil listened to the tumult and smiled quietly. she really had something in common with lucretia borgia besides the golden tint in her hair. she was neither shocked nor afraid; but had grown so accustomed to such scenes that they no longer had any power to affect her. she was sitting by her window, and looking toward the path which led from the mountains, so absorbed in thought that she scarcely heard the shouts and hideous din which ascended from below. at last she beheld two men on horseback coming down the declivity, preceded by a guide. no trace of exultation lit up her features; the face grew more hard and stern; the peculiar look which gave such age to her countenance settled over its whiteness--that was all. she clenched her hands on the window-sill, and watched their approach. "margaret's cousin," she whispered, once; "well, hereafter in my dreams i shall be worthy her thanks--she was fond of him--shedding tears--yes, yes, it is my turn now!" the men rode slowly on, and as they reached the foot of the mountain, and the demoniac scene, lighted by the moon and the glare of the camp-fires, burst upon them, they simultaneously checked their horses, and looked at each other in horrified astonishment. "great heavens, what a sight!" exclaimed hinchley. "it's like going down into purgatory," muttered the domestic. "shall we have to spend the night here, mr. hinchley?" "you can't do no better," interrupted the guide; "it's the same thing clear to wilson's ranche. you'll do well enough at phil yates's; he promised you rooms and beds to yourselves--you'd best come on." the guide looked eagerly about as he spoke, his savage nature in a state of pleasurable excitement, and anxious to join the desperate crowds that were scattered through the valley. "i wish we had stopped at the diggings," hinchley said. the guide had stepped away from them, and they conversed for a few seconds in private. "luckily, nobody knows we've got the money and dust with us," said the man. "that is true. i dare say we are quite as safe in this crowd as we should be alone with the people that live at wilson's house. you must keep a good look-out all night, martin; i will see that our rooms are close together. if we are assailed we must do our best." there was no time for further conversation; the guide summoned them impatiently, and they rode on toward the ranche, passing several camp-fires about which were grouped evil-looking men drinking and gambling, some upon the ground, some upon the newly-made stumps from which the forest-trees had been cut. nobody paid much attention to them, and they passed on up to the house, where yates received them with a rough courtesy which was in a measure reassuring, compared with the appearance of the crowds they had seen. "you have hit on a bad night," he said, as he conducted them into the house; "but i will give you rooms up stairs--you will be quiet enough there." "show us to them at once," said hinchley; "i am fairly sick with this disgusting scene." "i used to feel so," returned yates; "but a man gets accustomed to any thing in these regions." he led them through the hall and up the stairs, the servant carrying the saddle-bags and packages. they were shown into a comfortable room, which, in comparison with the scene they had left, appeared like a palace. "you will do very well here," said yates. "that next room is for your man. i'll have some supper sent up to you. i don't keep a tavern, nay how, but those rascals below would tear my house down about my ears if i refused them admittance. it's nothing when you are acquainted with california life." "i'm blessed if i don't hope my acquaintance'll be a short one," muttered martin. yates laughed as he left the room, and hinchley threw himself into a chair, wearied with many days' privation and hard riding. "i guess we're safe enough here," said martin. "oh, yes; i apprehend no danger at all." while they waited for their supper, and listened to the horrible din below, yates went on to the room where sybil was seated. "they have come," he whispered, going close to where she sat. "i know it," she replied, quietly. "you don't feel afraid, sybil? you won't draw back?" "i?" she laughed, in her scornful way. "stop that noise!" exclaimed yates, with a menacing gesture; "you laugh like a ghost." mad as he was with liquor and evil passions, there was something so unnatural in that sound that it half sobered him. while they stood eyeing each other, the door opened, and dickinson reeled into the room. "come down stairs, phil," he said; "there'll have to be another barrel of whisky got out." "you are drunk," said the other. "a man needs to be," he shivered. "good heavens, mrs. yates, how you look!" "never mind that," she answered. "go, both of you, and do your best to keep that crowd of demons occupied." "they are mighty good-natured with us," said tom. "that idea of yours, sybil, of giving them the liquor, has set us up wonderfully; hark! they're cheering phil now." sybil flung up the window, and leaned over the sill, as shout after shout arose like the yelling of fiends. dickinson pulled her hastily back. "don't let them see you--no woman would be safe! i have told everybody you had gone down to featherstone's." "no, keep yourself close, sybil," said yates. "do not fear for me; go down stairs, both of you. i want to be alone." "what time do you think--" it was dickinson who began to speak; she checked the broken utterance with a look. "at the time i appointed; half past one." she looked from one to the other, but neither of those hardened men had the nerve to meet her eyes. they shrunk out of the room in silence, without another word being spoken, and once more sybil was alone. the riot and confusion increased. men rushed about like demons, singing, shouting, and clashing their cups together. the veranda and grass in front were covered with poor wretches, who had fallen there in their intoxication, and were recklessly trampled upon by their companions. yells and shrieks went up, shot after shot was fired, knives gleamed in the starlight, more than one fierce contest occurred, but through it all that woman sat at her window and waited, appalled neither by the horror of the scene, nor the fearful thoughts which surged through her soul. chapter viii. the gambler's fate. it was long past midnight, and something of quiet had stolen over the valley; yet that very stillness, taken in connection with the scene, was more impressive than the riot and tumult had been. the lower rooms of yates's dwelling were in a state of confusion beyond description. glasses, dishes and broken food had been swept to the floor to give place to cards and dice, which began the instant the wolf-like appetites of the men had been satisfied. the floor was covered with broken bottles and saturated with liquor and costly wines; here and there darker stains gleamed in the moonlight, betraying where some deadly fray had ended just short of murder. men lay stretched upon the tables in heavy slumber, huddled among the chairs and under the benches, either asleep or so deeply intoxicated as to be unconscious of their degradation. here and there scattered gold shone out from the stains and pools of wine, and a few wretches groped about picking up stray nuggets or scraping together the saturated gold-dust and hiding it in their garments. in some of the rooms groups of men were still busy over the cards, but even these had relapsed into quiet; nothing was heard but the rattle of the dice or an occasional oath from the lips of some ruined gambler. out of doors the scene was still different. the whole length of the valley could be commanded in one view--the smouldering camp-fires; men lying stretched upon the trampled grass; poor wretches, wounded in the quarrels, who had dragged themselves under the shadow of the great trees to bind up their wounds or seek the slumber of exhaustion and spent passions. over all shone the moon, pouring down a cloud of silvery radiance upon the repulsive scene, and rendering it more horrible from the pure contrast. at one of the card-tables yates was still seated, while dickinson hovered about, unable to remain quiet for a moment, and, in spite of his partial intoxication, haggard and pale at the recollection of the deed yet to be performed. a meaning glance from yates sent him out of the room. very soon his confederate flung down the cards, and, relinquishing his place to some other sleepless desperado, made his way among the forms huddled upon the floor, and passed into the hall. no one was watching; the stillness deepened each instant. up the stairs passed the two men, and entered the room where sybil awaited them. few words passed among them, but the woman was much less shaken than either of those bold men. they stood for a short time conversing in broken whispers; then yates turned quickly aside, moved to the end of the room where a tall wardrobe was placed. a single touch upon a secret spring, and the heavy piece of furniture swung noiselessly out, affording admittance to the chamber beyond. ralph hinchley started from a troubled dream to feel a strange oppression upon his chest--a sweet, sickening odor pervading the atmosphere--and to see through the open door martin lying upon the bed with a man bending over him and pressing a napkin close against his face. he started up in bed, unable to realize whether it was real or only another wild vision. a blow from an unseen hand dashed him back upon the pillow; but as he fell, with a smothered cry, he saw a white face bending over him, and in the doorway a woman enveloped in a mantle, which concealed her features and most of her person, uttering cries for help. he started up again with frantic violence, shrieking out his servant's name: "martin! martin!" he heard a cry from the woman: "help! help!" then his assailant sprung upon him. hinchley grappled him with all the fury of desperation, and the two rolled over and over in deadly strife. the man who had kept guard by the servant's bed escaped at the first tumult; but those two men continued that fearful conflict. hinchley was a brave man; the belief that his life was at stake gave him the strength of a tiger. he shrieked for help in a voice which rung through the house and roused even the intoxicated sleepers below. there was a sound in the halls of eager voices and rapid feet. hinchley's assailant tried to dash him to the floor and escape; but those long, slender arms seemed made of iron, and held him pinioned. at that moment the servant woke from the stupor, which had only taken a partial effect upon his senses, and sprung up with a mad cry. "help, martin, help!" shrieked hinchley, feeling his strength begin to fail. "come, i say!" half stupefied as he was, the man comprehended his master's danger, rushed upon their foe, and hurled him back upon the floor just as he succeeded in escaping from hinchley's hold. this instant the door was broken open, and a crowd of infuriated men rushed into the chamber, roused by those shrieks for aid. a few quick words explained the whole affair. the troop pushed hinchley and his servant back, seized the man and dragged him toward the window. the moonlight fell broadly on his terror-stricken face. "it's phil yates!" exclaimed a score of voices. the wretch had ceased to struggle; he felt that his doom was sealed, and lay panting and passive in their clutches. "this accounts for his good-nature," resounded on all sides. "this explains the general treat. he meant to stupefy us and then shirk the murder on some one." "where's tom?" called one of the number. a rush was made through the rooms, but the confederate had escaped. "at least we will serve this fellow out!" cried a hoarse voice. "ay! ay!" they shouted, "down stairs with him! there's a blasted pine back of the house--just the thing!" they gathered about the shuddering man like wild beasts scenting their prey. hinchley in vain attempted to speak a word which might gain the miserable man a reprieve. they pushed him rudely aside, dragged their victim down the stairs and out upon the veranda, the throng parting right and left, allowing those who held him free passage. in an instant the whole valley seemed aroused, and hundreds of fierce faces glared on the hapless creature as he hung powerless over the shoulders of his captors. there was a hurried consultation among those nearest the criminal; terrible words broke from their lips which were echoed in husky whispers by the whole crowd. "hang him! hang him!" again the crowd parted, and four stalwart men dragged the half insensible creature round a corner of the house and moved toward a shivered pine-tree that stretched out its blasted limbs between the dwelling and the precipice. "we want a rope," some one said. a man rushed out of the house, carrying a long crimson scarf, which he fluttered over the heads of the crowd. "this will do famously!" he called. "it belonged to his wife--she was huddling it over her face." "where is the woman?" they yelled. "let's exterminate every snake in the nest!" "she isn't on hand--twisted herself out of my hold like a cat, dashed off to the precipice, and the last i saw of her she was dragging herself up by the bushes." "dickinson is gone, too." "no matter; we have this one safe. gracious, how limpsy he is!" "make short work of it, then, before he shows fight." "never fear!" shouted one of his captors. "say a prayer, you villain; it's your last chance." the hapless wretch only moaned; fear had drawn him beyond the power of speech. closer gathered the crowd--he felt their breath hot upon his cheek; hundreds of fierce eyes glared into his own; innumerable voices roared out his death-sentence. it was a terrible scene. they seized the scarf and twisted it fiercely about his neck; scores of ruthless hands forced him toward the skeleton tree; the shouts and execrations grew more fiendish, and over all the sinking moon shed her last pale luster, lighting up that work of horror. the man had spoken truly. sybil yates had fled to the hill. with the first cries of hinchley, she had attempted to escape from the principal entrance. but the valley was sprinkled with camp-fires which must betray her. in front of the house, lanterns swung from the knotted cedar-posts, and cast their unsteady light on a crowd of fierce men swarming toward the cries that still rung through the dwelling. one of these men saw her, and, leaping up the stairs, tore the scarf from her head, bringing a flood of hair down with it. she wrenched herself from the grasp he fastened on her arm, plunged down a back staircase, and, darting by the blasted pine, made for the precipice. the face of this rocky wall was torn apart near the base, and the fissure, which slanted across the face of the precipice, choked up with myrtle-bushes, grape-vines and trees, stinted in their growth from want of soil; but it was deep enough to hide that poor human creature flying for her life. she ran toward the broken line which betrayed the fissure, and, crushing through the sweet myrtle-bushes, fastened her foot in a coil of vines, and crept upward with that scared face turned over her shoulder, unable to tear her eyes from the crowd of men that came sweeping round the house and surged up to that gaunt pine-tree. they carried lanterns, and torches of burning pine, throwing a red light all around and illuminating the very foot of the precipice. sybil crowded herself back into the fissure and dragged the vines over her. then, shuddering till the foliage trembled around her, she looked through it, ghastly with fear but fascinated still. there was the man who had been her fate, the cruel tyrant whose breath had made her tremble an hour ago, lying across the shoulders of his late friends, already half lifeless, yet shrieking faintly from dread of the death to which they were lighting him. the woman was seized with dizzy terror. the lights flowed before her eyes in a river of fire. the specters of a thousand gaunt old trees danced through it, and among them swung a human form to and fro, to and fro, as it would sway through her memory forever and ever. she was pressed against the rock, her foot tangled in the coiling vines, her hands clenched hard among the tender shrubs--but for that she must have fallen headlong to the broken rocks beneath. all at once the tumult ceased; a frightful stillness came over that dark crowd; men shrunk away from its outskirts into the darkness, frightened by their own demon work. she clung to the vines, and looked down dizzily; a feeling of horrible relief came over her. she turned her face to the rock, and held her breath, listening, as if his voice could still reach her. it was near morning before the crowd around that tree dispersed. then she crept feebly down the rocky fissure, and stood trembling on the trampled grass. one glance upon the pine, and she turned away, sick at heart. a fragment of her own red scarf fluttered there--and--and-- shutting her eyes close, sybil staggered on toward the house, entered the back-door, and descended the cellar-stairs. she took a lamp and some matches from a niche in the wall, and passed on into the cellar. she had been there once before within the last forty-eight hours, and every thing necessary for her flight was prepared. connected with the cellars was a small natural cave, which had been used as a place to keep liquor-casks. sybil and her husband alone knew of the real use to which this place was put. only a few moments after, sybil stood in that cave so metamorphosed that she might have passed unquestioned, even by her best friend. she was attired in the dress of a spanish sailor, her delicate skin dyed of a rich, dark brown, her golden hair concealed under a slouched hat, beneath which were visible short, thick curls of raven hair. there was still other work to be done. carefully shading her lamp from the draught of air, the woman moved toward a corner of the vault, pulled away several heavy casks, which it would have seemed beyond her power to lift, raised one of the flat stones with which a portion of the vault had been paved, and disclosed the lid of an iron chest. she unlocked it, flung up the top lid, and the lamplight struck upon a quantity of gold-dust and money which had been concealed there. yates had collected that store without the knowledge of his confederates; even sybil had discovered his secret by accident. "oh!" she muttered, impatiently, "there is a fortune here. i can not carry it. no matter, it is safe--only let me escape this spot. some other time. it can not be found. some other time." she took out as many pieces of gold as she could manage to bestow about her person without encumbering her flight; but even in her distress and danger, her judgment and reason were capable of action. it was better to leave the money in safety, and return for it at some future time, than to overload herself so much that her flight would be impeded. she might become so weary of the weight as to be forced to fling it aside. thus the woman reasoned only a few hours after that death scene. she closed the chest, locked it and replaced the stones, piled the empty boxes in their former position, and crept away. she extinguished the little lamp, flung it into a dark corner of the cellar, and bent her steps toward the opening, which was so overgrown with weeds that it was entirely hidden. she managed to raise herself along the broken wall, and forced her way through the narrow aperture into the open air. her face and hands were bleeding from the wounds she had received against the sharp stones, but she felt no pain. she was completely hidden from the view of all those about the house by a dense thicket of cactus and flowery shrubs, which formed a thick wall for a considerable distance. her pony was tied to a tree where she had herself stationed him early in the evening. for the first time a look of exultation shot into her face--she was safe now! before mounting her horse, she crept along the edge of the thicket to a spot from whence she could command a view of the house. the crowd was still rushing wildly about--she could hear their murmurs and execrations. the moon had set, but the cold dawn cast a gray light over the landscape. sybil turned her eyes toward the dwelling. she saw the pine-tree--that one projecting branch from which a fragment of the silk scarf fluttered yet. after that momentary glance she started up, mounted her pony, and rode rapidly away through the forest. so the day broke, still and calm. the first glow of the sun tinged the mountain tops, leaving the valley still in deep shadow. the excited throngs moved restlessly about, and at length group after group started away from the house, anxious to escape the sickening sight which met their eyes; now that their fury was satiated, they turned in dread away. the sun mounted higher in the heavens, shot dazzlingly against the sides of the mountains, colored the noisy torrent, and played softly about the old house. not a living thing was in sight. the sun played over the grass, rustled the vines, and there, in the silence and amid the shadows, hung that still form, swayed slowly to and fro by the light breeze that struck the branches. an hour passed, but there was no change! afar through the forest rode the fearless woman, seeking a place of shelter. the last fetter which had bound her to that horrible life was severed. across the dark sea she could seek a new home, and make for herself another existence, untroubled by a single echo from the past. chapter ix. a canter and a fall. it was a lofty, well-lighted apartment, fitted up with book-cases, yet, from its general arrangement, evidently occupied as much for a sitting-room as a library. the easy-chairs were pushed into commodious corners, the reading table, in the center of the floor, was covered with newspapers and pamphlets; but they had been partially moved aside to afford place to a tiny work-basket, an unstrung guitar with a handful of flowers scattered over it, and various other trifles--all giving token of a female presence and occupations, which alone can lend to an apartment like this a pleasant, home-like appearance. it was near sunset; two of the windows of the library looked toward the west, and a rich glow stole through the parted curtains, from the mass of gorgeous clouds piling themselves rapidly up against the horizon. but at the further end of the room, the shadows lay heavy and dark, and two statues gleamed out amid the gloom, like ghosts frightened away from the sunlight. in that dimness a woman walked slowly to and fro, her hands linked loosely together, her dress rustling faintly against the carpet, and her every movement betraying some deep and engrossing thought. for a full half-hour she had indulged in that revery, all the while moving slowly up and down, the fixed resolution of her face growing harder, and her eyes turned resolutely toward the shadows, as if there was something in the cheerful radiance at the other end of the room which caused her pain or annoyance. in that dim light, the countenance had an expression from which one entering unperceived would have shrunk instinctively; yet a portrait of the face, painted as it appeared among the shadows, would hardly have been recognized by those daily accustomed to a view of the features. perhaps it was the gloom around which gave the face that look--cold, hard, unrelenting force--and lent the eyes that subtle, dangerous gleam. some noise from without disturbed her reflections; she dropped her arms to her side, and passed quietly toward the middle of the room. as she stood for an instant by the table, the rosy light of the approaching sunset played full upon her face; it scarcely seemed possible it could be the one which looked so dark and cruel among the shadows only a moment before. an erect, well-proportioned figure, rather below the medium height, yet so graceful and elegant that at the first glance one would have pronounced her tall. she was still quite young, out of her teens possibly, but no one would have judged her twenty-one--in the twilight her face had appeared ten years older at least. the features were finely cut, the lips a trifle too thin, perhaps, but the complexion was wonderfully delicate; rich masses of light brown hair, which in the sunlight took a golden tinge, were brushed in wavy folds back from the smooth, low forehead, underneath which the gray eyes looked out as calm and cold as though deep emotion had never brought shadows or tears into their depths. it would have been a very acute observer that could have read that pale, secretive face. one might have lived years in daily intercourse with her, and never believed her any thing but a quiet person, yielding herself good-naturedly to the plans or amusements of others, and finding sufficient content therein. while she stood by the table, the tramp of horses sounded upon the gravel sweep without; she moved to the window, and remained watching the groom as he led a couple of saddle-horses up and down before the side-entrance of the house. very soon there was a sound of opening doors, and a man's voice called from the hall: "margaret! miss waring!" the lady started at those clear, somewhat imperative tones, but the summons was evidently not intended for her; after that involuntary movement, she resumed her former attitude, leaning against the window-sill with her eyes fixed absently upon the changing sky. in a moment the door of the library opened, and a gentleman advanced a step or two beyond the threshold, looking around as if in search of some one. when he saw the young lady standing there, he said, hastily: "i thought margaret was here." she turned as if for the first time conscious of his presence. "i beg your pardon; what did you wish?" "i am looking for miss waring; i heard george bring up the horses several moments since." "i believe she is in her room; shall i call her?" "pray do not trouble yourself, miss chase. i dare say she will be down immediately." "here i am now," said a voice from the stairs, and a young lady very pretty and _petite_ entered the room dressed in a riding-habit. "i hope i have not kept you waiting, mr. laurence." "i am only just ready," he replied, carelessly. miss chase half turned from the window; the sunset rays fell upon her hair and forehead, and, partially shut in by the folds of the curtains, she made an exceedingly striking picture. margaret was buttoning her gauntlets, but laurence caught the effect, and was pleased, as any one with the slightest artistic taste must have been. "you have not put on your habit, miss chase," he said. "don't you ride with us?" "i made my excuses to miss waring an hour ago," she replied, in the sweet, calm voice habitual with her. "she has a bad headache," said the young lady mentioned, looking up from her task, "and is bent on a solitary walk in hopes of curing it." "i thought you were never troubled with such pretty little female ailments," returned laurence, pleasantly. "it very seldom happens," answered miss chase, indifferently, turning more toward the window, as if she did not wish any conversation to deprive her of a view of the sunset. "it seems a little selfish for us to leave you to a lonely walk," he continued. "so i told her," added margaret; "but she would not be persuaded." "i would not prevent your ride for the world," she said, in precisely the same unmoved tone. "i shall only walk to the gates and back." "i am sorry you can not accompany us," laurence said. "i suppose that wretched headache will prevent me taking my revenge at chess to-night." "hardly, i think; it will go off in the cool of the evening." "you are very obliging--" "oh, she means to beat you unmercifully," interrupted margaret; "don't you, miss chase?" "if i can, of course," she replied, with a little deprecatory gesture, as if the attempt were likely to prove a hopeless one. "we shall see," returned the gentleman. "come, margaret, the horses will get restless. a pleasant walk, miss chase." she bowed, and watched the pair out of the room; when the door closed, she took her old station, saw them mount and ride swiftly down the avenue. very quiet and still she stood there--there was no pulsation strong enough even to stir the lace upon her bosom. one hand fell at her side, the other was pressed hard against the marble sill, and once more the cold, fixed resolution crept slowly over her countenance. it must have been a full half-hour before she in turn left the apartment. she went up to her room, came down with her bonnet and shawl on, and walked out upon the broad veranda which ran the whole length of the house. she did not follow the avenue which led from the dwelling down to the highway, but took one of the numerous paths which wound among the shrubberies. sometimes in the full glory of the waning sunset, anon a darker shadow among the other shadows that lay under the trees, she passed, walking rapidly, as if anxious to find quiet in bodily fatigue--then forgetting her purpose, if it had been present to her mind, and moving slowly along, deeply engrossed in thought as when she stood in the library an hour before. it was already twilight when sybil chase reached the ponderous iron gates which gave entrance from the road to the grounds. she seated herself upon a stone bench a little off from the avenue, and gazed quietly around with that observing eye which never lost the most minute particular. the air was soft and warm, the moon was already coming up and dispelling the dusky shadows sufficiently to distinguish objects at a considerable distance. the murmur of a little brook that traversed the grounds and came out of the thicket back of her seat was pleasantly audible, and the deafened cry of a whippowill sounded through the distance. the moon rose higher, the repose of the spring evening increased, and through the distance sybil's quick ear detected the tramp of horses, faint but rapidly approaching nearer. she rose from the bench and looked up the road. she saw margaret and mr. laurence cantering gayly over the nearest hill. while she looked, the girl's horse shied at some object by the road--started so violently that his rider, evidently taken by surprise, was thrown to the ground. sybil chase pressed her two hands hard together, a quick breath broke from her lips, and her eyes looked out large and wild; but she made no effort to go forward--never stirred from her attitude of strange expectancy. before mr. laurence could dismount and go to his companion's assistance, a man rode rapidly up behind them. sybil saw him stop, spring from his horse, and hasten with mr. laurence toward the lady. before they reached the spot, margaret had risen; through the stillness sybil caught the echo of hurried exclamations, a gay laugh from the young girl, which seemed to give assurance that she had suffered no injury. at that sound the lady whispered a few words to herself; then, after an instant of hesitation, hurried toward the gates, pushed them open, and ran with all her speed toward the foot of the hill. before she reached the first rise, the three had mounted and were riding toward her; she was plainly visible to them in the moonlight, toiling rapidly up the ascent, and apparently so overcome by agitation that nothing but a desire to be of service preserved her strength. "are you hurt?" she called, wildly. "not in the least," margaret answered, while laurence waved his riding-cap gayly in the air. sybil clasped her hands, as if in involuntary thanksgiving, and sunk down upon the bank. they rode toward her; as they reached the spot, she rose and called again: "you are not hurt, miss waring?" "not in the least, i assure you." "not even frightened, i believe," added laurence. "i thought she was killed," exclaimed sybil. "oh, that dreadful shying horse! don't--don't ride him again, margaret." the party drew rein near her. "he meant no harm, poor fellow," returned margaret. "he might have killed you, nevertheless," said sybil, with a sort of reproachful anxiety. she spoke rapidly, and appeared much alarmed; nevertheless, she found time to steal a quick glance toward the stranger who accompanied her friends. as her eyes fell upon him she gave a slight start, and her face grew pale; but, with a strong effort, she mastered the emotion, and turned indifferently away. chapter x. the game at chess. a few more words passed, then margaret said: "miss chase, let me present mr. hinchley to you." the lady bowed slightly in return to the stranger's salutation, looked keenly from under her long eyelashes, and turned again toward miss waring, who, in spite of her assertions, was greatly terrified and shaken, as sybil plainly detected through all her forced spirits. "by the luckiest chance in the world, hinchley rode up at the very moment margaret fell," said laurence. "i was very fortunate in being so opportune in my arrival," replied the young man. "we have not even asked how you happened to get here so unexpectedly," said margaret. "i saw dr. thorne in town this morning, and he told me that uncle gerald had been quite ill again, so i took the late train up--luckily, smith, at the depot, had a horse to lend me." "uncle gerald is better," margaret said. "i am glad to hear it; those attacks get so much worse that i was quite alarmed." "he seems very much shaken by this one," laurence said; "but the doctor thinks he will soon get better; the warm weather is coming on, and that always agrees with him, you know." "you will stay a week or so, ralph," margaret said. "as long as i can; it depends on my news from town." "miss waring looks pale," interrupted sybil, whose head was still averted from hinchley. "are you really hurt, margaret?" asked hinchley. "not in the least," she replied; but her voice trembled a little. "she is frightened, of course," said sybil; "who could help it? i am sure she will not ride again this season." "i think she is cured of such fears," returned laurence. "oh yes," answered margaret, hastily. "but let us ride home; it is getting late, and uncle will want to see ralph before going to bed." the three rode through the gates, which miss chase had left open, while that lady followed at a little distance. "we are leaving her all alone," said margaret, in a low voice, to laurence. "that is true; and it scarcely looks civil," he replied. "ride on to the house, margaret, with hinchley, and i will walk with her." "very well," margaret said, unable longer to conceal her nervousness, and not sorry that she could have an opportunity to recover herself before again enduring her betrothed husband's somewhat impatient scrutiny. the pair rode on; mr. laurence dismounted from his horse, and stood in the avenue as miss chase approached. "you look in this moonlight pale and melancholy as a knight-errant," she said, playfully. "i am waiting for you," he replied. "indeed, there was no necessity." "does that mean you prefer to walk alone?" "i am not much given to incivility, you know; i did not wish to detain you from your friends." "oh, they will take care of each other," he replied. "i wonder you don't say something about him--you are less susceptible than most young ladies. hinchley is a great favorite." "please do not slander my sex, mr. laurence, or we shall quarrel at once." "and you will conquer me, as you always do at chess! but at all events, you can not be offended at my saying that you are different from youthful females in general; almost any other would have asked twenty questions in a breath about the stranger." "but mr. hinchley is hardly a stranger," she replied. "oh, that is true; but i believe you have never met him before." "no; but i have heard miss waring talk so much of her favorite cousin, and mr. waring is always sounding his praises." "he is almost like a brother to margaret; i wonder you never saw him when you were here before." "he was in europe," replied sybil, indifferently. "i am sorry margaret received that fright." "i wish she had a little of your courage." "i have been accustomed to ride from childhood--" "and are the best horsewoman i ever saw." "i ought to deny it, but shall not. at all events, i am not in the least afraid of robin hood nor of sir charles here;" as sybil spoke, she offered the horse one of the roses she held in her hand. "that is a treat which the baronet appreciates," she added. "he isn't often fed with roses." "what a waste of sentiment," he replied, "to feed a horse on what any man would covet." "he is grateful for them, at all events." "perhaps his master would be more grateful still; you have not tried him." she laughed, selected a beautiful bud from the bunch, and looked at it for a moment. when he reached forth his hand, she drew back the flower with a gesture too pretty to be called coquetry. "no; sir charles shall have that, and miss waring will like the rest." he was a little annoyed; any man would have been treated with this seeming indifference whether he cared for the person or not. "you are determined never to be friends with me," he said. "on the contrary, i have to thank you and everybody here for a great deal of kindness." "i am sure both margaret and mr. waring feel much obliged to you; her health is so delicate, that the house would have been in hopeless disorder except for your attention, and the old gentleman considers you perfection." "it is very pleasant to be appreciated," she answered, gayly. "at least, you ought to thank me; i kept miss waring from dying of regret during your absence." "margaret would never die from any such feeling," he replied, impatiently. "i think where she loves, all her feelings are centered." "ah, miss chase, romance fades rapidly during a long engagement." "so all engaged people tell me," she answered; "i shall take warning from this experience of others. but we must walk faster; miss waring will think us lost, unless mr. hinchley is charming enough to make her forget our absence." "i think margaret does not care much for the society of gentlemen." "not in general, i believe." "nor in any particular case, i should hope," he said, quickly. "we quarrel a great deal, as you know, miss chase, but i have never thought coquetry among her faults." "nor i." "hinchley is greatly admired by young ladies," pursued laurence; "but he seems to care very little about it." "he is very handsome--" "why, you hardly looked at him." "i was quoting miss waring--incorrectly, however." "what did she say?" "that he had a very noble face--something above mere beauty." "she was quite eloquent," he said, dryly. "oh no; but we were alone, and could not be silent." "and so you talked of ralph hinchley?" "naturally enough, as he is her nearest relative. are you blaming miss waring or me?" "neither, i assure you." "mr. hinchley is dependent upon his profession, i believe." "yes; i fancy he is not rich at all." "there i can sympathize with him." "have you come to that?" "don't make me appear silly! if margaret were here, i should say something that you might construe into a compliment." "you have never paid me one--" "i never do compliment people whom i respect; that may account for it." "but what would you have said?" "that the men i have been in the habit of meeting since i came here have made me difficult to please, so that quite young gentlemen seldom strike me favorably." "oh, that is flattery--" "it would have been to miss waring." "how so?" "a compliment to her taste in selecting you as a husband." by that time they had reached the veranda, and as she spoke the last words, miss chase ran up the steps, humming a song, and entered the hall just as margaret descended the stairs, after having exchanged her habit for a dress more suitable to the house. "are you better?" sybil asked. "yes; but i was terribly frightened, though i would not have mr. laurence know it for the world--my timidity annoys him so much." "he is coming," whispered miss chase. "please come and make the tea," said margaret; "my hands shake yet." mr. laurence joined them in the hall. "well, you are not frightened, now it is all over?" he asked. "no, not much; anyway, i am unhurt." miss chase threw back the hood of her cloak, and accompanied them into the library; a glance at the hall-glass had convinced her that her appearance was picturesque. she stood a second in the door, took off the pretty blue mantle and laid it on a sofa; the breeze had given her a color, and her hair an added wave, particularly becoming. margaret ensconced herself in an easy-chair near the fire, which had been kindled to give an appearance of comfort to the room, although the night was too warm to render it necessary. miss chase seated herself by the tray, while laurence turned to margaret: "where is hinchley?" "gone up to see uncle; he will be down in a moment." the gentleman entered as she spoke. sybil chase was occupied, and did not look up. he gave her a quick glance, started, and a perplexed look passed over his face as if he fancied that he had seen her before, and was trying to remember where; then it faded, and he sat down near his cousin. "uncle has gone to bed," he said; "he looks very ill to-night." "but he is better, i am sure he is," she replied, anxiously. "i hope so," he answered; and, remarking her agitation, changed the subject at once. "have you been trouting, laurence?" he asked. "i remember your old passion." "i was out the other day, but we will go again--an expedition for the ladies. are you fond of trout-fishing, miss chase?" "yes; i must plead guilty to the weakness and cruelty." "and you, margaret?" "i shall like to go; but i never have any success." "and you think it wicked, i believe?" he replied, carelessly, and with a little irony, such as was often apparent in the conversations between the two lovers. "no matter what i think," she replied, smiling pleasantly enough, although displeased at his manner; "i will not force my private convictions upon any of you." "but you will have a cup of tea?" said miss chase. mr. hinchley went to the table, and taking the cup from sybil, carried it to his cousin. "hester has treated us to marmalade," said laurence, laughing, as he approached the table. "which i am morally certain you will spill on the carpet--won't he, miss waring?" "of course; do keep him at the table, for the sake of the new carpet we both admire so much." "then the whole dish of marmalade will be in danger," said laurence. "miss chase will wisely move it," added hinchley. "i think i must," added sybil, "but there, you shall have a very large spoonful; it is better than roses." she put the conserve upon his plate, took up her flowers that lay on the table, and added: "i picked these for you, miss waring; they are from your favorite bush." she gave them to hinchley to carry to margaret; mr. laurence ate his marmalade and looked a little vexed. "they are beautiful roses," hinchley said. "very," margaret replied, putting them carelessly in her hair; "you shall have a bud to reward you for not having purloined the whole bunch." she selected a half-open rose and handed it to him. miss chase smiled imperceptibly. "may i have a cup of tea, miss chase?" asked laurence, adding, as he bent toward her: "you were over fastidious, you see." not a word answered sybil--just the slightest elevation of her eyebrows, the least possible expression of surprise about her mouth; yet, by that mere nothing, she contrived to show that she disapproved of the innocent and thoughtless act, but meant to keep any such feeling to herself. the evening passed pleasantly enough. mr. laurence forgot his momentary vexation, the cause of which he could scarcely have told. he challenged miss chase to a game of chess, and she consented. while the two played, margaret and mr. hinchley sat by the fire, and talked of their uncle, the pleasures of old times, new books, and the thousand other trifles, about which people who have no deep feelings in common converse together. miss chase lost the game, because she had made up her mind to be defeated; but the next she won. still, during the whole evening her attention was not sufficiently fixed upon either board or moves to prevent her hearing and seeing every thing that passed around her. chapter xi. the female iago. the engagement between laurence and margaret waring had been a family affair, brought about principally by the romance of a maiden aunt, with whom the young man was a favorite. edward had been under this relative's charge after the death of his parents, which occurred during his childhood, and she had petted and spoiled the boy as only a spinster could have done. mr. waring, the uncle of margaret, was one of miss laurence's nearest neighbors, and the girl had been almost as great a favorite with the spinster as her own nephew. indeed, it was said that mabel laurence had loved margaret's father in her youthful days; but how that might be nobody really knew, for the old maid wisely kept her own secrets, as women, after all, are apt to do when there is nothing to gratify the vanity in them. but it happened that the boy and girl were reared almost like brother and sister, and the two houses were almost equally homes to both. mr. waring was a confirmed invalid, whose life seemed to hang upon a thread, and miss laurence had always been in yearly expectation that the girl would soon come entirely under her charge. people are generally mistaken in such calculations, and miss laurence was no exception; for when margaret waring was sixteen, the spinster died in her arms after a short but violent illness. edward, then a youth of twenty, was traveling in europe, and by one of the old lady's last commands was to remain there at least a year longer. when the will was opened, it was found to contain a singular clause--one common enough in novels, and as the spinster had been an insatiable devourer of light literature, it is quite probable that she derived from thence the idea which was expressed in her testament. her fortune, which was a very large one, was divided equally between her nephew and margaret waring, on condition that they became husband and wife; otherwise, no provision was made for margaret, a small annuity was left laurence, and the rest of the property was to be employed in founding a hospital for old maids. now, i am not drawing upon my imagination for these details; this was the will as it was actually written. miss laurence was convinced that margaret and her nephew had loved each other from childhood, so that she believed herself acting for their happiness; besides, she had english blood in her veins, and could not resist the true british desire to display her own power and authority, even after death. the year passed. edward laurence returned home when margaret was seventeen; the engagement had been regarded as a settled thing. the young people loved each other--there could be no doubt of that; but, after a time, the very certainty that their destinies had been settled for them in a fashion so compulsory, led to all manner of disagreements and quarrels. two years before the commencement of this record, mr. waring had been obliged to go south for his health, and it was necessary to provide a companion for margaret during his absence. some friend had introduced sybil chase, and she spent the winter in the family. from the time of her entrance into that house could be dated the first real unhappiness of the young pair. sybil had been brought up by a bad, unprincipled mother, educated far beyond what the woman's means seemed to permit, and for what end only her own erratic mind ever knew. soon after she left school, the young girl quarreled with her mother, and for several years earned her own living as best she might. we will not inquire too closely into the records of that bohemian life. it is sufficient for our story that she at length took up her residence with margaret waring, just as that young lady's engagement to young laurence became known. how it came about, margaret could never have told; but before she had been many weeks in the house, sybil chase had made herself of the utmost importance there. she quietly relieved margaret of every duty; she read to her, she talked with her--not at all with the manner of a dependent, which, in a certain sense, she was not, but as an equal and friend. when margaret had time to think, she felt a certain unaccountable repugnance to sybil; yet in her society there was a charm which few people could have resisted. against her better judgment, contrary to her principles and her common sense, margaret acquired a habit of talking freely with her. sybil knew all the disagreements and troubles which disturbed the house, understood perfectly margaret's character, and had studied laurence himself with still more subtle criticism. with all the wild fervor of her passionate youth, sybil chase became fatally attached to young laurence; yet so firm was her self-command, so deep her powers of duplicity, that she gave no sign of the passion that consumed her. in the depths of her soul she was resolved that the man she loved should never fulfill his engagement; but just as she was beginning to weave her meshes around him, mr. waring came home, broke up his establishment, and proceeded with his daughter on a long tour through the west indies and southern states. once more this singular young creature was thrown back upon her mother's support. an imperfect reconciliation took place between them, and she sunk gradually into her old life, which became more and more irksome from contact with persons so unlike those with whom she had been recently associated. while her mind was in this restless state, she heard that young laurence had followed his betrothed to cuba, in which place the marriage had taken place. the news stung her to madness. in the first paroxysm of wounded affection and mortified pride, she fell in with philip yates, married him privately, and went away. in two years she came back to her mother again, but to be the protector, not the dependent, now. she had money, which was shared generously with the old woman; but, in a short time, this constant companionship with an unrefined and evil-minded woman became unendurable. sybil was in no state of mind to accept the dull life presented in this companionship. she had rested long enough, and now felt that keen hunger for excitement which follows prolonged inaction. while this fever was strong upon her, she met laurence in the street. little suspecting the passion that drove the blood from her cheek, or that they had met before in far distant mountains of the golden state, he upbraided her kindly for keeping aloof from her old friends, spoke regretfully of mr. waring's still infirm health, and of margaret's protracted feebleness. she choked down the passion that swelled in her throat, and inquired kindly if his wife had been seriously ill. laurence laughed. "wife?" he answered, coloring a little. "oh, maggie and i are not married yet. the old gentleman says that we are young enough to wait." sybil's heart bounded in her bosom. her eyes flashed--she could not altogether conceal the triumph of her joy. "are you never coming to see margaret?" he said. "margaret--margaret waring? oh yes." "the old gentleman is seriously ill again. you ought to come. he often says no one ever proved so good a nurse as you." "the good old man. i will go to him." she went to waring's house the next day, and stayed there. mr. waring was ill and selfish; he would not let her go away. she yielded with apparent reluctance, and quietly commenced her work. by her soft words, broken sentences, and subtle looks, margaret and laurence had become almost completely estranged, and nothing but the persuasions of mutual friends prevented their breaking the engagement which bound them. sybil looked on and waited, fostered their difficulties, and watched for the moment which should secure the victory to her love. she was greatly aided by the manner in which their betrothal had been brought about, the consequences of which had been exactly those a wise person would have anticipated. the romance of an involuntary engagement wore rapidly away. both were pained, and each blamed the other for things which were at once the fault and the misfortune of a forced position. margaret was proud and exacting, morbidly sensitive, and her high spirit revolted at the idea of submission, often prevented her yielding to her lover's wishes when she knew herself to be in the wrong. these feelings rendered her fearful of betraying her fondness, and in numberless ways brought pain to her own heart and that of the man who loved her. on the other hand, edward was as passionate and imperious as she could possibly be; his temper was violent, and when that was roused, he gave way to every reckless word that anger could suggest, forgetting them entirely when his temper cooled. margaret could not forget; she remembered them all, treasured up every cruel word, every scornful sneer, like poisoned arrows wherewith to pierce her heart anew in her lonely hours. the young girl grew cold and unsympathetic, careless of exciting his rage, but often taking refuge in an icy impassibility, which excited him more than any recrimination would have done. a stubborn, obstinate will developed itself in her character, against which the waves of her lover's passions beat in vain; but that very resolution separated them still further. all this had been the growth of sybil's subtle influence. for the first period of their engagement they had been very happy. what caused their first quarrel, neither could have told; the source was probably as slight as it usually is in such cases; the effect had been fraught with many evil influences, such as are apt to follow similar misunderstandings. they had reached a point where each looked back on the past with angry, defiant feelings. it was like gazing across a troubled sea upon a fair landscape--to glance from the present back into the beautiful past. had they been older and wiser, both parties might have done much toward changing the state of things. a single honest effort would have swept aside the heavy clouds which loomed darkly in the future. but neither of them understood this, or would have made any effort of the kind had it been pointed out. so they quarreled openly and avowedly, and the fact that in each heart lay a great well-spring of affection, made their quarrels more bitter and implacable. margaret was made to believe that her lover had ceased to care for her, and wished to continue his engagement only that he might tyrannize and command. her health had become more delicate than ever, the bloom of early girlhood was fading, and although still very lovely, she had learned to think her beauty gone, and decided that with it all affection had departed from the heart of her betrothed. those feelings and suspicions made her colder and more unyielding, until edward wondered he could ever have thought her winning or gentle. he was irritated by the indifference with which she treated every attempt at a reconciliation, and the violence of his temper increased in proportion to the pain of his position. they suffered greatly, those poor, blind creatures! daily the cloud which had descended upon their home grew blacker and swept them still further apart. indeed, they had reached that point where it would need but a little thing to bring the tempest down in its wild fury--the terrible tempest which should wrench from them all hope of happiness or peace, which must desolate their after lives, and leave them stranded upon a desert with no hope left, no memory unstained, no love in the future. the marriage of this young couple had been deferred from various causes, the principal ones being mr. waring's frequent illnesses and the delicate state in which margaret's health had fallen during the past year. laurence almost made his home at the house, and as he had no profession or settled business, he found more time than was requisite for making himself miserable, and gave way to all manner of repinings. during her former residence at mr. waring's house, it had chanced that hinchley had never seen sybil chase, and her very existence was almost unknown to him, before that agitated introduction on the hill-side. thus she had no fears of a recognition, or that her face would bring back to him that fearful night in the valley ranche. with her heart thus at rest, she went down stairs on the morning after his arrival, according to her usual habit since the pleasant june weather had come in. no members of the family were stirring except the servants, for margaret was inclined to gratify the indolence arising from ill-health, and the family breakfast-hour was always a late one. with her cheeks fresh as the roses, miss chase descended the stairs, went forth to the garden, and proceeded into the rose thickets, looking beautiful and bright as the dewy scene that surrounded her. indeed, as she stood there in her gipsy bonnet and muslin dress, a prettier picture could not well be imagined. she had a basket on her arm, a pair of scissors in her hand, and daintily snipped off the stems of such blossoms as pleased her; she pressed the gathered roses to her red lips till they were wet with dew, took the fresh scent of each in turn, and dropped one after another into her basket. while pursuing her task, she sung snatches of pleasant tunes in a clear soprano voice that floated richly on the air. occasionally, in the midst of her employment, miss chase glanced toward the upper windows or the hall-door. the first person who appeared was mr. laurence. he saw sybil and walked toward her. miss chase was greatly occupied just then, and gave no attention to his approach. "good-morning," he said; "are you talking so sweetly with those roses that you can neither see nor hear?" "i am trying to steal their color," she replied, with an honest sort of frankness that was very captivating. "look at this bud, mr. laurence; did you ever see any thing more beautiful?" "lovely, indeed; you perceive you were over fastidious about giving away your flowers last night. margaret did not prize them as highly as you expected." "what proof have you?" "she gave one to hinchley." "oh yes, so she did; but he is a relative, remember. i need not offer you flowers in your own garden. i am certain it was the merest thoughtlessness which made margaret bestow the roses on your guest last night." "who ever supposed it was any thing else?" "oh, i thought--that is, from the way you spoke--" "what did you think?" "that you were not pleased, if i must say it." "i thought very little about the matter. i have no fancy for setting up as a pale-faced othello." "oh dear, i should hope not; there would be nobody but me to play emilie, and i should certainly run away, instead of standing by poor desdemona. but i have to beg your pardon for my absurd mistake." "what do you mean?" "for thinking you were displeased. i might have known you had more sense, but i have seen men who would have pouted for a week over a trifle of less consequence." "did you think it wrong?" "good heavens, no; but i am not a proper judge. i suppose every wife ought to be exceedingly careful; but then, is a woman to be deprived of every bit of sentiment or romance?" "i don't think margaret addicted to either. i should be sorry to believe it." "and i too. but i must take my basket of flowers into the house; don't stand here fighting shadows, mr. laurence." "i am not aware that i have been doing battle with any such unsubstantial thing," he answered. miss chase turned toward the house; he followed, but with a new train of thought awakened in his mind. he began to wonder if he really had been displeased at this trifle; certainly, he was not jealous, but he would permit no impropriety. had there been any? the simple giving of a flower--she had done nothing more than that; and yet--well, he had not thought much of it at the time, but miss chase had in a measure convinced him that he was more impressed than he had believed. if margaret was going to add coquetry to her numerous other faults, his life would be irksome enough! he accompanied sybil into the breakfast-room, helped her arrange the flowers, and in the process they fell into a pleasant conversation. it was a full half-hour before hinchley or margaret made their appearance. a great deal can be done in that length of time, especially when economized with as much wisdom as sybil chase was capable of employing. chapter xii. mother and daughter. soon after breakfast, hinchley and laurence rode over to a neighboring town upon some business for mr. waring, leaving the two ladies alone. miss chase and margaret still sat in the breakfast-room, the latter pretending to read the paper, from very weariness and disinclination to talk, while sybil held some embroidery in her hand, and, under cover of that employment, watched her companion with keen scrutiny. "i am seized with a fever," she said, suddenly. margaret looked up and smiled a little. "what is the name of it," she asked. "one common enough to us poor, weak women--i want a new spring dress. if it were not for leaving you alone, i am half inclined to run into town and make a purchase." "do not let me detain you," returned margaret, feeling so ill at ease with herself and every thing and person around her, that she was pleased with this prospect of solitude. "i suppose the gentlemen will soon return." "i am sure i do not know," she answered, indifferently. "you will not feel lonely if i go?" "pray, do not think me so foolish." "you know i like to sit with you, miss waring." "but to-day, go to town and shop if the mania has taken possession of you. by the way, if you see any pretty pink organdy, you may purchase it for me, and leave it at mrs. forrest's to be made up. i remember now, a new dress is the very thing i want." "i had better dress at once; let me see: the train starts at eleven. i shall be in town at two o'clock." "george will drive you over to the depot; you have just time to dress and get there. you will be back to dinner?" "oh yes; before, perhaps." after a few careless words, miss chase went up to her room, and as she passed down stairs ready to go, opened the door of the breakfast-room, where margaret sat in the same dreary solitude. "have you any other commands?" she asked, pleasantly. "none, thank you; what a fine day you will have." "oh, lovely; good-morning." margaret returned this farewell, and miss chase took her departure. there the unhappy girl remained, and let the hours float on while she gave herself up to a thousand bitter reflections. the bright spring morning had no charm for margaret, the merry carols of the birds upon the lawn had lost their sweetness to her ear; she could only gaze upon the dark shadows of her life, and mark how, day by day, it drifted into deeper gloom. her strength seemed to fail daily, and that of itself would have been sorrow enough for one of her age; but she had sterner troubles still. how the promise of her girlhood had cheated her! the affection which she had believed was to brighten all coming years, was rapidly fading from her life. let it go! she would make no effort to recover either the hopes or the love that she had lost. laurence might take his own course; she would not try to recall his wandering fancies. she believed that her heart was strong enough to despise his love if again offered. there margaret made the mistake which all young persons fall into when the proud, untried heart falls into its first love-sorrow. while margaret indulged in that mournful revery, sybil chase was on her way to the city, smiling and pleasant, affable to every one that came in her way; even the servant, who drove her over to the station, thought to himself what a different lady she was from his silent, haughty mistress; and the farmers who rented portions of mr. waring's estate, and among whom she had made herself a very popular person, smiled pleasantly as she rode by. cheerful and handsome she looked, sitting in the train, and being whirled rapidly along the pretty route on her way to town. she reached the city even earlier than she anticipated, and went about her errands at once, with her accustomed straightforwardness. nothing was forgotten. margaret's indifferent message was punctually fulfilled, and in a manner which must have satisfied a much more difficult person than margaret. when she had completed her purchases, miss chase took her way to a retired and somewhat unpleasant part of the town. she had her vail drawn, and hurried along as if anxious not to be observed by any chance acquaintance. she stopped before a decent looking tenement-house, ascended the steps, glanced about with her habitual caution, to see that no one was watching her, and entered the hall. she mounted the weary staircase, which appeared interminable, passed through several dark entries, and at length knocked at one of the doors which opened into a passage nearest the roof. twice she knocked, the second time imperatively and with impatience; then a querulous voice called out: "come in, can't you; the door isn't locked." so miss chase turned the knob, opened the door, and entered a small, plainly furnished room, yet bearing no evidence of the extreme poverty which often makes the tenement-house so dreary. a woman was seated near the little window, in a stiff-backed chair, dividing her attention between a half-finished stocking and a number of some weekly newspaper of the cheapest class, full of wonderful cuts and more wonderful stories. she looked up quickly as miss chase entered, gave out an evil, wicked glance, which appeared natural to her, although the general appearance of her face was quiet and commonplace enough. "so you've come," was her only salutation. "yes; did you expect me?" "i expected you three days ago." "i was constantly occupied; it was impossible for me to get away until now." "you needn't lie," returned the woman, curtly. "i won't," said sybil, serene as ever. she seated herself opposite the female and untied her bonnet-strings, looking placid and at home, as she invariably was in all places and under all circumstances. the woman glanced keenly at her, and a strange sort of affectionate look crept over her face. "you're brooding mischief," she pronounced suddenly and emphatically, as if she would permit no contradiction. "what makes you think so?" sybil asked. "'cause you grow good-looking; when you get that bright, contented look, i always know there's something in the wind." "you are very wise," replied sybil, evincing no displeasure at the accusation, which would have struck many persons unpleasantly. "yes; i ain't blind; i've generally kept my eyes open going through this world." "that is the only way, if one does not wish to run against the wall." "as you did once," retorted the woman, with a chuckle; "you know you did that, cute as you think yourself." "i have not forgotten it," replied sybil, coolly; "the hurt taught me to keep my eyes open too." "learned you to look before you leap," said the woman. "well, i guess you owe a good deal to my lessons." sybil did not answer, but shrugged her shoulders slightly, and gazed out of the window, occupied with her own reflections. "now don't act as if i was a log of wood," said the woman, fretfully; "there's nothing makes me so mad." "i was waiting to hear what you would say next." "what did you come for?" "to see you, of course." "well, look at me; i don't charge any thing for the sight! i used to be worth the trouble of turning round to see, i did; i was better looking than you are or ever will be--but that's all over. just say what you're after now." "i came because i thought you wanted something." "you should have brought me money three days ago; i hate to be behindhand with my rent." "surely you ought to have had enough for that; you know how little money i possess...." "fiddle-de-dee! ask that laurence for some." "i can not do that; you must see how impossible it is." "there's nothing impossible where money is concerned. but no matter, take your own way." "it is growing clear now," said sybil. "time it did; you've made mistakes enough." sybil did not appear desirous of pursuing the conversation. she took out her purse, counted several gold pieces into her palm, while the woman watched her with covetous eyes. "that will serve you until i come again," she said, extending her hand. the woman clutched the money eagerly, counted it twice to be certain there was no mistake, then rose from her seat and went to an old bureau in a corner of the room. after fumbling in her pocket for a while, and pulling out a heterogeneous mass of things, a dingy red silk handkerchief among the rest, she produced a small key, unlocked one of the drawers, and put the gold carefully away in a buckskin bag; then she locked the bureau again, and returned to her seat. "that is safe," she said, more complacently; the touch of the money had evidently mollified her feelings. "now, let's talk about something else--about your plans, say." "i can not answer your questions; every thing is dark yet--a few months will decide." "don't you get careless, you know." "there is no fear; i am not a child." "no; and you've learned by the hardest." "don't ever speak of the past; i can bury it now--i have buried it." "wal, it's a dead friend i guess you ain't sorry to be rid of." sybil looked white; her eyes had a strained, unnatural expression, and her hands clenched together with the old force and tightness. "it is all over--all over." "nothing to be afraid of, i s'pose, unless you believe in ghosts or such things." sybil's face changed; she dropped her hands; the color came back to her cheek--she laughed outright, a defiant, mocking sound. "not at all; no ghost will trouble me--not even _his_." "tell me a little how things go on." the woman drew closer to her visitor, and inclined her head to listen attentively. sybil talked for many moments in a voice sunk almost to a whisper, as if dropping hints to which she dared not give utterance aloud. her companion noted every word and movement, while a bad, malignant expression crept over her face, till it seemed impossible that it should ever have looked comely or pleasant. sometimes she nodded her head approvingly; once she laughed outright. sybil put up her hand to check the merriment, which would have grated harshly upon a less well-attuned ear than hers. "i must go now," miss chase said, at last; "i shall not get back by dinner-time as it is." "i ought to be there," the woman exclaimed; "there is so much i could do." "i know that, if you would only manage to control your temper." "never you fear me; i can do that easy enough when there is any thing to be gained by it." "one never knows what may happen. always keep yourself in readiness to obey my summons." "i could start at any moment." "we shall be obliged to wait; an opportunity may arise by which i could introduce you to the house." "make the opportunity; a smart woman can always do that." "ah! you have not my prudence." "i guess you learned it lately; but we won't quarrel. if you want me, i will come." "you would not care in what way; you would not mind the occupation?" "lord bless you, no; i'm good at any thing--general housework, cooking; it's all fish that comes to my basket." "good-by, now," said sybil; "i shall miss the train if i stop another moment." the woman followed her to the door, whispered some added parting advice, and watched her disappear down the stairs. then she returned to the room and set about preparing herself a cup of tea, chuckling occasionally in a sharp way, like a meditative macaw, and looking altogether so unpleasant that a timid person would have been reluctant to remain alone in the chamber with her. as miss chase predicted, dinner was over when she reached mr. waring's residence. she quietly disposed of her own repast which the housekeeper had condescended to set aside for her, and then, after changing her dress, went down into the library. mr. laurence was sitting there alone, looking sullen and discontented enough; but he brightened somewhat when she entered, and greeted her cheerfully. "i am glad you have come; i began to think i should have to spend the evening by myself, as hinchley is busy with his uncle." "where is miss waring?" sybil asked. "in her own room, pouting or crying, according to the stage her ill-humor has reached." sybil sighed and shook her head. "are you blaming me?" he asked. "it was not my fault that we quarreled, but margaret would provoke a saint! i could not tell to save my life, what the disturbance began about. i think i said one could not breathe in this room for the flowers; with that she worked herself into a violent rage, as if i had committed some unpardonable enormity." "you should be patient," said miss chase. "i know my temper is bad, but she seems to do every thing in her power to excite it. why should you always blame me?" "am i blaming you?" she asked, softly. "it is not my place to express any opinion upon your differences with miss waring." "i don't see why; both margaret and myself regard you as a friend. i know she tells you all her troubles freely enough; why should you refuse to listen to my part of the story?" "i do not refuse," she answered, sighing heavily; "but it pains me to know that you disagree so terribly." "disagree is a mild word; i admire your politeness; you know we quarrel like two hawks in a cage." miss chase sighed again. this deep breath expressed as much sympathy as words could have done, and was far safer just there. "the truth is," exclaimed laurence, suddenly, "margaret does not love me; there is the foundation of our troubles." "are you not judging hastily?" "no; i have felt it for a long time; i am certain of it now. tell me: do you believe any woman who loved a man would act as she does? do you consider that she conducts herself as an engaged person should?" "you must not ask me such questions; it would be wrong in me to answer." "at least you can say if you think she loves me?" miss chase hesitated. "speak the truth," said he, violently. "no," returned sybil, in a low whisper. "every one sees it," continued lawrence; "i knew you did. she is hard-hearted and ungrateful." "do not be harsh--" "how can i help it," he interrupted; "she has wrecked my life--turned it into a curse. i have no hope--not a friend." a tear fell from sybil's downcast lashes, and rolled slowly down her cheek; she stole one glance, full of beautiful sympathy toward him--that was all. "i believe you pity me," he said; "of late i have begun to hope it. you will be my friend; say, will you not try to help me?" "so far as it is in my power, heaven knows i will. but i am a woman; i must be so cautious. indeed, i would not incur margaret's displeasure or that of mr. waring for the world." "she would hate any one who feels kindly toward me!" he broke off abruptly, and gave himself up to a gloomy train of thought which took him far away from his companion; it did not suit sybil to have it continue. "you have had no tea," she said; "shall i order it brought up?" "if you will stay and take it with me." "first, let me inquire if miss waring will come down." "leave her where she is; i have had contention enough." but miss chase kept her worldly wisdom in view. she went up stairs and found margaret lying on the bed, but the unhappy girl could not be induced to rise. "i don't wish any tea," she said; "i am going to sleep." "then i will have mine in my room." "please go down," said margaret; "some of those tiresome people from the village will be certain to call, and if you are not ready to receive them, i shall be dragged out. i shan't take the trouble for ralph or mr. laurence." willing to oblige, miss chase consented, and returned to the angry lover, only to exasperate his discontent. no one did call that evening. hinchley did not appear, and the two spent it in sad, earnest conversation. edward laurence retired to his room more than ever offended with margaret, and convinced that sybil chase was the only person in the world who understood or pitied him--a high-minded, clear-sighted woman, whom he respected, and whose friendship appeared better worth having than the deepest love of ordinary women. sybil sat pondering over the fire. in all the mischief which she had wrought, there was no possibility of tracing her influence; she had told no bungling falsehoods to be covered up or explained away; had committed no little feminine indiscretions at which the mistress of a household could cavil. indeed, nothing could be more quiet and respectable than her whole conduct. she was very kind and useful in every respect. she made the house far more comfortable than it had ever been before, and was always ready to mediate in a quiet way between the lovers in their quarrels, regretting, in a christian manner, her inability to check them altogether; but with all her precautions, she had a difficult part to act, and it caused her much anxiety. chapter xiii. highcliff. of course that last quarrel between laurence and margaret was put aside after a time, as so many previous difficulties had been; but it left a more hurtful impression upon the minds of both than any former disagreement had ever been able to produce. a party of guests, invited several months before, were staying at the house for a week, and in the general gayety, both laurence and margaret almost forgot their troubles. there was nothing approaching confidence between them; they were civil and polite, but avoided explanations. in the haughty sensitiveness of young hearts, neither party was in a mood for taking the first step toward a reconciliation. parties and expeditions of all sorts were planned and carried out, into which margaret entered with a feverish excitement which increased her lover's anger; he could not understand that her gayety was a vexed foam, rising and frothing over the deep wretchedness within. ralph hinchley was still at the house, and his quick perceptions made him understand, more clearly than any one else, the state of feeling between the unhappy pair. he was an honorable, high principled man, and not for the world would he have been guilty of an act which could produce new discord with those already divided hearts. but he pitied laurence, and his sympathy for margaret made him unusually kind and gentle. but miss chase watched every movement or word with her lynx-eyes, and turned each into the shape that best suited her purpose. laurence made sybil his confidant now with the most perfect freedom; he told her all his suspicions, his unhappiness and fears; she gave him back the most touching sympathy, and such advice as proved satisfactory to his feelings in every respect. margaret was too much preoccupied to observe any thing of this. miss chase was so wary and prudent, that she would have averted the suspicions of a much more jealous person than her young hostess. edward laurence, even in his anger and wretchedness, would have shrunk from any deliberate wrong to margaret; but, day by day, sybil's influence over him increased--day by day her wiles produced their effect, and placed him more completely in her dangerous power. they were conversing one morning in the breakfast-room before any one else was down--for miss chase persevered in her habit of early rising, and many long talks and rambles were taken with an unexpressed understanding of which no one in the house had the slightest idea. they were talking of margaret; she was often the subject of their conversations, while she lay in her darkened chamber, trying to forget her ills in broken slumber, which the dreary watches of the night had refused to give. "how much miss waring enjoys society," sybil said; "i am glad that these people happened to come just now--she was miserable before." "then you pity her for the misfortunes she has brought upon herself?" "i pity her all the more on that account." "i am not so charitable." "at all events, she is gay and happy now," pursued sybil. "yes; she can be pleasant to all the world except me," cried laurence, bitterly. "i will not permit you to be unjust," returned miss chase. "you can not deny that she is heartless and capricious; you admitted as much the other day." "did i? then it was very wrong in me." "ah, you have no sympathy with my misery." "do not reproach me in this way; you know it is unjust." "but did you not own you considered her cold and hard?" "no; i admitted that she was capricious." "but not heartless?" "not at all; i believe her capable of strong, even intense feeling." "i have never witnessed any exhibition of it." "i hope she will always remain in ignorance of it herself." "why?" "because it would place her in a very unhappy position. i pity any woman who is liable to make the discovery of such feelings when it is too late--when she can but sit down in passive submission to her destiny." "margaret is too impetuous for that." "nay, you can not believe that she would fail to resist such feelings, when marriage made them a sin." "i have never thought. i do not choose to contemplate the possibility of a thing like that." "it is much wiser not." the words grated unpleasantly on laurence's ear; he could not tell why, but a vague suspicion in regard to margaret woke in his mind--once roused, no power could thrust it aside. "we go to highcliff to-day, i believe," sybil said, after a pause, too wise ever to push a conversation one step too far. "yes; that was decided last night," he answered, moodily. "i wish these people were gone; i am tired of bustle and confusion. my own stay in the country should terminate at once, only the old gentleman won't hear of it." miss chase expressed her entire participation in his weariness, and noticing that the hands of the clock had crept round to the hour at which people might be expected to make their appearance, she went out of the room and did not appear again until several of the party were gathered in the breakfast-room. soon after noon they started upon the expedition to highcliff, a lofty mountain that towered over a river which flowed through the valley in which mr. waring's property lay, and was accessible to the summit by persons on horseback. it was a large, merry party; margaret was recklessly gay, conscious that her lover was watching her, and growing more excited and determined to appear careless and unconcerned on that account. when they reached the top of the mountain, the horses were left in care of the servants, and the people wandered about at their pleasure, dividing into little groups and enjoying themselves as best suited their peculiar idiosyncracies. late in the afternoon, sybil chase, who had been talking first with one group then with another, looked about and missed margaret and hinchley; it seemed proper to her, in her wisdom, that their movements should be watched, and she flitted hither and yon among the trees in search of them. margaret had gone with hinchley and a young girl, who had her own object in seeking that part of the woods, in search of a spring that broke out from the hollow of a charming little dell near by, filling the woods with its crystalline music. the hollow was celebrated not only for its spring of fresh water, but for the bird-songs that rung through it from morning to night, making the place, in more senses than one, a paradise. the friends walked on, enjoying the shadows and sunshine that played through the branches. margaret had, really, no thought of avoiding any of her party; but after laurence left her side, she had little care about time or place. as they came near the dell, margaret's young friend changed her mind, as girls of sixteen sometimes will, very unaccountably. she had seen a certain young gentleman flitting through the distant shadows, and as his supposed presence there had brought her toward the spring, a glimpse of his movements in another direction checked her desire for a drink of cold water on the instant. but she was seized with an overpowering hunger for young wintergreen, and that always grew best on slopes which the sunshine visited occasionally--never in hollows. she mentioned this craving wish with some hesitation, but margaret only smiled and said: "nonsense, nonsense; time enough for that when we have seen the spring." they moved a few paces and came in sight of the dell, a beautiful hollow shaded with hemlocks, dogwood and wild honeysuckles. fragments of rock lay in the bed of the hollow, through which a crystal brooklet, born at the spring, crept and murmured caressingly, sending up its tiny spray, and clothing its friends, the rocks, with the brightest moss. water-cresses shone up through the waves, and speckled trout slept under the fern-leaves. it was a delightful place, cool and heavenly; but the young lady of sixteen saw that figure moving away through the distance, and grew frantic from fear of snakes. copperheads and red-adders, she protested, were always found in just such places--she saw one then, creeping around the foot of that hemlock. so with pretty expostulations and divers shrieks loud enough to arrest the young man in his covert, she darted off toward the open glades, where that shadowy figure was soon busy on his knees gathering young wintergreens for her benefit. "shall we go on?" margaret asked, when the young lady had retreated. "if you are not tired," hinchley answered. "i should like to go down very much. the dell is the prettiest spot i ever saw, and the water delicious." "oh yes, it is a lovely spot," margaret said. "some day i intend to make a sketch of it. let us select the best view." they went down the descent and stood by the spring, which rushed out from among the rocks with a pleasant, bell-like murmur, and cast its tiny shower of spray-bubbles over the violets that fringed it. "how still it is," margaret observed. "yes; it is refreshing to escape from all that chatter. how constantly people do talk." "yet if one is silent, it is to be considered stupid." "but stupidity would be a relief sometimes." margaret did not answer; she was busy with her own thoughts. when hinchley spoke again it was of other things. he had been shocked at finding so much changed at the homestead, for the old gentleman now saw no visitors and seldom left his room, and ralph felt that he ought to make margaret understand how little hope there was that she could much longer have her uncle's house as a place of protection. margaret wept bitterly; but when he attempted to speak of laurence, or allude to her marriage, she only turned passionately away, with bitter, haughty words that made ralph fear both for her and his friend. while they stood talking by the spring, sybil chase moved softly through the underbrush and looked down at them. after a moment's silent watch, she went back toward the place where she had left laurence conversing with a group of persons who had become tired of wandering among the trees. she remained a little way off from the party, and very soon he took occasion to join her. they began to converse, and gradually walked down the hill. sybil did not appear to be leading him to any particular spot, but was walking as absently along as himself. she paused on a rise of ground which commanded a view of the dell. sybil watched laurence, but stood with her face turned from the spring. he caught sight of the pair standing in the dell--gave a quick start, while the color shot up to his forehead. "are you ill?" sybil asked, gently. "look down there," he replied, pointing to margaret and hinchley, who were absorbed in conversation, ralph holding his cousin's hand, while she wept unrestrainedly. "it is margaret," said sybil. "and hinchley." "they have come to see the spring." "i perceive, miss chase;" he spoke bitterly. "nonsense, mr. laurence--you are not jealous? he is her cousin." "no--i am displeased." "it means nothing at all." "but it does not look well. i can see you think so. "it may be a little imprudent, but you know margaret is very impulsive. shall we go down?" "we will not disturb them." "don't look so stern, mr. laurence; you really frighten me." "there is no cause for alarm. the moment margaret convinces me that she is a flirt, i shall feel only contempt for her." "i am sure she is not in fault," returned sybil. "i never saw her encourage the slightest attention from any gentleman before." "true--i had not thought of that." he frowned, black and angry, bit his lip and reflected. "you meant something then which i did not comprehend," said miss chase. "i was reflecting. i never saw margaret on such friendly terms with any man before. it makes me think the more seriously of this." "great heavens, mr. laurence, you can not suspect her! hinchley is her cousin. they have been dear friends from childhood." "she is my betrothed wife. she has no right to make herself a subject of comment." "come away!" she exclaimed, quickly; "come away!" she took his hand and drew him back into the path. "it is nothing," she repeated several times. "i am convinced that you are angry without cause." "i believe so," replied laurence--"i must believe it! but margaret had better take care. i have borne a great deal. she shall not, by her folly or her vanity, make me ridiculous, nor will i be made a dupe." "such words, mr. laurence!" "i mean them! as for hinchley, if he make trouble between margaret and me, i shall hold him guilty as if she were my wife." sybil sighed heavily. "of what are you thinking?" asked laurence. "i hardly know--i can not tell." "i see that you are troubled," he said, violently. "sybil, you have called yourself my friend; answer me: do you believe that hinchley loves margaret?" sybil hesitated; her head was averted, as if she could not bear to meet his earnest gaze. "i have ceased to believe that she cares greatly for me. tell me if you think hinchley is more to her than a cousin and friend." "do not ask me; mine are only vague suspicions. i can not be the one to destroy your last hope of happiness." "i am answered," he said, gloomily. "no, no; i will not--i can not answer! look for yourself, mr. laurence. i may be wrong. i have very strict and, what people might think, singular ideas. oh! don't mind what i have said." "i will see for myself," he answered, recklessly. "let me once be convinced, and i shall leave her forever. oh, sybil! you are my friend--the only one to whom i can turn for sympathy." sybil buried her face in her hands and burst into tears; but when he attempted to question her, she broke from him. "let me go!" she exclaimed. "i blush for my own weakness. let me go, edward laurence!" she hurried away, leaving him bewildered and troubled. for the first time he felt dimly that sybil loved him, and the consciousness brought a host of inexplicable feelings to his heart. she looked so lovely in her distress--her gentleness, in contrast with margaret's violence and ill-temper, was so touching, that her image lingered in his imagination--the only ray of light in all the blackness which surrounded him. as hinchley and his cousin passed up the hill, they saw sybil chase conversing with a little group of friends. "i have a horror of that woman," said ralph. "yet she seems a quiet, sensible person," replied margaret. "i have allowed myself to become prejudiced against her; but when i am in her society i forget it all." hinchley did not answer. the remembrance of that terrible night in california came back, as was always the case, when sybil chase came in sight. her figure started up instead of the woman he had but half seen, and he turned from the thought with self-abhorrence--it was wicked to indulge it even for an instant. while they stood together, laurence approached, pale and agitated, like a man under the excitement of wine. "edward!" hinchley called out, cheerfully. "laurence, is it not almost time to go home?" "i suppose you are at liberty to choose your own time," replied laurence, insolently. margaret colored scarlet; an insult to her cousin seemed given to herself. "what is the matter?" asked ralph, in surprise. "oh, pay no attention," interposed margaret, before laurence could reply. "it is only a slight specimen of mr. laurence's civility. he is not satisfied with being rude to me, but must extend his bad manners to my relatives." "you are at liberty to put any construction you please upon my words or manner," returned laurence. "i shall not account to either of you." "to me it is a matter of perfect indifference," said margaret, haughtily. ralph looked from one to the other in pain and astonishment, at a loss what to say or do. "now don't quarrel like children," he exclaimed, trying to laugh. "come, shake hands and be friends." "miss waring's conduct proves how sincerely she desires to be friends," answered laurence, with a harsh laugh. "i do not wish it," she exclaimed, greatly irritated by his manner. "margaret! margaret!" pleaded ralph. "oh, don't check her," sneered laurence. "he can not," returned margaret. "i am weary of this rudeness--weary of you." "say and do what you please; i will leave you in more agreeable society," said laurence, hurrying away. hinchley tried to expostulate with her, but words were thrown away. during the ride home, and the whole evening, margaret and laurence did not speak. ralph kept near her, anxious to soothe her anger, while laurence and sybil chase watched every movement and look. thus, with her proud spirit up in arms, and her heart aching with wounded tenderness, the poor girl rushed into the snare so insidiously laid beneath her feet. chapter xiv. the jail. in one of the interior towns of california there stands a jail, by no means striking in appearance, or remarkable for its solidity or strength, yet possessing the horrible fascination which any place connected with tragic deeds fastens on the mind. within that prison many notable criminals had been confined; murders had been committed there by hardened men, daring every thing in a struggle for liberty; many a reckless criminal had gone from thence to the gallows; even youths, with the freshness of boyhood on their cheeks, had gone out from those walls to a violent death, incited to evil doing and crime by the very lawlessness and sin about them. in one of the cells upon the upper floor, a single occupant was seated, crouched down upon a bench, and his eyes moodily fixed upon the small grated window which looked out upon a sort of paved court around which the jail was built. the prisoner might have been a man of thirty-five, but in that dim light, with his unshaven beard, and face pale from inactivity and confinement, it was difficult to judge accurately of his age. the countenance was harsh and unpleasant, but the expression was rather that of reckless passion than revealing any stern, sinister determination. his frame was large and muscular, the veins were knotted and swollen upon his pale hands, and it was indeed pitiable to see so much physical strength wasting in the gloom of a prison. sometimes his lips moved; the restless flashing of his eyes betrayed the brooding thought within his mind. at last he rose suddenly, took the bench upon which he had been sitting, and lifted it, as if anxious to test his strength. he held it extended upon the fingers of his right hand in a manner which required no inconsiderable force. then he set it down upon the floor, abruptly as he had raised it, and laughed a low, smothered laugh. "not quite a baby yet," he muttered--"not quite! i can do it, and i will. i have got out of worse scrapes than this--fudge, what's this place compared to australia?" a low imprecation finished the sentence, then he resumed his seat, and began his meditations anew. but quiet seemed impossible to him in the mood into which he had worked himself. he rose again, carried the bench to the window, and, standing upon it, managed to leap high enough to grasp the gratings. there he suspended himself, with his whole weight resting upon his hands, and looked out. when he had finished his survey, he loosed his hold and dropped lightly upon the bench. "it's all right," he whispered to himself. "i know the place. it can be done, and i am the man to do it." it was then somewhat after midday, and, as the man resumed his seat, there was a tread without, a sound of keys grating in their lock, then the door opened and the jailer entered, carrying a sparse meal, which he set down near the prisoner. the man looked up and nodded good-naturedly enough. "i thought you didn't mean to let me have any dinner," he said. "oh, i don't want to starve you," returned the jailer. "eat and make yourself comfortable." it was no unusual thing for the prisoner to engage this man in conversation, and if he was in the mood he answered readily and with sufficient kindness. "what day of the month is this?" asked the man, preparing to attack the repast set before him. "the twelfth." "how a fellow loses his count in this miserable hole," returned the prisoner. "don't slander your quarters, there's worse in the world; ten to one you've been in 'em." "maybe so and maybe not. i say, california sheep get pretty tough, now don't they?" he continued, tearing vigorously at the baked mutton which had been placed before him. "makes a man strong to eat tough mutton," replied the jailer. "think so?" and the prisoner smiled a little, unseen by his companion. "i'm sure of it," said the jailer. "perhaps you've had your turn at it," observed the man. "can't say i ever did, and don't want to." "you needn't; still it's not so bad that one can't bear it." the jailer prepared to retire. "you're a cheerful, good-natured fellow, any how," he remarked. "yes, that is my way." "and a good deal better than being so cantankerous as some chaps we have here; they only get harder treatment." the prisoner agreed with him completely, and with some other careless remark, the jailer left the cell. when the door closed, and he heard the heavy bolts clang into their sockets, the prisoner muttered: "if i have to throttle you to-night, you won't think so well of my good-nature." he laughed again, as if there had been something amusing in the thought, and finished his meal with as much dispatch as if some important business awaited its completion. but when all was done, he had only to resume his silent watch, varying it by pacing up and down the narrow cell, and performing a variety of gymnastic feats, which seemed an unnecessary waste of muscle and strength. so the afternoon wore by. the sunset came in; its faint gold streamed across the floor, and attracted the prisoner's eye. he rose, stretching out his hands as if to grasp it. "this looks like freedom," he muttered. "it's a warning." the superstition appeared to gratify him, and he remained in the same position until the brightness faded, and the gray shadows of twilight began to fill the room. "it's gone," he said; "so much the better; i shall follow all the sooner." he sat down again and waited. his restlessness and impatience had disappeared; a strong determination settled upon his face. he looked prepared for any emergency, and was ready to catch at any chance, however desperate, which might aid his plans. the lamp in the corridor had been lighted while he sat there; the light struggled through the grating over the door, and played across the room among the shadows cast by the bars. there he sat, listening to every sound from without with the stealthy quiet of a panther that sees his prey and is prepared to spring. an hour might have passed before the jailer's heavy tread again sounded upon the pavement; he was whistling a merry tune, that rung strangely enough among those gloomy corridors and darkened cells. when the prisoner heard the step pause before his door, he took from his bed the thick woolen blankets which lay upon it and, grasping them in his hand, crept quietly behind the door. the key turned in the lock, the heavy door swung upon its hinges with a sound so mournful and ominous, that had the man who entered been at all imaginative, he might have taken it for a warning. but he passed on, interrupting his song to call out something in a cheerful voice, but the prisoner did not answer. "he must be asleep," muttered the jailer. "well, well, poor chap, he hain't much else to do!" he moved toward the bed, saying: "here, wake up, lazybones, and eat your supper before it gets cold." the door swung slowly to its latch, but he did not heed the warning; a step sounded behind him, but before he could turn or cry out, the heavy blanket was thrown over his head, almost smothering him in its folds, and an iron grasp crushed him down upon the floor. "lie still, or i'll murder you," whispered a stern, hard voice. the jailer's only response was a half-choked gurgle in his throat; whatever his courage or strength might have been, he was entirely powerless. the prisoner continued his preparations with the utmost quiet; bound the unfortunate man to the iron bedstead, and so completely enveloped him in the blanket, that there was not the slightest hope of his extricating himself. stealthily the prisoner moved to the door, and looked down the corridor dimly lighted by a lamp at the further end. no one was stirring; at that hour the people employed in the jail were at their supper, as the man well knew, so that he found little risk of being observed. he locked the door behind him, put the keys in his pocket, to be flung away when once beyond the walls, and walked rapidly but silently down the passage. he was perfectly familiar with every winding and outlet of the prison, and moved hurriedly along through the shadows, down the stairs, along a back passage, where no guard was stationed as it communicated directly with the kitchens, and reached the outer door. there he paused an instant, to be certain that he had made no mistake, looking about with as much composure as though he had been already beyond the danger of pursuit. he had been in more terrible positions than that; had listened to the infuriated shouts of a mob thirsting for his life; had seen the body of a companion swung from a tree before his very eyes; and yet, amid all the horror and terror, had preserved his courage and presence of mind sufficiently to make his way among the very men who were hunting him down with the fury of bloodhounds. an hour passed. the jailer in the dark cell had managed, with his teeth and nails, to enlarge a rent in the blanket sufficiently to extricate his head. his feet were pinioned, but he crept along the pavement to the door, and beat heavily against the bars to summon assistance from without; but nothing answered, save the echo of his frantic cries and the sharp blows upon the barred oak. away out upon a little eminence, that still from the distance commanded a view of the prison, stood the escaped criminal, casting a last glance back upon the weather-stained walls. he lifted his hand with a gesture of mockery and exultation, plunged down the hill, and was lost amid the dense woods that spread out for miles beyond. chapter xv. the duel. mr. waring's old housekeeper was ill--a most unusual misfortune to befall her, and one which she could not at first either realize or believe. she struggled against this sudden malady with all the energy and obstinacy of her nature; but she was at length forced to take to her bed and let the fever have its course, while she grumbled and snarled at every mortal who approached, and gave the poor girl who was obliged to take care of her a precious life indeed. but while the old lady lay snapping and rabid with fever, affairs in the house did not go on smoothly at all, and nervous mr. waring nearly fretted himself into a fever which almost equaled that which had taken such sharp hold of his rebellious housekeeper. margaret was busy with her own troubles; and, besides, she was affected with that horror of domestic matters, which, i am sorry to say, is so common among my youthful country-women, and entirely neglected to interest herself in the domestic annoyances that beset them. in the mean time the servants ran riot below stairs, and, as several of them were new-comers, belonging to the celtic race into the bargain, they took such advantage of the housekeeper's absence that it soon became doubtful whether they would condescend to prepare meals for any portion of the family except that which reigned in the kitchen. mr. waring sent for miss chase to his room for consultation. the lady was all sweetness and affability, declared her willingness to do every thing in her power to restore the household to order, but more than hinted that margaret would not permit her to interfere. of course the old gentleman was in a sad way, but poor meg's health had become so delicate that he did not venture to speak with her upon the subject; and the only thing he could do was to listen favorably to any proposal which miss chase made. "i will go down to town this very morning," she said, "and i am very certain that i shall return with a woman perfectly competent to take charge of your household." when she saw how mr. waring brightened at that information, she added another touch of comfort: "i have the address somewhere of a woman who once lived for a time with mrs. pierson. if i can find her, she will suit you admirably." the matter was satisfactorily arranged. mr. waring began to look upon sybil as a sort of guardian-angel; and she bade him good-morning with her sweetest smile to make preparations for her expedition. sybil returned from the city that night accompanied by a respectable elderly female, who set about her duties in such a quiet, understanding way that everybody was delighted and something like peace restored. of course the old housekeeper grumbled more than ever, and was prepared to consider the stranger the most abominable of her sex; but no one paid much attention, and, as every spasm of rage only increased her fever, and she was quite incapable of controlling her temper, there seemed every probability that placid mrs. brown would hold the reins of government in her chubby fingers for some time to come. and now events began to thicken about that once cheerful house on the river, and those miserable young beings were urged forward to the last act of anger and injustice which should consummate their misery. the net which sybil had woven had been slowly and securely drawn about them, and now the opportunity was offered which completed the work she had so skillfully arranged. the estrangement between laurence and margaret was daily gaining strength. laurence began really to believe that he hated her, and the fascination which sybil had thrown about him became enthralling. he came to the house now merely to hold long, confidential conversations with her, and from every one he retired more completely bewildered and enslaved. he had quarreled with hinchley, although the young man remained at the house as his uncle's invited guest. he was deeply pained by the state of affairs, and still hoped to reunite his cousin and friend. it might have been a fortnight after the installation of mrs. brown when sybil and laurence were walking in the shrubbery at some distance from the house. they saw hinchley pass down a neighboring path in full view of the spot where they stood, although he was unconscious of their presence. laurence muttered bitter execrations against the intruder; and while sybil was soothing him, they saw the new housekeeper go cautiously down the path and join hinchley. she gave him a note and stole away again. "i understand now," whispered laurence. "she is made a medium of communication between that man and margaret. she shall tell me the truth, or i will annihilate her." he drew sybil forward and stood directly in the path as mrs. brown approached. when she saw them, the woman started back with every evidence of fear and confusion; but laurence grasped her roughly by the arm. "you gave that man a note from miss margaret," he said. the woman began to cry at once. "oh, sir, don't make me lose my place! i couldn't refuse the young lady! do speak a word for me, miss chase. i mean to be faithful. i didn't mean any harm." "and you have carried notes between them before?" demanded laurence. "i didn't know it was wrong--indeed i didn't. tell him i am an honest woman, miss chase." "go into the house, brown," said the lady, coldly. "i am disappointed in you." laurence released her arm, and she darted away wringing her hands in sad distress. laurence made a step toward the place where hinchley stood reading the letter with a look of doubt and astonishment. "stop," whispered sybil. "what are you going to do?" "take that letter--know the truth." she attempted to plead with him, but he pushed her aside and strode toward hinchley. the young man looked up, startled at his unexpected approach, and made a movement to conceal the note in his hand. "give me that letter!" exclaimed laurence, in a hoarse voice. "a very singular demand, sir," returned hinchley, coldly. "i will have it--the proof of your treachery and hers--you miserable coward!" he sprung forward, seized hinchley in his infuriated grasp, and a short but severe struggle took place. at last, laurence flung his opponent back and seized the note. "scoundrel!" exclaimed hinchley. "give back that paper." "never! i will read it!" sybil saw that she must interfere, or laurence would not be permitted to open the sheet; so she hurried up with hysteric sobs, and threw her arms about hinchley. "no violence!" she sobbed. "oh, don't quarrel, mr. hinchley, don't." while he vainly tried to extricate himself from her hold, laurence tore open the letter and read it. he would hardly have been human had he not given way to the storm of fury which swept over him. the writing was margaret's, the letter signed with her name, and it revealed the story of her wretchedness, her desire to free herself from her engagement, and her belief that she was loved by hinchley. the note went on to say that he need have no scruples about seeking her hand, as she was determined never to marry laurence. the young man dropped the letter with a groan. sybil released hinchley, whose anger seemed to have changed to pity at the sight of his former friend's distress. "she never wrote it, laurence," he exclaimed. "i would pledge my life on it." "who then?" he answered. "is there another woman on earth brazen enough to have written it?" "how can i tell? but i would stake my life that it is a forgery." he glanced at sybil; something in her attitude brought back his old suspicions, but they were so vague, her innocence in the present matter so apparent, that it would have seemed madness to have spoken of them. again laurence turned upon him most furiously, and hurled such terrible epithets and charges against him, that no man of courage could have endured them. sybil chase left the two men pale with wrath, and rushed away, not frightened at what she had done, but believing it wiser for her to escape from the scene; for language had been employed on both sides that could only end in apologies or deadly violence. hinchley was wrought to a pitch of frenzy nearly equal to that which convulsed laurence. he grasped eagerly at a defiance which fell from his opponent. "when you will," he answered. "you will find me always ready to vindicate my honor." "so be it," returned laurence. "before sunset to-night, let your life or mine pay the forfeit; we can not breathe the same air another day." before they parted it was settled--angrily settled--that two school friends, men who had been intimate and loving as brothers, should stand face to face, each opposed to his murderer. this is the true word. call duelling the only resource of wounded honor if you will; it is murder, after all--murder the most atrocious, from its very coolness and premeditation. hinchley broke away abruptly, after having regained possession of the fatal letter, and laurence rushed toward the house to find margaret, and overwhelm her with his knowledge of her weakness and treachery. it had been a dark, wretched day to the girl, passed between the sick chamber of her uncle and that of the old housekeeper. mr. waring had been seized with one of his violent attacks, and was lying dangerously ill. exhausted with watching, margaret found an opportunity to rest, and went down stairs to the library, meeting sybil chase in the hall. "will you go and sit with my uncle for a while, miss chase?" she asked, wearily. "certainly," replied sybil, somewhat flurried after her escape from the garden, but concealing her emotion with her usual success. "you look quite worn out; it would do you good to sleep." margaret passed on without vouchsafing a reply; her dislike of the woman had grown into absolute aversion during the past days, and it was with difficulty that she could force herself to receive her advances with common civility. margaret entered the library, closed the door and threw herself upon a couch, hoping for a time to forget her distress and bitter feelings in slumber. she fell asleep at once, and was aroused from an incoherent dream by the violent opening of the door, and a hoarse voice called out: "margaret--margaret waring?" she started up, confused by the abrupt awakening, and with a vague impression that her uncle had been taken suddenly worse; but she saw laurence standing before her, livid with passion. margaret rose at once, and coldly said: "mr. laurence, you will please come into a room which i occupy, somewhat less boisterously." "i grieve exceedingly to have disturbed your delicate nerves," he replied, with a hoarse laugh; "but i have that to say which will possibly shock them still more." she gave him a haughty glance, which roused his fury to still greater violence. "nothing you could do would shock me," she said. "i am prepared for any thing." "then you are prepared to hear that i have discovered your falsehood and treachery! miserable, cowardly girl, why did you not come frankly and tell me the truth?" her pride rose to meet the passion which flamed in his eyes. "mr. laurence," she exclaimed, "i have borne a great deal from you; but you shall not insult me in this house!" "why did you not say to me frankly--i detest this marriage?" he continued. "do you think i would not have freed you at once?" "i do not know what you mean," she answered, trembling with angry astonishment at his words. "but let me tell you now, i do dread it--loathe the very thought of it." "so this you wrote to him," he exclaimed. "i have seen the letter! why, shame on you, margaret waring! i would not have believed you thus lost to all womanly pride. what! tell man unsought that you loved him? and you honorably bound to another." she stared at him in angry surprise--her lips apart, her wild eyes full of scornful incredulity. "you have been dreaming, or you are crazy," she said. "neither the one nor the other; but i know every thing." "i do not understand you," she replied, relapsing into the haughty coldness which always enraged him more than any bitter words that she could speak. "oh, do not add another falsehood to the list!" he exclaimed. "haven't you perjured your soul enough, already? i tell you that i read the letter you wrote to ralph hinchley. i have watched you for weeks; i know the whole extent of your shameful duplicity." "stop!" cried margaret. "i will endure no more! leave this house, mr. laurence, at once, and forever! while we both live, i will never see your face again; my uncle decides this night, between you and me; either he confirms what i now say, or i will leave his house." "so be it; do not think i regret it! why, i came here only to expose and cast you off. your uncle shall see that letter. i will have it, or tear it from hinchley's heart. when waring has read that, we shall see what he thinks of his dainty niece." "of all this passion i do not comprehend one word; but it wearies me. go, sir." "do you dare deny having written to ralph hinchley that you loved him--that you were ready to abandon your engagement and marry him?" "oh!" groaned margaret, almost fainting from a sharp recoil of outraged feeling, "is there no man living who will avenge me on this libeler?" "he may, perhaps, avenge you; why not?" retorted laurence; "but answer. you shall answer and confess this duplicity, or blacken your soul with another lie. did you write to hinchley?" "i did," said margaret; "a note of three lines, asking him to pay a bill for me at desmond's." "margaret! margaret! this effrontery only makes it more unbearable," he cried. "i will expose you to the whole world." "do what you please--say what you choose, but leave this house, and never let me see you again." "i go willingly. farewell forever, margaret! i do not curse; time will do that, and i can wait." he dashed out of the room, pale and fierce with contending passions, and hurried from her presence. margaret stood upright until the door closed, then her hands fell to her side, a low moan broke from her lips, and she dropped senseless upon the couch. it was near sunset when she came to herself again; sybil chase was bending over her, bathing her forehead and using words of tender solicitude, while a little way off stood the new housekeeper, apparently quite overcome with distress. margaret pushed miss chase away, and would have left the room without a word, but sybil caught her arm, while a strange light shot into her eyes. "i must detain you a moment," she said. "your uncle has been seized with a frightful attack; the physician is with him now." "what caused it?" demanded margaret. "mr. laurence was with him," faltered sybil. margaret turned upon her with cold scrutiny. "miss chase," she said, "i believe on my soul that you are at the bottom of all this trouble. i desire you to quit the house at once." sybil pleaded, wept, and demanded an explanation, but margaret broke from her, and hurried out of the room. "what is to come now?" whispered the woman, going close to sybil, who stood looking after margaret, and smiling as only women like her can smile. "she has done exactly what i desired," she answered. "i shall leave this house in an hour; you will go with me." "but the duel?" "oh! that drives me frantic; but i believe hinchley will be the sufferer--i should go mad else! pack my things, and meet me at the station in an hour." she hurried away, without giving the woman time to speak, and left the house at once. sybil took her way rapidly through the grounds, crossed the high road, and ran through the fields until she reached a lofty ascent, from whence she could command a view of the broad sandy plain beneath. she was only just in time; there she stood, and gazed below with the same expression her face had worn upon the night when she watched her husband's frightful death in the wilds of california. only a few paces from each other stood laurence and ralph hinchley; each held a pistol in his hand, and even as sybil looked, one of the seconds gave the word. there was a simultaneous report, a blinding flash, and when the smoke cleared away, sybil saw hinchley stretched upon the ground, the two assistants bending over him, and laurence standing in his old position. she heard one of the men say: "save yourself, laurence;" then hinchley called out: "not yet--not yet; it is only my arm; there is no danger. edward, believe me, margaret never wrote that letter. keep her name out of this quarrel. it will yet be explained." laurence only replied by a gesture of dissent. the seconds raised the wounded man, bore him to a carriage which was stationed a little way off, placed him upon the seat, and the party drove away. laurence stood like a statue, gazing moodily upon the pistol he grasped in his hand. sybil hurried down the bank, calling out: "laurence! laurence!" he turned at her approach, flung the pistol away, and caught her in his arms. "i am revenged," he said. "i have nothing left in the world but you, sybil chase. oh, say that you love me!" the long expected moment had arrived, and, regardless of the sins by which that painful bliss had been purchased, sybil chase folded her white arms around his neck and gave passionate expression to the wild love that had burned in her heart for years. now the great object of her misguided life was attained. she was free from the man who had been a terrible barrier between them. the engagement was broken by her own arts. with all this, why was there so much pain left in her heart? why did she tremble so violently in the first clasp of his arms? chapter xvi. the battery. several days passed, and more miserable ones never dawned upon the household at brooklawn. gerald waring was dead. the excitement into which he had been thrown by laurence's insane story, the passionate denunciations of margaret, and the unaccountable departure of sybil chase had brought on a recurrence of his disease more violent than any sufferings that had preceded, and before noon the next day he was a corpse. margaret sat alone in her room, desolate and almost maddened by the events of the past days. her uncle was dead, and now she stood in the world utterly alone. he was the last of her family, the only human being upon whom she had the slightest claim of kindred save the slight clue of blood that bound her to ralph hinchley. waring's property, never very extensive, had been heavily mortgaged to gratify his expensive tastes and invalid caprices. brooklawn must be sold, and after that painful event margaret must go forth into the world homeless and desolate. selfish and thoughtless as waring was, he would have made some provision for his niece, but that he was confident of her marriage with laurence, by which she would be placed in a position far beyond all need of assistance. thus assured, the weak man dismissed the matter entirely from his mind, and thought only of his present comforts. margaret had seen hinchley and learned every thing from him. the truth only aroused her pride more forcibly. there was no relenting in her purpose; though broken, miserable, and beset with poverty, she would have rejected laurence had he knelt before her pleading for pardon. her proud heart had been more revolted at the fact that he could doubt her truth than by all the cruelty of his conduct. gerald waring was buried. he had lived in small things, and his life was of little value to any human being, except margaret. she, poor girl, mourned him greatly; and as the days passed into weeks, and it became necessary for her to think of another home, her loneliness and desolation increased into absolute dejection. when hinchley recovered from his wound sufficiently to go out, he visited margaret several times; but was quite unable to throw any light upon the mystery which surrounded them, save the bare facts of the quarrel and separation. sybil chase had settled herself in comfortable lodgings in new york, and there laurence visited her daily. with each day his wounded pride grew more sensitive, and his condemnation of margaret increased. sybil knew how to strengthen the infatuation which bound him within the spell of her influence, and thus her control became supreme. hinchley could not meet laurence--he knew the utter folly of any attempt at reconciliation. his own feelings toward the unhappy man were those of profound pity. he was certain that edward loved margaret--that the only hope of happiness for either in this world lay in a cordial understanding of the truth. thus he determined to spare no pains in clearing up the utter darkness which enveloped their lives, and in restoring them to the brightness of that early dream which had made life so beautiful to both while it lasted. still, though the weeks passed and the beautiful spring deepened into summer, nothing occurred which could give hinchley the least clue. in his own mind he fairly believed sybil chase the author of all that terrible unhappiness, and with these thoughts there came back a recollection of that night in california, when his life was so nearly sacrificed. he reproached himself for connecting her with those images, but could not drive the fearful thought away. always, when he recalled that awful struggle, the chamber in the old house, and the quick retribution dealt to his assailant, there rose before him the dim figure of that woman in the distance, and always behind the shrouding shadows he saw the features of sybil chase. watching and waiting, he neglected all business and every personal interest. he walked the streets, meditating upon those inexplicable occurrences, haunted every spot that sybil chase frequented, but all without result; when the day was over he could only return to margaret, and find her pale, ill, and heart-broken as he had left her. some errand connected with that all-engrossing affair carried him, one day, into a street which led to the battery; he had obtained a clue to the residence of mrs. brown, and was following it up with a hope that she might be bribed or frightened into some revelation which would tend to make his course more clear. a california steamer had just arrived at its wharf, and the eager crowd came surging up the street along which hinchley was slowly sauntering in a painful revery. he looked with idle curiosity from face to face of the motley throng, glad of any event which would for a moment take his thoughts from the mournful subject which had so long engrossed him. suddenly he beheld upon the other side of the way a face which brought him to an abrupt pause, while an exclamation, almost of terror, broke from his lips. after the first glance of uncertainty, the firm, severe look natural to his features passed over them. the man who had disturbed him so walked by, unconscious of his scrutiny. the face was pale from sickness or confinement, the long beard had been shaven, the dress was altered, but through all the change hinchley recognized him. that image was too closely connected with the most fearful era in his life ever to be forgotten. after the first instant of horror and surprise, his active mind centered upon itself; the opportunity at least of identifying sybil chase with the woman he had seen was offered. what might follow he dared not think of--the hope was too great and joyous in the midst of so much suffering. he turned and followed the man swiftly; came up to him in a narrow and almost deserted street and laid his hand upon his shoulder. the stranger started like an escaped prisoner who felt the grasp of his pursuers upon him; but when he saw ralph hinchley's face, he uttered a cry and endeavored to break away. but the young man held him fast, and a few rapid words reassured the fugitive so much that he walked quietly by his side and listened to him doubtfully, glancing around like a wild animal in fear of pursuit, and ready at the slightest sound to take flight. "it is useless to deny what i say," was the conclusion of hinchley's hasty address. "i mean you no harm. only answer my questions, and you may go." "speak out then," returned the man, sullenly; "though i don't know why the deuce i should let a man i never saw before come up and question me in this way." "you remember me, and did from the first," replied hinchley, regarding him with keen decision. "your eyes waver--you are pale, too. this is cowardly. come, man, you need not be afraid; for any thing i shall do you are safe enough. what i want is the truth, and not even that about yourself." "well," replied the man, laughing in a reckless way, "the truth is not difficult to tell about other people, though i am out of practice." after a little more persuasion, he followed hinchley on to the battery, and, sitting down under a tree, they conversed eagerly. very soon all doubt and fear left the man's face, a stern passion and fierce exultation lit every feature, while from ralph hinchley's faded the shadow and gloom that had clouded his countenance for weeks. chapter xvii. the valley ranche. sybil chase was sitting in the apartments which she had taken on leaving mr. waring's residence. her dress, always simple and elegant, was even more studied and elaborately delicate than usual; the face wore its lightest, fairest look, and one seeing her as she sat gazing down the street, evidently in momentary expectation of some person not yet in sight, would have thought that no anxiety or stern thought had ever found a resting-place in her bosom. that for which she had toiled and plotted, treading ruthlessly over the hearts and happiness of all who stood in her way, had been gained--in one week she would be the wife of edward laurence. sybil was expecting him then; he spent the greater portion of each day in her society, and the influence which she had gained seemed constantly to increase. while she waited there was a low knock at the door. sybil started up with a beautiful smile of welcome, which changed to a look of surprise when the door opened and only a servant appeared, saying: "there's a gentleman, ma'am, who wants to see you." "i am engaged. i told you to admit no one but mr. laurence." "i know it, but he would have me come up; he says he won't keep you a moment." "be quick, then," she answered, impatiently. the man went out and closed the door; but while sybil was considering who her visitor might be, it was flung open, and ralph hinchley stood before her. she stepped forward with an angry gesture. "why have you come here?" she asked. "i do not desire your visits, mr. hinchley." "nor is it at all probable that i shall ever pay you another, madam; but this one you will have the patience to endure." "mr. laurence will soon be here," she said, haughtily; "possibly you would prefer not to meet him." "i desire to see him--it is part of my business here; but first, i wish to introduce an old acquaintance of yours." he went to the door, flung it open, and sybil beheld a form which she had believed long since cold in the grave, the old cruel light in the eyes, the mocking smile upon the lips--her husband. she started back with a cry of dreary pain. "don't be alarmed, sybil," he said, quietly advancing toward her. "of course you are glad to see your 'own, own philip.' that used to be the term, i think." "keep off--keep off!" she shrieked, insane with fear and the suddenness of the shock. "philip yates is dead. i saw him hanged. you saw him, also, on the blasted pine, ralph hinchley." "excuse me," returned yates; "i ought to know, and i assure you that i am as much alive as either of you. tom dickinson, poor fellow, they hung him in my place. he managed to steal my clothes from the wardrobe, hoping the men would take him for me, and help him off. so you really thought it was me they swung up; poor sybil, what a disappointment! well, it was natural. tom and i did look alike, especially when he was on good behavior; but there was a certain manner he never could catch. still, the people mistook him for me more than once. he was so proud of it, poor tom. but i wouldn't have thought it of you, syb--not know your own husband! my darling, that is not complimentary." she answered by a groan so despairing that it might have softened any heart less steeled against her than those of the two men who looked quietly on. "no, no, sybil," he continued; "while tom was doubling like a fox, and you screaming for some one to pounce on me, i slipped away through the cellar, and into the bush. why, bless your soul, i was perched just above you on the precipice all the time, and, if you hadn't made off with the horse, should have got clear, instead of being caught among the rocks like a rat in a trap." sybil sunk slowly into a chair while he was giving these revolting details, and, covering her face with both hands, interrupted him only with her faint moans. while she sat thus abject and wounded, edward laurence entered the room. he stopped short on the threshold, astonished at the presence of those two men. he looked from one to the other in amazement. then turning on hinchley, demanded in stern wrath how he had dared to enter that dwelling. sybil heard his voice, and made a wild effort to shake off the terror which was crushing her to the earth; but, as she attempted to unvail her face, the smiling look with which yates stood regarding her made every nerve in her body shrink and shiver. laurence glanced at her, and once more turned on hinchley. "why are you here, sir, and who is that man?" "hush, hush!" returned ralph, mournfully. "you will have enough to repent, edward; be silent now." before laurence could speak, yates stepped toward sybil, seized her by the arm, and forced her to stand up. "come," he said, "you and i are going away from here." "i will not move," she moaned, desperately. "let me go, i say." laurence started forward, trembling with indignation, but the man pushed him rudely aside. "don't interfere between husband and wife," he said, coldly. "i warn you it won't be safe. you know that, syb, of old." "what do you mean?" said laurence. "great heavens, sybil, who is this man?" she did not answer; in that moment all her duplicity and art failed; she could only moan and turn away her frightened face. "i am philip yates, her husband," answered he. "i have brought my marriage certificate on purpose to prove it." he took a paper from his pocket and gave it to laurence, who read it with a confused idea of its import. at last he lifted a hand to his forehead. "i must be insane," he faltered. "no," returned hinchley, "you are just coming back to your senses. that woman, laurence, is the female i saw in california upon the night when i so narrowly escaped from the valley ranche with my life." "never you mind that story," interrupted yates; "that's all gone by. well, mr. laurence, you don't seem to believe us yet; sybil shall answer for herself." "i will not speak," she cried. "you may kill me, but i will not open my lips." "kill you, my pet? why, i expect years of happiness with you still. we are going back to california, my dear. it will take a long time to repay your loving kindness that night." "sybil! sybil!" groaned laurence. "you shall speak," continued yates. "tell him your real name; do it, i say!" he transfixed her with his terrible glance; the old fear and dread came back. she was like a person magnetized against her will. without glancing toward laurence, without being able to move her eyes from that fiery glance, she answered in a low, strange voice. "i am sybil yates. i was his wife--i am his wife." "bravo!" exclaimed the gambler, exultingly. "now, mr. laurence, i hope you are satisfied." the young man did not answer; he could only stand, horror-stricken, upon the brink of the abyss down which he had so nearly plunged. hinchley went to the door, and led in the woman who had served for a time as housekeeper at brooklawn. "this person," he said, "has a story to tell; luckily, circumstances have placed her quite in my power." sybil sprung again to her feet. "don't speak!" she cried; "don't speak!" "i must, my dear," replied the woman, sobbing. "they'll never let me alone if i don't." "who wrote the letter mr. laurence saw you give me?" demanded hinchley. the woman pointed to sybil. "it is false!" she exclaimed. "margaret waring wrote it." "nonsense, sybil," returned yates. "what's the good of keeping this up? you're found out, and that's the end of it. you thought i was dead, you wanted to marry mr. laurence--always did, for that matter--and laid your plans beautifully. upon my word, i honor you! but, you see, i am inconveniently alive; your old mother has been frightened into telling the truth for once, so there's nothing for it but to get away to the valley ranche. the miners have forgot that little affair, and we shall find something brighter than potatoes in the cellar. you know that." she looked at him with her frightened eyes. "don't take on so," he said, with a gleam of feeling. "i always loved you better than you believed." sybil shuddered. "so we'll forget and forgive. i don't mind it if you did bring the vigilance committee down on us that night; tom and i were both hard on you--it wasn't work for a lady. as for mr. hinchley, he ought to go down on his knees and fill your lap with gold. if it hadn't been for her, i tell you, old fellow, you never would have seen daylight again. after all, that woman's a trump. i wouldn't give her up for all the gold in california." "sybil," said laurence, in a grave, low voice, "is this thing true?" she struggled for voice, and replied, very faintly: "it is true! god help me, it is true; but i thought he was dead. it was night, and i so terrified that the face was not clear. oh! if it were only death that he brings instead of these bonds." laurence looked on her distress with heavy eyes. "and margaret." she started as if a viper had stung her, then broke into fresh moans, rocking to and fro on her chair. "if we wronged her--if that letter was not genuine, tell me, that i may offer the poor atonement in my power." she looked up into his eyes with such anguish, that even yates seemed troubled. "speak the truth, sybil," he said, "speak the truth, i say; did the young lady write that letter they were talking about?" sybil shook her head, murmuring, under her breath, words that no one could understand. "speak, sybil." "i wrote the letter." "that's enough--that's like you, sybil," said yates, triumphantly, forcing her cold hands from her face, and kissing them till she shuddered all over. "now you can go, gentlemen. i should like a little private conversation with my wife." ralph hinchley took laurence by the arm, and led him gently from the room. * * * * * a year after this scene, when yates had gone to california in search of the gold left buried at the ranche, laurence and margaret, all the wiser for the bitter experience of the past, stood before the altar of the pretty church near mr. waring's homestead, which was to be the resting-place of their future lives. it had been a happy place to them once, and now, with all the painful associations buried in perfect confidence, they turned to it with renewed affection. surely, that little country church never witnessed a happier wedding, or sheltered a lovelier bride. in the flush of unchecked love, margaret had bloomed into something more attractive than mere beauty. the heavy sadness had left her eyes, to be filled with gentle sunshine, her cheek was flushed as with wild roses, and the soft radiance of a heart at rest fell around her, pure as the silvery cloud of her bridal vail which swept over the snow of her garments, clothing her with whiteness from head to foot. the newly married pair went quietly to the home which now became sacred to them both. the ceremony which united their once estranged hearts had endowed them with wealth, and thus it had been in their power to keep that fine old place from the hammer. in after years, the voices of merry children rung through the rose-thickets where sybil yates had woven her snares, and a fine-looking couple might have been observed, any fair day, walking arm-in-arm along the walks which that artful woman had once shared with the gentleman; but he had forgotten her in the tranquil happiness of a peaceful life, and her name was blotted out from all his thoughts, for he could not force such company on the gentle image that filled his heart of hearts. on the very day of this wedding, a wild scene was being enacted at the valley ranche. yates and sybil had that day entered their old dwelling--he elated with the success of his disguise, which had carried him through vigilance committees and wild groups of gold-seekers, and she a weary, subdued woman, who had outlived even the power of wishing, and this while her hair was bright, and her cheeks smooth with youth. she was aware that edward laurence was to be married that day, but even that knowledge failed to disturb the leaden apathy which lay upon her. the ranche was desolate--an old indian woman, who remained in the kitchen, received them with more of terror than welcome. "don't be frightened, old woman," said yates. "we shan't stay long to trouble you; only get some supper for mrs. yates, and find me some kind of a lamp. i don't like the look of things here." the old woman went to the other end of the kitchen, in search of a lamp. in passing the window, she saw a crowd of human faces looking in, but said nothing, as hands were uplifted threateningly, and wild eyes glared a warning upon her. yates went out, shading the lamp with his hands. he took a large leathern sack from some luggage which had been cast down in the hall, and went cautiously into the cellar. entering the inner cave, he removed the barrels, and, opening the iron chest, gathered up handfuls of gold and packages of dust, which he crowded roughly down into the bag. he was busy with a larger package than had yet presented itself, when a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder. yates started back, dragging the leather sack with him into the midst of a crowd of armed men who filled the cellar. some of these men had been watching him all day, and now he was in their power--utterly, hopelessly. it was horrible, the stillness of that moment. those fierce men spoke in whispers. they dragged the victim forth in silence, but the tramp of their feet fell horribly on the night. half an hour after yates received that lamp from the trembling hands of the indian woman, exulting in his safety, a branch of the blasted pine bent low with a second victim, and sybil was indeed a widow. at this day, the valley ranche is inhabited by the solitary woman, who, with her indian servant, lives alone in the old house. she still sits by the chamber-window, and looks out upon the bridle-path leading from the mines, but with the dull apathy of a spirit which has lost every thing. gray hairs have crept thickly into those rich, golden tresses, and the remnants of her beauty are mournful to look upon. one thing is remarkable. she never receives a letter, and never asks a question about any one in the atlantic states. sybil yates is indeed a widow now. the end. each number pages, complete----price ten cents. beadle's dime biographical library monthly issues, to comprise original, unique and authentic biographies of the most celebrated characters of modern times, prepared with great care, by some of our best known and ablest writers, and especially designed for the hands and homes of the american people. =no. .=] the life of [=no. .= general joseph garibaldi, the washington of italy. by o. j. victor. the wonderful career of garibaldi reads like a wild romance. no man ever lived who has performed such prodigies of valor, or who has had a more varied fortune. mr. victor has had access to the most authentic sources of information, and, it is but proper to say, has produced the only authentic life of the man yet given. it is written in a style calculated to enchain attention from first to last, and will prove, unquestionably, one of the most interesting, instructive and delightful books yet offered to the patrons of the dime publications. "this biography of garibaldi, the hero of italy, is a work of surpassing interest, and, although perfectly authentic in all its details, equals in romantic interest the 'ivanhoe' of sir walter scott. those who desire to verify lord byron's remark, that 'truth is stranger than fiction,' should not fail to read the strangely eventful life of the foremost man of the nineteenth century. get the book, we say, and be convinced that the deeds of this extraordinary man were never paralleled, even by the marvellous exploits of richard coeur de leon and those knights who followed peter the hermit in his crusade for the recovery of the holy sepulchre." [new-york press. to be followed by the biographies of-- =john paul jones=, the revolutionary naval hero. =daniel boone=, the hunter of kentucky. =admiral lord nelson=, the hero of trafalgar. =kit carson=, the rocky mountain scout and guide. =oliver hazard perry=, the hero of lake erie. =&c.=, =&c.=, =&c.= [music: bon-ny e-lo-ise, the belle of the mo-hawk vale.] $ worth of music for cents! beadle's dime melodist. comprising the music and words of the new and most popular songs and ballads, by j. r. thomas, geo. f. root, w. v. wallace, geo. linley, stephen glover, samuel lover, and other eminent composers. a lowly youth, anna bell, annie lowe, a hundred years ago, be quiet do, i'll call my mother, bime, bome bell, bonny eloise, carry me home to tennessee, ettie may, far on the deep blue sea, fare thee well, katy dear, forgive but don't forget, hope on, hope ever, i had a gentle mother, i'll dream of thee no more, in the wild chamois' track, keemo kimo, jennie with her bonnie bleu e'e, love me little, love me long, marion lee, mary of lake enon, mary of the glen, mother, sweet mother, why linger away? my soul in one unbroken sigh, oft in the stilly night, oh, my love he is a salieur, oh, whisper what thou feelest, old josey, once upon a time, one cheering word, one parting song and then farewell, poor thomas day, pretty nelly, round for three voices, scenes that are brightest, sleeping i dreamed, love, softly ye night winds, some one to love, strike the light guitar, swinging, swinging all day long, 'tis pleasant to be young, 'tis the witching hour of love, the dearest spot of earth, the female smuggler, the good-by at the door, the hazel dell, the leaves that fall in spring, the low-backed car, the mother's smile, the old folks are gone, the winds that waft my sighs to thee, there is a flower that bloometh, there is darkness on the mountain, thou art mine own, love, where is home? why do i weep for thee? widow machree, wild tiadatton, winsome winnie, work, work, yes, let me like a soldier die. price ten cents. for sale by the agent. the immortal crockett. dime biographical library no. . will issue monday, april d, the life of col. david crockett, comprising his memorable adventures, his congressional career, his odd sayings, his northern tour, his frightful bear hunts, his texan life, and glorious death at the battle of the alamo. forming altogether one of the most intensely interesting and peculiar biographies ever presented to the american public. col. crockett was one of the most remarkable men who ever lived--his life was one constant succession of novel phases--his wit, his courage, his love of danger and excitement, his chivalrous devotion to the cause of texan independence--all conspire to claim for him a place in the annals of our history at once striking and of deepest interest. there is no life of crockett now before the public, properly adapted for popular circulation, and the work here presented is designed especially to supply the existing want. it will be found, in all respects, satisfactory, and is confidently commended to all lovers of the marvelous and novel in human nature. for sale by all news dealers. beadle and company, publishers, william st., new york. "incomparable in merit." "unapproachable in price." beadle's dime books, for the million! beadle's dime school melodist, beadle's dime letter-writer, beadle's dime cook-book, beadle's dime recipe-book, beadle's dime speaker, nos. & , beadle's dime dialogues, nos. & , beadle's dime book of fun, & , beadle's dime military song book, beadle's dime book of etiquette, beadle's dime dress-maker, beadle's dime melodist, beadle's dime book of dreams, beadle's dime chess instructor, beadle's dime book of cricket, beadle's dime base-ball player, beadle's dime guide to swimming beadle's dime song book no. , beadle's dime song book no. , beadle's dime song book no. , beadle's dime song book no. , beadle's dime song book no. , beadle's dime song book no. , beadle's dime song book no. . beadle's dime novels. a dollar book for a dime! each volume contains one hundred and twenty-eight large mo. pages of letter-press, printed with clear and expressly-prepared type and book paper, and bound in heavy paper covers of bright salmon color--making a volume of much beauty, and delightful to read. the volumes will be issued semi-monthly, in regular succession. dime novels now ready: no. .--malaeska: the indian wife of the white hunter. no. .--the privateer's cruise, and the bride of pomfret hall. no. .--myra: the child of adoption. no. .--alice wilde: the raftsman's daughter. no. .--the golden belt; or, the carib's pledge. no. .--chip: the cave-child. no. .--the reefer of ; or the cruise of the fire-fly. no. .--seth jones of new hampshire; or, the captives of the frontier. no. .--the slave sculptor; or, the prophetess of the secret chambers. no. .--the backwoods' bride: a romance of squatter life. no. .--the prisoner of la vintresse; or, the fortunes of a cuban heiress. no. .--bill biddon, trapper; or, life in the northwest. no. .--cedar swamp; or, wild nat's brigade. no. .--the emerald necklace; or, mrs. butterby's boarder. no. .--the frontier angel: a romance of kentucky ranger's life. no. .--ezekiel persons: and his exploits on two continents. transcriber's notes: added table of contents. italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=. replaced oe ligature with oe in "richard coeur de leon" for text edition; ligature retained in html version. retained questionable spellings (e.g. "wierd," "brightning") from the original. page , moved quote from after "she answered;" to after "he is at the mines." page , added missing quote after "can not urge you." page , removed duplicate "the" from "through the the valley." page , changed "except" to "expect" in "i expect you to act like a sensible woman." page , added missing quote after "would not be persuaded." page , added missing quote before "i shall leave this house." page , added missing quote after "waring wrote it." beadle's dime biographical library ad, added missing period after trafalgar. immortal crockett ad, changed "almo" to "alamo." beadle's dime books / beadle's dime novels ad, normalized punctuation in title listings. you never can tell by george bernard shaw act i in a dentist's operating room on a fine august morning in . not the usual tiny london den, but the best sitting room of a furnished lodging in a terrace on the sea front at a fashionable watering place. the operating chair, with a gas pump and cylinder beside it, is half way between the centre of the room and one of the corners. if you look into the room through the window which lights it, you will see the fireplace in the middle of the wall opposite you, with the door beside it to your left; an m.r.c.s. diploma in a frame hung on the chimneypiece; an easy chair covered in black leather on the hearth; a neat stool and bench, with vice, tools, and a mortar and pestle in the corner to the right. near this bench stands a slender machine like a whip provided with a stand, a pedal, and an exaggerated winch. recognising this as a dental drill, you shudder and look away to your left, where you can see another window, underneath which stands a writing table, with a blotter and a diary on it, and a chair. next the writing table, towards the door, is a leather covered sofa. the opposite wall, close on your right, is occupied mostly by a bookcase. the operating chair is under your nose, facing you, with the cabinet of instruments handy to it on your left. you observe that the professional furniture and apparatus are new, and that the wall paper, designed, with the taste of an undertaker, in festoons and urns, the carpet with its symmetrical plans of rich, cabbagy nosegays, the glass gasalier with lustres; the ornamental gilt rimmed blue candlesticks on the ends of the mantelshelf, also glass draped with lustres, and the ormolu clock under a glass-cover in the middle between them, its uselessness emphasized by a cheap american clock disrespectfully placed beside it and now indicating o'clock noon, all combine with the black marble which gives the fireplace the air of a miniature family vault, to suggest early victorian commercial respectability, belief in money, bible fetichism, fear of hell always at war with fear of poverty, instinctive horror of the passionate character of art, love and roman catholic religion, and all the first fruits of plutocracy in the early generations of the industrial revolution. there is no shadow of this on the two persons who are occupying the room just now. one of them, a very pretty woman in miniature, her tiny figure dressed with the daintiest gaiety, is of a later generation, being hardly eighteen yet. this darling little creature clearly does not belong to the room, or even to the country; for her complexion, though very delicate, has been burnt biscuit color by some warmer sun than england's; and yet there is, for a very subtle observer, a link between them. for she has a glass of water in her hand, and a rapidly clearing cloud of spartan obstinacy on her tiny firm set mouth and quaintly squared eyebrows. if the least line of conscience could be traced between those eyebrows, an evangelical might cherish some faint hope of finding her a sheep in wolf's clothing--for her frock is recklessly pretty--but as the cloud vanishes it leaves her frontal sinus as smoothly free from conviction of sin as a kitten's. the dentist, contemplating her with the self-satisfaction of a successful operator, is a young man of thirty or thereabouts. he does not give the impression of being much of a workman: his professional manner evidently strikes him as being a joke, and is underlain by a thoughtless pleasantry which betrays the young gentleman still unsettled and in search of amusing adventures, behind the newly set-up dentist in search of patients. he is not without gravity of demeanor; but the strained nostrils stamp it as the gravity of the humorist. his eyes are clear, alert, of sceptically moderate size, and yet a little rash; his forehead is an excellent one, with plenty of room behind it; his nose and chin cavalierly handsome. on the whole, an attractive, noticeable beginner, of whose prospects a man of business might form a tolerably favorable estimate. the young lady (handing him the glass). thank you. (in spite of the biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent.) the dentist (putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of instruments). that was my first tooth. the young lady (aghast). your first! do you mean to say that you began practising on me? the dentist. every dentist has to begin on somebody. the young lady. yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay. the dentist (laughing). oh, the hospital doesn't count. i only meant my first tooth in private practice. why didn't you let me give you gas? the young lady. because you said it would be five shillings extra. the dentist (shocked). oh, don't say that. it makes me feel as if i had hurt you for the sake of five shillings. the young lady (with cool insolence). well, so you have! (she gets up.) why shouldn't you? it's your business to hurt people. (it amuses him to be treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds to clean and replace his instruments. she shakes her dress into order; looks inquisitively about her; and goes to the window.) you have a good view of the sea from these rooms! are they expensive? the dentist. yes. the young lady. you don't own the whole house, do you? the dentist. no. the young lady (taking the chair which stands at the writing-table and looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg.) your furniture isn't quite the latest thing, is it? the dentist. it's my landlord's. the young lady. does he own that nice comfortable bath chair? (pointing to the operating chair.) the dentist. no: i have that on the hire-purchase system. the young lady (disparagingly). i thought so. (looking about her again in search of further conclusions.) i suppose you haven't been here long? the dentist. six weeks. is there anything else you would like to know? the young lady (the hint quite lost on her). any family? the dentist. i am not married. the young lady. of course not: anybody can see that. i meant sisters and mother and that sort of thing. the dentist. not on the premises. the young lady. hm! if you've been here six weeks, and mine was your first tooth, the practice can't be very large, can it? the dentist. not as yet. (he shuts the cabinet, having tidied up everything.) the young lady. well, good luck! (she takes our her purse.) five shillings, you said it would be? the dentist. five shillings. the young lady (producing a crown piece). do you charge five shillings for everything? the dentist. yes. the young lady. why? the dentist. it's my system. i'm what's called a five shilling dentist. the young lady. how nice! well, here! (holding up the crown piece) a nice new five shilling piece! your first fee! make a hole in it with the thing you drill people's teeth with and wear it on your watch-chain. the dentist. thank you. the parlor maid (appearing at the door). the young lady's brother, sir. a handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady's twin, comes in eagerly. he wears a suit of terra-cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut frock coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall hat and tan gloves to match. he has his sister's delicate biscuit complexion, and is built on the same small scale; but he is elastic and strong in muscle, decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and trenchant in speech, and with perfect manners and a finished personal style which might be envied by a man twice his age. suavity and self-possession are points of honor with him; and though this, rightly considered, is only the modern mode of boyish self-consciousness, its effect is none the less staggering to his elders, and would be insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. he is promptitude itself, and has a question ready the moment he enters. the young gentleman. am i on time? the young lady. no: it's all over. the young gentleman. did you howl? the young lady. oh, something awful. mr. valentine: this is my brother phil. phil: this is mr. valentine, our new dentist. (valentine and phil bow to one another. she proceeds, all in one breath.) he's only been here six weeks; and he's a bachelor. the house isn't his; and the furniture is the landlord's; but the professional plant is hired. he got my tooth out beautifully at the first go; and he and i are great friends. philip. been asking a lot of questions? the young lady (as if incapable of doing such a thing). oh, no. philip. glad to hear it. (to valentine.) so good of you not to mind us, mr. valentine. the fact is, we've never been in england before; and our mother tells us that the people here simply won't stand us. come and lunch with us. (valentine, bewildered by the leaps and bounds with which their acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps; but he has no opportunity of speaking, as the conversation of the twins is swift and continuous.) the young lady. oh, do, mr. valentine. philip. at the marine hotel--half past one. the young lady. we shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable englishman has promised to lunch with us. philip. say no more, mr. valentine: you'll come. valentine. say no more! i haven't said anything. may i ask whom i have the pleasure of entertaining? it's really quite impossible for me to lunch at the marine hotel with two perfect strangers. the young lady (flippantly). ooooh! what bosh! one patient in six weeks! what difference does it make to you? philip (maturely). no, dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms mr. valentine's judgment. he is right. let me introduce miss dorothy clandon, commonly called dolly. (valentine bows to dolly. she nods to him.) i'm philip clandon. we're from madeira, but perfectly respectable, so far. valentine. clandon! are you related to-- dolly (unexpectedly crying out in despair). yes, we are. valentine (astonished). i beg your pardon? dolly. oh, we are, we are. it's all over, phil: they know all about us in england. (to valentine.) oh, you can't think how maddening it is to be related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for our own sakes. valentine. but excuse me: the gentleman i was thinking of is not celebrated. dolly (staring at him). gentleman! (phil is also puzzled.) valentine. yes. i was going to ask whether you were by any chance a daughter of mr. densmore clandon of newbury hall. dolly (vacantly). no. philip. well come, dolly: how do you know you're not? dolly (cheered). oh, i forgot. of course. perhaps i am. valentine. don't you know? philip. not in the least. dolly. it's a wise child-- philip (cutting her short). sh! (valentine starts nervously; for the sound made by philip, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet of silk in two with a flash of lightning. it is the result of long practice in checking dolly's indiscretions.) the fact is, mr. valentine, we are the children of the celebrated mrs. lanfrey clandon, an authoress of great repute--in madeira. no household is complete without her works. we came to england to get away from them. the are called the twentieth century treatises. dolly. twentieth century cooking. philip. twentieth century creeds. dolly. twentieth century clothing. philip. twentieth century conduct. dolly. twentieth century children. philip. twentieth century parents. dolly. cloth limp, half a dollar. philip. or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. no family should be without them. read them, mr. valentine: they'll improve your mind. dolly. but not till we've gone, please. philip. quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. our own minds are in that fresh and unspoiled condition. valentine (dubiously). hm! dolly (echoing him inquiringly). hm? phil: he prefers people whose minds are improved. philip. in that case we shall have to introduce him to the other member of the family: the woman of the twentieth century; our sister gloria! dolly (dithyrambically). nature's masterpiece! philip. learning's daughter! dolly. madeira's pride! philip. beauty's paragon! dolly (suddenly descending to prose). bosh! no complexion. valentine (desperately). may i have a word? philip (politely). excuse us. go ahead. dolly (very nicely). so sorry. valentine (attempting to take them paternally). i really must give a hint to you young people-- dolly (breaking out again). oh, come: i like that. how old are you? philip. over thirty. dolly. he's not. philip (confidently). he is. dolly (emphatically). twenty-seven. philip (imperturbably). thirty-three. dolly. stuff! philip (to valentine). i appeal to you, mr. valentine. valentine (remonstrating). well, really--(resigning himself.) thirty-one. philip (to dolly). you were wrong. dolly. so were you. philip (suddenly conscientious). we're forgetting our manners, dolly. dolly (remorseful). yes, so we are. philip (apologetic). we interrupted you, mr. valentine. dolly. you were going to improve our minds, i think. valentine. the fact is, your-- philip (anticipating him). our appearance? dolly. our manners? valentine (ad misericordiam). oh, do let me speak. dolly. the old story. we talk too much. philip. we do. shut up, both. (he seats himself on the arm of the opposing chair.) dolly. mum! (she sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes her lips tight with the tips of her fingers.) valentine. thank you. (he brings the stool from the bench in the corner; places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. they attend to him with extreme gravity. he addresses himself first to dolly.) now may i ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an english seaside resort before? (she shakes her head slowly and solemnly. he turns to phil, who shakes his head quickly and expressively.) i thought so. well, mr. clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been voluble; and i have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither of you capable of conceiving what life in an english seaside resort is. believe me, it's not a question of manners and appearance. in those respects we enjoy a freedom unknown in madeira. (dolly shakes her head vehemently.) oh, yes, i assure you. lord de cresci's sister bicycles in knickerbockers; and the rector's wife advocates dress reform and wears hygienic boots. (dolly furtively looks at her own shoe: valentine catches her in the act, and deftly adds) no, that's not the sort of boot i mean. (dolly's shoe vanishes.) we don't bother much about dress and manners in england, because, as a nation we don't dress well and we've no manners. but--and now will you excuse my frankness? (they nod.) thank you. well, in a seaside resort there's one thing you must have before anybody can afford to be seen going about with you; and that's a father, alive or dead. (he looks at them alternately, with emphasis. they meet his gaze like martyrs.) am i to infer that you have omitted that indispensable part of your social equipment? (they confirm him by melancholy nods.) them i'm sorry to say that if you are going to stay here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me to accept your kind invitation to lunch. (he rises with an air of finality, and replaces the stool by the bench.) philip (rising with grave politeness). come, dolly. (he gives her his arm.) dolly. good morning. (they go together to the door with perfect dignity.) valentine (overwhelmed with remorse). oh, stop, stop. (they halt and turn, arm in arm.) you make me feel a perfect beast. dolly. that's your conscience: not us. valentine (energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional manner). my conscience! my conscience has been my ruin. listen to me. twice before i have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in various parts of england. on both occasions i acted conscientiously, and told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be told. result, ruin. now i've set up as a dentist, a five shilling dentist; and i've done with conscience forever. this is my last chance. i spent my last sovereign on moving in; and i haven't paid a shilling of rent yet. i'm eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as a jew and as hard as nails; and i've made five shillings in six weeks. if i swerve by a hair's breadth from the straight line of the most rigid respectability, i'm done for. under such a circumstance, is it fair to ask me to lunch with you when you don't know your own father? dolly. after all, our grandfather is a canon of lincoln cathedral. valentine (like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon). what! have you a grandfather? dolly. only one. valentine. my dear, good young friends, why on earth didn't you tell me that before? a cannon of lincoln! that makes it all right, of course. just excuse me while i change my coat. (he reaches the door in a bound and vanishes. dolly and phil stare after him, and then stare at one another. missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace at once.) philip (throwing away dolly's arm and coming ill-humoredly towards the operating chair). that wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch--probably the first square meal he has had for months. (he gives the chair a kick, as if it were valentine.) dolly. it's too beastly. i won't stand it any longer, phil. here in england everybody asks whether you have a father the very first thing. philip. i won't stand it either. mamma must tell us who he was. dolly. or who he is. he may be alive. philip. i hope not. no man alive shall father me. dolly. he might have a lot of money, though. philip. i doubt it. my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that if he had a lot of money he wouldn't have got rid of his affectionate family so easily. anyhow, let's look at the bright side of things. depend on it, he's dead. (he goes to the hearth and stands with his back to the fireplace, spreading himself. the parlor maid appears. the twins, under observation, instantly shine out again with their former brilliancy.) the parlor maid. two ladies for you, miss. your mother and sister, miss, i think. mrs. clandon and gloria come in. mrs. clandon is between forty and fifty, with a slight tendency to soft, sedentary fat, and a fair remainder of good looks, none the worse preserved because she has evidently followed the old tribal matronly fashion of making no pretension in that direction after her marriage, and might almost be suspected of wearing a cap at home. she carries herself artificially well, as women were taught to do as a part of good manners by dancing masters and reclining boards before these were superseded by the modern artistic cult of beauty and health. her hair, a flaxen hazel fading into white, is crimped, and parted in the middle with the ends plaited and made into a knot, from which observant people of a certain age infer that mrs. clandon had sufficient individuality and good taste to stand out resolutely against the now forgotten chignon in her girlhood. in short, she is distinctly old fashioned for her age in dress and manners. but she belongs to the forefront of her own period (say - ) in a jealously assertive attitude of character and intellect, and in being a woman of cultivated interests rather than passionately developed personal affections. her voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane; and she lends herself conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations of fondness by which her children mark their esteem for her; but displays of personal sentiment secretly embarrass her: passion in her is humanitarian rather than human: she feels strongly about social questions and principles, not about persons. only, one observes that this reasonableness and intense personal privacy, which leaves her relations with gloria and phil much as they might be between her and the children of any other woman, breaks down in the case of dolly. though almost every word she addresses to her is necessarily in the nature of a remonstrance for some breach of decorum, the tenderness in her voice is unmistakable; and it is not surprising that years of such remonstrance have left dolly hopelessly spoiled. gloria, who is hardly past twenty, is a much more formidable person than her mother. she is the incarnation of haughty highmindedness, raging with the impatience of an impetuous, dominative character paralyzed by the impotence of her youth, and unwillingly disciplined by the constant danger of ridicule from her lighter-handed juniors. unlike her mother, she is all passion; and the conflict of her passion with her obstinate pride and intense fastidiousness results in a freezing coldness of manner. in an ugly woman all this would be repulsive; but gloria is an attractive woman. her deep chestnut hair, olive brown skin, long eyelashes, shaded grey eyes that often flash like stars, delicately turned full lips, and compact and supple, but muscularly plump figure appeal with disdainful frankness to the senses and imagination. a very dangerous girl, one would say, if the moral passions were not also marked, and even nobly marked, in a fine brow. her tailor-made skirt-and-jacket dress of saffron brown cloth, seems conventional when her back is turned; but it displays in front a blouse of sea-green silk which upsets its conventionality with one stroke, and sets her apart as effectually as the twins from the ordinary run of fashionable seaside humanity. mrs. clandon comes a little way into the room, looking round to see who is present. gloria, who studiously avoids encouraging the twins by betraying any interest in them, wanders to the window and looks out with her thoughts far away. the parlor maid, instead of withdrawing, shuts the door and waits at it. mrs. clandon. well, children? how is the toothache, dolly? dolly. cured, thank heaven. i've had it out. (she sits down on the step of the operating chair. mrs. clandon takes the writing-table chair.) philip (striking in gravely from the hearth). and the dentist, a first-rate professional man of the highest standing, is coming to lunch with us. mrs. clandon (looking round apprehensively at the servant). phil! the parlor maid. beg pardon, ma'am. i'm waiting for mr. valentine. i have a message for him. dolly. who from? mrs. clandon (shocked). dolly! (dolly catches her lips with her finger tips, suppressing a little splutter of mirth.) the parlor maid. only the landlord, ma'am. valentine, in a blue serge suit, with a straw hat in his hand, comes back in high spirits, out of breath with the haste he has made. gloria turns from the window and studies him with freezing attention. philip. let me introduce you, mr. valentine. my mother, mrs. lanfrey clandon. (mrs. clandon bows. valentine bows, self-possessed and quite equal to the occasion.) my sister gloria. (gloria bows with cold dignity and sits down on the sofa. valentine falls in love at first sight and is miserably confused. he fingers his hat nervously, and makes her a sneaking bow.) mrs. clandon. i understand that we are to have the pleasure of seeing you at luncheon to-day, mr. valentine. valentine. thank you--er--if you don't mind--i mean if you will be so kind--(to the parlor maid testily) what is it? the parlor maid. the landlord, sir, wishes to speak to you before you go out. valentine. oh, tell him i have four patients here. (the clandons look surprised, except phil, who is imperturbable.) if he wouldn't mind waiting just two minutes, i--i'll slip down and see him for a moment. (throwing himself confidentially on her sense of the position.) say i'm busy, but that i want to see him. the parlor maid (reassuringly). yes, sir. (she goes.) mrs. clandon (on the point of rising). we are detaining you, i am afraid. valentine. not at all, not at all. your presence here will be the greatest help to me. the fact is, i owe six week's rent; and i've had no patients until to-day. my interview with my landlord will be considerably smoothed by the apparent boom in my business. dolly (vexed). oh, how tiresome of you to let it all out! and we've just been pretending that you were a respectable professional man in a first-rate position. mrs. clandon (horrified). oh, dolly, dolly! my dearest, how can you be so rude? (to valentine.) will you excuse these barbarian children of mine, mr. valentine? valentine. thank you, i'm used to them. would it be too much to ask you to wait five minutes while i get rid of my landlord downstairs? dolly. don't be long. we're hungry. mrs. clandon (again remonstrating). dolly, dear! valentine (to dolly). all right. (to mrs. clandon.) thank you: i shan't be long. (he steals a look at gloria as he turns to go. she is looking gravely at him. he falls into confusion.) i--er--er--yes--thank you (he succeeds at last in blundering himself out of the room; but the exhibition is a pitiful one). philip. did you observe? (pointing to gloria.) love at first sight. you can add his scalp to your collection, gloria. mrs. clandon. sh--sh, pray, phil. he may have heard you. philip. not he. (bracing himself for a scene.) and now look here, mamma. (he takes the stool from the bench; and seats himself majestically in the middle of the room, taking a leaf out of valentine's book. dolly, feeling that her position on the step of the operating chair is unworthy of the dignity of the occasion, rises, looking important and determined; crosses to the window; and stands with her back to the end of the writing-table, her hands behind her and on the table. mrs. clandon looks at them, wondering what is coming. gloria becomes attentive. philip straightens his back; places his knuckles symmetrically on his knees; and opens his case.) dolly and i have been talking over things a good deal lately; and i don't think, judging from my knowledge of human nature--we don't think that you (speaking very staccato, with the words detached) quite appreciate the fact-- dolly (seating herself on the end of the table with a spring). that we've grown up. mrs. clandon. indeed? in what way have i given you any reason to complain? philip. well, there are certain matters upon which we are beginning to feel that you might take us a little more into your confidence. mrs. clandon (rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly broken up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike but implacable--the manner of the old guard of the women's rights movement--coming upon her). phil: take care. remember what i have always taught you. there are two sorts of family life, phil; and your experience of human nature only extends, so far, to one of them. (rhetorically.) the sort you know is based on mutual respect, on recognition of the right of every member of the household to independence and privacy (her emphasis on "privacy" is intense) in their personal concerns. and because you have always enjoyed that, it seems such a matter of course to you that you don't value it. but (with biting acrimony) there is another sort of family life: a life in which husbands open their wives' letters, and call on them to account for every farthing of their expenditure and every moment of their time; in which women do the same to their children; in which no room is private and no hour sacred; in which duty, obedience, affection, home, morality and religion are detestable tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of punishments and lies, coercion and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion, recrimination--oh! i cannot describe it to you: fortunately for you, you know nothing about it. (she sits down, panting. gloria has listened to her with flashing eyes, sharing all her indignation.) dolly (inaccessible to rhetoric). see twentieth century parents, chapter on liberty, passim. mrs. clandon (touching her shoulder affectionately, soothed even by a gibe from her). my dear dolly: if you only knew how glad i am that it is nothing but a joke to you, though it is such bitter earnest to me. (more resolutely, turning to philip.) phil, i never ask you questions about your private concerns. you are not going to question me, are you? philip. i think it due to ourselves to say that the question we wanted to ask is as much our business as yours. dolly. besides, it can't be good to keep a lot of questions bottled up inside you. you did it, mamma; but see how awfully it's broken out again in me. mrs. clandon. i see you want to ask your question. ask it. dolly and philip (beginning simultaneously). who-- (they stop.) philip. now look here, dolly: am i going to conduct this business or are you? dolly. you. philip. then hold your mouth. (dolly does so literally.) the question is a simple one. when the ivory snatcher-- mrs. clandon (remonstrating). phil! philip. dentist is an ugly word. the man of ivory and gold asked us whether we were the children of mr. densmore clandon of newbury hall. in pursuance of the precepts in your treatise on twentieth century conduct, and your repeated personal exhortations to us to curtail the number of unnecessary lies we tell, we replied truthfully the we didn't know. dolly. neither did we. philip. sh! the result was that the gum architect made considerable difficulties about accepting our invitation to lunch, although i doubt if he has had anything but tea and bread and butter for a fortnight past. now my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that we had a father, and that you probably know who he was. mrs. clandon (her agitation returning). stop, phil. your father is nothing to you, nor to me (vehemently). that is enough. (the twins are silenced, but not satisfied. their faces fall. but gloria, who has been following the altercation attentively, suddenly intervenes.) gloria (advancing). mother: we have a right to know. mrs. clandon (rising and facing her). gloria! "we!" who is "we"? gloria (steadfastly). we three. (her tone is unmistakable: she is pitting her strength against her mother for the first time. the twins instantly go over to the enemy.) mrs. clandon (wounded). in your mouth "we" used to mean you and i, gloria. philip (rising decisively and putting away the stool). we're hurting you: let's drop it. we didn't think you'd mind. i don't want to know. dolly (coming off the table). i'm sure i don't. oh, don't look like that, mamma. (she looks angrily at gloria.) mrs. clandon (touching her eyes hastily with her handkerchief and sitting down again). thank you, my dear. thanks, phil. gloria (inexorably). we have a right to know, mother. mrs. clandon (indignantly). ah! you insist. gloria. do you intend that we shall never know? dolly. oh, gloria, don't. it's barbarous. gloria (with quiet scorn). what is the use of being weak? you see what has happened with this gentleman here, mother. the same thing has happened to me. mrs. clandon } (all { what do you mean? dolly } together). { oh, tell us. philip } { what happened to you? gloria. oh, nothing of any consequence. (she turns away from them and goes up to the easy chair at the fireplace, where she sits down, almost with her back to them. as they wait expectantly, she adds, over her shoulder, with studied indifference.) on board the steamer the first officer did me the honor to propose to me. dolly. no, it was to me. mrs. clandon. the first officer! are you serious, gloria? what did you say to him? (correcting herself) excuse me: i have no right to ask that. gloria. the answer is pretty obvious. a woman who does not know who her father was cannot accept such an offer. mrs. clandon. surely you did not want to accept it? gloria (turning a little and raising her voice). no; but suppose i had wanted to! philip. did that difficulty strike you, dolly? dolly. no, i accepted him. gloria } (all crying { accepted him! mrs. clandon } out { dolly! philip } together) { oh, i say! dolly (naively). he did look such a fool! mrs. clandon. but why did you do such a thing, dolly? dolly. for fun, i suppose. he had to measure my finger for a ring. you'd have done the same thing yourself. mrs. clandon. no, dolly, i would not. as a matter of fact the first officer did propose to me; and i told him to keep that sort of thing for women were young enough to be amused by it. he appears to have acted on my advice. (she rises and goes to the hearth.) gloria: i am sorry you think me weak; but i cannot tell you what you want. you are all too young. philip. this is rather a startling departure from twentieth century principles. dolly (quoting). "answer all your children's questions, and answer them truthfully, as soon as they are old enough to ask them." see twentieth century motherhood-- philip. page one-- dolly. chapter one-- philip. sentence one. mrs. clandon. my dears: i did not say that you were too young to know. i said you were too young to be taken into my confidence. you are very bright children, all of you; but i am glad for your sakes that you are still very inexperienced and consequently very unsympathetic. there are some experiences of mine that i cannot bear to speak of except to those who have gone through what i have gone through. i hope you will never be qualified for such confidences. but i will take care that you shall learn all you want to know. will that satisfy you? philip. another grievance, dolly. dolly. we're not sympathetic. gloria (leaning forward in her chair and looking earnestly up at her mother). mother: i did not mean to be unsympathetic. mrs. clandon (affectionately). of course not, dear. do you think i don't understand? gloria (rising). but, mother-- mrs. clandon (drawing back a little). yes? gloria (obstinately). it is nonsense to tell us that our father is nothing to us. mrs. clandon (provoked to sudden resolution). do you remember your father? gloria (meditatively, as if the recollection were a tender one). i am not quite sure. i think so. mrs. clandon (grimly). you are not sure? gloria. no. mrs. clandon (with quiet force). gloria: if i had ever struck you-- (gloria recoils: philip and dolly are disagreeably shocked; all three start at her, revolted as she continues)--struck you purposely, deliberately, with the intention of hurting you, with a whip bought for the purpose! would you remember that, do you think? (gloria utters an exclamation of indignant repulsion.) that would have been your last recollection of your father, gloria, if i had not taken you away from him. i have kept him out of your life: keep him now out of mine by never mentioning him to me again. (gloria, with a shudder, covers her face with her hands, until, hearing someone at the door, she turns away and pretends to occupy herself looking at the names of the books in the bookcase. mrs. clandon sits down on the sofa. valentine returns.). valentine. i hope i've not kept you waiting. that landlord of mine is really an extraordinary old character. dolly (eagerly). oh, tell us. how long has he given you to pay? mrs. clandon (distracted by her child's bad manners). dolly, dolly, dolly dear! you must not ask questions. dolly (demurely). so sorry. you'll tell us, won't you, mr. valentine? valentine. he doesn't want his rent at all. he's broken his tooth on a brazil nut; and he wants me to look at it and to lunch with him afterwards. dolly. then have him up and pull his tooth out at once; and we'll bring him to lunch, too. tell the maid to fetch him along. (she runs to the bell and rings it vigorously. then, with a sudden doubt she turns to valentine and adds) i suppose he's respectable--really respectable. valentine. perfectly. not like me. dolly. honest injun? (mrs. clandon gasps faintly; but her powers of remonstrance are exhausted.) valentine. honest injun! dolly. then off with you and bring him up. valentine (looking dubiously at mrs. clandon). i daresay he'd be delighted if--er--? mrs. clandon (rising and looking at her watch). i shall be happy to see your friend at lunch, if you can persuade him to come; but i can't wait to see him now: i have an appointment at the hotel at a quarter to one with an old friend whom i have not seen since i left england eighteen years ago. will you excuse me? valentine. certainly, mrs. clandon. gloria. shall i come? mrs. clandon. no, dear. i want to be alone. (she goes out, evidently still a good deal troubled. valentine opens the door for her and follows her out.) philip (significantly--to dolly). hmhm! dolly (significantly to philip). ahah! (the parlor maid answers the bell.) dolly. show the old gentleman up. the parlor maid (puzzled). madam? dolly. the old gentleman with the toothache. philip. the landlord. the parlor maid. mr. crampton, sir? philip. is his name crampton? dolly (to philip). sounds rheumaticky, doesn't it? philip. chalkstones, probably. dolly (over her shoulder, to the parlor maid). show mr. crampstones up. (goes r. to writing-table chair). the parlor maid (correcting her). mr. crampton, miss. (she goes.) dolly (repeating it to herself like a lesson). crampton, crampton, crampton, crampton, crampton. (she sits down studiously at the writing-table.) i must get that name right, or heaven knows what i shall call him. gloria. phil: can you believe such a horrible thing as that about our father--what mother said just now? philip. oh, there are lots of people of that kind. old chalice used to thrash his wife and daughters with a cartwhip. dolly (contemptuously). yes, a portuguese! philip. when you come to men who are brutes, there is much in common between the portuguese and the english variety, doll. trust my knowledge of human nature. (he resumes his position on the hearthrug with an elderly and responsible air.) gloria (with angered remorse). i don't think we shall ever play again at our old game of guessing what our father was to be like. dolly: are you sorry for your father--the father with lots of money? dolly. oh, come! what about your father--the lonely old man with the tender aching heart? he's pretty well burst up, i think. philip. there can be no doubt that the governor is an exploded superstition. (valentine is heard talking to somebody outside the door.) but hark: he comes. gloria (nervously). who? dolly. chalkstones. philip. sh! attention. (they put on their best manners. philip adds in a lower voice to gloria) if he's good enough for the lunch, i'll nod to dolly; and if she nods to you, invite him straight away. (valentine comes back with his landlord. mr. fergus crampton is a man of about sixty, tall, hard and stringy, with an atrociously obstinate, ill tempered, grasping mouth, and a querulously dogmatic voice. withal he is highly nervous and sensitive, judging by his thin transparent skin marked with multitudinous lines, and his slender fingers. his consequent capacity for suffering acutely from all the dislike that his temper and obstinacy can bring upon him is proved by his wistful, wounded eyes, by a plaintive note in his voice, a painful want of confidence in his welcome, and a constant but indifferently successful effort to correct his natural incivility of manner and proneness to take offence. by his keen brows and forehead he is clearly a shrewd man; and there is no sign of straitened means or commercial diffidence about him: he is well dressed, and would be classed at a guess as a prosperous master manufacturer in a business inherited from an old family in the aristocracy of trade. his navy blue coat is not of the usual fashionable pattern. it is not exactly a pilot's coat; but it is cut that way, double breasted, and with stout buttons and broad lapels, a coat for a shipyard rather than a counting house. he has taken a fancy to valentine, who cares nothing for his crossness of grain and treats him with a sort of disrespectful humanity, for which he is secretly grateful.) valentine. may i introduce--this is mr. crampton--miss dorothy clandon, mr. philip clandon, miss clandon. (crampton stands nervously bowing. they all bow.) sit down, mr. crampton. dolly (pointing to the operating chair). that is the most comfortable chair, mr. ch--crampton. crampton. thank you; but won't this young lady--(indicating gloria, who is close to the chair)? gloria. thank you, mr. crampton: we are just going. valentine (bustling him across to the chair with good-humored peremptoriness). sit down, sit down. you're tired. crampton. well, perhaps as i am considerably the oldest person present, i-- (he finishes the sentence by sitting down a little rheumatically in the operating chair. meanwhile, philip, having studied him critically during his passage across the room, nods to dolly; and dolly nods to gloria.) gloria. mr. crampton: we understand that we are preventing mr. valentine from lunching with you by taking him away ourselves. my mother would be very glad, indeed, if you would come too. crampton (gratefully, after looking at her earnestly for a moment). thank you. i will come with pleasure. gloria } (politely { thank you very much--er-- dolly } murmuring).{ so glad--er-- philip } { delighted, i'm sure--er-- (the conversation drops. gloria and dolly look at one another; then at valentine and philip. valentine and philip, unequal to the occasion, look away from them at one another, and are instantly so disconcerted by catching one another's eye, that they look back again and catch the eyes of gloria and dolly. thus, catching one another all round, they all look at nothing and are quite at a loss. crampton looks about him, waiting for them to begin. the silence becomes unbearable.) dolly (suddenly, to keep things going). how old are you, mr. crampton? gloria (hastily). i am afraid we must be going, mr. valentine. it is understood, then, that we meet at half past one. (she makes for the door. philip goes with her. valentine retreats to the bell.) valentine. half past one. (he rings the bell.) many thanks. (he follows gloria and philip to the door, and goes out with them.) dolly (who has meanwhile stolen across to crampton). make him give you gas. it's five shillings extra: but it's worth it. crampton (amused). very well. (looking more earnestly at her.) so you want to know my age, do you? i'm fifty-seven. dolly (with conviction). you look it. crampton (grimly). i dare say i do. dolly. what are you looking at me so hard for? anything wrong? (she feels whether her hat is right.) crampton. you're like somebody. dolly. who? crampton. well, you have a curious look of my mother. dolly (incredulously). your mother!!! quite sure you don't mean your daughter? crampton (suddenly blackening with hate). yes: i'm quite sure i don't mean my daughter. dolly (sympathetically). tooth bad? crampton. no, no: nothing. a twinge of memory, miss clandon, not of toothache. dolly. have it out. "pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow:" with gas, five shillings extra. crampton (vindictively). no, not a sorrow. an injury that was done me once: that's all. i don't forget injuries; and i don't want to forget them. (his features settle into an implacable frown.) (re-enter philip: to look for dolly. he comes down behind her unobserved.) dolly (looking critically at crampton's expression). i don't think we shall like you when you are brooding over your sorrows. philip (who has entered the room unobserved, and stolen behind her). my sister means well, mr. crampton: but she is indiscreet. now dolly, outside! (he takes her towards the door.) dolly (in a perfectly audible undertone). he says he's only fifty-seven; and he thinks me the image of his mother; and he hates his daughter; and-- (she is interrupted by the return of valentine.) valentine. miss clandon has gone on. philip. don't forget half past one. dolly. mind you leave mr. crampton with enough teeth to eat with. (they go out. valentine comes down to his cabinet, and opens it.) crampton. that's a spoiled child, mr. valentine. that's one of your modern products. when i was her age, i had many a good hiding fresh in my memory to teach me manners. valentine (taking up his dental mirror and probe from the shelf in front of the cabinet). what did you think of her sister? crampton. you liked her better, eh? valentine (rhapsodically). she struck me as being-- (he checks himself, and adds, prosaically) however, that's not business. (he places himself behind crampton's right shoulder and assumes his professional tone.) open, please. (crampton opens his mouth. valentine puts the mirror in, and examines his teeth.) hm! you have broken that one. what a pity to spoil such a splendid set of teeth! why do you crack nuts with them? (he withdraws the mirror, and comes forward to converse with crampton.) crampton. i've always cracked nuts with them: what else are they for? (dogmatically.) the proper way to keep teeth good is to give them plenty of use on bones and nuts, and wash them every day with soap-- plain yellow soap. valentine. soap! why soap? crampton. i began using it as a boy because i was made to; and i've used it ever since. and i never had toothache in my life. valentine. don't you find it rather nasty? crampton. i found that most things that were good for me were nasty. but i was taught to put up with them, and made to put up with them. i'm used to it now: in fact, i like the taste when the soap is really good. valentine (making a wry face in spite of himself). you seem to have been very carefully educated, mr. crampton. crampton (grimly). i wasn't spoiled, at all events. valentine (smiling a little to himself). are you quite sure? crampton. what d'y' mean? valentine. well, your teeth are good, i admit. but i've seen just as good in very self-indulgent mouths. (he goes to the ledge of cabinet and changes the probe for another one.) crampton. it's not the effect on the teeth: it's the effect on the character. valentine (placably). oh, the character, i see. (he recommences operations.) a little wider, please. hm! that one will have to come out: it's past saving. (he withdraws the probe and again comes to the side of the chair to converse.) don't be alarmed: you shan't feel anything. i'll give you gas. crampton. rubbish, man: i want none of your gas. out with it. people were taught to bear necessary pain in my day. valentine. oh, if you like being hurt, all right. i'll hurt you as much as you like, without any extra charge for the beneficial effect on your character. crampton (rising and glaring at him). young man: you owe me six weeks' rent. valentine. i do. crampton. can you pay me? valentine. no. crampton (satisfied with his advantage). i thought not. how soon d'y' think you'll be able to pay me if you have no better manners than to make game of your patients? (he sits down again.) valentine. my good sir: my patients haven't all formed their characters on kitchen soap. crampton (suddenly gripping him by the arm as he turns away again to the cabinet). so much the worse for them. i tell you you don't understand my character. if i could spare all my teeth, i'd make you pull them all out one after another to shew you what a properly hardened man can go through with when he's made up his mind to do it. (he nods at him to enforce the effect of this declaration, and releases him.) valentine (his careless pleasantry quite unruffled). and you want to be more hardened, do you? crampton. yes. valentine (strolling away to the bell). well, you're quite hard enough for me already--as a landlord. (crampton receives this with a growl of grim humor. valentine rings the bell, and remarks in a cheerful, casual way, whilst waiting for it to be answered.) why did you never get married, mr. crampton? a wife and children would have taken some of the hardness out of you. crampton (with unexpected ferocity). what the devil is that to you? (the parlor maid appears at the door.) valentine (politely). some warm water, please. (she retires: and valentine comes back to the cabinet, not at all put out by crampton's rudeness, and carries on the conversation whilst he selects a forceps and places it ready to his hand with a gag and a drinking glass.) you were asking me what the devil that was to me. well, i have an idea of getting married myself. crampton (with grumbling irony). naturally, sir, naturally. when a young man has come to his last farthing, and is within twenty-four hours of having his furniture distrained upon by his landlord, he marries. i've noticed that before. well, marry; and be miserable. valentine. oh, come, what do you know about it? crampton. i'm not a bachelor. valentine. then there is a mrs. crampton? crampton (wincing with a pang of resentment). yes--damn her! valentine (unperturbed). hm! a father, too, perhaps, as well as a husband, mr. crampton? crampton. three children. valentine (politely). damn them?--eh? crampton (jealously). no, sir: the children are as much mine as hers. (the parlor maid brings in a jug of hot water.) valentine. thank you. (he takes the jug from her, and brings it to the cabinet, continuing in the same idle strain) i really should like to know your family, mr. crampton. (the parlor maid goes out: and he pours some hot water into the drinking glass.) crampton. sorry i can't introduce you, sir. i'm happy to say that i don't know where they are, and don't care, so long as they keep out of my way. (valentine, with a hitch of his eyebrows and shoulders, drops the forceps with a clink into the glass of hot water.) you needn't warm that thing to use on me. i'm not afraid of the cold steel. (valentine stoops to arrange the gas pump and cylinder beside the chair.) what's that heavy thing? valentine. oh, never mind. something to put my foot on, to get the necessary purchase for a good pull. (crampton looks alarmed in spite of himself. valentine stands upright and places the glass with the forceps in it ready to his hand, chatting on with provoking indifference.) and so you advise me not to get married, mr. crampton? (he stoops to fit the handle on the apparatus by which the chair is raised and lowered.) crampton (irritably). i advise you to get my tooth out and have done reminding me of my wife. come along, man. (he grips the arms of the chair and braces himself.) valentine (pausing, with his hand on the lever, to look up at him and say). what do you bet that i don't get that tooth out without your feeling it? crampton. your six week's rent, young man. don't you gammon me. valentine (jumping at the bet and winding him aloft vigorously). done! are you ready? (crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in his alarm at its sudden ascent, folds his arms: sits stiffly upright: and prepares for the worst. valentine lets down the back of the chair to an obtuse angle.) crampton (clutching at the arms of the chair as he falls back). take care man. i'm quite helpless in this po--- valentine (deftly stopping him with the gag, and snatching up the mouthpiece of the gas machine). you'll be more helpless presently. (he presses the mouthpiece over crampton's mouth and nose, leaning over his chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair. crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to lay hands on valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. after a moment his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. he is quite insensible. valentine, with an exclamation of somewhat preoccupied triumph, throws aside the mouthpiece quickly: picks up the forceps adroitly from the glass: and--the curtain falls.) end of act i. act ii on the terrace at the marine hotel. it is a square flagged platform, with a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone coping on the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff. the head waiter of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his left, in the corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to the beach. when he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to his left a solitary guest, a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair of iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three wasps on it, reading the standard, with his umbrella up to defend him from the sun, which, in august and at less than an hour after noon, is toasting his protended insteps. just opposite him, at the hotel side of the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern. access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of its facade, reached by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised pavement. nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by a little trellis porch. the table at which the waiter is occupied is a long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at each side and one at the end next the hotel. against the parapet another table is prepared as a buffet to serve from. the waiter is a remarkable person in his way. a silky old man, white-haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that in his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of the actual. he has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of the vanity of success, are untouched by envy. the gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. he wears his london frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table beside the sugar bowl. the excellent condition and quality of these garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading the standard, and the times at his elbow overlaying the local paper, all testify to his respectability. he is about fifty, clean shaven, and close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to let them have their way. he has large expansive ears, cod colored eyes, and a brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never succeeded in making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious. still, he is by no means to be laughed at. there is no sign of stupidity or infirmity of will about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere at sight as a man of more than average professional capacity and responsibility. just at present he is enjoying the weather and the sea too much to be out of patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his papers and is at present reduced to the advertisements, which are not sufficiently succulent to induce him to persevere with them. the gentleman (yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job). waiter! waiter. sir? (coming down c.) the gentleman. are you quite sure mrs. clandon is coming back before lunch? waiter. quite sure, sir. she expects you at a quarter to one, sir. (the gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter's voice, looks at him with a lazy smile. it is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing them, nor committing any other vulgarism. he looks at his watch as he continues) not that yet, sir, is it? : , sir. only two minutes more to wait, sir. nice morning, sir? the gentleman. yes: very fresh after london. waiter. yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. very nice family, mrs. clandon's, sir. the gentleman. you like them, do you? waiter. yes, sir. they have a free way with them that is very taking, sir, very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and gentleman. the gentleman. miss dorothea and mr. philip, i suppose. waiter. yes, sir. the young lady, in giving an order, or the like of that, will say, "remember, william, we came to this hotel on your account, having heard what a perfect waiter you are." the young gentleman will tell me that i remind him strongly of his father (the gentleman starts at this) and that he expects me to act by him as such. (soothing, sunny cadence.) oh, very pleasant, sir, very affable and pleasant indeed! the gentleman. you like his father! (he laughs at the notion.) waiter. oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. of course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the resemblance, too, sir. the gentleman. did she? waiter. no, sir. she thought me like the bust of shakespear in stratford church, sir. that is why she calls me william, sir. my real name is walter, sir. (he turns to go back to the table, and sees mrs. clandon coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps.) here is mrs. clandon, sir. (to mrs. clandon, in an unobtrusively confidential tone) gentleman for you, ma'am. mrs. clandon. we shall have two more gentlemen at lunch, william. waiter. right, ma'am. thank you, ma'am. (he withdraws into the hotel. mrs. clandon comes forward looking round for her visitor, but passes over the gentleman without any sign of recognition.) the gentleman (peering at her quaintly from under the umbrella). don't you know me? mrs. clandon (incredulously, looking hard at him) are you finch mccomas? mccomas. can't you guess? (he shuts the umbrella; puts it aside; and jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be inspected.) mrs. clandon. i believe you are. (she gives him her hand. the shake that ensues is that of old friends after a long separation.) where's your beard? mccomas (with humorous solemnity). would you employ a solicitor with a beard? mrs. clandon (pointing to the silk hat on the table). is that your hat? mccomas. would you employ a solicitor with a sombrero? mrs. clandon. i have thought of you all these eighteen years with the beard and the sombrero. (she sits down on the garden seat. mccomas takes his chair again.) do you go to the meetings of the dialectical society still? mccomas (gravely). i do not frequent meetings now. mrs. clandon. finch: i see what has happened. you have become respectable. mccomas. haven't you? mrs. clandon. not a bit. mccomas. you hold to your old opinions still? mrs. clandon. as firmly as ever. mccomas. bless me! and you are still ready to make speeches in public, in spite of your sex (mrs. clandon nods); to insist on a married woman's right to her own separate property (she nods again); to champion darwin's view of the origin of species and john stuart mill's essay on liberty (nod); to read huxley, tyndall and george eliot (three nods); and to demand university degrees, the opening of the professions, and the parliamentary franchise for women as well as men? mrs. clandon (resolutely). yes: i have not gone back one inch; and i have educated gloria to take up my work where i left it. that is what has brought me back to england: i felt that i had no right to bury her alive in madeira--my st. helena, finch. i suppose she will be howled at as i was; but she is prepared for that. mccomas. howled at! my dear good lady: there is nothing in any of those views now-a-days to prevent her from marrying a bishop. you reproached me just now for having become respectable. you were wrong: i hold to our old opinions as strongly as ever. i don't go to church; and i don't pretend i do. i call myself what i am: a philosophic radical, standing for liberty and the rights of the individual, as i learnt to do from my master herbert spencer. am i howled at? no: i'm indulged as an old fogey. i'm out of everything, because i've refused to bow the knee to socialism. mrs. clandon (shocked). socialism. mccomas. yes, socialism. that's what miss gloria will be up to her ears in before the end of the month if you let her loose here. mrs. clandon (emphatically). but i can prove to her that socialism is a fallacy. mccomas (touchingly). it is by proving that, mrs. clandon, that i have lost all my young disciples. be careful what you do: let her go her own way. (with some bitterness.) we're old-fashioned: the world thinks it has left us behind. there is only one place in all england where your opinions would still pass as advanced. mrs. clandon (scornfully unconvinced). the church, perhaps? mccomas. no, the theatre. and now to business! why have you made me come down here? mrs. clandon. well, partly because i wanted to see you-- mccomas (with good-humored irony). thanks. mrs. clandon. --and partly because i want you to explain everything to the children. they know nothing; and now that we have come back to england, it is impossible to leave them in ignorance any longer. (agitated.) finch: i cannot bring myself to tell them. i-- (she is interrupted by the twins and gloria. dolly comes tearing up the steps, racing philip, who combines a terrific speed with unhurried propriety of bearing which, however, costs him the race, as dolly reaches her mother first and almost upsets the garden seat by the precipitancy of her arrival.) dolly (breathless). it's all right, mamma. the dentist is coming; and he's bringing his old man. mrs. clandon. dolly, dear: don't you see mr. mccomas? (mr. mccomas rises, smilingly.) dolly (her face falling with the most disparagingly obvious disappointment). this! where are the flowing locks? philip (seconding her warmly). where the beard?--the cloak?--the poetic exterior? dolly. oh, mr. mccomas, you've gone and spoiled yourself. why didn't you wait till we'd seen you? mccomas (taken aback, but rallying his humor to meet the emergency). because eighteen years is too long for a solicitor to go without having his hair cut. gloria (at the other side of mccomas). how do you do, mr. mccomas? (he turns; and she takes his hand and presses it, with a frank straight look into his eyes.) we are glad to meet you at last. mccomas. miss gloria, i presume? (gloria smiles assent, and releases his hand after a final pressure. she then retires behind the garden seat, leaning over the back beside mrs. clandon.) and this young gentleman? philip. i was christened in a comparatively prosaic mood. my name is-- dolly (completing his sentence for him declamatorily). "norval. on the grampian hills"-- philip (declaiming gravely). "my father feeds his flock, a frugal swain"-- mrs. clandon (remonstrating). dear, dear children: don't be silly. everything is so new to them here, finch, that they are in the wildest spirits. they think every englishman they meet is a joke. dolly. well, so he is: it's not our fault. philip. my knowledge of human nature is fairly extensive, mr. mccomas; but i find it impossible to take the inhabitants of this island seriously. mccomas. i presume, sir, you are master philip (offering his hand)? philip (taking mccomas's hand and looking solemnly at him). i was master philip--was so for many years; just as you were once master finch. (he gives his hand a single shake and drops it; then turns away, exclaiming meditatively) how strange it is to look back on our boyhood! (mccomas stares after him, not at all pleased.) dolly (to mrs. clandon). has finch had a drink? mrs. clandon (remonstrating). dearest: mr. mccomas will lunch with us. dolly. have you ordered for seven? don't forget the old gentleman. mrs. clandon. i have not forgotten him, dear. what is his name? dolly. chalkstones. he'll be here at half past one. (to mccomas.) are we like what you expected? mrs. clandon (changing her tone to a more earnest one). dolly: mr. mccomas has something more serious than that to tell you. children: i have asked my old friend to answer the question you asked this morning. he is your father's friend as well as mine: and he will tell you the story more fairly than i could. (turning her head from them to gloria.) gloria: are you satisfied? gloria (gravely attentive). mr. mccomas is very kind. mccomas (nervously). not at all, my dear young lady: not at all. at the same time, this is rather sudden. i was hardly prepared--er-- dolly (suspiciously). oh, we don't want anything prepared. philip (exhorting him). tell us the truth. dolly (emphatically). bald headed. mccomas (nettled). i hope you intend to take what i have to say seriously. philip (with profound mock gravity). i hope it will deserve it, mr. mccomas. my knowledge of human nature teaches me not to expect too much. mrs. clandon (remonstrating). phil-- philip. yes, mother, all right. i beg your pardon, mr. mccomas: don't mind us. dolly (in conciliation). we mean well. philip. shut up, both. (dolly holds her lips. mccomas takes a chair from the luncheon table; places it between the little table and the garden seat with dolly on his right and philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the air of a man about to begin a long communication. the clandons match him expectantly.) mccomas. ahem! your father-- dolly (interrupting). how old is he? philip. sh! mrs. clandon (softly). dear dolly: don't let us interrupt mr. mccomas. mccomas (emphatically). thank you, mrs. clandon. thank you. (to dolly.) your father is fifty-seven. dolly (with a bound, startled and excited). fifty-seven! where does he live? mrs. clandon (remonstrating). dolly, dolly! mccomas (stopping her). let me answer that, mrs. clandon. the answer will surprise you considerably. he lives in this town. (mrs. clandon rises. she and gloria look at one another in the greatest consternation.) dolly (with conviction). i knew it! phil: chalkstones is our father. mccomas. chalkstones! dolly. oh, crampstones, or whatever it is. he said i was like his mother. i knew he must mean his daughter. philip (very seriously). mr. mccomas: i desire to consider your feelings in every possible way: but i warn you that if you stretch the long arm of coincidence to the length of telling me that mr. crampton of this town is my father, i shall decline to entertain the information for a moment. mccomas. and pray why? philip. because i have seen the gentleman; and he is entirely unfit to be my father, or dolly's father, or gloria's father, or my mother's husband. mccomas. oh, indeed! well, sir, let me tell you that whether you like it or not, he is your father, and your sister' father, and mrs. clandon's husband. now! what have you to say to that! dolly (whimpering). you needn't be so cross. crampton isn't your father. philip. mr. mccomas: your conduct is heartless. here you find a family enjoying the unspeakable peace and freedom of being orphans. we have never seen the face of a relative--never known a claim except the claim of freely chosen friendship. and now you wish to thrust into the most intimate relationship with us a man whom we don't know-- dolly (vehemently). an awful old man! (reproachfully) and you began as if you had quite a nice father for us. mccomas (angrily). how do you know that he is not nice? and what right have you to choose your own father? (raising his voice.) let me tell you, miss clandon, that you are too young to-- dolly (interrupting him suddenly and eagerly). stop, i forgot! has he any money? mccomas. he has a great deal of money. dolly (delighted). oh, what did i always say, phil? philip. dolly: we have perhaps been condemning the old man too hastily. proceed, mr. mccomas. mccomas. i shall not proceed, sir. i am too hurt, too shocked, to proceed. mrs. clandon (urgently). finch: do you realize what is happening? do you understand that my children have invited that man to lunch, and that he will be here in a few moments? mccomas (completely upset). what! do you mean--am i to understand--is it-- philip (impressively). steady, finch. think it out slowly and carefully. he's coming--coming to lunch. gloria. which of us is to tell him the truth? have you thought of that? mrs. clandon. finch: you must tell him. dolly oh, finch is no good at telling things. look at the mess he has made of telling us. mccomas. i have not been allowed to speak. i protest against this. dolly (taking his arm coaxingly). dear finch: don't be cross. mrs. clandon. gloria: let us go in. he may arrive at any moment. gloria (proudly). do not stir, mother. i shall not stir. we must not run away. mrs. clandon (delicately rebuking her). my dear: we cannot sit down to lunch just as we are. we shall come back again. we must have no bravado. (gloria winces, and goes into the hotel without a word.) come, dolly. (as she goes into the hotel door, the waiter comes out with plates, etc., for two additional covers on a tray.) waiter. gentlemen come yet, ma'am? mrs. clandon. two more to come yet, thank you. they will be here, immediately. (she goes into the hotel. the waiter takes his tray to the service table.) philip. i have an idea. mr. mccomas: this communication should be made, should it not, by a man of infinite tact? mccomas. it will require tact, certainly. philip good! dolly: whose tact were you noticing only this morning? dolly (seizing the idea with rapture). oh, yes, i declare! william! philip. the very man! (calling) william! waiter. coming, sir. mccomas (horrified). the waiter! stop, stop! i will not permit this. i-- waiter (presenting himself between philip and mccomas). yes, sir. (mccomas's complexion fades into stone grey; and all movement and expression desert his eyes. he sits down stupefied.) philip. william: you remember my request to you to regard me as your son? waiter (with respectful indulgence). yes, sir. anything you please, sir. philip. william: at the very outset of your career as my father, a rival has appeared on the scene. waiter. your real father, sir? well, that was to be expected, sooner or later, sir, wasn't it? (turning with a happy smile to mccomas.) is it you, sir? mccomas (renerved by indignation). certainly not. my children know how to behave themselves. philip. no, william: this gentleman was very nearly my father: he wooed my mother, but wooed her in vain. mccomas (outraged). well, of all the-- philip. sh! consequently, he is only our solicitor. do you know one crampton, of this town? waiter. cock-eyed crampton, sir, of the crooked billet, is it? philip. i don't know. finch: does he keep a public house? mccomas (rising scandalized). no, no, no. your father, sir, is a well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here. waiter (impressed). oh, beg pardon, sir, i'm sure. a son of mr. crampton's! dear me! philip. mr. crampton is coming to lunch with us. waiter (puzzled). yes, sir. (diplomatically.) don't usually lunch with his family, perhaps, sir? philip (impressively). william: he does not know that we are his family. he has not seen us for eighteen years. he won't know us. (to emphasize the communication he seats himself on the iron table with a spring, and looks at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs swinging.) dolly. we want you to break the news to him, william. waiter. but i should think he'd guess when he sees your mother, miss. (philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. he contemplates the waiter raptly.) dolly (dazzled). i never thought of that. philip. nor i. (coming off the table and turning reproachfully on mccomas.) nor you. dolly. and you a solicitor! philip. finch: your professional incompetence is appalling. william: your sagacity puts us all to shame. dolly you really are like shakespear, william. waiter. not at all, sir. don't mention it, miss. most happy, i'm sure, sir. (goes back modestly to the luncheon table and lays the two additional covers, one at the end next the steps, and the other so as to make a third on the side furthest from the balustrade.) philip (abruptly). finch: come and wash your hands. (seizes his arm and leads him toward the hotel.) mccomas. i am thoroughly vexed and hurt, mr. clandon-- philip (interrupting him). you will get used to us. come, dolly. (mccomas shakes him off and marches into the hotel. philip follows with unruffled composure.) dolly (turning for a moment on the steps as she follows them). keep your wits about you, william. there will be fire-works. waiter. right, miss. you may depend on me, miss. (she goes into the hotel.) (valentine comes lightly up the steps from the beach, followed doggedly by crampton. valentine carries a walking stick. crampton, either because he is old and chilly, or with some idea of extenuating the unfashionableness of his reefer jacket, wears a light overcoat. he stops at the chair left by mccomas in the middle of the terrace, and steadies himself for a moment by placing his hand on the back of it.) crampton. those steps make me giddy. (he passes his hand over his forehead.) i have not got over that infernal gas yet. (he goes to the iron chair, so that he can lean his elbows on the little table to prop his head as he sits. he soon recovers, and begins to unbutton his overcoat. meanwhile valentine interviews the waiter.) valentine. waiter! waiter (coming forward between them). yes, sir. valentine. mrs. lanfrey clandon. waiter (with a sweet smile of welcome). yes, sir. we're expecting you, sir. that is your table, sir. mrs. clandon will be down presently, sir. the young lady and young gentleman were just talking about your friend, sir. valentine. indeed! waiter (smoothly melodious). yes, sire. great flow of spirits, sir. a vein of pleasantry, as you might say, sir. (quickly, to crampton, who has risen to get the overcoat off.) beg pardon, sir, but if you'll allow me (helping him to get the overcoat off and taking it from him). thank you, sir. (crampton sits down again; and the waiter resumes the broken melody.) the young gentleman's latest is that you're his father, sir. crampton. what! waiter. only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. yesterday, i was to be his father. to-day, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he tried to put it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father--not seen you for eighteen years, he said. crampton (startled). eighteen years! waiter. yes, sir. (with gentle archness.) but i was up to his tricks, sir. i saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there, thinking what new joke he'd have with me. yes, sir: that's the sort he is: very pleasant, ve--ry off hand and affable indeed, sir. (again changing his tempo to say to valentine, who is putting his stick down against the corner of the garden seat) if you'll allow me, sir? (taking valentine's stick.) thank you, sir. (valentine strolls up to the luncheon table and looks at the menu. the waiter turns to crampton and resumes his lay.) even the solicitor took up the joke, although he was in a manner of speaking in my confidence about the young gentleman, sir. yes, sir, i assure you, sir. you would never imagine what respectable professional gentlemen from london will do on an outing, when the sea air takes them, sir. crampton. oh, there's a solicitor with them, is there? waiter. the family solicitor, sir--yes, sir. name of mccomas, sir. (he goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious of the bomblike effect the name has produced on crampton.) crampton (rising in angry alarm). mccomas! (calls to valentine.) valentine! (again, fiercely.) valentine!! (valentine turns.) this is a plant, a conspiracy. this is my family--my children--my infernal wife. valentine (coolly). on, indeed! interesting meeting! (he resumes his study of the menu.) crampton. meeting! not for me. let me out of this. (calling to the waiter.) give me that coat. waiter. yes, sir. (he comes back, puts valentine's stick carefully down against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and holds it for crampton to put on.) i seem to have done the young gentleman an injustice, sir, haven't i, sir. crampton. rrrh! (he stops on the point of putting his arms into the sleeves, and turns to valentine with sudden suspicion.) valentine: you are in this. you made this plot. you-- valentine (decisively). bosh! (he throws the menu down and goes round the table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet.) crampton (angrily). what d'ye-- (mccomas, followed by philip and dolly, comes out. he vacillates for a moment on seeing crampton.) waiter (softly--interrupting crampton). steady, sir. here they come, sir. (he takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the coat across his arm. mccomas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely down and crosses to crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands behind him. mccomas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in the majesty of a spotless conscience.) waiter (aside, as he passes philip on his way out). i've broke it to him, sir. philip. invaluable william! (he passes on to the table.) dolly (aside to the waiter). how did he take it? waiter (aside to her). startled at first, miss; but resigned--very resigned, indeed, miss. (he takes the stick and coat into the hotel.) mccomas (having stared crampton out of countenance). so here you are, mr. crampton. crampton. yes, here--caught in a trap--a mean trap. are those my children? philip (with deadly politeness). is this our father, mr. mccomas? mccomas. yes--er-- (he loses countenance himself and stops.) dolly (conventionally). pleased to meet you again. (she wanders idly round the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with valentine on the way.) philip. allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your wine. (he takes the wine list from the table. his polite attention, and dolly's unconcerned indifference, leave crampton on the footing of the casual acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist's. the consciousness of it goes through the father with so keen a pang that he trembles all over; his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at his son, who, just conscious enough of his own callousness to intensely enjoy the humor and adroitness of it, proceeds pleasantly.) finch: some crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh? mccomas (firmly). apollinaris only. i prefer to take nothing heating. (he walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting temptation behind him.) philip. valentine--? valentine. would lager be considered vulgar? philip. probably. we'll order some. dolly takes it. (turning to crampton with cheerful politeness.) and now, mr. crampton, what can we do for you? crampton. what d'ye mean, boy? philip. boy! (very solemnly.) whose fault is it that i am a boy? (crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely pretends to read it. philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness.) dolly (looking over crampton's right shoulder). the whisky's on the last page but one. crampton. let me alone, child. dolly. child! no, no: you may call me dolly if you like; but you mustn't call me child. (she slips her arm through philip's; and the two stand looking at crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.) crampton (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even by their playing with him). mccomas: we are--ha!--going to have a pleasant meal. mccomas (pusillanimously). there is no reason why it should not be pleasant. (he looks abjectly gloomy.) philip. finch's face is a feast in itself. (mrs. clandon and gloria come from the hotel. mrs. clandon advances with courageous self-possession and marked dignity of manner. she stops at the foot of the steps to address valentine, who is in her path. gloria also stops, looking at crampton with a certain repulsion.) mrs. clandon. glad to see you again, mr. valentine. (he smiles. she passes on and confronts crampton, intending to address him with perfect composure; but his aspect shakes her. she stops suddenly and says anxiously, with a touch of remorse.) fergus: you are greatly changed. crampton (grimly). i daresay. a man does change in eighteen years. mrs. clandon (troubled). i--i did not mean that. i hope your health is good. crampton. thank you. no: it's not my health. it's my happiness: that's the change you meant, i think. (breaking out suddenly.) look at her, mccomas! look at her; and look at me! (he utters a half laugh, half sob.) philip. sh! (pointing to the hotel entrance, where the waiter has just appeared.) order before william! dolly (touching crampton's arm warningly with her finger). ahem! (the waiter goes to the service table and beckons to the kitchen entrance, whence issue a young waiter with soup plates, and a cook, in white apron and cap, with the soup tureen. the young waiter remains and serves: the cook goes out, and reappears from time to time bringing in the courses. he carves, but does not serve. the waiter comes to the end of the luncheon table next the steps.) mrs. clandon (as they all assemble about the table). i think you have all met one another already to-day. oh, no, excuse me. (introducing) mr. valentine: mr. mccomas. (she goes to the end of the table nearest the hotel.) fergus: will you take the head of the table, please. crampton. ha! (bitterly.) the head of the table! waiter (holding the chair for him with inoffensive encouragement). this end, sir. (crampton submits, and takes his seat.) thank you, sir. mrs. clandon. mr. valentine: will you take that side (indicating the side nearest the parapet) with gloria? (valentine and gloria take their places, gloria next crampton and valentine next mrs. clandon.) finch: i must put you on this side, between dolly and phil. you must protect yourself as best you can. (the three take the remaining side of the table, dolly next her mother, phil next his father, and mccomas between them. soup is served.) waiter (to crampton). thick or clear, sir? crampton (to mrs. clandon). does nobody ask a blessing in this household? philip (interposing smartly). let us first settle what we are about to receive. william! waiter. yes, sir. (he glides swiftly round the table to phil's left elbow. on his way he whispers to the young waiter) thick. philip. two small lagers for the children as usual, william; and one large for this gentleman (indicating valentine). large apollinaris for mr. mccomas. waiter. yes, sir. dolly. have a six of irish in it, finch? mccomas (scandalized). no--no, thank you. philip. number for my mother and miss gloria as before; and-- (turning enquiringly to crampton) eh? crampton (scowling and about to reply offensively). i-- waiter (striking in mellifluously). all right, sir. we know what mr. crampton likes here, sir. (he goes into the hotel.) philip (looking gravely at his father). you frequent bars. bad habit! (the cook, accompanied by a waiter with a supply of hot plates, brings in the fish from the kitchen to the service table, and begins slicing it.) crampton. you have learnt your lesson from your mother, i see. mrs. clandon. phil: will you please remember that your jokes are apt to irritate people who are not accustomed to us, and that your father is our guest to-day. crampton (bitterly). yes, a guest at the head of my own table. (the soup plates are removed.) dolly (sympathetically). yes: it's embarrassing, isn't it? it's just as bad for us, you know. philip. sh! dolly: we are both wanting in tact. (to crampton.) we mean well, mr. crampton; but we are not yet strong in the filial line. (the waiter returns from the hotel with the drinks.) william: come and restore good feeling. waiter (cheerfully). yes, sir. certainly, sir. small lager for you, sir. (to crampton.) seltzer and irish, sir. (to mccomas.) apollinaris, sir. (to dolly.) small lager, miss. (to mrs. clandon, pouring out wine.) , madam. (to valentine.) large lager for you, sir. (to gloria.) , miss. dolly (drinking). to the family! philip. (drinking). hearth and home! (fish is served.) mccomas (with an obviously forced attempt at cheerful domesticity). we are getting on very nicely after all. dolly (critically). after all! after all what, finch? crampton (sarcastically). he means that you are getting on very nicely in spite of the presence of your father. do i take your point rightly, mr. mccomas? mccomas (disconcerted). no, no. i only said "after all" to round off the sentence. i--er--er--er--- waiter (tactfully). turbot, sir? mccomas (intensely grateful for the interruption). thank you, waiter: thank you. waiter (sotto voce). don't mention it, sir. (he returns to the service table.) crampton (to phil). have you thought of choosing a profession yet? philip. i am keeping my mind open on that subject. william! waiter. yes, sir. philip. how long do you think it would take me to learn to be a really smart waiter? waiter. can't be learnt, sir. it's in the character, sir. (confidentially to valentine, who is looking about for something.) bread for the lady, sir? yes, sir. (he serves bread to gloria, and resumes at his former pitch.) very few are born to it, sir. philip. you don't happen to have such a thing as a son, yourself, have you? waiter. yes, sir: oh, yes, sir. (to gloria, again dropping his voice.) a little more fish, miss? you won't care for the joint in the middle of the day. gloria. no, thank you. (the fish plates are removed.) dolly. is your son a waiter, too, william? waiter (serving gloria with fowl). oh, no, miss, he's too impetuous. he's at the bar. mccomas (patronizingly). a potman, eh? waiter (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment softened by time). no, sir: the other bar--your profession, sir. a q.c., sir. mccomas (embarrassed). i'm sure i beg your pardon. waiter. not at all, sir. very natural mistake, i'm sure, sir. i've often wished he was a potman, sir. would have been off my hands ever so much sooner, sir. (aside to valentine, who is again in difficulties.) salt at your elbow, sir. (resuming.) yes, sir: had to support him until he was thirty-seven, sir. but doing well now, sir: very satisfactory indeed, sir. nothing less than fifty guineas, sir. mccomas. democracy, crampton!--modern democracy! waiter (calmly). no, sir, not democracy: only education, sir. scholarships, sir. cambridge local, sir. sidney sussex college, sir. (dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) stone ginger, miss? right, miss. (to mccomas.) very good thing for him, sir: he never had any turn for real work, sir. (he goes into the hotel, leaving the company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.) valentine. which of us dare give that man an order again! dolly. i hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer. crampton (doggedly). while he's a waiter it's his business to wait. if you had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held his tongue. dolly. what a loss that would have been! perhaps he'll give us an introduction to his son and get us into london society. (the waiter reappears with the ginger-beer.) crampton (growling contemptuously). london society! london society!! you're not fit for any society, child. dolly (losing her temper). now look here, mr. crampton. if you think-- waiter (softly, at her elbow). stone ginger, miss. dolly (taken aback, recovers her good humor after a long breath and says sweetly). thank you, dear william. you were just in time. (she drinks.) mccomas (making a fresh effort to lead the conversation into dispassionate regions). if i may be allowed to change the subject, miss clandon, what is the established religion in madeira? gloria. i suppose the portuguese religion. i never inquired. dolly. the servants come in lent and kneel down before you and confess all the things they've done: and you have to pretend to forgive them. do they do that in england, william? waiter. not usually, miss. they may in some parts: but it has not come under my notice, miss. (catching mrs. clandon's eye as the young waiter offers her the salad bowl.) you like it without dressing, ma'am: yes, ma'am, i have some for you. (to his young colleague, motioning him to serve gloria.) this side, jo. (he takes a special portion of salad from the service table and puts it beside mrs. clandon's plate. in doing so he observes that dolly is making a wry face.) only a bit of watercress, miss, got in by mistake. (he takes her salad away.) thank you, miss. (to the young waiter, admonishing him to serve dolly afresh.) jo. (resuming.) mostly members of the church of england, miss. dolly. members of the church of england! what's the subscription? crampton (rising violently amid general consternation). you see how my children have been brought up, mccomas. you see it; you hear it. i call all of you to witness-- (he becomes inarticulate, and is about to strike his fist recklessly on the table when the waiter considerately takes away his plate.) mrs. clandon (firmly). sit down, fergus. there is no occasion at all for this outburst. you must remember that dolly is just like a foreigner here. pray sit down. crampton (subsiding unwillingly). i doubt whether i ought to sit here and countenance all this. i doubt it. waiter. cheese, sir; or would you like a cold sweet? crampton (take aback). what? oh!--cheese, cheese. dolly. bring a box of cigarettes, william. waiter. all ready, miss. (he takes a box of cigarettes from the service table and places them before dolly, who selects one and prepares to smoke. he then returns to his table for a box of vestas.) crampton (staring aghast at dolly). does she smoke? dolly (out of patience). really, mr. crampton, i'm afraid i'm spoiling your lunch. i'll go and have my cigarette on the beach. (she leaves the table with petulant suddenness and goes down the steps. the waiter attempts to give her the matches; but she is gone before he can reach her.) crampton (furiously). margaret: call that girl back. call her back, i say. mccomas (trying to make peace). come, crampton: never mind. she's her father's daughter: that's all. mrs. clandon (with deep resentment). i hope not, finch. (she rises: they all rise a little.) mr. valentine: will you excuse me: i am afraid dolly is hurt and put out by what has passed. i must go to her. crampton. to take her part against me, you mean. mrs. clandon (ignoring him). gloria: will you take my place whilst i am away, dear. (she crosses to the steps. crampton's eyes follow her with bitter hatred. the rest watch her in embarrassed silence, feeling the incident to be a very painful one.) waiter (intercepting her at the top of the steps and offering her a box of vestas). young lady forgot the matches, ma'am. if you would be so good, ma'am. mrs. clandon (surprised into grateful politeness by the witchery of his sweet and cheerful tones). thank you very much. (she takes the matches and goes down to the beach. the waiter shepherds his assistant along with him into the hotel by the kitchen entrance, leaving the luncheon party to themselves.) crampton (throwing himself back in his chair). there's a mother for you, mccomas! there's a mother for you! gloria (steadfastly). yes: a good mother. crampton. and a bad father? that's what you mean, eh? valentine (rising indignantly and addressing gloria). miss clandon: i-- crampton (turning on him). that girl's name is crampton, mr. valentine, not clandon. do you wish to join them in insulting me? valentine (ignoring him). i'm overwhelmed, miss clandon. it's all my fault: i brought him here: i'm responsible for him. and i'm ashamed of him. crampton. what d'y' mean? gloria (rising coldly). no harm has been done, mr. valentine. we have all been a little childish, i am afraid. our party has been a failure: let us break it up and have done with it. (she puts her chair aside and turns to the steps, adding, with slighting composure, as she passes crampton.) good-bye, father. (she descends the steps with cold, disgusted indifference. they all look after her, and so do not notice the return of the waiter from the hotel, laden with crampton's coat, valentine's stick, a couple of shawls and parasols, a white canvas umbrella, and some camp stools.) crampton (to himself, staring after gloria with a ghastly expression). father! father!! (he strikes his fist violently on the table.) now-- waiter (offering the coat). this is yours, sir, i think, sir. (crampton glares at him; then snatches it rudely and comes down the terrace towards the garden seat, struggling with the coat in his angry efforts to put it on. mccomas rises and goes to his assistance; then takes his hat and umbrella from the little iron table, and turns towards the steps. meanwhile the waiter, after thanking crampton with unruffled sweetness for taking the coat, offers some of his burden to phil.) the ladies' sunshades, sir. nasty glare off the sea to-day, sir: very trying to the complexion, sir. i shall carry down the camp stools myself, sir. philip. you are old, father william; but you are the most considerate of men. no: keep the sunshades and give me the camp stools (taking them). waiter (with flattering gratitude). thank you, sir. philip. finch: share with me (giving him a couple). come along. (they go down the steps together.) valentine (to the waiter). leave me something to bring down--one of these. (offering to take a sunshade.) waiter (discreetly). that's the younger lady's, sir. (valentine lets it go.) thank you, sir. if you'll allow me, sir, i think you had better have this. (he puts down the sunshades on crampton's chair, and produces from the tail pocket of his dress coat, a book with a lady's handkerchief between the leaves, marking the page.) the eldest young lady is reading it at present. (valentine takes it eagerly.) thank you, sir. schopenhauer, sir, you see. (he takes up the sunshades again.) very interesting author, sir: especially on the subject of ladies, sir. (he goes down the steps. valentine, about to follow him, recollects crampton and changes his mind.) valentine (coming rather excitedly to crampton). now look here, crampton: are you at all ashamed of yourself? crampton (pugnaciously). ashamed of myself! what for? valentine. for behaving like a bear. what will your daughter think of me for having brought you here? crampton. i was not thinking of what my daughter was thinking of you. valentine. no, you were thinking of yourself. you're a perfect maniac. crampton (heartrent). she told you what i am--a father--a father robbed of his children. what are the hearts of this generation like? am i to come here after all these years--to see what my children are for the first time! to hear their voices!--and carry it all off like a fashionable visitor; drop in to lunch; be mr. crampton--m i s t e r crampton! what right have they to talk to me like that? i'm their father: do they deny that? i'm a man, with the feelings of our common humanity: have i no rights, no claims? in all these years who have i had round me? servants, clerks, business acquaintances. i've had respect from them--aye, kindness. would one of them have spoken to me as that girl spoke?--would one of them have laughed at me as that boy was laughing at me all the time? (frantically.) my own children! m i s t e r crampton! my-- valentine. come, come: they're only children. the only one of them that's worth anything called you father. crampton (wildly). yes: "good-bye, father." oh, yes: she got at my feelings--with a stab! valentine (taking this in very bad part). now look here, crampton: you just let her alone: she's treated you very well. i had a much worse time of it at lunch than you. crampton. you! valentine (with growing impetuosity). yes: i. i sat next to her; and i never said a single thing to her the whole time--couldn't think of a blessed word. and not a word did she say to me. crampton. well? valentine. well? well??? (tackling him very seriously and talking faster and faster.) crampton: do you know what's been the matter with me to-day? you don't suppose, do you, that i'm in the habit of playing such tricks on my patients as i played on you? crampton. i hope not. valentine. the explanation is that i'm stark mad, or rather that i've never been in my real senses before. i'm capable of anything: i've grown up at last: i'm a man; and it's your daughter that's made a man of me. crampton (incredulously). are you in love with my daughter? valentine (his words now coming in a perfect torrent). love! nonsense: it's something far above and beyond that. it's life, it's faith, it's strength, certainty, paradise-- crampton (interrupting him with acrid contempt). rubbish, man! what have you to keep a wife on? you can't marry her. valentine. who wants to marry her? i'll kiss her hands; i'll kneel at her feet; i'll live for her; i'll die for her; and that'll be enough for me. look at her book! see! (he kisses the handkerchief.) if you offered me all your money for this excuse for going down to the beach and speaking to her again, i'd only laugh at you. (he rushes buoyantly off to the steps, where he bounces right into the arms of the waiter, who is coming up form the beach. the two save themselves from falling by clutching one another tightly round the waist and whirling one another around.) waiter (delicately). steady, sir, steady. valentine (shocked at his own violence). i beg your pardon. waiter. not at all, sir, not at all. very natural, sir, i'm sure, sir, at your age. the lady has sent me for her book, sir. might i take the liberty of asking you to let her have it at once, sir? valentine. with pleasure. and if you will allow me to present you with a professional man's earnings for six weeks-- (offering him dolly's crown piece.) waiter (as if the sum were beyond his utmost expectations). thank you, sir: much obliged. (valentine dashes down the steps.) very high-spirited young gentleman, sir: very manly and straight set up. crampton (in grumbling disparagement). and making his fortune in a hurry, no doubt. i know what his six weeks' earnings come to. (he crosses the terrace to the iron table, and sits down.) waiter (philosophically). well, sir, you never can tell. that's a principle in life with me, sir, if you'll excuse my having such a thing, sir. (delicately sinking the philosopher in the waiter for a moment.) perhaps you haven't noticed that you hadn't touched that seltzer and irish, sir, when the party broke up. (he takes the tumbler from the luncheon table, and sets if before crampton.) yes, sir, you never can tell. there was my son, sir! who ever thought that he would rise to wear a silk gown, sir? and yet to-day, sir, nothing less than fifty guineas, sir. what a lesson, sir! crampton. well, i hope he is grateful to you, and recognizes what he owes you. waiter. we get on together very well, very well indeed, sir, considering the difference in our stations. (with another of his irresistible transitions.) a small lump of sugar, sir, will take the flatness out of the seltzer without noticeably sweetening the drink, sir. allow me, sir. (he drops a lump of sugar into the tumbler.) but as i say to him, where's the difference after all? if i must put on a dress coat to show what i am, sir, he must put on a wig and gown to show what he is. if my income is mostly tips, and there's a pretence that i don't get them, why, his income is mostly fees, sir; and i understand there's a pretence that he don't get them! if he likes society, and his profession brings him into contact with all ranks, so does mine, too, sir. if it's a little against a barrister to have a waiter for his father, sir, it's a little against a waiter to have a barrister for a son: many people consider it a great liberty, sir, i assure you, sir. can i get you anything else, sir? crampton. no, thank you. (with bitter humility.) i suppose that's no objection to my sitting here for a while: i can't disturb the party on the beach here. waiter (with emotion). very kind of you, sir, to put it as if it was not a compliment and an honour to us, mr. crampton, very kind indeed. the more you are at home here, sir, the better for us. crampton (in poignant irony). home! waiter (reflectively). well, yes, sir: that's a way of looking at it, too, sir. i have always said that the great advantage of a hotel is that it's a refuge from home life, sir. crampton. i missed that advantage to-day, i think. waiter. you did, sir, you did. dear me! it's the unexpected that always happens, isn't it? (shaking his head.) you never can tell, sir: you never can tell. (he goes into the hotel.) crampton (his eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable face on his hands). home! home!! (he drops his arms on the table and bows his head on them, but presently hears someone approaching and hastily sits bolt upright. it is gloria, who has come up the steps alone, with her sunshade and her book in her hands. he looks defiantly at her, with the brutal obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of his eyes contradicting each other pathetically. she comes to the corner of the garden seat and stands with her back to it, leaning against the end of it, and looking down at him as if wondering at his weakness: too curious about him to be cold, but supremely indifferent to their kinship.) well? gloria. i want to speak with you for a moment. crampton (looking steadily at her). indeed? that's surprising. you meet your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to him for a moment! that's touching: isn't it? (he rests his head on his hands, and looks down and away from her, in gloomy reflection.) gloria. all that is what seems to me so nonsensical, so uncalled for. what do you expect us to feel for you--to do for you? what is it you want? why are you less civil to us than other people are? you are evidently not very fond of us--why should you be? but surely we can meet without quarrelling. crampton (a dreadful grey shade passing over his face). do you realize that i am your father? gloria. perfectly. crampton. do you know what is due to me as your father? gloria. for instance---? crampton (rising as if to combat a monster). for instance! for instance!! for instance, duty, affection, respect, obedience-- gloria (quitting her careless leaning attitude and confronting him promptly and proudly). i obey nothing but my sense of what is right. i respect nothing that is not noble. that is my duty. (she adds, less firmly) as to affection, it is not within my control. i am not sure that i quite know what affection means. (she turns away with an evident distaste for that part of the subject, and goes to the luncheon table for a comfortable chair, putting down her book and sunshade.) crampton (following her with his eyes). do you really mean what you are saying? gloria (turning on him quickly and severely). excuse me: that is an uncivil question. i am speaking seriously to you; and i expect you to take me seriously. (she takes one of the luncheon chairs; turns it away from the table; and sits down a little wearily, saying) can you not discuss this matter coolly and rationally? crampton. coolly and rationally! no, i can't. do you understand that? i can't. gloria (emphatically). no. that i c a n n o t understand. i have no sympathy with-- crampton (shrinking nervously). stop! don't say anything more yet; you don't know what you're doing. do you want to drive me mad? (she frowns, finding such petulance intolerable. he adds hastily) no: i'm not angry: indeed i'm not. wait, wait: give me a little time to think. (he stands for a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in his perplexity; then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and sits down beside her, saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and patient) now, i think i have it. at least i'll try. gloria (firmly). you see! everything comes right if we only think it resolutely out. crampton (in sudden dread). no: don't think. i want you to feel: that's the only thing that can help us. listen! do you--but first--i forgot. what's your name? i mean you pet name. they can't very well call you sophronia. gloria (with astonished disgust). sophronia! my name is gloria. i am always called by it. crampton (his temper rising again). your name is sophronia, girl: you were called after your aunt sophronia, my sister: she gave you your first bible with your name written in it. gloria. then my mother gave me a new name. crampton (angrily). she had no right to do it. i will not allow this. gloria. you had no right to give me your sister's name. i don't know her. crampton. you're talking nonsense. there are bounds to what i will put up with. i will not have it. do you hear that? gloria (rising warningly). are you resolved to quarrel? crampton (terrified, pleading). no, no: sit down. sit down, won't you? (she looks at him, keeping him in suspense. he forces himself to utter the obnoxious name.) gloria. (she marks her satisfaction with a slight tightening of the lips, and sits down.) there! you see i only want to shew you that i am your father, my--my dear child. (the endearment is so plaintively inept that she smiles in spite of herself, and resigns herself to indulge him a little.) listen now. what i want to ask you is this. don't you remember me at all? you were only a tiny child when you were taken away from me; but you took plenty of notice of things. can't you remember someone whom you loved, or (shyly) at least liked in a childish way? come! someone who let you stay in his study and look at his toy boats, as you thought them? (he looks anxiously into her face for some response, and continues less hopefully and more urgently) someone who let you do as you liked there and never said a word to you except to tell you that you must sit still and not speak? someone who was something that no one else was to you--who was your father. gloria (unmoved). if you describe things to me, no doubt i shall presently imagine that i remember them. but i really remember nothing. crampton (wistfully). has your mother never told you anything about me? gloria. she has never mentioned your name to me. (he groans involuntarily. she looks at him rather contemptuously and continues) except once; and then she did remind me of something i had forgotten. crampton (looking up hopefully). what was that? gloria (mercilessly). the whip you bought to beat me with. crampton (gnashing his teeth). oh! to bring that up against me! to turn from me! when you need never have known. (under a grinding, agonized breath.) curse her! gloria (springing up). you wretch! (with intense emphasis.) you wretch!! you dare curse my mother! crampton. stop; or you'll be sorry afterwards. i'm your father. gloria. how i hate the name! how i love the name of mother! you had better go. crampton. i--i'm choking. you want to kill me. some--i-- (his voice stifles: he is almost in a fit.) gloria (going up to the balustrade with cool, quick resourcefulness, and calling over to the beach). mr. valentine! valentine (answering from below). yes. gloria. come here a moment, please. mr. crampton wants you. (she returns to the table and pours out a glass of water.) crampton (recovering his speech). no: let me alone. i don't want him. i'm all right, i tell you. i need neither his help nor yours. (he rises and pulls himself together.) as you say, i had better go. (he puts on his hat.) is that your last word? gloria. i hope so. (he looks stubbornly at her for a moment; nods grimly, as if he agreed to that; and goes into the hotel. she looks at him with equal steadiness until he disappears, when she makes a gesture of relief, and turns to speak to valentine, who comes running up the steps.) valentine (panting). what's the matter? (looking round.) where's crampton? gloria. gone. (valentine's face lights up with sudden joy, dread, and mischief. he has just realized that he is alone with gloria. she continues indifferently) i thought he was ill; but he recovered himself. he wouldn't wait for you. i am sorry. (she goes for her book and parasol.) valentine. so much the better. he gets on my nerves after a while. (pretending to forget himself.) how could that man have so beautiful a daughter! gloria (taken aback for a moment; then answering him with polite but intentional contempt). that seems to be an attempt at what is called a pretty speech. let me say at once, mr. valentine, that pretty speeches make very sickly conversation. pray let us be friends, if we are to be friends, in a sensible and wholesome way. i have no intention of getting married; and unless you are content to accept that state of things, we had much better not cultivate each other's acquaintance. valentine (cautiously). i see. may i ask just this one question? is your objection an objection to marriage as an institution, or merely an objection to marrying me personally? gloria. i do not know you well enough, mr. valentine, to have any opinion on the subject of your personal merits. (she turns away from him with infinite indifference, and sits down with her book on the garden seat.) i do not think the conditions of marriage at present are such as any self-respecting woman can accept. valentine (instantly changing his tone for one of cordial sincerity, as if he frankly accepted her terms and was delighted and reassured by her principles). oh, then that's a point of sympathy between us already. i quite agree with you: the conditions are most unfair. (he takes off his hat and throws it gaily on the iron table.) no: what i want is to get rid of all that nonsense. (he sits down beside her, so naturally that she does not think of objecting, and proceeds, with enthusiasm) don't you think it a horrible thing that a man and a woman can hardly know one another without being supposed to have designs of that kind? as if there were no other interests--no other subjects of conversation--as if women were capable of nothing better! gloria (interested). ah, now you are beginning to talk humanly and sensibly, mr. valentine. valentine (with a gleam in his eye at the success of his hunter's guile). of course!--two intelligent people like us. isn't it pleasant, in this stupid, convention-ridden world, to meet with someone on the same plane--someone with an unprejudiced, enlightened mind? gloria (earnestly). i hope to meet many such people in england. valentine (dubiously). hm! there are a good many people here-- nearly forty millions. they're not all consumptive members of the highly educated classes like the people in madeira. gloria (now full of her subject). oh, everybody is stupid and prejudiced in madeira--weak, sentimental creatures! i hate weakness; and i hate sentiment. valentine. that's what makes you so inspiring. gloria (with a slight laugh). am i inspiring? valentine yes. strength's infectious. gloria. weakness is, i know. valentine (with conviction). y o u're strong. do you know that you changed the world for me this morning? i was in the dumps, thinking of my unpaid rent, frightened about the future. when you came in, i was dazzled. (her brow clouds a little. he goes on quickly.) that was silly, of course; but really and truly something happened to me. explain it how you will, my blood got-- (he hesitates, trying to think of a sufficiently unimpassioned word) --oxygenated: my muscles braced; my mind cleared; my courage rose. that's odd, isn't it? considering that i am not at all a sentimental man. gloria (uneasily, rising). let us go back to the beach. valentine (darkly--looking up at her). what! you feel it, too? gloria. feel what? valentine. dread. gloria. dread! valentine. as if something were going to happen. it came over me suddenly just before you proposed that we should run away to the others. gloria (amazed). that's strange--very strange! i had the same presentiment. valentine. how extraordinary! (rising.) well: shall we run away? gloria. run away! oh, no: that would be childish. (she sits down again. he resumes his seat beside her, and watches her with a gravely sympathetic air. she is thoughtful and a little troubled as she adds) i wonder what is the scientific explanation of those fancies that cross us occasionally! valentine. ah, i wonder! it's a curiously helpless sensation: isn't it? gloria (rebelling against the word). helpless? valentine. yes. as if nature, after allowing us to belong to ourselves and do what we judged right and reasonable for all these years, were suddenly lifting her great hand to take us--her two little children--by the scruff's of our little necks, and use us, in spite of ourselves, for her own purposes, in her own way. gloria. isn't that rather fanciful? valentine (with a new and startling transition to a tone of utter recklessness). i don't know. i don't care. (bursting out reproachfully.) oh, miss clandon, miss clandon: how could you? gloria. what have i done? valentine. thrown this enchantment on me. i'm honestly trying to be sensible--scientific--everything that you wish me to be. but--but-- oh, don't you see what you have set to work in my imagination? gloria (with indignant, scornful sternness). i hope you are not going to be so foolish--so vulgar--as to say love. valentine (with ironical haste to disclaim such a weakness). no, no, no. not love: we know better than that. let's call it chemistry. you can't deny that there is such a thing as chemical action, chemical affinity, chemical combination--the most irresistible of all natural forces. well, you're attracting me irresistibly--chemically. gloria (contemptuously). nonsense! valentine. of course it's nonsense, you stupid girl. (gloria recoils in outraged surprise.) yes, stupid girl: t h a t's a scientific fact, anyhow. you're a prig--a feminine prig: that's what you are. (rising.) now i suppose you've done with me for ever. (he goes to the iron table and takes up his hat.) gloria (with elaborate calm, sitting up like a high-school-mistress posing to be photographed). that shows how very little you understand my real character. i am not in the least offended. (he pauses and puts his hat down again.) i am always willing to be told of my own defects, mr. valentine, by my friends, even when they are as absurdly mistaken about me as you are. i have many faults--very serious faults--of character and temper; but if there is one thing that i am not, it is what you call a prig. (she closes her lips trimly and looks steadily and challengingly at him as she sits more collectedly than ever.) valentine (returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her more emphatically). oh, yes, you are. my reason tells me so: my knowledge tells me so: my experience tells me so. gloria. excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge and your experience are not infallible. at least i hope not. valentine. i must believe them. unless you wish me to believe my eyes, my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me the most monstrous lies about you. gloria (the collectedness beginning to relax). lies! valentine (obstinately). yes, lies. (he sits down again beside her.) do you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman in the world? gloria. that is ridiculous, and rather personal. valentine. of course it's ridiculous. well, that's what my eyes tell me. (gloria makes a movement of contemptuous protest.) no: i'm not flattering. i tell you i don't believe it. (she is ashamed to find that this does not quite please her either.) do you think that if you were to turn away in disgust from my weakness, i should sit down here and cry like a child? gloria (beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly to keep her voice steady). why should you, pray? valentine (with a stir of feeling beginning to agitate his voice). of course not: i'm not such an idiot. and yet my heart tells me i should--my fool of a heart. but i'll argue with my heart and bring it to reason. if i loved you a thousand times, i'll force myself to look the truth steadily in the face. after all, it's easy to be sensible: the facts are the facts. what's this place? it's not heaven: it's the marine hotel. what's the time? it's not eternity: it's about half past one in the afternoon. what am i? a dentist--a five shilling dentist! gloria. and i am a feminine prig. valentine. (passionately). no, no: i can't face that: i must have one illusion left--the illusion about you. i love you. (he turns towards her as if the impulse to touch her were ungovernable: she rises and stands on her guard wrathfully. he springs up impatiently and retreats a step.) oh, what a fool i am!--an idiot! you don't understand: i might as well talk to the stones on the beach. (he turns away, discouraged.) gloria (reassured by his withdrawal, and a little remorseful). i am sorry. i do not mean to be unsympathetic, mr. valentine; but what can i say? valentine (returning to her with all his recklessness of manner replaced by an engaging and chivalrous respect). you can say nothing, miss clandon. i beg your pardon: it was my own fault, or rather my own bad luck. you see, it all depended on your naturally liking me. (she is about to speak: he stops her deprecatingly.) oh, i know you mustn't tell me whether you like me or not; but-- gloria (her principles up in arms at once). must not! why not? i am a free woman: why should i not tell you? valentine (pleading in terror, and retreating). don't. i'm afraid to hear. gloria (no longer scornful). you need not be afraid. i think you are sentimental, and a little foolish; but i like you. valentine (dropping into the iron chair as if crushed). then it's all over. (he becomes the picture of despair.) gloria (puzzled, approaching him). but why? valentine. because liking is not enough. now that i think down into it seriously, i don't know whether i like you or not. gloria (looking down at him with wondering concern). i'm sorry. valentine (in an agony of restrained passion). oh, don't pity me. your voice is tearing my heart to pieces. let me alone, gloria. you go down into the very depths of me, troubling and stirring me--i can't struggle with it--i can't tell you-- gloria (breaking down suddenly). oh, stop telling me what you feel: i can't bear it. valentine (springing up triumphantly, the agonized voice now solid, ringing, and jubilant). ah, it's come at last--my moment of courage. (he seizes her hands: she looks at him in terror.) our moment of courage! (he draws her to him; kisses her with impetuous strength; and laughs boyishly.) now you've done it, gloria. it's all over: we're in love with one another. (she can only gasp at him.) but what a dragon you were! and how hideously afraid i was! philip's voice (calling from the beach). valentine! dolly's voice. mr. valentine! valentine. good-bye. forgive me. (he rapidly kisses her hands, and runs away to the steps, where he meets mrs. clandon, ascending. gloria, quite lost, can only start after him.) mrs. clandon. the children want you, mr. valentine. (she looks anxiously around.) is he gone? valentine (puzzled). he? (recollecting.) oh, crampton. gone this long time, mrs. clandon. (he runs off buoyantly down the steps.) gloria (sinking upon the seat). mother! mrs. clandon (hurrying to her in alarm). what is it, dear? gloria (with heartfelt, appealing reproach). why didn't you educate me properly? mrs. clandon (amazed). my child: i did my best. gloria. oh, you taught me nothing--nothing. mrs. clandon. what is the matter with you? gloria (with the most intense expression). only shame--shame-- shame. (blushing unendurably, she covers her face with her hands and turns away from her mother.) end of act ii. act iii the clandon's sitting room in the hotel. an expensive apartment on the ground floor, with a french window leading to the gardens. in the centre of the room is a substantial table, surrounded by chairs, and draped with a maroon cloth on which opulently bound hotel and railway guides are displayed. a visitor entering through the window and coming down to this central table would have the fireplace on his left, and a writing table against the wall on his right, next the door, which is further down. he would, if his taste lay that way, admire the wall decoration of lincrusta walton in plum color and bronze lacquer, with dado and cornice; the ormolu consoles in the corners; the vases on pillar pedestals of veined marble with bases of polished black wood, one on each side of the window; the ornamental cabinet next the vase on the side nearest the fireplace, its centre compartment closed by an inlaid door, and its corners rounded off with curved panes of glass protecting shelves of cheap blue and white pottery; the bamboo tea table, with folding shelves, in the corresponding space on the other side of the window; the pictures of ocean steamers and landseer's dogs; the saddlebag ottoman in line with the door but on the other side of the room; the two comfortable seats of the same pattern on the hearthrug; and finally, on turning round and looking up, the massive brass pole above the window, sustaining a pair of maroon rep curtains with decorated borders of staid green. altogether, a room well arranged to flatter the occupant's sense of importance, and reconcile him to a charge of a pound a day for its use. mrs. clandon sits at the writing table, correcting proofs. gloria is standing at the window, looking out in a tormented revery. the clock on the mantelpiece strikes five with a sickly clink, the bell being unable to bear up against the black marble cenotaph in which it is immured. mrs. clandon. five! i don't think we need wait any longer for the children. the are sure to get tea somewhere. gloria (wearily). shall i ring? mrs. clandon. do, my dear. (gloria goes to the hearth and rings.) i have finished these proofs at last, thank goodness! gloria (strolling listlessly across the room and coming behind her mother's chair). what proofs? mrs. clandon the new edition of twentieth century women. gloria (with a bitter smile). there's a chapter missing. mrs. clandon (beginning to hunt among her proofs). is there? surely not. gloria. i mean an unwritten one. perhaps i shall write it for you--when i know the end of it. (she goes back to the window.) mrs. clandon. gloria! more enigmas! gloria. oh, no. the same enigma. mrs. clandon (puzzled and rather troubled; after watching her for a moment). my dear. gloria (returning). yes. mrs. clandon. you know i never ask questions. gloria (kneeling beside her chair). i know, i know. (she suddenly throws her arms about her mother and embraces her almost passionately.) mrs. clandon. (gently, smiling but embarrassed). my dear: you are getting quite sentimental. gloria (recoiling). ah, no, no. oh, don't say that. oh! (she rises and turns away with a gesture as if tearing herself.) mrs. clandon (mildly). my dear: what is the matter? what-- (the waiter enters with the tea tray.) waiter (balmily). this was what you rang for, ma'am, i hope? mrs. clandon. thank you, yes. (she turns her chair away from the writing table, and sits down again. gloria crosses to the hearth and sits crouching there with her face averted.) waiter (placing the tray temporarily on the centre table). i thought so, ma'am. curious how the nerves seem to give out in the afternoon without a cup of tea. (he fetches the tea table and places it in front of mrs. cladon, conversing meanwhile.) the young lady and gentleman have just come back, ma'am: they have been out in a boat, ma'am. very pleasant on a fine afternoon like this--very pleasant and invigorating indeed. (he takes the tray from the centre table and puts it on the tea table.) mr. mccomas will not come to tea, ma'am: he has gone to call upon mr. crampton. (he takes a couple of chairs and sets one at each end of the tea table.) gloria (looking round with an impulse of terror). and the other gentleman? waiter (reassuringly, as he unconsciously drops for a moment into the measure of "i've been roaming," which he sang as a boy.) oh, he's coming, miss, he's coming. he has been rowing the boat, miss, and has just run down the road to the chemist's for something to put on the blisters. but he will be here directly, miss--directly. (gloria, in ungovernable apprehension, rises and hurries towards the door.) mrs. clandon. (half rising). glo-- (gloria goes out. mrs. clandon looks perplexedly at the waiter, whose composure is unruffled.) waiter (cheerfully). anything more, ma'am? mrs. clandon. nothing, thank you. waiter. thank you, ma'am. (as he withdraws, phil and dolly, in the highest spirits, come tearing in. he holds the door open for them; then goes out and closes it.) dolly (ravenously). oh, give me some tea. (mrs. clandon pours out a cup for her.) we've been out in a boat. valentine will be here presently. philip. he is unaccustomed to navigation. where's gloria? mrs. clandon (anxiously, as she pours out his tea). phil: there is something the matter with gloria. has anything happened? (phil and dolly look at one another and stifle a laugh.) what is it? philip (sitting down on her left). romeo-- dolly (sitting down on her right). --and juliet. philip (taking his cup of tea from mrs. clandon). yes, my dear mother: the old, old story. dolly: don't take all the milk. (he deftly takes the jug from her.) yes: in the spring-- dolly. --a young man's fancy-- philip. --lightly turns to--thank you (to mrs. clandon, who has passed the biscuits) --thoughts of love. it also occurs in the autumn. the young man in this case is-- dolly. valentine. philip. and his fancy has turned to gloria to the extent of-- dolly. --kissing her-- philip. --on the terrace-- dolly (correcting him). --on the lips, before everybody. mrs. clandon (incredulously). phil! dolly! are you joking? (they shake their heads.) did she allow it? philip. we waited to see him struck to earth by the lightning of her scorn;-- dolly. --but he wasn't. philip. she appeared to like it. dolly. as far as we could judge. (stopping phil, who is about to pour out another cup.) no: you've sworn off two cups. mrs. clandon (much troubled). children: you must not be here when mr. valentine comes. i must speak very seriously to him about this. philip. to ask him his intentions? what a violation of twentieth century principles! dolly. quite right, mamma: bring him to book. make the most of the nineteenth century while it lasts. philip. sh! here he is. (valentine comes in.) valentine very sorry to be late for tea, mrs. clandon. (she takes up the tea-pot.) no, thank you: i never take any. no doubt miss dolly and phil have explained what happened to me. philip (momentously rising). yes, valentine: we have explained. dolly (significantly, also rising). we have explained very thoroughly. philip. it was our duty. (very seriously.) come, dolly. (he offers dolly his arm, which she takes. they look sadly at him, and go out gravely, arm in arm. valentine stares after them, puzzled; then looks at mrs. clandon for an explanation.) mrs. clandon (rising and leaving the tea table). will you sit down, mr. valentine. i want to speak to you a little, if you will allow me. (valentine sits down slowly on the ottoman, his conscience presaging a bad quarter of an hour. mrs. clandon takes phil's chair, and seats herself deliberately at a convenient distance from him.) i must begin by throwing myself somewhat at your consideration. i am going to speak of a subject of which i know very little--perhaps nothing. i mean love. valentine. love! mrs. clandon. yes, love. oh, you need not look so alarmed as that, mr. valentine: i am not in love with you. valentine (overwhelmed). oh, really, mrs.-- (recovering himself.) i should be only too proud if you were. mrs. clandon. thank you, mr. valentine. but i am too old to begin. valentine. begin! have you never--? mrs. clandon. never. my case is a very common one, mr. valentine. i married before i was old enough to know what i was doing. as you have seen for yourself, the result was a bitter disappointment for both my husband and myself. so you see, though i am a married woman, i have never been in love; i have never had a love affair; and to be quite frank with you, mr. valentine, what i have seen of the love affairs of other people has not led me to regret that deficiency in my experience. (valentine, looking very glum, glances sceptically at her, and says nothing. her color rises a little; and she adds, with restrained anger) you do not believe me? valentine (confused at having his thought read). oh, why not? why not? mrs. clandon. let me tell you, mr. valentine, that a life devoted to the cause of humanity has enthusiasms and passions to offer which far transcend the selfish personal infatuations and sentimentalities of romance. those are not your enthusiasms and passions, i take it? (valentine, quite aware that she despises him for it, answers in the negative with a melancholy shake of the head.) i thought not. well, i am equally at a disadvantage in discussing those so-called affairs of the heart in which you appear to be an expert. valentine (restlessly). what are you driving at, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon. i think you know. valentine. gloria? mrs. clandon. yes. gloria. valentine (surrendering). well, yes: i'm in love with gloria. (interposing as she is about to speak.) i know what you're going to say: i've no money. mrs. clandon. i care very little about money, mr. valentine. valentine. then you're very different to all the other mothers who have interviewed me. mrs. clandon. ah, now we are coming to it, mr. valentine. you are an old hand at this. (he opens his mouth to protest: she cuts him short with some indignation.) oh, do you think, little as i understand these matters, that i have not common sense enough to know that a man who could make as much way in one interview with such a woman as my daughter, can hardly be a novice! valentine. i assure you-- mrs. clandon (stopping him). i am not blaming you, mr. valentine. it is gloria's business to take care of herself; and you have a right to amuse yourself as you please. but-- valentine (protesting). amuse myself! oh, mrs. clandon! mrs. clandon (relentlessly). on your honor, mr. valentine, are you in earnest? valentine (desperately). on my honor i am in earnest. (she looks searchingly at him. his sense of humor gets the better of him; and he adds quaintly) only, i always have been in earnest; and yet--here i am, you see! mrs. clandon. this is just what i suspected. (severely.) mr. valentine: you are one of those men who play with women's affections. valentine. well, why not, if the cause of humanity is the only thing worth being serious about? however, i understand. (rising and taking his hat with formal politeness.) you wish me to discontinue my visits. mrs. clandon. no: i am sensible enough to be well aware that gloria's best chance of escape from you now is to become better acquainted with you. valentine (unaffectedly alarmed). oh, don't say that, mrs. clandon. you don't think that, do you? mrs. clandon. i have great faith, mr. valentine, in the sound training gloria's mind has had since she was a child. valentine (amazingly relieved). o-oh! oh, that's all right. (he sits down again and throws his hat flippantly aside with the air of a man who has no longer anything to fear.) mrs. clandon (indignant at his assurance). what do you mean? valentine (turning confidentially to her). come: shall i teach you something, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon (stiffly). i am always willing to learn. valentine. have you ever studied the subject of gunnery--artillery--cannons and war-ships and so on? mrs. clandon. has gunnery anything to do with gloria? valentine. a great deal--by way of illustration. during this whole century, my dear mrs. clandon, the progress of artillery has been a duel between the maker of cannons and the maker of armor plates to keep the cannon balls out. you build a ship proof against the best gun known: somebody makes a better gun and sinks your ship. you build a heavier ship, proof against that gun: somebody makes a heavier gun and sinks you again. and so on. well, the duel of sex is just like that. mrs. clandon. the duel of sex! valentine. yes: you've heard of the duel of sex, haven't you? oh, i forgot: you've been in madeira: the expression has come up since your time. need i explain it? mrs. clandon (contemptuously). no. valentine. of course not. now what happens in the duel of sex? the old fashioned mother received an old fashioned education to protect her against the wiles of man. well, you know the result: the old fashioned man got round her. the old fashioned woman resolved to protect her daughter more effectually--to find some armor too strong for the old fashioned man. so she gave her daughter a scientific education--your plan. that was a corker for the old fashioned man: he said it wasn't fair--unwomanly and all the rest of it. but that didn't do him any good. so he had to give up his old fashioned plan of attack--you know--going down on his knees and swearing to love, honor and obey, and so on. mrs. clandon. excuse me: that was what the woman swore. valentine. was it? ah, perhaps you're right--yes: of course it was. well, what did the man do? just what the artillery man does-- went one better than the woman--educated himself scientifically and beat her at that game just as he had beaten her at the old game. i learnt how to circumvent the women's rights woman before i was twenty- three: it's all been found out long ago. you see, my methods are thoroughly modern. mrs. clandon (with quiet disgust). no doubt. valentine. but for that very reason there's one sort of girl against whom they are of no use. mrs. clandon. pray which sort? valentine. the thoroughly old fashioned girl. if you had brought up gloria in the old way, it would have taken me eighteen months to get to the point i got to this afternoon in eighteen minutes. yes, mrs. clandon: the higher education of women delivered gloria into my hands; and it was you who taught her to believe in the higher education of women. mrs. clandon (rising). mr. valentine: you are very clever. valentine (rising also). oh, mrs. clandon! mrs. clandon and you have taught me n o t h i n g. good-bye. valentine (horrified). good-bye! oh, mayn't i see her before i go? mrs. clandon. i am afraid she will not return until you have gone mr. valentine. she left the room expressly to avoid you. valentine (thoughtfully). that's a good sign. good-bye. (he bows and makes for the door, apparently well satisfied.) mrs. clandon (alarmed). why do you think it a good sign? valentine (turning near the door). because i am mortally afraid of her; and it looks as if she were mortally afraid of me. (he turns to go and finds himself face to face with gloria, who has just entered. she looks steadfastly at him. he stares helplessly at her; then round at mrs. clandon; then at gloria again, completely at a loss.) gloria (white, and controlling herself with difficulty). mother: is what dolly told me true? mrs. clandon. what did she tell you, dear? gloria. that you have been speaking about me to this gentleman. valentine (murmuring). this gentleman! oh! mrs. clandon (sharply). mr. valentine: can you hold your tongue for a moment? (he looks piteously at them; then, with a despairing shrug, goes back to the ottoman and throws his hat on it.) gloria (confronting her mother, with deep reproach). mother: what right had you to do it? mrs. clandon. i don't think i have said anything i have no right to say, gloria. valentine (confirming her officiously). nothing. nothing whatever. (gloria looks at him with unspeakable indignation.) i beg your pardon. (he sits down ignominiously on the ottoman.) gloria. i cannot believe that any one has any right even to think about things that concern me only. (she turns away from them to conceal a painful struggle with her emotion.) mrs. clandon. my dear, if i have wounded your pride-- gloria (turning on them for a moment). my p r i d e! my pride!! oh, it's gone: i have learnt now that i have no strength to be proud of. (turning away again.) but if a woman cannot protect herself, no one can protect her. no one has any right to try--not even her mother. i know i have lost your confidence, just as i have lost this man's respect;-- (she stops to master a sob.) valentine (under his breath). this man! (murmuring again.) oh! mrs. clandon (in an undertone). pray be silent, sir. gloria (continuing). --but i have at least the right to be left alone in my disgrace. i am one of those weak creatures born to be mastered by the first man whose eye is caught by them; and i must fulfill my destiny, i suppose. at least spare me the humiliation of trying to save me. (she sits down, with her handkerchief to her eyes, at the farther end of the table.) valentine (jumping up). look here-- mrs. clandon. mr. va-- valentine (recklessly). no: i will speak: i've been silent for nearly thirty seconds. (he goes up to gloria.) miss clandon-- gloria (bitterly). oh, not miss clandon: you have found that it is quite safe to call me gloria. valentine. no, i won't: you'll throw it in my teeth afterwards and accuse me of disrespect. i say it's a heartbreaking falsehood that i don't respect you. it's true that i didn't respect your old pride: why should i? it was nothing but cowardice. i didn't respect your intellect: i've a better one myself: it's a masculine specialty. but when the depths stirred!--when my moment came!--when you made me brave!--ah, then, then, t h e n! gloria. then you respected me, i suppose. valentine. no, i didn't: i adored you. (she rises quickly and turns her back on him.) and you can never take that moment away from me. so now i don't care what happens. (he comes down the room addressing a cheerful explanation to nobody in particular.) i'm perfectly aware that i'm talking nonsense. i can't help it. (to mrs. clandon.) i love gloria; and there's an end of it. mrs. clandon (emphatically). mr. valentine: you are a most dangerous man. gloria: come here. (gloria, wondering a little at the command, obeys, and stands, with drooping head, on her mother's right hand, valentine being on the opposite side. mrs. clandon then begins, with intense scorn.) ask this man whom you have inspired and made brave, how many women have inspired him before (gloria looks up suddenly with a flash of jealous anger and amazement); how many times he has laid the trap in which he has caught you; how often he has baited it with the same speeches; how much practice it has taken to make him perfect in his chosen part in life as the duellist of sex. valentine. this isn't fair. you're abusing my confidence, mrs. clandon. mrs. clandon. ask him, gloria. gloria (in a flush of rage, going over to him with her fists clenched). is that true? valentine. don't be angry-- gloria (interrupting him implacably). is it true? did you ever say that before? did you ever feel that before--for another woman? valentine (bluntly). yes. (gloria raises her clenched hands.) mrs. clandon (horrified, springing to her side and catching her uplifted arm). gloria!! my dear! you're forgetting yourself. (gloria, with a deep expiration, slowly relaxes her threatening attitude.) valentine. remember: a man's power of love and admiration is like any other of his powers: he has to throw it away many times before he learns what is really worthy of it. mrs. clandon. another of the old speeches, gloria. take care. valentine (remonstrating). oh! gloria (to mrs. clandon, with contemptuous self-possession). do you think i need to be warned now? (to valentine.) you have tried to make me love you. valentine. i have. gloria. well, you have succeeded in making me hate you-- passionately. valentine (philosophically). it's surprising how little difference there is between the two. (gloria turns indignantly away from him. he continues, to mrs. clandon) i know men whose wives love them; and they go on exactly like that. mrs. clandon. excuse me, mr. valentine; but had you not better go? gloria. you need not send him away on my account, mother. he is nothing to me now; and he will amuse dolly and phil. (she sits down with slighting indifference, at the end of the table nearest the window.) valentine (gaily). of course: that's the sensible way of looking at it. come, mrs. clandon: you can't quarrel with a mere butterfly like me. mrs. clandon. i very greatly mistrust you, mr. valentine. but i do not like to think that your unfortunate levity of disposition is mere shamelessness and worthlessness;-- gloria (to herself, but aloud). it is shameless; and it is worthless. mrs. clandon. --so perhaps we had better send for phil and dolly and allow you to end your visit in the ordinary way. valentine (as if she had paid him the highest compliment). you overwhelm me, mrs. clandon. thank you. (the waiter enters.) waiter. mr. mccomas, ma'am. mrs. clandon. oh, certainly. bring him in. waiter. he wishes to see you in the reception-room, ma'am. mrs. clandon. why not here? waiter. well, if you will excuse my mentioning it, ma'am, i think mr. mccomas feels that he would get fairer play if he could speak to you away from the younger members of your family, ma'am. mrs. clandon. tell him they are not here. waiter. they are within sight of the door, ma'am; and very watchful, for some reason or other. mrs. clandon (going). oh, very well: i'll go to him. waiter (holding the door open for her). thank you, ma'am. (she goes out. he comes back into the room, and meets the eye of valentine, who wants him to go.) all right, sir. only the tea-things, sir. (taking the tray.) excuse me, sir. thank you sir. (he goes out.) valentine (to gloria). look here. you will forgive me, sooner or later. forgive me now. gloria (rising to level the declaration more intensely at him). never! while grass grows or water runs, never, never, never!!! valentine (unabashed). well, i don't care. i can't be unhappy about anything. i shall never be unhappy again, never, never, never, while grass grows or water runs. the thought of you will always make me wild with joy. (some quick taunt is on her lips: he interposes swiftly.) no: i never said that before: that's new. gloria. it will not be new when you say it to the next woman. valentine. oh, don't, gloria, don't. (he kneels at her feet.) gloria. get up. get up! how dare you? (phil and dolly, racing, as usual, for first place, burst into the room. they check themselves on seeing what is passing. valentine springs up.) philip (discreetly). i beg your pardon. come, dolly. (he turns to go.) gloria (annoyed). mother will be back in a moment, phil. (severely.) please wait here for her. (she turns away to the window, where she stands looking out with her back to them.) philip (significantly). oh, indeed. hmhm! dolly. ahah! philip. you seem in excellent spirits, valentine. valentine. i am. (comes between them.) now look here. you both know what's going on, don't you? (gloria turns quickly, as if anticipating some fresh outrage.) dolly. perfectly. valentine. well, it's all over. i've been refused--scorned. i'm only here on sufferance. you understand: it's all over. your sister is in no sense entertaining my addresses, or condescending to interest herself in me in any way. (gloria, satisfied, turns back contemptuously to the window.) is that clear? dolly. serve you right. you were in too great a hurry. philip (patting him on the shoulder). never mind: you'd never have been able to call your soul your own if she'd married you. you can now begin a new chapter in your life. dolly. chapter seventeen or thereabouts, i should imagine. valentine (much put out by this pleasantry). no: don't say things like that. that's just the sort of thoughtless remark that makes a lot of mischief. dolly. oh, indeed. hmhm! philip. ahah! (he goes to the hearth and plants himself there in his best head-of-the-family attitude.) mccomas, looking very serious, comes in quickly with mrs. clandon, whose first anxiety is about gloria. she looks round to see where she is, and is going to join her at the window when gloria comes down to meet her with a marked air of trust and affection. finally, mrs. clandon takes her former seat, and gloria posts herself behind it. mccomas, on his way to the ottoman, is hailed by dolly. dolly. what cheer, finch? mccomas (sternly). very serious news from your father, miss clandon. very serious news indeed. (he crosses to the ottoman, and sits down. dolly, looking deeply impressed, follows him and sits beside him on his right.) valentine. perhaps i had better go. mccomas. by no means, mr. valentine. you are deeply concerned in this. (valentine takes a chair from the table and sits astride of it, leaning over the back, near the ottoman.) mrs. clandon: your husband demands the custody of his two younger children, who are not of age. (mrs. clandon, in quick alarm, looks instinctively to see if dolly is safe.) dolly (touched). oh, how nice of him! he likes us, mamma. mccomas. i am sorry to have to disabuse you of any such idea, miss dorothea. dolly (cooing ecstatically). dorothee-ee-ee-a! (nestling against his shoulder, quite overcome.) oh, finch! mccomas (nervously, moving away). no, no, no, no! mrs. clandon (remonstrating). d e a r e s t dolly! (to mccomas.) the deed of separation gives me the custody of the children. mccomas. it also contains a covenant that you are not to approach or molest him in any way. mrs. clandon. well, have i done so? mccomas. whether the behavior of your younger children amounts to legal molestation is a question on which it may be necessary to take counsel's opinion. at all events, mr. crampton not only claims to have been molested; but he believes that he was brought here by a plot in which mr. valentine acted as your agent. valentine. what's that? eh? mccomas. he alleges that you drugged him, mr. valentine. valentine. so i did. (they are astonished.) mccomas. but what did you do that for? dolly. five shillings extra. mccomas (to dolly, short-temperedly). i must really ask you, miss clandon, not to interrupt this very serious conversation with irrelevant interjections. (vehemently.) i insist on having earnest matters earnestly and reverently discussed. (this outburst produces an apologetic silence, and puts mccomas himself out of countenance. he coughs, and starts afresh, addressing himself to gloria.) miss clandon: it is my duty to tell you that your father has also persuaded himself that mr. valentine wishes to marry you-- valentine (interposing adroitly). i do. mccomas (offended). in that case, sir, you must not be surprised to find yourself regarded by the young lady's father as a fortune hunter. valentine. so i am. do you expect my wife to live on what i earn? ten-pence a week! mccomas (revolted). i have nothing more to say, sir. i shall return and tell mr. crampton that this family is no place for a father. (he makes for the door.) mrs. clandon (with quiet authority). finch! (he halts.) if mr. valentine cannot be serious, you can. sit down. (mccomas, after a brief struggle between his dignity and his friendship, succumbs, seating himself this time midway between dolly and mrs. clandon.) you know that all this is a made up case--that fergus does not believe in it any more than you do. now give me your real advice--your sincere, friendly advice: you know i have always trusted your judgment. i promise you the children will be quiet. mccomas (resigning himself). well, well! what i want to say is this. in the old arrangement with your husband, mrs. clandon, you had him at a terrible disadvantage. mrs. clandon. how so, pray? mccomas. well, you were an advanced woman, accustomed to defy public opinion, and with no regard for what the world might say of you. mrs. clandon (proud of it). yes: that is true. (gloria, behind the chair, stoops and kisses her mother's hair, a demonstration which disconcerts her extremely.) mccomas. on the other hand, mrs. clandon, your husband had a great horror of anything getting into the papers. there was his business to be considered, as well as the prejudices of an old-fashioned family. mrs. clandon. not to mention his own prejudices. mccomas. now no doubt he behaved badly, mrs. clandon-- mrs. clandon (scornfully). no doubt. mccomas. but was it altogether his fault? mrs. clandon. was it mine? mccomas (hastily). no. of course not. gloria (observing him attentively). you do not mean that, mr. mccomas. mccomas. my dear young lady, you pick me up very sharply. but let me just put this to you. when a man makes an unsuitable marriage (nobody's fault, you know, but purely accidental incompatibility of tastes); when he is deprived by that misfortune of the domestic sympathy which, i take it, is what a man marries for; when in short, his wife is rather worse than no wife at all (through no fault of his own, of course), is it to be wondered at if he makes matters worse at first by blaming her, and even, in his desperation, by occasionally drinking himself into a violent condition or seeking sympathy elsewhere? mrs. clandon. i did not blame him: i simply rescued myself and the children from him. mccomas. yes: but you made hard terms, mrs. clandon. you had him at your mercy: you brought him to his knees when you threatened to make the matter public by applying to the courts for a judicial separation. suppose he had had that power over you, and used it to take your children away from you and bring them up in ignorance of your very name, how would you feel? what would you do? well, won't you make some allowance for his feelings?--in common humanity. mrs. clandon. i never discovered his feelings. i discovered his temper, and his-- (she shivers) the rest of his common humanity. mccomas (wistfully). women can be very hard, mrs. clandon. valentine. that's true. gloria (angrily). be silent. (he subsides.) mccomas (rallying all his forces). let me make one last appeal. mrs. clandon: believe me, there are men who have a good deal of feeling, and kind feeling, too, which they are not able to express. what you miss in crampton is that mere veneer of civilization, the art of shewing worthless attentions and paying insincere compliments in a kindly, charming way. if you lived in london, where the whole system is one of false good-fellowship, and you may know a man for twenty years without finding out that he hates you like poison, you would soon have your eyes opened. there we do unkind things in a kind way: we say bitter things in a sweet voice: we always give our friends chloroform when we tear them to pieces. but think of the other side of it! think of the people who do kind things in an unkind way--people whose touch hurts, whose voices jar, whose tempers play them false, who wound and worry the people they love in the very act of trying to conciliate them, and yet who need affection as much as the rest of us. crampton has an abominable temper, i admit. he has no manners, no tact, no grace. he'll never be able to gain anyone's affection unless they will take his desire for it on trust. is he to have none--not even pity--from his own flesh and blood? dolly (quite melted). oh, how beautiful, finch! how nice of you! philip (with conviction). finch: this is eloquence--positive eloquence. dolly. oh, mamma, let us give him another chance. let us have him to dinner. mrs. clandon (unmoved). no, dolly: i hardly got any lunch. my dear finch: there is not the least use in talking to me about fergus. you have never been married to him: i have. mccomas (to gloria). miss clandon: i have hitherto refrained from appealing to you, because, if what mr. crampton told me to be true, you have been more merciless even than your mother. gloria (defiantly). you appeal from her strength to my weakness! mccomas. not your weakness, miss clandon. i appeal from her intellect to your heart. gloria. i have learnt to mistrust my heart. (with an angry glance at valentine.) i would tear my heart and throw it away if i could. my answer to you is my mother's answer. (she goes to mrs. clandon, and stands with her arm about her; but mrs. clandon, unable to endure this sort of demonstrativeness, disengages herself as soon as she can without hurting gloria's feelings.) mccomas (defeated). well, i am very sorry--very sorry. i have done my best. (he rises and prepares to go, deeply dissatisfied.) mrs. clandon. but what did you expect, finch? what do you want us to do? mccomas. the first step for both you and crampton is to obtain counsel's opinion as to whether he is bound by the deed of separation or not. now why not obtain this opinion at once, and have a friendly meeting (her face hardens)--or shall we say a neutral meeting?--to settle the difficulty--here--in this hotel--to-night? what do you say? mrs. clandon. but where is the counsel's opinion to come from? mccomas. it has dropped down on us out of the clouds. on my way back here from crampton's i met a most eminent q.c., a man whom i briefed in the case that made his name for him. he has come down here from saturday to monday for the sea air, and to visit a relative of his who lives here. he has been good enough to say that if i can arrange a meeting of the parties he will come and help us with his opinion. now do let us seize this chance of a quiet friendly family adjustment. let me bring my friend here and try to persuade crampton to come, too. come: consent. mrs. clandon (rather ominously, after a moment's consideration). finch: i don't want counsel's opinion, because i intend to be guided by my own opinion. i don't want to meet fergus again, because i don't like him, and don't believe the meeting will do any good. however (rising), you have persuaded the children that he is not quite hopeless. do as you please. mccomas (taking her hand and shaking it). thank you, mrs. clandon. will nine o'clock suit you? mrs. clandon. perfectly. phil: will you ring, please. (phil rings the bell.) but if i am to be accused of conspiring with mr. valentine, i think he had better be present. valentine (rising). i quite agree with you. i think it's most important. mccomas. there can be no objection to that, i think. i have the greatest hopes of a happy settlement. good-bye for the present. (he goes out, meeting the waiter; who holds the door for him to pass through.) mrs. clandon. we expect some visitors at nine, william. can we have dinner at seven instead of half-past? waiter (at the door). seven, ma'am? certainly, ma'am. it will be a convenience to us this busy evening, ma'am. there will be the band and the arranging of the fairy lights and one thing or another, ma'am. dolly. the fairy lights! philip. the band! william: what mean you? waiter. the fancy ball, miss-- dolly and philip (simultaneously rushing to him). fancy ball! waiter. oh, yes, sir. given by the regatta committee for the benefit of the life-boat, sir. (to mrs. clandon.) we often have them, ma'am: chinese lanterns in the garden, ma'am: very bright and pleasant, very gay and innocent indeed. (to phil.) tickets downstairs at the office, sir, five shillings: ladies half price if accompanied by a gentleman. philip (seizing his arm to drag him off). to the office, william! dolly (breathlessly, seizing his other arm). quick, before they're all sold. (they rush him out of the room between them.) mrs. clandon. what on earth are they going to do? (going out.) i really must go and stop this-- (she follows them, speaking as she disappears. gloria stares coolly at valentine, and then deliberately looks at her watch.) valentine. i understand. i've stayed too long. i'm going. gloria (with disdainful punctiliousness). i owe you some apology, mr. valentine. i am conscious of having spoken somewhat sharply-- perhaps rudely--to you. valentine. not at all. gloria. my only excuse is that it is very difficult to give consideration and respect when there is no dignity of character on the other side to command it. valentine (prosaically). how is a man to look dignified when he's infatuated? gloria (effectually unstilted). don't say those things to me. i forbid you. they are insults. valentine. no: they're only follies. i can't help them. gloria. if you were really in love, it would not make you foolish: it would give you dignity--earnestness--even beauty. valentine. do you really think it would make me beautiful? (she turns her back on him with the coldest contempt.) ah, you see you're not in earnest. love can't give any man new gifts. it can only heighten the gifts he was born with. gloria (sweeping round at him again). what gifts were you born with, pray? valentine. lightness of heart. gloria. and lightness of head, and lightness of faith, and lightness of everything that makes a man. valentine. yes, the whole world is like a feather dancing in the light now; and gloria is the sun. (she rears her head angrily.) i beg your pardon: i'm off. back at nine. good-bye. (he runs off gaily, leaving her standing in the middle of the room staring after him.) end of act iii act iv the same room. nine o'clock. nobody present. the lamps are lighted; but the curtains are not drawn. the window stands wide open; and strings of chinese lanterns are glowing among the trees outside, with the starry sky beyond. the band is playing dance-music in the garden, drowning the sound of the sea. the waiter enters, shewing in crampton and mccomas. crampton looks cowed and anxious. he sits down wearily and timidly on the ottoman. waiter. the ladies have gone for a turn through the grounds to see the fancy dresses, sir. if you will be so good as to take seats, gentlemen, i shall tell them. (he is about to go into the garden through the window when mccomas stops him.) mccomas. one moment. if another gentleman comes, shew him in without any delay: we are expecting him. waiter. right, sir. what name, sir? mccomas. boon. mr. boon. he is a stranger to mrs. clandon; so he may give you a card. if so, the name is spelt b.o.h.u.n. you will not forget. waiter (smiling). you may depend on me for that, sir. my own name is boon, sir, though i am best known down here as balmy walters, sir. by rights i should spell it with the aitch you, sir; but i think it best not to take that liberty, sir. there is norman blood in it, sir; and norman blood is not a recommendation to a waiter. mccomas. well, well: "true hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than norman blood." waiter. that depends a good deal on one's station in life, sir. if you were a waiter, sir, you'd find that simple faith would leave you just as short as norman blood. i find it best to spell myself b. double-o.n., and to keep my wits pretty sharp about me. but i'm taking up your time, sir. you'll excuse me, sir: your own fault for being so affable, sir. i'll tell the ladies you're here, sir. (he goes out into the garden through the window.) mccomas. crampton: i can depend on you, can't i? crampton. yes, yes. i'll be quiet. i'll be patient. i'll do my best. mccomas. remember: i've not given you away. i've told them it was all their fault. crampton. you told me that it was all my fault. mccomas. i told you the truth. crampton (plaintively). if they will only be fair to me! mccomas. my dear crampton, they won't be fair to you: it's not to be expected from them at their age. if you're going to make impossible conditions of this kind, we may as well go back home at once. crampton. but surely i have a right-- mccomas (intolerantly). you won't get your rights. now, once for all, crampton, did your promises of good behavior only mean that you won't complain if there's nothing to complain of? because, if so-- (he moves as if to go.) crampton (miserably). no, no: let me alone, can't you? i've been bullied enough: i've been tormented enough. i tell you i'll do my best. but if that girl begins to talk to me like that and to look at me like-- (he breaks off and buries his head in his hands.) mccomas (relenting). there, there: it'll be all right, if you will only bear and forbear. come, pull yourself together: there's someone coming. (crampton, too dejected to care much, hardly changes his attitude. gloria enters from the garden; mccomas goes to meet her at the window; so that he can speak to her without being heard by crampton.) there he is, miss clandon. be kind to him. i'll leave you with him for a moment. (he goes into the garden. gloria comes in and strolls coolly down the middle of the room.) crampton (looking round in alarm). where's mccomas? gloria (listlessly, but not unsympathetically). gone out--to leave us together. delicacy on his part, i suppose. (she stops beside him and looks quaintly down at him.) well, father? crampton (a quaint jocosity breaking through his forlornness). well, daughter? (they look at one another for a moment, with a melancholy sense of humor.) gloria. shake hands. (they shake hands.) crampton (holding her hand). my dear: i'm afraid i spoke very improperly of your mother this afternoon. gloria. oh, don't apologize. i was very high and mighty myself; but i've come down since: oh, yes: i've been brought down. (she sits on the floor beside his chair.) crampton. what has happened to you, my child? gloria. oh, never mind. i was playing the part of my mother's daughter then; but i'm not: i'm my father's daughter. (looking at him funnily.) that's a come down, isn't it? crampton (angry). what! (her odd expression does not alter. he surrenders.) well, yes, my dear: i suppose it is, i suppose it is. (she nods sympathetically.) i'm afraid i'm sometimes a little irritable; but i know what's right and reasonable all the time, even when i don't act on it. can you believe that? gloria. believe it! why, that's myself--myself all over. i know what's right and dignified and strong and noble, just as well as she does; but oh, the things i do! the things i do! the things i let other people do!! crampton (a little grudgingly in spite of himself). as well as she does? you mean your mother? gloria (quickly). yes, mother. (she turns to him on her knees and seizes his hands.) now listen. no treason to her: no word, no thought against her. she is our superior--yours and mine--high heavens above us. is that agreed? crampton. yes, yes. just as you please, my dear. gloria (not satisfied, letting go his hands and drawing back from him). you don't like her? crampton. my child: you haven't been married to her. i have. (she raises herself slowly to her feet, looking at him with growing coldness.) she did me a great wrong in marrying me without really caring for me. but after that, the wrong was all on my side, i dare say. (he offers her his hand again.) gloria (taking it firmly and warningly). take care. that's a dangerous subject. my feelings--my miserable, cowardly, womanly feelings--may be on your side; but my conscience is on hers. crampton. i'm very well content with that division, my dear. thank you. (valentine arrives. gloria immediately becomes deliberately haughty.) valentine. excuse me; but it's impossible to find a servant to announce one: even the never failing william seems to be at the ball. i should have gone myself; only i haven't five shillings to buy a ticket. how are you getting on, crampton? better, eh? crampton. i am myself again, mr. valentine, no thanks to you. valentine. look at this ungrateful parent of yours, miss clandon! i saved him from an excruciating pang; and he reviles me! gloria (coldly). i am sorry my mother is not here to receive you, mr. valentine. it is not quite nine o'clock; and the gentleman of whom mr. mccomas spoke, the lawyer, is not yet come. valentine. oh, yes, he is. i've met him and talked to him. (with gay malice.) you'll like him, miss clandon: he's the very incarnation of intellect. you can hear his mind working. gloria (ignoring the jibe). where is he? valentine. bought a false nose and gone into the fancy ball. crampton (crustily, looking at his watch). it seems that everybody has gone to this fancy ball instead of keeping to our appointment here. valentine. oh, he'll come all right enough: that was half an hour ago. i didn't like to borrow five shillings from him and go in with him; so i joined the mob and looked through the railings until miss clandon disappeared into the hotel through the window. gloria. so it has come to this, that you follow me about in public to stare at me. valentine. yes: somebody ought to chain me up. gloria turns her back on him and goes to the fireplace. he takes the snub very philosophically, and goes to the opposite side of the room. the waiter appears at the window, ushering in mrs. clandon and mccomas. mrs. clandon (hurrying in). i am so sorry to have kept you waiting. a grotesquely majestic stranger, in a domino and false nose, with goggles, appears at the window. waiter (to the stranger). beg pardon, sir; but this is a private apartment, sir. if you will allow me, sir, i will shew you to the american bar and supper rooms, sir. this way, sir. he goes into the gardens, leading the way under the impression that the stranger is following him. the majestic one, however, comes straight into the room to the end of the table, where, with impressive deliberation, he takes off the false nose and then the domino, rolling up the nose into the domino and throwing the bundle on the table like a champion throwing down his glove. he is now seen to be a stout, tall man between forty and fifty, clean shaven, with a midnight oil pallor emphasized by stiff black hair, cropped short and oiled, and eyebrows like early victorian horsehair upholstery. physically and spiritually, a coarsened man: in cunning and logic, a ruthlessly sharpened one. his bearing as he enters is sufficiently imposing and disquieting; but when he speaks, his powerful, menacing voice, impressively articulated speech, strong inexorable manner, and a terrifying power of intensely critical listening raise the impression produced by him to absolute tremendousness. the stranger. my name is bohun. (general awe.) have i the honor of addressing mrs. clandon? (mrs. clandon bows. bohun bows.) miss clandon? (gloria bows. bohun bows.) mr. clandon? crampton (insisting on his rightful name as angrily as he dares). my name is crampton, sir. bohun. oh, indeed. (passing him over without further notice and turning to valentine.) are you mr. clandon? valentine (making it a point of honor not to be impressed by him). do i look like it? my name is valentine. i did the drugging. bohun. ah, quite so. then mr. clandon has not yet arrived? waiter (entering anxiously through the window). beg pardon, ma'am; but can you tell me what became of that-- (he recognizes bohun, and loses all his self-possession. bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. after a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently to address bohun weakly but coherently.) beg pardon, sir, i'm sure, sir. was--was it you, sir? bohun (ruthlessly). it was i. waiter (brokenly). yes, sir. (unable to restrain his tears.) you in a false nose, walter! (he sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) i beg pardon, ma'am, i'm sure. a little giddiness-- bohun (commandingly). you will excuse him, mrs. clandon, when i inform you that he is my father. waiter (heartbroken). oh, no, no, walter. a waiter for your father on the top of a false nose! what will they think of you? mrs. clandon (going to the waiter's chair in her kindest manner). i am delighted to hear it, mr. bohun. your father has been an excellent friend to us since we came here. (bohun bows gravely.) waiter (shaking his head). oh, no, ma'am. it's very kind of you-- very ladylike and affable indeed, ma'am; but i should feel at a great disadvantage off my own proper footing. never mind my being the gentleman's father, ma'am: it is only the accident of birth after all, ma'am. (he gets up feebly.) you'll all excuse me, i'm sure, having interrupted your business. (he begins to make his way along the table, supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door.) bohun. one moment. (the waiter stops, with a sinking heart.) my father was a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon. yes, most of it, i think. bohun. in that case we shall want him. waiter (pleading). i hope it may not be necessary, sir. busy evening for me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir. bohun (inexorably). we shall want you. mrs. clandon (politely). sit down, won't you? waiter (earnestly). oh, if you please, ma'am, i really must draw the line at sitting down. i couldn't let myself be seen doing such a thing, ma'am: thank you, i am sure, all the same. (he looks round from face to face wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone.) gloria. don't let us waste time. william only wants to go on taking care of us. i should like a cup of coffee. waiter (brightening perceptibly). coffee, miss? (he gives a little gasp of hope.) certainly, miss. thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very thoughtful and considerate indeed. (to mrs. clandon, timidly but expectantly.) anything for you, ma'am? mrs. clandon er--oh, yes: it's so hot, i think we might have a jug of claret cup. waiter (beaming). claret cup, ma'am! certainly, ma'am. gloria oh, well i'll have a claret cup instead of coffee. put some cucumber in it. waiter (delighted). cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (to bohun.) anything special for you, sir? you don't like cucumber, sir. bohun. if mrs. clandon will allow me--syphon--scotch. waiter. right, sir. (to crampton.) irish for you, sir, i think, sir? (crampton assents with a grunt. the waiter looks enquiringly at valentine.) valentine. i like the cucumber. waiter. right, sir. (summing up.) claret cup, syphon, one scotch and one irish? mrs. clandon. i think that's right. waiter (perfectly happy). right, ma'am. directly, ma'am. thank you. (he ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human happiness, from the bottom to the top, in a little over two minutes.) mccomas. we can begin now, i suppose? bohun. we had better wait until mrs. clandon's husband arrives. crampton. what d'y' mean? i'm her husband. bohun (instantly pouncing on the inconsistency between this and his previous statement). you said just now your name was crampton. crampton. so it is. mrs. clandon } (all four { i-- gloria } speaking { my-- mccomas } simul- { mrs.-- valentine } taneously). { you-- bohun (drowning them in two thunderous words). one moment. (dead silence.) pray allow me. sit down everybody. (they obey humbly. gloria takes the saddle-bag chair on the hearth. valentine slips around to her side of the room and sits on the ottoman facing the window, so that he can look at her. crampton sits on the ottoman with his back to valentine's. mrs. clandon, who has all along kept at the opposite side of the room in order to avoid crampton as much as possible, sits near the door, with mccomas beside her on her left. bohun places himself magisterially in the centre of the group, near the corner of the table on mrs. clandon's side. when they are settled, he fixes crampton with his eye, and begins.) in this family, it appears, the husband's name is crampton: the wife's clandon. thus we have on the very threshold of the case an element of confusion. valentine (getting up and speaking across to him with one knee on the ottoman). but it's perfectly simple. bohun (annihilating him with a vocal thunderbolt). it is. mrs. clandon has adopted another name. that is the obvious explanation which you feared i could not find out for myself. you mistrust my intelligence, mr. valentine-- (stopping him as he is about to protest.) no: i don't want you to answer that: i want you to think over it when you feel your next impulse to interrupt me. valentine (dazed). this is simply breaking a butterfly on a wheel. what does it matter? (he sits down again.) bohun. i will tell you what it matters, sir. it matters that if this family difference is to be smoothed over as we all hope it may be, mrs. clandon, as a matter of social convenience and decency, will have to resume her husband's name. (mrs. clandon assumes an expression of the most determined obstinacy.) or else mr. crampton will have to call himself mr. clandon. (crampton looks indomitably resolved to do nothing of the sort.) no doubt you think that an easy matter, mr. valentine. (he looks pointedly at mrs. clandon, then at crampton.) i differ from you. (he throws himself back in his chair, frowning heavily.) mccomas (timidly). i think, bohun, we had perhaps better dispose of the important questions first. bohun. mccomas: there will be no difficulty about the important questions. there never is. it is the trifles that will wreck you at the harbor mouth. (mccomas looks as if he considered this a paradox.) you don't agree with me, eh? mccomas (flatteringly). if i did-- bohun (interrupting him). if you did, you would be me, instead of being what you are. mccomas (fawning on him). of course, bohun, your specialty-- bohun (again interrupting him). my specialty is being right when other people are wrong. if you agreed with me i should be of no use here. (he nods at him to drive the point home; then turns suddenly and forcibly on crampton.) now you, mr. crampton: what point in this business have you most at heart? crampton (beginning slowly). i wish to put all considerations of self aside in this matter-- bohun (interrupting him). so do we all, mr. crampton. (to mrs. clandon.) y o u wish to put self aside, mrs. clandon? mrs. clandon. yes: i am not consulting my own feelings in being here. bohun. so do you, miss clandon? gloria. yes. bohun. i thought so. we all do. valentine. except me. my aims are selfish. bohun. that's because you think an impression of sincerity will produce a better effect on miss clandon than an impression of disinterestedness. (valentine, utterly dismantled and destroyed by this just remark, takes refuge in a feeble, speechless smile. bohun, satisfied at having now effectually crushed all rebellion, throws himself back in his chair, with an air of being prepared to listen tolerantly to their grievances.) now, mr. crampton, go on. it's understood that self is put aside. human nature always begins by saying that. crampton. but i mean it, sir. bohun. quite so. now for your point. crampton. every reasonable person will admit that it's an unselfish one--the children. bohun. well? what about the children? crampton (with emotion). they have-- bohun (pouncing forward again). stop. you're going to tell me about your feelings, mr. crampton. don't: i sympathize with them; but they're not my business. tell us exactly what you want: that's what we have to get at. crampton (uneasily). it's a very difficult question to answer, mr. bohun. bohun. come: i'll help you out. what do you object to in the present circumstances of the children? crampton. i object to the way they have been brought up. bohun. how do you propose to alter that now? crampton. i think they ought to dress more quietly. valentine. nonsense. bohun (instantly flinging himself back in his chair, outraged by the interruption). when you are done, mr. valentine--when you are quite done. valentine. what's wrong with miss clandon's dress? crampton (hotly to valentine). my opinion is as good as yours. gloria (warningly). father! crampton (subsiding piteously). i didn't mean you, my dear. (pleading earnestly to bohun.) but the two younger ones! you have not seen them, mr. bohun; and indeed i think you would agree with me that there is something very noticeable, something almost gay and frivolous in their style of dressing. mrs. clandon (impatiently). do you suppose i choose their clothes for them? really this is childish. crampton (furious, rising). childish! (mrs. clandon rises indignantly.) mccomas } (all ris- } crampton, you promised-- valentine } ing and } ridiculous. they dress } speaking } charmingly. gloria } together). } pray let us behave reasonably. tumult. suddenly they hear a chime of glasses in the room behind them. they turn in silent surprise and find that the waiter has just come back from the bar in the garden, and is jingling his tray warningly as he comes softly to the table with it. waiter (to crampton, setting a tumbler apart on the table). irish for you, sir. (crampton sits down a little shamefacedly. the waiter sets another tumbler and a syphon apart, saying to bohun) scotch and syphon for you, sir. (bohun waves his hand impatiently. the waiter places a large glass jug in the middle.) and claret cup. (all subside into their seats. peace reigns.) mrs. clandon (humbly to bohun). i am afraid we interrupted you, mr. bohun. bohun (calmly). you did. (to the waiter, who is going out.) just wait a bit. waiter. yes, sir. certainly, sir. (he takes his stand behind bohun's chair.) mrs. clandon (to the waiter). you don't mind our detaining you, i hope. mr. bohun wishes it. waiter (now quite at his ease). oh, no, ma'am, not at all, ma'am. it is a pleasure to me to watch the working of his trained and powerful mind--very stimulating, very entertaining and instructive indeed, ma'am. bohun (resuming command of the proceedings). now, mr. crampton: we are waiting for you. do you give up your objection to the dressing, or do you stick to it? crampton (pleading). mr. bohun: consider my position for a moment. i haven't got myself alone to consider: there's my sister sophronia and my brother-in-law and all their circle. they have a great horror of anything that is at all--at all--well-- bohun. out with it. fast? loud? gay? crampton. not in any unprincipled sense of course; but--but-- (blurting it out desperately) those two children would shock them. they're not fit to mix with their own people. that's what i complain of. mrs. clandon (with suppressed impatience). mr. valentine: do you think there is anything fast or loud about phil and dolly? valentine. certainly not. it's utter bosh. nothing can be in better taste. crampton. oh, yes: of course you say so. mrs. clandon. william: you see a great deal of good english society. are my children overdressed? waiter (reassuringly). oh, dear, no, ma'am. (persuasively.) oh, no, sir, not at all. a little pretty and tasty no doubt; but very choice and classy--very genteel and high toned indeed. might be the son and daughter of a dean, sir, i assure you, sir. you have only to look at them, sir, to-- (at this moment a harlequin and columbine, dancing to the music of the band in the garden, which has just reached the coda of a waltz, whirl one another into the room. the harlequin's dress is made of lozenges, an inch square, of turquoise blue silk and gold alternately. his hat is gilt and his mask turned up. the columbine's petticoats are the epitome of a harvest field, golden orange and poppy crimson, with a tiny velvet jacket for the poppy stamens. they pass, an exquisite and dazzling apparition, between mccomas and bohun, and then back in a circle to the end of the table, where, as the final chord of the waltz is struck, they make a tableau in the middle of the company, the harlequin down on his left knee, and the columbine standing on his right knee, with her arms curved over her head. unlike their dancing, which is charmingly graceful, their attitudinizing is hardly a success, and threatens to end in a catastrophe.) the columbine (screaming). lift me down, somebody: i'm going to fall. papa: lift me down. crampton (anxiously running to her and taking her hands). my child! dolly (jumping down with his help). thanks: so nice of you. (phil, putting his hat into his belt, sits on the side of the table and pours out some claret cup. crampton returns to his place on the ottoman in great perplexity.) oh, what fun! oh, dear. (she seats herself with a vault on the front edge of the table, panting.) oh, claret cup! (she drinks.) bohun (in powerful tones). this is the younger lady, is it? dolly (slipping down off the table in alarm at his formidable voice and manner). yes, sir. please, who are you? mrs. clandon. this is mr. bohun, dolly, who has very kindly come to help us this evening. dolly. oh, then he comes as a boon and a blessing-- philip. sh! crampton. mr. bohun--mccomas: i appeal to you. is this right? would you blame my sister's family for objecting to this? dolly (flushing ominously). have you begun again? crampton (propitiating her). no, no. it's perhaps natural at your age. dolly (obstinately). never mind my age. is it pretty? crampton. yes, dear, yes. (he sits down in token of submission.) dolly (following him insistently). do you like it? crampton. my child: how can you expect me to like it or to approve of it? dolly (determined not to let him off). how can you think it pretty and not like it? mccomas (rising, angry and scandalized). really i must say-- (bohun, who has listened to dolly with the highest approval, is down on him instantly.) bohun. no: don't interrupt, mccomas. the young lady's method is right. (to dolly, with tremendous emphasis.) press your questions, miss clandon: press your questions. dolly (rising). oh, dear, you are a regular overwhelmer! do you always go on like this? bohun (rising). yes. don't you try to put me out of countenance, young lady: you're too young to do it. (he takes mccomas's chair from beside mrs. clandon's and sets it beside his own.) sit down. (dolly, fascinated, obeys; and bohun sits down again. mccomas, robbed of his seat, takes a chair on the other side between the table and the ottoman.) now, mr. crampton, the facts are before you--both of them. you think you'd like to have your two youngest children to live with you. well, you wouldn't-- (crampton tries to protest; but bohun will not have it on any terms.) no, you wouldn't: you think you would; but i know better than you. you'd want this young lady here to give up dressing like a stage columbine in the evening and like a fashionable columbine in the morning. well, she won't--never. she thinks she will; but-- dolly (interrupting him). no i don't. (resolutely.) i'll n e v e r give up dressing prettily. never. as gloria said to that man in madeira, never, never, never while grass grows or water runs. valentine (rising in the wildest agitation). what! what! (beginning to speak very fast.) when did she say that? who did she say that to? bohun (throwing himself back with massive, pitying remonstrance). mr. valentine-- valentine (pepperily). don't you interrupt me, sir: this is something really serious. i i n s i s t on knowing who miss clandon said that to. dolly. perhaps phil remembers. which was it, phil? number three or number five? valentine. number five!!! philip. courage, valentine. it wasn't number five: it was only a tame naval lieutenant that was always on hand--the most patient and harmless of mortals. gloria (coldly). what are we discussing now, pray? valentine (very red). excuse me: i am sorry i interrupted. i shall intrude no further, mrs. clandon. (he bows to mrs. clandon and marches away into the garden, boiling with suppressed rage.) dolly. hmhm! philip. ahah! gloria. please go on, mr. bohun. dolly (striking in as bohun, frowning formidably, collects himself for a fresh grapple with the case). you're going to bully us, mr. bohun. bohun. i-- dolly (interrupting him). oh, yes, you are: you think you're not; but you are. i know by your eyebrows. bohun (capitulating). mrs. clandon: these are clever children-- clear headed, well brought up children. i make that admission deliberately. can you, in return, point out to me any way of inducting them to hold their tongues? mrs. clandon. dolly, dearest--! philip. our old failing, dolly. silence! (dolly holds her mouth.) mrs. clandon. now, mr. bohun, before they begin again-- waiter (softer). be quick, sir: be quick. dolly (beaming at him). dear william! philip. sh! bohun (unexpectedly beginning by hurling a question straight at dolly). have you any intention of getting married? dolly. i! well, finch calls me by my christian name. mccomas. i will not have this. mr. bohun: i use the young lady's christian name naturally as an old friend of her mother's. dolly. yes, you call me dolly as an old friend of my mother's. but what about dorothee-ee-a? (mccomas rises indignantly.) crampton (anxiously, rising to restrain him). keep your temper, mccomas. don't let us quarrel. be patient. mccomas. i will not be patient. you are shewing the most wretched weakness of character, crampton. i say this is monstrous. dolly. mr. bohun: please bully finch for us. bohun. i will. mccomas: you're making yourself ridiculous. sit down. mccomas. i-- bohun (waving him down imperiously). no: sit down, sit down. (mccomas sits down sulkily; and crampton, much relieved, follows his example.) dolly (to bohun, meekly). thank you. bohun. now, listen to me, all of you. i give no opinion, mccomas, as to how far you may or may not have committed yourself in the direction indicated by this young lady. (mccomas is about to protest.) no: don't interrupt me: if she doesn't marry you she will marry somebody else. that is the solution of the difficulty as to her not bearing her father's name. the other lady intends to get married. gloria (flushing). mr. bohun! bohun. oh, yes, you do: you don't know it; but you do. gloria (rising). stop. i warn you, mr. bohun, not to answer for my intentions. bohun (rising). it's no use, miss clandon: you can't put me down. i tell you your name will soon be neither clandon nor crampton; and i could tell you what it will be if i chose. (he goes to the other end of the table, where he unrolls his domino, and puts the false nose on the table. when he moves they all rise; and phil goes to the window. bohun, with a gesture, summons the waiter to help him in robing.) mr. crampton: your notion of going to law is all nonsense: your children will be of age before you could get the point decided. (allowing the waiter to put the domino on his shoulders.) you can do nothing but make a friendly arrangement. if you want your family more than they want you, you'll get the worse of the arrangement: if they want you more than you want them, you'll get the better of it. (he shakes the domino into becoming folds and takes up the false nose. dolly gazes admiringly at him.) the strength of their position lies in their being very agreeable people personally. the strength of your position lies in your income. (he claps on the false nose, and is again grotesquely transfigured.) dolly (running to him). oh, now you look quite like a human being. mayn't i have just one dance with you? c a n you dance? (phil, resuming his part of harlequin, waves his hat as if casting a spell on them.) bohun (thunderously). yes: you think i can't; but i can. come along. (he seizes her and dances off with her through the window in a most powerful manner, but with studied propriety and grace. the waiter is meanwhile busy putting the chairs back in their customary places.) philip. "on with the dance: let joy be unconfined." william! waiter. yes, sir. philip. can you procure a couple of dominos and false noses for my father and mr. mccomas? mccomas. most certainly not. i protest-- crampton. no, no. what harm will it do, just for once, mccomas? don't let us be spoil-sports. mccomas. crampton: you are not the man i took you for. (pointedly.) bullies are always cowards. (he goes disgustedly towards the window.) crampton (following him). well, never mind. we must indulge them a little. can you get us something to wear, waiter? waiter. certainly, sir. (he precedes them to the window, and stands aside there to let them pass out before him.) this way, sir. dominos and noses, sir? mccomas (angrily, on his way out). i shall wear my own nose. waiter (suavely). oh, dear, yes, sir: the false one will fit over it quite easily, sir: plenty of room, sir, plenty of room. (he goes out after mccomas.) crampton (turning at the window to phil with an attempt at genial fatherliness). come along, my boy, come along. (he goes.) philip (cheerily, following him). coming, dad, coming. (on the window threshold, he stops; looking after crampton; then turns fantastically with his bat bent into a halo round his head, and says with a lowered voice to mrs. clandon and gloria) did you feel the pathos of that? (he vanishes.) mrs. clandon (left alone with gloria). why did mr. valentine go away so suddenly, i wonder? gloria (petulantly). i don't know. yes, i d o know. let us go and see the dancing. (they go towards the window, and are met by valentine, who comes in from the garden walking quickly, with his face set and sulky.) valentine (stiffly). excuse me. i thought the party had quite broken up. gloria (nagging). then why did you come back? valentine. i came back because i am penniless. i can't get out that way without a five shilling ticket. mrs. clandon. has anything annoyed you, mr. valentine? gloria. never mind him, mother. this is a fresh insult to me: that is all. mrs. clandon (hardly able to realize that gloria is deliberately provoking an altercation). gloria! valentine. mrs. clandon: have i said anything insulting? have i done anything insulting? gloria. you have implied that my past has been like yours. that is the worst of insults. valentine. i imply nothing of the sort. i declare that my past has been blameless in comparison with yours. mrs. clandon (most indignantly). mr. valentine! valentine. well, what am i to think when i learn that miss clandon has made exactly the same speeches to other men that she has made to me--when i hear of at least five former lovers, with a tame naval lieutenant thrown in? oh, it's too bad. mrs. clandon. but you surely do not believe that these affairs-- mere jokes of the children's--were serious, mr. valentine? valentine. not to you--not to her, perhaps. but i know what the men felt. (with ludicrously genuine earnestness.) have you ever thought of the wrecked lives, the marriages contracted in the recklessness of despair, the suicides, the--the--the-- gloria (interrupting him contemptuously). mother: this man is a sentimental idiot. (she sweeps away to the fireplace.) mrs. clandon (shocked). oh, my d e a r e s t gloria, mr. valentine will think that rude. valentine. i am not a sentimental idiot. i am cured of sentiment for ever. (he sits down in dudgeon.) mrs. clandon. mr. valentine: you must excuse us all. women have to unlearn the false good manners of their slavery before they acquire the genuine good manners of their freedom. don't think gloria vulgar (gloria turns, astonished): she is not really so. gloria. mother! you apologize for me to h i m! mrs. clandon. my dear: you have some of the faults of youth as well as its qualities; and mr. valentine seems rather too old fashioned in his ideas about his own sex to like being called an idiot. and now had we not better go and see what dolly is doing? (she goes towards the window. valentine rises.) gloria. do you go, mother. i wish to speak to mr. valentine alone. mrs. clandon (startled into a remonstrance). my dear! (recollecting herself.) i beg your pardon, gloria. certainly, if you wish. (she bows to valentine and goes out.) valentine. oh, if your mother were only a widow! she's worth six of you. gloria. that is the first thing i have heard you say that does you honor. valentine. stuff! come: say what you want to say and let me go. gloria. i have only this to say. you dragged me down to your level for a moment this afternoon. do you think, if that had ever happened before, that i should not have been on my guard--that i should not have known what was coming, and known my own miserable weakness? valentine (scolding at her passionately). don't talk of it in that way. what do i care for anything in you but your weakness, as you call it? you thought yourself very safe, didn't you, behind your advanced ideas! i amused myself by upsetting t h e m pretty easily. gloria (insolently, feeling that now she can do as she likes with him). indeed! valentine. but why did i do it? because i was being tempted to awaken your heart--to stir the depths in you. why was i tempted? because nature was in deadly earnest with me when i was in jest with her. when the great moment came, who was awakened? who was stirred? in whom did the depths break up? in myself--m y s e l f: i was transported: you were only offended--shocked. you were only an ordinary young lady, too ordinary to allow tame lieutenants to go as far as i went. that's all. i shall not trouble you with conventional apologies. good-bye. (he makes resolutely for the door.) gloria. stop. (he hesitates.) oh, will you understand, if i tell you the truth, that i am not making an advance to you? valentine. pooh! i know what you're going to say. you think you're not ordinary--that i was right--that you really have those depths in your nature. it flatters you to believe it. (she recoils.) well, i grant that you are not ordinary in some ways: you are a clever girl (gloria stifles an exclamation of rage, and takes a threatening step towards him); but you've not been awakened yet. you didn't care: you don't care. it was my tragedy, not yours. good-bye. (he turns to the door. she watches him, appalled to see him slipping from her grasp. as he turns the handle, he pauses; then turns again to her, offering his hand.) let us part kindly. gloria (enormously relieved, and immediately turning her back on him deliberately.) good-bye. i trust you will soon recover from the wound. valentine (brightening up as it flashes on him that he is master of the situation after all). i shall recover: such wounds heal more than they harm. after all, i still have my own gloria. gloria (facing him quickly). what do you mean? valentine. the gloria of my imagination. gloria (proudly). keep your own gloria--the gloria of your imagination. (her emotion begins to break through her pride.) the real gloria--the gloria who was shocked, offended, horrified--oh, yes, quite truly--who was driven almost mad with shame by the feeling that all her power over herself had been broken down at her first real encounter with--with-- (the color rushes over her face again. she covers it with her left hand, and puts her right on his left arm to support herself.) valentine. take care. i'm losing my senses again. (summoning all her courage, she takes away her hand from her face and puts it on his right shoulder, turning him towards her and looking him straight in the eyes. he begins to protest agitatedly.) gloria: be sensible: it's no use: i haven't a penny in the world. gloria. can't you earn one? other people do. valentine (half delighted, half frightened). i never could--you'd be unhappy-- my dearest love: i should be the merest fortune-hunting adventurer if-- (her grip on his arms tightens; and she kisses him.) oh, lord! (breathless.) oh, i-- (he gasps.) i don't know anything about women: twelve years' experience is not enough. (in a gust of jealousy she throws him away from her; and he reels her back into the chair like a leaf before the wind, as dolly dances in, waltzing with the waiter, followed by mrs. clandon and finch, also waltzing, and phil pirouetting by himself.) dolly (sinking on the chair at the writing-table). oh, i'm out of breath. how beautifully you waltz, william! mrs. clandon (sinking on the saddlebag seat on the hearth). oh, how could you make me do such a silly thing, finch! i haven't danced since the soiree at south place twenty years ago. gloria (peremptorily at valentine). get up. (valentine gets up abjectly.) now let us have no false delicacy. tell my mother that we have agreed to marry one another. (a silence of stupefaction ensues. valentine, dumb with panic, looks at them with an obvious impulse to run away.) dolly (breaking the silence). number six! philip. sh! dolly (tumultuously). oh, my feelings! i want to kiss somebody; and we bar it in the family. where's finch? mccomas (starting violently). no, positively-- (crampton appears in the window.) dolly (running to crampton). oh, you're just in time. (she kisses him.) now (leading him forward) bless them. gloria. no. i will have no such thing, even in jest. when i need a blessing, i shall ask my mother's. crampton (to gloria, with deep disappointment). am i to understand that you have engaged yourself to this young gentleman? gloria (resolutely). yes. do you intend to be our friend or-- dolly (interposing). --or our father? crampton. i should like to be both, my child. but surely--! mr. valentine: i appeal to your sense of honor. valentine. you're quite right. it's perfect madness. if we go out to dance together i shall have to borrow five shillings from her for a ticket. gloria: don't be rash: you're throwing yourself away. i'd much better clear straight out of this, and never see any of you again. i shan't commit suicide: i shan't even be unhappy. it'll be a relief to me: i--i'm frightened, i'm positively frightened; and that's the plain truth. gloria (determinedly). you shall not go. valentine (quailing). no, dearest: of course not. but--oh, will somebody only talk sense for a moment and bring us all to reason! i can't. where's bohun? bohun's the man. phil: go and summon bohun-- philip. from the vastly deep. i go. (he makes his bat quiver in the air and darts away through the window.) waiter (harmoniously to valentine). if you will excuse my putting in a word, sir, do not let a matter of five shillings stand between you and your happiness, sir. we shall be only too pleased to put the ticket down to you: and you can settle at your convenience. very glad to meet you in any way, very happy and pleased indeed, sir. philip (re-appearing). he comes. (he waves his bat over the window. bohun comes in, taking off his false nose and throwing it on the table in passing as he comes between gloria and valentine.) valentine. the point is, mr. bohun-- mccomas (interrupting from the hearthrug). excuse me, sir: the point must be put to him by a solicitor. the question is one of an engagement between these two young people. the lady has some property, and (looking at crampton) will probably have a good deal more. crampton. possibly. i hope so. valentine. and the gentleman hasn't a rap. bohun (nailing valentine to the point instantly). then insist on a settlement. that shocks your delicacy: most sensible precautions do. but you ask my advice; and i give it to you. have a settlement. gloria (proudly). he shall have a settlement. valentine. my good sir, i don't want advice for myself. give h e r some advice. bohun. she won't take it. when you're married, she won't take yours either-- (turning suddenly on gloria) oh, no, you won't: you think you will; but you won't. he'll set to work and earn his living-- (turning suddenly to valentine) oh, yes, you will: you think you won't; but you will. she'll make you. crampton (only half persuaded). then, mr. bohun, you don't think this match an unwise one? bohun. yes, i do: all matches are unwise. it's unwise to be born; it's unwise to be married; it's unwise to live; and it's unwise to die. waiter (insinuating himself between crampton and valentine). then, if i may respectfully put in a word in, sir, so much the worse for wisdom! (to valentine, benignly.) cheer up, sir, cheer up: every man is frightened of marriage when it comes to the point; but it often turns out very comfortable, very enjoyable and happy indeed, sir--from time to time. i never was master in my own house, sir: my wife was like your young lady: she was of a commanding and masterful disposition, which my son has inherited. but if i had my life to live twice over, i'd do it again, i'd do it again, i assure you. you never can tell, sir: you never can tell. philip. allow me to remark that if gloria has made up her mind-- dolly. the matter's settled and valentine's done for. and we're missing all the dances. valentine (to gloria, gallantly making the best of it). may i have a dance-- bohun (interposing in his grandest diapason). excuse me: i claim that privilege as counsel's fee. may i have the honor--thank you. (he dances away with gloria and disappears among the lanterns, leaving valentine gasping.) valentine (recovering his breath). dolly: may i-- (offering himself as her partner)? dolly. nonsense! (eluding him and running round the table to the fireplace.) finch--my finch! (she pounces on mccomas and makes him dance.) mccomas (protesting). pray restrain--really--(he is borne off dancing through the window.) valentine (making a last effort). mrs. clandon: may i-- philip (forestalling him). come, mother. (he seizes his mother and whirls her away.) mrs. clandon (remonstrating). phil, phil-- (she shares mccomas's fate.) crampton (following them with senile glee). ho! ho! he! he! he! (he goes into the garden chuckling at the fun.) valentine (collapsing on the ottoman and staring at the waiter). i might as well be a married man already. (the waiter contemplates the captured duellist of sex with affectionate commiseration, shaking his head slowly.) curtain. virginia by ellen glasgow garden city new york doubleday, page & company mcmxiii _copyright, , by_ doubleday, page & company _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian._ to the radiant spirit who was my sister cary glasgow mccormack contents book first--the dream i. the system ii. her inheritance iii. first love iv. the treadwells v. oliver, the romantic vi. a treadwell in revolt vii. the artist in philistia viii. white magic ix. the great man moves x. oliver surrenders book second--the reality i. virginia prepares for the future ii. virginia's letters iii. the return iv. her children v. failure vi. the shadow vii. the will to live viii. the pang of motherhood ix. the problem of the south book third--the adjustment i. the changing order ii. the price of comfort iii. middle-age iv. life's cruelties v. bitterness vi. the future book first the dream chapter i the system toward the close of a may afternoon in the year , miss priscilla batte, having learned by heart the lesson in physical geography she would teach her senior class on the morrow, stood feeding her canary on the little square porch of the dinwiddie academy for young ladies. the day had been hot, and the fitful wind, which had risen in the direction of the river, was just beginning to blow in soft gusts under the old mulberry trees in the street, and to scatter the loosened petals of syringa blossoms in a flowery snow over the grass. for a moment miss priscilla turned her flushed face to the scented air, while her eyes rested lovingly on the narrow walk, edged with pointed bricks and bordered by cowslips and wallflowers, which led through the short garden to the three stone steps and the tall iron gate. she was a shapeless yet majestic woman of some fifty years, with a large mottled face in which a steadfast expression of gentle obstinacy appeared to underly the more evanescent ripples of thought or of emotion. her severe black silk gown, to which she had just changed from her morning dress of alpaca, was softened under her full double chin by a knot of lace and a cameo brooch bearing the helmeted profile of pallas athene. on her head she wore a three-cornered cap trimmed with a ruching of organdie, and beneath it her thin gray hair still showed a gleam of faded yellow in the sunlight. she had never been handsome, but her prodigious size had endowed her with an impressiveness which had passed in her youth, and among an indulgent people, for beauty. only in the last few years had her fleshiness, due to rich food which she could not resist and to lack of exercise for which she had an instinctive aversion, begun seriously to inconvenience her. beyond the wire cage, in which the canary spent his involuntarily celibate life, an ancient microphylla rose-bush, with a single imperfect bud blooming ahead of summer amid its glossy foliage, clambered over a green lattice to the gabled pediment of the porch, while the delicate shadows of the leaves rippled like lace-work on the gravel below. in the miniature garden, where the small spring blossoms strayed from the prim beds into the long feathery grasses, there were syringa bushes, a little overblown; crape-myrtles not yet in bud; a holly tree veiled in bright green near the iron fence; a flowering almond shrub in late bloom against the shaded side of the house; and where a west wing put out on the left, a bower of red and white roses was steeped now in the faint sunshine. at the foot of the three steps ran the sunken moss-edged bricks of high street, and across high street there floated, like wind-blown flowers, the figures of susan treadwell and virginia pendleton. opening the rusty gate, the two girls tripped with carefully held flounces up the stone steps and between the cowslips and wallflowers that bordered the walk. their white lawn dresses were made with the close-fitting sleeves and the narrow waists of the period, and their elaborately draped overskirts were looped on the left with graduated bows of light blue ottoman ribbon. they wore no hats, and virginia, who was the shorter of the two, had fastened a jacqueminot rose in the thick dark braid which was wound in a wreath about her head. above her arched black eyebrows, which lent an expression of surprise and animation to her vivid oval face, her hair was parted, after an earlier fashion, under its plaited crown, and allowed to break in a mist of little curls over her temples. even in repose there was a joyousness in her look which seemed less the effect of an inward gaiety of mind than of some happy outward accident of form and colour. her eyes, very far apart and set in black lashes, were of a deep soft blue--the blue of wild hyacinths after rain. by her eyes, and by an old-world charm of personality which she exhaled like a perfume, it was easy to discern that she embodied the feminine ideal of the ages. to look at her was to think inevitably of love. for that end, obedient to the powers of life, the centuries had formed and coloured her, as they had formed and coloured the wild rose with its whorl of delicate petals. the air of a spoiled beauty which rested not ungracefully upon her was sweetened by her expression of natural simplicity and goodness. for an instant she stood listening in silence to the querulous pipes of the bird and the earnest exhortations of the teacher on the joys of cage life for both bird and lady. then plucking the solitary early bud from the microphylla rose-bush, she tossed it over the railing of the porch on the large and placid bosom of miss priscilla. "do leave dicky alone for a minute!" she called in a winning soprano voice. at the sound, miss priscilla dropped the bit of cake she held, and turned to lean delightedly over the walk, while her face beamed like a beneficent moon through the shining cloud of rose-leaves. "why, jinny, i hadn't any idea that you and susan were there!" her smile included virginia's companion, a tall, rather heavy girl, with intelligent grey eyes and fair hair cut in a straight fringe across her forehead. she was the daughter of cyrus treadwell, the wealthiest and therefore the most prominent citizen of the town, and she was also as intellectual as the early eighties and the twenty-one thousand inhabitants of dinwiddie permitted a woman to be. her friendship for virginia had been one of those swift and absorbing emotions which come to women in their school-days. the stronger of the two, she dominated the other, as she dominated every person or situation in life, not by charm, but by the force of an energetic and capable mind. though her dress matched virginia's in every detail, from the soft folds of tulle at the neck to the fancy striped stockings under the _bouffant_ draperies, the different shapes of the wearers gave to the one gown an air of decorous composure and to the other a quaint and appealing grace. flushed, ardent, expectant, both girls stood now at the beginning of womanhood. life was theirs; it belonged to them, this veiled, radiant thing that was approaching. nothing wonderful had come as yet--but to-morrow, the day after, or next year, the miracle would happen, and everything would be different! experience floated in a luminous mystery before them. the unknown, which had borrowed the sweetness and the colour of their illusions, possessed them like a secret ecstasy and shone, in spite of their shyness, in their startled and joyous look. "father asked me to take a message over to general goode," explained virginia, with a little laugh as gay as the song of a bird, "but i couldn't go by without thanking you for the cherry bounce. i made mother drink some of it before dinner, and it almost gave her an appetite." "i knew it was what she needed," answered miss priscilla, showing her pleasure by an increasing beam. "it was made right here in the house, and there's nothing better in the world, my poor mother used to say, to keep you from running down in the spring. but why can't you and susan come in and sit a while?" "we'll be straight back in a minute," replied susan before virginia could answer. "i've got a piece of news i want to tell you before any one else does. oliver came home last night." "oliver?" repeated miss priscilla, a little perplexed. "you don't mean the son of your uncle henry, who went out to australia? i thought your father had washed his hands of him because he had started play-acting or something?" curiosity, that devouring passion of the middle-aged, worked in her breast, and her placid face grew almost intense in expression. "yes, that's the one," replied susan. "they went to australia when oliver was ten years old, and he's now twenty-two. he lost both his parents about three years ago," she added. "i know. his mother was my cousin," returned miss priscilla. "i lost sight of her after she left dinwiddie, but somebody was telling me the other day that henry's investments all turned out badly and they came down to real poverty. sarah jane was a pretty girl and i was always very fond of her, but she was one of the improvident sort that couldn't make two ends meet without tying them into a bow-knot." "then oliver must be just like her. after his mother's death he went to germany to study, and he gave away the little money he had to some student he found starving there in a garret." "that was generous," commented miss priscilla thoughtfully, "but i should hardly call it sensible. i hope some day, jinny, that your father will tell us in a sermon whether there is biblical sanction for immoderate generosity or not." "but what does he say?" asked virginia softly, meaning not the rector, but the immoderate young man. "oh, oliver says that there wasn't enough for both and that the other student is worth more to the world than he is," answered susan. "then, of course, when he got so poor that he had to pawn his clothes or starve, he wrote father an almost condescending letter and said that as much as he hated business, he supposed he'd have to come back and go to work. 'only,' he added, 'for god's sake, don't make it tobacco!' wasn't that dreadful?" "it was extremely impertinent," replied miss priscilla sternly, "and to cyrus of all persons! i am surprised that he allowed him to come into the house." "oh, father doesn't take any of his talk seriously. he calls it 'starvation foolishness,' and says that oliver will get over it as soon as he has a nice little bank account. perhaps he will--he is only twenty-two, you know--but just now his head is full of all kinds of new ideas he picked up somewhere abroad. he's as clever as he can be, there's no doubt of that, and he'd be really good-looking, too, if he didn't have the crooked nose of the treadwells. virginia has seen him only once in the street, but she's more than half in love with him already." "do come, susan!" remonstrated virginia, blushing as red as the rose in her hair. "it's past six o'clock and the general will have gone if we don't hurry." and turning away from the porch, she ran between the flowering syringa bushes down the path to the gate. having lost his bit of cake, the bird began to pipe shrilly, while miss priscilla drew a straight wicker chair (she never used rockers) beside the cage, and, stretching out her feet in their large cloth shoes with elastic sides, counted the stitches in an afghan she was knitting in narrow blue and orange strips. in front of her, the street trailed between cool, dim houses which were filled with quiet, and from the hall at her back there came a whispering sound as the breeze moved like a ghostly footstep through an alcove window. with that strange power of reflecting the variable moods of humanity which one sometimes finds in inanimate objects, the face of the old house had borrowed from the face of its mistress the look of cheerful fortitude with which her generation had survived the agony of defeat and the humiliation of reconstruction. after nineteen years, the academy still bore the scars of war on its battered front. once it had watched the spectre of famine stalk over the grass-grown pavement, and had heard the rattle of musketry and the roar of cannon borne on the southern breeze that now wafted the sounds of the saw and the hammer from an adjacent street. once it had seen the flight of refugees, the overflow of the wounded from hospitals and churches, the panic of liberated slaves, the steady conquering march of the army of invasion. and though it would never have occurred to miss priscilla that either she or her house had borne any relation to history (which she regarded strictly as a branch of study and visualized as a list of dates or as a king wearing his crown), she had, in fact, played a modest yet effective part in the rapidly changing civilization of her age. but events were powerless against the genial heroism in which she was armoured, and it was characteristic of her, as well as of her race, that, while she sat now in the midst of encircling battlefields, with her eyes on the walk over which she had seen the blood of the wounded drip when they were lifted into her door, she should be brooding not over the tremendous tragedies through which she had passed, but over the lesson in physical geography she must teach in the morning. her lips moved gently, and a listener, had there been one, might have heard her murmur: "the four great alluvial plains of asia--those of china and of the amoo daria in temperate regions; of the euphrates and tigris in the warm temperate; of the indus and ganges under the tropic--with the nile valley in africa, were the theatres of the most ancient civilizations known to history or tradition----" as she ended, a sigh escaped her, for the instruction of the young was for her a matter not of choice, but of necessity. with the majority of maiden ladies left destitute in dinwiddie after the war, she had turned naturally to teaching as the only nice and respectable occupation which required neither preparation of mind nor considerable outlay of money. the fact that she was the single surviving child of a gallant confederate general, who, having distinguished himself and his descendants, fell at last in the battle of gettysburg, was sufficient recommendation of her abilities in the eyes of her fellow citizens. had she chosen to paint portraits or to write poems, they would have rallied quite as loyally to her support. few, indeed, were the girls born in dinwiddie since the war who had not learned reading, penmanship ("up to the right, down to the left, my dear"), geography, history, arithmetic, deportment, and the fine arts, in the academy for young ladies. the brilliant military record of the general still shed a legendary lustre upon the school, and it was earnestly believed that no girl, after leaving there with a diploma for good conduct, could possibly go wrong or become eccentric in her later years. to be sure, she might remain a trifle weak in her spelling (miss priscilla having, as she confessed, a poor head for that branch of study), but, after all, as the rector had once remarked, good spelling was by no means a necessary accomplishment for a lady; and, for the rest, it was certain that the moral education of a pupil of the academy would be firmly rooted in such fundamental verities as the superiority of man and the aristocratic supremacy of the episcopal church. from charming sally goode, now married to tom peachey, known familiarly as "honest tom," the editor of the dinwiddie _bee_, to lovely virginia pendleton, the mark of miss priscilla was ineffaceably impressed upon the daughters of the leading families. remembering this now, as she was disposed to do whenever she was knitting without company, miss priscilla dropped her long wooden needles in her lap, and leaning forward in her chair, gazed out upon the town with an expression of child-like confidence, of touching innocence. this innocence, which belonged to the very essence of her soul, had survived both the fugitive joys and the brutal disillusionments of life. experience could not shatter it, for it was the product of a courage that feared nothing except opinions. just as the town had battled for a principle without understanding it, so she was capable of dying for an idea, but not of conceiving one. she had suffered everything from the war except the necessity of thinking independently about it, and, though in later years memory had become so sacred to her that she rarely indulged in it, she still clung passionately to the habits of her ancestors under the impression that she was clinging to their ideals. little things filled her days--the trivial details of the classroom and of the market, the small domestic disturbances of her neighbours, the moral or mental delinquencies of her two coloured servants--and even her religious veneration for the episcopal church had crystallized at last into a worship of customs. to-day, at the beginning of the industrial awakening of the south, she (who was but the embodied spirit of her race) stood firmly rooted in all that was static, in all that was obsolete and outgrown in the virginia of the eighties. though she felt as yet merely the vague uneasiness with which her mind recoiled from the first stirrings of change, she was beginning dimly to realize that the car of progress would move through the quiet streets before the decade was over. the smoke of factories was already succeeding the smoke of the battlefields, and out of the ashes of a vanquished idealism the spirit of commercial materialism was born. what was left of the old was fighting valiantly, but hopelessly, against what had come of the new. the two forces filled the streets of dinwiddie. they were embodied in classes, in individuals, in articles of faith, in ideals of manners. the symbol of the one spirit was the memorial wreaths on the battlefields; of the other it was the prophetic smoke of the factories. from where she stood in high street, she could see this incense to mammon rising above the spires of the churches, above the houses and the hovels, above the charm and the provincialism which made the dinwiddie of the eighties. and this charm, as well as this provincialism, appeared to her to be so inalienable a part of the old order, with its intrepid faith in itself, with its militant enthusiasm, with its courageous battle against industrial evolution, with its strength, its narrowness, its nobility, its blindness, that, looking ahead, she could discern only the arid stretch of a civilization from which the last remnant of beauty was banished forever. already she felt the breaking of those bonds of sympathy which had held the twenty-one thousand inhabitants of dinwiddie, as they had held the entire south, solidly knit together in a passive yet effectual resistance to the spirit of change. of the world beyond the borders of virginia, dinwiddians knew merely that it was either yankee or foreign, and therefore to be pitied or condemned according to the evangelical or the calvinistic convictions of the observer. philosophy, they regarded with the distrust of a people whose notable achievements have not been in the direction of the contemplative virtues; and having lived comfortably and created a civilization without the aid of science, they could afford not unreasonably to despise it. it was a quarter of a century since "the origin of species" had changed the course of the world's thought, yet it had never reached them. to be sure, there was an old gentleman in tabb street whose title, "the professor," had been conferred in public recognition of peaceful pursuits; but since he never went to church, his learning was chiefly effective when used to point a moral from the pulpit. there was, also, a tradition that general goode had been seen reading plato before the battle of seven pines; and this picturesque incident had contributed the distinction of the scholar to the more effulgent glory of the soldier. but for purely abstract thought--for the thought that did not construct an heroic attitude or a concrete image--there was as little room in the newer industrial system as there had been in the aristocratic society which preceded it. the world still clung to the belief that the business of humanity was confined to the preservation of the institutions which existed in the present moment of history--and dinwiddie was only a quiet backwater into which opinions, like fashions, were borne on the current of some tributary stream of thought. human nature in this town of twenty-one thousand inhabitants differed from human nature in london or in the desert of sahara mainly in the things that it ate and the manner in which it carried its clothes. the same passions stirred its heart, the same instincts moved its body, the same contentment with things as they are, and the same terror of things as they might be, warped its mind. the canary fluted on, and from beyond the mulberry trees there floated the droning voice of an aged negress, in tatters and a red bandanna turban, who persuasively offered strawberries to the silent houses. "i'se got sw-eet straw-ber'-ies! i'se got swe-e-t str-aw-ber'-ies! yes'm, i'se got sw-e-et straw-ber'ies des f'om de coun-try!" then, suddenly, out of nothing, it seemed to miss priscilla, a miracle occurred! the immemorial calm of high street was broken by the sound of rapidly moving wheels (not the jingling rattle of market wagons nor the comfortable roll of doctors' buggies), and a strange new vehicle, belonging to the dinwiddie livery stables, and containing a young man with longish hair and a flowing tie, turned the corner by saint james' church, and passed over the earthen roadbed in front of the green lattice. as the young man went by, he looked up quickly, smiled with the engaging frankness of a genial nature, and lifting his hat with a charming bow, revealed to miss priscilla's eyes the fact that his hair was thick and dark as well as long and wavy. while he looked at her, she noticed, also, that he had a thin, high-coloured face, lighted by a pair of eager dark eyes which lent a glow of impetuous energy to his features. the treadwell nose, she recognized, but beneath the treadwell nose there was a clean-shaven, boyish mouth which belied the treadwell nature in every sensitive curve and outline. "i'd have known him anywhere from susan's description," she thought, and added suspiciously, "i wonder why he peered so long around that corner? it wouldn't surprise me a bit if those girls were coming back that way." impelled by her mounting excitement, she leaned forward until the ball of orange-coloured yarn rolled from her short lap and over the polished floor of the porch. before she could stoop to pick it up, she was arrested by the reappearance of the two girls at the corner beyond which oliver had gazed so intently. then, as they drew nearer, she saw that virginia's face was pink and her eyes starry under their lowered lashes. an inward radiance shone in the girl's look, and appeared to shape her soul and body to its secret influence. miss priscilla, who had known her since the first day she came to school (with her lunch, from which she refused to be parted, tightly tied up in a red and white napkin), felt suddenly that she was a stranger. a quality which she had never realized her pupil possessed had risen supreme in an instant over the familiar attributes of her character. so quickly does emotion separate the individual from the inherent soul of the race. susan, who was a little in advance, came rapidly up the walk, and the older woman greeted her with the words: "my dear, i have seen him!" "yes, he just passed us at the corner, and i wondered if you were looking. do tell us what you think of him." she sat down in a low chair by the teacher's side, while virginia went over to the cage and stood gazing thoughtfully at the singing bird. "well, i don't think his nose spoils him," replied miss priscilla after a minute, "but there's something foreign looking about him, and i hope cyrus isn't thinking seriously about putting him into the bank." "that was the first thing that occurred to father," answered susan, "but oliver told me last night while we were unpacking his books--he has a quantity of books and he kept them even when he had to sell his clothes--that he didn't see to save his life how he was going to stand it." "stand what?" inquired miss priscilla, a trifle tartly, for after the vicissitudes of her life it was but natural that she should hesitate to regard so stable an institution as the dinwiddie bank as something to be "stood." "why, i thought a young man couldn't do better than get a place in the bank. jinny's father was telling me in the market last saturday that he wanted his nephew john henry to start right in there if they could find room for him." "oh, of course, it's just what john henry would like," said virginia, speaking for the first time. "then if it's good enough for john henry, it's good enough for oliver, i reckon," rejoined miss priscilla. "anybody who has mixed with beggars oughtn't to turn up his nose at a respectable bank." "but he says it's because the bank is so respectable that he doesn't think he could stand it," answered susan. virginia, who had been looking with her rapt gaze down the deserted street, quivered at the words as if they had stabbed her. "but he wants to be a writer, susan," she protested. "a great many very nice people are writers." "then why doesn't he go about it in a proper way, if he isn't ashamed of it?" asked the teacher, and she added reflectively after a pause, "i wish he'd write a good history of the war--one that doesn't deal so much with the north. i've almost had to stop teaching united states history because there is hardly one written now that i would let come inside my doors." "he doesn't want to write histories," replied susan. "father suggested to him at supper last night that if he would try his hand at a history of virginia, and be careful not to put in anything that might offend anybody, he could get it taught in every private school in the state. but he said he'd be shot first." "perhaps he's a genius," said virginia in a startled voice. "geniuses are always different from other people, aren't they?" "i don't know," answered susan doubtfully. "he talks of things i never heard of before, and he seems to think that they are the most important things in the world." "what things?" asked virginia breathlessly. "oh, i can't tell you because they are so new, but he seems on fire when he talks of them. he talks for hours about art and its service to humanity and about going down to the people and uplifting the masses." "i hope he doesn't mean the negroes," commented miss priscilla suspiciously. "he means the whole world, i believe," responded susan. "he quotes all the time from writers i've never heard of, and he laughs at every book he sees in the house. yesterday he picked up one of mrs. southworth's novels on mother's bureau and asked her how she could allow such immoral stuff in her room. she had got it out of the bookcase to lend to miss willy whitlow, who was there making my dress, but he scolded her so about it that at last miss willy went off with mill's 'essay on liberty,' and mother burned all of mrs. southworth's that she had in the house. oliver has been so nice to mother that i believe she would make a bonfire of her furniture if he asked her to do it." "is he really trying to unsettle miss willy's mind?" questioned the teacher anxiously. "how on earth could she go out sewing by the day if she didn't have her religious convictions?" "that's just what i asked him," returned susan, who, besides being dangerously clever, had a remarkably level head to keep her balanced. "but he answered that until people got unsettled they would never move, and when i wanted to find out where he thought poor little miss willy could possibly move to, he only got impatient and said that i was trying to bury the principle under the facts. we very nearly quarrelled over miss willy, but of course she took the book to please oliver and couldn't worry through a line of it to save her soul." "did he say anything about his work? what he wants to do, i mean?" asked virginia, and her voice was so charged with feeling that it gave an emotional quality to the question. "he wants to write," replied susan. "his whole heart is in it, and when he isn't talking about reaching the people, he talks about what he calls 'technique.'" "are you sure it isn't poetry?" inquired miss priscilla, humming back like a bee to the tempting sweets of conjecture. "i've always heard that poetry was the ruination of poe." "no, it isn't poetry--not exactly at least--it's plays," answered susan. "he talked to me till twelve o'clock last night while we were arranging his books, and he told me that he meant to write really great dramas, but that america wasn't ready for them yet and that was why he had had to sell his clothes. he looked positively starved, but he says he doesn't mind starving a while if he can only live up to his ideal." "well, i wonder what his ideal is?" remarked miss priscilla grimly. "it has something to do with his belief that art can grow only out of sacrifice," said susan. "i never heard anybody--not even jinny's father in church--talk so much about sacrifice." "but the rector doesn't talk about sacrifice for the theatre," retorted the teacher, and she added with crushing finality, "i don't believe there is a particle of sense in it. if he is going to write, why on earth doesn't he sit straight down and do it? why, when little miss amanda sheppard was left at sixty without a roof over her head, she began at once, without saying a word to anybody, to write historical novels." "it does seem funny until you talk with him," admitted susan. "but he is so much in earnest that when you listen to him, you can't help believing in him. he is so full of convictions that he convinces you in spite of yourself." "convictions about what?" demanded miss priscilla. "i don't see how a young man who refuses to be confirmed can have any convictions." "well, he has, and he feels just as strongly about them as we do about ours." "but how can he possibly feel as strongly about a wrong conviction as we do about a right one?" insisted the older woman stubbornly, for she realized vaguely that they were approaching dangerous ground and set out to check their advance in true dinwiddie fashion, which was strictly prohibitive. "i like a man who has opinions of his own and isn't ashamed to stand up for them," said virginia with a resolution that made her appear suddenly taller. "not _false_ opinions, jinny!" rejoined miss priscilla, and her manner carried them with a bound back to the schoolroom, for her mental vision saw in a flash the beribboned diploma for good conduct which her favourite pupil had borne away from the academy on commencement day two years ago, and a shudder seized her lest she should have left a single unprotected breach in the girl's mind through which an unauthorized idea might enter. had she trusted too confidently to the fact that virginia's father was a clergyman, and therefore spiritually armed for the defence and guidance of his daughter? virginia, in spite of her gaiety, had been what miss priscilla called "a docile pupil," meaning one who deferentially submitted her opinions to her superiors, and to go through life perpetually submitting her opinions was, in the eyes of her parents and her teacher, the divinely appointed task of woman. her education was founded upon the simple theory that the less a girl knew about life, the better prepared she would be to contend with it. knowledge of any sort (except the rudiments of reading and writing, the geography of countries she would never visit, and the dates of battles she would never mention) was kept from her as rigorously as if it contained the germs of a contagious disease. and this ignorance of anything that could possibly be useful to her was supposed in some mysterious way to add to her value as a woman and to make her a more desirable companion to a man who, either by experience or by instinct, was expected "to know his world." unlike susan (who, in a community which offered few opportunities to women outside of the nursery or the kitchen, had been born with the inquiring spirit and would ask questions), virginia had until to-day accepted with humility the doctrine that a natural curiosity about the universe is the beginning of infidelity. the chief object of her upbringing, which differed in no essential particular from that of every other well-born and well-bred southern woman of her day, was to paralyze her reasoning faculties so completely that all danger of mental "unsettling" or even movement was eliminated from her future. to solidify the forces of mind into the inherited mould of fixed beliefs was, in the opinion of the age, to achieve the definite end of all education. when the child ceased to wonder before the veil of appearances, the battle of orthodoxy with speculation was over, and miss priscilla felt that she could rest on her victory. with susan she had failed, because the daughter of cyrus treadwell was one of those inexplicable variations from ancestral stock over which the naturalists were still waging their merry war; but virginia, with a line of earnest theologians and of saintly self-effacing women at her back, offered as little resistance as some exquisite plastic material in the teacher's hands. now, as if the same lightning flash which had illuminated the beribboned diploma in miss priscilla's mind had passed to virginia also, the girl bit back a retort that was trembling on her lips. "i wonder if she can be getting to know things?" thought the older woman as she watched her, and she added half resentfully, "i've sometimes suspected that gabriel pendleton was almost too mild and easy going for a clergyman. if the lord hadn't made him a saint, heaven knows what would have become of him!" "don't try to put notions into jinny's head, susan," she said after a thoughtful pause. "if oliver were the right kind of young man, he'd give up this nonsense and settle down to some sober work. the first time i get a chance i'm going to tell him so." "i don't believe it will be any use," responded susan. "father tried to reason with him last night, and they almost quarrelled." "quarrelled with cyrus!" gasped the teacher. "at one time i thought he'd walk out of the house and never come back," pursued susan. "he told father that his sordid commercialism would end by destroying all that was charming in dinwiddie. afterward he apologized for his rudeness, but when he did so, he said, 'i meant every word of it.'" "well, i never!" was miss priscilla's feeble rejoinder. "the idea of his daring to talk that way when cyrus had to pay his fare down from new york." "of course father brought it on," returned susan judicially. "you know he doesn't like anybody to disagree with him, and when oliver began to argue about its being unscrupulous to write history the way people wanted it, he lost his temper and said some angry things about the theatre and actors." "i suppose a great man like your father may expect his family to bow to his opinions," replied the teacher, for so obscure was her mental connection between the construction of the future and the destruction of the past, that she could honestly admire cyrus treadwell for possessing the qualities her soul abhorred. the simple awe of financial success, which occupies in the american mind the vacant space of the monarchical cult, had begun already to generate the myth of greatness around cyrus, and, like all other myths, this owed its origin less to the wilful conspiracy of the few than it did to the confiding superstition of the many. "i hope oliver won't do anything rash," said susan, ignoring miss priscilla's tribute. "he is so impulsive and headstrong that i don't see how he can get on with father." at this virginia broke her quivering silence. "can't you make him careful, susan?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, bent over and kissed miss priscilla on the cheek. "i must be going now or mother will worry," she added before she tripped ahead of susan down the steps and along the palely shining path to the gate. rising from her chair, miss priscilla leaned over the railing of the porch, and gazed wistfully after the girls' vanishing figures. "if there was ever a girl who looked as if she were cut out for happiness, it is jinny pendleton," she said aloud after a minute. a tear welled in her eye, and rolling over her cheek, dropped on her bosom. from some obscure corner of her memory, undevastated by war or by ruin, her own youth appeared to take the place of virginia's. she saw herself, as she had seen the other an instant before, standing flushed and expectant before the untrodden road of the future. she heard again the wings of happiness rustling unseen about her, and she felt again the great hope which is the challenge that youth flings to destiny. life rose before her, not as she had found it, but as she had once believed it to be. the days when little things had not filled her thoughts returned in the fugitive glow of her memory--for she, also, middle-aged, obese, cumbered with trivial cares, had had her dream of a love that would change and glorify the reality. the heritage of woman was hers as well as virginia's. and for the first time, standing there, she grew dimly conscious of the portion of suffering which nature had allotted to them both from the beginning. was it all waiting--waiting, as it had been while battles were fought and armies were marching? did the future hold this for virginia also? would life yield nothing more to that radiant girl than it had yielded to her or to the other women whom she had known? strange how the terrible innocence of youth had moved her placid middle-age as if it were sadness! chapter ii her inheritance a block away, near the head of high street, stood the old church of saint james, and at its back, separated by a white paling fence from the squat pinkish tower and the solitary grave in the churchyard (which was that of a southern soldier who had fallen in the battle of dinwiddie), was the oblong wooden rectory in which gabriel pendleton had lived since he had exchanged his sword for a prayer-book and his worn confederate uniform for a surplice. the church, which was redeemed from architectural damnation by its sacred cruciform and its low ivied buttresses where innumerable sparrows nested, cast its shadow, on clear days, over the beds of bleeding hearts and lilies-of-the-valley in the neglected garden, to the quaint old house, with its spreading wings, its outside chimneys, and its sloping shingled roof, from which five dormer-windows stared in a row over the slender columns of the porch. the garden had been planned in the days when it was easy to put a dozen slaves to uprooting weeds or trimming flower beds, and had passed in later years to the breathless ministrations of negro infants, whose experience varied from the doubtful innocence of the crawling age to the complete sophistication of six or seven years. dandelion and wire-grass rioted, in spite of their earnest efforts, over the crooked path from the porch, and periwinkle, once an intruder from the churchyard, spread now in rank disorder down the terraced hillside on the left, where a steep flight of steps fell clear to the narrow cross street descending gradually into the crowded quarters of the town. directly in front of the porch on either side of the path grew two giant paulownia trees, royal at this season in a mantle of violet blossoms, and it was under their arching boughs that the girls stopped when they had entered the garden. ever since virginia could remember, she had heard threats of cutting down the paulownias because of the litter the falling petals made in the spring, and ever since she could lisp at all she had begged her father to spare them for the sake of the enormous roots, into which she had loved to cuddle and hide. "if i were ever to go away, i believe they would cut down these trees," she said now a little wistfully, but she was not thinking of the paulownias. "why should they when they give such splendid shade? and, besides, they wouldn't do anything you didn't like for worlds." "oh, of course they wouldn't, but as soon as i was out of sight they might persuade themselves that i liked it," answered virginia, with a tender laugh. though she was not by nature discerning, there were moments when she surprised susan by her penetrating insight into the character of her parents, and this insight, which was emotional rather than intellectual, had enabled her to dominate them almost from infancy. silence fell between them, while they gazed through the veil of twilight at the marble shaft above the grave of the confederate soldier. then suddenly susan spoke in a constrained voice, without turning her head. "jinny, oliver isn't one bit of a hero--not the kind of hero we used to talk about." it was with difficulty, urged by a vigorous and uncompromising conscience, that she had uttered the words. "and besides," retorted virginia merrily, "he is in love with abby goode." "i don't believe that. they stayed in the same boarding-house once, and you know how abby is about men." "yes, i know, and it's just the way men are about abby." "well, oliver isn't, i'm sure. i don't believe he's ever given her more than a thought, and he told me last night that he couldn't abide a bouncing woman." "does abby bounce?" "you know she does--dreadfully. but it wasn't because of abby that i said what i did." something quivered softly between them, and a petal from the jacqueminot rose in virginia's hair fluttered like a crimson moth out into the twilight. "was it because of him, then?" she asked in a whisper. for a moment susan did not answer. her gaze was on the flight of steps, and drawing virginia with her, she began to walk slowly toward the terraced side of the garden. an old lamplighter, carrying his ladder to a lamp-post at the corner, smiled up at them with his sunken toothless mouth as he went by. "partly, darling," said susan. "he is so--i don't know how to make you understand--so unsettled. no, that isn't exactly what i mean." her fine, serious face showed clear and pale in the twilight. from the high forehead, under the girlish fringe of fair hair, to the thin, firm lips, which were too straight and colourless for beauty, it was the face of a woman who could feel strongly, but whose affections would never blur the definite forms or outlines of life. she looked out upon the world with level, dispassionate eyes in which there was none of virginia's uncritical, emotional softness. temperamentally she was uncompromisingly honest in her attitude toward the universe, which appeared to her, not as it did to virginia, in mere formless masses of colour out of which people and objects emerged like figures painted on air, but as distinct, impersonal, and final as a geometrical problem. she was one of those women who are called "sensible" by their acquaintances--meaning that they are born already disciplined and confirmed in the quieter and more orderly processes of life. her natural intelligence having overcome the defects of her education, she thought not vaguely, but with clearness and precision, and something of this clearness and precision was revealed in her manner and in her appearance, as if she had escaped at twenty years from the impulsive judgments and the troublous solicitudes of youth. at forty, she would probably begin to grow young again, and at fifty, it is not unlikely that she would turn her back upon old age forever. just now she was too tremendously earnest about life, which she treated quite in the large manner, to take a serious interest in living. "promise me, jinny, that you'll never let anybody take my place," she said, turning when they had reached the head of the steps. "you silly susan! why, of course, they shan't," replied virginia, and they kissed ecstatically. "nobody will ever love you as i do." "and i you, darling." with arms interlaced they stood gazing down into the street, where the shadow of the old lamplighter glided like a ghost under the row of pale flickering lights. from a honeysuckle-trellis on the other side of the porch, a penetrating sweetness came in breaths, now rising, now dying away. in virginia's heart, love stirred suddenly, and blind, wingless, imprisoned, struggled for freedom. "it is late, i must be going," said susan. "i wish we lived nearer each other." "isn't it too dark for you to go alone? john henry will stop on his way from work, and he'll take you--if you really won't stay to supper." "no, i don't mind in the least going by myself. it isn't night, anyway, and people are sitting out on their porches." a minute afterwards they parted, susan going swiftly down high street, while virginia went back along the path to the porch, and passing under the paulownias, stopped beside the honeysuckle-trellis, which extended to the ruined kitchen garden at the rear of the house. once vegetables were grown here, but except for a square bed of mint which spread hardily beneath the back windows of the dining-room, the place was left now a prey to such barbarian invaders as burdock and moth mullein. on the brow of the hill, where the garden ended, there was a gnarled and twisted ailanthus tree, and from its roots the ground fell sharply to a distant view of rear enclosures and grim smoking factories. some clothes fluttered on a line that stretched from a bough of the tree, and turning away as if they offended her, virginia closed her eyes and breathed in the sweetness of the honeysuckle, which mingled deliciously with the strange new sense of approaching happiness in her heart. the awakening of her imagination--an event more tumultuous in its effects than the mere awakening of emotion--had changed not only her inner life, but the ordinary details of the world in which she lived. because a young man, who differed in no appreciable manner from dozens of other young men, had gazed into her eyes for an instant, the whole universe was altered. what had been until to-day a vague, wind-driven longing for happiness, the reaching out of the dream toward the reality, had assumed suddenly a fixed and definite purpose. her bright girlish visions had wrapped themselves in a garment of flesh. a miracle more wonderful than any she had read of had occurred in the streets of dinwiddie--in the very spot where she had walked, with blind eyes and deaf ears, every day since she could remember. her soul blossomed in the twilight, as a flower blossoms, and shed its virginal sweetness. for the first time in her twenty years she felt that an unexplored region of happiness surrounded her. life appeared so beautiful that she wanted to grasp and hold each fugitive sensation before it escaped her. "this is different from anything i've ever known. i never imagined it would be like this," she thought, and the next minute: "i wonder why no one has ever told me that it would happen? i wonder if it has ever really happened before, just like this, since the world began? of all the ways i've dreamed of his coming, i never thought of this way--no, not for an instant. that i should see him first in the street like any stranger--that he should be susan's cousin--that we should not have spoken a word before i knew it was he!" everything about him, his smile, his clothes, the way he held his head and brushed his hair straight back from his forehead, his manner of reclining with a slight slouch on the seat of the cart, the picturesque blue dotted tie he wore, his hands, his way of bowing, the red-brown of his face, and above all the eager, impetuous look in his dark eyes--these things possessed a glowing quality of interest which irradiated a delicious excitement over the bare round of living. it was enough merely to be alive and conscious that some day--to-morrow, next week, or the next hour, perhaps, she might meet again the look that had caused this mixture of ecstasy and terror in her heart. the knowledge that he was in the same town with her, watching the same lights, thinking the same thoughts, breathing the same fragrance of honeysuckle--this knowledge was a fact of such tremendous importance that it dwarfed to insignificance all the proud historic past of dinwiddie. her imagination, seizing upon this bit of actuality, spun around it the iridescent gossamer web of her fancy. she felt that it was sufficient happiness just to stand motionless for hours and let this thought take possession of her. nothing else mattered as long as this one thing was blissfully true. lights came out softly like stars in the houses beyond the church-tower, and in the parlour of the rectory a lamp flared up and then burned dimly under a red shade. looking through the low window, she could see the prim set of mahogany and horsehair furniture, with its deep, heavily carved sofa midway of the opposite wall and the twelve chairs which custom demanded arranged stiffly at equal distances on the faded axminster carpet. for a moment her gaze rested on the claw-footed mahogany table, bearing a family bible and a photograph album bound in morocco; on the engraving of the "burial of latane" between the long windows at the back of the room; on the cloudy, gilt-framed mirror above the mantel, with the two standing candelabra reflected in its surface--and all these familiar objects appeared to her as vividly as if she had not lived with them from her infancy. a new light had fallen over them, and it seemed to her that this light released an inner meaning, a hidden soul, even in the claw-footed table and the threadbare axminster carpet. then the door into the hall opened and her mother entered, wearing the patched black silk dress which she had bought before the war and had turned and darned ever since with untiring fingers. shrinking back into the dusk, virginia watched the thin, slightly stooping figure as it stood arrested there in the subdued glow of the lamplight. she saw the pale oval face, so transparent that it was like the face of a ghost, the fine brown hair parted smoothly under the small net cap, the soft faded eyes in their hollowed and faintly bluish sockets, and the sweet, patient lips, with their expression of anxious sympathy, as of one who had lived not in her own joys and sorrows, but in those of others. vaguely, the girl realized that her mother had had what is called "a hard life," but this knowledge brought no tremor of apprehension for herself, no shadow of disbelief in her own unquestionable right to happiness. a glorious certainty possessed her that her own life would be different from anything that had ever been in the past. the front door opened and shut; there was a step on the soft grass under the honeysuckle-trellis, and her father came towards her, with his long black coat flapping about him. he always wore clothes several sizes too large for him under the impression that it was a point of economy and that they would last longer if there was no "strain" put upon them. he was a small, wiry man, with an amazing amount of strength for his build, and a keen, humorous face, ornamented by a pointed chin beard which he called his "goatee." his eyes were light grey with a twinkle which rarely left them except at the altar, and the skin of his cheeks had never lost the drawn and parchment-like look acquired during the last years of the war. one of the many martial christians of the confederacy, he had laid aside his surplice at the first call for troops to defend the borders, and had resumed it immediately after the surrender at appomattox. it was still an open question in dinwiddie whether gabriel pendleton, who was admitted to have been born a saint, had achieved greater distinction as a fighter or a clergyman; though he himself had accepted the opposite vocations with equal humility. only in the dead of sweltering summer nights did he sometimes arouse his wife with a groan and the halting words, "lucy, i can't sleep for thinking of those men i killed in the war." but with the earliest breeze of dawn, his remorse usually left him, and he would rise and go about his parochial duties with the serene and child-like trust in providence that had once carried him into battle. a militant idealism had ennobled his fighting as it now exalted his preaching. he had never in his life seen things as they are because he had seen them always by the white flame of a soul on fire with righteousness. to reach his mind, impressions of persons or objects had first to pass through a refining atmosphere in which all baser substances were eliminated, and no fact had ever penetrated this medium except in the flattering disguise of a sentiment. having married at twenty an idealist only less ignorant of the world than himself, he had, inspired by her example, immediately directed his energies towards the whitewashing of the actuality. both cherished the naïve conviction that to acknowledge an evil is in a manner to countenance its existence, and both clung fervently to the belief that a pretty sham has a more intimate relation to morality than has an ugly truth. yet so unconscious were they of weaving this elaborate tissue of illusion around the world they inhabited that they called the mental process by which they distorted the reality, "taking a true view of life." to "take a true view" was to believe what was pleasant against what was painful in spite of evidence: to grant honesty to all men (with the possible exception of the yankee army and a few local scalawags known as readjusters); to deny virtue to no woman, not even to the new england abolitionist; to regard the period before the war in virginia as attained perfection, and the present as falling short of that perfection only inasmuch as it had occurred since the surrender. as life in a small place, among a simple and guileless class of gentlefolk, all passionately cherishing the same opinions, had never shaken these illusions, it was but natural that they should have done their best to hand them down as sacred heirlooms to their only child. even gabriel's four years of hard fighting and scant rations were enkindled by so much of the disinterested idealism that had sent his state into the confederacy, that he had emerged from them with an impoverished body, but an enriched spirit. combined with his inherent inability to face the facts of life, there was an almost superhuman capacity for cheerful recovery from the shocks of adversity. since he had married by accident the one woman who was made for him, he had managed to preserve untarnished his innocent assumption that marriages were arranged in heaven--for the domestic infelicities of many of his parishioners were powerless to affect a belief that was founded upon a solitary personal experience. unhappy marriages, like all other misfortunes of society, he was inclined to regard as entirely modern and due mainly to the decay of antebellum institutions. "i don't remember that i ever heard of a discontented servant or an unhappy marriage in my boyhood," he would say when he was forced against his will to consider either of these disturbing problems. not progress, but a return to the "ideals of our ancestors," was his sole hope for the future; and in virginia's childhood she had grown to regard this phrase as second in reverence only to that other familiar invocation: "if it be the will of god." as he stood now in the square of lamplight that streamed from the drawing-room window, she looked into his thin, humorous face, so spiritualized by poverty and self-sacrifice that it had become merely the veil for his soul, and the thought came to her that she had never really seen him as he was until to-day. "you're out late, daughter. isn't it time for supper?" he asked, putting his arm about her. beneath the simple words she felt the profound affection which he rarely expressed, but of which she was conscious whenever he looked at her or spoke to her. two days ago this affection, of which she never thought because it belonged to her by right like the air she breathed, had been sufficient to fill her life to overflowing; and now, in less than a moment, the simplest accident had pushed it into the background. in the place where it had been there was a restless longing which seemed at one instant a part of the universal stirring of the spring, and became the next an importunate desire for the coming of the lover to whom she had been taught to look as to the fulfilment of her womanhood. at times this lover appeared to have no connection with oliver treadwell; then the memory of his eager and searching look would flush the world with a magic enchantment. "he might pass here at any minute," she thought, and immediately every simple detail of her life was illuminated as if a quivering rosy light had fallen aslant it. his drive down high street in the afternoon had left a trail of glory over the earthen roadbed. "yes, i was just going in," she replied to the rector's question, and added: "how sweet the honeysuckle smells! i never knew it to be so fragrant." "the end of the trellis needs propping up. i noticed it this morning," he returned, keeping his arm around her as they passed over the short grassy walk and up the steps to the porch. then the door of the rectory opened, and the silhouette of mrs. pendleton, in her threadbare black silk dress with her cameo-like profile softened by the dark bands of her hair, showed motionless against the lighted space of the hall. "we're here, lucy," said the rector, kissing her; and a minute later they entered the dining-room, which was on the right of the staircase. the old mahogany table, scarred by a century of service, was laid with a simple supper of bread, tea, and sliced ham on a willow dish. at one end there was a bowl of freshly gathered strawberries, with the dew still on them, and mrs. pendleton hastened to explain that they were a present from tom peachey, who had driven out into the country in order to get them. "well, i hope his wife has some, also," commented the rector. "tom's a good fellow, but he could never keep a closed fist, there's no use denying it." mrs. pendleton, who had never denied anything in her life, except the biblical sanction for the thirteenth amendment to the constitution, shook her head gently and began to talk in the inattentive and anxious manner she had acquired at scantily furnished tables. ever since the war, with the exception of the reconstruction period, when she had lived practically on charity, she had managed to exist with serenity, and numerous negro dependents, on the rector's salary of a thousand dollars a year. simple and wholesome food she had supplied to her family and her followers, and for their desserts, as she called the sweet things of life, she had relied with touching confidence upon her neighbours. what they would be for the day, she did not know, but since poverty, not prosperity, breeds the generous heart, she was perfectly assured that when miss priscilla was putting up raspberries, or mrs. goode was making lemon pie, she should not be forgotten. during the terrible war years, it had become the custom of dinwiddie housekeepers to remember the wife of the rector who had plucked off his surplice for the confederacy, and among the older generation the habit still persisted, like all other links that bound them to a past which they cherished the more passionately because it guarded a defeated cause. like the soft apologetic murmur of mrs. pendleton's voice, which was meant to distract attention rather than to impart information, this impassioned memory of the thing that was dead sweetened the less romantic fact of the things that were living. the young were ignorant of it, but the old _knew_. mrs. pendleton, who was born a great lady, remained one when the props and the background of a great lady had crumbled around her; and though the part she filled was a narrow part--a mere niche in the world's history--she filled it superbly. from the dignity of possessions she had passed to the finer dignity of a poverty that can do without. all the intellect in her (for she was not clever) had been transmuted into character by this fiery passage from romance into reality, and though life had done its worst with her, some fine invincible blade in the depths of her being she had never surrendered. she would have gone to the stake for a principle as cheerfully as she had descended from her aristocratic niche into unceasing poverty and self-denial, but she would have gone wearing garlands on her head and with her faint, grave smile, in which there was almost every quality except that of humour, touching her lips. her hands, which were once lovely, were now knotted and worn; for she had toiled when it was necessary, though she had toiled always with the manner of a lady. even to-day it was a part of her triumph that this dignity was so vital a factor in her life that there was none of her husband's laughter at circumstances to lighten her burden. to her the daily struggle of keeping an open house on starvation fare was not a pathetic comedy, as with gabriel, but a desperately smiling tragedy. what to gabriel had been merely the discomfort of being poor when everybody you respected was poor with you, had been to his wife the slow agony of crucifixion. it was she, not he, who had lain awake to wonder where to-morrow's dinner could be got without begging; it was she, also, who had feared to doze at dawn lest she should oversleep herself and not be downstairs in time to scrub the floors and the furniture before the neighbours were stirring. uncle isam, whose knees were crippled with rheumatism, and docia, who had a "stitch" in her side whenever she stooped, were the only servants that remained with her, and the nursing of these was usually added to the pitiless drudgery of her winter. but the bitter edge to all her suffering was the feeling which her husband spoke of in the pulpit as "false pride"--the feeling she prayed over fervently yet without avail in church every sunday--and this was the ignoble terror of being seen on her knees in her old black calico dress before she had gone upstairs again, washed her hands with cornmeal, powdered her face with her pink flannel starchbag, and descended in her breakfast gown of black cashmere or lawn, with a net scarf tied daintily around her thin throat, and a pair of exquisitely darned lace ruffles hiding her wrists. as she sat now, smiling and calm, at the head of her table, there was no hint in her face of the gnawing anxiety behind the delicate blue-veined hollows in her forehead. "i thought john henry would come to supper," she observed, while her hands worked lovingly among the old white and gold teacups which had belonged to her mother, "so i gathered a few flowers." in the centre of the table there was a handful of garden flowers arranged, with a generous disregard of colour, in a cut-glass bowl, as though all blossoms were intended by their creator to go peaceably together. only on formal occasions was such a decoration used on the table of the rectory, since the happiest adornment for a meal was supposed to be a bountiful supply of visible viands; but the hopelessly mended mats had pierced mrs. pendleton's heart, and the cut-glass bowl, like her endless prattle, was but a pitiful subterfuge. "oh, i like them!" virginia had started to answer, when a hearty voice called, "may i come in?" from the darkness, and a large, carelessly dressed young man, with an amiable and rather heavy countenance, entered the hall and passed on into the dining-room. in reply to mrs. pendleton's offer of tea, he answered that he had stopped at the treadwells' on his way up from work. "i could hardly break away from oliver," he added, "but i remembered that i'd promised aunt lucy to take her down to tin pot alley after supper, so i made a bolt while he was convincing me that it's better to be poor with an idea, as he calls it, than rich without one." then turning to virginia, he asked suddenly: "what's the matter, little cousin? been about too much in the sun?" "oh, it's only the rose in my hair," responded virginia, and she felt that there was a fierce joy in blushing like this even while she told herself that she would give everything she possessed if she could only stop it. "if you aren't well, you'd better not go with us, jinny," said mrs. pendleton. "it was so sweet of john henry to remember that i'd promised to take aunt ailsey some of the bitters we used to make before the war." everything was "so sweet" to her, the weather, her husband's sermons, the little trays that came continually from her neighbours, and she lived in a perpetual state of thankfulness for favours so insignificant that a less impressionable soul would have accepted them as undeserving of more than the barest acknowledgment. "i am perfectly well," insisted virginia, a little angry with john henry because he had been the first to notice her blushes. rising hurriedly from the table, she went to the door and stood looking out into the spangled dusk under the paulownias, while her mother wrapped the bottle in a piece of white tissue paper and remarked with an animation which served to hide her fatigue from the unobservant eyes of her husband, that a walk would do her good on such a "perfectly lovely night." gabriel, who loved her as much as a man can love a wife who has sacrificed herself to him wisely and unwisely for nearly thirty years, had grown so used to seeing her suffer with a smile that he had drifted at last into the belief that it was the only form of activity she really enjoyed. from the day of his marriage he had never been able to deny her anything she had set her heart upon--not even the privilege of working herself to death for his sake when the opportunity offered. "well, well, if you feel like it, of course you must go, my dear," he replied. "i'll step over and sit a minute with miss priscilla while you are away. never could bear the house without you, lucy." while this protest was still on his lips, he followed her from the house, and turned with virginia and john henry in the direction of the young ladies' academy. from the darkness beyond the iron gate there came the soothing flow of miss priscilla's voice entertaining an evening caller, and when the rector left them, as if irresistibly drawn toward the honeyed sound of gossip, virginia walked on in silence between john henry and her mother. at each corner a flickering street lamp burned with a thin yellow flame, and in the midst of the narrow orbit of its light several shining moths circled swiftly like white moons revolving about a sun. in the centre of the blocks, where the darkness was broken only by small flower-like flakes of light that fell in clusters through boughs of mulberry or linden trees, there was the sound of whispering voices and of rustling palm-leaf fans on the crowded porches behind screens of roses or honeysuckle. mrs. pendleton, whose instinct prompted her to efface herself whenever she made a third at the meeting of maid and man (even though the man was only her nephew john henry), began to talk at last after waiting modestly for her daughter to begin the conversation. the story of aunt ailsey, of her great age, and her dictatorial temper, which made living with other servants impossible to her, started valiantly on its familiar road, and tripped but little when the poor lady realized that neither john henry nor virginia was listening. she was so used to talking for the sake of the sound she made rather than the impression she produced that her silvery ripple had become almost as lacking in self-consciousness as the song of a canary. but virginia, walking so quietly at her side, was inhabiting at the moment a separate universe--a universe smelling of honeysuckle and filled with starry pathways to happiness. in this universe aunt ailsey and her peculiarities, her mother's innocent prattle, and the solid body of john henry touching her arm, were all as remote and trivial as the night moths circling around the lamps. looking at john henry from under her lowered lashes, she felt a sudden pity for him because he was so far--so very far indeed from being the right man. she saw him too clearly as he was--he stood before her in all the hard brightness of the reality, and first love, like beauty, depends less upon the truth of an outline than it does upon the softening quality of an atmosphere. there was no mystery for her in the simple fact of his being. there was nothing left to discover about his great stature, his excellent heart, and his safe, slow mind that had been compelled to forego even the sort of education she had derived from miss priscilla. she knew that he had left school at the age of eight in order to become the support of a widowed mother, and she was pitifully aware of the tireless efforts he had made after reaching manhood to remedy his ignorance of the elementary studies he had missed. never had she heard a complaint from him, never a regret for the sacrifice, never so much as an idle wonder why it should have been necessary. if the texture of his soul was not finely wrought, the proportions of it were heroic. in him the pendleton idealism had left the skies and been transmuted into the common substance of clay. he was of a practical bent of mind and had developed a talent for his branch of business, which, to the bitter humiliation of his mother, was that of hardware, with a successful specialty in bathtubs. until to-day virginia had always believed that john henry interested her, but now she wondered how she had ever spent so many hours listening to his talk about business. and with the thought her whole existence appeared to her as dull and commonplace as those hours. a single instant of experience seemed longer to her than all the years she had lived, and this instant had drained the colour and the sweetness from the rest of life. the shape of her universe had trembled suddenly and altered. dimly she was beginning to realize that sensation, not time, is the true measure of life. nothing and everything had happened to her since yesterday. as they turned into short market street, mrs. pendleton's voice trailed off at last into silence, and she did not speak again while they passed hurriedly between the crumbling houses and the dilapidated shops which rose darkly on either side of the narrow cinder-strewn walks. the scent of honeysuckle did not reach here, and when they stopped presently at the beginning of tin pot alley, there floated out to them the sharp acrid odour of huddled negroes. in these squalid alleys, where the lamps burned at longer distances, the more primitive forms of life appeared to swarm like distorted images under the transparent civilization of the town. the sound of banjo strumming came faintly from the dimness beyond, while at their feet the problem of the south sprawled innocently amid tomato cans and rotting cabbage leaves. "wait here just a minute and i'll run up and speak to aunt ailsey," remarked mrs. pendleton with the dignity of a soul that is superior to smells; and without noticing her daughter's reproachful nod of acquiescence, she entered the alley and disappeared through the doorway of the nearest hovel. a minute later her serene face looked down at them over a patchwork quilt which hung airing at half length from the window above. "but this is not life--it has nothing to do with life," thought virginia, while the pendleton blood in her rose in a fierce rebellion against all that was ugly and sordid in existence. then her mother's tread was heard descending the short flight of steps, and the sensation vanished as quickly and as inexplicably as it had come. "i tried not to keep you waiting, dear," said mrs. pendleton, hastening toward them while she fanned herself rapidly with the small black fan she carried. her face looked tired and worn, and before moving on, she paused a moment and held her hand to her thin fluttering breast, while deep bluish circles appeared to start out under the expression of pathetic cheerfulness in her eyes. this pathetic cheerfulness, so characteristic of the women of her generation, was the first thing, perhaps, that a stranger would have noticed about her face; yet it was a trait which neither her husband nor her child had ever observed. there was a fine moisture on her forehead, and this added so greatly to the natural transparency of her features that, standing there in the wan light, she might have been mistaken for the phantom of her daughter's vivid flesh and blood beauty. "i wonder if you would mind going on to bolingbroke street, so i may speak to belinda treadwell a minute?" she asked, as soon as she had recovered her breath. "i want to find out if she has engaged miss willy whitlow for the whole week, or if there is any use my sending a message to her over in botetourt. if she doesn't begin at once, jinny, you won't have a dress to wear to abby goode's party." virginia's heart gave a single bound of joy and lay quiet. not for worlds would she have asked to go to the treadwells', yet ever since they had started, she had longed unceasingly to have her mother suggest it. the very stars, she felt, had worked together to bring about her desire. "but aren't you tired, mother? it really doesn't matter about my dress," she murmured, for it was not in vain that she had wrested a diploma for deportment from miss priscilla. "why can't i take the message for you, aunt lucy? you look tired to death," urged john henry. "oh, i shan't mind the walk as soon as we get out into the breeze," replied mrs. pendleton. "it's a lovely night, only a little close in this alley." and as she spoke she looked gently down on the problem of the south as the southern woman had looked down on it for generations and would continue to look down on it for generations still to come--without seeing that it was a problem. "well, it's good to get a breath of air, anyway!" exclaimed john henry with fervour, when they had passed out of the alley into the lighted street. around them the town seemed to beat with a single heart, as if it waited, like virginia, in breathless suspense for some secret that must come out of the darkness. sometimes the sidewalks over which they passed were of flag-stones, sometimes they were of gravel or of strewn cinders. now and then an old stone house, which had once sheltered crinoline and lace ruffles, or had served as a trading station with the indians before dinwiddie had become a city, would loom between two small shops where the owners, coatless and covered with sweat, were selling flat beer to jaded and miserable customers. up bolingbroke street a faint breeze blew, lifting the moist satin-like hair on mrs. pendleton's forehead. already its ancient dignity had deserted the quarter in which the treadwells lived, and it had begun to wear a forsaken and injured look, as though it resented the degradation of commerce into which it had descended. "i can't understand why cyrus treadwell doesn't move over to sycamore street," remarked john henry after a moment of reflection in which he had appeared to weigh this simple sentence with scrupulous exactness. "he's rich enough, i suppose, to buy anything he wants." "i've heard susan say that it was her mother's old home and she didn't care to leave it," said mrs. pendleton. "i don't believe it's that a bit," broke in virginia with characteristic impulsiveness. "the only reason is that mr. treadwell is stingy. with all his money, i know mrs. treadwell and susan hardly ever have a dollar they can spend on themselves." though she spoke with her accustomed energy, she was conscious all the time that the words she uttered were not the ones in her thoughts. what did cyrus treadwell's stinginess matter when his only relation to life consisted in his being the uncle of oliver? it was as if a single shape moved alive through a universe peopled with shadows. only a borrowed radiance attached itself now to the persons and objects that had illumined the world for her yesterday. yet she approached the crisis of her life so silently that those around her did not recognize it beneath the cover of ordinary circumstances. like most great moments it had come unheralded; and though the rustling of its wings filled her soul, neither her mother nor john henry heard a stir in the quiet air that surrounded them. walking between the two who loved her, she felt that she was separated from them both by an eternity of experience. there were several blocks of bolingbroke street to walk before the treadwells' house was reached, and as they sauntered slowly past decayed dwellings, virginia's imagination ran joyously ahead of her to the meeting. would it happen this time as it had happened before when he looked at her that something would pass between them which would make her feel that she belonged to him? so little resistance did she offer to the purpose of life that she seemed to have existed from the beginning merely as an exquisite medium for a single emotion. it was as if the dreams of all the dead women of her race, who had lived only in loving, were concentrated into a single shining centre of bliss--for the accumulated vibrations of centuries were in her soul when she trembled for the first time beneath the eyes of a lover. and yet all this blissful violence was powerless to change the most insignificant external fact in the universe. though it was the greatest thing that could ever happen to her, it was nothing to the other twenty-one thousand human beings among whom she lived; it left no mark upon that procession of unimportant details which they called life. they were in sight of the small old-fashioned brick house of the treadwells, with its narrow windows set discreetly between outside shutters, and she saw that the little marble porch was deserted except for the two pink oleander trees, which stood in green tubs on either side of the curved iron railings. a minute later john henry's imperative ring brought a young coloured maid to the door, and virginia, who had lingered on the pavement, heard almost immediately an effusive duet from her mother and mrs. treadwell. "oh, do come in, lucy, just for a minute!" "i can't possibly, my dear; i only wanted to ask you if you have engaged miss willy whitlow for the entire week or if you could let me have her for friday and saturday? jinny hasn't a rag to wear to abby goode's lawn party and i don't know anybody who does quite so well for her as poor miss willy. oh, that's so sweet of you! i can't thank you enough! and you'll tell her without my sending all the way over to botetourt!" by this time susan had joined virginia on the sidewalk, and the liquid honey of mrs. pendleton's voice dropped softly into indistinctness. "oh, jinny, if i'd only known you were coming!" said susan. "oliver wanted me to take him to see you, and when i couldn't, he went over to call on abby." so this was the end of her walk winged with expectancy! a disappointment as sharp as her joy had been pierced her through as she stood there smiling into susan's discomfited face. with the tragic power of youth to create its own torment, she told herself that life could never be the same after this first taste of its bitterness. chapter iii first love the next morning, so indestructible is the happiness of youth, she awoke with her hope as fresh as if it had not been blighted the evening before. as she lay in bed, with her loosened hair making a cloud over the pillows, and her eyes shining like blue flowers in the band of sunlight that fell through the dormer-window, she quivered to the early sweetness of honeysuckle as though it were the charmed sweetness of love of which she had dreamed in the night. she was only one of the many millions of women who were awaking at the same hour to the same miracle of nature, yet she might have been the first woman seeking the first man through the vastness and the mystery of an uninhabited earth. impossible to believe that an experience so wonderful was as common as the bursting of the spring buds or the humming of the thirsty bees around the honeysuckle arbour! slipping out of bed, she threw her dressing-gown over her shoulders, and kneeling beside the window, drank in the flower-scented air of the may morning. during the night, the paulownia trees had shed a rain of violet blossoms over the wet grass, where little wings of sunshine, like golden moths, hovered above them. beyond the border of lilies-of-the-valley she saw the squat pinkish tower of the church, and beneath it, in the narrow churchyard, rose the gleaming shaft above the grave of the confederate soldier. on her right, in the centre of the crooked path, three negro infants were prodding earnestly at roots of wire-grass and dandelion; and brushing carelessly their huddled figures, her gaze descended the twelve steps of the almost obliterated terrace, and followed the steep street down which a mulatto vegetable vendor was urging his slow-footed mule. a wave of joy rose in her breast, and she felt that her heart melted in gratitude for the divine beauty of life. the world showed to her as a place filled with shining vistas of happiness, and at the end of each of these vistas there awaited the unknown enchanting thing which she called in her thoughts "the future." the fact that it was the same world in which miss priscilla and her mother lived their narrow and prosaic lives did not alter by a breath her unshakable conviction that she herself was predestined for something more wonderful than they had ever dreamed of. "he may come this evening!" she thought, and immediately the light of magic suffused the room, the street outside, and every scarred roof in dinwiddie. at the head of her bed, wedged in between the candle stand and the window, there was a cheap little bookcase of walnut which contained the only volumes she had ever been permitted to own--the poems of mrs. hemans and of adelaide anne procter, a carefully expurgated edition of shakespeare, with an inscription in the rector's handwriting on the flyleaf; miss strickland's "lives of the queens of england"; and several works of fiction belonging to the class which mrs. pendleton vaguely characterized as "sweet stories." among the more prominent of these were "thaddeus of warsaw," a complete set of miss yonge's novels, with a conspicuously tear-stained volume of "the heir of redclyffe," and a romance or two by obscure but innocuous authors. that any book which told, however mildly, the truth about life should have entered their daughter's bedroom would have seemed little short of profanation to both the rector and mrs. pendleton. the sacred shelves of that bookcase (which had been ceremoniously presented to her on her fourteenth birthday) had never suffered the contaminating presence of realism. the solitary purpose of art was, in mrs. pendleton's eyes, to be "sweet," and she scrupulously judged all literature by its success or failure in this particular quality. it seemed to her as wholesome to feed her daughter's growing fancy on an imaginary line of pious heroes, as it appeared to her moral to screen her from all suspicion of the existence of immorality. she did not honestly believe that any living man resembled the "heir of redclyffe," any more than she believed that the path of self-sacrifice leads inevitably to happiness; but there was no doubt in her mind that she advanced the cause of righteousness when she taught these sanctified fallacies to virginia. as she rose from her knees, virginia glanced at her white dress, which was too crumpled for her to wear again before it was smoothed, and thought regretfully of aunt docia's heart, which invariably gave warning whenever there was extra work to be done. "i shall have to wear either my blue lawn or my green organdie this evening," she thought. "i wish i could have the sleeves changed. i wonder if mother could run a tuck in them?" it did not occur to her that she might smooth the dress herself, because she knew that the iron would be wrested from her by her mother's hands, which were so knotted and worn that tears came to virginia's eyes when she looked at them. she let her mother slave over her because she had been born into a world where the slaving of mothers was a part of the natural order, and she had not as yet become independent enough to question the morality of the commonplace. at any minute she would gladly have worked, too, but the phrase "spare virginia" had been uttered so often in her hearing that it had acquired at last almost a religious significance. to have been forced to train her daughter in any profitable occupation which might have lifted her out of the class of unskilled labour in which indigent gentlewomen by right belonged, would have been the final dregs of humiliation in mrs. pendleton's cup. on one of aunt docia's bad days, when jinny had begged to be allowed to do part of the washing, she had met an almost passionate refusal from her mother. "it will be time enough to spoil your hands after you are married, darling!" and again, "don't do that rough sewing, jinny. give it to me." from the cradle she had borne her part in this racial custom of the sacrifice of generation to generation--of the perpetual immolation of age on the flowery altars of youth. like most customs in which we are nurtured, it had seemed natural and pleasant enough until she had watched the hollows deepen in her mother's temples and the tireless knotted hands stumble at their work. then a pang had seized her and she had pleaded earnestly to be permitted to help. "if you only knew how unhappy it makes me to see you ruining your pretty fingers, jinny. my child, the one comfort i have is the thought that i am sparing you." sparing her! always that from the first! even gabriel chimed in when it became a matter of jinny. "let me wash the dishes, lucy," he would implore. "what? will you trust me with other people's souls, but not with your china?" "it's not a man's work, mr. pendleton. what would the neighbours think?" "they would think, i hope, my dear, that i was doing my duty." "but it would not be dignified for a clergyman. no, i cannot bear the sight of you with a dishcloth." in the end she invariably had her way with them, for she was the strongest. jinny must be spared, and gabriel must do nothing undignified. about herself it made no difference unless the neighbours were looking; she had not thought of herself, except in the indomitable failing of her "false pride," since her marriage, which had taken place in her twentieth year. a clergyman's wife might do menial tasks in secret, and nobody minded, but they were not for a clergyman. for a minute, while she was dressing, virginia thought of these things--of how hard life had been to her mother, of how pretty she must have been in her youth. what she did not think of was that her mother, like herself, was but one of the endless procession of women who pass perpetually from the sphere of pleasure into the sphere of service. it was as impossible for her to picture her mother as a girl of twenty as it was for her to imagine herself ever becoming a woman of fifty. when she had finished dressing she closed the door softly after her as if she were afraid of disturbing the silence, and ran downstairs to the dining-room, where the rector and mrs. pendleton greeted her with subdued murmurs of joy. "i was afraid i'd miss you, daughter," from the rector, as he drew her chair nearer. "i was just going to carry up your tray, jinny," from her mother. "i kept a nice breast of chicken for you which one of the neighbours sent me." "i'd so much rather you'd eat it, mother," protested jinny, on the point of tears. "but i couldn't, darling, i really couldn't manage it. a cup of coffee and a bit of toast is all i can possibly stand in the morning. i was up early, for docia was threatened with one of her heart attacks, and it always gives me a little headache to miss my morning nap." "then you can't go to market, lucy; it is out of the question," insisted the rector. "after thirty years you might as well make up your mind to trust me, my dear." "but the last time you went you gave away our shoulder of lamb to a beggar," replied his wife, and she hastened to add tenderly, lest he should accept the remark as a reproof, "it's sweet of you, dearest, but a little walk will be good for my head if i am careful to keep on the shady side of the street. i can easily find a boy to bring home the things, and i am sure it won't hurt me a bit." "why can't i go, mother?" implored virginia. "susan always markets for mrs. treadwell." and she felt that even the task of marketing was irradiated by this inner glow which had changed the common aspect of life. "oh, jinny, you know how you hate to feel the chickens, and one can never tell how plump they are by the feathers." "well, i'll feel them, mother, if you'll let me try." "no, darling, but you may go with me and carry my sunshade. i'm so sorry docia can't smooth your dress. was it much crumpled?" "oh, dreadfully! and i did so want to wear it this evening. do you think aunt docia could show me how to iron?" docia, who stood like an ebony image of bellona behind her mistress's chair, waving a variegated tissue paper fly screen over the coffee-urn, was heard to think aloud that "dish yer stitch ain' helt up er blessed minute sence befo' daylight." not unnaturally, perhaps, since she was the most prominent figure in her own vision of the universe, she had come at last to regard her recurrent "stitch" as an event of greater consequence than virginia's appearance in immaculate white muslin. an uncertain heart combined with a certain temper had elevated her from a servile position to one of absolute autocracy in the household. everybody feared her, so nobody had ever dared ask her to leave. as she had rebelled long ago against the badge of a cap and an apron, she appeared in the dining-room clad in garments of various hues, and her dress on this particular morning was a purple calico crowned majestically by a pink cotton turban. there was a tradition still afloat that docia had been an excellent servant before the war; but this amiable superstition had, perhaps, as much reason to support it as had gabriel's innocent conviction that there were no faithless husbands when there were no divorces. "i'm afraid docia can't do it," sighed mrs. pendleton, for her ears had caught the faint thunder of the war goddess behind her chair, and her soul, which feared neither armies nor adversities, trembled before her former slaves. "but it won't take me a minute if you'll have it ready right after dinner." "oh, mother, of course i couldn't let you for anything. i only thought aunt docia might be able to teach me how to iron." at this, docia muttered audibly that she "ain' got no time ter be sho'in' nobody nuttin'." "there, now, docia, you mustn't lose your temper," observed gabriel as he rose from his chair. it was at such moments that the remembered joys of slavery left a bitter after taste on his lips. clearly it was impossible to turn into the streets a servant who had once belonged to you! when they were in the hall together, mrs. pendleton whispered nervously to her husband that it must be "poor docia's heart that made her so disagreeable and that she would feel better to-morrow." "wouldn't it be possible, my dear?" inquired the rector in his pulpit manner, to which his wife's only answer was a startled "sh-sh-ush." an hour later the door of gabriel's study opened softly, and mrs. pendleton entered with the humble and apologetic manner in which she always intruded upon her husband's pursuits. there was an accepted theory in the family, shared even by uncle isam and aunt docia, that whenever gabriel was left alone for an instant, his thoughts naturally deflected into spiritual paths. in the early days of his marriage he had tried honestly to live up to this exalted idea of his character; then finding the effort beyond him, and being a man with an innate detestation of hypocrisy, he had earnestly endeavoured to disabuse his wife's imagination of the mistaken belief in his divinity. but a notion once firmly fixed in mrs. pendleton's mind might as well have been embedded in rock. by virtue of that gentle obstinacy which enabled her to believe in an illusion the more intensely because it had vanished, she had triumphed not only over circumstances, but over truth itself. by virtue of this quality, she had created the world in which she moved and had wrought beauty out of chaos. "are you busy with your sermon, dear?" she asked, pausing in the doorway, and gazing reverently at her husband over the small black silk bag she carried. like the other women of dinwiddie who had lost relatives by the war, she had never laid aside her mourning since the surrender; and the frame of crape to her face gave her the pensive look of one who has stepped out of the pageant of life into the sacred shadows of memory. "no, no, lucy, i'm ready to start out with you," replied the rector apologetically, putting a box of fishing tackle he had been sorting back into the drawer of his desk. he was as fond as a child of a day's sport, and never quite so happy as when he set out with his rod and an old tomato can filled with worms, which he had dug out of the back garden, in his hands; but owing to the many calls upon him and his wife's conception of his clerical dignity, he was seldom able to gratify his natural tastes. "oh, father, please hurry!" called virginia from the porch, and rising obediently, he followed mrs. pendleton through the hall and out into the may sunshine, where the little negroes stopped an excited chase of a black and orange butterfly to return doggedly to their weeding. "are you sure you wouldn't rather i'd go to market, lucy?" "quite sure, dear," replied his wife, sniffing the scent of lilies-of-the-valley with her delicate, slightly pinched nostrils. "i thought you were going to see mr. treadwell about putting john henry into the bank," she added. "it is such a pity to keep the poor boy selling bathtubs. his mother felt it so terribly." "ah, so i was--so i was," reflected gabriel, who, though both of them would have been indignant at the suggestion, was as putty in the hands of his wife. "well, i'll look into the bank on cyrus after i've paid my sick calls." with that they parted, gabriel going on to visit a bedridden widow in the old ladies' home, while mrs. pendleton and virginia turned down a cross street that led toward the market. at every corner, it seemed to virginia, middle-aged ladies, stout or thin, wearing crape veils and holding small black silk bags in their hands, sprang out of the shadows of mulberry trees, and barred their leisurely progress. and though nothing had happened in dinwiddie since the war, and mrs. pendleton had seen many of these ladies the day before, she stopped for a sympathetic chat with each one of them, while virginia, standing a little apart, patiently prodded the cinders of the walk with the end of her sunshade. all her life the girl had been taught to regard time as the thing of least importance in the universe; but occasionally, while she listened in silence to the liquid murmur of her mother's voice, she wondered vaguely how the day's work was ever finished in dinwiddie. the story of docia's impertinence was told and retold a dozen times before they reached the market. "and you really mean that you can't get rid of her? why, my dear lucy, i wouldn't stand it a day! now, there was my mandy. such an excellent servant until she got her head turned----" this from mrs. tom peachey, an energetic little woman, with a rosy face and a straight gray "bang" cut short over her eyebrows. "but, lucy, my child, are you doing right to submit to impertinence? in the old days, i remember, before the war----" this from mrs. william goode, who had been sally peterson, the beauty of dinwiddie, and who was still superbly handsome in a tragic fashion, with a haunted look in her eyes and masses of snow-white hair under her mourning bonnet. years ago virginia had imagined her as dwelling perpetually with the memory of her young husband, who had fallen in his twenty-fifth year in the battle of cold harbor, but she knew now that the haunted eyes, like all things human, were under the despotism of trifles. to the girl, who saw in this universal acquiescence in littleness merely the pitiful surrender of feeble souls, there was a passionate triumph in the thought that her own dreams were larger than the actuality that surrounded her. youth's scorn of the narrow details of life left no room in her mind for an understanding of the compromise which middle-age makes with necessity. the pathos of resignation--of that inevitable submission to the petty powers which the years bring--was lost upon the wistful ignorance of inexperience. while she waited dutifully, with her absent gaze fixed on the old mulberry trees, which whitened as the wind blew over them and then slowly darkened again, she wondered if servants and gossip were the only things that oliver had heard of in his travels? then she remembered that even in dinwiddie men were less interested in such matters than they were in the industries of peanuts and tobacco. was it only women, after all, who were in subjection to particulars? when they turned into old street, john henry hailed them from the doorway of a shop, where he stood flanked by a row of spotless bathtubs. he wore a loose pongee coat, which sagged at the shoulders, his straight flaxen hair had been freshly cut, and his crimson necktie had got a stain on it at breakfast; but to virginia's astonishment, he appeared sublimely unconscious both of his bathtubs and his appearance. he was doubtless under the delusion that a pongee coat, being worn for comfort, was entirely successful when it achieved that end; and as for his business, it was beyond his comprehension that a pendleton could have reason to blush for a bathtub or for any other object that afforded him an honest livelihood. he called to them at sight, and mrs. pendleton, following her instinct of fitness, left the conversation to youth. "john henry, father is going to see mr. treadwell about the place in the bank. won't it be lovely if he gives it to you!" "he won't," replied john henry. "i'll bet you anything he's keeping it for his nephew." virginia's blush came quickly, and turning her head away, she gazed earnestly down the street to the octagonal market, which stood on the spot where slaves were offered for sale when she was born. "mr. treadwell is crossing the street now," she said after a minute. "i wonder why he keeps his mouth shut so tight when he is alone?" a covered cart, which had been passing slowly, moved up the hill, and from beyond it there appeared the tall spare figure of a man with iron-gray hair, curling a little on the temples, a sallow skin, splotched with red over the nose, and narrow colourless lips that looked as if they were cut out of steel. as he walked quickly up the street, every person whom he passed turned to glance after him. "i wonder if it is true that he hasn't made his money honestly?" asked virginia. "oh, i hope not!" exclaimed mrs. pendleton, who in her natural desire to believe only good about people was occasionally led into believing the truth. "well, i don't care," retorted virginia, "he's mean. i know just by the way his wife dresses." "oh, jinny!" gasped mrs. pendleton, and glanced in embarrassment at her nephew, whose face, to her surprise, was beaming with enjoyment. the truth was that john henry, who would have condemned so unreasonable an accusation had it been uttered by a full-grown male, was enraptured by the piquancy of hearing it on the lovely lips of his cousin. to demand that a pretty woman should possess the mental responsibility of a human being would have seemed an affront to his inherited ideas of gallantry. his slow wit was enslaved by jinny's audacity as completely as his kind ox-like eyes were enthralled by the young red and white of her beauty. "but he's a great man. you can't deny that," he said with the playful manner in which he might have prodded a kitten in order to make it claw. "a great man! just because he has made money!" "well, he couldn't have got rich, you know, if he hadn't had the sense to see how to do it," replied the young man with enthusiasm. like most southerners who had been forced without preparation into the hard school of industry, he had found that his standards followed inevitably the changing measure of his circumstances. from his altered point of view, the part of owing property appeared so easy, and the part of winning it so difficult, that his respect for culture had yielded almost unconsciously to his admiration for commerce. when the south came again to the front, he felt instinctively that it would come, shorn of its traditional plumage, a victor from the hard-fought industrial battlefields of the century; and because cyrus treadwell led the way toward this triumph, he was ready to follow him. of the whole town, this grim, half legendary figure (passionately revered and as passionately hated) appeared to him to stand alone not for the decaying past, but for the growing future. the stories of the too rapid development of the treadwell fortune he cast scornfully aside as the malicious slanders of failure. what did all this tittle-tattle about a great man prove anyhow except his greatness? suppose he _had_ used his railroad to make a fortune--well, but for him where would the dinwiddie and central be to-day if not in the junk shop? where would the lumber market be? the cotton market? the tobacco market? for around cyrus, standing alone and solitary on his height, there had gathered the great illusion that makes theft honest and falsehood truth--the illusion of success; and simple john henry pendleton, who, after nineteen years of poverty and memory, was bereft alike of classical pedantry and of physical comforts, had grown a little weary of the endless lip-worship of a single moment in history. granted even that it was the greatest moment the world had seen, still why couldn't one be satisfied to have it take its place beside the wars of the spartans and of the ancient britons? perpetual mourning was well enough for ladies in crape veils and heroic gentlemen on crutches; but when your bread and meat depended not upon the graves you had decorated, but upon the bathtubs you had sold, surely something could be said for the treadwell point of view. as virginia could find no answer to this remark, the three stood in silence, gazing dreamily, with three pairs of pendleton eyes, down toward the site of the old slave market. directly in their line of vision, an over-laden mule with a sore shoulder was straining painfully under the lash, but none of them saw it, because each of them was morally incapable of looking an unpleasant fact in the face if there was any honourable manner of avoiding it. what they beheld, indeed, was the most interesting street in the world, filled with the most interesting people, who drove happy animals that enjoyed their servitude and needed the sound of the lash to add cheer and liveliness to their labours. never had the pendleton idealism achieved a more absolute triumph over the actuality. "well, we must go on," murmured mrs. pendleton, withdrawing her visionary gaze from the hot street littered with fruit rinds and blood-stained papers from a neighbouring butcher shop. "it was lovely to have this glimpse of you, john henry. what nice bathtubs you have!" smiling her still lovely smile into the young man's eyes, she proceeded on her leisurely way, while virginia raised the black silk sunshade over her head. in front of them they could see long rows of fish-carts and vegetable stalls around which hovered an army of eager housekeepers. the social hours in dinwiddie at that period were the early morning ones in the old market, and virginia knew that she should hear docia's story repeated again for the benefit of the curious or sympathetic listeners that would soon gather about her mother. mrs. pendleton's marketing, unlike the hurried and irresponsible sort of to-day, was an affair of time and ceremony. among the greetings and the condolences from other marketers there would ensue lengthy conversations with the vendors of poultry, of fish, or of vegetables. every vegetable must be carefully selected by her own hands and laid aside into her special basket, which was in the anxious charge of a small coloured urchin. while she felt the plump breasts of mr. dewlap's chickens, she would inquire with flattering condescension after the members of mr. dewlap's family. not only did she remember each one of them by name, but she never forgot either the dates of their birthdays or the number of turkeys mrs. dewlap had raised in a season. if marketing is ever to be elevated from an occupation to an art, it will be by a return to mrs. pendleton's method. "mother, please buy some strawberries," begged virginia. "darling, you know we never buy fruit, or desserts. somebody will certainly send us something. i saw mrs. carrington whipping syllabub on her back porch as we passed." "but they're only five cents a basket." "well, put a basket with my marketing, mr. dewlap. yes, i'll take that white pullet if you're sure that she is plumper than the red one." she moved on a step or two, while the white pullet was handed over by its feet to the small coloured urchin and to destruction. if mrs. pendleton had ever reflected on the tragic fate of pullets, she would probably have concluded that it was "best" for them to be fried and eaten, or providence, whose merciful wisdom she never questioned, would not have permitted it. so, in the old days, she had known where the slave market stood, without realizing in the least that men and women were sold there. "poor things, it does seem dreadful, but i suppose it is better for them to have a change sometimes," she would doubtless have reasoned had the horror of the custom ever occurred to her--for her heart was so sensitive to pain that she could exist at all only by inventing a world of exquisite fiction around her. "aren't you nearly through, mother?" pleaded virginia at last. "the sun will be so hot going home that it will make your head worse." mrs. pendleton, who was splitting a pea-shell with her thumb in order to ascertain the size and quality of the peas, murmured soothingly, "just a minute, dear"; and the girl, finding it impossible to share her mother's enthusiasm for slaughtered animals, fell back again into the narrow shade of the stalls. she revolted with a feeling of outrage against the side of life that confronted her--against the dirty floor, strewn with withered vegetables above which flies swarmed incessantly, and against the pathos of the small bleeding forms which seemed related neither to the lamb in the fields nor to the sunday roast on the table. that divine gift of evasion, which enabled mrs. pendleton to see only the thing she wanted to see in every occurrence, was but partially developed as yet in virginia; and while she stood there in the midst of her unromantic surroundings, the girl shuddered lest oliver treadwell should know that she had ever waited, hot, perspiring, with a draggled skirt, and a bag of tomatoes grasped in her hands, while her mother wandered from stall to stall in a tireless search for peas a few cents cheaper than those of mr. dewlap. youth, with its ingenuous belief that love dwells in external circumstances, was protesting against the bland assumption of age that love creates its own peculiar circumstances out of itself. it was absurd, she knew, to imagine that her father's affection for her mother would alter because she haggled over the price of peas; yet the emotion with which she endowed oliver treadwell was so delicate and elusive that she felt that the sight of a soiled skirt and a perspiring face would blast it forever. it appeared imperative that he should see her in white muslin, and she resolved that if it cost docia her life she would have the flounces of her dress smoothed before evening. she, who was by nature almost morbidly sensitive to suffering, became, in the hands of this new and implacable power, as ruthless as fate. "now i'm ready, jinny dear. are you tired waiting?" asked mrs. pendleton, coming toward her with the coloured urchin in her train. "why, there's susan treadwell. have you spoken to her?" the next instant, before the startled girl could turn, a voice cried out triumphantly: "o jinny!" and in front of her, looking over susan's shoulder, she saw the eager eyes and the thin, high-coloured face of oliver treadwell. for a moment she told herself that he had read her thoughts with his penetrating gaze, which seemed to pierce through her; and she blushed pink while her eyes burned under her trembling lashes. then the paper bag, containing the tomatoes, burst in her hands, and its contents rolled, one by one, over the littered floor to his feet. both stooped at once to recover it, and while their hands touched amid wilted cabbage leaves, the girl felt that love had taken gilded wings and departed forever! "put them in the basket, dear," mrs. pendleton could be heard saying calmly in the midst of her daughter's agony--for, having lived through the brief illumination of romance, she had come at last into that steady glow which encompasses the commonplace. "this is my cousin oliver, virginia," remarked susan as casually as if the meeting of the two had not been planned from all eternity by the beneficent powers. "i'm afraid i've spoiled your nice red tomatoes," said a voice that filled virginia's whirling mind with a kind of ecstatic dizziness. as the owner of the voice held out his hand, she saw that it was long and thin like the rest of him, with blue veins crossing the back, and slender, slightly crooked fingers that hurt hers with the strength of their pressure. "to confess the truth," he added gaily after an instant, "my breath was quite taken away because, somehow, this was the last place on earth in which i expected to find you. it's a dreadful spot--don't you think so? if we've got to be cannibals, why in heaven's name make a show and a parade of it?" "what an extraordinary young man!" said mrs. pendleton's eyes; and virginia found herself blushing again because she felt that her mother had not understood him. a delicious embarrassment--something different and more vivid than any sensation she had ever known--held her speechless while he looked at her. had her life depended on it, she could not have uttered a sentence--could hardly even have lifted her lashes, which seemed suddenly to have become so heavy that she felt the burden of them weighing over her eyes. all the picturesque phrases she had planned to speak at their first meeting had taken wings with perfidious romance, yet she would have given her dearest possession to have been able to say something really clever. "he thinks me a simpleton, of course," she thought--perfectly unconscious that oliver was not thinking of her wits at all, but of the wonderful rose-pink of her flesh. at one and the same instant, she felt that this silence was the most marvellous thing that had ever happened to her and longed to break it with some speech so brilliant that he would never forget it. little thrills of joy, like tiny flames, ran over her, and the light in her eyes shone on him through the quivering dusk of her lashes. even when she looked away from him, she could still see his expression of tender gaiety, as though he were trying in vain to laugh himself free from an impulse that was fast growing too strong for him. what she did not know was that the spring was calling to him through her youth and sex as it was calling through the scented winds and the young buds on the trees. she was as ignorant that she offered herself to him through her velvet softness, through the glow in her eyes, through her quivering lips, as the flower is that it allures the bee by its perfume. so subtly did life use her for its end that the illusion of choice in first love remained unimpaired. though she was young desire incarnate, he saw in her only the unique and solitary woman of his dreams. "do you come here every day?" he asked, and immediately the blue sky and the octagonal market spun round at his voice. as nothing but commonplace words would come to her, she was obliged at last to utter them. "oh, no, not every day." "i've always had a tremendous sympathy for women because they have to market and housekeep. i wonder if they won't revolt some time?" this was so heretical a point of view that she tried earnestly to comprehend it; but all the time her heart was busy telling her how different he was from every other man--how much more interesting! how immeasurably superior! her attention, in spite of her efforts at serious thought, would not wander from the charm of his voice, from the peculiar whimsical trick of his smile, which lifted his mouth at one corner and made odd little wrinkles come and go about his eyes. his manner was full of sudden nervous gestures which surprised and enchanted her. all other men were not merely as clay beside him--they were as straw! seeing that he was waiting for a response, she made a violent endeavour to think of one, and uttered almost inaudibly: "but don't they like it?" "ah, that's just it," he answered as seriously as if she hadn't known that her speech bordered on imbecility. "do they really like it? or have they been throwing dust in our eyes through the centuries?" and he gazed at her as eagerly as if he were hanging upon her answer. oh, if she could only say something clever! if she could only say the sort of thing that would shock miss priscilla! but nothing came of her wish, and she was reduced at last to the pathetic rejoinder, "i don't know. i'm afraid i've never thought about it." for a moment he stared at her as though he were enraptured by her reply. with such eyes and such hair, she might have been as simple as she appeared and he would never have known it. "of course you haven't, or you wouldn't be you!" he responded; and by the time she came to her senses, she was following her mother and the negro urchin out of the market. though she was in reality walking over cinders, she felt that her feet were treading on golden air. chapter iv the treadwells above the dinwiddie of virginia's girlhood, rising sharply out of the smoothly blended level of personalities, there towered, as far back as she could remember, the grim and yet strangely living figure of cyrus treadwell. from the intimate social life of the town he had remained immovably detached; but from the beginning it had been impossible for that life to ignore him. among a people knit by a common pulse, yet separated by a multitude of individual differences, he stood aloof and indispensable, like one of the gaunt iron bridges of his great railroad. he was at once the destroyer and the builder--the inexorable foe of the old feudal order and the beneficent source of the new industrialism. though half of dinwiddie hated him, the other half (hating him, perhaps none the less) ate its bread from his hands. the town, which had lived, fought, lost, and suffered not as a group of individuals, but as a psychological unit, had surrendered at last, less to the idea of readjustment than to the indomitable purpose of a single mind. and yet nobody in dinwiddie, not even miss willy whitlow, who sewed out by the day, and knew the intimate structure of every skeleton in every closet of the town--nobody could tell the precise instant at which cyrus had ceased to be an ordinary man and become a great one. a phrase, which had started as usual, "the mr. treadwell, you know, who married poor belinda bolingbroke--" swerved suddenly to "cyrus treadwell told me that, and you must admit that _he_ knows what he is talking about"--and a reputation was made! his marriage to "poor belinda," which had at first appeared to be the most conspicuous fact in his career, dwindled to insignificance beside the rebuilding of the tobacco industry and his immediate elevation to the vacant presidency of one of the machlin railroads. it was true that in the meantime he had fought irreproachably, but without renown, through a number of battles; and returning to a vanquished and ruined city, had found himself still young enough to go to school again in matters of finance. whether he had learned from antrum, the despised carpet-bagger for machlin & company, or had taken his instructions at first hand from the great machlin himself, was in the eighties an open question in dinwiddie. the choice was probably given him to learn or starve; and aided by the keen understanding and the acute sense of property he had inherited from his scotch-irish parentage, he had doubtless decided that to learn was, after all, the easier way. saving he had always been, and yet with such strange and sudden starts of generosity that he had been known to seek out distant obscure maiden relatives and redeem the mortgaged roof over their heads. his strongest instinct, which was merely an attenuated shoot from his supreme feeling for possessions, was that of race, though he had estranged both his son and his daughter by his stubborn conviction that he was not doing his duty by them except when he was making their lives a burden. for, as with most men who have suffered in their youth under oppression, his ambition was not so much to relieve the oppressed as to become in his turn the oppressor. owing, perhaps, to his fine scotch-irish blood, which ran a little muddy in his veins, he had never lost a certain primitive feeling of superstition, like the decaying root of a religious instinct; and he was as strict in his attendance upon church as he was loose in applying the principles of christianity to his daily life. sunday was vaguely associated in his mind with such popular fetiches as a frock coat and a roast of beef; and if the roast had been absent from dinner, he would have felt precisely the same indefinite disquietude that troubled him when the sermon was left out of the service. so completely did his outward life shape itself around the inner structure of his thought, that, except for the two days of the week which he spent with unfailing regularity in wall street, he might have been said to live only in his office. once when his doctor had prescribed exercise for a slight dyspepsia, he had added a few additional blocks to his morning and evening walk, and it was while he was performing this self-inflicted penance that he came upon gabriel, who was hastening toward him in behalf of john henry. for an instant a gleam of light shone on cyrus's features, and they stood out, palely illuminated, like the features of a bronze statue above which a torch suddenly flares. his shoulders, which stooped until his coat had curved in the back, straightened themselves with a jerk, while he held out his hand, on which an old sabre cut was still visible. this faded scar had always seemed to gabriel the solitary proof that the great man was created of flesh and blood. "i've come about a little matter of business," began the rector in an apologetic tone, for in cyrus's presence he was never without an uneasy feeling that the problems of the spirit were secondary to the problems of finance. "well, i'm just going into the office. come in and sit down. i'm glad to see you. you bring back the four happiest years of my life, gabriel." "and of mine, too. it's queer, isn't it, how the savage seems to sleep in the most peaceable of men? we were half starved in those days, half naked, and without the certainty that we'd live until sunset--but, dreadful as it sounds, i was happier then--god help me!--than i've ever been before or since." passing through an outer office, where a number of young men were bending over ledgers, they entered cyrus's private room, and sat down in two plain pine chairs under the coloured lithograph of an engine which ornamented the largest space on the wall. the room was bare of the most ordinary comforts, as though its owner begrudged the few dollars he must spend to improve his surroundings. "well, those days are over, and you say it's business that you've come about?" retorted cyrus, not rudely, but with the manner of a man who seldom wastes words and whose every expenditure either of time or of money must achieve some definite result. "yes, it's business." the rector's tone had chilled a little, and he added in spite of his judgment, "i'm afraid it's a favour. everybody comes begging to you, i suppose?" "then, it's the sunday-school picnic, i reckon. i haven't forgotten it. smithson!" an alert young man appeared at the door. "make a note that mr. pendleton wants coaches for the saint james' church picnic on the twenty-ninth. you said twenty-ninth, didn't you, gabriel?" "if the weather's good," replied gabriel meekly, and then as smithson withdrew, he glanced nervously at the lithograph of the engine. "but it wasn't about the picnic that i came," he said. "the fact is, i wanted to ask you to use your influence in the matter of getting john henry a place in the bank. he has done very well at the night school, and i believe that you would find him entirely satisfactory." at the first mention of the bank, a look of distrust crept into cyrus's face--a look cautious, alert, suspicious, such as he wore at directors' meetings when there was a chance that something might be got out of him if for a minute he were to go off his guard. "i feel a great responsibility for him," resumed gabriel almost sternly, though he was painfully aware that his assurance had deserted him. "why don't you go to james? james is the one to see about such a matter." if the rector had spoken the thought in his mind, he would have answered, "because james reminds me of a fish and i can't abide him"; but instead, he replied simply, "i know james so slightly that i don't feel in a position to ask a favour of him." the expression of suspicion left cyrus's face, and he relaxed from the strained attitude in which he had sat ever since the sunday-school picnic had been dismissed from the conversation. leaning back in his chair, he drew two cigars from the pocket of his coat, and after glancing a little reluctantly at them both, offered one to the rector. "i believe he really wanted me to refuse it!" flashed through gabriel's mind like an arrow--though the other's hesitation had been, in fact, only an unconscious trick of manner which he had acquired during the long lean years when he had fattened chiefly by not giving away. the gift of a cigar could mean nothing to a man who willingly contributed to every charity in town, but the trivial gestures that accompany one's early habits occasionally outlast the peculiar circumstances from which they spring. for a few minutes they smoked in silence. then cyrus remarked in his precise voice: "james is a clever fellow--a clever fellow." "i've heard that he is as good as right hand to you. that's a fine thing to say of a son." "yes, i don't know what i should do without james. he's a saving hand, and, i tell you, there are more fortunes made by saving than by gambling." "well, i don't think james need ever give you any concern on that account," replied gabriel, not without gentle satire, for he recalled several unpleasant encounters with the younger treadwell on the subject of charity. "but i've heard different tales of that nephew of yours who has just come back from god knows what country." "he's henry's son," replied cyrus with a frown. "you haven't forgotten henry?" "yes, i remember. henry and george both went out to australia to open the tobacco market, and henry died poor while george lived and got rich, i believe?" "george kept free of women and attended to his affairs," returned cyrus, who was as frank about his family as he was secretive about his business. "but what about henry's son? he's a promising chap, isn't he?" "it depends upon what you call promising, i reckon. before he came i thought of putting him into the bank, but since i've seen him, i can't, for the life of me, think of anything to do with him. unless, of course, you could see your way toward taking him into the ministry," he concluded with sardonic humour. "his views on theology would prevent that, i fear," replied the rector, while all the kindly little wrinkles leaped out around his eyes. "views? what do anybody's views matter who can't make a living? but to tell the truth, there's something about him that i don't trust. he isn't like henry, so he must take after that pretty fool henry married. now, if he had james's temper, i could make something out of him, but he's different--he's fly-up-the-creek--he's as flighty as a woman." gabriel, who had been a little cheered to learn that the young man, with all his faults, did not resemble james, hastened to assure cyrus that there might be some good in the boy, after all--that he was only twenty-two, and that, in any case, it was too soon to pass judgment. "i can't stand his talk," returned the other grimly. "i've never heard anybody but a preacher--i beg your pardon, gabriel, nothing personal!--who could keep going so long when nobody was listening. a mere wind-bag, that's what he is, with a lot of nonsensical ideas about his own importance. if there wasn't a girl in the house, it would be no great matter, but that susan of mine is so headstrong that i'm half afraid she'll get crazy and imagine she's fallen in love with him." this proof of parental anxiety touched gabriel in his tenderest spot. after all, though cyrus had a harsh surface, there was much good at the bottom of him. "i can enter into your feelings about that," he answered sympathetically, "though my jinny, i am sure, would never allow herself to think seriously about a man without first asking my opinion of him." "then you're fortunate," commented cyrus dryly, "for i don't believe susan would give a red cent for what i'd think if she once took a fancy. she'd as soon elope with that wild-eyed scamp as eat her dinner, if it once entered her head." a knock came at the door, and smithson entered and conferred with his employer over a telegram, while gabriel rose to his feet. "by the way," said cyrus, turning abruptly from his secretary and stopping the rector as he was about to pass out of the door, "i was just wondering if you remembered the morning after lee's surrender, when we started home on the road together?" "why, yes." there was a note of surprise in gabriel's answer, for he remembered, also, that he had sold his watch a little later in the day to a union soldier, and had divided the eighty dollars with cyrus. for an instant, he almost believed that the other was going to allude for the first time to that incident. "well, i've never forgotten that green persimmon tree by the roadside," pursued the great man, "and the way you stopped under it and said, 'o lord, wilt thou not work a miracle and make persimmons ripen in the spring?'" "no, i'd forgotten it," rejoined gabriel coolly, for he was hurt by the piece of flippancy and was thinking the worst of cyrus again. "you'd forgotten it? well, i've a long memory, and i never forget. that's one thing you may count on me for," he added, "a good memory. as for john henry--i'll see james about it. i'll see what james has to say." when gabriel had gone, accompanied as far as the outer door by the secretary, cyrus turned back to the window, and stood gazing over a steep street or two, and past the gabled roof of an old stone house, to where in the distance the walls of the new building of the treadwell tobacco company were rising. around the skeleton structure he could see the workmen moving like ants, while in a widening circle of air the smoke of other factories floated slowly upward under a brazen sky. "there are too many of them," he thought bitterly. "it's competition that kills. there are too many of them." so rapt was his look while he stood there that there came into his face an expression of yearning sentiment that made it almost human. then his gaze wandered to the gleaming tracks of the two great railroads which ran out of dinwiddie toward the north, uncoiling their length like serpents between the broad fields sprinkled with the tender green of young crops. beside them trailed the ashen country roads over which farmers were crawling with their covered wagons; but, while cyrus watched from his height, there was as little thought in his mind for the men who drove those wagons through the parching dust as for the beasts that drew them. it is possible even that he did not see them, for just as mrs. pendleton's vision eliminated the sight of suffering because her heart was too tender to bear it, so he overlooked all facts except those which were a part of the dominant motive of his life. nearer still, within the narrow board fences which surrounded the backyards of negro hovels, under the moving shadows of broad-leaved mulberry or sycamore trees, he gazed down on the swarms of mulatto children; though to his mind that problem, like the problem of labour, loomed vague, detached, and unreal--a thing that existed merely in the air, not in the concrete images that he could understand. "well, it's a pity gabriel never made more of himself," he thought kindly. "yes, it's a pity. i'll see what i can do for him." at six o'clock that evening, when the end of his business day had come, he joined james at the door for his walk back to bolingbroke street. "have you done anything about jones's place in the bank?" was the first question he asked after his abrupt nod of greeting. "no, sir. i thought you were waiting to find out about oliver." "then you thought wrong. the fellow's a fool. look up that nephew of gabriel pendleton, and see if he is fit for the job. i am sorry jones is dead," he added with a touch of feeling. "i remember i got him that place the year after the war, and i never knew him to be ten minutes late during all the time that i worked with him." "but what are we to do with oliver?" inquired james after a pause. "of course he wouldn't be much good in the bank, but----" and without finishing his sentence, he glanced up in a tentative, non-committal manner into cyrus's face. he was a smaller and somewhat imperfect copy of his father, naturally timid, and possessed of a superstitious feeling that he should die in an accident. his thin anæmic features lacked the strength of the treadwells, though in his cautious and taciturn way he was very far indeed from being the fool people generally thought him. since he had never loved anything with passion except money, he was regarded by his neighbours as a man of unimpeachable morality. at the end of the block, while the long pointed shadows of their feet kept even pace on the stone crossing, cyrus answered abruptly: "put him anywhere out of my sight. i can't bear the look of him." "how would you like to give him something to do on the road? put him under borrows, for instance, and let him learn a bit about freight?" "well, i don't care. only don't let me see him--he turns my stomach." "then as long as we've got to support him, i'll tell him he may try his hand at the job of assistant freight agent, if he wants to earn his keep." "he'll never do that--just as well put him down under 'waste,' and have done with him," replied cyrus, chuckling. a little girl, rolling a hoop, tripped and fell at his feet, and he nodded at her kindly, for he had a strong physical liking for children, though he had never stopped to think about them in a human or personal way. he had, indeed, never stopped to think about anything except the absorbing problem of how to make something out of nothing. everything else, even his marriage, had made merely a superficial impression upon him. what people called his "luck" was only the relentless pursuit of an idea; and in this pursuit all other sides of his nature had been sapped of energy. from the days when he had humbly accepted small commissions from the firm of machlin & company, to the last few years, when he had come to be regarded almost superstitiously as the saviour of sinking properties, he had moved quietly, cautiously, and unswervingly in one direction. the blighting panic of ten years before had hardly touched him, so softly had he ventured, and so easy was it for him to return to his little deals and his diet of crumbs. they were bad times, those years, alike for rich and poor, for northerner and southerner; but in the midst of crashing firms and noiseless factories, he had cut down his household expenses to a pittance and had gone on as secretively as ever--waiting, watching, hoping, until the worst was over and machlin & company had found their man. then, a little later, with the invasion of the cigarette, there went up the new treadwell factory which the subtle minded still attributed to the genius of cyrus. even before george and henry had sailed for australia, the success of the house in dinwiddie was assured. there was hardly a drug store in america in those days that did not offer as its favourite james's crowning triumph, the magnolia cigarette. a few years later, competition came like a whirlwind, but in the beginning the treadwell brand held the market alone, and in those few years cyrus's fortune was made. "heard from george lately?" he inquired, when they had traversed, accompanied by their long and narrow shadows, another couple of blocks. the tobacco trade had always been for him merely a single pawn in the splendid game he was playing, but he had suspected recently that james felt something approaching a sentiment for the magnolia cigarette, and true to the treadwell scorn of romance, he was forever trying to trick him into an admission of guilt. "not since that letter i showed you a month ago," answered james. "too much competition, that's the story everywhere. they are flooding the market with cigarettes, and if it wasn't for the way the magnolia holds on, we'd be swamped in little or no time." "well, i reckon the claypole would pull us through," commented cyrus. the claypole was an old brand of plug tobacco with which the first treadwell factory had started. "but you're right about competition. it's got to stop or we'll be driven clean out of the business." he drew out his latchkey as he spoke, for they had reached the corner of bolingbroke street, and the small dingy house in which they lived was only a few doors away. as they passed between the two blossoming oleanders in green tubs on the sidewalk, james glanced up at the flat square roof, and observed doubtfully, "you'll be getting out of this old place before long now, i reckon." "oh, someday, someday," answered cyrus. "there'll be time enough when the market settles and we can see where the money is coming from." once every year, in the spring, james asked his father this question, and once every year he received exactly the same answer. in his mind, cyrus was always putting off the day when he should move into a larger house, for though he got richer every week, he never seemed to get quite rich enough to commit himself to any definite change in his circumstances. of course, in the nature of things, he knew that he ought to have left bolingbroke street long ago; there was hardly a family still living there with whom his daughter associated, and she complained daily of having to pass saloons and barber shops whenever she went out of doors. but the truth was that in spite of his answer to james's annual question, neither of them wanted to move away from the old home, and each hoped in his heart that he should never be forced into doing so. cyrus had become wedded to the house as a man becomes wedded to a habit, and since the clinging to a habit was the only form of sentiment of which he was capable, he shrank more and more from what he felt to be the almost unbearable wrench of moving. a certain fidelity of purpose, the quality which had lifted him above the petty provincialism that crippled james, made the display of wealth as obnoxious to him as the possession of it was agreeable. as long as he was conscious that he controlled the industrial future of dinwiddie, it was a matter of indifference to him whether people supposed him to be a millionaire or a pauper. in time he would probably have to change his way of living and put an end to his life-long practice of saving; but, meanwhile, he was quite content to go on year after year mending the roof and the chimneys of the old house into which he had moved the week after his marriage. entering the hall, he hung his hat on the walnut hat-rack in the dark corner behind the door, and followed the worn strip of blue and red oilcloth which ran up the narrow staircase to the floor above. where the staircase bent sharply in the middle, the old-fashioned mahogany balustrade shone richly in the light of a gas-jet which jutted out on a brass stem from the wall. although a window on the upper floor was opened wide to the sunset, the interior of the house had a close musty smell, as if it had been shut up, uninhabited, for months. cyrus had never noticed the smell, for his senses, which were never acute, had been rendered even duller than usual by custom. at the top of the stairs, a coloured washerwoman, accompanied by a bright mulatto boy, who carried an empty clothes basket on his head, waited humbly in the shadow for the two men to pass. she was a dark glistening creature, with ox-like eyes, and the remains of a handsome figure, now running to fat. "howdy, marster," she murmured under her breath as cyrus reached her, to which he responded brusquely, "howdy, mandy," while he glanced with unseeing eyes at the mulatto boy at her side. then, as he walked rapidly down the hall, with james at his heels, the woman turned back for a minute and gazed after him with an expression of animal submission and acquiescence. so little personal to cyrus and so free from individual consciousness was this look, that it seemed less the casual glance from a servant to a master than the intimate aspect of a primitive racial attitude toward life. at the end of the hall, beyond the open door of the bedroom (which he still occupied with his wife from an ineradicable conviction that all respectable married persons slept together no matter how uncomfortable they might be), cyrus discerned the untidy figure of mrs. treadwell reflected in a mirror before which she stood brushing her back hair straight up from her neck to a small round knot on the top of her head. she was a slender, flat-chested woman, whose clothes, following some natural bent of mind, appeared never to be put on quite straight or properly hooked and buttoned. it was as if she perpetually dressed in a panic, forgetting to fasten her placket, to put on her collar or to mend the frayed edges of her skirt. when she went out, she still made some spasmodic attempts at neatness; but susan's untiring efforts and remonstrances had never convinced her that it mattered how one looked in the house--except indeed when a formal caller arrived, for whom she hastily tied a scarf at the neck of her dirty basque and flung a purple wool shawl over her shoulders. her spirit had been too long broken for her to rebel consciously against her daughter's authority; but her mind was so constituted that the sense of order was missing, and the pretty coquetry of youth, which had masqueraded once as the more enduring quality of self-respect, was extinguished in the five and thirty penitential years of her marriage. she had a small vacant face, where the pink and white had run into muddiness, a mouth that sagged at the corners like the mouth of a frightened child, and eyes of a sickly purple, which had been compared by cyrus to "sweet violets," in the only compliment he ever paid her. thirty-five years ago, in one of those attacks of indiscretion which overtake the most careful man in the spring, cyrus had proposed to her; and when she declined him, he had immediately repeated his offer, animated less by any active desire to possess her, than by the dogged male determination to over-ride all obstacles, whether feminine or financial. and pretty belinda bolingbroke, being alone and unsupported by other suitors at the instant, had entwined herself instinctively around the nearest male prop that offered. it had been one of those marriages of opposites which people (ignoring the salient fact that love has about as much part in it as it has in the pursuit of a spring chicken by a hawk) speak of with sentiment as "a triumph of love over differences." even in the first days of their engagement, there could be found no better reason for their marriage than the meeting of cyrus's stubborn propensity to have his way with the terror of imaginary spinsterhood which had seized belinda in a temporary lapse of suitors. having married, they immediately proceeded, as if by mutual consent, to make the worst of it. she, poor fluttering dove-like creature, had lost hope at the first rebuff, and had let go all the harmless little sentiments that had sweetened her life; while he, having married a dove by choice and because of her doveliness, had never forgiven her that she did not develop into a brisk, cackling hen of the barnyard. as usually happens in the cases where "love triumphs over differences," he had come at last to hate her for the very qualities which had first caught his fancy. his ideal woman (though he was perfectly unconscious that she existed) was a managing thrifty soul, in a starched calico dress, with a natural capacity for driving a bargain; and life, with grim humour, had rewarded this respectable preference by bestowing upon him feeble and insipid belinda, who spent sleepless nights trying to add three and five together, but who could never, to save her soul, remember to put down the household expenses in the petty cash book. it was a case, he sometimes told himself, of a man, who had resisted temptation all his life, being punished for one instant's folly more harshly than if he were a practised libertine. no libertine, indeed, could have got himself into such a scrape, for none would have surrendered so completely to a single manifestation of the primal force. to play the fool once, he reflected bitterly, when his brief intoxication was over, is after all more costly than to play it habitually. had he pursued a different pair of violet eyes every evening, he would never have ended by embracing the phantom that was belinda. but it was more than thirty years since cyrus had taken the trouble to turn his unhappiness into philosophy--for, aided by time, he had become reconciled to his wife as a man becomes reconciled to a physical infirmity. except for that one eventful hour in april, women had stood for so little in his existence, that he had never stopped to wonder if his domestic relations might have been pleasanter had he gone about the business of selection as carefully as he picked and chose the tobacco for his factory. even the streak of sensuality in his nature did not run warm as in the body of an ordinary mortal, and his vices, like his virtues, had become so rarefied in the frozen air of his intelligence that they were no longer recognizable as belonging to the common frailties of men. "ain't you dressed yet?" he inquired without looking at his wife as he entered--for having long ago lost his pride of possession in her, he had ceased to regard her as of sufficient importance to merit the ordinary civilities. "i was helping miss willy whip one of susan's flounces," she answered, turning from the mirror, with the hairbrush held out like a peace offering before her. "we wanted to get through to-day," she added nervously, "so miss willy can start on jinny pendleton's dress the first thing in the morning." if cyrus had ever permitted himself the consolation of doubtful language, he would probably have exclaimed with earnestness, "confound miss willy!" but he came of a stock which condemned an oath, or even an expletive, on its face value, so this natural outlet for his irritation was denied him. instead, therefore, of replying in words, he merely glanced sourly at the half-open door, through which issued the whirring noise of the little dressmaker at her sewing. now and then, in the intervals when her feet left the pedal, she could be heard humming softly to herself with her mouth full of pins. "isn't she going?" asked cyrus presently, while he washed his hands at the washstand in one corner and dried them on a towel which belinda had elaborately embroidered in red. peering through the crack of the door as he put the question, he saw miss willy hurriedly pulling basting threads out of a muslin skirt, and the fluttering bird-like motions of her hands increased the singular feeling of repulsion with which she inspired him. though he was aware that she was an entirely harmless person, and, more-over, that her "days" supplied the only companionship his wife really enjoyed, he resented angrily the weeks of work and gossip which the little seamstress spent under his roof. put two gabbling women like that together and you could never tell what stories would be set going about you before evening! a suspicion, unfortunately too well founded, that his wife had whimpered out her heart to the whirring accompaniment of miss willy's machine, had caused him once or twice to rise in his authority and forbid the dressmaker the house; but, in doing so, he had reckoned without the strength which may lie in an unscrupulous weakness. belinda, who had never fought for anything else in her life, refused absolutely to give up her dressmaker. "if i can't see her here, i'll go to her house," she had said, and cyrus had yielded at last as the bully always yields before the frenzied violence of his victim. after a hasty touch to the four round flat curls on her forehead, mrs. treadwell turned from the bureau with her habitually hopeless air, and slipped her thin arms into the tight sleeves of a black silk basque which she took up from the bed. "did you see oliver when you came in?" she asked. "he was in here looking for you a few minutes ago." "no, i didn't see him, but i'm going to. he's got to give up this highfaluting nonsense of his if he expects me to support him. there's one thing the fellow's got to understand, and that is that he can choose between his precious stuff and his bread and meat. before i give him a job, he'll have to let me see that he is done with all this business of play-writing." a frightened look came into his wife's face, and indifferently glancing at her as he finished, he was arrested by something enigmatical and yet familiar in her features. a dim vision of the way she had looked at him in the early days of their marriage floated an instant before him. "do you think he wants to do that?" she asked, with a little sound as if she had drawn her breath so sharply that it whistled. what in thunder was the matter with the woman? he wondered irritably. of course she was a fool about the scamp--all the women, even susan, lost their heads over him--but, after all, why should it make any difference to her whether he wrote plays or took freight orders, as long as he managed to feed himself? "well, i don't reckon it has come to a question of what he wants," he rejoined shortly. "but the boy's heart is bound up in his ambition," urged belinda, with an energy he had witnessed in her only once before in her life, and that was on the occasion of her historic defence of the seamstress. for a moment cyrus stared at her with attention, almost with curiosity. then he opened his lips for a crushing rejoinder, but thinking better of his impulse, merely repeated dryly, "his heart?" before he turned toward the door. on the threshold he looked back and added, "the next time you see him, tell him i'd like a word with him." left alone in her room, mrs. treadwell sat down in a rocking-chair by the window, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap with a nervous gesture which she had acquired in long periods of silent waiting on destiny. her mental attitude, which was one of secret, and usually passive, antagonism to her husband, had stamped its likeness so indelibly upon her features, that, sitting there in the wan light, she resembled a woman who suffers from the effects of some slow yet deadly sickness. lacking the courage to put her revolt into words, she had allowed it to turn inward and embitter the hidden sources of her being. in the beginning she had asked so little of life that the denial of that little by fate had appeared niggardly rather than tragic. a man--any man who would have lent himself gracefully as an object of worship--would have been sufficient material for the building of her happiness. marriage, indeed, had always appeared to her so desirable as an end in itself, entirely apart from the personal peculiarities or possibilities of a husband, that she had awakened almost with surprise one morning to the knowledge that she was miserable. it was not so much that her romance had met with open disaster as that it had simply faded away. this gradual fading away of sentiment, which she had accepted at the time as only one of the inevitable stages in the slow process of emotional adjustment, would perhaps have made but a passing impression on a soul to whom every other outlet into the world had not been closed by either temperament or tradition. but love had been the one window through which light could enter her house of life; and when this darkened, her whole nature had sickened and grown morbid. then at last all the corroding bitterness in her heart had gathered to a canker which ached ceaselessly, like a physical sore, in her breast. "he saw i'd taken to oliver--that's why he's anxious to spite him," she thought resentfully as she stared with unseeing eyes out into the gray twilight. "it's all just to worry me, that's why he is doing it. he knows i couldn't be any fonder of the boy if he had come of my own blood." and she who had been a bolingbroke set her thin lips together with the only consciousness of superiority to her husband that she had ever known--the secret consciousness that she was better born. out of the wreck of her entire life, this was the floating spar to which she still clung with a sense of security, and her imagination, by long concentration upon the support that it offered, had exaggerated its importance out of all proportion to the other props among which it had its place. like its imposing symbol, the saint memin portrait of the great archibald bolingbroke, which lent distinction, by its very inappropriateness, to the wall on which it hung, this hidden triumph imparted a certain pathetic dignity to her manner. "that's all on earth it is," she repeated with a kind of smothered fierceness. but, even while the words were on her lips, her face changed and softened, for in the adjoining room a voice, full of charm, could be heard saying: "sewing still, miss willy? don't you know that you are guilty of an immoral act when you work overtime?" "i'm just this minute through, mr. oliver," answered the seamstress in fluttering tones. "as soon as i fold this skirt, i'm going to quit and put on my bonnet." a few more words followed, and then the door opened wider and oliver entered--with his ardent eyes, his irresolute mouth, and his physical charm which brought an air of vital well-being into the depressing sultriness of the room. "i missed you downstairs, aunt belinda. you haven't a headache, i hope," he said, and there was the same caressing kindness in his tone which he had used to the dressmaker. it was as if his sympathy, like his charm, which cost him so little because it was the gift of nature, overflowed in every casual expression of his temperament. "no, i haven't a headache, dear," replied mrs. treadwell, putting up her hand to his cheek as he leaned over her. "your uncle is waiting for you in the library, so you'd better go down at once," she added, catching her breath as she had done when cyrus first spoke to her about oliver. "have you any idea what it means? did he tell you?" "yes, he wants to talk to you about business." "the deuce he does! well, if that's it, i'd be precious glad to get out of it. you don't suppose i could cut it, do you? susan is going to take me to the pendletons' after supper, and i'd like to run upstairs now and make a change." "no, you'd better go down to him. he doesn't like to be kept waiting." "all right, then--since you say so." meeting the dressmaker on the threshold, he forgot to answer her deprecating bow in his eagerness to have the conversation with cyrus over and done with. "i declare, he does startle a body when you ain't used to him," observed miss willy, with a bashful giggle. she was a diminutive, sparrow-like creature, with a natural taste for sick-rooms and death-beds, and an inexhaustible fund of gossip. as mrs. treadwell, for once, did not respond to her unspoken invitation to chat, she tied her bonnet strings under her sharp little chin, and taking up her satchel went out again, after repeating several times that she would be "back the very minute mrs. pendleton was through with her." a few minutes later, belinda, still seated by the window, saw the shrunken figure ascend the area steps and cross the dusty street with a rapid and buoyant step, as though she, also, plain, overworked and penniless, was feeling the delicious restlessness of the spring in her blood. "i wonder what on earth she's got to make her skip like that," thought belinda not without bitterness. "i reckon she thinks she's just as important as anybody," she added after an instant, touching, though she was unaware of it, the profoundest truth of philosophy. "she's got nothing in the world but herself, yet i reckon to her that is everything, even if it doesn't make a particle of difference to anybody else whether she is living or dead." her eyes were still on miss willy, who stepped on briskly, swinging her bag joyously before her, when the sound of cyrus's voice, raised high in anger, came up to her from the library. a short silence followed; then a door opened and shut quickly, and rapid footsteps passed up the staircase and along the hall outside of her room. while she waited, overcome by the nervous indecision which attacked her like palsy whenever she was forced to take a definite action, susan ran up the stairs and called her name in a startled and shaking voice. "oh, mother, father has quarrelled dreadfully with oliver and ordered him out of the house!" chapter v oliver, the romantic an hour later oliver stood before the book-shelves in his room, wrapping each separate volume in newspapers. downstairs in the basement, he knew, the family were at supper, but he had vowed, in his splendid scorn of material things, that he would never eat another morsel under cyrus's roof. even when his aunt, trembling in every limb, had brought him secretly from the kitchen a cup of coffee and a plate of waffles, he had refused to unlock his door and permit her to enter. "i'll come out when i am ready to leave," he had replied to her whispered entreaties. it was a small room, furnished chiefly by book-shelves, which were still unfinished, and with a depressing view from a single window of red tin roofs and blackened chimneys. above the chimneys a narrow band of sky, spangled with a few stars, was visible from where oliver stood, and now and then he stopped in his work and gazed up at it with an exalted and resolute look. sometimes a thin shred of smoke floated in from the kitchen chimney, and hung, as if drawn and held there by some magnetic attraction, around the kerosene lamp on a corner of the washstand. the sultriness of the night, which was oppressive even in the street, was almost stifling in the little room with its scant western exposure. but the flame burning in oliver's breast had purged away such petty considerations as those for material comforts. he had risen above the heat, above the emptiness of his pockets, above the demands of his stomach. it was a matter of complete indifference to him whether he slept in a house or out of doors, whether he ate or went hungry. his exaltation was so magnificent that while it lasted he felt that he had conquered the physical universe. he was strong! he was free! and it was characteristic of his sanguine intellect that the future should appear to him at the instant as something which existed not beyond him, but actually within his grasp. anger had liberated his spirit as even art had not done; and he felt that all the blood in his body had rushed to his brain and given him the mastery over circumstances. he forgot yesterday as easily as he evaded to-day and subjugated to-morrow. the past, with its starved ambitions, its tragic failures, its blighting despondencies, melted away from him into obscurity; and he remembered only the brief alternating hours of ecstasy and of accomplishment. with his wind-blown, flame-like temperament, oscillating in the heat of youth between the inclinations he miscalled convictions, he was still, though cyrus had disowned him, only a romantic variation from the treadwell stock. somewhere, in the depths of his being, the essential treadwell persisted. he hated cyrus as a man hates his own weakness; he revolted from materialism as only a materialist in youth revolts. a knock came at his door, and pausing, with a volume of heine still unwrapped in his hand, he waited in silence until his visitor should retire down the stairs. but instead of mrs. treadwell's trembling tones, he heard, after a moment, the firm and energetic voice of susan. "oliver, i must speak to you. if you won't unlock your door, i'll sit down on the steps and wait until you come out." "i'm packing my books. i wish you'd go away, susan." "i haven't the slightest intention of going away until i've talked with you----" and, then, being one of those persons who are born with the natural gift of their own way, she laid her hand on the door-knob while oliver impatiently turned the key in the lock. "since you are here, you might as well come in and help," he remarked none too graciously, as he made way for her to enter. "of course i'll help you--but, oh, oliver, what in the world are you going to do?" "i haven't thought. i'm too busy, but i'll manage somehow." "father was terrible. i heard him all the way upstairs in my room. but," she looked at him a little doubtfully, "don't you think he will get over it?" "he may, but i shan't. i'd rather starve than live under a petty tyranny like that?" "i know," she nodded, and he saw that she understood him. it was wonderful how perfectly, from the very first instant, she had understood him. she grasped things, too, by intelligence, not by intuition, and he found this refreshing in an age when the purely feminine was in fashion. never had he seen a finer example of young, buoyant, conquering womanhood--of womanhood freed from the consciousness and the disabilities of sex. "she's not the sort of girl a man would lose his head over," he reflected; "there's too little of the female about her--she's as free from coquetry as she is from the folderol of sentimentality. she's a free spirit, and god knows how she ever came out of the treadwells." her beauty even wasn't of the kind that usually goes by the name. he didn't suppose there were ten men in dinwiddie who would turn to look back at her--but, by jove, if she hadn't beauty, she had the character that lends an even greater distinction. she looked as if she could ride life like a horse--could master it and tame it and break it to the bridle. "it's amazing how you know things, susan," he said, "and you've never been outside of dinwiddie." "but i've wanted to, and i sometimes think the wanting teaches one more than the going." he thought over this for an instant, and then, as if the inner flame which consumed him had leaped suddenly to the surface, he burst out joyously: "i've come to the greatest decision of my life in this last hour, susan." her eyes shone. "you mean you've decided not to do what father asks no matter what happens?" "i've decided not to accept his conditions--no matter what happens," he answered. "he was in earnest, then, about wanting you to give up writing?" "so much in earnest that he would give me a job only on those terms." "and you declined absolutely?" "of course i declined absolutely." "but how will you live, oliver?" "oh, i can easily make thirty dollars a month by reviewing german books for new york papers, and i dare say i can manage to pull through on that. i'll have to stay in dinwiddie, of course, because i couldn't live anywhere else on nearly so little, and, besides, i shouldn't be able to buy a ticket away." "that will be twenty dollars for your board," said the practical susan, "and you will have to make ten dollars a month cover all your other expenses. do you think you can do it?" "i've got to. better men have done worse things, haven't they? better men have done worse things and written great plays while they were about them." "i believe mrs. peachey would let you have a back room and board for that," pursued susan. "but it will cost you something to get your books moved and the shelves put up there." "as soon as i get through this i'll go over and see her. oh, i'm free, susan, i'm happy! did you ever see an absolutely happy man before? i feel as if a weight had rolled off my shoulders. i'm tired--dog-tired of compromise and commercialism and all the rest of it. i've got something to say to the world, and i'll go out and make my bed in the gutter before i'll forfeit the opportunity of saying it. do you know what that means, susan? do you know what it is to be willing to give your life if only you can speak out the thing that is inside of you?" the colour in his face mounted to his forehead, while his eyes grew black with emotion. in the smoky little room, youth, with its fierce revolts, its impassioned egoism, its inextinguishable faith in itself, delivered its ultimatum to life. "i've got to be true to myself, susan! a man who won't starve for his ambition isn't worth his salt, is he? and, besides, the best work is all done not in plenty, but in poverty--the most perfect art has grown from the poorest soil. if i were to accept uncle cyrus's offer, i'd grow soft to the core in a month and be of no more use than a rotten apple." his conviction lent a golden ring to his voice, and so winning to susan was the impetuous flow of his words, that she felt herself swept away from all the basic common sense of her character. she saw his ambition as clearly as he saw it; she weighed his purpose, as he weighed it, in the imaginary scales of his judgment; she accepted his estimate of his powers as passionately as he accepted it. "of course you mustn't give up, oliver; you couldn't," she said. "you're right, i couldn't." "if you can get steady reviewing, i believe you can manage," she resumed. "living in dinwiddie costs really so very little." her voice thrilled suddenly. "it must be beautiful to have something that you feel about like this. oh, i wish i were you, oliver! i wish a thousand times i were you!" withdrawing his eyes from the sky at which he had been gazing, he turned to look at her as if her words had arrested him. "you're a dear girl," he answered kindly, "and i think all the world of you." as he spoke he thought again what a fine thing it would be for the man who could fall in love with her. "it would be the best thing that could happen to any man to marry a woman like that," he reflected; "she'd keep him up to the mark and never let him grow soft. yes, it would be all right if only one could manage to fall in love with her--but i couldn't. she might as well be a rose-bush for all the passion she'd ever arouse in me." then his charming egoism asserted itself, and he said caressingly: "i don't believe i could stand dinwiddie but for you, susan." she smiled back at him, but there was a limpid clearness in her look which made him feel that she had seen through him while he was thinking. this clearness, with its utter freedom from affectation or sentimentality, embarrassed him by its unlikeness to all the attributes he mentally classified as feminine. to look straight seemed to him almost as unwomanly as to throw straight, and susan would, doubtless, be quite capable of performing either of these difficult feats. he liked her fine brow under the short fringe, which he hated, and he liked the arched bridge of her nose and the generous curve of her mouth. yet had he stopped to analyze her, he would probably have said that the woman spirit in her was expressed through character rather than through emotion--a manifestation disconcerting to one whose vision of her sex was chiefly as the irresponsible creature of drama. the old shackles--even the shackles of that drama whose mistress and slave woman had been--were out of place on the spirit which was incarnated in susan. amid the cramping customs of the period, she moved large, free, and simple, as though she walked already in the purer and more bracing air of the future. "i wish i could help you," she said, stooping to pick up a newspaper from a pile on the floor. "here, let me wrap that spinoza. i'm afraid the back will come off if you aren't careful." "of course a man has to work out his own career," he replied, as he handed over the volume. "i doubt, when it comes to that, if anybody can be of much help to another where his life's work is concerned. the main thing, after all, is not to get in one's way, not to cripple one's energy. i've got to be free--that's all there is about it. i've got to belong to myself every instant." "and you know already just what you are going to do? about your writing, i mean." "absolutely. i've ideas enough to fill fifty ordinary lifetimes. i'm simply seething with them. why, that box over there in the corner is full of plays that would start a national drama if the fool public had sense enough to see what they are about. the trouble is that they don't want life on the stage; they want a kind of theatrical wedding-cake. and, by jove, they get it! any dramatist who tries to force people to eat bread and meat when they are crying for sugar plums may as well prepare to starve until the public begins to suffer from acute indigestion. then, if he isn't dead--or, perhaps, if he is--his hour will come, and he will get his reward either here or in heaven." "so you'll go on just the same and wait until they're ready for you?" asked susan, laughing from sheer pride in him. "you'll never, never cheapen yourself, oliver?" for the first time in her life she was face to face with an intellectual passion, and she felt almost as if she herself were inspired. "never. i've made my choice. i'll wait half a century if need be, but i'll wait. i know, too, what i am talking about, for i could do the other thing as easily as i could eat my dinner. i've got the trick of it. i could make a fortune to-morrow if i were to lose my intellectual honesty and go in simply for the making of money. why, i am a treadwell, after all, just as you are, my dear cousin, and i could commercialize the stage, i haven't a doubt, as successfully as your father has commercialized the railroad. it's in the blood--the instinct, you know--and the only thing that has kept it down in me is that i sincerely--yes, i sincerely and enthusiastically believe that i am a genius. if i didn't, do you think i'd stick at this starvation business another fortnight? that's the whole story, every blessed word of it, and i'm telling you because i feel expansive to-night--i'm such a tremendous egoist, you know, and because--well, because you are susan." "i think i understand a little bit how you feel," replied susan. "of course, i'm not a genius, but i've thought sometimes that i should almost be willing to starve if only i might go to college." checking the words on his lips, he looked at her with sympathy. "it's a shame you can't, but i suppose uncle cyrus won't hear of it." "i haven't asked him, but i am going to do it. i am so afraid of a refusal--and, of course, he'll refuse--that i've lacked the courage to speak of it." "good god! why is one generation left so absolutely at the mercy of the other?" he demanded, turning back to the strip of sky over the roof. "it makes a man rage to think of the lives that are spoiled for a whim. money, money--curse it!--it all comes to that in the end. money makes us and destroys us." "do you remember what father said to you the other night--that you would come at last to what you called the property idea and be exactly like james and himself?" "if i thought that, i'd go out and hang myself. i can understand a man selling his soul for drink, though i rarely touch a drop, or for women, though i've never bothered about them, but never, not even in the last extremity, for money." a door creaked somewhere on the second floor and a minute afterwards the slow and hesitating feet of mrs. treadwell were heard ascending the stairs. "let her come in just a moment, oliver," begged susan, and her tone was full of the impatient, slightly arrogant affection with which she regarded her mother. there was little sympathy and less understanding between them, but on susan's side there was a feeling of protective tenderness which was almost maternal. this tenderness was all her own, while the touch of arrogance in her manner belonged to the universal inability of youth to make allowances for age. "oh, well," said oliver indifferently; and going to the door, he opened it and stood waiting for mrs. treadwell to enter. "i came up to ask if you wouldn't eat something, dear?" she asked. "but i suppose susan has brought you your supper?" "he won't touch a morsel, mother; it is useless to ask him. he is going away just as soon as we have finished packing." "but where is he going? i didn't know that he had any place to go to." "oh, a man can always find a place somewhere." "how can you take it so lightly, susan," protested mrs. treadwell, beginning to cry. "that's the only sensible way to take it, isn't it, oliver?" asked susan, gaily. "don't get into a fidget about me, aunt belinda," said oliver, pushing the pile of newspapers out of her way, while she sat down nervously on the end of a packing-case and wiped her eyes on the fringe of her purple shawl. the impulsive kindness with which he had spoken to her a few hours before had vanished from his tone, and left in its place an accent of irritation. his sympathy, which was never assumed, resulted so entirely from his mood that it was practically independent of the person or situation which appeared to inspire it. there were moments when, because of a sensation of mental or physical well-being, he overflowed with a feeling of tenderness for the beggar at the crossing; and there were longer periods, following a sudden despondency, when the suffering of his closest friend aroused in him merely a sense of personal outrage. so complete, indeed, was his absorption in himself, that even his philosophy was founded less upon an intellectual conception of the universe than it was upon an intense preoccupation with his own personality. "but you don't mean that you are going for good?--that you'll never come back to see susan and me again?" whimpered his aunt, while her sagging mouth trembled. "you can't expect me to come back after the things uncle cyrus has said to me." a look so bitter that it was almost venomous crept into mrs. treadwell's face. "he just did it to worry me, oliver. he has done everything he could think of to worry me ever since he persuaded me to marry him. i sometimes believe," she added, gloating over the idea like a decayed remnant of the aristocratic spirit, "that he has always been jealous of me because i was born a bolingbroke." to oliver, who had not like susan grown accustomed through constant repetition to mrs. treadwell's delusion, this appeared so fresh a view of cyrus's character, that it caught his interest even in the midst of his own absorbing perplexities. until he saw susan's head shake ominously over her mother's shoulder, it did not occur to him that his aunt, whom he supposed to be without imagination, had created this consoling belief out of her own mental vacancy. "oh, he wanted to worry me all right, there's no doubt about that," he replied. "he hasn't spoken to me when he could help it for twenty years," pursued his aunt, who was so possessed by the idea of her own relation to her husband that she was incapable of dwelling upon any other. "i wouldn't talk about it, mother, if i were you," said susan with resolute cheerfulness. "i don't know why i shouldn't talk about it. it's all i've got to talk about," returned mrs. treadwell peevishly; and she added with smothered resentment, "even my children haven't been any comfort to me since they were little. they've both turned against me because of the way their father treats me. james hardly ever has so much as a word to say to me." "but i do, mother. how can you say such an unkind thing to me?" "you never do the things that i want you to. you know i'd like you to go out and enjoy yourself and have attention as other girls do." "you are disappointed because i'm not a belle like abby goode or jinny pendleton," said susan with the patience that is born of a basic sense of humour. "but i couldn't help that, could i?" "any girl in my day would have felt badly if she wasn't admired," pursued mrs. treadwell with the venom of the embittered weak, "but i don't believe you'd care a particle if a man never looked at you twice." "if one never looked at me once, i don't see why you should want me to be miserable about it," was susan's smiling rejoinder; "and if the girls in your day couldn't be happy without admiration, they must have been silly creatures. i've a life of my own to live, and i'm not going to let my happiness depend on how many times a man looks at me." in the clear light of her ridicule, the spectre of spinsterhood, which was still an object of dread in the dinwiddie of the eighties, dissolved into a shadow. "well, we've about finished, i believe," remarked oliver, closing the case over which he was stooping, and devoutly thanking whatever beneficent powers had not created him a woman. "i'll send for these sometime to-morrow, aunt belinda." "you'd just as well spend the night," urged mrs. treadwell stubbornly. "he need never know of it." "but i'd know of it--that's the great thing--and i'd never forget it." rising unsteadily from the box, she stood with the ends of her purple shawl clutched tightly over her flat bosom. "then you'll wait just a minute. i've got something downstairs i'd like to give you," she said. "why, of course, but won't you let me fetch it?" "you'd never find it," she answered mysteriously, and hurried out while he held the door open to light her down the dark staircase. when her tread was heard at last on the landing below, susan glanced at the books that were still left on the shelves. "i'll pack the rest for you to-morrow, oliver, and your clothes, too. have you any money?" "a little left from selling my watch in new york. my clothes don't amount to much. i've got them all in that bag, but i'll leave my books in your charge until i can find a place for them." "i'll take good care of them. o oliver!" her face grew disturbed. "i forgot all about my promise to virginia that i'd bring you to see her to-night." "well, i've no time to meet girls now, of course, but that doesn't mean that i'm not awfully knocked up about it." "i hate so to disappoint her." "she won't think of it twice, the beauty!" "but she will. i'm sure she will. hush! mother is coming." as he turned to the door, it opened slowly to admit the figure of his aunt, who was panting heavily from her hurried ascent of the stairs. her ill-humour toward susan had entirely disappeared, for the only resentment she had ever harboured for more than a few minutes was the life-long one which she had borne her husband. "it was not in the place where i had put it, so i thought one of the servants had taken it," she explained. "mandy was alone in my room to-day while i was at dinner." in her hand she held a small pasteboard box bearing a jeweller's imprint, and opening this, she took out a roll of money and counted out fifty dollars on the top of a packing-case. "i've saved this up for six months," she said. "it came from selling some silver forks that belonged to the bolingbrokes, and i always felt easier to think that i had a little laid away that he had nothing to do with. from the very day that i married him, he was always close about money," she added. the sordid tragedy--not of poverty, but of meanness--was in the gesture with which she gathered up the notes and pressed them into his shrinking hands. and yet cyrus treadwell was a rich man--the richest man living in dinwiddie! oliver understood now why she was crushed--why she had become the hopeless victim of the little troubles of life. "from the very day of our marriage, he was always close about money." "i had three dozen forks and spoons in the beginning," she resumed as if there were no piercing significance in the fact she stated so simply, "but i've sold them all now, one or two at a time, when i needed a little money of my own. he has always paid the bills, but he never gave me a cent in my life to do as i pleased with." "i can't take it from you, aunt belinda. it would burn my fingers." "it's mine. i've got a right to do as i choose with it," she persisted almost passionately, "and i'd rather give it to you than buy anything in the world." something in her face--the look of one who has risen to a generous impulse and finds happiness in the sacrifice--checked the hand with which he was thrusting the money away from him. he was deeply touched by her act; it was useless for him to pretend either to her or to himself that she had not touched him. the youth in him, unfettered, strong, triumphant, pitied her because she was no longer young; the artist in him pitied her because she was no longer beautiful. without these two things, or at least one of these two, what was life worth to a woman? "i'll take it on condition that you'll let me pay it back as soon as i get out of debt to uncle cyrus," he said in obedience to susan's imploring nod. to this she agreed after an ineffectual protest. "you needn't think about paying it back to me," she insisted; "i haven't anything to spend money on now, so it doesn't make much difference whether i have any or not. i can help you a little more after a while," she finished with enthusiasm. "i'm raising a few squabs out in the back yard, and meadows is going to buy them as soon as they are big enough to eat." an embarrassment out of all proportion to the act which produced it held him speechless while he gazed at her. he felt at first merely a sense of physical revolt from the brutality of her self-revelation--from the nakedness to which she had stripped the horror of her marriage under the eyes of her daughter. nothing, not even the natural impulse to screen one's soul from the gaze of the people with whom one lived, had prevented the appalling indignity of this exposure. the delusion that it is possible for a woman by mere virtue of being a woman to suffer in sweetness and silence, evaporated as he looked at her. he had believed her to be a nonentity, and she was revealing an inner life as intense, as real, as acutely personal as his own. a few words of casual kindness and he had made a slave of her. he regretted it. he was embarrassed. he was sorry. he wished to heaven she hadn't brought him the money--and yet in spite of his regret and his embarrassment, he was profoundly moved. it occurred to him as he took it from her how easy it would have been for cyrus to have subjugated and satisfied her in the beginning. all it needed was a little kindness, the cheapest virtue, and the tragedy of her ruined soul might have been averted. to make allowances! ah, that was the philosophy of human relations in a word! if men and women would only stop judging each other and make allowances! "well, i shan't starve just yet, thanks to you, aunt belinda," he said cheerfully enough as he thrust the notes into his pocket. it was a small thing, after all, to make her happy by the sacrifice of his pride. pride was not, he remembered, included among the christian virtues, and, besides, as he told himself the next instant, trifling as the sum was, it would at least tide him over financially until he received the next payment for his reviewing. "i'd better go, it's getting late," he said with a return of his old gaiety, while he bent over to kiss her. he was half ashamed of the kiss--not because he was self-conscious about kissing, since he had long since lost that mark of provincialism--but because of the look of passionate gratitude which glowed in her face. gratitude always made him uncomfortable. it was one of the things he was forever evading and yet forever receiving. he hated it, he had never in his life done anything to deserve it, but he could never escape it. "good-bye, susan." his lips touched hers, and though he was moving only a few streets away, the caress contained all the solemnity of a last parting. words wouldn't come when he searched for them, and the bracing sense of power he had felt half an hour ago was curiously mingled now with an enervating tenderness. he was still confident of himself, but he became suddenly conscious that these women were necessary to his happiness and his success, that his nature demanded the constant daily tonic of their love and service. he understood now the primal necessity of woman, not as an individual, but as an incentive and an appendage to the dominant personality of man. "send for me if you need me," said susan, resting her loving eyes upon him; "and, oliver, please promise me to be very careful about money." "i'll be careful, never fear!" he replied with a laugh, as he took up his bag and opened the door. a few minutes later, when he was leaving the house, he reflected that the fifty dollars in his pocket would keep life in him for a considerable time in dinwiddie. chapter vi a treadwell in revolt york street, in which mrs. peachey lived and supplied the necessaries of life to a dozen boarders, ran like a frayed seam of gentility between the prosperous and the impoverished quarters of dinwiddie; and in order to reach it, oliver was obliged to pass the rectory, where, though he did not see her, virginia sat in stiffly starched muslin on the old horsehair sofa. the fragrance of honeysuckle floated to his nostrils from the dim garden, but so absorbed was he in the engrossing problems of the moment, that only after he had passed the tower of the church did he remember that the house behind him sheltered the girl who reminded him of one of the adorable young virgins of perugino. for an instant he permitted himself to dwell longingly on the expression of gentle goodness that looked from her face; but this memory proved so disturbing, that he put it obdurately away from him while he returned to the prudent consideration of the fifty dollars in his pocket. the appeal of first love had been almost as urgent to him as to virginia; but the emotion which had visited both alike had affected each differently, and this difference was due to the fundamental distinction between woman, for whom love is the supreme preoccupation of being, and man, to whom it is at best a partial manifestation of energy. to the woman nothing else really mattered; to the man at least a dozen other pursuits mattered very nearly as much. the sultriness of the weather dampened his body, but not his spirits, and as he walked on, carrying his heavy bag, along york street, his consciousness of the tremendous importance to the world of his decision exhilarated him like a tonic. he had freed himself from cyrus and from commercialism at a single blow, and it had all been as easy as talking! the joke about starvation he had of course indulged in merely for the exquisite pleasure of arousing susan. he wasn't going to starve; nobody was going to starve in dinwiddie on thirty dollars a month, and there was no doubt in the world of his ability to make that much by his reviewing. it was all simple enough. what he intended to do was to write the national drama and to practise economy. he had, indeed, provided for everything in his future, he was to discover a little later, except for the affable condescension of mrs. peachey toward the profession of letters. cyrus's antagonism he had attributed to the crass stupidity of the commercial mind; but it was a blow to him to encounter the same misconception, more discreetly veiled, in a woman of the charm and the character of mrs. peachey. bland, plump, and pretty, she received the modest avowal of his occupation with the smiling skepticism peculiar to a race whose genius has been chiefly military. "i understand--it is very interesting," she observed sweetly. "but what do you do besides--what do you do, i mean, for a living?" here it was again, this fatuous intolerance! this incomprehensible provincialism! and the terrible part of it was that he had suddenly the sensation of being overwhelmed by the weight of it, of being smothered under a mountain of prejudice. the flame of his anger against cyrus went out abruptly, leaving him cold. it was the world now against which he rebelled. he felt that the whole world was provincial. "i shall write reviews for a new york paper," he answered, trying in vain to impress her by a touch of literary hauteur. at the moment it seemed to him that he could cheerfully bear anything if they would only at least pretend to take him seriously. what appalled him was not the opposition, but the utter absence of comprehension. and he could never hope to convince them! even if he were to write great plays, they would still hold as obstinately by their assumption that the writing of plays did not matter--that what really mattered was to create and then to satisfy an inordinate appetite for tobacco. this was authentic success, and by no illegitimate triumph of genius could he persuade an industrial country that he was as great a man as his uncle. the smiling incredulity in mrs. peachey's face ceased to be individual and became a part of the american attitude toward the native-born artist. this attitude, he admitted, was not confined to dinwiddie, since it was national. he had encountered it in new york, but never had the destructive force of it impressed him as it did on the ripe and charming lips of the woman before him. in that illuminating instant he understood why the american consciousness in literature was still unawakened, why the creative artist turned manufacturer, why the original thinker bent his knee in the end to the tin gods of convention. her eyes--beautiful as the eyes of all happy women are beautiful--dwelt on him kindly while he struggled to explain his mission. all the dread of the unusual, all the inherited belief in the sanctity of fixed opinions, all the passionate distrust of ideas that have not stood the test of centuries--these things which make for the safety and the permanence of the racial life, were in the look of motherly indulgence with which she regarded him. she had just risen from a rocking-chair on the long porch, where honest tom sat relating ponderous war anecdotes to an attentive group of boarders; and beyond her in the dimly lighted hall he could see the wide old staircase climbing leisurely into the mysterious silence of the upper storeys. "i have a small room at the back that i might rent to you," she said hesitatingly after a pause. "i am afraid you will find it warm in summer, as it is just under the roof and has a western exposure, but i hardly think i could do better for you at the price you are able to pay. i understood that you intended to live with your uncle," she added in a burst of enthusiasm. "my husband has always been one of his greatest admirers." the mention of cyrus was like a spur to oliver's ambition, and he realized with gratitude that it was merely his sensibility, not his resolution, which had been shaken. "i'll take the room," he returned, ignoring what she had said as well as what she had implied about cyrus. then as she tripped ahead of him, he entered the dismantled hall, filled with broken pieces of fine old furniture, and ascended the stairs as far as the third storey. when she turned a loosened door-knob and passed before him into the little room at the back, he saw first of all the narrow window, with its torn green shade, beyond which clustered a blur of silvery foliage in the midst of red roofs and huddled chimneys. from this hilltop, he could look down unseen on that bit of the universal life which was dinwiddie. he could watch the town at work and at play; he could see those twenty-one thousand souls either moved as a unit by the secret forces which ignore individuality, or separated and enclosed by that impenetrable wall of personality which surrounded each atom among them. he could follow the divisions of class and the still deeper divisions of race as they were symbolized in the old brick walls, overgrown with young grasses, which girdled the ancient gardens in high street. from the dazzling glimpses of white muslin under honeysuckle arbours, to the dusky forms that swarmed like spawn in the alleys, the life of dinwiddie loved, hated, enjoyed, and suffered beneath him. and over this love and this hatred, this enjoyment and this suffering, there presided--an outward and visible sign of the triumph of industrialism--the imposing brick walls of the new treadwell tobacco factory. a soft voice spoke in his ear, and turning, he looked into the face of mrs. peachey, whom he had almost forgotten. "you will find the sun warm in the afternoon, i am afraid," she murmured, still with her manner of pleasantly humouring him which he found later to be an unconscious expression of her half maternal, wholly feminine attitude toward his sex. "oh, i daresay it will be all right," he responded. "i shall work so hard that i shan't have time to bother about the weather." leaving the window, he gazed around the little room with an impulse of curiosity. who had lived here before him? a clerk? a travelling salesman? perhaps one of the numerous indigent gentlewomen that formed so large and so important a part of the population of dinwiddie? the walls were smeared with a sickly blue wash, and in several places there were the marks left from the pictures of the preceding lodger. an old mahogany bureau, black with age and ill usage, stood crosswise in the corner behind the door, and reflected in the dim mirror he saw his own face looking back at him. a film of dust lay over everything in the room, over the muddy blue of the walls, over the strip of discoloured matting on the floor, over the few fine old pieces of furniture, fallen now into abject degradation. the handsome french bed, placed conveniently between door and window, stood naked to the eyes, with its cheap husk mattress rolled half back, and its bare slats, of which the two middle ones were tied together with rope, revealing conspicuously its descent from elegance into squalor. as he saw it, the room was the epitome of tragedy, yet in the centre of it, on one of the battered and broken-legged heppelwhite chairs, sat mrs. peachey, rosy, plump, and pretty, regarding him with her slightly quizzical smile. "yes, life, of course, is sad if you stop to think about it," her smile seemed to assure him; "but the main thing, after all, is to be happy in spite of it." "do you wish to stay here to-night?" she asked, seeing that he had put down his bag. "if you will let me. but i am afraid it will be inconvenient." she shook her head. "not if you don't mind the dust. the room has been shut up for weeks, and the dust is so dreadful in the spring. the servants have gone out," she added, "but i'll bring you some sheets for your bed, and you can fill your pitcher from the spout at the end of the hall. only be careful not to stumble over the step there. it is hard to see when the gas is not lit." "you won't object to my putting shelves around the walls?" he asked, while she pushed the mattress into place with the light and condescending touch of one who preserves the aristocratic manner not only in tragedy, but even in toil. it was, indeed, her peculiar distinction, he came to know afterward, that she worked as gracefully as other women played. "couldn't you find room enough without them?" she inquired while her gaze left the mattress and travelled dubiously to the mantelpiece. "it seems a pity for you to go to any expense about shelves, doesn't it?" "oh, they won't cost much. i'll do the work myself, and i'll do it in the mornings when it won't disturb anybody. i daresay i'll have to push that bed around a bit in order to make space." something in his vibrant voice--so full of the richness and the buoyant energy of youth--made her look at him as she might have looked at one of her children, or at that overgrown child whom she had married. and just as she had managed tom all his life by pretending to let him have his way, so she proceeded now by instinct to manage oliver. "you dear boy! of course you may turn things upside down if you want to. only wait a few days until you are settled and have seen how you like it." then she tripped out with her springy step, which had kept its elasticity through war and famine, while oliver, gazing after her, wondered whether it was philosophy or merely a love of pleasure that sustained her? was it thought or the absence of thought that produced her wonderful courage? he heard her tread on the stairs; then the sound passed to the front hall; and a minute later there floated up the laughter with which the assembled boarders received her. closing the door, which she had left open, he turned back to the window and stared from his hilltop down on the red roofs of dinwiddie. white as milk, the moonlight lay on the brick wall at the foot of the garden, and down the gradual hill rows of chimneys were outlined against the faintly dappled sky in the west. in the next yard a hollow tree looked as if it were cut out of silver, and beneath its boughs, which drooped into the alley, he could see the huddled figure of an aged negress who had fallen asleep on a flagstone. so still was the night that the very smoke appeared to hang suspended above the tops of the chimneys, as though it were too heavy to rise and yet too light to float downward toward the motionless trees. under the pale beams the town lost its look of solidity and grew spectral. nothing seemed to hold it to the earth except the stillness which held the fallen flowers of the syringa there also. even the church towers showed like spires of thistledown, and the winding streets, which ran beside clear walls and dark shining gardens, trailed off from the ground into the silvery air. only the black bulk of the treadwell factory beside the river defied the magic of the moon's rays and remained a solid reminder of the brevity of all enchantment. gradually, while oliver waited for mrs. peachey's return, he ceased to think of the furniture in his room; he ceased to think even of the way in which he should manage to do his work, and allowed his mind to dwell, almost with a feeling of ecstasy, on the memory of virginia. he saw the mist of little curls on her temples, her blue eyes, with their good and gentle expression, and the look of radiant happiness which played like light over her features. the beauty of the night acted as a spur to his senses. he wanted companionship. he wanted the smile and the touch of a woman. he wanted to fall in love with a girl who had blue eyes and a mouth like a flower! "it wouldn't take me ten minutes to become a fool about her," he thought. "confound this moonlight, anyhow. it's making an idiot of me." like many persons of artistic sensibility, he had at times the feeling that his imagination controlled his conduct, and under the sharp pressure of it now, he began to picture what the end would be if he were to fling himself headlong in the direction where his desires were leading him. if he could only let himself go! if he could only defy the future! if he could only forget in a single crisis that he was a treadwell! "if i were the right sort, i suppose i'd rush in and make her fall in love with me, and then marry her and let her starve," he thought. "but somehow i can't. i'm either not enough of a genius or not enough of a treadwell. when it comes to starving a woman in cold blood, my conscience begins to balk. there's only one thing it would balk at more violently, and that is starving my work. that's what uncle cyrus would like--nothing better. by jove! the way he looked when he had the nerve to make that proposition! and i honestly believe he thought i was going to agree to it. i honestly believe he was surprised when i stood out against him. he's a downright idiot, that's what is the matter with him. why, it would be a crime, nothing less than a crime, for me to give up and go hunting after freight orders. any ninny can do that. james can do that--but he couldn't see, he positively couldn't see that i'd be wasted at it." the vision of cyrus had banished the vision of virginia, and leaving the window, oliver began walking rapidly back and forth between the washstand and the bare bedstead. the fire of his ambition, which opposition had fanned into a blaze, had never burned more brightly in his heart than it did at that instant. he felt capable not only of renouncing virginia, but of reforming the world. while he walked there, he dedicated himself to art as exclusively as cyrus had ever dedicated himself to money--since nature, who had made the individual, had been powerless to eradicate this basic quality of the type. a treadwell had always stood for success, and success meant merely seeing but one thing at a time and seeing that thing at every instant. it meant to cyrus and to james the thought of money as absolutely as it meant to oliver the thought of art. the way to it was the same, only the ideas that pointed the way were different. to cyrus and to james, indeed, as to all treadwells everywhere, the idea was hardly an idea at all, since it had been crystallized by long usage into a fact. the word "success" (and what was success except another name for the universal treadwell spirit?) invariably assumed the image of the dollar in the mind of cyrus, while to oliver, since his thinking was less carefully coördinated, it was without shape or symbol. pacing the dusty floor, with the pale moonlight brooding like a flock of white birds over the garden, the young man would have defined the word as embracing all the lofty aspirations in the human soul. it was the hour when youth scaled the heights and wrested the divine fire from the heavens. at the moment he was less an individual than the embodied age of two-and-twenty. he was intellect in adolescence--intellect finding its strength--intellect in revolt against the tyranny of industrialism. the staircase creaked softly, and following a knock at the door, mrs. peachey entered with her arms full of bed-clothes. "i am so sorry i kept you waiting, mr. treadwell, but i was obliged to stop to speak to a caller. oh, thank you. do you really know how to make up a bed? how very clever of you! i'm sure mr. peachey couldn't do such a thing if his life depended upon it. men are so helpless that it surprises me--it really does--when they know how to do anything. oh, of course, you have lived about the world so much that you have had to learn how to manage. and you've been abroad? how very interesting! some day when i have the time you must tell me about it. not that i should ever care to go myself, but i love to hear other people talk about their travels. professor trimble--he lived over there a great many years--gave a talk before the ladies' aid society of our church, and everybody said it was quite as instructive as going one's self. and then, too, one escaped all the misery of seasickness." all the time she was busily spreading his bed, while he assisted her with what she described to her husband afterward as "the most charming manner, just as if he enjoyed it." this charming manner, which was the outward expression of an inborn kindliness, won her entirely to his side before the bed-making was over. that any one so frank and pleasant, with such nice boyish eyes, and so rich a colour, should prove untrustworthy, was unbelievable to that part of her which ruled her judgment. and since this ruling part was not reason, but instinct, she possessed, perhaps, as infallible a guide to opinions as ever falls to the lot of erring humanity. "i know he's all right. don't ask me _how_ i know it, mr. peachey," she observed while she brushed her hair for the night; "i don't know how i know it, but i do know it." oliver, meanwhile, had thrown off his coat, and settled down to work under the flickering gas, at the end of the mantelpiece. inspiration had seized him while he helped mrs. peachey make his bed, and his "charming manner," which had at first been natural enough, had become at last something of an effort. he was writing the second act of a play in which he meant to supplant the pretty shams of the stage by the aspect of sober reality. the play dealt with woman--with the new woman who has grown so old in the last twenty years--with the woman whose past is a cross upon which she crucifies both herself and the public. like most men of twenty-two, he was convinced that he understood all about women, and like most men of any age, he was under the impression that women acted, thought, and felt, not as individuals, but as a sex. the classic phrases, "women are like that," and "women think so queerly about things," were on his lips as constantly as if he were an average male and not an earnest-minded student of human nature. but while the average male applies general principles loosely and almost unconsciously, with oliver the habit was the result of a distinctly formulated philosophy. he had, as he would probably have put it, a feeling for reality, and the stage appeared to him, on the whole, to be the most effective vehicle for revealing the universe to itself. if he was not a genius, he possessed the unconquerable individualism of genius; and he possessed, also, a cleverness which could assume the manner of genius without apparent effort. his ability, which no one but cyrus had ever questioned, may not have been of the highest order, but at least it was better stuff than had ever gone into the making of american plays. in the early eighties profound darkness still hung over the stage, for the intellect of a democracy, which first seeks an outlet in statesmanship, secondly in commerce, and lastly in art and literature, had hardly begun to express itself, with the immaturity of youth, in several of these latter fields. it was oliver's distinction as well as his misfortune that he lived before his country was ready for him. coming a quarter of a century later, he might have made a part of a national emancipation of intellect. coming when he did, he stood merely for one of the spasmodic reactions against the dominant spirit. unwritten history is full of such reactions, since it is by the accumulated energy of their revolts that the world moves on its way. but at the age of twenty-two, though he was assured that he understood both woman and the universe in which she belonged, he was pathetically ignorant of his own place in the extravagance of nature. with the rest of us, he would have been astounded at the suggestion that he might have been born to be wasted. other things were wasted, he knew, since those who called nature an economist had grossly flattered her. types and races and revolutions were squandered with royal prodigality--but that he himself should be so was clearly unthinkable. deep down in him there was the obstinate belief that his existence was a vital matter to the awful power that ruled the universe; and while he worked that may evening at the second act of his great play, with the sweat raining from his brow in the sweltering heat, it was as impossible for him to conceive of ultimate failure as it was for him to realize that he should ever cease to exist. the air was stagnant, the light was bad, his stomach was empty, and he was tormented by the stinging of the gnats that circled around the flame--but he was gloriously happy with the happiness of a man who has given himself to an idea. chapter vii the artist in philistia at dawn, after a sleepless night, oliver dressed himself and made a cup of coffee on the spirit lamp he carried in his bag. while he drank, a sense of power passed over him like warmth. he was cheered, he was even exhilarated. a single cup of this miraculous fluid, and his depression was vanquished as no argument could have vanquished it. without sermonizing, without logic even, the demon of pessimism, which has its home in an empty stomach, was expelled into spiritual darkness. he remembered that he had eaten nothing for almost twenty-four hours (having missed yesterday's dinner), and this thought carried him downstairs, where he begged a roll from a yawning negro cook in the kitchen. coming up to his room again, he poured out a second cup of coffee, added a dash of cream, which he had brought with him in a handleless pitcher, and leaning comfortably back in the worn horsehair covered chair by the window, relapsed into a positive orgy of enjoyment. his whole attitude toward the universe had been altered by a bubbling potful of brown liquid, and the tremendous result--so grotesquely out of proportion to its cause--appeared to him at the minute entirely right and proper. everything was entirely right and proper, and he felt able to approve with a clear conscience the divine arrangement of existence. outside, the sunrise, which he could not see, was flooding the roofs of dinwiddie with a dull golden light. the heat had given way before the soft wind which smelt of flowers, and scattered tiny shreds of mist, like white rose-leaves, over the moist gardens. the look of unreality, which had been a fiction of the moonlight, faded gradually as the day broke, and left the harsh outlines and the blackened chimneys of the town unsoftened by any shadow of illusion. presently, as the sunlight fell aslant the winding streets, there was a faint stir in the house; but since the day was sunday, and dinwiddie observed the sabbath by sleeping late, this stir was slow and drowsy, like the movement of people but half awake. first, a dilapidated milk wagon rumbled through the alleys to the back gates, where dishevelled negro maids ran out with earthenware pitchers, which went back foaming around the brims. then the doors of the houses opened slowly; the green outside shutters were flung wide; and an army of coloured servants bearing brooms, appeared on the porches, and made expressive gestures to one another over the railings. occasionally, when one lifted a doormat in order to beat the dust out of it, she would forget to put it down again while she stared after the milk cart. nobody--not even the servants--seemed to regard the wasted hours as of any importance. it struck oliver that the only use dinwiddie made of time was to kill it. he fell to work with enthusiasm, and he was still working when the reverberations of the breakfast bell thundered in his ears. going downstairs to the dining-room, he found several thin and pinched looking young women, with their hats on and sunday-school lessons beside their plates. mrs. peachey, still smiling her quizzical smile, sat at the head of the table, pouring coffee out of an old silver coffee-pot, which was battered in on one side as if it had seen active service in the war. when, after a few hurried mouthfuls, he asked permission to return to his work, she received his excuses with the same cheerful acquiescence with which she accepted the decrees of providence. it is doubtful, indeed, if her serenity, which was rooted in an heroic hopelessness, could have been shaken either by the apologies of a boarder or by the appearance of an earthquake. her happiness was of that invulnerable sort which builds its nest not in the luxuriant gardens of the emotions, but in the bare, rock-bound places of the spirit. courage, humour, an adherence to conviction which is wedded to an utter inability to respect any opinion except one's own; loyalty which had sprung from a principle into a passion; a fortifying trust, less in the power that rules the universe than in the peculiar virtues of the episcopal prayer-book when bound in black; a capacity for self-sacrifice which had made the south a nation of political martyrs; complacency, exaltation, narrowness of vision, and uncompromising devotion to an ideal--these were the qualities which had passed from the race into the individual and through the individual again back into the very blood and the fibre of the race. "do you work on sunday?" she inquired sweetly, yet with the faintest tinge of disapproval in her tone. he nodded. "once in a while." "saint james' church is only a few minutes' walk from here; but i suppose you are a presbyterian, like your uncle?" his respectability he saw hung in the balance--for to have avowed himself a freethinker would have dyed him socially only one shade less black than to have declared himself a republican--so, escaping without a further confession of faith, he ascended to his room and applied himself anew to the regeneration of the american drama. the dull gold light, which slept on the brick walls, began presently to slant in long beams over the roofs, which mounted like steps up the hillside, while as the morning advanced, the mellow sound of chimes floated out on the stillness, calling dinwiddians to worship, as it had called their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers before them. the sabbath calm, so heavy that an axe could hardly have dispelled it, filled the curving streets and the square gardens like an invisible fog--a fog that dulled the brain and weighed down the eyelids and made the grim walls of the treadwell tobacco factory look as if they were rising out of a dream. into this dream, under the thick boughs of mulberry trees, there passed presently a thin file of people, walking alone or in pairs. the men were mostly old; but the women were of every age, and all except the very young were clad in mourning and wore hanging veils on their bonnets. though oliver did not know it, he was, in reality, watching a procession of those who, having once embraced a cause and lost it, were content to go on quietly in a hush of memory for the rest of life. passion had once inflamed them, but they moved now in the inviolable peace which comes only to those who have nothing left that they may lose. at the end of the line, in the middle of the earthen roadbed walked an old horse, with an earnest face and a dump cart hitched to him, and in the cart were the boxes of books which susan had helped oliver to pack the evening before. "who'd have thought she'd get them here so soon?" he said to himself. "by george, she is a wonder! and sunday too!" the old horse, having reached the hilltop, disappeared behind the next house, and ten minutes later mrs. peachey escorted the smallest of his boxes into his bedroom. "your cousin is downstairs, but i didn't know whether you wanted me to bring her up here or not?" she said. "of course you do, don't you, oliver?" asked susan's voice, and entering the room, she coolly presented her cheek to him. this coolness, which impressed him almost as much as her extraordinary capability, made him feel sometimes as if she had built a stone wall between them. years afterwards he asked himself if this was why his admiration for her had never warmed into love? "well, you're a good one!" he exclaimed, as she drew back from the casual embrace. "i knew you were here," she answered, "because john henry pendleton" (was it his imagination or did the faintest blush tinge her face?) "saw major peachey last night and told me on his way home." "you can't help me straighten up, i suppose? the room looks a sight." "not now--i'm on my way to church, and i'll be late if i don't hurry." she wore a grey cashmere dress, made with a draped polonaise which accentuated her rather full hips, and a hat with a steeple crown that did not suit the treadwell arch of her nose. he thought she looked plain, but he did not realize that in another dress and hat she might have been almost beautiful--that she was, indeed, one of those large-minded, passionately honest women who, in their scorn of pretence or affectation, rarely condescend to make the best of their appearances. to have consciously selected a becoming hat would have seemed to her a species of coquetry, and coquetry, even the most innocent, she held in abhorrence. her sincerity was not only intellectual; it was of that rarer sort which has its root in a physical instinct. after she had gone, he worked steadily for a couple of hours, and then opened one of the boxes susan had brought and arranged a few of his books in a row on the mantelpiece. it was while he stood still undecided whether to place "the origin of species" or "the critique of pure reason" on the end nearest his bed, that a knock came at his door, and the figure of miss priscilla batte, attired in a black silk dolman with bugle trimmings, stood revealed on the threshold. "sally peachey just told me that you were here," she said, enfolding him in the embrace which seemed common to dinwiddie, "so i thought i would speak to you on my way back from church. i don't suppose you've ever heard of me, but i am your cousin priscilla batte." though he was entirely unaware of it, the moment was a momentous one in his experience. the visit of miss priscilla may have appeared an insignificant matter to those who have not learned that the insignificant is merely the significant seen from another angle--but the truth was that it marked a decisive milestone in his emotional history. even mrs. peachey, who had walked back from church with her, and who harboured the common delusion that life selects only slim bodies for its secret agents, did not dream as she watched that enormous figure toil up the staircase that she was gazing upon the movement of destiny. had oliver been questioned as to the dominant influence in shaping his career, he would probably have answered blindly, but sincerely, "the critique of pure reason"--so far was he from suspecting that his philosophy had less control over his future than had the accident that his mother was the third cousin of priscilla batte. he pushed a chair into the widest space he could find, and she seated herself as modestly as if she were not the vehicle of the invisible powers. the stiff grosgrain strings of her bonnet stood out like small wings under her double chin, and on her massive bosom he saw the cameo brooch bearing the war-like profile of athene. as she sat there, beaming complacently upon him, with her prayer-book and hymnal held at a decent angle in front of her, she seemed to oliver to dominate the situation simply by the solid weight of her physical presence. in her single person she managed to produce the effect of a majority. as a mere mass of humanity she carried conviction. "i was sorry not to see you at church," she said, "but i suppose you went with cyrus." as he shook his head silently, she added hastily, "i hope there's nothing wrong between you and him." "nothing except that i have decided not to go into the tobacco business." "but what in the world are you going to do? how are you going to live if he doesn't provide for you?" "oh, i'll manage somehow. you needn't worry, cousin priscilla." he smiled at her across the unfinished page of his play, and this smile won her as it had won mrs. peachey. like most spinsters she had remained a creature of sentiment, and the appeal of the young and masculine she found difficult to resist. after all he was a charming boy, her heart told her. what he needed was merely some good girl to take care of him and convert him to the episcopal church. and immediately, as is the way with women, she became as anxious to sacrifice virginia to this possible redemption of the male as she had been alarmed by the suspicion that such a desire existed in susan. though it would have shocked her to hear that she held any opinion in common with mohammed (who appeared in the universal history she taught only in a brief list of "false prophets"), there existed deep down in her the feeling that a man's soul was of greater consequence than a woman's in the eyes of god. "i hope you haven't been foolish, oliver," she said in a tone which conveyed an emotional sympathy as well as a moral protest. "that depends upon what you mean by foolishness," he returned, still smiling. "well, i don't think you ought to quarrel with cyrus. he may not be perfect. i am not saying that he mightn't have been a better husband, for instance--though i always hold the woman to blame when a marriage turns out a failure--but when all's said and done, he is a great man, oliver." he shook his head impatiently. "i've heard that until i'm sick of it--forgive me, cousin priscilla." "everybody admires him--that is, everybody except belinda." "i should say she'd had excellent opportunities for forming an opinion. what's he ever done, anyhow, that's great," he asked almost angrily, "except accumulate money? it seems to me that you've gone mad over money in dinwiddie. i suppose it's the reaction from having to do without it so long." miss priscilla, whose native serenity drew strength from another's loss of temper, beamed into his flushed face as if she enjoyed the spectacle of his heightened colour. "you oughtn't to talk like that, oliver," she said. "how on earth are you going to fall in love and marry, if you haven't any money to keep a wife? what you need is a good girl to look after you. i never married, myself, but i am sometimes tempted to believe that even an unhappy marriage is better than none at all. at least it gives you something to think about." "i have enough to think about already. i have my work." "but work isn't a wife." "i know it isn't, but i happen to like it better." her matchmaking instinct had received a check, but the placid determination which was the basis of her character was merely reinforced thereby to further efforts. it was for his good to marry (had not her mother and her grandmother instilled into her the doctrine that an early marriage was the single masculine safeguard, since, once married, a man's morality became not his own business, but his wife's), and marry him she was resolved to do, either with his cheerful co-operation, or, if necessary, without it. he had certainly looked at virginia as if he admired her, and surely a girl like that--lovely, loving, unselfish to a fault, and trained from her infancy to excel in all the feminine virtues--surely, this perfect flower of sex specialization could have been designed by providence only for the delight and the sanctification of man. "then, if that is the way your mind is made up i hope you will be careful not to trifle with the feelings of a girl like jinny pendleton," she retorted severely. by a single stroke of genius, inspired by the diplomacy inherent in a sex whose chief concern has been the making of matches, she transfixed his imagination as skilfully as she might have impaled a butterfly on a bodkin. while he stared at her she could almost see the iridescent wings of his fancy whirling madly around the idea by which she had arrested their flight. trifle with virginia! trifle with that radiant vision of girlhood! all the chivalry of youth revolted from the suggestion, and he thought again of the wistful adoration in the eyes of a perugino virgin. was it possible that she could ever look at him with that angelic expression of weakness and surrender? the fire of first love, which had smouldered under the weight of his reason, burst suddenly into flame. his thoughts, which had been as clear as a geometrical figure, became suddenly blurred by the mystery upon which passion lives. he was seized by a consuming wonder about virginia, and this wonder was heightened when he remembered the appealing sweetness in her face as she smiled up at him. did she already love him? had he conquered by a look the exquisite modesty of her soul? with this thought the memory of her virginal shyness stung his senses as if it were the challenge of sex. chivalry, love, vanity, curiosity--all these circled helplessly around the invisible axis of miss priscilla's idea. "what do you mean? surely you don't suppose--she hasn't said anything----" "you don't imagine that jinny is the kind of girl who would say anything, do you?" inquired miss priscilla. "but there must be some reason why you should have----" "if there is, my dear boy, i'm not going to tell it," she answered with a calmness which he felt, in his excited state, to be positively infernal. "all i meant was to warn you not to trifle with any girl as innocent of life as jinny pendleton is. i don't want her to get her heart broken before she has the chance to make some man happy." "do you honestly mean to imply that i could break her heart if i tried to?" "i don't mean to imply anything. i am only telling you that she is just the kind of girl a man would want to marry. she is her mother all over again, and i don't believe lucy has ever thought of herself a minute since she married." "she looks like an angel," he said, "but----" "and she isn't a bit the kind of girl that susan is, though they are so devoted. now, i can understand a man not wanting to marry susan, because she is so full of ideas, and has a mind of her own about things. but jinny is different." then, seeing that she had "unsettled" his mind sufficiently for her purpose, she rose and looked around the room with the inordinate curiosity about details which kept her still young in spite of her sixty years. "you don't mean to tell me you brought all those books with you, oliver?" she asked. "why on earth don't you get rid of some of them?" "i can't spare any of them. i never know which one i may want next." "what are those you're putting on the mantelpiece? isn't darwin the name of the man who said we were all descended from monkeys?" as he made no answer to this except to press her hand and thank her for coming, she left the mantelpiece and wandered to the window, where her gaze rested, with a look of maternal satisfaction, on the roofs of dinwiddie. "it's a jolly view of the town, isn't it?" he said. "there's nothing like looking down from a hilltop to give one a sense of superiority." "you can see straight into mrs. goode's backyard," she replied, "and i never knew before that she left her clothes hanging on the line on sunday. that comes, i suppose, from not looking after her servants and gadding about on all sorts of charities. she told me the other day that she belonged to every charitable organization in dinwiddie." "is she abby's mother?" "yes, but you'd never imagine they were any relation. abby gave me more trouble than any girl i ever taught. she never would learn the multiplication table, and i don't believe to this day she knows it. there isn't any harm in her except that she is a scatter-brain, and will make eyes or burst. i sometimes think it isn't her fault--that she was just born man-crazy." "she's awfully good fun," he laughed. "are you going to her garden party on wednesday?" "i accepted before i quarrelled with uncle cyrus, but i'll have to get out of it now." "oh, i wouldn't. all the pretty girls in town will be there." "are there any plain ones? and what becomes of them?" "the lord only knows! old judge bassett used to say that there wouldn't be any preserves and pickles in the world if all women were born good-looking. i declare i never realized how small the tower of saint james' church is!" for a moment he hesitated, and when he spoke his voice had taken a deeper tone. "will virginia pendleton be at the party?" he asked. "she wouldn't miss it for anything in the world. miss willy whitlow was sewing there yesterday on a white organdie dress for her to wear. have you ever seen jinny in white organdie? i always tell lucy the child looks sweet enough to eat when she puts it on." he laughed again, but not as he had laughed at her description of abby. "ask her please to put blue bows on her flounces and a red rose in her hair," he said. "then you are going?" "not if i can possibly keep away. oh, cousin priscilla, why didn't i inherit my soul from your side of the family." "well, for my part i don't believe in all this talk about inheritance. nobody ever heard of inheriting anything but money when i was a girl. you've got the kind of soul the good lord wanted to put into you and that's all there is about it." when he returned from assisting her in her panting and difficult descent of the stairs, he sat down again before the unfinished act of his play, but his eyes wandered from the manuscript to the town, which lay as bright and still in the sunlight as if it were imprisoned in crystal. the wonder aroused in his mind by miss priscilla's allusion to virginia persisted as a disturbing element in the background of his thoughts. what had she meant? was it possible that there was truth in the wildest imaginings of his vanity? virginia's face, framed in her wreath of hair, floated beneath the tower of saint james' church at which he was gazing, and the radiant goodness in her look mounted like a draught of strong wine to his brain. passion, which he had discounted in his plans for the future, appeared suddenly to shake the very foundations of his life. never before had the spirit and the flesh united in the appeal of a woman to his imagination. never before had the divine virgin of his dreams assumed the living red and white of young girlhood. he thought how soft her hair must be to the touch, and how warm her mouth would glow from his kisses. with a kind of wonder he realized that this was first love--that it was first love he had felt when he met her eyes under the dappled sunlight in high street. the memory of her beauty was like a net which enmeshed his thoughts when he tried to escape it. look where he would he saw always a cloud of dark hair and two deep blue eyes that shone as softly as wild hyacinths after a shower. think as he would he met always the haunting doubt--"what did she mean? can it be true that she already loves me?" so small an incident as miss priscilla's sunday call had not only upset his work for the morning, but had changed in an instant the even course of his future. he decided suddenly that he must see virginia again--that he would go to abby goode's party, and though the party was only three days off, it seemed to him that the waiting would be almost unbearable. only after he had once seen her would it be possible, he felt, to stop thinking of her and to return comfortably to his work. chapter viii white magic in the centre of her bedroom, with her back turned to that bookcase which was filled with sugared false-hoods about life, virginia was standing very straight while miss willy whitlow knelt at her feet and sewed pale blue bows on her overskirt of white organdie. occasionally, the door opened softly, and the rector or one of the servants looked in to see "jinny" or "miss jinny dressed for the party," and when such interruptions occurred, mrs. pendleton, who sat on an ottoman at the dressmaker's right hand and held a spool of thread and a pair of scissors in her lap, would say sternly, "don't move, jinny, stand straight or miss willy won't get the bows right." at these warning words, virginia's thin shoulders would spring back and the filmy ruffles stir gently over her girlish breast. through the open window, beyond the drooping boughs of the paulownia trees, a few wistful stars shone softly through the web of purple twilight. the night smelt of a thousand flowers--all the mingled sweetness of old gardens floated in on the warm wind and caressed the faded figure of miss willy as lovingly as it did the young and radiant vision of virginia. once or twice the kneeling seamstress had glanced up at the girl and thought: "i wonder how it feels to be as lovely as that?" then she sighed as one who had missed her heritage, for she had been always plain, and went on patiently sewing the bows on virginia's overskirt. "you can't have everything in this world, and i ought to be thankful that i've kept out of the poorhouse," she added a minute later when a little stab of envy went through her at hearing the girl laugh from sheer happiness. "am i all right, mother? tell me how i look." "lovely, darling. there won't be any one there sweeter than you are." the maternal passion lit mrs. pendleton's eyes with splendour, and her worn face was illuminated as if a lamp had been held suddenly close to it. all day, in spite of a neuralgic pain in her temples, she had worked hard hemming the flounces for virginia's dress, and into every stitch had gone something of the divine ecstasy of martyrdom. her life centred so entirely in her affections that apart from love she could be hardly said to exist at all. in spite of her trials she was probably the happiest woman in dinwiddie, for she had found her happiness in the only way it is ever won--by turning her back on it. never once had she thought of it as an end to be pursued, never even as a flower to be plucked from the wayside. it is doubtful if she had ever stopped once in the thirty years of her marriage to ask herself the questions: "is this what i want to do?" or "does this make me happy?" love meant to her not grasping, but giving, and in serving others she had served herself unawares. even her besetting sin of "false pride" she indulged not on her own account, but because she, who could be humble enough for herself, could not bear to associate the virtue of humility with either her husband or her daughter. the last blue bow was attached to the left side of the overskirt, and while miss willy rose from her knees, virginia crossed to the window and gazed up at the pale stars over the tops of the paulownias. a joy so vibrant that it was like living music swelled in her breast. she was young! she was beautiful! she was to be loved! this preternatural certainty of happiness was so complete that the chilling disappointments of the last few days had melted before it like frost in the sunlight. it was founded upon an instinct so much deeper, so much more primitive than reason, that it resisted the logic of facts with something of the exalted obstinacy with which faith has resisted the arguments of philosophy. like all young and inexperienced creatures, she was possessed by the feeling that there exists a magnetic current of attraction between desire and the object which it desires. "something told" her that she was meant for happiness, and the voice of this "something" was more convincing than the chaotic march of phenomena. sorrow, decay, death--these appeared to her as things which must happen inevitably to other people, but from which she should be forever shielded by some beneficent providence. she thought of them as vaguely as she did of the remote tragedies of history. they bore no closer relation to her own life than did the french revolution or the beheading of charles the first. it was natural, if sad, that miss willy whitlow should fade and suffer. the world, she knew, was full of old people, of weary people, of blighted people; but she cherished passionately the belief that these people were all miserable because, somehow, they had not chosen to be happy. there appeared something positively reprehensible in a person who could go sighing upon so kind and beautiful a planet. all things, even joy, seemed to her a mere matter of willing. it was impossible that any hostile powers should withstand the radiant energy of her desire. leaning there from the window, with her face lifted to the stars, and her mother's worshipping gaze on her back, she thought of the "happiness" which would be hers in the future: and this "happiness" meant to her only the solitary experience of love. like all the women of her race, she had played gallantly and staked her world upon a single chance. whereas a man might have missed love and still have retained life, with a woman love and life were interchangeable terms. that one emotion represented not only her sole opportunity of joy, it constituted as well her single field of activity. the chasm between marriage and spinsterhood was as wide as the one between children and pickles. yet so secret was this intense absorption in the thought of romance, that mrs. pendleton, forgetting her own girlhood, would have been startled had she penetrated that lovely head and discovered the ecstatic dreams that flocked through her daughter's brain. though love was the one window through which a woman might look on a larger world, she was fatuously supposed neither to think of it nor to desire it until it had offered itself unsolicited. every girl born into the world was destined for a heritage of love or of barrenness--yet she was forbidden to exert herself either to invite the one or to avoid the other. for, in spite of the fiery splendour of southern womanhood during the war years, to be feminine, in the eyes of the period, was to be morally passive. "your father has come to see your dress, dear," said her mother in the voice of a woman from whom sentiment overflowed in every tone, in every look, in every gesture. turning quickly, virginia met the smiling eyes of the rector--those young and visionary eyes, which nature, with a wistful irony, had placed beneath beetling brows in the creased and wrinkled face of an old man. the eyes were those of a prophet--of one who had lived his life in the light of a transcendent inspiration rather than by the prosaic rule of practical reason; but the face belonged to a man who had aged before his time under the accumulated stress of physical burdens. "how do i look, father? am i pretty?" asked virginia, stretching her thin young arms out on either side of her, and waiting with parted lips to drink in his praise. "almost as beautiful as your mother, and she grows lovelier every day that she lives, doesn't she?" his adoring gaze, which held the spirit of beauty as a crystal holds the spirit of light, passed from the glowing features of virginia to the lined and pallid face of his wife. in that gaze there had been no shadow of alteration for thirty years. it is doubtful even if he had seen any change in her since he had first looked upon her face, and thought it almost unearthly in its angelic fairness. from the physical union they had entered into that deeper union of souls in which the body dissolves as the shadow dissolves into the substance, and he saw her always as she had appeared to him on that first morning, as if the pool of sunlight in which she had stood had never darkened around her. yet to virginia his words brought a startled realization that her mother--her own mother, with her faded face and her soft, anxious eyes--had once been as young and radiant as she. the love of her parents for each other had always seemed to her as natural and as far removed from the cloudless zone of romance as her own love for them--for, like most young creatures, she regarded love as belonging, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, to the blissful period of youth. "i hear john henry's ring, darling. are you ready?" asked mrs. pendleton. "in a minute. is the rose right in my hair?" replied virginia, turning her profile towards her mother, while she flung a misty white scarf over her shoulders. "quite right, dear. i hope you will have a lovely time. i shall sit up for you, so you needn't bother to take a key." "but you'll be so tired. can't you make her go to bed, father?" "i couldn't close my eyes till i knew you were safely home, and heard how you'd enjoyed yourself," answered mrs. pendleton, as they slowly descended the staircase, virginia leading the way, and the rest following in a procession behind her. turning at the gate, with her arm in john henry's, the girl saw them standing in the lighted doorway, with their tender gaze following her, and the faces of the little seamstress and the two coloured servants staring over their shoulders. trivial as the incident was, it was one of the moments which stood out afterwards in virginia's memory as though a white light had fallen across it. of such simple and expressive things life is woven, though the years had not taught her this on that may evening. on the goodes' lawn lanterns bloomed, like yellow flowers among the branches of poplar trees, and beneath them mrs. goode and abby--a loud, handsome girl, with a coarsened complexion and a "sporting" manner--received their guests and waved them on to a dancing platform which had been raised between a rose-crowned summer-house and the old brick wall at the foot of the garden. ropes were stretched over the platform, from the roof of the summer-house to a cherry tree at the end of the walk, and on these more lanterns of red, blue, and yellow paper were hanging. the air was scented with honeysuckle, and from an obscure corner behind a trellis the sound of a waltz floated. as music it was not of a classic order, but this did not matter since nobody was aware of it; and dinwiddie, which developed quite a taste for wagner at the beginning of the next century, could listen in the eighties with what was perhaps a sincerer pleasure, to stringed instruments, a little rough, but played with fervour by mulatto musicians. as virginia drifted off in john henry's arms for the first dance, which she had promised him, she thought: "i wonder if he will not come after all?" and a pang shot through her heart where the daring joy had been only a moment before. then the music grew suddenly heavy while she felt her feet drag in the waltz. the smell of honeysuckle made her sad as if it brought back to her senses an unhappy association which she could not remember, and it seemed to her that her soul and body trembled, like a bent flame, into an attitude of expectancy. "let me stop a minute. i want to watch the others," she said, drawing back into the scented dusk under a rose arbour. "but don't you want to fill your card? if the men once catch sight of you, you won't have a dance left." "no--no, i want to watch a while," she said, with so strange an accent of irritation that he stared at her in surprise. the suspense in her heart hurt her like a drawn cord in throbbing flesh, and she felt angry with john henry because he was so dull that he could not see how she suffered. in the distance, under the waving gilded leaves of the poplars, she saw abby laughing up into a man's face, and she thought: "can he possibly be in love with abby? some men are mad about her, but i know he isn't. he could never like a loud woman, and, besides, he couldn't have looked at me that way if he hadn't cared." then it seemed to her that something of the aching suspense in her own heart stole into abby's laughing face while she watched it, and from abby it passed onward into the faces of all the girls who were dancing on the raised platform. suspense! was that a woman's life, after all? never to be able to go out and fight for what one wanted! always to sit at home and wait, without moving a foot or lifting a hand toward happiness! never to dare gallantly! never even to suffer openly! always to will in secret, always to hope in secret, always to triumph or to fail in secret. never to be one's self--never to let one's soul or body relax from the attitude of expectancy into the attitude of achievement. for the first time, born of the mutinous longing in her heart, there came to her the tragic vision of life. the faces of the girls, whirling in white muslin to the music of the waltz, became merged into one, and this was the face of all womanhood. love, sorrow, hope, regret, wonder, all the sharp longing and the slow waiting of the centuries--above all the slow waiting--these things were in her brief vision of that single face that looked back at her out of the whirling dance. then the music stopped, the one face dissolved into many faces, and from among them susan passed under the swinging lanterns and came towards her. "oh, jinny, where have you been hiding? i promised oliver i would find you for him. he says he came only to look at you." the music began joyously again; the young leaves, gilded by the yellow lantern-light, danced in the warm wind as if they were seized by the spirit of melody; and from the dusk of the trellis the ravished sweetness of honeysuckle flooded the garden with fragrance. with the vanished sadness in her heart there fled the sadness in the waltz and in the faces of the girls who danced to the music. waiting no longer seemed pain to her, for it was enriched now by the burning sweetness of fulfilment. suddenly, for she had not seen him approach, she was conscious that he was at her side, looking down at her beneath a lantern which was beginning to flicker. a sense of deep peace--of perfect contentment with the world as god planned it--took possession of her. even the minutes of suspense seemed good because they had brought at last this swift rush of happiness. every line of his face--of that face which had captured her imagination as though it had been the face of her dreams--was illumined by the quivering light that gilded the poplars. his eyes were so close to hers that she saw little flecks of gold on the brown, and she grew dizzy while she looked into them, as if she stood on a height and feared to turn lest she should lose her balance and fall. a delicious stillness, which began in her brain and passed to her throbbing pulses, enveloped her like a perfume. while she stood there she was incapable of thought--except the one joyous thought that this was the moment for which she had waited since the hour of her birth. never could she be the same afterwards! never could she be unhappy again in the future! for, like other mortals in other ecstatic instants, she surrendered herself to the intoxicating illusion of their immortality. after that silence, so charged with emotion for them both, it seemed that when he spoke it must be to utter words that would enkindle the world to beauty; but he said merely: "is this dance free? i came only to speak to you." his look added, "i came because my longing had grown unbearable"; and though she replied only to his words, it was his look that made the honeysuckle-trellis, the yellow lanterns, and the sky, with its few soft stars, go round like coloured balls before her eyes. the world melted away from her, and the distance between her and the whirling figures in white muslin seemed greater than the distance between star and star. she had the sense of spiritual remoteness, of shining isolation, which ecstasy brings to the heart of youth, as though she had escaped from the control of ordinary phenomena and stood in a blissful pause beyond time and space. it was the supreme moment of love; and to her, whose soul acknowledged no other supremacy than that of love, it was, also, the supreme moment of life. his face, as he gazed down at her under the swinging leaves, seemed to her as different from all other faces as the exquisite violence in her soul was different from all other emotions she had ever known. she knew nothing more of him than that she could not be happy away from him. she needed no more infallible proof of his perfection than the look in his eyes when he smiled at her. so convincing was the argument of his smile that it was not only impregnable against any assault of facts, but rendered futile even the underlying principle of reason. had aristotle himself risen from his grave to prove to her that blind craving when multiplied by blind possession does not equal happiness, his logic would have been powerless before that unconquerable instinct which denied its truth. and around them little white moths, fragile as rose-leaves, circled deliriously in the lantern-light, for they, also, obeyed an unconquerable instinct which told them that happiness dwelt in the flame above which they were whirling. "i am glad you wore blue ribbons" he said suddenly. her lashes trembled and fell, but they could not hide the glow that shone in her eyes and in the faint smile which trembled, like an edge of light, on her lips. "will you come into the summer-house and sit out this dance?" he asked when she did not speak, and she followed him under the hanging clusters of early roses to a bench in the dusk beside a little rustic table. here, after a moment's silence, he spoke again recklessly, yet with a certain constraint of manner. "i suppose i oughtn't to have come here to-night." "why not?" their glances, bright as swords, crossed suddenly, and it seemed to her that the music grew louder. had it been of any use, she would have prayed life to dole the minutes out, one by one, like a miser. and all the time she was thinking: "this is the moment i've waited for ever since i was born. it has come. i am in the midst of it. how can i keep it forever?" "well, i haven't any business thinking about anything but my work," he answered. "i've broken with my uncle, you know. i'm as poor as a church mouse and i'll never be better off until i get a play on the stage. for the next few years i've got to cut out everything but hard work." "yes." her tongue was paralyzed; she couldn't say what she felt, and everything else seemed to her horribly purposeless and ineffectual. she wondered passionately if he thought her a fool, for she could not look into his mind and discover how adorable he found her monosyllabic responses. the richness of her beauty combined with the poverty of her speech made an irresistible appeal to the strongest part of him, which was not his heart, but his imagination. he wondered what she would say if she were really to let herself go, and this wonder began gradually to enslave him. "that's the reason i hadn't any business coming here," he added, "but the truth is i've wanted to see you again ever since that first afternoon. i got to wondering whether," he laughed in an embarrassed way, and added with an attempt at levity, "whether you would wear a red rose in your hair." at his change of tone, she reached up suddenly, plucked the rose from her hair and flung it out on the grass. her action, which belied her girlish beauty so strangely that only her mother would have recognized it as characteristic of the hidden force of the woman, held him for an instant speechless under her laughing eyes. then turning away, he picked up the rose and put it into his pocket. "i suppose you will never tell me why you did that?" he asked. she shook her head. "i can't tell. i don't know. something took me." "did you think i came just for the rose?" "i didn't think." "if i came for the rose, i ought to go. i wish i could. do you suppose i'll be able to work again now that i've seen you? i've told myself for three days that if i could only see you again i'd be able to stop thinking about you." she was not looking at him, but in every line of her figure, in every quiver of her lashes, in every breath that she drew, he read the effect of his words. it was as if her whole palpitating loveliness had become the vehicle of an exquisite entreaty. her soul seemed to him to possess the purity, not of snow, but of flame, and this flame, in whose light nothing evil could live, curved towards him as if blown by a wind. he felt suddenly that he was swept onward by some outside power which was stronger than his will. an enchantment had fallen over him, and at one and the same instant he longed to break the power of the spell and knew that life would cease to be worth living if he were ever to do so. he saw her eyes, like blue flowers in the soft dusk, and the mist of curls on her temples stirred gently in the scented breeze that blew over the garden. all the sweetness of the world was gathered into the little space that she filled. every impulse of joy he had ever felt--memories of autumn roads, of starlit mountains, of summer fields where bees drifted in golden clouds--all these were packed like honey into that single minute of love. and with the awakening of passion, there came the exaltation, the consciousness of illimitable possibilities which passion brings to the young. never before had he realized the power that was in him! never until this instant had he seen his own soul in the making! all the unquenchable faith of youth burned at white heat in the flame which his desire had kindled. he felt himself divided between an invincible brutality and an invincible tenderness. he would have fought with beasts for the sake of the gentle and passive creature beside him, yet he would have died rather than sully the look of angelic goodness with which she regarded him. to have her always gentle, always passive, never reaching out her hand, never descending to his level, but sitting forever aloof and colourless, waiting eternally, patient, beautiful and unwearied, to crown the victory--this was what the conquering male in him demanded. "i ought to go," he said, so ineffectual was speech to convey the tumult within his brain. "i am keeping you from the others." she had shrunk back into the dimness beyond the circle of lanterns, and he saw her face like a pale moon under the clustering rose-leaves. her very breath seemed suspended, and there was a velvet softness in her look and in the gesture of timid protest with which she responded to his halting words. she was putting forth all her woman's power as innocently as the honeysuckle puts forth its fragrance. the white moths whirling in their brief passion over the lantern-flame were not more helpless before the movement of those inscrutable forces which we call life. a strange stillness surrounded her--as though she were separated by a circle of silence from the dancers beyond the rose-crowned walls of the summer-house--and into this stillness there passed, like an invisible current, the very essence of womanhood. the longing of all the dead women of her race flowed through her into the softness of the spring evening. things were there which she could know only through her blood--all the mute patience, all the joy that is half fear, all the age-long dissatisfaction with the merely physical end of love--these were in that voiceless entreaty for happiness; and mingled with them, there were the inherited ideals of self-surrender, of service, pity, loyalty, and sacrifice. "i wish i could help you," she said, and her voice thrilled with the craving to squander herself magnificently in his service. "you are an angel, and i'm a selfish beast to bring you my troubles." "i don't think you are selfish--of course you have to think of your work--a man's work means so much to him." "it's wonderful of you to feel that," he replied; and, indeed, at the instant while he searched her eyes in the dusk, the words seemed to him to embody all the sympathetic understanding with which his imagination endowed her. how perfectly her face expressed the goodness and gentleness of her soul! what a companion she would make to a man! what a lover! what a wife! always soft, exquisite, tender, womanly to the innermost fibre of her being, and perfect in unselfishness as all womanly women are. how easy it would be to work if she were somewhere within call, ready to fly to him at a word! how glorious to go out into the world if he knew that she sat at home waiting--always waiting, with those eyes like wells of happiness, until he should return to her! a new meaning had entered swiftly into life. a feeling that was like a religious conversion had changed not only his spiritual vision, but the material aspect of nature. whatever happened, he felt that he could never be the same man again. "i shall see you soon?" he said, and the words fell like snow on the inner flame of his senses. "oh, soon!" she answered, bending a little towards him while a sudden glory illumined her features. her voice, which was vibrant as a harp, had captured the wistful magic of the spring--the softness of the winds, the sweetness of flowers, the mellow murmuring of the poplars. she rose from the bench, moving softly as if she were under an enchantment which she feared to break by a gesture. an ecstasy as inarticulate as grief kept him silent, and it was into this silence that the voice of abby floated, high, shrill, and dominant. "oh, virginia, i've looked everywhere for you," she cried. "mr. carrington is simply dying to dance with you!" she bounced, as only the solid actuality can bounce, into the dream, precipitating the unwelcome presence of mr. carrington--a young man with a golden beard and the manner of a commercial minor prophet--there also. a few minutes later, as virginia drifted away in his arms to the music of the waltz, she saw, over the heads of the dancers, oliver and abby walking slowly in the direction of the gate. a feeling of unreality seized her, as though she were looking through an azure veil at the world. the dancers among whom she whirled, the anxious mothers sitting uneasily on chairs under the poplars, the flowering shrubs, the rose-crowned summer-house, the yellow lanterns with the clouds of white moths circling around them--all these things had turned suddenly to shadows; and through a phantom garden, the one living figure moved beside an empty shape, which was abby. her feet had wings. she flew rather than danced in the arms of a shadow through this blue veil which enveloped her. life burned within her like a flame in a porcelain vase, and this inner fire separated her, as genius separates its possessor, from the ordinary mortals among whom she moved. walking home with john henry after the party was over, it seemed to her that she was lifted up and cradled in all the wonderful freshness of the spring. the sweet moist air fanned her face; the morning stars shone softly on her through the pearly mist; and the pale fingers of dawn were spread like a beneficent hand, above the eastern horizon. "to-morrow!" cried her heart, overflowing with joy; and something of this joy passed into the saddest hour of day and brightened it to radiance. at the gate she parted from john henry, and running eagerly along the path, opened the front door, which was unlocked, and burst into the dining-room, where her mother, wearied of her long watch, had fallen asleep beside the lamp, which was beginning to flicker. "to-morrow!" still sang her heart, and the wild, sweet music of it filled the world. "to-morrow!" chapter ix the great man moves several weeks later, at the close of a june afternoon, cyrus treadwell sat alone on the back porch of his house in bolingbroke street. he was smoking, and, between the measured whiffs of his pipe, he leaned over the railing and spat into a bed of miniature sunflowers which grew along the stone ledge of the area. for thirty years these flowers had sprung up valiantly every spring in that bleak strip of earth, and for thirty years cyrus had spat among them while he smoked alone on the back porch on june afternoons. while he sat there a great peace enfolded and possessed him. the street beyond the sagging wooden gate was still; the house behind him was still; the kitchen, in which showed the ebony silhouette of a massive cook kneading dough, was still with the uncompromising stillness of the sabbath. in the midst of this stillness, his thoughts, which were usually as angular as lean birds on a bough, lost their sharpness of outline and melted into a vague and feathery mass. at the moment it was impossible to know of what he was thinking, but he was happy with the happiness which visits men of small parts and of sterile imagination. by virtue of these limitations and this sterility he had risen out of obscurity--for the spiritual law which decrees that to gain the world one must give up one's soul, was exemplified in him as in all his class. success, the shibboleth of his kind, had controlled his thoughts and even his impulses so completely for years that he had come at last to resemble an animal less than he resembled a machine; and nature (who has a certain large and careless manner of dispensing justice) had punished him in the end by depriving him of the ordinary animal capacity for pleasure. the present state of vacuous contentment was, perhaps, as near the condition of enjoyment as he would ever approach. half an hour before he had had an encounter with susan on the subject of her going to college, but even his victory, which had been sharp and swift, was robbed of all poignant satisfaction by his native inability to imagine what his refusal must have meant to her. the girl had stood straight and tall, with her commanding air, midway between the railing and the weather-stained door of the house. "father, i want to go to college," she had said quite simply, for she was one who used words very much as cyrus used money, with a temperamental avoidance of all extravagance. her demand was a direct challenge to the male in cyrus, and, though this creature could not be said to be either primitive or predatory, he was still active enough to defend himself from the unprovoked assault of an offspring. "tut-tut," he responded. "if you want something to occupy you, you'd better start about helping your mother with her preserving." "i put up seventy-five jars of strawberries." "well, the blackberries are coming along. i was always partial to blackberries." he sat there, bald, shrunken, yellow, as soulless as a steam engine, and yet to susan he represented a pitiless manifestation of destiny--of those deaf, implacable forces by which the lives of men and women are wrecked. he had the power to ruin her life, and yet he would never see it because he had been born blind. that in his very blindness had lain his strength, was a fact which, naturally enough, escaped her for the moment. the one thought of which she was conscious was a fierce resentment against life because such men possessed such power over others. "if you will lend me the money, i will pay it back to you as soon as i can take a position," she said, almost passionately. something that was like the ghost of a twinkle appeared in his eyes, and he let fall presently one of his rare pieces of humour. "if you'd like a chance to repay me for your education," he said, "there's your schooling at miss priscilla's still owing, and i'll take it out in help about the housekeeping." then susan went, because going in silence was the only way that she could save the shreds of dignity which remained to her, and bending forward, with a contented chuckle, cyrus spat benevolently down upon the miniature sunflowers. in the half hour that followed he did not think of his daughter. from long discipline his mind had fallen out of the habit of thinking of people except in their relation to the single vital interest of his life, and this interest was not fatherhood. susan was an incident--a less annoying incident, it is true, than belinda--but still an incident. an inherent contempt for women, due partly to qualities of temperament and partly to the accident of a disillusioning marriage, made him address them always as if he were speaking from a platform. and, as is often the case with men of cold-blooded sensuality, women, from belinda downward, had taken their revenge upon him. the front door-bell jangled suddenly, and a little later he heard a springy step passing along the hall. then the green lattice door of the porch opened, and the face of mrs. peachey, wearing the look of unnatural pleasantness which becomes fixed on the features of persons who spend their lives making the best of things, appeared in the spot where susan had been half an hour before. she had trained her lips to smile so persistently and so unreasonably, that when, as now, she would have preferred to present a serious countenance to an observer, she found it impossible to relax the muscles of her mouth from their expression of perpetual cheerfulness. cyrus, who had once remarked of her that he didn't believe she could keep a straight face at her own funeral, wondered, while he rose and offered her a chair, whether the periodical sprees of honest tom were the cause or the result of the look of set felicity she wore. for an instant he was tempted to show his annoyance at the intrusion. then, because she was a pretty woman and did not belong to him, he grew almost playful, with the playfulness of an uncertain tempered ram that is offered salt. "it is not often that i am honoured by a visit from you," he said. "the honour is mine. mr. treadwell," she replied, and she really felt it. "i was on my way upstairs to see belinda, and it just crossed my mind as i saw you sitting out here, that i'd better stop and speak to you about your nephew. i wonder belinda doesn't plant a few rose-bushes along that back wall," she added. "i'd pay you fifty dollars, ma'am, if you'd get belinda to plant anything"--which was not delicately put, perhaps, but was, after all, spoken in the only language that cyrus knew. "i thought she was so fond of flowers. she used to be as a girl." "humph!" was cyrus's rejoinder, and then: "well, what about my nephew, madam?" clasping his bony hands over his knee, he leaned forward and waited, not without curiosity, for her answer. he did not admire oliver--he even despised him--but when all was said, the boy had succeeded in riveting his attention. however poorly he might think of him, the fact remained that think of him he did. the young man was in the air as inescapably as if he were the measles. "i'm worrying about him, mr. treadwell; i can't help myself. you know he boards with me." "yes'm, i know," replied cyrus--for he had heard the fact from miss priscilla on his way home from church one sunday. "and he's not well. there's something the matter with him. he's so nervous and irritable that he's almost crazy. he doesn't eat a morsel, and i can hear him pacing up and down his room until daybreak. once i got up and went upstairs to ask him if he was sick, but he said that he was perfectly well and was walking about for exercise. i am sure i don't know what it can be, but if it keeps up, he'll land in an asylum before the summer is over." the look of satisfaction which her first words had brought to cyrus's face deepened gradually as her story unfolded. "he's wanting money, i reckon," he commented, his imagination seizing upon the only medium in which it could work. as a philosopher may discern in all life different manifestations of the deity, so he saw in all affliction only the wanting of money under varied aspects. sorrows in which the lack of money did not bear a part always seemed to him to be unnecessary and generally self-inflicted by the sufferers. of such people he would say impatiently that they took a morbid view of their troubles and were "nursing grief." "i don't think it's that," said mrs. peachey. "he always pays his bills promptly on the first day of the month, and i know that he gets checks from new york for the writing he does. i'm sometimes tempted to believe that he has fallen in love." "love? pshaw!" said cyrus, and dismissed the passion. "but it goes hard with some people, and he's one of that kind," rejoined the little lady, with spirit, for in spite of her wholesome awe of cyrus, she could not bear to hear the sentiment derided. "we aren't all as sensible as you are, mr. treadwell." "well, if he is in love, as you say, whom is he in love with?" demanded cyrus. "it's all guesswork," answered mrs. peachey. "he isn't paying attention to any girl that i know of--but, i suppose, if it's anybody, it must be virginia pendleton. all the young men are crazy about her." she had been prepared for opposition--she had been prepared, being a lady, for anything, as she told tom afterwards, short of an oath--but to her amazement the unexpected, which so rarely happened in the case of cyrus, happened at that minute. human nature, which she had treated almost as a science, proved suddenly that it was not even an art. one of those glaring inconsistencies which confute every theory and overturn all psychology was manifested before her. "that's the daughter of old gabriel, aint it?" asked cyrus, and unconsciously to himself, his voice softened. "yes, she's gabriel's daughter, and one of the sweetest girls that ever lived." "gabriel's a good man," said cyrus. "i always liked gabriel. we fought through the war together." "a better man never lived, nor a better woman than lucy. if she's got a fault on earth, it's that she's too unselfish." "well, if this girl takes after them, the young fool has shown more sense than i gave him credit for." "i don't think he's a fool," returned mrs. peachey, reflecting how wonderfully she had "managed" the great man, "but, of course, he's queer--all writers are queer, aren't they?" "he's kept it up longer than i thought, but i reckon he's about ready to give in," pursued cyrus, ignoring her question as he did all excursions into the region of abstract wonder. "if he'll start in to earn his living now, i'll let him have a job on the railroad out in matoaca city. i meant to teach him a lesson, but i shouldn't like henry's son to starve. i've nothing against henry except that he was too soft. he was a good brother as brothers go, and i haven't forgotten it." "perhaps, if you'd talk to oliver," suggested mrs. peachey. "i'm afraid i couldn't induce him to come to you, but----" "oh, i ain't proud--i don't need to be," interrupted cyrus with a chuckle. "only fools and the poor have any use for pride. i'll look in upon him sometime along after supper, and see if he's come to his wits since i last talked to him." "then, i'm glad i came to you. tom would be horrified almost to death if he knew of it--but i've always said that when an idea crosses my mind just like that," she snapped her thumb and forefinger, "there's something in it." as she rose from her seat, she looked up at him with the coquetry which was so inalienable an attribute of her soul that, had the deity assumed masculine shape before her, she would instinctively have used this weapon to soften the severity of his judgment. "it was so kind of you not to send me away, mr. treadwell," she said in honeyed accents. "it is a pleasure to meet such a sensible woman," replied cyrus, with awkward gallantry. her flattery had warmed him pleasantly, and in the midst of the dried husks of his nature, he was conscious suddenly that a single blade of living green still survived. he had ceased to feel old--he felt almost young again--and this rejuvenation had set in merely because a middle-aged woman, whom he had known since childhood, had shown an innocent pleasure in his society. mrs. peachey's traditional belief in the power of sex had proved its own justification. when she had left him, cyrus sat down again, and took up his pipe from the railing where he had placed it. "i'll go round and have some words with the young scamp," he thought. "there's no use waiting until after supper. i'll go round now while it is light." then, as if the softening impulse were a part of the sabbath stillness, he leaned over the bed of sunflowers, and fixed his eyes on the pinkish tower of saint james' church, which he could see palely enkindled against the afterglow. a single white cloud floated like a dove in the west, and beneath it a rain of light fell on the shadowy roofs of the town. the air was so languorous that it was as if the day were being slowly smothered in honeysuckle, the heavy scent of which drifted to him from the next garden. a vast melancholy--so vast that it seemed less the effect of a southern summer than of a universal force residing in nature--was liberated, with the first cooling breath of the evening, from man and beast, from tree and shrub, from stock and stone. the very bricks, sun-baked and scarred, spoke of the weariness of heat, of the parching thirst of the interminable summers. but to cyrus the languor and the intense sweetness of the air suggested only that the end of a hot day had come. "it's likely to be a drought," he was thinking while his upward gaze rested on the illuminated tower of the church. "a drought will go hard with the tobacco." having emptied his pipe, he was about to take down his straw hat from a nail on the wall, when the sound of the opening gate arrested him, and he waited with his eyes fixed on the winding brick walk, where the negro washerwoman appeared presently with a basket of clean clothes on her head. beneath her burden he saw that there were some primitive attempts at sunday adornment. she wore a green muslin dress, a little discoloured by perspiration, but with many compensating flounces; a bit of yellow ribbon floated from her throat, and in her hand she carried the festive hat which would decorate her head after the removal of the basket. her figure, which had once been graceful, had grown heavy; and her face, of a light gingerbread colour, with broad, not unpleasant features, wore a humble, inquiring look--the look of some trustful wild animal that man has tamed and only partly domesticated. approaching the steps, she brought down the basket from her head, and came on, holding it with a deprecating swinging movement in front of her. "howdy, marster," she said, as if uncertain whether to stop or to pass on into the doorway. "howdy, mandy," responded cyrus. "there's a hot spell coming, i reckon." lowering the basket to the floor of the porch, the woman drew a red bandanna handkerchief from her bosom and began slowly to wipe the drops of sweat from her face and neck. the acrid odour of her flesh reached cyrus, but he made no movement to draw away from her. "i'se been laid up wid er stitch in my side, marster, so i'se jes got dese yer close done dis mawnin'. dar wan' noner de chillen at home ter tote um down yer, so i low i 'uz gwine ter drap by wid um on my way ter church." as he did not reply, she hesitated an instant and over her features, which looked as if they had been flattened by a blow, there came an expression which was half scornful, half inviting, yet so little personal that it might have been worn by one of her treetop ancestors while he looked down from his sheltering boughs on a superior species of the jungle. the chance effect of light and shadow on a grey rock was hardly less human or more primitive. "i'se gittin' moughty well along, marster," she said; "i reckon i'se gittin' on toward a hunnard." "nonsense, mandy, you ain't a day over thirty-five. there's a plenty of life left in you yet." "go way f'om yer, marster; you knows i'se a heap older 'n dat. how long ago was hit i done fust come yer ter you all?" he thought a moment. a question of calculation always interested him, and he prided himself on his fine memory for dates. "you came the year our son henry died, didn't you? that was in ' --eighteen years ago. why, you couldn't have been over fifteen that summer." for the first time a look of cunning--of the pathetic cunning of a child pitted against a man--awoke in her face. "en miss lindy sent me off befo' de year was up, marster. my boy jubal was born de mont' atter she done tu'n me out." she hesitated a minute, and then added, with a kind of savage coquetry, "i 'uz a moughty likely gal, marster. you ain't done furgit dat, is you?" her words touched cyrus like the flick of a whip on a sore, and he drew back quickly while his thin lips grew tight. "you'd better take that basket into the house," he said sharply. in the negress's face an expression of surprise wavered for a second and then disappeared. her features resumed their usual passive and humble look--a look which said, if cyrus could have read human nature as easily as he read finance, "i don't understand, but i submit without understanding. am i not what you have made me? have i not been what you wanted? and yet you despise me for being the thing you made." "i didn't mean nuttin', marster. i didn't mean nuttin'," she protested aloud. "then get into the house," retorted cyrus harshly, "and don't stand gaping there. any more of your insolence and i'll never let you set foot in this yard again." "'fo' de lawd, i didn't mean nuttin'! gawd a' moughty, i didn't mean nuttin'! i jes lowed as you mought be willin' ter gun me fo' dollars a mont' fur de washin'. my boy jubal----" "i'll not give you a red cent more. if you don't want it, you can leave it. get out of here!" all the primitive antagonism of race--that instinct older than civilization--was in the voice with which he ordered her out of his sight. "it was downright blackmail. the fool was trying to blackmail me," he thought. "if i'd yielded an inch i'd have been at her mercy. it's a pretty pass things have come to when men have to protect themselves from negro women." the more he reflected on her impudence, the stronger grew his conviction that he had acted remarkably well. "nipped it in the root. if i hadn't----" he thought. and behind him in the doorway the washerwoman continued to regard him, over the lowered clothes basket, with her humble and deprecating look, which said, like the look of a beaten animal: "i don't understand, but i submit without understanding because you are stronger than i." taking down his hat, cyrus turned away from her, and descended the steps. "i'll look up henry's son before supper," he was thinking. "even if the boy's a fool, i'm not one to let those of my own blood come to want." chapter x oliver surrenders when cyrus's knock came at his door, oliver crossed the room to let in his visitor, and then fell back, startled, at the sight of his uncle. "i wonder what has brought him here?" he thought inhospitably. but even if he had put the question, it is doubtful if cyrus could have enlightened him--for the great man was so seldom visited by an impulse that when, as now, one actually took possession of him, he obeyed the pressure almost unconsciously. like most men who pride themselves upon acting solely from reason, he was the abject slave of the few instincts which had managed to take root and thrive in the stony ground of his nature. the feeling for family, which was so closely entwined with his supreme feeling for property that the two had become inseparable, moved him to-day as it had done on the historic occasion when he had redeemed the mortgaged roof over the heads of his spinster relations. perhaps, too, some of the vague softness of june had risen in him and made him gentler in his judgments of youth. "i didn't expect you or i'd have straightened up a bit," said oliver, not overgraciously, while he hastily pushed his supper of bread and tea to one end of the table. he resented what he called in his mind "the intrusion," and he had no particular objection to his uncle's observing his resentment. his temper, never of the most perfect equilibrium, had been entirely upset by the effects of a june sunday in dinwiddie, and the affront of cyrus's visit had become an indignity because of his unfortunate selection of the supper hour. some hidden obliquity in the treadwell soul, which kept it always at cross-purposes with life, prevented any lessening of the deep antagonism between the old and the young of the race. and so incurable was this obliquity in the soul of cyrus, that it forced him now to take a tone which he had resolutely set his mind against from the moment of mrs. peachey's visit. he wanted to be pleasant, but something deep down within him--some inherited tendency to bully--was stronger than his will. "i looked in to see if you hadn't about come to your senses," he began. "if you mean come to your way of looking at things--then i haven't," replied oliver, and added in a more courteous tone, "won't you sit down?" "no, sir, i can stand long enough to say what i came to say," retorted the other, and it seemed to him that the pleasanter he tried to make his voice, the harsher grew the sound of it in his ears. what was it about the rascal that rubbed him the wrong way only to look at him? "as you please," replied oliver quietly. "what in thunder has he got to say to me?" he thought. "and why can't he say it and have it over?" while cyrus merely despised him, he detested cyrus with all the fiery intolerance of his age. "standing there like an old turkey gobbler, ugh!" he said contemptuously to himself. "so you ain't hungry yet?" asked the old man, and felt that the words were forced out of him by that obstinate cross-grain in his nature over which he had no control. "i've just had tea." "you haven't changed your mind since you last spoke to me, eh?" "no, i haven't changed my mind. why should i?" "getting along pretty well, then?" "as well as i expected to." "that's good," said cyrus mildly. "that's good. i just dropped in to make sure that you were getting along, that's all." "thank you," responded oliver, and tried from the bottom of his soul to make the words sincere. "if the time ever comes when you feel that you have changed your mind, i'll find a place out at matoaca city for you. i just wanted you to understand that i'd do as much for henry's son then as now. if you weren't henry's son, i shouldn't think twice about you." "you mean that you'll still give me the job if i stop writing plays?" "oh, i won't make a point of that as long as it doesn't interfere with your work. you may write in off hours as much as you want to. i won't make a point of that." "you mean to be generous, i can see--but i don't think it likely that i shall ever make up my mind to take a regular job. i'm not built for it." "you're not thinking about getting married, then, i reckon?" a dark flush rose to oliver's forehead, and turning away, he stared with unseeing eyes out of the window. "no. i haven't any intention of that," he responded. a certain craftiness appeared in cyrus's face. "well, well, you're young yet, and you may be in want of a wife before you're many years older." "i'm not the kind to marry. i'm too fond of my freedom." "most of us have felt like that at one time or another, but when the thought of a woman takes you by the throat, you'll begin to see things differently. and if you ever do, a good steady job at twelve hundred a year will be what you'll look out for." "i suppose a man could marry on that down here," said oliver, half unconscious that he was speaking aloud. "i married on less, and i've known plenty of others that have done so. a good saving wife puts more into a man's pocket than she takes out of it." as he paused, oliver's attention, which had wandered off into a vague mist of feeling, became suddenly riveted to the appalling spectacle of his uncle's marriage. he saw the house in bolingbroke street, with the worn drab oilcoth in the hall, and he smelt the smell of stale cooking which floated through the green lattice door at the back. all the sweetness of life, all the beauty, all the decency even, seemed strangled in that smell as if in some malarial air. and in the midst of it, the unkempt, slack figure of belinda, with her bitter eyes and her sagging skirt, passed perpetually under the flickering gas-jet up and down the dimly lighted staircase. this was how one marriage had ended--one marriage among many which had started out with passion and courage and the belief in happiness. knowing but little of the april brevity of his uncle's mating impulse, he had mentally embroidered the bare instinct with some of the idealism in which his own emotion was clothed. his imagination pictured cyrus and belinda starting as light-hearted adventurers to sail the chartless seas of romance. what remained of their gallant ship to-day except a stark and battered hulk wrecked on the pitiless rocks of the actuality? a month ago that marriage had seemed merely ridiculous to him. standing now beside the little window, where the wan face of evening, languid and fainting sweet, looked in from the purple twilight, he was visited by one of those rare flashes of insight which come to men of artistic sensibility after long periods of spiritual warfare. pity stabbed him as sharply as ridicule had done a moment before, and with the first sense of human kinship he had ever felt to cyrus, he understood suddenly the tragedy that underlies all comic things. could there be a deeper pathos, after all, than simply being funny? this absurd old man, with his lean, crooked figure, his mottled skin, and his piercing bloodshot eyes, like the eyes of an overgorged bird of prey, appeared now as an object that moved one to tears, not to laughter. and yet because of this very quality which made him pitiable--this vulture-like instinct to seize and devour the smaller--he stood to-day the most conspicuously envied figure in dinwiddie. "i'm not the kind of man to marry," he repeated, but his tone had changed. "well, perhaps you're wise," said cyrus, "but if you should ever want to----" the confidence which had gone out of oliver had passed into him. with his strange power of reading human nature--masculine human nature, for the silliest woman could fool him hopelessly--he saw that his nephew was already beginning to struggle against the temptation to yield. and he was wise enough to know that this temptation would become stronger as soon as oliver felt that the outside pressure was removed. the young man's passion was putting forward a subtler argument than cyrus could offer. when his visitor had gone, oliver turned back to the window, and resting his arms on the sill, leaned out into the velvet softness of the twilight. his wide vision had deserted him. it was as if his gaze had narrowed down to a few roofs and the single street without a turning--but beyond them the thought of virginia lay always like an enclosed garden of sweetness and bloom. to think of her was to pass from the scorching heat of the day to the freshness of dew-washed flowers under the starlight. "it is impossible," he said aloud, and immediately, as if in answer to a challenge, a thousand proofs came to him that other men were doing the impossible every day. how many writers--great writers, too--would have jumped at a job on a railroad to insure them against starvation? how many had married young and faced the future on less than twelve hundred dollars a year? how many had let love lead them where it would without butting their brains forever against the damned wall of expediency? "it's impossible," he said again, and turning from the window, made himself ready to go out. while he brushed his hair and pulled the end of his necktie through the loop, his gaze wandered back over the roofs to where a solitary mimosa tree drooped against the lemon-coloured afterglow. the dust lay like gauze over the distance. not a breath stirred. not a leaf fell. not a figure moved in the town--except the crouching figure of a stray cat that crawled, in search of food, along the brick wall under the dead tree. "god! what a life!" he cried suddenly. and beyond this parching desert of the present he saw again that enclosed garden of sweetness and bloom, which was virginia. his resolution, weakened by the long hot afternoon, seemed to faint under the pressure of his longing. all the burden of the day--the heat, the languor, the scorching thirst of the fields, the brazen blue of the sky, the stillness as of a suspended breath which wrapt the town--all these things had passed into the intolerableness of his desire. he felt it like a hot wind blowing over him, and it seemed to him that he was as helpless as a leaf in the current of this wind which was sweeping him onward. something older than his will was driving him; and this something had come to him from out the twilight, where the mimosa trees drooped like a veil against the afterglow. taking up his hat, he left the room and descended the stairs to the wide hall where tom peachey sat, gasping for breath, midway of two open doors. "i'll be darned if i can make a draught," muttered the old soldier irascibly, while he picked up his alpaca coat from the balustrade, and slipped into it before going out upon the front porch into the possible presence of ladies. his usually cheerful face was clouded, for his habitual apathy had deserted him, and he had reached the painful decision that when you looked things squarely in the face there was precious little that was worth living for--a conclusion to which he had been brought by the simple accident of an overdose of kentucky rye in his mint julep after church. the overdose had sent him to sleep too soon after his sunday dinner, and when he had awakened from his heavy and by no means quiet slumber, he had found himself confronting a world of gloom. "i'm damned tired making the best of things, if you want to know what is the matter with me," he had remarked crossly to his wife. "the idea, mr. peachey! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" that sprightly lady had responded while she prepared herself for her victory over cyrus. "well, i ain't," honest tom had retorted. "i've gone on pretending for fifty years and i'm going to stop it. what good has it done, anyway? it hasn't put a roof on, has it?" "i told you you oughtn't to go to sleep right on top of your dinner," she had replied soothingly. "i declare you're perfectly purple. i never saw you so upset. here, take this palm-leaf fan and go and see if you can't find a draught. you know it's downright sinful to talk that way after the lord has been so good to you." but philosophy, though she is unassailable when she clings to her safeguard of the universal, meets her match whenever she descends to an open engagement with the particular. "w-what's he done for me?" demanded not tom, but the whiskey inside of him. driven against that bleak rock of fact upon which so many shining generalizations have come to wreck, mrs. peachey had cast about helplessly for some floating spar of logic which might bear her to the firm ground of established optimism. "i declare, tom, i believe you are out of your head!" she exclaimed, adding immediately, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself to be so ungrateful when the good lord has kept you out of the poorhouse. if you weren't tipsy, i'd give you a hard shaking. now, you take that palm-leaf fan and go right straight downstairs." so tom had gone, for his wife, who lacked the gift of argument, possessed the energy of character which renders such minor attributes unnecessary; and oliver, passing through the hall a couple of hours later, found him still helplessly seeking the draught towards which she had directed him. "any chance of a breeze springing up?" inquired the young man as they moved together to the porch. the force which was driving him out of the house into the suffocating streets was in his voice when he spoke, but honest tom did not hear it. after the four war years in which he had been almost sublime, the old soldier had gradually ceased even to be human, and that vegetable calm which envelops persons who have fallen into the habit of sitting still, had endowed him at last with the perfect serenity of a cabbage. the only active principle which ever moved in him was the borrowed principle of alcohol--for when that artificial energy subsided, he sank back, as he was beginning to do now, into the spiritual inertia which sustains those who have outlived their capacity for the heroic. "i ain't felt a breath," he replied, peering southward where the stars were coming out in a cloudless sky. "i don't reckon we'll get it till on about eleven." "looks as if we were in for a scorching summer, doesn't it?" "you never can tell. there's always a spell in june." and he who had been a hero, sat down in his cane-bottomed chair and waved the palm-leaf fan feebly in front of him. he had had his day; he had fought his fight; he had helped to make the history of battles--and now what remained to him? the stainless memory of the four years when he was a hero; a smoldering ember still left from that flaming glory which was his soul! in the street the dust lay thick and still, and the wilted foliage of the mulberry trees hung motionless from the great arching boughs. only an aspen at the corner seemed alive and tremulous, while sensitive little shivers ran through the silvery leaves, which looked as if they were cut out of velvet. as oliver left the house, the town awoke slowly from its lethargy, and the sound of laughter floated to him from the porches behind their screens of honeysuckle or roses. but even this laughter seemed to him to contain the burden of weariness which oppressed and disenchanted his spirit. the pall of melancholy spread from the winding yellow river at the foot of the hill to the procession of cedars which stood pitch-black against the few dim stars on the eastern horizon. "what is the use?" he asked himself suddenly, uttering aloud that grim question which lies always beneath the vivid, richly clustering impressions in the imaginative mind. of his struggle, his sacrifice--of his art even--what was the use? a bitter despondency--the crushing despondency of youth which age does not feel and has forgotten--weighed upon him like a physical burden. and because he was young and not without a certain pride in the intensity of his suffering, he increased his misery by doggedly refusing to trace it back to its natural origin in an empty stomach. but the laws that govern the variable mind of man are as inscrutable as the secret of light. turning into a cross street, he came upon the tower of saint james' church, and he grew suddenly cheerful. the quickening of his pulses changed the aspect of the town as completely as if an invigorating shower had fallen upon it. the supreme, haunting interest of life revived. he had meant merely to pass the rectory without stopping; but as he turned into the slanting street at the foot of the twelve stone steps, he saw a glimmer of white on the terrace, and the face of virginia looked down at him over the palings of the gate. immediately it seemed to him that he had known from the beginning that he should meet her. a sense of recognition so piercingly sweet that it stirred his pulses like wine was in his heart as he moved towards her. the whole universe appeared to him to have been planned and perfected for this instant. the languorous june evening, the fainting sweetness of flowers, the strange lemon-coloured afterglow, and her face, shining there like a star in the twilight--these had waited for him, he felt, since the beginning of earth. that fatalistic reliance upon an outside power, which assumed for him the radiant guise of first love, and for susan the stark certainties of presbyterianism, dominated him as completely as if he were the predestined vehicle of its expression. ardent, yet passive, virginia leaned above him on the dim terrace. so still she seemed that her breath left her parted lips as softly as the perfume detached itself from the opening rose-leaves. she made no gesture, she said no word--but suddenly he became aware that her stillness was stronger to draw him than any speech. all her woman's mystery was brooding there about her in the june twilight; and in this strange strength of quietness nature had placed, for once, an invincible weapon in the weaker hands. her appeal had become a part of the terrible and beneficent powers of life. crossing the street, he went up the steps to where she leaned on the gate. "it has been so long," he said, and the words seemed to him hideously empty. "i have not seen you but three times since the party." she did not answer, and as he looked at her closer, he saw that her eyes were full of tears. "virginia!" he cried out sharply, and the next instant, at her first movement away from him, his arms were around her and his lips seeking hers. the world stopped suddenly while a starry eternity enveloped them. all youth was packed into that minute, all the troubled sweetness of desire, all the fugitive ecstasy of fulfilment. "i--i thought you did not care," she murmured beneath his kisses. he could not speak--for it was a part of his ironic destiny that he, who was prodigal of light words, should find himself stricken dumb in any crucial instant. "you know--you know----" he stammered, holding her closer. "then it--it is not all a dream?" she asked. "i adored you from the first minute--you saw that--you knew it. i've wanted you day and night since i first looked at you." "but you kept away. you avoided me. i couldn't understand." "it was because i knew i couldn't be with you five minutes without kissing you. and i oughtn't to--it's madness in me--for i'm desperately poor, darling; i've no right to marry you." a little smile shone on her lips. "as if i cared about that, oliver." "then you'll marry me? you'll marry me, my beautiful?" she lifted her face from his breast, and her look was like the enkindled glory of the sunrise. "don't you see? haven't you seen from the beginning?" she asked. "i was afraid to see, darling--but, virginia--oh, virginia, let it be soon!" when he went from her a little later, it seemed to him that all of life had been pressed down into the minute when he had held her against his breast; and as he walked through the dimly lighted streets, among the shadows of men who, like himself, were pursuing some shadowy joy, he carried with him that strange vision of a heaven on earth which has haunted mortal eyes since the beginning of love. happiness appeared to him as a condition which he had achieved by a few words, by a kiss, in a minute of time, but which belonged to him so entirely now that he could never be defrauded of it again in the future. whatever happened to him, he could never be separated from the bliss of that instant when he had held her. he was going to cyrus while his ecstasy ennobled even the prosaic fact of the railroad. and just as on that other evening, when he had rushed in anger away from the house of his uncle, so now he was exalted by the consciousness that he was following the lead of the more spiritual part of his nature--for the line of least resistance was so overgrown with exquisite impressions that he no longer recognized it. the sacrifice of art for love appeared to him to-day as splendidly romantic as the sacrifice of comfort for art had seemed to him a few months ago. his desire controlled him so absolutely that he obeyed its different promptings under the belief that he was obeying the principles whose names he borrowed. the thing he wanted was transmuted by the fire of his temperament into some artificial likeness to the thing that was good for him. on the front steps, between the two pink oleanders, cyrus was standing with his gaze fixed on a small grocery store across the street, and at the sight of his nephew a look of curiosity, which was as personal an emotion as he was in the habit of feeling, appeared on his lean yellow face. behind him, the door into the hall stood open, and his stooping figure was outlined against the light of the gas-jet by the staircase. "you see i've come," said oliver; for cyrus, who never spoke first unless he was sure of dominating the situation, had waited for him to begin. "yes, i see," replied the old man, not unkindly. "i expected you, but hardly so soon--hardly so soon." "it's about the place on the railroad. if you are still of the same mind, i'd like you to give me a trial." "when would you want to start?" "the sooner the better. i'd rather get settled there before the autumn. i'm going to be married sometime in the autumn--october, perhaps." "ah!" said cyrus softly, and oliver was grateful to him because he didn't attempt to crow. "we haven't told any one yet--but i wanted to make sure of the job. it's all right, then, isn't it?" "oh, yes, it's all right, if you do your part. she's gabriel pendleton's girl, isn't she?" "she's virginia pendleton. you know her, of course." he tried honestly to be natural, but in spite of himself he could not keep a note of constraint out of his voice. merely to discuss virginia with cyrus seemed, in some subtle way, an affront to her. yet he knew that the old man wanted to be kind, and the knowledge touched him. "oh, yes, i know her. she's a good girl, and there doesn't live a better man than gabriel." "i don't deserve her, of course. but, then, there never lived a man who deserved an angel." "ain't you coming in?" asked cyrus. "not this evening. i only wanted to speak to you. i suppose i'd better go down to the office to-morrow and talk to mr. burden, hadn't i?" "come about noon, and i'll tell him to expect you. well, if you ain't coming in, i reckon i'll close this door." looking up a minute later from the pavement oliver saw his aunt rocking slowly back and forth at the window of her room, and the remembrance of her fell like a blight over his happiness. by the time he reached high street a wind had risen beyond the hill near the river, and the scattered papers on the pavement fled like grey wings before him into the darkness. as the air freshened, faces appeared in the doors along the way, and the whole town seemed drinking in the cooling breeze as if it were water. on the wind sped, blowing over the slack figure of mrs. treadwell; blowing over the conquering smile of susan, who was unbinding her long hair; blowing over the joy-brightened eyes of virginia, who dreamed in the starlight of the life that would come to her; blowing over the ghost-haunted face of her mother, who dreamed of the life that had gone by her; blowing at last, beyond the river, over the tired hands of the little seamstress, who dreamed of nothing except of how she might keep her living body out of the poorhouse and her dead body out of the potter's field. and over the town, with its twenty-one thousand souls, each of whom contained within itself a separate universe of tragedy and of joy, of hope and of disappointment, the wind passed as lightly it passed over the unquiet dust in the streets below. book ii the reality chapter i virginia prepares for the future "mother, i'm so happy! oh! was there ever a girl so happy as i am?" "i was, dear, once." "when you married father? yes, i know," said virginia, but she said it without conviction. in her heart she did not believe that marrying her father--perfect old darling that he was!--could ever have caused any girl just the particular kind of ecstasy that she was feeling. she even doubted whether such stainless happiness had ever before visited a mortal upon this planet. it was not only wonderful, it was not only perfect, but it felt so absolutely new that she secretly cherished the belief that it had been invented by the universe especially for oliver and herself. it was ridiculous to imagine that the many million pairs of lovers that were marrying every instant had each experienced a miracle like this, and yet left the earth pretty much as they had found it before they fell in love. it was a week before her wedding, and she stood in the centre of the spare room in the west wing, which had been turned over to miss willy whitlow. the little seamstress knelt now at her feet, pinning up the hem of a black silk polonaise, and turning her head from time to time to ask mrs. pendleton if she was "getting the proper length." for a quarter of a century, no girl of virginia's class had married in dinwiddie without the crowning benediction of a black silk gown, and ever since the announcement of virginia's betrothal her mother had cramped her small economies in order that she might buy "grosgrain" of the best quality. "is that right, mother? do you think i might curve it a little more in front?" asked the girl, holding her feet still with difficulty because she felt that she wanted to dance. "no, dear, i think it will stay in fashion longer if you don't shorten it. then it will be easier to make over the more goods you leave in it." "it looks nice on me, doesn't it?" standing there, with the stiff silk slipping away from her thin shoulders, and the dappled sunlight falling over her neck and arms through the tawny leaves of the paulownia tree in the garden, she was like a slim white lily unfolding softly out of its sheath. "lovely, darling, and it will be so useful. i got the very best quality, and it ought to wear forever." "i made mrs. william goode one ten years ago, and she's still wearing it," remarked miss willy, speaking with an effort through a mouthful of pins. a machine, which had been whirring briskly by the side window, stopped suddenly, and the girl who sewed there--a sickly, sallow-faced creature of virginia's age, who was hired by mrs. pendleton, partly out of charity because she supported an invalid father who had been crippled in the war, and partly because, having little strength and being an unskilled worker, her price was cheap--turned for an instant and stared wistfully at the black silk polonaise over the strip of organdie which she was hemming. all her life she had wanted a black silk dress, and though she knew that she should probably never have one, and should not have time to wear it if she ever had, she liked to linger over the thought of it, very much as virginia lingered over the thought of her lover, or as little miss willy lingered over the thought of having a tombstone over her after she was dead. in the girl's face, where at first there had been only admiration, a change came gradually. a quiver, so faint that it was hardly more than a shadow, passed over her drawn features, and her gaze left the trailing yards of silk and wandered to the blue october sky over the swinging leaves of the paulownia. but instead of the radiant autumn weather at which she was looking, she still saw that black silk polonaise which she wanted as she wanted youth and pleasure, and which she knew that she should never have. "everything is finished but this, isn't it, miss willy?" asked virginia, and at the sound of her happy voice, that strange quiver passed again through the other girl's face. "everything except that organdie and a couple of nightgowns." there was no quiver in miss willy's face, for from constant consideration of the poorhouse and the cemetery, she had come to regard the other problems of life, if not with indifference, at least with something approaching a mild contempt. even love, when measured by poverty or by death, seemed to lose the impressiveness of its proportions. "and i'll have enough clothes to last me for years, shan't i, mother?" "i hope so, darling. your father and i have done the best that we could for you." "you've been angels. oh, how i shall hate to leave you!" "if only you weren't going away, jinny!" then she broke down, and dropping the tomato-shaped pin-cushion she had been holding, she slipped from the room, while virginia thrust the polonaise into miss willy's hands and fled breathlessly after her. in the girl's room, with her head bowed on the top of the little bookcase, above those thin rows of fiction, mrs. pendleton was weeping almost wildly over the coming separation. she, who had not thought of herself for thirty years, had suddenly broken the constraint of the long habit. yet it was characteristic of her, that even now her first feeling, when virginia found her, should be one of shame that she had clouded for an instant the girl's happiness. "it is nothing, darling. i have a little headache, and--oh, jinny! jinny!----" "mother, it won't be long. we are coming back to live just as soon as oliver can get work. it isn't as if i were going for good, is it? and i'll write you every day--every single day. mother, dearest, darling mother, i can't stay away from you----" then virginia wept, too, and mrs. pendleton, forgetting her own sorrow at sight of the girl's tears, began to comfort her. "of course, you'll write and tell me everything. it will be almost as if i were with you." "and you love oliver, don't you, mother?" "how could i help it, dear--only i can't quite get used to your calling your husband by his name, jinny. it would have horrified your grandmother, and somehow it does seem lacking in respect. however, i suppose i'm old-fashioned." "but, mother, he laughs if i call him 'mr. treadwell.' he says it reminds him of his aunt belinda." "perhaps he's right, darling. anyway, he prefers it, and i fancy your grandfather wouldn't have liked to hear his wife address him so familiarly. times have changed since my girlhood." "and oliver has lived out in the world so much, mother." "yes," said mrs. pendleton, but her voice was without enthusiasm. the "world" to her was a vague and sinister shape, which looked like a bubble, and exerted a malignant influence over those persons who lived beyond the borders of virginia. her imagination, which seldom wandered farther afield than the possibility of the rector or of virginia falling ill, or the dreaded likelihood that her market bills would overrun her weekly allowance, was incapable of grasping a set of standards other than the one which was accepted in dinwiddie. "wherever you are, jinny, i hope that you will never forget the ideas your father and i have tried to implant in you," she said. "i'll always try to be worthy of you, mother." "your first duty now, of course, is to your husband. remember, we have always taught you that a woman's strength lies in her gentleness. his will must be yours now, and wherever your ideas cross, it is your duty to give up, darling. it is the woman's part to sacrifice herself." "i know, mother, i know." "i have never forgotten this, dear, and my marriage has been very happy. of course," she added, while her forehead wrinkled nervously, "there are not many men like your father." "of course not, mother, but oliver----" in mrs. pendleton's soft, anxious eyes the shadow darkened, as if for the first time she had grown suspicious of the traditional wisdom which she was imparting. but this suspicion was so new and young that it could not struggle for existence against the archaic roots of her inherited belief in the pauline measure of her sex. it was characteristic of her--and indeed of most women of her generation--that she would have endured martyrdom in support of the consecrated doctrine of her inferiority to man. "even in the matter of religion you ought to yield to him, darling," she said after a moment in which she had appealed to that orthodox arbiter, her conscience. "your father and i were talking about what church you should go to, and i said that i supposed oliver was a presbyterian, like all of the treadwells." "oh, mother, i didn't tell you before because i hoped i could change him--but he doesn't go to any church--he says they all bore him equally. he has broken away from all the old ideas, you know. he is dreadfully--unsettled." the anxiety, which had been until then merely a shadow in mrs. pendleton's eyes, deepened into a positive pain. "your father must have known, for he talked to him--but he wouldn't tell me," she said. "i made father promise not to. i hoped so i could change oliver, and maybe i can after we're married, mother." "if he has given up the old spiritual standards, what has he in place of them?" asked mrs. pendleton, and she had suddenly a queer feeling as if little fine needles were pricking her skin. "i don't know, but he seems to have a great deal, more than any of us," answered virginia, and she added passionately, "he is good, mother." "i never doubted it, darling, but he is young, and his character cannot be entirely formed at his age. a man must be very strong in order to be good without faith." "but he has faith, mother--of some kind." "i am not judging him, my child, and neither your father nor i would ever criticise your husband to you. your happiness was set on him, and we can only pray from our hearts that he will prove worthy of your love. he is very lovable, and i am sure that he has fine, generous traits. your father has been completely won over by him." "he likes me to be religious, mother. he says the church has cultivated the loveliest type of woman the world has ever seen." "then by fulfilling that ideal you will please him best." "i shall try to be just what you have been to father--just as unselfish, just as devoted." "i have made many mistakes, jinny, but i don't think i have ever failed in love--not in love, at least." then the pain passed out of her eyes, and because it was impossible for her to look on any fact in life except through the transfiguring idealism with which the ages had endowed her, she became immediately convinced that everything, even the unsettling of oliver's opinions, had been arranged for the best. this assurance was the more solacing because it was the result, not of external evidence, but of that instinctive decision of temperament which breeds the deepest conviction of all. "love is the only thing that really matters, isn't it, mother?" "a pure and noble love, darling. it is a woman's life. god meant it so." "you are so good! if i can only be half as good as you are." "no, jinny, i'm not really good. i have had many temptations--for i was born with a high temper, and it has taken me a lifetime to learn really to subdue it. i had--i have still an unfortunate pride. but for your father's daily example of humility and patience, i don't know how i could have supported the trials and afflictions we have known. pray to be better than your mother, my child, if you want to become a perfect wife. what i am that seems good to you, your father has made me----" "and father says that he would have been a savage but for you." a tremor passed through mrs. pendleton's thin bosom, and bending over, she smoothed a fine darn in the skirt of her alpaca dress. "we have loved each other," she answered. "if you and oliver love as much, you will be happy whatever comes to you." then choking down the hard lump in her throat, she took up her leather key basket from the little table beside the bed, and moved slowly towards the door. "i must see about supper now, dear," she said in her usual voice of quiet cheerfulness. left to herself, virginia opened the worn copy of the prayer-book, which she kept at her bedside, and read the marriage service from beginning to end, as she had done every day since her engagement to oliver. the words seemed to her, as they seemed to her mother, to be almost divine in their nobility and beauty. she was troubled by no doubt as to the inspired propriety of the canonical vision of woman. what could be more beautiful or more sacred than to be "given" to oliver--to belong to him as utterly as she had belonged to her father? what could make her happier than the knowledge that she must surrender her will to his from the day of her wedding until the day of her death? she embraced her circumscribed lot with a passion which glorified its limitations. the single gift which the ages permitted her was the only one she desired. her soul craved no adventure beyond the permissible adventure of being sought in marriage. love was all that she asked of a universe that was overflowing with manifold aspects of life. beyond the window the tawny leaves of the paulownia were swinging in the october sunshine, and so gay they seemed that it was impossible to imagine them insensible to the splendour of the indian summer. under the half bared boughs, on the green grass in the yard, those that had already fallen sped on, like a flock of frightened brown birds, towards the white paling fence of the churchyard. while she sat there, with her prayer-book in her hand, and her eyes on the purple veil of the distance, it seemed to her that her joy was so complete that there was nothing left even to hope for. all her life she had looked forward to the coming of what she thought of vaguely as "happiness," and now that it was here, she felt that it put an end to the tremulous expectancy which had filled her girlhood with such wistful dreams. marriage appeared to her (and indeed to oliver, also) as a miraculous event, which would make not only herself, but every side of life, different for the future. after that there would be no vain longings, no spring restlessness, no hours of drab weariness, when the interests of living seemed to crumble from mere despondency. after that they would be always happy, always eager, always buoyantly alive. leaving the marriage service, her thoughts brooded in a radiant stillness on the life of love which would begin for her on the day of her wedding. a strange light--the light that quivered like a golden wing over the autumn fields--shone, also, into the secret chambers of her soul, and illumined the things which had appeared merely dull and commonplace until to-day. those innumerable little cares which fill the lives of most women were steeped in the magic glow of this miraculous charm. she thought of the daily excitement of marketing, of the perpetual romance of mending his clothes, of the glorified monotony of pouring his coffee, as an adventurer on sunrise seas might dream of the rosy islands of hidden treasure. and then, so perfectly did she conform in spirit to the classic ideal of her sex, her imagination ecstatically pictured her in the immemorial attitude of woman. she saw herself waiting--waiting happily--but always waiting. she imagined the thrilling expectancy of the morning waiting for him to come home to his dinner; the hushed expectancy of the evening waiting for him to come home to his supper; the blissful expectancy of hoping that he might be early; the painful expectancy of fearing that he might be late. and it seemed to her divinely right and beautiful that, while he should have a hundred other absorbing interests in his life, her whole existence should perpetually circle around this single centre of thought. one by one, she lived in anticipation all the exquisite details of their life together, and in imagining them, she overlooked all possible changes that the years might bring, as entirely as she ignored the subtle variations of temperament which produce in each individual that fluid quantity we call character. she thought of oliver, as she thought of herself, as though the fact of marriage would crystallize him into a shape from which he would never alter or dissolve in the future. and with a reticence peculiar to her type, she never once permitted her mind to stray to her crowning beatitude--the hope of a child; for, with that sacred inconsistency possible only to fixed beliefs, though motherhood was supposed to comprise every desire, adventure, and activity in the life of woman, it was considered indelicate for her to dwell upon the thought of it until the condition had become too obvious for refinement to deny. the shadow of the church tower lengthened on the grass, and at the end of the cross street she saw susan appear and stop for a minute to speak to miss priscilla, who was driving by in a small wagonette. then the girl and the teacher parted, and ten minutes later there came susan's imperative knock at virginia's door. "miss willy told mother that your wedding dress was finished, jinny, and i am dying to see it!" going to the closet, which was built into one corner of the wall, virginia unpinned a long white sheet scented with rose-leaves, and brought out a filmy mass of satin and lace. her face as she looked down upon it was the face of girlhood incarnate. all her virginal dreams clustered there like doves quivering for flight. its beauty was the beauty of fleeting things--of the wind in the apple blossoms at dawn, of the music of bees on an august afternoon. "mother wouldn't let me be married in anything but satin," she said, with a catch in her voice. "i believe it is the first time in her life she was ever extravagant, but she felt so strongly about it that i had to give in and not have white muslin as i wanted to do." "and it's so lovely," said susan. "i had no idea miss willy could do it. she's as proud, too, as if it were her own." "she took a pleasure in every stitch, she told me. oh, susan, i sometimes feel that i haven't any right to be so happy. i seem to have everything and other women to have nothing." for the first time susan smiled, but it was a smile of understanding. "perhaps they have more than you think, darling." "but there's miss willy--what has she ever got out of life?" "well, i really believe she gets a kind of happiness out of saving up the money to pay for her tombstone. it's a funny thing, but the people who ought to be unhappy, somehow never are. it doesn't seem to be a matter of what you have, but of the way you are born. now, according to us, miss willy ought to be miserable, but the truth is that she isn't a bit so. mother saw her once skipping for pure joy in the spring." "but people who haven't things can't be as grateful to god as those who have. i feel that i'd like to spend every minute of my life on my knees thanking him. i don't see how i can ever have a disappointed or a selfish thought again. i wonder if you can understand, you precious susan, but i want to open my arms and take the whole world into them." "jinny," said susan suddenly, "don't spoil oliver." "i couldn't--not if i tried every minute." "i don't know, dear. he is very lovable, he has fine generous traits, he has the making of a big man in him--but his character isn't formed yet, you must remember. so much of him is imagination that he will take longer than most men to grow up to his stature." "oh, susan!" exclaimed virginia, and turned away. "perhaps i oughtn't to have said it, jinny--but, no, i ought to tell you just what i think, and i don't regret it." "mother said the same thing to me," responded virginia, looking as if she were on the point of tears; "but that is just because neither of you know him as i do." "he is a treadwell and so am i, and the chief characteristic of every treadwell is that he is going to get the thing he wants most. it doesn't make any difference whether it is money or love or fame, the thing he wants most he will get sooner or later. so all i mean is that you needn't spoil oliver by giving him the universe before he wants it." "i can't give him the universe. i can only give him myself." stooping over, susan kissed her. "happy, happy little jinny!" "there are only two things that trouble me, dear--one is going away from mother and father, and the other is that you are not so happy as i am." "some day i may get the thing i want like every other treadwell." "do you mean going to college?" "no," said susan, "i don't mean that," and into her calm grey eyes a new light shone for an instant. a clairvoyance, deeper than knowledge, came to virginia while she looked at her. "you darling!" she exclaimed. "i never suspected!" "there's nothing to suspect, jinny. i was only joking." "why, it never crossed my mind that you would think of him for a minute." "he hasn't thought of me for a minute yet." "the idea! he'd be wild about you in ten seconds if he ever thought----" "he was wild about you ten seconds ago, dear." "he never was. it was just his fancy. why, you are made for each other." a laugh broke from susan, but with that large and quiet candour which was characteristic of her, she did not seek to evade or deny virginia's suspicion. that her friend should discover her feeling for john henry seemed to her as natural as that she should be conscious of it herself--for they were intimate with that full and perfect intimacy which exists only between two women who trust each other. "there goes miss willy," said susan, looking through the window to where the little dressmaker tripped down the stone steps to the street. "mother wants to have early supper, so i must be running away." "good-bye, darling. oh, susan, i never loved you as i do now. it will be all right--i trust and pray that it will! and, just think, you will walk out of church together at my wedding!" for a minute, standing on the threshold, susan looked back at her with an expression of tender amusement in her eyes. "don't imagine that i'm unhappy, dear," she said, "because i'm not--it isn't that kind--and, after all, even an unrequited affection may be simply an added interest in life, if we choose to take it that way." when she had gone, virginia lingered over her wedding dress, while she wondered what the wise susan could see in the simple john henry? was it possible that john henry was not so simple, after all? or did susan, forsaking the ancient tradition of love, care about him merely because he was good? for a week the hours flew by with golden wings, and at last the most sacred day of her life dawned softly in a sunrise of rose and flame. when she looked back on it afterwards, there were three things which stood out unforgettably in her memory--the kiss that her mother gave her when she turned to leave her girlhood's room for the last time; the sound of her father's voice as he spoke her name at the altar; and the look in oliver's eyes when she put her hand into his. all the rest was enveloped in a shining mist which floated, like her wedding veil, between the old life and the new. "it has been so perfect--so perfect--if i can only be worthy of this day and of you, oliver," she said as the carriage started from the rectory gate to the station. "you angel!" he murmured ecstatically. her eyes hung blissfully on his face for an instant, and then, moved by a sudden stab of reproach, she leaned from the window and looked back at her mother and father, who stood, with clasped hands, gazing after her over the white palings of the gate. chapter ii virginia's letters matoaca city, west virginia, october , . dearest, dearest mother: we got here this morning after a dreadful trip--nine or ten hours late--and this is the first minute i've had when i could sit down and write to you. all the way on the train i was thinking of you and dear father, and longing for you so that i could hardly keep back the tears. i don't see how i can possibly stay away from you for a whole year. oliver says he wants to take me home for christmas if everything goes all right with us here and his work proves satisfactory to the manager. oh, mother, he is the loveliest thing to me! i don't believe he has thought of himself a single minute since i married him. he says the only wish he has on earth is to make me happy--and he is so careful about me that i'm afraid i'll be spoiled to death before you see me again. he says he loves the little grey dress of shot silk, with the bonnet that makes me look like a quaker. i wish now i'd got my other hat the bonnet shape as you wanted me to do--but perhaps, after all, it will be more useful and keep in fashion longer as it is. when i took out my clothes this morning, while oliver was downstairs, and remembered how you had folded and packed everything, i just sat down on the floor in the midst of them and had a good cry. i never realized how much i loved you until i got into the carriage to come away. then i wanted to jump out and put my arms around you and tell you that you are the best and dearest mother a girl ever had. my things were so beautifully packed that there wasn't a single crease anywhere--not even in the black silk polonaise that we were so afraid would get rumpled. i don't see how on earth you folded them so smoothly. by the way, i hardly think i shall have any need of my wedding dress while i am here, so you may as well put it away at home until i come back. this place seems to be just a mining town, with very few people of our class, and those all connected with the railroad. of course, i may be mistaken, but from my first impressions i doubt if i'll ever want to have much to do with anybody that i've seen. it doesn't make a bit of difference, of course, because i shan't be lonesome a minute with the house to look after and oliver's clothes to attend to; and, besides, i don't think a married woman ought to make many new friends. her husband ought to be enough for her. mrs. payson, the manager's wife, was here to welcome me, but i hope i shan't see very much of her, because she isn't just exactly what i should call ladylike. of course i wouldn't breathe this to any other living soul, but i thought her entirely too free and easy in her manner, and she dresses in such very bright colours. why, she had a red feather in her hat, and she must have been married at least fifteen years. oliver says he doesn't believe she's a day under forty-five. he says he likes her well enough and thinks she's a good sort, but he is awfully glad that i'm not that kind of woman. i feel sorry for her husband, for i'm sure no man wants his wife to make herself conspicuous, and they say she even makes speeches when she is in the north. maybe she isn't to blame, because she was brought up that way, but i am going to see just as little of her as i can. and now i must tell you about our house, for i know you are dying to hear how we are fixed. it's the tiniest one you ever imagined, with a front yard the size of a pocket handkerchief, and it is painted the most perfectly hideous shade of yellow--the shade father always calls bilious. i can't understand why they made it so ugly, but, then, the whole town is just as ugly as our house is. the people here don't seem to have the least bit of taste. all the porches have dreadful brown ornaments along the top of them, and they look exactly as if they were made out of gingerbread. there are very few gardens, and nobody takes any care of these. i suppose one reason is that it is almost impossible to get servants for love or money. there are hardly any darkies here, they say, and the few they have are perfectly worthless. mrs. midden--the woman who opened my house for me--hasn't been able to get me a cook, and we'll either have to take our meals at a boarding-house across the street, or i shall have to put to practise the lessons you gave me. i am so glad you made me learn how to housekeep and to cook, because i am certain that i shall have greater need of both of these accomplishments than of either drawing or music. oliver was simply horrified when i told him so. he said he'd rather starve than see me in the kitchen, and he urged me to get you to send us a servant from dinwiddie--but things are so terribly costly here--you never dreamed of such prices--that i really don't believe we can afford to have one come. then, mrs. midden says that they get ruined just as soon as they are brought here. everybody tries it at first, she told me, and it has always proved a disappointment in the end. i am perfectly sure that i shan't mind cooking at all--and as for cleaning up this little house--why, it won't take me an hour--but oliver almost weeps every time i mention it. he is afraid every instant he is away from me that i am lonesome or something has happened to me, and whenever he has ten minutes free he runs up here to see what i am doing. do you know he has made me promise not to go out by myself until i am used to the place. isn't that too absurd? dearest mother, i must stop now, and write some notes of thanks for my presents. the barrels of china haven't come yet, but the silver box got here almost as soon as we did. freight takes a long time, oliver says. it will be such fun unpacking all my presents and putting them away on the shelves. i was so excited those last few days that i hardly paid any attention to the things that came. now i shall have time really to enjoy them, and to realize how sweet and lovely everybody has been to me. wasn't it too dear of miss priscilla to give me that beautiful tea-set? and i was so touched by poor little miss willy spending her hard-earned money on that vase. i wish she hadn't. it makes me feel badly to think of it--but i don't see what i could do about it, do you? i think i'll try to send her a cloak or something at christmas. i haven't said half that i want to--but i shall keep the rest for to-morrow. with a dozen kisses and my dearest love to father, your ever, ever loving and grateful daughter, virginia * * * * * matoaca city. december , . dearest mother: it almost broke my heart not to be able to go home for christmas. it doesn't seem like christmas at all away from you--though, of course, i try not to let oliver see how i mind it. he has so much to bother him, poor dear, that i keep all of my worries, big and little, in the background. when anything goes wrong in the house i never tell him, because he has so many important things on his mind that i don't think i ought to trouble him about small ones. we have given up going to the boarding-house for our meals, because neither of us could eat a morsel of the food they had there--did you ever hear of such a thing as having pie and preserves for breakfast?--and oliver says it used to make him sick to see me in the midst of all of those people. they came from all over the country, and hardly anybody could speak a grammatical sentence. the man who sat next to me always said "he don't" and "i ain't feeling good to-day" and once even "i done it"--can you imagine such a thing? every other word was "guess," and yet they had the impertinence to laugh at me when i said "reckon," which, i am sure father told me was shakespearian english. well, we stood it as long as we could, and then we started having our meals here, and it is so much nicer. oliver says the change from the boarding-house has given him a splendid appetite, and he enjoys everything that i make so much--particularly the waffles by aunt ailsey's recipe. be sure to tell her. at first i had a servant, but she was so dreadful that i let her go at the end of the month, and i really get on ever so much better without her. she hadn't the faintest idea how to cook, and had never made a piece of light bread in her life. besides, she was too untidy for anything, and actually swept the trash under the bed except once a week when she pretended to give a thorough cleaning. the first time she changed the sheets, i found that she had simply put on one fresh one, and was going to use the bottom one on top. she said she'd never heard of doing it any other way, and i had to laugh when i thought of how your face would have looked if you could have heard her. it really is the greatest relief to get rid of her, and i'd a hundred times rather do the work myself than have another of that kind. at first oliver hated dreadfully to have me do everything about the house, but he is beginning to get used to it now, because, of course, i never let him see if anything happens to worry me or if i am tired when he comes home. it takes every minute of my time, but, then, there is nothing else here that i care to do, and i never leave the house except to take a little walk with oliver on sunday afternoon. mrs. midden says that i make a mistake to give a spring cleaning every day, but i love to keep the house looking perfectly spick and span, and i make hot bread twice a day, because oliver is so fond of it. he is just as sweet and dear as he can be and wants to help about everything, but i hate to see him doing housework. somehow it doesn't seem to me to look manly. we have had our first quarrel about who is to get up and make the fires in the morning. oliver insisted that he was to do it, but i wake so much earlier than he does, because i've got the bread on my mind, that i almost always have the wood burning before he gets up. the first few times he was really angry about it, and he didn't seem to understand why i hated so to wake him. he says he hates still worse to see my hands get rough--but i am so thankful that i am not one of those girls (like abby goode) who are forever thinking of how they look. but oliver made such a fuss about the fires that i didn't tell him that i went down to the cellar one morning and brought up a basket of coal. the boy didn't come the day before, so there wasn't any to start the kitchen fire with, and i knew that by the time oliver got up and dressed it would be too late to have hot rolls for breakfast. by the way, could you have a bushel of cornmeal sent to me from dinwiddie? the kind they have here isn't the least bit like the water-ground sort we have at home, and most of it is yellow. nobody ever has batterbread here. all the food is different from ours. i suppose that is because most of the people are from the north and west. i have the table all set for our christmas dinner, and in a few minutes i must put the turkey into the oven. i was so glad to get the plum pudding in the christmas box, because i could never have made one half so good as yours, and the fruit cake will last me forever--it is so big. i wrote you about the box yesterday just as soon as it came, but after i had sent my letter, i went back to it and found that rose point scarf of grandmother's wrapped in tissue paper in the bottom. darling mother, it made me cry. you oughtn't to have given it to me. it always looked so lovely on your black silk, and it was almost the last thing you had left. i don't believe i shall ever make up my mind to wear it. i have on my little grey silk to-day, and it looks so nice. you must tell miss willy that it has been very much admired. mrs. payson asked me if it was made in dinwiddie, and, you know, she gets all of her clothes from new york. that must have been why i thought her over-dressed when i first saw her. by the way, i've almost changed my mind about her since i wrote you what i thought of her. i believe now that the whole trouble with her is simply that she isn't a southern lady. she means well, i am sure, but she isn't what i should call exactly refined. there's something "horsey" about her--i can't think of any other way to express it--something that reminds me just a little bit of abby--and, you remember, we always said abby got that from being educated in the north. tell dearest susan i really think it is fortunate that she did not go to one of their colleges. mrs. payson is a college woman and it seems to me that she is always trying to appear as clever as a man. she talks in a way sometimes that sounds as if she believed in woman's rights and all that sort of thing. i told oliver about it, and he laughed and said that men hated talk like that. he says all a man admires in a woman is her power of loving, and that when she begins to ape a man she loses her charm for him. i can't understand why mr. payson married his wife. he said such nice things to me the other day about my being so domestic and such a home lover, that i really felt sorry for him. when i told him that i was so fond of staying indoors that i would never cross my threshold if oliver didn't make me, he laughed and said that he wished i'd convert his wife to my way of thinking. yet he seems to have the greatest admiration for her, and, do you know, i believe he even admires that red feather, though he doesn't approve of it. he never turns his eyes away from her when they are together, which isn't very much, as she goes about just as she pleases without him. can you understand how a person can both admire and disapprove of a thing? oliver says he knows how it is, but i must say that i don't. i hope and pray that our marriage will always be different from theirs. oliver and i are never apart for a single minute except when he is at work in the office. he hasn't written a line since we came here, but he is going to begin as soon as we get settled, and then he says that i may sit in the room and sew if i want to. i can't believe that people really love each other unless they want to be together every instant, no matter what they are doing. why, if oliver went out to men's dinners without me as mr. payson does (though she doesn't seem to mind it) i should just sit at home by myself and cry my eyes out. i think love, if it is love, ought to be all in all. i am perfectly sure that if i live to be a hundred i shall never want any society but oliver's. he is the whole world to me, and when he is not here i spend my time, unless i am at work, just sitting and thinking about him. my one idea is to make him as happy as i can, and when a woman does this for a man i don't think she has time to run around by herself as mrs. payson does. tell dearest father that i so often think of his sermons and the beautiful things he said about women. the rector here doesn't compare with him as a preacher. this is such a long letter it will take two stamps. i've just let myself run on without thinking what i was writing, so if i have made any mistakes in grammar or in spelling, please don't let father see them but read my letter aloud to him. i can shut my eyes and see you sitting at dinner, with docia bringing in the plum pudding, and i know you will talk of me while you help to it. write me who comes to dinner with you. i wonder if miss priscilla and john henry are there as usual. do you know whether john henry ever goes to the treadwell's or not? i wish you would ask him to take susan to see his old mammy in pink alley. now that i am not there to go to see her occasionally, i am afraid she will get lonesome. good-bye, dearest mother. i will write to you before new year. i am so busy that i don't have time to write every day, but you will understand and so will father. with my heart's fondest love to you both, your virginia. * * * * * matoaca city. june , . darling mother: the little patterns were exactly what i wanted--thank you a thousand times. i knew you would be overjoyed at the news, and you are the only person i've breathed it to--except, of course, dear oliver, who is frightened to death already. he has made me stop everything at once, and whenever he sees me lift my hand, he begins to get nervous and begs me not to do it. oh, mother, he loves me so that it is really pathetic to see his anxiety. and--can you believe it--he doesn't appear to be the least bit glad about it. when i told him, he looked amazed--as if he had never thought of its happening--and said, "oh, virginia, not so soon!" he told me afterwards that, of course, he'd always thought we'd have children after a while, before we were middle-aged, but that he had wanted to stay like this for at least five or ten years. when the baby comes, he says he supposes he'll like it, but that he can't honestly say he is glad. it's funny how frightened he is, because i am not the least bit so. all women must expect to have children when they marry, and if god makes them suffer for it, it must be because it is best that they should. perhaps they wouldn't love their babies so much if they got them easily. i never think of the pain a minute. it all seems so beautiful and sacred to me that i can't understand why oliver isn't enraptured just as i am. to think of a new life starting into the world from me--a life that is half mine and half oliver's, and one that would never be at all except for our love. the baby will seem from the very first minute to be our love made into flesh. i don't see how a woman who feels this could waste a thought on what she has to suffer. i am so glad you are going to send me a nurse from dinwiddie, because i'm afraid i could never get one here that i could trust. the servant oliver got me is no earthly account, and i still do as much of the cooking as i can. the house doesn't look nearly so nice as it used to, but the doctor tells me that i mustn't sweep, so i only do the light dusting. i sew almost all the time, and i've already finished the little slips. to-day i'm going to cut out the petticoats. i couldn't tell from the pattern you sent whether they fasten in front or in the back. there are no places for buttonholes. do you use safety pins to fasten them with? the embroidery is perfectly lovely, and will make the sweetest trimming. i am using pink for the basket because oliver and i both hope the baby will be a girl. if it is, i shall name her after you, of course, and i want her to be just exactly like you. oliver says he can't understand why anybody ever wants a boy--girls are so much nicer. but then he insists that if she isn't born with blue eyes, he will send her to the orphanage. i am trying to do just as you tell me to, and to be as careful as i possibly can. the doctor thinks i've stayed indoors too much since i came here, so i go out for a little walk with oliver every night. i am so afraid that somebody will see me that i really hate to go out at all, and always choose the darkest streets i can find. last night i had a bad stumble, and oliver says he doesn't care if the whole town discovers us, he's not going to take me down any more unlighted alleys. it has been terribly hot all day--not a breath of air stirring--and i never felt the heat so much in my life. the doctor says it's because of my condition--and last night, after oliver went to sleep, i got up and sat by the window until daybreak. at first i was dreadfully frightened, and thought i was going to stifle--but poor oliver had come home so tired that i made up my mind i wasn't going to wake him if i could possibly help it. this morning i didn't tell him a word about it, and he hasn't the least idea that i didn't sleep soundly all night. i suppose that's why i feel so dragged and worn out to-day, just as if somebody had given me a good beating. i was obliged to lie down most of the afternoon, but i am going to take a bath in a few minutes and try to make myself look nice and fresh before oliver comes home. i have let out that flowered organdie--the one you liked so much--and i wear it almost every evening. i know i look dreadfully, but oliver says i am more beautiful than ever. it seems to me sometimes that men are born blind where women are concerned, but perhaps god made it that way on purpose. do you know oliver really admires mrs. payson, and he thinks that red feather very becoming to her. he says she's much too good for her husband, but i have been obliged to disagree with him about that. even if mr. payson does drink a little, i am sure it is only because he gets lonesome when he is left by himself, and that she could prevent it if she tried. oliver and i never talk about these things because he sees that i feel so strongly about them. oh, darling mother, i shall be so glad to see you! i hope and pray that father will be well enough for you to come a whole month ahead. in that case you will be here in less than two months, won't you? if the baby comes on the twelfth of august, she (i am perfectly sure it will be a girl) and father will have the same birthday. i am so anxious that she shall be born on that day. well, i must stop now, though i could run on forever. i never see a living soul from one day to another--mrs. payson is out of town--so when oliver stays late at the office, and i am too tired to work, i get a little--just a little bit lonesome. mr. payson sent me a pile of novels by oliver the other night--but i haven't looked into them. i always feel that it is a waste of time to read when there are things about the house that ought to be done. i wish everything didn't cost so much here. money doesn't go half as far as it does in dinwiddie. the price of meat is almost three times as much as it is at home, and chickens are so expensive that we have them only twice a week. it is hard to housekeep on a small allowance, and now that we have to save for the baby's coming, i have to count every penny. i have bought a little book like yours, and i put down all that i spend during the day, and then add it up at night before going to bed. oliver says i'm dreadfully frugal, but i am always so terribly afraid of running over my allowance (which is every cent that we can afford) and not having the money to pay the doctor's bills when they are due. nobody could be more generous with money than oliver is--i couldn't endure being married to a stingy man like mr. treadwell--and the other day when one of the men in the office died, he sent the most beautiful wreath that cost ten dollars. i am trying to save enough out of the housekeeping balance to pay for it, for oliver always runs out of his pocket money before the middle of the month. i haven't bought anything for the baby because you sent me all the materials i needed, and i have been sewing on those ever since they came. of course my own clothes are still as good as new, so the only expense will be the doctor and the nurse and the extra things i shall be obliged to have to eat when i am sick. give dear father a dozen kisses from me, and tell him to hurry and get well so he can christen his granddaughter. your devoted and ever grateful virginia. * * * * * matoaca city. august , . darling mother: just a line to say that i am so, so sorry you can't come, but that you mustn't worry a minute, because everything is going beautifully, and i am not the least bit afraid. the doctor says he never saw any one in a better frame of mind or so little nervous. give my dear love to father. i am so distressed that he should suffer as he does. rheumatism must be such terrible pain, and i don't wonder that you are frightened lest it should go to his heart. i shall send you a telegram as soon as the baby comes. your devoted daughter, virginia. * * * * * matoaca city. august , . my precious mother: this is the first time i have sat up in bed, and i am trying to write a little note to you on a pillow instead of a desk. my hand shakes so that i'm afraid you won't be able to read it, but i felt that i wanted to send you a few words of my very own, not dictated to the nurse or to mrs. payson. i can't tell you how perfectly lovely mrs. payson has been to me. she was here all that dreadful night, and i believe i should have died without her. the doctor said i had such a hard time because i'd let myself get run down and stayed indoors too much. but i'm getting all right now--and the rest is over and doesn't matter. as soon as i am strong again i shall be perfectly happy. oh, mother, aren't you delighted that the baby is a girl, after all? it was the first question i asked when i came back to consciousness the next morning, and when they told me it was, i said, "her name is lucy pendleton," and that was all. i was so weak they wouldn't let me open my lips again, and oliver was kept out of the room for almost ten days because i would talk to him. poor fellow, it almost killed him. he is as white as a sheet still, and looks as if he had been through tortures. it must have been terrible for him, because i was really very, very ill at one time. but it is all over now, and the baby is the sweetest thing you ever imagined. i believe she knows me already, and mrs. payson says she is exactly like me, though i can see the strongest resemblance to oliver, even if she has blue eyes and he hasn't. wasn't it lovely how everything came just as we wanted it to--a girl, born on father's birthday, with blue eyes, and named lucy? but, mother, darling, the most wonderful thing of all was that you seemed to be with me all through it. the whole time i was unconscious i thought you were here, and the nurse tells me that i was calling "mother! mother!" all that night. nothing ever made me feel as close to you as having a baby of my own. i never knew before what you were to me, and how dearly, dearly i love you. the nurse is taking the pencil away from me. your loving virginia. isn't it funny that oliver won't take any interest in the baby at all? he says she caused more trouble than she is worth. was father like that? * * * * * matoaca city. april , . dearest mother: my last letter was written an age ago, but i have been so busy since marthy left that i've hardly had a moment in which to draw breath. it was a blow to me that she wouldn't stay for she was really an excellent nurse and the baby got on so well with her, but there aren't any coloured people of her kind here, and she got so homesick for dinwiddie that i thought she would lose her mind if she stayed. you know how dependent they are upon company, and going out on sunday afternoon and all that kind of thing, and there really wasn't any amusement for her except taking the baby out in the morning. she got so low spirited that it was almost a relief when she went, but of course i feel her loss dreadfully. i haven't let the baby out of my sight because i wouldn't trust daisy with her for anything in the world. she is so terribly flighty. i have the crib brought into my room (though oliver hates it) and i take entire charge of her night and day. i should love to do it if only oliver didn't mind it so much. he says i think more of the baby now than i do of him. isn't that absurd? but of course she does take every single minute of my time, and i can't dress myself for him every evening as carefully as i used to do and look after all the housekeeping arrangements. daisy is a very poor cook and she simply throws the things on the table, but it seems to me that my first duty is to the baby, so i try to put up with the discomforts as well as i can. it is hard to eat what she cooks since everything tastes exactly alike, but i try to swallow as much as i can because the doctor says that if i don't keep up my strength i shall have to stop nursing the baby. wouldn't that be dreadful? it almost breaks my heart to think of it, and i am sure we'd never get any artificial food to agree with her. she is perfectly well now, the sweetest, fattest thing you ever saw, and a real beauty, and she is so devoted to me that she cries whenever i go out of her sight. i am never tired of watching her, and even when she is asleep i sit sometimes for an hour by her crib just thinking how pretty she looks with her eyes closed and wishing you could see her. oliver says i spoil her to death, but how can a baby of seven months be spoiled. he doesn't enjoy her half as much as i do, and sometimes i almost think that he gets impatient of seeing her always in my arms. at first he absolutely refused to have her crib brought into our room, but when i cried, he gave in and was very sweet about it. i feel so ashamed sometimes of the way the house looks, but there doesn't seem to be any help for it because the doctor says if i let myself get tired it will be bad for the baby. of course i wouldn't put my own health before his comfort, but i am obliged to think first of the baby, am i not? last night, for instance, the poor little thing was ill with colic and i was up and down with her until daybreak. then this morning she woke early and i had to nurse her and give her her bath, and, added to everything else, daisy's cousin died and she sent word she couldn't come. i slipped on a wrapper before taking a bath or fixing my hair and ran down to try and get oliver's breakfast, but the baby began to cry and he came after me and said he wanted to make the coffee himself. then he brought a cup upstairs to me, but i was so tired and nervous that i couldn't drink it. he didn't seem to understand why, feeling as badly as i did, i wouldn't just put the baby back into her crib and make her stay there until i got some rest, but the little thing was so wide awake that i hadn't the heart to do it. besides, it is so important to keep regular hours with her, isn't it? i don't suppose a man ever realizes how a woman looks at these things, but you will understand, won't you, mother? i am all alone in the house to-night because a play is in town that oliver wanted to see and i made him go to it. he wanted to ask mrs. midden to sit downstairs (she has offered over and over again to do it) so that i might go too, but of course i wouldn't let him. i really couldn't have enjoyed it a minute for thinking of the baby, and besides i never cared for the theatre. then, too, he doesn't know (for i never tell him) how very tired i am by the time night comes. sometimes when oliver comes home and we sit in the dining-room (we never use the drawing-room, because it is across the hall and i'm afraid i shouldn't hear the baby cry) it is as much as i can do to keep my eyes open. i try not to let him notice it, but one night when he read me the first act of a play he is writing, i went to sleep, and though he didn't say anything, i could see that he was very much hurt. he worries a good deal about my health, too, and he even went out one day and engaged a nurse without saying anything to me about it. after i had talked to her though, i saw that she would never do, so i sent her away before he came home. i wish i could get really strong and feel well again, but the doctor insists i never will until i get out of doors and use my muscles. but you stay in the house all the time and so did grandmother, so i don't believe there's a word of truth in what he says. anyway, i go out every day now with the baby. thank you so much for the little bands. they are just what i wanted. with dearest love, your devoted virginia. * * * * * matoaca city. june , . dearest mother: daisy left a week ago and we couldn't find another servant until to-day. i must say that i prefer coloured servants. they are so much more dependable. i didn't know until the evening before daisy left that she was going, and i had to send oliver straight out to see if he could find somebody to come in and help me. there wasn't a soul to be had until to-day, however, so for a week i was obliged to make oliver get his dinner at the boarding-house. it doesn't make any difference what i have because i haven't a particle of appetite, and i'd just as soon eat tea and toast as anything else. of course, but for the baby i could have managed perfectly well--but she has been so fretful of late that she doesn't let me put her down a minute. the doctor says her teeth are beginning to hurt her, and that i must expect to have trouble the first summer. she has been so well until now that he thinks it has been really remarkable. he tells me he never knew a healthier baby, but of course i am terribly anxious about her teething in the hot weather. if she grows much more fretful i'm afraid i shall have to take her to the country for july and august. it seems dreadful to leave oliver all alone, but i don't see how i can help it if the doctor advises me to go. oliver has gone to some musical comedy at the academy to-night, and i am so tired that i am going to bed just as soon as i finish this letter. i hope and pray that the baby will have a quiet night. don't you think that daisy treated me very badly considering how kind i had been to her? only a week ago when she was taken with pain in the night, i got up and made her a mustard plaster and sat by her bed until she felt easier. the next day i did all of her work, and yet she has so little gratitude that she could leave me this way when she knows perfectly well that i am worried to death about the baby's first summer. i'd give anything if i could go home in july as you suggest, but it is such a long trip, and the heat will probably be quite as bad in dinwiddie as here. of course, it would make all the difference in the world to me to be where i could have you to advise me about the baby, and i'd go to-morrow if it only wasn't so far. mrs. midden has told me of a boarding-house in the country not more than twenty miles from here where oliver could come down every evening, and we may decide to go there for a month or two. i can't help feeling very anxious, especially as mrs. scott's little boy--he is just the age of baby--was taken ill the other night, and they thought he would die before they could get a doctor. this letter is full of my worries, but in spite of them i am the happiest woman that ever lived. oliver is the best thing to me you can imagine, and the baby is so fascinating that i enjoy every minute i am with her. it is the greatest fun to watch her in her bath. i know you would simply go into raptures over her--and she is so bright that she already understands every word that i say. she grows more like oliver all the time, and the other day while i was watching her playing with her rubber doll, she looked so beautiful that it almost frightened me. i am so glad dear father is well, and what you wrote me about john henry's admiration for susan interested me so much that i sat straight down and wrote to him. why do you think that it is only friendship and that he isn't in love with her? if he really thinks her the "finest girl in the world," i should imagine he was beginning to be pretty serious. i am delighted to hear that he is going to take her to the festival. tell susan from me that i shall never be satisfied until she is as happy as i am. mr. treadwell was right, i believe, not to let her go to college, though of course i want dear susan to have whatever she sets her heart on. but, when all is said, you were wise in teaching me that nothing matters to a woman except love. more and more i am learning that if we only love unselfishly enough, everything else will work out for good to us. my little worries can't keep me from being so blissfully happy that i want to sing all the time. work is a joy to me because i feel that i am doing it for oliver and the baby. and with two such treasures to live for i should be the most ungrateful creature alive if i ever complained. your ever loving daughter, virginia. * * * * * matoaca city, july , . dearest mother: we are leaving suddenly for the country, and i'll send our address just as soon as we get there. the doctor thinks i ought to take the baby away from town, so i am going to the boarding-house i wrote you about. oliver will come down every evening--it's only an hour's trip. i am so tired from packing that i can't write any more. lovingly, virginia. * * * * * matoaca city. september , . dearest mother: here we are back again in our home, and i was never so thankful in my life to get away from any place. i wrote you how dreadfully inconvenient it was, but it would take pages to tell you all of my experiences in the last few days. such people you never saw in your life! and the food got so uneatable that i lived on crackers for the last fortnight. fortunately, i was still nursing the baby, but the doctor has just told me that i must stop. i am so distressed about it. do you think it will go hard with her after the first year? she is as fat and well as she can be now, but i live in hourly terror of her getting sick. if anything should happen to her, i believe it would kill me. oliver sends love. he is working very hard at the office now, and he hates it. your loving virginia. i forgot to tell you that mrs. midden has found me such a nice servant. she is a very young coloured girl, but looks so kind and capable, and says she is perfectly devoted to children. her name is marthy, and i feel that she's going to be a great comfort to me. * * * * * matoaca city. october , . my darling mother: i was overjoyed to find your letter in the hall when i came out from breakfast. has it really been two weeks since i wrote to you? that seems dreadful, but the days go by so fast that i hardly realize how long it is between my letters. we are all well, and marthy has become the greatest help to me. of course, i don't let her do anything for the baby, but she is so careful and trustworthy that i am going to try having her take out the carriage in the morning. at first i shan't let her go off the block, so that i can have my eye on her all the time. little lucy took a fancy to her at once, and really enjoys playing with her. this makes it possible for me to do a little sewing, and i am working hard trying to make over one or two of my dresses. oliver wants me to have a dressmaker do it, but we have so many extra expenses all the time that i don't feel we can afford to put out any sewing. we have spent a great deal on doctors since we were married, but of course with a young child we can't very well expect anything else. and now, dearest mother, i have something to tell you, which no one knows--not even oliver--except doctor marshall and myself. we are going to have another darling baby in march, if everything goes as it ought to. i have kept it a secret because oliver has had a good many business worries, and i knew it would make him miserable. it never seems to have entered his head that it might happen again so soon, and for his sake i do wish we could have waited until we got a little more money in the bank, but i suppose i oughtn't to say this because god would certainly not send children into the world unless it was right for them to be born. i try to remember what dear grandmamma said when somebody condoled with her at the time she was expecting her tenth child--that she hoped she was too good a christian to dictate to the lord as to how many souls he should send into the world. as for me, i should be perfectly delighted--it will be so much better for baby to have a little brother or sister to play with when she gets bigger--but i can't help worrying about oliver's peculiar attitude of mind. i am sure that father wouldn't have felt that way, and think how poor he has always been. perhaps it comes from dear oliver having lived abroad so much and away from the christian influences, which have been one of the greatest blessings of my life. i have put off telling him every day just because i dread to think of the blow it will be to him. he is the dearest and best husband that ever lived, and i worship the ground he walks on, but, do you know, things are always a surprise to him when they happen? he never looks ahead a single minute. i am sometimes afraid that he isn't the least bit practical, and it makes him impatient when i talk to him about trying to cut down expenses. of course, i have to save as much as i can and i count every single penny, or we'd never have enough money to get through the month. i never buy a stitch for either the baby or myself, though oliver complains now and then that i don't dress as well as i used to do. but how can i when i've worn the same things ever since my marriage, besides making the baby's clothes out of my old ones? you can understand from this how grateful i am for the check you sent--but, dearest mother, i know that you oughtn't to have done it, and that you sacrificed your own comfort and father's to give it to me. i wish oliver could get something to do in dinwiddie. he will never be happy here, and we could live on so much less money at home--in a little house near the rectory. your loving child, virginia. chapter iii the return on a february morning five years later, mrs. pendleton, who was returning from her daily trip to the market, met susan treadwell at the corner of old street. "you are coming up to welcome jinny, aren't you, susan?" she asked. "the train gets in at four o'clock." "why, of course. i couldn't sleep a wink until i'd seen her. it has been seven years, and it seems a perfect eternity." "she hasn't changed much--at least she hadn't six months ago when i was out there at the birth of her last baby. the little thing lived only two hours, you know, and i thought at first his death would kill her." "it was a great blow--but she has been fortunate never to have had a day's sickness with the other three. i am dying to see them--especially the eldest. that's your namesake, isn't it?" "yes, that's lucy. she's six years old now, and as good as an angel, but she hasn't fulfilled her promise of beauty. virginia says she was the prettiest baby she ever saw." "everybody says that jenny, the youngest, is a perfect beauty." "that's why her father makes so much of her, i reckon. i told him when i was out there that he oughtn't to show such a difference between them. do you know, susan, i wouldn't say it to anybody else, but i don't believe oliver has a real fondness for children. he gets tired of having them always about, and that makes him impatient. now, virginia is a born mother, just like her grandmother and all the women of our family." "i should think oliver would be crazy about the boy. he was named after his father, too." "virginia felt she ought to name him henry, but we call him harry. no, oliver hardly ever takes any notice of him. i don't mean, of course, that he isn't nice and kind to them--but he isn't wrapped up in them heart and soul as virginia is. i really believe he is more absorbed in this play he has written than he is in the children." "i am so glad to hear that two of his plays are going to be staged. that's splendid, isn't it?" "he is coming back to dinwiddie because of it. now that he is assured of recognition, he says he is going to devote all his time to writing. poor fellow, he did so hate the work out at matoaca city, though i must say he was very faithful and persevering about it." "you've taken that little house in prince street for them, where old miss franklin used to live, haven't you? the last time i saw you, you hadn't quite decided about it." "i couldn't resist it because it is only three squares from the rectory. mr. pendleton set his heart on it from the first minute." "well, i'm so glad," said susan, shifting the small basket of fruit she carried from one arm to the other, "and i'll certainly run in and see them this evening--i suppose they'll be at the rectory for supper?" "why, no. jinny said she couldn't bear to be away from the children the first night, so we are all going there. i shall send docia over to cook supper before they get here, and i've just been to market to see if i could find anything that oliver would particularly like. he used to be so fond of sweetbreads." "mr. dewlap has some very nice ones. i got one for mother. she hasn't been well for the last few days." "i'm sorry to hear that. give her my love and tell her i'll come down just as soon as i get jinny settled. i've been so taken up getting the house ready that i haven't thought of another thing for three weeks." "when will oliver's play be put on in new york?" asked susan, turning back after they had parted. "in three weeks. he is going back again for the last rehearsals. i wish jinny could go with him, but i don't believe she would spend a night away from the children for anything on earth." "isn't it beautiful that her marriage has turned out so well?" "yes, i don't believe she could be any happier if she tried, and i must say that oliver makes a much better husband than i ever thought he would. i never heard them disagree the whole time i was there. of course, jinny gives up to him in everything except where the children are concerned, but, then, a woman always expects to do that. one thing i'm certain of--he couldn't have found a better wife if he'd searched the world over. she never thinks of herself a minute, and you know how fond she used to be of pretty clothes and of fixing herself up. now, she simply lives in oliver and the children, and she is the proudest thing of his plays! the rector says that she thinks he is shakespeare and milton rolled into one." "nothing could be nicer," said susan, "and it is all such a happy surprise to me. of course, i always thought oliver very attractive--everybody does--but he seemed to me to be selfish and undisciplined, and i wasn't at all sure that jinny was the kind of woman to bring out the best in him." "you'll think so when you see them together." then they smiled and parted, mrs. pendleton hurrying back to the little house, while susan turned down old street, in the direction of her home. she walked rapidly, with an easy swinging pace seldom seen in the women of dinwiddie, and not heartily approved by the men. at twenty-seven she was far handsomer than she had been at twenty, for her figure had grown more shapely and her face had lost the look of intense preoccupation which had once marred its charm. strong, capable, conquering, she still appeared; but in some subtle way she had grown softer. mrs. pendleton would probably have said that she had "settled." at the first corner she met john henry on his way to the bank, and turning, he walked with her to the end of the block, where they stood a moment discussing virginia's return. "i've just been to attend to some bills," he explained; "that's why i'm out at this hour. you never come into the bank now, i notice." "not often. are you going to see jinny this evening?" "if you'll let me bring you home. i can't imagine virginia with three children, can you? i'm half afraid to see her again." "you mean you think she may have changed? mrs. pendleton says not." "oh, that's aunt lucy all over. if virginia had got as fat as miss priscilla, she'd still believe she hadn't altered a particle." "well, she isn't fat, anyway. she weighs less than she ever did." her serious eyes dwelt on him under the green sunshade she held, and it is possible that she wondered vaguely what it was about john henry that had made her love him unsought ever since she could remember. he was certainly not handsome--though he was less stout and much better looking than he used to be: he was not particularly clever, even if he was successful with the work cyrus had given him. she was under no delusion concerning him (being a remarkably clear-sighted young person), yet she knew that taking him just as he was, large, slow, kind, good, he aroused in her a tenderness that was almost ridiculous. she had waited patiently seven years for him to discover that he cared for her--a fact which had been perfectly evident to her long before his duller wit had perceived it. "do you want to be there to welcome jinny?" he asked. "i'd thought i'd go up about five, so i could get a glimpse of the children before they are put to bed." "then i'll meet you there and bring you home. i wouldn't take anything for meeting you, susan. there's something about you that always cheers me." she met his eyes frankly. "well, i'm glad of that," she replied in her confident way, and held out her hand through the handle of the basket. an instant later, when she passed on into bolingbroke street, there was a smile on her face which made it almost pretty. the front door was open, and as she entered the house her mother came groping toward her out of the close-smelling dusk of the hall. "i thought you'd never get back, susan. i've had such a funny feeling." "what kind of feeling, mother? it must be just nervousness. here are some beautiful grapes i've brought you." "i wish you wouldn't leave me alone. i don't like to be left alone." "well, i don't leave you any more than i'm obliged to, but if i stay shut up here i feel as if i'd smother. i've asked miss willy to come and sit with you this evening while i run up to welcome virginia." "is she coming back? nobody told me. nobody tells me anything." "but i did tell you. why, we've been talking about it for weeks. you must have forgotten." "i shouldn't have forgotten it. i'm sure i shouldn't have forgotten it if you had told me. but you keep everything from me. you are just like your father. you and james are both just like your father." her voice had grown peevish, and an expression of fury distorted her usually passive features. "why, mother, what in the world is the matter?" asked susan, startled by her manner. "come upstairs and lie down. i don't believe you are well. you didn't eat a morsel of breakfast, so i'm going to fix you a nice little lunch. i got you a beautiful sweetbread from mr. dewlap." putting her arm about her, she led her up the long flight of steps to her room, where mrs. treadwell, pacified by the attention, began immediately to doze on the chintz-covered couch by the window. "i don't see what on earth ever made me marry your father, susan," she said, starting up half an hour later, when her daughter appeared with the tray. "everybody knew the treadwells couldn't hold a candle to my family." "i wouldn't worry about that now, mother," replied susan briskly, while she placed the tray on a little table at the head of the couch. "sit up and eat these oysters." "i'm obliged to worry over it," returned mrs. treadwell irritably, while she watched her daughter arrange her plate and pour out the green tea from the little rebecca-at-the-well teapot. "i don't see what got into my head and made me do it. why, his branch of the treadwells had petered out until they were as common as dirt." "well, it's too late to mend matters, so we'd better turn in and try to make the best of them." she held out an oyster on the end of a fork, and her mother received and ate it obediently. "if i could only once understand why i did it, i think i could rest easier, susan." "perhaps you were in love with each other. i've heard of such a thing." "well, if i was going to fall in love, i reckon i could have found somebody better to fall in love with," retorted mrs. treadwell with the same strange excitement in her manner. then she took up her knife and fork and began to eat her luncheon with relish. at five o'clock that afternoon, when susan reached the house in prince street, virginia, with her youngest child in her arms, was just stepping out of a dilapidated "hack," from which a grinning negro driver handed a collection of lunch baskets into the eager hands of the rector and mrs. pendleton, who stood on the pavement. "here's susan!" called mrs. pendleton in her cheerful voice, rather as if she feared her daughter would overlook her friend in the excitement of homecoming. "oh, you darling susan!" exclaimed virginia, kissing her over the head of a sleeping child in her arms. "this is jenny--poor little thing, she hasn't been able to keep her eyes open. don't you think she is the living image of our saint memin portrait of great-grandmamma?" "she's a cherub," said susan. "let me look at you first, jinny. i want to see if you've changed." "well, you can't expect me to look exactly as i did before i had four babies!" returned virginia with a happy laugh. she was thinner, and there were dark circles of fatigue from the long journey under her eyes, but the madonna-like possibilities in her face were fulfilled, and it seemed to susan that she was, if anything, lovelier than before. the loss of her girlish bloom was forgotten in the expression of love and goodness which irradiated her features. she wore a black cloth skirt, and a blouse of some ugly blue figured silk finished at the neck with the lace scarf susan had sent her at christmas. her hat was a characterless black straw trimmed with a bunch of yellow daisies; and by its shape alone, susan discerned that virginia had ceased to consider whether or not her clothes were becoming. but she shone with an air of calm and radiant happiness in which all trivial details were transfigured as by a flood of light. "this is lucy. she is six years old, and to think that she has never seen her dear aunt susan," said virginia, while she pulled forward the little girl who was shyly clinging to her skirt. "and the other is harry. marthy, bring harry here and let him speak to miss susan. he is nearly four, and so big for his age. where is harry, marthy?" "he's gone into the yard, ma'am, i couldn't keep him back," said marthy. "as soon as he caught sight of that pile of bricks he wanted to begin building." "well, we'll go, too," replied virginia. "that child is simply crazy about building. has oliver paid the driver, mother? and what has become of him? susan, have you spoken to oliver?" no, susan hadn't, but as they turned, he appeared on the porch and came eagerly forward. her first impression was that he had grown handsomer than she had ever believed possible; and the next minute she asked herself how in the world he had managed to exercise his vitality in matoaca city. he was one of those men, she saw, in whom the spirit of youth burned like a flame. every year would pass as a blessing, not as a curse, to him, and already, because of her intenser emotions and her narrower interests, virginia was beginning to look older than he. there was a difference, too, in their dress, for he had the carefully groomed and well-brushed appearance so rare in dinwiddie, while virginia's clothes might have been worn, with equal propriety, by miss priscilla batte. she was still lovely, but it was a loveliness, susan felt with a pang, that would break early. "why, there's susan!" exclaimed oliver, coming toward her with an eager pleasure in his face which made it more boyish than ever. "well, well, it's good to see you, susan. are you the same old dear i left behind me?" "the same," said susan laughing. "and so glad about your plays, oliver, so perfectly delighted." "by jove, you're the first person to speak of them," he replied. "nobody else seems to think a play is worth mentioning as long as a baby is in sight. that's a delusion of virginia's, too. i wish you'd convince her, susan, that a man is of some use except as a husband and a father." "but they are such nice babies, oliver." "oh, nice enough as babies go. the boy's a trump. he'd be a man already if his mother would let him. but babies ought to have their season like everything else under the sun. for god's sake, susan, talk to me about something else!" he added in mock despair. virginia was already in the house, and when oliver and susan joined her, they found mrs. pendleton trying to persuade her to let marthy carry the sleeping jenny up to the nursery. "give me that child, jinny," said oliver, a trifle sharply. "you know the doctor told you not to carry her upstairs." "but i'm sure it won't hurt me," she responded, with an angelic sweetness of voice. "it will wake her to be changed, and the poor little thing has had such a trying day." "well, you aren't going to carry her, if she wakes twenty times," retorted oliver. "here, marthy, if she thinks i'd drop her, suppose you try it." "why, bless you, sir, i can take her so she won't know it," returned marthy reassuringly, and coming forward, she proved her ability by sliding the unconscious child from virginia's arms into her own. "where is harry?" asked mrs. pendleton anxiously. "nobody has seen harry since we got here." "i is, ma'am," replied the cheerful marthy over her shoulder, as she toiled up the stairs, with virginia and little lucy noiselessly following. "i've undressed him and i was obliged to hide his clothes to keep him from putting 'em on again. he's near daft with excitement." "perhaps i'd better go up and help get them to bed," said mrs. pendleton, turning from the rector to oliver. "i'm afraid jinny will be too tired to enjoy her supper. harry is in such a gale of spirits i can hear him talking." "you might as well, my dear," rejoined the rector mildly, as he stooped over to replace one of the baby's bottles in the basket from which it had slipped. "don't you think we might get some of these things out of the way?" he added. "if you take that alcohol stove, oliver, i'll follow with these caps and shawls." "certainly, sir," rejoined oliver readily. he always addressed the rector as "sir," partly because it seemed to him to be appropriate, partly because he knew that the older man expected him to do so. it was one of oliver's most engaging characteristics that he usually adapted himself with perfect ease to whatever life or other people expected of him. while they were carrying the baskets into the passage at the back of the dining-room, mrs. pendleton, whose nervous longing had got at last beyond her control, deserted susan, with an apology, and flitted up the stairs. "come up and tell jinny good-night before you go, dear," she added; "i'm afraid she will not get down again to see you." "oh, don't worry about me," replied susan. "i want to say a few words to oliver, and then i'm coming up to see harry. harry appears to me to be a man of personality." "he's a darling child," replied mrs. pendleton, a little vaguely, "and jinny says she never saw him so headstrong before. he is usually as good as gold." "well, well, it's a fine family," said the rector, beaming upon his son-in-law, when they returned from the passage. "i never saw three healthier children. it's a pity you lost the other one," he added in a graver tone, "but as he lived such a short time, virginia couldn't take it so much to heart as if he had been older. she seems to have got over the disappointment." "yes, i think she's got over it," said oliver. "it will be good for her to be back in dinwiddie. i never felt satisfied to think of her so far away." "yes, i'm glad we could come back," agreed oliver pleasantly, though he appeared to susan's quick eye to be making an effort. "by the way, i haven't spoken of your literary work," remarked the rector, with the manner of a man who is saying something very agreeable. "i have never been to the theatre, but i understand that it is losing a great deal of its ill odour. i always remember when anything is said about the stage that, after all, shakespeare was an actor. we may be old-fashioned in dinwiddie," he pursued in the complacent tone in which the admission of this failing is invariably made, "but i don't think we can have any objection to sweet, clean plays, with an elevating moral tone to them. they are no worse, anyway, than novels." though oliver kept his face under such admirable control, susan, glancing at him quickly, saw a shade of expression, too fine for amusement, too cordial for resentment, pass over his features. his colour, which was always high, deepened, and raising his head, he brushed the smooth dark hair back from his forehead. through some intuitive strain of sympathy, susan understood, while she watched him, that his plays were as vital a matter in his life as the children were in virginia's. "i must run up and see harry before he goes to sleep," she said, feeling instinctively that the conversation was becoming a strain. at the allusion to his grandson, the rector's face lost immediately its expression of forced pleasantness and relapsed into its look of genial charm. "you ought to be proud of that boy, oliver," he observed, beaming. "there's the making of a fine man in him, but you mustn't let jinny spoil him. it took all my strength and authority to keep lucy from ruining jinny, and i've always said that my brother-in-law tom bland would have been a first-rate fellow if it hadn't been for the way his mother raised him. god knows, i like a woman to be wrapped up heart and soul in her household--and i don't suppose anybody ever accused the true southern lady of lacking in domesticity--but if they have a failing, which i refuse to admit, it is that they are almost too soft-hearted where their children--especially their sons--are concerned." "i used to tell virginia that she gave in to harry too much when he was a baby," said oliver, who was evidently not without convictions regarding the rearing of his offspring; "but she hasn't been nearly so bad about it since jenny came. jenny is the one i'm anxious about now. she is a headstrong little beggar and she has learned already how to get around her mother when she wants anything. it's been worse, too," he added, "since we lost the last poor little chap. ever since then virginia has been in mortal terror for fear something would happen to the others." "it was hard on her," said the rector. "we men can't understand how women feel about a thing like that, though," he added gently. "i remember when we lost our babies--you know we had three before virginia came, but none of them lived more than a few hours--that i thought lucy would die of grief and disappointment. you see they have all the burden and the anxiety of it, and i sometimes think that a child begins to live for a woman a long time before a man ever thinks of it as a human being." "i suppose you're right," returned oliver in the softened tone which proved to susan that he was emotionally stirred. "i tried to be as sympathetic with virginia as i could, but--do you know?--i stopped to ask myself sometimes if i could really understand. it seemed to her so strange that i wasn't knocked all to pieces by the thing--that i could go on writing as if nothing had happened." "i am not sure that it isn't beyond the imagination of a man to enter into a woman's most sacred feeling," remarked the rector, with a touch of the sentimentality in which he religiously shrouded the feminine sex. so ineradicable, indeed, was his belief in the inherent virtue of every woman, that he had several times fallen a helpless victim in the financial traps of conscienceless delilahs. but since his innocence was as temperamental a quality as was virginia's maternal passion, experience had taught him nothing, and the fact that he had been deceived in the past threw no shadow of safeguard around his steps in the present. this endearing trait, which made him so successful as a husband, was probably the cause of his unmitigated failure as a reformer. in looking at a woman, it was impossible for him to see anything except perfection. when susan reached the top of the staircase, mrs. pendleton called to her, through the half open door of the nursery, to come in and hear how beautifully lucy was saying her prayers. her voice was full of a suppressed excitement; there was a soft pink flush in her cheeks; and it seemed to susan that the presence of her grandchildren had made her almost a girl again. she sat on the edge of a trundle-bed slipping a nightgown over the plump shoulders of little lucy, who held herself very still and prim, for she was a serious child, with a natural taste for propriety. her small plain face, with its prominent features and pale blue eyes, had a look of intense earnestness and concentration, as though the business of getting to bed absorbed all her energies; and the only movement she made was to toss back the slender and very tight braid of brown hair from her shoulders. she said her prayer as if it were the multiplication table, and having finished, slid gently into bed, and held up her face to be kissed. "jenny wouldn't drink but half of her bottle, miss virginia," said marthy, appearing suddenly on the threshold of virginia's bedroom, for the youngest child slept in the room with her mother. "she dropped off to sleep so sound that i couldn't wake her." "i hope she isn't sick, marthy," responded virginia in an anxious tone. "did she seem at all feverish?" "naw'm, she ain't feverish, she's jest sleepy headed." "well, i'll come and look at her as soon as i can persuade harry to finish his prayers. he stopped in the middle of them, and he refuses to bless anybody but himself." she spoke gravely, gazing with her exhaustless patience over the impish yellow head of harry, who knelt, in his little nightgown, on the rug at her feet. his roving blue eyes met susan's as she came over to him, while his chubby face broke into a delicious smile. "don't notice him, susan," said virginia, in her lovely voice which was as full of tenderness and as lacking in humour as her mother's. "harry, you shan't speak to aunt susan until you've been good and finished your prayers." "don't want to speak to aunt susan," retorted the monster of infant depravity, slipping his bare toes through a rent in the rug, and doubling up with delight at his insubordination. "i never knew him to behave like this before," said virginia, almost in tears from shame and weariness. "it must be the excitement of getting here. he is usually so good. now, harry, begin all over again. 'god bless dear papa, god bless dear mamma, god bless dear grandmamma, god bless dear grandpapa, god bless dear lucy, god bless dear jenny, god bless all our dear friends.'" "god bless dear harry," recited the monster. "he has gone on like that ever since i started," said poor virginia. "i don't know what to do about it. it seems dreadful to let him go to bed without saying his prayers properly. now, harry, please, please be good; poor mother is so tired, and she wants to go and kiss little jenny good-night. 'god bless dear papa,' and i'll let you get in bed." "god bless harry," was the imperturbable rejoinder to this pleading. "don't you want your poor mother to have some supper, harry?" inquired susan severely. "harry wants supper," answered the innocent. "i suppose i'll have to let him go," said virginia, distractedly, "but oliver will be horrified. he says i don't reason with them enough. harry," she concluded sternly, "don't you understand that it is naughty of you to behave this way and keep mamma away from poor little jenny?" "bad jenny," said harry. "if you don't say your prayers this minute, you shan't have any preserves on your bread to-morrow." "bad preserves," retorted harry. "well, if he won't, i don't see how i can make him," said virginia. "come, then, get into bed, harry, and go to sleep. you have been a bad boy and hurt poor mamma's feelings so that she is going to cry. she won't be able to eat her supper for thinking of the way you have disobeyed her." jumping into bed with a bound, harry dug his head into the pillows, gurgled, and then sat up very straight. "god bless dear papa, god bless dear mamma, god bless dear grandmamma, god bless dear grandpapa, god bless dear lucy, god bless dear jenny, god bless our dear friends everywhere," he repeated in a resounding voice. "oh, you precious lamb!" exclaimed virginia. "he couldn't bear to hurt poor mamma, could he?" and she kissed him ecstatically before hastening to the slumbering jenny in the adjoining room. "i like the little scamp," said susan, when she reported the scene to john henry on the way home, "but he manages his mother perfectly. already his sense of humour is better developed than hers." "i can't get over seeing virginia with children," observed john henry, as if the fact of virginia's motherhood had just become evident to him. "it suits her, though. she looked happier than i ever saw her--and so, for that matter, did aunt lucy." "it made me wonder how mrs. pendleton had lived away from them for seven years. why, you can't imagine what she is--she doesn't seem to have any life at all until you see her with virginia's children." "it's a wonderful thing," said john henry slowly, "and it taught me a lot just to look at them. i don't know why, but it seemed to make me understand how much i care about you, susan." "hadn't you suspected it before?" asked susan as calmly as he had spoken. emotionalism, she knew, she would never find in john henry's wooing, and, though she could not have explained the reason of it to herself, she liked the brusque directness of his courtship. it was part of that large sincerity of nature which had first attracted her to him. "of course, in a way i knew i cared more for you than for anybody else--but i didn't realize that you were more to me than virginia had ever been. i had got so in the habit of thinking i was in love with her that it came almost as a surprise to me to find that it was over." "i knew it long ago," said susan. "why didn't you make me see it?" "oh, i waited for you to find it out yourself. i was sure that you would some day." "do you think you could ever care for me, susan?" a smile quivered on susan's lips as she looked up at him, but with the reticence which had always characterized her, she answered simply: "i think i could, john henry." his hand reached down and closed over hers, and in the long look which they exchanged under the flickering street lamp, she felt suddenly that perfect security which is usually the growth of happy years. whatever the future brought to them, she knew that she could trust john henry's love for her. "and we've lost seven years, dearest," he said, with a catch in his voice. "we've lost seven years just because i happened to be born a fool." "but we've got fifty ahead of us," she replied with a joyous laugh. as she spoke, her heart cried out, "fifty years of the thing i want!" and she looked up into the kind, serious face of john henry as if it were the face of incarnate happiness. a tremendous belief in life surged from her brain through her body, which felt incredibly warm and young. she thought exultantly of herself as of one who did not accept destiny, but commanded it. they walked the rest of the way in silence, but he held her hand pressed closely against his heart, and once or twice he turned in the deserted street and looked into her eyes as if he found there all the words that he needed. "we won't waste any more time, will we, susan?" he asked when they reached the house. "let's be married in december." "if mother is better by then. she hasn't been well, and i am anxious about her." "we'll go to housekeeping at once. i'll begin looking about to-morrow. god bless you, darling, for what you are giving me." she caressed his hand gently with her fingers, and he was about to speak again, when the door behind them opened and the head of cyrus appeared like that of a desolate bird of prey. "is that you, susan?" he inquired. "where have you been all this time? your mother was taken ill more than an hour ago, and the doctor says that she has been paralyzed." breaking away from john henry, susan ran up the steps and past her father into the hall, where miss willy stood weeping. "i was all by myself with her. there wasn't another living soul in the house," sobbed the little dressmaker. "she fell over just like that, with her face all twisted, while i was talking to her." "oh, poor mother, poor mother!" cried the girl as she ran upstairs. "is she in her room, and who is with her?" "the doctor has been there for over an hour, and he says that she'll never be able to move again. oh, susan, how will she stand it?" but susan had already outstripped her, and was entering the sick-room, where mrs. treadwell lay unconscious, with her distorted face turned toward the door, as though she were watching expectantly for some one who would never come. as the girl fell on her knees beside the couch, her happiness seemed to dissolve like mist before the grim facts of mortal anguish and death. it was not until dawn, when the night's watch was over and she stood alone beside her window, that she said to herself with all the courage she could summon: "and it's over for me, too. everything is over for me, too. oh, poor, poor mother!" love, which had seemed to her last night the supreme spirit in the universe, had surrendered its authority to the diviner image of duty. chapter iv her children "poor aunt belinda was paralyzed last night, oliver," said virginia the next morning at breakfast. "miss willy whitlow just brought me a message from susan. she spent the night there and was on her way this morning to ask mother to go." oliver had come downstairs in one of his absent-minded moods, but by the time virginia had repeated her news he was able to take it in, and to show a proper solicitude for his aunt. "are you going there?" he asked. "i am obliged to do a little work on my play while i have the idea, but tell susan i'll come immediately after dinner." "i'll stop to inquire on my way back from market, but i won't be able to stay, because i've got all my unpacking to do. can you take the children out this afternoon so marthy can help me?" "i'm sorry, but i simply can't. i've got to get on with this idea while i have control of it, and if i go out with the children i shan't be able to readjust my thoughts for twenty-fours hours." "i'd like to go out with papa," said lucy, who sat carefully drinking her cambric tea, so that she might not spill a drop on the mahogany table. "i want to go with papa," remarked harry obstreperously, while he began to drum with his spoon on the red tin tray which protected the table from his assaults. "papa can't go with you, darling, but if mamma finishes her unpacking in time, she'll come out into the park and play with you a little while. be careful, harry, you are spilling your milk. let mamma take your spoon out for you." her coffee, which she had poured out a quarter of an hour ago, stood untasted and tepid beside her plate, but from long habit she had grown to prefer it in that condition. when the waffles were handed to her, she had absent-mindedly helped herself to one, while she watched harry's reckless efforts to cut up his bacon, and it had grown sodden before she remembered that it ought to be buttered. she wore the black skirt and blue blouse in which she had travelled, for she had neglected to unpack her own clothes in her eagerness to get out the things that oliver and the children might need. her hair had been hastily coiled around her head, without so much as a glance in the mirror, but the expression of unselfish goodness in her face lent a charm even to the careless fashion in which she had put on her clothes. she was one of those women whose beauty, being essentially virginal, belongs, like the blush of the rose, to a particular season. the delicacy of her skin invited the mark of time or of anxiety, and already fine little lines were visible, in the strong light of the morning, at the corners of her eyes and mouth. yet neither the years or her physical neglect of herself could destroy the look of almost angelic sweetness and love which illumined her features. "are you obliged to go to new york next week, oliver?" she asked, dividing her attention equally between him and harry's knife and fork. "can't they rehearse 'the beaten road' just as well without you?" "no, i want to be there. is there any reason why i shouldn't?" "of course not. i was only thinking that harry's birthday comes on friday, and we should miss you." "well, i'm awfully sorry, but he'll have to grow old without me. by the way, why can't you run on with me for the first night, virginia? your mother can look after the babies for a couple of days, can't she?" but the absent-minded look of young motherhood had settled again on virginia's face, for the voice of jenny, raised in exasperated demand, was heard from the nursery above. "i wonder what's the matter?" she said, half rising in her chair, while she glanced nervously at the door. "she was so fretful last night, oliver, that i'm afraid she is going to be sick. will you keep an eye on harry while i run up and see?" ten minutes later she came down again, and began, with a relieved manner, to stir her cold coffee. "what were you saying, oliver?" she inquired so sweetly that his irritation vanished. "i was just asking you if you couldn't let your mother look after the youngsters for a day or two and come on with me." "oh, i'd give anything in the world to see it, but i couldn't possibly leave the children. i'd be so terribly anxious for fear something would happen." "sometimes i get in a blue funk about that play," he said seriously. "i've staked so much on it that i'll be pretty well cut up, morally and financially, if it doesn't go." "but of course it will go, oliver. anybody could tell that just to read it. didn't mr. martin write you that he thought it one of the strongest plays ever written in america--and i'm sure that is a great deal for a manager to say. nobody could read a line of it without seeing that it is a work of genius." for an instant he appeared to draw assurance from her praise; then his face clouded, and he responded doubtfully: "but you thought just as well of 'april winds,' and nobody would look at that." "well, that was perfect too, of its kind, but of course they are different." "i never thought much of that," he said, "but i honestly believe that 'the beaten road' is a great play. that's my judgment, and i'll stand by it." "of course it's great," she returned emphatically. "no, harry, you can't have any more syrup on your buckwheat cake. you have eaten more already than sister lucy, and she is two years older than you are." "give it to the little beggar. it won't hurt him," said oliver impatiently, as harry began to protest. "but he really oughtn't to have it, oliver. well, then, just a drop. oh, oliver, you've given him a great deal too much. here, take mamma's plate and give her yours, harry." but harry made no answer to her plea, because he was busily eating the syrup as fast as he could under pressure of the fear that he might lose it all if he procrastinated. "he'll be sick before night and you'll have yourself to blame, oliver," said virginia reproachfully. ever since the babies had come she had assumed naturally that oliver's interest in the small details of his children's clothes or health was perpetually fresh and absorbing like her own, and her habit of not seeing what she did not want to see in life had protected her from the painful discovery that he was occasionally bored. once he had even tried to explain to her that, although he loved the children better than either his plays or the political fate of nations, there were times when the latter questions interested him considerably more; but the humour with which he inadvertently veiled his protest had turned the point of it entirely away from her comprehension. a deeper impression was made upon her by the fact that he had refused to stop reading about the last presidential campaign long enough to come and persuade harry to swallow a dose of medicine. she, who seldom read a newspaper, and was innocent of any desire to exert even the most indirect influence upon the elections, had waked in the night to ask herself if it could possibly be true that oliver loved the children less passionately than she did. "i've got to get to work now, dear," he said, rising. "i haven't had a quiet breakfast since harry first came to the table. don't you think marthy might feed him upstairs again?" "oh, oliver! it would break his heart. he would think that he was in disgrace." "well, i'm not sure that he oughtn't to be. now, lucy's all right. she behaves like a lady--but if you consider harry an appetizing table companion, i don't." "but, dearest, he's only a baby! and boys are different from girls. you can't expect them to have as good manners." "i can't remember that i ever made a nuisance of myself." "your father was very strict with you. but surely you don't think it is right to make your children afraid of you?" the genuine distress in her voice brought a laugh from him. "oh, well, they are your children, darling, and you may do as you please with them." "bad papa!" said harry suddenly, chasing the last drop of syrup around his plate with a bit of bread crumb. "oh, no, precious; good papa! you must promise papa to be a little gentleman or he won't let you breakfast with him any more." it was virginia's proud boast that harry's smile would melt even his great-uncle, cyrus, and she watched him with breathless rapture as he turned now in his high chair and tested the effect of this magic charm on his father. his baby mouth broadened deliciously, showing two rows of small irregular teeth; his blue eyes shone until they seemed full of sparkles; his roguish, irresistible face became an incarnation of infant entreaty. "i want to bekfast wid papa, an' i want more 'lasses," he remarked. "he's a fascinating little rascal, there's no doubt of that," observed oliver, in response to virginia's triumphant look. then, bending over, he kissed her on the cheek, before he picked up his newspapers and went into his study at the back of the parlour. some hours later, at their early dinner, she reported the result of her visit to the treadwells. "it is too awful, oliver. aunt belinda has not spoken yet, and she can't move the lower part of her body at all. the doctor says she may live for years, but he doesn't think she will ever be able to walk again. i feel so sorry for her and for poor susan. do you know, susan engaged herself to john henry last night just before her mother was paralyzed, and they were to be married in december. but now she says she will give him up." "john henry!" exclaimed oliver in amazement. "why, what in the world does she see in john henry?" "i don't know--one never knows what people see in each other, but she has been in love with him all her life, i believe." "well, it's rough on her. is she obliged to break off with him now?" "she says it wouldn't be fair to him not to. her whole time must be given to nursing her mother. there's something splendid about susan, oliver. i never realized it as much as i did to-day. whatever she does, you may be sure it will be because it is right to do it. she sees everything so clearly, and her wishes never obscure her judgment." "it's a pity. she'd make a great mother, wouldn't she? but life doesn't seem able to get along without a sacrifice of the fittest." in the afternoon mrs. pendleton came over, but the two women were so busy arranging the furniture in its proper place, and laying away oliver's and the children's things in drawers and closets, that not until the entire house had been put in order, did they find time to sit down for a few minutes in the nursery and discuss the future of susan. "i believe john henry will want to marry her and go to live at the treadwells', if susan will let him," remarked mrs. pendleton. "how on earth could he get on with uncle cyrus?" ever since her marriage virginia had followed oliver's habit and spoken of cyrus as "uncle." "well, i don't suppose even john henry could do that, but perhaps he thinks anything would be better than losing susan." "and he's right," returned virginia loyally, while she got out her work-bag and began sorting the array of stockings that needed darning. "do you know, mother, oliver seems to think that i might go to new york with him." "and leave the children, jinny?" "of course i've told him that i can't, but he's asked me two or three times to let you look after them for a day or two." "i'd love to do it, darling--but you've never spent a night away from one of them since lucy was born, have you?" "no, and i'd be perfectly miserable--only i can't make oliver understand it. of course, they'd be just as safe with you as with me, but i'd keep imagining every minute that something had happened." "i know exactly how you feel, dear. i never spent a night outside my home after my first child came until you grew up. i don't see how any true woman could bear to do it, unless, of course, she was called away because of a serious illness." "if oliver were ill, or you, or father, i'd go in a minute unless one of the children was really sick--but just to see a play is different, and i'd feel as if i were neglecting my duty. the funny part is that oliver is so wrapped up in this play that he doesn't seem to be able to get his mind off it, poor darling. father was never that way about his sermons, was he?" "your father never thought of himself or of his own interests enough, jinny. if he ever had a fault, it was that. but i suppose he approaches perfection as nearly as a man ever did." slipping the darning gourd into the toe of one of lucy's little white stockings, virginia gazed attentively at a small round hole while she held her needle arrested slightly above it. so exquisitely madonna-like was the poise of her head and the dreaming, prophetic mystery in her face, that mrs. pendleton waited almost breathlessly for her words. "there's not a single thing that i would change in oliver, if i could," she said at last. "it is so beautiful that you feel that way, darling. i suppose all happily married women do." a week later, across harry's birthday cake, which stood surrounded by four candles in the centre of the rectory table, virginia offered her cheerful explanation of oliver's absence, in reply to a mild inquiry from the rector. "he was obliged to go to new york yesterday about the rehearsal of 'the beaten road,' father. we were both so sorry he couldn't be here to-day, but it was impossible for him to wait over." "it's a pity," said the rector gently. "harry will never be just four years old again, will you, little man?" even the substantial fact that oliver's play would, it was hoped, provide a financial support for his children, did not suffice to lift it from the region of the unimportant in the mind of his father-in-law. "but he'll have plenty of other birthdays when papa will be here," remarked virginia brightly. though she had been a little hurt to find that oliver had arranged to leave home the night before, and that he had appeared perfectly blind to the importance of his presence at harry's celebration, her native good sense had not permitted her to make a grievance out of the matter. on her wedding day she had resolved that she would not be exacting of oliver's time or attention, and the sweetness of her disposition had smoothed away any difficulties which had intervened between her and her ideal of wifehood. from the first, love had meant to her the opportunity of giving rather than the privilege of receiving, and her failure to regard herself as of supreme consequence in any situation had protected her from the minor troubles and disillusionments of marriage. "it is too bad to think that dear oliver will have to be away for two whole weeks," said mrs. pendleton. "is he obliged to stay that long?" asked the rector, sympathetically. never having missed an anniversary since the war, he could look upon oliver's absence as a fit subject for condolence. "he can't possibly come home until the play is produced, and that won't be for two weeks yet," replied virginia. "but i thought it rested with the actors now. couldn't they go on just as well without him?" "he thinks not, and, of course, it is such a great play that he doesn't want to take any risks with it." "of course he doesn't," assented mrs. pendleton, who had believed that the stage was immoral until virginia's husband began to write for it. "i know he'll come back the very first minute that he can get away," said virginia with conviction, before she stooped to comfort harry, who was depressed by the discovery that he was not expected to eat his entire cake, but instantly hopeful when he was promised a slice of sister lucy's in the summer. late in the afternoon, when the children, warmly wrapped in extra shawls by mrs. pendleton, were led back through the cold to the house in prince street, one and all of the party agreed that it was the nicest birthday that had ever been. "i like grandma's cake better than our cake," announced harry above his white muffler. "why can't we have cake like that, mamma?" he was trotting sturdily, with his hand in virginia's, behind the perambulator, which contained a much muffled jenny, and at his words mrs. pendleton, who walked a little ahead, turned suddenly and hugged him tight for an instant. "just listen to the darling boy!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice. "because nobody else can make such good cake as grandma's," answered virginia, quite as pleased as her mother. "and she's going to give you one every birthday as long as you live." "can't i have another birthday soon, mamma?" "not till after sister lucy's. you want sister lucy to have one, don't you? and dear little jenny?" "but why can't i have a cake without a birthday, mamma?" "you may, precious, and grandma will make you one," said mrs. pendleton, as she helped marthy wheel the perambulator over the slippery crossing and into the front gate. on the hall table there was a telegram from oliver, and virginia tore it open while her mother and marthy unfastened the children's wraps. "he's at the hotel bertram," she said joyously, "and he says the rehearsals are going splendidly." "did he mention harry's birthday?" asked mrs. pendleton, trying to hide the instinctive dread which the sight of a telegram aroused in her. "he must have forgotten it. can't you come upstairs to the nursery with us, mother?" "no, your father is all alone. i must be getting back," replied mrs. pendleton gently. an hour or two later, when virginia sat in her rocking-chair before the nursery fire, with harry, worn out with his play and forgetful of the dignity of his four years, asleep in her lap, she opened the telegram again and reread it hungrily while the light of love shone in her face. she knew intuitively that oliver had sent the telegram because he had not written--and would not write, probably, until he had finished with the hardest work of his play. it was an easy thing to do--it took considerably less of his time than a letter would have done; but she had inherited from her mother the sentimental vision of life which unconsciously magnifies the meaning of trivial attentions. she looked through her emotions as through a prism on the simple fact of his telegraphing, and it became immediately transfigured. how dear it was of him to realize that she would be anxious until she heard from him! how lonely he must be all by himself in that great city! how much he must have wanted to be with harry on his birthday! sitting there in the fire-lit nursery, her heart sent out waves of love and sympathy to him across the distance and the twilight. on the rug at her feet lucy rocked in her little chair, crooning to her doll with the beginnings of the mother instinct already softening her voice, and in the adjoining room jenny lay asleep in her crib while the faithful marthy watched by her side. beyond the window a fine icy rain had begun to fall, and down the long street she could see the lamps flickering in revolving circles of frost. in the midst of the frozen streets, that little centre of red firelight separated her as completely from the other twenty-one thousand human beings among whom she lived as did the glow of personal joy that suffused her thoughts. from the dusk below she heard the tapping of a blind beggar's stick on the pavement, and the sound made, while it lasted, a plaintive accompaniment to the lullaby she was singing. "two whole weeks," she thought, while her longing reached out to that unknown room in which she pictured oliver sitting alone. "two whole weeks. how hard it will be for him." in her guarded ignorance of the world she could not imagine that oliver was suffering less from this enforced absence from all he loved than she herself would have suffered had she been in his place. of course, men were different from women--that ancient dogma was embodied in the leading clause of her creed of life; but she had always understood that this difference vanished in some miraculous way after marriage. she knew that oliver had to work, of course--how otherwise could he support his family?--but the idea that his work might ever usurp the place in his heart that belonged to her and the children would have been utterly incomprehensible to her had she ever thought of it. jealousy was an alien weed, which could not take root in the benign soil of her nature. for a week there was no letter from oliver, and at the end of that time a few lines scrawled on a sheet of hotel paper explained that he spent every minute of his time at the theatre. "poor fellow, it's dreadfully hard on him, isn't it?" virginia said to her mother, when she showed her the imposing picture of the hotel at the head of his letter. there was no hint of compassion for herself in her voice. her pity was entirely for oliver, constrained to be away for two whole weeks from his children, who grew more interesting and delightful every day that they lived. "harry has gone into the first reader," she added, turning from the storeroom shelves on which she was laying strips of white oilcloth. "he will be able to read his lesson to oliver when he comes home." "i have always understood that your father could read his bible at the age of four," remarked mrs. pendleton, who passionately treasured this solitary proof of the rector's brilliancy. "i am afraid harry is backward. he hates his letters--especially the letter a--so much that it takes me an hour sometimes to get him to say it after me. my only comfort is that oliver says he couldn't read a line until he was over seven years old. would you scallop this oilcloth, mother, or leave it plain?" "i always scallop mine. mrs. treadwell must be better, jinny; susan sent me a dessert yesterday." "yes, but she will never be able to move herself. do you think that poor susan will marry john henry now?" "i wonder?" replied mrs. pendleton vaguely. then the sound of harry's laughter floated in suddenly from the backyard, and her eyes, following virginia's, turned automatically to the pantry window. "they've come home for a snack, i suppose?" she said. "shall i fix some bread and preserves for them?" "oh, i'll do it," responded virginia, while she reached for the crock of blackberry jam on the shelf at her side. another week passed and there was no word from oliver, until mrs. pendleton came in at dusk one evening, with an anxious look on her face and a folded newspaper held tightly in her hand. "have you seen any of the accounts of oliver's play, jinny?" she asked. "no, i haven't had time to look at the papers to-day--harry has hurt his foot." she spoke placidly, looking up from the nursery floor, where she knelt beside a basin of warm water at harry's feet. "poor little fellow, he fell on a pile of bricks," she added, "but he's such a hero he never even whimpered, did he, darling?" "but it hurt bad," said harry eagerly. "of course, it hurt dreadfully, and if he hadn't been a man he would have cried." "sister would have cried," exulted the hero. "indeed, sister would have cried. sister is a girl," responded virginia, smothering him with kisses over the basin of water. but mrs. pendleton refused to be diverted from her purpose even by the heroism of her grandson. "john henry found this in a new york paper and brought it to me. he thought you ought to see it, though, of course, it may not be so serious as it sounds." "serious?" repeated virginia, letting the soapy washrag fall back into the basin while she stretched out her moist and reddened hand for the paper. "it says that the play didn't go very well," pursued her mother guardedly. "they expect to take it off at once, and--and oliver is not well--he is ill in the hotel----" "ill?" cried virginia, and as she rose to her feet the basin upset and deluged harry's shoes and the rug on which she had been kneeling. her mind, unable to grasp the significance of a theatrical failure, had seized upon the one salient fact which concerned her. plays might succeed or fail, and it made little difference, but illness was another matter--illness was something definite and material. illness could neither be talked away by religion nor denied by philosophy. it had its place in her mind not with the shadow, but with the substance of things. it was the one sinister force which had always dominated her, even when it was absent, by the sheer terror it aroused in her thoughts. "let me see," she said chokingly. "no, i can't read it--tell me." "it only says that the play was a failure--nobody understood it, and a great many people said it was--oh, virginia--_immoral!_--there's something about its being foreign and an attack on american ideals--and then they add that the author refused to be interviewed and they understood that he was ill in his room at the bertram." the charge of immorality, which would have crushed virginia at another time, and which, even in the intense excitement of the moment, had been an added stab to mrs. pendleton, was brushed aside as if it were the pestiferous attack of an insect. "i am going to him now--at once--when does the train leave, mother?" "but, jinny, how can you? you have never been to new york. you wouldn't know where to go." "but he is ill. nothing on earth is going to keep me away from him. will you please wipe harry's feet while i try to get on my clothes?" "but, jinny, the children?" "you and marthy must look after the children. of course i can't take them with me. oh, harry, won't you please hush and let poor mamma dress? she is almost distracted." something--a secret force of character which even her mother had not suspected that she possessed--had arisen in an instant and dominated the situation. she was no longer the gentle and doting mother of a minute ago, but a creature of a fixed purpose and an iron resolution. even her face appeared to lose its soft contour and hardened until mrs. pendleton grew almost frightened. never had she imagined that virginia could look like this. "i am sure there is some mistake about it. don't take it so terribly to heart, jinny," she pleaded, while she knelt down, cowed and obedient, to wipe harry's feet. virginia, who had already torn off her house dress, and was hurriedly buttoning the navy blue waist in which she had travelled, looked at her calmly without pausing for an instant in her task. "will you bind up his foot with some arnica?" she asked. "there's an old handkerchief in my work basket. i want you and father to come here and stay until i get back. it will be less trouble than moving all their things over to the rectory." "very well, darling," replied mrs. pendleton meekly. "we'll do everything that we can, of course," and she added timidly, "have you money enough?" "i have thirty dollars. i just got it out of the bank to-day to pay marthy and my housekeeping bills. do you think that will be as much as i'll need?" "i should think so, dear. of course, if you find you want more, you can telegraph your father." "the train doesn't leave for two hours, so i'll have plenty of time to get ready. it's just half-past six now, and oliver didn't leave the house till eight o'clock." "won't you take a little something to eat before you go?" "i couldn't swallow a morsel, but i'll sit with you and the children as soon as i've put the things in my satchel. i couldn't possibly need but this one dress, could i? if oliver isn't really ill, i hope we can start home to-morrow. that will be two nights that i'll spend away. oh, mother, ask father to pray that he won't be ill." her voice broke, but she fiercely bit back the sob before it escaped her lips. "i will, dear, i promise you. we will both think of you and pray for you every minute. jinny, are you sure it's wise? couldn't we send some one--john henry would go, i know--in your place?" a spasm of irritation contracted virginia's features. "please don't, mother," she begged, "it just worries me. whatever happens, i am going." then she sobbed outright. "he wanted me to go with him at first, and i wouldn't because i thought it was my duty to stay at home with the children. if anything should happen to him, i'd never forgive myself." she was slipping her black cloth skirt over her head as she spoke, and her terror-stricken face disappeared under the pleats before mrs. pendleton could turn to look at her. when her head emerged again above the belt of her skirt, the expression of her features had grown more natural. "you'll go down in a carriage, won't you?" inquired her mother, whose mind achieved that perfect mixture of the sentimental and the practical which is rarely found in any except southern women. "i suppose i'll have to. then i can take my satchel with me, and that will save trouble. you won't forget, mother, that i give lucy a teaspoonful of cod-liver oil after each meal, will you? she has had that hacking cough for three weeks, and i want to break it up." "i'll remember, jinny, but i'm so miserable about your going alone." turning to the closet, virginia unearthed an old black satchel from beneath a pile of toys, and began dusting it inside with a towel. then she took out some underclothes from a bureau drawer and a few toilet articles, which she wrapped in pieces of tissue paper. her movements were so methodical that the nervousness in mrs. pendleton's mind slowly gave way to astonishment. for the first time in her life, perhaps, the mother realized that her daughter was no longer a child, but a woman, and a woman whose character was as strong and as determined as her own. vaguely she understood, without analyzing the motives that moved virginia, that this strength and this determination which so impressed her had arisen from those deep places in her daughter's soul where emotion and not thought had its source. love was guiding her now as surely as it had guided her when she had refused to go with oliver to new york, or when, but a few minutes ago, she had knelt down to wash and bandage harry's little earth-stained feet. it was the only power to which she would ever surrender. no other principle would ever direct or control her. marthy, who appeared with jenny's supper, was sent out to order the carriage and to bear a message to the rector, and virginia took the little girl in her lap and began to crumble the bread into the bowl of milk. "wouldn't you like me to do that, dear?" asked mrs. pendleton, with a submission in her tone which she had never used before except to the rector. "don't you want to fix your hair over?" "oh, no, i'll keep on my hat till i go to bed, so it doesn't matter. i'd rather you'd finish my packing if you don't mind. there's nothing more to go in except some collars and my bedroom slippers and that red wrapper hanging behind the door in the closet." "are you going to take any medicine?" "only that bottle of camphor and some mustard plasters. yes, you'd better put in the brandy flask and the aromatic ammonia. you can never tell when you will need them. now, my darlings, mother is going away and you must keep well and be as good as gold until she comes back." to the amazement of mrs. pendleton (who reflected that you really never knew what to expect of children), this appeal produced an immediate and extraordinary result. lucy, who had been fidgeting about and trying to help with the packing, became suddenly solemn and dignified, while an ennobling excitement mounted to harry's face. never particularly obedient before, they became, as soon as the words were uttered, as amenable as angels. even jenny stopped feeding long enough to raise herself and pat her mother's cheek with ten caressing, milky fingers. "mother's going away," said lucy in a solemn voice, and a hush fell on the three of them. "and grandma's coming here to live," added harry after the silence had grown so depressing that virginia had started to cry. "not to live, precious," corrected mrs. pendleton quickly. "just to spend two days with you. mother will be home in two days." "mother will be home in two days," repeated lucy. "may i stay away from school while you're away, mamma?" "and may i stop learning my letters?" asked harry. "no, darlings, you must do just as if i were here. grandma will take care of you. now promise me that you will be good." they promised obediently, awed to submission by the stupendous importance of the change. it is probable that they would have observed with less surprise any miraculous upheaval in the orderly phenomena of nature. "i don't see how i can possibly leave them--they are so good, and they behave exactly as if they realized how anxious i am," wept virginia, breaking down when marthy came to announce that the rector had come and the carriage was at the door. "suppose you give it up, jinny. i--i'll send your father," pleaded mrs. pendleton, in desperation as she watched the tragedy of the parting. but that strange force which the situation had developed in virginia yielded neither to her mother's prayers nor to the last despairing wails of the children, who realized, at the sight of the black bag in marthy's hands, that their providence was actually deserting them. the deepest of her instincts--the instinct that was at the root of all her mother love--was threatened, and she rose to battle. the thing she loved best, she had learned, was neither husband nor child, but the one that needed her. chapter v failure she had lain down in her clothes, impelled by the feeling that if there were to be a wreck she should prefer to appear completely dressed; so when the chill dawn came at last and the train pulled into jersey city, she had nothing to do except to adjust her veil and wait patiently until the porter came for her bag. his colour, which was black, inspired her with confidence, and she followed him trustfully to the platform, where he delivered her to another smiling member of his race. the cold was so penetrating that her teeth began to chatter as she turned to obey the orders of the dusky official who had assumed command of her. never had she felt anything so bleak as the atmosphere of the station. never in her life had she been so lonely as she was while she hurried down the long dim platform in the direction of a gate which looked as if it led into a prison. she was chilled through; her skin felt as if it had turned to india rubber; there was a sickening terror in her soul; and she longed above all things to sit down on one of the inhospitable tracks and burst into tears; but something stronger than impulse urged her shivering body onward and controlled the twitching muscles about her mouth. "in a few minutes i shall see oliver. oliver is ill and i am going to him," she repeated over and over to herself as if she were reciting a prayer. inside the station she declined the offer of breakfast, and was conducted to the ferry, where she was obliged to run in order to catch the boat that was just leaving. seated on one of the long benches in the saloon, with her bag at her feet and her umbrella grasped tightly in her hand, she gazed helplessly at the other passengers and wondered if any one of them would tell her what to do when she reached the opposite side. the women, she thought, looked hard and harassed, and the men she could not see because of the rows of newspapers behind which they were hidden. once her wandering gaze caught the eyes of a middle-aged woman in rusty black, who smiled at her above the head of a sleeping child. "that's a pretty woman," said a man carelessly, as he put down his paper, and she realized that he was talking about her to his companion. then, as the terrible outlines of the city grew more distinct on the horizon, he got up and strolled as carelessly past her to the deck. he had spoken of her as indifferently as he might have spoken of the weather. as the tremendous battlements (which were not tremendous to any of the other passengers) emerged slowly from the mist and cleft the sombre low-hanging clouds, from which a few flakes of snow fell, her terror vanished suddenly before the excitement which ran through her body. she forgot her hunger, her loneliness, her shivering flesh, her benumbed and aching feet. a sensation not unlike the one with which the rector had marched into his first battle, fortified and exhilarated her. the fighting blood of of her ancestors grew warm in her veins. new york developed suddenly from a mere spot on a map into a romance made into brick; and when a ray of sunlight pierced the heavy fog, and lay like a white wing aslant the few falling snowflakes, it seemed to her that the shadowy buildings lost their sinister aspect and softened into a haunting and mysterious beauty. somewhere in that place of mystery and adventure oliver was waiting for her! he was a part of that vast movement of life into which she was going. then, youth, from which hope is never long absent, flamed up in her, and she was glad that she was still beautiful enough to cause strangers to turn and look at her. but this mood, also, passed quickly, and a little later, while she rolled through the grey streets, into which the slant sunbeams could bring no colour, she surrendered again to that terror of the unknown which had seized her when she stood in the station. the beauty had departed from the buildings; the pavements were dirty; the little discoloured piles of snow made the crossings slippery and dangerous; and she held her breath as they passed through the crowded streets on the west side, overcome by the fear of "catching" some malign malady from the smells and the filth. the negro quarters in dinwiddie were dirty enough, but not, she thought with a kind of triumph, quite so dirty as new york. when the cab turned into fifth avenue, she took her handkerchief from her nostrils; but this imposing street, which had not yet emerged from its evil dream of victorian brownstone, impressed her chiefly as a place of a thousand prisons. it was impossible to believe that those frowning walls, undecorated by a creeper or the shadow of a tree, could really be homes where people lived and children were born. at first she had gazed with a childish interest and curiosity on the houses she was passing; then the sense of strangeness gave place presently to the exigent necessity of reaching oliver as soon as possible. but the driver appeared indifferent to her timid taps on the glass at his back, while the horse progressed with the feeble activity of one who had spent a quarter of a century ineffectually making an effort. her impatience, which she had at first kept under control, began to run in quivers of nervousness through her limbs. the very richness of her personal life, which had condensed all experience into a single emotional centre, and restricted her vision of the universe to that solitary window of the soul through which she looked, prevented her now from seeing in the city anything except the dreary background of oliver's illness and failure. the naïve wonder with which she had watched the gigantic outlines shape themselves out of the white fog, had faded utterly from her mind. she ached with longing to reach oliver and to find him well enough to take the first train back to dinwiddie. at the hotel her bag and umbrella were wrested from her by an imperious uniformed attendant, and in what seemed to her an incredibly short space of time, she was following him along a velvet lined corridor on the tenth floor. the swift ascent in the elevator had made her dizzy, and the physical sensation reminded her that she was weak for food. then the attendant rapped imperatively at a door just beyond a shining staircase, and she forgot herself as completely as it had been her habit to do since her marriage. "come in!" responded a muffled voice on the inside, and as the door swung open, she saw oliver, in his dressing-gown, and with an unshaved face, reading a newspaper beside a table on which stood an untasted cup of coffee. "i didn't ring," he began impatiently, and then starting to his feet, he uttered her name in a voice which held her standing as if she were suddenly paralyzed on the threshold. "virginia!" a sob rose in her throat, and her faltering gaze passed from him to the hotel attendant, who responded to her unspoken appeal as readily as if it were a part of his regular business. pushing her gently inside, he placed her bag and umbrella on an empty chair, took up the breakfast tray from the table, and inquired, with a kindness which strangely humbled her, if she wished to give an order. when she had helplessly shaken her head, he bowed and went out, closing the door softly upon their meeting. "what in thunder, virginia?" began oliver, and she realized that he was angry. "i heard you were sick--that the play had failed. i was so sorry i hadn't come with you--" she explained; and then, understanding for the first time the utter foolishness of what she had done, she put her hands up to her face and burst into tears. he had risen from his chair, but he made no movement to come nearer to her, and when she took down her hands in order to wipe her eyes, she saw an expression in his face which frightened her by its strangeness. she had caught him when that guard which every human being--even a husband--wears, had fallen away, though in her ignorance it seemed to her that he had become suddenly another person. that she had entered into one of those awful hours of self-realization, when the soul must face its limitations alone and make its readjustments in silence, did not occur to her, because she, who had lived every minute of her life under the eyes of her parents or her children, could have no comprehension of the hunger for solitude which was devouring oliver's heart. she saw merely that he did not want her--that she had not only startled, but angered him by coming; and the bitterness of that instant seemed to her more than she was able to bear. something had changed him; he was older, he was harder, he was embittered. "i--i am so sorry," she stammered; and because even in the agony of this moment she could not think long of herself, she added almost humbly, "would you rather that i should go back again?" then, by the haggard look of his face as he turned away from her towards the window, she saw that he, also, was suffering, and her soul yearned over him as it had yearned over harry when he had had the toothache. "oh, oliver!" she cried, and again, "oh, oliver, won't you let me help you?" but he was in the mood of despairing humiliation when one may support abuse better than pity. his failure, he knew, had been undeserved, and he was still smarting from the injustice of it as from the blows of a whip. for twenty-four hours his nerves had been on the rack, and his one desire had been to hide himself in the spiritual nakedness to which he was stripped. had he been obliged to choose a witness to his suffering, it is probable that he would have selected a stranger from the street rather than his wife. the one thing that could have helped him, an intelligent justification of his work, she was powerless to give. in his need she had nothing except love to offer; and love, she felt instinctively, was not the balm for his wound. afraid and yet passionately longing to meet his eyes, she let her gaze fall away from him and wander timidly, as if uncertain where to rest, about the disordered room, with its dull red walls, its cheap nottingham lace curtains tied back with cords, its elaborately carved walnut furniture, and its litter of days old newspapers upon the bed. she saw his neckties hanging in an uneven row over the oblong mirror, and she controlled a nervous impulse to straighten them out and put them away. "why didn't you telegraph me?" he asked, after a pause in which she had struggled vainly to look as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he should receive her in this way. "if i had known you were coming, i should have met you." "father wanted to, but i wouldn't let him," she answered. "i--i thought you were sick." in spite of his despair, it is probable that at the moment she was suffering more than he was--since a wound to love strikes deeper, after all, than a wound to ambition. where she had expected to find her husband, she felt vaguely that she had encountered a stranger, and she was overwhelmed by that sense of irremediable loss which follows the discovery of terrible and unfamiliar qualities in those whom we have known and loved intimately for years. the fact that he was plainly struggling to disguise his annoyance, that he was trying as hard as she to assume a manner he did not feel, only added a sardonic humour to poignant tragedy. "have you had anything to eat?" he asked abruptly, and remembering that he had not kissed her when she entered, he put his arm about her and brushed her cheek with his lips. "no, i waited to breakfast with you. i was in such a hurry to get here." "by jove!" he exclaimed, and going over to the bell, he touched it with the manner of a man who is delighted that anything so perfectly practical as food exists in the world. while he was speaking to the waiter, she took off her hat, and washed the stains of smoke and tears from her face. her hair was a sight, she thought, but while she gazed back at her stricken eyes in the little mirror over the washstand, she recalled with a throb of gratitude that the stranger on the boat had said she was pretty. she felt so humble that she clung almost with desperation to the thought that oliver always liked to have people admire her. when she turned from the washstand, he was reading the newspaper again, and he put it aside with a forced cheerfulness to arrange the table for breakfast. "aren't you going to have something too?" she asked, looking disconsolately at the tray, for all her hunger had departed. if he would only be natural she felt that she could bear anything! if he would only stop trying to pretend that he was not miserable and that nothing had happened! after all, it couldn't be so very bad, could it? it wasn't in the least as if one of the children were ill. she poured out a cup of coffee for him before drinking her own, and putting it down on the table at his side, waited patiently until he should look up again from his paper. a lump as hard as lead had risen in her throat and was choking her. "are the children well?" he asked presently, and she answered with an affected brightness more harrowing than tears, "yes, mother is taking care of them. lucy still has the little cough, but i'm giving her cod-liver oil. and, what do you think? i have a surprise for you. harry can read the first lesson in his reader." he smiled kindly back at her, but from the vacancy in his face, she realized that he had not taken in a word that she had said. his trouble, whatever it was, could absorb him so utterly that he had ceased even to be interested in his children. he, who had borne so calmly the loss of that day-old baby for whom she had grieved herself to a shadow, was plunged into this condition of abject hopelessness merely because his play was a failure! it was not only impossible for her to share his suffering; she realized, while she watched him, that she could not so much as comprehend it. her limitations, of which she had never been acutely conscious until to-day, appeared suddenly insurmountable. love, which had seemed to her to solve all problems and to smooth all difficulties, was helpless to enlighten her. it was not love--it was something else that she needed now, and of this something else she knew not even so much as the name. she drank her coffee quickly, fearing that if she did not take food she should lose control of herself and anger him by a display of hysterics. "i don't wonder you couldn't drink your coffee," she said with a quivering little laugh. "it must have been made yesterday." then, unable to bear the strain any longer, she cried out sharply: "oh, oliver, won't you tell me what is the matter?" his look grew hard, while a spasm of irritation contracted his mouth. "there's nothing you need worry about--except that i've borrowed money, and i'm afraid we'll have to cut down things a bit until i manage to pay it back." "why, of course we'll cut down things," she almost laughed in her relief. "we can live on a great deal less, and i'll market so carefully that you will hardly know the difference. i'll put marthy in the kitchen and take care of the children myself. it won't be the least bit of trouble." she knew by his face that he was grateful to her, though he said merely: "i'm a little knocked up, i suppose, so you mustn't mind. i've got a beast of a headache. martin is going to take 'the beaten road' off at the end of the week, you know, and he doesn't think now that he will produce the other. there wasn't a good word for me from the critics, and yet, damn them, i know that the play is the best one that's ever come out of america. but it's real--that's why they fell foul of it--it isn't stuffed with sugar plums." "why, what in the world possessed them?" she returned indignantly. "it is a beautiful play." she saw him flinch at the word, and the sombre irritation which his outburst had relieved for a minute, settled again on his features. her praise, she understood, only exasperated him, though she did not realize that it was the lack of discrimination in it which aroused his irritation. at the moment, intelligent appreciation of his work would have been bread and meat to him, but her pitiful attempts at flattery were like bungling touches on raw flesh. had he written the veriest rags of sentimental rubbish, he knew she would as passionately have defended their "beauty." "i'll get dressed quickly and look after some business," he said, "and we'll go home to-night." her eyes shone, and she began to eat her eggs with a resolution born of the consoling memory of dinwiddie. if only they could be at home again with the children, she felt that all this trouble and misunderstanding would vanish. with a strange confusion of ideas, it seemed to her that oliver's suffering had been in some mysterious way produced by new york, and that it existed merely within the circumscribed limits of this dreadful city. "oh, oliver, that will be lovely!" she exclaimed, and tried to subdue the note of joy in her voice. "i shan't be able to get back to lunch, i'm afraid. what will you do about it?" "don't bother about me, dearest. i'll dress and take a little walk just to see what fifth avenue is like. i can't get lost if i go perfectly straight up the street, can i?" "fifth avenue is only a block away. you can't miss it. now i'll hurry and be off." she knew that he was anxious to be alone, and so firmly was she convinced that this mood of detachment would leave him as soon as he was in the midst of his family again, that she was able to smile tolerantly when he kissed her hastily, and seizing his hat, rushed from the room. for a time after he had gone she amused herself putting his things in order and packing the little tin trunk he had brought with him; but the red walls and the steam heat in the room sickened her at last, and when she had bathed and dressed and there seemed nothing left for her to do except get out her work-bag and begin darning his socks, she decided that she would put on her hat and go out for a walk. it did not occur to her to feel hurt by the casual manner in which oliver had shifted the responsibility of her presence--partly owing to a personal inability to take a selfish point of view about anything, and partly because of that racial habit of making allowances for the male in which she had been sedulously trained from her infancy. at the door the porter directed her to fifth avenue, and she ventured cautiously as far as the flowing rivulet at the corner, where she would probably have stood until oliver's return, if a friendly policeman had not observed her stranded helplessness and assisted her over. "how on earth am i to get back again?" she thought, smiling up at him; and this anxiety engrossed her so completely that for a minute she forgot to look at the amazing buildings and the curious crowds that hurried frantically in their shadows. then a pale finger of sunlight pointed suddenly across the high roofs in front of her, and awed, in spite of her preoccupation, by the strangeness of the scene, she stopped and watched the moving carriages in the middle of the street and the never ending stream of people that passed on the wet pavements. occasionally, while she stood there, some of the passers-by would turn and look at her with friendly admiring eyes, as though they found something pleasant in her lovely wistful face and her old-fashioned clothes; and this pleased her so much that she lost her feeling of loneliness. it was a kindly crowd, and because she was young and pretty and worth looking at, a part of the exhilaration of this unknown life passed into her, and she felt for a little while as though she belonged to it. the youth in her responded to the passing call of the streets, to this call which fluted like the sound of pipes in her blood, and lifted her for a moment out of the narrow track of individual experience. it was charming to feel that all these strangers looked kindly upon her, and she tried to show that she returned their interest by letting a little cordial light shine in her eyes. for the first time in her life the personal boundaries of sympathy fell away from her, and she realized, in a fleeting sensation, something of the vast underlying solidarity of human existence. a humble baby in a go-cart waited at one of the crossings for the traffic to pass, and bending over, she hugged him ecstatically, not because he reminded her of harry, but simply because he was a baby. "he is so sweet i just had to squeeze him," she said to his mother, a working woman in a black shawl, who stood behind him. then the two women smiled at each other in that freemasonry of motherhood of which no man is aware, and virginia wondered why people had ever foolishly written of the "indifference of a crowd." the chill which had lain over her heart since her meeting with oliver melted utterly in the glow with which she had embraced the baby at the crossing. with the feeling of his warm little body in her arms, everything had become suddenly right again. new york was no longer a dreadful city, and oliver's failure appeared as brief as the passing pang of a toothache. her natural optimism had returned like a rosy mist to embellish and obscure the prosaic details of the situation. like the cheerful winter sunshine, which transfigured the harsh outlines of the houses, her vision adorned the reality in the mere act of beholding it. midway of the next block there was a jeweller's window full of gems set in intricate patterns, and stopping before it, she studied the trinkets carefully in the hope of being able to describe them to lucy. then a man selling little automatic pigs at the corner attracted her attention, and she bought two for harry and jenny, and carried them triumphantly away in boxes under her arm. she knew that she looked countrified and old-fashioned, and that nobody she met was wearing either a hat or a dress which in the least resembled the style of hers; but the knowledge of this did not trouble her, because in her heart she preferred the kind of clothes which were worn in dinwiddie. the women in new york seemed to her artificial and affected in appearance, and they walked, she thought, as if they were trying to make people look at them. the bold way they laced in their figures she regarded as almost indecent, and she noticed that they looked straight into the eyes of men instead of lowering their lashes when they passed them. her provincialism, like everything else which belonged to her and had become endeared by habit and association, seemed to her so truly beautiful and desirable that she would not have parted with it for worlds. turning presently, she walked down fifth avenue as far as twenty-third street, and then, confused by the crossing, she passed into broadway, without knowing that it was broadway, until she was enlightened by a stranger to whom she appealed. when she began to retrace her steps, she discovered that she was hungry, and she longed to go into one of the places where she saw people eating at little tables; but her terror of what she had heard of the high prices of food in new york restaurants restrained her. general goode still told of paying six dollars and a half for a dinner he had ordered in a hotel in fifth avenue, and her temperamental frugality, reinforced by anxiety as to oliver's debts, preferred to take no unnecessary risks with the small amount in her pocket book. oliver, of course, would have laughed at her petty economies, and have ordered recklessly whatever attracted his appetite; but, as she gently reminded herself again, men were different. on the whole, this lordly prodigality pleased her rather than otherwise. she felt that it was in keeping with the bigness and the virility of the masculine ideal; and if there were pinching and scraping to be done, she immeasurably preferred that it should fall to her lot to do it and not to oliver's. at the hotel she found that oliver had not come in, and after a belated luncheon of tea and toast in the dining-room, she went upstairs and sat down to watch for his return between the nottingham lace curtains at the window. from the terrific height, on which she felt like a sparrow, she could see a row of miniature puppets passing back and forth at the corner of fifth avenue. for hours she tried in vain to distinguish the figure of oliver in the swiftly moving throng, and in spite of herself she could not repress a feeling of pleasant excitement. she knew that oliver would think that she ought to be depressed by his failure, yet she could not prevent the return of a child-like confidence in the profound goodness of life. everything would be right, everything was eternally bound to be right from the beginning. that inherited casuistry of temperament, which had confused the pleasant with the true for generations, had become in her less a moral conviction than a fixed quality of soul. to dwell even for a minute on "the dark side of things" awoke in her the same instinct of mortal sin that she had felt at the discovery that oliver was accustomed to "break" the sabbath by reading profane literature. when, at last, as the dusk fell in the room, she heard his hasty step in the corridor, a wave of joyful expectancy rose in her heart and trembled for utterance on her lips. then the door opened; he came from the gloom into the pale gleam of light that shone in from the window, and with her first look into his face her rising joy ebbed quickly away. a new element, something for which neither her training nor her experience had prepared her, entered at that instant into her life. not the external world, but the sacred inner circle in which they had loved and known each other was suddenly clouded. everything outside of this was the same, but the fact confronted her there as grimly as a physical sore. the evil struck at the very heart of her love, since it was not life, but oliver that had changed. chapter vi the shadow oliver had changed; for months this thought had lain like a stone on her heart. she went about her life just as usual, yet never for an instant during that long winter and spring did she lose consciousness of its dreadful presence. it was the first thing to face her in the morning, the last thing from which she turned when, worn out with perplexity, she fell asleep at night. during the day the children took her thoughts away from it for hours, but never once, not even while she heard harry's lessons or tied the pink or the blue bows in lucy's and jenny's curls, did she ever really forget it. since the failure of oliver's play, which had seemed to her such a little thing in itself, something had gone out of their marriage, and this something was the perfect understanding which had existed between them. there were times when her sympathy appeared to her almost to infuriate him. even her efforts towards economy--for since their return from new york she had put marthy into the kitchen and had taken entire charge of the children--irritated rather than pleased him. and the more she irritated him, the more she sought zealously, by innumerable small attentions, to please and to pacify him. instead of leaving him in the solitude which he sought, and which might have restored him to his normal balance of mind, she became possessed, whenever he shut himself in his study or went alone for a walk, with a frenzied dread lest he should permit himself to "brood" over the financial difficulties in which the wreck of his ambition had placed them. she, who feared loneliness as if it were the smallpox, devised a thousand innocent deceptions by which she might break in upon him when he sat in his study and discover whether he was actually reading the papers or merely pretending to do so. in her natural simplicity, it never occurred to her to penetrate beneath the surface disturbances of his mood. these engrossed her so completely that the cause of them was almost forgotten. dimly she realized that this strange, almost physical soreness, which made him shrink from her presence as a man with weak eyes shrinks from the light, was the outward sign of a secret violence in his soul, yet she ministered helplessly to each passing explosion of temper as if it were the cause instead of the result of his suffering. introspection, which had lain under a moral ban in a society that assumed the existence of an unholy alliance between the secret and the evil, could not help her because she had never indulged in it. partly because of the ingenuous candour of the pendleton nature, and partly owing to the mildness of a climate which made it more comfortable for dinwiddians to live for six months of the year on their front porches and with their windows open, she shared the ingrained southern distrust of any state of mind which could not cheerfully support the observation of the neighbours. she knew that he had turned from his work with disgust, and if he wasn't working and wasn't reading, what on earth could he be doing alone unless he had, as she imagined in desperation, begun wilfully to "nurse his despondency?" even the rector couldn't help her here--for his knowledge of character was strictly limited to the types of the soldier and the churchman, and his son-in-law did not belong, he admitted, in either of these familiar classifications. at the bottom of his soul the good man had always entertained for oliver something of the kindly contempt with which his generation regarded a healthy male, who, it suspected, would decline either to preach a sermon or to kill a man in the cause of morality. but on one line of treatment father and daughter were passionately agreed--whatever happened, it was not good that oliver should be left by himself for a minute. when he was in the bank, of course, where cyrus had found him a place as a clerk on an insignificant salary, it might be safely assumed that he was cheered by the unfailing company of his fellow-workers; but when he came home, the responsibility of his distraction and his cure rested upon virginia and the children. and since her opinion of her own power to entertain was modest, she fell back with a sublime confidence on the unrivalled brilliancy and the infinite variety of the children's prattle. during the spring, as he grew more and more indifferent and depressed, she arranged that the children should be with him every instant while he was in the house. she brought jenny's high chair to the table in order that the adorable infant might breakfast with her father; she kept harry up an hour later at night so that he might add the gaiety of his innocent mirth to their otherwise long and silent evenings. though she would have given anything to drop into bed as soon as the babies were undressed, she forced herself to sit up without yawning until oliver turned out the lights, bolted the door, and remarked irritably that she ought to have been asleep hours ago. "you aren't used to sitting up so late, virginia; it makes you dark under the eyes," he said one june night as he came in from the porch where he had been to look up at the stars. "but i can't go to bed until you do, darling. i get so worried about you," she answered. "why in heaven's name, should you worry about me? i am all right," he responded crossly. she saw her mistake, and with her unvarying sweetness, set out to rectify it. "of course, i know you are--but we have so little time together that i don't want to miss the evenings." "so little!" he echoed, not unkindly, but in simple astonishment. "i mean the children sit up late now, and of course we can't talk while they are playing in the room." "don't you think you might get them to bed earlier? they are becoming rather a nuisance, aren't they?" he said it kindly enough, yet tears rushed to her eyes as she looked at him. it was impossible for her to conceive of any mood in which the children would become "rather a nuisance" to her, and the words hurt her more than he was ever to know. it seemed the last straw that she could not bear, said her heart as she turned away from him. she had borne the extra work without a complaint; she had pinched and scraped, if not happily, at least with a smile; she had sat up while her limbs ached with fatigue and the longing to be in bed--and all these things were as nothing to the tragic confession that the children had become "rather a nuisance." of the many trials she had had to endure, this, she told herself, was the bitterest. though her feet burned and her muscles throbbed with fatigue, she lay awake for hours, with her eyes wide open in the moonlight. all the small harassing duties of the morrow, which usually swarmed like startled bees through her brain at night, were scattered now by this vague terror which assumed no definite shape. the delicacy of lucy's chest, harry's stubborn refusal to learn to spell, and even the harrowing certainty that the children's appetites were fast outstripping the frugal fare she provided--these stinging worries had flown before a new anxiety which was the more poignant, she felt, because she could not give it a name. the pendleton idealism was powerless to dispel this malign shadow which corresponded so closely to that substance of evil whose very existence the pendleton idealism eternally denied. to battle with a delusion was virtually to admit one's belief in its actuality, and this, she reflected passionately, lying awake there in the darkness, was the last thing she was prepared at the moment to do. oliver was changed, and yet her duty was plainly to fortify herself with the consoling assurance that, whatever happened, oliver could never really change. deep down in her that essential fibre of her being which was her soul--which drew its vitality from the racial structure of which it was a part, and yet which distinguished and separated her from every other person and object in the universe--this essential fibre was compacted of innumerable pendleton refusals to face the reality. even with lucy's chest and harry's lessons and the cost of food, she had always felt a soothing conviction that by thinking hard enough about them she could make them every one come out right in the morning. as a normal human being in a world which was not planned on altruistic principles, it was out of the question that she should entirely escape an occasional hour of despondency; but with the narrow outlook of women who lead intense personal lives, it would have been impossible for her to see anything really wrong in the universe while oliver and all the children were well. god was in his heaven as long as the affairs of her household worked together for good. "it can't be that he is different--i must have imagined it," she thought now, breathing softly lest she should disturb the sleeping oliver. "it is natural that he should be worried about his debts, and the failure of the play went very hard with him, of course--but if he appears at times to have grown bitter, it must be only that i have come to exact too much of him. i oughtn't to expect him to take the same interest in the children that i do----" then, rising softly on her elbow, she smoothed the sheet over jenny's dimpled little body, and bent her ear downward to make sure that the child was breathing naturally in her sleep. in spite of her depression that rosy face framed in hair like spun yellow silk, aroused in her a feeling of ecstasy. whenever she looked at one of her children--at her youngest child especially--her maternal passion seemed to turn to flame in her blood. even first love had not been so exquisitely satisfying, so interwoven of all imaginable secret meanings of bliss. jenny's thumb was in her mouth, and removing it gently, virginia bent lower and laid her hot cheek on the soft shining curls. some vital power, an emanation from that single principle of love which ruled her life, passed from the breath of the sleeping child into her body. peace descended upon her, swift and merciful like sleep, and turning on her side, she lay with her hand on jenny's crib, as though in clinging to her child she clung to all that was most worth while in the universe. the next night oliver telephoned from the treadwells' that he would not be home to supper, and when he came in at eleven o'clock, he appeared annoyed to find her sitting up for him. "you ought to have gone to bed, virginia. you look positively haggard," he said. "i wasn't sleepy. mother came in for a few minutes, and we put the children to bed. jenny wanted to say good-night to you, and she cried when i told her you had gone out. i believe she loves you better than she does anybody in the world, oliver." he smiled with something of the casual brilliancy which had first captivated her imagination. in spite of the melancholy which had clouded his charm of late, he had lost neither his glow of physical well-being nor the look of abounding intellectual energy which distinguished him from all other men whom she knew. it was this intellectual energy, she sometimes thought, which purified his character of that vein of earthiness which she had looked upon as the natural, and therefore the pardonable, attribute of masculine human nature. "if she keeps her looks, she'll leave her mother behind some day," he answered. "you need a new dress, jinny. i hate that old waist and skirt. why don't you wear the swishy blue silk i always liked on you?" "i made it over for lucy, dear. she had to have a dress to wear to lily carrington's birthday party, and i didn't want to buy one. it looks ever so nice on her." "doubtless, but i like it better on you." "it doesn't matter what i wear, but lucy is so fond of pretty things, and children dress more now than they used to do. what did susan have to say?" he had turned to bolt the front door, and while his back was towards her, she raised her hand to smother a yawn. all day she had been on her feet, except for the two hours when she had worked at her sewing-machine, while harry and jenny were taking their morning nap. she had not had time to change her dress until after supper, and she had felt so tired then that it had not seemed worth while to do so. there was, in fact, nothing to change to, since she had made over the blue silk, except an old black organdie, cut square in the neck, which she had worn in the months before jenny's birth. as a girl she had loved pretty clothes; but there were so many other things to think about now, and from the day that her first child had come to her it had seemed to matter less and less what she wore or how she appeared. nothing had really counted in life except the supreme privilege of giving herself, body and soul, in the service of love. all that she was--all that she had--belonged to oliver and to his children, so what difference could it make to them, since she gave herself so completely, whether she wore new clothes or old? when he turned to her, she had smothered the yawn, and was smiling. "is aunt belinda just the same?" she asked, for he had not answered her question about susan. "to tell the truth, i forgot to ask," he replied, with a laugh. "susan seemed very cheerful, and john henry was there, of course. it wouldn't surprise me to hear any day that they are to be married. by the way, virginia, why did you never tell me what a good rider you are? abby goode says you would have been a better horsewoman than she is if you hadn't given up riding." "why, i haven't been in the saddle for years. i stopped when we had to sell my horse bess, and that was before you came back to dinwiddie. how did abby happen to be there?" "she stopped to see susan about something, and then we got to talking--the bunch of us. john henry asked me to exercise his horse for him when he doesn't go. i rather hope i'll get a chance to go fox-hunting in the autumn. abby was talking about it." "has she changed much? i haven't seen her for years. she is hardly ever in dinwiddie." "well, she's fatter, but it's becoming to her. it makes her look softer. she's a bit coarse, but she tells a capital story. i always liked abby." "yes, i always liked abby, too," answered virginia, and it was on the tip of her tongue to add that abby had always liked oliver. "if he hadn't seen me, perhaps he might have married her," she thought, and the remote possibility of such bliss for poor defrauded abby filled her with an incredible tenderness. she would never have believed that bouncing, boisterous abby goode could have aroused in her so poignant a sympathy. he appeared so much more cheerful than she had seen him since his disastrous trip to new york, that, moved by an unselfish impulse of gratitude towards the cause of it, she put out her hand to him, while he raised his arm to extinguish the light. "i am so glad about the horse, dear," she said. "it will be nice for you to go sometimes with abby." "why couldn't you come too, jinny?" "oh, i shouldn't have time--and, besides, i gave it up long ago. i don't think a mother has any business on horseback." "all the same i wish you wouldn't let yourself go to pieces. what have you done to your hands? they used to be so pretty." she drew them hastily away, while the tears rose in a mist to her eyes. it was like a man--it was especially like oliver--to imagine that she could clean up half a house and take charge of three children, yet keep her hands as white and soft as they had been when she was a girl and did nothing except wait for a lover. in a flash of memory, she saw the reddened and knotted hands of her mother, and then a procession of hands belonging to all the mothers of her race that had gone before her. were her own but a single pair in that chain of pathetic hands that had worked in the exacting service of love? "it is so hard to keep them nice," she said; but her heart cried, "what do my hands matter when it is for your sake that i have spoiled them?" with her natural tendency to undervalue the physical pleasures of life, she had looked upon her beauty as a passing bloom which would attract her lover to the veiled wonders of her spirit. fleshly beauty as an end in itself would have appeared to her as immoral a cult as the wilful pursuit of a wandering desire in the male. "i never noticed until to-night what pretty hands abby has," he said, innocently enough, as he turned off the gas. a strange sensation--something which was so different from anything she had ever felt before that she could not give it a name--pierced her heart like an arrow. then it fled as suddenly as it had come, and left her at ease with the thought: "abby has had nothing to hurt her hands. why shouldn't they be pretty?" but not for abby's hands would she have given up a single hour when she had washed jenny's little flannels or dug enchanted garden beds with harry's miniature trowel. "she used to have a beautiful figure," she said with perfect sincerity. "well, she's got it still, though she's a trifle too large for my taste. you can't help liking her--she's such jolly good company, but, somehow, she doesn't seem womanly. she's too fond of sport and all that sort of thing." his ideal woman still corresponded to the type which he had chosen for his mate; for true womanliness was inseparably associated in his mind with those qualities which had awakened for generations the impulse of sexual selection in the men of his race. though he enjoyed abby, he refused stubbornly to admire her, since evolution, which moves rapidly in the development of the social activities, had left his imagination still sacredly cherishing the convention of the jungle in the matter of sex. he saw woman as dependent upon man for the very integrity of her being, and beyond the divine fact of this dependency, he did not see her at all. but there was nothing sardonic in his point of view, which had become considerably strengthened by his marriage to virginia, who shared it. it was one of those mental attitudes, indeed, which, in the days of loose thinking and of hazy generalizations, might have proved its divine descent by its universality. oliver, his uncle cyrus, the rector, and honest john henry, however they may have differed in their views of the universe or of each other, were one at least in accepting the historical dogma of the supplementary being of woman. and yet, so strange is life, so inexplicable are its contradictions, there were times when oliver's ideal appeared almost to betray him, and the intellectual limitations of virginia bored rather than delighted him. habit, which is a sedative to a phlegmatic nature, acts not infrequently as a positive irritant upon the temperament of the artist; and since he had turned from his work in a passion of disgust at the dramatic obtuseness of his generation, he had felt more than ever the need of some intellectual outlet for the torrent of his imagination. as a wife, virginia was perfect; as a mental companion, she barely existed at all. she was, he had come to recognize, profoundly indifferent to the actual world. her universe was a fiction except the part of it that concerned him or the children. he had never forgotten that he had read his play to her one night shortly after jenny's birth, and she had leaned forward with her chin on her palm and a look in her face as if she were listening for a cry which never came from the nursery. her praise had had the sound of being recited by rote, and had aroused in him a sense of exasperation which returned even now whenever she mentioned his work. in the days of his courtship the memory of her simplicities clung like an exquisite bouquet to the intoxicating image of her; but in eight years of daily intimacy the flavour and the perfume of mere innocence had evaporated. the quality which had first charmed him was, perhaps, the first of which he had grown weary. he still loved virginia, but he had ceased to talk to her. "if you go into the refrigerator, oliver, don't upset jenny's bottle of milk," she said, looking after him as he turned towards the dining-room. her foot was already on the bottom step of the staircase, for she had heard, or imagined that she had heard, a sound from the nursery, and she was impatient to see if one of the children had awakened and got out of bed. all the evening, while she had changed the skin-tight sleeves of the eighties to the balloon ones of the nineties in an old waist which she had had before her marriage and had never worn because it was unbecoming, her thoughts had been of harry, whom she had punished for some act of flagrant rebellion during the afternoon. now she was eager to comfort him if he was awake and unhappy, or merely to cuddle and kiss him if he was fast asleep in his bed. at the top of the staircase she saw the lowered lamp in the nursery, and beside it stood harry in his little nightgown, with a toy ship in his arms. "mamma, i'm tired of bed and i want to play." "s--sush, darling, you will wake jenny. it isn't day yet. you must go back to bed." "but i'm tired of bed." "you won't be after i tuck you in." "will you sit by me and tell me a story?" "yes, darling, i'll tell you a story if you'll promise not to talk." her eyes were heavy with sleep, and her limbs trembled from the exhaustion of the long june day; but she remembered the punishment of the afternoon, and as she looked at him her heart seemed melting with tenderness. "and you'll promise not to go away until i'm fast asleep?--you'll promise, mamma?" "i'll promise, precious. no, you mustn't take your ship to bed with you. that's a darling." then, as oliver was heard coming softly up the stairs for fear of arousing the children, she caught harry's moist hand in hers and stole with him into the nursery. to virginia in the long torrid days of that summer there seemed time for neither anxiety nor disappointment. every minute of her eighteen waking hours was spent in keeping the children washed, dressed, and good-humoured. she thought of herself so little that it never occurred to her to reflect whether she was happy or unhappy--hardly, even, whether she was awake or asleep. twice a week john henry's horse carried oliver for a ride with abby and susan, and on these evenings he stayed so late that virginia ceased presently even to make a pretence of waiting supper. several times, on september afternoons, when the country burned with an illusive radiance as if it were seen through a mirage, she put on her old riding-habit, which she had hunted up in the attic at the rectory, and mounting one of abby's horses, started to accompany them; but her conscience reproached her so bitterly at the thought that she was seeking pleasure away from the children, that she hurried homeward across the fields before the others were ready to turn. as with most women who are born for motherhood, that supreme fact had not only absorbed the emotional energy of her girlhood, but had consumed in its ecstatic flame even her ordinary capacities for enjoyment. while fatherhood left oliver still a prey to dreams and disappointments, the more exclusive maternal passion rendered virginia profoundly indifferent to every aspect of life except the intimate personal aspect of her marriage. she couldn't be happy--she couldn't even be at ease--while she remembered that the children were left to the honest, yet hardly tender, mercies of marthy. "i shall never go again," she thought, as she slipped from her saddle at the gate, and, catching up her long riding-skirt, ran up the short walk to the steps. "i must be getting old. something has gone out of me." and there was no regret in her heart for this _something_ which had fled out of her life, for the flashing desires and the old breathless pleasures of youth which she had lost. for a month this passive joy lasted--the joy of one whose days are full and whose every activity is in useful service. then there came an october afternoon which she never forgot because it burned across her life like a prairie fire and left a scarred track of memory behind it. it had been a windless day, filled with glittering blue lights that darted like birds down the long ash-coloured roads, and spun with a golden web of air which made the fields and trees appear as thin and as unsubstantial as dreams. the children were with marthy in the park, and virginia, attired in the old waist with the new sleeves, was leaning on the front gate watching the slow fall of the leaves from the gnarled mulberry tree at the corner, when mrs. pendleton appeared on the opposite side of the street and crossed the cobblestones of the road with her black alpaca skirt trailing behind her. "i wonder why in the world mother doesn't hold up her skirt?" thought virginia, swinging back the little wooden gate while she waited. "mother, you are letting your train get all covered with dust!" she called, as soon as mrs. pendleton came near enough to catch her half-whispered warning. reaching down indifferently, the older woman caught up a handful of her skirt and left the rest to follow ignominiously in the dust. from the carelessness of the gesture, virginia saw at once that her mother's mind was occupied by one of those rare states of excitement or of distress when even the preservation of her clothes had sunk to a matter of secondary importance. when the small economies were banished from mrs. pendleton's consciousness, matters had assumed indeed a serious aspect. "why, mother, what on earth has happened?" asked virginia, hurrying toward her. "let me come in and speak to you, jinny. i mean inside the house. one can never be sure that some of the neighbours aren't listening," she said in a whisper. hurrying past her daughter, she went into the hall, and, then turning, faced her with her hand on the door-knob. in the dim light of the hall her face showed white and drawn, like the face of a person who has been suddenly stricken with illness. "jinny, i've just had a visit from mrs. carrington--you know what a gossip she is--but i think i ought to tell you that she says people are talking about oliver's riding so much with abby." a pain as sharp as if the teeth of a beast had fastened in her heart, pierced virginia while she stood there, barring the door with her hands. her peace, which had seemed indestructible a moment ago, was shattered by a sensation of violent anger--not against abby, not against oliver, not even against the gossiping old women of dinwiddie--but against her own blindness, her own inconceivable folly! at the moment the civilization of centuries was stripped from her, and she was as simple and as primitive as a female of the jungle. on the surface she was still calm, but to her own soul she felt that she presented the appalling spectacle of a normal woman turned fury. it was one of those instants that are so unexpected, so entirely unnatural and out of harmony with the rest of life, that they obliterate the boundaries of character which separate the life of the individual from the ancient root of the race. not virginia, but the primeval woman in her blood, shrieked out in protest as she saw her hold on her mate threatened. the destruction of the universe, as long as it left her house standing in its bit of ground, would have overwhelmed her less utterly. "but what on earth can they say, mother? it was all my fault. i made him go. he never lifted his finger for abby." "i know, darling, i know. of course, oliver is not to blame, but people will talk, and i think abby ought to have known better." for an instant only virginia hesitated. then something stronger than the primitive female in her blood--the spirit of a lady--spoke through her lips. "i don't believe abby was to blame, either," she said. "but women ought to know better, jinny, and abby is nearly thirty." "she always wanted me to go, mother. i don't believe she thought for a minute that she was doing anything wrong. abby is a little coarse, but she's perfectly good. nobody will make me think otherwise." "well, it can't go on, dear. you must stop oliver's riding with her. and mrs. carrington says she hears that he is going to atlantic city with them in general goode's private car on thursday." "abby asked me, too, but of course i couldn't leave the children." "of course not. oliver must give it up, too. oh, jinny, a scandal, even where one is innocent, is so terrible. a woman--a true woman--would endure death rather than be talked about. i remember your cousin jane pendleton made an unhappy marriage, and her husband used to get drunk and beat her and even carry on dreadfully with the coloured servants--but she said that was better than the disgrace of a separation." "but all that has nothing to do with me, mother. oliver is an angel, and this is every bit my fault, not abby's." the violence in her soul had passed, and she felt suddenly calm. "of course, darling, of course. now that you see what it has led to, you can stop it immediately." they were so alike as they stood there facing each other, mother and daughter, that they might have represented different periods of the same life--youth and age meeting together. both were perfect products of that social order whose crowning grace and glory they were. both were creatures trained to feel rather than think, whose very goodness was the result not of reason, but of emotion. and, above all, both were gentlewomen to the innermost cores of their natures. passion could not banish for long that exquisite forbearance which generations had developed from a necessity into an art. "i can't stop his going with her, because that would make people think i believed the things they say--but i can go, too, mother, and i will. i'll borrow susan's horse and go fox-hunting with them to-morrow." once again, as on the afternoon when she had heard of oliver's illness in new york, mrs. pendleton realized that her daughter's strength was more than a match for hers when the question related to oliver. "but the children, dear--and then, oh, jinny, you might get hurt." to her surprise jinny laughed. "i shan't get hurt, mother--and if i did----" she left her sentence unfinished, but in the break there was the first note of bitterness that her mother had ever heard from her lips. was it possible, after all, that there was "more in it" than she had let appear in her words? was it possible that her passionate defence of abby had been but a beautiful pretence? "i'll go straight down to the treadwells' to ask susan for her horse," she added cheerfully, "and you'll come over very early, won't you, to stay with the children? oliver always starts before daybreak." "yes, darling, i'll get up at dawn and come over--but, jinny, promise me to be careful." "oh, i'll be careful," responded virginia lightly, as she went out on the porch. chapter vii the will to live "it's all horrid talk. there's not a word of truth in it," she thought, true to the pendleton point of view, as she turned into old street on her way to the treadwells'. then the sound of horses' hoofs rang on the cobblestones, and, looking past the corner, she saw oliver and abby galloping under the wine-coloured leaves of the oak tree at the crossing. his face was turned back, as if he were looking over his shoulder at the red sunset, and he was laughing as she had not heard him laugh since that dreadful morning in the bedroom of the new york hotel. what a boy he was still! as she watched him, it seemed to her that she was old enough to be his mother, and the soreness in her heart changed into an exquisite impulse of tenderness. then he looked from the sunset to abby, and at the glance of innocent pleasure that passed between them a stab of jealousy entered her heart like a blade. before it faded, they had passed the corner, and were cantering wildly up old street in the direction of abby's home. "it is my fault. i am too settled. i am letting my youth go," she said, with a passionate determination to catch her girlhood and hold it fast before it eluded her forever. "i am only twenty-eight and i dress like a woman of forty." and it seemed to her that the one desirable thing in life was this fleet-winged spirit of youth, which passed like a breath, leaving existence robbed of all romance and beauty. an hour before she had not cared, and she would not care now if only oliver could grow middle-aged and old at the moment when she did. ah, there was the tragedy! all life was for men, and only a few radiant years of it were given to women. men were never too old to love, to pursue and capture whatever joy the fugitive instant might hold for them. but women, though they were allowed only one experience out of the whole of life, were asked to resign even that one at the very minute when they needed it most. "i wonder what will become of me when the children grow big enough to be away all the time as oliver is," she thought wistfully. "i wish one never grew too old to have babies." the front door of the treadwell house stood open, and in the hall susan was arranging golden-rod and life-ever-lasting in a blue china bowl. "of course, you may have belle to-morrow," she said in answer to virginia's faltering request. "even if i intended going, i'd be only too glad to lend her to you--but i can't leave mother anyway. she always gets restless if i stay out over an hour." mrs. treadwell's illness had become one of those painful facts which people accept as naturally as they accept the theological dogma of damnation. it was terrible, when they thought of it, but they seldom thought of it, thereby securing tranquillity of mind in the face of both facts and dogmas. even virginia had ceased to make her first question when she met susan, "how is your mother?" "but, susan, you need the exercise. i thought that was why the doctor made uncle cyrus get you a horse." "it was, but i only go for an hour in the afternoon. i begrudge every minute i spend away from mother. oh, jinny, she is so pathetic! it almost breaks my heart to watch her." "i know, dearest," said virginia; but at the back of her brain she was thinking, "they looked so happy together, yet he could never really admire abby. she isn't at all the kind of woman he likes." so preoccupied was she by this problem of her own creation, that her voice had a strangely far off sound, as though it came from a distance. "i wish i could help you, dear susan. if you ever want me, day or night, you know you have only to send for me. i'd let nothing except desperate illness stand in the way of my coming." it was true, and because she knew that it was true, susan stooped suddenly and kissed her. "you are looking tired, jinny. what is the matter?" "nothing except that i'm a sight in this old waist. i made it over to save buying one, but i wish now i hadn't. it makes me look so settled." "you need some clothes, and you used to be so fond of them." "that was before the children came. i've never cared much since. it's just as if life were a completed circle, somehow. there's nothing more to expect or to wait for--you'll understand what i mean some day, susan." "i think i do now. but only women are like that? men are different----" it was the classic phrase again, but on susan's lips it sounded with a new significance. "and some women are different, too," replied virginia. "now there's abby goode--susan, what do you honestly think of abby?" there was a wistful note in the question, and around her gentle blue eyes appeared a group of little lines, brought out by the nervous contraction of her forehead. was it the wan, smoky light of the dusk?--susan wondered, or was virginia really beginning to break so soon? "why, i like abby. i always did," she answered, trying to look as if she did not understand what virginia had meant. "she's a little bit what john henry calls 'loud,' but she has a good heart and would do anybody a kindness." she had evaded answering, just as virginia had evaded asking, the question which both knew had passed unuttered between them--was abby to be trusted to keep inviolate the ancient unwritten pledge of honourable womanhood? her character was being tested by the single decisive virtue exacted of her sex. "i am glad you feel that way," said virginia in a relieved manner after a minute, "because i should hate not to believe in abby, and some people don't understand her manner--mother among them." "oh, she's all right. i'm sure of it," answered susan, with heartiness. the wistful sound had passed out of virginia's voice, while the little lines faded as suddenly from the corners of her eyes. she looked better already--only she really ought not to wear such dowdy clothes, even though she was happily married, reflected susan, as she watched her, a few minutes later, pass over the mulberry leaves, which lay, thick and still, on the sidewalk. at the corner of sycamore street a shopkeeper was putting away his goods for the night, and in the window virginia saw a length of hyacinth-blue silk, matching her eyes, which she had remotely coveted for weeks--never expecting to possess it, yet never quite reconciling herself to the thought that it might be worn by some other woman. that length of silk had grown gradually to symbolize the last glimmer of girlish vanity which motherhood had not extinguished in her heart; and while she looked at it now, in her new recklessness of mood, a temptation, born of the perversity which rules human fate, came to her to go in and buy it while she was still desperate enough to act foolishly and not be afraid. for the first time in her life that immemorial spirit of adventure which lies buried under the dead leaves of civilization at the bottom of every human heart--with whose re-arisen ghost men have moved mountains and ploughed jungles and charted illimitable seas--this imperishable spirit stirred restlessly in its grave and prompted her for once to be uncalculating and to risk the future. in the flickering motive which guided her as she entered the shop, one would hardly have recognized the lusty impulse which had sent her ancestors on splendid rambles of knight-errantry, yet its hidden source was the same. the simple purchase of twelve yards of blue silk which she had wanted for weeks! to an outsider it would have appeared a small matter, yet in the act there was the intrepid struggle of a personal will to enforce its desire upon destiny. she would win back the romance and the beauty of living at the cost of prudence, at the cost of practical comforts, at the cost, if need be, of those ideals of womanly duty to which the centuries had trained her! for eight years she had hardly thought of herself, for eight years she had worked and saved and planned and worried, for eight years she had given her life utterly and entirely to oliver and the children--and the result was that he was happier with abby--with abby whom he didn't even admire--than he was with the wife whom he both respected and loved! the riddle not only puzzled, it enraged her. though she was too simple to seek a psychological answer, the very fact that it existed became an immediate power in her life. she forgot the lateness of the evening, she forgot the children who were anxiously watching for her return. the forces of character, which she had always regarded as divinely fixed and established, melted and became suddenly fluid. she wasn't what she had been the minute before--she wasn't even, she began dimly to realize, what she would probably be the minute afterwards. yet the impulse which governed her now was as despotic as if it had reigned in undisputed authority since the day of her birth. she knew that it was a rebel against the disciplined and moderate rule of her conscience, but this knowledge, which would have horrified her had she been in a normal mood, aroused in her now merely a breathless satisfaction at the spectacle of her own audacity. the natural virginia had triumphed for an instant over the virginia whom the ages had bred. at home she found oliver waiting for supper, and the three children in tears for fear she should decide to stay out forever. "oh, mother, we thought you'd gone away never to come back," sobbed lucy, throwing herself into her arms, "and what would little jenny have done?" "where in the world have you been, virginia?" asked oliver, a trifle impatiently, for he was not used to having her absent from the house at meal hours. "i was afraid somebody had been taken ill at the rectory, so i went around to inquire." "no, nobody was ill," answered virginia quietly. though her resolution made her tremble all over, it did not occur to her for an instant that even now she might recede from it. as the rector had gone to the war, so she was going now to battle with abby. she was afraid, but that quality which had made the pendletons despise fear since the beginning of dinwiddie's history, which they had helped to make, enabled her to control her quivering muscles and to laugh at the reproachful protests with which the children surrounded her. through her mind there shot the thought: "i have a secret from oliver," and she felt suddenly guilty because for the first time since her marriage she was keeping something back from him. then, following this, there came the knowledge, piercing her heart, that she must keep her secret because even if she told him, he would not understand. with the casualness of a man's point of view towards an emotion, he would judge its importance, she felt, chiefly by the power it possessed of disturbing the course of his life. unobservant, and ever ready to twist and decorate facts as she was, it had still been impossible for her to escape the truth that men are by nature incapable of a woman's characteristic passion for nursing sentiment. to struggle to keep a feeling alive for no better reason than that it was a feeling, would appear as wastefully extravagant to oliver as to the unimaginative majority of his sex. such pure, sublime, uncalculating folly belonged to woman alone! when, at last, supper was over and the children were safely in bed, she came downstairs to oliver, who was smoking a cigar over a newspaper, and asked carelessly: "at what time do you start in the morning?" "i'd like to be up by five," he replied, without lowering his paper. "we're to meet the hounds at croswell's store at a quarter of six, so i'll have to get off by five at the latest. i wanted my horse fresh for to-morrow, that's why i only went a mile or two this afternoon," he added. "susan's to lend me belle. i'm going with you," she said, after a pause in which he had begun to read his paper again. this habit of treating her as if she were not present when he wanted to read or to work, was, she remembered, one of the things she had insisted upon in the beginning of her marriage. "by jove!" he exclaimed, and the paper dropped from his hands. "i'm jolly glad, but what will you do about the children?" "mother is coming to look after them. i'll be back in time to hear harry's lessons, i suppose." "why, of course; but, look here, you'll be awfully sore. you haven't ridden after the hounds since i knew you. you might even get a fall." "i used to go, though, a great deal--and it won't hurt me to be stiff for a few days. besides, i want to take up hunting again." her motive was beyond him--perhaps because of her nearness, which prevented his getting the proper perspective of vision. for all his keenness of insight, he failed utterly to see into the mysterious mind of his wife. he could not penetrate that subtle interplay of traditional virtues and discover that she was in the clutch of one of the oldest and most savage of the passions. "then you'd better go to bed early and get some sleep," he said. "i suppose we'll have a cup of coffee before starting." "i'll make it on the oil stove while i am dressing. marthy won't be up then." "well, i'll come upstairs in ten minutes," he replied, taking up his paper again. "i only want to finish this article." in the morning when she opened the old green shutters and looked out of the window, the horses, having been saddled by candlelight, were standing under the mulberry tree at the gate. eight years ago, in her girlhood, she would have awakened in a delicious excitement on the morning of a fox-hunt, and have dressed as eagerly as if she were going to a ball; but to-day, while she lit the oil-stove in the hall room and put on the kettle of water, she was supported not by the hope of pleasure, but by a dull, an almost indefinable sensation of dread. the instinct of woman to adjust her personality to the changing ideals of the man she loves--this instinct older than civilization, rooted in tragedy, and existing by right of an unconquerable necessity--rose superior at the moment to that more stable maternal passion with which it has conflicted since the beginning of motherhood. while she put on her riding-habit and tied up the plait of her hair, the one thought in virginia's mind was that she must be, at all costs, the kind of woman that oliver wanted. a little later, when they set out under the mulberry trees, she glanced at him wistfully, as though she wanted him to praise the way she looked in the saddle. but his eyes were on the end of the street, where a little company of riders awaited them, and before she could ask a question, abby's high voice was heard exclaiming pleasantly upon her presence. not a particularly imposing figure, because of her rather short legs, when she was on the ground, it was impossible for virginia to deny that abby was amazingly handsome on horseback. plump, dark, with a superb bosom, and a colour in her cheeks like autumnal berries, she had never appeared to better advantage than she did, sitting on her spirited bay mare under an arch of scarlet leaves which curved over her head. turning at their approach, she started at a brisk canter up the road, and as virginia followed her, the sound of the horn floated, now loud, now faint, out of the pale mist that spun fanciful silken webs over the trees and bushes. "remember to look out for the creeks. that's where the danger comes," said oliver, riding close to her, and he added nervously, "don't try to keep up with abby." ahead of them stretched a deserted virginia road, with its look of brooding loneliness, as if it had waited patiently through the centuries for a civilization which had never come; and on the right of it, beyond a waste of scarlet sumach and sassafras and a winding creek screened in elder bushes, the dawn was breaking slowly under a single golden-edged cloud. somebody on virginia's left--a large, raw-boned, passionate huntsman, in an old plum-coloured overcoat with a velvet collar--was complaining loudly that they had started too late and the fox would have gone to his lair before they reached the main party. except for an oath, which he rapped out by way of an emphasis not intended for the ladies, he might have been conducting a religious revival, so solemnly energetic, so deeply moved, was his manner. the hunt, which observed naturally the characteristics of a society that was ardently individualistic even in its sports, was one of those informal, "go-as-you-please" affairs in which the supreme joy of killing is not hampered by tedious regulations or unnecessary restrictions. the chief thing was to get a run--to start a rare red fox, if luck was good, because he was supposed to run straight by nature and not to move in circles after the inconsiderate manner of the commoner grey sort. but providence, being inattentive to the needs of hunters in the neighbourhood of dinwiddie, had decreed that the red fox should live there mainly in the vivid annals of old sportsmen. "a grey fox with red ears. the best run i ever had. tried to get in the crotch of a hickory tree at the end. was so exhausted he couldn't stir a foot when the hounds got him." while they waited at the crossroads before a little country store, where the pack of hounds, lean, cringing, habitually hungry creatures, started from beneath an old field pine on the right, virginia heard the broken phrases blown on the wind, which carried the joyous notes of the horn over the meadows. the casual cruelty of the words awoke no protest in her mind, because it was a cruelty to which she was accustomed. if the sport had been unknown in dinwiddie, and she had read of it as the peculiar activity of the inhabitants of the british islands, she would probably have condemned it as needlessly brutal and degrading. but with that universal faculty of the human mind to adjust its morality to fit its inherited physical habits, she regarded "the rights of the fox" to-day with something of the humorous scorn of sentimental rubbish with which her gentler grandmother had once regarded "the rights of the slave." for centuries the hunt had been one of the cherished customs of dinwiddians; and though she could not bear to see a fly caught in a web, it would never have occurred to her to question the humanity of any sport in which her ancestors had delighted. in her girlhood the sound of the horn had called to her blood with all the intoxicating associations it awoke in the raw-boned, energetic rider in the plum-coloured coat--but to-day both the horn and the familiar landscape around her had grown strange and unhomelike. for the first time since her birth she and the country were out of harmony. in the midst of the hounds, in the centre of the old field on the right, the huntsman, who was at the same time master and owner of the dogs, brandished a long raw-hide whip, flexible from the handle, which was pleasantly known in dinwiddie as a "mule-skinner." his face, burned to the colour of ripe wheat, wore a rapt and exalted look, as though the chasing of a small animal to its death had called forth his latent spiritual ardours. beyond him, like a low, smouldering fire, ran the red and gold of the abandoned field. "please be careful, virginia," said oliver again, as they left the road and cantered in the direction of a clump of pine woods in a hollow beyond a rotting "snake" fence. but she had seen his eyes on abby a minute before, and had heard his laugh as he answered her. a wave of recklessness broke over her, and she felt that she despised fear with all her pendleton blood, which loved a fight only less passionately than it loved a sermon. whatever happened--if she broke her neck--she resolved that she would keep up with abby! with the drumming of the blood in her ears, an almost savage joy awoke in her. deep down in her, so deep that it was buried beneath the virginia pendleton whom she and her world knew, there stirred faintly the seeds of that ancient lust of cruelty from which have sprung the brutal pleasures of men. the part of her--that small secret part--which was primitive answered to the impulse of jealousy as it did to the rapturous baying of the hounds out of the red and gold distance. a branch grazed her cheek; her hat went as she raced down the high banks of a stream; the thicket of elder tore the ribbon from her head, and loosened her dark flying hair from its braid. in that desolate country, in the midst of the october meadows, with the cries of the hounds rising, like the voice of mortal tragedy, out of the tinted mist on the marshes, the drama of human passions--which is the only drama for the world's stage--was played out to an ending: love, jealousy, envy, desire, desperation, regret-- but when the hunt was over, and she rode home, with a bedraggled brush, which had once been grey, tied to her bridle, all the gorgeous pageantry of the autumnal landscape seemed suddenly asking her: "what is the use?" her mood had altered, and she felt that her victory was as worthless as the mud-stained fox's brush that swung mockingly back and forth from her bridle. the excitement of the chase had ebbed away, leaving only the lifeless satisfaction of the reward. she had neglected her children, she had risked her life--and all for the sake of wresting a bit of dead fur out of abby's grasp. a spirit which was not her spirit, which was so old that she no longer recognized that it had any part in her, which was yet so young that it burned in her heart with the unquenchable flame of youth--this spirit, which was at the same time herself and not herself, had driven her, as helpless as a fallen leaf, in a chase that she despised, towards a triumph that was worthless. "by jove, you rode superbly, virginia! i had no idea you could do it," said oliver, as they trotted into dinwiddie. she smiled back at him, and her smile was tired, dust-stained, enigmatical. "no, you did not know that i could do it," she answered. "you'll keep it up now, won't you?" he asked pleadingly. for an instant, looking away from him over the radiant fields, she pondered the question. the silence which had settled around her was unbroken by the sound of the horses' hoofs, by the laughter of the hunters, by the far-off soughing of the pine trees in the forest; and into this silence, which seemed to cover an eternity, the two virginias--the virginia who desired and the virginia who had learned from the ages to stifle her desire--wrestled for the first time together. "virginia!" floated abby's breezy tones from the street behind her, and turning, she rode back to the goodes' gate, where the others were dismounting. "virginia, aren't you going to atlantic city with us to-morrow?" again she hesitated. almost unconsciously her gaze passed from abby to oliver, and she saw his pride in her in the smile with which he watched her. "yes, i'll go with you," she replied after a minute. she had, for once in her life, done the thing she wanted to do simply because she wanted to do it. she had won back what she was losing; she had fought a fair fight and she had triumphed; yet as she rode down the street to her gate, there was none of the exultation of victory, none of the fugitive excitement of pleasure even in her heart. like other mortals in other triumphant instants, she was learning that the fruit of desire may be sweet to the eyes and bitter on the lips. she had sacrificed duty to pleasure, and suddenly she had discovered that to one with her heritage of good and evil the two are inseparable. chapter viii the pang of motherhood in the night harry awoke crying. he had dreamed, he said between his sobs, when virginia, slipperless and in her nightdress, bent over him, that his mother was going away from him forever. "only for two nights, darling. here, lean close against mother. don't you know that she wouldn't stay away from her precious boy?" "but two nights are so long. aren't two nights almost forever?" "why, my lamb, it was just two nights ago that grandma came over and told you the bible story about joseph and his brothers. that was only a teeny-weeny time ago, wasn't it?" "but you were here, then mamma. and this morning was almost forever. you stayed out so long that lucy said you weren't coming back any more." "that was naughty of lucy because she is old enough to know better. why do you choke that way? does your throat hurt you?" "it hurts because you are going away, mamma." "but i'm going only to be with papa, precious. don't you want poor papa to have somebody with him?" "he's so big he can go by himself. but suppose the black man should come in the night while you are away, and i'd get scared and nobody would hear me." "grandma would hear you, harry, and there isn't any black man that comes in the night. you must put that idea out of your head, dear. you're getting too big a boy to be afraid of the dark." "four isn't big, is it?" "you're nearer five than four now, honey. let me button your nightgown, and lie down and try to go to sleep while mamma sings to you. does your throat really hurt you?" "it feels as if it had teensy-weensy marbles in it. they came there when i woke up in the dark and thought that you were going away to-morrow." "well, if your throat hurts you, of course mamma won't leave you. open your mouth wide now so i can look at it." she lighted a candle while harry, kneeling in the middle of his little bed, followed her with his blue eyes, which looked three times their usual size because of his flushed cheeks and his mounting excitement. his throat appeared slightly inflamed when she held the candle close to it, and after tucking him beneath the bed-clothes, she poured a little camphorated oil into a cup and heated it on the small alcohol lamp she kept in the nursery. "mamma is going to put a nice bandage on your throat, and then she is going to lie down beside you and sing you to sleep," she said cheerfully, as she cut off a strip of flannel from an old petticoat and prepared to saturate it with the heated oil. "will you stay here all night?" "all night, precious, if you'll be good and go fast asleep while i am singing." holding tightly to her nightdress, harry cuddled down between the pillows with a contented sigh. "then i don't mind about the marbles in my throat," he said. "but mamma minds, and she wants to cure them before morning. now lie very still while she wraps this good flannel bandage over the sore places." "i'll lie very still if you'll hold me, mamma." blowing out the candle, she crept into the little bed beside him, and lay singing softly until his hands released their desperate grasp of her nightdress, and he slipped quietly off to sleep. even then, remembering her promise, she did not go back to her bedroom until daylight. "i wonder what makes harry so afraid of the dark?" she asked, when oliver awoke and turned questioningly towards her. "he worked himself really sick last night just from pure nervousness. i had to put camphorated oil on his throat and chest, and lie beside him until morning. he is sleeping quietly now, but it simply frightens me to death when one of them complains of sore throat." "you've spoiled him, that's what's the matter," replied oliver, yawning. "as long as you humour him, he'll never outgrow these night terrors." "but how can you tell whether the fright makes him sick or sickness brings on the fright? his throat was really red, there's no doubt about that, but i couldn't see last night that it was at all ulcerated." "he gives you more trouble than both the other children put together." "well, he's a boy, and boys do give one more trouble. but, then, you have less patience with him, oliver." "that's because he's a boy, and i like boys to show some pluck even when they are babies. lucy and jenny never raise these midnight rows whenever they awake in the dark." "they are not nearly so sensitive. you don't understand harry." "perhaps i don't, but i can see that you are ruining him." "oh, oliver! how can you say such a cruel thing to me?" "i didn't mean to be cruel, jinny, and you know it, but all the same it makes me positively sick to see you make a slave of yourself over the children. why, you look as if you hadn't slept for a week. you are positively haggard." "but i have to be up with harry when he is ill. how in the world could i help it?" "you know he kicks up these rows almost every night, and you humour every one of his whims as if it were the first one. don't you ever get tired?" "of course i do, but i can't let my child suffer even if it is only from fear. you haven't any patience, oliver. don't you remember the time when you used to be afraid of things?" "i was never afraid of the dark in my life. no sensible child is, if he is brought up properly." "do you mean i am not bringing up my children----" her tears choked her and she could not finish the sentence. "i don't mean anything except that you are making an old woman of yourself before your time. you've let yourself go until you look ten years older than----" he checked himself in time, but she understood without his words that he had started to say, "ten years older than abby." yes, abby did look young--amazingly young--but, then, what else had she to think of? she lay down, but she was trembling so violently that she sat up quickly again in order to recover her self-possession more easily. it seemed to her that the furious beating of her heart must make him understand how he had wounded her. it was the first discussion approaching a quarrel they had had since their marriage, for she, who was so pliable in all other matters, had discovered that she could become as hard as iron where the difference related to harry. "you are unjust, oliver. i think you ought to see it," she said in a voice which she kept by an effort from breaking. "i'll never see it, jinny," and some dogged impulse to hurt her more made him add, "it's for harry's sake as well as yours that i'm speaking." "for harry's sake? oh, you don't mean--you can't really mean that you think i'm not doing the best for my child, oliver?" a year ago oliver would have surrendered at once before the terror in her eyes; but in those twelve long months of effort, of hope, of balked ambition, of bitter questioning, and of tragic disillusionment, a new quality had developed in his character, and the generous sympathy of youth had hardened at thirty-four to the cautious cynicism of middle-age. it is doubtful if even he himself realized how transient such a state must be to a nature whose hidden springs were moved so easily by the mere action of change--by the effect of any alteration in the objects that surrounded him. because the enthusiasm of youth was exhausted at the minute, it seemed to him that he had lost it forever. and to virginia, who saw but one thing at a time and to whom that one thing was always the present instant, it seemed that the firm ground upon which she trod had crumbled beneath her. "well, if you want the truth," he said quietly (as if any mother ever wanted the truth about such a matter), "i think you make a mistake to spoil harry as you do." "but," she brought out the words with a pathetic quiver, "i treat him just as i do the others, and you never say anything about my spoiling them." "oh, the others are girls. girls aren't so easily ruined somehow. they don't get such hard knocks later on, so it makes less difference about them." as she sat there in bed, propped up on her elbow, which trembled violently against the pillows, with her cambric nightdress, trimmed only with a narrow band of crocheted lace, opened at her slender throat, and her hair, which was getting thin at the temples, drawn unbecomingly back from her forehead, she looked, indeed, as oliver had thought, "at least ten years older than abby." though she was not yet thirty, the delicate, flower-like bloom of her beauty was already beginning to fade. the spirit which had animated her yesterday appeared to have gone out of her now. he thought how lovely she had been at twenty when he saw her for the first time after his return to dinwiddie; and a sudden anger seized him because she was letting herself break, because she was so needlessly sacrificing her youth and her beauty. an hour later she got up and dressed herself, with the feeling that she had not rested a minute during the night. harry was listless and fretful when he awoke, and while she put on his clothes, she debated with herself whether or not she should summon old doctor fraser from around the corner. when his lesson hour came, he climbed into her lap and went to sleep with his hot little head on her shoulder, and though he seemed better by evening, she was still so anxious about him that she forgot that she had promised abby to go with them to atlantic city until oliver came in at dusk and reminded her. "aren't you going, virginia?" he inquired, as he hunted in the closet for his bag which she had not had time to pack. "i can't, oliver. harry isn't well. he has been unlike himself all day, and i am afraid to leave him." "he looks all right," he remarked, bending over the child in virginia's lap. "does anything hurt you, harry?" "he doesn't seem to know exactly what it is," answered virginia, "but if he isn't well by morning, i'll send for doctor fraser." "he's got a good colour, and i believe he's as well as he ever was," replied oliver, while a curious note of hostility sounded in his voice. "there's nothing the matter with the boy," he added more positively after a minute. "aren't you coming, virginia?" she looked up at him from the big rocking-chair in which she sat with harry in her arms, and as she did so, both became conscious that the issue had broadened from a question of her going to atlantic city into a direct conflict of wills. the only thing that could make her oppose him had happened for the first time since her marriage. the feminine impulse to yield was overmatched by the maternal impulse to protect. she would have surrendered her soul to him for the asking; but she could not surrender, even had she desired to do so, the mother love which had passed into her from out the ages before she had been, and which would pass through her into the ages to come after her. "of course, if the little chap were really suffering, i'd be as anxious about staying as you are," said oliver impatiently; "but there's nothing the matter. you're all right, aren't you, harry?" "yes, i'm all right," repeated harry, yawning and snuggling closer to virginia, "but i'm sleepy." "he isn't all right," insisted virginia obstinately. "there's something wrong with him. i don't know what it is, but he isn't in the least like himself." "it's just your imagination. you've got the children on the brain, virginia. don't you remember the time you woke me in the night and sent me after doctor fraser because jenny had a bad attack of the hiccoughs?" "i know," acknowledged virginia humbly. she could be humble enough, but what good did that do when she was, as he told himself irritably, "as stubborn as a mule"? her softness--she had seemed as soft as flowers when he married her--had been her greatest charm for him after her beauty; and now, at the end of eight years in which she had appeared as delightfully invertebrate as he could have desired, she revealed to his astonished eyes a backbone that was evidently made of iron. she was immovable, he admitted, and because she was immovable he was conscious of a sharp unreasonable impulse to reduce her to the pliant curves of her girlhood. after eight years of an absolute supremacy, which had been far from good for him, his will had been tripped up at last by so small a thing as a mere whim of virginia's. "you told abby you would go," he urged, exasperated rather than soothed by her humility. "and it's too late now for her to ask any one else." "i'm so sorry, dear, but i never once thought about it. i've been so worried all day." he looked at the child, lying flushed and drowsy in virginia's arms, and his face hardened until a latent brutality crept out around his handsome, but loosely moulded, lips. the truth was that harry had never looked healthier than he did at that instant in the firelight, and the whole affair appeared to oliver only another instance of what he called virginia's "sensational motherhood." "can't you see for yourself that he's perfectly well?" he asked. "i know he looks so, dear, but he isn't." "well, here's your mother. leave it to her. she will agree with me." "why, what is it, jinny?" asked mrs. pendleton, laying her bundle on the couch (for she had come prepared to spend the night), and regarding oliver with the indulgent eyes of an older generation. "virginia says at the last minute that she won't go with us," said oliver, angry, yet caressing as he always was in his manner to his mother-in-law, to whom he was sincerely devoted. "she's got into her head that there's something wrong with harry, but you can tell by looking at the child that he is perfectly well." "but i was up with him last night, mother. his throat hurts him," broke in virginia in a voice that was full of emotion. "he certainly looks all right," remarked mrs. pendleton, "and i can take care of him if anything should be wrong." then she added very gravely, "if you can't go, of course oliver must stay at home, too, virginia." "i can't," said oliver; "not just for a whim, anyway. it would break up the party. besides, i didn't get a holiday all summer, and i'll blow up that confounded bank unless i take a change." in the last quarter of an hour the trip had become of tremendous importance to him. from a trivial incident which he might have relinquished a week ago without regret, the excursion with abby had attained suddenly the dignity and the power of an event in his life. opposition had magnified inclination into desire. "i don't think it will do for oliver to go without you, jinny," said mrs. pendleton, and the gravity of her face showed how carefully she was weighing her words. "but i can't go, mother. you don't understand," replied virginia, while her lips worked convulsively. no one could understand--not even her mother. of the three of them, it is probable that she alone realized the complete significance of her decision. "well, it's too late now, anyway," remarked oliver shortly. "you wouldn't have time to dress and catch the train even if you wanted to." taking up his bag, he kissed her carelessly, shook hands with mrs. pendleton, and throwing a "good-bye, general!" to harry, went out of the door. as he vanished, virginia started up quickly, called "oliver!" under her breath, and then sat down again, drawing her child closer in her arms. her face had grown grey and stricken like the face of an old woman. every atom of her quivered with the longing to run after him, to yield to his wish, to promise anything he asked of her. yet she knew that if he came back, they would only pass again through the old wearing struggle of wills. she had chosen not as she desired to, but as she must, and already she was learning that life forces one in the end to abide by one's choices. "oh, virginia, i am afraid it was a mistake," said mrs. pendleton in an agonized tone. the horror of a scandal, which was stronger in the women of her generation than even the horror of illness, still darkened her mind. a shiver passed through virginia and left her stiller and graver than before. "no, it was not a mistake, mother," she answered quietly. "i did what i was obliged to do. oliver could not understand." as she uttered the words, she saw oliver's face turned to abby with the gay and laughing expression she had seen on it when the two rode down old street together, and a wave of passionate jealousy swept over her. she had let him go alone; he was angry with her; and for three days he would be with abby almost every minute. and suddenly, she heard spoken by a mocking voice at the back of her brain: "you look at least ten years older than abby." "it does seem as if he might have stayed at home," remarked mrs. pendleton; "but he is so used to having his own way that it is harder for him to give it up than for the rest of us. your father says you have spoiled him." she had spoiled him--this she saw clearly now, she who had never seen anything clearly until it was too late for sentimentality to work its harm. from the day of her marriage she had spoiled him because spoiling him had been for her own happiness as well as for his. she had yielded to him since her chief desire had been simply to yield and to satisfy. her unselfishness had been merely selfishness cloaked in the familiar aspect of duty. another vision of him, not as he looked when he was riding with abby, but as he had appeared to her in the early days of their marriage, floated before her. he had been hers utterly then--hers with his generous impulses, his high ideals, his undisciplined emotions. and what had she done with him? what were her good intentions--what was her love, even, worth--when her intentions and her love alike had been so lacking in wisdom? it was as if she condemned herself with a judgment which was not her own, as if her life-long habit of seeing only the present instant had suddenly deserted her. "he has been so nervous and unlike himself ever since the failure of his play, mother," she said. "it's hard to understand, but it meant more to him than a woman can realize." "i suppose so," returned mrs. pendleton sympathetically. "your father says that he spoke to him bitterly the other day about being a failure. of course, he isn't one in the least, darling," she added reassuringly. "i sometimes think that oliver's ambition was the greatest thing in his life," said virginia musingly. "it meant to him, i believe, a great deal of what the children mean to me. he felt that it was himself, and yet in a way closer than himself. until that dreadful time in new york i never understood what his work may mean to a man." "i wish you could have gone with him, jinny." "i couldn't," replied virginia, as she had replied so often before. "i know harry doesn't look sick," she went on with that soft obstinacy which never attacked and yet never yielded a point, "but something tells me that he isn't well." an hour later, when she put him to bed, he looked so gay and rosy that she almost allowed herself the weakness of a regret. suppose nothing was wrong, after all? suppose, as oliver had said, she was merely "sensational"? while she undressed in the dark for fear of awaking jenny, who was sleeping soundly in her crib on virginia's side of the bed, her mind went back over the two harrowing days through which she had just lived, and she asked herself, not if she had triumphed for good over abby, but if she had really done what was right both for oliver and the children. after all, the whole of life came back simply to doing the thing that was right. so unused was she to the kind of introspection which weighs emotions as if they were facts, that she thought slowly, from sheer lack of practice in the subtler processes of reasoning. worry, the plain, ordinary sort of worry with which she was unhappily familiar, had not prepared her for the piercing anguish which follows the probing of the open wounds in one's soul. to lie sleepless over butchers' bills was different, somehow, from lying sleepless over the possible loss of oliver's love. it was different, and yet, just as she had asked herself over and over again on those other nights if she had done right to run up so large an account at mr. dewlap's, so she questioned her conscience now in the hope of finding justification for oliver. "ought i to have gone on the hunt yesterday?" she asked kneeling, with sore and aching limbs, by the bedside. "had i a right to risk my life when the children are so young that they need me every minute? it is true nothing happened. providence watched over me; but, then, something might have happened, and i could have blamed only myself. i was jealous--for the first time in my life, i was jealous--and because i was jealous, i did wrong and neglected my duty. yesterday i sacrificed the children to oliver, and to-day i sacrificed oliver to the children. i love oliver as much, but i have made the children. they came only because i brought them into the world. i am responsible for them--i am responsible for them," she repeated passionately; and a moment later, she prayed softly: "o lord, help me to want to do what is right." through the night, tired and sore as she was, she hardly closed her eyes, and she was lying wide awake, with her hand on the railing of jenny's crib, and her gaze on the half-bared bough of the old mulberry tree in the street, when a cry, or less than a cry, a small, choking whimper, from the nursery, caused her to spring out of bed with a start and slip into her wrapper which lay across the edge of the quilt. "i'm coming, darling," she called softly, and the answer came back in harry's voice: "mamma, i'm afraid!" without waiting to put on her slippers, for one of them had slid under the bed, she ran across the carpet and through the doorway into the adjoining room. "what is it, my lamb? does anything hurt you?" she asked anxiously. "i'm afraid, mamma." "what are you afraid of? mamma is here, precious." his little hands were hot when she clasped them, and the pathetic wonder in his blue eyes made her heart stand still with a fear greater than harry's. ever since the children had come she had lived in terror of a serious illness attacking them. "where does it hurt you, darling? can't you tell me?" "it feels so funny when i swallow, mamma. it's all full of flannel." "will you open your mouth wide, then, and let mamma mop your throat with turpentine?" but harry hated turpentine even more than he hated the sore throat, and he protested with tears while she found the bottle in the bathroom and swathed the end of the wire mop in cotton. when she brought it to his bedside, he fought so strenuously that she was obliged at last to give up. his fever had excited him, and he sobbed violently while she applied the bandages to his throat and chest. "is it any better, dear?" she asked desperately at the end of an hour in which he had lain, weeping and angry, in her arms. "it feels funny. i don't like it," he sobbed, pushing her from him. "then i'll send for doctor fraser. he'll make you well." but he didn't want doctor fraser, who gave the meanest medicines. he didn't want anybody. he hated everybody. he hated lucy. he hated jenny. when at last day came, and marthy appeared to know what virginia wanted for breakfast, he was still vowing passionately that he hated them all. "marthy, run at once for doctor fraser. harry is quite sick," said virginia, pale to the lips. "but i won't see him, mamma, and i won't take his medicines. they are the meanest medicines." "perhaps he won't give you any, precious, and if he does, mamma will taste every single one for you." then jenny began to beg to get up, and lucy, who had been watching with dispassionate curiosity from the edge of her little bed, was sent to amuse her until marthy's return. "suppose i had gone!" thought virginia, while an overwhelming thankfulness swept the anxiety out of her mind. not until the servant reappeared, dragging the fat old doctor after her, did virginia remember that she was still barefooted, and go into her bedroom to search for her slippers. "you don't think he is seriously sick, do you, doctor? is there any need to be alarmed?" she asked, and her voice entreated him to allay her anxiety. the doctor, a benevolent soul in a body which had run to fat from lack of exercise, was engaged in holding harry's tongue down with a silver spoon, while, in spite of the child's furious protests, he leisurely examined his throat. when the operation was over, and harry, crying, choking, and kicking, rolled into virginia's arms, she put the question again, vaguely rebelling against the gravity in the kind old face which was turned half away from her: "there's nothing really the matter, is there, doctor?" he turned to her, and laid a caressing, if heavy, hand on her shoulder, which shook suddenly under the thin folds of her dressing-gown. after forty years in which he had watched suffering and death, he preserved still his native repugnance to contact with any side of life that did not have a comfortable feeling to it. "oh, we'll get him all right soon, with some good nursing," he said gently, "but i think we're going to have a bit of an illness on our hands." "but not serious, doctor? it isn't anything serious?" she felt suddenly so weak that she could hardly stand, and instinctively she reached out to grasp the large, protecting arm of the physician. even then his bland professional smile, which had in it something of the serene detachment of the everlasting purpose of which it was a part, did not fade, hardly changed even, on his features. "well, i think we'd better get the other children away. it might be serious if they all had it on our hands." "had it? had what? oh, doctor--not--diphtheria?" she brought out the word with a face of such unutterable horror that he turned his eyes away, lest the memory of her look should interfere with his treatment of the next case he visited. there was something infernal in the sound of the thing which always knocked over the mothers of his generation. he had never seen one of them who could hear it without going to pieces on his hands; and for that reason he never mentioned the disease by name unless they drove him to it. they feared it as they might have feared the plague--and even more! if the medical profession would begin calling it something else, he wondered if the unmitigated terror of it wouldn't partially subside? "well, it looks like that now, jinny," he said soothingly; "but we'll come out all right, never fear. it isn't a bad case, you know, and the chief thing is to get the other children out of danger." at this she went over like a log on the bed, and it was only after he had found the bottle of camphor on the mantelpiece and held it to her nostrils, that she revived sufficiently to sit up again. but as soon as her strength came back, her courage surprised and rejoiced him. after that one sign of weakness, she became suddenly strong, and he knew by the expression of her face, for he had had great experience with mothers, that he could count on her not to break down again while he needed her. "i'd like to get a tent made of some sheets and keep a kettle boiling under it," he said, for he was an old man and belonged to the dark ages of medicine. "but first of all i'll get the children over to your mother's. they'd better not come in here again. i'll ask the servant to attend to them." "you'll find her in the dining-room," replied virginia, while she straightened harry's bed and made him more comfortable. the weakness had passed, leaving a numbed and hardened feeling as though she had turned to wood; and when, a little later, she looked out of the door to wave good-bye to lucy and jenny, she was amazed to find that she felt almost indifferent. every emotion, even her capacity for physical sensation, seemed to respond to the immediate need of her, to the exhaustless demands on her bodily strength and her courage. as long as there was anything to be done, she was sure now that she should be able to keep up and not lose control of herself. "may we come back soon, mamma?" asked lucy, standing on tiptoe to wave at her. "just as soon as harry is well, darling. ask grandpa to pray that he will be well soon, won't you?" "jenny'll pay," lisped the baby, from doctor fraser's arms, where, with her cap on one side and her little feet kicking delightedly, she was beguiled by the promise of a birthday cake over at grandma's. "i'll look in again in an hour or two," said the doctor in his jovial tones as he swung down the stairs. then lucy pattered after him, and in a few minutes the front door closed loudly behind them, and virginia went back to the nursery, where harry was coughing the strangling cough that tore at her heart. by nightfall he had grown very ill, and when the next dawn came, it found her, wan, haggard, and sleepless, fighting beside the old doctor under the improvised tent of sheets which covered the little bed. the thought of self went from her so utterly that she only remembered she was alive when marthy brought food and tried to force it between her lips. "but you must swallow it, ma'am. you need to keep up your strength." "how do you think he looks, marthy? does he feel quite so hot to you? he seems to breathe a little better, doesn't he?" and during the long day, while the patch of sunlight grew larger, lay for an hour like yellow silk on the windowsill, and then slowly dwindled into the shadow, she sat, without moving, between the bed and the table on which stood the bottles of medicine, a glass, and a pitcher of water. when the child slept, overcome by the stupor of fever, she watched him, with drawn breath, lest he should fade away from her if she were to withdraw her passionate gaze for an instant. when he awoke and lay moaning, while his little body shook with the long stifling gasps that struggled between his lips, she held him tightly clasped in her arms, with a woman's pathetic faith in the power of a physical pressure to withstand the immaterial forces of death. a hundred times during the day he aroused himself, stirred faintly in his feverish sleep, and called her name in the voice of terror with which he used to summon her in the night. "it isn't the black man now, darling, is it? remember there is no black man, and mamma is close here beside you." no, it wasn't the black man; he wasn't afraid of the darkness now, but he would like to have his ship. when she brought it, he played for a few minutes, and dozed off still grasping the toy in his hands. at twelve the doctor came, and again at four, when the patch of sunlight, by which she told the hours, had begun to grow fainter on the windowsill. "he is better, doctor, isn't he? don't you notice that he struggles less when he breathes?" he looked at her with an expression of contemplative pity in his old watery eyes, and she gave a little cry and stretched out her hands, blindly groping. "doctor, i'll do anything--anything, if you'll only save him." an impulse to reach beyond him to some impersonal, cosmic power greater than he was, made her add desperately: "i'll never ask for anything else in my life. i'll give up everything, if you'll only promise me that you will save him." she stood up, drawing her thin figure, as tense as a cord, to its full height, and beneath the flowered blue dressing-gown her shoulder blades showed sharply under their fragile covering of flesh. her hair, which she had not undone since the first shock of harry's illness, hung in straight folds on either side of her pallid and haggard face. even the colour of her eyes seemed to have changed, for their flower-like blue had faded to a dull grey. "if we can pull through the night, jinny," he said huskily, and added almost sternly, "you must bear up, so much depends on you. remember, it is your first serious illness, but it may not be your last. you've got to take the pang of motherhood along with the pleasure, my dear----" the pang of motherhood! long after he had left her, and she had heard the street gate click behind him, she sat motionless, repeating the words, by harry's little bed. the pang of motherhood--this was what she was suffering--the poignant suspense, the quivering waiting, the abject terror of loss, the unutterable anguish of the nerves, as if one's heart were being slowly torn out of one's body. she had had the joy, and now she was enduring the inevitable pang which is bound up, like a hidden pulse, in every mortal delight. never pleasure without pain, never growth without decay, never life without death. the law ruled even in love, and all the pitiful little sacrifices which one offered to omnipotence, which one offered blindly to the power that might separate, with a flaming sword, the cause from the effect, the substance from the shadow--what of them? while harry lay there, wrapped in that burning stupor, she prayed, not as she had been taught to pray in her childhood, not with the humble and resigned worship of civilization, but in the wild and threatening lament of a savage who seeks to reach the ears of an implacable deity. in the last twenty-four hours the unknown power she entreated had changed, in her imagination, to an idol who responded only to the shedding of blood. "only spare my child and i will give up everything else!" she cried from the extremity of her anguish. the sharp edge of the bed hurt her bosom and she pressed frantically against it. had it been possible to lacerate her body, to cut her flesh with knives, she might have found some pitiable comfort in the mere physical pain. beside the agony in her mind, a pang of the flesh would have been almost a joy. when at last she rose from her knees, harry lay, breathing quietly, with his eyes closed and the toy ship on the blanket beside him. his childish features had shrunken in a day until they appeared only half their natural size, and a faint bluish tinge had crept over his face, wiping out all the sweet rosy colour. but he had swallowed a few spoonfuls of his last cup of broth, and the painful choking sound had ceased for a minute. the change, slight as it was, had followed so closely upon her prayers, that, while it lasted, she passed through one of those spiritual crises which alter the whole aspect of life. an emotion, which was a curious mixture of superstitious terror and religious faith, swept over her, reviving and invigorating her heart. she had abased herself in the dust before god--she had offered all her life to him if he would spare her child--and had he not answered? might not harry's illness, indeed, have been sent to punish her for her neglect? a shudder of abhorrence passed through her as she remembered the fox-hunt, and her passion of jealousy. the roll of blue silk, lying upstairs in a closet in the third storey, appeared to her now not as a temptation to vanity, but as a reminder of the mortal sin which had almost cost her the life of her child. and suppose god had not stopped her in time--suppose she had gone to atlantic city as oliver had begged her to do? in the room the light faded softly, melting first like frost from the mirror in the corner beyond the japanese screen, creeping slowly across the marble surface of the washstand, lingering, in little ripples, on the green sash of the windowsill. out of doors it was still day, and from where she sat by harry's bed, she could see, under the raised tent, every detail of the street standing out distinctly in the grey twilight. across the way the houses were beginning to show lights at the windows, and the old lamplighter was balancing himself unsteadily on his ladder at the corner. on the mulberry tree near the crossing the broad bronze leaves swung back and forth in the wind, which sighed restlessly around the house and drove the naked tendrils of a summer vine against the green shutters at the window. the fire had gone down, and after she had made it up very softly, she bent over harry again, as if she feared that he might have slipped out of her grasp while she had crossed the room. "if he only lives, i will let everything else go. i will think of nothing except my children. it will make no difference to me if i do look ten years older than abby does. nothing on earth will make any difference to me, if only god will let him get well." and with the vow, it seemed to her that she laid her youth down on the altar of that unseen power whose mercy she invoked. let her prayer only be heard and she would demand nothing more of life--she would spend all her future years in the willing service of love. was it possible that she had imagined herself unhappy thirty-six hours ago--thirty-six hours ago when her child was not threatened? as she looked back on her past life, it seemed to her that every minute had been crowned with happiness. even the loss of her newborn baby appeared such a little thing--such a little thing beside the loss of harry, her only son. mere freedom from anxiety showed to her now as a condition of positive bliss. six o'clock struck, and marthy knocked at the door with a cup of milk. "do you think he'll be able to swallow any of it?" she asked, and there were tears in her eyes. "he is better, marthy, i am sure he is better. has mother been here this afternoon?" "she stopped at the door, but she didn't like to come in on account of the children. they are both well, she says, and send you their love. do you want any more water in the kettle, ma'am?" the kettle, which was simmering away beside harry's bed, under the tent of sheets, was passed to marthy through the crack in the door; and when in a few minutes the girl returned with fresh water, virginia whispered to her that he had taken three spoonfuls of milk. "and he let me mop his throat with turpentine," she said in quivering tones. "i am sure--oh, i am sure he is better." "i am praying every minute," replied marthy, weeping; and it seemed suddenly to virginia that a wave of understanding passed between her and the ignorant mulatto girl, whom she had always regarded as of different clay from herself. with that miraculous power of grief to level all things, she felt that the barriers of knowledge, of race, of all the pitiful superiorities with which human beings have obscured and decorated the underlying spirit of life, had melted back into the nothingness from which they had emerged in the beginning. this feeling of oneness, which would have surprised and startled her yesterday, appeared so natural to her now, that, after the first instant of recognition, she hardly thought of it again. "thank you, marthy," she answered gently, and closing the door, went back to her chair under the raised corner of the sheet. when the doctor came at nine o'clock she was sitting there, in the same position, so still and tense that she seemed hardly to be breathing, so ashen grey that the sheet hanging above her head showed deadly white by contrast with her face. in those three hours she knew that the clinging tendrils of personal desire had relaxed their hold forever on life and youth. "if he doesn't get worse, we'll pull through," said the doctor, turning from his examination of harry to lay his hand, which felt as heavy as lead, on her shoulder. "we've an even chance--if his heart doesn't go back on us." and he added, "most mothers are good nurses, jinny, but i never saw a better one than you are--unless it was your own mother. you get it from her, i reckon. i remember when you went through diphtheria how she sent your father to stay with one of the neighbours, and shut herself up with old ailsey to nurse you. i don't believe she undressed or closed her eyes for a week." her own mother! so she was not the only one who had suffered this anguish--other women, many women, had been through it before she was born. it was a part of that immemorial pang of motherhood of which the old doctor had spoken. "but, was i ever in danger? was i as ill as harry?" she asked. "for twenty-four hours we thought you'd slip through our fingers every minute. 'twas only your mother's nursing that kept you alive--i've told her that twenty times. she never spared herself an instant, and, it may have been my imagination, but she never seemed to me to be the same woman afterwards. something had gone out of her." now she understood, now she knew, something had gone out of her, also, and this something was youth. no woman who had fought with death for a child could ever be the same afterwards--could ever value again the small personal joys, when she carried the memory of supreme joy or supreme anguish buried within her heart. she remembered that her mother had never seemed young to her, not even in her earliest childhood; and she understood now why this had been so, why the deeper experiences of life rob the smaller ones of all vividness, of all poignancy. it had been so easy for her mother to give up little things, to deny herself, to do without, to make no further demands on life after the great demands had been granted her. how often had she said unthinkingly in her girlhood, "mother, you never want anything for yourself." ah, she knew now what it meant, and with the knowledge a longing seized her to throw herself into her mother's arms, to sob out her understanding and her sympathy, to let her feel before it was too late that she comprehended every step of the way, every throb of the agony! "i'd spend the night with you, jinny, if i didn't have to be with milly carrington, who has two children down with it," said the doctor; "but if there's any change, get marthy to come for me. if not, i'll be sure to look in again before daybreak." when he had gone, she moved the night lamp to the corner of the washstand, and after swallowing hastily a cup of coffee which marthy had brought to her before the doctor's visit, and which had grown quite tepid and unpalatable, she resumed her patient watch under the raised end of the sheet. the whole of life, the whole of the universe even, had narrowed down for her into that faint circle of light which the lamp drew around harry's little bed. it was as if this narrow circle beat with a separate pulse, divided from the rest of existence by its intense, its throbbing vitality. here was concentrated for her all that the world had to offer of hope, fear, rapture, or anguish. the littleness and the terrible significance of the individual destiny were gathered into that faintly quivering centre of space--so small a part of the universe, and yet containing the whole universe within itself! outside, in the street, she could see a half-bared bough of the mulberry tree, arching against a square of window, from which the white curtains were drawn back; and in order to quiet her broken and disjointed thoughts, she began to count the leaves as they fell, one by one, turning softly at the stem, and then floating out into the darkness beyond. "one. two. how long that leaf takes to loosen. he is better. the doctor certainly thought that he was better. if he only gets well. o god, let him get well, and i will serve you all my life! three--four--five--for twenty-four hours we thought you would slip through our fingers. somebody said that--somebody--it must have been the doctor. and he was talking of me, not of harry. that was twenty-six years ago, and my mother was enduring then all this agony that i am feeling to-night. twenty-six years ago--perhaps at this very hour, she sat beside me alone as i am sitting now by harry. and before that other women went through it. all the world over, wherever there are mothers--north, south, east, west--from the first baby that was born on the earth--they have every one suffered what i am suffering now--for it is the pang of motherhood! to escape it one must escape birth and escape the love that is greater than one's self." and she understood suddenly that suffering and love are inseparable, that when one loves another more than one's self, one has opened the gate by which anguish will enter. she had forgotten to count the leaves, and when she remembered and looked again, the last one had fallen. against the parted white curtains, the naked bough arched black and solitary. even the small silent birds that had swayed dejectedly to and fro on the branches all day had flown off into the darkness. presently, the light in the window went out, and as the hours wore on, a fine drizzling rain began to fall, as soft as tears, from the starless sky over the mulberry tree. a sense of isolation greater than any she had ever known attacked her like a physical chill, and rising, she went over to the fire and stirred the pile of coal into a flame. she was alone in her despair, and she realized, with a feeling of terror, that one is always alone when one despairs, that there is a secret chamber in every soul where neither love nor sympathy can follow one. if oliver were here beside her--if he were standing close to her in that throbbing circle around the bed--she would still be separated from him by the immensity of that inner space which is not measured by physical distances. "no, even if he were here, he could not reach me," she said, and an instant later, with one of those piercing illuminations which visit even perfectly normal women in moments of great intensity, she thought quickly, "if every woman told the truth to herself, would she say that there is something in her which love has never reached?" then, reproaching herself because she had left the bed for a minute, she went back again and bent over the unconscious child, her whole slender body curving itself passionately into an embrace. his face was ashen white, except where the skin around his mouth was discoloured with a faint bluish tinge. his flesh, even his bones, appeared to have shrunk almost away in twenty-four hours. it was impossible to imagine that he was the rosy, laughing boy, who had crawled into her arms only two nights ago. the disease held him like some unseen spiritual enemy, against which all physical weapons were as useless as the little toys of a child. how could one fight that sinister power which had removed him to an illimitable distance while he was still in her arms? the troubled stupor, which had in it none of the quiet and the restfulness of sleep, terrorized her as utterly as if it had been the personal spirit of evil. the invisible forces of life and death seemed battling in the quivering air within that small circle of light. while she bent over him, he stirred, raised himself, and then fell back in a paroxysm of coughing. the violence of the spasm shook his fragile little body as a rough wind shakes a flower on a stalk. over his face the bluish tinge spread like a shadow, and into his eyes there came the expression of wondering terror which she had seen before only in the eyes of young startled animals. for an instant it seemed almost as if the devil of disease were wrestling inside of him, as if the small vital force she called life would be beaten out in the struggle. then the agony passed; the strangling sound ceased, and he grew quiet, while she wiped the poison from his mouth and nostrils, and made him swallow a few drops of milk out of a teaspoon. at the moment, while she fell on her knees by his bedside, it seemed to her that she had reached that deep place beyond which there is nothing. * * * * * "you've pulled him through. we'll have him out of bed before many days now," said the old doctor at daybreak, and he added cheerfully, "by the way, your husband came in the front door with me. he wanted to rush up here at once, but i'm keeping him away because he is obliged to go back to the bank." "poor oliver," said virginia gently. "it is terrible on him. he must be so anxious." but even while she uttered the words, she was conscious of a curious sensation of unreality, as though she were speaking of a person whom she had known in another life. it was three days since she had seen oliver, and in those three days she had lived and died many times. chapter ix the problem of the south "father, i want to marry john henry," said susan, just as she had said almost ten years ago, "father, i want to go to college." it was a march afternoon, ashen and windy, with flocks of small fleecy clouds hurrying across a changeable blue sky, and the vague, roving scents of early spring in the air. after his dinner, which he had taken for more than fifty years precisely at two o'clock, cyrus had sat down for a peaceful pipe on the back porch before returning to the office. between the sunken bricks in the little walled-in yard, blades of vivid green grass had shot up, seeking light out of darkness, and along the grey wooden ledge of the area the dauntless sunflowers were unfolding their small stunted leaves. on the railing of the porch a moth-eaten cat--the only animal for whom cyrus entertained the remotest respect--was contentedly licking the shabby fur on her side. "father, i want to marry john henry," repeated susan, raising her voice to a higher key and towering like a flesh and blood image of victory over the sagging cane chair in which he sat. taking his pipe from his mouth, he looked up at her; and so little had he altered in ten years, that the thought flashed through her mind that he had actually suffered no change of expression since the afternoon on which she had asked him to send her to college. as a man he may not have been impressive, but as a defeating force who could say that he had not attained his fulfilment? it was as if the instinct of patriarchal tyranny had entrenched itself in his person as in a last stronghold of the disappearing order. when he died many things would pass away out of dinwiddie--not only the soul and body of cyrus treadwell, but the vanishing myth of the "strong man," the rule of the individual despot, the belief in the inalienable right of the father to demand blood sacrifices. for in common with other men of his type, he stood equally for industrial advancement and for domestic immobility. the body social might move, but the units that formed the body social must remain stationary. "well, i don't think i'd worry about marrying, if i were you," he replied, not unkindly, for susan inspired him with a respect against which he had struggled in vain. "you are very comfortable now, ain't you? and i'll see that you are well provided for after my death. john henry hasn't anything except his salary, i reckon." marriage as an economic necessity was perfectly comprehensible to him, but it was difficult for him to conceive of anybody indulging in it simply as a matter of sentiment. that april afternoon was so far away now that it had ceased to exist even as an historical precedent. "yes, but i want to marry him, and i am going to," replied susan decisively. "what arrangements would you make about your mother? it seems to me that your mother needs your attention." "of course i couldn't leave mother. if you agree to it, john henry is willing to come here to live as long as i have to look after her. if not, i shall take her away with me; i have spoken to her, and she is perfectly willing to go." the ten years which had left cyrus at a standstill had developed his daughter from a girl into a woman. she spoke with the manner of one who realizes that she holds the situation in her hands, and he yielded to this assumption of strength as he would have yielded ten years ago had she been clever enough to use it against him. it was his own manner in a more attractive guise, if he had only known it; and the treadwell determination to get the thing it wanted most was asserting itself in susan's desire to win john henry quite as effectively as it had asserted itself in cyrus's passion to possess the dinwiddie and central railroad. though the ends were different, the quality which moved father and daughter towards these different ends was precisely the same. in cyrus, it was force degraded; in susan, it was force refined; but the peculiar attribute which distinguished and united them was the possession of the power to command events. "take your mother away?" he repeated. "why, where on earth would you take her?" "then you'll have to agree to john henry's coming here. it won't make any difference to you, of course. you needn't see him except at the table." "but what would james say about it?" he returned, with the cowardice natural to the habitual bully. the girl had character, certainly, and though he disliked character in a woman, he was obliged to admit that she had not failed to make an impression. "james won't care, and besides," she added magnificently, "it is none of his business." "and it's none of mine, either, i reckon," said cyrus, with a chuckle. "well, of course, it's more of mine," agreed susan, and her delicious laugh drowned his chuckle. she had won her point, and strange to say, she had pleased him rather than otherwise. he had suddenly a comfortable feeling in his digestive organs as well as a sense of virtue in his soul. it was impossible not to feel proud of her as she towered there above him with her superb body, as fine and as supple as the body of a race horse, and her splendid courage that made him wish while he looked at her that she, instead of james, had been born a male. she was not pretty--she had never been pretty--but he realized for the first time that there might be something better even for a woman than beauty. "thank you, father," she said as she turned away, and he was glad again to feel that she had conquered him. to be conquered by one's own blood was different from being conquered by a business acquaintance. "you mustn't disturb the household, you know," he said, but his voice did not sound as dry as he had endeavoured to make it. "i shan't disturb anybody," responded susan, with the amiability of a woman who, having gained her point, can afford to be pleasant. then, wheeling about suddenly on the threshold, she added, "by the way, i forgot to tell you that mandy was here three times this morning asking to see you. she is in trouble about her son. he was arrested for shooting a policeman over at cross's corner, you know, and the people down there are so enraged, she's afraid of a lynching. you read about it in the paper, didn't you?" yes, he had read about the shooting--cross's corner was only three miles away--but, if he had ever known the name of mandy's son, he had forgotten it so completely that seeing it in print had suggested nothing to his mind. "well, she doesn't expect me to interfere, does she?" he asked shortly. "i believe she thought you might go over and do something--i don't know what--help her engage a lawyer probably. she was very pitiable, but after all, what can one do for a negro that shoots a policeman? there's miss willy calling me!" she ran indoors, and taking his pipe, which was still smoking, from his mouth, cyrus leaned back in his chair and stared intently at the small fleecy clouds in the west. the cat, having cleaned herself to her satisfaction, jumped down from the railing, and after rubbing against his thin legs, leaped gently into his lap. "tut-tut!" he remarked grimly; but he did not attempt to dislodge the animal, and it may be that some secret part of him was gratified by the attention. he was still sitting there some minutes later, when he heard the warning click of the back gate, and the figure of mandy, appeared at the corner of the kitchen wall. rising from his chair, he shook the cat from his knees, and descending the steps, met the woman in the centre of the walk, where a few hardy dandelions were flattened like buttons between the bricks. "howdy, mandy. i'm sorry to hear that you're having trouble with that boy of yours." he saw at once that she was racked by a powerful emotion, and any emotion affected him unpleasantly as something extravagant and indecent. sweat had broken out in glistening clusters over her face and neck, and her eyes, under the stray wisps of hair, had in them an expression of dumb and uncomprehending submission. "ain't you gwineter git 'im away, marster?" she began, and stronger even than her terror was the awe of cyrus which subdued her voice to a tone of servile entreaty. "why did he shoot a policeman? he knew he'd hang for it," returned cyrus sharply, and he added, "of course i can't get him away. he'll have to take his deserts. your race has got to learn that when you break the law, you must pay for it." at first he had made as if to push by her, but when she did not move, he thought better of it and waited for her to speak. the sound of her heavy breathing, like the breathing of some crouching beast, awoke in him a curious repulsion. if only one could get rid of such creatures after their first youth was over! if only every careless act could perish with the impulse that led to it! if only the dried husks of pleasure did not turn to weapons against one! these thoughts--or disjointed snatches of thoughts like these--passed in a confused whirl through his brain as he stood there. for an instant it was almost as if his accustomed lucidity of purpose had deserted him; then the disturbance ceased, and with the renewal of order in his mind, his life-long habit of prompt decision returned to him. "your race has got to learn that when you break the law you must pay for it," he repeated--for on that sound principle of justice he felt that he must unalterably take his stand. "he's all de boy i'se got, marster," rejoined the negress, with an indifference to the matter of justice which had led others of her colour into those subterranean ways where abstract principles are not. "you ain' done furgot 'im, marster," she added piteously. "he 'uz born jes two mont's atter miss lindy turnt me outer hyer--en he's jes ez w'ite ez ef'n he b'longed ter w'ite folks." but she had gone too far--she had outraged that curious anglo-saxon instinct in cyrus which permitted him to sin against his race's integrity, yet forbade him to acknowledge, even to himself, that he bore any part in the consequences of that sin. illogical, he might have admitted, but there are some truths so poisonous that no honest man could breathe the same air with them. taking out his pocket-book, he slowly drew a fifty dollar bill from its innermost recesses, and as slowly unfolded it. he always handled money in that careful fashion--a habit which he had inherited from his father and his grandfather before him, and of which he was entirely unconscious. filtering down through so many generations, the mannerism had ceased at last to be merely a physical peculiarity, and had become strangely spiritual in its suggestion. the craving for possession, the singleness of desire, the tenacity of grasp, the dread of relinquishment, the cold-blooded determination to keep intact the thing which it had cost so much to acquire--all that was bound up in the spirit of cyrus treadwell, and all that would pass at last with that spirit from off the earth, was expressed in the gesture with which he held out the bit of paper to the woman who had asked for his help. "take this--it is all i can do for you," he said, "and don't come whining around me any more. black or white, the man that commits a murder has got to hang for it." a sound broke from the negress that resembled a human cry of grief less than it did the inarticulate moan of an animal in mortal pain. then it stopped suddenly, strangled by that dull weight of usage beneath which the primal impulse in her was crushed back into silence. instinctively, as if in obedience to some reflex action, she reached out and took the money from his hand, and still instinctively, with the dazed look of one who performs in delirium the customary movements of every day, she fell back, holding her apron deprecatingly aside while he brushed past her. and in her eyes as she gazed after him there dawned the simple wonder of the brute that asks of life why it suffers. beyond the alley into which the gate opened, cyrus caught sight of gabriel's erect figure hurrying down the side street in the direction of the old ladies' home, and calling out to him, he scrambled over the ash heaps and tomato cans, and emerged, irritated but smiling, into the sunlight. "i'm on my way to the bank. we'll walk down together," he remarked almost gently, for, though he disapproved of gabriel's religious opinions and distrusted his financial judgment, the war-like little rector represented the single romance of his life. "i had intended stopping at the old ladies' home, but i'll go on with you instead," responded gabriel. "i've just had a message from one of our old servants calling me down to cross's corner," he pursued, "so i'm in a bit of a hurry. that's a bad thing, that murder down there yesterday, and i'm afraid it will mean trouble for the negroes. mr. blylie, who came to market this morning, told me a crowd had tried to lynch the fellow last night." "well, they've got to hang when they commit hanging crimes," replied cyrus stubbornly. "there's no way out of that. it's just, ain't it?" "yes, i suppose so," admitted gabriel, "though, for my part, i've a feeling against capital punishment--except, of course, in cases of rape, where, i confess, my blood turns against me." "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth--that's the law of god, ain't it?" "the old law, yes--but why not quote the law of christ instead?" "it wouldn't do--not with the negroes," returned cyrus, who entertained for the founder of christianity something of the sentimental respect mingled with an innate distrust of his common-sense with which he regarded his disciple. "we can't condemn it until we've tried it," said gabriel thoughtfully, and he went on after a moment: "the terrible thing for us about the negroes is that they are so grave a responsibility--so grave a responsibility. of course, we aren't to blame--we didn't bring them here; and yet i sometimes feel as if we had really done so." this was a point of view which cyrus had never considered, and he felt an immediate suspicion of it. it looked, somehow, as if it were insidiously leading the way to an appeal for money. "it's the best thing that could have happened to them," he replied shortly. "if they'd remained in africa, they'd never have been civilized or--or christianized." "ah, that is just where the responsibility rests on us. we stand for civilization to them; we stand even--or at least we used to stand--for christianity. they haven't learned yet to look above or beyond us, and the example we set them is one that they are condemned, for sheer lack of any finer vision, to follow. the majority of them are still hardly more than uneducated children, and that very fact makes an appeal to one's compassion which becomes at times almost unbearable." but this was more than cyrus could stand even from the rector, whose conversation he usually tolerated because of the perverse, inexplicable liking he felt for the man. the charm that gabriel exercised over him was almost feminine in its subtlety and in its utter defiance of any rational sanction. it may have been that his nature, incapable though it was of love, was not entirely devoid of the rarer capacity for friendship--or it may have been that, with the inscrutable irony which appears to control all human attractions, the caged brutality in his heart was soothed by the unconscious flattery of the other's belief in him. now, however, he felt that gabriel's highfaluting nonsense was carrying him away. it was well enough to go on like that in the pulpit; but on week days, when there was business to think of and every minute might mean the loss of a dollar, there was no use dragging in either religion or sentiment. had he put his thoughts plainly, he would probably have said: "that's not business, gabriel. the trouble with you--and with most of you old-fashioned virginians--is that you don't understand the first principles of business." these words, indeed, were almost on his lips, when, catching the rector's innocent glance wandering round to him, he contented himself with remarking satirically: "well, you were always up in the clouds. it doesn't hurt you, i reckon, though i doubt if it does much toward keeping your pot boiling." "i must turn off here," said gabriel gently. "it's the shortest way to cross's corner." "do you think any good will come of your going?" "probably not--but i couldn't refuse." much as he respected cyrus, he was not sorry to part from him, for their walk together had left him feeling suddenly old and incompetent to battle with the problems of life. he knew that cyrus, even though he liked him, considered him a bit of a fool, and with a humility which was unusual in him (for in his heart he was absolutely sure that his own convictions were right and that cyrus's were wrong) he began to ask himself if, by any chance, the other's verdict could be secretly justified. was he in reality the failure that cyrus believed him to be? or was it merely that he had drifted into that "depressing view" of existence against which he so earnestly warned his parishioners? perhaps it wasn't cyrus after all who had produced this effect. perhaps the touch of indigestion he had felt after dinner had not entirely disappeared. perhaps it meant that he was "getting on"--sixty-five his last birthday. perhaps--but already the march wind, fresh and bud-scented, was blowing away his despondency. already he was beginning to feel again that fortifying conviction that whatever was unpleasant could not possibly be natural. ahead of him the straight ashen road flushed to pale red where it climbed a steep hillside, and when he gained the top, the country lay before him in all the magic loveliness of early spring. out of the rosy earth innumerable points of tender green were visible in the sunlight and invisible again beneath the faintly rippling shadows that filled the hollows. from every bough, from every bush, from every creeper which clung trembling to the rail fences, this wave of green, bursting through the sombre covering of winter, quivered, as delicate as foam, in the brilliant sunshine. on either side labourers were working, and where the ploughs pierced the soil they left narrow channels of darkness. in the soul of gabriel, that essence of the spring, which is immortally young and restless, awakened and gave him back his youth, as it gave the new grass to the fields and the longing for joy to the hearts of the ploughmen. he forgot that he was "getting on." he forgot the unnatural depression which had made him imagine for a moment that the world was a more difficult place than he had permitted himself to believe--so difficult a place, indeed, that for some people there could be no solution of its injustice, its brutality, its dissonance, its inequalities. the rapture in the song of the bluebirds was sweeter than the voice of cyrus to which he had listened. and in a meadow on the right, an old grey horse, scarred, dim-eyed, spavined, stood resting one crooked leg, while he gazed wistfully over the topmost rail of the fence into the vivid green of the distance--for into his aching old bones, also, there had passed a little of that longing for joy which was born of the miraculous softness and freshness of the spring. to him, as well as to gabriel and to the ploughmen and to the bluebirds flitting, like bits of fallen sky, along the "snake fences," nature, the great healer, had brought her annual gift of the resurrection of hope. "cyrus means well," thought gabriel, with a return of that natural self-confidence without which no man can exist happily and make a living. "he means well, but he takes a false view of life." and he added after a minute: "it's odd how the commercial spirit seems to suck a man dry when it once gets a hold on him." he walked on rapidly, leaving the old horse and the ploughmen behind him, and around his energetic little figure the grey dust, as fine as powder, spun in swirls and eddies before the driving wind, which had grown boisterous. as he moved there alone in the deserted road, with his long black coat flapping against his legs, he appeared so insignificant and so unheroic that an observer would hardly have suspected that the greatest belief on the earth--the belief in life--in its universality in spite of its littleness, in its justification in spite of its cruelties--that this belief shone through his shrunken little body as a flame shines through a vase. at the end of the next mile, midway between dinwiddie and cross's corner, stood the small log cabin of the former slave who had sent for him, and as he approached the narrow path that led, between oyster shells, from the main road to the single flat brown rock before the doorstep, he noticed with pleasure how tranquil and happy the little rustic home appeared under the windy brightness of the march sky. "people may say what they please, but there never were happier or more contented creatures than the darkeys," he thought. "i doubt if there's another peasantry in the world that is half so well off or half so picturesque." a large yellow rooster, pecking crumbs from the threshold, began to scold shrilly, and at the sound, the old servant, a decrepit negress in a blue gingham dress, hobbled out into the path and stood peering at him under her hollowed palm. her forehead was ridged and furrowed beneath her white turban, and her bleared old eyes looked up at him with a blind and groping effort at recognition. "i got your message, aunt mehitable. don't you know me?" "is dat you, marse gabriel? i made sho' you wan' gwineter let nuttin' stop you f'om comin'." "don't i always come when you send for me?" "you sutney do, suh. dat's de gospel trufe--you sutney do." as he looked at her standing there in the strong sunlight, with her palsied hand, which was gnarled and roughened until it resembled the shell of a walnut, curving over her eyes, he felt that a quality at once alien and enigmatical separated her not only from himself, but from every other man or woman who was born white instead of black. he had lived beside her all his life--and yet he could never understand her, could never reach her, could never even discern the hidden stuff of which she was made. he could make laws for her, but no child of a white mother could tell whether those laws ever penetrated that surface imitation of the superior race and reached the innate differences of thought, feeling, and memory which constituted her being. was it development or mimicry that had brought her up out of savagery and clothed her in her blue gingham dress and her white turban, as in the outward covering of civilization? her look of crumbling age and the witch-like groping of her glance had cast a momentary spell over him. when it was gone, he said cheerfully: "you mustn't be having troubles at your time of life, aunt mehitable," and in his voice there was the subtle recognition of all that she had meant to his family in the past, of all that his family had meant to her. her claim upon him was the more authentic because it existed only in his imagination, and in hers. the tie that knit them together was woven of impalpable strands, but it was unbreakable while he and his generation were above the earth. "dar ain' no end er trouble, marse gabriel, ez long ez dar's yo' chillen en de chillen er yo' chillen ter come atter you. de ole ain' so techy--dey lets de hornet's nes' hang in peace whar de lawd put hit--but de young dey's diff'rent." "i suppose the neighbourhood is stirred up about the murder. what in god's name was that boy thinking of?" the old blood crimes that never ceased where the white and the black races came together! the old savage folly and the new freedom! the old ignorance, the old lack of understanding, and the new restlessness, the new enmity! "he wan' thinkin' er nuttin', marse gabriel. we ole uns kin set down en steddy, but de young dey up en does wid dere brains ez addled ez de inside uv er bad aig. 't wan' dat ar way in de old days w'en we all hed de say so ez ter w'at wuz en w'at wan't de way ter behave." like an institution left from the ruins of the feudal system, which had crumbled as all ancient and decrepit things must crumble when the wheels of progress roll over them, she stood there wrapped in the beliefs and customs of that other century to which she belonged. her sentiments had clustered about the past, as his had done, until the border-line between the romance and the actuality had vanished. she could not help him because she, also, possessed the retrospective, not the constructive, vision. he was not conscious of these thoughts, and yet, although he was unconscious of them, they coloured his reflections while he stood there in the sunlight, which had begun to fall aslant the blasted pine by the roadside. the wind had lowered until it came like the breath of spring, bud-scented, caressing, provocative. even gabriel, whose optimism lay in his blood and bone rather than in his intellect, yielded for a moment to this call of the spring as one might yield to the delicious melancholy of a vagrant mood. the long straight road, without bend or fork, had warmed in the paling sunlight to the colour of old ivory; in a neighbouring field a young maple tree rose in a flame of buds from the ridged earth where the ploughing was over; and against the azure sky in the south a flock of birds drifted up, like blown smoke, from the marshes. "tell me your trouble, then," he said, dropping into the cane-seated chair she had brought out of the cabin and placed between the flat stone at the doorstep and the well-brink, on which the yellow rooster stood spreading his wings. but aunt mehitable had returned to the cabin, and when she reappeared she was holding out to him a cracked saucer on which there was a piece of preserved watermelon rind and a pewter spoon. "dish yer is de ve'y same sort er preserves yo' mouf use'n ter water fur w'en you wuz a chile," she remarked as she handed the sweet to him. whatever her anxiety or affliction could have been, the importance of his visit had evidently banished it from her mind. she hovered over him as his mother may have done when he was in his cradle, while the cheerful self-effacement in which slavery had trained her lent a pathetic charm to her manner. "how peaceful it looks," he thought, sitting there, with the saucer in his hand, and his eyes on the purple shadows that slanted over the ploughed fields. "you have a good view of the low-grounds, aunt mehitable," he said aloud, and added immediately, "what's that noise in the road? do you hear it?" the old woman shook her head. "i'se got sorter hard er heahin', marse gabriel, but dar's al'ays a tur'able lot er fuss gwine on w'en de chillen begin ter come up f'om de fields. 't wuz becase uv oner dem ar boys dat i sont fur you," she pursued. "he went plum outer his haid yestiddy en fout wid a w'ite man down yonder at cross's co'nder, en dar's gwine ter be trouble about'n hit des ez sho' ez you live." seated on the flat stone, with her hands hanging over her knees, and her turbaned head swaying gently back and forth as she talked, she waited as tranquilly as the rock waited for the inevitable processes of nature. the patience in her look was the dumb patience of inanimate things; and her half-bared feet, protruding from the broken soles of her shoes, were encrusted with the earth of the fields until one could hardly distinguish them from the ground on which they rested. "it looks as if there was something like a fight down yonder by the blasted pine," said the rector, rising from his chair. "i reckon i'd better go and see what they're quarrelling about." the negress rose also, and her dim eyes followed him while he went down the little path between the borders of oyster shells. as he turned into the open stretch of the road, he glanced back at her, and stopping for a moment, waved his hand with a gesture that was careless and reassuring. the fight, or whatever it was that made the noise, was still some distance ahead in the shadow of the pine-tree, and as he walked towards it he was thinking casually of other matters--of the wretched condition of the road after the winter rains, of the need of greater thrift among the farmers, both white and black, of the touch of indigestion which still troubled him. there was nothing to warn him that he was approaching the supreme event in his life, nothing to prepare him for a change beside which all the changes of the past would appear as unsubstantial as shadows. his soul might have been the soul in the grass, so little did its coming or its going affect the forces around him. "if this shooting pain keeps up, i'll have to get a prescription from doctor fraser," he thought, and the next minute he cried out suddenly: "god help us!" and began to run down the road in the direction of the blasted pine. there was hardly a breath between the instant when he had thought of his indigestion and the instant when he had called out sharply on the name of god, yet that flash of time had been long enough to change the ordinary man into the hero. the spark of greatness in his nature flamed up and irradiated all that had been merely dull and common clay a moment before. as he ran on, with his coat tails flapping around him, and his thin legs wobbling from the unaccustomed speed at which he moved, he was so unimposing a figure that only the deity who judges the motives, not the actions, of men would have been impressed by the spectacle. even the three hearty brutes--and it took him but a glance to see that two of them were drunk, and that the third, being a sober rascal, was the more dangerous--hardly ceased their merry torment of the young negro in their midst when he came up with them. "i know that boy," he said. "he is the grandson of aunt mehitable. what are you doing with him?" a drunken laugh answered him, while the sober scoundrel--a lank, hairy ne-er-do-well, with a tendency to epilepsy, whose name he remembered to have heard--pushed him roughly to the roadside. "you git out of this here mess, parson. we're goin' to teach this damn nigger a lesson, and i reckon when he's learned it in hell, he won't turn his grin on a white woman again in a jiffy." "fo' de lawd, i didn't mean nuttin', marster!" screamed the boy, livid with terror. "i didn't know de lady was dar--fo' de lawd jesus, i didn't! my foot jes slipped on de plank w'en i wuz crossin', en i knocked up agin her." "he jostled her," observed one of the drunken men judicially, "an' we'll be roasted befo' we'll let a damn nigger jostle a white lady--even if she ain't a lady--in these here parts." in the rector's bone and fibre, drilled there by the ages that had shaped his character before he began to be, there was all the white man's horror of an insult to his womankind. but deeper even than this lay his personal feeling of responsibility for any creature whose fathers had belonged to him and had toiled in his service. "i believe the boy is telling the truth," he said, and he added with one of his characteristic bursts of impulsiveness, "but whether he is or not, you are too drunk to judge." there was going to be a battle, he saw, and in the swiftness with which he discerned this, he made his eternal choice between the preacher and the fighter. stripping off his coat, he reached down for a stick from the roadside; then spinning round on the three of them he struck out with all his strength, while there floated before him the face of a man he had killed in his first charge at manassas. the old fury, the old triumph, the old blood-stained splendour returned to him. he smelt the smoke again, he heard the boom of the cannon, the long sobbing rattle of musketry, and the thought stabbed through him, "god forgive me for loving a fight!" then the fight stopped. there was a patter of feet in the dust as the young negro fled like a hare up the road in the direction of dinwiddie. one of the men leaped the fence and disappeared into the tangled thicket beyond; while the other two, sobered suddenly, began walking slowly over the ploughed ground on the right. ten minutes later gabriel was lying alone, with the blood oozing from his mouth, on the trodden weeds by the roadside. the shadow of the pine had not moved since he watched it; on the flat rock in front of the cabin the old negress stood, straining her eyes in the faint sunshine; and up the long road the march wind still blew, as soft, as provocative, as bud-scented. book third the adjustment chapter i the changing order "so this is life," thought virginia, while she folded her mourning veil, and laid it away in the top drawer of her bureau. like all who are suddenly brought face to face with tragedy, she felt at the moment that there was nothing else in existence. all the sweetness of the past had vanished so utterly that she remembered it only as one remembers a dream from which one has abruptly awakened. nothing remained except this horrible sense of the pitiful insufficiency of life, of the inexorable finality of death. it was a week since the rector's death, and in that week she had passed out of her girlhood forever. of all the things that she had lived through, this alone had had the power to crush the hope in her and the odour of crape which floated through the crack of the drawer sickened her with its reminder of that agonized sense of loss which had settled over her at the funeral. she was only thirty--the best of her life should still be in the future--yet as she looked back at her white face in the mirror it seemed to her that she should never emerge from the leaden hopelessness which had descended like a weight on her body. above the harsh black of her dress, which added ten years to her appearance, she saw the darkened circles rimming her eyes, the faded pallor of her skin, the lustreless wave of her hair, which had once had a satiny sheen on its ripples. "grief makes a person look like this," she thought. "i shall never be a girl again--oliver was right: i am the kind to break early." then, because to think of herself in the midst of such sorrow seemed to her almost wicked, she turned away from the mirror, and laid her crape-trimmed hat on the shelf in the wardrobe. she was wearing a dress of black henrietta cloth, which had been borrowed from one of her neighbours who had worn mourning, and the blouse and sleeves hung with an exaggerated fullness over her thin arms and bosom. all that had distinguished her beauty--the radiance, the colour the flower-like delicacy of bloom and sweetness--these were blotted out by her grief and by the voluminous mourning dress of the nineties. a week had changed her, as even harry's illness had not changed her, from a girl into a woman; and horrible beyond belief, with the exception of her mother, it had changed nothing else in the universe! the tragedy that had ruined her life had left the rest of the world--even the little world of dinwiddie--moving as serenely, as indifferently, on its way towards eternity. on the morning of the funeral she had heard the same market wagons rumble over the cobblestones, the same droning songs of the hucksters, the same casual procession of feet on the pavement. a passionate indignation had seized her because life could be so brutal to death, because the terror and the pity that flamed in her soul shed no burning light on the town where her father had worked and loved and fought and suffered and died. a little later the ceaseless tread of visitors to the rectory door had driven this thought from her mind, but through every minute, while he lay in the closed room downstairs, while she sat beside her mother in the slow crawling carriage that went to the old churchyard, while she stood with bowed head listening to the words of the service--through it all there had been the feeling that something must happen to alter a world in which such a thing had been possible, that life must stop, that the heavens must fall, that god must put forth his hand and work a miracle in order to show his compassion and his horror. but nothing had changed. after the funeral her mother had come home with her, and the others, many with tear-stained faces, had drifted in separate ways back to eat their separate dinners. for a few hours dinwiddie had been shaken out of its phlegmatic pursuit of happiness; for a few hours it had attained an emotional solidarity which swept it up from the innumerable bypaths of the personal to a height where the personal rises at last into the universal. then the ebb had come; the sense of tragedy had lessened slowly with the prolongation of feeling; and the universal vision had dissolved and crystallized into the pitiless physical needs of the individual. after the funeral a wave almost of relief had swept over the town at the thought that the suspension and the strain were at an end. the business of keeping alive, and the moral compulsion of keeping abreast of one's neighbours, reasserted their supremacy even while the carriages, quickening their pace a trifle on the return drive, rolled out of the churchyard. now at the end of a week only virginia and her mother would take the time from living to sit down and remember. in the adjoining room, which was the nursery, mrs. pendleton was sitting beside the window, with her bible open on her knees, and her head bent a little in the direction of miss priscilla, who was mending a black dress by the table. "it is so sweet of you, dear miss priscilla," she murmured in her vague and gentle voice as virginia entered. so old, so pallid, so fragile she looked, that she might have been mistaken by a stranger for a woman of eighty, yet the impossibility of breaking the habit of a lifetime kept the lines of her face still fixed in an expression of anxious cheerfulness. for more than forty years she had not thought of herself, and now that the opportunity had come for her to do so, she found that she had almost forgotten the way that one went about it. even grief could not make her selfish any more than it could make her untidy. her manner, like her dress, was so little a matter of impulse, and so largely a matter of discipline and of conscience, that it expressed her broken heart hardly more than did the widow's cap on her head or the mourning brooch that fastened the crape folds of her collar. "do you want anything, mother darling? what can i do for you?" asked virginia, stooping to kiss her. "nothing, dear. i was just telling miss priscilla that i had had a visit from mr. treadwell, and that"--her voice quivered a little--"he showed more feeling than i should have believed possible. he even wanted to make me an allowance." miss priscilla drew out her large linen handkerchief, which was like a man's, and loudly blew her nose. "i always said there was more in cyrus than people thought," she observed. "here, i've shortened this dress, jinny, until it's just about your mother's length." she tried to speak carelessly, for though she did not concur in the popular belief that to ignore sorrow is to assuage it, her social instinct, which was as strongly developed as mrs. pendleton's, encouraged her to throw a pleasant veil over affliction. "you're looking pale for want of air, jinny," she added, after a minute in which she had thought, "the child has broken so in the last few days that she looks years older than oliver." "i'm trying to make her go driving," said mrs. pendleton, leaning forward over the open page of her bible. "but i can't go, mother; i haven't the heart for it," replied virginia, choking down a sob. "i don't like to see you looking so badly, dear. you must keep up your strength for the children's sake, you know." "yes, i know," answered virginia, but her voice had a weary sound. a little later, when miss priscilla had gone, and oliver came in to urge her to go with him, she shook her head again, still palely resolute, still softly obstinate. "but, jinny, it isn't right for you to let your health go," he urged. "you haven't had a breath of air for days and you're getting sallow." his own colour was as fine as ever; he grew handsomer, if a trifle stouter, as he grew older; and at thirty-five there was all the vigour and the charm of twenty in his face and manner. in one way only he had altered, and of this alteration, he, as well as virginia, was beginning faintly to be aware. comfort was almost imperceptibly taking the place of conviction, and the passionate altruism of youth would yield before many years to the prudential philosophy of middle-age. life had defeated him. his best had been thrown back at him, and his nature, embittered by failure, was adjusting itself gradually to a different and a lower standard of values. though he could not be successful, it was still possible, even within the narrow limits of his income and his opportunities, to be comfortable. and, like other men who have lived day by day with heroically unselfish women, he had fallen at last into the habit of thinking that his being comfortable was, after all, a question of supreme importance to the universe. deeply as he had felt the rector's death, he, in common with the rest of dinwiddie, was conscious of breathing more easily after the funeral was over. to his impressionable nature, alternations of mood were almost an essential of being, and there was something intolerable to him in any slowly harrowing grief. to watch virginia nursing every memory of her father because she shrank from the subtle disloyalty of forgetfulness, aroused in him a curious mingling of sympathy and resentment. "i wish you'd go, even if you don't feel like it--just to please me, virginia," he urged, and after a short struggle she yielded to his altered tone, and got down her hat from the shelf of the wardrobe. a little later, as the dog-cart rolled out of dinwiddie into the country road, she looked through her black grenadine veil on a world which appeared to have lost its brightness. the road was the one along which she had ridden on the morning of the fox-hunt; ahead of them lay the same fields, sown now with the tender green of the spring; the same creeks ran there, screened by the same thickets of elder; the same pines wafted their tang on the march wind that blew, singing, out of the forest. it was all just as it had been on that morning--and yet what a difference! "put up your veil, virginia--it's enough to smother you." but she only shook her head, shrinking farther down into the shapeless borrowed dress as though she felt that it protected her. following the habit of people whose choice has been instinctive rather than deliberate, a choice of the blood, not of the brain, they had long ago exhausted the fund of conversation with which they had started. there was nothing to talk about--since virginia had never learned to talk of herself, and oliver had grown reticent recently about the subjects that interested him. when the daily anecdotes of the children had been aired between them with an effort at breeziness, nothing remained except the endless discussion of harry's education. even this had worn threadbare of late, and with the best intentions in the world, virginia had failed to supply anything else of sufficient importance to take its place. an inherited habit, the same habit which had made it possible for mrs. pendleton to efface her broken heart, prompted her to avoid any allusion to her grief in which she sat shrouded as in her mourning veil. "the spring is so early this year," she remarked once, with her gaze on the rosy billows of an orchard. "the peach trees have almost finished blooming." then, as he made no answer except to flick at john henry's bay mare with his whip, she asked daringly, "are you writing again, oliver?" a frown darkened his forehead, and she saw the muscles about his mouth twitch as though he were irritated. for all his failure and his bitterness, he did not look a day older, she thought, than when she had first seen him driving down high street in that unforgettable may. he was still as ardent, still as capable of inspiring first love in the imagination of a girl. the light and the perfume of that enchanted spring seemed suddenly to envelop her, and moved by a yearning to recapture them for an instant, she drew closer to him, and slipped her hand through his arm. "oh, i'm trying my luck with some trash. nothing but trash has any chance of going in this damned business." "you mean it's different from your others? it's less serious?" "less serious? well, i should say so. it's the sort of ice-cream soda-water the public wants. but if i can get it put on, it ought to run, and a play that runs is obliged to make money. i doubt if there's anything much better than money, when it comes to that." "you used to say it didn't matter." "did i? well, i was a fool and i've learned better. these last few years have taught me that nothing else on earth matters much." this was so different from what that other oliver--the oliver of her first love--might have said, that involuntarily her clasp on his arm tightened. the change in him, so gradual at first that her mind, unused to subtleties, had hardly grasped it, was beginning to frighten her. "you have such burdens, dear," she said, and he noticed that her voice had acquired the toneless sweetness of her mother's. "i've tried to be as saving as i could, but the children have been sick so much that it seems sometimes as if we should never get out of debt. i am trying now to pay off the bills i was obliged to make while harry was ill in october. if i could only get perfectly strong, we might let marthy go, now that jenny is getting so big." "you work hard enough as it is, virginia. you've been awfully good about it," he answered, but his manner was almost casual, for he had grown to take for granted her unselfishness with something of the unconcern with which he took for granted the comfortable feeling of the spring weather. in the early days of their marriage, when her fresh beauty had been a power to rule him, she had taught him to assume his right to her self-immolation on the altar of his comfort; and with the taste of bitterness which sometimes follows the sweets of memory, she recalled that their first quarrel had arisen because she had insisted on getting out of bed to make the fires in the morning. then, partly because the recollection appeared to reproach him, and partly because, not possessing the critical faculty, she had never learned to acknowledge the existence of a flaw in a person she loved, she edged closer to him, and replied cheerfully: "i don't mind the work a bit, if only the children will keep well so we shan't have to spend any more money. i shan't need any black clothes," she added, with a trembling lip. "mrs. carrington has given me this dress, as she has gone out of mourning, and i've got a piece of blue silk put away that i am going to have dyed." he glanced at the shapeless dress, not indignantly as he would once have done, but with a tinge of quiet amusement. "it makes you look every day of forty." "i know it isn't becoming, but at least it will save having to buy one." in spite of the fact that her small economies had made it possible for them to live wholesomely, and with at least an appearance of decency, on his meagre salary, they had always aroused in him a sense of bitter exasperation. he respected her, of course, for her saving, yet in his heart he knew that she would probably have charmed him more had she been a spendthrift--since the little virtues are sometimes more deadly to the passion of love than are the large vices. while he nodded, without disputing the sound common sense in her words, she thought a little wistfully how nice it would be to have pretty things if only one could afford them. someday, when the children's schooling was over and oliver had got a larger salary, she would begin to buy clothes that were becoming rather than durable. but that was in the future, and, meanwhile, how much better it was to grudge every penny she spent on herself as long as there were unpaid bills at the doctor's and the grocer's. all of which was, of course, perfectly reasonable, and like other women who have had a narrow experience of life, she cherished the delusion that a man's love, as well as his philosophy, is necessarily rooted in reason. when they turned homeward, the bay mare, pricked by desire for her stable, began to travel more rapidly, and the fall of her hoofs, accompanied by the light roll of the wheels, broke the silence which had almost imperceptibly settled upon them. not until the cart drew up at the gate did virginia realize that they had hardly spoken a dozen words on the drive back. "i feel better already, oliver," she said, gratefully, as he helped her to alight. then hastening ahead of him, she ran up the walk and into the hall, where her mother, looking wan and unnatural in her widow's cap, greeted her with the question: "did you have a pleasant drive, dear?" * * * * * for six months mrs. pendleton hid her broken heart under a smile and went softly about the small daily duties of the household, facing death, as she had faced life, with a sublime unselfishness and the manner of a lady. her hopes, her joys, her fears even, lay in the past; there was nothing for her to look forward to, nothing for her to dread in the future. life had given her all that it had to offer of bliss or sorrow, and for the rest of her few years she would be like one who, having finished her work before the end of the day, sits waiting patiently for the words of release to be spoken. as the months went on, she moved like a gentle shadow about her daughter's little home. so wasted and pallid was her body that at times virginia feared to touch her lest she should melt like a phantom out of her arms. yet to the last she never faltered, never cried out for mercy, never sought to hasten by a breath that end which was to her as the longing of her eyes, as the brightness of the sunlight, as the sweetness of the springtime. once, looking up from lucy's lesson which she was hearing, she said a little wistfully, "i don't think, jinny, it will be long now," and then checking herself reproachfully, she added, "but god knows best. i can trust him." it was the only time that she had ever spoken of the thought which was in her mind day and night, for when she could no longer welcome her destiny, she had accepted it. her faith, like her opinions, was child-like and uncritical--the artless product of a simple and incurious age. the strength in her had gone not into the building of knowledge, but into the making of character, and she had judged all thought as innocently as she had judged all literature, by its contribution to the external sweetness of living. a child of ten might have demolished her theories, and yet because of them, or in spite of them, she had translated into action the end of all reasoning, the profoundest meaning in all philosophy. but she was born to decorate instead of to reason. though her mind had never winnowed illusions from realities, her hands had patiently woven both illusions and realities into the embroidered fabric of life. for six months she went about the house and helped virginia with the sewing, which had become burdensome since the children, and especially harry, were big enough to wear daily holes in their stockings. then, when the half year was over, she took to her bed one evening after she had carefully undressed, folded her clothes out of sight, and read a chapter in her bible. in the morning she did not get up, and at the end of a fortnight, in which she apologized for making extra work whenever food was brought to her, she clasped her hands on her thin breast, smiled once into virginia's face, and died so quietly that there was hardly a perceptible change in her breathing. she had gone through life without giving trouble, and she gave none at the end. as she lay there in her little bed in virginia's spare room, to which she had moved after gabriel's death in order that the rectory might be got ready for the new rector, she appeared so shadowy and unearthly that it was impossible to believe that she had ever been a part of the restless strivings and the sombre violences of life. on the candle-stand by her bed lay her spectacles, with steel rims because she had never felt that she could afford gold ones; and a single october rose, from which a golden petal had dropped, stood in a vase beside the bible. on the foot of the bed hung her grey flannelette wrapper, with a patch in one sleeve over which harry had spilled a bottle of shoe polish, while through the half-shuttered window the autumn sunshine fell in long yellow bars over the hemp rugs on the floor. and she was dead! her mother was dead--no matter how much she needed her, she would never come back. out of the vacancy around her, some words of her own, spoken in her girlhood, returned to her. "there is only one thing i couldn't bear, and that is losing my mother." only one thing! and now that one thing had happened, and she was not only bearing it, she was looking ahead to a future in which that one thing would be always beside her, always in her memory. whatever the years brought to her, they could never bring her mother again--they could never bring her a love like her mother's. out of that same vacancy, which seemed to swallow and to hold everything, which seemed to exist both within and outside of herself, a multitude of forgotten images and impressions flashed into being. she saw the nursery fireside in the rectory, and her mother, with hair that still shone like satin, rocking back and forth in the black wicker chair with the sagging bottom. she saw her kneeling on the old frayed red and blue drugget, her skirt pinned up at the back of her waist, while she bathed her daughter's scratched and aching feet in the oblong tin foot-tub. she saw her, as beautiful as an angel, in church on sunday mornings, her worshipful eyes lifted to the pulpit, an edge of tinted light falling on the open prayer-book in her hand. she saw her, thin and stooping, a shadow of all that she had once been--waiting--waiting----she had always been there. it was impossible to realize that a time could ever come when she would not be there--and now she was gone! and behind all the images, all the impressions, the stubborn thought persisted that this was life--that one could never escape it--that whatever happened, one must come back to it at the last. "i have my children still left--but for my children i could not live!" she thought, dropping on her knees by the bedside, and hiding her face in the grey wrapper. * * * * * after this it seemed to her that she ceased to live except in the lives of her children, and her days passed so evenly, so monotonously, that she only noticed their flight when one of the old people in dinwiddie remarked to her with a certain surprise: "you've almost a grown daughter now, jinny," or "harry will soon be getting as big as his father. have you decided where you will send him to college?" she was not unhappy--had she ever stopped to ask herself the question, she would probably have answered, "if only mother and father were living, i should be perfectly satisfied"; yet in spite of her assurances, there existed deep down in her--so deep that her consciousness had never fully grasped the fact of its presence--a dumb feeling that something was missing out of life, that the actuality was a little less bright, a little less perfect than it had appeared through the rosy glamour of her virgin dreams. was this "something missing" merely one of the necessary conditions of mortal existence? or was there somewhere on the earth that stainless happiness which she had once believed her marriage would bring to her? "i should be perfectly satisfied if only----" she would sometimes say in the night, and then check herself before she had ended the sentence. the lack, real as it was, was still too formless to lend itself to the precision of words; it belonged less to circumstances than to the essential structure of life. and yet, as she put it to herself in her rare moments of depression, she had so much to be thankful for! the children grew stronger as they grew older--since harry's attack of diphtheria, indeed, there had been no serious illness in the family, and as she approached middle-age, her terror of illness increased rather than diminished. the children made up for much--they ought to have made up for everything--and yet did they? there was no visible fault that she could attribute to them. with her temperamental inability to see flaws, she was accustomed to think of them as perfect children, as children whom she would not change, had she the power, by so much as a hair or an outline. they grew up, straight, fine, and fearless, full of the new spirit, eager to test life, to examine facts, possessed by that awakening feeling for truth which had always frightened her a little in susan. vaguely, without defining the sensation, she felt that they were growing beyond her, that she could no longer keep up with them, that, every year, they were leaving her a little farther behind them. they were fond of her, but she understood from something jenny said one day, that they had ceased to be proud of her. it was while they were looking over an old photograph album of susan's that, coming to a picture of virginia, taken the week before her wedding, jenny cried out: "why, there's mother!" and slipped it out of the page. "i never saw that before," lucy said, leaning over with a laugh. "you were so young when you married, mother, and you wore such tight sleeves, and a bustle!" "would you ever have believed she was as pretty as that?" asked jenny, with the unconscious brutality of childhood. "if you are ever as beautiful as your mother was, you may thank your stars," said susan dryly, and by the expression in her face virginia knew that she was thinking, "if that was my child, i'd slap her!" harry, who had been stuffing fruitcake on the sofa--sweets were his weakness--rose suddenly and came over to the group. "if you are ever as beautiful as she is now, you may thank your stars, miss yellow frisk!" he remarked crushingly. it was a little thing--so little that it seemed ridiculous to think of it as among the momentous happenings in a life--but with that extraordinary proneness of the little to usurp the significant places of memory, it had become at last one of the important milestones in her experience. at the end, when she forgot everything else, she would not forget harry's foolish words, nor the look in his indignant boyish face when he uttered them. until then she had not admitted to herself that there was a difference in her feeling for her children, but with the touch of his sympathetic, not over clean, hand on her shoulder, she knew that she should never again think of the three of them as if they were one in her interest and her love. the girls were good children, dear children--she would have let herself be cut in pieces for either of them had it been necessary--but between harry and herself there was a different bond, a closer and a deeper dependency, which strengthened almost insensibly as he grew older. her daughters she loved, but her son, as is the inexplicable way of women, she adored blindly and without wisdom. if it had been possible to ruin him, she would have done so, but, unlike many other sons, he seemed, by virtue of that invincible strength with which he had been born, to be proof against both spoiling and flattery. he was a nice boy even to strangers, even to susan, with her serene judgment of persons, he appeared a thoroughly nice boy! he was not only a tall, lean, habitually towselled-headed youngster, with a handsome sunburned face and a pair of charming, slightly quizzical blue eyes, but he was, as his teachers and his school reports bore witness, possessed of an intellectual brilliancy which made study as easy, and quite as interesting to him, as play. unlike his father, he had entered life endowed with a cheerful outlook upon the world and with that temperament of success which usually, but by no means inevitably, accompanies it. whatever happened, he would make the best of it, he would "get on," and it was impossible to imagine him in any hole so deep that he could not, sooner or later, find the way out of it. the pendleton and the treadwell spirits had contributed their best to him. if he derived from cyrus, or from some obscure strain in cyrus's ancestry, a wholesome regard for material success, a robust determination to achieve results combined with that hard, clear vision of affairs which makes such achievement easy, he had inherited from gabriel his genial temper, his charm of manner, and his faith in life, which, though it failed to move mountains, had sweetened and enriched the mere act of living. though he was less demonstrative than lucy, who had outgrown the plainness and the reticence of her childhood and was developing into a coquettish, shallow-minded girl, with what miss priscilla called "a glib tongue," virginia learned gradually, in the secret way mothers learn things, that his love for her was, after his ambition, the strongest force in his character. between him and his father there had existed ever since his babyhood a curious, silent, yet ineradicable hostility. whether the fault was oliver's or harry's, whether the father resented the energy and the initiative of his son, or the son resented the indifference and the self-absorption of his father, virginia had never discovered. for years she fought against admitting the discord between them. then, at last, on the occasion of a quarrel, when it was no longer possible to dissemble, she followed oliver into his study, which had once been the "back parlour," and pleaded with him to show a little patience, a little sympathy with his son. "he's a boy any father would be proud of----" she finished, almost in tears. "i know he is," he answered irritably, "but the truth is he rubs me the wrong way. i suppose the trouble is that you have spoiled him." "but he isn't spoiled. everybody says----" "oh, everybody!" he murmured disdainfully, with a shrug of his fine shoulders. he looked back at her with the sombre fire of anger still in his eyes, and she saw, without trying to see, without even knowing that she did see, all the changes that years had wrought in his appearance. physically, he was a finer animal than he had been when she married him, for time, which had sapped her youth and faded her too delicate bloom, had but added a deeper colour to the warm brown of his skin, a steadier glow to his eyes, a more silvery gloss to his hair. at forty, he was a handsomer man than he had been at twenty-five, yet, in spite of this, some virtue had gone out of him--here, too, as in life, "something was missing." the generous impulses, the high heart for adventure, the enthusiasm of youth, and youth's white rage for perfection--where were these? it was as if a rough hand had passed over him, coarsening here, blotting out there, accentuating elsewhere. the slow, insidious devil of compromise had done its work. once he had made one of the small band of fighters who fight not for advantage, but for the truth; now he stood in that middle place with the safe majority who are "neither for god nor for his enemies." life had done this to him--life and virginia. it was not only that he had "grown soft," as he would have expressed it, nor was it even wholly that he had grown selfish, for the canker which ate at the roots of his personality had affected not his character merely, but the very force of his will. though the imperative he obeyed had always been not "i must," but "i want," his natural loftiness of purpose might have saved him from the results of his weakness had he not lost gradually the capacity for successful resistance with which he had started. if only in the beginning she had upheld not his inclinations, but his convictions; if only she had sought not to soothe his weakness, but to stimulate his strength; if only she had seen for once the thing as it was, not as it ought to have been---- he was buried in his work now, and there were months during this year when she appeared hardly to see him, so engrossed, so self-absorbed had he become. sometimes she would remember, stifling the pang it caused, the nights when he had written his first plays in matoaca city, and that he had made her sit beside him with her sewing because he could not think if she were out of the room. now, he could write only when he was alone; he hated an interruption so much that she often let the fire go out rather than open his closed door to see if it was burning. if she went in to speak to him, he laid his pen down and did not take it up again while she was there. yet this change had come so stealthily that it had hardly affected her happiness. she had grown accustomed to the difference before she had realized it sufficiently to suffer. sometimes she would say to herself a little wonderingly, "oliver used to be so romantic;" for with the majority of women whose marriages have surrendered to an invasion of the commonplace, she accepted the comfortable theory that the alteration was due less to circumstances than to the natural drying of the springs of sentiment in her husband's character. occasionally, she would remember with a smile her three days' jealousy of abby; but the brevity and the folly of this had established her the more securely in her impregnable position of unquestioning belief in him. she had started life believing, as the women of her race had believed for ages before her, that love was a divine gift which came but once in a lifetime, and which, coming once, remained forever indestructible. people, of course, grew more practical and less intense as they left youth farther behind them; and though this misty principle would have dissolved at once had she applied it to herself (for she became more sentimental as she approached middle-age), behind any suspicious haziness of generalization there remained always the sacred formula, "men are different." once, when a sharp outbreak of the primal force had precipitated a scandal in the home of one of her neighbours, she had remarked to susan that she was "devoutly thankful that oliver did not have that side to his nature." "it must be a disagreeable side to live with," susan, happily married to john henry, and blissfully expectant of motherhood, had replied, "but as far as i know, oliver never had a light fancy for a woman in his life--not even before he was married. i used to tell him that it was because he expected too much. physical beauty by itself never seemed to attract him--it was the angel in you that he first fell in love with." a glow of pleasure flushed virginia's sharpened features, mounting to the thin little curls on her forehead. these little curls, to which she sentimentally clung in spite of the changes in the fashions, were a cause of ceaseless worry to lucy, who had developed into a "stylish" girl, and would have died sooner than she would have rejected the universal pompadour of the period. it was the single vanity that virginia had ever permitted herself, this adhering at middle-age to the quaint and rather coquettish hairdressing of her girlhood: and fate had punished her by threading the little curls with grey, while susan's stiff roll (she had adopted the newer mode) remained bravely flaxen. but susan was one of those women who, lacking a fine fair skin and defying tradition, are physically at their best between forty and fifty. "oliver used to be so romantic," said virginia, as she had said so often to herself, while the glow paled slowly from her cheeks, leaving them the colour of faded rose-leaves. "not so romantic as you were, jinny." "oh, i am still," she laughed softly. "lucy says i take more interest in her lovers now than she does," and she added after a minute, "girls are so different to-day from what they used to be--they are so much less sentimental." "but i thought lucy was. she has enough flirtations for her age, hasn't she?" "she has enough attention, of course--for the funny part is that, though she's only sixteen and not nearly so pretty as jenny, the men are all crazy, as miss willy says, about her. but, somehow, it's different. lucy enjoys it, but it isn't her life. as for jenny, she's still too young to have taken shape, i suppose, but she has only one idea in her head and that is going to college. she never gives a boy a thought." "that's queer, because she promises already to be the most beautiful girl in dinwiddie." "she is beautiful. i am quite sure that it isn't because she is my daughter that i think so. but, all the same, i'm afraid she'll never be as popular as lucy is. she is so distant and overbearing to men that they are shy of her." "and you'll let her go to college?" "if we can afford it--and now that oliver hopes to get one of his plays put on, we may have a little more money. but it seems such a waste to me. i never saw that it could possibly do a woman any good to go to college--though of course i always sympathized with your disappointment, dear susan. jenny is bent on it now, but i feel so strongly that it would be better for her to come out in dinwiddie and go to parties and have attention." "and does oliver feel that, too?" "oh, he doesn't care. jenny is his favourite, and he will let her do anything he thinks she has set her heart on. but he has never put his whole life into the children's as i have done." "but if she goes, will you be able to send harry?" "of course, harry's education must come before everything else--even oliver realizes that. do you know, i've hardly bought a match for ten years that i haven't stopped to ask myself if it would take anything from harry's education. that's why i've gone as shabby as this almost ever since he was born--that and my longing to give the girls a few pretty things." "you haven't bought a dress for yourself since i can remember. i should think you would wear your clothes out making them over." the look in virginia's face showed that the recollection susan had invoked was not entirely a pleasant one. "i've done with as little as i could," she answered. "only once was i really extravagant, and that was when i bought a light blue silk which i didn't have made up until years afterwards when it was dyed black. dyed things never hold their own," she concluded pensively. "you are too unselfish--that is your only fault," said susan impulsively. "i hope they appreciate all you have been to them." "oh, they appreciate me," returned virginia with a laugh. "harry does, anyhow." "i believe harry is your darling, jinny." "i try not to make any difference in my feeling--they are all the best children that ever lived--but--susan, i wouldn't breathe this to anybody on earth but you--i can't help thinking that harry loves me more than the others do. he--he has so much more patience with me. the girls sometimes laugh at me because i am old-fashioned and behind the times, and i can see that it annoys them because i am ignorant of things which they seem to have been born knowing." "but it was for their sake that you let yourself go--you gave up everything else for them from the minute that they were born." a tear shone in virginia's eye, and susan knew, without having it put into words, that a wound somewhere in that gentle heart was still hurting. "i'd like to slap them!" she thought fiercely, and then she said aloud with a manner of cheerful conviction: "you are a great deal too good for them, jinny, and some day they will know it." a longing came over her to take the thin little figure in her arms and shake back into her something of the sparkle and the radiance of her girlhood. why did beauty fade? why did youth grow middle-aged? above all, why did love and sacrifice so often work their own punishment? chapter ii the price of comfort virginia knelt on the cushioned seat in the bay-window of her bedroom, gazing expectantly down on the pavement below. it was her forty-fifth birthday, and she was impatiently waiting for harry, who was coming home for a few days before going abroad to finish his studies at oxford. the house was a new, impeccably modern dwelling, produced by a triumph of the utilitarian genius of the first decade of the twentieth century, and oliver had bought it at a prodigious price a few years after his dramatic success had lifted him from poverty into comfort. the girls, charmed to have made the momentous passage into sycamore street, were delighted with the space and elegance of their new home, but virginia had always felt somehow as if she were visiting. the drawing-room, and especially the butler's pantry, awed her. she had not dared to wash those august shelves with soda, nor to fasten her favourite strips of white oilcloth along their shining surfaces. the old joy of "fixing up" her storeroom had been wrested from her by the supercilious mulatto butler, who wore immaculate shirt fronts, but whom she suspected of being untidy beneath his magnificent exterior. once when she had discovered a bucket of apple-parings tucked away under the sink, where it had stood for days, he had given "notice" so unexpectedly and so haughtily that she had been afraid ever since to look under dish-towels or into hidden places while he was absent. out of the problem of the south "the servant question" had arisen to torment and intimidate the housekeepers of dinwiddie; and inferior service at high wages was regarded of late as a thing for which one had come to be thankful. had they still lived in the little house, virginia would gladly have done her work for the sake of the peace and the cleanliness which it would have ensured; but since the change in their circumstances, oliver and the girls had grown so dependent upon the small luxuries of living that she put up with anything--even with the appalling suspicion that every mouthful she ate was not clean--rather than take the risk of having her three servants desert in a body. when she had unwisely complained to oliver, he had remarked impatiently that he couldn't be bothered about the housekeeping, and lucy had openly accused her of being "fussy." after this she had said nothing more, but gathering suddenly all her energies, she had precipitated a scene with the servants (which ended to her relief in the departure of the magnificent butler) and had reorganized at a stroke the affairs of her household. for all her gentleness, she was not incapable of decisive action, and though it had always been easier for her to work herself than to direct others, her native talent for domesticity had enabled her to emerge triumphantly out of this crisis. now, on her forty-fifth birthday, she could reflect with pride (the pride of a woman who has mastered her traditional _métier de femme_) that there was not a house in dinwiddie which had better food or smoother service than she provided in hers. for more and more, as oliver absorbed himself in his work, which kept him in new york many months of the year, and the children grew so big that they no longer needed her, did her life centre around the small monotonous details of cooking and cleaning. only when, as occasionally happened, the rest of the family were absent together, oliver about his plays, lucy on a visit to richmond, and harry and jenny at college, an awful sense of futility descended upon her, and she felt that both the purpose and the initiative were sapped from her character. sometimes, during such days or weeks of loneliness, she would think of her mother's words, uttered so often in the old years at the rectory: "there isn't any pleasure in making things unless there's somebody to make them for." beyond the window, the november day, which had been one of placid contentment for her, was slowly drawing to its close. the pale red line of an autumn sunset lingered in the west above the huddled roofs of the town, while the mournful dusk of evening was creeping up from the earth. a few chilled and silent sparrows hopped dejectedly along the bared boughs of the young maple tree in front of the house, and every now and then a brisk pedestrian would pass on the concrete pavement below. inside, a cheerful fire burned in the grate, and near it, on one end of the chintz-covered couch, lay oliver's present to her--a set of black bear furs, which he had brought down with him from new york. turning away from the window, she slipped the neck-piece over her shoulders, and as she did so, she tried to stifle the wonder whether he would have bought them--whether even he would have remembered the date--if harry had not been with him. last year he had forgotten her birthday--and never before had he given her so costly a present as this. they were beautiful furs, but even she, with her ignorance of the subtler arts of dress, saw that they were too heavy for her, that they made her look shrunken and small and accentuated the pallor of her skin, which had the colour and the texture of withered rose-leaves. "they are just what jenny has always wanted, and they would be so becoming to her. i wonder if oliver would mind my letting her take them back to bryn mawr after the holidays?" if oliver would mind! the phrase still remained after the spirit which sanctified it had long departed. in her heart she knew--though her happiness rested upon her passionate evasion of the knowledge--that oliver had not only ceased to mind, that he had even ceased to notice whether she wore his gifts or gave them to jenny. a light step flitted along the hall; her door opened without shutting again, and lucy, in a street gown made in the princess style, hurried across the room and turned a slender back appealingly towards her. "oh, mother, please unhook me as fast as you can. the peytons are going to take me in their car over to richmond, and i've only a half hour in which to get ready." then, as virginia's hands fumbled a little at an obstinate hook, lucy gave an impatient pull of her shoulders, and reached back, straining her arms, until she tore the offending fastenings from her dress. she was a small, graceful girl, not particularly pretty, not particularly clever, but possessing some indefinable quality which served her as successfully as either beauty or cleverness could have done. though she was the most selfish and the least considerate of the three children, virginia was like wax in her hands, and regarded her dashing, rather cynical, worldliness with naïve and uncomprehending respect. she secretly disapproved of lucy, but it was a disapproval which was tempered by admiration. it seemed miraculous to her that any girl of twenty-two should possess so clearly formulated and critical a philosophy of life, or should be so utterly emancipated from the last shackles of reverence. as far as her mother could discern, lucy respected but a single thing, and that single thing was her own opinion. for authority she had as little reverence as a savage; yet she was not a savage, for she represented instead the perfect product of over-civilization. the world was bounded for her by her own personality. she was supremely interested in what she thought, felt, or imagined, and beyond the limits of her individuality, she was frankly bored by existence. the joys, sorrows, or experiences of others failed even to arrest her attention. yet the very simplicity and sincerity of her egoism robbed it of offensiveness, and raised it from a trait of character to the dignity of a point of view. the established law of self-sacrifice which had guided her mother's life was not only personally distasteful to her--it was morally indefensible. she was engaged not in illustrating precepts of conduct, but in realizing her independence; and this realization of herself appeared to her as the supreme and peculiar obligation of her being. though she was less fine than jenny, who in her studious way was a girl of much character, she was by no means as superficial as she appeared, and might in time, aided by fortuitous circumstances, make a strong and capable woman. her faults, after all, were due in a large measure to a training which had consistently magnified in her mind the space which she would ultimately occupy in the universe. and she had charm. without beauty, without intellect, without culture, she was still able to dominate her surroundings by her inexplicable but undeniable charm. she was one of those women of whom people say, "it is impossible to tell what attracts men in a woman." she was indifferent, she was casual, she was even cruel; yet every male creature she met fell a victim before her. her slightest gesture had a fascination for the masculine mind; her silliest words a significance. "i declare men are the biggest fools where women are concerned," miss priscilla had remarked, watching her; and the words had adequately expressed the opinion of the feminine half of dinwiddie's population. from sixteen to twenty-two she had remained as indifferent as a star to the impassioned moths flitting around her. then, a month after her twenty-second birthday, she had coolly announced her engagement to a man whom she had seen but six times--a widower at that, twelve years older than herself, and the father of two children. the blow had fallen, without warning, upon virginia, who had never seen the man, and did not like what she had heard of him. unwisely, she had attempted to remonstrate, and had been met by the reply, "mother, dear, you must allow me to decide what is for my happiness," and a manner which said, "after all, you know so much less of life than i do, how can you advise me?" it was intolerable, of course, and the worst of it was that, rebel as she might against the admission, virginia could not plausibly deny the truth of either the remark or the manner. on the face of it, lucy must know best what she wanted, and as for knowledge of life, she was certainly justified in considering her mother a child beside her. oliver, when the case was put before him, showed a sympathy with virginia's point of view and a moral inability to coerce his daughter into accepting it. "she knows i never liked craven," he said, "but after all what are we going to do about it? she's old enough to decide for herself, and you can't in this century put a girl on bread and water because she marries as she chooses." nothing about duty! nothing about consideration for her family! nothing about the awful responsibility of entering lightly into such sacred relations! lucy was evidently in love--if she hadn't been, why on earth should she have precipitated herself into an affair whose only reason was a lack of reason that was conclusive?--but she might have been engaging a chauffeur for all the solemnity she put into the arrangements. she had selected her clothes and planned her wedding with a practical wisdom which had awed and saddened her mother. all the wistful sentiments, the tender evasions, the consecrated dreams that had gone into the preparations for virginia's marriage, were buried somewhere under the fragrant past of the eighties--and the memory of them made her feel not forty-five, but a hundred. yet the thing that troubled her most was a feeling that she was in the power of forces which she did not understand--a sense that there were profound disturbances beneath the familiar surface of life. when lucy had gone out, with her dress open down the back and a glimpse of her smooth girlish shoulders showing between the fastenings, virginia went over to the window again, and was rewarded by the sight of harry's athletic figure crossing the street. in a minute he came in, kissing her with the careless tenderness which was one of her secret joys. "halloo! little mother! all alone? where are the others?" he was the only one of her children who appeared to enjoy her, and sometimes when they were alone together, he would turn and put his arms about her, or stroke her hands with an impulsive, protecting sympathy. there were moments when it seemed to her that he pitied her because the world had moved on without her; and others when he came to her for counsel about things of which she was not only ignorant, but even a little afraid. once he had consulted her as to whether he should go on the football team at his college, and had listened respectfully enough to her timid objections. respect, indeed, was the quality in which he had never failed her, and this, even more than his affection, had become a balm to her in recent years, when lucy and jenny occasionally lost patience and showed themselves openly amused by her old-fashioned opinions. she had never forgotten that he had once taken her part when the girls had tried to persuade her to brush back the little curls from her temples and wear her hair in a pompadour. "it would look so much more suitable for a woman of your age, mother dear," lucy had remarked sweetly with a condescending deference which had made virginia feel as if she were a thousand. "and it would be more becoming, too, now that your hair is turning grey," jenny had added, with an intention to be kind and helpful which had gone wrong somehow and turned into officiousness. "shut up, and don't be silly geese," harry had growled at them, and his rudeness in her behalf had given virginia a delicious thrill, which was increased by the knowledge that his manners were usually excellent even to his sisters. "you let them fuss all they want to, mother," he concluded, "but your hair is a long sight better than theirs, and don't you let them nag you into making a mess of it." all of which had been sweet beyond words to virginia, though she was obliged to admit that his judgment was founded upon a deplorable lack of discrimination in the matter of hairdressing--since lucy and jenny both had magnificent hair, while her own had long since lost its gloss and grown thin from neglect. but if it had been really the truth, it could not have been half so sweet to her. "lucy is dressing to motor over to richmond with the peytons, and your father went out to ride. harry, why won't you let me go on to new york to see you off?" he was sailing the following week for england, and he had forbidden her to come to his boat, or even to new york, for a last glimpse of him. "oh, i hate having a scene at the boat, mother. it always makes me feel creepy to say good-bye. i never do it if i can help." "i know you don't, darling--you sneaked off after the holidays without telling me what train you were going by. but this is for such a long time. two years, harry." her voice broke, and turning away, she gazed through the window at the young maple tree as though her very soul were concentrated upon the leafless boughs. he stirred uneasily, for like most men of twenty-one, he had a horror of sentiment. "oh, well, you may come over next summer, you know. i'll speak to father about it. if his play goes over to london, he'll have to be there, won't he?" "i suppose so," she replied, choking down her tears, and becoming suddenly cheerful. "and you'll write to me once a week, harry?" "you bet! by the way, i've had nothing to eat since ten o'clock, and i feel rather gone. have you some cake around anywhere?" "but we'll have supper in half an hour, and i've ordered waffles and fried chicken for you. hadn't you better wait?" her cheerfulness was not assumed now, for with the turn to practical matters, she felt suddenly that the universe had righted itself. even harry's departure was forgotten in the immediate necessity of providing for his appetite. "well, i'll wait, but i hope you've prepared for an army. i could eat a hundred waffles." he snapped his jaws, and she laughed delightedly. for all his twenty-one years, and the scholarship which he had won so easily and which was taking him abroad, he was as boyish and as natural as he had been at ten. even his love of sweets had not lessened with the increase of his dignity. to think of his demanding cake the minute after he had entered the house! "father's play made a great hit," he said presently, still steering carefully away from the reefs of emotion. "i suppose you read all about it in the papers?" she shook her head, smiling. though she tried her best to be as natural and as unemotional as he was, she could not keep her adoration out of her eyes, which feasted on him like the eyes of one who had starved for months. how handsome he was, with his broad shoulders, his fine sunburned face, and his frank, boyish smile. it was a pity he had to wear glasses--yet even his glasses seemed to her individual and charming. she couldn't imagine a single way in which he could be improved, and all the while she was perfectly sure that it wasn't in the least because she was his mother--that she wasn't a bit prejudiced in her judgment. it appeared out of the question that anybody--even a stranger--could have found fault with him. "no, i haven't had time to read the papers--i've been so busy getting ready for lucy's wedding," she answered. "but your father told me about it. it must be splendid--only i wish he wouldn't speak so contemptuously of it," she added regretfully. "he says it's trash, and yet i'm sure everybody spoke well of it, and they say it is obliged to make a great deal of money. i can't understand why his success seems to irritate rather than please him." "well, he thinks, you know, that it is only since he's cheapened himself that he has had any hearing." "cheapened himself?" she repeated wistfully. "but his first plays failed entirely, so these last ones must be a great deal better if they are such splendid successes." "well, i suppose it's hard for us to understand his point of view. we talked about it one night in new york when we were dining with margaret oldcastle--she takes the leading part in 'pretty fanny,' you know." "yes, i know. what is she like?" a strange, still look came into her face, as though she waited with suspended breath for his answer. "she's a charmer on the stage. i heard father tell her that she made the play, and i'm not sure that he wasn't right." "but you saw her off the stage, didn't you?" "oh, yes, she asked me to dinner. she didn't look nearly so young, then, and she's not exactly pretty; but, somehow, it didn't seem to matter. she's got genius--you couldn't be with her ten minutes without finding out that. i never saw any one in my life so much alive. when she's in a room, even if she doesn't speak, you can't keep your eyes off her. she's like a bright flame that you can't stop looking at--not even if there are a lot of prettier women there, too." "is she dark or fair?" he stopped to think for a moment. "to save my life i can't remember--but i think she's dark--at least, her eyes are, though her hair may be light. but you never think of her appearance when she's talking. i believe she's the best talker i ever heard--better even than father." his enthusiasm had got the better of him, and it was evident that oliver's success had banished for a time at least the secret hostility which had existed between father and son. that passion for material results, which could not be separated from the treadwell spirit without robbing that spirit of its vitality, had gradually altered the family attitude toward oliver's profession. art, like business, must justify itself by its results, and to a commercial age there could be no justifiable results that could not bear translation into figures. success was the chief end of man, and success could be measured only in terms of money. "there's your father's step," said virginia, whose face looked drawn and pallid in the dusk. "let me light the lamp, darling. he hates to read his paper by anything but lamplight." but he had jumped up before she had finished and was hunting for matches in the old place under the clock on the mantelpiece. she was such a little, thin, frail creature that he laughed as she tried to help him. "so lucy is going to marry that old rotter, is she?" he asked pleasantly as his father entered. "well, father! i was just asking mother why she let lucy marry that old rotter?" "but the dear child has set her heart on him, and he is really very nice to us," replied virginia hurriedly. though she was disappointed in lucy's choice, it seemed dreadful to her to speak of a man who was about to enter the family as a "rotter." "you stop it, harry, if you have the authority. i haven't," answered oliver carelessly. "is your neuralgia better, virginia?" "it's quite gone, dear. doctor powell gave me some aspirin and it cured it." she smiled gratefully at him, with a touching pleasure in the fact that he had remembered to ask. as she glanced quickly from father to son, eager to see them reconciled, utterly forgetful of herself, something of the anxious cheerfulness of mrs. pendleton's spirit appeared to live again in her look. though her freshness had withered, she was still what is called "a sweet looking woman," and her expression of simple goodness lent an appealing charm to her features. "are you going back to new york soon, father?" asked harry, turning politely in oliver's direction. from his manner, which had lost its boyishness, virginia knew that he was trying with all his energy to be agreeable, yet that he could not overcome the old feeling of constraint and lack of sympathy. "next week. 'the home' is to be put on in february, and i'm obliged to be there for the rehearsals." "does miss oldcastle take the leading part?" "yes." crossing the room, oliver held out his hands to the fire, and then turning, stretched his arms, with a stifled yawn, above his head. the only fault that could be urged against his appearance was that his figure was becoming a trifle square, that he was beginning to look a little too well-fed, a little too comfortable. for the rest, his hair, which had gone quite grey, brought out the glow and richness of his colour and lent a striking emphasis to his dark, shining eyes. "do you think that the new play is as good as 'pretty fanny'?" asked virginia. "well, they're both rot, you know," he answered, with a laugh. "oh, oliver, how can you, when all the papers spoke so admiringly of it?" "why shouldn't they? it is perfectly innocuous. the kind of thing any father might take his daughter to see. we shan't dispute that, anyhow." his flippancy not only hurt, it confused her. it was painful enough to have him speak so slightingly of his success, but worse than this was the feeling it aroused in her that he was defying authority. even if her innate respect for the printed word had not made her accept as final the judgment of the newspapers, there was still the incontestable fact that so many people had paid to see "pretty fanny" that both oliver and miss oldcastle had reaped a small fortune. she glanced in a helpless way at harry, and he said suddenly: "don't you think jenny ought to come home to be with mother after lucy marries? you are obliged to go to new york so often that she will get lonely." "it's a good idea," agreed oliver amiably, "but there's another case where you'll have to use greater authority than mine. when i stopped reforming people," he added gaily, "i began with my own family." "the dear child would come in a minute if i suggested it," said virginia, "but she enjoys her life at college so much that i wouldn't have her give it up for anything in the world. it would make me miserable to think that any of my children made a sacrifice for me." "you needn't worry. we've trained them differently," said oliver, and though his tone was slightly satirical, the satire was directed at himself, not at his wife. "i am sure it is what i should never want," insisted virginia, almost passionately, while she rose in response to the announcement of supper, and met lucy, in trailing pink chiffon, on the threshold. "are you sure your coat is warm enough, dear?" she asked. "wouldn't you like to wear my furs? they are heavier than yours." "oh, i'd love to, if you wouldn't mind, mother." raising herself on tiptoe, lucy kissed harry, and then ran to the mirror, eager to see if the black fur looked well on her. "they're just lovely on me, mother. i feel gorgeous!" she exclaimed triumphantly, and indeed her charming girlish face rose like a white flower out of the rich dark furs. in virginia's eyes, as she turned back in the doorway to watch her, there was a radiant self-forgetfulness which illumined her features. for a moment she lived so completely in her daughter's youth that her body seemed to take warmth and colour from the emotion which transfigured her. "i am so glad, darling," she said. "it gives me more pleasure to see you in them than it does to wear them myself." and though she did not know it, she embodied her gentle philosophy of life in that single sentence. chapter iii middle-age jenny had promised to come home a week before lucy's wedding, but at the last moment, while they waited supper for her, a telegram announced with serious brevity that she was "detained." twenty-four hours later a second telegram informed them that she would not arrive until the evening before the marriage, and at six o'clock on that day, virginia, who had been packing lucy's trunks ever since breakfast, looked out of the window at the sound of the door-bell, and saw the cab which had contained her second daughter standing beside the curbstone. "mother, have you the change to pay the driver?" asked a vision of stern loveliness floating into the room. with the winter's glow in her cheeks and eyes and the bronze sheen on her splendid hair, which was brushed in rippling waves from her forehead and coiled in a severely simple knot on her neck, she might have been a wandering goddess, who had descended, with immortal calm, to direct the affairs of the household. her white shirtwaist, with its starched severity, suited her austere beauty and her look of almost superhuman composure. "take off your hat, darling, and lie down on the couch while i finish lucy's packing," said virginia, when she had sent the servant downstairs to pay the cabman. her soul was in her eyes while she watched jenny remove her plain felt hat, with its bit of blue scarf around the crown--a piece of millinery which presented a deceptive appearance of inexpensiveness--and pass the comb through the shining arch of her hair. "i am so sorry, mother dear, i couldn't come before, but there were some important lectures i really couldn't afford to miss. i am specializing in biology, you know." her manner, calm, sweet, and gently condescending, was such as she might have used to a child whom she loved and with whom she possessed an infinite patience. one felt that while talking, she groped almost unconsciously for the simplest and shortest words in which her meaning might be conveyed. she did not lie down as virginia had suggested, but straightening her short skirt, seated herself in an upright chair by the table and crossed her slender feet in their sensible, square-toed shoes. while she gazed at her, virginia remembered, with a smile, that harry had once said his sister was as flawless as a geometrical figure, and he couldn't look at her without wanting to twist her nose out of shape. in spite of her beauty, she was not attractive to men, whom she awed and intimidated by a candid assumption of superiority. for lucy's conscienceless treatment of the male she had unmitigated contempt. her sister, indeed, had she not been her sister, would have appeared to her as an object for frank condemnation--"one of those women who waste themselves in foolish flirtations." as it was, loving lucy, and being a loyal soul, with very scientific ideas of her own responsibility for her sister as well as for that abstract creature whom she classified as "the working woman," she thought of lucy tenderly as a "dear girl, but simple." her mother, of course, was, also, "simple"; but, then, what could one expect of a woman whose only education had been at the dinwiddie academy for young ladies? to jenny, education had usurped the place which the church had always occupied in the benighted mind of her mother. all the evils of our civilization--and these evils shared with the working woman the first right to her attention--she attributed to the fact that the former generations of women had had either no education at all, or worse even than that, had had the meretricious brand of education which was supplied by an army of miss priscillas. for miss priscilla herself, entirely apart from the academy, which she described frankly, to virginia's horror, as "a menace," she entertained a sincere devotion, and this ability to detach her judgments from her affections made her appear almost miraculously wise to her mother, who had been born a pendleton. "no, i'm not tired. is there anything i can help you about, mother?" she asked, for she was a good child and very helpful--the only drawback to her assistance being that when she helped she invariably commanded. "oh, no, darling, i'll be through presently--just as soon as i get this trunk packed. lucy's things are lovely. i wish you had come in time to see them. miss willy and i spent all yesterday running blue ribbons in her underclothes, and though we began before breakfast, we had to sit up until twelve o'clock so as to get through in time to begin on the trunks this morning." her eyes shone as she spoke, and she would have enjoyed describing all lucy's clothes, for she loved pretty things, though she never bought them for herself, finding it impossible to break the habit of more than twenty years of economy; but jenny, who was proud of her sincerity, looked so plainly bored that she checked her flowing descriptions. "i hope you brought something beautiful to wear to-morrow, jenny?" she ventured timidly, after a silence. "of course i had to get a new dress, as i'm to be maid of honour, but it seemed so extravagant, for i had two perfectly good white chiffons already." "but it would have hurt lucy, dear, if you hadn't worn something new. she even wanted me to order my dress from new york, but i was so afraid of wounding poor little miss willy--she has made my clothes ever since i could remember--that i persuaded the child to let her make it. of course, it won't be stylish, but nobody will look at me anyway." "i hope it is coloured, mother. you wear black too much. the psychological effect is not good for you." with her knees on the floor and her back bent over the trunk into which she was packing a dozen pairs of slippers wrapped in tissue paper, virginia turned her head and stared in bewilderment at her daughter, whose classic profile showed like marble flushed with rose in the lamplight. "but at my time of life, dear? why, i'm in my forty-sixth year." "but forty-six is still young, mother. that was one of the greatest mistakes women used to make--to imagine that they must be old as soon as men ceased to make love to them. it was all due to the idea that men admired only schoolgirls and that as soon as a woman stopped being admired she had stopped living." "but they didn't stop living really. they merely stopped fixing up." "oh, of course. they spent the rest of their lives in the storeroom or the kitchen slaving for the comfort of the men they could no longer amuse." this so aptly described virginia's own situation that her interest in lucy's trousseau faded abruptly, while a wave of heartsickness swept over her. it was as if the sharp and searching light of truth had fallen suddenly upon all the frail and lovely pretences by which she had helped herself to live and to be happy. a terror of the preternatural insight of youth made her turn her face away from jenny's too critical eyes. "but what else could they do, jenny? they believed that it was right to step back and make room for the young," she said, with a pitiful attempt at justification of her exploded virtues. "oh, _mother_!" exclaimed jenny still sweetly, "whoever heard of a man of that generation stepping back to make room for anybody?" "but men are different, darling. one doesn't expect them to give up like women." "oh, mother!"--this time the sweetness had borrowed an edge of irony. it was science annihilating tradition, and the tougher the tradition, the keener the blade which science must apply. "i can't help it, dear, it is the way i was taught. my darling mother felt like that"--a tear glistened in her eye--"and i am too old to change my way of thinking." "mother, mother, you silly pet!" rising from her chair, jenny put her arms about her and kissed her tenderly. "you can't help being old-fashioned, i know. you are not to blame for your ideas; it is miss priscilla." her voice grew stern with condemnation as she uttered the name. "but don't you think you might try to see things a little more rationally? it is for your own sake i am speaking. why should you make yourself old by dressing as if you were eighty simply because your grandmother did so?" she was right, of course, for the trouble with science is not its blindness, but its serene infallibility. as useless to reject her conclusions as to deny the laws and the principles of mathematics! after all manner of denials, the laws and the principles would still remain. virginia, who had never argued in her life, did not attempt to do so with her own daughter. she merely accepted the truth of jenny's inflexible logic; and with that obstinate softness which is an inalienable quality of tradition, went on believing precisely what she had believed before. to have made them think alike, it would have been necessary to melt up the two generations and pour them into one--a task as hopeless as an endeavour to blend the dinwiddie young ladies' academy with a modern college. jenny's clearly formulated and rather loud morality was unintelligible to her mother, whose conception of duty was that she should efface herself and make things comfortable for those around her. the obligation to think independently was as incomprehensible to virginia as was that wider altruism which had swept jenny's sympathies beyond the home into the factory and beyond the factory into the world where there were "evils." her own instinct had always been the true instinct of the lady to avoid "evil," not to seek it, to avoid it, honestly if possible, and, if not honestly--well, to avoid it at any cost. the love of truth for truth's sake was one of the last of the virtues to descend from philosophy into a working theory of life, and it had been practically unknown to virginia until jenny had returned, at the end of her first year, from college. to be sure, oliver used to talk like that long ago, but it was so long ago that she had almost forgotten it. "you are very clever, dear--much too clever for me," she said, rising from her knees. "i wonder if lucy has anything else she wants to go into this trunk? it might be packed a little tighter." in response to her call, the door opened and lucy entered breathlessly, with her hair, which she had washed and not entirely dried, hanging over her shoulders. "what is it, mother? oh, jenny, you have come! i'm so glad!" the sisters kissed delightedly. in spite of their lack of sympathy, they were very fond of each other. "do you want to put anything else in this trunk before i lock it, lucy?" "could you find room for my blue flannel bath robe? i'll want it on top where i can get it out without unpacking, and, oh, mother, won't you please put my alcohol stove and curling irons in my travelling bag?" she was prettily excited, and during the last few days she had shown an almost child-like confidence in her mother's opinions about the trivial matters of packing. "mother, i don't want to come down yet--my hair isn't dry. will you send supper up to me? i'll dress about nine o'clock when bertie and the girls are coming." "of course i will, darling. i'll go straight downstairs and fix your tray. is there anything you can think of that you would like?" at this jenny broke into a laugh: "why, anybody would think she was dying instead of being married!" "just a cup of coffee. i really couldn't swallow a morsel," replied lucy, whose single manifestation of sentiment had been a complete loss of appetite. "you needn't laugh, jenny. wait until you are going to be married, and see if you are able to eat anything." putting the tray back into the trunk, virginia closed it almost caressingly. for twenty-four hours, as lucy's wedding began to draw nearer, she had been haunted by the feeling that she was losing her favourite child, and though her reason told her that this was not true--that lucy was, in fact, less fond of her than either of the others, and far less dear to her heart than harry--still she was unable wholly to banish the impression. it seemed only yesterday that she had sat waiting, month after month, week after week, day after day, for her to be born. only yesterday that she had held her, a baby, in her arms, and now she was packing the clothes which that baby would carry away when she went off with her husband! something of the hushed expectancy of those long months of approaching motherhood enveloped her again with the thought of lucy's wedding to-morrow. after all, lucy was her first child--neither of the others had been awaited with quite the same brooding ecstasy, with quite the same radiant dreams. to neither of the others had she given herself at the hour of birth with such an abandonment of her soul and body. and she had been a good child--all day with a lump in her throat virginia had assured herself again and again that no child could have been better. a hundred little charming ways, a hundred bright delicious tricks of expression and of voice, followed her from room to room, as though lucy had indeed, as jenny said, been dying upstairs instead of waiting to be married. and all the time, while she arranged the supper tray and attended to the making of the coffee so that it might be perfect, she was thinking, "mother must have felt like this when i was married and i never knew it, i never suspected." she saw her little bedroom at the rectory, with her own figure, in the floating tulle veil, reflected in the mirror, and her mother's face, that face from which all remembrance of self seemed to have vanished, looking at her over the bride's bouquet of white roses. if only she had told her then that she understood! if only she had ever really understood until to-night! if only it was not too late to turn back now and gather that plaintive figure, waiting with the white roses, into her arms! the next morning she was up at daybreak, finishing the packing, preparing the house before leaving for church, making the final arrangements for the wedding breakfast. when at last lucy, with reddened eyes and tightly curled hair, appeared in the pantry while her mother was helping to wash a belated supply of glass and china which had arrived from the caterer's, virginia felt that the parting was worse even than harry's going to college. "mother, i've the greatest mind on earth not to do it." "my pet, what is the matter?" "i can't imagine why i ever thought i wanted to marry! i don't want to do it a bit. i don't want to go away and leave you and father. and, mother, i really don't believe that i love him!" it was so like lucy after months of cool determination, of perfect assurance, of stubborn resistance to opposition--it was so exactly like her to break down when it was too late and to begin to question whether she really wanted her own way after she had won it. and it was so like virginia that at the first sign of weakness in her child she should grow suddenly strong and efficient. "my darling, it is only nervousness. you will be better as soon as you begin to dress. come upstairs and i will fix you a dose of aromatic ammonia." "do you really think it's too late to stop it?" "not if you feel you are going to regret it, but you must be very sure that it isn't merely a mood, lucy." at the first sign that the step was not yet irrevocable, the girl's courage returned. "well, i suppose i'll have to get married now," she said, "but if i don't like it, i'm not going to live with him." "not live with your husband! why, lucy!" "it's perfectly absurd to think i'll have to live with a man if i find i don't love him. ask jenny if it isn't." ask jenny! this was her incredible suggestion! this was her reverence for authority, for duty, for the thundering admonitions of saint paul! as far as saint paul was concerned, he might as well have been the ponderous anecdotal minister in the brick presbyterian church around the corner. "but jenny is so--so----" murmured virginia, and stopped because words failed her. had jenny been born in any family except her own, she would probably have described her as "dangerous," but it was impossible to brand her daughter with so opprobrious an epithet. the word, owing to the metaphorical yet specific definition of it which she had derived from the rector's sermons in her childhood, invariably suggested fire and brimstone to her imagination. "well, i'm not going to do it unless i want to," returned lucy positively. "and you may look as shocked as you please, mother, but you needn't pretend that you wouldn't be glad to see me." the difference between the two girls, as far as virginia could see, was that jenny really believed her awful ideas were right, and lucy merely believed that they might help her the more effectively to follow her wishes. "of course i'd be glad to see you, but, lucy, it pains me so to hear you speak flippantly of your marriage. it is the most sacred day in your life, and you treat it as lightly as if it were a picnic." "do i? poor little day, have i hurt its feelings?" they were on the way upstairs, following a procession of wedding presents which had just arrived by express, and glancing round over the heads of the servants, she made a laughing face at her mother. clearly, she was incorrigible, and her passing fear, which had evidently been entirely due, as virginia had suspected, to one of her rare attacks of nervousness, had entirely disappeared. in her normal mood she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself not only within the estate of matrimony, but in an african jungle. she would in either situation inevitably get what she wanted, and in order to get it she would shrink as little from sacrificing a husband as from enslaving a savage. and yet a few hours later, when she stood beneath her bridal veil and gazed at her image in the cheval-glass in her bedroom, she presented so enchanting a picture of virgin innocence, that virginia could hardly believe that she harboured in her breast, under the sacred white satin of her bride's gown, the heretical opinions which she had uttered downstairs in the pantry. her charming face had attuned its expression so perfectly to the dramatic values of the moment that she appeared, in the words of that sentimental soul, miss priscilla, to be listening already to "the voice that breathed o'er eden." "doesn't mother look sweet?" she asked, catching sight of virginia's face in the mirror. "i love her in pale grey--only she ought to have some flowers." "i told father to order her a bunch of violets," answered jenny. "i wonder if he remembered to do it." a look of pleasure, the first she had worn for days, flitted over virginia's face. she had all her mother's touching appreciation of insignificant favours, and, perhaps because her pleasure was so excessive, people shrank a little from arousing it. like most persons who thought perpetually of others, she was not accustomed to being thought of very often in return. but oliver had remembered, and when the purple box was brought up to her, and jenny pinned the violets on her dress, a blush mantled her thin cheeks, and she looked for a moment almost as young and lovely as her daughters. then oliver came after lucy, and gathering up her train, the girl smiled at her mother and hurried out of the room. at the last minute her qualms appeared suddenly to depart. whatever happened in the months and years that came afterwards, she had determined to get all she could out of the excitement of the wedding. she had cast no loving glance about the little room, where she was leaving her girlhood behind her; but virginia, lingering for an instant after the others had gone out, looked with tear-dimmed eyes at the small white bed and the white furniture decorated in roses. she suffered in that minute with an intensity and a depth of feeling that lucy had never known in the past--that she would never know in the future--for it is given to mothers to live not once, but twice or thrice or as many times as they have children to live for. and the sunlight, entering through the high window, fell very gently on the anxious love in her eyes, on the fading white rose-leaves of her cheeks, and on the silvery mist of curls framing her forehead. * * * * * that afternoon, when lucy had motored off with her husband, and oliver and jenny had gone riding together, virginia went back again into the room and put away the scattered clothes the girl had left. on the bed was the little pillow, with the embroidered slip over a cover of pink satin virginia had made, and taking it from the bed she put it into one of the boxes which had been left open until the last minute. as she did so, it was as if a miraculous wand was waved over her memory, softening lucy's image until she appeared to her in all the angelic sweetness and charm of her childhood. her egoism, her selfishness, her lack of consideration and of reverence, all those faults of an excessive individualism embodied in the girl, vanished so completely that she even forgot they had ever existed. once again she felt in her breast the burning rapture of young motherhood; once again she gathered her first-born child--hers alone, hers out of the whole world of children!--into her arms. a choking sensation rose in her throat, and, dropping a handful of photographs which she had started to put away, she hurried from the room, as though she were leaving something dead there that she loved. downstairs, the caterers and the florists were in possession, carting away glass and china, dismantling decorations, and ejecting palms as summarily as though they had come uninvited. the servants were busy sweeping floors and moving chairs and sofas back into place, and in the kitchen the negro cook was placidly beginning preparations for supper. for a time virginia occupied herself returning the ornaments to the drawing-room mantelpiece, and the illustrated gift books to the centre table. when this was over she looked about her with the nervous expectancy of a person who has been overwhelmed for months by a multitude of exigent cares, and realized, with a start, that there was nothing for her to do. to-morrow oliver and jenny were both going away--he to new york to attend the rehearsals of his play, and she back to finish her year at college--and virginia would be left in an empty house with all her pressing practical duties suddenly ended. "you will have such a nice long rest now, mother dear," lucy had said as she clung to her before stepping into the car, and virginia had agreed unthinkingly that a rest for a little while would, perhaps, do her good. now, turning away from the centre table, where she had laid the last useless volume in place, she walked slowly through the library to the dining-room, and then from the dining-room into the pantry. here, the dishes were all washed, the cup-towels were drying in an orderly row beside the sink, and the two maids and the butler were "drawing a breath" in wooden chairs by the stove. "there was enough chicken salad and ice cream left for supper, wasn't there, wotan?" on being assured that there was enough for a week, she gave a few directions about the distribution of the other food left from the wedding breakfast, and then went out again and into oliver's study. a feeling of restlessness more acute than any she had ever known kept her walking back and forth between the door and the window, which looked out into a square of garden, where a few lonely sticks protruded out of the discoloured snow on the grass. she had lived for others so long that she had at last lost the power of living for herself. there was nothing to do to-day; there would be nothing to do to-morrow; and, unless jenny came home to be married, there would be nothing to do next year or the years after that. while oliver was in dinwiddie, she had, of course, the pleasure of supplying his food and of watching him eat it; but beyond that, even when he sat in the room with her, there was little conversation between them. she herself loved to talk, for she had inherited her mother's ability to keep up a honeyed flow of sound about little things; but she had learned long ago that there were times when her voice, rippling on about nothing, only irritated him, and with her feminine genius for adaptability, she had made a habit of silence. he never spoke to her of his work except in terms of flippant ridicule which pained her, and the supreme topic of the children's school reports had been absent now for many years. companionship of a mental sort had always been lacking between them, yet so reverently did she still accept the traditional fictions of marriage, that she would have been astonished at the suggestion that a love which could survive the shocks of tragedy might at last fade away from a gradual decline of interest. nothing had happened. there had been no scenes, no quarrels, no jealousies, no recriminations--merely a gentle, yet deliberate, withdrawal of personalities. he had worshipped her at twenty-two, and now, at forty-seven, there were moments when she realized with a stab of pain that she bored him; but beyond this she had felt no cause for unhappiness, and until the last year no cause even for apprehension. the libertine had always been absent from his nature; and during all the years of their marriage he had, as susan put it, hardly so much as looked at another woman. whatever came between them, it would not be physical passion, but a far subtler thing. going to his desk, she took up a photograph of margaret oldcastle and studied it for a moment--not harshly, not critically, but with a pensive questioning. it was hardly a beautiful face, but in its glowing intellectuality, it was the face of a woman of power. so different was the look of noble reticence it wore from that of the conventional type of american actress, that while she gazed at it virginia found herself asking vaguely, "i wonder why she went on the stage?" the woman was not a pretty doll--she was not a voluptuous enchantress--the coquetry of the one and the flesh of the other were missing. if the stories virginia had heard of her were to be trusted, she had come out of poverty not by the easy steps of managers' favours, but by hard work, self-denial, and discipline. though virginia had never seen her, she felt instinctively that she was an "honest woman." and yet why did this face, which had in it none of the charms of the seductress, disturb her so profoundly? she was too little given to introspection, too accustomed to think always in concrete images, to answer the question; but her intuition, rather than her thought, made her understand dimly that the things she feared in margaret oldcastle were the qualities in which she herself was lacking. whatever power the woman possessed drew its strength and its completeness from a source which virginia had never recognized as being necessary or even beneficent to love. after all, was it not petty and unjust in her to be hurt by oliver's friendship for a woman who had been of such tremendous assistance to him in his work? had he not said a hundred times that she had succeeded in making his plays popular without making them at the same time ridiculous? putting the photograph back in its place on the desk, she turned away and began walking again over the strip of carpet which led from the door to the window. in the yard the dried stalks of last year's flowers looked so lonely in the midst of the dirty snow, that she felt a sudden impulse of sympathy. poor things, they had outlived their usefulness. the phrase occurred to her again, and she remembered how often her father had applied it to women whose children had all married and left them. "poor matilda! she is restless and dissatisfied, and she doesn't understand that it is because she has outlived her usefulness." at that time "poor matilda" had seemed to her an old woman--but, perhaps, she wasn't in reality much over forty. how soon women grew old a generation ago! why, she felt as young to-day as she did the morning on which she was married. she felt as young, and yet her hair was greying, her face was wrinkled, and, like poor matilda, she had outlived her usefulness. while she stood there that peculiar sensation which comes to women when their youth is over--the sensation of a changed world--took possession of her. she felt that life was slipping, slipping past her, and that she was left behind like a bit of the sentiment or the law of the last century. though she still felt young, it was not with the youth of to-day. she had no part in the present; her ideals were the ideals of another period; even her children had outgrown her. she saw now with a piercing flash of insight, so penetrating, so impersonal, that it seemed the result of some outside vision rather than of her own uncritical judgment, that life had treated her as it treats those who give, but never demand. she had made the way too easy for others; she had never exacted of them; she had never held them to the austerity of their ideals. then the illumination faded as if it had been the malicious act of a demon, and she reproached herself for allowing such thoughts to enter her mind for an instant. "i don't know what can be the matter with me. i never used to brood. i wonder if it can be my time of life that makes me so nervous and apprehensive?" for so long she had waited for some definite point of time, for the children to begin school, for them to finish school, for harry to go off to college, for lucy to be married, that now, when she realized that there was nothing to expect, nothing to prepare for, her whole nature, with all the multitudinous fibres which had held her being together, seemed suddenly to relax from its tension. to be sure, oliver would come home for a time at least after his rehearsals were over, jenny would return for as much of the holidays as her philanthropic duties permitted, and, if she waited long enough, harry would occasionally pay her a visit. they all loved her; not one of them, she told herself, would intentionally neglect her--but not one of them needed her! she had outlived her usefulness! the next afternoon, when oliver and jenny had driven off to the station, she put on her street clothes, and went out to call on susan, who lived in a new house in high street. mrs. treadwell, having worn out everybody's patience except susan's, had died some five years before, and the incorrigible sentimentalists of dinwiddie--there were many of them--expressed publicly the belief that cyrus had never been "the same man since his wife's death." as a matter of fact, cyrus, who had retired from active finance in the same year that he lost belinda, had missed his business considerably more than he had missed his wife, whose loss, if he had ever analyzed it, would have resolved itself into the absence of somebody to bully. but on the very day that he had retired from work he had begun to age rapidly, and now, standing on susan's porch, he suggested to virginia an orange from which every drop of juice had been squeezed. of late he had taken to giving rather lavishly to churches, with a vague, superstitious hope, perhaps, that he might buy the salvation he had been too busy to work out in other ways. and so acute had become his terror of death, virginia had heard, that after every attack of dyspepsia he dispatched a check to the missionary society of the church he attended. upstairs, in her bedroom, susan, who had just come in, was "taking off her things," and she greeted virginia with a delight which seemed, in some strange way, to be both a balm and a stimulant. one thing, at least, in her life had not altered with middle-age, and that was susan's devotion. she was a large, young, superbly vigorous woman of forty-five, with an abundant energy which overflowed outside of her household in a dozen different directions. she loved john henry, but she did not love him to the exclusion of other people; she loved her children, but they did not absorb her. there was hardly a charity or a public movement in dinwiddie in which she did not take a practical interest. she had kept her mind as alert as her body, and the number of books she read had always shocked virginia a little, who felt that time for reading was obliged to be time subtracted from more important duties. "i've thought of you so much, jinny, darling. you mustn't let yourself begin to feel lonely." virginia shook her head with a smile, but in spite of her effort not to appear depressed, there was a touching wistfulness in her eyes. "of course i miss the dear children, but i'm so thankful that they are happy." "i wish jenny would come back home to stay with you." "she would if i asked her, susan"--her face showed her pleasure at the thought of jenny's willingness for the sacrifice--"but i wouldn't have her do it for the world. she's so different from lucy, who was quite happy as long as she could have attention and go to parties. of course, it seems to me more natural for a girl to be like that, especially a southern girl, but jenny says that she is obliged to have something to think about besides men. i wonder what my dear father would have thought of her?" "she'll take you by surprise some day, and marry as suddenly as lucy did." "that's what oliver says, but miss priscilla is sure she'll be an old maid, because she's so fastidious. it's funny how much more women exact of men now than they used to. don't you remember what a heroine the women of miss priscilla's generation thought mrs. tom peachey was because she supported major peachey by taking boarders while he just drank himself into his grave? well, somebody mentioned that to jenny the other day and she said it was 'disgusting.'" "i always thought so," said susan, "but, jinny, i'm more interested in you than i am in mrs. peachey. what are you going to do with yourself?" almost unconsciously both had eliminated oliver as the dominant figure in virginia's future. "i don't know, dear. i wish my children were as young as yours. bessie is just six, isn't she?" "you ought to have had a dozen children. didn't you realize that nature intended you to do it?" "i know"--a pensive look came into her face--"but we were very poor, and after the three came so quickly, and the little one that i lost, oliver felt that we could not afford to have any others. i've so often thought that i was never really happy except when i had a baby in my arms." "it's a devilish trick of nature's that she makes them stop coming at the very time that you want them most. forty-five is not much more than half a lifetime, jinny." "and when one has lived in their children as i have done, of course, one feels a little bit lost without them. then, if oliver were not obliged to be away so much----" her voice broke, and susan, leaning forward impulsively, put her arms about her. "jinny, darling, i never saw you depressed before." "i was never like this until to-day. it must be the weather--or my age. i suppose i shall get over it." "of course you will get over it--but you mustn't let it grow on you. you mustn't be too much alone." "how can i help it? oliver will be away almost all winter, and when he is at home, he is so absorbed in his work that he sometimes doesn't speak for days. of course, it isn't his fault," she added hastily; "it is the only way he can write." "and you're alone now for the first time for twenty-five years. that's why you feel it so keenly." the look of unselfish goodness which made virginia's face almost beautiful at times passed like an edge of light across her eyes and mouth. "don't worry about me, susan. i'll get used to it." "you will, dear, but it isn't right. i wish harry could have stayed in dinwiddie. he would have been such a comfort to you." "but i wouldn't have had him do it! the boy is so brilliant. he has a future before him. already he has had several articles accepted by the magazines"--her face shone--"and i hope that he will some day be as successful as oliver has been without going through the long struggle." "can't you go to england to see him in the summer?" "that's what i want to do." it was touching to see how her animation and interest revived when she began talking of harry. "and when oliver's play is put on in february, he has promised to take me to new york for the first night." "i am glad of that. but, meanwhile, you mustn't sit at home and think too much, jinny. it isn't good for you. can't you find an interest? if you would only take up reading again. you used to be fond of it." "i know, but one gets out of the habit. i gave it up after the children came, when there was so much that was really important for me to do, and now, to save my life, i can't get interested in a book except for an hour or two at a time. i'm always stopping to ask myself if i'm not neglecting something, just as i used to do while the children were little. you see, i'm not a clever woman like you. i was made just to be a wife and mother, and nothing else." "but you're obliged to be something else now. you are only forty-five. there may be forty more years ahead of you, and you can't go on being a mother every minute of your time. even if you have grandchildren, they won't be like your own. you can't slave over them in the way you used to do over yours. the girls' husbands and harry's wife would have something to say about it." "do you know, susan, i try not to be little and jealous, but when you said 'harry's wife' so carelessly just now it brought a lump to my throat." "he will marry some day, darling, and you might as well accustom yourself to the thought." "i know, and i want him to do it. i shall love his wife as if she were my daughter--but--but it seems to me at this minute as if i could not bear it!" the grey twilight, entering through the high window above her head, enveloped her as tenderly as if it were the atmosphere of those romantic early eighties to which she belonged. the small aristocratic head, with its quaint old-fashioned clusters of curls on the temples, the delicate stooping figure, a little bent in the chest, the whole pensive, exquisite personality which expressed itself in that manner of gentle self-effacement--these things spoke to susan's heart, through the softness of the dusk, with all the touching appeal of the past. it was as if the inscrutable enigma of time waited there, shrouded in mystery, for a solution which would make clear the meaning of the blighted promises of life. she saw herself and virginia on that may afternoon twenty-five years ago, standing with eager hearts on the edge of the future; she saw them waiting, with breathless, expectant lips, for the miracle that must happen! well, the miracle had happened, and like the majority of miracles, it had descended in the act of occurrence from the zone of the miraculous into the region of the ordinary. this was life, and looking back from middle-age, she felt no impulse to regret the rapturous certainties of youth. experience, though it contained an inevitable pang, was better than ignorance. it was good to have been young; it was good to be middle-aged; and it would be good to be old. for she was one of those who loved life, not because it was beautiful, but because it was life. "i must go," said virginia, rising in the aimless way of a person who is not moving toward a definite object. "stay and have supper with us, jinny. john henry will take you home afterward." "i can't, dear. the--the servants are expecting me." she kissed susan on the cheek, and taking up her little black silk bag, turned to the door. "jinny, if i come by for you to-morrow, will you go with me to a board meeting or two? couldn't you possibly take an interest in some charity?" it was a desperate move, but at the moment she could think of no other to make. "oh, i am interested, susan--but i have no executive ability, you know. and--and, then, poor dear father used to have such a horror of women who were always running about to meetings. he would never even let mother do church work--except, of course, when there was a cake sale or a fair of the missionary society." susan's last effort had failed, and as she followed virginia downstairs and to the front door, a look almost of gloom settled on her large cheerful face. "try to pay some calls every afternoon, won't you, dear?" she said at the door. "i'll come in to see you in the morning when we get back from marketing." then she added softly, "if you are ever lonesome and want me, telephone for me day or night. there's nothing on earth i wouldn't do for you, jinny." virginia's eyes were wonderful with love and gratitude as they shone on her through the twilight. "we've been friends since we were two years old, susan, and, do you know, there is nobody in the world that i would ask anything of as soon as i would of you." a look of unutterable understanding and fidelity passed between them; then turning silently away, virginia descended the steps and walked quickly along the path to the pavement, while susan, after watching her through the gate, shut the door and went upstairs to the nursery. the town lay under a thin crust of snow, which was beginning to melt in the chill rain that was falling. raising her umbrella, virginia picked her way carefully over the icy streets, and miss priscilla, who was looking in search of diversion out of her front window, had a sudden palpitation of the heart because it seemed to her for a minute that "lucy pendleton had returned to life." so one generation of gentle shades after another had moved in the winter's dusk under the frosted lamps of high street. through the windows of her house a cheerful light streamed out upon the piles of melting snow in the yard, and at the door one of her coloured servants met her with the news that a telegram was on the hall table. before opening it she knew what it was, for oliver's correspondence with her had taken this form for more than a year. "arrived safely. very busy. call on john henry if you need anything." she put it down and turned hastily to letters from harry and jenny. the first was only a scrawl in pencil, written with that boyish reticence which always overcame harry when he wrote to one of his family; but beneath the stilted phrases she could read his homesickness and his longing for her in every line. "poor boy, i am afraid he is lonely," she thought, and caressed the paper as tenderly as if it had been the letter of a lover. he had written to her every sunday since he had first gone off to college and several times she knew that he had denied himself a pleasure in order to send her her weekly letter. already, she had begun to trust to his "sense of responsibility" as she had never, even in the early days of her marriage, trusted to oliver's. opening the large square envelope which was addressed in jenny's impressive handwriting, she found four closely written pages entertainingly descriptive of the girl's journey back to college and of the urgent interests she found awaiting her there. in this letter there was none of the weakness of implied sentiment, there was none of the plaintive homesickness she had read in harry's. jenny wrote regularly and affectionately because she felt that it was her duty to do so, for, unlike lucy, who was heard from only when she wanted something, she was a girl who obeyed sedulously the promptings of her conscience. but if she loved her mother, she was plainly not interested in her. her attitude towards life was masculine rather than feminine; and virginia had long since learned that in the case of a man it is easier to inspire love than it is to hold his attention. harry was different, of course--there was a feminine, or at least a poetic, streak in him which endowed him with that natural talent for the affections which is supposed to be womanly--but jenny resembled oliver in her preference for the active rather than for the passive side of experience. going upstairs, virginia took off her hat and coat, and, without changing her dress, came down again with a piece of fancy-work in her hands. placing herself under the lamp in oliver's study, she took a few careful stitches in the centrepiece she was embroidering for lucy, and then letting her needle fall, sat gazing into the wood-fire which crackled softly on the brass andirons. from the lamp on the desk an amber glow fell on the dull red of the leather-covered furniture, on the pale brown of the walls, on the rich blending of oriental colours in the rug at her feet. it was the most comfortable room in the house, and for that reason she had fallen into the habit of using it when oliver was away. then, too, his personality had impressed itself so ineffaceably upon the surroundings which he had chosen and amid which he had worked, that she felt nearer to him while she sat in his favourite chair, breathing the scent of the wood-fire he loved. she thought of the "dear children," of how pleased she was that they were all well and happy, of how "sweet" harry and jenny were about writing to her; and so unaccustomed was she to thinking in the first person, that not until she took up her embroidery again and applied her needle to the centre of a flower, did she find herself saying aloud: "i must send for miss willy to-morrow and engage her for next week. that will be something to do." and looking ahead she saw days of endless stitching and basting, of endless gossip accompanied by the cheerful whirring of the little dressmaker's machine. "i used to pity miss willy because she was obliged to work," she thought with surprise, "but now i almost envy her. i wonder if it is work that keeps her so young and brisk? she's never had anything in her life, and yet she is so much happier than some people who have had everything." the maid came to announce supper, and, gathering up her fancy-work, virginia laid it beside the lamp on the end of oliver's writing table. as she did so, she saw that her photograph, taken the year of her marriage, which he usually carried on his journeys, had been laid aside and overlooked when he was packing his papers. it was the first time he had forgotten it, and a little chill struck her heart as she put it back in its place beside the bronze letter rack. then the chill sharpened suddenly until it became an icy blade in her breast, for she saw that the picture of margaret oldcastle was gone from its frame. chapter iv life's cruelties there was a hard snowstorm on the day oliver returned to dinwiddie, and virginia, who had watched from the window all the afternoon, saw him crossing the street through a whirl of feathery flakes. the wind drove violently against him, but he appeared almost unconscious of it, so buoyant, so full of physical energy was his walk. never had he looked more desirable to her, never more lovable, than he did at that instant. something, either a trick of imagination or an illusion produced by the flying whiteness of the storm, gave him back for a moment the glowing eyes and the eager lips of his youth. then, as she turned towards the door, awaiting his step on the stairs, the mirror over the mantel showed her her own face, with its fallen lines, its soft pallor, its look of fading sweetness. she had laid her youth down on the altar of her love, while he had used love, as he had used life, merely to feed the flame of the unconquerable egoism which burned like genius within him. he came in, brushing a few flakes of snow from his sleeve, and it seemed to her that the casual kindness of his kiss fell like ice on her cheek as he greeted her. it was almost three months since he had seen her, for he had been unable to come home for christmas, but from his manner he might have parted from her only yesterday. he was kind--he had never been kinder--but she would have preferred that he should strike her. "are you all right?" he asked gently, turning to warm his hands at the fire. "beastly cold, isn't it?" "oh, yes, i am all right, dear. the play is a great success, isn't it?" his face clouded. "as such things go. it's awful rot, but it's made a hit--there's no doubt of that." "and the other one, 'the home'--when is the first night of that?" "next week. on thursday. i must get back for it." "and i am to go with you, am i not? i have looked forward to it all winter." at the sound of her anxious question, a contraction of pain, the look of one who has been touched on the raw, crossed his face. though she was not penetrating enough to discern it, there were times when his pity for her amounted almost to a passion, and at such moments he was conscious of a blind anger against life, as against some implacable personal force, because it had robbed him of the hard and narrow morality on which his ancestors leaned. the scourge of a creed which had kept even cyrus walking humbly in the straight and flinty road of calvinism, appeared to him in such rare instants as one of the spiritual luxuries which a rationalistic age had destroyed; for it is not granted to man to look into the heart of another, and so he was ignorant alike of the sanctities and the passions of cyrus's soul. what he felt was merely that the breaking of the iron bonds of the old faith had weakened his powers of resistance as inevitably as it had liberated his thought. the sound of his own rebellion was in his ears, and filled with the noise of it, he had not stopped to reflect that the rebellion of his ancestors had seemed less loud only because it was inarticulate. was it really that his generation had lost the capacity for endurance, the spiritual grace of self-denial, or was it simply that it had lost its reticence and its secrecy with the passing of its inflexible dogmas? "why, certainly you must go if you would care to," he answered. "perhaps jenny will come over from bryn mawr to join us. the dear child was so disappointed that she couldn't come home for christmas." "if i'd known in time that she wasn't coming, i'd have found a way of getting down just for dinner with you. i hope you weren't alone, virginia." "oh, no, miss priscilla came to spend the day with me. you know she used to take dinner with us every christmas at the rectory." a troubled look clouded his face. "jenny ought to have been here," he said, and asked suddenly, as if it were a relief to him to change the subject: "have you had news of harry?" the light which the name of harry always brought to her eyes shone there now, enriching their faded beauty. "he writes to me every week. you know he hasn't missed a single sunday letter since he first went off to school. he is wild about oxford, but i think he gets a little homesick sometimes, though of course he'd never say so." "he'll do well, that boy. the stuff is in him." "i'm sure he's a genius if there ever was one, oliver. only yesterday professor trimble was telling me that harry was far and away the most brilliant pupil he had ever had." "well, he's something to be proud of. and now what about lucy? is she still satisfied with craven?" "she never writes about anything else except about her house. her marriage seems to have turned out beautifully. you remember i wrote you that she was perfectly delighted with her stepchildren, and she really appears to be as happy as the day is long." "you never can tell. i thought she'd be back again before two months were up." "i know. we all prophesied dreadful things--even susan." "that reminds me--i came down on the train with john henry, and he said that uncle cyrus was breaking rapidly." "he has never been the same since his wife's death," replied virginia, who was a victim of this sentimental fallacy. "it's strange--isn't it?--because we used to think they got on so badly." "i wonder if it is really that? well, is there any other news? has anything else happened?" with his back to the fire, he stood looking down on her with kindly, questioning eyes. he had done his best; from the moment when he had entered the room and met the touching brightness in her face, he had struggled to be as natural, to be as affectionate even, as she desired. at the moment, so softened, so self-reproachful was his mood, he would willingly have cut off his arm for her could the sacrifice in any manner have secured her happiness. but there were times when it seemed easier to give his life for her than to live it with her; when to shed his blood would have cost less than to make conversation. he yearned over virginia, but he could not talk to her. some impregnable barrier of personality separated them as if it were a wall. already they belonged to different generations; they spoke in the language of different periods. at forty-seven, that second youth, the indian summer of the emotions, which lingers like autumnal sunshine in the lives of most men and of a few women, was again enkindling his heart. and with this return of youth, he felt the awakening of infinite possibilities of feeling, of the ancient ineradicable belief that happiness lies in possession. love, which had used up her spirit and body in its service, had left him untouched by its exactions. while she, having fulfilled her nature, was content to live anew not in herself, but in her children, the force of personal desire was sweeping over him again, with all the flame and splendour of adolescence. the "something missing" waited there, just a little beyond, as he had seen it waiting in that enchanted may when he fell in love with virginia. and between him and his vision of happiness there interposed merely his undisciplined conscience, his variable, though honest, desire to do the thing that was right. duty, which had controlled virginia's every step, was as remote and aloof from his life as was the creed of his fathers. like his age, he was adrift among disestablished beliefs, among floating wrecks of what had once been rules of conduct by which men had lived. and the widening responsibilities, the deepening consciousness of a force for good greater than creed or rules, all the awakening moral strength which would lend balance and power to his age, these things had been weakened in his character by the indomitable egoism which had ordered his life. there was nothing for him to fall back upon, nothing that he could place above the restless surge of his will. sitting there in the firelight, with her loving eyes following his movements, she told him, bit by bit, all the latest gossip of dinwiddie. susan's eldest girl had developed a beautiful voice and was beginning to take lessons; poor miss priscilla had had a bad fall in old street while she was on the way to market, and at first they feared she had broken her hip, but it turned out that she was only dreadfully bruised; major peachey had died very suddenly and she had felt obliged to go to his funeral; abby goode had been home on a visit and everybody said she didn't look a day over twenty-five, though she was every bit of forty-four. then, taking a little pile of samples from her work basket which stood on the table, she showed him a piece of black brocaded satin. "miss willy is making me a dress out of this to wear in new york with you. i don't suppose you noticed whether or not they were wearing brocade." no, he hadn't noticed, but the sample was very pretty, he thought. "why don't you buy a dress there, virginia? it would save you so much trouble." "poor little miss willy has set her heart on making it, oliver. and, besides, i shan't have time if we go only the day before." a flush had come to her face; at the corners of her mouth a tender little smile rippled; and her look of faded sweetness gave place for an instant to the warmth and the animation of girlhood. but the excitement of girlhood could not restore to her the freshness of youth. her pleasure was the pleasure of middle-age; the wistful expectancy in her face was the expectancy of one whose interests are centred on little things. that inviolable quality of self-sacrifice, the quality which knit her soul to the enduring soul of her race, had enabled her to find happiness in the simple act of renouncement. the quiet years had kept undiminished the inordinate capacity for enjoyment, the exaggerated appreciation of trivial favours, which had filled mrs. pendleton's life with a flutter of thankfulness; and while virginia smoothed the piece of black brocade on her knee, she might have been the re-arisen pensive spirit of her mother. of the two, perhaps because she had ceased to wish for anything for herself, she was happier than oliver. all through dinner, while her soft anxious eyes dwelt on him over the bowl of pink roses in the centre of the table, he tried hard to throw himself into her narrow life, to talk only of things in which he felt that she was interested. slight as the effort was, he could see her gratitude in her face, could hear it in the gentle silvery sound of her voice. when he praised the dinner, she blushed like a girl; when he made her describe the dress which miss willy was making, she grew as excited as if she had been speaking of the sacred white satin she had worn as a bride. so little was needed to make her happy--that was the pathos! she was satisfied with the crumbs of life, and yet they were denied her. though she had been alone ever since lucy's wedding, she accepted his belated visit as thankfully as if it were a gratuitous gift. "it is so good of you to come down, dear, when you are needed every minute in new york," she murmured, with a caressing touch on his arm, and, looking at her, he was reminded of mrs. pendleton's tremulous pleasure in the sweets that came to her on little trays from her neighbours. once she had said eagerly, "it will be so nice to see miss oldcastle, oliver," and he had answered in a constrained tone which he tried to make light and casual, "i am not sure that the part is going to suit her." then he had changed the subject abruptly by rising from the table and asking her to let him see her latest letter from harry. the next morning he went out after breakfast to consult cyrus about some investments, while virginia laid out the lengths of brocade on the bed in the spare room, and sat down to wait for the arrival of the dressmaker. outside, the trees were still white from the storm, and the wind, blowing through them, made a dry crackling sound as if it were rattling thorns in a forest. though it was intensely cold, the sunshine fell in golden bars over the pavement and filled the town with a dazzling brilliancy through which the little seamstress was seen presently making her way. alert, bird-like, consumed with her insatiable interest in other people, she entered, after she had removed her bonnet and wraps, and began to spread out her patterns. it was twenty-odd years since she had made the white satin dress in which virginia was married, yet she looked hardly a day older than she had done when she knelt at the girl's feet and envied her happiness while she pinned up the shining train. failing love, she had filled her life with an inextinguishable curiosity; and this passion, being independent of the desires of others, was proof alike against disillusionment and the destructive processes of time. "so mr. treadwell has come home," she remarked, with a tentative flourish of the scissors. "i declare he gets handsomer every day that he lives. it suits him somehow to fill out, or it may be that i'm partial to fat like my poor mother before me." "he does look well, but i'd hardly call him fat, would you?" "well, he's stouter than he used to be, anyway. did he say when he was going to take you back with him?" "next wednesday. we'll have to hurry to get this dress ready in time." "i'll start right in at it. have you made up your mind whether you'll have it princess or a separate waist and skirt?" "i'm a little too thin for a princess gown, don't you think? hadn't i better have it made like that black poplin which everybody thought looked so well on me?" "but it ain't half so stylish as the princess. you just let me put a few cambric ruffles inside the bust and you'll stand out a plenty. i was reading in a fashion sheet only yesterday that they are trying to look as flat as they can manage in paris." "well, i'll try it," murmured virginia uncertainly, for her standards of dress were so vague that she was thankful to be able to rely on miss willy's self-constituted authority. "you just leave it to me," was the dressmaker's reply, while she thrust the point of the scissors into the gleaming brocade on the bed. the morning passed so quickly amid cutting, basting, and gossip, that it came as a surprise to virginia when she heard the front door open and shut and oliver's rapid step mounting the stairs. meeting him in the hall, she led the way into her bedroom, and asked with the caressing, slightly conciliatory manner which expressed so perfectly her attitude toward life: "did you see uncle cyrus?" "yes, and he was nicer than i have ever known him to be. by the way, virginia, i've transferred enough property to you to bring you in a separate income. this was really what i went down about." "but what is the matter, dear? don't you feel well? have you had any worries that you haven't told me?" "oh, i'm all right, but it's better so in case something should happen." "but what could possibly happen? i never saw you look better. miss willy was just saying so." he turned away, not impatiently, but as one who is seeking to hide an emotion which has become too strong. then without replying to her question, he muttered something about "a number of letters to write before dinner," and hurried out of the room and downstairs to his study. "i wonder if he has lost money," she thought, vaguely troubled, as she instinctively straightened the brushes he had disarranged on the bureau. "poor oliver! he seems to think about nothing but money now, and he used to be so romantic." he used to be so romantic! she repeated this to susan that evening when, after miss willy's departure for the night, she took her friend into the spare room to show her the first shapings of the princess gown. "do you remember that we used to call him an incurable don quixote?" she asked. "and now he has become so different that at times it makes me smile to think of him as he was when i first knew him. i suppose it's better so, it's more normal. he used to be what uncle cyrus called 'flighty,' bent on reforming the world and on improving people, you know, and now he doesn't seem to care whether outside things are good or bad, just as long as his plays go well and he can give us all the money we want." "it's natural, isn't it?" asked susan. "one can't stay young forever, you see." "and yet in some ways he doesn't appear to be a bit older. i like his hair being grey, don't you? it makes his colour look even richer than before." "yes," said susan, "i like his hair and i like him. only i wish he didn't have to leave you by yourself so much of the time." "he is going to take me back with him on wednesday. miss willy is making this dress for me to wear. i want to look nice because, of course, everybody will be noticing oliver." "it's lovely, and i'm sure you'll look as sweet as the angel that you are, jinny," answered susan, stooping to kiss her. by tuesday night the dress was finished, and virginia was stuffing the sleeves with tissue paper before packing it into her trunk, when oliver came into the room and stood watching her in silence. "i do hope it won't get crumpled," she said anxiously as she spread a towel over the tray. "miss willy is so proud of it, and i don't believe i could have got anything prettier in new york." "virginia," he said suddenly, "you've set your heart on going to-morrow, haven't you?" turning from the trunk, she looked up at him with a tender, inquiring smile. above her head the electric light, with which oliver and the girls had insisted on replacing the gas-jets that she preferred, cast a hard glitter over the hollowed lines of her face and over the thinning curls which she had striven to brush back from her temples. her figure, unassisted as yet by miss willy's ruffles, looked so fragile in the pitiless glare that his heart melted in one of those waves of sentimentality which, because they were impotent to affect his conduct, cost him so little. as she stood there, he realized more acutely than he had ever done before how utterly stationary she had remained since he married her. with her sweetness, her humility, her old-fashioned courtesy and consideration for others, she belonged still in the honey-scented twilight of the eighties. while he had moved with the world, she, who was confirmed in the traditions of another age, had never altered in spirit since that ecstatic moment when he had first loved her. the charm, the grace, the virtues, even the look of gentle goodness which had won his heart, were all there just as they had been when she was twenty. except for the fading flesh, the woman had not changed; only the needs and the desires of the man were different. only the resurgent youth in him was again demanding youth for its mate. "why, my trunk is all packed," she replied. "has anything happened?" "oh, no, i was only wondering how you would manage to amuse yourself. you know i shall be at the theatre most of the time." "but you mustn't have me on your mind a minute, oliver. i won't go a step unless you promise me not to worry about me a bit. it's all so new to me that i shall enjoy just sitting in the hotel and watching the people." "then we'd better go to the waldorf. that might interest you more." his eagerness to provide entertainment for her touched her as deeply as if it had been a proof of his love instead of his anxiety, and she determined in her heart that if she were lonesome a minute he must never suspect it. ennui, having its roots in an egoism she did not possess, was unknown to her. "that will be lovely, dear. lucy wrote me when she was there on her wedding trip that she used to sit for hours in the corridor looking at the people that went by, and that it was as good as a play." "that settles it. i'll telegraph for rooms," he said cheerfully, relieved to find that she fell in so readily with his suggestion. she was giving a last caressing pat to the tray before closing the trunk, and the look of her thin hands, with their slightly swollen knuckles, caused him to lean forward suddenly and wrest the keys away from her. "let me do that. i hate to see you stooping," he said. the telegram was sent, and late the next evening, as they rolled through the brilliant streets towards the hotel, virginia's interest was as effervescent as if she were indeed the girl that she almost felt herself to have become. the sound of the streets excited her like martial music, and little gasps of surprise and pleasure broke from her lips as the taxicab turned into broadway. it was all so different from her other visit when she had come alone to find oliver, sick with failure, in the dismal bedroom of that hotel. now it seemed to her that the city had grown younger, that it was more awake, that it was brighter, gayer, and that she herself had a part in its brightness and its gaiety. the crowds on broadway seemed keeping step to some happy tune, and she felt that her heart was dancing with them, so elated, so girlishly irresponsible was her mood. "why, oliver, there is a sign of your play with a picture of miss oldcastle on it!" she exclaimed delightedly, pointing to an advertisement before a theatre they were passing. then, suddenly, it appeared to her that the whole city was waving this advertisement. wherever she turned "the home" stared back at her, an orgy of red and blue surrounding the smiling effigy of the actress. and this proof of oliver's fame thrilled her as she had not been thrilled since the telegram had come announcing that harry had won the scholarship which would take him to oxford. the woman's power of sinking her ambition and even her identity into the activities of the man was deeply interwoven with all that was essential and permanent in her soul. her keenest joys, as well as her sharpest sorrows, had never belonged to herself, but to others. it was doubtful, indeed, if, since the day of her marriage, she had been profoundly moved by any feeling which was centred merely in a personal desire. she had wanted things for oliver and for the children, but for herself there had been no separate existence apart from them. "oliver, i never dreamed that it would be like this. the play will be a great success--even a greater one than the last, won't it, dear?" her face, with its exquisite look of exaltation, of self-forgetfulness, was turned eagerly towards the crowd of feverish pleasure-seekers that passed on, pursuing its little joys, under the garish signs of the street. "well, it ought to be," he returned; "it's bad enough anyway." his eyes, like hers, were fixed on the thronging streets, but, unlike hers, they reflected the restless animation, the pathetic hunger, which made each of those passing faces appear to be the plastic medium of an insatiable craving for life. handsome, well-preserved, a little over-coloured, a little square of figure, with his look of worldly importance, of assured material success, he stood to-day, as cyrus had stood a quarter of a century ago, as an imposing example of that treadwell spirit from which his youth had revolted. that night, when they had finished dinner, and oliver, in response to a telephone message, had hurried down to the theatre, virginia went upstairs to her room, and, after putting on the lavender silk dressing-gown which miss willy had made for the occasion, sat down to write her weekly letter to harry. my darling boy. i know you will be surprised to see from this letter that i am really in new york at last--and at the waldorf! it seems almost like a dream to me, and whenever i shut my eyes, i find myself forgetting that i am not in dinwiddie--but, you remember, your father had always promised me that i should come for the first night of his new play, which will be acted to-morrow. you simply can't imagine till you get here how famous he is and how interested people are in everything about him, even the smallest trifles. wherever you look you see advertisements of his plays (he has three running now) and coming up broadway for only a block or two last night, i am sure that i saw miss oldcastle's picture a dozen times. i should think she would hate dreadfully to have to make herself so conspicuous--for she has a nice, refined face--but oliver says all actresses have to do it if they want to get on. he takes all the fuss they make over him just as if he despised it, though i am sure that in his heart he can't help being pleased. while we were having dinner, everybody in the dining-room was turning to look at him, and if i hadn't known, of course, that not a soul was thinking of me, i should have felt badly because i hadn't time to change my dress after i got here. all the other women were beautifully dressed (i never dreamed that there were so many diamonds in the world. miss willy would simply go crazy over them), but i didn't mind a bit, and if anybody thought of me at all, of course, they knew that i had just stepped off the train. after dinner your father went to the theatre, and i sat downstairs alone in the corridor for a while and watched the people coming and going. it was perfectly fascinating at first. i never saw so many beautiful women, and their hair was arranged in such a lovely way, all just alike, that it must have taken hours to do each head. the fashions that are worn here are not in the least like those of dinwiddie, though miss willy made my black brocade exactly like one in a fashion plate that came directly from paris, but i know that you aren't as much interested in this as lucy and jenny would be. the dear girls are both well, and lucy is carried away with her stepchildren. she says she doesn't see why every woman doesn't marry a widower. isn't that exactly like lucy? she is always so funny. if only one of you were here with me, i should enjoy every minute, but after i'd sat there for a while in the midst of all those strangers, i began to feel a little lonely, so i came upstairs to write you this letter. new york is a fascinating place to visit, but i am glad i live in dinwiddie where everybody knows me. and now, my dearest boy, i must tell you how perfectly overjoyed i was to get your last letter, and to know that you are so delighted with oxford. i think of you every minute, and i pray for you the last thing at night before i get into bed. try to keep well and strong, and if you get a cold, be sure not to let it run on till it turns to a hacking cough. remember that doctor fraser always used to say that every cough, no matter how slight, is dangerous. i hope you aren't studying too hard or overdoing athletics. it is so easy to tax one's strength too much when one gets excited. i am sure i don't know what to think of the english students being "standoffish" with americans. it seems very foolish of them not to be nice and friendly, especially to virginians, who were really english in the beginning. but i am glad that you don't mind, and that you would rather be a countryman of george washington than a countryman of george the third. of course england is the greatest country in the world--you remember your grandfather always said that--and we owe it everything that we have, but i think it very silly of english people to be stiff and ill-mannered. i hope you still read your bible, darling, and that you find time to go to church once every sunday. even if it seems a waste of time to you, it would have pleased your grandfather, and for his sake i hope you will go whenever you can possibly do so. it was so sweet of you to write in addison's walk because you did not want to miss my sunday letter and yet the day was too beautiful not to be out of doors. god only knows, my boy, what a comfort you are to me. there was never a better son nor one who was loved more devotedly. your mother. in the morning, with the breakfast tray, there arrived a bunch of orchids from one of oliver's theatrical friends, who had heard that his wife was in town; and while virginia laid the box carefully in the bathtub, her eyes shone with the grateful light which came into them whenever some one did her a small kindness or courtesy. "they will be lovely for me to wear to-night, oliver. it was so nice of him to send them, wasn't it?" "yes, it was rather nice," oliver replied, looking up from his paper at the pleased sound of her voice. ever since his return at a late hour last night, she had noticed the nervousness in his manner and had sympathetically attributed it to his anxiety about the fate of his play. it was so like oliver to be silent and self-absorbed when he was anxious. through the day he was absent, and when he returned, in the evening, to dress for the theatre, she was standing before the mirror fastening the bunch of orchids on the front of her gown. as he entered, she turned toward him with a look of eager interest, of pleasant yet anxious excitement. she had never in her life, except on the morning of her wedding day, taken so long to dress; but it seemed to her important that as oliver's wife she should look as nice as she could. "am i all right?" she asked timidly, while she cast a doubtful glance in the mirror at the skirt of the black brocade. "yes, you're all right," he responded, without looking at her, and the suppressed pain in his voice caused her to move suddenly toward him with the question, "aren't you well, oliver?" "oh, i'm well, but i'm tired. i had a headache on the way up and i haven't been able to shake it off." "shall i get you something for it?" "no, it will pass. i'd like a nap, but i suppose it's time for me to dress." "yes, it's half-past six, and we've ordered dinner for seven." he went into the dressing-room, and turning again to the mirror, she changed the position of the bunch of orchids, and gave a little dissatisfied pat to the hair on her forehead. if only she could bring back some of the bloom and the freshness of youth! the glow had gone out of her eyes; the winged happiness, which had given her face the look as of one flying towards life, had passed, leaving her features a little wan and drawn, and fading her delicate skin to the colour of withered flowers. yet the little smile, which lingered like autumn sunshine around her lips, was full of that sweetness which time could not destroy, because it belonged not to her flesh, but to an unalterable quality of her soul; and this sweetness, which she exhaled like a fragrance, would cause perhaps one of a hundred strangers to glance after her with the thought, "how lovely that woman must once have been!" "are you ready?" asked oliver, coming out of his dressing-room, and again she started and turned quickly towards him, because it seemed to her that she was hearing his voice for the first time. so nervous, so irritable, so quivering with suppressed feeling, was the sound of it, that she hesitated between the longing to offer sympathy and the fear that her words might only add to his suffering. "yes, i am quite ready," she answered, without adding that she had been ready for more than an hour; and picking up her wrap from the bed, she passed ahead of him through the door which he had opened. as he stopped to draw the key from the lock, her eyes rested with pride on the gloss of his hair, which had gone grey in the last year, and on his figure, with its square shoulders and its look of obvious distinction, as of a man who had achieved results so emphatically that it was impossible either to overlook or to belittle them. how splendid he looked! and what a pity that, after all his triumphs, he should still be so nervous on the first night of a play! in the elevator there was a woman in an ermine wrap, with titian hair under a jewelled net; and virginia's eyes were suffused with pleasure as she gazed at her. "i never saw any one so beautiful!" she exclaimed to oliver, as they stepped out into the hall; but he merely replied indifferently: "was she? i didn't notice." then his tone lost its deadness. "if you'll wait here a minute, i'd like to speak to cranston about something," he said, almost eagerly. "i shan't keep you a second." "don't worry about me," she answered cheerfully, pleased at the sudden change in his manner. "stay as long as you like. i never get tired watching the people." he hurried off, while, dazzled by the lights, she drew back behind a sheltering palm, and stood a little screened from the brilliant crowd in which she took such innocent pleasure. "how i wish miss willy could be here," she thought, for it was impossible for her to feel perfect enjoyment while there existed the knowledge that another person would have found even greater delight in the scene than she was finding herself. "how gay they all look--and there are not any old people. everybody, even the white-haired women, dress as if they were girls. i wonder what it is that gives them all this gloss as if they had been polished, the same gloss that has come on oliver since he has been so successful? what a short time he stayed. he is coming back already, and every single person is turning to look at him." then a voice beyond the palm spoke as distinctly as if the words were uttered into her ear. "that's treadwell over there--a good-looking man, isn't he?--but have you seen the dowdy, middle-aged woman he is married to? it's a pity that all great men marry young--and now they say, you know, that he is madly in love with margaret oldcastle----" chapter v bitterness in the night, after a restless sleep, she awoke in terror. a hundred incidents, a hundred phrases, looks, gestures, which she had thought meaningless until last evening, flashed out of the darkness and hung there, blazing, against the background of the night. yesterday these things had appeared purposeless; and now it seemed to her that only her incredible blindness, only her childish inability to face any painful fact until it struck her between the eyes, had kept her from discovering the truth before it was thrust on her by the idle chatter of strangers. a curious rigidity, as if she had been suddenly paralyzed, passed from her heart, which seemed to have ceased beating, and crept through her limbs to her motionless hands and feet. though she longed to call out and awaken oliver, who, complaining of insomnia, spent the night in the adjoining room, this immobility, which was like the graven immobility of death, held her imprisoned there as speechless and still as if she lay in her coffin. only her brain seemed on fire, so pitilessly, so horribly alive had it become. from the street beyond the dim square of the window, across which the curtains were drawn, she could hear the ceaseless passing of carriages and motor cars; but her thoughts had grown so confused that for a long while, as she lay there, chill and rigid under the bed-clothes, she could not separate the outside sounds from the tumult within her brain. "now that i know the truth i must decide what is best to do," she thought quite calmly. "as soon as this noise stops i must think it all over and decide what is best to do." but around this one lucid idea the discordant roar of the streets seemed to gather force until it raged with the violence of a storm. it was impossible to think clearly until this noise, which, in some strange way, was both in the street outside and within the secret chambers of her soul, had subsided and given place to the quiet of night again. then gradually the tempest of sound died away, and in the midst of the stillness which followed it she lived over every hour, every minute, of that last evening when it had seemed to her that she was crucified by oliver's triumph. she saw him as he came towards her down the shining corridor, easy, brilliant, impressive, a little bored by his celebrity, yet with the look of vital well-being, of second youth, which separated and distinguished him from the curious gazers among whom he moved. she saw him opposite to her during the long dinner, which she could not eat; she saw him beside her in the car which carried them to the theatre; and clearer than ever, as if a burning iron had seared the memory into her brain, she saw him lean on the railing of the box, with his eyes on the stage where margaret oldcastle, against the lowered curtain, smiled her charming smile at the house. it had been a wonderful night, and through it all she had felt the iron nails of her crucifixion driven into her soul. breaking away from that chill of terror with which she had awakened, she left the bed and went over to the window, where she drew the heavy curtains aside. in fifth avenue the electric lights sparkled like frost on the pavement, while beyond the roofs of the houses the first melancholy glow of a winter's sunrise was suffusing the sky with red. while she watched it, a wave of unutterable loneliness swept over her--of that profound spiritual loneliness which comes to one at dawn in a great city, when knowledge of the sleeping millions within reach seems only to intensify the fact of individual littleness and isolation. she felt that she stood alone, not merely in the world, but in the universe; and the thought that oliver slept there in the next room made more poignant this feeling, as though she were solitary and detached in the midst of limitless space. even if she called him and he came to her, she could not reach him. even if he stood at her side, the immeasurable distance between them would not lessen. when the morning came, she dressed herself in her prettiest gown, a violet cloth, with ruffles of old lace at the throat and wrists; but this dress, of which she had been so proud in dinwiddie that she had saved it for months in order to have it fresh for new york, appeared somehow to have lost its charm and distinction, and she knew that last evening had not only destroyed her happiness, but had robbed her of her confidence in the taste and the workmanship of miss willy. knowledge, she saw now, had shattered the little beliefs of life as well as the large ones. oliver liked to breakfast in his dressing-gown, fresh from his bath and eager for the papers, so when he came hurriedly into the sitting-room, the shining tray was already awaiting him, and she sat pouring his coffee in a band of sunlight beside the table. this sunlight, so merciful to the violet gown, shone pitilessly on the darkened hollows which the night had left under her eyes, and on the little lines which had gathered around her bravely smiling mouth. "it was a wonderful success, all the papers say so, oliver," she said, when he had seated himself at the other end of the table and taken the coffee from her hand, which shook in spite of her effort. "yes, it went off well, there's no doubt of it," he answered cheerfully, so cheerfully that for a minute a blind hope shot trembling through her mind. could it all have been a dream? was there some dreadful mistake? would she presently discover that she had imagined that night of useless agony through which she had passed? "the audience was so sympathetic. i saw a number of women crying in the last act when the heroine comes back to her old home." "it caught them. i thought it would. it's the kind of thing they like." he opened a paper as he spoke, and seeing that he wanted to read the criticisms, she broke his eggs for him, and then turning to her own breakfast tried in vain to swallow the piece of toast which she had buttered. but it was useless. she could not eat; she could not even drink her coffee, which had stood so long that it had grown tepid. a feeling of spiritual nausea, beside which all physical sensations were as trivial and meaningless as the stinging of wasps, pervaded her soul and body, and choked her, like unshed tears, whenever she tried to force a bit of food between her trembling lips. all the casual interests with which she filled her days, those seemingly small, yet actually tremendous interests without which daily life becomes almost unlivable, flagged suddenly and died while she sat there. nothing mattered any longer, neither the universe nor that little circle of it which she inhabited, neither life nor death, neither oliver's success nor the food which she was trying to eat. this strange sickness which had fallen upon her affected not only her soul and body, but everything that surrounded her, every person or object at which she looked, every stranger in the street below, every roof which she could see sharply outlined against the glittering blue of the sky. something had passed out of them all, some essential quality which united them to reality, some inner secret of being without which the animate and the inanimate alike became no better than phantoms. the spirit which made life vital had gone out of the world. and she felt that this would always be so, that the next minute and the next year and all the years that came afterwards would bring to her merely the effort of living--since life, having used her for its dominant purpose, had no further need of her. once only the thought occurred to her that there were women who might keep their own even now by fighting against the loss of it, by passionately refusing to surrender what they could no longer hold as a gift. but with the idea there came also that self-knowledge which told her that she was not one of these. the strength in her was the strength of passiveness; she could endure, but she could not battle. long ago, as long ago as the night on which she had watched in the shadow of death beside harry's bed, she had lost that energy of soul which had once flamed up in her with her three days' jealousy of abby. it was her youth and beauty then which had inspirited her, and she was wise enough to know that the passions which become youth appear ridiculous in middle-age. having drunk his coffee, oliver passed his cup to her, and laid down his paper. "you look tired, virginia. i hope it hasn't been too much for you?" "oh, no. have you quite got over your headache?" "pretty much, but those lights last night were rather trying. don't put any cream in this time. i want the stimulant." "perhaps it has got cold. shall i ring for fresh?" "it doesn't matter. this will do quite as well. have you any shopping that you would like to do this morning?" shopping! when her whole world had crumbled around her! for an instant the lump in her throat made speech impossible; then summoning that mild yet indestructible spirit, which was as the spirit of all those generations of women who lived in her blood, she answered gently: "yes, i had intended to buy some presents for the girls." "then you'd better take a taxicab for the morning. i suppose you know the names of the shops you want to go to?" "oh, yes. i know the names. are you going to the theatre?" "i've got to change a few lines in the play, and the sooner i go about it the better." "then don't bother about me, dear. i'll just put on my long coat over this dress and go out right after breakfast." "but you haven't eaten anything," he remarked, glancing at her plate. "i wasn't hungry. the fresh air will do me good. it has turned so much warmer, and the snow is all melting." as she spoke, she rose from the table and began to prepare herself for the street, putting on the black hat with the ostrich tip and the bunch of violets on one side, which didn't seem just right since she had come to new york, and carefully wrapping the ends of her fur neck-piece around her throat. it was already ten o'clock, for oliver had slept late, and she must be hurrying if she hoped to get through her shopping before luncheon. while she dressed, a wan spirit of humour entered into her, and she saw how absurd it was that she should rush about from shop to shop, buying things that did not matter in order to fill a life that mattered as little as they did. to her, whose mental outlook had had in it so little humour, it seemed suddenly that the whole of life was ridiculous. why should she have sat there, pouring oliver's coffee and talking to him about insignificant things, when her heart was bursting with this sense of something gone out of existence, with this torturing realization of the irretrievable failure of love? taking up her muff and her little black bag from the bureau, she looked back at him with a smile as she turned towards the door. "good-bye. will you be here for luncheon?" "i'm afraid i can't. i've an appointment down-town, but i'll come back as early as i can." then she went out and along the hall to the elevator, in which there was a little girl, who reminded her of jenny, in charge of a governness in spectacles. she smiled at her almost unconsciously, so spontaneous, so interwoven with her every mood was her love for children; but the little girl, being very proper for her years, did not smile back, and a stab of pain went through virginia's heart. "even children have ceased to care for me," she thought. at the door, where she waited a few minutes for her taxicab, a young bride, with her eyes shining with joy, stood watching her husband while he talked with an acquaintance, and it seemed to virginia that it was a vision of her own youth which had risen to torment her. "that was the way i looked at oliver twenty-five years ago," she said to herself; "twenty-five years ago, when i was young and he loved me." then, even while the intolerable pain was still in her heart, she felt that something of the buoyant hopefulness of that other bride entered into her and restored her courage. a resolution, so new that it was born of the joyous glance of a stranger, and yet so old that it seemed a part of that lost spirit of youth which had once carried her in a wild race over the virginian meadows, a resolution which belonged at the same time to this other woman and to herself, awoke in her and mingled like a draught of wine with her blood. "i will not give up," she thought. "i will go to her. perhaps she does not know--perhaps she does not understand. i will go to her, and everything may be different." then her taxicab was called, and stepping into it, she gave the name not of a shop, but of the apartment house in which margaret oldcastle lived. it was one of those february days when, because of the promise of spring in the air, men begin suddenly to think of april. the sky was of an intense blue, with little clouds, as soft as feathers, above the western horizon. on the pavement the last patches of snow were rapidly melting, and the gentle breeze which blew in at the open window of the cab, was like a caressing breath on virginia's cheek. "it must be that she does not understand," she repeated, and this thought gave her confidence and filled her with that unconquerable hope of the future without which she felt that living would be impossible. even the faces in the street cheered her, for it seemed to her that if life were really what she had believed it to be last night, these men and women could not walk so buoyantly, could not smile so gaily, could not spend so much thought and time on the way they looked and the things they wore. "no, it must have been a mistake, a ghastly mistake," she insisted almost passionately. "some day we shall laugh over it together as we laughed over my jealousy of abby. he never loved abby, not for a minute, and yet i imagined that he did and suffered agony because of it." and her taxicab went on merrily between the cheerful crowds on the pavements, gliding among gorgeous motor cars and carriages drawn by high-stepping horses and pedlers' carts drawn by horses that stepped high no longer, among rich people and poor people, among surfeited people and hungry people, among gay people and sad people, among contented people and rebellious people--among all these, who hid their happiness or their sorrow under the mask of their features, her cab spun onward bearing her lightly on the most reckless act of her life. at the door of the apartment house she was told that miss oldcastle could not be seen, but, after sending up her card and waiting a few moments in the hall before a desk which reminded her of a gilded squirrel-cage, she was escorted to the elevator and borne upward to the ninth landing. here, in response to the tinkle of a little bell outside of a door, she was ushered into a reception room which was so bare alike of unnecessary furniture and of the victorian tradition to which she was accustomed, that for an instant she stood confused by the very strangeness of her surroundings. then a charming voice, with what sounded to her ears as an affected precision of speech, said: "mrs. treadwell, this is so good of you!" and, turning, she found herself face to face with the other woman in oliver's life. "i saw you at the play last night," the voice went on, "and i hoped to get a chance to speak to you, but the reporters simply invaded my dressing-room. won't you sit here in the sunshine? shall i close the window, or, like myself, are you a worshipper of the sun?" "oh, no, leave it open. i like it." at any other moment she would have been afraid of an open window in february; but it seemed to her now that if she could not feel the air in her face she should faint. with the first sight of margaret oldcastle, as she looked into that smiling face, in which the inextinguishable youth was less a period of life than an attribute of spirit, she realized that she was fighting not a woman, but the very structure of life. the glamour of the footlights had contributed nothing to the flame-like personality of the actress. in her simple frock of brown woollen, with a wide collar of white lawn turned back from her splendid throat, she embodied not so much the fugitive charm of youth, as that burning vitality over which age has no power. the intellect in her spoke through her noble rather than beautiful features, through her ardent eyes, through her resolute mouth, through every perfect gesture with which she accompanied her words. she stood not only for the elemental forces, but for the free woman; and her freedom, like that of man, had been built upon the strewn bodies of the weaker. the law of sacrifice, which is the basic law of life, ruled here as it ruled in mother-love and in the industrial warfare of men. her triumph was less the triumph of the individual than of the type. the justice not of society, but of nature, was on her side, for she was one with evolution and with the resistless principle of change. vaguely, without knowing that she realized these things, virginia felt that the struggle was useless; and with the sense of failure there awoke in her that instinct of good breeding, that inherited obligation to keep the surface of life sweet, which was so much older and so much stronger than the revolt in her soul. "you were wonderful last night. i wanted to tell you how wonderful i thought you," she said gently. "you made the play a success--all the papers say so this morning." "well, it was an easy play to make successful," replied the other, while a fleeting curiosity, as though she were trying to explain something which she did not quite understand, appeared in her face and made it, with its redundant vitality, almost coarse for an instant. "it's the kind the public wants, you couldn't help making it go." the almost imperceptible conflict which had flashed in their eyes when they met, had died suddenly down, and the dignity which had been on the side of the other woman appeared to have passed from her to virginia. this dignity, which was not that of triumph, but of a defeat which surrenders everything except the inviolable sanctities of the spirit, shielded her like an impenetrable armour against both resentment and pity. she stood there wrapped in a gentleness more unassailable than any passion. "you did a great deal for it and a great deal for my husband," she said, while her voice lingered unconsciously over the word. "he has told me often that without your acting he could never have reached the position he holds." then, because it was impossible to say the things she had come to say, because even in the supreme crises of life she could not lay down the manner of a lady, she smiled the grave smile with which her mother had walked through a ruined country, and taking up her muff, which she had laid on the table, passed out into the hall. she had let the chance go by, she had failed in her errand, yet she knew that, even though it cost her her life, even though it cost her a thing far dearer than life--her happiness--she could not have done otherwise. in the crucial moment it was principle and not passion which she obeyed; but this principle, filtering down through generations, had become so inseparable from the sources of character, that it had passed at last through the intellect into the blood. she could no more have bared her soul to that other woman than she could have stripped her body naked in the market-place. at the door her cab was still waiting, and she gave the driver the name of the toy shop at which she intended to buy presents for lucy's stepchildren. though her heart was breaking within her, there was no impatience in her manner when she was obliged to wait some time before she could find the particular sort of doll for which lucy had written; and she smiled at the apologetic shopgirl with the forbearing consideration for others which grief could not destroy. she put her own anguish aside as utterly in the selection of the doll as she would have done had it been the peace of nations and not a child's pleasure that depended upon her effacement of self. then, when the purchase was made, she took out her shopping list from her bag and passed as conscientiously to the choice of jenny's clothes. not until the morning had gone, and she rolled again up fifth avenue towards the hotel, did she permit her thoughts to return to the stifled agony within her heart. to her surprise oliver was awaiting her in their sitting-room, and with her first look into his face, she understood that he had reached in her absence a decision against which he had struggled for days. for an instant her strength seemed fainting as before an impossible effort. then the shame in his eyes awoke in her the longing to protect him, to spare him, to make even this terrible moment easier for him than he could make it alone. with the feeling, a crowd of memories thronged through her mind, as though called there by that impulse to shield which was so deeply interwoven with the primal passion of motherhood. she saw oliver's face as it had looked on that spring afternoon when she had first seen him; she saw it as he put the ring on her hand at the altar; she saw it bending over her after the birth of her first child; and then suddenly his face changed to the face of harry, and she saw again the little bed under the hanging sheet and herself sitting there in the faintly quivering circle of light. she watched again the slow fall of the leaves, one by one, as they turned at the stem and drifted against the white curtains of the window across the street. "oliver," she said gently, so gently that she might have been speaking to her sick child, "would you rather that i should go back to dinwiddie to-night?" he did not answer, but, turning away from her, laid his head down on his arm, which he had outstretched on the table, and she saw a shiver of pain pass through his body as if it had been struck a physical blow. and just as she had put herself aside when she bought the doll, so now she forgot her own suffering in the longing to respond to his need. "i can take the night train--now that i have seen the play there is no reason why i should stay. i have got through my shopping." raising his head, he looked up into her face. "whatever happens, virginia, will you believe that i never wanted to hurt you?" he asked. for a moment she felt that the strain was intolerable, and a fear entered her mind lest she should faint or weep and so make things harder than they should be able to bear. "you mean that something must happen--that there will be a break between us?" she said. leaving the table, he walked to the window and back before he answered her. "i can't go on this way. i'm not that sort. a generation ago, i suppose, we should have done it--but we've lost grip, we've lost endurance." then he cried out suddenly, as if he were justifying himself: "it is hell. i've been in hell for a year--don't you see it?" after his violence, her voice sounded almost lifeless, so quiet, so utterly free from passion, was its quality. "as long as that--for a year?" she asked. "oh, longer, but it has got worse. it has got unendurable. i've fought--god knows i've fought--but i can't stand it. i've got to do something. i've got to find a way. you must have seen it coming, virginia. you must have seen that this thing is stronger than i am." "do--do you want her so much?" and she, who had learned from life not to want, looked at him with the pity which he might have seen in her eyes had he stabbed her. "so much that i'm going mad. there's no other end to it. it's been coming on for two years--all the time i've been away from dinwiddie i've been fighting it." she did not answer, and when, after the silence had grown oppressive, he turned back from the window through which he had been gazing, he could not be sure that she had heard him. so still she seemed that she was like a woman of marble. "you're too good for me, that's the trouble. you've been too good for me from the beginning," he said. unfastening her coat, which she had kept on, she laid it on the sofa at her back, and then put up her hands to take out her hatpins. "i must pack my things," she said suddenly. "will you engage my berth back to dinwiddie for to-night?" he nodded without speaking, and she added hastily, "i shan't go down again before starting. but there is no need that you should go to the train with me." at this he turned back from the door where he had waited with his hand on the knob. "won't you let me do even that?" he asked, and his voice sounded so like harry's that a sob broke from her lips. the point was so small a one--all points seemed to her so small--that her will died down and she yielded without protest. what did it matter--what did anything matter to her now? "i'll send up your luncheon," he added almost gratefully. "you will be ill if you don't eat something." "no, please don't. i am not hungry," she answered, and then he went out softly, as though he were leaving a sick-room, and left her alone with her anguish--and her packing. without turning in her chair, without taking off her hat, from which she had drawn the pins, she sat there like a woman in whom the spirit has been suddenly stricken. beyond the window the perfect day, with its haunting reminder of the spring, was lengthening slowly into afternoon, and through the slant sunbeams the same gay crowd passed in streams on the pavements. on the roof of one of the opposite houses a flag was flying, and it seemed to her that the sight of that flag waving under the blue sky was bound up forever with the intolerable pain in her heart. and with that strange passivity of the nerves which nature mercifully sends to those who have learned submission to suffering, to those whose strength is the strength, not of resistance, but of endurance, she felt that as long as she sat there, relaxed and motionless, she had in a way withdrawn herself from the struggle to live. if she might only stay like this forever, without moving, without thinking, without feeling, while she died slowly, inch by inch, spirit and body. a knock came at the door, and as she moved to answer it, she felt that life returned in a slow throbbing agony, as if her blood were forced back again into veins from which it had ebbed. when the tray was placed on the table beside her, she looked up with a mild, impersonal curiosity at the waiter, as the dead might look back from their freedom and detachment on the unreal figures of the living. "i wonder what he thinks about it all?" she thought vaguely, as she searched in her bag for his tip. "i wonder if he sees how absurd and unnecessary all the things are that he does day after day, year after year, like the rest of us? i wonder if he ever revolts with this unspeakable weariness from waiting on other people and watching them eat?" but the waiter, with his long sallow face, his inscrutable eyes, and his general air of having petrified under the surface, was as enigmatical as life. after he had gone out, she rose from her untasted luncheon, and going into her bedroom, took the black brocaded gown off the hanger and stuffed the sleeves with tissue paper as carefully as if the world had not crumbled around her. then she packed away her wrapper and her bedroom slippers and shook out and folded the dresses she had not worn. for a time she worked on mechanically, hardly conscious of what she was doing, hardly conscious even that she was alive. then slowly, softly, like a gentle rain, her tears fell into the trunk, on each separate garment as she smoothed it and laid it away. at half-past eight o'clock she was waiting with her hat and coat on when oliver came in, followed by the porter who was to take down her bags. she knew that he had brought the man in order to avoid all possibility of an emotional scene; and she could have smiled, had her spirit been less wan and stricken, at this sign of a moral cowardice which was so characteristic. it was his way, she understood now, though she did not put the thought into words, to take what he wanted, escaping at the same time the price which nature exacts of those who have not learned to relinquish. out of the strange colourless stillness which surrounded her, some old words of susan's floated back to her as if they were spoken aloud: "a treadwell will always get the thing he wants most in the end." but while he stabbed her, he would look away in order that he might be spared the memory of her face. without a word, she followed her bags from the room without a word she entered the elevator, which was waiting, and without a word she took her place in the taxicab standing beside the curbstone. there was no rebellion in her thoughts, merely a dulled consciousness of pain, like the consciousness of one who is partially under an anæsthetic. the fighting courage, the violence of revolt, had no part in her soul, which had been taught to suffer and to renounce with dignity, not with heroics. her submission was the submission of a flower that bends to a storm. as she sat there in silence, with her eyes on the brilliant street, where the signs of his play stared back at her under the flaring lights, she began to think with automatic precision, as though her brain were moved by some mechanical power over which she had no control. little things crowded into her mind--the face of the doll she had bought for lucy's stepchild that morning, the words on one of the electric signs on the top of a building they were passing, the leopard skin coat worn by a woman on the pavement. and these little things seemed to her at the moment to be more real, more vital, than her broken heart and the knowledge that she was parting from oliver. the agony of the night and the morning appeared to have passed away like a physical pang, leaving only this deadness of sensation and the strange, almost unearthly clearness of external objects. "it is not new. it has been coming on for years," she thought. "he said that, and it is true. it is so old that it has been here forever, and i seem to have been suffering it all my life--since the day i was born, and before the day i was born. it seems older than i am. oliver is going from me. he has always been going from me--always since the beginning," she repeated slowly, as if she were trying to learn a lesson by heart. but so remote and shadowy did the words appear, that she found herself thinking the next instant, "i must have forgotten my smelling-salts. the bottle was lying on the bureau, and i can't remember putting it into my bag." the image of this little glass bottle, with the gold top, which she had left behind was distinct in her memory; but when she tried to think of the parting from oliver and of all that she was suffering, everything became shadowy and unreal again. at the station she stood beside the porter while he paid the driver, and then entering the doorway, they walked hurriedly, so hurriedly that she felt as if she were losing her breath, in the direction of the gate and the waiting train. and with each step, as they passed down the long platform, which seemed to stretch into eternity, she was thinking: "in a minute it will be over. if i don't say something now, it will be too late. if i don't stop him now, it will be over forever--everything will be over forever." beside the night coach, in the presence of the conductor and the porter, who stood blandly waiting to help her into the train, she stopped suddenly, as though she could not go any farther, as though the strength which had supported her until now had given way and she were going to fall. through her mind there flashed the thought that even now she might hold him if she were to make a scene, that if she were to go into hysterics he would not leave her, that if she were to throw away her pride and her self-respect and her dignity, she might recover by violence the outer shell at least of her happiness. how could he break away from her if she were only to weep and to cling to him? then, while the idea was still in her mind, she knew that to a nature such as hers violence was impossible. it took passion to war with passion, and in this she was lacking. though she were wounded to the death, she could not revolt, could not shriek out in her agony, could not break through that gentle yet invincible reticence which she had won from the past. down the long platform a child came running with cries of pleasure, followed by a man with a red beard, who carried a suitcase. as they approached the train, virginia entered the coach, and walked rapidly down the aisle to where the porter was waiting beside her seat. for the first time since they had reached the station oliver spoke. "i am sorry i couldn't get the drawing-room for you," he said. "i am afraid you will be crowded"; and this anxiety about her comfort, when he was ruining her life, did not strike either of them, at the moment, as ridiculous. "it does not matter," she answered; and he put out his hand. "good-bye, virginia," he said, with a catch in his voice. "good-bye," she responded quietly, and would have given her soul for the power to shriek aloud, to overcome this indomitable instinct which was stronger than her personal self. turning away, he passed between the seats to the door of the coach, and a minute later she saw his figure hurrying back along the platform down which they had come together a few minutes ago. chapter vi the future a chill rain was falling when virginia got out of the train the next morning, and the raw-boned nags hitched to the ancient "hacks" in the street appeared even more dejected and forlorn than she had remembered them. then one of the noisy negro drivers seized her bag, and a little later she was rolling up the long hill in the direction of her home. dinwiddie was the same; nothing had altered there since she had left it--and yet what a difference! the same shops were unclosing their shutters; the same crippled negro beggar was taking his place at the corner of the market; the same maids were sweeping the sidewalks with the same brooms; the same clerk bowed to her from the drug store where she bought her medicines; and yet something--the only thing which had ever interested her in these people and this place--had passed out of them. just as in new york yesterday, when she had watched the sunrise, so it seemed to her now that the spirit of reality had faded out of the world. what remained was merely a mirage in which phantoms in the guise of persons made a pretence of being alive. the front door of her house stood open, and on the porch one of the coloured maids was beating the dust out of the straw mat. "as if dust makes any difference when one is dead," virginia thought wearily; and an unutterable loathing passed over her for all the little acts by which one rendered tribute to the tyranny of appearances. then, as she entered the house, she felt that the sight of the familiar objects she had once loved oppressed her as though the spirit of melancholy resided in the pieces of furniture, not in her soul. this weariness, so much worse than positive pain, filled her with disgust for all the associations and the sentiments she had known in the past. not only the house and the furniture and the small details of housekeeping, but the street and the town and every friendly face of a neighbour, had become an intolerable reminder that she was still alive. in her room, where a bright fire was burning, and letters from the girls lay on the table, she sat down in her wraps and gazed with unseeing eyes at the flames. "the children must not know. i must keep it from the children as long as possible," she thought dully, and it was so natural to her to plan sparing them, that for a minute the idea took her mind away from her own anguish. "if i could only die like this, then they need never know," she found herself reflecting coldly a little later, so coldly that she seemed to have no personal interest, no will to choose in the matter. "if i could only die like this, nobody need be hurt--except harry," she added. for the first time, with the thought of harry, her restraint suddenly failed her. "yes, it would hurt harry. i must live because harry would want me to," she said aloud; and as though her strength were reinforced by the words, she rose and prepared herself to go downstairs to breakfast--prepared herself, too, for the innumerable little agonies which would come with the day, for the sight of susan, for the visits from the neighbours, for the eager questions about the fashions in new york which miss willy would ask. and all the time she was thinking clearly, "it can't last forever. it must end some time. who knows but it may stop the next minute, and one can stand a minute of anything." the day passed, the week, the month, and gradually the spring came and went, awakening life in the trees, in the grass, in the fields, but not in her heart. even the dried sticks in the yard put out shoots of living green and presently bore blossoms, and in the borders by the front gate, the crocuses, which she had planted with her own hands a year ago, were ablaze with gold. all nature seemed joining in the resurrection of life, all nature, except herself, seemed to flower again to fulfilment. she alone was dead, and she alone among the dead must keep up this pretence of living which was so much harder than death. once every week she wrote to the children, restrained yet gently flowing letters in which there was no mention of oliver. it had been so long, indeed, since either harry or the girls had associated their parents together, that the omission called forth no question, hardly, she gathered, any surprise. their lives were so full, their interests were so varied, that, except at the regular intervals when they sat down to write to her, it is doubtful if they ever seriously wondered about her. in july, jenny came home for a month, and lucy wrote regretfully that she was "so disappointed that she couldn't join mother somewhere in the mountains"; but beyond this, the girls' lives hardly appeared to touch hers even on the surface. in the month that jenny spent in dinwiddie, she organized a number of societies and clubs for the improvement of conditions among working girls, and in spite of the intense heat (the hottest spell of the summer came while she was there), she barely allowed herself a minute for rest or for conversation with her mother. "if you would only go to the mountains, mother," she remarked the evening before she left. "i am sure it isn't good for you to stay in dinwiddie during the summer." "i am used to it," replied virginia a little stubbornly, for it seemed to her at the moment that she would rather die than move. "but you ought to think of your health. what does father say about it?" a contraction of pain crossed virginia's face, but jenny, whose vision was so wide that it had a way of overlooking things which were close at hand, did not observe it. "he hasn't said anything," she answered, with a strange stillness of voice. "i thought he meant to take you to england, but i suppose his plays are keeping him in new york." rising from her chair at the table--they had just finished supper--virginia reached for a saucer and filled it with ice cream from a bowl in front of her. "i think i'll send miss priscilla a little of this cream," she remarked. "she is so fond of strawberry." the next day jenny went, and again the silence and the loneliness settled upon the house, to which virginia clung with a morbid terror of change. had her spirit been less broken, she might have made the effort of going north as jenny had urged her to do, but when her life was over, one place seemed as desirable as another, and it was a matter of profound indifference to her whether it was heat or cold which afflicted her body. she was probably the only person in dinwiddie who did not hang out of her window during the long nights in search of a passing breeze. but with that physical insensibility which accompanies prolonged torture of soul, she had ceased to feel the heat, had ceased even to feel the old neuralgic pain in her temples. there were times when it seemed to her that if a pin were stuck into her body she should not know it. the one thing she asked--and this life granted her except during the four weeks of jenny's visit--was freedom from the need of exertion, freedom from the obligation to make decisions. her housekeeping she left now to the servants, so she was spared the daily harassing choices of the market and the table. there remained nothing for her to do, nothing even for her to worry about, except her broken heart. her friends she had avoided ever since her return from new york, partly from an unbearable shrinking from the questions which she knew they would ask whenever they met her, partly because her mind was so engrossed with the supreme fact that her universe lay in ruins, that she found it impossible to lend a casual interest to other matters. she, who had effaced herself for a lifetime, found suddenly that she could not see beyond the immediate presence of her own suffering. usually she stayed closely indoors through the summer days, but several times, at the hour of dusk, she went out alone and wandered for hours about the streets which were associated with her girlhood. in high street, at the corner where she had first seen oliver, she stood one evening until miss priscilla, who had caught sight of her from the porch of the academy (which, owing to the changing fashions in education and the infirmities of the teacher, was the academy no longer), sent out her negro maid to beg her to come in and sit with her. "no, i'm only looking for something," virginia had answered, while she hurried back past the church and down the slanting street to the twelve stone steps which led up the terraced hillside at the rectory. here, in the purple summer twilight, spangled with fireflies, she felt for a minute that her youth was awaiting her; and opening the gate, she passed as softly as a ghost along the crooked path to the two great paulownias, which were beginning to decay, and to the honeysuckle arbour, where the tendrils of the creeper brushed her hair like a caress. under the light of a young moon, it seemed to her that nothing had changed since that spring evening when she had stood there and felt the wonder of first love awake in her heart. nothing had changed except that love and herself. the paulownias still shed their mysterious shadows about her, the red and white roses still bloomed by the west wing of the house, the bed of mint still grew, rank and fragrant, beneath the dining-room window. when she put her hand on the bole of the tree beside which she stood, she could still feel the initials v. o. which oliver had cut there in the days before their marriage. a light burned in the window of the room which had been the parlour in the days when she lived there, and as she gazed at it, she almost expected to see the face of her mother, with its look of pathetic cheerfulness, smiling at her through the small greenish panes. and then the past in which oliver had no part, the past which belonged to her and to her parents, that hallowed, unforgettable past of her childhood, which seemed bathed in love as in a flood of light--this past enveloped her as the magic of the moonbeams enveloped the house in which she had lived. while she stood there, it was more living than the present, more real than the aching misery in her heart. the door of the house opened and shut; she heard a step on the gravelled path; and bending forward out of the shadow, she waited breathlessly for the sound of her father's voice. but it was a young rector, who had recently accepted the call to saint james' church, and his boyish face, rising out of the sacred past, awoke her with a shock from the dream into which she had fallen. "good-evening, mrs. treadwell. were you coming to see me?" he asked eagerly, pleased, she could see, by the idea that she was seeking his services. "no, i was passing, and the garden reminded me so of my girlhood that i came in for a minute." "it hasn't changed much, i suppose?" his alert, business-like gaze swept the hillside. "hardly at all. one might imagine that those were the same roses i left here." "an improvement or two wouldn't hurt it," he remarked with animation. "these old trees make such a litter in the spring that my wife is anxious to get them down. women like tidiness, you know, and she says, while they are blooming, it is impossible to keep the yard clean." "i remember. their flowers cover everything when they fall, but i always loved them." "well, one does get attached to things. i hope you have had a pleasant summer in spite of the heat. it must have been a delight to have your daughter at home again. what a splendid worker she is. if we had her in dinwiddie for good it wouldn't be long before the old town would awaken. why, i'd been trying to get those girls' clubs started for a year, and she took the job out of my hands and managed it in two weeks." "the dear child is very clever. is your wife still in the mountains?" "she's coming back next week. we didn't feel that it was safe to bring the baby home until that long spell of heat had broken." then, as she turned towards the step, he added hastily, "won't you let me walk home with you?" but this, she felt, was more than she could bear, and making the excuse of an errand on the next block, she parted from him at the gate, and hurried like a shadow back along high street. until october there was no word from oliver, and then at last there came a letter, which she threw, half read, into the fire. the impulsive act, so unlike the normal virginia, soothed her for an instant, and she said over and over to herself, while she moved hurriedly about the room, as though she were seeking an escape from the moment before her, "i'm glad i didn't finish it. i'm glad i let it burn." though she did not realize it, this passionate refusal to look at or to touch the thing that she hated was the last stand of the pendleton idealism against the triumph of the actuality. it is possible that until that moment she had felt far down in her soul that by declining to acknowledge in words the fact of oliver's desertion, by hiding it from the children, by ignoring the processes which would lead to his freedom, she had, in some obscure way, deprived that fact of all power over her life. but now while his letter, blaming himself and yet pleading with her for his liberty, lay there, crumbling slowly to ashes, under her eyes, her whole life, with its pathos, its subterfuge, its losing battle against the ruling spirit of change, seemed crumbling there also, like those ashes, or like that vanished past to which she belonged. "i'm glad i let it burn," she repeated bitterly, and yet she knew that the words had never really burned, that the flame which was consuming them would never die until she lay in her coffin. stopping in front of the fire, she stood looking down on the last shred of the letter, as though it were in reality the ruins of her life which she was watching. a dull wonder stirred in her mind amid her suffering--a vague questioning as to why this thing, of all things, should have happened? "if i could only know why it was--if i could only understand, it might be easier," she thought. "but i tried so hard to do what was right, and, whatever the fault was, at least i never failed in love. i never failed in love," she repeated. her gaze, leaving the fire, rested for an instant on a little alabaster ash-tray which stood on the end of the table, and a spasm crossed her face, which had remained unmoved while she was reading his letter. every object in the room seemed suddenly alive with memories. that was his place on the rug; the deep chintz-covered chair by the hearth was the one in which he used to sit, watching the fire at night, before going to bed; the clock on the mantel was the one he had selected; the rug, which was threadbare in places, he had helped her to choose; the pile of english reviews on the table he had subscribed to; the little glass water bottle on the candle-stand by the bed, she had bought years ago because he liked to drink in the night. there was nothing in which he did not have a part. every trivial incident of her life was bound up with the thought of him. she could no more escape the torment of these associations than she could escape the fact of herself. for so long she had been one with him in her thoughts that their relationship had passed, for her, into that profound union of habit which is the strongest union of all. even the years in which he had grown gradually away from her had appeared to her to leave untouched the deeper sanctities of their marriage. a knock came at the door, and the cook, with a list of groceries in her hand, entered to inquire if her mistress were going to market. with the beginning of the autumn virginia had tried to take an interest in her housekeeping again, and the daily trip to the market had relieved, in a measure, the terrible vacancy of her mornings. now it seemed to her that the remorseless exactions of the material details of living offered the only escape from the tortures of memory. "yes, i'll go," she said, reaching out her hand for the list, and her heart cried, "i cannot live if i stay in this room any longer. i cannot live if i look at these things." as she turned away to put on her hat, she was seized by a superstitious feeling that she might escape her suffering by fleeing from these inanimate reminders of her marriage. it was as though the chair and the rug and the clock had become possessed with some demoniacal spirit. "if i can only get out of doors i shall feel better," she insisted; and when she had hurriedly pinned on her hat and tied her tulle ruff at her throat, she caught up her gloves and ran quickly down the stairs and out into the street. but as soon as she had reached the sidewalk, the agony, which she had thought she was leaving behind her in the closed room upstairs, rushed over her in a wave of realization, and turning again, she started back into the yard, and stopped, with a sensation of panic, beside the bed of crimson dahlias at the foot of the steps. then, while she hesitated, uncertain whether to return to her bedroom or to force herself to go on to the market, those hated familiar objects flashed in a blaze of light through her mind, and, opening the gate, she passed out on the sidewalk, and started at a rapid step down the deserted pavement of sycamore street. "at least nobody will speak to me," she thought; but while the words were still on her lips, she saw a door in the block open wide, and one of her neighbours come out on his way to his business. turning hastily, she fled into a cross street, and then gathering courage, went on, trembling in every limb, towards the old market, which she used because her mother and her grandmother had used it before her. the fish-carts were still there just as they had been when she was a girl, but the army of black-robed housekeepers had changed or melted away. here, also, the physical details of life had survived the beings for whose use or comfort they had come into existence. the meat and the vegetable stalls were standing in orderly rows about the octagonal building; wilted cabbage leaves littered the dusty floor; flies swarmed around the bleeding forms hanging from hooks in the sunshine; even mr. dewlap, hale and red-cheeked, offered her white pullets out of the wooden coop at his feet. so little had the physical scene changed since the morning, more than twenty-five years ago, of her meeting with oliver, that while she paused there beside mr. dewlap's stall, one of the older generation might have mistaken her for her mother. "my dear virginia," said a voice at her back, and, turning, she found mrs. peachey, a trifle rheumatic, but still plump and pretty. "i'm so glad you come to the old market, my child. i suppose you cling to it because of your mother, and then things are really so much dearer uptown, don't you think so?" "yes, i dare say they are, but i've got into the habit of coming here." "one does get into habits. now i've bought chickens from mr. dewlap for forty years. i remember your mother and i used to say that there were no chickens to compare with his white pullets." "i remember. mother was a wonderful housekeeper." "and you are too, my dear. everybody says that you have the best table in dinwiddie!" her small rosy face, framed in the shirred brim of her black silk bonnet, was wrinkled with age, but even her wrinkles were cheerful ones, and detracted nothing from the charming archness of her expression. unconquerable still, she went her sprightly way, on rheumatic limbs, towards the grave. "have you seen dear miss priscilla?" asked virginia, striving to turn the conversation away from herself, and shivering with terror lest the other should ask after oliver, whom she had always adored. "i stopped to inquire about her on my way down. she had had a bad night, the maid said, and doctor fraser is afraid that the cold she got when she went driving the other day has settled upon her lungs." "oh, i am so sorry!" exclaimed virginia, but she was conscious of an immeasurable relief because miss priscilla's illness was absorbing mrs. peachey's thoughts. "well, i must be going on," said the little lady, and though she flinched with pain when she moved, the habitual cheerfulness of her face did not alter. "come to see me as often as you can, jinny. i can't get about much now, and it is such a pleasure for me to have somebody to chat with. people don't visit now," she added regretfully, "as much as they used to." "so many things have changed," said virginia, and her eyes, as she gazed up at the blue sky over the market, had a yearning look in them. so many things had changed--ah, there was the pang! on her way home, overcome by the fear that miss priscilla might die thinking herself neglected, virginia stopped at the academy, and was shown into the chamber behind the parlour, which had once been a classroom. in the middle of her big tester bed, the teacher was lying, propped among pillows, with her cameo brooch fastening the collar of her nightgown and a purple wool shawl, which virginia had knit for her, thrown over her shoulders. "dear miss priscilla, i've thought of you so often. are you better to-day?" "a little, jinny, but don't worry about me. i'll be out of bed in a day or two." though she was well over eighty-five, she still thought of herself as a middle-aged woman, and her constant plans for the future amazed virginia, whose hold upon life was so much slighter, so much less tenacious. "have you been to market, dear? i miss so being able to sit by the window and watch people go by. then i always knew when you and susan were on your way to mr. dewlap." "yes, i've begun to go again. it fills in the day." "i never approved of your letting your servants market for you, jinny. it would have shocked your mother dreadfully." "i know," said virginia, and her voice, in spite of her effort to speak cheerfully, had a weary sound, which made her add with sudden energy, "i've brought you a partridge. mr. dewlap had such nice ones. you must try to eat it for supper." "how like you that was, jinny. you are your mother all over again. i declare i am reminded of her more and more every time that i see you." tears sprang to virginia's eyes, while her thin blue-veined hands gently caressed miss priscilla's swollen and knotted fingers. "you couldn't tell me anything that would please me more," she answered. "i used to think that lucy would take after her, but she grew up differently." "yes, neither of the girls is like her. they are dear, good children, but they are very modern." "have you heard from them recently?" "a few days ago, and they are both as well as can be." "and what about harry? i've always believed that harry was your favourite, jinny." for an instant virginia hesitated, with her eyes on the pot of red geraniums blooming between the white muslin curtains at the window. in his little cage in the sunlight, miss priscilla's canary, the last of many generations of dickys, burst suddenly into song. "i believe that harry loves me more than anybody else in the world does," she answered at last. "he'd come to me to-morrow if he thought i needed him." lying there in her great white bed, with her enormous body, which she could no longer turn, rising in a mountain of flesh under the linen sheet, the old teacher closed her eyes lest virginia should see her soul yearning over her as it had yearned over lucy pendleton after the rector's death. she thought of the girl, with the flower-like eyes and the braided wreath of hair, flitting in white organdie and blue ribbons, under the dappled sunlight in high street, and she said to herself, as she had said twenty-five years ago, "if there was ever a girl who looked as if she were cut out for happiness, it was jinny pendleton." "they say that abby goode is going to be married at last," remarked virginia abruptly, for she knew that such bits of gossip supplied the only pleasant excitement in miss priscilla's life. "well, it's time. she waited long enough," returned the teacher, and she added, "i always knew that she was crazy about oliver by the way she flung herself at his head." she had never liked abby, and her prejudices, which had survived the shocks of life, were not weakened by the approaching presence of death. it was characteristic of her that she should pass into eternity with both her love and her scorn undiminished. "she was a little boisterous as a girl, but i never believed any harm of her," answered virginia mildly; and then as miss priscilla's lunch was brought in on a tray, she kissed her tenderly, with a curious feeling that it was for the last time, and went out of the door and down the gravelled walk into high street. an exhaustion greater than any she had ever known oppressed her as she dragged her body, which felt dead, through the glorious october weather. once, when she passed saint james' church, she thought wearily, "how sorry mother would be if she knew," while an intolerable pain, which seemed her mother's pain as well as her own, pierced her heart. then, as she hurried on, with that nervous haste which she could no longer control, the terrible haunted blocks appeared to throng with the faded ghosts of her youth. a grey-haired woman leaning out of the upper window of an old house nodded to her with a smile, and she found herself thinking, "i rolled hoops with her once in the street, and now she is watching her grandchild go out in its carriage." at any other moment she would have bent, enraptured, over the perambulator, which was being wheeled, by a nurse and a maid, down the front steps into the street; but to-day the sight of the soft baby features, lovingly surrounded by lace and blue ribbons, was like the turn of a knife in her wound. "and yet mother always said that she was never so happy as she was with my children," she reflected, while her personal suffering was eased for a minute by the knowledge of what her return to dinwiddie had meant to her mother. "if she had died while i lived away, i could never have got over it--i could never have forgiven myself," she added, and there was an exquisite relief in turning even for an instant away from the thought of herself. when she reached home luncheon was awaiting her; but after sitting down at the table and unfolding her napkin, a sudden nausea seized her, and she felt that it was impossible to sit there facing the mahogany sideboard, with its gleaming rows of silver, and watch the precise, slow-footed movements of the maid, who served her as she might have served a wooden image. "i took such trouble to train her, and now it makes me sick to look at her," she thought, as she pushed back her chair and fled hastily from the room into oliver's study across the hall. here her work-bag lay on the table, and taking it up, she sat down before the fire, and spread out the centrepiece, which she was embroidering, in an intricate and elaborate design, for lucy's christmas. it was almost a year now since she had started it, and into the luxuriant sprays and garlands there had passed something of the restless love and yearning which had overflowed from her heart. usually she was able to work on it in spite of her suffering, for she was one of those whose hands could accomplish mechanically tasks from which her soul had revolted; but to-day even her obedient fingers faltered and refused to keep at their labour. her eyes, leaving the needle she held, wandered beyond the window to the branches of the young maple tree, which rose, like a pointed flame, toward the cloudless blue of the sky. in the evening, when susan came in, with a newspaper in her hand, and a passionate sympathy in her face, virginia was still sitting there, gazing at the dim outline of the tree and the strip of sky which had faded from azure to grey. "oh, jinny, my darling, you never told me!" taking up the piece of embroidery from her lap, virginia met her friend's tearful caress with a frigid and distant manner. "there was nothing to tell. what do you mean?" she asked. "is--is it true that oliver has left you? that--that----" susan's voice broke, strangled by emotion, but virginia, without looking up from the rose on which she was working in the firelight, answered quietly: "yes, it is true. he wants to be free." "but you will not do it, darling? the law is on your side." with her eyes on the needle which she held carefully poised for the next stitch, virginia hesitated while the muscles of her face quivered for an instant and then grew rigid again. "what good would it do," she asked, "to hold him to me when he wishes to be free?" and then, with one of those flashes of insight which came to her in moments of great emotional stress, she added quietly, "it is not the law, it is life." putting her arms around her, susan pressed her to her bosom as she might have pressed a suffering child whom she was powerless to help or even to make understand. "jinny, jinny, let me love you," she begged. "how did you know?" asked virginia, as coldly as though she had not heard her. "has it got into the papers?" for an instant susan's pity struggled against her loyalty. "general goode told me that there had been a good deal about oliver and--and miss oldcastle in the new york papers for several days," she answered, "and this morning a few lines were copied in the dinwiddie _bee_. oliver is so famous it was impossible to keep things hushed up, i suppose. but you knew all this, jinny darling." "oh, yes, i knew that," answered virginia; then, rising suddenly from her chair, she said almost irritably: "susan, i want to be alone. i can't think until i am alone." by her look susan knew that until that minute some blind hope had kept alive in her, some childish pretence that it might all be a dream, some passionate evasion of the ultimate outcome. "but you'll let me come back? you'll let me spend the night with you, jinny?" "if you want to, you may come. but i don't need you. i don't need anybody. i don't need anybody," she repeated bitterly; and this bitterness appeared to change not only her expression, but her features and her carriage and that essential attribute of her being which had been the real virginia. awed in spite of herself, susan put on her hat again, and bent over to kiss her. "i'll be back before bed-time, jinny. don't shut me away, dear. let me share your pain with you." at this something that was like a smile trembled for an instant on virginia's face. "you are good, susan," she responded, but there was no tenderness, no gratitude even, in her voice. she had grown hard with the implacable hardness of grief. when the door had closed behind her friend, she stood looking through the window until she saw her pass slowly, as though she were reluctant to go, down sycamore street in the direction of her home. "i am glad she has gone," she thought coldly. "susan is good, but i am glad she has gone." then, turning back to the fire, she took up the piece of embroidery and mechanically folded it before she laid it away. while her hands were still on the bag in which she kept it, a shiver went through her body, and a look of resolution passed over her features, making them appear as if they were sculptured in marble. "he will be sorry some day," she thought. "he will be sorry when it is too late, and if i were there now--if i were to see him, it might all be prevented. it might all be prevented and we might be happy again." in her distorted mind, which worked with the quickness and the intensity of delirium, this idea assumed presently the prominence and the force of an hallucination. so powerful did it become that it triumphed over all the qualities which had once constituted her character--over the patience, the sweetness, the unselfish goodness--as easily as it obscured the rashness and folly of the step which she planned. "if i could see him, it might all be prevented," she repeated obstinately, as though some one had opposed her; and, going upstairs to her bedroom, she packed her little handbag and put on the travelling dress which she had worn in new york. then, very softly, as though she feared to be stopped by the servants, she went down the stairs and out of the front door; and, very softly, carrying her bag, she passed into the street and walked hurriedly in the direction of the station. and all the way she was thinking, "if i can only see him again, this may not happen and everything may be as it was before when he still loved me." so just and rational did this idea appear to her, that she found herself wondering passionately why she had not thought of it before. it was so easy a way out of her wretchedness that it seemed absurd of her to have overlooked it. and this discovery filled her with such tremulous excitement, that when she opened her purse to buy her ticket, her hands shook as if they were palsied, and the porter, who held her bag, was obliged to count out the money. the whole of life, which had looked so dark an hour ago, had become suddenly illuminated. once in the train, her nervousness left her, and when an acquaintance joined her after they had started, she was able to talk connectedly of trivial occurrences in dinwiddie. he was a fat, apoplectic looking man, with a bald head which shone like satin, and a drooping moustache slightly discoloured by tobacco. his appearance, which she had never objected to before, seemed to her grotesque; but in spite of this, she could smile almost naturally at his jokes, which she thought inconceivably stupid. "i suppose you heard about cyrus treadwell's accident," he said at last when she rose to go to her berth. "got knocked down by an automobile as he was getting off a street car at the bank. it isn't serious, they say, but he was pretty well stunned for a while." "no, i hadn't heard," she answered, and thought, "i wonder why susan didn't tell me." then she said good-night and disappeared behind the curtains of her berth, where she lay, without undressing, until morning. "this is the way--there is no other way to stop it," she thought, and all night the rumble of the train and the flashing of the lights in the darkness outside of her window kept up a running accompaniment to the words. "it is a sin--and there is no other way to stop it. he is committing a sin, and when i see him he will understand it, and it will be as it was before." this idea, which was as fixed as an obsession of delirium, seemed to occupy some central space in her brain, leaving room for a crowd of lesser thoughts which came and went fantastically around it like the motley throng of a circus. she thought of cyrus treadwell's accident, of the stupid jokes the man from dinwiddie had told her, of the noises of the train, which would not let one sleep, of the stations which blazed out, here and there, in the darkness. but in the midst of this confusion of images and impressions, a clear voice was repeating somewhere in her brain: "this is the way--there is no other way to stop it before it is too late." in the morning, when she got out in new york, and gave the driver the name of the little hotel at which she had stopped on her first visit, this glowing certainty faded like the excitement of fever from her mind, and she relapsed into the stricken hopelessness of the last six months. the bleakness of her spirits fell like a cloud on the brilliant october day, and the sunshine, which lay in golden pools on the pavements, appeared to increase the sense of universal melancholy which had followed so sharply on the brief exaltation of the night. "i must see him--it is the only way," her brain still repeated, but the ring of conviction was gone from the words. her flight from dinwiddie showed to her now in all the desperate folly with which it might have appeared to a stranger. the impulse which had brought her had ebbed away, and with the impulse had passed also the confidence and the energy of her resolve. at the hotel, where the red bedroom into which they ushered her appeared to have waited unaltered for the second tragedy of her life, she bathed and dressed herself, and after a cup of black coffee, taken because a sensation of dizziness had alarmed her lest she should faint in the street, she put on her hat again and went out into fifth avenue. she remembered the name of the hotel at the head of oliver's letter, and she directed her steps towards it now with an automatic precision of which her mind seemed almost unconscious. all thought of asking for him had vanished, yet she was drawn to the place where he was by a force which was more irresistible than any choice of the will. an instinct stronger than reason was guiding her steps. in fifth avenue the crowd was already beginning to stream by on the sidewalks, and as she mingled with it, she recalled that other morning when she had moved among these people and had felt that they looked at her kindly because she was beautiful and young. now the kindness had given way to indifference in their eyes. they no longer looked at her; and when a shop window, which she was passing, showed her a reflection of herself, she saw only a commonplace middle-aged figure, with a look of withered sweetness in the face, which had grown suddenly wan. and the sight of this figure fell like a weight on her heart, destroying the last vestige of courage. before the door of the hotel in which oliver was staying, she stood so long, with her vacant gaze fixed on the green velvet carpet within the hall, that an attendant in livery came up at last and inquired if she wished to see any one. arousing herself with a start, she shook her head hurriedly and turned back into the street, for when the crucial moment came her decision failed her. just as she had been unable to make a scene on the night when they had parted, so now it was impossible for her to descend to the vulgarity of thrusting her presence into his life. unless the frenzy of delirium seized her again, she knew that she should never have the strength to put the desperation of thought into the desperation of action. what she longed for was not to fight, not to struggle, but to fall, like a wounded bird, to the earth, and be forgotten. at the crossing, where there was a crush of motor cars and carriages, she stopped for a moment and thought how easy it would be to die in the crowded street before returning to dinwiddie. "all i need do is to slip and fall there, and in a second it would be over." but so many cars went by that she knew she should never be able to do it, that much as she hated life, something bound her to it which she lacked the courage to break. there shot through her mind the memory of a soldier her father used to tell about, who was always first on the field of battle, but had never found the courage to charge. "he was like me--for i might stand here forever and yet not find the courage to die." a beggar came up to her and she thought, "he is begging of me, and yet i am more miserable than he is." then, while she searched in her bag for some change, it seemed to her that the faces gliding past her became suddenly distorted and twisted as though the souls of the women in the rapidly moving cars were crucified under their splendid furs. "that woman in the sable cloak is beautiful, and yet she, also, is in torture," she reflected with an impersonal coldness and detachment. "i was beautiful, too, but how did it help me?" and she saw herself as she had been in her girlhood with the glow of happiness, as of one flying, in her face, and her heart filled with the joyous expectancy of the miracle which must happen. "i am as old now as miss willy was then--and how i pitied her!" tears rushed to her eyes, which had been so dry a minute before, while the memory of that lost gaiety of youth came over her in a wave that was like the sweetness of the honeysuckle blooming in the rectory garden. a policeman, observing that she had waited there so long, held up the traffic until she had crossed the street, and after thanking him, she went on again towards the hotel in which she was staying. "he was kind about helping me over," she said to herself, with an impulse of gratitude; and this casual kindness seemed to her the one spot of light in the blackness which surrounded her. as she approached the hotel, her step flagged, and she felt suddenly that even that passive courage which was hers--the courage of endurance--had deserted her. she saw the dreadful hours that must ensue before she went back to dinwiddie, the dreadful days that would follow after she got there, the dreadful weeks that would run on into the dreadful years. silent, grey, and endless, they stretched ahead of her, and through them all she saw herself, a little hopeless figure, moving towards that death which she had not had the courage to die. the thoughts of the familiar streets, of the familiar faces, of the house, of the furniture, of the leaf-strewn yard in which her bed of dahlias was blooming--all these aroused in her the sense of spiritual nausea which she had felt when she went back to them after her parting from oliver. nothing remained except the long empty years, for she had outlived her usefulness. at the door of the hotel, the hall porter met her with a cheerful face, and she turned to him with the instinctive reliance on masculine protection which had driven her to the friendly shelter of the policeman at the crossing in fifth avenue. in reply to her helpless questions, he looked up the next train to dinwiddie, which left within the hour, and after buying her ticket, assisted her smilingly into the taxicab. while she sat there, in the middle of the seat, with her little black bag rocking back and forth as the cab turned the corners, all capacity for feeling, all possibility of sensation even, seemed to have passed out of her body. the impulse which was carrying her to dinwiddie was the physical impulse which drives a wounded animal back to die in its shelter. even the flaring advertisements of oliver's play, which was still running in a broadway theatre, aroused no pain, hardly any thought of him or of the past, in her mind. she had ceased to suffer, she had ceased even to think; and when, a little later, she followed the station porter down the long platform, she was able to brush aside the memory of her parting from oliver as lightly as though it were the trivial sting of a wasp. when she remembered the agony of the last year, of yesterday, of the morning through which she had just lived, it appeared almost ridiculous. that death which she had lacked the courage to die seemed creeping over her soul before it reached the outer shell of her body. in the train, she was attacked by a sensation of faintness, and remembering that she had eaten nothing all day, she went into the dining-car, and sat down at one of the little tables. when her luncheon was brought, she ate almost ravenously for a minute. then her sudden hunger was followed by a disgust for the look of the dishes and the cinders on the table-cloth, and after paying her bill, for which she waited an intolerable time, she went back to her chair in the next coach, and watched, with unseeing eyes, the swiftly moving landscape, which rushed by in all the brilliant pageantry of october. several seats ahead of her, two men were discussing politics, and one of them, who wore a clerical waistcoat, raised his voice suddenly so high that his words penetrated the wall of blankness which surrounded her thoughts, "i tell you it is the greatest menace to our civilization!" and then, as he controlled his excitement, his speech dropped quickly into indistinctness. "how absurd of him to get so angry about it," thought virginia with surprise, "as if a civilization could make any difference to anybody on earth." and she watched the clergyman for a minute, as if fascinated by the display of his earnestness. "what on earth can it matter to him?" she wondered mildly, "and yet to look at him one would think that his heart was bound up in the question." but in a little while she turned away from him again, and lying back in her chair, stared across the smooth plains to the pale golden edge of the distant horizon. through the long day she sat, without moving, without taking her eyes from the landscape, while the sunlight faded slowly away from the fields and the afterglow flushed and waned, and the stars shone out, one by one, through the silver web of the twilight. once, when the porter had offered her a pillow, she had looked round to thank him; once when a child, toddling along the aisle, had fallen at her feet, she had bent over to lift it, but beyond this, she had stirred only to hand her ticket to the conductor when he aroused her by touching her arm. where the sunset and the afterglow had been, she saw at last only the lights of the train reflected in the smeared glass of the window, but so unconscious was she of any change in that utter vacancy at which she looked, that she could not have told whether it was an hour or a day after leaving new york that she came back to dinwiddie. even then she would still have sat there, speechless, inert, unseeing, had not the porter taken her bag from the rack over her head and accompanied her from the glare of the train out into the dimness of the town, where the crumbling "hacks" hitched to the decrepit horses still waited. here her bag was passed over to a driver, whom she vaguely remembered, and a few minutes later she rolled, in one of the ancient vehicles, under the pale lights of the street which led to her home. in the drug store at the corner she saw miss priscilla's maid buying medicines, and she wondered indifferently if the teacher had grown suddenly worse. then, as she passed john henry's house, she recognized his large shadow as it moved across the white shade at the window of the drawing-room. "susan was coming to spend last night with me," she said aloud, and for the first and last time in her life, an ironic smile quivered upon her lips. with a last jolt the carriage drew up at the sidewalk before her home; the driver dismounted, grinning, from his box; and in the lighted doorway, she saw the figure of her maid, in trim cap and apron, waiting to welcome her. not a petal had fallen from the bed of crimson dahlias beside the steps; not a leaf had changed on the young maple tree, which rose in a spire of flame toward the stars. inside, she knew, there would be the bright fire, the cheerful supper table, the soft bed turned down--and the future. on the porch she stopped and looked back into the street as she might have looked back at the door of a prison. the negro driver, having placed her bag in the hall, stood waiting expectantly, with his hat in his hand, and his shining black eyes on her face; and opening her purse, she paid him, before walking past the maid over the threshold. ahead of her stretched the staircase which she would go up and down for the rest of her life. on the right, she could look into the open door of the dining-room, and opposite to it, she knew that the lamp was lit and the fire burning in oliver's study. then, while a wave of despair, like a mortal sickness, swept over her, her eyes fell on an envelope which lay on the little silver card-tray on the hall table, and as she tore it open, she saw that it contained but a single line: "dearest mother, i am coming home to you, "harry." the end by the same author the miller of old church the romance of a plain man the ancient law the wheel of life the deliverance the battleground the voice of the people phases of an inferior planet the descendant the freeman, and other poems the country life press garden city, n. y. studies in wives by mrs. belloc lowndes new york mitchell kennerley _ east th street_ _copyright, , by mitchell kennerly_ contents page i. althea's opportunity ii. mr. jarvice's wife iii. a very modern instance iv. according to meredith v. shameful behaviour? vi. the decree made absolute i althea's opportunity "his confidence shall be rooted out of his tabernacle, and it shall bring him to the king of terrors."--job xviii. . there came the sound of a discreet, embarrassed cough, and althea scrope turned quickly round from the window by which she had been standing still dressed in her outdoor things. she had heard the door open, the unfolding of the tea-table, the setting down of the tea-tray, but her thoughts had been far away from the old house in westminster which was now her home; her thoughts had been in newcastle, dwelling for a moment among the friends of her girlhood, for whom she had been buying christmas gifts that afternoon. the footman's cough recalled her to herself, and to the present. "am i to say that you are at home this afternoon, ma'am?" althea's thoughtful, clear eyes rested full on the youth's anxious face. he had not been long in the scropes' service, and this was the first time he had been left in such a position of responsibility, but dockett, the butler, was out, a rare event, for dockett liked to be master in his master's house. before the marriage of perceval scrope, dockett had been scrope's valet, and, as althea was well aware, the man still regarded her as an interloper. althea did not like dockett, but perceval was very fond of him, and generally spoke of him to his friends as "trip." althea had never been able to discover the reason of the nickname, and she had not liked to ask; her husband often spoke a language strange to her. "i will see mr. bustard if he comes," she said gently. dockett would not have disturbed her by asking the question, for dockett always knew, by a sort of instinct, whom his master and mistress wished to see or to avoid seeing. again she turned and stared out of the high, narrow, curtainless windows. perceval scrope did not like curtains, and so of course there were no curtains in his wife's drawing-room. snow powdered the ground. it blew in light eddies about the bare branches of the trees marking the carriage road through st. james's park, and was caught in whirling drifts on the frozen sheet of water which reflected the lights on the bridge spanning the little lake. even at this dreary time of the year it was a charming outlook, and one which most of althea's many acquaintances envied her. and yet the quietude of the scene at which she was gazing so intently oppressed her, and, suddenly, from having felt warm after her walk across the park, althea scrope felt cold. she moved towards the fireplace, and the flames threw a red glow on her tall, rounded figure, creeping up from the strong serviceable boots to the short brown skirt, and so to the sable cape which had been one of her husband's wedding gifts, but which now looked a little antiquated in cut and style. it is a bad thing--a sign that all is not right with her--when a beautiful young woman becomes indifferent to how she looks. this was the case with althea, and yet she was only twenty-two, and looked even younger; no one meeting her by chance would have taken her to be a married woman, still less the wife of a noted politician. she took off her fur cape and put it on a chair. she might have sent for her maid, but before her marriage she had always waited on herself, and she was not very tidy--one of her few points of resemblance with her husband, and not one which made for harmony. but mrs. scrope, if untidy, was also conscientious, and as she looked at the damp fur cloak her conscience began to trouble her. she rang the bell. "take my cloak and hang it up carefully in the hall," she said to the footman. and now the room was once more neat and tidy as she knew her friend, mr. bustard, would like to see it. it was a curious and delightful room, but it resembled and reflected the woman who had to spend so much of her life there as little as did her quaint and fanciful name of althea. her husband, in a fit of petulance at some exceptional density of vision, had once told her that her name should have been jane--jane, maud, amy, any of those old-fashioned, early victorian names would have suited althea, and althea's outlook on life when she had married perceval scrope. althea's drawing-room attained beauty, not only because of its proportions, and its delightful outlook on st. james's park, but also because quite a number of highly intelligent people had seen to it that it should be beautiful. although scrope, who thought he knew his young wife so well, would have been surprised and perhaps a little piqued if he had been told it, althea preferred the house as it had been before her marriage, in the days when it was scarcely furnished, when this room, for instance, had been the library-smoking-room of its owner, an owner too poor to offer himself any of the luxurious fitments which had been added to make it suitable for his rich bride. as soon as scrope's engagement to the provincial heiress althea then was had been announced, his friends--and he was a man of many friends--had delighted to render him the service of making the pleasant old house in delahay street look as it perchance had looked eighty or a hundred years ago. the illusion was almost perfect, so cleverly had the flotsam of perceval scrope's ancestral possessions been wedded to the jetsam gathered in curiosity shops and at country auctions--for the devotion of scrope's friends had gone even to that length. this being so, it really seemed a pity that these same kind folk had not been able to--oh! no, not _buy_, that is an ugly word, and besides it had been perceval who had been bought, not althea--to acquire for scrope a wife who would have suited the house as well as the house suited scrope. but that had not been possible. even as it was, the matter of marrying their friend had not been easy. scrope was so wilful--that was why they loved him! he had barred--absolutely barred--americans, and that although everybody knows how useful an american heiress can be, not only with her money, but with her brightness and her wits, to an english politician. he had also stipulated for a country girl, and he would have preferred one straight out of the school-room. almost all his conditions had been fulfilled. althea was nineteen at the time of her marriage, and, if not exactly country-bred--she was the only child of a newcastle magnate--she had seen nothing of the world to which scrope and scrope's egeria, the woman who had actually picked out althea to be scrope's wife, had introduced her. scrope's egeria? at the time my little story opens, althea had long given up being jealous--jealous, that is, in the intolerant, passionate sense of the word; in fact, she was ashamed that she had ever been so, for she now felt sure that perceval would not have liked her, althea, any better, even if there had not been another woman to whom he turned for flattery and sympathy. the old ambiguous term was, in this case, no pseudonym for another and more natural, if uglier, relationship on the part of a married man, and of a man whom the careless public believed to be on exceptionally good terms with his young wife. scrope's egeria was twenty-four years older than althea, and nine years older than scrope himself. unfortunately she had a husband who, unlike althea, had the bad taste, the foolishness, to be jealous of her close friendship with perceval scrope. and yet, while admitting to herself the man's folly, althea had a curious liking for egeria's husband. there was, in fact, more between them than their common interest in the other couple; for he, like althea, provided what old-fashioned people used to call the wherewithal; he, like althea, had been married because of the gifts he had brought in his hands, the gifts not only of that material comfort which counts for so much nowadays, but those which, to scrope's egeria, counted far more than luxury, that is, beauty of surroundings and refinement of living. mr. and mrs. panfillen--to give egeria and her husband their proper names--lived quite close to althea and perceval scrope, for they dwelt in old queen street, within little more than a stone's throw of delahay street. joan panfillen, unlike althea scrope, was exquisitely suited to her curious, old-world dwelling. she had about her small, graceful person, her picturesque and dateless dress, even in her low melodious voice, that harmony which is, to the man capable of appreciating it, the most desirable and perhaps the rarest of feminine attributes. there was one thing which althea greatly envied mrs. panfillen, and that was nothing personal to herself; it was simply the tiny formal garden which divided the house in old queen street from birdcage walk. this garden looked fresher and greener than its fellows because, by mrs. panfillen's care, the miniature parterres were constantly tended and watered, while the shrubs both summer and winter were washed and cleansed as carefully as was everything else likely to be brought in contact with their owner's wife. in spite of the fact that they lived so very near to one another, the two women were not much together, and as a rule they only met, but that was, of course, very often, when out in the political and social worlds to which they both belonged. althea had a curious shrinking from the panfillens' charming house. it was there, within a very few weeks of her father's death, that she had first met perceval scrope--and there that he had conducted his careless wooing. it was in mrs. panfillen's boudoir, an octagon-shaped room on the park side of the house, that he had actually made his proposal, and that althea, believing herself to be "in love," and uplifted by the solemn and yet joyful thought of how happy such a marriage--her marriage to a member of the first fair food cabinet--would have made her father, had accepted him. from old queen street also had taken place her wedding, which, if nominally quiet, because the bride still chose to consider herself in deep mourning, had filled st. margaret's with one of those gatherings only brought together on such an occasion--a gathering in which the foemen of yesterday, and the enemies of to-morrow, unite with the friends of to-day in order to do honour to a fellow-politician. althea had darker memories connected with mrs. panfillen's house. she had spent there, immediately after her honeymoon, an unhappy fortnight, waiting for the workpeople to leave her future home in delahay street. it was during that fortnight that for the first time her girlish complacency had forsaken her, and she had been made to understand how inadequate her husband found her to the position she was now called upon to fill. it was then that there had first come to her the humiliating suspicion that her bridegroom could not forgive her his own sale of himself. scrope and joan panfillen were subtle people, living in a world of subtleties, yet in this subtle, unspoken matter of scrope's self-contempt concerning his marriage, the simple althea's knowledge far preceded theirs. in those days joan panfillen, kindest, most loyal of hostesses, had always been taking the bride's part, but how unkind--yes, unkind was the word--perceval was, even then! althea had never forgotten one little incident connected with that time, and this afternoon she suddenly remembered it with singular vividness. scrope had been caricatured in _punch_ as scrooge; and--well--althea had not quite understood. "good lord!" he had exclaimed, turning to the older woman, "althea doesn't know who scrooge was!" and quickly he had proceeded to put his young wife through a sharp, and to her a very bewildering examination, concerning people and places some of whom she had never heard of, while others seemed vaguely, worryingly familiar. he had ended up with the words, "and i suppose you consider yourself educated!" a chance muttered word had then told her that none of these places were real--that none of these people perceval had spoken of with such intimate knowledge, had ever lived! althea had felt bitterly angered as well as hurt. tears had welled up into her brown eyes; and mrs. panfillen, intervening with far more eager decision than she generally showed about even important matters, had cried, "that's not fair! in fact you are being quite absurd, perceval! i've never cared for dickens, and i'm sure most people, at any rate most women, who say they like him are pretending--pretending all the time! i don't believe there's a girl in london who could answer the questions you put to althea just now, and if there is such a girl then she's a literary monster, and i for one don't want to know her." as only answer scrope had turned and put a thin brown finger under althea's chin. "crying?" he had said, "baby! she shan't be made to learn her dickens if she doesn't want to, so there!" at the time althea had tried to smile, but the words her husband had used had hurt her, horribly, for they had seemed to cast a reflection on her father--the father who thought so much of education, and who had been at such pains to obtain for his motherless only child an ideal chaperon-governess, a lady who had always lived with the best families in newcastle. miss burt would certainly have made her pupil read dickens if dickens were in any real sense an educating influence, instead of writing, as althea had always understood he did, only about queer and vulgar people. not educated? why, her father had sent her away from him for a whole year to dresden, in order that she might learn german and study music to the best possible advantage! true, she had not learnt her french in france, for her father had a prejudice against the french; he belonged to a generation which admired germany, and disliked and distrusted the french. she had, however, been taught french by an excellent teacher, a french protestant lady who had lived all her life in england. of course althea had never read a french novel, but she could recite, even now, whole pages of racine and corneille by heart. and yet, even in this matter of languages, perceval was unfair, for some weeks after he had said that cruel thing to her about education, and when they were at last settling down in their own house, arranging the details of their first dinner party, he had said to her with a certain abrupt ill-humour, "the one language i thought you _did_ know was menu-french!" joan panfillen was also disappointed in althea. scrope's egeria had hoped to convert scrope's wife, not into a likeness of herself--she was far too clever a woman to hope to do that--but into a bright, cheerful companion for perceval scrope's lighter hours. she had always vaguely supposed that this was the rôle reserved to pretty, healthy young women possessed of regular features, wavy brown hair, and good teeth.... but mrs. panfillen had soon realised, and the knowledge brought with it much unease and pain, that she had made a serious mistake in bringing about the marriage. and yet it had been necessary to do something; there had come a moment when not only she, but even scrope himself, had felt that he must be lifted out of the class--always distrusted and despised in england--of political adventurers. scrope required, more than most men, the solid platform, nay, the pedestal, of wealth, and accordingly his egeria had sacrificed herself and, incidentally, the heiress, althea. but, as so often happens to those who make the great renouncement, joan panfillen found that after all no such thing as true sacrifice was to be required of her. after his marriage, scrope was more often with her than he had ever been, and far more willing, not only to ask but to take, his egeria's advice on all that concerned his brilliant, meteoric career. he seldom mentioned his wife, but mrs. panfillen knew her friend far too well not to know how it was with him; althea fretted his nerves, offended his taste, jarred his conscience, at every turn of their joint life. there were, however, two meagre things to the good--althea's fortune, the five thousand a year, which now, after four years, did not seem so large an income as it had seemed at first; and the fact that scrope's marriage had extinguished the odious, and, what was much more unpleasant to such a woman as was joan panfillen, the ridiculous, jealousy of joan's husband. thomas panfillen greatly admired althea; he thought her what she was--a very lovely young woman, and the fact that he had known her father made him complacently suppose that he had brought about her marriage to the peculiar, he was told the remarkably clever, if rather odd, perceval scrope. baulked of certain instinctive rights, the human heart seeks compensation as surely as water seeks its level. althea, unknown to herself, had a compensation. his name was john bustard. he was in a public office--to be precise, the privy council office. he lived in rooms not far from his work, that is, not far from delahay street, and he had got into the way of dropping in to tea two, three, sometimes even four times a week. the fact that bustard was an old schoolfellow of scrope's had been his introduction to althea in the early days when she had been conscientiously anxious to associate herself with her husband's interests past and present. but of the innumerable people with whom scrope had brought her into temporary contact, mr. bustard--she always called him mr. bustard, as did most other people--was the one human being who, being the fittest as regarded herself, survived. and yet never had there been a man less suited to play the part of hero, or even of consoler. mr. bustard was short, and his figure was many years older than his age, which was thirty-four. while forcing himself to take two constitutionals a day, he indulged in no other manlier form of exercise, and his contempt for golf was the only thing that tended to a lack of perfect understanding between his colleagues and himself. he was interested in his work, but he tried to forget it when he was not at the office. bustard was a simple soul, but blessed with an unformulated, though none the less real, philosophy of life. of the matter nearest his heart he scarcely ever spoke, partly because he had always supposed it to be uninteresting to anyone but himself, and also on account of a certain thorny pride which prevented his being willing to ask favours from the indifferent. this matter nearest mr. bustard's heart concerned his two younger brothers and an orphan sister whom he supremely desired to do the best for, and to set well forward in life. it was of these three young people that he and althea almost always talked, and if althea allowed herself to have an ardent wish, it was that her husband would permit her to invite mr. bustard's sister for a few weeks when the girl left the german finishing school which she and mr. bustard had chosen, after much anxious deliberation, a year before. it soothed althea's sore heart to know that there was at least one person in her husband's circle who thought well of her judgment, who trusted in her discretion, and who did her the compliment of not only asking, but also of taking her advice. john bustard had formed a very good opinion of althea, and, constitutionally incapable of divining the causes which had determined the choice of scrope's wife, he considered mrs. scrope a further proof, if indeed proof were needed, of his brilliant schoolfellow's acute intelligence. he had ventured to say as much to scrope's late official chief, one of the few men to whom mr. bustard, without a sufficient cause, would have mentioned a lady's name. but he had been taken aback, rather disturbed, by the old statesman's dry comment: "ay, there's always been method in scrope's madness. i agree that he has made, from his own point of view, a very good marriage." his wife's friendship with mr. bustard did not escape perceval scrope's ironic notice. he affected to think his old schoolfellow a typical member of the british public, and he had nicknamed him "the bullometer," but, finding that his little joke vexed althea, he had, with unusual consideration, dropped it. unfortunately the one offensive epithet was soon exchanged for another; in allusion doubtless to some historical personage of whom althea had no knowledge, scrope began to call bustard her fat friend. "how's your fat friend?" he would ask, and a feeling of resentment filled althea's breast. it was not john bustard's fault that he had a bad figure; it was caused by the sedentary nature of his work, and because, instead of spending his salary in the way most civil servants spend theirs, that is in selfish amusements, he spent it on his younger brothers, and on his little sister's education. * * * * * althea again went over to the window and looked out. it had now left off snowing, and the mists were gathering over the park. soon a veil of fog would shut out the still landscape. if mr. bustard were coming this afternoon she hoped he would come soon, and so be gone before perceval came in. perceval was going to make a great speech in the house to-night, and althea was rather ashamed that she did not care more. he had been put up to speak against those who had once been of his own political household and who now regarded him as a renegade, but the subject was one sure to inspire him, for it was that which he had made his own, and which had led to his secession from his party. althea and mrs. panfillen were going together to hear the speech, but, to his wife's surprise, scrope had refused to dine with the panfillens that same evening. perceval scrope had not been well. to his vexation the fact had been mentioned in the papers. the intense cold had tried him--the cold, and a sudden visit to his constituency. althea could not help feeling slightly contemptuous of perceval's physical delicacy. her husband had often looked ill lately, not as ill as people told her he looked, but still very far from well. only to herself did althea say what she felt sure was the truth, namely that perceval's state was due to himself, due to his constant rushing about, to the way in which he persistently over-excited himself; last, but by no means least, to the way he ate and drank when the food and drink pleased him. althea judged her husband with the clear, pitiless eyes of youth, but none of those about her knew that she so judged him. indeed, there were some in her circle, kindly amiable folk, who believed, and said perhaps a little too loudly, that althea was devoted to perceval, and that their marriage was one of those delightful unions which are indeed made in heaven.... from the further corner of the room there came the sharp ring of the telephone bell. no doubt a message saying that perceval had altered his plans and was dining out, alone. insensibly althea's lips tightened. she thought she knew what her husband was about to suggest. she felt sure that he would tell her, as he had told her so many times before when he had failed her, to offer herself to mrs. panfillen for dinner. but no--the voice she heard calling her by name was not that of perceval scrope. it was a woman's voice, and it seemed to float towards her from a far distance. "althea," called the strange voice, "althea." "yes?" she said, "who is it? i can hardly hear you," and then, with startling closeness and clearness--the telephone plays one such tricks--came the answer in a voice she knew well, "it is i--joan panfillen! are you alone, althea? yes? ah! that's good! i want you to do me a kindness, dear. i want you to come round here now--at once. don't tell anyone you are coming to me. i have a reason for this. can you hear what i say, althea?" "yes," said the listener hesitatingly, "yes, i hear you quite well now, joan." "come in by the park side, i mean through the garden--the gate is unlocked, and i will let you in by the window. be careful as you walk across the flags, it's very slippery to-night. can you come now, at once?" althea hesitated a moment. then she answered, in her low, even voice, "yes, i'll come now, at once." a kindness? what kindness could she, althea scrope, do joan panfillen? the fear of the other woman, the hidden distrust with which she regarded her, gathered sudden force. not lately, but in the early days of scrope's marriage, mrs. panfillen had more than once tried to use her friend's wife, believing--strange that she should have made such a mistake--that althea might succeed where she herself had failed in persuading scrope for his own good. althea now told herself that no doubt joan wished to see her on some matter connected with perceval's coming speech. as this thought came to her althea's white forehead wrinkled in vexed thought. it was too bad that she should have to go out now, when she was expecting mr. bustard, to whom she had one or two rather important things to say about his sister----but stay, why should he be told that she was out? why indeed should she be still out when mr. bustard did come? it was not yet five o'clock, and he seldom came before a quarter past. with luck she might easily go over to joan panfillen's house and be back before he came. althea walked quickly out of the drawing-room and down into the hall. her fur cloak had been carefully hung up as she had directed. perceval always said luke was a stupid servant, but she liked luke; he was careful, honest, conscientious, a very different type of man from the butler, dockett. althea passed out into the chilly, foggy air. delahay street, composed of a few high houses, looked dark, forbidding, deserted. she had often secretly wondered why her husband chose to live in such a place. of course she knew that their friends raved about the park side of the house, but the wife of perceval scrope scarcely ever went in or out of her own door without remembering a dictum of her father's: "nothing makes up for a good front entrance." althea walked quickly towards great george street; to the left she passed boar's head yard, where lived an old cabman in whom she took an interest, and whose cab generally stood at storey's gate. how strange to think that here had once stood oliver cromwell's house! her husband had told her this fact very soon after their marriage; it had seemed to please him very much that they lived so near the spot where cromwell had once lived. althea even at the time had thought this pleasure odd, in fact affected, on perceval's part. if the great protector's house stood there _now_, filled with interesting little relics of the man, she could have understood, perhaps to a certain extent sympathised with, perceval's feeling, for cromwell had been one of her father's heroes. but to care or pretend to care for a vanished association----! but perceval was like that. no man living--or so althea believed--was so full of strange whimsies and fads as was perceval scrope! and so thinking of him she suddenly remembered, with a tightening of the heart, how often her husband's feet had trodden the way she was now treading, hastening from the house which she had just left to the house to which she was now going. jealous of joan panfillen? nay, althea assured herself that there was no room in her heart for jealousy, but it was painful, even more, it was hateful, to know that there were people who pitied her because of this peculiar intimacy between perceval and joan. why, quite lately, there had been a recrudescence of talk about their friendship, so an ill-bred busybody had hinted to althea only the day before. the wife was dimly aware that there had been a time when mrs. panfillen had hoped to form with her an unspoken compact; each would have helped the other, that is, to "manage" perceval; but the moment when such an alliance would have been possible had now gone for ever--even if it had ever existed. althea would have had to have been a different woman,--older, cleverer, less scrupulous, more indifferent than she was, even now, to the man she had married, to make such a compact possible. when about to cross great george street she stopped and hesitated. why should she do this thing, why leave her house at joan panfillen's bidding? but althea, even as she hesitated, knew that she would go on. she had said that she was coming, and she was not one to break lightly even a light word. as she crossed storey's gate, she noticed the stationary cab of the old man who lived in boar's head yard. it had been standing there when she had come in from her walk, and she felt a thrill of pity--the old man made a gallant fight against misfortune. she and joan panfillen were both very kind to him. althea told herself that this sad world is full of real trouble, and the thought made her ashamed of the feelings which she had just allowed to possess and shake her with jealous pain. and yet--yet, though many people envied her, how far from happy althea knew herself to be, and how terribly grey her life now looked, stretching out in front of her. as she passed into birdcage walk, and came close to the little iron gate which mrs. panfillen had told her was unlocked, she saw that a woman stood on the path of the tiny garden behind the railings. of course it was not joan herself; the thought that joan, delicate, fragile as she was, would come out into the cold, foggy air was unthinkable; scarcely less strange was it to see standing there, cloakless and hatless, joan's maid, a tall, gaunt, grey-haired woman named bolt, who in the long ago had been nurse to the panfillens' dead child. scrope had told althea the story of the brief tragedy very early in his acquaintance with her; he had spoken with strong feeling, and that although the child had been born, had lived, and had died before he himself had known joan. in the days when she had been mrs. panfillen's guest, that is before her marriage, althea had known the maid well, known and liked her grim honesty of manner, but since althea's marriage to perceval scrope there had come a change over bolt's manner. she also had made althea feel that she was an interloper, and now the sight of the woman standing waiting in the cold mist disturbed her. bolt looked as if she had been there a very long time, and yet althea had hurried; she was even a little breathless. as she touched the gate, she saw that it swung loosely. everything had been done to make her coming easy; how urgent must be joan's need of her! althea became oppressed with a vague fear. she looked at the maid questioningly. "is mrs. panfillen ill?" she asked. the other shook her head. "there's nothing ailing mrs. panfillen," she said in a low voice. together, quite silently, they traversed the flagged path, and then bolt did a curious thing. she preceded her mistress's visitor up the iron steps leading to the boudoir window, and leaving her there, on the little balcony, went down again into the garden, and once more took up her station near the gate as if mounting guard. the long french window giving access to the boudoir was closed, and in the moment that elapsed before it was opened from within althea scrope took unconscious note of the room she knew so well, and of everything in it, including the figure of the woman she had come to see. it was a panelled octagon, the panels painted a pale wedgwood blue, while just below the ceiling concave medallions were embossed with flower garlands and amorini. a curious change had been made since althea had last seen the room. an old six-leaved screen, of gold so faded as to have become almost silver in tint, which had masked the door, now stood exactly opposite the window behind which althea was standing. it concealed the straight empire sofa which, as mr. panfillen was fond of telling his wife's friends, on the very rare occasions when he found himself in this room with one of them, had formerly stood in the empress josephine's boudoir at malmaison; and, owing to the way it was now placed, the old screen formed a delicate and charming background to mrs. panfillen's figure. scrope's egeria stood in the middle of the room waiting for scrope's wife. she was leaning forward in a curious attitude, as if she were listening, and the lemon-coloured shade of the lamp standing on the table threw a strange gleam on her lavender silk gown, fashioned, as were ever the clothes worn by joan panfillen, with a certain austere simplicity and disregard of passing fashion. althea tapped at the window, and the woman who had sent for her turned round, and, stepping forward, opened the window wide. "come in!" she cried. "come in, althea--how strange that you had to knock! i've been waiting for you so long." "i came as quickly as i could--i don't think i can have been five minutes." althea stepped through the window, bringing with her a blast of cold, damp air. she looked questioningly at mrs. panfillen. she felt, she hardly knew why, trapped. the other's look of anxious, excited scrutiny disturbed her. mrs. panfillen's fair face, usually pale, was flushed. so had she reddened, suddenly, when althea had come to tell her of her engagement to perceval scrope. so had she looked when standing on the doorstep as althea and perceval started for their honeymoon, just after there had taken place a strange little scene--for scrope, following the example of thomas panfillen, who had insisted on what he called saluting the bride, had taken panfillen's wife into his arms and kissed her. "althea"--joan took the younger woman's hand in hers and held it, closely, as she spoke, "don't be frightened,--but perceval is here, ill,--and i've sent for you to take him home." "ill?" a look of dismay came over althea's face. "i hope he's not too ill to speak to-night--that would be dreadful--he'd be terribly upset, terribly disappointed!" even as she spoke she knew she was using words which to the other would seem exaggerated, a little childish. "i'm sure he'd rather you took him home, i'm sure he'd rather not be found----" mrs. panfillen hesitated a moment, and again she said the words "'ill', 'here'," and for the first time althea saw that there was a look of great pain and strain on joan's worn, sensitive face. "of course not!" said the young wife quickly. "of course he mustn't be ill here; he must come home, at once." althea's pride was protesting hotly against her husband's stopping a moment in a house where he was not wanted--pride and a certain resentment warring together in her heart. how strange london people were! this woman whom folk--the old provincial word rose to her lips--whom folk whispered was over-fond of perceval--why, no sooner was he ill than her one thought was how to get rid of him quietly and quickly! mrs. panfillen, looking at her, watching with agonised intensity the slow workings of althea's mind, saw quite clearly what perceval's wife was feeling, saw it with a bitter sense of what a few moments ago she would have thought inconceivable she could ever feel again--amusement. she went across to the window and opened it. as if in answer to a signal, the little iron gate below swung widely open: "bolt has gone to get a cab," she said, without turning round; "we thought that it would be simplest. the old cabman knows us all--it will be quicker." she spoke breathlessly, but there was a tone of decision in her voice, a gentle restrained tone, but one which althea knew well to spell finality. "but where _is_ perceval?" althea looked round her bewildered. she noticed, for the first time, that flung carelessly across two chairs lay his outdoor coat, his gloves, his stick, his hat. then he also had come in by the park side of the house? mrs. panfillen went towards her with slow, hesitating steps. "he is here," she said in a low tone, "behind the screen. he was sitting on the sofa reading me the notes of his speech, and--and he fell back." she began moving the screen, and as she did so she went on, "i sent for bolt--she was a nurse once, you know, and she got the brandy which you see there----" but althea hardly heard the words; she was gazing, with an oppressed sense of discomfort and fear, at her husband. yes, perceval looked ill--very ill,--and he was lying in so peculiar a position! "i suppose when people faint they have to put them like that," thought althea to herself, but she felt concerned, a little frightened.... perceval scrope lay stretched out stiffly on the sofa, his feet resting on a chair which had been placed at the end of the short, frail-looking little couch. his fair, almost lint white, hair was pushed back from his forehead, showing its unusual breadth. the grey eyes were half closed, and he was still wearing, wound about his neck so loosely that it hid his mouth and chin, a silk muffler. althea had the painful sensation that he did not like her to be there, that it must be acutely disagreeable to him to feel that she saw him in such a condition of helplessness and unease. and yet she went on looking at him, strangely impressed, not so much by the rigidity, as by the intense stillness of his body. scrope as a rule was never still; when he was speaking, his whole body, each of his limbs, spoke with him. by the side of the sofa was a small table, on which stood a decanter, unstoppered. "has he been like that long?" althea whispered at length. "he--he looks so strange." joan panfillen came close up to the younger woman; again she put her hand on her companion's arm. "althea," she said, "don't you understand? can't you see the dreadful thing that has happened?"--and as the other looked down into the quivering face turned up to hers, she added with sudden passion, "should i want you to take him away if he were still here?--should i want him to go if there were anything left that i could do for him?" and then althea at last understood, and so understanding her mind for once moved quickly, and she saw with mingled terror and revolt what it was that the woman on whose face her eyes were now riveted was requiring of her. "you sent for me to take him home--dead?" it was a statement rather than a question. mrs. panfillen made a scarcely perceptible movement of assent. "it is what he would have wished," she whispered, "i am quite sure it is what he would have wished you to do." "i--i am sorry, but i don't think i can do that." althea was speaking to herself rather than to the other woman. she was grappling with a feeling of mortal horror and fear. she had always been afraid of perceval scrope, afraid and yet fascinated, and now he, dead, seemed to be even more formidable, more beckoning, than he had been alive. she turned away and covered her eyes with her hand. "why did you tell me?" she asked, a little wildly. "if you hadn't told me that he was dead i should never have known. i should even have done the--the dreadful thing you want me to do." "bolt thought that--bolt said you would not know," mrs. panfillen spoke with sombre energy. "she wished me to allow her to take him down into the garden to meet you in the darkness----but,--but althea, that would have been an infamous thing from me to you----" she waited a moment, and then in a very different voice, in her own usual measured and gentle accents, she added, "my dear, forgive me. we will never speak of this again. i was wrong, selfish, to think of subjecting you to such an ordeal. all i ask"--and there came into her tone a sound of shamed pleading--"is that you should allow tom--tom and other people--to think that you were here when it happened." althea remained silent. then, uncertainly, she walked across to the window and opened it. the action was symbolic--and so it was understood by the woman watching her so anxiously. but still althea said nothing. she stood looking out into the darkness, welcoming the feel of the cold damp air. she gave herself a few brief moments--they seemed very long moments to joan panfillen--before she said the irrevocable words, and when she did say them, they sounded muffled, and uttered from far away, for althea as she spoke did not turn round; she feared to look again on that which might unnerve her, render her unfit for what she was about to do. "joan," she said, "i will do what you ask. you were right just now--right, i mean, in telling me what perceval would have wished." she spoke with nervous, dry haste, and, to her relief, the other woman spared her thanks.... there was a long silence, and then mrs. panfillen crept up close to althea and touched her, making her start violently. "then i will call bolt," she said, and made as if to pass through the window, but althea stopped her with a quick movement of recoil--"no, no!" she cried, "let me do that!" and she ran down the iron steps; it was good to be out of sight even for a moment of the still presence of the dead--the dead whose mocking spirit seemed to be still terribly alive. but during the long, difficult minutes that followed, it was joan panfillen, not althea scrope, who shrank and blenched. it was althea who put out her young strength to help to lift the dead man, and, under cover of the sheltering mist, to make the leaden feet retrace their steps down the iron stairway, and along the narrow path they had so often leapt up and along with eager haste. to two of the three women the progress seemed intolerably slow, but to althea it was all too swift; she dreaded with an awful dread the companioned drive which lay before her. perhaps something of what she was feeling was divined by mrs. panfillen, for at the very last scrope's egeria forgot self, and made, in all sincerity, an offer which on her part was heroic. "shall i come with you?" she whispered, averting her eyes from that which lay huddled up by althea's side, "i will come, willingly; let me come--althea." but althea only shook her head in cold, hurried refusal. she felt that with speech would go a measure of her courage. afterwards althea remembered that there had come a respite,--what had seemed to her at the time an inexplicable delay. a man and a girl had gone slowly by, staring curiously at the two bare-headed women standing out on the pavement, and on whose pale faces there fell the quivering gleam of the old-fashioned cab lamp. then, when the footfalls of these passers-by had become faint, bolt spoke to the driver, and handed him some money. althea heard the words as in dream, "get along as quick as you can to , delahay street, there's a good man," and then the clink of silver in the stillness, followed by the full sound of the man's wheezy gratitude. there came a sudden movement and the dread drive began, the horse slipping, the cab swaying and jolting over the frozen ground. with a gesture which was wholly instinctive, althea put out her arm,--her firm, rounded, living arm,--and slipped it round the inert, sagging thing which had been till an hour ago perceval scrope. and, as she did so, as she pressed him to her, and kept from him the ignominy of physical helplessness, there came a great lightening of her spirit. fear, the base fear bred of the imagination, fell away from her. for the first time there came the certainty that her husband was at last satisfied with her; for the first time she was able to do perceval scrope dead what she had never been able to do perceval scrope alive, a great service--a service which she might have refused to do. once or twice, very early in their married life, perceval had praised her, and his praise had given althea exquisite pleasure because it was so rare, so seldom lavished; and this long-lost feeling of joy in her husband's approval came back, filling her eyes with tears. now at last althea felt as if she and perceval scrope were one, fused in that kindly sympathy and understanding which, being the manner of woman she was, althea supposed to be the very essence of conjugal love. as they were clasped together, she, the quick, he, the dead, althea lost count of time; it might have been a moment, it might have been an hour, when at last the jolting ceased. as the old man got off the box of his cab, and rang the bell, big ben boomed out the quarter-past five. since she had last gone through that door a yawning gap had come in althea's life, a gap which she had herself bridged. fear had dropped from her; she could never again be afraid as she had been afraid when she, joan and perceval had formed for the last time a trinity. the feeling which had so upheld her, the feeling that for the first time she and her husband were in unison, gave her not only courage but serenity of spirit. althea shrank from acting a lie, but she saw, for the first time, through perceval scrope's eyes, and she admitted the necessity. as the door opened, she remembered, almost with exultation, that dockett, the butler, was out, and that it was only with luke, the slow young footman, that she would have to deal. as she saw his tall, thin figure emerge hesitatingly into the street, mrs. scrope called out in a strong, confident voice, "luke--come here! help me to get mr. scrope indoors. he is ill; and as soon as we have got him into the morning room, you must go off for a doctor, at once----" she waved aside the cabman almost impatiently, and it was althea, althea helped by luke, who carried perceval scrope over the threshold of his own house, and so into a small room on the ground floor, a room opening out of the hall, and looking out on to the street. "he looks very bad, don't 'e, ma'am?" luke was startled out of his acquired passivity. "i'd better go right off now." she bent her head. and then althea, again alone with the dead man, suddenly became oppressed once more with fear, not the physical terror which had possessed her when joan panfillen had told her the awful truth, but none the less to her a very agonising form of fear. althea was afraid that now, when approaching the end of her ordeal, she would fail scrope and the woman he had loved. what was she to say, what story could she invent to tell those who would come and press her with quick eager questions? she knew herself to be incapable, not only of untruth, but of invention, and yet now both were about to be required of her. althea turned out the lights, and wandered out into the hall. she felt horribly lonely; with the exception of the kindly, stupid youth who had now gone to find a doctor, there was not a member of her considerable household in sufficient human sympathy with her to be called to her aid. she remembered with a pang that this question of their servants had been one of the many things concerning which there had been deep fundamental disagreement between her husband and herself. she had been accustomed to a well-ordered, decorous household, and would even have enjoyed managing such a one; but perceval--perceval influenced by dockett--had ordained otherwise, and althea had soon become uneasily aware that the order and decorum reigning below stairs were only apparent. even now there came up from the basement the sound of loud talking, of unrestrained laughter. suddenly someone knocked at the door, a loud double knock which stilled, as if by magic, the murmur of the voices below. althea looked around her doubtfully, then she retreated into the darkened room, but no one came up, and she remembered that the other servants of course supposed luke to be on duty. it might be--nay, it almost certainly was--the doctor. with faltering steps she again came out into the hall and opened the front door; and then, when she saw who it was who stood there, his kind honest eyes blinking in the sudden light, althea began to cry. the tears ran down her cheeks; she sighed convulsively, and john bustard, looking at her with deep concern and dismay, was quite unaware--he does not know even to this day--that it was with relief. "what is it?" he said. "my dear mrs. scrope--what is the matter? would you like me to go away--or--or can i be of any use?" "oh, yes," she said piteously. "indeed you can be of use. don't go away--stay with me--i'm--i'm so frightened, mr. bustard. perceval--poor perceval is--is ill, and i'm afraid to stay in there with him." and it was mr. bustard who at once took command--command of althea, whom he ultimately ordered to bed; command of the excited household, whose excitement he sternly suppressed; it was mr. bustard who, believing he told truth, lied for althea, first to the doctor, and later to the coroner. "how fortunate it was for poor althea that mr. bustard, that nice little man in the privy council office, was actually in the house when poor perceval scrope's death took place!" bold and cruel people would say to mrs. panfillen, watching the while to see how she took their mention of the dead man's name. "yes," she would answer them quietly. "very fortunate indeed. and it was so kind of mr. bustard to get his sister to go away with althea. poor althea is so alone in the world. i hope she will come and stay with us when she comes back to town; we were perceval scrope's oldest, i might say closest, friends. you know that their marriage--his and althea's--took place from our house?" the only human being who scented a mystery was dockett--dockett, who was mindful, as he had a right to be, of his lawful perquisites, and who will never forgive himself for having been out on that fateful afternoon. "i'd give something to know the whereabouts of mr. scrope's overcoat, to say nothing of his hat and stick. that common ash stick's a relic--it may be worth money some day!" he observed threateningly to the footman. but luke, as only answer, stared at him with stolid dislike. luke had seen nothing of the hat and stick; no doubt they had been left in the cab in which mr. scrope had come back, ill, from the house. as for the overcoat, it had probably disappeared in the confusion, the hurried coming and going, of that evening when luke had been almost run off his legs answering the door, and his head made quite giddy answering enquiries. but it was not luke's business to say what he thought or did not think. with such a man as mr. dockett, it only led to unpleasantness. ii mr. jarvice's wife i "about that letter of your uncle's? i take it you have no one to suggest?" thomas carden glanced anxiously at the son in whom he had so strong a confidence, and who was the secret pride of his eyes, the only love of his austere, hard-working life. the two were a great contrast to one another. the older man was short and slight, with the delicate, refined, spiritual face, so often seen in the provincial man of business belonging to that disappearing generation of englishmen who found time to cultivate the things of the mind as well as the material interests of life. a contrast, indeed, to the tall, singularly handsome, alert-looking man whom he had just addressed, and whose perfect physical condition made him appear somewhat younger than his thirty-two years. and yet, in spite or perhaps because of this contrast between them, the two were bound in the closest, if not exactly in the most confidential, ties of affection. and, as a matter of course, they were partners in the great metal-broking business of josh. carden, thomas carden and son, which had been built up by three generations of astute, self-respecting citizens of birmingham. it was easter monday, and the two men were lingering over breakfast, in a way they seldom allowed themselves time to do on ordinary week-days, in the finely proportioned, book-lined dining-room of one of those spacious old houses which remain to prove that the suburb of edgbaston was still country a hundred years ago. theodore carden looked across the table meditatively. he had almost forgotten his uncle's letter, for, since that letter had been read and cursorily discussed, he and his father had been talking of a matter infinitely more important to them both. the matter in question was the son's recent engagement and coming marriage, a marriage which was a source of true satisfaction to the older man. his father's unselfish joy in the good thing which had befallen him touched theodore carden keenly, for the niche occupied in most men's minds by their intimate feminine circle was filled in that of the young man by the diminutive figure of the senior partner of carden and son. as is perhaps more often the case than those who despise human nature believe, many have the grace to reverence and admire the qualities in which they know themselves to be deficient. such a man was the younger carden. to-day the depths had been stirred, and he let his mind dwell with a certain sense of shame and self-rebuke on his own and his father's ideals of human conduct. even as a schoolboy, theodore had come to realise how much more he knew of the ugly side of life than did his father. but then, old mr. carden was quite exceptional; he knew nothing--or so at least his son believed, and loved him for it--of the temptations, conflicts, victories, and falls of the average sensual man. theodore's father had been engaged, at twenty, to a girl of his own age whom he had not been able to marry till twelve years later; she had left him a widower with this one child after five years of married life, and thomas carden, as he had himself once told his son in a moment of unwonted confidence, had been absolutely faithful to her before the marriage and since her death. the woman--many people would have said the very fortunate young woman--who was so soon to become mrs. theodore carden would not possess such a husband as thomas carden had been to his wife. and yet, in his heart, theodore was well aware that the gentle girl he loved would probably be a happier woman than his own mother had been, for he, unlike his father, in his dealings with the other sex could call up at will that facile and yet rather rare gift of tenderness which women, so life had taught him, value far more than the deeper, inarticulate love.... carden came back to the prosaic question of his uncle's letter with a distinct effort. "have i anyone to suggest?" he echoed. "i have no one to suggest, father. i know, of course, exactly the sort of man uncle barrett is looking for; he's asking us to find him the perfect clerk every man of business has sought for at some time or other. if i were you i should write and tell him that the man he wants us to find never has to look outside england for a job, and, what is more, would rather be a clerk here--if he's any sense--than a partner in new zealand!" a smile quivered for a moment over the young man's shrewd face; his uncle was evidently seeking such a man as he was himself, but such men, so theodore carden was able to tell himself without undue conceit, were not likely to go into voluntary exile even with the bribe of eventual partnership in a flourishing business. there was a pause, and then again the older man broke the silence with something entirely irrelevant to the subject which was filling the minds of his son and himself. "you haven't looked at the _post_ this morning? there's nothing in it. dearth of real news is, i suppose, responsible for this?" and he pointed, frowning as he spoke, to a column on the middle page headed "the jarvice mystery. new developments." again a shrewd, good-humoured smile quivered on his son's firm mouth. "in these days newspapers have to follow, not lead, the public taste. very few people are honestly as indifferent as you are, father, to that sort of story. now even i, who never met poor old jarvice, cannot help wondering how he came by his death; and yet you, who knew the man----" "i knew him," said the other with a touch of impatience, "as i know, and as you know, dozens of our fellow-townsmen." "never mind; you, at any rate, can put a face to the man's name; and yet the question as to whether he was or was not poisoned by his wife, is one of indifference to you! now i submit that in this indifference you are really a little----" he hesitated for a word, but found that none so well expressed his thought as that which had first arisen to his lips--"peculiar, father." "am i?" said thomas carden slowly; "am i so, theodore? nay, nay, i deny that i am indifferent! lane"--major lane was at that time head constable of birmingham, and a lifelong friend of the speaker--"lane was quite full of it last night. he insisted on telling me all the details of the affair, and what shocked me, my boy, was not so much the question which, of course, occupied lane--that is, as to whether that unhappy young woman poisoned her husband or not--but the whole state of things which he disclosed about them. lane told me certain facts concerning jarvice, whom, as you truly say, i have known, in a sense, for years, which i should not have thought possible of any man--vile things, which should have prevented his thinking of marriage, especially of marriage with a young wife." theodore carden remained silent; he never discussed unsavoury subjects with his father. moreover, he had no liking for major lane, though he regarded him with considerable respect, and even with a feeling of gratitude. some years before, the head constable had helped the young man out of a serious scrape, the one real scrape--so carden was complacently able to assure himself--engendered by his systematic and habitual pursuit of women. even now he could not recall, without wincing, the interview he had had on that occasion with his father's friend. during that interview carden had felt himself thoroughly condemned, and even despised, by the older man, and he had been made to feel that it was only for the sake of his father--his high-minded, unsuspicious father--that he was being saved from the public exposure of a peculiarly sordid divorce suit. but it was in all sincerity that the young man now felt indignant with major lane for having distressed such a delicately spiritual soul as was thomas carden with the hidden details of the jarvice story. after all, what interested the public was not the question of jarvice's moral character, but whether a gently nurtured and attractive woman had carried through a sinister and ingenious crime, which, but for a mere accident, would have utterly defied detection. theodore carden got up from the breakfast table and walked over to a circular bow window which commanded charming views of the wide sloping garden, interspersed with the streams and tiny ponds, which gave the house its name of watermead, and which enabled old mr. carden to indulge himself with especial ease in his hobby of water gardening. standing there, the young man began wondering what he should do with himself this early spring day. his _fiancée_ had just left the quiet lodgings, which she and her mother, a clergyman's widow, had occupied in birmingham during the last few weeks, to pay visits to relatives in the south of england. the thought of going to any of the neighbouring houses where he knew himself to be sure of a warm welcome, and where the news of his engagement would be received with boisterous congratulations, tempered in some cases with an underlying touch of regret and astonishment, filled him with repugnance. the girl he had chosen to be his wife was absolutely different from the women who had hitherto attracted him; he reverenced as well as loved her, and hitherto theodore carden had never found reverence to be in any sense a corollary of passion, while he had judged women by those who were attractive to, or, as was quite as often the case, attracted by, himself. the last few days had brought a great change in his life, and one which he meant should be permanent; and yet, in spite or perhaps because of this, as he stood staring with absent eyes into his father's charming garden, he found his mind dwelling persistently on the only one of his many amorous adventures which had left a deep, an enduring, and, it must be admitted, a most delightful mark on the tablets of his memory. the whole thing was still so vivid to him that half-involuntarily he turned round and looked down the long room to where his old father was sitting. how amazed, above all how shocked and indignant, the man for whom he had so great an affection and respect would feel if he knew the pictures which were now floating before his son's retrospective vision! like most thinking human beings, theodore carden had not lived to his present age without being struck by the illogical way the world wags. accordingly, he was often surprised and made humorously indignant by the curious moral standards--they had so many more than one--of the conventional people among whom it was his fate to dwell and have his social being. not one of the men he knew, with the exception of his father, and of those others--a small number truly--whom he believed to be sincerely, not conventionally, religious, but would have envied him the astonishing adventure which reconstituted itself so clearly before him to-day--and yet not one of them but would have been ready to condemn him for having done what he had done. theodore carden, however, so often tempted to kiss, never felt tempted to tell, and the story of that episode remained closely hidden, and would so remain, he told himself, to the end of his life. * * * * * what had happened had been briefly this. one day in the previous october, carden had taken his seat in the afternoon express which stops at birmingham on its way from the north to euston, or rather, having taken a leisurely survey of the train, which was, as he quickly noted, agreeably empty, he had indicated to the porter carrying his bag a carriage in which sat, alone, a singularly pretty woman. as he afterwards had the delight of telling her, and, as he now reminded himself with a retrospective thrill of feeling, he had experienced, when his eyes first met those of the fair traveller, that incommunicable sensation, part physical, part mental, which your genuine lothario, if an intelligent man, always welcomes with quickening pulse as a foretaste of the special zest to be attached to a coming pursuit. carden's instinct as to such delicate matters had seldom played him false; never less so than on this occasion, for, within an hour, he and the lovely stranger had reached that delightful stage of intimacy in which a man and woman each feels that he and she, while still having much to learn about the other, are on the verge of a complete understanding. during the three hours' journey, carden's travelling companion told him a great deal more about herself than he had chosen to reveal concerning his own life and affairs; he learnt, for instance, that she was the young wife of an old man, and that the old man was exceedingly jealous. further, that she found the life she was compelled to lead "horribly boring," and that a widowed cousin, who lived near london, and from whom she had "expectations," formed a convenient excuse for occasional absences from home. concerning three matters of fact, however, she completely withheld her confidence, both then, in those first delicious hours of their acquaintance, and even later, when their friendship--well, why not say friendship, for carden had felt a very strong liking as well as an over-mastering attraction for this undine-like creature?--had become much closer. the first and second facts which she kept closely hidden, for reasons which should perhaps have been obvious, were her surname--she confided to him that her christian name was pansy--and her husband's profession. the third fact which she concealed was the name of the town where she lived, and from which she appeared to be travelling that day. the trifling incidents of that eventful october journey had become to a great extent blurred in theodore carden's memory, but what had followed was still extraordinarily vivid, and to-day, on this holiday morning, standing idly looking out of the window, he allowed his mind a certain retrospective licence. from whom, so he now asked himself, had first come the suggestion that there should be no parting at euston between himself and the strange elemental woman he found so full of unforced fascination and disarming charm? the answer soon came echoing down the corridors of remembrance: from himself, of course. but even now the memory brought with it shame-faced triumph as he remembered her quick acquiescence, as free, as unashamed, as joyous as that of a spoilt child acclaiming an unlooked-for treat. and, after all, what harm had there been in the whole halcyon adventure--what injury had it caused to any human being? carden put the husband, the fatuous old man, who had had the incredible folly to marry a girl thirty-five years younger than himself, out of court. pansy, light-hearted, conscienceless pansy--he always thought of her with a touch of easy tenderness--had run no risk of detection, for, as he had early discovered, she knew no one in london with the solitary exception of the old cousin who lived in upper norwood. as for his own business acquaintances, he might, of course, have been seen by any of them taking about this singularly attractive woman, for the two went constantly to the theatre, and daily to one or other of the great restaurants. but what then? excepting that she was quieter in manner, far better dressed, and incomparably prettier, pansy might have been the wife or sister of any one of his own large circle of relations, that great carden clan who held their heads so high in the business world of the midlands. nay, nay, no risk had been run, and no one had been a penny the worse! indeed, looking back, theodore carden told himself that it had been a perfect, a flawless episode; he even admitted that after all it was perhaps as well that there had been no attempt at a repetition. and yet? and yet the young man, especially during the first few weeks which had followed that sequence of enchanting days, had often felt piqued, even a little surprised, that the heroine of his amazing adventure had not taken advantage of his earnest entreaty that she would give him the chance of meeting her again. he had left it to her to be mysterious; as for himself, he had seen no reason why he should conceal from her either his name or his business address. many men would not have been so frank, but theodore carden, too wise in feminine lore to claim an infallible knowledge of women, never remembered having made a mistake as to the moral social standing of a new feminine acquaintance. during the few days they had been together, everything had gone to prove that pansy was no masquerader from that under-world whose denizens always filled him with a sensation of mingled aversion and pity. he could not doubt--he never had doubted--that what she had chosen to tell him about herself and her private affairs was substantially true. no man, having heard her speak of it, could fail to understand her instinctive repulsion from the old husband to whom she had sold herself into bondage; and as human, if not perhaps quite as worthy of sympathy, was her restless longing for freedom to lead the pleasant life led by those of her more fortunate contemporaries whose doings were weekly chronicled in the society papers which seemed to form her only reading. once only had carden felt for his entrancing companion the slightest touch of repugnance. he had taken her to a play in which a child played an important part, and she had suddenly so spoken as to make him realise with a shock of surprise that she was the mother of children! yet the little remark made by her, "i wonder how my little girls are getting on," had been very natural and even womanly. then, in answer to a muttered word or two on his part, she had explained that she preferred not to have news of her children when she was absent from home, as it only worried her; even when staying with the old cousin at upper norwood, she made a point of being completely free of all possible home troubles. hearing this gentle, placid explanation of her lack of maternal anxiety, carden had put up his hand to his face to hide a smile; he had not been mistaken; pansy was indeed the thorough-going little hedonist he had taken her to be. still, it was difficult, even rather disturbing, to think of her as a mother, and as the mother of daughters. yet how deep an impression this unmoral, apparently soulless woman had made on his mind and on his emotional memory! even now, when he had no desire, and, above all, must not allow himself to have any desire, ever to see her again, theodore carden felt, almost as keenly as he had done during the period of their brief intimacy, a morbid curiosity to know where she lived and had her being. * * * * * it was late in the afternoon of easter monday. theodore carden had just come in from a long walk, and, as he passed through the circular hall around which watermead was built, he heard the low sound of voices, those of his father and some other man, issuing from the square drawing-room always occupied by the father and son on such idle days as these. he stayed his steps, realised that the visitor was major lane, and then made up his mind to go up and change, instead of going straight in to his father, as he would have done had the latter been alone. as he came down again, and crossed the now lighted hall, he met the parlour-maid, an elderly woman who had been in thomas carden's service ever since his wife's death. "i wonder if i can take in the lamps now, mr. theodore? it's getting so dark, sir." there was a troubled sound in her voice, and the young man stopped and looked at her with some surprise. "of course you can, kate," he said quickly, "why not? why haven't you taken them in before?" "i did go in with them half an hour ago, sir, but the master told me to take them out again. there's firelight, to be sure, and it's only major lane in there, but he's been here since three o'clock, and master's not had his tea yet. i suppose they thought they'd wait till you came in." "oh! well, if my father prefers to sit in the dark, and to put off tea till he can have my company, you had better wait till i ring, and then bring in the lamps and the tea together." he spoke with his usual light good-nature, and passed on into the room which was the only apartment in the large old house clearly associated in his mind with the graceful, visionary figure of his dead mother. thomas carden and the head constable were sitting in the twilight, one on each side of the fireplace, and when the young man came in, they both stirred perceptibly, and abruptly stopped speaking. theodore came forward and stood on the hearth-rug. "may kate bring in the lamps, father?" "yes, yes, i suppose so." and the lamps were brought in. then came the tea-tray, placed by kate on a large table many paces from the fire; womanless watermead was lacking in the small elegancies of modern life, but now that would soon be remedied, so the younger carden told himself with a slight, happy smile. very deliberately, and asking no questions as to milk or sugar, for well he knew the tastes of his father and of his father's friend, he poured out two cups of tea, and turning, advanced, a cup balanced in each steady hand. but halfway up the room he stopped for a moment, arrested by the sound of his father's voice-- "theo, my boy, i want to ask you something." the mode of address had become of late years a little unusual, and there was a note in thomas carden's accents which struck his son as significant--even as solemn. "yes, father?" "did you not tell me this morning that you had never met jarvice?" the one onlooker, hatchet-faced major lane, suddenly leaned a little forward. he was astonished at his old friend's extraordinary and uncalled-for courage, and it was with an effort, with the feeling that he was bracing himself to see something terrible take place, that he looked straight at the tall, fine-looking man who had now advanced into the circle of light thrown by the massive argand lamps. but theodore carden appeared quite unmoved, nay more, quite unconcerned, by his father's question. "yes," he said, "i did tell you so. i suppose i knew the old fellow by sight, but i certainly was never introduced to him. are there any new developments?" he turned to major lane with a certain curiosity, and then quite composedly handed him the cup of tea he held in his right hand. "well, yes," answered the other coldly, "there are several new developments. we arrested mrs. jarvice this morning." "that seems rather a strong step to have taken, unless new evidence has turned up since saturday," said theodore thoughtfully. "such new evidence has come to hand since saturday," observed major lane drily. there was a pause, and again thomas carden addressed his son with that strange touch of solemnity, and again major lane, with an inward wincing, stared fixedly at the young man now standing on the hearth-rug, a stalwart, _debonair_ figure, between himself and his old friend. "can you assure me--can you assure us both--that you never met mrs. jarvice?" carden looked down at his father with a puzzled expression. "of course i can't assure you of anything of the kind," he said, still speaking quite placidly. "i may have met her somewhere or other, but i can't remember having done so; and i think i should have remembered it, both because the name is an uncommon one, and because"--he turned to major lane--"isn't she said to be an extraordinarily pretty woman?" as the last words were being uttered an odd thing happened. thomas carden suddenly dropped the cup he was holding in his hand; it rang against the brass fender and broke in several pieces, while the spoon went clattering into the fireplace. "father!" exclaimed theodore, and then quickly he added, "don't trouble to do that," for the old man was stooping over the rug, and fumbling with the broken pieces. but thomas carden shook his head; it was evident that he was, for the moment, physically incapable of speech. a great fear came into the son's mind; he turned to major lane, and muttered in an urgent, agonised whisper, "is it--can it be a seizure? hadn't i better go and try to find dr. curle?" but the other, with a dubious expression on his face, shook his head. "no, no," he said; "it's nothing of the kind. your father's getting older, carden, as we all are, and i've had to speak to him to-day about a very disagreeable matter." he looked fixedly, probingly, at the young man. "i think it's thoroughly upset him." the speaker hesitated, and then added: "i daresay he'll tell you about it; in any case, i'd better go now and come back later. if you can spare me half an hour this evening, i should like to have a talk with you--about the same matter." during the last few moments major lane had made up his mind to take a certain course, even to run a certain risk, and that not for the first time that day, for he had already set his own intimate knowledge of thomas carden, the lifelong friend whose condition now wrung him with pity, against what was, perhaps, his official duty. some two hours before, the head constable had entered the house where he had been so constantly and so hospitably entertained, with the firm conviction that theodore carden had been the catspaw of a clever, unscrupulous woman; in fact that there had come a repetition, but a hundred times more serious, of that now half-forgotten entanglement which had so nearly brought carden to grief some seven or eight years before. once more he had come prepared to do his best to save his friend's son, so far as might be possible, from the consequences of his folly. but now? ah, now, the experienced, alert official had to admit to himself that the incidents of the last ten minutes had completely altered his view of the matter. he realised that in any case theodore carden was no fool; for the first time that day the terrible suspicion came into major lane's mind that the man before him might, after all, be more closely connected with the jarvice mystery than had seemed possible. never, during his long connection with crime, had the head constable come across as good an actor, as cool a liar, as he now believed this man of business to be. well, he would give theodore carden one more chance to tell the truth; theodore was devoted to his father, so much was certainly true, and perhaps his father would be able to make him understand the gravity of the case. major lane felt bitterly sorry that he had come first to the old man--but then, he had so completely believed in the "scrape" theory; and now he hardly knew what to believe! for the moment, at any rate, so the head constable told himself, the mask had fallen; theodore carden could not conceal his relief at the other's approaching departure. "certainly," he said hastily, "come in this evening by all means; i won't ask you to stay to dinner, for i mean to try and make father go to bed, but later i shall be quite free. if, however, you want to ask me anything about the jarvice affair, i'm afraid i can't help you much; i've not even read the case with any care." the old man, still sitting by the fire, had caught a few of the muttered words, and before major lane could leave the room thomas carden had risen from his chair, his face paler, perhaps, than usual, but once more his collected, dignified self. "stay," he said firmly; "having gone so far, i think we should now thresh the matter out." he walked over to where his son and his friend were standing, and he put his hand on the older man's arm. "perhaps i cannot expect you, lane, to be convinced, as i, of course, have been convinced, by my son's denials. it is, as i told you this afternoon, either a plot on the part of someone who bears a grudge against us, or else--what i think more likely--there are two men in this great town each bearing the name of theodore carden. but i appreciate, i deeply appreciate, the generous kindness which made you come and warn us of this impending calamity; but you need not fear that we shall fail to meet it with a complete answer." "father! major lane! what does this mean?" for the first time a feeling of misgiving, of sudden fear, swept over theodore carden's mind. without waiting for an answer, he led the way back to the fireplace, and, deliberately drawing forward a chair, motioned to major lane to sit down likewise. "now then," he said, speaking with considerable authority and decision, "i think i have a right to ask what this is all about! in what way are we, my father and myself, concerned in the jarvice affair? for my part, major lane, i can assure you, and that, if you wish it, on oath, that i did not know mr. jarvice, and, to the best of my belief, i have never seen, still less spoken to, mrs. jarvice----" "if that be indeed so," said the man whom he addressed, and who, for the first time, was beginning to feel himself shaken in his belief, nay, in his absolute knowledge, that the young man was perjuring himself, "can you, and will you, explain these letters?" and he drew out of his pocket a folded sheet of foolscap. carden bent forward eagerly; there was no doubt, so the head constable admitted to himself, as to his eagerness to be brought face to face with the accusation--and yet, at that moment, a strong misgiving came over major lane. even if theodore carden could continue to be the consummate actor he had already proved himself, was it right, was it humane, to subject him to this terrible test, and that, too, before his old father? whatever the young man's past relation to mrs. jarvice, nay, whatever his connection might be with the crime which major lane now knew to have been committed, carden was certainly ignorant of the existence of these terrible, these damnatory documents, and they constituted so far the only proof that carden had been lying when he denied any knowledge of mrs. jarvice. but then, alas! they constituted an irrefutable proof. with a sudden movement major lane withdrew his right hand, that which held the piece of paper. "stop a moment, theodore; do you really wish this discussion to take place before your father? i wonder if you remember"--he paused, and then went on firmly, "an interview you and i had many years ago?" for the first time the younger man's whole manner changed; a look of fear, of guilt, came over his strong, intelligent face. "father," he said imploringly, "i beg you not to listen to major lane. he is alluding to a matter which he gave me his word--his word of honour--should never be mentioned to anyone, least of all to you;" then, turning with an angry gesture to the head constable, "was that not so?" he asked imperiously. "yes, i admit that by asking you this question i have broken my word, but good god! man, this is no passing scrape that we have to consider now; to-morrow morning all birmingham will be ringing with your name--with your father's name, theodore--for by some horrible mischance the papers have got hold of the letters in question. i did my best, but i found i was powerless." he turned and deliberately looked away, as he added in a low, hesitating voice: "and now, once more i ask you whether we had not better delay this painful discussion until you and i are alone?" "no!" cried carden, now thoroughly roused, "certainly not! you have chosen to come and tell my father something about me, and i insist that you tell me here, and at once, what it is of which i am accused." he instinctively looked at his father for support, and received it in full measure, for at once the old man spoke. "yes, lane, i think my son is right; there's no use in making any more mystery about the matter. i'm sure that the letters you have brought to show theodore will puzzle him as much as they have me, and that he will be able to assure you that he has no clue either to their contents or to their writer." very slowly, with a feeling of genuine grief and shame for the man who seemed incapable of either sorrow or shame, major lane held out the folded paper; and then in very pity he looked away as his old friend's son eagerly unrolled the piece of foolscap, placing it close under the lamp-shade in order that he might thoroughly master its contents. as theodore carden completed the trifling action, that of unrolling the piece of paper which was to solve the mystery, he noted, with a curious feeling of relief, that the documents (or were they letters?) regarded by the head constable as so damnatory, were but two, the first of some length, the second consisting of a very few lines, and both copied in the fair round hand of major lane's confidential clerk. and then, with no premonitory warning, carden became the victim of a curious physical illusion. staring down at the long piece of blue paper, he found that he was only able to master the signature, in both cases the same, with which each letter terminated. sometimes only one word, one name--that of _pansy_--stood out clearly, and then again he seemed only to see the other word, the other name--that of _jarvice_. the two names appeared to play hide-and-seek with one another, to leap out alternately and smite his eyes, pressing and printing themselves upon his brain. at last, while he was still staring silently, obstinately, at the black lines dancing before him, he heard the words, and they seemed to be coming from a long way off, "theodore! oh, my boy, what is the matter?" and then major lane's voice, full of rather angry concern, "rouse yourself, carden, you are frightening your father." "am i?" he said dully; "i mustn't do that;" then, handing back the sheet of foolscap to the head constable, he said hoarsely, "i can't make them out. will you read them to me?" and major lane, in passionless accents, read aloud the two letters which he already almost knew by heart. , lightwood place, _january th_. you told me to write to you if ever i was in real trouble and thought you could help me. oh! theo, darling, i am in great trouble, and life, especially since that happy time--you know when i mean--is more wretched than ever. you used to say i was extraordinarily pretty, i wonder if you would say so now, for i am simply ill--worn out with worry. he--you know who--has found out something; such a little insignificant thing; and since then he makes my life unbearable with his stupid jealousy. it isn't as if he knew about you and me, that would be something real to grumble at, wouldn't it, darling? sometimes i feel tempted to tell him all about it. how he would stare! he is incapable of understanding anything romantic. however, i'm in no mood for laughing now. he's got a woman in to watch me, a governess, but luckily i've quite got her to be on my side, though of course i haven't told her anything about my private affairs. will you meet me one day this week, to-morrow if you can, at no. , calthorpe street? four o'clock is the safest time for me. between the two small shops you will see a swing door with "madame paula, milliner," on it; push it open and go straight upstairs. on the first landing you will see a door with "gone out, enquire upstairs," on it. push up the door knob (don't try to turn it) and walk in. the room will be empty, but you will see a door leading to a back room; push _up_ the knob and there--there you will find your poor little pansy, fainting with joy at seeing her big strong theo again. send me a postcard, saying, "mrs. jarvice can be fitted on (day you select)." if posted before eleven, it will reach me in time. of course, i'm running a risk in meeting you _here_, so near my home, but i _must_ see you, for i have a great favour to ask you, theo, and i dare not propose going away even for one day. pansy jarvice. major lane paused a moment, then went on: theo, i wrote to you ten days ago, but i have had no answer. i am dreadfully worried; i know you are in birmingham, for i saw your name in a paper before i wrote to you. i have gone through such terrible days waiting for the postcard i asked you to send me. write, if only to say you don't want to hear again of poor miserable pansy jarvice. "i suppose you will now admit that you know who wrote these letters?" asked major lane sternly. "yes--at least i suppose they were written by mrs. jarvice." theodore carden spoke with a touch of impatience. the question seemed to him to be, on the part of his father's old friend, a piece of useless cruelty. "and can you suggest to whom they were written, if not to yourself?" "no, of course not; i do not doubt that they were written to me," and this time his face was ravaged with a horror and despair to which the other two men had, so far, no clue. "and yet," he added, a touch of surprise in his voice, "i never saw these letters--they never reached me." "but of course you received others?" major lane spoke with a certain eagerness; then, as the young man seemed to hesitate, he added hastily: "nay, nay--say nothing that might incriminate yourself." "but indeed--indeed i have never received a letter from her--that perhaps is why i did not know the handwriting." "theodore!" cried his father sharply, "think what you are saying! what you've been shown are only copies--surely you understood that? what lane has just shown you are copies of letters which purport to have been addressed to you, but which were intercepted on their way to the post--is that not so?" and he turned to the head constable. "yes," said major lane; then he added, very deliberately. "the originals of these two letters, which were bought for a large sum from mrs. jarvice's governess, evidently the woman referred to in the first letter, are now in the hands of the news editor of the _birmingham dispatch_. i was shown them as a great favour"--a grim smile distorted, for a moment, the head constable's narrow jaw. "i did my best--for your father's sake, theodore--to frighten these people into giving them up; i even tried to persuade them to hold them over, but it was no good. i was told that no birmingham paper had ever had such a--'scoop', i believe, was the word used. you and your father are so well known in this city." and again theodore carden marvelled at the cruelty of the man. thomas carden broke in with a touch of impatience: "but nothing else has been found, my boy! lane should tell you that the whole theory of your having known mrs. jarvice rests on these two letters--which never reached you." father and son seemed suddenly to have changed places. the old man spoke in a strong, self-confident tone, but the other, his grey face supported on his hands, was staring fixedly into the fire. "yes," said major lane, more kindly, "i ought perhaps to tell you that within an hour of my being shown these letters i had mrs. jarvice's house once more searched, and nothing was found connecting you with the woman, excepting, i am sorry to say, this;"--and he held out an envelope on which was written in theodore carden's clear handwriting the young man's name and business address. "now, i should like you to tell me, if you don't mind doing so, where, when, and how this name and address came to be written?" "yes, i will certainly tell you." the young man spoke collectedly; he was beginning to realise the practical outcome of the conversation. "i wrote that address about the middle of last october, in london, at mansell's hotel in pall mall east." "the poor fellow's going to make a clean breast of it at last," so thought major lane with a strange feeling of relief, for on the flap of the envelope, which he had kept carefully turned down, was stamped "mansell's hotel." it was in a considerate, almost kindly tone, that the head constable next spoke. "and now, i beg you, for your own sake, to tell me the truth. perhaps i ought to inform you, before you say anything, that, according to our theory, mrs. jarvice was certainly assisted in procuring the drug with which there is no doubt she slowly poisoned her husband. as yet we have no clue as to the person who helped her, but we have ascertained that for the last two months, in fact, from about the date of the first letter addressed to you, a man did purchase minute quantities of this drug at birmingham, at wolverhampton, and at walsall. now, mind you, i do not suspect, i never have suspected, you of having any hand in that, but i fear you'll have to face the ordeal of being confronted with the various chemists, of whom two declare most positively that they can identify the man who brought them the prescription which obtained him the drug in question." while major lane was speaking, theodore carden had to a certain extent regained his self-possession; here, at least, he stood on firm ground. "of course, i am prepared to face anything of the kind that may be necessary." he added almost inaudibly: "i have brought it on myself." then he turned, his whole voice altering and softening: "father, perhaps you would not mind my asking major lane to go into the library with me? i should prefer to see him alone." ii and then the days dragged on, a week of days, each containing full measure of bitter and public humiliation; full measure also of feverish suspense, for theodore carden did not find it quite so easy as he had thought it would be to clear himself of this serious, and yet preposterous accusation of complicity in murder. but major lane was surprised at the courage and composure with which the young man faced the ordeal of confrontation with the various men, any one of whom, through a simple mistake or nervous lapse of memory, might compel his presence, if not in the dock, then as a witness at the coming murder trial. at last the awful ordeal was over, for, as a matter of fact, none of those brought face to face with him in the sordid promiscuity of such scenes, singled out theodore carden as resembling the mysterious individual who had almost certainly provided mrs. jarvice with the means wherewith to poison her husband. but it was after the need for active defence had passed away that theodore carden's true sufferings began.... the moment twilight fell he was haunted, physically and mentally possessed, by the presence of the woman he had known at once so little and so well--that is, of her he now knew to be pansy jarvice. especially terrible were the solitary evenings of those days when his father was away, performing the task of breaking so much of the truth as could be told to the girl to whom his son had been engaged. as each afternoon drew in theodore found himself compelled to remain more or less concealed in the room which overlooked the garden of waterhead. for, with the approach of night, the suburban road in front of the fine old house was filled by an ever coming and going crowd of bat-like men and women, eager to gaze with morbid curiosity at the dwelling of the man who had undoubtedly been, if not mrs. jarvice's accomplice--that, to the annoyance of the sensation-mongers, seemed decidedly open to question--then, her favoured lover. but to these shameful and grotesque happenings theodore carden gave scarce a thought, for it was when he found himself alone in the drawing-room or library that his solitude would become stealthily invaded by an invisible and impalpable wraith. so disorganised had become his nerves, so pitiable the state of his body and mind, that constantly he seemed conscious of a faint, sweet odour, that of wood violets, a scent closely associated in his thoughts with pansy jarvice, with the woman whom he now knew to be a murderess. he came at last to long for a tangible delusion, for the sight of a bodily shape which he could tell himself was certainly not there. but no such relief was vouchsafed him; and yet once, when sitting in the drawing-room, trying to read a book, he had felt a rounded cheek laid suddenly to his, a curl of silken, scented hair had touched his neck.... terrifying as was the peopled solitude of his evenings, carden dreaded their close, for at night, during the whole of each long night, the woman from whom he now felt so awful a repulsion held him prisoner. from the fleeting doze of utter exhaustion he would be awakened by feeling the pressure of pansy's soft, slender arms about his neck; they would wind themselves round his shuddering body, enclosing him slowly, inexorably, till he felt as if he must surely die under their gyves-like pressure. again--and this, perhaps, was what he learnt to dread in an especial degree--he would be suddenly roused by pansy's liquid, laughing voice, whispering things of horror in his ear; it was then, and then only, that he found courage to speak, courage to assure her, and so assure himself, that he was in no sense her accomplice, that he had had naught to do with old jarvice's death. but then there would come answer, in the eager tones he remembered so well, and the awful words found unwilling echo in his heart: "yes, yes, indeed you helped!" * * * * * and now the last day, or rather the last night, had come, for the next morning theodore carden was to leave birmingham, he hoped for ever, for new zealand. the few people he had been compelled to see had been strangely kind; quiet and gentle, as folk, no doubt, feel bound to be when in the presence of one condemned. as for major lane, he was stretching--no one knew it better than carden himself--a great point in allowing the young man to leave england before the jarvice trial. during those last days, even during those last hours, theodore deliberately prevented himself from allowing his mind to dwell on his father. he did not know how much the old man had been told, and he had no wish to know. a wall of silence had arisen between the two who had always been so much, nay, in a sense, everything, to one another. each feared to give way to any emotion, and yet the son knew only too well, and was ashamed of the knowledge, with what relief he would part from his father. there had been a moment when major lane had intimated his belief that the two would go away and make a new life together, but theodore carden had put aside the idea with rough decision. perhaps when he was far away on the other side of the world, the former relations of close love and sympathy, if not of confidence, might be re-established between his father and himself, but this, he felt sure, would never be while they remained face to face. and now he was lying wide awake in the darkness, in the pretty peaceful room which had once been his nursery, and where he had spent his happy holidays as a schoolboy. his brain remained abnormally active, but physically he was oppressed by a great weariness; to-night, for the first time, carden felt the loathsome wraith that haunted him, if not less near, then less malicious, less watchful than usual, above all less eager to assert her power.... yet, even so, he lay very still, fearing to move lest he should once more feel about his body the clinging, enveloping touch he dreaded with so great a dread. * * * * * and then, quite suddenly, there came a strange lightening of his heart. a space of time seemed to have sped by, and carden, by some mysterious mental process, knew that he was still near home, and not, as would have been natural, in new zealand. nay, more, he realised that the unfamiliar place in which he now found himself was winson green gaol, a place which, as a child, he had been taught to think of with fear, fear mingled with a certain sense of mystery and excitement. theodore had not thought of the old local prison for years, but now he knew that he and his father were together there, in a small cell lighted by one candle. the wall of silence, raised on both sides by shame and pain, had broken down, but, alas! too late; for, again in some curious inexplicable way, the young man was aware that he lay under sentence of death, and that he was to be hanged early in the morning of which the dawn was only just now breaking. yet, strange to say, this knowledge caused him, personally, but little uneasiness, but on his father's account he felt infinitely distressed, and he found himself bending his whole mind to comfort and sustain the old man. thus, he heard a voice, which he knew to be his own, saying in an argumentative tone, "i assure you, father, that an extraordinary amount of nonsense is talked nowadays concerning--well, the death penalty. is it possible that you do not realise that i am escaping a much worse fate--that of having to live on? i wish, dear dad, that i could persuade you of the truth of this." "if only," muttered the old man in response, "if only, my boy, i could bear it for you;" and carden saw that his father's face was seared with an awful look of terror and agony. "but, indeed, father, you do not understand. believe me, i am not afraid--it will not be so bad after all. so do not--pray, pray, father, do not be so distressed." and then, with a great start, theodore carden awoke--awoke to see the small, spare figure of that same dear father, clothed in the long, old-fashioned linen nightshirt of another day, standing by his bedside. the old man held a candle in his hand, and was gazing down at his only child with an expression of unutterable woe and grief. "i will try--i am trying, my boy, not to be unreasonably distressed," he said. theodore carden sat up in bed. since this awful thing had come on him, he had never, even for an instant, forgotten self, but now he saw that his sufferings were small compared with those he had brought on the man into whose face he was gazing with red-rimmed, sunken eyes. for a moment the wild thought came to him that he might try to explain, to justify himself, to prove to his father that in this matter he had but done as others do, and that the punishment was intolerably heavier than the crime; but then, looking up and meeting thomas carden's perplexed, questioning eyes, he felt a great rush of shame and horror, not only of himself, but of all those who look at life as he himself had always looked at it; for the first time, he understood the mysterious necessity, as well as the beauty, of abnegation, of renunciation. "father," he said, "listen. i will not go away alone; i was mad to think of such a thing. we will go together, you and i,--lane has told me that such has been your wish,--and then perhaps some day we will come back together." after this, for the first time for many nights, theodore carden fell into a dreamless sleep. iii a very modern instance oliver germaine walked with long, even strides from the marble arch to grosvenor gate. it was sunday morning, early in july, and the comparatively deserted portion of the park which he had chosen was, even so, full of walkers. a good many people, men as well as women, looked at him pleasantly as he went by, for the young man was an attractive, even an arresting personality to the type of person who takes part in church parade. germaine was tall, slim, dark, so blessed by fate in the mere matter of eyes, nose and mouth, that his looks were often commented on when his wife's beauty was mentioned. so it was that, as he walked quickly by, a rather vexed expression on his handsome face, almost every man who saw him envied him--if not his looks then his clothes, if not his clothes then his air of being young, healthy, and, to use an ugly modern phrase, in perfect condition. a nursemaid who watched him pass to and fro several times told herself, rather wistfully, that he was waiting for a loved one, and that the lady, as is the way with loved ones, was late. the nursemaid was right in one sense, wrong in another. oliver germaine was waiting for a lady, but the lady was his married sister. her name was fanny burdon, and her home was in shropshire. germaine had a loved one, but she was already his wife, his beautiful, clever bella, with whom he would so much rather have been now, sitting in their pretty house in west chapel street than waiting in the park for his sister fanny. it was really too bad of fanny to be late! the more so that she would certainly feel aggrieved if, when she did come, her brother made her go straight home with him, instead of taking her down into the crowd of people who were now seething round the achilles statue. but if fanny didn't come at once, go home they must, for bella wouldn't like them to be late--quite a number of people were coming to lunch. germaine did not quite know whom, among their crowds of friends, bella had asked to come in to-day. but certain people, four or five perhaps, would assuredly be there--mrs. slade, bella's great "pal," a nice pretty little woman, with big appealing eyes; also jenny and paul arabin, distant relations of his wife, and once the young couple's only link with the exclusive world of which they now formed so intimate a part. then there would be uvedale. germaine's mind dwelt on uvedale. bob uvedale was one of his wife's admirers--in fact uvedale made no secret of his infatuation for the beautiful mrs. germaine, but he was a good fellow, and never made either bella or himself ridiculous. oliver germaine had remained very simple at heart. he felt sure that bella could take care of herself; she always behaved with extraordinary prudence and sense,--in fact oliver was now far less jealous of bella than he had been in the old days, before she had blossomed into a famous beauty. she was then rather fond of flirting--but her husband had proved the truth of the comfortable old adage concerning safety in numbers. bella now simply had no time for flirtation! there was no necessity for her to exert herself, she had only to sit still and be admired and adored,--adored, that is, in platonic fashion, admired as you admire a work of art. another man who would certainly be lunching with them to-day was peter joliffe. joliffe was a clever, quaint fellow, whose mission in life was to make people laugh by saying funny things in a serious tone. joliffe was always fluttering round bella. he had established himself as a tame cat about the house, and he had, as a matter of fact, been very useful to the young couple, piloting bella when she was only "the new beauty" amid social quicksands and shallows of which she naturally knew nothing. nay, more, peter joliffe had introduced the germaines to some of the very nicest people they knew,--old-fashioned, well-established people, delightful old ladies who called bella "my pretty dear," courtly old gentlemen who paid her charmingly-turned compliments. yes, it was nice to think joliffe would be there to-day; he always helped to make a party go off well. as for oliver's sister, fanny, she would have to sit next henry buck. for a brief moment germaine considered henry buck,--buck who was always called "rabbit" behind his back, and sometimes to his face. germaine hardly knew how it was that they had come to know poor old rabbit so well. they had met him soon after they were married, and ever since he had stuck to them both with almost pathetic insistence. oddly enough, he, oliver, did not reciprocate henry buck's feelings of admiring friendship. it was not that he disliked the man, but he had a sort of physical antipathy to him. the only interesting thing about henry buck was his wealth. but then to many people that made him very interesting, for he was really immensely rich, and one of those rather uncommon people, who don't know how to spend their money! poor rabbit had been educated at home by a foolish, widowed mother, who had been afraid of letting him play rough games. this was perhaps why he was so dull and awkward--not quite like other people. germaine felt rather sorry that henry buck would certainly be there to-day. considering how very little he did for them--no, that was a beastly thing to say, even to oneself!--but considering how very unornamental and uninteresting poor old rabbit was, it was really very nice of bella to be so kind to him. she never seemed to mind his being there, and she had even managed to force his company on certain people whose one object in life was to avoid a bore, and who didn't care a button whether a man was a pauper or a millionaire. of course germaine guessed what had happened to fanny. she had almost certainly gone to hear some fashionable preacher--for fanny was the sort of woman who likes to cram everything into a visit to london. she was disappointed if every waking hour did not bring with it some new sensation, some new amusement, and this was odd--or so her simple-hearted brother told himself--because all the rest of the year fanny was content to lead the dull, stodgy life of a small shropshire squire's wife. oliver's irritation increased. it was foolish of fanny to have come to london just now, in the middle of the season! hitherto, she and her husband had always come up for a fortnight just before christmas, and then perhaps again just before easter. now she had come up alone, and settled herself into dull lodgings in marylebone; and then--well, the young man was vaguely aware that fanny's visit to town was really a scouting expedition. she evidently wanted to see for herself how her brother oliver and his beautiful wife were "getting on." strange to say, fanny was not quite pleased at bella's sudden social success--not pleased, and yet quite willing to profit by it. how queer that was! how queer, for the matter of that, most women were! but bella was not queer--in fact, bella had been most awfully nice about fanny, and had never allowed her to suspect, even by as much as a look, that her presence was not welcome. yet fanny naturally proved "odd man out" at all those little gatherings to which her lovely sister-in-law made her so carelessly welcome. fanny knew nothing of the delightful world in which oliver and bella now moved; she was quite convinced that she belonged to the very best, exclusive set, and so she did--in shropshire. but here in town? why, she was even ignorant of the new social shibboleths; all her notions as to what it was the right thing to do, or to avoid doing, belonged to the year before last! take to-day. fanny would certainly feel cross and disappointed that bella was not there, in the park, too; and, as a matter of fact, germaine had tried to make his wife please his sister in the little matter of church parade--but bella had shaken her head smilingly. "you know i would do anything for fanny," she had said, "but really, darling, you mustn't ask me to do _that_--to go into that big, horrid, staring crowd. why should i? it makes one look so cheap! it would only bore me, and i don't think fanny would really enjoy having me there," and bella had smiled a little smile. germaine had smiled too,--he really couldn't help it! it was quite true that fanny would not enjoy seeing bella looked at, followed,--in a word, triumphing, in the way she did triumph every time she appeared in a place where she was likely to be recognised. of course it was odd, when one came to think of it, that bella, who had been just as pretty two years ago as she was now, should, for some mysterious reason, have been suddenly discovered, by those whose word is law in such matters, to be astonishingly, marvellously beautiful! an involuntary smile again quivered across oliver germaine's good-looking face. he had but little sense of humour, and yet even he saw something almost comic about it--the way that bella, his darling, pretty little bella, had suddenly been exalted--hoisted up, as it were, on to a pinnacle. she was now what the londoners of a hundred years ago would have called "the reigning toast"--so an amusing old fellow, who was a great authority on history, had told him a few days ago. still, he ought to make allowances for his sister fanny. it was not in human nature--or so oliver believed--for any woman, even for such a good sort as fanny undoubtedly was, to be really pleased at another woman's triumph. small wonder that, to use his sister's favourite expression, fanny could not make it out! it was unfortunate that bella's fame--that fame of which the young husband was half ashamed and half proud--had actually penetrated to the dull village where his only sister held high state as wife of the lord of the manor. since fanny had been in town she had said little things to him about bella's position as reigning beauty--not altogether kindly or nice little things. even yesterday she had observed, with a touch of sharp criticism in her voice, "i wonder, dear old boy, why you allow bella's photograph to appear in all those low papers!" and oliver had shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what to answer, but comfortably sure, in a brotherly way, that fanny would have been quite willing to see her own fair features reproduced in similar fashion, had it occurred to any of the editors of these same enterprising papers to ask for the loan of her photograph. as a matter of fact, he had remembered, even while she was speaking, a monstrously ugly photograph of fanny,--fanny surrounded by her dogs and children,--which had appeared in a well-known lady's paper. why, she had actually sent the paper to him, marked! but oliver magnanimously refrained from reminding her of this,--the more so, that fanny had hurried on from the trifling question of bella's portrait to the more serious and unpleasant one of her brother's moderate income. but, as germaine now told himself complacently, he had been very short with her. in fact he had administered a good brotherly snub to inquisitive fanny. she had no business to ask him a lot of questions concerning the way he and bella chose to spend their income; it was no business of hers how the money was spent. unfortunately fanny did consider it her business, simply owing to the fact that she was oliver's only sister, and very fond of him,--that went without saying,--and that unluckily her husband was oliver's trustee. so it was that she had shown extraordinary curiosity as to how her brother and his wife managed to live in the way they did, on the income she knew they had. "do you know," she had said gravely, "exactly what your income is?" oliver had nodded impatiently. of course he knew, roughly speaking, that he and bella had a little over two thousand a year---- "two thousand and sixty-one pounds, eighteen shillings," she had gone on impressively. "at least that was what it was last year, for i asked dick." now dick was fanny's husband, and a most excellent fellow, but hopelessly under fanny's thumb. oliver germaine had not always been so well off. in fact, when he first met bella--something like six years ago--he had been a subaltern, with a very small private income, in a line regiment. and it was on that small income that the loveliest girl in southsea--now the most beautiful woman in london--had married him. then had come an immense, unlooked-for piece of good fortune! a distant scotch cousin, a crusty old chap, of whom all the germaines were afraid, and who had constantly declared it to be his intention to leave his money outside his own family, had chosen to make oliver his heir, and had appointed fanny's husband, the steady-going, rather dull shropshire squire, as trustee. of course oliver, and even more bella, knew now that the fortune which had seemed then to make them rich beyond their wildest dreams, was not so very much after all. but still, at first, it had been plenty--plenty for everything they could reasonably require. but when bella had become a famous beauty, they had of course to spend rather more, and about a year ago they had gone through rather a disagreeable moment. the little house in west chapel street which had seemed so cheap had proved more expensive than they had expected. however, dick, as trustee, had stretched a point in his brother-in-law's favour, and the slight shrinkage which had resulted in the germaines' income mattered not at all from the practical point of view, for the simple reason that they went on spending as much as, in fact rather more than, they had done before--but it was tiresome having to pay, as they now had to do, an insurance premium. still, it was too bad of fanny to have spoken as she had done, for bella was wonderfully economical. take one simple matter; all their friends, or at any rate the majority of them, had motors as a matter of course, but bella, when she was not driving, as she generally did, in a car lent her by some kind acquaintance, contented herself with jobbing an old-fashioned brougham. this restraint was the more commendable inasmuch that a friend had lately pointed out to her a way in which one could run a motor brougham in town on almost nothing at all. one bought a second-hand car for about seventy-five pounds; it was kept for one at a garage for fifteen shillings a week, and one looked out for a gentleman chauffeur who loved motoring for its own sake, and who had some little means of his own. with care the whole thing need not cost more than a hundred and fifty pounds the first year, and less the second. they could not afford to do this just yet, though bella was convinced it would be true economy, but oliver hoped to start something of the kind the following winter. of course oliver was never exactly easy about money. everything always cost just a little more than he expected. it sounded absurd, and he would not have said so to anyone but himself, but they had to live up to bella's reputation--that is, they had to go everywhere, and do everything. yet neither of them lacked proper pride. they differed from some people they knew--that is, they did not (more than they could help) live on their rich friends. their only real extravagance last year had been sharing a house during goodwood week. that had let them in for a great deal more than they had expected--in fact, not to put too fine a point on it, they had been rooked, regularly rooked, and by people whom they had thought their intimate friends! germaine sighed impatiently. this little uneasiness about money was the one spot on a very bright sun. but he had no wish to confide this fact to fanny! fanny would be certain to blame bella. he remembered very well, though she had apparently forgotten it, the way fanny had behaved at the time of his marriage. the fact that the girl he wished so ardently to make his wife was lovely (no one could have denied that even then), and quite sufficiently well connected, had not counterbalanced, from the prudent sister's point of view, bella arabin's lack of fortune and her having been brought up in such a "mixed" place (whatever that might mean) as southsea. but bella had never borne malice; and far from being spoilt or rendered "uppish" by her sudden intoxicating success, bella was, if anything, nicer than before. she and oliver were still devoted, still happier together than apart; their quarrels, so far, had been only lovers' quarrels.... germaine grew restless--restless and tired. he had not had such a thinking bout for a long time. just as he reached grosvenor gate for the fifth or sixth time, it struck a quarter-past one. in a sense there was plenty of time, for they lunched at a quarter to two; he would give fanny ten more minutes and then go off home without her. the young man looked round. every bench was full, but there were plenty of empty chairs. he dragged one of them forward, and placed it with its back to a large tree. from there he could see everyone who came in and out of the gate, and so he and fanny would not lose a moment looking for one another. but, though many went out, very few came in; the park was beginning to empty. suddenly two middle-aged women, the one very stout, the other very thin, walked slowly through the gate. they struck across germaine's line of vision, and for a moment his dark eyes rested on them indifferently. then his gaze changed into something like attention, for he had a vague impression of having seen the elder of these two women before. what was more, he felt certain he had seen her in some vaguely unpleasant connection. for a moment he believed her to be one of the cook-housekeepers with whom he and bella had grappled during the earlier days of their married life. but no, this short stout woman with the shrewd, powerful face germaine seemed to know, did not look like a servant. even he could see that her black clothes were handsome and costly, if rather too warm for a fine july day. her thin, nervous-looking companion was also dressed with some pretension and research, but she lacked the other's look of stout prosperity. they were typical londoners, of the kind to be seen on the route of every royal procession, and standing among the crowd outside the church door at every fashionable marriage--women who, if they had lived in the london of the georges, would have walked a good many miles to see a fellow-creature swing. but to oliver germaine they were simply a couple of unattractive-looking women, one of whom he thought he had seen before, and whose proximity was faintly disagreeable. germaine's mind had dwelt on them longer than it would otherwise have done because, when just in front of him, they stopped short and hesitated; then, looking round them much as germaine himself had looked round a few minutes before, and, the elder woman taking the lead, each dragged a chair forward, and sat down a yard or so to the young man's right, the trunk of the tree stretching its gnarled grey girth between. seven minutes of the ten oliver meant to allow fanny had now gone by, and he felt inclined to cut the other three minutes short, and go straight home. after all, it was too bad of her to be so unpunctual! and then, striking on his ear, shreds of the conversation which was taking place between the two women sitting near him began to penetrate oliver germaine's brain. names fell on his ear--christian names, surnames, with which he was familiar, evoking the personalities of men and women with whom he was on terms of acquaintance, in some cases of close friendship. unconsciously his clasped hands tightened on the knob of his stick, and he caught himself listening--listening with a queer mixture of morbid interest and growing disgust. it was the elder woman who spoke the most, and she was a good speaker, with that trick,--self-taught, instinctive,--of making the people of whom she was speaking leap up before the listener. now and again she was interrupted by little shrieks of astonishment and horror--her companion's way of paying tribute to the interesting nature of the conversation. how on earth--so oliver germaine asked himself with heating cheek--had the woman obtained her peculiarly intimate knowledge of those of whom she was speaking? the people, these men and women, especially women, whose lives, the inner cores of whose existences, were being probed and ruthlessly exposed, almost all belonged to the germaines' own particular set,--if indeed such a prosperous and popular couple as were oliver and bella, could be said to have a particular set in that delightful world into which they had only comparatively lately effected an entrance, and of which the strands all intermingle the one with the other. germaine was too young, he had been too happy, he was too instinctively kindly, to concern himself with other people's private affairs, save in a wholly impersonal fashion. he had always avoided the hidden, unspoken side of life; when certain secrets were confided to him they dropped quickly out of his mind; ugly gossip passed him by. yet now he found himself listening to very ugly gossip; some feeling outside himself, some instinct which for the moment mastered him, made him stay on there, eavesdropping. for the moment the stream of venom was directed against mrs. slade, the pretty, harmless little woman whom he would see within the next hour sitting at his own table. she was one of bella's special friends, and oliver had got quite fond of her, the more so that he was well aware that she was in a difficult position, owing to the fact, not of her seeking, or so the germaines believed, that her husband spent most of his life away from her, abroad. in this special case, germaine knew something of the hidden wounds; it was horrible to hear this--this old devil engaged in plucking the scabs from these same wounds, and exposing to her vulgar companion the shifts to which the unfortunate little woman was put. nay, more, she said certain things concerning mrs. slade which, if they were true, or even only half true, made the poor little soul under discussion no fit friend or companion for germaine's own spotless wife, bella.... the burden of the old woman's talk was money, how people got money, how they spent money, how they did without money. that was the idea running through all her conversation, although it was, of course, concerned with many uglier things than money. had they been men speaking germaine would have been sufficiently filled with righteous indignation to have found words with which to rebuke, even to threaten them, but they were women, common women, and he felt tongue-tied, helpless. and then, suddenly, there leapt into the conversation his own name, or rather that of his wife, the woman of whom he felt so exultantly, so selflessly proud. the allusion came in the form of a question, a question spoken in a shrill and odious cockney accent. "i should like to see that mrs. germaine. i wonder if she ever comes into the park----" "not she! at any rate not on sunday. why she'd be mobbed!" snapped out the other. "you don't say so! do people run after her as much as that?" "there's been nothing like it since mrs. jersey. i used to see people get up on chairs to see mrs. jersey go by. not that i ever thought much of her figure--great, ugly, square shoulders. she started those square shoulders, and they've never really died out." "mrs. germaine's quite another sort of beauty, the pocket venus style, isn't she? i suppose you've had a lot to do with making her the rage," said the friend admiringly. "i don't know about that--her kind of figure dresses itself. she's the sort that gets there anyhow. she's got that 'jennysayquoy' air, as the french put it, that makes folk turn round and stare. she gets her looks from her mother; i remember the mother--her name was arabin--when i was with cerise. they weren't london people--they was military. mrs. arabin had such pretty coaxing ways, same as the daughter has. cerise used to let her have the things ever so much cheaper than she charged her other customers, but it paid her too." germaine breathed a little more easily. he knew now who this woman was. she was a certain mrs. bliss, bella's dressmaker, in her way a famous old lady, whom bella's set greatly preferred to the other dressmakers in vogue. it was mrs. bliss, so he remembered having heard, who had introduced some years ago the picturesque style of dressing with which his sister fanny found such fault, and which remains loftily indifferent to the fashion. oliver recollected now where and when he had seen her; there had been some little trouble about an item in his wife's bill, and bella had made him go with her to face the formidable mrs. bliss in the old-fashioned house in sackville street where the dressmaker wielded her powerful sceptre. that was before bella had become a fashionable beauty, and mrs. bliss had been rather short with them both, unwilling to admit that she was wrong, although the figures proving her so stared her in the face. and then germaine remembered other occasions with which mrs. bliss's name, though not her personality, were associated. he had made out cheques to her, larger cheques than bella could manage out of her allowance. but that was some time ago; his wife must now have given up dealing with her; and he felt glad, very glad, that this was so. a woman with such a tongue was a danger to society,--not that anyone need believe a word she said.... suddenly the shrill cockney voice asked yet another question concerning the beautiful mrs. germaine. it was couched in what the speaker would probably have described as perfectly ladylike and delicate language, but its purport was unmistakable, and germaine made a restless movement; then he became almost rigidly still--a man cannot turn and strike a woman on the mouth. "n-o-o, i don't think so." mrs. bliss spoke guardedly. "she's a lot of gentlemen buzzing around her, but that's only to be expected; and as far as i can hear there's not one that buzzes closer than another. to tell you the truth, sophy, i'm puzzled about those germaines. it's no business of mine, of course, but she spends three times as much as she did when i first began dressing her and she don't mind now what she does pay,--very different to what she used to do! it's only the best that's good enough for my lady now." "germaine's an army chap, isn't he?" "he was--and a handsome fellow he is, too. he came into a good bit of money just after they got married, but that must be melting pretty quick. why, she goes everywhere! last season she really wore her clothes out. they"--she waved her hand comprehensively round a vague area comprising marylebone and mayfair--"scratched and fought with each other in order to get her." "then i suppose you don't bother about your money." "yes, i do," said mrs. bliss shortly. "i'm not that kind; i don't work for the king of prussia, as my french tailor used to say." there was a pause, and then in a rather different voice mrs. bliss went on, "i _do_ get my money from mrs. germaine, but lately,--well, i won't say lately, but for the last eighteen months or so, _she's always paid me in notes_, two, three, sometimes four hundred pounds at a time, always in five-pound notes." she spoke in a low voice, and yet, to oliver germaine, it seemed as if she shouted the words aloud. the young man got up, and, careless of the lateness of the hour, walked away without looking around towards the marble arch; so alone could he be sure that mrs. bliss would not see him, and perchance leap to the recollection of who he was. the words the woman had said so quietly seemed to be reverberating with loud insistence in his ear: "_she's always paid me in notes._" "_two, three, sometimes four hundred pounds._" what exactly had mrs. bliss meant by this statement? what significance had she intended it to carry? there had been a touch of regret in the hard voice, a hesitation in the way she had conveyed the pregnant confidence, which made oliver heartsick to remember. but after a time, as oliver germaine walked quickly along, uncaring as to which way he was going, almost running in his desire to outstrip his own thoughts, there came a little lightening of his bewildered misery. it was possible, just possible, that mrs. bliss was really thinking of some other customer. notes? the idea was really absurd to anyone who knew bella, as he, oliver, thank god, knew his wife! why, there was never any loose money in the house, both he and bella were always running short of petty cash. then the young man remembered, with a sudden tightening of the heart, that this had not been the case lately. during the last few months, since they had moved into their new house, bella had always had money--plenty of sixpences and shillings, half crowns and half sovereigns--at his disposal. nay more, looking back, he realised that his wife no longer teased him, as she had once perpetually teased him, for supplements, large or small, to her allowance; he had to face the fact that of late bella's allowance had borne a surprising resemblance to the widow's cruse; it had actually sufficed for all her wants. but he had been unsuspecting, utterly unsuspecting, and even now he hardly knew what he did suspect. the horrible things he had heard mrs. bliss say about other people acted and reacted on germaine's imagination. if these things were true, then the world in which he and bella lived was corrupt and rotten; and, as even oliver germaine knew by personal experience, pitch defiles. if daphne slade did the things mrs. bliss implied she did, bella must know it,--know it and condone it. bella was far too clever to be taken in, as he, oliver, had been taken in, by mrs. slade's pretty pathetic manner, and appealing eyes. if mrs. slade took money from men, what an example, what a model----germaine's mind refused to complete the thought. certain of oliver's and bella's old acquaintances--people whom they were too kind to drop, but of whom they couldn't see as much now as they had once done, in the days before bella became a famous beauty--would sometimes hint darkly as to the wickedness of some of the people they knew. even fanny had told him bluntly that bella had got into a very fast set. "fast" was the word his sister had used, and it had diverted him. but was it possible that these people, whom he had thought envious and silly--and that fanny, his rather narrow-minded and old-fashioned sister,--had been right after all? was it possible that like so many husbands of whom he had heard, for whom he had felt contempt and pity, he had--as regarded his own cherished wife--lived in a fool's paradise? germaine now remembered several things that he had known--known and thought forgotten--for they had been completely apart from his own life. he recalled the case of a man in his own regiment who had shot himself three days after his wife's death. it had been publicly given out that the poor fellow had been mad--distraught with grief; but there had been many to mutter that the truth was far other, and that the man had made a shameful discovery among his dead wife's papers.... concerning any other woman than bella, germaine would have admitted, perhaps reluctantly,--but still, if asked the plain question, he would have admitted, that women are damned tricky creatures, and that--well, that you never can tell! again, out of the past, there came back to him, with horrid vividness, the memory of a brief episode which at the time had filled him with a kind of pity, even sympathy. it was at a ball; he was quite a youngster, in fact it was the year after he had joined, and a woman sitting out with him in a conservatory had fallen into intimate talk, as people so often do amid unfamiliar surroundings. there came a moment when she said to him, with burning, unhappy eyes, "people think i'm a good woman, but i'm not." and she had hurried on to make the nature of her sinning quite clear; she had not passion for her excuse--only lack of means and love of luxury. he had been startled, staggered by the unasked-for confidence--and yet he had not thought much the worse of her; now, retrospectively, he judged her with terrible severity. but _bella_? the thought of bella in such company was inconceivable; and yet, deep in oliver germaine's heart, there grew from the seed sown by mrs. bliss a upas tree which for the moment overshadowed everything. he was torn with anguished jealousy, which made him forget, excepting as affording a proof of what he feared, the sordid, horrible question of the money. germaine had already been jealous of bella, jealous before their marriage, and jealous since, but that feeling had been nothing, _nothing_ to that which now held him in its grip. as a girl, bella had been a flirt, and, as she had since confessed more than once, she had loved to make oliver miserable. then, for some time after their marriage he had been angered at the way she had welcomed and courted admiration. but he had never doubted her, never for a moment thought that her love was leaving him, still less that her flirtations held any really sinister intent. he now remembered how a man, a fool of a fellow, had once brought her a beautiful jewel by way of a christmas gift; but it had annoyed her, and, without saying anything about it to oliver at the time, she had actually made the man take back his present! was it conceivable that in three or four short years bella could have entirely altered--have become to all intents and purposes, not only another woman, but a woman of a type,--as even he was well aware, a very common type,--he would not have cared to hear mentioned in her presence? germaine was now at the marble arch. after a moment's bewildered hesitation, he went up oxford street, and then took a turning which would ultimately lead him home; home where bella must be impatiently awaiting him--home where their intimates had already doubtless gathered together for lunch. and then, during his walk through the now deserted and sun-baked streets and byways of mayfair, oliver germaine passed in slow review the men and the women who composed his own and bella's intimate circle. they rose in blurred outline against the background of his memory, and gradually the women fell out, and only the men remained,--two men, for henry buck did not count. which of these two men who came about his house in the guise of close friends, had planned to steal, to buy, the wife on whose absolute purity and honour he would an hour ago have staked his life? germaine's fevered mind leapt on bob uvedale. what were uvedale's relations, his real relations, with bella? oliver, so he now told himself sorely, was not quite a fool; he had known men who hid the deepest, tenderest--he would not say the most dishonourable--feelings, towards a married woman, under the skilful pretence of frank laughing flirtation. uvedale, when all was said and done, was an adventurer, living on his wits. he talked of his poverty, talked of it over-much, but he often made considerable sums of money; in fact twice, in moments of unwonted expansiveness, uvedale had offered to put germaine on to a "good thing," to share with him a tip which had been given him by one of his financial friends. germaine now remembered, with a sick feeling of anger, how seriously annoyed bella had been to find that her husband had refused to have anything to do with it; nay more, how she had taunted him afterwards when the "good thing" had turned out good after all. but that was long ago, when they had first known uvedale. they now knew uvedale too well--at least bella did. oliver was an outdoor man; he hated crowds. he remembered how often uvedale took his place as bella's companion at those semi-public gatherings, charity fêtes, and so on, which apparently amused her, and where the presence of the beautiful mrs. germaine was always eagerly desired. germaine's mind next glanced with jealous anguished suspicion at another man who was constantly with bella--peter joliffe. there was a great, almost a ludicrous, contrast between uvedale and joliffe. uvedale, so germaine dimly realised even now, was a man with a wider, more generous, outlook on life than the other, capable of deeper depths, of higher heights. joliffe was well off; and, as the germaines had been told very early in their acquaintance with him, he had the reputation of being "near." but bella and oliver had both agreed that this was not true. only the other day bella had spoken very warmly of joliffe; when they had moved into their new house he had given them a sheraton bureau, a very charming and certainly by no means a cheap piece of old furniture. oliver had supposed it to be a delicate way of paying back some of their constant hospitality, for joliffe was perpetually with bella. time after time germaine had come in and found joliffe sitting with her; walking through the hall he had heard her peals of laughter at joliffe's witticisms, the funny things he said with his serious face. but after all jesters are men of like passions to their melancholy brethren; they can, and do, throw off the grinning mask. bella had said, only yesterday, "there's more in peter than you think, oliver. believe me, there is!" bella always called joliffe peter,--she was more formal with bob uvedale. germaine now reminded himself that joliffe did not like uvedale, and that uvedale did not like joliffe. there seemed a deep, unspoken antagonism between the two men, who were yet so constantly meeting. joliffe had gone so far as to say something--not exactly disagreeable, but condemnatory--of uvedale's city connections, to germaine. joliffe was annoyed, distinctly annoyed at the way bella went about with uvedale, and by the fact that she often introduced him to people whose acquaintance she had herself made through joliffe. what had he, oliver germaine, been about, to allow his wife to become so intimate with two men, of whom he knew nothing? yesterday he would have said uvedale and joliffe were his closest pals. but what did he really know of either of them--of their secret thoughts--their deep desires and ambitions--their shames and secret sins? nothing--nothing. bella's husband knew as little of uvedale and joliffe--in fact, till to-day, far less than they knew of him, for one or the other of these men was his enemy, and had betrayed, very basely, his hospitality. germaine had now lashed himself into the certainty that he was that most miserable and pitiable of civilised beings, the trusting, kindly, nay more, adoring husband, whose wife betrays him with his friend. when others had laughed, as men have laughed, and will ever laugh, at similar ironic juxtapositions of fate, germaine had remained grave, for he had a sensitive heart--a heart which made him realise something of what lay beneath such tales. now he told himself that so no doubt he himself was being laughed at by the many, pitied--the thought stung deeper--by the few. as he at last turned into curzon street, and so was within a few yards of his house, it struck two o'clock. by now they must all be waiting for him, and bella would be angry, as angry as she ever allowed her sweet-tempered nature to be. but germaine told himself savagely that he didn't care,--he was sorry to be so near home, to know that in a few moments he would have to command himself, to pretend light-hearted indifference before a crowd of people most of whom he now feared--ay, feared and hated, for they must all have long suspected what he only now knew to be the truth. some one touched him. he started violently. it was his sister, fanny, pouring out a confused stream of apologies and explanations. he stared at her in silence, and she thought he was so seriously annoyed, so "put out" that he could not trust himself to speak. but though, as they stood there face to face, he dimly realised what his sister was trying to say, how she was trying to explain her failure to keep her appointment with him in the park, germaine could not have told, had his life depended on it, the nature of her excuse. together they walked side by side to the door of his house, and, as he rang the bell, as he knocked, he remembered with a pang of jealous anguish that bella had asked him, when they moved into this house, not to use a latch-key in the daytime; she had explained to him that to do so prevented the servants keeping up to the mark, and he had obeyed her, as he always did obey her. this trifle made his anger, for the moment his impotent anger, become colder, clarified. it was only an hour later, but at last they were all gone, these people whom oliver germaine had now begun to hate and suspect, each in their different measure, women and men. everyone had left, that is, excepting henry buck and fanny; and fanny was just going away, oliver seeing her off at the front door. germaine believed that he had carried himself well. true, uvedale had said to him, "feeling a bit chippy, old chap?" and twice he had noticed joliffe's rather cold grey eyes fixed attentively on his face, but under the chatter of the women--jenny arabin was a great talker and in a harmless sort of way a great gossip, always knowing everybody's business better than they did themselves--under cover of the women's chatter, he had been able to remain silent, and, whatever the two men present had suspected,--one of the two forced thereto by his own conscience,--bella had certainly noticed nothing. she had not even seen, as his sister had seen, that oliver looked tired and unlike himself. why, just now fanny had spoken to him solicitously about his health--blundering, tactless, fanny had actually asked him if anything special were worrying him! he shut the door on his sister, and crossed the little hall. the time had now come when he must have it out with bella. then, suddenly, there came over germaine a feeling as if he had been living through a hideous nightmare. if that were indeed so, then his whole life would not be too long to secretly atone to bella for his horrible suspicion. it seemed suddenly monstrous that he should suspect bella on the word of a mrs. bliss. his wife had a right, after all, to pay her dressmaker in bank-notes if the fancy seized her. sometimes when bella did something that he, oliver, did not like or approve, she explained that her mother had done the same thing, and the excuse always irritated him, left him without an answer. supposing that bella were now to tell him that the late mrs. arabin, whose reputation for a certain daring liveliness and exceeding beauty still lingered in the ever-shifting naval and military society where he had first met his wife, always paid her bills in notes and cash rather than by cheque--what then? he walked up the staircase; henry buck passed him coming down. germaine's eyes rested on the awkward figure, the plain, good-natured face. rabbit was certainly lacking in tact; he always outstayed all their other guests, and he never knew when bella was tired, but still he was the one human being present at the little lunch party at whom oliver had been able to look without a feeling of unease. slowly he turned the painted china knob of the drawing-room door. bella was standing before the sheraton bureau which had been the gift of peter joliffe. she had apparently been putting something away; germaine heard the click of the lock. she turned round quickly, and her husband thought there was a look of constraint on her face. "why, oliver," she said, "i thought you were going out with fanny this afternoon!" "with fanny?" he stammered, "i never thought of doing such a thing." "but you're not going to stay in, are you?" he looked at her attentively, and again there surged up in his heart wild jealousy and suspicion. why did she ask whether he was going to stay in? which of the two men who had just left the house was she expecting to come back as soon as he, poor deluded fool, was safely out of the way? but bella went on speaking rather quickly: "i shan't go out. i'm tired. besides, i'm expecting some people to tea. so perhaps i'd better go and take my hat off. i shall only be a few minutes; do wait till i come back." bella spoke rather breathlessly, moving across the room towards the door. then she didn't want him to go out? he had wronged her in this, at any rate. germaine stared at the door through which his wife had just gone with a feeling of miserable uncertainty. then his eye travelled round to the place where she had been standing just now, in front of joliffe's bureau. a glance at bella's bank-book would set his mind at rest one way or the other. it would go far to prove or disprove the story mrs. bliss had told, for it would show if bella were indeed in the habit of drawing considerable cheques to "self." why hadn't he thought of this simple test before,--before shaming himself and shaming his wife by base suspicions? and yet oliver, for some few moments, stood in the middle of the room irresolute. yesterday it would never have occurred to him that bella would mind his looking at her bank-book, although, as a matter of fact he never had looked at it. she was a tidy little woman; he knew that everything under the flap which he had seen her close down so quickly just now would be exquisitely neat; he knew the exact spot where her bank-book was to be found. with a curious feeling that he was doing something dishonourable,--and it was a feeling which sat very uneasily on oliver germaine,--he took hold of the little brass knob and slid up the flap of the sloping desk. the bank-book closed the ranks of the red household books over which in old days, when they were first married, before he had come into his fortune, he had actually seen bella shed tears. with fingers that felt numb he took up the little vellum-bound book and opened it at the page containing the latest items. there, on the credit side, was the sum of money which had been paid in, to his bankers' order, on the last quarter day. on the debit side were a few cheques made out to trades-people. there was not a single cheque made out to "self" on the page at which he was looking; but--but of course it was possible that bella, like so many women, added a few pounds for change every time she settled a tradesman's account. he turned several leaves of the little book backwards----here was a page which bore the date of three years ago; and here, as he had feared to find, there were constant, small entries to "self".... by the empty place on the shelf where the bank-book had stood was a gilt file for bills, a pretty little toy which had been given her, so the husband now remembered, by uvedale. the letters composing the word "paid" were twisted round the handle--horrible symbolic word! he took up the file and ran his fingers through the receipted bills. ah! here at last, was one which bore the name of mrs. bliss. the amount of the bill amazed him,--eight hundred and seventy-one pounds, sixteen shillings,--and bella had paid four hundred pounds on account about a fortnight before. it was the only bill on the file on which there still remained a balance owing. germaine did not need to look again at his wife's bank-book to see that the majority of the receipted bills had not been paid by cheque. these bills, so he now became aware with a frightful contraction of the heart, were for all sorts of things--expensive trifles, costly hot-house flowers, extravagantly expensive fruit--which he had enjoyed, and of which he had partaken, believing, if he thought of the matter at all--fool that he had been--that they were being paid for out of his modest income, the income which had once seemed so limitless. * * * * * "what are you doing, oliver? you've no business to look at my things. i never look at yours." he had not heard the door open, and bella had crept up swiftly behind him; there was some anger, but there was far more fear, in her soft voice. germaine turned round and looked at his wife. bella had changed her dress, and she was now wearing a painted muslin gown, her slender waist girdled with a blue ribbon. she looked exquisitely lovely, and so young,--a girl, a young and innocent girl. there fell a heavy hand on her rounded shoulder. "oliver!" she cried, "you're hurting me!" he withdrew his hand--quickly. "bella," he said, "i only want to ask you one question--i know everything,"--and in answer to a strange look that came over her face he added hurriedly, "never mind how i found out. i _have_ found out, and now i only want to ask you one thing--i--i have a right to know who it is." "who it is?" she repeated. "i don't understand what you mean, oliver? who--what?" but as bella germaine asked the useless question she shrank back; for the first time in their joint lives she felt afraid of oliver,--afraid, and intensely sorry for him. a sob rose to her throat. what a shame it was! how on earth could he have found out? she had thought he would go on not knowing--for ever. that this should happen now, when she was so happy too,--when everything was so--so comfortable. "tell me--tell me at once, bella," he said again, shaken almost out of his self-control by her pretended lack of understanding. but bella made no answer; she was retreating warily towards the open window; oliver, poor angry oliver, could not say much, he could not _do_ anything, out on the balcony. but he grasped her arm. "come back," he said, "right into the room," and forced her, trembling, down into a low chair. "now tell me," he repeated. "don't keep me waiting--i can't stand it. i won't hurt you." he leant over her, grasping her soft arm. but still bella said nothing. her free hand was toying with the fringe of her blue sash. she had become very pale, a sickly yellow colour which made her violet eyes seem blue,--for one terrible moment oliver thought she was going to faint. "why should i tell you?" she muttered at last, "you can't force me to tell you. it's a matter personal to myself. it's no business of yours. i've never spent any of the money on you,"--she unfortunately added, "at least hardly any." germaine took his hand from her arm. "my god!" he said, "my god!" did a dim gleam of what he was feeling penetrate bella's brain? "i don't know why you should trouble to ask me," she said defiantly. "surely you must know well enough." "i daresay i'm stupid, but i find it very difficult to guess which of the two, joliffe or--or uvedale, is your lover." "my lover? joliffe--uvedale?" bella started to her feet, the colour rushed back into her face. she was shaking with anger and indignation. "how dare you insult me so?" she gasped. "you wouldn't have dared to say such a thing if my father had been alive! how dare you say, how dare you _think_, i have a lover?" and then with quivering pain she gave a little cry, "oh, oliver!" germaine looked at her grimly enough. what a fool--what an abject fool he had been! it fed his anger to see that bella had so poor an opinion of his intelligence as to suppose that he would believe her denial. "i know you are lying," he said briefly. "i _know_ it is either joliffe or uvedale." "but, oliver--indeed it isn't!" she was looking at him with a very curious expression; the fear, the real terror, there had been in her face, had left it. she was staring at her husband as if she were seeking to find on his face some indication of a distraught, unhinged mind. but he looked cool, collected, stern,--and anger again surged up in bella's heart. if he were sane she would never--never forgive him his vile suspicion of her. was it for this that she, bella, had always gone so straight--never even been tempted to go otherwise, in spite of all the admiration lavished on her? there had been a time in bella germaine's life, some two years before, when she had often rehearsed this scene, when she had been so haunted by the fear of it that it had been a constant nightmare. but never had she imagined the conversation between oliver and herself taking the turn it now had. never, in her most anguished dreams, had oliver accused her of having--a lover. but she had known, only too well, with what anger and amazement he would learn the lesser truth. "peter joliffe?" she said, with a certain scorn. "how little you know peter, oliver, if you think he would be any married woman's lover, let alone mine! why, peter's a regular old maid!" she laughed a little hysterically at her simile, and, to her husband, the merriment, which he felt to be genuine, lowered the discussion to a level which was hateful--sordid. "then it's uvedale," he said, heavily; and this time, so he was quick to notice, bella did not take the trouble to utter a direct denial. "bob uvedale? are you quite mad? bob uvedale is really fond of you, oliver,--do you honestly think he would make love to me?" she was actually arguing with him; he shrugged his shoulders with a hopeless gesture. then bella germaine came quite close up to her husband. she looked at him straight in the eyes. "i'll tell you," she said. "i see you really don't know. it's--it's----" she hesitated, again a look of shame,--more, of fear,--came into her face, "the person who has been giving me money, oliver, is rabbit." "rabbit? i don't believe you!" "you don't believe me?" bella drew a long breath. the worst, from her point of view, was now over. she had told the truth,--and oliver had brushed the truth aside, so possessed by insane jealousy of peter joliffe and bob uvedale, that he had apparently no room in his heart for anything else. bella gave a little sigh of relief. perhaps, after all, she had made a mistake in being so frightened; men are so queer--perhaps oliver would feel, as she had now felt for so long, that poor old rabbit could not find a better use for his money than in making her happy. she walked over to her pretty desk, and frowned a little as she saw its condition of disarray; the receipted bills which she had found her husband looking over were scattered, even the tradesmen's books had not been put back in their place on the little shelf. she touched the spring of a rather obvious secret drawer. there had been a time when bella germaine had hidden very carefully what she was now about to show oliver as the certain, triumphant proof that his revolting suspicions were false. but of late she had grown careless. "if you don't believe me," she said coldly, "look at this, oliver. i think it will convince you that i told the truth just now." bella knew she had a right to be bitterly indignant at her husband's preposterous accusation. but she told herself that now was not the time to show it; she would punish oliver later on. she waited a moment and then cried, "catch!" oliver instinctively held out his hands. a bulky envelope fell into them. it was addressed in a handwriting he knew well,--the unformed, and yet meticulous handwriting of henry buck. on it was written: "mrs. oliver germaine, " , west chapel street, "mayfair." in the corner were added the words: "any one finding this, and taking it to the above address, will be handsomely rewarded." "open it!" she said imperiously. "open it, and see what is inside,--he only brought it to-day." oliver opened the envelope. folded in two pieces of paper was a packet of bank-notes held together with an elastic band. germaine looked up questioningly at his wife. bella hung her head. she had the grace to feel embarrassed, ashamed in this moment that she believed to be the moment of her exculpation. her pretty little hands, laden with rings, each one of which had been given her by her husband, were again toying with the fringe of her blue sash. the silence grew intolerable. "i know i've been a beast,"--her voice faltered, broke into tears. "i knew you wouldn't like it, but--but you know, oliver, rabbit isn't like an ordinary man." "when did he begin to give you money?" asked oliver, in a low voice. "a long time ago," she answered, vaguely. "he came in one day when i was awfully upset about a bill--a bill of that old devil, bliss,--and he was so kind, oliver. he explained how awfully fond he was of us both. he said we were his only friends--i always _have_ been nice to him, you know. he said he couldn't spend the money he'd got----" "how much have you had from him?" "i can tell you exactly," she said eagerly, and again she moved towards her bureau. bella felt utterly dejected; somehow she had not expected oliver to take the news quite in this way; he looked dreadful--not relieved, as she had thought he would do. it was with slow lagging steps that she walked back to where her husband was still standing with the envelope and its contents crushed in his right hand. bella's love of tidiness and method had stood her in fatally good stead. she had put down all the sums she had received from henry buck, but in such a fashion that any one else looking at the figures would not have known money was in question. oliver stared down at the piece of paper. insensibly he straightened his shoulders as if to meet calmly a physical blow. "are these pounds?" he asked. she nodded. "but bella, it's an enormous sum,--over four thousand." "i suppose it is," she said listlessly. her husband put the paper in his breast pocket; then he hesitated a moment, and bella thought he was perhaps going to hand her back the envelope and its contents. but that also, to her chagrin, disappeared into his pocket. "i suppose the money buck brought you to-day is included in this amount?" bella shook her head sadly. "i hadn't time to put it down," she said. "well, i'll see what can be done." "i suppose you mean to pay it all back? i suppose"--her voice was trembling with self-pity--"that we shall have to go and live in the country now?" he said nothing,--only looked at her with that same cold look of surprise and alienation. he was leaving the room when a cry from her brought him back. she clutched his hand. "you've never said you're sorry for the horrible thing you said to me----" and, as he looked at her, still silent, "oliver! you surely don't think that rabbit----why, he's never even squeezed my hand!" "stop!" he cried roughly. "don't be silly, bella. of course i don't think anything of the kind. i accept absolutely what you tell me of your relations with henry buck." "why, there have been no relations with henry buck and me," she cried, protesting. "what a hateful word to use, oliver!" but he was already out of the door, making his way to the only human being in whom he still felt complete confidence, who, he knew, loved him, in the good old homely sense of the word. * * * * * "my dear boy, what _is_ the matter?" fanny sat up. she had been lying down on the sofa in the sitting-room of her lodgings. oliver had explained to the servant that he was mrs. burdon's brother, and he had been allowed to make his own way up to the drawing-room floor. "there's a good deal the matter," he said. "the fact is i've made a fool of myself, fanny,--and i've come to you for help." fanny looked up at him, and what she saw checked the words on her lips. she was wide awake now, but rather painfully conscious that she looked untidy. her smart voile gown--voile was the "smart" material that season--was crumpled. and oliver's wife, bella, was always so dreadfully, so unnaturally, tidy and neat,--it was one of the things that perhaps made people think her so much prettier than she really was. "of course i will help you," she answered briskly. "tell me all about it." "have you still that five thousand pounds cousin andrew left you?" "why of course i have,--and it's rather more now, for luckily we didn't put it into consols; we put it into a canadian security." "is it invested in dick's name?" dick's wife laughed. "no, of course it isn't," she said. "why should it be?" "could you get at it without dick's knowing?" "yes, i suppose i could." there was a touch of wonder in her voice. "fanny, i want you to lend me four thousand pounds." oliver spoke huskily. he was staring out of the window. his sister looked at him rather queerly for a moment: "yes, of course i will," she said. and, as he turned to her, his face working,--"you needn't make a fuss about it, dear old boy. you'll pay me back all right, i know that." "i'll insure against it, and i'll pay you proper interest for it--whatever you're getting now," he said. "and we'll get a lawyer to see that it's all made safe." "that'll be all right," said fanny, and then again she gave him that curious, considering look. germaine pulled himself together. "you'll think i've been a fool," he exclaimed abruptly,--he had to say something in answer to that look,--"and so i have. but you know--at least you don't know, luckily for you--what it's like to be mixed up with a lot of fellows who are all richer than one is oneself;" and then in a very different tone, one in which his sister felt the ring of truth, "are you sure dick won't know, fanny? i don't want dick to know." "of course he won't know," fanny smiled. "you don't suppose i tell dick everything?" oliver stared at his sister. he was rather shocked by her admission; till to-day he had thought that all husbands and wives who loved one another told each other everything; and yet, here was fanny, who hadn't a thought in the world beyond dick, the children, the dogs--and, and, yes, her brother---- "it's none of dick's business what i choose to do with my own money--not that he'd mind." "i think of spreading the re-payment over five years." "that would be rather too soon," she said; and added, looking away as she spoke, "i don't think it would be fair to bella." oliver reddened, a man's dusky unbecoming blush. "bella's been good about it," he said briefly. "she said herself that we should have to go and live in the country. still, let's make it seven years. i say, fanny, you _are_ a brick," and sitting down by the table, oliver germaine broke into hard, painful sobs. fanny got up off the sofa. she felt rather shy. "don't be so worried," she said. "bella's a very good sort, and awfully fond of you, old boy. she'll like the country better than you think. her looks will last twice as long there, and, and--if i were you, oliver--you and bella i mean," fanny got rather mixed, and very red--"well, i'd try and have a baby. bella would look awfully sweet with a baby. and a baby's no trouble in the country--less trouble than a puppy!" "yes, that's true," he said, raising his head, and feeling vaguely comforted. his sister fanny had a lot of sense. oliver had always known that. iv according to meredith "certainly, however, one day these present conditions of marriage will be changed. marriage will be allowed for a certain period, say ten years."--mr. george meredith in the _daily mail_ of september th, . "give you some heads? my dear fellow, there need be no question of heads! this is to be a model will. you need simply put down, in as few words as are legally permissible--i know nothing of such things--that i leave all of which i die possessed to my wife." philip dering threw his head back, and gave the man to whom he was speaking, and opposite to whom he was standing, a confident smiling glance. then he turned and walked quickly over to the narrow, old-fashioned, balconied window which, commanding the wide wind-blown expanse of abingdon street, exactly faced the great cavity formed by the arch of the victoria tower. to the right lay the riverside garden, a bright patch of delicate spring colouring and green verdure, bounded by the slow-moving grey waters of the thames; and dering's eager eyes travelled on till he saw, detaching itself against an april afternoon horizon, the irregular mass of building formed by lambeth palace and the lollards' tower. "i say," he exclaimed, rather suddenly, "this is better than bedford park, eh? i suppose a floor in one of these houses would cost us a tremendous lot; even beyond _our_ means, wingfield?" and again a happy smile came over the tense, clear-cut face, still full of youthful glow and enthusiasm. "you wish everything to go to louise? all right, i'll make a note of that." the speaker, a round-faced, slightly bald, shrewd-looking lawyer, took no notice of the, to him, absurd question concerning the rent of floors in abingdon street. still, he looked indulgently at his friend, as he added: "but wait a bit,--i promise that yours shall be a model will,--only you seem to have forgotten, my dear fellow, that you may out-live your wife. now, should you have the misfortune to lose louise, to whom would you wish to devise this fifteen thousand pounds? it's possible, too, though not very probable, i admit, that you may both die at the same time--both be killed in a railway accident for instance." "such good fortune may befall us----" dering spoke quite simply, and accepted the other's short laugh with great good-humour. "oh! you know what i mean; i always _have_ thought husbands and wives--who care, i mean--ought to die on the same day. that they don't do so is one of the many strange mysteries which complicate life. but i say, wingfield----" the speaker had turned away from the window. he had again taken up his stand opposite the other's broad writing table, and not even the cheap, ill-made clothes could hide the graceful lines of the tall, active figure, not even the turned-down collar and orange silk tie could destroy the young man's look of rather subtle distinction. "failing louise, i should like this money, at my death, to be divided equally between the young hintons and your kids," and as the other made a gesture of protest, dering added quickly: "what better could i do? louise is devoted to jack hinton's children, and i've always regarded you--i have indeed, old man,--as my one real friend. of course it's possible now,"--an awkward shy break came into his voice--"it's possible now, i say, that we may have children of our own; i don't suppose you've ever realised how poor, how horribly poor, we've been all these years." he looked away, avoiding the other man's eyes; then, picking up his hat and stick with a quick, nervous gesture, was gone. * * * * * after the door had shut on his friend, wingfield went on still standing for awhile. his hands mechanically sorted the papers and letters lying on his table into neat little heaps, but his thoughts were travelling backward, through his and dering's past lives. the friends had first met at the city of london school, for they were much of an age, though the lawyer looked the elder of the two. then dering had gone to cambridge, and wingfield, more humbly, to take up life as an articled clerk to a good firm of old-established attorneys. again, later, they had come together once more, sharing a modest lodging, while dering earned a small uncertain income by contributing to the literary weeklies, by "ghosting" writers more fortunate than himself, by tutoring whenever he got the chance,--in a word, by resorting to the few expedients open to the honest educated londoner lacking a definite profession. the two men had not parted company till dering, enabled to do so with the help of a small legacy, had chosen to marry a danish girl, as good-looking, as high-minded, as unpractical as himself. but stay, had louise dering proved herself so unpractical during the early years of her married life? wingfield, standing there, his mind steeped in memories, compared her, with an unconscious critical sigh, with his own stolid, unimaginative wife, kate. as he did so he wondered whether, after all, dering had not known how to make the best of both worlds; and yet he and his louise had gone through some bad times together. wingfield had been the one intimate of the young couple when they began their married life in a three-roomed flat in gray's inn; and he had been aware, painfully so, of the incessant watchful struggle with money difficulties, never mentioned while the struggle was in being, for only the rich can afford to complain of poverty. he had admired, it might almost be said he had reverenced with all his heart, the high courage then shown by his friend's wife. during those first difficult years, when he, wingfield, could do nothing for them, louise had gone without the help of even the least adequate servant. the women of her nation are taught housewifery as an indispensable feminine accomplishment, and so she had scrubbed and sung, cooked and read, made and mended, for philip and herself. wingfield was glad to remember that it was he who had at last found dering regular employment; he who had so far thrown prudence aside as to persuade one of his first and most valuable clients to appoint his clever if eccentric friend secretary to a company formed to exploit a new invention. the work had proved congenial; dering had done admirably well, and now, when his salary had just been raised to four hundred a year, a distant, almost unknown, cousin of his dead mother's had left him fifteen thousand pounds! * * * * * at last james wingfield sat down. he began making notes of the instructions he had just received, though as he did so he knew well enough that he could not bring himself to draw up a will by which his own children might so greatly benefit. then, as he sat, pen in hand, wondering with a certain discomfort as to what ought to be the practical effect of the conversation, there suddenly came a sound of hurrying feet up the shallow oak staircase, and through the door, flung open quickly and unceremoniously, strode once more philip dering. "i say, i've forgotten something!" he exclaimed, and then, as wingfield instinctively looked round the bare spacious room--"no, i didn't leave anything behind me. i simply forgot to ask you one very important question----" he took off his hat, put it down with a certain deliberation, then drew up a chair, and placed himself astride on it, an action which to the other suddenly seemed to blot out the years which had gone by since they had been housemates together. "as i went down your jolly old staircase, wingfield, it suddenly occurred to me that making a will may not be quite so simple a matter as i once thought it----" he hesitated a moment, then went on:--"so i've come back to ask you the meaning of the term 'proving a will.' what i really want to get at, old man, is whether my wife, if she became a widow, would have to give any actual legal proof of our marriage? would she be compelled, i mean, to show her 'marriage lines'?" wingfield hesitated. the question took him by surprise. "i fancy that would depend," he said, "on the actual wording of the will, but all that sort of thing is a mere formality, and of course any solicitor employed by her would see to it. by the way, i suppose you were married in denmark?" he frowned, annoyed with himself for having forgotten a fact with which he must have been once well acquainted. "if you had asked me to be your best man," he added with a vexed laugh, "i shouldn't have forgotten the circumstances." dering tipped the chair which he was bestriding a little nearer to the edge of the table which stood between himself and wingfield; a curious look, a look half humorous, half deprecating, but in no sense ashamed, came over his sensitive, mobile face. "no," he said, at length, "we were not married in denmark. neither were we married in england. in fact, there was no ceremony at all." * * * * * the eyes of the two men, of the speaker and of his listener, met for a moment; but wingfield, to the other's sudden uneasy surprise, made no comment on what he had just heard. dering sprang up, and during the rest of their talk he walked, with short, quick strides, from the door to the window, from the window to the door. "i wanted to tell you at the time, but louise would not have it; though i told her that in principle--not, of course, in practice--you thoroughly agreed with me--i mean with us. nay, more, that you, with your clear, legal mind, had always realised, even more than i could do, the utter absurdity of making such a contract as that of marriage--which of all contracts is the most intimately personal, and which least affects the interests of those outside the contracting parties--the only legal contract which can't be rescinded or dissolved by mutual agreement! then again, you must admit that there was one really good reason why we should not tell you the truth; you already liked kate, and louise, don't you remember, used to play chaperon. now, kate's people, you know----!" all the humour had gone out of dering's face, but the deprecating look had deepened. the lawyer made a strong effort over himself. he had felt for a moment keenly hurt, and not a little angry. "i don't think," he said quietly, "that there is any need of explanations or apologies between us. of course, i can't help feeling very much surprised, and that in spite of our old theoretical talks and discussions, concerning--well, this subject. but i don't doubt that in the circumstances you did quite right. mind you, i don't mean about the marriage," he quickly corrected himself, "but only as to the concealment from me." he waited a moment, and then went on, hesitatingly: "but even now i don't really understand what happened--i should like to know a little more----" dering stayed his walk across the room, and stood opposite his friend. he felt a great wish to justify himself, and to win wingfield's retrospective sympathy. "i will tell you everything there is to tell!" he cried eagerly; "indeed, it can all be told in a moment. my wife and i entered into a personal contract together, which we arranged, provisionally, of course, should last ten years. louise was quite willing, absolutely willing...." for the first time there came a defensive note in the eager voice. "you see the idea--that of leasehold marriage? we used to talk about it, you and i, of course only as a utopian possibility. all i can say is that i had the good fortune to meet with a woman with whom i was able to try the experiment; and all i can tell you is--well, i need not tell _you_, wingfield, that there has never been a happier marriage than ours." again dering started pacing up and down the room. "louise has been everything--everything--everything--that such a man as myself could have looked for in a wife!" "and has no one ever guessed--has no one ever known?" asked the other, rather sternly. "absolutely no one! yes, wait a moment--there has been one exception. louise told gerda hinton. you know they became very intimate after we went to bedford park, and louise thought gerda ought to know. but it made no difference--no difference at all!" he added, emphatically; "for in fact poor gerda practically left her baby to louise's care." "and that worthless creature, jack hinton--does he know too?" "no, i don't think so; in fact i may say most decidedly not--but of course gerda may have told him, though for my part i don't believe that husbands and wives share their friends' secrets. still, you are quite at liberty to tell kate." "no," said wingfield, "i don't intend to tell kate, and there will be no reason for doing so if you will take my advice--which is, i need hardly tell you, to go and get married at once. now that you have come into this money, your marrying becomes a positive duty. are you aware that if you were run over and killed on your way home to-day louise would have no standing? that she would not have a right to a penny of this money, or even to any of the furniture which is in your house? let me see, how long is it that you have been"--he hesitated awkwardly--"together?" dering looked round at him rather fiercely. "we have been _married_ nine years and a half," he said. "our wedding day was the first of september. we spent our honeymoon in denmark. you remember my little legacy?" wingfield nodded his head. his heart suddenly went out to his friend--the prosperous lawyer had reason to remember that hundred pounds legacy, for ten pounds of it had gone to help him out of some foolish scrape. but dering had forgotten all that; he went on speaking, but more slowly: "and then, as you know, we came back and settled down in gray's inn, and though we were horribly poor, perhaps poorer than even you ever guessed, we were divinely happy." he turned his back to the room and stared out once more at the greyness opposite. "but you're quite right, old man, it's time we did like our betters! we'll be married at once, and i'll take her off for another and a longer honeymoon, and we'll come back and be even happier than we were before." then again, as abruptly as before, he was gone, shutting the door behind him, and leaving wingfield staring thoughtfully after him. that his friend, that the philip dering of ten years ago, should have done such a thing, was in no way remarkable, but that louise--the thoughtful, well-balanced, intelligent woman, who, coming as a mere girl from denmark, had known how to work her way up to a position of great trust and responsibility in a city house, so winning the esteem and confidence of her employers that they had again and again asked her to return to them after her marriage--that she should have consented to such--to such.... wingfield even in his own mind hesitated for the right word ... to such an arrangement--seemed to the lawyer an astounding thing, savouring indeed of the fifth dimension. no, no, he would certainly not tell kate anything about it. why should he? he knew very well how his wife would regard the matter, and how her condemnation would fall, not on louise--kate had become exceedingly fond of louise--no, indeed, but on dering. kate had never cordially "taken" (a favourite word of hers, that) to wingfield's friend; she thought him affected and unpractical, and she laughed at his turned-down collars and liberty ties. no, no, there was no reason why kate should be told a word of this extraordinary, this amazing story. * * * * * on leaving abingdon street, philip dering swung across the broad roadway, and made his way, almost instinctively, to the garden which lay so nearly opposite his friend's office windows. he wanted to calm down, to think things over, and to recover full possession of himself before going home. it had cost him a considerable effort to tell wingfield this thing. not that he was in the least ashamed of what he and louise had done--on the contrary, he was very proud of it--but he had often felt, during all those years, that he was being treacherous to the man who was, after all, his best friend; and there was in dering enough of the feminine element--that element which kate wingfield so thoroughly despised in him--to make him feel sorry and ashamed. however, wingfield had taken it very well, just as he would have wished him to take it, and no doubt the lawyer had given thoroughly sound advice. this unexpected, this huge legacy made all the difference. besides, dering knew well enough, when he examined his own heart and conscience, that he felt very differently about all manner of things from what he had been wont to feel say ten years ago. after all, he was following in the footsteps of men greater and wiser than he. it is impossible to be wholly consistent. if he had been consistent he would have refused to pay certain taxes--in fact, to have been wholly consistent during the last ten years would have probably landed him, england being what it is, in a lunatic asylum. he shuddered, suddenly remembering that for awhile his own mother had been insane. still, as he strode along the primly kept paths of the thames-side garden, he felt a great and, as he thought, a legitimate pride in the knowledge that in this one all-important matter, so deeply affecting his own and louise's life, he and she had triumphantly defied convention, and had come out victorious. the young man's thoughts suddenly took a softer, a more intimate turn; he told himself, with intense secret satisfaction, that louise was dearer, ay, far dearer and more indispensable to him now than she had been during the days when she was still the "sweet stranger whom he called his wife." he remembered once saying to wingfield that the ideal mate should be the improbable, be able at once to clean a grate, to cook a dinner, and to discuss ibsen! well, louise had more than fulfilled this early and rather absurd ideal. from the day when they had first met and made unconventional acquaintance, with no intervening friend to form a gossip-link of introduction, dering had found her full of ever-recurrent and enchanting surprises. her foreign birth and upbringing gave her both original and unsuspected points of view about everything english, and he had often thought, with good-humoured pity, of all those unfortunate friends of his, wingfield included, whose lot it had perforce been to choose their wives among their own country-women. dering had not seen much of denmark, but everything he had seen had won his enthusiastic approval. where else were modern women to be found at once so practical and so cultivated, so pure-minded and so large-hearted? perhaps he was half aware that his heaven was of his own creation, but that, in his present exalted mood, was only an added triumph; how few human beings can evolve, and preserve at will, their own stretch of blue sky! of course it was not always as easy as it seemed to be to-day; lately louise had been listless and tired, utterly unlike herself--even, he had once or twice thought with dismay, slightly hysterical! but all that would disappear, utterly, during the first few days of their coming travels; and even he, so he now reminded himself, had felt quite unlike his usual sensible self--dering was very proud of his good sense--since had come the news of this wonderful, this fairy-gift-like legacy. the young man passed out of the garden, his feet stepping from the soft shell-strewn gravel on to the wide pavement which borders the houses of parliament. he made his way round swiftly, each buoyant step a challenge to fate, to the members' entrance, and so across the road to the gate which leads into what was once the old parish churchyard of westminster. it was still too cold to sit out of doors, and after a momentary hesitation he turned into westminster abbey by the great north door. dering had not been in the abbey since he was a child, and the spirit of quietude which fills the broad nave and narrow aisles on early spring days soothed his restlessness. but that, alas! only for a moment; as soon as his busy brain began to realise all that lay about him, he was filled with a sincere if half voluntarily comic indignation. it annoyed him to feel that this national heritage was still a church; why could not westminster abbey be treated as are the colosseum in rome and the panthéon in paris? and so, as he sat down in one of the pews which roused his resentment, he began to think over all the improvements which he would effect, were he given, if only for a few days, a free hand in westminster abbey! suddenly he saw, at right angles with himself, and moving across the choir, a group of four people, consisting of a man, a woman, and two children. the man was jack hinton, the idle, ill-conditioned artist neighbour of his in bedford park, to whom there had been more than one reference in his talk with wingfield; the children were agatha and mary hinton, the motherless girls of the danish woman to whom louise had been so much devoted; and the fourth figure was that of louise herself. his wife's back was turned to dering, but even without the other three he would have known the tall, graceful figure, if only by the masses of fair, almost lint-white hair, arranged in low coils below her neat hat. dering felt no wish to join the little party. he was still too excited, too interested in his own affairs, to care for making and hearing small talk. still, a look of satisfaction came over his face as he watched the four familiar figures finally disappear round a pillar. how pleased louise would be when he told her of his latest scheme, that of commissioning the unfortunate hinton to paint her portrait! if only the man could be induced to work, he might really make something of his life after all. dering meant to give the artist one hundred pounds, and his heart glowed at the thought of what such a sum would mean in the untidy, womanless little house in which his wife took so tender and kindly an interest. dering and jack hinton had never exactly hit it off together, though they had known each other for many years, and though they had both married danish wives. the one felt for the other the worker's worldly contempt for the incorrigible idler. yet, dering had been very sorry for hinton at the time of poor mrs. hinton's death, and he liked to think that now he would be able to do the artist a good turn. he had even thought very seriously of offering to adopt the youngest hinton child, a baby now nearly a year old; but a certain belated feeling of prudence, of that common sense which often tempers the wind to the reckless enthusiast, had given him pause. after all, he and louise might have children of their own, and then the position of this little interloper might be an awkward one. louise had always intensely wished to have a child--nay, children--and now, if it only depended on him, and if nature would only be kind, she should have her wish. perhaps that would be the most tangible good this legacy would bring them. dering left the abbey by the door which gives access to the cloisters. there he spent half an hour in pleasant meditation before he started home, for the place which he knew to be so much dearer to his wife than to himself. dering was a londoner, the son of a doctor who had practised for many years in one of the city parishes, and in his heart he had much preferred the rooms in gray's inn which had been their first married home to the trim little villa, of which the interior had acquired an absurd and touching resemblance to that of a danish homestead. * * * * * those who declare that the borderlands of london lack physiognomy are strangely mistaken. each suburban district has an individual character of its own, and of none is this more true than of bedford park. encompassed by poor and populous streets, within a stone's throw of what is still one of the great highways out of the town, this oasis, composed of villas set in gardens, has the tranquil, rather mysterious, charm of a river backwater. the amazing contrast between the stir and unceasing sound of the broad high road and the stillness of lady rich road--surely the man who laid out bedford park must have been a cromwell enthusiast--struck dering with a sense of unwonted pleasure. as he put his latch-key in the front door he remembered that his wife had told him that their young danish servant was to have that day her evening out. well, so much the better; they would have their talk, their discussion concerning their future plans, without fear of eavesdropping or interruption. various little signs showed that louise was already back from town. dering went straight upstairs, and, as he began taking off his boots, he called out to her, though the door between his room and hers was shut: "do come in here, for i have so much to tell you!" but this brought no answering word, and after a moment he heard his wife's soft footsteps going down the house. dering dressed himself with some care; it had always been one of his theories that a man should make himself quite as formally agreeable at home as he does elsewhere, and he and louise had ever practised, the one to the other, the minor courtesies of life. before going downstairs he also tidied his room, as far as was possible for him to do so, and, delicately picking up his dusty boots, he took them down into the kitchen so as to save their young servant the trouble. then, at last, he went through into the dining-room, where he found louise standing by the table on which lay spread their simple supper. she gave him a quick, questioning glance, then: "i saw you in the abbey," she said in a constrained, hesitating voice; "why did you not come up and speak to us? mr. hinton was on his way to some office, and i brought the children back alone." "if i had known that was going to be the case," said dering frankly, "i should have joined you, but i had just been spending an hour with wingfield, and--well, i didn't feel in the mood to make small talk for hinton!" he waited a moment, but she made no comment. louise had always been a silent, listening woman, and this had made her seem, to eager, ardent philip, a singularly restful companion. he went on, happily at first, rather nervously towards the close of his sentence, "well, everything is settled--even to my will. but i found wingfield had to know--i mean about our old arrangement." "then you told him? i do not think you should have done that." louise spoke very slowly, and in a low voice. "i asked you if i might do so before telling gerda hinton." dering looked at her deprecatingly. he felt both surprised and sorry. it was almost the first time in their joint lives that she had uttered to him anything savouring of a rebuke. "please forgive my having told wingfield without first consulting you," he said at once; "but you see the absurd, the abominable state of the english law is such that in case of my sudden death you would have no right to any of this money. besides, apart from that fact, if i trusted to my own small legal knowledge and made a will in which you were mentioned, you would probably have trouble with those odious relations of mine. so i simply had to tell him." dering saw that the discussion was beginning to be very painful and disagreeable; he felt a pang of impatient regret that he had spoken to his wife now, instead of waiting until she had had a thorough change and holiday. louise was still standing opposite to him, looking straight before her and avoiding his anxious glances. suddenly he became aware that her lip was trembling, and that her eyes were full of tears; quickly he walked round to where she was standing, and put his hand on her shoulder. "i am sorry, very sorry, that i had to tell wingfield," he said; "but, darling, why should you mind so much? he was quite sympathetic; he thoroughly understood; i think i might even say that he thoroughly agrees with our point of view; but i fancy he felt rather hurt about it, and i couldn't help wishing that we had told him at the time." dering's hand travelled from his wife's shoulder to her waist, and he held her to him, unresisting but strangely passive, as he added: "you can guess, my dearest, what wingfield, in his character of solicitor, advises us to do? of course, in a sense it will be a fall from grace,--but, after all, we shan't love one another the less because we have been to a registry office, or spent a quarter of an hour in a church! i do think that we should follow his advice. he will let me know to-morrow what formalities have to be fulfilled to carry the thing through, and then, dear heart, we will go off for a second honeymoon. sometimes i wonder if you realise what this money means to us both--i mean in the way of freedom and of added joy." but louise still turned from him, and, as she disengaged herself from the strong encircling arm, he could see the slow, reluctant tears rolling down her cheek. dering felt keenly distressed. the long strain, the gallantly endured poverty, the constant anxiety, had evidently told on his wife more than he had known. "don't let's talk about it any more!" he exclaimed. "there's no hurry about it now, after all." "i would rather talk about it now, philip. i don't--i don't at all understand what you mean. it is surely too late for us now to talk of marriage. the time remaining to us is too short to make it worth while." dering looked at her bewildered. well as she spoke the language, she had remained very ignorant of england and of english law. "i will try and explain to you," he said gently, "why wingfield has made it quite clear to me that we shall have to go through some kind of a legal ceremony----" "but there are so few months," she repeated, and he felt her trembling; "it is not as if you were likely to die before september; besides, if you were to do so, i should not care about the money." for the first time a glimmer of what she meant, of what she was thinking, came into dering's mind. he felt strongly moved and deeply touched. this, then, was why she had seemed so preoccupied, so unlike herself, of late. "my darling, surely you do not imagine--that i am thinking ... of leaving you?" "no," and for the first time louise, as she uttered the word, looked up straight into dering's face. "no, it was not of you that i was thinking--but of myself...." * * * * * "let us sit down." dering's voice was so changed, so uneager, so cold, that louise, for the first time during their long partnership, felt as if she was with a stranger. "i want to thoroughly understand your point of view. do you mean to say that when we first arranged matters you intended our--our marriage to be, in any case, only a temporary union?" he waited for an answer, looking at her with a still grimness, an unfamiliar antagonism, that raised in her a feeling of resentment, and renewed her courage. "please tell me," he said again, "i think you owe me the truth, and i really wish to know." then she spoke. and though her hands still trembled, her voice was quite steady. "yes, philip, i will tell you the truth, though i fear you will not like to hear it. when i first accepted the proposal you made to me, i felt convinced that, as regarded myself, the feeling which brought us together would be eternal, but i as fully believed that with you that same feeling would be only temporary. i was ready to remain with you as long as you would have me do so; but i felt sure that you would grow tired of me some day, and i told myself--secretly, of course, for i could not have insulted you or myself by saying such a thing to you then--i told myself, i say, that when that day came, the day of your weariness of me, i would go away, and make no further demand upon you." "you really believed that i should grow tired of you,--that i should wish to leave you?" dering looked at her as a man might look at a stranger who has suddenly revealed some sinister and grotesque peculiarity of appearance or manner. "certainly i did so. how could i divine that you alone would be different from all the men of whom i had ever heard? still, i loved you so well--ah, philip, i did love you so--that i would have come to you on any terms, as indeed i did come on terms very injurious to myself. but what matters now what i then thought? i see that i was wrong--you have been faithful to me in word, thought, and deed----" "yes," said dering fiercely, "by god, that is so! go on!" "i also have been faithful to you----" she hesitated. "yes, i think i may truly say it, in thought, word, and deed,----" dering drew a long breath, and she went slowly on: "but i have realised, and that for some time past, that the day would come when i should no longer wish to be so--when i should wish to be free. i have gradually regained possession of myself, and, though i know i must fulfil all my obligations to you for the time i promised, i long for the moment of release, for the moment when i shall at last have the right to forget, as much as such things can ever be forgotten, these ten years of my life." as she spoke, pronouncing each word clearly in the foreign fashion, her voice gained a certain sombre confidence, and a flood of awful, hopeless bitterness filled the heart of the man sitting opposite to her. "and have you thought," he asked in a constrained voice, "what you are going to do? i know you have sometimes regretted your work; do you intend--or perhaps you have already applied to mr. farningham?" "no," she answered, and, unobserved by him, for he was staring down at the tablecloth with unseeing eyes, a deep pink flush made her look suddenly girlish, "that will not be necessary. i have, as you know, regretted my work, and of late i have sometimes thought that, things being as they were, you acted with cruel thoughtlessness in compelling me to give it all up. but in my new life there will be much for me to do." "i do not ask you," he said, suddenly, hoarsely; "i could not insult you by asking...." "i do not think," she spoke slowly, answering the look, the intonation, rather than the words, "that i am going to do anything unworthy." but dering, with sharp suspicion, suddenly became aware that she had changed colour, and that from pale she had become red. his mind glanced quickly over their comparatively small circle of friends and acquaintances--first one, then another familiar figure rose, hideously vivid, before him. he felt helpless, bewildered, fettered. "do you contemplate leaving me for another man?" he asked quietly. again louise hesitated for a moment. "yes," she said at length, "that is what i am going to do. i did not mean to tell you now--though i admit that later, before the end, you would have had a right to know. the man to whom i am going, and who is not only willing, but anxious, to make me his wife, i mean his legal wife,"--she gave dering a quick, strange look--"has great need of me, far more so than you ever had. my feeling for him is not in any way akin to what was once my feeling for you; that does not come twice, at any rate to such a woman as i feel myself to be; but my affection, my--my regard, will be, in this case, i believe, more enduring; and, as you know, i dearly love his children, and promised their mother to take care of them." while she spoke, dering, looking fixedly at her, seemed to see a shadowy group of shabby forlorn human beings form itself and take up its stand by her side--jack hinton, with his weak, handsome face, and shifty, pleading eyes; his two plain, neglected-looking girls; and then, cradled as he had so often seen it in louise's arms, the ugly and to him repulsive-looking baby. what chance had he, what memories had their common barren past, to fight this intangible appealing vision? he raised his hand and held it for a moment over his eyes, in a vain attempt to shut out both that which he had evoked, and the sight of the woman whose repudiation of himself only seemed to make more plainly visible the bonds which linked them the one to the other. then he turned away, with a certain deliberation, and, having closed the door, walked quickly through the little hall, flinging himself bare-headed into the open air. * * * * * for the second time that day philip dering felt an urgent need of solitude in which to hold communion with himself. and yet, when striding along the dimly-lighted, solitary thoroughfares, the stillness about him seemed oppressive, and the knowledge that he was encompassed by commonplace, contented folk intolerable. and so, scarcely knowing where his feet were leading him, he made his way at last into the broad, brilliantly lighted high road, now full of glare, of sound, and of movement, for throngs of workers, passing to and fro, were seeking the amusement and excitement of the street after their long, dull day. very soon dering's brain became abnormally active; his busy thoughts took the shape of completed half-uttered sentences, and he argued with himself, not so loudly that those about him could hear, but still with moving lips, as to the outcome of what louise had told him that evening. he was annoyed to find that his thoughts refused to marshal themselves in due sequence. thus, when trying to concentrate his mind on the question of the immediate future, memories of gerda hinton, of the dead woman with whom he had never felt in sympathy, perhaps because louise had been so fond of her, persistently intervened, and refused to be thrust away. his own present intolerable anguish made him, against his will, retrospectively understand gerda's long-drawn-out agony. he remembered, with new sharp-edged concern and pity, her quiet endurance of those times of ignoble poverty brought about by hinton's fits of idleness; he realised for the first time what must have meant, in anguish of body and mind, the woman's perpetual child bearing, and the deaths of two of her children, followed by her own within a fortnight of her last baby's birth. then, with sudden irritation, he asked himself why he, philip dering, should waste his short time for thought in sorrowing over this poor dead woman? and, in swift answer, there came to him the knowledge why this sad drab ghost had thus thrust herself upon him to-night-- a feeling of furious anger, of revolt against the very existence of jack hinton, swept over him. so base, so treacherous, so selfish a creature fulfilled no useful purpose in the universe. men hung murderers; and was hinton, who had done his wife to death with refinement of cruelty, to go free--free to murder, in the same slow way, another woman, and one who actually belonged to dering's own self? he now recognised, with bewilderment, that had louise become his legal wife ten years ago, the thought of what she proposed to do would never have even crossed her mind. the conviction that hinton was not fit to live soon formed itself into a stable background to all dering's subsequent thoughts, to his short hesitations, and to his final determination. after a while he looked at his watch, and found, with some surprise, that he had been walking up and down for over an hour; he also became aware, for the first time, that his bare, hatless head provoked now and again good-natured comment from those among whom he was walking. he turned into a side-street, and taking from his pocket a small notebook, wrote the few lines which later played an important part in determining, to the satisfaction of his friends, the fact that he was, when writing them, most probably of unsound mind. what dering wrote down in his pocket-book ran as follows: . i buy a hat at dunn's, if dunn be still open (which is probable). . i call on the doctor who was so kind to the hintons last year and settle his account. it is doubtful if hinton ever paid him--in fact, there can be no doubt that hinton did _not_ pay him. i there make my will and inform the doctor that he will certainly be wanted shortly at number , lady rich road. . i buy that revolver (if guaranteed in perfect working order) which i have so frequently noticed in the pawnbroker's window, and i give him five shillings for showing me how to manage it. mem. remember to make him load it, so that there may be no mistake. . i wire to wingfield. this is important. it may save louise a shock. . i go to hinton's place, and if the children are already in bed i lock the door, and quietly kill him and then kill myself. if the children are still up, i must, of course, wait a while. in any case the business will be well over before the doctor can arrive. dering shut the notebook with a sigh of relief. the way now seemed clear before him, for he had put down exactly what he meant to do, and in case of doubt or forgetfulness he need only glance at his notes to be set again in the right way. he spent a few moments considering whether it was his duty to write a letter to his employer. finally he decided that there was no need to do so. they knew of his legacy; they were aware that he was leaving them; and everything, even now, was in perfect order for his successor. as he walked slowly along the unlovely narrow streets which run parallel to the high road, his emotional memory brought his wife vividly before him. he began wondering painfully if she would ever understand, if she would realise, from what he had saved her by that which he was about to do. his knowledge of her character made him feel sure--and there was infinite comfort in the thought--that she would remain silent, that she would never yield to any foolish impulse to tell wingfield the truth. it was good to feel so sure that his old friend would never know of his failure, of his great and desolate humiliation. * * * * * dering spent the next hour exactly as he had planned; in fact, at no point of the programme did his good fortune desert him. thus, even the doctor, a man called johnstone, who might so easily have been out, was at home; and, though actually giving a little stag party, he good-naturedly consented to leave his guests for a few moments, in spite of the fact that the stranger waiting in the surgery had refused to state his business. "my name is dering. i think you must have often met my wife when you were attending the late mrs. hinton. in fact i've come to-night to settle the hintons' account. i fancy it is still owing?" dering spoke with abrupt energy, looking straight, and almost with a frown, as he spoke, into the other's kindly florid face. it seemed strange, at that moment intolerably hard, that this man, who looked so much less alive, so much less intellectually keen than himself, should be destined to find him within a few hours lying dead, obliterated into nothingness. "oh, yes, the account is still owing," dr. johnstone spoke with a certain eagerness. "then do i understand that you are acting for mr. hinton in the matter? the amount is exactly ten pounds----" he paused awkwardly, and not till the two bank-notes were actually lying on his surgery table before him did he believe in his good fortune. the hintons' account had long since passed into that class of doctor's bills which is only kept on the books with a view to the ultimate sale of the practice, and this last quarter the young man had not even troubled to send it in again. johnstone remembered poor mrs. hinton's friend very well; mrs. dering had been splendid, perfectly splendid, as nurse and comforter to the distracted household. and then such a pretty woman, too, the very type--quiet, sensible, self-contained, and yet feminine--whom dr. johnstone admired; he was always pleased when he met her walking about the neighbourhood. this, then, was her husband? the doctor stared across at dering with some curiosity. well, he also, though, of course, in quite another way, was uncommon and attractive-looking. what was it he had heard about these people quite lately, in fact, that very day? why, of course. one of his old lady patients in bedford park had told him that her opposite neighbours, this mr. and mrs. dering, had come into a large fortune--something like fifty thousand pounds! dr. johnstone looked at his visitor with a sudden accession of respect. if he could have foreseen this interview, he might have made his account with mr. hinton bear rather more relation to the actual number of visits he had been compelled to pay to that unfortunate household. still, he reminded himself that even ten pounds were very welcome just now, and his heart warmed to mr. hinton's generous friend. suddenly dering began speaking: "i forget if i told you that i am starting this very night for a long journey, and before doing so i want to ask you to do me a favour----" his host became all pleased attention. "would you kindly witness my will? i have just come into a sum of money, and--and, though my will is actually being drawn up by a friend, who is also a lawyer, i have felt uneasy----" "i quite understand. you have thought it wise to make a provisional will? well, that's a very sensible thing to do! we medical men see much trouble caused by foolish postponement of such matters. some men seem to think that making a will is tantamount to signing their own death-warrant!" but no answering smile brightened dering's fiercely set face; he did not seem to have heard what the doctor had said. "if i might ask you for a sheet of notepaper. i see a pen and blotting-pad over there----" a sudden, instinctive misgiving crossed the other's mind. "this is rather informal, isn't it? of course, i have no call to interfere, mr. dering; but if a large sum is involved might it not be better to wait?" dering looked up. for the first time he smiled. "i don't wish to make any mystery about it, dr. johnstone. i am leaving everything to my wife, and after her to sundry young people in whom we are both interested. if i die intestate, i understand that distant relatives of my own--people whom i don't like, and who have never done anything for me--are bound to benefit." even as he spoke he was busy writing the words, "to louise larsen (commonly known as mrs. philip dering), of , lady rich road, bedford park, and after her death to be divided equally between the children of my esteemed friend, james wingfield, solicitor, of , abingdon street, westminster, and the children of the late mrs. john hinton, of , lady rich road, bedford park." short as was dering's will, the last portion of it was written on the inner sheet of the piece of note paper bearing the doctor's address, and the two witnesses, johnstone himself, and a friend whom he fetched out of his smoking-room for the purpose, could not help seeing what generous provision the testator had made for the younger generation. as the doctor opened the front door for his, as he hoped, new friend, dering suddenly pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket. "i have forgotten a most important thing----" there was real dismay in his fresh, still youthful voice--"and that is to ask you kindly to look round at no. , lady rich road, after your friends have left you to-night. i should think about twelve o'clock would do very well. in fact, hinton won't be ready for you before. and, dr. johnstone--in view of the trouble to which you may be put----" dering thrust another bank-note into the other man's hand. "i know you ought to have charged a lot more than that ten pounds----" and then, before words of thanks could be uttered, he had turned and gone down the steps, along the little path, through the iron gate which swung under the red lamp, into the darkness beyond. * * * * * down the broad and now solitary high road, filled with the strange brooding stillness of a spring dawn, clattered discordantly a hansom cab. there was promise of a bright warm day, such a day as yesterday had been, but wingfield, leaning forward, unconsciously willing the horse to go faster, felt very cold. at last, not for the first time during this interminable journey, he took from his breast pocket the unsigned telegram which was the cause of his being here, driving, oh! how slowly, along this fantastically empty thoroughfare, through the chill morning air, instead of lying sound asleep by kate's side in his comfortable bed at home. "_philip dering is dead please come at once at once at once to eight lady rich road._" wingfield, steadying the slip of paper as it fluttered in his hand, looked down with frowning puzzled eyes at the pencilled words. the message had been set off just before midnight, and had reached his house, he supposed, an hour and a half later, for the persistent knocking at his front door had gone on for some time before he or his wife realised that the loud hammering sound concerned themselves. even then it had been kate who had at last roused herself and gone downstairs; kate who had rushed up breathless, whispering as she thrust the orange envelope into his hand:--"oh, james, what can it be? thank god, all the children are safe at home!" no time had been lost. while he was dressing, his wife had made him a cup of tea, kind and solicitous for his comfort, but driving him nearly distracted by her eager, excited talk and aimless conjectures. it had seemed long before he found a derelict cab willing to drive him from regent's terrace to bedford park, but now--well, thank god, he was at last nearing the place where he would learn what had befallen the man who had been, next to his own elder boy, the creature he had loved best in his calm, phlegmatic life. wingfield went on staring down at the mysterious and yet explicit message, of which the wording seemed to him so odd--in some ways recalling dering's familiar trick of reiteration. then suddenly he thought of hinton, the artist for whom both he and his friend had had reason to feel so deep if wordless a contempt, and yet whom they had both tried, over and over again, to help and set on his feet. with a sudden revulsion of feeling, the lawyer folded up the telegram and put it back into his breast pocket--this mysterious, unsigned request for his immediate presence had obviously been despatched by hinton, who might just as well have waited for morning. how stupid of him not to have realised this at once, the more so that no. , lady rich road, was hinton's address, not that of dering. quickly he raised his hand to the trap-door above his head; "pull up at no. , not as i told you, at no. , lady rich road," he shouted. * * * * * the radiance of an early spring morning, so kind to everything in nature, is pitiless to that which owes its being to the ingenuity and industry of human hands. dr. johnstone, standing opposite a police inspector in what had been poor mrs. hinton's cherished, if untidy and shabby, little sitting-room, felt his wretchedness and shame--for he felt very deeply ashamed--perceptibly increased by the dust-laden sunbeams dancing slantwise about him. the inspector was really sorry for him, though a little contemptuous perhaps of a medical man capable of showing such emotion and horror in the face of death. "why, doctor, you mustn't take on so! how could you possibly have told what was in the man's mind? you weren't upset like this last year over that business in angle alley, and that was a sight worse than this, eh?" but johnstone had turned away, and was staring out of the bow window. "it isn't that poor wretch hinton that's upset me," he muttered, "i don't mind death. it's--it's--dering--dering and mrs. dering." reluctant tears filled his tired, red-rimmed eyes. "i'm sorry, too. very sorry for the lady, that is; as for the other--well, i'm pretty sure he'll cheat broadmoor, and that without much delay, eh, doctor? hullo! who's this coming now?" the tone suddenly changed, became at once official and alert in quality, as the sound of wheels stopped opposite the little gate. when the front door bell pealed through the house he added, "you go to the door, doctor; whoever it is had better not see me at first." and johnstone found himself suddenly pushed out of the room and into the little hall. there he hesitated for a moment, looking furtively round at the half-open door which led into the back room fitted up as a studio, where still lay, in dreadful juxtaposition, the dead and the dying, hinton and his murderer, alone, save for the indifferent yet watchful presence of a trained nurse. from the kitchen beyond came the sound of eager, lowered voices, those of the two young servants who had of late coped with the difficulties of the hinton household, and whose scanty wages had been paid, so johnstone had learned in the last hour, by mrs. dering herself. another impatient peal of sound echoed through the house, and the doctor, walking slowly forward, opened the front door. "can i see mr. hinton? or is he next door? i have driven down from town in response to this telegram. i was mr. philip dering's oldest friend and solicitor----" "then--then it was _you_ who were making his will?" the question struck wingfield as unseemly. how had this young man, whom he took to be one of hinton's dissipated friends, learnt even this one fact concerning poor dering's affairs? "yes," he said shortly, as he walked through into the hall, "that was the case. but, of course--well, perhaps, you will kindly inform me where i can see mr. hinton?" he repeated impatiently. "i suppose he is with mrs. dering, at no. ?" and the other noticed that he left the door open behind him, evidently intending to leave hinton's house as soon as he had obtained a reply to his question. for a moment the two men looked at one another in exasperated silence. then, very suddenly, johnstone did that of which he was afterward sorry and self-reproachful. but his nerve was completely gone; for hours he had been engaged in what had proved both a terrible and a futile task, that of attempting to relieve the physical agony of a man for whose state he partly held himself to be responsible. he wished to avoid, at any rate for the present, the repetition to this stranger of what had happened the night before. and so, "please come this way," he muttered hoarsely. "i ought perhaps to warn you--to prepare you for something of a shock." and, turning round, beckoning to the other to follow him, he opened the door of the studio, stepping aside to allow wingfield to pass in before him. but once through the doorway the lawyer suddenly recoiled and stopped short, so dreadful and so unexpected was the sight which met his eyes. what wingfield saw remained with him for weeks, and even for months, an ever-present, torturing vision, full of mingled horror and mystery, a mystery to which he was destined never to find the solution. focussed against a blurred background made up of distempered light green walls, a curtainless, open window, and various plain deal studio properties pushed back against the wall, lay, stretched out on some kind of low couch brought forward into the middle of the room, a rigid, motionless figure. the lower half of the figure, including the feet, which rested on a chair placed at the bottom of the couch, was entirely covered by a blanket; but the chest and head, slightly raised by pillows, seemed swathed and bound up in broad strips of white linen, which concealed chin and forehead, hair and ears, while the head was oddly supported by a broad band or sling fastened with safety-pins--wingfield's eyes took note of every detail--to the side of the couch. under the blanket, which was stretched tightly across the man's breast, could be seen the feeble twitching of fingers, but even so, the only sense of life and feeling seemed to the onlooker centred in the eyes, whose glance wingfield found himself fearing yet longing to meet. to the right of the couch a large japanese screen had been so placed as to hide some object spread out on the floor. to the left, watching every movement of the still, recumbent figure, stood a powerful-looking woman in nursing dress. wingfield's gaze, after wandering round the large, bare room, returned and again clung to the sinister immobile form which he longed to be told was that of hinton, and as he gazed he forced himself to feel a fierce gladness and relief in the knowledge that dering was dead,--that in his pocket lay the telegram which proved it. at last, to gain courage and to stifle a horrible doubt, he compelled himself to meet those at once indifferent and appealing eyes, which seemed to stare fixedly beyond the group of men by the door; and suddenly the lawyer became aware that just behind him hurried whispered words were being uttered. "this gentleman is mr. dering's solicitor; perhaps he will be able to throw some light on the whole affair," and he felt himself being plucked by the sleeve and gently pulled back into the hall. "it is--isn't it?--poor hinton?" and he looked imploringly from one man to the other. "hinton?" said the doctor sharply. "he's there, sure enough--but you didn't see him, for we put him under a sheet, behind that screen. your friend shot him dead first, and then cut his own throat, but he didn't set about that in quite the right way, so he's alive still, as you can see." wingfield drew a long breath of something like relief. the torturing suspense of the last few moments was at an end. "and where is mrs. dering?" he spoke in a quiet, mechanical voice; and johnstone felt angered by his callousness. "we've just sent her back into the next house," he answered curtly, "and made her take the hinton children with her. for--well, it often is so in such cases, you know--the presence of his wife seems positively to distress mr. dering; besides, the nurse and i can do, and have done, all that is possible." "and have you no clue to what has happened? has dering been able to give no explanation of this--this--horrible business?" johnstone shook his head. "of course he can't speak. he will never speak again. he wrote a few words to his wife, but they amounted to nothing save regret that he had bungled the last half of the affair." "and what do you yourself think?" wingfield spoke calmly and authoritatively. he had suddenly become aware, during the last few moments, that he was talking to a medical man. "i haven't had time to think much about it;" the tone was rough and sore. "mr. dering seems to have come into a large sum of money, and such things have been known to upset men's brains before now." "still, he might write something of consequence, now that this gentleman has come," interposed the inspector. but when wingfield, standing by that which he now knew was indeed his friend, watched the painful, laboured moving of the pencil across the slate which had been hurriedly fetched some two hours before from the young hintons' nursery, all he saw, traced again and again, were the words: "look after louise. look after louise ..." and then at last: "i mean to die. i mean to die. i mean to die." v shameful behaviour? "yes; there; wives be such a provoking class of society, because though they be never right, they be never more than half wrong."--the tranter in _under the greenwood tree_. i the fact that it was mrs. rigby's silver wedding day, and that she was now awaiting her only brother who was to be the fourth at the dinner she and her husband, the respected town clerk of market dalling, were giving in honour of the event, appeared to her no reason why she should sit in her parlour with hands idle in her lap. there was a large work-basket on a table close to her elbow, and with quick, capable fingers she was engaged in mending a pillow-case. it was late june, and mrs. rigby sat by the widely open french windows which gave access to her garden--one of those fragrant walled gardens which still embellish the rear of the high street in a very typically english market town. now and again the work would drop between her hands, and lie unheeded on her knee, while she looked out, focussing her dark, bright eyes on the distant figure of a woman who sat in a summer-house situated at the extreme end of the garden; and as mrs. rigby gazed thoughtfully at this, her other wedding guest, her whole face would soften--so might a mother look at a daughter whom instinct prompted her to love, and reason to condemn as foolish. and yet the sitting figure was that of a contemporary of mrs. rigby, being, as a matter of fact, a certain matilda wellow, who had been her bridesmaid twenty-five years ago to-day, and who was now, in more than one sense of the term, the most substantial spinster of market dalling. the sound of the door behind her quietly opening and shutting made mrs. rigby turn round, and a moment later she was looking up at a tall, straight, still young-looking man, who, clad in evening dress, stood smiling down at her. he was david banfield, her half-brother. "why, you've put on all your war-paint!" she exclaimed in half-pretended dismay. "didn't you know that there was only matilda wellow coming?" "i don't know that i thought anything about it," he answered, more gaily than his sister was now in the habit of hearing him speak. "i dressed out of compliment to you, kate, and because--well, i've got into the way of it lately. but pray don't let matt think that he must needs follow my example!" then he sat down by mrs. rigby, and gazed out with quick, sensitive appreciation at the old walled garden. "you're a wonderful gardener, kate," he said suddenly. "there's a lot of nonsense talked now about gardening," she said drily. "with the grand ladies you see such a lot of, dave, it's just a passing fad." her brother made no answer; he looked down at her with uncritical and yet dissatisfied eyes. she was a handsome woman, and even now only forty-six, and yet she managed to convey an impression of age. this was partly owing to her unsuitable dress, for mrs. rigby was wearing a dark blue silk gown, chosen, not only to grace her silver wedding day, but also with a view to being her best dress during the coming autumn and winter. kate rigby loved her half-brother, david banfield, as only a childless woman can love the creature to whom she has stood for long years in the place of mother. david was twelve years younger than herself, and, with one exception, he had never caused her a moment's real unhappiness or unease. the exception, however, had been paramount, for with him had been connected mrs. rigby's only taste of sharp pain and sorrow, and, worse still, to such a woman as herself, of disgrace. the young man's marriage to an irish singer, which had taken place without his sister's knowledge, had proved disastrous. rosaleen tara--to give her the stage name by which her charming rendering of the old national ballads had made her widely known--had never liked, or been suited to, life as led at market dalling; and to make matters worse, she was a roman catholic. after a few years' unsatisfactory married life, and the birth of one child, a girl, mrs. david banfield had returned, with her husband's grudging consent, to the musical stage. then, on the very day banfield had been expecting his wife home for a short holiday, there had come from her a letter telling him shortly, bluntly, cruelly, that she had been unfaithful to her marriage vow, and that she hoped he would forget her. had he forgotten her? no. it had only been owing to his sister's urgency, and to matthew rigby's more measured advice, that banfield had at last consented to take the step of divorcing his wife. this step mrs. rigby had not only never regretted, but--and in this she was more fortunate than her husband--no doubt had ever crossed her mind of its having been the wisest thing for her brother's happiness and peace. but matthew rigby, cautious member of a cautious profession, had learned very early in his married life the futility of disagreeing with the wife with whom providence had blessed him. now banfield lived in solitary state with his little girl, his household managed by the child's nurse, an old irishwoman, who, if devoted to the child, was incapable of managing such a decorous household as should have been that of the brew house. any day, any hour, mrs. rigby would have bartered her personal happiness for that of her half-brother, and yet the two seldom met--and they met almost daily--without the saying on her part of something likely either to wound or to annoy him. "i suppose rosy is well? i thought you meant sending the child in to see me to-day?" "didn't she come?" a look of worry and anger crossed banfield's dark, mobile face. "i can't think what prevented it, unless--well, there's been rather an upset at the brew house, and perhaps mary scanlan didn't like to go out." "i heard there had been an upset," observed his sister drily, "for baker told cook. he said your housekeeper turned the younger maid, old hornby's daughter, out of the house last night, and that the girl could be heard crying all down the street." mrs. rigby let her work fall unheeded on the floor; quite unconscious of her action she clasped her hands tightly together. "david! how long is this sort of thing to go on?" she asked, in a low, tense voice. "it's the talk of the whole town, and it can't be good for your child." "but what would you have me do?" he had hoped that to-day--his sister's silver wedding day--his domestic trials would be forgotten, or, at any rate, not mentioned. "i can't dismiss mary scanlan now--she must stay on till rosy goes to school. that won't be for very long, for, as you know, i promised"--he averted his face as he spoke--"to send the child to a convent school as soon as she was twelve years old." the idea that her brother, the wealthy, highly-thought-of brewer of market dalling, should confess himself worsted by the old and ill-tempered irishwoman, who, together with little rosy, had been his wife's--his unfaithful wife's--only legacy to him, was horrible to his sister. even now, when bitter, disconnected thoughts crowded one on another, mrs. rigby, half-unconsciously, evoked in her mind the strong personality of the one human being who ever really "stood up" to her. she had had the notion, so curiously common in england, that your irishwoman is invariably slatternly, untruthful, and good-natured; but in mary scanlan she had found a human being as scrupulously neat, truthful, and high-minded as herself, while at the same time far more ill-tempered, and equally determined to have her own way. while mrs. rigby was allowing a flood of very bitter thoughts to surge up round her, david banfield was watching her face, and awaiting her next words with some anxiety. but when kate rigby at last spoke, she seemed to have forgotten the immediate question under discussion. "i suppose," she said slowly, "that you have never thought, dave, that there might be a simple way out of your difficulties?" "you mean that i might marry again? well, kate, yes--i have thought of it. i suppose there's no man, situated as i have been these last four years, but thinks of a second marriage as a way out; but--but, apart from other considerations, i don't feel as if i could bring myself to do it." "and why not, pray?" asked mrs. rigby in a low voice. "well, it's difficult to explain the way i look at it. of course, no one can answer for another, and yet, kate, if anything happened to matt, i don't see you marrying again----?" david banfield was aware that he had not chosen a very happy simile with which to point his meaning, and perhaps, in his heart of hearts, he hoped that what he had said would put an end to a painful discussion. but any such hope was destined to be grievously disappointed, for his sister, with suddenly heightened colour, turned on him very sharply. "don't talk nonsense!" she exclaimed. "i'm an old woman, and you're a young man!" and she set back her vigorous, powerful shoulders. "you know very well that if matthew had dared to treat me as you were treated by rosal----" something in her brother's face caused his wife's name to die away on her lips--"i should have felt myself free to do exactly what suited me best! surely, when you go out among your grand county friends, you must meet nice young ladies who would be only too pleased to become mrs. david banfield, and to step into such a home as the brew house?" mrs. rigby looked eagerly, furtively, at her brother. the way in which he had been welcomed, to a certain extent absorbed, in the rather dull county society round market dalling, had been, to his sister, a source of mingled pride and jealousy, the more so that it had begun in the days of his pretty wife, whose modest professional fame had preceded her, and made her a welcome addition to county gatherings and dinner-parties. then had come the great break of the war, and in south africa banfield had been naturally thrown with the landowners of his own part of the world. so it was that during the first few months which had followed on his return home, mrs. rigby had fully expected her brother to make another, maybe as disastrous a matrimonial experiment as before, and in a class which was as little his own as that of his irish wife had been. but time had gone on, and david banfield had shown no disposition to make a second marriage, either in the county set, or in the little town world of market dalling, where the rigbys themselves lived and had their important being. "kate--you don't understand," he said at last, and, even as he uttered the words, they seemed to him painfully inadequate. "in fact, you never _did_ understand"--there came a sudden touch of passion into his voice, and he got up and walked up and down the room--"how i felt--how for the matter of that i still feel--about rosaleen. but for the war--but for the getting clear away--i don't know what i should have done! once, when i was out there in a little out-of-the-way station, i saw an old bill with her name on it, put up, of course, before i met her, when she was touring in south africa. well, i can tell you one thing--if we had been back in the days when a soldier could get killed so much more easily than he can now, you would never have seen me again. for days and days i couldn't get her out of my mind--she's never out of my mind now----" mrs. rigby was frightened, almost awed, not so much by the violence of his feeling, as by the outspoken expression of that feeling. she got up and walked quickly to him. "perhaps i understand more than you think," she said in a moved voice, "but now, david, you must turn your back on all that. for good or evil, it's over and done with, and your duty is to your child. i won't say a word against mary scanlan,--i know she's been a faithful servant to you,--but wouldn't it be better for rosy if you had someone who could look after the house, as well as after her? even you admit that you cannot go on at the brew house as you've been doing lately. i know you can't feel to anyone else as you felt to--to rosaleen, but surely it would be best for the child, to say nothing of yourself, to have some kind, nice woman about the place, instead of one who's only a servant after all." "of course, it would be better," he said sombrely. "don't you think i know that? but where am i to find the 'nice, kind woman'? as for the girls i meet, it's out of the question." as he spoke, he unconsciously glanced round the room in which he and his sister were standing. mrs. rigby had not inherited the good taste which had distinguished her banfield forefathers. the brew house was full of fine old furniture, furniture which some of the young brewer's "grand" friends envied him; but that which the rigbys had gradually accumulated had the mean and yet rather pretentious commonness which belonged to the period in which they had married. "there's one whom you've never thought of, but who often thinks of you," said mrs. rigby, her voice sinking to a whisper. banfield looked at his sister attentively. his fastidious mind passed in review the various young women who composed the little society of market dalling. he regarded them all with indifference, rising in some cases to positive dislike, and since his matrimonial misfortunes he had, as far as was possible, avoided every kind of social gathering held in his native place. "i don't know whom you mean," he said at last with some discomfiture. "in the old days you were always apt to fancy that the girls were after me, and i can't say that you ever gave them much encouragement,"--he added with a rather clumsy attempt at playfulness. "the person i have in my mind," persisted mrs. rigby, "isn't exactly a girl; she's just what we were talking about--a nice, kind woman--and you never seem to mind meeting her." "do you--can you possibly mean----" "--matilda wellow? yes, of course i do. it's astonishing to me, it's even surprising to matthew, that you've never noticed how much she likes you. why, she's the only person in market dalling who ever takes any trouble about little rosy, or who ever gives the child anything; rosy always calls her auntie tiddy." "matilda wellow?" he repeated, honestly bewildered. "why, of course i like her, and think well of her, but i've never thought of her--and don't believe she's ever thought of me, kate--in that way!" "don't you?" she said drily. "there's none so blind as those who won't see." then, prompted by a shrewd instinct, she remained quite silent, and withdrew her anxious gaze from her brother's face. only to-day banfield had received a letter from south africa which had sorely tempted him to throw up everything and make a home in the country which, perhaps unfortunately for himself, held none of the glamour of the unknown. as a matter of fact, the letter was now in his pocket, and he felt guiltily aware of the angry pain with which his sister would regard the offer, especially if she guessed how tempting was its effect on his imagination. but during their strange conversation he had realised, as he had never done before, that there were only two ways open to him--either to go away and make a new life, or to attempt some such solution of his troubles as that which his sister had just proposed to him. so it was that during those moments of tense silence matilda wellow assumed in david banfield's mind the importance of an only alternative. perhaps the very fact that the young man was so familiar with her personality, while always regarding her as a contemporary of his sister, made it easier for him to come to a sudden decision. to another important fact--never forgotten for a moment by mrs. rigby--namely, that miss wellow was the wealthiest spinster in market dalling, banfield gave no thought, and it certainly played no part in his hurried, anxious self-communing. "i confess," he said at last, "that this is a new idea to me--but that's no reason why it should be a bad idea. and if you really believe that it would be better for rosy, and that miss wellow would not--" he hesitated awkwardly, "think it strange of me, i will do as you advise, kate. but you must let me take my own time. perhaps when she's heard what i've got to say, she won't feel about it as you believe she's likely to do. i cannot pretend that i--well, that i--" his lips refused to form the word--to him the infinitely sacred word--of love. mrs. rigby was bewildered, awed into deep joy. no piece of good fortune which could have befallen herself would have given her so acute a feeling--it almost amounted to pain--of passionate relief, and david banfield, dimly gathering that it was so, felt exceedingly moved. surely it was worth almost anything in the way of self-sacrifice to have brought such a look to his sister's face? they both moved more closely to one another and she, so chary of caress, put her arms round his neck. "i'm quite sure," she spoke with a catch in her voice, "quite, quite sure that you will never regret it! after all, life does get smoothed out, doesn't it? i'll tell you something about myself that i've never told anybody. before matthew came along, there was someone else i loved--loved, maybe, just as dearly as you loved rosaleen." "i know," said her brother, wincing at the sound of his late wife's name, "you mean nat bower?" "why, how did you ever guess that?" she asked, surprised. "oh! he used to take me walks when i was a kid, and he always talked about you." had mrs. rigby left the matter there, she would have been a wiser woman, but something prompted her to draw a moral. "and don't you think i'm glad now?" she cried. "think of what that poor fellow has become, and what matthew is now!" but this was too much for david banfield. "i don't think that's fair!" he exclaimed. "what you ought to say is--'think of what that poor fellow might have become if he had married me!' i don't believe any man could have helped going straight with you, kate. if i'd been more like you----" then, to the young man's relief, his brother-in-law, matthew rigby, came into the room, with a smile on his thin lips, a joke on his tongue. mrs. rigby went out into the garden. "matilda!" she cried. "tiddy dear, come in! matt is here. dinner will be ready in a minute." but as the two women met, and together walked down the path, the hostess gave her guest no hint of the good fortune which lay in wait for her--indeed, in spite of, or perhaps because of, her moment of softening, she was sharply, almost cruelly, intolerant of miss wellow's sentimental references to that ceremony of which they were about to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary. * * * * * and now the silver wedding festivity was drawing to a close. the dinner, in its old-fashioned way, had been really excellent, for kate rigby was a notable housewife; but not even that fact, nor the equally excellent champagne--for matthew rigby was too shrewd a man to drink bad wine--had had the effect of brightening the little party, and a certain constraint now sat on the four people who were linked so closely together. the host, a man of equable temperament, felt faintly uncomfortable; as he looked from one to the other, he told himself that something was wrong. his brother-in-law was certainly oddly unlike himself, yet surely david banfield was too sensible, and by this time too well accustomed to his sister's ways, to have taken offence at anything she might have said concerning the well-worn subject of brew house domestic difficulties. mrs. rigby was also unnaturally silent, and during the long course of the meal she uttered none of the sharp pungent sayings with which she generally enlivened each one of her husband's repasts and which, it must be admitted, never to him lost their savour. last, but not least, miss wellow, whose flowered muslin gown was as much too youthful as that of her hostess was too old, seemed more sentimental and more foolish than usual. mr. rigby told himself with much satisfaction that his kate had certainly worn better than tiddy wellow. and yet----? yet, twenty-five years ago, tiddy had been such a pretty girl! soft and round, with dewy brown eyes and pink dimpled cheeks. she still had the appealing, inconsequent manner which, so charming in a girl, is apt to be absurd in a woman--and then she had grown stout! mr. rigby liked a woman to have a neat trim figure--his kate had kept hers--but tiddy. alas! tiddy had not been so fortunate. so it was that mr. rigby paid poor miss wellow but little attention, regarding her with a curious mixture of affectionate contempt and respect, the former due to his knowledge of her character, and the latter to his knowledge of her very considerable fortune. even to such a man as matthew rigby,--that is, to a man whose profession implies the constant hearing of family secrets, and the coming across of strange, almost inconceivable human occurrences,--the melancholy domestic story of david banfield remained painfully vivid. on him had fallen all the arrangements which had finally resulted in the divorce, and, unlike his wife, he had sometimes doubted the wisdom of what he and she had brought about, for banfield, left to himself, would never have severed the legal tie between himself and the mother of his child. even now, during the course of his silver wedding dinner, matthew rigby wondered uneasily whether his wife's constrained silence, and his brother-in-law's odd, abstracted manner, meant that any tidings had been received of the woman who had now so completely passed out of their lives. but mr. rigby was compelled to bide his time. he knew that whatever explanation there was would be given to him once he and kate were alone together. sure enough, when the two men joined the ladies in the now twilit sitting-room, the hostess lost no time in unceremoniously turning her brother and miss wellow out into the garden. and then, at once, matthew rigby realised that something of real importance and moment had indeed occurred. for the first time since the great day when her brother's divorce had become an absolute fact, mrs. rigby seemed inclined to be soft and tender in her manner to the man who, she would have been the first to admit, had been to her the most admirable of husbands. there are certain human beings, men perhaps, more than women, who use those they love as princes of old used their whipping boys, and among these human beings mrs. rigby could certainly have claimed a high place. matthew rigby was, therefore, the more surprised, even, perhaps, a little relieved, when he noted the unwonted tenderness with which she slipped her arm through his; it couldn't be anything so very bad after all! "i don't suppose i need tell you, matt, what has happened--or what is just going to happen--to our david and tiddy wellow?" and she nodded her head significantly towards the two figures which were now disappearing into the rustic arbour, which, erected by mrs. rigby's father-in-law, some thirty years ago, had always vexed her thrifty soul as an extravagant and useless addition to her garden; just now, however, she would have admitted that even arbours have their uses. "phew----!" exclaimed matthew rigby, and had it not been for the presence of his wife, he would certainly have sworn some decorous form of oath to express his extreme surprise. his pause prolonged itself, and then, with a certain effort, he exclaimed: "you're an even cleverer woman than i took you for, kate, and that's saying a good deal!" mrs. rigby turned and looked at him steadily. their heads were almost on a level, but even she could guess nothing from his expression. it was his tone, rather, that jarred on her very true contentment. "surely you think it's the best thing that could happen to him?" she asked, a note of wistful anxiety in her voice. "why, you and i have talked it over dozens of times!" "i've heard _you_ say that you thought matilda wellow was the very woman for him, time and again, but--but i don't think, kate, you ever heard _me_ say so. still, i daresay it's all right; you generally know best,"--and the husband spoke with less irony than might have been expected. twenty-five years of married life had taught him that, on the whole, his wife generally did know best. "and surely you think so, too?" and she pressed more closely to him, "surely, matt, you don't doubt that matilda wellow will make him a good wife, and be kind to the child?" "of course, i've no doubt about that," he answered reassuringly. "but still, she's not exactly the woman i'd have chosen for myself, and, after all, david was very fond of that queer, cold little hussy." mrs. rigby was given no time for a reply, for her brother and miss wellow were coming slowly towards the house. she turned up the gas with a quick movement, and when they approached the window a glance at her future sister-in-law's face was enough. she saw that david had spoken, but she also saw that he had had the power--and unconsciously her respect for her brother grew--to stifle in his companion the mingled emotions his offer of marriage had called forth. not till the long dull evening was over, not till banfield and miss wellow were actually bidding the rigbys good-night, did the young man say the word which let loose matilda's incoherent words of pathetic joy, of rather absurd amazement, at the good fortune which had befallen her. mrs. rigby bustled out the two men into the hall. "matilda! don't be silly!" she commanded. but her words had no effect. "it's just a dream--" gasped miss wellow, "just a dream come true! i never thought, kate, to be so happy--and dear little rosy, too----" the other woman checked her harshly. "don't be a fool, tiddy!" she said in a low, stern voice; "if my brother were a different kind of man he'd make you remember this to your dying day. you're lowering yourself--and you're not raising him. don't go behaving like a pullet that's just laid her first egg!" then, seeing the other's face redden into a painful blush, "there, there, i shouldn't have said that, i know. but i can't bear to see a woman cheapen herself to a man!" * * * * * banfield and his new betrothed walked arm in arm through the now sleeping town to the garden gate of the old georgian house where miss wellow had now lived for some five years in solitary spinster state, and where her forefathers had led lives of agreeable, if monotonous, respectability for over a hundred years. when they reached the gate, each hesitated a moment. miss wellow longed to ask him in, but like most maiden ladies possessed of means, she had a tyrant, a cerberus in the shape of a faithful servant who would now be sitting up waiting sulkily for her mistress's return. banfield was awkwardly debating with himself whether matilda expected him to kiss her; on the whole he thought--he hoped--not. but he was spared the onus of decision concerning this delicate point; for suddenly he felt himself drawn on one side, and there, in the deep shadow of the wall, his companion threw her arms about him, murmuring, with a catch in her voice, "i know you don't love me yet, but--but--david, i'll _make_ you love me," and the face turned up to his in the half darkness was full of eager yearning. feeling a traitor--to himself, to rosaleen, above all, to the poor soul now leaning on his breast--banfield bent and kissed her; then he turned on his heel, leaving her to make her way as best she could up the trim path leading to her front door. hardly aware of what he was doing, he walked away quickly, taking the opposite direction to that of the quiet lane of houses which would have led him straight home. instead he struck out, instinctively, towards the flat open country, for he had a fierce, unreasoning desire to be alone--far away from all humankind. as he strode along, his eyes having become so fully accustomed to the dim light that he could see every detail of the white-rutted road gleaming between low hedges, banfield's feeling of bewilderment, even of horror, grew and grew, making him feel physically cold in the warm, scented night. for the first time there swept over him that awful sense of unavailing repentance for the word said which might so well have been left unsaid, which most human beings are fated to feel at some time of their lives. not even over his divorce had he felt so desperate a passion of revolt, for that act, or so he had believed, was forced on him by rosaleen herself. but to-night he realised that before doing what he had just done he had been free--free to remain free--and he now saw with a sense of impotent anger how deliberately he had given himself into slavery. as he strode along, eager to escape from the material surroundings of his surrender, banfield remembered each word of his talk with his sister, and so remembering, he was amazed at his own weak folly. what were the trifling troubles connected with his irish servant, mary scanlan, compared to those which lay before him?--to the awful knowledge that he was now the prisoner--henceforth the body and soul prisoner--of matilda wellow? how sluggish had been his imagination when he had thought of the woman, whose tears had but just now scalded his lips, as of a kind, unobtrusive lady housekeeper! he was now aware that there was another matilda wellow, of whom till to-night he had been ignorant, and it was this stranger who was demanding as a right, and indeed had the right to demand, that tenderness and devotion which he knew himself incapable of bestowing on any woman except on the elusive, cold-natured woman who had been his wife. and then a strange thing happened to david banfield. the near image of matilda wellow faded, giving place to the distant, and yet in a spiritual and even physical sense poignantly present, personality of rosaleen. as far as was possible, banfield till to-night had banished his wife's image from his emotional memory. but what he had just done--that is, his own lack of constancy--had the odd effect of making him feel lowered to the level to which those about him regarded rosaleen as fallen. he told himself that now he and rosaleen were quits--and deliberately he yielded to the cruel luxury of recollection. his mind travelled back to the early days of their acquaintance, to the pretence at a "friendship" which on his side had so soon become overwhelming passion. then had come his formal offer of marriage, and for a long time she had played with him, saying neither yes nor no. then for a while he had flung everything to the winds in order to be with her--on any terms. he remembered with a pang of pain the trifling reasons which at last made her quite suddenly consent to become his wife. a quarrel with the manager of the concert company to which she then belonged, followed by a bad notice in the local paper of the town to which he, david banfield, undeterred by more than one half-laughing refusal, had come to make what he intended should be a final offer--these, it seemed, had brought rosaleen to the point of decision. even now, banfield never heard the name of that little sussex town without a leap of the heart, for it was there that had taken place their marriage, the quietest and least adorned of weddings, celebrated in a small, bare roman catholic chapel, the incumbent of which, a wise old man, had spoken to banfield very seriously, asking him to give the young irishwoman more time for thought, and impressing upon him the gravity of the promises which he, a protestant, had consented to make concerning their future married life. with regard to the latter, banfield had been scrupulously honourable, going, indeed, out of his way to remind rosaleen of her religious obligations, and at the time of the divorce acting, in the matter of their child's future education, according to the spirit rather than the letter of his promise.... with bent head and eyes fixed on the white road, david banfield insensibly slackened his steps while his mind concerned itself with the five years he and rosaleen had spent together at market dalling. they had been years of secret drama, on his part of almost wordless struggle for some kind of response to the passion which her mysterious aloofness--to so many men the greater part of a woman's attraction--evoked and kept alive in him. he now remembered how during these years there had been minor causes of disagreement, trifling matters--or so he had considered them--to which rosaleen attached far more importance than he had done. the constant criticism and interference of his half-sister, the dislike and jealousy of those town folk who regarded themselves as having a right to the close friendship and intimacy of david banfield's young wife, these were the things--forming such unimportant asides to the course of that hidden struggle--which rosaleen had brought forward when begging her husband, with passionate energy, to allow her to go back to her profession. but to-night, the grey fear with which he now regarded his own future life at market dalling brought to david banfield a sudden understanding of what rosaleen had felt, caged, as he had caged her, in the little town to which he was now reluctantly turning his laggard steps, and which had been, till so few years ago, the centre of his universe. he told himself that had he had the courage, had he been possessed of the necessary imagination, to make another life for himself and for her, none of this need have happened. but why torture himself uselessly? he and rosaleen had now drifted as far apart as a man and a woman can drift. what he had done to-night was in its way as irrevocable as what she on her side had done--nay more, the very fact that he had matilda wellow so completely at his mercy made banfield feel, as a less simple-hearted, generous-minded man would never have felt, how impossible it was for him to draw back.... while returning to what had now become his place of bondage, david banfield made a determined effort to dam the mental floodgates through which had run so strange a stream of violent revolt and emotion, and he was so far rewarded that almost at once something occurred which had the effect of bracing him up, of hardening him in his determination to do what he believed to be right. as he walked down the silent, shuttered high street at the end of which stood the brew house, he saw that his hall light had not been extinguished; and as he opened the front door, he was confronted with the spare form and the gaunt, though not ill-visaged countenance of mary scanlan, the elderly irishwoman who had for so long waged triumphant battle with her master's sister, mrs. rigby. utterly different as the two women were, they yet, as banfield sometimes secretly told himself, not without a certain sore amusement, had strong points of resemblance the one with the other. impelled by some obscure instinct that thus was he certain to be strengthened in the course of action to which he had just pledged himself, banfield invited the woman into the dining-room, which had been, since his first wife's departure, used by him as living and eating room in one. very deliberately he lit the gas, and then turned and faced his housekeeper. "i think it right that you should be among the first to know," he said, "that i am going to be married again--to miss wellow." there was a moment's pause. banfield expected either a word of sullen acquiescence or an outburst of anger; he had known mary scanlan in both moods, but now she surprised him by assuming a very disconcerting attitude. "if that's the case," she said slowly, twisting and untwisting a corner of the black apron that she was wearing, "i will be getting ready little rosy's clothes, for you will be sending her to the convent rather sooner, i reckon, than you meant to do. i make no doubt the nuns will let me stay there for a week or two till the child gets accustomed to the place--that is, if you have no objection, mr. banfield?" banfield looked at the woman in some perplexity. "but i've no thought of sending rosy to school yet!" he exclaimed--then added: "of course, i mean to keep my promise to her mother, but--but the child's a little thing yet--too young to go to school." mary scanlan was the only woman to whom banfield ever spoke of his wife, and mrs. rigby would have been amazed indeed had she known how often these allusions and semi-allusions were made, for to kate, much as he trusted and respected his sister, banfield had never till that day bared his heart. "i am going to ask you," he went on, "to stay in my service, simply to look after the child. i know well, mary, how devoted you are to my little girl, and how good you've been to her. when miss wellow has become--" he hesitated awkwardly, and then with a certain effort, uttered the words "my wife--she will, of course, take charge of the house, and i suppose she will bring her own servants with her. i shall no longer have any need for a housekeeper--but i know she will be only too glad if you will stay on with rosy." "i don't think i can do that, sir." banfield moved uneasily. mary scanlan almost invariably called him "mr. banfield"; it was one of the woman's many irish idiosyncrasies which irritated his sister. "i don't think i can stay on here, sir," repeated mary scanlan in a low, hesitating voice. "i don't hold with a man, a gentleman i mean, having two wives. i can't say a word of excuse for my poor miss rosaleen--i beg your pardon, sir, i mean mrs. banfield. i know she behaved very wickedly and strangely, but still you see, mr. banfield, to my thinking and according to my holy religion, she's the woman who owns you, sir, and no one else can ever take her place." "i know, i know," he said hastily. "but mary, why don't you consult your priest? if you explain the circumstances to him, he may take a different view of the matter to what you do." "no, that he wouldn't!" exclaimed mary scanlan, with a touch of her old passionate temper, "and if he did, i shouldn't be said by him!" she hesitated, and then in a low tone asked the strange question, made the amazing suggestion, "i suppose you wouldn't be after seeing miss rosaleen, mr. banfield? not if i gave you her address?" banfield made a nervous movement of recoil. "mary," he said sternly, "you forget yourself!" and turning, left her in possession of the room. * * * * * how describe the days that followed?--short days full of intense joy and looking forward to matilda wellow, long days filled with perplexed misgiving and self-reproach to david banfield. men and women of british birth generally prefer to conduct their courtships in the way that best suits themselves, but those whom mrs. rigby collectively dubbed as "foreigners" have long ago realised the advantage of having so important an episode of human life as that of betrothal "stage-managed" by someone more experienced in such matters than the two most interested. mrs. rigby had no kind of sympathy with foreign fashion, and in theory thoroughly disapproved of the way in which the french, for instance, arrange their matrimonial affairs. but this engagement of her brother david banfield and of matilda wellow was one of the supreme exceptions which prove a rule, and so she stage-managed every entrance, every exit, and, to pursue the analogy to its bitter end, every bit of "business" connected with the affair. her stern eyes, her rough tongue, kept the bride-elect in order, but her watchful fear lest matilda should get on david's nerves before she became securely bound to him for ever had one curious effect; it made banfield sorry for his betrothed, and caused him to feel more kindly to her than he would otherwise have done. then he was touched and surprised by matilda's great loyalty to himself; he soon discovered that, far from discussing him with his sister, she often irritated the latter by her assumption that already she, matilda, and he, david, had a joint life in which kate rigby played no part. this angered mrs. rigby keenly, and it is a pathetic fact that the only tears matilda wellow shed during the course of her engagement were caused by the woman who was her oldest friend, and to whom she was dimly aware that she owed her good-fortune. blinded by that most blinding of master passions, jealousy, mrs. rigby actually came to believe that her brother was now attached, in a far truer sense than he had been to rosaleen, to the fond, foolish woman who was so soon to become his wife. "he's getting quite silly about her," she observed angrily to her husband; "he goes up there every evening, however busy he may be, or however much i may want to have him here. and now he says he won't go to that good london tailor for his wedding clothes! it's clear he doesn't want to leave tiddy--even for three days!" but mr. rigby, as was his prudent wont when he disagreed with his wife, only looked at her, and thoughtfully wagged his head. "why don't you say something?" she asked crossly. "why should david go to london?" observed mr. rigby mildly. "he's a personable fellow; any tailor could fit david. if i were you, kate, i'd let him be." but kate, to her lasting sorrow, did not let david be. both her husband and even matilda wellow herself could have told mrs. rigby that it was in london that her brother had spent his honeymoon with his wife; but though she had been made vividly aware of the circumstance--for it was from there that the news of his hasty marriage had reached her--that fact would not have seemed to her any reason why david should not now do the right and proper thing by his second bride. thus it was owing to mrs. rigby that matilda was at last roused to a sense of what was due to herself. banfield, with some discomfiture, discovered that miss wellow would take it ill of him not to pay her the compliment of going to the london tailor for his wedding clothes--"and then," had observed his sister briskly, "you'll be able to bring tiddy back something handsome in the way of jewellery; for that's a thing you owe not only to her, david, but also to yourself." ii david banfield, just arrived in london, stood in an hotel bedroom overlooking the trees in lincoln's inn fields. staring out at the leafy screen, which seemed to him so lacking in country freshness, there came to his mind poignant memories of a very different room and a very different outlook not half a mile away from where he stood, for he and rosaleen had spent the first days of their married life in one of those vast hotels which, overlooking the embankment and the river, are filled with light and air, as well as instinct with a certain material luxury which had pleased his young wife's taste more than his own. with a quick movement he pushed up the old-fashioned guillotine window as far as it would go, and leaned out dangerously far; then he drew back sharply, feeling, as he now often felt when he was alone, that he was living through an unreal, a nightmare stage of his life, one which was bound to come sooner or later to an abrupt end, but which now must be lived through.... with unseeing eyes and unthinking mind he walked across to the shadowed corner where had been placed his portmanteau. slowly, indifferently, he turned the key in the lock and raised the lid,--then quickened into alert, painful attention. lying on the top of its neatly folded contents was an envelope so placed that it could not but attract his attention, and on it was written--in the sprawling, unformed handwriting which was, perhaps, the only marked betrayal of mary scanlan's early lack of education--the one word "important." at once there leapt into banfield's mind the certain knowledge of what the envelope contained. if he opened it, there most surely would he find his wife rosaleen's address. it was this, then, that the irishwoman had in her thoughts when she had asked him the unseemly question to which he had given so short and stern an answer. but mary scanlan had not understood the type of man with whom she had to deal. as he stood there, longing with a terrible longing to verify his belief, telling himself, with a leap of the heart, that, if he were not mistaken, then rosaleen must be living alone, for if this had not been so the old servant would never have thought of trying to bring them together again--the claims of others, especially those of the woman from whom he had only parted that morning, became paramount. he told himself that, from the point of view of those who loved him, and whom he respected, it was his duty to destroy unopened the envelope lying before him. banfield turned away, and once more walked across to the window; and then his agitation suddenly became puerile in his eyes. what the irishwoman had regarded as important when packing his bag might well be a trifling matter, something wanted, maybe, for the child. the uncertainty seemed to steady his conscience; _he felt that he must know_. bending down, he took up the envelope; the flap was open, and out of it there slipped into his hand a shabby little card on which was printed: miss rosaleen tara (the colleen bawn), , abbey street, westminster, s. w. there followed for david banfield three days of agonising struggle and temptation. all the feelings and instincts he had battened down, put determinedly from him for so long, sprang into life. now that he knew where to find her, he became possessed by a deep, unreasoning longing to see rosaleen once more--even if a meeting could only result in pain for him, in shame for her. on the second day of his stay in london, he offered conscience a salve in the form of a fine ruby ring, which was despatched to miss wellow in lieu of the letter which he knew only too well she must be anxiously awaiting. had banfield been a stronger man he would have left london. but that, or so he told himself, there was no need to do; and as the hours dragged on, bringing him closer to the moment which must see his return to market dalling--to matilda wellow--the fact that he and rosaleen were in a material sense so near to one another began to affect his imagination in strangest and most poignant fashion. walking aimlessly along the hot airless streets of london in july, he found himself ever furtively seeking her.... such chance meetings are not impossible; they happen every day. why should such a thing not come to him as well as to another? and so in the summer twilight, not once but many times, some woman's form--slender, graceful, light-footed as was rosaleen's--would create for a moment the illusion that she was there, close to him, would bring the wild hope that in a moment his hungry heart would be satisfied, his conscience cheated. and then the woman in whom he had seen for a moment his poor lost love, would turn her head--and banfield, cast down but undismayed, would again pursue his eager, aimless search. on the last evening of his stay in london, this obsession became so intense that banfield saw rosaleen in every woman's shape that passed him by. he grew afraid; and after an hour spent in the peopled streets, he told himself that that way madness lay. with eyes fixed on the dusty pavements, he made his way back to his hotel, and sitting down he wrote a letter--a kind, cheerful letter--to matilda wellow, telling her that he would be with her the next afternoon at five o'clock. and then, for the first time since he had known that rosaleen was in london, his sleep was restful and unbroken. but in the early morning he dreamed a curious dream; rosaleen, the beloved, the longed-for woman, was again with him,--elusive, mysterious, teasing as she had ever been,--and banfield, waking in the early dawn, felt tears of joy standing on his face. when he got up in the morning, and faced the day which was to see him go back to market dalling, he felt as must feel a man who sees stretching before him a lifelong period of servitude; but with that feeling came the gloomy belief that he had conquered the temptation that had so beset him, and this being so, he argued that he had at least a right to see the place where rosaleen now lived. having come to this specious understanding with himself, banfield felt his heart lighten. he told himself that he would wait till he was within some two hours of the time when he knew he must leave london, and, having so decided, he checked his impatience by various devices, packing his portmanteau, paying his bill, doing first one thing and then another, till the moment came for him to start walking along the embankment to westminster. when at last he reached the broad, wind-swept space out of which he had been told turned abbey street, quietest and most sequestered of urban backwaters, he lingered for awhile, suddenly filled with an obscure fear of that for which he had so longed--a chance meeting with his wife. after a few moments of indecision, he started walking slowly down the middle of the street, his footfalls echoing on the cobblestones. banfield looked about him curiously. to the right stretched the rough grey wall of london's oldest garden, framing a green oasis opposite the row of small eighteenth-century houses which stood on the other side of the street. they were quaint, shabby little dwellings, and against more than one fanlight was displayed a card bearing the word "lodgings." when banfield came opposite no. , he stopped and looked up at the windows with beating heart and the colour rushed into his face, flooding it under the sunburn; following a sudden, an irresistible impulse, he stepped up on to the pavement, and with a nervous movement pulled the bell. then followed what seemed to him a long wait on the doorstep, but at last a thin, fretful woman came to the door and enquired his business. "does miss rosaleen tara live here? can i see her?" "yes, she lives 'ere right enough,"--the woman spoke with weary indifference,--"come this way." banfield paused; he had never thought the access to rosaleen would be so simple, and he was bewildered by the ease with which this, to him so momentous a step, had been compassed. he followed the woman up the narrow, wainscoted staircase to a tiny landing. "stop," he said almost inaudibly, "i must tell you what to say--you must not show me straight in to her, like this." but even as he spoke, there was another tinkle of the bell, and the woman began running heavily down the little staircase, leaving him standing in front of the door. he knocked, but there came no answer, and at last he turned the handle, and walked into the room. it was empty of human presence, and yet his wife had stamped something of herself on the shabbily furnished sitting-room. certain dainty trifles which he had known as hers were there, and before him, on the piano, was a music-case which he himself had given her. the sight of this, his own gift, affected banfield oddly, giving him a feeling that he had a right to be there. after a moment's hesitation, he walked over to the window, and looked out into the old abbey garden. there he would wait patiently--for hours if need be--till rosaleen came in. then, quite suddenly, there fell on his ear the voice which he had so often heard in dreams, and which he had of late so passionately longed to hear. he turned sharply round, and noticed for the first time that the door of the inner room was ajar. it was from thence that the light, indifferent tones floated impalpably towards him. "ah! but it's kind of you, doctor, to come so soon after miss lonsdale asked you to see me! i've only just come in, but i won't be a moment--i didn't expect you yet. miss lonsdale will be in long before you leave, i hope; she's almost as anxious about my voice as i am--and the faith she has in you, why, it's something wonderful!" to banfield, the words recalled, not rosaleen his wife, but rosaleen the girl, the dear bewitching stranger he had first known and wooed, though never won. unconsciously he visualised the speaker; he seemed to see the quick, bird-like movements with which she was taking off her hat and smoothing her hair before the glass. he even saw her smiling--smiling as she used to smile at him in the very early days of their acquaintance. he knew that he ought to cry out--tell her that it was he, her husband, david banfield, who was there, and not the stranger whom she had apparently been expecting; but though he opened his lips, no word would come. at last the door swung open quickly, and for a moment banfield saw her face, lit up by that touch of wholly innocent coquetry of which your pretty irishwoman seems to have the secret. then, as suddenly she realised the identity of the tall man standing between her and the window, a peculiar--to banfield a very terrible--change of expression stiffened rosaleen's face into watchful fear and attention. "what is it?" she asked. "tell me quickly, david! is rosy ill, or--or dead?" "rosy?" he stammered. "she's all right. i heard this morning----" "--and i yesterday," she breathed quickly. then she sat down, and banfield let his eyes rest on her with a painful, yearning scrutiny. he had thought to find her altered, coarsened by the experience he believed her to have gone through, but she had the same look of delicate, rather frigid refinement, which had first attracted him. he noted the perfection of her delicate profile, the determined, well-shaped mouth,--then saw with a pang that there were a few threads of white in the dark curly hair which, with her bright blue eyes, had always been rosaleen's principal beauties; and yet she looked scarcely older than on the day he had last seen her--that on which he had accompanied her with a heavy heart to the station at market dalling to see her off to london. now, looking at her, it stabbed him to remember how even then she had shown an almost childish joy in leaving him. she had put her arms round his neck and kissed him in sign of gratitude. "it's kind of you to let me go, dave!" she had whispered. he had often thought of those last words, the last he had heard her speak. now he again remembered them. alas! alas! why had he let her go? she sat, looking away from him, her eyes fixed on the empty grate. "you frightened me," she said plaintively. "why did you come here, david, and frighten me like this? why have you come here at all after--after what you did to me?" "what i did to you?" he stammered confusedly, and there came over him the shamed fear that she had already heard of his coming marriage with matilda wellow. "yes, what you did to me--the documents you sent me--divorce papers they're called----" he felt, rather than saw, that his wife's eyes were filling, brimming over with indignant tears. "we don't have those things at home--in ireland, i mean. and then reading out my letter--the mad letter i sent you--before a lot of men!" rosaleen had always possessed the wifely art of being able to make david banfield feel himself in the wrong, and now, on hearing her last words, the man before her told himself with a pang that he had indeed acted in an unkind, even an unmanly, fashion to the fragile-looking woman who sat with her face averted from him. "i thought--of course i thought"--he plucked up courage as he spoke--"that you wanted to be free. you said you hoped i should forget you." "--and so i did," she said quickly, "i did wish to be free--not so much from you, as from the miserable, the stiflingly dull life you made me lead at market dalling. that's why i wrote that foolish--that wicked letter. i thought it would make you leave me alone. but, david," she made a restless movement, "i didn't understand. however, i've been well punished." there was a short, strained silence. then rosaleen got up. "i'm afraid i can't ask you to stay on much longer," she began nervously, "for i'm expecting a doctor who was very kind to me once when i was ill before. he's a friend of carrie lonsdale--you remember her, david? the truth is, my voice has given out, and i've been trying to give lessons, but carrie thinks he will be able to make it come back again soon." "and what will you do," asked banfield in a very low voice, "if he fails?" she turned and looked up at him, her eyes meeting his in direct challenge. "whatever i do," she said proudly, "you need not fear that i shall come to you for any help." and then david banfield felt shaken, overwhelmed by a fierce spasm of violent, primitive jealousy. the name of the other man had never been forthcoming; rosaleen's letter had sufficed to win the undefended suit. "i suppose," he said brutally, "that you can always depend on getting help from your lover?" rosaleen's eyes dropped, her face flushed darkly as she saw the change which came over her husband's face and as there came into his voice accents she had never heard there. she sprang up. "how dare you insult me? you have no right to say such a thing to me! i am free to do exactly what i like and to go to whom i choose--you yourself made me free!" but a very different man from the man she had believed david banfield to be now stood before her. of the words she had said, the last alone remained with him. free? nay, nay, rosaleen was in no sense free; his whole nature rose up and protested against such a statement. there could be no question of choice, for she belonged to him, only to him, solely to him, and that even if she had in a moment of aberration, of madness--his mind refused to follow the thought to its logical conclusion--not even in the most secret recess of his imagination had banfield ever consented to dwell on what he believed had been. not till the last few moments had he seen the torturing vision which almost always haunts the man who has been betrayed by a beloved woman. he came yet closer, and put his hand on her shoulder. "rosaleen," he said hoarsely, "you don't understand. you want to know why i came here to-day? well, i came to say that i am thinking of leaving market dalling. i came to ask you if you are willing to come back to me--to make a fresh start. you said just now that it was market dalling and our life there that you hated--not me. i've had a very good offer to go to south africa, to durban, and settle there. there's even a house waiting for us, and a convent school for rosy. but whether i go or not depends on you, rosaleen. if you are willing to come with us, we'll all go together--if not, i mean to stay at market dalling." rosaleen remained quite still. she made no effort to move away from his touch. "did you really come to ask me to do that, david, and that although you think so ill of me?" there was a wondering doubt, a softer, kindlier note, than banfield had ever heard in his wife's voice. he set his teeth and lied. "yes," he said, "that is why i came. mary scanlan gave me your address." "poor old mary!" she exclaimed. "i suppose everyone at market dalling thinks i'm a bad woman? your sister, of course, always hoped that i was a bad woman?" she looked at him as if half expecting him to make some kind of denial. but he remained silent. what answer, what denial could he make? of course, everyone at market dalling thought rosaleen a bad woman. for the matter of that, none of them had ever thought well of her, not even his own people, not even his sister and her husband had made any attempt to understand her. rosaleen's imprudent question made yet another matter, one which banfield had succeeded for a few moments in completely forgetting, become once more very present to him. with a feeling of terrible self-reproach there rose before him the helpless figure of matilda wellow. "it's not only you," he said slowly, "but i myself who need to make a fresh start. i haven't so much right to blame you as you, rosaleen, perhaps think--for i myself did a very wrong, a wicked thing----" she slipped away from under his hand and got up, facing him. "it's absurd for you to say that," she exclaimed petulantly, "why, you couldn't do anything wicked, david, if you tried! for the matter of that, i never could see--i never have seen--why people are--why people make----" she seemed to be seeking for a word, a phrase; and it was in a whisper that she added the words, "beasts of themselves." banfield stared at her, not understanding; for the moment he was too absorbed in his own feelings, in his own remorse, to take much heed of what she was saying. "well?" he asked, "well, rosaleen, shall we both forgive each other--and make a fresh beginning?" "yes," she whispered, hanging her head as might have done a naughty child. with a gesture of surrender, she held out her hands. "i'm ashamed of what i did, david--and i'll try to be a better wife to you than i've been up to now." poor banfield! as he took her in his arms his heart beat with suffocating joy; almost any other man would have felt her words, her implied prayer for forgiveness, curiously inadequate. she looked at him with a peculiar, earnest look, as if trying to make up her mind to a certain course, and then, with a quick movement, she shook herself free and disappeared into the back room. he heard the sound of a drawer opening, the fumbling of a key. a moment later she came back and thrust a small packet into his hand. "there," she said, "open that, read what's inside, and then we'll burn it. thank god, rosy will never know now the shame you put on her mother. i've often thought how you would feel reading it, if i--died--before--you did!" and each word was punctuated by an angry sob. the little packet which rosaleen had placed in banfield's hand was tied with blue ribbon, and on it was written: "in case of my death, to be forwarded to mr. banfield, the brew house, market dalling." it was rosaleen's fingers which untied the knotted ribbon and which showed him, laid amid her little store of jewellery,--he had noticed that she still wore her wedding ring,--a sheet of notepaper on which was an attestation, sworn before a commissioner of oaths, that the letter which she had written to him, the confession which had sufficed to procure him his divorce, had been--false. "but why?" he stammered. "rosaleen--why?" "because i hated the life you made me lead at market dalling! i hate market dalling and the hateful people who live there! you wouldn't even let me play or sing on sunday. and then, your sister kate! she never gave me a kind word or look! d'you think that was pleasant?" she asked fiercely,--then more gently she added, "but i'm ashamed, i've always been ashamed of that letter, and i'd no idea, dave, that it would make you do what it did." the door behind them opened. rosaleen turned around; she brushed the angry tears from her cheeks; there came over her tremulous mouth a charming, rather shy smile. "doctor," she said quietly, "you've just come in time to see my husband. david, this is dr. bendall, who was so kind to me when i was ill." banfield held out his hand.... iii it was the late afternoon of the same day, and mrs. rigby was sitting as she had sat on her silver wedding day, close to the window of her sitting-room, her busy hands engaged now, as then, in mending house-linen. now, as then also, she was expecting her brother and matilda wellow to dinner, for before banfield left for london it had been arranged that he and his betrothed should spend that evening with the rigbys. mrs. rigby allowed the work she was holding to fall on her lap. she looked into her garden with a preoccupied air. the month which had elapsed since her silver wedding day had brought with it great changes in her life, and what she saw before her seemed, in a sense, symbolic of those changes, for in spite of her careful watering and constant attention, the flower-beds, and above all the beautiful herbaceous borders of which she was so proud, were beginning to look parched and withered. to-night more than ever mrs. rigby realised that the marriage of david and matilda would alter her own life, and that not for the better. why, in old days david would of course have come in to see his sister on his way from the station, and that even in the now forgotten time when rosaleen was mistress of the brew house. to-day her brother had evidently gone straight to matilda wellow.... but mrs. rigby reminded herself that, taken as a whole, her garden was incomparably fresher and greener than were those of her neighbours on either side; and as to david and tiddy, she now told herself, almost speaking the words aloud in her anxiety to make them true, that she was pleased--very pleased--with the way everything was going on. thus she was glad that the rather absurd secrecy, so insisted on by her brother, would come to an end to-morrow. of course a few old friends had been told in confidence of the engagement--but considering that this was so, the secret had been very well kept. it was not as if david were a real widower; mrs. rigby could not help hoping that he would be spared some of the silly remarks, the foolish congratulations, which fall to the ordinary engaged man. it must be bad enough for him, so the sister told herself, to put up with tiddy's sentimental raptures. still, it was a comfort to know that matilda wellow was well aware that she was in luck's way! how tiddy studied david in everything--any other man would have been spoilt! for the first time, a smile, not a very kind smile, came over mrs. rigby's shrewd, rather hard face. during the last month, matilda had actually given up eating potatoes and butter, because some fool had told her that in that way she might hope to regain the youthful slenderness of her figure! as for david, his betrothed's little attentions evidently touched him, and no one could say that he was not an attentive lover. think of the ring he had sent tiddy, the ruby ring which had arrived yesterday morning, and which must have cost--so matt, who was learned in such things, declared--not a penny less than £ ! the exact date of the wedding would probably be fixed to-night, for it had been arranged that the marriage was to follow very soon after the announcement of the engagement. there was no reason for delay. mrs. rigby had herself chosen the rd of august as the best date, and she had little doubt that she would be able to persuade dave and tiddy that no other day would suit them so well. suddenly her quick ears caught the sound of footsteps treading down the path to the left, a path hidden from the place where she was now sitting, and a slight frown came over her face. mrs. rigby liked her husband to come straight in to her from the office; but lately, he had taken to the tiresome habit of going out by the back way, into the garden, and then suddenly popping round on her. she looked out expectantly, but the sound of footsteps died away. it must have been one of the maids going down to the extreme end of the garden in search of some kitchen stuff. mrs. rigby again took up her work and began sewing diligently. yes, the marriage should take place quite quietly on the rd of august. everything was ready--in fact, there was nothing left to wait for. even tiddy's wedding gown and headgear had come home. david had showed himself oddly interested in this wholly feminine question of his bride's attire. he had actually been to the trouble of choosing the material of which tiddy's wedding gown was to be made; a white and grey stripe, a thin, gauzy stuff not nearly substantial enough--or so mrs. rigby had thought--for the purpose to which it was destined. and then he had persuaded matilda to go to a new dressmaker, a frenchwoman who had been lady's maid to one of his grand county acquaintances, and who had just set up for herself in market dalling. more wonderful still, david had made a rough drawing from some old picture that had taken his fancy of the hat he desired matilda to wear on her wedding day! it was a white hat trimmed with long grey feathers, quite unlike tiddy's usual style.... suddenly looking up, mrs. rigby felt a thrill of something like superstitious fear, for there, making her way round the corner from the summer-house, came, walking very slowly, a woman at once like and unlike matilda wellow, clad in a silvery-looking gown and wearing a white hat trimmed with long grey feathers. as the figure advanced down the path, it took unmistakable shape and substance; here, without a doubt, was matilda wearing what were to be her wedding garments, and, as mrs. rigby suddenly became aware, a matilda quite unlike her usual homely self! who would have thought that simply leaving off potatoes and butter for a month would have made such a change! or was that change due to the art of the french dressmaker? the silvery-flounced skirt fell in graceful, billowy folds to the ground, for miss wellow was not even holding up her gown, as a more sensible woman would have done. the muslin kerchief edged with real lace, outlined the wearer's still pretty shoulders, and the hat--well, the hat was certainly becoming, especially now that tiddy's cheeks were flushed--as well they might be, considering what a fool the woman was making of herself! mrs. rigby felt rather cross at having been so startled; she got up, and walked out to meet her guest, determined not to be drawn into any praise of the becoming hat and gown. "i hope david won't keep us waiting long," she said tartly. "i suppose he thought that he must put on his dress suit," and her expression showed clearly that in the matter of overdressing there was not much to choose between her brother and the woman who was to become his wife. "david will not be here to-night, kate. he came, but he has gone away again--back to london." miss wellow spoke in a low, collected voice, and certain little irritating mannerisms with which she usually punctuated her words were absent. perhaps it was the quiet, expressionless way in which she made her surprising statement that caused mrs. rigby, as she afterwards averred to her husband, at once to feel that something was wrong. "gone back to london?" the sister repeated. "why, whatever has he done that for? what business took him back to london, to-day?" and she looked searchingly at the other's flushed face. "kate," said miss wellow, again speaking in the soft, emotionless voice which was so unlike her own, "i have got to tell you something which i fear will upset you--and make you very angry with poor david. kate--he has gone back to rosaleen." mrs. rigby withdrew her eyes quickly from matilda wellow's face. she did not then realise that the words which had just been spoken would for ever spoil to her this fragrant, familiar corner of her garden. all she felt now was a fierce, instinctive wish to get under shelter,--to hear whatever shameful thing had to be heard within four walls,--and so she put out her right hand and pushed her visitor before her into the sitting-room. then, keeping her back to the window, she forced miss wellow to turn round. "now tell me the truth," she commanded, "and tiddy--above all, don't let yourself be upset, and don't get hysterical! i know what it is--you and david have had some silly quarrel. i saw from the first that you were making yourself too cheap! he can't go back to rosaleen; he divorced her--and she's with another man. besides, david is my brother! he wouldn't dare do such a wicked thing! you have no right, tiddy, to accuse him of such shameful behaviour!" she spoke with quick, savage decision. but miss wellow faced her with a strange, untoward courage--"i won't have you speak so of him--of david, i mean!" she exclaimed passionately, "you're his sister and ought to take his part!" then her voice broke, and with a touch of her old feebleness she added, "if you had heard him telling me about it, even you, kate, who are so hard, would maybe have understood and felt sorry for him. _i_ felt very sorry for him----" "_you!_"--said mrs. rigby, with what appeared to the other withering contempt, "_you!_----" "he put it very beautifully," continued miss wellow; her voice was now almost inaudible, but mrs. rigby caught the word and repeated it with terrible irony: "beautifully!" she said,--"beautifully!" matilda shrank back as though she feared the other was about to strike her, but mrs. rigby did not see the gesture. "and did he tell you when he proposes to bring----" she made a scarcely perceptible pause and then shot out the words--"his bride home. if it's to-morrow, i'll make matt take me away to-night!" "he's not going to bring her home," said matilda, quietly. "he's never coming back himself; they are going right away--out of england." "a good thing too!" said mrs. rigby. "he says that will be more respectful to me; he has considered my feelings, kate--he has indeed." "has he? why----" she suddenly held up a warning finger, for there was a sound of footsteps in the passage; the sound stopped outside the door, and both women instinctively held their breath, united by a common fear of servants' gossip. there was a long pause, and then the handle of the door was slowly turned, and mr. rigby came into the room, his ruddy colour gone, or rather lying in curious streaks across his face, a nervous smile hovering over his lips. he shut the door behind him and looked, with a world of interrogation and anxiety in his eyes, at his wife. "you needn't smile," she said sharply; "this is no smiling matter!" his eyes fell; instinctively he turned to the other, the weaker vessel. but the reproof which mrs. rigby had just addressed to her husband penetrated miss wellow's brain. "i'm afraid i do look rather silly!" she said nervously, "wearing this dress, i mean. but, you see, knowing that now i shall never wear it, i thought i would put it on to-night." the odd collocation of her words passed unnoticed; indeed, mr. rigby, even had he wished to answer her, was not given time to do so, for his wife had turned on him and was avenging in his person the heaped-up wrongs of her sex. "it's all your fault, matt! you were always against david going to london from the first, and you ought to have prevented his doing so! but no--you stood aside and did nothing! i suppose you guessed he might meet that--that----" her lips snapped together she would not soil them by uttering the word which to her mind alone described rosaleen. as her husband did not answer, suspicion grew into certainty. "did you know that she was there? did you think he would see her?" she demanded. mr. rigby looked mildly at his kate. "i didn't know anything, but i did just think it possible," he said. but his triumph, if triumph it was, was short-lived. "why didn't you tell me then? a decent woman would never have thought of such a thing, but men have such disgusting minds!" cried his wife sharply. she added suspiciously, "but how did you learn what's happened? did david write to you?" "he came into the office on his way back to the station," said mr. rigby, briefly. "and, kate--i've promised to see to things for him. rosy will join them"--he gave a little cough--"the day after to-morrow, and they will all sail for south africa as soon as matters can be settled up. it's better so, my dear." suddenly miss wellow bent down. her hand fumbled blindly among the soft, voluminous flounces of her skirt. "i've got something here," she said in a muffled voice, "that i want you to give rosy, matt. but though i know it's there, i can't find the pocket; you know i had one put in because david once said that he didn't like a woman without a pocket in her dress. i've found it--here it is!"--she took a step forward, and standing close to her old friend, thrust into his unresisting hand a small hard substance. he looked down and saw it was the ruby ring. "you can give this to the child," she said breathlessly, "i don't want to see her again--with love from auntie tiddy." but this was more than mrs. rigby could stand. "well, it's a good thing," she exclaimed to her husband, "that tiddy takes it like that! no man would ever have dared to treat me so! but as long as she doesn't care--still, she needn't take david's part against his own sister, who has the right----" but what right david's sister had was never explained, for miss wellow suddenly swayed forward; she would have fallen to the ground had not mr. rigby caught her. "why, she's fainted!" he said pitifully; "she does care--more than you think, kate. but she will come round soon--too soon," he muttered to himself. * * * * * it was the same night, or rather the next morning, for the dawn was beginning to make its grey way into the bed-chamber of mr. and mrs. rigby; it threw into dim relief the large, almost square four-poster, under the chintz-covered canopy of which the husband and wife lay, rigid as if carved in stone. "kate," said matt, "are you awake?" he could just see her head lying on the other pillow beside him. her still abundant hair was loosened and gave her a look of youth. tears had made a furrow down her cheeks. "yes," said mrs. rigby, "i am awake, matt. what is it you want?" "i'm afraid, my dear, that you are very much upset." there were understanding, sympathy, ay, and tenderness expressed in the way mr. rigby uttered the homely word. his wife, for the first time in their twenty-five years of married life, felt a responsive thrill. for the first time she was unfaithful to nat bower. "it's of you i'm thinking," she whispered. "i've been trying all night to forget david,--my poor little david,--but it's terrible to me to think that you, matt, married into a family that could be guilty of such shameful behaviour!" vi the decree made absolute james tapster was eating his solitary, well-cooked dinner in his comfortable and handsome house, a house situated in one of the half-moon terraces which line and frame the more aristocratic side of regent's park, and which may indeed be said to have private grounds of their own, for each resident enjoys the use of a key to a portion of the park entitled locally "the enclosure." very early in his life mr. tapster had made up his mind that he would like to live in cumberland crescent and now he was living there; very early in his life he had decided that no one could order a plain yet palatable meal as well as he could himself, and now for some months past mr. tapster had given his own orders, each morning, to the cook. to-night mr. tapster had already eaten his fried sole, and he was about to cut himself off a generous portion of the grilled under-cut before him, when he heard the postman's steps hurrying round the crescent. he rose with a certain quick deliberateness, and going out into the hall, opened the front door just in time to avoid the rat-tat-tat. then, the one letter he had expected duly in his hand, he waited till he had sat down again in front of his still empty plate before he broke the seal and glanced over the typewritten sheet of notepaper. shorters court, throgmorton st., _november th, --_. dear james, in reply to your letter of yesterday's date, i have been to bedford row and seen greenfield, and he thinks it probable that the decree will be made absolute to-day; in that case you will have received a wire before this letter reaches you. your affect. brother, wm. a. tapster. in the same handwriting as the signature were added two holograph lines: "glad you have the children home again. maud will be round to see them soon." mr. tapster read over once again the body of the letter, and there came upon him an instinctive feeling of intense relief; then, with a not less instinctive feeling of impatience, his eyes travelled down again to the postscript--"maud will be round to see them soon." well, he would see about that! but he did not exclaim, even mentally, as most men feeling as he then felt would have done, "i'll be damned if she will!" knowing the while that maud certainly would. his brother's letter, though most satisfactory as regarded its main point, put mr. tapster out of conceit with the rest of his dinner; so he rang twice and had the table cleared, frowning at the parlour-maid as she hurried through her duties, and yet not daring to rebuke her for having neglected to answer the bell the first time he rang. after a pause, he rose and turned towards the door--but, no, he could not face the large, cheerless drawing-room upstairs; instead, he sat down by the fire, and set himself to consider his future, and, in a more hazy sense, that of his now motherless children. but very soon, as generally happens to those who devote any time to that least profitable of occupations, mr. tapster found that his thoughts drifted aimlessly, not to the future where he would have them be, but to the past--that past which he desired to forget, to obliterate from his memory. till rather more than a year ago few men of his age--he had then been sixty, he was now sixty-one--enjoyed a pleasanter and, from his own point of view, a better-filled life than james tapster. how he had scorned the gambler, the spendthrift, the adulterer,--in a word, all those whose actions bring about their own inevitable punishment! he had always been self-respecting and conscientious,--not a prig, mind you, but inclined rather to the serious than to the flippant side of life, and so inclining he had found contentment and great material prosperity. not even in those days to which he was now looking back so regretfully had mr. tapster always been perfectly content; but now the poor man sitting alone by his dining-room fire, only remembered what had been good and pleasant in his former state. he was aware that his brother william--and william's wife, maud--both thought that even now he had much to be thankful for; his line of business was brisk, scarcely touched by foreign competition, his income increasing at a steady rate of progression, and his children were exceptionally healthy. but, alas! now that, in place of a pretty little mrs. tapster on whom to spend easily-earned money, his substance was being squandered by a crowd of unmanageable and yet indispensable thieves,--for so mr. tapster voicelessly described the five servants whose loud talk and laughter were even now floating up from the basement below,--he did not feel his financial stability so comfortable a thing as he had once done. his very children, who should now be, as he told himself complainingly, his greatest comfort, had degenerated from two sturdy, well-behaved little boys and a charming baby girl, into three unruly, fretful imps, setting him at defiance, and terrorising their two attendants, who, though carefully chosen by their aunt maud, did not seem to manage them as well as the old nurse who had been an ally of the ex-mrs. tapster. looking back at the whole horrible affair, for so in his own mind mr. tapster justly designated the divorce case in which he had figured as the successful petitioner, he wondered uneasily if he had done quite wisely--wisely, that is, for his own repute and comfort. he knew very well that had it not been for william--or rather for maud--he would never have found out the dreadful truth. nay, more; he was dimly aware that but for them, and for their insistence on it as the only proper course open to him, he would never have taken action. all would have been forgiven and forgotten had not william--and more especially maud--said he must divorce flossy, if not for his own sake, ah! what irony! then for that of his children. of course he felt grateful to his brother william and to his brother's wife for all they had done for him since that sad time. still, in the depths of his heart, mr. tapster felt entitled to blame, and sometimes almost to hate, his kind brother and sister. to them both--or rather to maud--he really owed the break-up of his life, for, when all was said and done, it had to be admitted (though maud did not like him to remind her of it) that flossy had met the villain while staying with the william tapsters at boulogne. respectable london people should have known better than to take a furnished house at a disreputable french watering-place--a place full of low english! sometimes it was only by a great exercise of self-control that he, james tapster, could refrain from telling maud what he thought of her conduct in this matter, the more so that she never seemed to understand how greatly she--and william--had been to blame. on one occasion maud had even said how surprised she had been that james had cared to go away to america, leaving his pretty young wife alone for as long as three months. why hadn't she said so at the time, then? of course, he had thought that he could leave flossy to be looked after and kept out of mischief by maud--and william. but he had been--in more than one sense, alas!--bitterly deceived. still, it's never any use crying over spilt milk, so mr. tapster got up from his chair and walked round the room, looking absently, as he did so, at the large landseer engraving of which he was naturally proud. if only he could forget--put out of his mind for ever--the whole affair! well, perhaps with the decree being made absolute would come oblivion. he sat down again before the fire. staring at the hot embers, he reminded himself that flossy, wicked, ungrateful flossy, had disappeared out of his life. this being so, why think of her? the very children had at last left off asking inconvenient questions about their mamma---- by the way, would flossy still be their mamma after the decree had been made absolute?--so mr. tapster now suddenly asked himself. he hesitated perplexed. but yes, the decree being made absolute would not undo, or even efface, that fact. the more so, though surely here james tapster showed himself less logical than usual--the more so that flossy, in spite of what maud had always said about her, had been a loving and, in her own light-hearted way, a careful mother. but though flossy would remain the mother of his children--odd that the law hadn't provided for that contingency--she would soon be absolutely nothing, and less than nothing, to him, the father of those children. mr. tapster was a great believer in the infallibility of the law, and he subscribed whole-heartedly to the new reading, "what law has put asunder, let not man join together." to-night mr. tapster could not help looking back with a certain complacency to his one legal adventure. nothing could have been better done, or more admirably conducted, than the way the whole matter had been carried through. his brother william, and william's solicitor, mr. greenfield, had managed it all so very nicely. true, there had been a few uncomfortable moments in the witness-box, but everyone, including the judge, had been most kind. as for his counsel, the leading man who makes a specialty of these sad affairs, not even james tapster himself could have put his own case in a more delicate and moving fashion. "a gentleman possessed of considerable fortune," so had he been justly described, and counsel, without undue insistence on irrelevant detail, had drawn a touching--and a true--picture of mr. tapster's one romance, his marriage eight years before to the twenty-year-old daughter of an undischarged bankrupt. even the petitioner had scarcely seen flossy's dreadful ingratitude in its true colours till he had heard his counsel's moderate comments on the case. this evening mr. tapster saw flossy's dreadful ingratitude terribly clearly, and he wondered, not for the first time, how his wife could have had the heart to break up his happy home! why, but for him and his offer of marriage, flossy ball--that had been his wife's maiden name--would have had to have earned her own living! and as she had been very pretty, very "fetching," she would probably have married some good-for-nothing young fellow of her own age lacking the means to support a wife in decent comfort,--such a fellow, for instance, as the wretched "co." in the case. while with mr. tapster--why, she had had everything the heart of woman could wish for, a good home, beautiful clothes, and the being waited on hand and foot. a strange choking feeling came into his throat as he thought of how good he had been to flossy, and how very bad had been her return for that kindness. but this--this was dreadful! he was actually thinking of her again, and not, as he had meant to do, of himself and his poor, motherless children. time enough to think of flossy when he had news of her again. if her lover did not marry her--and from what mr. greenfield had discovered about him, it was most improbable that he would ever be in a position to do so--she would certainly reappear on the tapster horizon; mr. greenfield said "they" always did. in that case, it was arranged that william should pay her a weekly allowance. mr. tapster, always, as he now reminded himself sadly, ready to do the generous thing, had fixed that allowance at three pounds a week--a sum which had astonished, in fact quite staggered, mr. greenfield's head clerk, a very decent fellow, by the way. "of course, it shall be as you wish, mr. tapster, but you should think of the future and of your children. a hundred and fifty pounds a year is a large sum; you may feel it a tax, sir, as years go on----" "that is enough," mr. tapster had answered, kindly but firmly; "you have done your duty in laying that side of the case before me. i have, however, decided on the amount named; should i see reason to alter my mind, our arrangement leaves it open to me at any time to lower the allowance." but though this conversation had taken place some months ago, and though mr. tapster still held true to his generous resolve, as yet flossy had not reappeared. mr. tapster sometimes told himself that if he only knew where she was, what she was doing,--whether she was still with that young fellow, for instance,--he would think much less about her than he did now. only last night, when going for a moment into the night nursery,--poor mr. tapster now only enjoyed his children's company when he was quite sure that they were asleep,--he had had an extraordinary, almost a physical, impression of flossy's presence; he certainly had felt a faint whiff of her favourite perfume. flossy had been fond of scent, and though maud always said that the use of scent was most unladylike, he, james, did not dislike it. with sudden soreness mr. tapster now recalled the one letter flossy had written to him just before the actual hearing of the divorce suit. it had been a wild, oddly-worded appeal to him to take her back, not--as maud had at once perceived on reading the letter--because she was sorry for the terrible thing she had done, but simply because she was beginning to hanker after her children. maud had described the letter as shameless and unwomanly in the extreme; and even william, who had never judged his pretty young sister-in-law as severely as his wife had always done, had observed sadly that flossy seemed quite unaware of the magnitude of her offence against god and man. * * * * * mr. tapster, who prided himself on his sharp ears, suddenly heard a curious little sound--he knew it for that of the front door being first opened and then shut again, extremely quietly. he half rose from his chair by the fire, then sat down again, heavily. by maud's advice he always locked the area gate himself, when he came home each evening. but how foolish of maud--such a sensible woman too,--to think that servants and their evil ways could be circumvented so easily! of course, the maids went in and out by the front door in the evening, and the policeman--a most respectable officer standing at point duty a few yards lower down the road--must be well aware of these disgraceful "goings on." for the first two or three months of his widowerhood (how else could he term his present peculiar wifeless condition?) there had been a constant coming and going of servants, first chosen, and then dismissed, by maud. at last she had suggested that her brother-in-law should engage a lady housekeeper, and the luckless james tapster had even interviewed several applicants for the post after they had been chosen--sifted out, as it were--by maud. unfortunately they had all been each more or less of his own age; and plain--very plain; while he, naturally enough, would have preferred to see something young and pretty about him again. it was over this housekeeper question that he had at last escaped from maud's domestic thraldom, for his sister-in-law, offended by his rejection of each of her candidates, had declared that she would take no more trouble about his household affairs! nay, more; she had reminded him with a smile which she had honestly tried to make pleasant, that there is, after all, no fool like an old fool--about women! this insinuation had made mr. tapster very angry, and straightway he had engaged a respectable cook-housekeeper, and, although he had soon become aware that the woman was feathering her own nest,--james tapster, as you will have divined ere now, was fond of good workaday phrases,--yet she had a pleasant, respectful manner, and kept rough order among the younger servants. mr. tapster's sister-in-law only now interfered where his children were concerned. never having been herself a mother, she had, of course, been able to form a clear and unprejudiced judgment as to how children, and especially as to how little boys, should be physically and mentally trained. as yet, however, maud had not been very successful with her two nephews and infant niece, but this was doubtless owing to the fact that there had been something gravely amiss with each of the five nurses who had been successively engaged by her during the last year. the elder of mr. tapster's sons was six and the second four; the youngest child, a little girl named unfortunately flora after her mother, was three years old. there had been a fourth, flossy's second baby, also a girl, who had only lived one day. all this being so, was it not strange that a young matron who had led, for some four years out of the eight years her married life had lasted, so wholly womanly and domestic an existence as had fallen to the lot of flossy, should have been led astray by the meretricious allurements of unlawful love?--maud's striking thought and phrase this. and yet flossy, in spite of her frivolity, had somehow managed the children far better than maud was now able to do. at the present time, so mr. tapster admitted to himself with something very like an inward groan, his two sons possessed every vice of which masculine infancy is capable. they had become--so he was told by their indignant nurses--the terror of the well-behaved children who shared with them the pleasures of the park enclosure, where they took their daily exercise; and baby, once so sweet and good, was now very fretful and peevish. * * * * * again the train of mr. tapster's mournful thoughts was disturbed by a curious little sound--that of someone creeping softly down the staircase leading from the upper floors. once more he half rose from his chair, only to fall heavily back again with a look of impotent annoyance on his round, whiskered face. where was the use of his going out into the hall and catching nurse on her way to the kitchen? maud had declared, very early in the day, that there should be as little communication as possible between the kitchen and the nursery; but mr. tapster sometimes found himself in secret sympathy with the two women whose disagreeable duty it was to be always with his three turbulent children. mr. tapster frowned and stared gloomily into the fire; then he suddenly pulled himself together rather sharply, for the door behind him had slowly swung open. this was intolerable! the parlour-maid had again and again been told that, whatever might have been the case in her former places, no door in mr. tapster's house was to be opened without the preliminary of a respectful knock. fortified by the memory of what had been a positive order, he turned round and nerved himself to deliver the necessary rebuke; but instead of the shifty-eyed, impudent-looking woman he had thought to see, there stood close to him, so close that he could almost have touched her--flossy, his wife, or rather the woman who, though no longer his wife, had still, as he had been informed to his discomfiture, the right to bear his name. a very strange feeling, and one so complicated that it sat uneasily upon him, took instant possession of mr. tapster--anger, surprise, and relief warred with one another in his heart. then he began to think that his eyes must be playing him some curious trick, for the figure at which he was staring remained strangely still and motionless. was it possible that his mind, dwelling constantly on flossy, had evoked her wraith? but, no; looking up in startled silence at the still figure standing before him, he realised that not so would memory have conjured up the pretty, bright little woman of whom he had once been proud. flossy still looked pretty, but she was thin and pale, and there were dark rings round her eyes; also her dress was worn, her hat curiously shabby. as mr. tapster stared up at her, noting these things, one of her hands began playing nervously with the fringe of the dining-table cover, and the other sought the back of what had once been one of her dining-room chairs. as he watched her making these slight movements, nature so far reasserted itself that a feeling of poignant regret, of pity for her--as well as, of course, a much larger share of pity for himself--came over james tapster. had flossy spoken then,--had she possessed the intuitive knowledge of men which is the gift of so many otherwise unintelligent women,--the whole of mr. tapster's future, to say nothing of her own, might have been different, and, it may be suggested, happier. but the moment of softening and mansuetude slipped quickly by, and was succeeded by a burst of anger, for mr. tapster suddenly became aware that flossy's left hand, the little thin hand resting on the back of the chair, was holding two keys which he recognised at once as his property. the one was a replica of the latch-key which always hung on his watch-chain, while the other and larger key, to which was attached a brass tab bearing the name of tapster and the address of the house, gave access to the enclosure garden opposite cumberland crescent. avoiding her eager, pitiful look, mr. tapster set himself to realise, with a shrewdness for which william and maud would never have given him credit, what flossy's possession of those two keys had meant during the last few months. this woman, who both was and was not mrs. tapster, had retained the power to come freely in and out of _his_ house! she had been able to make her way, with or without the connivance of the servants, into _his_ children's nursery at any hour of the day or night convenient to herself. with the aid of that enclosure key she had no doubt often seen the children during their daily walk! in a word, flossy had been able to enjoy all the privileges of motherhood while having forfeited all those of happy wifehood! his mind hastened heavily on--what a fool he must have looked before his servants, how they must have laughed to think that he was being so deceived and taken in! why, even the policeman who stood at point duty outside must have known all about it! small wonder that mr. tapster felt extremely incensed; small wonder that his heart, hardening, solidifying, expelled any feeling of pity provoked by flossy's sad and downcast appearance. "i must request you," he said, in a voice which even to himself sounded harsh and needlessly loud, "to give up those keys which you hold in your hand. you have no right to their possession, and i grieve to think that you took advantage of my great distress of mind not to return them with the things of which i sent you a list by my brother william. i cannot believe"--and now mr. tapster lied as only the very truthful can lie on occasion--"i cannot believe, i say, that you have taken advantage of my having overlooked them, and that you have ever before to-night forced yourself into this house! still less can i believe that you have taught our--_my_--children to deceive their father!" even when uttering his first sentence he had noticed that there had come over flossy's face--which was thinner, if quite as pretty and youthful-looking as when he had last seen it--an expression of obstinacy which he had once well known and always dreaded. it had been flossy's one poor weapon against her husband's superior sense and power of getting his own way, and sometimes it had vanquished him in that fair fight which is always being waged between the average husband and wife. "you are right," she cried passionately; "i have not taught the children to deceive you! i have never come into this house until i felt sure that they were asleep and alone, though i've often wondered that they never woke up and knew that their own mother was there! but more than once, james, i've felt like going after that society which looks after badly-treated children--for the last nurse you had for them was so cruel! if she hadn't left you soon i should have _had_ to do something. i used to feel desperate when i saw her shake baby in her pram; why, one day, in the enclosure, a lady spoke to her about it, and threatened to tell her--her mistress----" flossy's voice sank to a shamed whisper. the tears were rolling down her cheeks; she was speaking in angry gasps, and what she said actually made james tapster feel, what he knew full well he had no reason to feel, ashamed of himself. "that is why"--she went on--"that is why i have, as you say, forced myself into your house, and why, too, i have now come here to ask you to forgive me--to take me back--just for the sake of the children." mr. tapster's mind was one that travelled surely if slowly. he saw his chance and seized it. "and why," he said impressively, "had that woman--the nurse, i mean--no mistress? tell me that, flossy. you should have thought of all that before you behaved as you did!" "i didn't know--i didn't think----" mr. tapster finished the sentence for her. "you didn't think," he observed impressively, "that i should ever find you out." then there came over him a morbid wish to discover--to learn from her own lips--why flossy had done such a shameful and extraordinary thing as to be unfaithful to her marriage vow. "whatever made you behave so?" he asked in a low voice. "i wasn't unkind to you, was i? you had a nice, comfortable home, hadn't you?" "i was mad," she answered with a touch of sharp weariness. "i don't suppose i could ever make you understand, and yet"--she looked at him deprecatingly--"i suppose, james, that you too were young once, and--and--mad?" mr. tapster stared at flossy. what extraordinary things she said! of course he had been young once; for the matter of that he didn't feel old--not to say old--even now. but he had always been perfectly sane--she knew that well enough! as for her calling herself mad, that was a mere figure of speech. of course, in a sense she had been mad to do what she had done, and he was glad that she now understood this, but her saying so simply begged the whole question, and left him no wiser than he was before. there was a long, tense silence between them. then mr. tapster slowly rose from his armchair and faced his wife. "i see," he said, "that william was right. i mean, i suppose i may take it that that young fellow has gone and left you?" "yes," she said, with a curious indifference, "he has gone and left me. his father made him take a job out in brazil just after the case was through." "and what have you been doing since then?" asked mr. tapster suspiciously. "how have you been living?" "his father gives me a pound a week." flossy still spoke with that curious indifference. "i tried to get something to do"--she hesitated, then offered the lame explanation, "just to have something to do, for i've been awfully lonely and miserable, james. but i don't seem to be able to get anything." "if you had written to mr. greenfield or to william, they would have told you that i had arranged for you to have an allowance," he said, and then again he fell into silence.... mr. tapster was seeing a vision of himself magnanimous, forgiving,--taking the peccant flossy back to his heart, and becoming once more, in a material sense, comfortable! if he acceded to her wish, if he made up his mind to forgive her, he would have to begin life all over again, move away from cumberland crescent to some distant place where the story was not known,--perhaps to clapham, where he had spent his boyhood. but how about maud? how about william? how about the very considerable expense to which he had been put in connection with the divorce proceedings? was all that money to be wasted? mr. tapster suddenly saw the whole of his little world rising up in judgment, smiling pityingly at his folly and weakness. during the whole of a long and of what had been, till this last year, a very prosperous life, mr. tapster had always steered his safe course by what may be called the compass of public opinion, and now, when navigating an unknown sea, he could not afford to throw that compass overboard, so---- "no," he said. "no, flossy. it would not be right for me to take you back. _it wouldn't do._" "wouldn't it?" she asked piteously. "oh! james, don't say no like that, all at once! people do forgive each other--sometimes. i don't ask you to be as kind to me as you were before; only to let me come home and see after the children!" but mr. tapster shook his head. the children! always the children! he noticed, even now, that she didn't say a word of wanting to come back to _him_; and yet he had been such a kind, nay, if maud were to be believed, such a foolishly indulgent, husband. and then flossy looked so different. mr. tapster felt as if a stranger were standing there before him. her appearance of poverty shocked him. had she looked well and prosperous, he would have felt injured, and yet her pinched face and shabby clothes certainly repelled him. so again he shook his head, and there came into his face a look which flossy had always known in the old days to spell finality; when he again spoke she saw that her knowledge had not misled her. "i don't want to be unkind," he said ponderously. "if you will only go to william, or write to him if you would rather not go to the office,"--mr. tapster did not like to think that anyone once closely connected with him should "look like that" in his brother's office,--"he will tell you what you had better do. i'm quite ready to make you a handsome allowance--in fact, it's all arranged. you need not have anything more to do with that fellow's father--an army colonel, isn't he?--and his pound a week; but william thinks, and i must say i agree, that you ought to go back to your maiden name, flossy, as being more fair to me." "and am i never to see the children again?" she asked. "no; it wouldn't be right for me to let you do so." he hesitated, then added, "they don't miss you any more now,"--with no unkindly intent he concluded, "soon they'll have forgotten you altogether." and then, just as mr. tapster was hesitating, seeking for a suitable and not unkindly sentence of farewell, he saw a very strange, almost a desperate, look come over flossy's face, and, to his surprise, she suddenly turned and left the room, closing the door very carefully behind her. he stared after her. how very odd of her to say nothing! and what a queer look had come over her face! he could not help feeling hurt that she had not thanked him for what he knew to be a very generous and unusual provision on the part of an injured husband.... mr. tapster took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it twice over his face, then once more he sought and sank into the armchair by the fire. even now he still felt keenly conscious of flossy's nearness. what could she be doing? then he straightened himself and listened. yes, it was as he feared; she had gone upstairs--upstairs to look at the children, for now he could hear her coming down again. how obstinate she was--how obstinate and ungrateful! mr. tapster wished he had the courage to go out into the hall and face her in order to tell her how wrong her conduct was. why, she had actually kept the keys--those keys that were his property! suddenly he heard her light footsteps hurrying down the hall; now she was opening the front door,--it slammed, and again mr. tapster felt pained to think how strangely indifferent flossy was to his interests. why, what would the servants think, hearing the front door slam like that? but still, now that it was over, he was glad the interview had taken place, for henceforth--or so at least mr. tapster believed--the flossy of the past, the bright, pretty, prosperous flossy of whom he had been so proud, would cease to haunt him. he remembered with a feeling of relief that she was going to his brother william; of course she would then, among greater renunciations, be compelled to return the two keys, for they--that is, his brother and himself--would have her in their power. they would not behave unkindly to her--far from it; in fact, they would arrange for her to live with some quiet, religious lady in a country town a few hours from london. mr. tapster had not evolved this scheme for himself; it had been done in a similar case--one of those cases which, in the long ago, when he was still a single man, had aroused his pitying contempt for husbands who allow themselves to be deceived. then mr. tapster began going over each incident of the strange little interview, for he wanted to tell his brother william exactly what had taken place. his conscience was quite clear except with regard to one matter, and that, after all, needn't be mentioned to william. he felt rather ashamed of having asked the question which had provoked so wild an answer--so unexpected a retort. mad? what had flossy meant by asking him if he had ever been mad? no one had ever used the word in connection with james tapster before--save once. oddly enough, that occasion also had been connected with flossy in a way; for it had happened when he had gone to tell william and maud of his engagement. it was on a fine day nine years ago come this may, and he had found william and william's wife walking in their garden on haverstock hill. his kind brother, as always, had been most sympathetic, and had even made a suitable joke--mr. tapster remembered it very sadly to-night--concerning the spring and a young man's fancy; but maud had been really disagreeable. she had said, "it's no use talking to you, james, for you're mad--quite mad!" he had argued the matter out with her good-temperedly, and william had supported him in pointing out that he was doing an eminently sane thing in marrying flossy ball. but maud again and again had exclaimed, in her determined, aggravating voice, "i say you are mad. they don't let lunatics marry--and just now you _are_ a lunatic, james!" strange that he should remember all this to-night; for, after all, it had nothing to do with the present state of affairs. mr. tapster felt rather shaken and nervous; he pulled out his repeater watch; but, alas! it was still very early--only ten minutes to nine. he couldn't go to bed yet. perhaps he would do well to join a club. he had always thought rather poorly of men who belonged to clubs,--most of them were idle, lazy fellows; but still, circumstances alter cases. suddenly he began to wish that flossy had remained a little longer. he thought of all sorts of things--improving, kindly remarks--he would have liked to say to her. he blamed himself for not having offered her any refreshment; she would probably have refused to take anything, but still, it was wrong on his part not to have thought of it. a pound a week for everything! no wonder she looked half starved. why, his own household bills, exclusive of wine or beer, had worked out, since he had had this new expensive housekeeper, at something like fifteen shillings a head--a fact which he had managed to conceal from maud, who "did" her william so well on exactly ten shillings and nine-pence all round! * * * * * it struck nine from the neighbouring church where mr. tapster had sittings,--but where he seldom was able to go on sunday mornings, for he was proud of being among those old-fashioned folk who still regard sunday as essentially a day of rest,--and there came a sudden sound of hoarse shouting from the road outside. though he was glad of anything that broke the oppressive silence with which he felt encompassed, mr. tapster found time to tell himself that it was disgraceful that vulgar street brawlers should invade so quiet a residential thoroughfare as cumberland crescent. but order would soon be restored, for the sound of a policeman's whistle cut sharply through the air. the noise, however, continued. he could hear the tramp of feet hurrying past his house, and then leaving the pavement for the other side of the road. what could be the matter? something very exciting must be going on just opposite his front door--that is, close to the enclosure railings. mr. tapster got up from his chair, and walked in a leisurely way to the wide window; he drew aside the thick red rep curtains, and lifted a corner of the blind. then, through the slightly foggy haze, he saw that which greatly surprised him and made him feel actively indignant, for a string of people, men, women, and boys, were hurrying into the enclosure garden--that sacred place set apart for the exclusive use of the nobility and gentry who lived in cumberland crescent and the adjoining terraces. what an abominable thing! why, the grass would be all trampled down; and these dirty people, these slum folk who seem to spring out of the earth when anything of a disagreeable or shameful nature is taking place--a fire, for instance, or a brawl--might easily bring infectious diseases on to those gravel paths where the little tapsters and their like run about playing their innocent games. some careless person had evidently left the gate unlocked, and the fight, or whatever it was, must be taking place inside the enclosure! had this been an ordinary night, mr. tapster would have gone back to the fire, but now the need for human companionship was so strong upon him that he stayed at the window, and went on staring at the curious shadow-filled scene. soon he saw with satisfaction that something like order was to be restored. a stalwart policeman--in fact, his friend the officer who was always at point duty some yards from his house--now stood at the gate of the enclosure, forbidding any further passing through. mr. tapster tried in vain to see what was going on inside the railings, but everything beyond the brightly-lighted road was wrapped in grey darkness. someone suddenly held up high a flaming torch, and the watcher at the window saw that the shadowy crowd which had managed to force its way into the park hung together, like bees swarming, on the further lawn through which flowed the ornamental water. with the gleaming of the yellow, wavering light there had fallen a sudden hush and silence, and mr. tapster wondered uneasily what those people were doing there, and what it was they were pressing forward so eagerly to see. then he realised that it must have been a fight after all, for now the crowd was parting in two, and down the lane so formed mr. tapster saw coming towards the gate, and so in a sense towards himself, a rather pitiful little procession. someone had evidently been injured, and that seriously, for four men, bearing a sheep-hurdle on which lay a huddled mass, were walking slowly towards the guarded gate, and he heard distinctly the gruffly uttered words: "stand back, please--stand back there! we're going to cross the road." the now large crowd suddenly swayed forward; indeed, to mr. tapster's astonished eyes, they seemed to be actually making a rush for his house; and a moment later they were pressing round his area railings. looking down on the upturned faces below him, mr. tapster was very glad that a stout pane of glass stood between himself and the sinister-looking men and women who seemed to be staring up at him, or rather at his windows, with faces full of cruel, wolfish curiosity. he let the blind fall to gently. his interest in the vulgar, sordid scene had suddenly died down; the drama was now over; in a moment the crowd would disperse, the human vermin--but mr. tapster would never have used, even to himself, so coarse an expression--would be on their way back to their burrows. but before he had even time to rearrange the curtains in their right folds, there came a sudden, loud, persistent knocking at his front door. mr. tapster turned sharply round, feeling justly incensed. of course he knew what it was,--some good-for-nothing urchin finding a vent for his excited feelings. while it was quite proper that the police should have hurried on with their still burden to the nearest hospital or workhouse infirmary, they should have left at least one constable to keep order. his parlour-maid, who was never in any hurry to open the door--she had once kept him waiting ten minutes when he had forgotten his latch-key--would certainly take no notice of this unseemly noise, but he, james tapster, would himself hurry out and try and catch the delinquent, take his name and address, and thoroughly frighten him. as he reached the door of the dining-room mr. tapster heard the front door open--open, too, and this was certainly very surprising, from the outside! in the hall he saw that it was a policeman--in fact, the officer on point duty close by--who had opened his front door, and apparently with a latch-key. in the moment that elapsed before the constable spoke, mr. tapster's mind had had time to formulate a new theory. how strange he had never heard that the police have means of access to every house on their beat! the fact surprised but did not alarm him, for our hero was one of the great army of law-abiding citizens in whose eyes a policeman is no human being, subject to the same laws, the same temptations and passions which afflict ordinary humanity. no, no; in mr. tapster's eyes a constable could do no wrong, although he might occasionally stretch a point to oblige such a man as was mr. tapster himself. but what was the constable saying--speaking, as constables always do to the mr. tapsters of this world, in respectful and subdued tones? "can i just come in and speak to you, sir? there's been a sad accident--your lady fallen in the water; we found these keys in her pocket, and then someone said she was mrs. tapster,"--and the policeman held out the two keys which had played a not unimportant part in mr. tapster's interview with flossy. "a man on the bridge saw her go in," went on the policeman, "so she wasn't in the water long--something like a quarter of an hour--for we soon found her. i suppose you would like her taken upstairs, sir?" "no, no," stammered mr. tapster, "not upstairs. the children are upstairs." mr. tapster's round, prominent eyes were shadowed with a great horror and an even greater surprise. he stood staring at the man before him, his hands clasped in a wholly unconscious gesture of supplication. the constable gradually edged himself backwards into the dining-room. realising that he must take on himself the onus of decision, he gave a quiet look round. "if that's the case," he said firmly, "we had better bring her in here. that sofa that you have there, sir, will do nicely, for her to be laid upon while they try to bring her round. we've got a doctor already----" mr. tapster bent his head; he was too much bewildered to propose any other plan; and then he turned--turned to see his hall invaded by a strange and sinister quartette. it was composed of two policemen and of two of those loafers of whom he so greatly disapproved; they were carrying a hurdle, from which mr. tapster quickly averted his eyes. but though he was able to shut out the sight he feared to see, he could not prevent himself from hearing certain sounds--those, for instance, made by the two loafers, who breathed with ostentatious difficulty as if to show they were unaccustomed to bearing even so comparatively light a burden as flossy drowned. there came a sudden short whisper-filled delay; the doorway of the dining-room was found to be too narrow, and the hurdle was perforce left in the hall. an urgent voice, full of wholly unconscious irony, muttered in mr. tapster's ear: "of course you would like to see her, sir," and he felt himself being propelled forward. making an effort to bear himself so that he should not feel afterwards ashamed of his lack of nerve, he forced himself to stare with dread-filled yet fascinated eyes at that which had just been laid upon the leather sofa. flossy's hat--the shabby hat which had shocked mr. tapster's sense of what was seemly--had gone; her fair hair had all come down, and hung in pale, gold wisps about the face already fixed in the soft dignity which seems so soon to drape the features of those who die by drowning. her widely-opened eyes were now wholly emptied of the anguish with which they had gazed on mr. tapster in this very room less than an hour ago. her mean brown serge gown, from which the water was still dripping, clung closely to her limbs, revealing the slender body which had four times endured, on behalf of mr. tapster, the greatest of woman's natural ordeals. but that thought, it is scarcely necessary to say, did not come to add an extra pang to those which that unfortunate man was now suffering; for mr. tapster naturally thought maternity was in every married woman's day's work--and pleasure. * * * * * it might have been a moment, for all that he knew, or it might have been an hour, when at last something came to relieve the unbearable tension of mr. tapster's feelings. he had been standing aside helpless, aware of and yet not watching the efforts made to restore flossy to consciousness. the doctor raised himself and straightened his cramped shoulders and tired arms. with a look of great concern on his face he approached the bereaved husband. "i'm afraid it's no good," he said; "the shock of the plunge in the cold water probably killed her. she was evidently in poor health, and--and ill-nourished. but, of course, we shall go on for some time longer, and----" but whatever he had meant to say remained unspoken, for a telegraph boy, with the impudence natural to his kind, was forcing his way into and through the crowded room. "james tapster, esquire?" he cried in a high, childish treble. the master of the house held out his hand mechanically. he took the buff envelope and stared down at it, sufficiently master of himself to perceive that some fool had apparently imagined cumberland crescent to be in south london; before his eyes swam the line, "delayed in transmission." then, opening the envelope, he saw the message for which he had now been waiting so eagerly for some days, but it was with indifference that he read the words: "_the decree has been made absolute._" * * * * * _by mrs. belloc lowndes_ the uttermost farthing the pulse of life barbara rebell the heart of penelope studies in wives maids wives and bachelors by amelia e. barr author of "jan vedder's wife," "a bow of orange ribbon," etc. new york dodd, mead and company copyright, , by dodd, mead and company university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. contents page maids and bachelors the american girl dangerous letter-writing flirts and flirtation on falling in love engaged to be married shall our daughters have dowries? the ring upon the finger flirting wives mothers-in-law good and bad mothers unequal marriages discontented women women on horseback a good word for xanthippe the favorites of men mothers of great and good men domestic work for women professional work for women little children on naming children the children's table intellectual "cramming" of boys the servant-girl's point of view extravagance ought we to wear mourning? how to have one's portrait taken the crown of beauty waste of vitality a little matter of money mission of household furniture people who have good impulses worried to death the grapes we can't reach burdens maids and bachelors women who have devoted themselves for religious purposes to celibacy have in all ages and countries of the world received honor, but those upon whom celibacy has been forced, either through the influence of untoward circumstances, or as a consequence of some want or folly in themselves, have been objects of most unmerited contempt and dislike. unmerited, because it may be broadly asserted that until the last generation no woman in secular and social life remained unmarried from desire or from conviction. she was the victim of some natural disadvantage, or some unhappy circumstance beyond her control, and therefore entitled to sympathy, but not to contempt. of course, there are many lovely girls who appear to have every advantage for matrimony, and who yet drift into spinsterhood. the majority of this class have probably been imprudent and over-stayed their market. they have dallied with their chances too long. suddenly they are aware that their beauty is fading. they notice that the suitable marriageable men who hung around them in their youth have gone away, and that their places are filled with mere callow youths. then they realize their mistakes, and are sorry they have thought being "an awfully silly little thing" and "having a good time" the end of their existence. heart-aches and disappointments enough follow for their punishment; for they soon divine that when women cease to have men for lovers, and are attended by school-boys, they have written themselves down already as old maids. closely allied to these victims of folly or thoughtlessness are the women who remain unmarried because of their excessive vanity--or natural cruelty. "my dear, i was cruel thirty years ago, and no one has asked me since." this confession from an aunt to her niece, though taken from a play, is true enough to tell the real story of many an old maid. their vanity made them cruel, and their cruelty condemned them to a lonely, loveless life. close observation, however, among the unmarried women of any one's acquaintance will reveal the fact that it is not from the ranks of silly or cruel women that the majority of old maids come. men do not, as a rule, dislike silly women; and by a wise provision of nature, they are rather fond of marrying pretty, helpless creatures who cannot help themselves. neither are cruel women universally unpopular. some lovers like to be snubbed, and would not value a wife they had not to seek upon their knees. there are, therefore, always chances for the silly and cruel women. it is the weak, colorless women, who have privately strong prejudices, and publicly no assertion of any kind, that have, even in youth, few opportunities. they either lack the power to love strongly or they lack the power to express their feelings. they have not the courage to take any decided step. they long for advances, and when they are made, recoil from them. they are constitutionally so timid that they fear any step or any condition which is a positive and final change. if marriage had some reservations and uncertainties, some loopholes through which they could drag themselves as a final resort, they would be more sure of their own wishes. these are the misses feeble-minds, who cast the reproach upon feminine celibacy. they feel that in some way they have been misunderstood and wronged, and they come finally to regard all other women as their enemies. they worry and fret themselves continually, and the worry and fret sharpen alike their features and their temper. then their condition is precisely the one most conducive to complaining and spiteful gossiping; and they fall, in their weakness and longing for sympathy, to that level. thus to the whole class is given a reputation for malevolent railing which does not by any means belong to it. in fact, married women are generally more venomous than old maids. the words of married women have greater weight, and they do more harm; for they can make suggestions and accusations which an old maid could not make with any propriety. an old maid's gossip is generally without intentional malice; she has nothing to do, and she wants to make herself agreeable; while married women, having plenty else to do, must, as a general thing, talk scandal from pure ill-nature. there is a large majority of old maids who are to be sincerely respected, and from whose numbers men with sense and intelligence may choose noble wives. they are the pretty, pure, sensible women who have been too modest, and too womanly, to push and scramble in the social ranks. they have dwelt in their own homes, and among their own people, and no one has sought them out. they have seen their youth pass away, and all their innocent desires fade, and they have suffered what few can understand before they reached that calm which no thought of a lover troubles. sweet faded flowers! how tenderly we ought to regard these gentle victims of those modest household virtues which all men profess to admire, but which few seem desirous to transplant into their own homes. another class, somewhat kindred to this, is composed of women who have never found their ideal, and have never allowed themselves to invent for any other man those qualities which would elevate him to their standard. and these women, again, are closely allied to those who remain unmarried because they do not, and will not, conform to conventionalities and social rules. they are clever and odd, and likely to remain odd, especially if they refuse to men--as they are most likely to do--that step or two in advance which is the only way to reconcile them to witty or intellectual women. these varieties of unmarried women are mainly the victims of natural peculiarities, or of circumstances they are not responsible for. but within the last generation the condition of feminine celibacy has greatly altered. it is a fact that women in this day, considerately, and in the first glory of their youth, elect themselves to that condition. some have imbibed from high culture a high conception of the value of life, and of what they ought to do with their lives; and they will not waste the days of their youth in looking for a husband in order to begin their work. others have strong individuality, and refuse to give up their time into another's keeping. the force of character displayed by such resolutions naturally leads to celibacy. no one but a very weak man would be attracted by women of such vital purpose, and weak men would not be tolerated by such strong women. the wise and the thoughtful may well give such voluntary old maids the full credit of their purpose, for the generality will not believe in resolutions so much above their own consciences and intelligence. they will still sneer at their condition, and refuse to admit that it is of choice. they will throw at them that wearisome old fable of the fox and the grapes, when they might much more correctly quote sappho's song of the ripe apples left on the topmost branches of the apple-trees: "not because they were forgotten of the gatherers, but because _they were out of their reach_." in accord with the fresh development, we are told that the number of unmarried women in the country is steadily on the increase. but this increase will not be ranged among the silly, the weak, or the cruel of the sex. it will come from that class of women whose eyes have been opened by the spread of education and refinement; women not afraid to work for themselves, and who indeed have thoughtfully concluded that their own efforts and their own company will be far better for them than the help and company of any man not perfectly in sympathy with them, or their inferior either in moral or mental calibre. for it is not always a duty to marry; but it is always a duty to live up to our highest conception of what is right and noble and elevating. but from whatever cause the women of the present and future generations remain unmarried, they will have no need to dread the condition, as unmarried women of the previous generations have had good cause to do. every year finds them more independent. they are constantly invading fresh trades, and stepping up into more important positions. they live in pretty chambers; they dress charmingly; they have a bank account; they go to the opera and the theatres in their own protection; and instead of being the humble poor relations of married sisters and brothers, they are now their equals, their patrons, and their honored guests. besides which, old maids have begun to write novels; and in them they have given us such exquisite portraits of their order--women so rich in every womanly grace--hat we are almost compelled to believe the unmarried women in our midst to be the salt of the community. at any rate, we are beginning to shift the blame and the obloquy of the position to the old bachelors, where it rightly belongs; and this is at least a move in the just and proper direction. for old bachelors have no excuse whatever for their condition. if we omit the natural and necessary exceptions, which are few enough, then pure selfishness and cowardice must account for every other case. their despised old-bachelorhood is all their own fault. they have always had the tremendous privilege of asking for what they wanted; and half the battle was in that privilege. men don't have wives because they don't ask for them; and they don't ask for them because they don't want them; and in this condition lie their shame and their degradation, and the well-deserved scorn with which the married part of both sexes regard them. men are also much more contemptible and useless in their celibacy than are women. an old maid can generally make herself of service to some one. if she is rich, she attaches herself to church work, or to art, or to the children of brothers and sisters. or she travels all over the world, and writes a book about her adventures. if she is poor, she works hard and saves money; and thus becomes an object of interest and respect in her own set. or she is nurse and helper for all that need her help in her village, or her church, or her family. at any rate, she never descends to such depths of ennui and selfishness as do the old bachelors who loll about on the club sofas, or who dawdle discontentedly at afternoon teas. an old maid may be troublesome in church business, or particular in household affairs; but it takes an old bachelor to quarrel with waiters and grumble every one insane about his dinner menu. an old maid may gossip, but she will not bore every one to death about her dyspepsia; and if she has to starve others, we may be very certain she would never fall under that tyranny of valets and janitors which are the "sling and arrows" of wealthy, selfish old bachelors. on the whole, then, the unmarried woman is becoming every year more self-reliant, and more respectable and respected, and the unmarried man more effeminate and contemptible. we look for a day, not far off, when a man will have to become a member of some religious order if he wishes a reputable excuse for his celibacy; and even in secular life it would not be a bad idea to clothe bachelors after forty years of age in a certain uniform. they might also after that age be advised to have their own clubs and recreations; for their assumption of equality with those of their sex who have done their duty as men and citizens is a piece of presumption that married men ought to resent. men who marry are the honorable progenitors of the future; and their self-denying, busy lives not only bless this generation, but prepare for the next one. the old bachelor is merely a human figure, without duties and without hopes. nationally and socially, domestically and personally, he is a spoon with nothing in it! the american girl one of the most interesting, piquant, and picturesque of all types of feminine humanity is the american girl,--not the hothouse variety, reared for the adornment of luxury, but the every-day, every-where girls that throng the roads leading to the public schools and the normal schools, and who, even, in a higher state of culture fill the halls of learned colleges with a wondrous charm and brightness,--girls who have an aim in life, a mission to fulfil, a home to order, who know the worth of money, who are not ashamed to earn it, and who manage out of limited means to compass all their desires for pretty dresses and summer vacations, and even their pet dream of an ocean voyage and a sight of the old world. physically, these girls enjoy life at its highest point. look at their flushed cheeks and bright, fearless eyes, and watch their light, swift, even steps. they have no complaint to make of the heat, or the sunshine, or the frost; they have not yet heard of the east wind. rain does not make them cross; and as for the snow, it throws them into a delicious excitement; while the wind blowing their dresses about them in colored clouds only makes them the more eager to try their strength against it. that these girls so physically lovely should have the proper mental training is a point of the gravest personal and national importance. and it is the glory of our age that this necessity has been nobly met. for the american girl, "wisdom has builded her house and hewn out her seven pillars;" and as she points to the lofty entrance she cries to all alike, "go up; the door is open!" if the girls of fifty years ago could have known the privileges of our era how would they have marvelled and rejoiced and desired "to see their day." but manifold as her privileges are, the american girl generally knows how to use them. she proves daily that the parable of the ten talents did not refer to men only. indeed, the fault girls are most likely to fall into is the belief that they each and all possess every one of the talents. in reality this is so seldom the case that it is impossible to educate all girls after one pattern; and it is therefore a grand thing for a girl to know just what she can and cannot do. for if she have only five talents there is no advantage to be gained by creating fictitious ones, since the noblest education is that which looks to the development of the natural abilities, whether they be few or many, fashionable or unfashionable. ask the majority of people "what is education?" and they will be apt to answer "the improvement of the mind." but this answer does not take us one step beyond the starting-point. probably the best and most generally useful rule for a girl is a deliberate and conscientious inquiry into her own nature and inclinations as to what she wants to do with her education. when she has faithfully answered the inquiry she is ready to prepare herself for this end. for it is neither necessary nor yet possible that every girl should know everything. besides which, the growth of individuality has made special knowledge a thing of great value, and on all occasions of importance we are apt to defer to it. if we cross the atlantic we look for a captain who has a special knowledge of its stormy ways. if we are really ill we go to a specialist on our ailment, no matter what "pathy" we prefer. special knowledge has a prima facie worth, and without inquiry into a subject we are inclined to consider specialists on the subject better informed than those who have not this qualification. hence the importance of cultivating some one talent to such perfection as will enable a girl, if need be, to turn it into money. there is another point in the preparation of the american girl for the duties of life which is often undervalued, or even quite ignored; it is the little remembered fact that all our moral and intellectual qualities are very dependent for their value on our surroundings. the old quakers used to lay great stress upon being "in one's right place." when the right person is in the right place there is sure to be a success in life; failure in this respect is almost certain misfortune; a fine accountant before the mass, a fine lady in the wilderness, are out of their places, and have lost their opportunity. and so educational accomplishments which would bring wealth and honor in a great city may be detrimental to happiness and a drag on duty in an isolated position. hence the importance of a girl finding out first of all what she wants to do with her education. for in this day she is by no means cramped in her choice; the most desirable occupations are open to her; she may select from the whole world her arena, and from the fullness thereof her reward. but if her object be a more narrow and conventional one, if all she wishes is to be loved and popular in her own small community, then--if she is wise--she will cultivate only such a happy arrangement of graceful, usual accomplishments as prevail among her class and friends. for a very clever woman cannot be at home with very many people. she is too large for the regular grooves of society; she does not fit into any of its small aims and enjoyments; and though she may have the kindest heart, it is her singularities only that will be taken notice of. if, then, popularity be a girl's desire, she must not obviously cultivate herself, must not lift herself above her surroundings, nor lift her aspirations higher than the aims which all humanity have in common. and it is a very good thing for humanity that so many nice girls are content and happy with such a life object; for the social and domestic graces are those which touch existence the closest, which sweeten its bitter griefs and brighten its dreariest hours. it would be foolish to assert that the american girl is without faults. physically and mentally, she may stand on her merits with any women in the world; morally, she has the shortcomings that are the shadows of her excellences. principally she is accused of a want of reverence, and setting aside for the present her faults as a daughter, it may be admitted that in general she has little of this quality. but it is largely the consequence of her environments. reverence is the virtue of ignorance; and the american girl has no toleration for ignorance. she is inquisitive, speculative, and inclined to rely on her own investigations; while the spirit of reverence demands, as its very atmosphere, trust and obedience. it is therefore more just to say that she is so alert and eager herself that when she meets old men and women who have learned nothing from their last fifty years of life, and who therefore can teach her nothing, she does not feel any impulse to offer reverence to mere years. but if gray hairs be honorable, either for matured wisdom, extensive information, or practical piety, she is generally inclined to give that best of all homage, the reverence which springs from knowledge and affection, and which is a much better thing than the mere forms of respect traditionally offered to old age. it is also said that the american girl is a very vain girl, fond of parading her beauty, freedom, and influence. but vanity is not a bad quality, if it does not run to excess. it is the ounce of leaven in a girl's character, and does a deal of good work for which it seldom gets any credit. for a great deed a great motive is necessary; but how numberless are the small social and domestic kindnesses for which vanity is a sufficient force, and which would be neglected or ill-done without its influence! as long as a girl's vanity does not derive its inspiration from self-love there is no necessity for her to wear sackcloth to humiliate it. we have all known women without vanity, and found them unpleasant people to know. there is one fault of the american girl which is especially her fault, and which ought not to be encouraged or palliated although it is essentially the shadow of some of her greatest excellences--the fault of being in too great a hurry at all the turning-points of her life. when she is in the nursery she aches to go to school. when she is a schoolgirl, she is impatient to put on long dresses and become a young lady. as soon as this fact is accomplished, she feels there is not a moment to lose in choosing either a career or a husband. she is always in a hurry about the future, and so frequently takes the wrong turn at the great events of life. she leaves school too soon; she leaves home too soon; she does everything at a rush, and does not do it as well as if she "made haste slowly." but what a future lies before these charmingly brilliant american girls, if they are able to take the fullest possession of it! the great obstacle in this achievement is the apparently wholesome opinion that education is sufficient. but the very best education will fall short of its privileges if it be not accompanied with that moral training which we call discipline. discipline is self-denial in all its highest forms; it teaches the excellent mean between license and repression; without it a girl may have plenitude of knowledge, and a lamentable want of sweetness; so that one only second rate on her intellectual side may be a thousand times more lovable than one who is first rate on her intellectual side, but lacks that fine flavor of character which comes from the expansion of noble inward forces, disciplined and directed to good ends. every one understands that no character, however intellectual, is worth anything that is not morally healthy; but morality in a woman is not in itself sufficient. she must have in addition all those charming virtues included in that word of many lights and shades and subtle meanings--womanliness; that word which signifies such a variety of things, but never anything but what is sweet and tender and gracious and beautiful. dangerous letter-writing young women are proverbially fond of playing with edged tools, and of all such dangerous playthings a habit of promiscuous, careless letter-writing is the worst; for in most cases the danger is not obvious at the time, and the writer may even have forgotten her imprudence when she has to meet the consequences. the romance, the gush, the having nothing particular to do, the almost insane egotism which makes some young women long to exploit their own hearts, caused poor madaline smith to write those foolish letters to a man whose every good quality she had to invent, and who afterwards tortured her with these very letters into a crime which made her stand for months within the shadow of the gallows. she had not patience to await until the real lover came, and then when he did come these fatal letters stood between her and her happiness, and her fair name. the very instinct which leads to constant letter-writing, goes with a constitutional want of caution, and therefore indicates a necessity for intelligent self-restraint. if young women, when writing letters, would only project themselves into the future and imagine a time when they might be confronted with the lines which they have just penned, many an ill-advised missive would go into the fire instead of into the mail bag. indeed, if letters at all doubtful in spirit or intent were laid aside until "next morning" many a wrong would be left undone, many a friendship would be preserved unbroken, and many an imprudence be postponed and so uncommitted. if indeed a woman could say truthfully, "this letter is my letter, and if mischief comes of it i alone have the penalty to pay," expansive correspondence might be less dangerous. but no one can thus limit folly or sin, and its consequence may even touch those who were not even aware of the writing of the letter. the abuse of letter-writing is one of the greatest trials of the epoch. distance, which used to be a protection, is now done away with. every one cries out, and insists upon your listening. they write events while they are only happening. people unknown intrude upon your time and take possession of it. enmities and friendships thousands of miles away scold or caress; one is exacting, another angry, a third lays upon your conscience obligations which he has invented. for a mere nothing--a yes, or a no--idle, gushing people fire off continual notes and insist upon answers. now this kind of letter-writing exists only because postage is cheap; if such correspondents had to pay twenty-five cents for giving their opinions, they would not give them at all. it is an impertinence also, for though we may like persons well enough to receive from them a visit, or even to return it, it is a very different thing to be called upon to retire ourselves with pen and ink and note paper, and give away time and interest which we are not inclined to give. plenty of girls write very clever letters,--letters that are an echo of their own circle, full of a sweet audacity and an innocent swagger of knowledge of the world and of the human heart that is very engaging. and the temptation to write such letters is very great, especially as both the writer and her friends are apt to imagine them evidence of a large amount of genius. indeed, some who have a specially bright pen, or else a specially large circle of admirers and flatterers, arrive speedily at the conviction that they can just as easily write a book. so without reason and without results, they get themselves heart-burning and heart-ache and disappointment. for there is absolutely no kindred whatever between this graceful, piquant eloquence _du billet_ and the fancy, observation, and experience necessary to successful novel writing. if a girl really has a vein of true sentiment, she ought not at this day to give it away in letter-writing. there is a safer and more profitable way to use it; she can now take it to market and sell it for pudding, for the magazines and ladies' newspapers. sentiment and fancy have a commercial value; and instead of sealing them up in a two-cent envelope for an acquaintance,--who is likely very unappreciative, and who perhaps tosses them into the fire with a contemptuous adjective,--she might send them to some long-suffering editor. these men know the depths of the girlish heart in this respect, and they have a patience in searching for the gold among the dross that is not generally believed in. therefore, if a girl must write, let her send her emotions to the newspapers; an editor is a far more prudent confidant than her very dearest friend. really, the day for letter-writing is past. as an art it is dead, as convenience it remains; but it has lost all sentiment. even madame de sévigné could not be charming on a postal card, and for genuine information the general idea is to put it into twenty words and send it by telegraph. so, then, it is a good thing for young women to get over, as soon as possible, the tendency of their years to sentimental letter-writing. they will thus save themselves many a heart-ache in the present and many a fear for the future. for if they do not write letters they cannot feel hurt because they are not answered. they cannot worry because they have said something imprudent. they will not make promises, in the exaltation of composition, which they will either break or hate to keep when they are in their sober senses. they will also preserve their friendships longer, for they will not deprive them altogether of that charm which leaves something to the imagination. of course there are yet such things as absolutely necessary letters; and these, in their way, ought to be made as perfect as possible. fortunately, perfection in this respect is easily attainable, its essentials being evident to all as soon as they are stated. first, a letter which demands or deserves the attention of an answer, ought to have it as promptly as if we were paying a bill. second, we ought to write distinctly, for bad handwriting represents a very dogged, self-asserting temper,--one, too, which is unfair, because if we put forward our criticisms and angularities in a personal meeting, they can be returned in kind, but to send a letter that is almost unintelligible admits of no reprisal but an answer in some equally provoking scrawl. even if the writing is only careless, and may be read with a little trouble, we have no right to impose that extra trouble. third, it is a good thing to write short letters. the cases in which people have written long letters, and not been sorry for having done so, are doubtless very rare. no one will ever be worse for just saying plainly what she has to say and then signing her name to it plainly and in full. for a name half signed is not only a vulgarity, it indicates a character unfinished, uncertain, and hesitating. there is a kind of correspondence which is a special development of our special civilization, and which it is to be hoped will be carefully avoided by the young woman of the future,--that is, the writing of letters begging autographs. a woman who does this thing has a passion which she ought immediately to arrest and compel to give an account of itself. if she did so, she would quickly discover that it is a mean passion, masquerading in a character it has no right to, and no sympathy with. an autograph beggar is a natural development, though not a very creditable one. she doubtless began her career of accumulation with collecting birds' eggs in the country, where they could be got for nothing. butterflies were probably her next ambition. then perhaps that mysterious craze for postage stamps followed. after such a training, the mania for autographs would come as a matter of course. and the sole and whole motive of the collecting business is nothing at all but the vulgar love of possessing, and especially of possessing what costs nothing. it is amusing and provoking to notice the air of complaisance with which some of these begging epistles are suffused. the writers seem incapable of conceiving statesmen, artists, and authors who will not be as pleased to give as they are to ask. but in reality, a man or a woman, however distinguished, who feels a request for his or her autograph to be a compliment, is soaked in self-conceit, and the large majority certainly do look upon such requests as simply impertinent begging letters. the request, indeed, carries an affront with it, no matter how civilly it may be worded, as it is not that particular autograph that is wanted, for the beggars generally prefix as an excuse the bare-faced fact that they have already begged hundreds. certainly no self-respecting woman will care to put herself among the host of these contemptible seekers after a scrap of paper. speaking broadly, a woman's character may be in many respects fairly gauged by her habits on the subject of letter-writing; as fairly, indeed, as we may gauge a man's by his methods of dealing with money. if we know how a man gets money, how he spends it, how he lends it, borrows it, or saves it, we have a perfect measurement for his temper and capabilities. and if we know how a woman deals with her letters, how many she gets, how many she sends, how long or how short they are, if they are sprawly and untidy, or neat and cleanly, and how they are signed and sealed, then we can judge her nature very fairly, for she has written herself down in an open book, and all who wish may read her. flirts and flirtation flirting is the product of a highly civilized state of society. people in savage, or even illiterate life have no conception of its delicate and indefinable diplomacy. a savage sees a woman "that pleases him well," pays the necessary price for her, and is done with the affair. jane in the kitchen and john in the field look and love, tell each other the reason why, and get married. "keeping company," which is their nearest approach to flirtation, has a definite and well-understood end in view, the approaches to which are unequivocal and admit of no other translation. flirts are of many kinds. there is the quiet, "still-water" flirt, who leads her captives by tender little sighs and pretty, humble, beseeching ways; who hangs on every word a man says, asks his advice, his advice only, because it is so much better than any one else's. that is her form of the art, and a very effective one it is. again, the flirt is demonstrative and daring. she tempts, dazzles, tantalizes her victims by the very boldness with which she approaches that narrow but deep rubicon dividing flirting from indiscretion. but she seldom crosses it; up to a certain point she advances without hesitation, but at once there is a dead halt, and the flirtee finds that he has been taken a fool's journey. there are sentimental flirts, sly little pusses, full of sweet confidences and small secrets, and who delight in asking the most suggestive and seductive questions. "does willy really believe in love marriages?" or, "is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?" etc. intellectual flirts hover about young poets and writers, or haunt studios and libraries, and doubtless are delightfully distracting to the young ideas shooting in those places. everybody knows a variety of the religious flirt,--those demure lilies of the ecclesiastical garden, that grow in the pleasant paths where pious young rectors and eligible saints walk. perhaps, as their form of flirting takes the shape of votive offerings, district visiting, and choir singing, their perpetual gush of sentiment and hero-worship is advantageous, on the principle that it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. all of these female varieties have their counterparts among male flirts, and besides, there are some masculine types flagrantly and universally common. such is the bold, handsome bird of prey, who advances just far enough to raise expectation and then suddenly retires. or the men who are always _insinuating_, but who never make an honest declaration; who raise vague hopes with admirable skill and poetic backgrounds, and keep women madly and hopefully in love with them by looks and gestures they never give an interpretation to. when they are tired they retire slowly, without quarrel, without explanation; they simply allow their implied promises to die of neglect. then there is the prudent flirt, who trifles only with married women; dangles after those subtle, handsome creatures who affect blighted lives and uncomfortable husbands, and who, having married for convenience, are flirting for love. such women are safe entertainment for the cowardly male flirt, who fears a flirtation that leads perchance to matrimony, but who has no fears about his liability to commit bigamy. there are "fatherly" male flirts, and "brotherly" and "friendly" flirts, but the title is nothing but an agreed-upon centre of operations. yet it is difficult to imagine how, in a polished state of society, flirting could be done without. some sort of preliminary examination into tastes, disposition, and acquirements is necessary before matrimony, and a woman cannot carry a list of her desirable qualities, nor a man advertise his temper and his income. the trouble is that no definite line can be drawn, no scale of moral values can decide where flirting ends and serious attentions begin; and society never agrees as to what is innocent and what reprehensible. there are ill-natured people who call every bright, merry girl that is a favorite with gentlemen, that talks, sings, and dances well, a "terrible flirt;" who admit nothing as propriety but what is conventionally correct and insipid. the media of flirting are indeed endless; a clever woman can find in simply _listening_ a method of conveying the most delicate flattery and covert admiration. indeed, flirting in its highest quality is an art requiring the greatest amount of tact and skill, and women who would flirt and be blameless, no matter how vast their materials, must follow opie's plan and "mix them with brains." it used to be a maxim that no gentleman could be refused by a lady, because he would never presume beyond the line of her encouragement; therefore it is to be presumed, on this rule, no lady advances further than she is willing to ratify. but such a state of society would be very stupid and formal, and we should miss a very piquant flavor in life, which even very good and great people have not been able to resist. upon this rule we must convict queen elizabeth as an arrant flirt, and "no lady;" we should be compelled to shake our heads at the fair thrale and the great dr. johnson, at naughty horace walpole and mrs. hannah more, and to even look with suspicion on george whitefield and "good lady huntingdon." no, in polished society flirting in a moderate form is an amusement, and an investigation so eminently suited to the present condition of the sexes that a much better one could be better spared. in one case only does it admit of no extenuating circumstances,--that of the married flirt of both sexes. a flirt may not indeed be an altogether lovely character, even with all her alluring faults; but she is something a great deal nicer than a prude. all men prefer a woman who trusts them, or gayly challenges them to a combat, in which she proposes their capture, to her who affects horror at masculine tastes and ways, and is always expecting them to do some improper, or say some dreadful, thing. depend upon it, if all the flirts were turned into prudes, society would have gone further to fare worse. on falling in love "something there is moves me to love; and i do know i love, but know not how, or why." there is in love no "wherefore;" and we scarcely expect it. the working-world around must indeed give us an account of their actions, but lovers are not worth much in the way of rendering a reason; for half the charm of love-making lies in the defiance of everything that is reasonable, in asserting the incredible, and in believing the impossible. and surely we may afford ourselves this little bit of glamour in an age judging everything by the unconditional and the positive; we may make little escapades into love-land, when all the old wonder-lands, from the equator to the pole, are being mapped out, and dotted over with railway depots, and ports of entry. falling in love is an eminently impractical piece of business, and yet nature--who is no blunderer--generally introduces the boy and girl into active adult life by this very door. in the depths of this delicious foolishness the boyish heart grows to the measure of manhood; bats and boats and "fellows" are forever deposed, and lovely woman reigns in their stead. to boys, first love is, perhaps, more of an event than to girls, for the latter have become familiar with the routine of love-making long before they are seriously in love. they sing about it in connection with flowers and angels and the moon; they read moore and tennyson; they have perhaps been the confidants of elder sisters. they are waiting for their lover, and even inclined to be critical; but the first love of a boy is generally a surprise--he is taken unawares, and surrenders at discretion. perhaps it is a good stimulant to faith in general, that in the very outset of it we should believe in such an unreasonable and wonderful thing as first love. tertullian held some portions of his faith simply "because they were impossible." it is no bad thing for a man to begin life with a grand passion,--to imagine that no one ever loved before him, and that no one who comes after him will ever love to the same degree that he does. this absolute passion, however, is not nearly so common as it might well be; and rochefoucauld was not far wrong when he compared it to the ghosts that every one talks about, but very few see. it generally arises out of extreme conditions of circumstances or feelings; its food is contradiction and despair. it is doubtful if romeo and juliet would have cared much for each other if the montagues and capulets had been friends and allies, and the marriage of their children a necessary state arrangement; and byron is supported by all reasonable evidence when he doubtfully inquires: "if laura, think you, had been petrarch's wife, would he have written sonnets all his life?" this excessive passion does not thrive well either in a high state of civilization. "king cophetua and the beggar-maid" is the ballad of an age when love really "ruled the court, the camp, the grove." the nineteenth century is not such an age. at the very best, king cophetua would now do pretty much as the judge did with regard to maud muller. still no one durst say that even in such a case it was not better to have loved and relinquished than never to have loved at all. "better for all that some sweet hope lies deeply buried from human eyes." how can love be the be-all and the end-all of life with us, when steam-looms and litigation, railway shares and big bonanzas, cotton and corn, literature and art, politics and dry goods, and a thousand other interests share our affections and attentions? it is impossible that our life should be the mere machinery of a love plot; it is rather a drama in which love is simply one of the _dramatis personæ_. this fact is well understood, even if not acknowledged in words; the sighs and the fevers, the hoarding of flowers and gloves, the broken hearts and shattered lives, all for the sake of one sweet face, still exist in literature, but not much in life. lovers of to-day are more given to considering how to make housekeeping as easy as matrimony than to writing sonnets to their mistresses' eyebrows. the very devotion of ancient times would now be tedious, its long protestations a bore, and we lovers of the nineteenth century would be very apt to yawn in the very face of a sixteenth-century cupid. let the modern lover try one of amadis' long speeches to his lady, and she would likely answer, "don't be tiresome, jack; let us go to thomas' and hear the music and eat an ice-cream." is love, then, in a state of decay? by no means--it has merely accommodated itself to the spirit of the age; and this spirit demands that the lives of men shall be more affected by hymen than by cupid. lovers interest society now solely as possible husbands and wives, fathers and mothers of the republic. lord lytton points out this fact as forcibly exemplified in our national dramas. every one feels the love scenes in a play, the sentimental dialogues of the lovers, fatiguing; but a matrimonial quarrel excites the whole audience, and it sheds its pleasantest tears over their reconciliation. for few persons in any audience ever have made, or ever will make, love as poets do; but the majority have had, or will have, quarrels and reconciliations with their wives. "men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them--but not for love;" and if this was true of shakespeare's times, it is doubly so of ours. if there ever was any merit in dying for love, we fail to see it; occasionally a man will wildly admit that he is making a fool of himself for this or that woman, but though we may pity him, we don't respect him for such a course. women, still more rarely than men, "make fools of themselves" on this score; and in spite of all poets assert to the contrary, they are eminently reasonable, and their affections bear transplanting. in other respects we quite ignore the inflation of old love terms. "our fate," "our destiny," etc., resolve themselves into the simplest and most natural of events; a chat on a rainy afternoon, a walk home in the moonlight, mere contiguity for a season, are the agents which often decide our love affairs. and yet, below all this, lies that inexplicable something which seems to place this bit of our lives beyond our wisest thoughts. we can't fall in love to order, and all our reasoning on the subject resolves itself into a conviction that under certain inexplicable conditions, "it is possible for anybody to fall in love with anybody else." perhaps this is a part of what artemus ward calls the "cussedness" of things in general; but at any rate we must admit that if "like attracts like," it attracts unlike too. the scholar marries the foolish beauty; the beauty marries an ugly man, and admires him. poverty intensifies itself by marrying poverty; plenty grows plethoric by marrying wealth. but how far love is to blame for these strange attractions, who can tell? probably a great deal that passes for love is only reflected self-love, the passion to acquire what is generally admired or desired. thus beautiful women are often married as the most decorous way of gratifying male vanity. a pleasant anecdote, as the scotch say, _anent_ this view, is told of the duc de guise, who after a long courtship prevailed on a celebrated beauty to grant him her hand. the lady observing him very restless, asked what ailed him. "ah, madame," answered the lover, "i ought to have been off long ago to communicate my good fortune to all my friends." but the motives and influences that go to make up so highly complex an emotion as love are beyond even indication, though the subject has been a tempting one to most philosophical writers. even comte descends from the positive and unconditional to deify the charmingly erratic feminine principle; michelet, after forty volumes of history, rests and restores himself by penning a book on love; the pale, religious pascal, terrified at the vastness of his own questions, comforts himself by an analysis of the same passion; and herbert spencer has gone _con amore_ into the same subject. but love laughs at philosophy, and delights in making fools of the wise for its sake. it is easy to construct a theory, but the first touch of a white hand may demolish it; easy to make resolutions, but the first glance of a pair of bright eyes may send them packing. it is easy for men to be philosophers, when they are not lovers; but when once they fall in love there is no distinction then between the fool and the wise man. however, we can be thankful that love no longer demands such outward and visible tokens of slavery as she used to. in this day lovers address their mistresses as women--not goddesses. indeed we should say now of men who serve women on their knees, "_when they get up, they go away_." engaged to be married "woo'd and married and a'. woo'd and married and a': an' is na she very weel aff that is woo'd and married and a'?" it is a beautiful fancy that marriages are ordained in heaven; it is a practical fact that they are made on earth; and that what we call "our destiny," or "our fate," is generally the result of favorable opportunities, sympathetic circumstances, or even pleasant contiguity for a season. hence we always expect after the summer vacation to hear of a number of "engagements." the news is perennially interesting; we may have seen the parties a thousand times, but their first appearance in their new character excites all our curiosity. generally the woman expands and beautifies, rises with the occasion, and puts on new beauty with the confidence of an augmenting wardrobe and an assured position. there is nothing ridiculous in her attitude; her wedding trousseau and marriage presents keep her in a delightful state of triumphant satisfaction, and if she has "done well unto herself," she feels entitled to the gratitude of her family and the envy of all her female acquaintance. the case is not so socially pleasant for her accomplice; it is always an awkward thing for a man to announce his engagement. his married friends ask him prosaic questions, and "wish him joy,"--a compliment which of itself implies a doubt; or they tell him he is going to do a wise thing, and treat him in the interval as if he was naturally in a state of semi-lunacy. his bachelor friends receive the news either with a fit of laughter, an expressive, long-drawn whistle, or at best with the assurance that they "consider marriage a good thing, though they are not able to carry out their principles." but he is soon aware that they regard him virtually as a deserter; they make parties without including him; he drops out of their consultations; he has lost his caste among the order of young men, and has not been admitted among the husbands of the community; he hangs between two states; is not of _that_, nor yet quite of _this_. naturally enough, there are a variety of opinions on the subject of prolonging or cutting as short as possible this preliminary stage. those who regard marriage as a kind of commerce, whose clearing house is st. thomas's or st. bartholomew's, will, of course, prefer to clinch the contemplated arrangement as soon as possible. their business is intelligible; there is "no nonsense about them;" and, upon the whole, the sooner they get to ordering dinner and paying taxes the better. many of us have sat waiting in a dentist's room with a tooth-ache similar to that which made burns "cast the wee stools owre the meikle;" and some of us have watched for an editor's decision with feelings which would gladly have annihilated the interval. but it is not alone the prosaic and the impatient who are averse to a long engagement: the methodical, whose arrangements it tumbles upside down; the busy, whose time it appropriates; the selfish, who are compelled during it to make continual small sacrifices; the shy, who feel as if all the other relations of life had retired into the background in order to exhibit them as "engaged men;" the greedy, who look upon the expected love-offerings as so much tribute money,--these and many other varieties of lovers would gladly simplify matrimony by reducing its preliminaries to a question and a ceremony. yet if love is to have anything like the place in life that it has in poetry; if we really believe that marriage ought to be founded on sympathy of tastes and principles; if we have any faith in that mighty ruler of hearts and lives, a genuine love affair,--we shall not wish to dim the glory of marriage by denying it this sojourn in a veritable enchanted land; for in its atmosphere many fine feelings blossom that never would have birth at all if the niceties of courtship were superseded by the levelling rapidity of marriage. if people are _really_ in love they gain more than they lose by a reasonable delay. there is time for the reading and writing of love-letters, one of the sweetest experiences of life; the tongue and pen get familiar with affectionate and noble sentiments; indeed i doubt if there is any finer school for married life than a full course of love-letters. but if the marriage follow immediately on the engagement, all love-letters and all love-making must necessarily have a flavor of furniture and dress, and of "considerations." i admit that love-making is an unreasonable and impractical piece of business; but in this lies all its charm. it delights in asserting the incredible and believing the impossible. but, after all, it is in the depths of this delicious foolishness that the heart attains its noblest growth. life may have many grander hopes and calmer joys in store,-- "but there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream." therefore we ought to look with complaisance, if not with approbation, on young people serenely passing through this phase of their existence; but the fact is, we are apt to regard it as a little trial. lovers are so happy and self-satisfied that they do not understand why everybody else is not in the same supreme condition. if the house is ever so small, they expect a clear room to themselves. yet such an engagement, of reasonable length, is to be advised wherever young people are tender and constant in nature, and really in love with each other. i would only ask them to be as little demonstrative in public as possible, and to carry their happiness meekly, for, in any case, they will make large demands on the love, patience, and toleration of their friends. but perhaps one of the greatest advantages of a prolonged engagement is the security it brings against a _mésalliance_. now, to a man a _mésalliance_ is the heaviest weight he can carry through life; but to a woman it is simply destruction. the best women have an instinctive wish to marry a man superior to themselves in some way or other; for their honor is in their husbands, and their status in society is determined by his. a woman who, for a passing fancy, marries a man in any way her inferior wrongs herself, her family, and her whole life; for the "grossness of his nature" will most probably drag her to his level. now and then a woman of great force of character may lift her husband upward, but she accepts such a labor at the peril of her own higher life. should she find it equally impossible to lift him to her level or to sink to his, what remains? life-long regrets, bitter shame and self-reproach, or a forcible setting of herself free. but the latter, like all severe remedies, carries desperation instead of hope, with it. never can she quite regain her maiden place; an _aura_ of a doubtful kind fetters and influences her in every effort or relation of her future life. in the early glamour of a love affair, women do not see these things, but fathers and mothers do; they know that "the world is _not_ well lost for love," and they have a right to protest against such folly. in an imprudent love affair, every day is so much gained; therefore when this foolishness is bound up in the heart of a youth or a maiden, the best of all plans is to arrange for time,--as long an engagement as possible. but i will suppose that all my unmarried readers have found proper mates who will stand the test of parental wisdom and a fairly long and exacting engagement, and that after some happy months they will not only be "woo'd," but "married and a'." now begins their real life, and for the woman the first step is _renunciation_. she must give up with a good grace the exaggeration and romance of love-making, and accept in its place that far better tenderness which is the repose of passion, and which springs from the tranquil depths of a man's best nature. the warmest-hearted and most unselfish women soon learn to accept quiet trust and the loyalty of a loving life as the calmest and happiest condition of marriage; and the men who are sensible enough to rely on the good sense of such wives sail round the gushing adorers, both for true affection and comfortable tranquillity. just let a young wife remember that her husband necessarily is under a certain amount of bondage all day; that his interests compel him to look pleasant under all circumstances to offend none, to say no hasty word, and she will see that when he reaches his own fireside he wants most of all to have this strain removed to be at ease; but this he cannot be if he is continually afraid of wounding his wife's sensibilities by forgetting some outward and visible token of his affection for her. besides, she pays him but a poor compliment in refusing to believe what he does not continually assert; and by fretting for what it is unreasonable to desire she deeply wrongs herself, for-- "a woman moved is like a fountain troubled, muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty." shall our daughters have dowries? those who occupy themselves reading that writing on the wall which we call "signs of the times" may ponder awhile the question which mr. messinger puts with such plaintive appeal to the parents of this generation: "shall our daughters have dowries?" but in the very commencement of his argument he abandons the case he has voluntarily taken up, and enters a plea, not for the daughters, but for the young men who may wish to marry the daughters. also in urging upon parents the duty of endowing their daughters he seems to have lost sight of the fact that "dowry," in its very spirit and intention, does not propose to care for the husband, but is solely in the interest of the wife. he asserts, doubtless with accuracy, that the average income of young men is $ , a year, and he finds in this fact a sufficient reason for the decrease of marriage among them. it is no reason at all; for a large and sensible proportion of young men do marry and live happily and respectably on $ , a year, and those who cannot do so are very clearly portrayed by mr. messinger, and very little respected by any sensible young woman. but it is not to be believed that they form any preponderating or influential part of that army of young men who are the to-morrow of our great republic. let any reader count, from such young men as are known to him, the number who would divide their $ , as mr. messinger supposes them to do:-- dress for self and wife $ apartments amusements i venture to say the proportion would be very small indeed. for the majority of young men know that nothing worth having is lost in the sharing. they meet in their own circle some modest, home-making girl whom they love so truly that they can tell her exactly what their income is, and then they find out that their own ideas of economy were crude and extravagant compared with the wondrous ways and means which reveal themselves to a loving woman's comprehension of the subject. the oranges, rutherford, and every suburb of new york are full of pretty little homes supported without worry, and with infinite happiness, upon $ , a year, and perhaps, indeed, upon less money. the difficulty with the class of young men whose case mr. messinger pleads is one deserving of no sympathy. it is a difficulty evoked by vanity and self-conceit, of which fashion and mrs. grundy are the bugbears. why should a young man capable of making only $ , a year expect to marry a girl whose parents are rich enough to guard her "from every wind of heaven, lest it visit her face too roughly"? "is it fair treatment of the expected husband," mr. messinger asks, that a girl "should be habituated to live without work and then be handed over to her husband with nothing but her clothing and bric-à-brac?" yes, it is quite fair treatment. if the husband with his $ , a year elects to marry a girl not habituated to work, he does it of his own choice: the father of the girl is probably not at all desirous of his alliance; then why should the father deprive himself of the results of his own labor and economy to undo the folly and vanity of the young man's selection? as for the girl, if she has deliberately preferred her lover to her father, mother, home, and to all the advantages of wealth, she has the desire of her heart. it may be quite fair that she should have this desire, but it may be very unfair that her father, mother, and perhaps her brothers and sisters, should be robbed to make her desire less self-sacrificing to her. for if the young man with his poverty is acceptable to both the daughter and her parents, the latter may be safely trusted to do all that is right in the circumstances. the most objectionable part of mr. messinger's argument is the servile and mercenary aspect in which it places marriage. "what equality can exist," he asks, "where one (the man) supplies all the means of subsistence and performs all the labor?" that a husband should provide the means of subsistence is the very magna charta of honorable marriage; and nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand so accept it. it is the precise point on which all true husbands feel the most keenly sensitive. they want no other man--no matter what his relationship or friendship--to support their wives. and under no circumstances does the husband perform all the labor resulting from a marriage. that he may be a true man, a father and a citizen, it is necessary that he have a home; and in the care of the home, in the bringing-forth and the bringing-up of the family, in the constant demands upon her love and sympathy, the wife performs a never-ceasing multitude of duties that tax her heart and her body in every direction,--a labor of love in comparison with which her husband's daily routine over his "entries" or his "orders" is a trifling drain of vitality. for a wife and mother must keep every faculty and feeling "at attention;" but a clerk over his ledger keeps a dozen faculties on the premises to do the work of one. and in behalf of all true and trusted wives i deny in totality the idea that they go to their husbands with "painful shrinking" for the money necessary to carry on the mutual home, or that there is in any beloved wife's heart the most fleeting thought of "dependence." mr. messinger does a great and shameful wrong to the majority of husbands and wives by such an assertion. indeed, this gentleman's experience seems to have been an unusually sad one, nine out of ten of his friends having died in early middle age from the undue expenditure of nerve and vital force in their efforts to provide for their families in what they doubtless considered a suitable manner; and he evidently thinks that if their wives had been dowered this result would probably have been averted. it is extremely improbable. the wife's small income would far more likely have led to a still more extravagant way of living; for the genius of the american is to live for to-day and take care for the morrow when the morrow comes. in many respects it is the genius of the age. old forms of thought and action are in a state of transition. no one can tell what to-morrow may bring forth. the social conditions which inspired the fathers of the past to save for their posterity are passing away; and i speak from knowledge when i assert that they were often conditions of domestic misery and wrong, and that growing children suffered much under them. suppose a father has two daughters and three sons; must he curtail the daughters in the education and pleasures of their youth, must he limit the three boys at home and at college, in order to give a sum of money to some unknown young man who will doubtless vow that his daughter's heart and person are more than all the world to him? if she be not more than all the world to him, he has no right to marry her; and if she be, what can be added to a gift so precious? the tendency of the time is to dishonor marriage in every way; but the deepest wrong, the most degrading element that can be introduced, is to make it dependent upon dowries or any other financial consideration. we must remember also that in england, where dowry has been a custom, it was one not particularly affecting those classes whose daughters are likely to marry clerks upon small salaries. it was the provision made by landed gentry for their daughters, and they exacted in return an equally suitable settlement from the expectant husband. if the father gave a sum of money to the bride, the bridegroom generally gave the dower-house, with the furniture, silver, linen, etc., which would make it a proper home for her widowhood. many a marriage has been broken off because the bridegroom would not make such settlements as the father considered the dower demanded. mr. messinger acknowledges that the cost of living was never so small as at this day, and that the difficulty in the way of young men marrying is "purely one of insane imitation and competition." but there is no necessity for this insane competition; and why provide an unusual and special remedy for what is purely optional? nobody compels the young husband to live as if his income was $ , instead of $ , . of his own free will he sacrifices his life to his vanity, and there is no justice in attempting his relief by dowering his perhaps equally guilty wife out of the results of another man's industry and economy. dowry is an antiquated provision for daughters, behind the genius of the age, incompatible with the dignity of american men and the intelligence and freedom of american women. besides, there are very likely to be two, three, four, or more daughters in a house; how could a man of moderate means save for all of them? and what would become of the sons? the father who gives his children a loving, sensible mother, who provides them with a comfortable home, and who educates fully all their special faculties, and teaches them the cunning in their ten fingers, dowers his daughters far better than if he gave them money. he has funded for them a provision that neither a bad husband nor an evil fate can squander. he has done his full duty, and every good girl will thankfully so accept it. as for the young men who could imagine themselves spending, out of $ , , $ upon dress and amusements, neither the world, nor any sensible woman in it, will be the worse for their celibacy. for if they take a wife, it will doubtless be some would-be stylish, foolish virgin, whose soft hands are of no earthly use except as ring-stands and glove-stretchers. it is such marriages that are failures. it is in such pretentious homes that love and moderate means cannot live happily together. it is in such weak hands that pandora's box shuts, not on hope, but on despair. the brave, sensible youth does not fear to face life and all its obligations on $ , a year. with love it is enough to begin with. hope, ambition, industry, good fortune, are his sureties for the future. however well educated he may be, he knows that in his own class he will find lovely women equally well educated. they may be teaching, clerking, sewing, but they are his peers. he has no idea of marrying a young lady accustomed to servants and luxury, and the question of dower never occurs to him. the good girl who supplements his industry by her economy, who cheers him with her sympathy, who shares all his thoughts and feelings, and crowns his life with love and consolation, has all the dowry he wants. and this is an opinion founded on a long life of observation,--an opinion that fire cannot burn out of me. the ring upon the finger rings were probably the first ornaments ever worn, though in the earliest ages they had a meaning far beyond mere adornment. the stories of judah and tamar, of pharaoh and joseph, of ahasuerus and haman, show that as pledges of good faith, as marks of favor, and as tokens of authority, they were the recognized symbols. the fashion was an eastern one, for the jews were familiar with it before their sojourn in egypt; indeed, it may have been one of those primeval customs which shem, ham, and japhet saved from the wreck of an earlier world. certainly the people of syria and the lords of palestine and tyre used rings in the earliest times; and it is remarkable that they bore the same emblem which ancient mexican rings bear,--the constellation of pisces. as an ornament, however, the ring is least important; it is an emblem. the charmed circle has potency and romance. great faith in all ages has been placed in charmed rings. greeks and romans possessed them, and the scandinavian nations had a superstitious faith in such amulets; indeed, as chronicles declare, it is hard to compute how much william was indebted for his victory over harold to the influence of the ring he wore, which had been blessed and hallowed. as curative agencies, rings have also played a curious part. until the georgian era, rings blessed by the king or queen on good friday were thought to control epilepsy and other complaints, and something of this secret power is still acknowledged by the superstitious, who wear around their necks rings or coins that have been blessed. rings have also been agencies for death, as well as for life. in all ages they have been receptacles for subtle poisons, and thus hannibal and demosthenes armed themselves against an extremity of evil fortune. in the life of the english queen elizabeth, rings had an extraordinary importance. she was notified of her ascension to the throne by the presentation of mary's ring. the withholding of the ring sent by essex caused her to die in a passion of remorse and re-awakened affection; and no sooner was the great struggle over than her ring was taken from her scarcely cold finger and flung out of the window to sir john harrington, who hastened over the border with it to the scottish james. there are some curious traditions regarding the stones usually set in rings. the ruby or carbuncle was thought to guard against illness. the sapphire was the favorite of churchmen, and was thought to inspire pure desires. epiphanes says the first tables of the law were written on sapphires. the emerald bestowed cheerfulness and increased wealth. the opal was said to make a man invisible, the jacinth to procure sleep, and the turquoise to appease quarrels between man and wife. things are much changed, however, since heathen sages and rosicrucian alchemists defined the qualities and powers of gems. we have commercial "rings" now, which laugh emerald ones to scorn as means of procuring wealth. if the opal could make a man invisible, it might be popular on the first of a month, but we have better narcotics than the jacinth, while the elaborateness of our women's toilets gives husbands manifold opportunities of peace-making, quite as successful as the turquoise. the jews first used it in marriage. for this purpose they required it to have a certain value, and to be finally and fully purchased. if it was bought on credit, or taken as a gift, its power was destroyed. the christian church early adopted the custom of the marriage ring. it was placed first on the thumb, in the name of the "father;" then removed to the first finger, in the name of the "son;" to the third with the name of the "holy ghost;" and the "amen" fixed its place on the fourth. rings were also the emblem of spiritual marriage and dignity as early as the third century. in the romish church the episcopal ring is of gold set with a rich gem. the pope has two rings, one bearing the likeness of st. peter, used for ordinary business; the other bearing a cross, and the heads of both peter and paul, and the reigning pope's name and arms. it is used only for bulls, and is broken at the death of the pontiff; and a new one given by the city of rome to his successor. these rings of spiritual office were frequently worn on the thumb, and when the tomb of bede was opened in may, , a large thumb-ring was found where the right hand had fallen to dust. the ring has been used not only for carnal and spiritual weddings, but also for commercial ones. for six hundred years the doges of venice married, with a gold ring, the adriatic and its rich commerce to their city on the sea. as an emblem of delegated or transmitted power, the ring has also played a remarkable part in human affairs. pharaoh and ahasuerus in biblical records are examples. alexander transferred his kingdom to perdicas with his ring. when cæsar received the head of pompey, he also received his ring, and when richard the second resigned his crown to henry of lancaster, he did so by giving him his ring. the coronation ring of england is of gold, in which is set a large violet ruby, carved with the cross of st. george. the custom of engraving sacred emblems upon rings for common wear was angrily reproved by so early a sage as pythagoras; and this heathen's delicacy about sacred things is commended to the notice of those women of our own day, who toss the holy symbol of our faith around the toilet tables, and wear it in very unconsecrated places. however, i have said enough to prove that the ring upon our finger is a link between us and the centuries beyond the flood. we cannot escape this tremendous solidarity of the human race. we are part of all that has been, and the generations that follow us will look back to us and say, "they were our fathers, and we are their heirs, and lo, we are all one!" flirting wives if some good and thoughtful woman who died fifty years ago could return to this world, what in our present life would most astonish her? would it be the wonders of steam, electricity, and science; the tyranny of the working classes, or the autocracy of servants? no! it would be the amazing development of her own sex,--the preaching, lecturing, political women; the women who are doctors and lawyers; who lose and win money on horses, or in stocks and real estate; the women who talk slang, and think it an accomplishment; who imitate men's attire and manners; who do their athletic exercises in public; and, perhaps more astonishing than all, the women who make marriage the cloak for much profitable post-nuptial flirtation. for her own sex engaged in business, she might find excuses or even admiration; and even for the unfeminine girls of the era, she might plead mrs. poyser's opinion, that "the women are made to suit the men." but for young wives notorious for their flirting and their "followers," she could have nothing but unqualified scorn and condemnation. for the sentiment demanding absolute fidelity in a wife may be said to have the force of a human instinct; in all ages it has exacted from her an avoidance of the very appearance of evil. therefore a good woman in the presence of a frivolous flirting wife feels as if a law of nature were being broken before her eyes; since behind the wife stands the possible mother, and the claims of family, race, and caste, as well as of conjugal honor, are all in her keeping. without any exaggeration it may be said that wife-errantry is now as common as knight-errantry once was. the young men of to-day have discovered the personal advantage and safety there is in the society of another man's wife. they transpose an old proverb, and practically say: "fools marry, and wise men follow their wives." for, if the husband be only complacent, it is such a safe thing to flirt with a pretty wife. young girls are dangerous and might lure them into matrimony; but they have no fear of bigamy. they can whisper sweet words to a gay, married flirt; they can walk, and talk, and dance, and ride with her; they can lounge in her dusky drawing-room or in her opera box, and no one will ask them the reason why, or make any suggestion about their "intentions." how far this custom affects the morals of the woman is not at first obvious; but we must insist on this recognized premise: "society has laid down positive rules regarding the modesty of women, and apart from these rules it is hard to believe modesty can exist. for all conventional social laws are founded on principles of good morals and good sense; and to violate them without a sufficient reason destroys nicety of feeling, sweetness of mind, and self-respect." it is no excuse to say that propriety is old-maidish, and that men like smart women, or that no harm is intended by their flirtations. the question is: can married women preserve their delicacy of thought and their nobleness of manner; can they be truly loyal to their husbands and to themselves throughout the different phases of a recognized flirtation? it is an impossible thing. suppose a beautiful girl to be wooed and won by a man in every way suitable to her desires. she has accepted his love and his name, and vowed to cleave to him, and to him only, till death parts them. the wooing has been mainly done in full dress, at balls and operas, or in hours tingling with the expectancy of such conditions. the aroma of roses, the rustle of silks and laces, the notes of music, the taste of bon-bons and sparkling wines, were the atmosphere; and the days and weeks went by to the sense of flying feet in a ballroom, or to enchanted loiterings in greenhouses, and behind palms and flowers on decorated stairways. the young wife is unwilling to believe that marriage has other and graver duties. she has been taught to live in the present only, and she is, therefore, cynical and apathetic concerning all things but dress and amusements. the husband has to return to business, which has been somewhat neglected; arrears of duty are to be met. he feels it necessary to attend to the question of supplies; he is, likely, a little embarrassed by the long holiday of wooing and honeymooning, and he would be grateful for some retrenchment and retirement, for the purpose of home-making. the young wife has no such intentions; she resents and contradicts them on every occasion; and after the first pang of disappointment is over, he finds it the most prudent and comfortable plan to be indifferent to her continued frivolity. he is perhaps even flattered to find her so much admired; perhaps, in his heart, rather thankful to be relieved from the trouble of admiring her. as for any graver thoughts, he concludes that his wife is no worse than a's and b's and c's wives; that she is quite able to take care of herself, and that in a multitude of adorers there is safety. thus, in a majority of cases, begins the career of the married flirt. but the character is not a corollary of marriage, if the proper conditions were present when the wife was a young woman. there is no salvation in the order of matrimony; no miracles are wrought at the altar of grace church, or at st. thomas's. she that is frivolous, giddy, and selfish is likely to continue frivolous, giddy, and selfish; and marriage merely supplies her with a wider field and greater opportunities for the indulgence of her vanity and greed. she re-enters society with every advantage of youth, beauty, wealth, and liberty; released from the disabilities under which unmarried girls lie; armed with new powers to dazzle and to conquer. no longer a competitor for a matrimonial prize, she is a rival ten times more dangerous than she was. setting aside the wrong done to the sacredness of the connubial relation, she now becomes the most subtle enemy to the prospects of all the unmarried girls in her set. what is the bud to the perfect rose? the timid, blushing maiden pales and subsides before the married siren who has the audacity and charm of a conscious intelligence. it is not without good reason that special balls and parties have come into fashion for social buds; they are the necessary sequence to the predominance of married sirens, with whom in a mixed society no young girl can cope. they have the floor and the partners; they monopolize all the attention, and their pleasure is of the greatest importance. and their pleasure is to flirt--to flirt in all places and at all hours. in vain will some young aspirant to marriage display in the presence of the married flirt her pretty accomplishments. she may sing her songs, and play her mandolin never so sweetly, but the young men slip away with some one or other of the piquant brides of the past year. and in the privacy of the smoking-room it is the brides, and not the young girls, who are talked about--what dresses they wear or are likely to wear, how their hair is done, the history of the jewels which adorn them, and the clever things they have said or implied. before we condemn too much the society girls of the time, we ought to consider the new enemy who stands in the way of their advancement to marriage. is it not quite natural that the most courageous girls should refuse the secondary place to which married flirts assign them, and endeavor to meet these invaders with their own weapons? if so, much of the forwardness of the present young girl is traceable to the necessity forced upon her by these married competitors. for it is a fact that young men go to the latter for advice and sympathy. they tell them about the girls they like, and their fancies are nipped in the bud. for the married flirt's first instinct is to divest all other women of that air of romance with which the nobility and chivalry of men have invested womanhood for centuries. so she points out with a pitiless exactness all the small arts which other women use; and is not only a rival to some young girl, but a traitor to her whole sex. and yet she is not only tolerated but indulged. people giving entertainments know that their success will be in a large measure dependent upon the number of beautiful young wives present. they know the situation is all wrong, but they are sure they cannot either fight the wrong, or put it right; and in the meantime their particular ball will not increase the evil very much. not fifty years ago it was the young beauties that were considered and looked after, and the gentlemen asked to an entertainment were asked with reference to the unmarried girls; for it was understood that any married women present would, of course, be wrapped up in their own husbands. then a wife accepting attentions from one young man after another would have aroused the contempt and disapproval of every man and woman present. vanity in the first place leads young wives to flirting, but grosser motives soon follow. for whatever other experiences matrimony brings, it generally stimulates a woman's love of money; and the married siren soon makes her "followers" understand that she is "a very practical little woman, and does not care for a sonnet, or a serenade, or a bouquet of fresh flowers." a summer's cruise in a fine yacht, a seat on a coach, an opera box, a jewel, dinners, drives, and luncheons, are the blackmail which the married flirt expects, in return for her sighs, sentiment, and advice. it is indeed curious to note the change of fashion in this respect. let any one turn over the novels of half a century ago, and he will see that the favorite plan for compromising a woman's honor was to induce her to accept the loan of money, or the gift of jewels. if the unfortunate heroine did so, no novelist would have dared to offer an apology for her. but this age of luxury and laxity has exploded the scrupulous delicacy of the evelinas and cecilias of the old tales, and the splendidly free feminine uhlans of our modern society laugh to scorn the prim modesty of the richardsonian standard. they assert, if not in words yet by their actions, the right of a woman to make her fascinations serviceable to her. some married women contend that their flirtations are absolutely innocent friendships. but in all stations of society it is a dangerous thing for two people of the opposite sex to chant together the litany of the church of plato. the two who could do it safely would be the very two who would never dream of such an imprudence. those who enter into "friendships" of this kind, with what they think are the most innocent intentions, should sharply arrest themselves as soon as they are "talked about." for in social judgments, the dictum that "people talked about generally get what they deserve" is true, however unjust it may appear to be. another class of married flirts scorn to make any apology, or any pretence of mere friendship. they stand upon the emancipation of women, and the right of one sex to as much liberty as the other. this kind of siren boldly says, "she does not intend to be a slave like her mother, and her grand-mother. she does not propose to tie herself, either to a house or a cradle." she travels, she lives in yachts and hotels, and she does not include a nursery in her plans. she talks of elective affinities, natural emotions of the heart, and contrasts the opportunities of such conditions with the limitations and the monotony of domestic relations. she makes herself valueless for the very highest natural duties of womanhood, and then talks of her enfranchisement! yes, she has her freedom, and what does it mean? more dresses and jewelry, more visits and journeys; while the whole world of parental duties and domestic tendernesses lies in ruins at her feet. the relegation of the married flirt to her proper sphere and duties is beyond the power of any single individual. society could make the necessary protest, but it does not; for if society is anything, it is non-interfering. it looks well to it that the outside, the general public appearance of its members is respectable; with faults not found out it does not trouble itself. a charge must be definitely made before it feels any necessity to take cognizance of it. and society knows well that these married sirens draw like magnets. besides, each entertainer declares: "i am not my sister's keeper, nor am i her inquisitor or confessor. if her husband tolerates the pretty woman's vagaries, what right have i, what right has any one, to say a word about her?" but it is a fact that, if society frowned on wives who arrogate to themselves the privileges both of young girls and of wives, the custom would become stale and offensive. if it would cease to recognize young married women who are on the terms with their husbands described by millamant in "the way of the world,"--"as strange as if they had been married a long time, and as well bred as if they had never been married at all,"--young married women would behave themselves better. it is generally thought that mr. congreve wrote his plays for a very dissolute age; in reality, they seem to have been written for a decorous, rather strait-laced generation, if we compare it with our own. mothers-in-law mothers-in-law are the mothers for whom there is no law, no justice, no sympathy, nor yet that share of fair play which an average american is willing to grant, even to an open adversary. every petty punster, every silly witling, considers them as a ready-made joke; and the wonder and the pity of it is that abuse so unmerited and so long continued has called forth no champions from that sex which owes so much to woman, in every relation of life. the condition of mother-in-law is one full of pathos and self-abnegation, and all the reproach attached to it comes from those whose selfishness and egotism ought to render their testimony of small value. a young man, for instance, falls in love with a girl who appears to him the sum of all perfections,--perfections, partly inherited from, and partly cultivated by, the mother at whose side she has lived for twenty years. she is the delight of her mother's heart, she fills all her hopes and dreams for the future; and the girl herself, believes that nothing can separate her from a mother so dear and so devoted. while the man is wooing the daughter, this wondrous capability for an absorbing affection strikes him as a very pretty thing. in the first place, it keeps the mother on his side; in the second, he looks forward to supplying this capability with a strictly personal object. at this stage his future mother-in-law is a very pleasant person, for he is uncomfortably conscious of the beloved one's father and brothers. he is then thankful for any encouragement she may give him. he gladly takes counsel with her; flatters her opinions, makes her presents, and so works upon her womanly instincts concerning love affairs that she stands by his side when he has to "speak to papa," and through her favor and tact the rough places are made smooth, and the crooked places plain. until the marriage is over, and the longed-for girl his wife, there is no one so important in the lover's eyes as the girl's mother. suddenly all is changed. when the young people return from the bridal trip there is a different tone and a different atmosphere. the young husband is now in his own house, and spreading himself like a peacock in full feather. he thinks "mamma" too interfering. he resents the familiarity with which she speaks to _his_ wife. he feels as if her speculation about their future movements was an impertinence. he says without a blush that her visit was "a bore." and the bride, being flattered by his desire for no company but her own, admits that "dear mamma is fussy and effusive." both have forgotten the days in which the young husband was a great deal of a bore to his mother-in-law,--when indeed it was very hard for her to tolerate his presence; and both have forgotten how she, to secure their happiness, sacrificed her own wishes and prejudices. how often does this poor mother go to see her child before she realizes she is a bore? how many snubs and heart-aches does she bear ere she comprehends the position? she hopes against despair. she weeps, and wipes her tears away; she tries again, only to be again wounded. her own husband frets a little with her, and then with a touch of anger at his ungrateful child, advises the mother "to let her alone." but by and by there is a baby, and she can no longer keep away. she has a world of loving cares about the child and its mother. she is sure no one can take her place now. she is very much mistaken. the baby is a new kind of baby; there has never been one quite such a perfect pattern before; and the parents--exalted above measure at the perfection they alone are responsible for--regard her pride and delight as some infringement of their new honors and responsibilities. happiness has only hardened them; and after a little, the mother and the mother-in-law understands her loss, and humbly refrains from interfering. or, if she has an imprudent tongue, she speaks unadvisedly with it, and her words bite home, and the "mother" is forgotten, and the "in-law" remains, to barb every ill-natured word and account for every selfish unkindness. of course, in a relationship which admits of endless varieties, this description fits only a certain number. but it is a very large number; for there are few families who will not be able to recall some such case among their members or their acquaintances. still, many daughters do more virtuously, and cherish a loyal affection for their old home. if they are wise and loving and specially unselfish, they will likely carry their matrimonial bark safely through those narrow shallows which separate the two households. but the trouble is that newly married people are both selfish and foolish. they feel themselves to be the only persons of consequence, and think that all things ought to be arranged for their pleasure. the solemn majesty of the young wife's housekeeping is not to be criticised, qualified, or inspected; the new-made householder does not believe that the "earth is the lord's," or even the children of men's; it is all his own. and their friends tacitly agree to smile at this egotism awhile, because all the world really does love a lover; and every one is willing to grant the bride and bridegroom some short respite from the dreary cares and every-day business of life. two points are remarkable in this persistent antagonism to the mother-in-law. the first is that the husband who is often specially vindictive against his wife's mother has very little to say against her male relatives. if the girl he marries is motherless, he does not quarrel with his father-in-law; though he may be quite as interfering as any mother-in-law could be. yet if the girl, instead of being motherless, is fatherless, the husband at once begins to show his love for his wife by a systematic disrespect towards her mother. yet perhaps a month previously he had considered her a very amiable lady, he had shown her many courtesies, he had asked her advice about all the details of his marriage. what makes him, a little later, accuse her of every domestic fault? how is it that she has suddenly become "so self-opinionated"? never before had he discovered that she treats his wife like a child, and himself as an appendage. and how does he manage to make his bride also feel that "dear mamma is trying, and so unable to understand things." it is a mystery that ends, however, in the mother-in-law being made to feel that her new relative totally disapproves of her. the truth is, the lover was afraid of the men of his wife's family before marriage. they might seriously have interfered with his intentions. after marriage he knows they will be civil to him for the sake of his wife. then, the women of the family were useful to him before marriage, after it he can do without them. he has got the woman he was so eager to get by any means, and he wishes to have her entirely. a smile, or a word, or an act of kindness to any one else, is so much taken from his rights. he desires not only to usurp her present and her future, but also her past. the other remarkable point is the unjust shifting of all the mother-in-law's shortcomings to the shoulders of the wife's mother; this is especially unjust, because not only the newspapers of the day, but also the private knowledge of every individual, furnishes abundant testimony that it is not the wife's mother, but the husband's mother, who is at the bottom of nine-tenths of the domestic misery arising from this source. the wife's mother with small encouragement will like, even love, the man who has chosen her daughter above all other women. the husband's mother never really likes her son's wife. and young wives are apt to forget how bitterly hard it is for a mother to give her son up, at once and forever, to a girl whom she does not like in any way. perhaps hitherto the son and mother have been every one, and everything to each other, and it is only human that the latter should have to battle fiercely and constantly with an involuntary jealousy, and a cruel quicksightedness for small faults in his wife. it is only human that she should try to make trouble, and enjoy the fact that her son is less happy with his wife than he was with her, and that he comes to her for comfort in his disappointment. the love of a mother is often a very jealous love; and a jealous mother is just as unreasonable as a jealous wife; she can make life bitterly hard for her son's wife, and, to do her justice, she very often does so. then if the wife--wounded and imprudent--goes to her own mother with her sorrows and wrongs, it is the natural attitude of the husband to shift the blame from his own mother to his wife's mother. there are indeed so many ways by which this misery can enter a household that it is impossible to define them; for there is just variety enough in every case to give an individuality of suffering to each. what, then, is to be done? let us admit at once that our relations do give us half the pain and sorrow we suffer in life; but each may do something to reduce the liability. we may remember that all such quarrels come from excess of love, and that a quarrel springing from love is more hopeful than one springing from hate. as mothers-in-law, we may tell ourselves that when our children are married we no longer have the first right in them. the young people must be left to make the best of their life, and we must never interfere, nor ever give advice until it is asked for. another irritation, little suspected, is the palpable forcing forward of the new relationship. on both sides it is well to be in no hurry to claim it. a girl takes a man for better or for worse, but does not therefore take all his relations. love for her husband does not include admiration for all within his kindred; nor will it, until the millennium makes all tempers perfect. and, again, a man does not like to be dragooned into a filial feeling for his wife's family. many a man would like his new relatives better if they left him with a sense of perfect freedom in the matter. the main point is that men should put a stop to a traditional abuse that affects every woman in every household. they can do it! many an honest, manly fellow would burn with shame if he would only consider how often he has not only permitted, but also joined in, the silly, unjust laughter which miserable punsters and negro minstrels and disappointed lovers and other incapables fling at the women of his own household. for if a man is married, or ever hopes to be married, his own mother is, or must be, a mother-in-law. if he has sisters their destiny will likely put them in the same position. the fairest young bride has the prospect before her; the baby daughter in the cradle may live to think her own mother a bore, or to think some other mother one, if there is not a better understanding about a relationship which is far indeed from being a laughable one. on the contrary, the initiation to it is generally a sacrifice, made with infinite heart-ache and anxiety, and with many sorrowful tears. in the theatres, in the little circles of which every man's home is the centre, in all places where thoughtless fools turn women and motherhood into ridicule, it is in the power of two or three good men to make the habit derogatory and unfashionable. they can cease to laugh at the wretched little jokes, and treat with contempt the vulgar spirit that repeats them. for the men who say bitter things about mothers-in-law are either selfish egotists, who have called trouble to themselves from this source, or they are moral imbeciles, repeating like parrots fatuous jests whose meaning and wickedness they do not even understand. good and bad mothers the difference between good and bad mothers is so vast and so far-reaching that it is no exaggeration to say that the good mothers of this generation are building the homes of the next generation, and that the bad mothers are building the prisons. for out of families nations are made; and if the father be the head and the hands of a family, the mother is the heart. no office in the world is so honorable as hers, no priesthood so holy, no influence so sweet and strong and lasting. for this tremendous responsibility mother-love has always been sufficient. the most ignorant women have trusted to it; and the most learned have found it potential when all their theories failed. and neither sage men nor wise women will ever devise anything to take the place of mother-love in the rearing of children. if there be other good things present, it glorifies them; if there be no other good thing--it is sufficient. for mother-love is the spirit of self-sacrifice even unto death, and self-sacrifice is the meat and drink of all true and pure affection. still, this momentous condition supposes some central influence, some obligation on the child's part which will reciprocate it; and this central influence is found to be in _obedience_. there was once a child in jewry who was called "wonderful," and yet the most significant fact recorded of his boyhood is that he "was subject unto his parents." indeed nothing else is told of the child, and we are left to conclude that in the pregnant fact of his boyish obedience lay the secret of his future perfect manhood. unselfish love in the mother! cheerful obedience in the children! in whatever home these forces are constantly operative, that home cannot be a failure. and mother-love is not of the right kind, nor of the highest trend, unless it compels this obedience. the assertion that affectionate firmness and even wholesome chastisement is unnecessary with our advanced civilization is a specious and dangerous one. the children of to-day have as many rudimentary vices as they had in the days of the patriarchs; as a general thing they are self-willed and inclined to evil from their cradles; greedy without a blush, and ready to lie as soon as they discover the use of language. a good mother does not shut her eyes to these facts; she accepts her child as imperfect, and trains it with never-ceasing love and care for its highest duties. she does not call impudence "smartness," nor insubordination "high spirit," nor selfishness "knowing how to take care of itself," nor lying and dishonesty "sharpness." she knows, if the child is to be father to the man, what kind of a man such a child will make. how to manage young children; how to strengthen them physically; how best to awaken their intellects, engage their affections, and win their confidence; how to make home the sweetest spot on earth, a place of love, order, and repose, a temple of purity where innocence is respected, and where no one is permitted to talk of indecent subjects or to read indecent books,--these are the duties of a good mother; and her position, if so filled, is one of dignity and grave importance. for it is on the hearthstone she gives the fine healthy initial touch to her sons and daughters that is not effaced through life, and that makes them blessed in their generation. there is another duty, a very sacred one, which some mothers, however good in all other respects, either thoughtlessly or with mistaken ideas, delegate to others, the religious training of their children. no sunday-school and no church can do it for them. the child that learns "our father" at its mother's knee, that hears from mother's lips the heroic and tender stories of the bible, has a wellspring of religious faith in his soul that no after life, however hard and fast and destructive, can dry up. it is inconceivable, then, how a mother can permit any other woman to deprive her of an influence over her children nothing can destroy; of a memory in their lives so sweet that when every other memory is withered and approaching decay, it will still be fresh and green,--yes, even to the grave's mouth. family! country! humanity! these three, but the greatest of the three is family; and the heart of the family is the good mother. happy the children who have one! with them "faith in womankind beats with their blood, and trust in all things high comes easy to them." but if the grand essential to a good mother be self-denying, self-effacing love, this is a bad era for its development. selfishness and self-seeking is the spirit of the time, and its chilling poison has infected womanhood, and touched even the sacred principle of maternity. in some women it assumes the form of a duty. they feel their own mental culture to be of supreme importance; they wish to attend lectures, and take lessons, and give themselves to some special study. or the enslaved condition of their own sex troubles them; they bear on their minds the oppressed shop-girls of america, or the secluded odalisques in some eastern seraglio, or they have ecclesiastic proclivities and take the chair at church meetings, or political ones, and deliver lectures before their special club on women's disabilities. in these and many other ways they put the natural mission of womanhood aside as an animal instinct, not conducive to their mental development. now, no one will object to women's devoting themselves to works of religion and charity; but this devotion should come before marriage. if they have assumed the position of wifehood, it is a monstrous thing to hold themselves degraded by its consequences, or to consider the care of children a waste of their own life. the world can do without learned women, but it cannot do without good wives and mothers; and when married women prefer to be social ornaments and intellectual amateurs, they may be called philanthropists and scholars, but they are nevertheless moral failures, and bad mothers. society has put maternity out of fashion also, and considering the average society woman, it is perhaps just as well. no children are more forlorn and more to be pitied than the waifs of the woman whose life is given up to what she calls "pleasure." humbler-born babies are nursed at their mother's breast and cradled in her loving arms. she teaches them to walk and to read. in all their pain she soothes them; in all their joys she has a part; in all their wrongs "mother" is an ever-present help and comforter. the child of the fashionable woman is too often committed at once to the care of some stranger, who for a few dollars a month is expected to perform the mother's duty for her. if it does not suck the vitiated, probably diseased, milk of some peasant, it has the bottle and india-rubber mouthpiece, when the woman in charge chooses to give it. but she is often in a temper, or sleepy, or the milk is not prepared, or she is in the midst of a comfortable gossip, or she is dressing or feeding herself, and it is not to be expected she will put any sixteen-dollar-a month baby before her own comfort or pleasure. the child cannot complain of hunger, it can only cry, and very likely may be struck for crying. what these neglected little ones suffer from thirst is a matter painful to inquire into. the nurse, accustomed to drink her tea and her beer at all hours, does not, herself patronize cold water, and she never imagines the child needs it. many a baby, after being tortured for hours with a feverish, consuming thirst, passes into the doctor's hands before the trouble is recognized. but if the child's own mother had been nursing it she would not have been long in finding out the cause of its impatient, urgent fretfulness. let any tender-hearted woman go into the parks and watch one of these unhappy children in the care of its nurse. the hot sun beats down on the small upturned face, and the ignorant creature in charge goes on with her flirtation, or her gossip, or her novel. the child may be at shrieking point from lying long in one position, but there is no one to comprehend its necessity. during those awful hours in which its teeth force their way through hot and swollen gums--hours which would bring from adults unwritable exclamations--the forsaken little sufferer is at the mercy of some sleepy, self-indulgent woman, who has no love for it. why, indeed, should she? if it were a matter of catechism, how many educated women would be capable of nursing good-naturedly for weeks a fretful, sick child not their own? as for these neglected babies of pleasure-seeking women, they suffer terribly, but then their mothers are having what they consider a perfectly lovely time, posing at the opera or gyrating in some ballroom, exquisitely dressed, and laughing as lightly as if there were no painful echoes from their neglected nurseries. for no nurse is apt to complain of her baby, she knows her business and her interest too well for that; she prefers to speak comfortable words, and vows the "little darling grows better and better every hour, god bless it!" and, so assured, the mother goes airily away, telling herself that her nurse is a perfect treasure. whatever other nurses may do, she knows that her nurse is reliable. the fact is that, even where there are children in a nursery able to complain of the wrongs and cruelties they have to endure, they very seldom dare to do so. mamma is a dear, beautiful lady, very far off; nurse is an ever-present power, capable of making them suffer still more. and mamma does not like to hear tales, she always appears annoyed at anything against nurse. they look into their mother's face with eyes full of their sad story, if she only had the heart to understand; but they dare not speak, and very soon they are remanded back to their cruel keeper with a kiss, and an injunction to "be good, and do as nurse tells them." consider the women to whom this class of mothers delegate their high office,--an office for which hardly any love or wisdom is sufficient. it would scarcely be possible in the whole world to find any persons more unfit for it. taking this class as a whole, these very mothers are never tired of expatiating upon its gross immorality, deceitfulness, greed, and dishonesty; yet they do not hesitate to leave the very lives of their children in the charge of these women, whose first lessons to them are lying and deceit. it is a hideous system, and how hideous must that life called "pleasure" be that can thus put aside love, reason, conscience, and break to pieces a natural law so strong that in its purity it frequently proves more powerful than the law of self-preservation. writing on this subject, frederick james grant, f. r. c. s., in his bold and original book, "from our dead selves," tells of a fashionable mother who put her first child out to nurse, and who, when her second died at birth and was brought to her bedside in its coffin, was entirely interested--not in the child--but in the pretty lining and covering of the coffin. for it is one of the startling facts of this condition of motherhood that the poor infant left to some dreadful shrew, body and soul, has the very best care taken of its frills and coats and of the wraps in its baby carriage. for these things will be seen by other people's servants and commented on, and are therefore worthy of attention. it is a strange state of society which tolerates this awful transfer of duty, and society will have the bill to pay as well as the cruel mother. these neglected children, whatever their birth, come really from the dangerous classes, and have a likelihood to drift there. for the first moral training of a child is the most important of all, and in these cases it is given by women gross both through ignorance and vice; whose relatives are very likely at the same time living in suspicious localities, or in prison wards. and, naturally enough, their first lessons to the children under them are to lie, to deceive, to commit small pilferings, and not be found out. they are ordered not to carry tales out of the nursery, or let mamma know what nurse does not want known. bad language, bad habits, hatred, petty conciliations, meanness of every kind, are in the curriculum of any nursery left in the care of the women usually found in them. no one need imagine that the evil thus wrought can be eradicated in future years by a higher class of teachers. the vicious seed is sown; it is next to impossible to go through the field of a child's mind and gather it up again. it has taken root, and unless it can be crowded out by a nobler growth, the harvest is certain. the mother, then, who prefers pleasure and society to her children, whom she hands over to wicked and cruel nurses, is herself wicked and cruel. she may stand before the world as the personification of refinement and delicacy and elegance, but she is really no better than her substitute; and she has no right to expect that her children will be better. in some favorable cases there may come a redeeming power in future years, but in the main they will drift downward to their first moral impressions; and when they have become bad and unhappy men and women, they will not scruple to say, "from our mother cometh our misery." these are hard truths, yet one-half has not been told. for if it were not for the abounding number of good mothers, both rich and poor, this class of women would undermine all virtue, and everything lovely and of good report. there was once an idea that mothers were the antiseptic quality in society, that they preserved its moral tone, by insisting that the language used and the subjects discussed before them should be such as were suitable for virtuous women. but there is one kind of bad mother to whom questionable subjects seem highly suitable. she discusses them without reserve in the presence of her daughters, and she makes her drawing-room the forum for women with queer domestic views, for "physical culture" women, and such-like characters. the things our grandmothers went down to their graves without knowing she talks about in unmistakable terms before unmarried girls. a certain mother who boldly defended her opinion that "girls should not be kept ignorant as a means for keeping them innocent," permitted her own daughter to be present during all the unsavory scandal of vanity fair. the child learned to watch with interest the doings of women of many seasons, and to listen with composure to very questionable stories. before she was twelve years old she had become suspicious of the conduct of every woman, and when her teacher one day asked her, "who was moses?" she answered promptly, "the son of pharoah's daughter." "not the son," corrected the teacher, "the adopted son. pharoah's daughter found him in the river nile." "_so_ she said," replied this premature woman,--suspicions of women's actions and a ready assumption of the very worst motives for them, being the lessons she had deduced from knowledge imparted before mind and experience were capable of receiving it. it is often said that "ignorance is not innocence." true, but neither is knowledge innocence; it is most frequently the first step of guiltiness. what good can come of little children knowing the things which belong to maturity? is any girl sweeter or even safer for knowing about the under-current of filth below the glittering crust of gilded society? the chinese quarter is a fact, yet is there a mother who would like her daughter to visit it? but if it is not fit to visit, it is not fit to talk about. no one is ever the better for knowing of evil, unless they can do something to remedy it. a good mother will shield her children from the consequences of their own ignorance, physical and moral, and she will just as carefully shield them from knowledge which is hurtful because premature,--just as fruit green and unripe is hurtful. and no guardianship is too close for this end. mothers will generally admit this fact as regards the children of other people, but as to their own brood they cradle themselves in a generous belief of its incorruptibility. their girls would never do as other girls do; and their girls are consequently permitted a license which they would think dangerous for any but their own daughters. then some day there is a paragraph in one of the papers, and the men blame the man, and the women blame the girl, and all the time the mother is probably the guiltiest of the parties. she has stimulated her daughter's imagination in childhood, she has left her to the choice of her companions in youth, she has trusted her sacred duty to circumstances, she has indulged a vague hope concerning the honor and virtue of humanity, and thus satisfied her indolent neglect. but what right had she to expect that men would revere the treasure she herself left unguarded? for there has been no special race made for this era; what adam, jacob, samson, and david were, what eve, sarah, rachel, jael, and bathsheba were, the men and women of to-day are, in all their essentials. circumstances only have made them to differ; and nature laughs at circumstances, and goes back at any crisis to her first principles. indeed, the good mother of to-day, instead of relaxing, must increase her care over her children. for never since the world began has youth been so catered to, never has it been surrounded by so many open temptations, never so much flattered, and yet at the same time never have the reins of discipline been so far relaxed. now the spirit we evoke we must control, or else we must become its slave. if we are no longer to reverence the gray hairs of age; if young men are to drive the chariot of the sun, and young women are to be allowed to strip the tree of knowledge of good and evil, then it is high time some system of education was invented which will put old heads upon young shoulders. alas, this can never be, for education is a long and composite process, made up of home influences, surrounding circumstances, and early associations. when books and schools and teachers shall have done all they possibly can, high above every gamaliel will sit the good mother,--the first influence, the first teacher, the first friend, and the last. unequal marriages if there is a mistake peculiarly fatal to a young man's or a girl's future, it is that supreme act of social destruction called a _mésalliance_. indeed it is not measurable by any of the usual conditions of life, and death itself would be a kindness compared with the long misery of some kinds of _mésalliances_. they may arise from inequalities of birth, differences in religious faith, or great discrepancies in age; but whatever their occasion, they are always a far-reaching and irretrievable mistake; the mistake _par excellence_ of any life. an unequal marriage is not only the most fatal blunder of life, it is also the most common one; and although it is not very easy for a man to ruin himself with a single act, a foolish marriage will afford him at least one decided way. in regard to men's _mésalliances_, they cannot be said to be specially the temptation of youth. foolish old men who marry their cooks, and foolish young men who burden themselves with some casino divinity, keep up a very steady average. but the young man's mistake is much the worst of the two; for he has his whole life before him, and has probably made no provision against such a social suicide. if an old man marries beneath his station and culture, he believes he is getting the wife he most desires; and if he is disappointed, he is at any rate near the end of life, and he either has no children to suffer from his folly, or they have already grown beyond its most painful reach. but a young man who binds himself to a woman who is every way beneath his own station, education, and professional ambition, is in a different case. in a very short time the disillusion of those senses begins under which he permitted mere physical beauty to bind him; and he knows that, as far as his future progress is concerned, he has put a millstone about his neck. the effect of a social _mésalliance_ on a girl is still worse. in the first place, it ought to be so; for she has to sin against the natural instinct of a good woman, which is always to marry above herself, an instinct which is, both physiologically and socially, noble. for a woman is less than a woman who does not consider the consequence of marriage, and provide in every way possible to her the best father for her offspring. and if she marries beneath herself socially, the almost certain presumption is that the social status of her husband is the measure of his intellectual abilities, and of his personal refinement also. and when a woman considers herself only in her marriage, and has no care for the circumstances to which she may doom her unborn children, she is an incarnation of animal selfishness. without stopping to analyze the sources of its disapproval, this is undoubtedly an instinctive motive for the persistent cold shouldering which society gives girls who degrade themselves by a _mésalliance_. it is obvious to every one that she has sinned against herself, her family, her class, and the highest instincts of her sex. women have no pardon for such sinners; for they see not only the present wrong, they look forward also to the possible children of such a union. they understand that they will have to suffer all the limitations of poverty when they ought to have had all the advantages of wealth. they may possibly inherit their father's vulgar tastes and tendencies, or they may have to endure the misery of fine tastes without any opportunity to gratify them. for this premeditated sin against motherhood and against posterity, good women find it hard to tolerate the offender; for they know that a woman's honor is in her husband, and that her social station and her social life is determined by his. when a girl is guilty of a _mésalliance_, it is sometimes said in extenuation that "she has married a man of noble disposition; and it is better to marry a poor, ignorant man, with a noble disposition, than a rich man who is selfish and vicious." if the alternative was a positive one, yes, but there is no need to make a choice between these characters. men of refined habits and manners and good education may also have noble dispositions; and poor, ill-bred men have not always noble ones; at any rate, a good woman will always find in her own class just as good men as she will find in a class below her own. all this danger is evident to parents. they know how fleeting passion and fancy are; and they rightly conceive that it is their duty by all possible means to prevent their daughter making an unworthy marriage. how far parents may lawfully interfere is a question not yet decided, nor yet easy to decide. the american idea of marriage is, theoretically, that every soul finds its companion soul, and lives happily ever after; and in this romantic search for a companion soul, young girls are allowed to roam about society, just when their instincts are the strongest and their reason the weakest. the french theory--to which the english is akin somewhat--is that a mother's knowledge is better than a girl's fancy; and that the wisdom that has hitherto chosen her teachers, physicians, spiritual guides, and companions, that has guided her through sickness and health, is not likely to fail in selecting the man most suitable for her husband. this latter theory supposes women to love naturally any personable man who is their own, and who is kind to them; that is, if she has a virgin heart, and comes in this state from her lessons to her marriage duties. the american theory supposes girls to love by sympathy, and through soul attraction and personal attraction; consequently, our girls are let loose early--too early--to choose among a variety of wills and franks and charlies; and the natural result is a great number of what are called "love matches" to which it must be acknowledged _mésalliances_ are too often the corollary. between these two theories, it is impossible to make a positive selection; for the bad of each is so bad, and the good of each so good that both alike are capable of the most unqualified praise and blame. it may, however, be safely asserted that the confidence every american girl has in her own power to choose her own husband helps to lessen the danger and to keep things right. for an honorable girl may be trusted with her own honor; and a dishonorable one, amid a number to choose from, may peradventure fare better than she deserves; for fortune does sometimes bring in the bark that is not steered. most girls make _mésalliances_ in sheer thoughtlessness, or through self-will, or in that youthful passion for romance which thinks it fine to lose their world for love. foolish novels are as often to blame for their social crime as foolish men,--novels which are an apotheosis of love at any cost! love against every domestic and social obligation! love in spite of all prudent thought of meat and money matters! love in a cottage, and nightingales and honeysuckles to pay the rent! and if parents object to their daughter marrying ruin, then they are represented as monsters of cruelty; while the girl who flies stealthily to her misery, and breaks every moral tie to do so, is idealized into an angel of truth and suffering. in real life what are parents to do with a daughter whose romantic folly has made her marry their groom or their footman? we have outlived the inexorable passions of our ancestors, and their undying loves and hatreds, sacrifices and revenges. our social code tolerates no passion swallowing up all the rest; and we must be content with a decent expression of feeling. what their daughter has done they cannot undo; nor can they relieve her from the social consequences of her act. she has chosen to put their servant above and before them, and to humiliate her whole family, that she may please her low-born lover and herself, and she has therefore no right to any more consideration than she has given. her parents may not cease to love her, and they may spare her all reproaches, knowing that her punishment is certain; but they cannot, for the sake of their other children, treat her socially above the station she has chosen. she has become the wife of a servant, and they cannot accept her husband as their equal nor can they insult their friends by introducing him to them. how wretched is the position she has put herself in; for if the man she married be naturally a low man, he will probably drag her to his level by the "grossness of his nature." if she be a woman of strong character she may lift her husband upward, but she accepts such a labor at the peril of her own higher life. and if she finds it impossible either to lift him to her level or to sink herself to his level, what then remains? life-long regrets, bitter shame and self-reproach, or else a forcible setting of herself free. but the latter remedy carries desperation instead of hope with it. never can she quite regain her maiden place, and an _aura_ of a doubtful kind influences every effort of her future life. after all, though men have not the reputation of being romantic, it is certain that in the matter of unequal marriage, they are more frequently imprudent than women. there is some possibility of lifting a low-born woman to the level of a cultivated man, and men dare this possibility far more frequently than is generally supposed. perhaps after a long season they find the fine ladies with whom they have flirted and danced a weariness; and in this mood they are suddenly taken with some simple, unfashionable girl, who does not know either how to dress, or flirt, or dance. so they make the grave error of thinking that because fine ladies are insupportable, women who are not fine ladies will be sweet and companionable. but if the one be a blank, will that prove the other a prize? the dulness or folly of a polite woman is bad enough; but the dulness and folly of an uneducated woman is worse. very soon they find this out, and then comes indifference, neglect, cruelty, and all the misery that attends two ruined lives. the result of unequal marriage in both sexes is certain wretchedness, and this verdict is not to be altered by its exceptions, however brilliant they may seem to be. for when a man of means and education marries an uneducated girl of low birth, or a woman of apparent culture and high social position marries her servant, and the marriages are reasonably happy, then it may be positively said, "_there has been no mésalliance_." the husband and wife were unequal only in their externals. the real characters of both must have been vulgar and naturally low and under-bred. it is folly to talk of two beings unequally married "growing together," or of "time welding their differences," and making things comfortable. habit indeed reconciles us to much suffering, and to many trials; but an unequal marriage is a trial no one has any business to have. it is without excuse, and therefore without comfort. when the almighty decrees us a martyrdom he blends his peace and consolations therewith; but when we torture ourselves our sufferings rage like a conflagration. perhaps the chain may be worn, as a tight shoe is worn into shape until it no longer lames; but oh, the misery in the process! and even in such case the resigned sufferer has no credit in his patience; quite the contrary, for he knows as well as others know, though submission to what god ordains is the very height of energy and nobility, submission to the mistakes we ourselves make is the very climax of cowardice and weakness. discontented women discontent is a vice six thousand years old, and it will be eternal; because it is in the race. every human being has a complaining side, but discontent is bound up in the heart of woman; it is her original sin. for if the first woman had been satisfied with her conditions, if she had not aspired to be "as gods," and hankered after unlawful knowledge, satan would hardly have thought it worth his while to discuss her rights and wrongs with her. that unhappy controversy has never ceased; and, with or without reason woman has been perpetually subject to discontent with her conditions, and, according to her nature, has been moved by its influence. some it has made peevish, some plaintive, some ambitious, some reckless, while a noble majority have found in its very control that serene composure and cheerfulness which is granted to those who conquer, rather than to those who inherit. but, with all its variations of influence and activity, there has never been a time in the world's history when female discontent has assumed so much and demanded so much as at the present day; and both the satisfied and the dissatisfied woman may well pause to consider whether the fierce fever of unrest which has possessed so large a number of the sex is not rather a delirium than a conviction; whether indeed they are not just as foolishly impatient to get out of their eden, as was the woman eve six thousand years ago. we may premise, in order to clear the way, that there is a noble discontent which has a great work to do in the world; a discontent which is the antidote to conceit and self-satisfaction, and which urges the worker of every kind continually to realize a higher ideal. springing from regret and desire, between these two sighs, all horizons lift; and the very passion of its longing gives to those who feel this divine discontent the power to overleap whatever separates them from their hope and their aspiration. having acknowledged so much in favor of discontent, we may now consider some of the most objectionable forms in which it has attacked certain women of our own generation. in the van of these malcontents are the women dissatisfied with their home duties. one of the saddest domestic features of the day is the disrepute into which housekeeping has fallen; for that is a woman's first natural duty and answers to the needs of her best nature. it is by no means necessary that she should be a cinderella among the ashes, or a nausicaa washing linen, or a penelope forever at her needle, but all women of intelligence now understand that good cooking is a liberal science, and that there is a most intimate connection between food and virtue, and food and health, and food and thought. indeed, many things are called crimes that are not as bad as the savagery of an irish cook or the messes of a fourth-rate confectioner. it must be noted that this revolt of certain women against housekeeping is not a revolt against their husbands; it is simply a revolt against their duties. they consider housework hard and monotonous and inferior, and confess with a cynical frankness that they prefer to engross paper, or dabble in art, or embroider pillow-shams, or sell goods, or in some way make money to pay servants who will cook their husband's dinner and nurse their babies for them. and they believe that in this way they show themselves to have superior minds, and ask credit for a deed which ought to cover them with shame. for actions speak louder than words, and what does such action say? in the first place, it asserts that any stranger--even a young uneducated peasant girl hired for a few dollars a month--is able to perform the duties of the house-mistress and the mother. in the second place, it substitutes a poor ambition for love, and hand service for heart service. in the third place, it is a visible abasement of the loftiest duties of womanhood to the capacity of the lowest-paid service. a wife and mother cannot thus absolve her own soul; she simply disgraces and traduces her holiest work. suppose even that housekeeping is hard and monotonous, it is not more so than men's work in the city. the first lesson a business man has to learn is to do pleasantly what he does not like to do. all regular, useful work must be monotonous, but love ought to make it easy; and at any rate the tedium of housework is not any greater than the tedium of office work. as for housekeeping being degrading, that is the veriest nonsense. home is a little royalty; and if the housewife and mother be of elements finely mixed and loftily educated, all the more she will regard the cold-mutton question of importance, and consider the quality of the soup, and the quantity of chutnee in the curry, as requiring her best attention. it is only the weakest, silliest women who cannot lift their work to the level of their thoughts, and so ennoble both. there are other types of the discontented wife, with whom we are all too familiar: for instance, the wife who is stunned and miserable because she discovers that marriage is not a lasting picnic; who cannot realize that the husband must be different from the lover, and spends her days in impotent whining. she is always being neglected, and always taking offence; she has an insatiable craving for attentions, and needs continual assurances of affection, wasting her time and feelings in getting up pathetic scenes of accusation, which finally weary, and then alienate her husband. her own fault! there is nothing a man hates more than a woman going sobbing and complaining about the house with red eyes; unless it be a woman with whom he must live in a perpetual fool's paradise of perfection. there are also discontented wives, who goad their husbands into extravagant expenditure, and urge them to projects from which they would naturally recoil. there are others, whose social ambitions slay their domestic ones, and who strain every nerve, in season and out of season, and lose all their self-respect, for a few crumbs of contemptuous patronage from some person of greater wealth than their own. some wives fret if they have no children, others just as much if children come. in the first case, they are disappointed; in the second, inconvenienced; and in both, discontented. some lead themselves and others wretched lives because they have not three times as many servants as are necessary; a still greater number because they cannot compass a life of constant amusement and excitement. a very disagreeable kind of discontented woman is the wife who, instead of having a god to love and worship, makes a god of her religion, alienates love for an ecclesiastical idea, or neglects her own flesh and blood to carry the religious needs of the world; forgetting that the good wife keeps her sentiments very close to her own heart and hearth. but perhaps the majority of discontented wives have no special thing to complain of; they fret because they are "so dull." if they took the trouble to look for the cause of this "dulness," they would find it in the want of some definite plan of life, and some vigorous aim or object. of course any aim implies limitation, but limitation implies both virtue and pleasure. without rule and law, not even the games of children could exist, and the more strictly the rules of a game are obeyed, the greater the satisfaction. a wife's duty is subject to the same conditions. if aimless, plaintive women would make strict laws for their households, and lay out some possible vigorous plan for their own lives, they would find that those who love and work have no leisure for complaining. but from whatever cause domestic discontent springs, it makes the home full of idleness, ennui, and vagrant imaginations, or of fierce extravagance, and passionate love of amusement. and as a wife holds the happiness of many in her hands, discontent with her destiny is peculiarly wicked. if it is resented, she gets what she deserves; if it is quietly endured, her shame is the greater. for nothing does so much honor to a wife as her patience; and nothing does her so little honor as the patience of her husband. and however great his patience may be, she will not escape personal injury; since none are to be held innocent who do harm even to their own soul and body. besides, it is the inflexible order of things that voluntary faults are followed by inevitable pain. married women, however, are by no means the only complainers. there is a great army of discontents who, having no men to care for them, are clamoring, and with justice, for their share of the world's work and wages. such women have a perfect right to make a way for themselves, in whatever direction they best can. brains are of no sex or condition, and at any rate, there is no use arguing either their ability or their right, for necessity has taken the matter beyond the reach of controversy. thousands of women have now to choose between work, charity, or starvation, for the young man of to-day is not a marrying man. he has but puny passions, and his love is such a very languid preference that he cannot think of making any sacrifice for it. so women do not marry, they work; and as the world will take good work from whoever will give it, the world's custom is flowing to them by a natural law. now, earnest, practical women-workers are blessed, and a blessing; but the discontented among them, by much talking and little doing, continually put back the cause they say they wish to advance. no women are in the main so discontented as women-workers. they go into the arena, and, fettered by old ideas belonging to a different condition, they are not willing to be subject to the laws of the arena. they want, at the same time, the courtesy claimed by weakness and the honor due to prowess. they complain of the higher wages given to men, forgetting that the first article of equal payment is equal worth and work. they know nothing about what carlyle calls "the silences;" and the babble of their small beginnings is, to the busy world, irritating and contemptible. it never seems to occur to discontented working-women that the best way to get what they want is to act, and not to talk. one silent woman who quietly calculates her chances and achieves success does more for her sex than any amount of pamphleteering and lecturing. for nothing is more certain than that good work, either from man or woman, will find a market; and that bad work will be refused by all but those disposed to give charity and pay for it. the discontent of working-women is understandable, but it is a wide jump from the woman discontented about her work or wages to the woman discontented about her political position. of all the shrill complainers that vex the ears of mortals, there are none so foolish as the women who have discovered that the founders of our republic left their work half finished, and that the better half remains for them to do. while more practical and sensible women are trying to put their kitchens, nurseries, and drawing-rooms in order, and to clothe themselves rationally, this class of discontents are dabbling in the gravest national and economic questions. possessed by a restless discontent with their appointed sphere and its duties, and forcing themselves to the front in order to ventilate their theories and show the quality of their brains, they demand the right of suffrage as the symbol and guarantee of all other rights. this is their cardinal point, though it naturally follows that the right to elect contains the right to be elected. if this result be gained, even women whose minds are not taken up with the things of the state, but who are simply housewives and mothers, may easily predicate a few of such results as are particularly plain to the feminine intellect and observation. the first of these would be an entirely new set of agitators, who would use means quite foreign to male intelligence. for instance, every favorite priest and preacher would gain enormously in influence and power; for the ecclesiastical zeal which now expends itself in fairs and testimonials would then expend itself in the securing of votes in whatever direction they were instructed to secure them. it might even end in the introduction of the clerical element into our great political council chambers,--the bishops in the house of lords would be a sufficient precedent,--and a great many women would really believe that the charming rhetoric of the pulpit would infuse a higher tone in legislative assemblies. again, most women would be in favor of helping any picturesque nationality, without regard to the monroe doctrine, or the state of the finances, or the needs of the market. most women would think it a good action to sacrifice their party for a friend. most women would change their politics, if they saw it to be their interest to do so, without a moment's hesitation. most women would refuse the primary obligation on which all franchises rest,--that is, to defend their country by force of arms, if necessary. and if a majority of women passed a law which the majority of men felt themselves justified in resisting by physical force, what would women do? such a position in sequence of female suffrage is not beyond probability, and yet if it happened, not only one law, but _all_ law would be in danger. no one denies that women have suffered, and do yet suffer, from grave political and social disabilities, but during the last fifty years much has been continually done for their relief, and there is no question but that the future will give all that can be reasonably desired. time and justice are friends, though there are many moments that are opposed to justice. but all such innovations should imitate time, which does not wrench and tear, but detaches and wears slowly away. development, growth, completion, is the natural and best advancement. we do not progress by going over precipices, nor re-model and improve our houses by digging under the foundations. finally, women cannot get behind or beyond their nature, and their nature is to substitute sentiment for reason,--a sweet and not unlovely characteristic in womanly ways and places; yet reason, on the whole, is considered a desirable necessity in politics. at the chicago fair, and at other convocations, it has been proven that the strongest-minded women, though familiar with platforms, and deep in the "dismal science" of political economy, when it came to disputing, were no more philosophical than the simplest housewife. tears and hysteria came just as naturally to them as if the whole world wagged by impulse only; yet a public meeting in which feeling and tears superseded reason and argument would in no event inspire either confidence or respect. women may cease to be women, but they can never learn to be men, and feminine softness and grace can never do the work of the virile virtues of men. very fortunately this class of discontented women have not yet been able to endanger existing conditions by combinations analogous to trades-unions; nor is it likely they ever will; because it is doubtful if women, under any circumstances, could combine at all. certain qualities are necessary for combination, and these qualities are represented in women by their opposites. considering discontented women of all kinds individually, it is evident that they must be dull women. they see only the dull side of things, and naturally fall into a monotonous way of expressing themselves. they have also the habit of complaining, a habit which quickens only the lower intellect. where is there a more discontented creature than a good watch-dog? he is forever looking for some infringement of his rights; and an approaching step or a distant bark drives him into a fury of protest. discontented women are always egotists; they view everything in regard to themselves, and have therefore the defective sympathies that belong to low organizations. they never win confidence, for their discontent breeds distrust and doubt, and however clever they may naturally be, an obtrusive self, with its train of likings and dislikings, obscures their judgment, and they take false views of people and things. for this reason, it is almost a hopeless effort to show them how little people generally care about their grievances; for they have thought about themselves so long and so much that they cannot conceive of any other subject interesting the rest of the world. we may even admit that the women discontented on public subjects are often women of great intelligence, clever women with plenty of brains. is that the best? who does not love far more than mere cleverness that sweetness of temper, that sunny, contented disposition, which goes through the world with a smile and a kind word for every one? it is one of the richest gifts of heaven; it is, according to bishop wilson, "nine-tenths of christianity." fortunately, the vast majority of women have been loyal to their sex and their vocation. in every community the makers and keepers of homes are the dominant power; and these strictures can apply only to two classes,--first, the married women who neglect husband, children, and homes, for the foolish _éclat_ of the club and the platform, or for any assumed obligation, social, intellectual or political, which conflicts with their domestic duties: secondly, the unmarried women who, having comfortable homes and loving protectors, are discontented with their happy secluded security and rush into weak art, or feeble literature, or dubious singing and acting, because their vanity and restless immorality lead them into the market place, or on to the stage. not one of such women has been driven afield by indisputable genius. any work they have done would have been better done by some unprotected, experienced woman already in the fields they have invaded. and the indifference of this class to the money value of their labor has made it difficult for the women working because they must work or starve, to get a fair price for their work. it is the baldest effrontery for this class of rich discontents to affect sympathy with woman's progress. nothing can excuse their intrusion into the labor market but unquestioned genius and super-excellence of work; and this has not yet been shown in any single case. the one unanswerable excuse for woman's entrance into active public life of any kind is _need_, and, alas, need is growing daily, as marriage becomes continually rarer, and more women are left adrift in the world without helpers and protectors. but this is a subject too large to enter on here, though in the beginning it sprung from discontented women, preferring the work and duties of men to their own work and duties. have they found the battle of life any more ennobling in masculine professions than in their old feminine household ways? is work done in the world for strangers any less tiresome and monotonous than work done in the house for father and mother, husband and children? if they answer truly, they will reply, "the home duties were the easiest, the safest, and the happiest." of course all discontented women will be indignant at any criticism of their conduct. they expect every one to consider their feelings without examining their motives. paddling in the turbid maelstrom of life, and dabbling in politics and the most unsavory social questions, they still think men, at least, ought to regard them as the sacred sex. but women are not sacred by grace of sex, if they voluntarily abdicate its limitations and its modesties, and make a public display of unsexed sensibilities and unabashed familiarity with subjects they have nothing to do with. if men criticise such women with asperity it is not to be wondered at; they have so long idealized women that they find it hard to speak moderately. they excuse them too much, or else they are too indignant at their follies, and unjust and angry in their denunciation. women must be criticised by women; then they will hear the bare, uncompromising truth, and be the better for it. in conclusion, it must be conceded that some of the modern discontent of women must be laid to unconscious influence. in every age there is a kind of atmosphere which we call "the spirit of the times," and which, while it lasts, deceives as to the importance and truth of its dominant opinions. many women have doubtless thus caught the fever of discontent by mere contact, but such have only to reflect a little, and discover that, on the whole, they have done quite as well in life as they have any right to expect. then those who are married will find marriage and the care of it, and the love of it, quite able to satisfy all their desires; and such as really need to work will perceive that the great secret of content abides in the unconscious acceptance of life and the fulfilment of its duties,--a happiness serious and universal, but full of comfort and help. thus they will cease to vary from the kindly race of women, and through the doors of love, hope, and labor, join that happy multitude who have never discovered that life is a thing to be discontented with. women on horseback every woman ought to know how to ride. it is the most healthy of exercises; and in a life of vicissitudes she may some day find it the only method of travel--perchance the only method of saving her life. the first element of enjoying horse exercise is good riding. good riding is an affair of skill, a collection of trifles, which, if thoroughly mastered, makes the rider feel thoroughly secure. a man or a boy may learn to ride by practice; that is, he may tumble off and on until experience not only gives him confidence, but security and even elegance. it is not so with a woman. her seat is artificial; she must be taught how to keep it; for though she may have a father or brother who has "good hands," and who can show her how to handle reins and humor her horse's mouth, he cannot teach her to sit in her saddle because he cannot sit in it himself. the horse which a lady rides should be up to her weight, well-trained, and docile, for a woman on horseback has little to help her but her hand and her whip. if the flap of the saddle be large, the pressure of the left leg is almost useless, and the folds of her riding dress very often interfere with the discipline of the spur. the whip is therefore her chief reliance, and its management is of great importance. as it is really to supply the place of a man's right leg and spur, it should be stiff and real, however light and ornamental. the skin of the hippopotamus makes one both light and severe. there is little difficulty in using it on the right side of the horse, but to use it on the near side is a matter of both skill and caution. remember, first, never to strike a horse over any part of the head or neck; second, if necessary to strike him on the forehand, quietly lift the whip to an upright position, then let it firmly and suddenly descend along the shoulder and instantly return to the upright position; third, to strike the near hindquarter properly requires a firm and graceful seat. pass the right hand gently behind the waist, as far as possible, without distorting in the least the position of the body, and strike by holding the whip between the first two fingers and thumb. this action ought to be performed without disturbing either the position or action of the bridle hand. as the riding dress of a gentleman should never be groomish, so that of a lady should never be fast or flashy. the hat should sit tightly to the head, for the hands are needed for reins and whip, and cannot safely be continually occupied in its adjustment. the plainer it is, the more ladylike; but if plumes are used, then those of the cock, pheasant, peacock, or heron, are most suitable. the habit, if for real use, may be lined a foot deep with leather. in english hunting counties light vests are sometimes worn in bright weather, and in winter, over-jackets of sealskin. it is well to remember that it is the chest and back which need double protection, both during and after hard riding. skirts are seriously in the way. the snug flannel under-dress and the pantalets of the same cloth as the habit are all that is necessary. light, high boots are a great comfort in riding long distances, and almost equally good are gaiters of heavy cloth, velvet, or corduroy. the saddle ought always to have what is called the hunting-horn on the left side; yet however common it is in the north, i never saw it on a saddle in texas during ten years. the right-hand pommel is in the way, and the best saddles have now only a flat projection in its place. it prevents the rider from putting the right hand as low as a restive horse requires it, and young and timid riders are apt to get a habit of leaning on it. the value of the hunting pommel is very great. if the horse leaps suddenly up, it holds down the left knee, and makes it a fulcrum to keep the right one in its proper place. in riding down steep places it prevents sliding forward, and assists greatly in managing a hard puller. a rider cannot be thrown on it, and it renders it next to impossible that she should be thrown on the other pommel; besides, it gives the habit and figure a much finer appearance. but it is necessary for every lady to have this pommel as carefully fitted to her person as her habit is. not only see the saddle in progress, but _sit on it_. a chance saddle may seem to suit; so also, if a no. shoe is worn, a ready-made may be wearable; but as a shoe made to fit the wearer's foot is always best, so also is a saddle that is adjusted to the rider's proportions. a stirrup may be an advantage, if the foot is likely to weary; but since the general introduction of the third pommel it is not necessary to a woman in the way that it is to a man. a woman, also, is very apt to make it a lever for "wriggling" about in her saddle,--a habit that is not only very ungraceful, but which gives many a horse a sore back, which a firm, quiet seat never does. reins should not be given to a learner; her first lessons should be on a led horse. the best horsewomen in england have been taught how to walk, canter, gallop, trot, and leap without the assistance of reins. i do not advocate the plan for general use, but i do know that learners are apt to acquire the habit of holding on by the bridle. when the hand is trusted with reins, hold them in both hands. one bridle and two hands are far better than two bridles and one hand. the practice of one-handed riding originated in military schools; for a trooper has a sword or lance to carry, and riding-schools have usually been kept by old soldiers. but who attempts to turn a horse in harness with one hand? don't hold the reins as if you were afraid of letting them go again, for this not only gives a "dead" hand, but compels the rider's body to follow the vagaries of the horse's head. lightly and smoothly, "as if they were a worsted thread," hold the reins; and from the time the horse is in motion till the ride is finished, never cease a gentle sympathetic feeling upon the mouth. women generally attain a "good hand" easier than men. in the first place, it is partly natural and spontaneous; in the second, they do not rely so much upon their physical strength and courage. a man in the pride of his youth is apt to despise this manipulation. many riders say it is better for a woman to use only the curb; but if she does this, all chance of learning "hand" is gone. i say, let her use the reins in both hands, slackening or tightening according to the pace she wishes, and the horse's eagerness. if she succeeds in this, and never keeps "a dead pull," she is a long way toward being a good horsewoman. as to turning, there is no better rule than colonel greenwood's simple maxim: "when you wish to turn to the right, pull the right-hand rein stronger than the left"--and _vice versa_. all women should learn to canter before learning to trot. it is a much easier pace, and helps to give confidence. to canter _with the right foreleg leading_, make an extra bearing on the right rein, and a strong pressure with the left leg, heel, or spur; at the same time bring the whip across the near forehand of the horse. if he hesitates, pass the hand behind the waist and strike the near hindquarter. to canter _with the left foreleg leading_, the extra bearing must be made on the left rein, by turning up the little finger toward the right shoulder, and using the whip on the right shoulder or flank. never permit the horse to choose which foreleg shall lead; make him subject to your will and hand; and it is a good plan to change the leading leg when in a canter. in all movements remember to keep the bridle arm close to the body, and do not throw the elbow outward. the movements of the hand must come from the wrist alone, and the bearings on the horse's mouth be made by gently turning upward the little finger, at the same time keeping the hand firmly closed upon the reins. the horse is urged to trot by bearing equally on both reins, and using the whip gently on the _right_ flank. sit well down in the saddle, and rise and fall with the action of the horse, springing lightly from the in-step and the knee. nothing is uglier than rising too high, and besides its awkward, ungraceful appearance, it endangers the position. if the horse strikes into a canter of his own accord, bring him at once to a halt and begin again, or bear strongly on both reins till he resumes his trot, or else break the canter by bearing strongly on the rein opposite to his leading leg. always begin at a gentle pace, and never trot a moment after either fear or fatigue is felt. the horsemanship of a lady is never complete until she has learned to leap; for even if she intend nothing beyond a canter in the park, horses will leap at times without permission. when a horse rises to a leap, lean _well forward_, and bear gently on the mouth. when he makes the spring, strike the right flank (if necessary). as he descends, _lean backward_, pressing the leg firmly against the hunting pommel, and bearing the bridle strongly on the mouth. collect the horse with the whip, and urge him forward at speed. i shall now say a few words about mounting and dismounting, though every tyro imagines these to be the easiest of actions. in mounting, stand close to the horse, with the right hand on the middle pommel, the whip in the left hand, and the left hand on the groom's right shoulder. do not scramble, but spring, into the saddle; sit well down, and let the right leg hang over the pommel _a little back_, for if the foot pokes out, the hold is not firm. lean rather back than forward, firm and close from the hips downward, flexible from the hips upward. the reins must be held apart a little above the level of the knee. in dismounting, first take the right leg from its pommel, then the left from the stirrup. see that the dress is clear from all the pommels, especially the hunting one; let the reins fall on the horse's neck, place the left hand on the right arm of the groom, and the right hand on the hunting-pommel, and descend to the ground on the balls of the feet. i have one more subject to notice. it is this: if a woman is to go out riding, no matter who may be her chaperon, nor whether it be in the park or the hunting field, she ought to know _how to take care of herself_; not with obtrusive independence, but with that modest, unassuming confidence which is the result of a perfect acquaintance with all that the situation demands. a good word for xanthippe by way of apology, explanation, and defence we may be pardoned, perhaps, for judging the living according to our humor, but the dead, at least, we should judge only with our reason. become eternal, we should endeavor to measure them with the eternal rule of justice. if we did this, how many characters having now an immortality of ill, would secure a more favorable verdict. for twenty-three centuries xanthippe has been regarded as the type of everything unlovely in womanhood and wifehood. we forget all the other grecian matrons of periclean times, to remember this poor wife with scorn. yet if we would bestow half the careful scrutiny on an accurate analysis of her position which is given to other texts of classical writers, we might find her worthy of our sympathy more than scorn. in the "memorabilia" of xenophon (ii. ) socrates is represented as pointing out to his eldest son, lamprocles, the duty of paying a respectful attention to a mother who loved him so much better than any one else, and he calls him a "wretch" who should neglect it. indeed, the picture he draws of the maternal relation is one of the finest things in ancient literature. would socrates have urged respect and obedience towards a mother unworthy of it? would lamprocles have received the fatherly flogging and reproof as meekly as he did if he had not been sensible of his error? and if there had been anything incongruous in socrates demanding for xanthippe lamprocles' respect and obedience, would not xenophon have noticed it? but it is not to philosophers and fathers we appeal for xanthippe; mothers and housewives must judge her. when she married socrates he was a sculptor, and, according to report, a very fair one,--not, perhaps, a phidias, but one doing good, serviceable, paying work. he had a house in athens, and people paid rent and went to market then as now; and he had a wife and family whom it is evident he ought to support. doubtless xanthippe was a good housekeeper,--women with sharp tempers usually have that compensation,--but who can keep house amiably upon nothing? mr. grote tells us that socrates relinquished his paying profession and devoted himself to teaching, "excluding all other business to the neglect of all means of fortune." if he had taken money for teaching, perhaps xanthippe might not have opposed him so much; but he would neither ask nor receive reward. the fact probably was, socrates had a delight in talking, and he preferred talking to business. whatever _we_ may think of his "talks," xanthippe did not likely consider them anything wonderful. nothing but a jury of women whose husbands have "missions," and neglect everything for them, could fairly judge xanthippe on this point. it is of no use for us to say, "socrates was such a great man, such a divine teacher;" xanthippe did not know it, and a great many of the wisest and greatest of the athenians had no more sense in this respect than she had. aristophanes regularly turned him into sport for the theatres. what christian wife would like that? comic plays were written about him, and the gamins under the porticos ridiculed him. if he had been honored, xanthippe would have forgiven his self-imposed poverty; but to be poor, and laughed at! doubtless he deserved a good portion of the curtain lectures he got. then xanthippe had another cause of complaint in which she will be sure of the sympathy of all wives. socrates did not share in its full bitterness the poverty to which he condemned his family. while she was eating her pulse and olives at home, he was dining with athenian nobles, and drinking wine by the side of the brilliant aspasia or the fascinating theodite. we see socrates, "splendid through the shades of time," as a great moral teacher; but many of the athenians of his day laughed at him, and very few admired him. at any rate he did not provide for the wants of his household, and even a bachelor like saint paul severely condemns such a one. certainly the men of athens did not admire socrates, and probably the women of xanthippe's acquaintance sympathized with her,--to a woman of her temperament a very great aggravation. it may be said all this is special pleading, but when we have knocked at the door of certain truths in vain, we should try and get into them by the window. the favorites of men it may be taken as a rule that women who are favorites with men are very seldom favorites with their own sex. wherever women congregate, and other women are under discussion, men's favorites are named with that tone of disapproval and disdain which infers something not quite proper--something undesirable in the position. if specific charges are made, the "favorite" will probably be called "an artful little flirt," or she will be "sly" or "fast." matrons will wonder what the men see in her face or figure; and the young girls will deplore her manners, or rather her want of manners; or they will mercifully "hope there is nothing really wrong in her freedom and boldness, but----" and the sigh and shrug will deny the charitable hope with all the emphasis necessary for her condemnation. for if a girl is a favorite with the men of her own set, she is naturally disliked by the women, since she attracts to herself far more than her share of admiration; and the admiration of men, whether women acknowledge it or not, is the desire and delight of the feminine heart, just as the love of women is the desire and delight of the masculine heart. in their social intercourse two kinds of women please men: the bright, pert woman, who says such things and does such things as no other woman would dare to say and do, and who is therefore very amusing; and the sympathetic woman who admires and perhaps loves them. but these two great classes have wide and indefinite varieties, and the bright little woman with her innocent audaciousness, and the graceful, swan-necked angel, with her fine feelings and her softly spoken compliments, are but types of species that have infinite peculiarities, and distinctions. the two women, sitting quietly in the same room and dressed in the same orthodox fashion, may not appear to be radically different, but as soon as conversation and dancing commence, the one, in a frankly outspoken way, says just what she thinks, and charms in the most undisguised manner, while the other must be looked for in retired corners, quiet and demure, listening with pensive adoration to her companion's cleverness, and flirting in that insidious way which sets other women's cheeks burning with indignation. an absolutely womanly ideal for the purposes of flirtation or of platonic friendship--if such an emotion exists--is not supposable; for man is himself so many-sided that the woman who is perfect in one's estimation would be uninteresting in another's. it is, however, very certain that the women men flirt with are not the women men marry. their social favorites, are not the matrimonial favorites, and therefore it is not a good thing for a girl's settlement that she should get the reputation of being a "gentlemen's favorite." it is rather a position to be avoided, for the brightest or sweetest girl with this character will likely pass her best years in charming all without being able to fix one lover to her side for life. this is the secret of the great number of plain married women whom every one counts among his acquaintances. the position of a favorite is no easy one. she has to cultivate many qualities which should be put to better use and bring her more satisfactory results. she must have discrimination enough to value flirting at its proper value; for if she confounds love-making with love, and takes everything _au grand serieux_, her reputation as a safe favorite would be seriously endangered. in her flirtations she must never permit herself to show whether she be hit or not. she must never suffer a fop to have any occasion for a boast. she must avoid every circumstance which would allow a feminine rival an opportunity for a sneer. she must be able to give and take cheerfully, to conceal every social wound and slight, and to be deaf to every disagreeable thing. in short, she must be armed at every point, and never lay down her arms, and never be off watch. it is therefore a position whose requirements, if translated into active business life, would employ the utmost resources of a fertile and energetic man. and what are the general results of talents so varied and so industriously employed? as a usual thing, the gentlemen's favorite dances and flirts her way from a brilliant girlhood to a fretful, neglected _femme passée_. she has in the meantime had the mortification of seeing the plain girls whom she despised become honored wives and mothers, and possibly leaders in that set of the social world of which she still makes one of the rank and file of spinsterhood. her disappointments, in spite of her careful concealment of them, tell upon her physique. she sees the waning of her power, and the approaches of that winter of discontent which wasted opportunities are sure to bring. spurred with a sense of haste by some unhappy slight, she perhaps unadvisedly marries a man who ten years previously would not have ventured to clasp her shoe-buckle. if he happens to possess a firm will and a strong character, he will try to pull her sharply up to his mark, and there will be endless frictions and reprisals, with all their possible results. if he is some old lover, weak in purpose, fatuous and brainless in his admiration, then the foolish flirting virgin will likely become a foolish flirting wife; and a miserable complaisance will bring forth its natural outgrowth of contempt and dislike, and perhaps culminate in some flagrant social misdemeanor. to be a favorite with men is not, then, a desirable honor for any woman. they will admire her loveliness, sun themselves in her smiles, and catch a little ephemeral pleasure and glory in her favor; but they will not marry her. and the reason, though not very evident to a thoughtless girl, is at least a very real and powerful one. it is because such a girl _never touches them on their best side_, and never reveals in herself that womanly nature which a man knows instinctively is the foundation of wifely value,--that nature which expresses itself in service for love's sake, as a very necessity of its being. on the contrary, a "favorite" leans all to one side, and that side is herself. she is overbearing and exacting in the most trivial matters of outward homage. she will be served on the bended knee, and her service is a hard and ungrateful one. and this is the truth about such homage: men may be compelled to kneel to a woman's whims for a short time, but when they do find courage to rise to their feet they go away forever. so that, after all, the estimate of women for those of their own sex who are favorites of a great number of men is a very just one. it is neither unfair nor untrue in its essentials, for in this world we can only judge actions by their consequences; and the consequences of a long career of general admiration do not justify honorable mention of the belle of many seasons. she can hardly escape the results of her social experience. she must of necessity become false and artificial. she cannot avoid a morbid jealousy of her own rights, and a painful jealousy of the successes of those who have passed her in the matrimonial career. nor can she, as these qualities strengthen, by any means conceal their presence. every attribute of our nature has its distinctive atmosphere; it is subtle and invisible as the perfume of a plant, but it makes itself distinctly present,--even when we are careful to permit no translation of the feeling into action. men are not analyzers or inquirers into character, as a general rule, but the bright ways and witty conversation of their favorite does not deceive them. sooner or later they are sensitive to the restlessness, disappointment, envy, and hatred, which couches beneath the smiles and sparkle. they may put the knowledge away at the time, but when they are alone they will eventually admit and understand it all. and the saddest part of this situation is that they are not at all astonished at what their hearts reveal to them. they know that they have expected nothing better, nothing more permanently valuable. they tell themselves frankly that in this woman's society they never looked for imperishable virtues; she was only a pretty _passe-temps_--a woman suitable for life's laughter, but not for its noblest duties and discipline. for when good men want to marry, they seek a woman for what _she is_, not for what she looks. they want a gentlewoman of blameless honor, who will love her husband, and neither be reluctant to have children nor to bring them up at her knees; who will care for her house duties and her husband's comfort and welfare as if these things were an eleventh commandment. and such women, fair and cultured enough to make any home happy, are not difficult to find. however peculiar and individual a man may be, there are very few in a generation who cannot convince some good woman that their peculiarities are abnormal genius, or refined moral sensitiveness, or some other great and rare excellency. therefore, before a girl commits herself to a course of frivolity and time-pleasing, which will fasten on her such a misnomer as a "favorite" of men, let her carefully ponder the close of such a career. for, having once obtained this reputation, she will find it very hard to rid herself of its consequences. and it is, alas, very likely that many girls enter this career thoughtlessly, and not until they are entangled in it find out that they have made a mistake with their life. then they are wretched in the conditions they have surrounded themselves with, and yet are afraid to leave them. their popularity is odious to them. they stretch out their hands to their wasted youth, and their future appalls them. they weep, for they think it is too late to retrieve their errors. no! it is never too late to lift up the head and the heart! it is always the right hour to become noble and truthful and courageous once more! in short, there is yet a divine help for those who seek it; and in that strength all may turn back and recapture their best selves. while life lasts there is no such time as "too late!" and oh, the good that fact does one! mothers of great and good men women are apt to complain that their lot is without influence. on the contrary, their lot is full of dignity and importance. if they do not lead armies, if they are not state officers, or congressional orators, they mould the souls and minds of men who do, and are; and give the initial touch that lasts through life. the conviction of the mother's influence over the fate of her children is old as the race itself; ancient history abounds with examples; and even the destinies of the gods are represented as in its power. it was the mothers of ancient rome that made ancient rome great; it was the spartan mothers that made the spartan heroes. those sons went out conquerors whose mothers armed them with the command, "with your shield, or on it, my son!" the power of the mother in forming the character of the child is beyond calculation. can any time separate the name of monica from that of her son augustine? never despairing, even when her son was deep sunk in profligacy, watching, pleading, praying with such tears and fervor that the bishop of carthage cried out in admiration, "go thy way; it is impossible that the son of these tears should perish!" and she lived to see the child of her love all that her heart desired. nor are there in all literature more noble passages than those which st. augustine consecrates to the memory of a parent whom all ages have crowned with the loftiest graces of motherhood. bishop hall says of his mother, "she was a woman of rare sanctity." and from her he derived that devoted spirit and prayerful dignity which gave him such unbounded influence in the church to which his life was consecrated. the "divine george herbert" owed to his mother a still greater debt, and the famous john newton proposes himself as "an example for the encouragement of mothers to do their duty faithfully to their children." every one is familiar with the picture which represents dr. doddridge's mother teaching him, before he could read, the old and new testament history from the painted tiles in the chimney corner. crowley, thomson, campbell, goethe, victor hugo, schiller and the schlegels, canning, lord brougham, curran, and hundreds of our great men may say with pierre vidal: "if aught of goodness or of grace be mine, hers be the glory; she led me on in wisdom's path and set the light before me." perhaps there was never a more wonderful example of maternal influence than that of the wesleys' mother. to use her own words, she cared for her children as "one who works together with god in the saving of a soul." she never considered herself absolved from this care, and her letters to her sons when they were men are the wonder of all who read them. another prominent instance is that of madame bonaparte over her son napoleon. this is what he says of her: "she suffered nothing but what was grand and elevated to take root in our souls. she abhorred lying, and passed over none of our faults." how large a part the mother of washington played in the formation of her son's character, we have only to turn to irving's "life of washington" to see. and it was her greatest honor and reward when the world was echoing with his renown, to listen and calmly reply, "he has been a good son, and he has done his duty as a man." john quincy adams owed everything to his mother. the cradle hymns of his childhood were songs of liberty, and as soon as he could lisp his prayers she taught him to say collins' noble lines, "how sleep the brave who sink to rest." no finer late instance of the influence of a mother in the formation of character can be adduced than that of gerald massey. his mother roused in him his hatred of wrong, his love of liberty, his pride in honest, hard-working poverty; and massey, in his later days of honor and comfort, often spoke with pride of those years when his mother taught her children to live in honest independence on rather less than a dollar and a half a week. the similar instance of president garfield and his mother is too well known to need more than mention. there can be no doubt of the illimitable influence of the mother in the formation of her child's character. the stern, passionate piety of mrs. wesley made saints and preachers of her children; the ambition and bravery of madame bonaparte moulded her son into a soldier, and the beautiful union of these qualities helped to form the hero beloved of all lands,--george washington. i do not say that mothers can give genius to their sons; but all mothers can do for their children what monica did for augustine, what madame bonaparte did for napoleon, what mrs. washington did for her son george, what gerald massey's mother did for him, what ten thousands of good mothers all over the world are doing this day,--patiently moulding, hour by hour, year by year, that cumulative force which we call character. and if mothers do this duty honestly, whether their sons are private citizens or public men, they will "rise up and call them blessed." domestic work for women to that class of women who toil not, neither spin, and who, like contented ravens, are fed they know not how nor whence, it is superfluous to speak of domestic service; for their housekeeping consists in "giving orders," and their marketing is represented by tradesmen's wagons and buff-colored pass-books. yet i am far from inferring that, because they can financially afford to be idle, they have a right to be so. they surely owe to the world some free gift of labor, else it would be hard to see why they came into it. not for ornaments certainly, since parian marble and painted canvas would be both more economical and satisfactory; not for housewives, for their houses are in the hands of servants; not for mothers, for they universally grumble at the advent and responsibility of children. but to the large majority of women, domestic service ought to be a high moral question, especially to those who are the wives of men striving to keep up on limited incomes the reality and the appearance of a prosperous home; all the more necessary, perhaps, because the appearance is the condition on which the reality is possible. too often a false notion that usefulness and elegance are incompatible, that it is "unladylike" to be in their kitchens, or come in contact with the baker and butcher, makes them abrogate the highest honors of wifehood. or perhaps they have the misfortune to be the children of those tender parents who are permitted without loss of reputation to educate their daughters for drawing-room ornaments in their youth, and yet do nothing to _insure_ them against a middle age of struggle and privation, and an old age of misery. to such i would speak candidly--not without thought--not without practical knowledge of what i say--not without strong hopes that i may influence many warm, thoughtless hearts, who only need to be once alive to a responsibility in order to feel straitened and burdened until they assume and fulfil it. is it fair, then, is it just, kind, or honorable, that the husband day after day should be bound to the wheel of a monotonous occupation, and the wife fritter away the results in frivolity or suffer them to be wasted in extravagant and yet unsatisfactory housekeeping? supposing the magnificent affection of the husband makes him willing to coin his life into dollars, in order that the wife may live and dress and visit according to her ideal, ought she to accept an offering that has in it so strong an odor of human sacrifice? even if it be necessary to keep up a certain style, it is still in the wife's power to make the husband's service for this end a reasonable one. personal supervision of the marketing will save twenty per cent, and i am afraid to say how much might be saved from actual waste in the kitchen by the same means; and this is but the beginning. yet saving is only one item in the wife's lawful domestic service; if her husband is to be a permanently successful man, she must take care of his digestion. it may seem derogatory to thought, enterprise, and virtue to assert that eating has anything to do with them. i cannot help the condition; i only know that it exists, and that she is but a poor wife who ignores the fact. the days when men stuck to their "roast and boiled" as firmly as to their creed are, of necessity, disappearing. the fervid life we are all leading demands food that can be assimilated with the least possible detriment to, or expenditure of, the vital powers. "thoughts that burn" are no poetic fancy; the planning, the calculating that a business man performs during the day literally burns up the material of conscious life. it is the wife's duty to replenish the fires of intellect and energy by fuel that the enfeebled vitality can convert most easily into the elements necessary to repair the waste. the idea that it is derogatory for cultivated brains and white hands to investigate the stock-jar and the stew-pan is a very mistaken one. the daintiest lady i ever knew, the wife of a merchant who is one of our princes, sees personally every day to the preparation of her husband's dinner and its artistic and appetizing arrangement on the table. i have not the smallest doubt that the nourishing soups, the delicately prepared meats, the delicious desserts, are the secret of many a clear-headed business transaction, household investments that make possible the far-famed commercial ones. this mysterious relationship between what we _eat_ and what we _do_ was dimly perceived by dr. johnson when he said that "a man who did not care for his dinner would care for nothing else." artistic cooking derogatory! why, it is a science, an art, as sure to follow a high state of civilization as the fine arts do. no persons of fine feelings can be indifferent to what they eat, any more than to what they wear, or what their household surroundings are. a man may be compelled by circumstances to swallow half-cooked bloody beef and boiled paste dumplings, and yet it may be as repugnant to him as it would be to wear a scarlet belcher neckerchief, a brass watch-chain, and a cotton-velvet coat. yet his wife may be ignorant or indifferent; he is too much occupied with other matters to "make a fuss about it," and so he shuts his eyes, opens his mouth, and takes whatever his cook pleases to send him. i do not like to be uncharitable, but somehow i can't help thinking that a wife who permits this kind of thing is unworthy of her wedding ring. let her take a volume of f. w. johnston's "domestic chemistry" in her hand, and go down into her kitchen. she will be in a far higher region of romance than miss braddon can take her into. she will learn that it is her province to renew her husband physically and mentally by dexterously depositing the right kind of nutriment upon the inward, invisible frame. the wonders of science shall supersede then, for her, the wonders of romance. to feed the sacred fire of life will become a noble office; she will count it as honorable, in its place, to make a fine soup or a delicate charlotte russe as to play a beethoven sonata or read a german classic. truly, i think that it is almost a sin for a housekeeper with all her senses to be ignorant of the laws of chemistry affecting food. yet the subject is so large and complicated that i can only indicate its importance; but i am sure that women of affection and intelligence who may now for the first time accept the thought, will follow my hints to all their manifold conclusions. one of these conclusions is so important that i cannot avoid directing special attention to it,--the moral effect of proper food. do not doubt that all through life high things depend on low ones; and in this matter it must be evident to every observing woman that food is often the _nerve_ of our highest social affections. there is an acute domestic disorder which dr. marshall hall used to call "the temper disease." need i point out to wives the wonderful sympathy between this disease and the dining-table? do they not know that a fretful, belated, ill-cooked breakfast has the power to take all the energy out of a sensitively organized man, and make his entire day an uncomfortable failure? on the contrary, a cheerful room, a snowy cloth, coffee "with the aroma in," bread whose amber crust and light, white crumb is a picture, in short, a well-appointed, quiet, comfortable first meal has in it some subtle influence of strength and inspiration for work. i have seen men rise from such tables _joyful_--full of such gratitude and hope as i can well believe only found expression in that silent uplifting of the heart to god which is, after all, our purest prayer. then when at evening he returns weary, faint and hungry, a fine sonata or an exquisite painting will not much comfort him. i even doubt whether a religious service could profitably take the place of his dinner; for we _know_, if we will acknowledge it, that the importunate demands of the flesh do cry down the still small voice of devotion. but how different we feel after eating; then we are disposed for something higher, the mind is elevated to gracious thoughts, the brain gives reasonable counsel, the heart generous responses. and i speak with all reverence when i say that many of our darkest hours in spiritual things are not to be attributed to an angry god or a hidden saviour, but to physical repletion or inanition. but if these wonderfully fashioned bodies be the "temple of the holy ghost," how shall we expect the comforts of god in a disordered or ill-kept shrine? thus it is in the power of the housewife to turn the work of the kitchen into a sacrifice of gladness, and to make the offices of the table a means of grace. certain it is that she will decide whether her husband is to be commercially successful or not; for if a man will be rich, he must ask his wife's permission to be so. and if he will be physically healthy, mentally clear, morally sweet, she must take care that his home furnish the proper food and stimulus on which these conditions depend. nor will she go far wrong if she take as a general rule, lying at the foundation, or in close connection with them all, sydney smith's pleasant hyperbolic maxim, "soup and fish explain half the emotions of life." we will suppose that the housewife is also the house-mother, and that she is not content with apathetically remarking that "her children are beyond her control," and so sending them away to nurses and boarding schools; but that she really strives to encourage every virtue, draw out every latent power, and make both boys and girls worthy of the grand future to which they are heirs. who shall say now that woman's domestic sphere is narrow, or unworthy of her highest powers? for if she accepts honestly and solemnly all her responsibilities, she takes a position that only good women or angels could fill. nor need house duties shut her out from all service except to those of her own household. in these very duties she may find a way to help her poorer sisters far more efficient than many of more pretentious promise. when she has become a scientific, artistic cook, let her permit some ignorant but bright and ambitious girl to spend a few hours daily by her side, and learn by precept and example the highest rules and methods of the culinary art. girls so instructed would be real blessings to those who hired them, and would themselves start life with a real, solid gain, able at once to command respectable service and high wages. i am quite aware that such a practical philanthropist would meet with many ungracious returns, and not a few insinuating assertions that her charity was an insidious attempt to get work "for nothing." but a good woman would not be deterred by this; she has had but small experience of life who has not learned that it is often our very best and most unselfish actions which are suspected, simply because their very unselfishness makes them unintelligible; and if we do not reverence what we cannot understand, we suspect it. it may seem but a small thing to do for charity's sweet sake, but who shall measure the results? say that in the course of a year four young girls receive a practical knowledge of the art of cooking, how far will the influence of those four eventually reach? the larger part of all our good deeds is hid from us,--wisely so, else we should be overmuch lifted up. we have nothing to do with aggregate results, and i believe that the woman who provides intelligently for her household, makes it cheerful and restful, and finds heart and space to help some other woman to a higher life, has the noblest of "missions," the grandest of "spheres," and is most blessed among women. she who adds to household duties maternal duties fills also the highest national office, since to her hands are committed--not indeed the laws of the republic but the fate of the republic; for the children of _to-day_ are the _to-morrow_ of society, and its men of action will be nothing but unconscious instruments of the patient love and prayerful thought of the mothers who taught them. and yet let the women who are excused from this office be grateful for their indulgence. alas! how many shoulders without strength have asked for heavy burdens. professional work for women "labor! all labor is noble and holy!" that man should provide and woman dispense are the radical conditions of domestic service; conditions which i believe are highly favorable to the development of the highest type of womanhood. but at the same time they are far from embracing all women capable of high development, nor are they perhaps suitable for every phase of character included in that myriad-minded creature--woman. for just as one tree attains its most perfect beauty through sheltering care, and another strikes the deepest roots and lifts the greenest boughs by self-reliant struggles, so also some women reach their highest development through domestic duties, while others hold their life most erect through public service and enforced responsibilities. it has taken the world, however, nearly , years to come to the understanding that these latter souls must not be denied their proper arena, that brains have no sex, and that it is well for the world to have its work done irrespective of anything but the _capability_ of the workers. but it has now so far accepted the doctrine that women who must labor if they would live honestly and independently need no longer do so under sufferance or suspicion. wherever they can best make their way the road is open, and they are encouraged to make it; nor am i aware of any serious restriction laid on them, except one, whose true kindness is in its apparent severity,--namely, that the debutante must justify her work by her success in it. i call this kind, because favor and toleration are here unkind; since she who stands from any other reason than absolute fitness will sooner or later fall by an inevitable law. the great curse of women, educated and yet unprovided for, is not that they have to labor, but that, having to work, they cannot find the work to do. nor is it generally their fault; they have probably been miseducated in the old idea that marriage is the only social salvation provided whereby woman can be saved; and no one having married them, what are these compulsory social sinners to do? a great number turn _instinctively_ to literature for help and comfort; and their instinct in many respects is not at fault; for literature is one of the few professions that from the first has dealt kindly and honorably with women. here the race is fair; if the female pen is fleetest, it wins. but writing _does not_ come by nature; it is an art to be seriously and sedulously pursued. my own reflection and experience lead me to believe that within the last thirty years its methods have radically changed. that condition of inspiration and mental excitement once considered the native air of genius has lost much of its importance; and people now ordinarily write by the exercise of their reason and reflection, and by the continual and faithful cultivation of such natural powers as they are endowed with. upon the whole, it is a mark of rational progress, and opens the field to every woman who is thoughtful and cultivated and willing to study industriously. not undervaluing the mood of inspiration, i yet honestly believe that for practical bread-winning purposes reason and study are the most effectual aids, and the hours devoted to personal culture by acquiring information just so much "stock in trade" acquired. the motives for writing, too, have either changed with the method, or else writers have become more honest, as they have become more reasonable. i can remember when every author imagined himself influenced by some unworldly consideration, such as the desire to do good, or to instruct, or at least because he had something to say which constrained him to write. but people now sell their knowledge as they sell any other commodity; the best and the greatest men write simply for money, and no woman need feel any conscientious scruples because her own pressing cares sometimes obliterate the full sense of her responsibility. god does not work alone with model men and women. he takes us just as we are; and i _know_ that the stray arrow shot from the bow when the hand was weary and the mind halting has often struck nearer home than those set with scrupulous exactness and sped with careful aim. besides writing, there are other literary occupations specially suited to women, such as index-makers, amanuenses, and proof-readers. the first need a clear head and great patience, but the remuneration is very good. an amanuensis must have a rapid hand, a fair education, and such a quick, sympathetic mind as will enable her to readily adapt herself to the author's moods, and in some measure follow his train of thought. proof-reading pre-supposes a general high cultivation, enough knowledge of french, latin, etc., to read and correct quotations, and an intimate acquaintance with general literature, as well as grammar, orthography, and punctuation. but though a responsible position, women, both from physical and mental aptitude, fill it better than men. they have a faculty of detecting errors immediately, often without knowing why or how, and are both more patient and more expert. the editors of the _christian union_ practically support me in this opinion, and the carefully correct type of the paper is evidence of the highest order. the conditions of these three employments being present, the mere technicalities of each are of the simplest kind, and very easily acquired. "a fair field and no favor" has also been freely granted to women in every department of music and art. but in its highest branches public opinion is inexorable to mediocrity; and success is absolutely dependent on great natural abilities, thoroughly and highly cultivated. but there are many inferior branches in which women of average ability, properly educated, may make honorable and profitable livelihoods. such, for instance, as engraving on wood and steel, chasing gold and silver, cutting gems and cameos, and designing for all these purposes. not a few women (and men too) make good livings by designing costumes for the large dry-goods houses and the fashionable modistes; but the good designer is a creator, and this faculty has always hitherto been confined to a small number both of men and women. the ability to draw by no means proves it; this is only the tool, the design is the thought. therefore schools of design, though they may furnish natural designers with tools, cannot make designers. if designing, then, is a woman's object, she must not deceive herself; for if the "faculty divine" is not present she may devote years to study, and never rise above the mere copyist. it is usually conceded that antiquity and general "use and wont" confer a kind of claim to any office. if so, then women have an inherited right, almost wide as the world, and coeval with history, to practise medicine. every one recognizes them as the natural physicians of the household, and under all our ordinary ailments it is to some wise woman of our family we go for advice or assistance. as miss cobbe says,-- "who ever dreams of asking his grandfather, or his uncle, his footman, or his butler what he shall do for his cold, or to be so kind as to tie up his cut finger?" yet women regard such requests as perfectly natural, and are very seldom unable to gratify them. medicine as a profession for women has almost won its ground; and as it is a science largely depending on insight into individual peculiarities, it would seem to be specially their office. an illustrious physician says, "there are no diseases, there are diseased people;" and the remark explains why women--who instinctively read mental characters--ought to be admirable physicians. indeed female physicians have already gained a position which entitles them to demand their male opponents to "show cause why" they may not share in all the honors and emoluments of the faculty. that the profession, as a means of employment for women, is gaining favor is evident from their large attendance at the free medical colleges for women in this city, nor are there any facts to indicate that their practice is less safe than that of men; and if accidents have taken place, they were doubtless the result of ignorance, and not of sex. theodore parker favored even the legal profession for women, giving it as his opinion that "he must be rather an uncommon lawyer who thinks no feminine head could compete with him." most lawyers are rather mechanics at law, than attorneys or scholars at law; and in the mechanical part women could do as well as men, could be as good conveyancers, could follow precedents as carefully and copy forms as nicely. "i think," he adds, "their presence would mend the manners of the court on the bench, not less than of the bar." but though, if properly prepared, there would seem no reason why women could not write out wills, deeds, mortgages, indentures, etc., yet i doubt much whether they have the natural control and peculiar aptitudes necessary for a counsellor at law. but no one will deny a woman's capability to teach, even though so many have gone into the office that have no right there; for mere ability is not enough. teachers, like artists, are born teachers, and the power to impart knowledge is a free gift of nature. those, then, who accept the office without vocation for it, just for a livelihood, both degrade themselves and it. the duties undertaken with reluctance lack the spirit which gives light and interest; the children suffer intelligently, the teacher morally. but if a woman becomes a teacher, having a call which is unmistakable, she is doubly blessed, and the world may drop the compassionate tone it is fond of displaying toward her, or, if it is willing to do her justice, may pay her more and pity her less. the question of a woman's right to preach is one that conscience rather than creeds or opinions must settle. it must be allowed that her natural influence is, and always has been greater than any delegated authority. she is born priestess over every soul she can influence, and the question of her right to preach seems to be only the question of her right to extend her influence. in this light she has always been a preacher; it is her natural office, from which nothing can absolve her. a woman must influence for good or evil every one she comes in contact with; by no direct effort perhaps, but simply because she must, it is her nature and her genius. whether women will ever do the world's highest work as well as men, i consider, in all fairness, yet undecided. she has not had time to recover from centuries of no-education and mis-education: she is only just beginning to understand that neither beauty nor tact can take the place of skill, and that to do a man's work she must prepare for it as a man prepares; but even if time proves that in creative works she cannot attain masculine grandeur of conception and power of execution, she may be just as excellent in her own way; and there are and always will be people who prefer mrs. browning to milton, and george eliot to lord bacon. at first sight there seems some plausibility in the assertion that woman's physical inferiority will always render her unfit to do men's work. but all physical excellence is a matter of cultivation; and it would be very easy to prove that women are not naturally physically weaker than men. in all savage nations they do the hardest work, and mr. livingstone acknowledged that all his ideas as to their physical inferiority had been completely overturned. in china they do the work of men, with the addition of an infant tied to their back. in calcutta and bombay, they act as masons, carry mortar, and there are thousands of them in the mountain passes bearing up the rocky heights baskets of stone and earth on their heads. the women in germany and the low countries toil equally with the men. during the late war i saw american women in texas keep the saddle all day, driving cattle or superintending the operations in the cotton-patch or the sugar-field. nay, i have known them to plough, sow, reap, and get wood from the cedar brake with their own hands. woman's physical strength has degenerated for want of exercise and use; but it would be as unfair to condemn her to an inferior position on this account as it was for the slave master to urge the necessity of slavery because of the very vices slavery had produced. however, if women are really to succeed they must give to their preparation for a profession the freshest years of life. if it is only taken up because marriage has been a failure, or if it is pursued with a divided mind, they will always be behind-hand and inferior. but the compensation is worth the sacrifice. a profession once acquired, they have home, happiness, and independence in their hands; the future, as far as possible, is secure, the serenity and calmness of assurance strengthens the mind and sweetens the character, and from the standpoint of a self-sustaining celibacy marriage itself assumes its loftiest position; it is no longer the aim, but the crown and completion of her life; for _she need not_, so she _will not_, marry for anything but love, and thus her wifehood will lose nothing of the grace and glory that belongs to it of right. little children the teachers of a people have need of a far greater wisdom than its priests. the latter are but the mouthpiece of an oracle so clear that a wayfaring man, though a fool, may understand it. the former are the interpreters in the mysterious communings of ignorance with knowledge. "only a few little children," says the self-sufficient and the inefficient teacher. twenty-five years' experience among little children has taught me that in spiritual and moral perceptiveness, and intuitive knowledge of character, they are far nearer to the angels than we are. consider well what a mystery they are! who ever saw two children mentally alike? more fresh from the hands of the maker, they still retain the infinite variety which is one of the marks of his boundless wealth of creation. in a few years, alas! they will take on the stereotyped forms of the class to which they belong; but for a little space heaven lies about them, and they dwell among us--so much of _this_ world, and so much of _that_. twenty years ago i thought i understood little children; _to-day_ i am sure i do not: for now i know that every one has a hidden life of its own, which it knows instinctively is foolishness to the world, and which therefore it never reveals. now, if you can humble yourself, can become as a little child, can win a welcome to this inner life, let me tell you that you have come very near to the kingdom of heaven. better than the writings of schoolmen, better than the lives of the saints, will such an experience be for you; therefore treat it with reverence and tenderness; for it is an epistle written by the finger of god on an innocent and guileless heart. consider, too, what sublimity of faith these little ones possess! the angels believe; for they know and see; men believe--upon "good security" and indisputable "evidences;" a little child believes in god and loves its saviour simply on your representation. o cold and doubting hearts!--asking science and philosophy, height and depth, to explain; terrified but not instructed by the eternal silence of the infinite spaces above you!--humble yourselves, that you may be exalted; become fools, that you may become wise! the human intellect is a blind guide, but if you seek god through the _heart_, then "a little child can lead you." in your intercourse with young children, try and estimate rightly _their delicate fancy_; for they are the true poets. "not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter darkness, but trailing clouds of glory do they come." and i think it was of them god thought when he made the flowers and butterflies. their little voices are the natural key of music, their graceful carriage and sprightly abandon the very poetry of motion. as michael angelo's imprisoned angel pleaded out of dumb marble, so the divinity within them pleads in the beauty of their forms, the clear heaven of their eyes, the white purity of their souls, for knowledge and enlargement. "only a little child!" o mother! saved by thy child-bearing in faith and holiness; peradventure thou nursest an angel! o teacher! made honorable by thine office, how knowest thou but what thy class is a veritable school of the prophets, and that children "set for the rise and the fall of many in israel" are under thy hand? we are accustomed to speak of the "simplicity" of a child, _i know_ that mysteries are revealed unto babes, hid from the men full of years and high on the staff of worldly wisdom. and i remember that case in old jerusalem. he who spake as never man spake "took a little child and set him in the midst" for an example. so, then, while given to our charge they are also set for our instruction. like them, we are to receive the kingdom of god, believing without a cavil or a doubt in our father's declarations. like them, we are to depend on our father in heaven for our daily bread, being careful for nothing. like them, we are to retain no resentments, and if angry, to be easily pacified. like them, we are to be free from ambition and avarice, from pride and disdain. these things are not natural to us, else jesus had not said, "ye must _become_ as little children," and that except we do so _we shall not enter the kingdom of heaven_. and that we might not err, god has set these visiting angels at our firesides, and at our tables; he has made them bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh; nay, he has placed them in the heavens like a star,-- "to beacon us to the abode where the eternal are." pass by the learned, the mighty, and the wise, for they are dust; but let us reverence the "little children," for they are god's messengers to us. on naming children there is a kind of physiognomy in the names of men and women as well as in their faces; our christian name is ourself in our thoughts and in the thoughts of those who know us, and nothing can separate it from our existence. unquestionably, also, there is a luck in names, and a certain success in satisfying the public ear. to select fortunate names, the _bona nomina_ of cicero, was anciently a matter of such solicitude that it became a popular axiom, "a good name is a good fortune." from a good name arises a good anticipation, a fact novelists and dramatists readily recognize; indeed, shakespeare makes falstaff consider that "the purchase of a commodity of good names" was all that was necessary to propitiate good fortune. imagine two persons starting in life as rivals in any profession, and without doubt he who had the more forcible name would become the more familiar with the public, and would therefore, in a business sense, be likely to be the more successful. we all know that there are names that circulate among us instantly, and make us friends with their owners, though we have never seen them. they are lucky people whose sponsors thus cast their names in pleasant and fortunate places. it is a matter, then, of surprise that among civilized nations the generality, even of educated people, are so careless on this subject. now evil is as often wrought for want of thought as for want of knowledge, and as a stimulant to thought in parents the following suggestions are offered. it is not well to call the eldest son after the father, and the eldest daughter after the mother. the object of names is to prevent confusion, and this is not attained when the child's name is the same as the parent's. nor does the addition of "junior" or "senior" rectify the fault; besides, the custom provokes the disrespectful addition of "old" to the father. there is another very subtle danger in calling children after parents. such children are very apt to be regarded with an undue partiality. this is a feeling never acknowledged, perhaps, but which nevertheless makes its way into the hearts of the best of men and women. it is easier to keep out evil than to put it out. if the surname is common, the christian name should be peculiar. almost any prefix is pardonable to "smith." john smith has no individuality left, but godolphin smith really reads aristocratically. james brown is no one, but sequard brown and ignatius brown are lifted out of the crowd. some people get out of this difficulty by iterating the name so as to compel respect. thus, jones jones, of jones's hall, has a moral swagger about it that would be sure to carry it through. it is often a great advantage to have a very odd name, a little difficult to remember at first, but which when once learned bites itself into the memory. for instance, there was jamsetjee jeejeebhoy; we have to make a hurdle-race over it, but once in the mind it is never forgot. remember in giving names that the children when grown up may be in situations where they will have frequently to sign their initials, and do not give names that might in this situation provoke contemptuous remark. for instance, david oliver green,--the initials make "dog;" clara ann thompson,--the initials spell "cat." neither should a name be given whose initial taken in conjunction with the surname suggests a foolish idea, as mr. p. cox, or mrs. t. potts. if the child is a boy, it may be equally uncomfortable for him to have a long string of names. suppose that in adult life he be comes a merchant or banker, with plenty of business to do, then he will not be well pleased to write "george henry talbot robinson" two or three hundred times a day. it is not a bad plan to give girls only one baptismal name, so that if they marry they can retain their maiden surname: as elizabeth barrett browning, harriet beecher stowe. this is the practice among the society of friends, and is worthy of more general adoption, for we should then know at once on seeing the name of a lady whether she was married, and if so, what her family name was. in geneva and many provinces of france the maiden family name of the wife is added to the surname of the husband; thus, if a marie perrot married adolphe lauve, they would after marriage write their names respectively, adolphe perrot-lauve and marie perrot-lauve. the custom serves to distinguish the bachelor from the married man, and is worthy of imitation; for if vanity unites in the same escutcheon the arms of husband and wife, ought not affection to blend their names? generally the modern "ie," which is appended to all names that will admit of it, renders them senseless and insipid. where is the improvement in transforming the womanly loveliness of mary into mollie? imagine a queen mollie, or mollie queen of scots! there is something like sacrilege in such a transformation. take margaret, and mutilate the pearl-like name into maggie, and its purity like a halo vanishes, and we have a very commonplace idea in its stead. if we must have diminutives, commend us to the old style. polly, kitty, letty, dolly, were names with some sense and work in them, and which we pronounce like articulate sounds. there is no greater injustice than the infliction of a whimsical or unworld-like name on helpless infancy; for, as it is aptly said, "how many are there who might have done exceedingly well in the world had not their characters and spirits been totally _nicodemused_ into nothing!" it is certainly a grave question if in the matter of christian names our regard for the dead past should blind our eyes to the future comfort and success of our children. why have we so many george washingtons? the name is a great burden for any boy. he will always feel it. inferiority to his namesake is inevitable. besides, this promiscuous use of great names degrades them; it is not a pleasant thing to see a george washington or a benjamin franklin in the police news for petty larceny. for the most part old testament names are defective in euphony, and very inharmonious with english family names. the female names are still less musical. nothing can reconcile us to naomi brett, hephzibah dickenson, or dinah winter. and to prove that the unpleasant effect produced by such combinations does not result from the surnames selected, let us substitute appellations unexceptionable, and the result will be even worse,--naomi pelham, hephzibah howard, dinah neville! a hebrew christian name requires, in most cases, a hebrew surname. some parents very wisely refuse for their children all names susceptible of the _nicking_ process, thinking with dr. dove that "it is not a good thing to be tom'd or bob'd, jack'd or jim'd, sam'd or ben'd, will'd or bill'd, joe'd or jerry'd, as you go through the world." sobriquets are to be equally deprecated. we know a beautiful woman who when a girl was remarkable for a wealth of rippling, curling hair. some one gave her the name of "friz," and it still sticks to the dignified matron. wit, or would-be wit, delights to exercise itself after this fashion, but a child's name is too precious a thing to be ridiculed. fanciful names are neither always pretty nor prudent. parents have need of the gift of prophecy who call their children grace, faith, hope, fortune, love, etc. it is possible that their after-life may turn such names into bitter irony. for the sake of conciliating a rich friend never give a child a disagreeable or barbaric name. it will be a thorn in his side as long as he lives, and after all he may miss the legacy. a child, too, may have such an assembly of unrhythmical names that he and his friends have to go jolting over them all their lives. suppose a boy is called richard edward robert. the ear in a moment detects a jumble of sounds of which it can make nothing. if many christian names are decided upon, string them together on some harmonious principle; names that are mouthfuls of consonants cannot be borne without bad consequences to the owner. the euphony of our nomenclature would be greatly improved by a judicious adaptation of the christian name to the surname. when the surname is a monosyllable the christian name should be long. nothing can reconcile the ear to such curt names as mark fox, luke harte, ann scott; but gilbert fox, alexander hart, and cecilia scott are far from despicable. among the many excellent christian names, it is astonishing that so few should be in ordinary use. the dictionaries contain lists of about two hundred and fifty male and one hundred and fifty female names, but out of these not more than twenty or thirty for each sex can be called at all common. yet our language has many beautiful names, both male and female, worthy of a popularity they have not yet attained. among the male, for instance,--alban, ambrose, bernard, clement, christopher, gilbert, godfrey, harold, michael, marmaduke, oliver, paul, ralph, rupert, roger, reginald, roland, sylvester, theobald, urban, valentine, vincent, gabriel, tristram, norman, percival, nigel, lionel, nicholas, eustace, colin, sebastian, basil, martin, antony, claude, justus, cyril, etc.,--all of which have the attributes of euphony, good etymology, and interesting associations. and among female names why have we not more girls called by the noble or graceful appellations of agatha, alethia, arabella, beatrice, bertha, cecilia, evelyn, ethel, gertrude, isabel, leonora, florence, mildred, millicent, philippa, pauline, hilda, clarice, amabel, irene, zoe, muriel, estelle, eugenia, euphemia, christabel, theresa, marcia, antonia, claudia, sibylla, rosabel, rosamond, etc.? there are some curious superstitions regarding the naming of children, which, as a matter of gossip, are worth a passing notice. the peasantry of sussex believe that if a child receive the name of a dead brother or sister, it also will die at an early age. in some parts of ireland it is thought that giving the child the name of one of its parents abridges the life of that parent. it is generally thought lucky to have the initials of christian name and surname the same, and also to have the initials spell some word. in the northwestern parts of scotland a newly named infant is vibrated gently two or three times over a flame, with the words, "let the flames consume thee now or never;" and this lustration by fire is common to-day in the hebrides and western isles. there is a wide-spread superstition that a child who does not cry at its baptism will not live; also one which considers it specially unlucky if anything interferes to prevent the baptism at the exact time first appointed. in many parts of scotland if children of different sexes are at the font, the minister who attempted to baptize the girl before the boy would be interrupted. it is said to be peculiarly unfortunate to the child if a priest that is left-handed christens it. in cumberland and westmoreland a child going to be christened carries with it a slice of bread and cheese, and this is given to the first person met. in return the recipient must give the babe three different things, and wish it health and fortune. we have witnessed the last-mentioned custom very frequently, and once in a farm-house at the foot of saddleback mountain we saw a very singular method of deciding what the name of the child should be. six candles of equal length were named, and all lit at the same moment. the babe was called after the candle which burned the longest. we have mentioned these superstitions as curious proofs that our ignorant ancestors considered the naming of children an important event; and we should feel sorry if they tended to weaken in any measure previous thoughts. for, careless as we may be of the fact, it still remains a fact beyond doubt, that the name of a person is the sound that suggests the idea of him or her,--it is a portrait painted in letters. therefore we cannot be too careful not to give one that will be a shame or an embarrassment, or which will even condemn the bearer to the commonplace. the children's table it is to be hoped that the best way of feeding children in order to produce the finest possible physical development will ere long have the amount of attention that is devoted to the improvement of horses, cattle, and sheep. for both men and women have begun to realize that mentally and spiritually we are largely dependent on the co-operation of a healthy body; hence there has arisen a certain school, not inaptly designated "muscular christianity." the physical welfare of a child is the first consideration forced upon the mother. long before the intellect dawns, long before it knows good from evil, there is important work to do. a healthy, pure dwelling-place is to be begun for the lofty guests of mind and soul. alas, how little has this been considered! how often have great minds been cramped by sickly, dwarfed bodies! how often have aspiring souls been bound by earthly fetters of irritating pain! who shall deliver children from the unwise indulgences, fanciful theories, and inherited mistakes of their parents? this is not the province of religion; a mother may be intensely religious, and at the same time cruelly ignorant in the treatment of the child,--whom yet she loves with all her heart. when men and women lived simply and naturally nature in a large measure took care of her own; but in our artificial life we must seek the aid of science to find our way back to nature. and if science has been able to teach us how to improve our breed of horses, and bring to a state of physical perfection our cattle and sheep, by simply selecting nutriments, she can also give the seeking mother directions for building up a strong and healthy body for the immortal soul to tarry in and work from. for, humiliating as we may regard it, we cannot battle off this fact of god, that the vital processes in animals and men are substantially the same. in the dietary of children the two great mistakes are over-feeding and under-feeding; but of the two evils the last is the worst. repletion is less injurious than inanition; and according to my observation gluttony is the vice of adults rather than of children. if they do exceed, the cause may generally be traced to the fact that they have suffered a long want of the article they revel in. for instance, if at rare intervals candies and sweetmeats are within their reach, they do generally make themselves sick with an over supply of them; but this is but the nemesis that ever follows unnatural deprivations of any kind. nothing is more necessary to a child than sugar. its love of it is not so much to please its palate as to satisfy an urgent craving of its necessity. sugar is so important a substance in the chemical changes going on in the body that many other compounds have to be reduced to sugar before they are available as heat-making constituents. in fact the liver is a factory for transforming much of the nutriment we take, in other forms, into sugar. it may be said, "if sugar is a great heat-maker, so also is fat meat, which most children very much dislike." the one fact proves the other. fat meat and sugar are both great heat-producers, but the child craves sugar and dislikes fat because its weak organism can deal with the sugar, but cannot manage the fat. every mother must have noticed that delicate children turn sick at fat meat and usually crave sweets. poor little things! they want something to make the vital fire burn more rapidly. sugar in proper proportions is fuel judiciously added; fat is fuel they have not strength to assimilate, and therefore reject. of course no mother understands me to say that children should therefore be fed on sugar; but only that they should have a fair and regular proportion of it in some form or other; in which case they would feel no more temptation to exceed in occasional opportunities. another dominant desire with growing children is fruit. they will eat fruits, ripe or unripe; a sour apple or a ripe strawberry seems equally acceptable. it is common to attribute summer complaints of all kinds to them, and to carefully limit children in their use. the fact is that all fruits contain a vegetable acid which is a powerful tonic and one peculiarly acceptable to the stomach. fruits ought to form a part of every child's food all the year round,--fresh fruits in summer, apples and oranges in winter. but they must be given regularly with the meals, and not between them. they will then fulfil their tonic office in the system, and never under ordinary circumstances do the least harm. how often have we seen children in mistaken kindness largely restricted to bread and milk, puddings and vegetables; nay, told in answer to their craving looks that "meat was not good for little boys and girls." now, consider first why adults eat meat. is it not to repair the loss we suffer from active work, the exhaustion from mental efforts, and to supply afresh the vital warmth, much of which is lost every day by simple radiation? in all these ways children usually exhaust life quicker than adults. they run where we walk, they jump, they skip, they are seldom still. their studies are as severe a mental strain to them as our business cares to us. their bodies are quite as much exposed to loss of heat by radiation as ours--in some cases more so. but children have a most important demand on their vitality which adults have not: they have to grow. who, therefore, needs strong and nutritious food more than children? they ought to have meat, plenty of it, as much as they desire; and with the meat, bread and vegetables, milk, sweets, and fruits. for variety is another grand condition of healthy food,--no one kind of food (however good) being able to supply all the different elements the body needs for perfect health and fine development. if children have any urgent desire for some particular diet it would be well for parents to hesitate and investigate before denying them. they have no means of coming to any secret understanding with the child's stomach; but nature generally asks pertinaciously for any special necessity, and nature is never wrong. neither is it well to limit the quantity any more than the kind of food given to children. their necessities vary with causes too involved for any parent constantly to keep in view. the state of the weather, the amount of electricity, or moisture in the atmosphere, study, sleep, exercise, the condition of digestion, even the mental temper of the child might differently influence the condition and demands of nearly every meal. no dietary theory that did not consider all these and many more conditions would be reliable. what, then, are we to do? have more confidence in natural instincts. if children ask "for more," ten to one they feel more truly than we can reason on this subject. on general principles it may be assumed children ask as directed by nature; they desire what she needs and as much as she needs. of course, all advice must be of a general nature; special limitations are supposed in the power of every thoughtful mother. but the great principle is to remember that energy depends on the amount, not of food, but of nutritive food; for if a pound of one kind of food gives as much nutriment as four pounds of another, surely that is best for children (and adults too) which tries their digestion least. what the next generation will be depends upon the physical, mental, and moral training of the children of to-day. these children are the to-morrow of society. are they to be puny and dyspeptic, fretting and worrying through life as through a task? or, are they to be finely developed, sweetbreathed, clear-eyed, light-spirited mediums for divine aspirations and intellectual and material works? o mothers! do not despise the humble-looking foundation-stone of life--good health. you have the earliest building up of the body; see that you spare no elements necessary for its perfection. be liberal; doubt your own theories rather than nature; trust the child where you are at a loss, just as a lost man throws the reins on his horse's neck and trusts to something subtler than reason--instinct. in whatever light the subject of children's food is regarded, the great principle is we--cannot get power out of nothing. if the child is to have health, energy, intellect, there must be present the necessary physical conditions. these are not the result of accident, but of generous consideration. intellectual "cramming" of boys a little girl, who made a study of epitaphs, was greatly puzzled to know "where all the bad people were buried." perhaps just as great a puzzle to a reflective mind is, what comes of all the promising boys? we will allow, first, that a great deal of "promise" exists only in the partiality of parents; that a bright, intense childhood is frequently so different from the mechanical routine of adult life that the simple difference strikes the parent as something remarkable, whereas it is, perhaps, only a strong case of contrast between the natural and the artificial. this is proven by the fact that as the boy becomes part and parcel of the every-day world he gradually falls into its ways, adopts its tone, and in no respect attempts to rise above its level. fortunately, however, the change is so gradual that parents scarcely perceive when or how they lost their exalted hopes; and by the time that jack or will has imbibed a fair amount of knowledge, and settled contentedly down to his desk and high stool, they also are well pleased and inclined to forget that they had ever dreamt the boy might sit upon the bench, or, perhaps, fill with honor the presidential chair. allowing such boys a very respectable minority, and allowing also a large margin for that unfortunate class who "wise so young, they say, do ne'er live long," there is still good reason for us to ask, what becomes of all the promising boys? we are inclined to arraign as the first and foremost of deceivers and defrauders in this matter the modern educational art of _cram_. it is to education what adulteration is to commerce. it is far worse, for here it is not money that is stolen, it is a parent's best and highest hopes; it is a boy's whole future life and its success. for the system rests upon a fallacy, namely, that it is possible for boys of twenty to know everything, from the multiplication-table to metaphysics, from greek plays to theological dogmas. to the average boy such intellectual feats are simply impossible; but he is plucky and fertile in expedients; he is neither disposed to be beaten nor able really to overtake his task, so he uses his brains carefully, and makes the greatest possible show on the greatest possible number of subjects. perhaps nothing in our present system of education is so demoralizing and unjust as the custom of public examinations. in them interest and vanity play into each other's hands; genuine acquirement and principle "go to the wall." the teachers and the boys alike know that they are never true criterions of progress, that they are seldom even fair representations of the actual course of study. weeks, months are spent in preparations for the deceitful display; even then true merit, which is generally modest by nature, does itself injustice, and vain self-assurance comes off with flying colors. the cram teacher scatters seed over a large amount of mental surface, instead of thoroughly cultivating the most promising portions; and he brings before the parents and the public the few ears gleaned on all the acres as samples of crops which he knows never will be gathered. yet to his own pedantic vanity, or his self-interest, he sacrifices the prime of many a fine boy's life. therefore we are disposed to believe that if parents would inexorably refuse to sanction these pretentious public displays, there would be probably a much less accumulation of bare facts, but a far greater cultivation of natural abilities, and a far more thorough development of decided aptitudes. mechanical drudgery, instead of intelligent labor, is the inevitable method where cramming a boy, instead of educating him, is the favorite system. no mental faculties, except the memory, receive any discipline, and the knowledge disappears as fast as it was gained. all taste for laborious habits of thought are lost, and if a boy originally possessed a love for learning he is soon disgusted at what his simple nature tells him is pretence and unreal, and judging the true by a false standard he conceives an honest disgust for intellectual labor, and pronounces it all a sham. few boys can even mentally go through a course of "cramming" and come out uninjured. the majority of the finest intellects develop tardily, and their superiority is in fact greatly dependent upon the staying powers conferred by physical strength and wisely considered conditions. there are of course exceptions, where an inherited force of genius stamps the boy from the first and defies all systems to crush it. but it is the average boy, and not the exceptional one, that must be considered in all methods of education. in this matter boys are not to be blamed. they naturally accept the master's opinions as to the value of his plan; they rather enjoy a neck-and-neck race with each other in superficial acquirements, and the whole tendency of our social life supports the tempting theory. every one wants to possess without the trouble of acquiring; every one would have a reputation without the labor of earning it. in an age which prides itself upon the speed with which it does everything, which makes a merit of doing whatever is to be done in the shortest and quickest way possible, it is easy to perceive how a certain class of teachers, and parents too, would be willing to believe that the old up-hill road to knowledge might be graded and lined and made available for rapid transit. but nothing can be more illogical than to apply social rules and conditions to mental ones. the former are constantly changing, the latter obey fixed and immutable laws. there is not, there never has been, there never will be, any short cuts to universal knowledge; and the boy who is made to waste time seeking one will have either to relinquish his object altogether, or else, turning back to the main road, find his early companions who kept to it hopelessly ahead of him. learning is a plant that grows slowly and whose fruit must be waited for. it is a long time, even after having learned anything, _that we know it well_. the servant-girl's point of view a great deal has been said lately on the servant-girl question, always from the mistresses' point of view; and as no _ex-parte_ evidence is conclusive, i offer for the servant-girl side some points that may help to a better understanding of the whole subject. it is said, on all hands, that servants every year grow more idle, showy, impudent, and independent. the last charge is emphatically true, and it accounts for and includes the others. but then this independence is the necessary result of the world's progress, in which all classes share. steam has made it easy for families to travel, who, without cheap locomotion, would never go one hundred miles from home. it has also made it easy for servants to go from city to city. when wages are low and service is plenty in one place, a few dollars will carry them to where they are in request. fifty years ago very few servants read, or cared to read. they are now the best patrons of a certain class of newspapers; they see the "want columns" as well as other people; and they are quite capable of appreciating the lessons they teach and the advantages they offer. the national increase of wealth has also affected the position of servants. people keep more servants than they used to keep; and servants have less work to do. people live better than they used to live, and servants, as well as others, feel the mental uplifting that comes from rich and plentiful food. but one of the main causes of trouble is that a mistress even yet hires her servant with some ancient ideas about her inferiority. she forgets that servants read novels, and do fancy work, and write lots of letters; and that service can no longer be considered the humble labor of a lower for a superior being. mistresses must now dismiss from their minds the idea of the old family servant they have learned to meet in novels; they must cease to look upon service as in any way a family tie; they must realize and practically acknowledge the fact that the relation between mistress and servant is now on a purely commercial basis,--the modern servant being a person who takes a certain sum of money for the performance of certain duties. indeed the condition has undergone just the same change as that which has taken place in the relation between the manufacturer and his artisans, or between the contractor and his carpenters and masons. it is true enough that servants take the money and do not perform the duties, or else perform them very badly. the manufacturer, the contractor, the merchant, all make the same complaint; for independence and social freedom always step _before_ fitness for these conditions, because the condition is necessary for the results, and the results are not the product of one generation. surely americans may bear their domestic grievances without much outcry, since they are altogether the consequences of education and progress, and are the circumstances which make possible much higher and better circumstances. for just as soon as domestic service is authoritatively and publicly made a commercial bargain, and all other ideas eliminated from it, service will attract a much higher grade of women. the independent, fairly well-read american girl will not sell her labor to women who insist on her giving any part of her personality but the work of her hands. she feels interference in her private affairs to be an impertinence on any employer's part. she does not wish any mistress to take an interest in her, to advise, to teach, or reprove her. she objects to her employer being even what is called "friendly." all she asks is to know her duties and her hours, and to have a clear understanding as to her work and its payment. and when service is put upon this basis openly, it will draw to it many who now prefer the harder work, poorer pay, but larger independence, of factories. servants are a part of our social system, but our social system is being constantly changed and uplifted, and servants rise with it. i remember a time in england when servants who did not fulfil their year's contract were subject to legal punishment; when a certain quality of dress was worn by them, and those who over-dressed did so at the expense of their good name; when they seldom moved to any situation beyond walking distance from their birthplace; when, in fact, they were more slaves than servants. would any good woman wish to restore service to this condition? on the servant's part the root of all difficulty is her want of respect for her work; and this, solely because her work has not yet been openly and universally put upon a commercial basis. when domestic service is put on the same plane as mechanical service, when it is looked upon as a mere business bargain, then the servant will not feel it necessary to be insolent and to do her work badly, simply to let her employer know how much she is above it. much has been done to degrade service by actors, newspapers, and writers of all kinds giving to the domestic servant names of contempt as "flunkies," "menials," etc., etc. if such terms were habitually used regarding mechanics, we might learn to regard masons and carpenters with disdain. yet domestic service is as honorable as mechanical service, and the woman who can cook a good dinner is quite as important to society as the man who makes the table on which it is served. yet, whether mistresses will recognize the change or not, service has in a great measure emancipated itself from feudal bonds. servants have now a social world of their own, of which their mistresses know nothing at all. in it they meet their equals, make their friends, and talk as they desire. without unions, without speeches, and without striking,--because they can get what they want without striking,--they have raised their wages, shortened their hours, and obtained many privileges. and the natural result is an independence--which for lack of proper expression asserts itself by the impertinence and self-conceit of ignorance--that has won more in tangible rights than in intangible respect. mistresses who have memories or traditions are shocked because servants do not acknowledge their superiority, or in any way reverence their "betters." but reverence for any earthly thing is the most un-american of attitudes. reverence is out of date and offensively opposed to free inquiry. parents do not exact it, and preachers do not expect it,--the very title of "rev." is now a verbal antiquity. do we not even put our rulers through a course of hand-shaking in order to divest them of any respect the office might bring? why, then, expect a virtue from servants which we do not practise in our own stations? it is said, truly enough, that servants think of nothing but dress. alas, mistresses are in the same transgression! this is the fault of machinery. when servants wore mob-caps and ginghams, mistresses wore muslins and merinos, and were passing fine with one good silk dress. machinery has made it possible for mistresses to get lots of dresses, and if servants are now fine and tawdry, it is because there is a general leaning that way. servants were neat when every one else was neat. to blame servants for faults we all share is really not reasonable. it must be remembered that women of all classes dress to make themselves attractive, and attractive mainly to the opposite sex. what the young ladies in the parlor do to make themselves beautiful to their lovers, the servants in the kitchen imitate. both classes of young women are anxious to marry. there is no harm in this desire in either case. with the hopes of the young ladies we do not meddle; why then interfere about nurse and the policeman? service is not an elysium under the most favorable circumstances. no girl gets fond of it, and a desire to be mistress of her own house--however small it may be--is not a very shameful kicking against providence. the carrying out of three points, would probably revolutionize the whole condition of service:-- _first._ the relation should be put upon an absolutely commercial basis; and made as honorable as mechanical, or factory, or store service. _second._ duties and hours should be clearly defined. there should be no interference in personal matters. there should be no more personal interest expected, or shown, than is the rule between any other employer and employee. _third._ if it were possible to induce yearly engagements, they should be the rule; for when people know they have to put up with each other for twelve months, they are more inclined to be patient and forbearing; they learn to make the best of each other's ways; and bearing becomes liking, and habit strengthens liking, and so they go on and on, and are pretty well satisfied. extravagance the anglo-saxon race is inherently extravagant. the lord and leader of the civilized world, it clothes itself in purple and fine linen, and lives sumptuously every day, as a prerogative of its supremacy. this trait is a very early one, and the barbaric extravagance of "the field of the cloth of gold" only typified that passion of the race for splendid apparel and accessories which in our day has reached a point of general and prodigal pomp and ostentation. no other highly civilized nations have this taste for personal parade and luxurious living to the same extent. the french, who enjoy a reputation for all that is pretty and elegant, are really parsimonious, and it is as natural for a frenchman to hoard his money as it is for a dog to bury his bone, while a dutchman or a german can grow rich on a salary which keeps an american always scrambling on the verge of bankruptcy. some time ago lord derby said: "englishmen are the most extravagant race in the world, or, at least, only surpassed by the americans." and the "surpassing" in this direction is so evident to any one familiar with the two countries that it requires no demonstration,--an american household, even in the middle classes, being a model school for throwing away the most money for the least possible returns. american women have a reputation for lavish expenditure that is world-wide, but they are not more extravagant than american men. if one spends money on beautiful toilets and splendidly dreary entertainments, the other flings it away on the turf, on cards or billiards, or in masculine prodigalities still more objectionable. in most fashionable houses the husband and wife are equally extravagant, and the candle blazes away at both ends. to foreigners, the most noticeable extravagance of americans is in the matter of flowers. winter or summer, women of very modest means must have flowers for their girdle. they will pay fifty cents for a rose or two when half-dollars are by no means plentiful, and it is such a pretty womanly taste that no man has the heart to grumble at it; only, if the women themselves would add up the amount of money spent in this transitory luxury, say during three months, they would be astonished at their own thoughtlessness. for of all pleasures flower-buying is the most evanescent; before the day is over the fading buds are cast into the refuse cart, and the money might just as well have been cast into the street. as for the amount spent in floral displays at weddings, funerals, theatres, balls, and dinners, it must be presumed that people who thus waste hundreds of dollars on articles that are useless in a few hours have the hundreds of dollars to throw away, and that they enjoy the pastime of making floral ducks and drakes with their money. but if they do not enjoy it, then why do they not imitate the economy of beau brummel, who, when compelled by his debts to make some sacrifice of luxuries, resolved to begin retrenchment by curtailing the rose water for his bath? large floral outlays are just as fantastic an extravagance, for though flowers in moderation are beautiful, in excess they are vulgar, and even disagreeable. the greeks, who made no mistakes about beauty and fitness, contented themselves with a garland and a rose for their wine cup. they would never have danced and feasted and wedded themselves in a charnel-house of dying flowers. our dressing and dining is done on the same immense scale. lucullus might preside at our feasts, and queens envy the jewels and costumes of our women. perhaps the size of the country and its transcendent possibilities in every direction instinctively incite those who have the means to lavishness of outlay. people who live under bright high skies, and whose horizons are wide and far-reaching, imbibe a largeness of expression which is not satisfied with mere words; and if we look at our extravagance in this way, we may regard it as a national trait, developed from our natural position and advantages. of course, it is easy to say that americans are lavish because, as dr. watts puts it, "it is their nature to" be, but the real reason for the overgrown luxury of the last two or three decades is to be found in the rapid increase of the vulgar rich, the very last class worthy of our imitation. are not the absurd blunders of the poor man who strikes oil a common subject for witticisms and stories? profuse display will probably be the only social grace the newly rich can dispense. so, then, if wealth increases more rapidly than culture, it is sure, in the very nature of things, to be squandered ostentatiously; for the men whose minds are in a stunted state, being fit for nothing else, will throw their money away on cards or horses or any other fashionable form of dissipation; and the women in the same mental incompleteness, knowing nothing but how to dress and dance, when they have wealth thrust upon them will be able to find no better use for it than to dress and dance all the more conspicuously. this senseless love of display, once inaugurated in a city set or in a small town, is apt to take the lead: first, because all the snobs will cater to it; second, because sensible people know that they cannot start a reform movement without making themselves unpopular, and going to a great deal of trouble and expense. for, however extravagant the machinery of society is, it has the enormous advantage of being there, and few people can afford to live against it. for to do as every one else does, and to go with the stream, is much easier than to set good examples that no one wants to follow. indeed it takes a tremendous exercise of pluck, thought, trouble, time, and energy to reduce an establishment that has been an extravagant one to a more economical footing. the justification of private extravagant expenditure is found in the necessity of a class who will have leisure to encourage the intellectual tastes and ambitions of the nation. and this end might be accomplished if only matters could be so arranged that a shower of gold should descend on the right people in the right place at the right time. but wealth is no more to the worthy than the race is to the strong, and so it often finds outlets for dispersion for which there is no justification, and whose sole object is that sensual life pictured in "lothair,"--fine houses, great retinues, costly clothing, clubs, yachts, conservatories, etc., etc.,--in fact, an existence without a crumpled rose-leaf, that would make a man a mixture of the sybarite and satyr. such specimens of humanity may occasionally be found in america, but they are not yet a distinct class, nor are they likely to become one in our pushing, up-and-down, constantly changing society. indeed, amid the earnest strivings, the intellectual aspirings and the mechanical wonders of steam and electricity which environ us, a semi-monster of the lothair type would be as incongruous as a faun on the avenue or a pagan temple on mid-broadway. if we would only take the trouble to examine the facts before our eyes we have constantly in our university towns the proof that high culture and moderation in dress and living go together. take cambridge, mass., for instance; its very best society is singularly unostentatious, and the wives and daughters of its educated dignitaries entertain without extravagance, and look for respect and admiration from some loftier standpoint than their dress trimmings. ought we to wear mourning? this is a question that from the earliest days of christianity has at times agitated the church. it was specially dominant in the first centuries, when every divergence from jewish or pagan rites was almost an act of faith. now the jews, after the death of their relatives, wore sackcloth during their time of mourning, which lasted from seven to forty days. they sat on the ground, and ate their food off the earth; they neither dressed themselves, nor made their beds, nor went into the bath, nor saluted any one. this excess of grief rarely lasted long; then a great feast was made for the surviving friends of the dead; or the bread and meat were placed upon his grave for the benefit of the poor. (tobit iv. ; eccles. xxx. ; and baruch vi. .) it was natural for the christian, with the hope set before him, to oppose this despairing sorrow, and we find saint jerome praising those who partially abandoned it; while cyprian declares he was "ordered by divine revelation to preach that christians should not lament their brethren delivered from the world, nor wear any mourning habits for them, seeing that they were gone to put on white raiment, nor give occasion for unbelievers by lamenting those as lost whom we affirm to be with god." as the church lapsed from its simplicity into forms and ceremonies, vestments of all kinds, and for every purpose and occasion, gained importance; and the first serious protestation against mourning garments came from the quakers. to these spiritual men and women it seemed absurd to wear black garments for those whom they believed had put on everlasting white. the majority of the early methodists held the same opinion, though in a less positive form. it is remarkable, however, that christians alone assume the woeful, despairing black garments which seem to denote not only the loss of life, but the end of hope. ancient egypt wore yellow in memory of departed friends; the greeks and romans used white garments for mourning; the chinese also consecrate white to the services of death, and the mohammedans wear blue, because it is the color of the visible heavens. therefore i ask, if we must wear a distinct dress to typify our sorrow, why black? black has now become objectionable from having lost all the sacred meaning it once possessed. it is no longer the livery of grief. the blonde belle wears it because it sets off her fine complexion; the brunette, because it admits of the vivid contrasts so suitable to her brilliant beauty. the prudent wear it because it is economical and ladylike; and all women know that it imparts grace and dignity, and drapes beautifully; so, for these and many other reasons, it has within the last fifty years become an every-day dress, one just as likely to express vanity as grief. the reasons set forth by the quakers for its abandonment cover the ground, and are at least worthy of our consideration. they are: first, that mourning had its origin in a state of barbarism, and prior to the revelation of "life eternal through jesus christ," and is therefore not to be observed in civilized and christianized countries. second, that the trappings of grief are childish where the grief is real, and mockery where it is not. third, that mourning garments are absolutely useless: for if they are intended to remind us of our affliction, true grief needs no such reminder; if to point out our grief to others, they are an impertinence, for true sorrow courts seclusion; and if as a consolation, they are only powerful to remind of an irrevocable past. fourth, their inconvenience: too often the house of death is turned by them into a busy work-shop; and the souls bowed down with grief are made to trouble themselves about mourning ornaments and becoming weeds. fifth, their bad moral influence: the gracefulness of the costume stills the grief that ought to be stilled by religion; and as in a large family there must be many mourners in form only, the equivocation of dress is a sort of moral equivocation. sixth, their expense. this is really a great item in the resources of the poor, and often straitens for years; besides causing them, in the hour of their desolation, to be so worried and anxious about the robing of the body as to miss all the lessons god intended for the soul. the advocates for mourning plead the veiling of the heavens in black at the death of christ; and the universality and continuance of the custom, in all ages, all countries, and all faiths. i am aware that the subject is one in which strangers cannot intermeddle; the question when it arises must be settled by every heart individually. but, at least, if mourning garments are to be worn, let us not defeat every argument in their favor by fashioning them of the richest stuffs, and in the most stylish manner. this is to ticket them as the thinnest of mockeries. and after all, if we approve mourning, and wish our friends to hold us in remembrance after death, can we not find a better way than by crape and bombazine? yes, crape and bombazine wear out, and must finally be cast off; but the "memorial of virtue is immortal. when it is present, men take example of it, and when it is gone, they desire it: it weareth a crown, and triumpheth forever." how to have one's portrait taken having one's portrait taken is no longer an isolated event in one's life. it has become a kind of domestic and social duty, to which even though personally opposed, one must gracefully submit, unless he would incur the odium of neglecting the wishes of his family circle and the complimentary requests of his acquaintances. it would seem at first sight that nothing is easier than to go to a photographer's and get a good likeness. nothing is really more uncertain and disappointing. in turning over the albums of our friends, how often we pass the faces of acquaintances and don't know them at all! how is this? simply because, at the moment when the picture was taken, the original was unlike herself. she was nervous, her head was screwed in a vise, her position had been selected for her, and she had been ordered to look at an indicated spot, and keep still. such a position was like nothing in her real life, and the expression on the face was just as foreign. the features might be perfectly correct, but that inscrutable something which individualizes the face was lacking. now if the amenities of social life require us to have our pictures done, "it were as well they were well done," and much toward this end lies within the sitter's choice and power. first as to the selection of the artist. it is a great mistake to imagine that photography is a mere mechanical trade. there is as much difference between two photographers as between two engravers. nor will a fine lens alone produce a good picture. the pose of the sitter, the disposition of lights and shadows, the arrangement of drapery, are of the greatest consequence. a good artist has almost unlimited power in this direction. he can render certain parts thinner by plunging them into half-tone or by burying their outline in the shade, and he can deepen and augment other portions by surrounding them with light. thus, if the head is too small for beauty, he can increase its size by throwing the light on the face; and if it is too large, he can diminish it by choosing a tint that would throw one half of the face into shadow. if the artist has a lens which perpetually changes its focus, the result is a portrait in which the outlines are delicately soft and undefined. a _view lens_, or one that is perfectly flat, occupies nearly two minutes to complete the likeness, and the consequence is, the sitter moves slightly, and the required softness is obtained in an accidental manner. it is evident, therefore, that the most rapidly taken pictures are not necessarily the best. then people have a hundred different aspects, and to seize the best and reproduce it is the function of genius, and not of chemicals. having selected a good artist, and one, also, whose position has enabled him to secure the best tools, the next duty of the sitter regards herself and her costume. in photography a good portrait may be quite nullified by the choice of bad colors in dress. finery is the curse of the artist, but if he works in oils he can leave it out or tone it down. in photography, as the sitter comes, so she must be taken, with all her excellences or her imperfections on her head. the colors most luminous to the eye, as red, yellow, orange, are almost without action; green acts feebly; blue and violet are reproduced very promptly. if, then, a person of very fair complexion were taken in green, orange, or red, the lights would be very prominent, and the portrait lack energy and detail. the best of all dresses is black silk,--_silk_, not bombazine, or merino, or any cottony mixture, as the admirable effect depends on the gloss of the silk, which makes it full of subdued and reflected lights that give motion and play to the drapery. a dead-black dress without this shimmer would be represented by a uniform blotch; a white dress looks like a flat film of wax or a piece of card-board; but a combination of black net or lace over white is very effective, though rarely ventured upon. an admirable softness and depth of color are given to photographs by sealskin and velvet. complexion must be considered with dress. blondes can wear much lighter colors than brunettes. brunettes always make the best pictures when taken in dark dresses, but neither blondes nor brunettes look well in positive white. are any pictures so universally ugly as bridal ones? all violent contrasts of color spoil a picture, and should be particularly guarded against; and jewelry imparts a look of vulgarity. blondes suffer most in photographic pictures; their golden hair loses all its brilliancy, and their blue eyes, so lovely to the poet, are perplexity to the photographer. before facing the lens, blondes should powder their yellow hair nearly white; it is then brought to about the same photographic tint as in nature. freckles, which are hardly any blemish in the natural face, become, on account of their yellow tint, very unpleasantly distinct in a photographic picture, and often give to the face a decidedly spotted look. they are easily disguised for the occasion. there ought to be in the dressing-room of every studio a mixture of a little oxide of zinc and glycerine; this is to be thinned with rose-water till of the consistence of cream, and applied to the face with a piece of sponge previous to the photographing process. it leaves the skin a delicate white color, and masks all freckles and discolorations. let a lady with freckles try her picture first without this mixture, and again after the sponge and the cosmetic, and the value of the receipt will be at once appreciated. its use has long been advocated by the _british journal of photography_. in connection with this fact we may offer a few words of advice to ladies whose skins are apt to tan and freckle when exposed to the summer sun. blue is, of all colors, most readily affected by light; and yellow is, of all colors, the least readily susceptible to it. if, then, a fine complexion is desired, the blue veil must be rigorously discarded, however becoming. green could take its place, but a little yellow net would be better to save a delicate complexion than all the washes and kalydors ever invented. freckles and tan are nothing more than the darkening of the salts of iron in the blood by the action of light; and as blue is, of all colors, most easily affected by it, as we have said, any one can see how destructive to a fine skin a blue veil must be in sunny weather. if the photograph is to be colored, the shade of the costume is not nearly of so much importance; but it may always be borne in mind that close-fitting light garments increase the size of the head, hands, and feet, and that a flowing ample dress renders these parts light and delicate. the advantage of coloring photographs is very great, if the artist be an able and judicious one, for that _hardness_ of outline, which is more artificial than natural, may be in a great measure remedied by a clever brush; only, always object to _solid_ colors; the most transparent water-colors alone should be used. however, it is a disputed question whether artificial coloring, however well done, improves photographs, since it certainly, in some measure, robs them of that accuracy and that air of purity which are the distinctive claims of the art. the next improvement in this method of limning faces will undoubtedly be the compelling of the sun--the source of all color--to paint the pictures he draws; and a number of recent facts point to this improvement as very probable within a short time. never permit yourself to be the lay figure of a photographer's ideal landscapes. the cutting up of a portrait with balustrades, pillars, and gay parterres is fatal to the effect of the figure, which should be the only object to strike the eye. no photographic portrait looks so well as one with a perfectly plain background, but if some accessory is desired, then see that it does not turn the central figure into ridicule. if you have always lived in some modest home, do not be made to stand in marble halls or amid splendid imaginary domains. young ladies reading in full evening costume, with water and swans behind them, or standing in trailing silks and laces in a mountain pass, are ridiculous enough. we saw a few days ago the face of a lovely girl looking out of a champagne basket. the picture was artistically taken, but the extravagant conceit of the surroundings, utterly at variance with the original's character, completely spoiled the picture. we have in mind also a famous belle sitting in an elaborate toilet in a room full of books and materials for writing and study, though all her little world knows that she never reads aught but the lightest of novels, and never writes anything but an invitation or a love-letter. actresses taken in character may require an elaborate artificial background in order to assist the illusion, but private ladies, as a rule, look infinitely better without it. in ladies' portraits the setting-off of beauty is the thing to be borne in mind. this, in a photograph, is, in a great measure, a question of lights and shadows, and of their distribution. for every face there is a light and a shadow to be specially selected as the one that will show it to the best advantage. the most becoming light is one level with, or even somewhat beneath, the face, it being a great mistake to suppose the foot-lights on the stage unbecoming. a top light, such as we get in ordinary photographic rooms, augments the projection of the forehead, and throws a deep shadow over the eyes. the bridge of the nose, the lower lip, and chin separate themselves, as it were, in clear lights, from the rest of the face, and such an effect is very unbecoming and inappropriate for a young girl. if the features are prominent, a clear bright light increases very decidedly that prominence, and also imparts a peculiar hardness to the expression that has probably no existence in the model. therefore insist that, as far as possible, the light from above shall be got rid of, and a light from the side brought into use. there is as much character in the human figure as in the face; consequently full-length portraits are best, because they add to the facial resemblance the attitude and peculiarities of the figure. if the portrait is half-size, then the attitude ought to indicate the position of the lower extremities. in bust portraits the head is everything, the bust merely sustains and indicates its size and proportion. the head, however, should never be represented without the bust, for the effect of such a portrait is a total want of unity; it offers no point of comparison by which the rest of the body can be judged,--a matter of great importance, as this is one of the most striking characteristics of the individual. a _carte de visite_ is a more agreeable likeness than a larger one, because it is taken with the middle of the lens, where it is truest; hence it is never out of drawing. also, it hides rather than exaggerates any roughness of the face; and, again, it is so moderate in price that we can afford to distribute the pictures generously. photographs have a bad name for durability, and when we look over our albums and see those that were once strong and expressive now pale and faded, we are forced to admit that their beauty is evanescent. but this disadvantage is very much the fault of the artist. there is nothing in the chemical constitution of photographs--formed as they are by the combination of the precious metals--to make them evanescent. the trouble lies in the last process through which they pass. this process leaves them impregnated with a destructive chemical, and the removal of all traces of it is a difficult and tedious thing. to be finished effectually, the pictures ought to be bathed for a day in a good body of water constantly agitated and changed. artists who are jealous of their art and of their personal reputation insist on this process being thoroughly attended to, but with inferior photographers the temptation to neglect it is very great, especially as in many cases the vicious chemical adds to the present brilliancy of the picture. they are further tempted by the impatience of sitters, who are often importunate for an immediate finish of their pictures. but if a durable portrait is wanted, ladies must allow the artist time for the proper cleansing of their photograph. to the large majority of people the first interview with their photographic portrait is a heavy disappointment. they express themselves by an eloquent silence, turn it this way and that, hold it near and far off. after a little while they become used to it in its velvet frame, though they never in their heart acknowledge its truthfulness. again, there are others to whom photography is very favorable, and they show to more advantage in their pictures than ever they did in reality. these last are people whose features are well balanced and proportioned, but who are not generally considered beautiful. faces dependent for beauty on their mobility and expression suffer most, and are indeed, in their finer moods, almost untranslatable by this process. still, setting aside all artistic considerations, photographic portraits have a great social value, not only because they fairly indicate the _personnel_ of their models, but because they so faithfully represent textures that we can form a very good idea from a _carte de visite_ of the social position of the sitter, and incidentally, from the cut, style, and material of the dress, a very good notion also of their moral calibre. many things are permissible in photographic portraits--which may be retaken every few months--that would justly be deprecated in a finished oil portrait destined to go down with houses and lands to unborn generations. in such a picture any intrusion of the imagination is an impertinence if made at the slightest expense of truth. the great value of an oil portrait is this: the divine, almost intangible light of expression hovering over the face is seized on by living skill and intellect, and imprisoned in colors. the sitter is not taken in one special moment, when his eyes are fixed and his muscles rigid, but in a free study of many hours the characteristics of the face are learned, and some felicitous expression caught and fixed forever. this is what gives portrait painting its special value, and drives ordinary photographic portraits out of the realms of art into those of mechanism. artists have various ways of treating their sitters. some throw them into a sir-joshua-like attitude, and put in a gainsborough background. others compass the face all over, and map it out like a chart, taking elevations of every mole and dimple. but whenever an artist feels unsafe away from his compasses, and cannot trust himself, sitters should not trust him. there is a real pleasure in sitting to a master in his art, a real weariness and disgust in sitting to a tyro. it must be remembered that not only is the best expression to be caught, but that the _features_ of any face vary so much under physical changes and mental moods that their differences may actually be measured with a foot-rule. an ordinary artist will measure these distances; an extraordinary artist will catch their subtle effects, and will draw the features as well as the expression at their very best. a really fine oil portrait should look as well near by as it does at a distance. suffer no artist to leave out blemishes which contribute to the character of the original; ugly or pretty, unless a portrait is a likeness, it is worthless. there are very clever artists who cannot paint a true portrait, because they leave every picture redolent of themselves. thus bartolozzi in engraving holbein's heads, made everything bartolozzi. but in a portrait the individuality of the sitter should permeate and usurp the whole canvas, so that in looking at it we should think only of the person represented, and quite forget the artist who brought him before us. it is an axiom that every full-length portrait requires a curtain and a column, every half-length a table, every kit-kat a full face. but surely such rules betray barrenness of invention. every good position cannot be said to have been exhausted. why should not every portrait be treated as a part of an historical picture in which the sitter's position and background and accessories produced the tone and feeling most suitable to his ordinary life? raphael in his portrait of leo the tenth exhibits a faithful study of such subordinates. there is a prayer-book with miniatures, a bell on the table, and a mirror at the back of the chair reflecting the whole scene. one of rembrandt's most charming portraits is that of his mother cutting her nails with a pair of scissors. never suffer any artist to slur over or hide the hand. the hand is a feature full of beauty and individuality. any one who has noticed how vandyck studied and worked out its peculiarities, what beauty and expression he gave to it, will never undervalue its power as an exponent of personality again. the portraits of men or women occupying prominent positions should always have their name and that of the artist on the back. if this had been done in times past, how many nameless portraits, now of little value, would be held in high estimation! from the time of henry the eighth to the time of charles the first it was usual to insert in a corner the armorial bearings of the person represented. this did not, indeed, accurately identify the individual, but it made it easier to determine. there is a masterpiece of vandyck's in the national gallery of england that goes by the name of "gevartius." but no one knows who gevartius was. here is an old man's head made memorable for all time,--a head which would be thought cheap at $ , , and which, if it were for sale, would attract connoisseurs from all parts of the civilized world, and it is without a name. how much more valuable and interesting it would be if its history were known! therefore no feeling of modesty should prevent eminent characters from insuring the identity of their pictures. let us imagine a picture of abraham lincoln and one of professor morse two hundred years hence, with the name attached in one case, and a mere tradition of identity in the other, and it will be easy to estimate the difference in value. americans have been accused of an undue taste for portraiture; the taste has its foundation in the character of the nation. it corresponds with that estimation of the personal worth of a man, and that full appreciation of individual independence, which form such important elements in our national character. the crown of beauty the glory and the crown of physical perfection is beautiful hair. venus would not charm us if she were bald, and neither poet, painter, nor sculptor would dare to give us a "subject" which should lack this, the charm of all other charms. neither is it a modern fancy. homer, when he would praise helen, calls her "the beautiful-haired helen," and petronius, in his famous picture of circe, makes much of "trailing locks." the loveliness of long hair in woman seems never to have been disputed, and it had also a very wide acceptance as a mark of masculine strength and beauty. st. paul, it is true, says that it is a shame to a man to have long hair, but his opinion is not to be taken without reservation, for both the traditions of poetry and painting give to the saviour, and also to the beloved disciple, long locks of curling brown hair. the greek warriors and most of the asiatic nations prided themselves on their long hair, and the romans gave a great significance to it by making it the badge of a freeman. cæsar, too, distinctly says that he always compelled the men of a province which he had conquered to shave off their hair in token of submission. the saxon and danish rulers of england were equally famous for their long yellow locks, and the fashion continued with little or no intermission until the dynasty of the tudor kings. they affected, for some reason or other, short hair; and "king hal" is undoubtedly indebted for his "bluff look" to the short, thick crop which he wore. the fashion even extended to the women of that age, and their pictured faces, with their hair all hidden away under a _coif_, have a most hard, stiff, and unlovely appearance. under the stuarts, long, flowing hair again became fashionable with the royalist party, who made their "love locks" the sign and emblem of their loyalty. on the contrary, the puritans made short hair almost a tenet of faith and a part of their creed. within the last ten years hair has been again the sign of political feeling, for, during the civil war, the southern women in favor of the confederacy wore one long curl behind the left ear, while those in favor of the union wore one behind each ear. during the last century men have gradually cut their hair shorter and shorter. they pretend, of course, fashion dictates the order; but a woman may be allowed to doubt whether necessity did not first dictate to fashion. certainly ladies prefer in men hair that is moderately long, thick, and curling, to the penitentiary style of last year. and suppose they could have long hair, but cut it for their own comfort, the act says very little for their gallantry. i have no need to point to the chignons, braids, and artifices which women use to lengthen their hair in order to please men, who decline to return the compliment, even to a degree that would be vastly becoming to them. after the length of hair, color is the point of most interest. in reality there are but two colors, black and red. brown, golden, yellow, etc., are intermediate, the difference in shade being determined by the sulphur and oxygen or carbon which prevails. in black hair, carbon exceeds; in golden hair, sulphur and oxygen. it has been insisted that climate determines the color of hair; that fair-haired people are found north of parallel °; brown hair between ° and °; which would include northern france, switzerland, bohemia, austria, and touch georgia and circassia, canada, and the northern part of maine; and that below that line come the black-haired races of spain, naples, turkey, etc., etc. but this is easily disproved. take, for instance, the parallel ° and follow it round the world. upon it may be found the curly, golden-haired european; the black, straight hair of the mongolian and american indian, and again, in canada, it will give us the fair-haired saxon girl. so, then, it is race, and not climate, which determines the color. i am inclined to think, too, that temperament has something to do with it, since we find black-haired celts, golden-haired venetians, and fair and black-haired jews. the ancient civilized nations passionately admired red hair. greeks, romans, chinese, turks, and spaniards have given it to their warriors and beauties. somehow among the anglo-saxon race it has a bad reputation. both in novels and plays it is common to give the rascal of the plot "villanous red hair;" and in the english school of painters, the traitor judas is generally distinguished by it. in the east, black is the favorite color, and the persians abhor a red-haired woman. light brown or golden hair is the universal favorite. the greeks gave it to apollo, venus, and minerva. the romans had such a passion for it that, in the days of the empire, light hair brought from germany (to make wigs for roman ladies) sold for its weight in gold. the germans themselves, not content with the beautiful hair nature had given them, made a soap of goat's tallow and beechwood ashes to brighten the color. homer loved "blondes," and milton and shakespeare are full of golden-haired beauties, while the pages of the novelist and the galleries of painters, ancient and modern, show the same preference. lavater insists greatly on the color of hair as an index to the disposition. "chestnut hair," he says, "indicates love of change and great vivacity; black hair, passion, strength, ambition, and energy; fair hair, mildness, tenderness, and judgment." fashion has dressed the hair in many absurd and also in many beautiful forms; but through all changes, curls, floating free and natural, have had a majority of admirers. some one says that "of all the revolvers aimed at men's hearts, curls are the most deadly," and from the persistent instinct of women in retaining them, i am inclined to indorse this statement. the armenians and some other asiatics twist the hair into the form of a mitre; the parthians and persians leave it long and floating; the scythians and goths wear it short, thick, and bristling; the arabians and kindred people often cut it on the crown. in the south of europe, "to be in the hair" is a common expression for unmarried girls, because they wear their hair long and flowing, while matrons put it up in a coil at the back of the head. until the ninth century in england, nature pretty much led the fashions in hair-dressing; then plaits turned up on each side of the cheek were introduced; and in the eleventh century the hair all disappeared under the head-dress of that time. early in the sixteenth century ladies began to "turn up" the hair. queen margaret of navarre frizzed and turned back her abundant locks just as the women of our own day do. the custom, too, that is now prevalent of braiding the hair in two long locks and tying them at the ends with ribbons was a favorite style in the early part of the seventeenth century. in the eighteenth century women used powder to such an extent as almost to destroy the color of the hair, and during the past hundred years every possible arrangement and non-arrangement has had a temporary favor. i have nothing to say about the customs of the present day. if there is any property in which a woman has undisputed right, it is surely in her own hair; and if she chooses to wear it in an unbecoming or inartistic style, it is certainly no one's business that i can perceive. assuredly not the men's, since i have already shown that they, either through inability or selfishness, decline to wear the thick, flowing locks with which nature crowns manly strength and beauty, and which are all women's admiration. the majority of women have a natural taste in this matter, and very few are so silly as to sacrifice their beauty to fashion. two or three rules are fundamental in all arrangements of the hair: one is that a superabundance at the back of the head always imparts an animal expression; another, that it is peculiarly ugly to sweep the whole forehead bare. the greeks, supreme authorities on all subjects of beauty and taste, were never guilty of such an atrocity. in all their exquisite statues the hair is set low. a third is that "bands" are the most trying of all _coiffures_, and never ought to be adopted except by faces of classic beauty. to add them to a round, merry face with a nose retroussé is as absurd as to put a doric frieze on an irregular building. a general and positive one is that all hair is spoiled, both in quality and color, by oiling, for it takes from it that elasticity and lightness which is its chief charm and characteristic; the last (which i have no hope ladies will heed just at present) is, never to hide the natural form of the head. waste of vitality if we come to reflect upon it, in middle age we find that the one great cause of departure from the ideal in real life is our liability to take cold. almost all our pleasures are bound up with this probability, for when we have taken cold we are far too stupid either to give or enjoy pleasure. and there is no philosophy connected with colds. serious illnesses are full of instruction and resignation, but who thinks of being resigned to a cold, or of making a profitable use of it? "chilly" is a word that of late years has come to be a frequent and pitiably significant one on the lips of the middle-aged. they have a terror of the frost and snow which they once enjoyed so keenly, and they really suffer much more than they will allow themselves to confess. the most invigorating and inspiriting of all climates is °, but if the glass fall to °, chilly people are miserable; they feel draughts everywhere, especially on the face, and very likely the first symptoms of a neuralgic attack. at °--which must have been the in-door winter temperature of our forefathers--they become irritable and shivery, and lose all energy. if the temperature fall below °, they "take cold," and exhibit all the mental inertia and many of the physical symptoms of influenza, which nevertheless has not attacked them. let us at once admit a truth: the young and robust despise the chilly for their chilliness, for there is such a thing as physical pride, and a very unpleasant thing it is in families. these physical pharisees are always recommending the "roughing" and "hardening" process, and they would gladly revive for the poor invalid the cold-water torture of the past. without being conscious of it, they are cruel. chilly people are not made better by the unsympathetic remarks of those of quicker blood. there is no good in assuring them that the cold is healthy and seasonable. they feel keenly the half-joking imputation of "cosseting," though perhaps they are too inert and miserable to defend themselves. strong walking exercise is the remedy always proposed. many cannot take it. others make a laudable effort to follow the prescription, and perhaps during it feel a glow of warmth to which in the house--though the house is thoroughly warmed--they are strangers. but half an hour after their return home the tide of life has receded again, and they are as chilly and nervous as before. nevertheless, they have passed through an experience which, if they would consider it, indicates their relief, if not their cure. while out-of-doors they thought it necessary to cover their feet with warm hosiery and thick boots, the head with a bonnet and veil, their hands with gloves and a fur muff, their body with some fur or wadded garment half an inch thick. in short, when they went out they imitated nature, and protected themselves as she does animals. but just as soon as they return home they uncover their head and hands, replace the warm, heavy clothing of the feet with some of a more elegant but far colder quality, and take off altogether the thick warm garments worn out-of-doors. a bear that should follow the same course when it went home to its snug subterranean den would naturally enough die of some pulmonary disease. nations which are subjected to long and severe winters have learned the more natural and excellent way. the laplander keeps on his fur, the russian his wadded garment, the tartar his sheep-skin, the shetlander goes about in his house in his wadmal. it is only in our high state of civilization that men and women divest themselves of half their clothing with the thermometer below zero, and then run to the fire to warm their freezing hands and feet. if warm clothing protects us out of the house, it will do the same in the house; and it is no more "coddling," and much more sensible and satisfactory than cowering over a grate. under the head-dress a silk skullcap is a most effective protection against draughts, and would prevent many an attack of neuralgia. a silk or wash-leather vest will keep the body at a more equable temperature than the best fire. a shawl to most middle-aged ladies is a graceful toilet adjunct even in the house, and it is capable of retaining as well as of imparting much warmth. when very chilly after removal of outside wraps, or from any other cause, try a wadded dressing-gown over the usual clothing. in five minutes the added comfort will be recognized. the secret is, then, to keep the body at its proper temperature in the house by the adoption of sufficient warm clothing, instead of trusting to artificially heated atmosphere. no one will be more liable to take cold out of the house because she has been warm in the house. there is no more sense in shivering in-doors in order to prepare the body to endure the out-door climate than there would be in sleeping with too few blankets for fear of increasing the sense of cold when out of bed. a stuffy room, with air constantly heated to °, is the most efficacious invention ever devised for ruining health. but it is equally true that _habitual warmth_ is the very best preserver of constitutional strength in middle and old age; and undoubtedly this is best maintained by a temperature of ° and plenty of clothing. a very important aid to warmth is a proper diet. many women who suffer continually from a sense of chill, below the tide of healthy life, have yet constantly at hand an abundance of nourishing food. but they eat one day at one hour, the next at another; they don't care what they eat, and take anything a flippant-minded cook chooses to send them; they wait for some one when themselves hungry, out of mere domestic courtesy; and when their husbands are from home they take tea and biscuits because it is not worth while giving servants the trouble of cooking for them alone. in all these and many similar ways vitality is continually lost, and with every loss of vitality there is a corresponding access of slow, chilly, shivering inertia. it is a great mistake that women are taught from childhood that it is meritorious in their sex to conceal their own wants, and to postpone their own convenience to that of fathers, brothers, husbands, and even servants. for in the end they break down, and are left in a state of ill health in which all the wheels of life run slow. the trouble, in a sentence, is that women _have no wives_--no one to remind them when they are in a draught, or come in with wet feet, no one to get them a warm drink when chilly, and ward off the little ills (which soon become great ones) by loving, thoughtful, constant care and attention. all women know how hard it is to live the usual life of work and amusement in a physical condition of far below the requisite strength. nothing induces this condition like chronic chill. in it no vitality can be gained, and very much may be continually lost. therefore every plan should be tried which promises to raise the temperature to a healthy standard. try the effect of a room heated to °, and plenty of warm, constantly warm clothing. a little matter of money "it is unpleasant not to have money," says mr. hazlitt; indeed, it has become a sort of social offence to be short of virtue in this respect; for both nationally and personally, we are loath to confess so tragic a calamity. we may assert that, having food and clothes, we are therewith content, and that we would not encounter the perils and snares of vast wealth; but are we quite sure that this humility and contentment is not a fine name for being too lazy to earn money, or too extravagant to keep it? again, if all were content with the simple satisfaction of their necessities--if nobody wanted to be rich--nobody would be industrious or frugal, or strive to acquire knowledge. who then would build our churches, and endow our colleges? who would send out missionaries, and encourage science and inventions? the golden grapes may be out of our reach, but they are a noble fruit when pressed by kindly hands, and have given graciously unto the world their wine of consolation. the fact is that we have come to a time in which the want of money is about as bad a moral distemper as the love of it. the latter position is an admitted truth; the former is only beginning to put forth its claims to the notice of professed moralists. whatever special virtue there was in poverty seems to be in direct antagonism to the spirit of the present day; for there is no doubt that worldly prosperity has come to be regarded as one of the legitimate fruits of the gospel. the modern church puts forth her hands and grasps the promise of the life that now is, as well as that which is to come. why not? money gives a power of doing good that nothing material can equal. even "the truth" has now to depend on the currency, and the most evangelical societies pay treasurers as well as missionaries. the amount of money in a man's pocket is a great moral factor. he who has plenty of ready cash and is not good-natured needs a thorough change, and nothing but being born again will cure him. but the man who is in a chronic state of poverty is a man placed in selfish relations to every one around him. how hard it is for such a one to be generous, just, and sympathetic! he is almost compelled to look on his fellow-creatures with the eye of a slave-merchant, to consider: how can they profit me? what can i gain by them? he must marry for money, or not marry for the want of it. his friendship is a kind of traffic. his religion is subject to considerations, for he will either go to church for a certain connection, or he will not go at all because of the collections. now, there is abundance of living strength in christianity to meet this and all other special wants of the age. there is no doubt that money is the principle of our social gravitation, and we need preachers who will not be afraid to tell us the truth, even though nobody has ever told it just in that particular way before. we accept without demur all that has been said about the evils of loving money; will some of our spiritual teachers tell us how to avoid the evils and cure the moral and physical distress caused by the want of money? that this is a gigantic evil, we have constant proof in the daily papers; in murder, theft, suicide, domestic misery and cruelty. these criminals are far seldomer influenced by the love of money than by the want of it. if instead of being without a dollar, they had had sufficient for their necessities, would they have run such risks, incurred such guilt, staked life on one desperate chance, flung it away in despairing misery? of course the word "sufficient" is very elastic. it can be so moderate and temperate; and again it can grasp at impossibilities. "my wants," said the count mirabel, "are few: a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera box, the first cook, and plenty of pocket-money--that is all i require." he thought his desires very temperate; so also did the scotchman, who, praying for a modest competency, added, "and that there be no mistake, let it be seven hundred pounds a year, paid quarterly in advance." there are indeed all sorts of difficulties connected with this question, and anybody can find their way into them. but there must also be a way out; and if our guides would survey the ground a little, they would earn and have our thanks. for undoubtedly this want of money is as great a provocation to sin as the love of it. an empty purse is as full of wicked thoughts as an evil heart; and the father who allotted seven guardian angels to man, and made five of them hover round his pockets--empty or full--knew well his most vulnerable points. mission of household furniture have wood and paper and upholstery really any moral and emotional agencies? certainly they have. not very obvious ones perhaps, but all-pervading and ever-persistent in their character; since there is no day--scarcely an hour--of our lives in which we are not, either passively or consciously, subject to their influences. our cravings after elegance of form, glimmer and shimmer of light and color, insensibly elevate and civilize us; and the men and women condemned to the monotony of bare walls and unpicturesque surroundings--whether they be devotees in cells, or felons in dungeons--are the less human for the want of these things. the want, then, is a direct moral evil, and a cause of imperfection. the desire for beautiful surroundings is a natural instinct in a pure mind. how tenaciously people who live in dull streets, and who never see a sunrise, nor a mountain peak, nor an unbroken horizon, cling to it is proved on all sides of us by the picturesqueness which many a mechanic's wife imparts to her little twelve-feet-square rooms. and it is wonderful with what slender materials she will satisfy this hunger of the eye for beauty and color. a few brightly polished tins, the many-shaded patchwork coverlets and cushions, the gay stripes in the rag carpet, the pot of trailing ivy or scarlet geranium, the shining black stove, with its glimmer and glow of fire and heat, are made by some subtle charm of arrangement both satisfactory and suggestive. in spite of all arguments about the economy of "boarding," who does not respect the men or women who, at all just sacrifices, eschew a boarding-house and make themselves a home? a man without a home has cast away an anchor; an atmosphere of uncertainty clings about him; he advertises his tendency to break loose from wholesome restraints. so strongly is the force of this home influence now perceived that the wisest of our merchants refuse to employ boys and women without homes, while the universal preference is in favor of men who have assumed the head of the house, and thus given hostage to society for their good behavior. but a house is not a _home_ till it is swept and garnished, and contains not only the wherewithal to refresh the body, but also something for the comfort of the heart, the elevation of the mind, and the delight of the eye. if we would fairly estimate the moral power of furniture, let us consider how attached it is possible for us to become to it. there are chairs that are sacred objects to us: the large, easy one, in which some saint sat patiently waiting for the angels; the little high chair which was some darling baby's throne till he "went away one morning;" the low rocker, in which mother nursed the whole family of stalwart sons and lovely daughters. ask any practised student or writer how much he loves his old desk, with its tidy pigeon-holes and familiar conveniences. have they not many a secret between them that they only understand? are they not familiar? could they be parted without great sorrow and regrets? nothing is more certain than that we do stamp ourselves upon dead matter, and impart to it a kind of life. is there a more pathetic picture than that of dickens's study after his death? yet no human figure is present; there is nothing but furniture, the desk on which he wrote those wonderful stories, and the empty chair before it. nothing but the empty chair and the confidential desk to speak for the dead master; but how eloquently they do it! our furniture ought, therefore, to be easy and familiar. we cannot give our hearts to what is uncomfortable, no matter how quaint or rich it may be. and though it is always pleasant to have colors and forms assorted with perfect taste, it is not desirable to have the effect so perfect that we are afraid to make use of it, lest we destroy it. no furniture ought to be so fine that we dare not light a fire for fear of smoking it, or let the sunshine in for fear of fading it. in such rooms we do not lounge and laugh and eat and rest and live,--we only exist. the proper character of drawing-rooms is that of gayety and cheerfulness. this is attained by light tints, and brilliant colors and gilding; but the brightest colors and the strongest contrasts must be on the furniture, not on the walls and ceilings. these must be subordinate in coloring, or the effect will be theatrical and vulgar. the dining-room ought to be one of the pleasantest in the house; but it is generally in the basement. it ought to be a room in which there is nothing to remind us of labor or exertion, for we have gone there to eat and to be refreshed. a few flowers, a dish of fruits, snowy linen and china, glittering glass and silver, a pleasant blending of warm and neutral tints are essentials. for ornaments, rare china, indian vases, eastern jars suggestive of fine pickles or rare sweetmeats, and a few pictures on the walls, representing only pleasant subjects, and large enough to be examined without exertion, are the best. advantages of locality, a refined diner will always perceive and appropriate. thus i used to dine frequently with a lady and gentleman who in the spring always altered the position of the table, so that while eating they could look through the large open windows, and see the waving apple-blossoms and breathe the perfumed air, and listen to the evening songs of the birds. bedrooms should be light, cleanly, and cheerful; greater contrasts are admissible between the room and the furniture, as the bed and window-curtains form a sufficient mass to balance a tint of equal intensity upon the walls. for the same reason gay and bright carpets are often pleasant and ornamental. staircases, lobbies, and vestibules should be cool in tone, simple in color, and free from contrasts. here the effects are to be produced by light and shadow, rather than by color. every one must have noticed that some houses as soon as the doors are opened look bright and cheerful, while others are melancholy and dull. the difference is caused by the good or bad taste with which they are papered. yet who shall say what events may arise from such a simple thing as the first impressions of an important visitor? and these impressions may involuntarily receive their primal tone from a light, cheerful, or dull, dark hall paper. all rooms open to the public must have a certain air of conventional arrangement; but the parlor in every home ought to be a room of character and individuality. here is the very shrine and sanctuary of the lares and penates. here is the grandmamma's chair and knitting, and mamma's work-basket, and the sofa on which papa lounges and reads his evening paper. here are annie's flowers and mary's easel and jack's much-abused class-books. here the girls practise and the boys rig their ship and mamma looks serious over the house books. in this room the picture papers lie around, every one's favorite volume is on the table, and the walls are sacred to the family portraits. in this room the family councils are held and the dear invalids nursed back to life. here the boys come to say "good-bye" when they go away to school or to business. here the girls, in their gay party-dresses, come for papa's final bantering kiss and mamma's last admiration and admonition. ah, this room!--this dear, untidy, unfashionable parlor! it is the citadel of the household, the very _heart of the home_. none can deny the influence which childhood's home has over them, even unto their hoary-hairs; the memory of a happy, comfortable one is better than an inheritance. the girls and boys who leave it have a positive ideal to realize. there is no speculation in their efforts; they _know_ that home is "sweet home." but in all their imaginings chairs and tables and curtains and carpets have a conspicuous place. this life is all we have to front eternity with, therefore nothing that touches it is of small consequence. it is something to the body to have comfortable and appropriate household surroundings, it is much more to the mind. is there any one whose feelings and energies are not depressed by a cold, comfortless, untidy room? and who does not feel a positive exaltation of spirit in the glow of a bright fire and the cosey surroundings of a prettily furnished apartment? god has not made us to differ in this respect. a pleasant home is the dream and hope of every good man and woman. as traddles and his dear little wife used to please themselves by selecting in the shop windows their contemplated service of silver, so also many honest, hopeful toilers fix upon the chairs and curtains that are to adorn their homes long before they possess them. the dream and the object is a great gain morally to them. perhaps they might have other ones, but it is equally possible that the possession of this very furniture is the very condition that makes higher ones possible. depend upon it "a society for the improved furnishing of poor men's homes" would be a step taken in the seven-leagued boots for _the elevation of poor men's and women's lives_. people who have good impulses there is a raw material in humanity--often very raw--called impulse, or enthusiasm; and some people are very proud of possessing this spasmodic excellence. they talk glibly of their "good impulses," their "noble impulses," their "generous impulses," but the fact is that the majority of impulses are neither good nor noble; while they are, of all guides in human affairs, the most questionable. for impulses do not come from settled principles, but rather from a loose habit of mind--a mind just drifting along, and ready to accept any new suggestion as an "impulse," an "inspiration," a "command." we believe far too readily the cant about emotion, and erratic genius, and suffer ourselves to be imposed upon by fussy, impulsive people; for if we are at all allied with such, it is impossible to escape imposition; since we have to be patient enough for two, and so bear an undue burden of civility and good manners. it may be said that such a discipline is not to be despised, and could be made a lesson of spiritual grace. but if we are not sick, why should we take medicine? lessons god sets us, he helps us to learn, but there are no promises for those who impose penance upon themselves. and it is a penance to associate with impulsive, fussy persons; for no matter how good their impulses are, they are simply nowhere--as far as noble, enduring work is concerned--beside well-considered plans, carried out by cool, consistent people, who know what can be done and do it,--just as much next year as this year; just as well in one place as in another. ministers of the gospel know this fact perhaps better than any other mortals. they are constantly finding out how uncertain a quantity good impulses are to depend upon. for they have not the habit of materializing into good actions; they are evanescent pretenders to righteousness; they tell more flattering tales than ever hope told. all too soon the practical, calm minister discovers that impulse and enthusiasm are but rudimentary virtues, and seldom available for any real, good work. the men of service, either in spiritual or temporal work, are men whom nothing hurries or flurries; who are never in haste, and never too late. they are not men of impulse, but of consideration. whether they are going to deliver a sermon or keep a momentous appointment, to get a high office or a sum of money, or merely to catch an express train, they are perfectly cool, and always in time. of course, impulsive people keep appointments and catch trains, but oh, what a fuss they make about it! unfortunately, calm, grand natures are not of indigenous growth, and we do not do all we might to cultivate them. if we took more time to think, we should be less impulsive, more reasonable, less shallow. if we made less haste, we should make more speed. "slow and sure win the race" is a proverb embodying a great truth. fussy, impulsive people never get at the bottom of things, never give an impartial judgment, never are masters of any difficult situation; for the power of deliberation, of staving off personal likes and dislikes, of waiting, of knowing when to wait and when to move,--are powers invariably linked with a cool head and a clear, calm will. but none of these grand qualities come at the call of impulse. even good impulses are of no practical value until they crystallize into good deeds. without this result the impulse or the intention to do great things may be a serious spiritual danger; the soul may satisfy itself with its impulses and designs, and rest upon them; forgetting what place of ineffectual regret is paved with good intentions. in a certain sense it is true that the power of taking things in a cool, practical way is often an affair of the pulse, and so many beats, more or less, per minute, make a person fussy or serene. but it is only true in measure. forethought and preparation--realizing what is likely to happen, and what is best to be done--are great helps to keeping cool and calm. the will also can work miracles. i believe in the will because i believe that the human will is god's grace. those who say, "i cannot" are those who think, "i will not." besides which there are heavenly powers that wait to help our infirmities. paul did not hesitate to pray for the removal of his physical infirmity, and the "sufficient grace" that was promised him will be just as freely given to us. indeed, i may rest the question here, for this is our great consolation: one cannot say too much of the divine help. it will keep all in perfect peace that trust in it. worried to death to say "we are worried to death" is a common expression; but do we really comprehend the terrible truth of the remark? do we realize that the hounds of care and anxiety and fretful inability may actually tear and torment us into paresis, or paralysis, or dementia, and as virtually worry us to death, as a collie dog worries a sheep, or a cat worries a mouse? and yet, if we are christian men and women, worrying is just the one thing not needful; for there are more than sixty admonitions in the bible against it; and the ground is so well covered by them that between the first "fear not" and the last, every unnecessary anxiety is met, and there is not a legitimate subject for worrying left. are we troubled about meat and money matters? we are told to "consider the fowls of the air; they sow not, neither do they reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly father feedeth them. are ye not much better than they?" have we some malignant enemy to fight? fear not! "if god be for us, who can be against us?" are we in sorrow? "i, even i, am he that comforteth you." are we in doubt and perplexity? "i will bring the blind by a way that they know not. i will lead them in paths they have not known. i will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight." do we fear that our work is beyond our strength? "he giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might, he increaseth strength." are we sick? he has promised to make all our bed in our sickness. do we fear death? he has assured us that in the valley and shadow of death he will be with us. is the worry not for ourselves, but for wife and children that will be left without support and protection? even this last anxiety is provided for. "leave thy fatherless children to me, and let thy widows trust in me, and i will preserve them alive." now, if we really believe that god made these promises, how shameful is our distrust! do we think that god will not keep his word? do we doubt his good-will toward us? when he says that he will make all things work together for our good, is the holy one lying to our sorrowful hearts? thirty years ago i was thrown helpless, penniless, and friendless upon these assurances of god; and in thirty years he has never broken a promise. he is a god that keepeth both mercy and truth. i believe in his goodness. i trust in his care. i would not, by worrying, tell him to his face that he either has not the power or the good-will to help and comfort me. worriers live under a very low sky. they allow nothing for probabilities and "godsends." they suffer nothing to go by faith. all times and all places supply them with material. in summer, it is the heat and the dogs and the hydrophobia. in winter, it is the cold, and the price of coal. they take all the light and comfort out of home pleasures; and abroad their complaints are endless. yet to argue with worriers is of little use; convince them at every point, and the next moment they return to their old aggravating, vaporing _credo_. what remains for them then? they must pray to god, and help themselves. egotism and selfishness are at the bottom of all worrying. if they will just remember that there is no reason why they should be exempted from the common trials of humanity, they may step at once on to higher ground; for even worrying is humanized, when it is no longer purely selfish and personal. it is usually idle people who worry. men and women whose every hour is full of earnest business do not try to put two hours' care and thought into one. even a positive injury or injustice drops easily from an honestly busy man. he has not time to keep a catalogue of his wrongs, and worry about them. he simply casts his care upon him who has promised to care for him--for his health, and wealth, and happiness, and good name; for all the events of his life, and for all the hopes of his future. worriers would not like to see written down all the doubtful things they have said of god, and all the ill-natured things they have said of men; besides, they might consider that they are often righteously worried, and only suffering the due reward of some folly of their own. would it not be better to ask god to put right what they have put wrong; to lay hold of all that is good in the present; to refuse to look forward to any possible change for the worse? i know a good man who, when he feels inclined to worry over events, takes a piece of paper and writes his fears down, and so faces "the squadron of his doubts,"--finding generally that they vanish as they are mustered. come, let us take cheerfulness as a companion. let us say farewell to worrying. cheerfulness will bid us ignore perplexities and annoyances; and help us to rise above them. god loves a cheerful liver; and when we consider the sin and sorrow, the poverty and ignorance, on every side of us, we may well hold our peace from all words but those of gratitude and thanksgiving. worrying is self-torment. it is always preparing "for the worst," and yet never fit to meet it. cheerfulness is a kind of magnanimity; it listens to no repinings; it outlooks shadows; it turns necessity to glorious gain; and so breathing on every gift of god, hope's perpetual joy, it enables us, mid pleasant yesterdays, and confident to-morrows,-- to travel on life's common way, in cheerful godliness. the grapes we can't reach the grapes we can't reach are not, as a general thing, sour grapes; and it is a despicable kind of philosophy that asserts them to be so. why should we despise good things because we do not possess them? cicero, indeed, says that "if we do not have wealth, there is nothing better and nobler than to despise it." but this assertion was artificial in the case of cicero, and it is no nearer the truth now than it was two thousand years ago. in fact, on the question of money this dictum appeals to us with great force; for though it may be true that some of the best things of life cannot be bought with money, it is equally true that there are other good things that nothing but money can buy. therefore, to follow cicero's advice and despise wealth if we have not got it, is to despise a great many excellent things; and not only that, it is to despise also the power of imparting these excellent things to other people. the golden grapes may be out of our reach, but we need not say the fruit is sour; rather let us give thanks that others have been able to gather and press the rich vintage and to give graciously to the world of its wine of consolation. in the same way it has long been, fashionable to assert a contempt for "the bubble reputation," whether sought on the battlefield or in the senate, or forum, or study. but why despise one of the grandest moral forces in the universe? for when a man can get out of self to follow the fortunes of an idea, when he can fall in love with a cause, when he can fight for some public good, when he can forfeit life, if need be, for his conviction, the "reputation" that is sure to follow such abnegation and courage is not a "bubble;" it is a glorious fact,--one through which the general level of humanity is raised and the whole world impelled forward. i do not say that all persons who conscientiously use to their utmost ability the one or two talents they possess are not as happy as they can be. thank god! life can be full in small measures. but if any man or woman has been given five or ten talents, i do say they have no right to keep them for their own delectation, falling back upon such cheap sentiments as the hollowness of fame and the "bubble reputation." fame is not a bubble; it is a power whose beneficent achievements have done a great deal toward making this world a comfortable dwelling-place. a great many high-sounding maxims in use at the present day have lost their application. there was a time, centuries ago, when the humiliations attending any upward climb were sufficient to deter a sensitive, honorable soul. but such days are forever past. any one now bearing precious gifts for humanity finds the gates lifted up and a wide entrance ready for him. men and women can make what mark they are able to make, and the world stands watching with sympathetic heart. they will not find its "reputation" a "bubble." another fine, windy theme of warning from "sour-grape" philosophers is the hollowness of friendship and the general insincerity of the world. they have "seen through" the world, they know all its falseness and worthlessness; and, as the world is far too busy to dispute their assertions or to defend itself, the superior discernment of this class of people is not brought to accurate accounting. as a matter of fact, however, people generally get just as much consideration from the world, and just as much fidelity from their friends, as they deserve. a friend may ask us to dinner, but not therefore should we expect that he share his purse with us. community of taste and sentiment does not imply community of goods. but, for all this, friendship is not hollow, nor are the grapes of its hospitality sour. i may notice here the prevalent opinion that there is no such friendship now in the world as there used to be. "there are no davids and jonathans now," say the unbelievers in humanity. very true, for david and jonathan did not belong to the nineteenth century. to keep up such a friendship, we require, not a spare hour now and then, but an amount of certain and continuous leisure. there are still great friendships among boys at school and young men in college, for they have a large amount of steady leisure; and this is necessary to signal friendship. when we have more time, we shall have more and stronger friendships. the vanity of life, the deceitfulness of women, the falseness of love, the impossibility of happiness, the passing away of all that is lovely and of good report, are old, old, old texts of complaint. men and women talk about them until they feel ever so much better than the rest of the world; and such talk enables them to look down with proper contempt upon the hypocrisies of society,--that is, of their next-door neighbors and near acquaintances,--and fosters a comfortable, but dangerous self-esteem. the world, upon the whole, is a good world to those who try to be good and to do good, and every year it is growing better. during the last fifty years how much it has grown! how sympathetic, how charitable, how evangelizing it has become! yes, indeed, if we choose to do so, we shall meet with far more good hearts than bad ones, and the topmost grapes are not sour. burdens there are two kinds of burdens--those that god lays on us, and those which we lay on ourselves. when god lays the burden on the back, he gives us strength to carry it. there never was a christian who, in his weariest and dreariest hours, could not say, "his grace is sufficient." if god smiles on him, he can smile under any burden that he may have to carry. he can go up the "hill of difficulty" singing, and walk confidently into the very land of the shadow of death. for god's burdens are easy to bear; because he walks with us, and when the journey is too great, and the burden too heavy, and our hearts begin to fail and faint, he is sure to whisper, "cast thy burden upon me, and i will sustain thee." the burdens that are hard to bear are those we lay upon ourselves. what a burden to themselves, and to every one around them, are the lazy and the unemployed! if it is a man, prayers should be offered up for his family and his dependents,--for who is so morbid and melancholy, so pettish and fretful, so devoured by spleen and ennui, as the man with nothing to do? there is a lion in every way to him. he is out of god's order of creation; the busy world has no sympathy with him; society has no use for him; no one is the better for his life, and no one is sorry for his death. he is simply the fungus of living, active, breathing humanity. the lazy lay a burden on their backs which would appall men who have fought winds and waves, and searched the bowels of the earth, and bound to their will the subtle forces of electricity and steam. the burdens we bind for ourselves we shall have to bear alone. god is not going to help us, and angels stand afar off; good men and women are not here bound by the injunction, "bear ye one another's burdens." the envious, the proud, the drunkard, the seducer, the complainer, the lazy, etc., must bear their self-inflicted burdens, till they perish with them. if the kingdom of heaven could be taken by some wonderful _coup d'état_, many would be first that are now last. but of great deeds little account is to be made. they are indigenous in every condition of society. it is a great life that is never a failure. a great life composed of a multitude of little burdens, cheerfully borne, and little charges faithfully kept. and this is a kind of christian warfare, that is specially to be carried on in the sphere of the home. many a professor, faithful in all the weightier matters of the law and the sanctuary, and blameless in the eyes of the world, is a rock of offence in his own household. his wife doubts his religion, his children fear him, and his servants call him a hard master. he pays all his tithes of mint, anise, and cummin to the church and society, but as regards the little burdens of his own household, he is worse than a publican. small burdens make up the moral and religious probation of a majority of women, for they have but rare occasion for the exercise of such faith and fortitude as commands the eye of the world. but these burdens, though apparently small and contracted in their sphere, are not only very important in their results, but often singularly irritating. sickly, fretful children--impertinent, lazy servants--a thoughtless, irregular husband--a hundred other burdens so small she does not like to say how heavy she feels them to be and how sorely they weary her,--these are "her warfare;" and because the master has laid them upon her, shall she not bear them? the world may call them "little burdens," but there is nothing small in the eyes of infinity. in no way can a woman cultivate beauty and strength of character so well as in the patient bearing and carrying of the small burdens that every day await her--the headaches and toothaches--the weariness and weakness incident to her position and condition. for it is the glory of a woman that her weakness or weariness never shrouds a household in gloom, or makes the atmosphere electrical with impatience and irritability. to carry her burden, whatever it may be, cheerfully, is not a little victory, and such daily victories make the last great one easy to be won. it is hard to die before we have learned to live; but death is easy to those who have conquered life. to such the grave is but a laying down of all burdens, a rest from labor and obligation, while yet their works of love and unselfishness do follow them with fruit and blessing. we must not forget that in our journey through life, there are burdens which we may lawfully make our own. we may help the weak and the struggling on to their feet, when they have fallen in the battle of life. we may comfort those "touched by the finger of god." we may copy the good samaritan, not forgetting the oil and two pence. we may wipe the tears from the eyes of the widow and the fatherless. in bearing such burdens as these, we shall find ourselves in good company; for in the tabernacles of sanctified suffering we may come near to the divine burden bearer; and going on messages of mercy, we may meet angels going the same way. * * * * * a doll's house by henrik ibsen dramatis personae torvald helmer. nora, his wife. doctor rank. mrs. linde. nils krogstad. helmer's three young children. anne, their nurse. a housemaid. a porter. (the action takes place in helmer's house.) a doll's house act i (scene.--a room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not extravagantly. at the back, a door to the right leads to the entrance-hall, another to the left leads to helmer's study. between the doors stands a piano. in the middle of the left-hand wall is a door, and beyond it a window. near the window are a round table, arm-chairs and a small sofa. in the right-hand wall, at the farther end, another door; and on the same side, nearer the footlights, a stove, two easy chairs and a rocking-chair; between the stove and the door, a small table. engravings on the walls; a cabinet with china and other small objects; a small book-case with well-bound books. the floors are carpeted, and a fire burns in the stove. it is winter. a bell rings in the hall; shortly afterwards the door is heard to open. enter nora, humming a tune and in high spirits. she is in outdoor dress and carries a number of parcels; these she lays on the table to the right. she leaves the outer door open after her, and through it is seen a porter who is carrying a christmas tree and a basket, which he gives to the maid who has opened the door.) nora. hide the christmas tree carefully, helen. be sure the children do not see it until this evening, when it is dressed. (to the porter, taking out her purse.) how much? porter. sixpence. nora. there is a shilling. no, keep the change. (the porter thanks her, and goes out. nora shuts the door. she is laughing to herself, as she takes off her hat and coat. she takes a packet of macaroons from her pocket and eats one or two; then goes cautiously to her husband's door and listens.) yes, he is in. (still humming, she goes to the table on the right.) helmer (calls out from his room). is that my little lark twittering out there? nora (busy opening some of the parcels). yes, it is! helmer. is it my little squirrel bustling about? nora. yes! helmer. when did my squirrel come home? nora. just now. (puts the bag of macaroons into her pocket and wipes her mouth.) come in here, torvald, and see what i have bought. helmer. don't disturb me. (a little later, he opens the door and looks into the room, pen in hand.) bought, did you say? all these things? has my little spendthrift been wasting money again? nora. yes but, torvald, this year we really can let ourselves go a little. this is the first christmas that we have not needed to economise. helmer. still, you know, we can't spend money recklessly. nora. yes, torvald, we may be a wee bit more reckless now, mayn't we? just a tiny wee bit! you are going to have a big salary and earn lots and lots of money. helmer. yes, after the new year; but then it will be a whole quarter before the salary is due. nora. pooh! we can borrow until then. helmer. nora! (goes up to her and takes her playfully by the ear.) the same little featherhead! suppose, now, that i borrowed fifty pounds today, and you spent it all in the christmas week, and then on new year's eve a slate fell on my head and killed me, and--nora (putting her hands over his mouth). oh! don't say such horrid things. helmer. still, suppose that happened,--what then? nora. if that were to happen, i don't suppose i should care whether i owed money or not. helmer. yes, but what about the people who had lent it? nora. they? who would bother about them? i should not know who they were. helmer. that is like a woman! but seriously, nora, you know what i think about that. no debt, no borrowing. there can be no freedom or beauty about a home life that depends on borrowing and debt. we two have kept bravely on the straight road so far, and we will go on the same way for the short time longer that there need be any struggle. nora (moving towards the stove). as you please, torvald. helmer (following her). come, come, my little skylark must not droop her wings. what is this! is my little squirrel out of temper? (taking out his purse.) nora, what do you think i have got here? nora (turning round quickly). money! helmer. there you are. (gives her some money.) do you think i don't know what a lot is wanted for housekeeping at christmas-time? nora (counting). ten shillings--a pound--two pounds! thank you, thank you, torvald; that will keep me going for a long time. helmer. indeed it must. nora. yes, yes, it will. but come here and let me show you what i have bought. and all so cheap! look, here is a new suit for ivar, and a sword; and a horse and a trumpet for bob; and a doll and dolly's bedstead for emmy,--they are very plain, but anyway she will soon break them in pieces. and here are dress-lengths and handkerchiefs for the maids; old anne ought really to have something better. helmer. and what is in this parcel? nora (crying out). no, no! you mustn't see that until this evening. helmer. very well. but now tell me, you extravagant little person, what would you like for yourself? nora. for myself? oh, i am sure i don't want anything. helmer. yes, but you must. tell me something reasonable that you would particularly like to have. nora. no, i really can't think of anything--unless, torvald-- helmer. well? nora (playing with his coat buttons, and without raising her eyes to his). if you really want to give me something, you might--you might-- helmer. well, out with it! nora (speaking quickly). you might give me money, torvald. only just as much as you can afford; and then one of these days i will buy something with it. helmer. but, nora-- nora. oh, do! dear torvald; please, please do! then i will wrap it up in beautiful gilt paper and hang it on the christmas tree. wouldn't that be fun? helmer. what are little people called that are always wasting money? nora. spendthrifts--i know. let us do as you suggest, torvald, and then i shall have time to think what i am most in want of. that is a very sensible plan, isn't it? helmer (smiling). indeed it is--that is to say, if you were really to save out of the money i give you, and then really buy something for yourself. but if you spend it all on the housekeeping and any number of unnecessary things, then i merely have to pay up again. nora. oh but, torvald-- helmer. you can't deny it, my dear little nora. (puts his arm round her waist.) it's a sweet little spendthrift, but she uses up a deal of money. one would hardly believe how expensive such little persons are! nora. it's a shame to say that. i do really save all i can. helmer (laughing). that's very true,--all you can. but you can't save anything! nora (smiling quietly and happily). you haven't any idea how many expenses we skylarks and squirrels have, torvald. helmer. you are an odd little soul. very like your father. you always find some new way of wheedling money out of me, and, as soon as you have got it, it seems to melt in your hands. you never know where it has gone. still, one must take you as you are. it is in the blood; for indeed it is true that you can inherit these things, nora. nora. ah, i wish i had inherited many of papa's qualities. helmer. and i would not wish you to be anything but just what you are, my sweet little skylark. but, do you know, it strikes me that you are looking rather--what shall i say--rather uneasy today? nora. do i? helmer. you do, really. look straight at me. nora (looks at him). well? helmer (wagging his finger at her). hasn't miss sweet tooth been breaking rules in town today? nora. no; what makes you think that? helmer. hasn't she paid a visit to the confectioner's? nora. no, i assure you, torvald-- helmer. not been nibbling sweets? nora. no, certainly not. helmer. not even taken a bite at a macaroon or two? nora. no, torvald, i assure you really-- helmer. there, there, of course i was only joking. nora (going to the table on the right). i should not think of going against your wishes. helmer. no, i am sure of that; besides, you gave me your word-- (going up to her.) keep your little christmas secrets to yourself, my darling. they will all be revealed tonight when the christmas tree is lit, no doubt. nora. did you remember to invite doctor rank? helmer. no. but there is no need; as a matter of course he will come to dinner with us. however, i will ask him when he comes in this morning. i have ordered some good wine. nora, you can't think how i am looking forward to this evening. nora. so am i! and how the children will enjoy themselves, torvald! helmer. it is splendid to feel that one has a perfectly safe appointment, and a big enough income. it's delightful to think of, isn't it? nora. it's wonderful! helmer. do you remember last christmas? for a full three weeks beforehand you shut yourself up every evening until long after midnight, making ornaments for the christmas tree, and all the other fine things that were to be a surprise to us. it was the dullest three weeks i ever spent! nora. i didn't find it dull. helmer (smiling). but there was precious little result, nora. nora. oh, you shouldn't tease me about that again. how could i help the cat's going in and tearing everything to pieces? helmer. of course you couldn't, poor little girl. you had the best of intentions to please us all, and that's the main thing. but it is a good thing that our hard times are over. nora. yes, it is really wonderful. helmer. this time i needn't sit here and be dull all alone, and you needn't ruin your dear eyes and your pretty little hands-- nora (clapping her hands). no, torvald, i needn't any longer, need i! it's wonderfully lovely to hear you say so! (taking his arm.) now i will tell you how i have been thinking we ought to arrange things, torvald. as soon as christmas is over--(a bell rings in the hall.) there's the bell. (she tidies the room a little.) there's some one at the door. what a nuisance! helmer. if it is a caller, remember i am not at home. maid (in the doorway). a lady to see you, ma'am,--a stranger. nora. ask her to come in. maid (to helmer). the doctor came at the same time, sir. helmer. did he go straight into my room? maid. yes, sir. (helmer goes into his room. the maid ushers in mrs. linde, who is in travelling dress, and shuts the door.) mrs. linde (in a dejected and timid voice). how do you do, nora? nora (doubtfully). how do you do--mrs. linde. you don't recognise me, i suppose. nora. no, i don't know--yes, to be sure, i seem to--(suddenly.) yes! christine! is it really you? mrs. linde. yes, it is i. nora. christine! to think of my not recognising you! and yet how could i--(in a gentle voice.) how you have altered, christine! mrs. linde. yes, i have indeed. in nine, ten long years-- nora. is it so long since we met? i suppose it is. the last eight years have been a happy time for me, i can tell you. and so now you have come into the town, and have taken this long journey in winter--that was plucky of you. mrs. linde. i arrived by steamer this morning. nora. to have some fun at christmas-time, of course. how delightful! we will have such fun together! but take off your things. you are not cold, i hope. (helps her.) now we will sit down by the stove, and be cosy. no, take this armchair; i will sit here in the rocking-chair. (takes her hands.) now you look like your old self again; it was only the first moment--you are a little paler, christine, and perhaps a little thinner. mrs. linde. and much, much older, nora. nora. perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much. (stops suddenly and speaks seriously.) what a thoughtless creature i am, chattering away like this. my poor, dear christine, do forgive me. mrs. linde. what do you mean, nora? nora (gently). poor christine, you are a widow. mrs. linde. yes; it is three years ago now. nora. yes, i knew; i saw it in the papers. i assure you, christine, i meant ever so often to write to you at the time, but i always put it off and something always prevented me. mrs. linde. i quite understand, dear. nora. it was very bad of me, christine. poor thing, how you must have suffered. and he left you nothing? mrs. linde. no. nora. and no children? mrs. linde. no. nora. nothing at all, then. mrs. linde. not even any sorrow or grief to live upon. nora (looking incredulously at her). but, christine, is that possible? mrs. linde (smiles sadly and strokes her hair). it sometimes happens, nora. nora. so you are quite alone. how dreadfully sad that must be. i have three lovely children. you can't see them just now, for they are out with their nurse. but now you must tell me all about it. mrs. linde. no, no; i want to hear about you. nora. no, you must begin. i mustn't be selfish today; today i must only think of your affairs. but there is one thing i must tell you. do you know we have just had a great piece of good luck? mrs. linde. no, what is it? nora. just fancy, my husband has been made manager of the bank! mrs. linde. your husband? what good luck! nora. yes, tremendous! a barrister's profession is such an uncertain thing, especially if he won't undertake unsavoury cases; and naturally torvald has never been willing to do that, and i quite agree with him. you may imagine how pleased we are! he is to take up his work in the bank at the new year, and then he will have a big salary and lots of commissions. for the future we can live quite differently--we can do just as we like. i feel so relieved and so happy, christine! it will be splendid to have heaps of money and not need to have any anxiety, won't it? mrs. linde. yes, anyhow i think it would be delightful to have what one needs. nora. no, not only what one needs, but heaps and heaps of money. mrs. linde (smiling). nora, nora, haven't you learned sense yet? in our schooldays you were a great spendthrift. nora (laughing). yes, that is what torvald says now. (wags her finger at her.) but "nora, nora" is not so silly as you think. we have not been in a position for me to waste money. we have both had to work. mrs. linde. you too? nora. yes; odds and ends, needlework, crotchet-work, embroidery, and that kind of thing. (dropping her voice.) and other things as well. you know torvald left his office when we were married? there was no prospect of promotion there, and he had to try and earn more than before. but during the first year he over-worked himself dreadfully. you see, he had to make money every way he could, and he worked early and late; but he couldn't stand it, and fell dreadfully ill, and the doctors said it was necessary for him to go south. mrs. linde. you spent a whole year in italy, didn't you? nora. yes. it was no easy matter to get away, i can tell you. it was just after ivar was born; but naturally we had to go. it was a wonderfully beautiful journey, and it saved torvald's life. but it cost a tremendous lot of money, christine. mrs. linde. so i should think. nora. it cost about two hundred and fifty pounds. that's a lot, isn't it? mrs. linde. yes, and in emergencies like that it is lucky to have the money. nora. i ought to tell you that we had it from papa. mrs. linde. oh, i see. it was just about that time that he died, wasn't it? nora. yes; and, just think of it, i couldn't go and nurse him. i was expecting little ivar's birth every day and i had my poor sick torvald to look after. my dear, kind father--i never saw him again, christine. that was the saddest time i have known since our marriage. mrs. linde. i know how fond you were of him. and then you went off to italy? nora. yes; you see we had money then, and the doctors insisted on our going, so we started a month later. mrs. linde. and your husband came back quite well? nora. as sound as a bell! mrs. linde. but--the doctor? nora. what doctor? mrs. linde. i thought your maid said the gentleman who arrived here just as i did, was the doctor? nora. yes, that was doctor rank, but he doesn't come here professionally. he is our greatest friend, and comes in at least once every day. no, torvald has not had an hour's illness since then, and our children are strong and healthy and so am i. (jumps up and claps her hands.) christine! christine! it's good to be alive and happy!--but how horrid of me; i am talking of nothing but my own affairs. (sits on a stool near her, and rests her arms on her knees.) you mustn't be angry with me. tell me, is it really true that you did not love your husband? why did you marry him? mrs. linde. my mother was alive then, and was bedridden and helpless, and i had to provide for my two younger brothers; so i did not think i was justified in refusing his offer. nora. no, perhaps you were quite right. he was rich at that time, then? mrs. linde. i believe he was quite well off. but his business was a precarious one; and, when he died, it all went to pieces and there was nothing left. nora. and then?-- mrs. linde. well, i had to turn my hand to anything i could find--first a small shop, then a small school, and so on. the last three years have seemed like one long working-day, with no rest. now it is at an end, nora. my poor mother needs me no more, for she is gone; and the boys do not need me either; they have got situations and can shift for themselves. nora. what a relief you must feel if-- mrs. linde. no, indeed; i only feel my life unspeakably empty. no one to live for anymore. (gets up restlessly.) that was why i could not stand the life in my little backwater any longer. i hope it may be easier here to find something which will busy me and occupy my thoughts. if only i could have the good luck to get some regular work--office work of some kind-- nora. but, christine, that is so frightfully tiring, and you look tired out now. you had far better go away to some watering-place. mrs. linde (walking to the window). i have no father to give me money for a journey, nora. nora (rising). oh, don't be angry with me! mrs. linde (going up to her). it is you that must not be angry with me, dear. the worst of a position like mine is that it makes one so bitter. no one to work for, and yet obliged to be always on the lookout for chances. one must live, and so one becomes selfish. when you told me of the happy turn your fortunes have taken--you will hardly believe it--i was delighted not so much on your account as on my own. nora. how do you mean?--oh, i understand. you mean that perhaps torvald could get you something to do. mrs. linde. yes, that was what i was thinking of. nora. he must, christine. just leave it to me; i will broach the subject very cleverly--i will think of something that will please him very much. it will make me so happy to be of some use to you. mrs. linde. how kind you are, nora, to be so anxious to help me! it is doubly kind in you, for you know so little of the burdens and troubles of life. nora. i--? i know so little of them? mrs. linde (smiling). my dear! small household cares and that sort of thing!--you are a child, nora. nora (tosses her head and crosses the stage). you ought not to be so superior. mrs. linde. no? nora. you are just like the others. they all think that i am incapable of anything really serious-- mrs. linde. come, come-- nora.--that i have gone through nothing in this world of cares. mrs. linde. but, my dear nora, you have just told me all your troubles. nora. pooh!--those were trifles. (lowering her voice.) i have not told you the important thing. mrs. linde. the important thing? what do you mean? nora. you look down upon me altogether, christine--but you ought not to. you are proud, aren't you, of having worked so hard and so long for your mother? mrs. linde. indeed, i don't look down on anyone. but it is true that i am both proud and glad to think that i was privileged to make the end of my mother's life almost free from care. nora. and you are proud to think of what you have done for your brothers? mrs. linde. i think i have the right to be. nora. i think so, too. but now, listen to this; i too have something to be proud and glad of. mrs. linde. i have no doubt you have. but what do you refer to? nora. speak low. suppose torvald were to hear! he mustn't on any account--no one in the world must know, christine, except you. mrs. linde. but what is it? nora. come here. (pulls her down on the sofa beside her.) now i will show you that i too have something to be proud and glad of. it was i who saved torvald's life. mrs. linde. "saved"? how? nora. i told you about our trip to italy. torvald would never have recovered if he had not gone there-- mrs. linde. yes, but your father gave you the necessary funds. nora (smiling). yes, that is what torvald and all the others think, but-- mrs. linde. but-- nora. papa didn't give us a shilling. it was i who procured the money. mrs. linde. you? all that large sum? nora. two hundred and fifty pounds. what do you think of that? mrs. linde. but, nora, how could you possibly do it? did you win a prize in the lottery? nora (contemptuously). in the lottery? there would have been no credit in that. mrs. linde. but where did you get it from, then? nora (humming and smiling with an air of mystery). hm, hm! aha! mrs. linde. because you couldn't have borrowed it. nora. couldn't i? why not? mrs. linde. no, a wife cannot borrow without her husband's consent. nora (tossing her head). oh, if it is a wife who has any head for business--a wife who has the wit to be a little bit clever-- mrs. linde. i don't understand it at all, nora. nora. there is no need you should. i never said i had borrowed the money. i may have got it some other way. (lies back on the sofa.) perhaps i got it from some other admirer. when anyone is as attractive as i am-- mrs. linde. you are a mad creature. nora. now, you know you're full of curiosity, christine. mrs. linde. listen to me, nora dear. haven't you been a little bit imprudent? nora (sits up straight). is it imprudent to save your husband's life? mrs. linde. it seems to me imprudent, without his knowledge, to-- nora. but it was absolutely necessary that he should not know! my goodness, can't you understand that? it was necessary he should have no idea what a dangerous condition he was in. it was to me that the doctors came and said that his life was in danger, and that the only thing to save him was to live in the south. do you suppose i didn't try, first of all, to get what i wanted as if it were for myself? i told him how much i should love to travel abroad like other young wives; i tried tears and entreaties with him; i told him that he ought to remember the condition i was in, and that he ought to be kind and indulgent to me; i even hinted that he might raise a loan. that nearly made him angry, christine. he said i was thoughtless, and that it was his duty as my husband not to indulge me in my whims and caprices--as i believe he called them. very well, i thought, you must be saved--and that was how i came to devise a way out of the difficulty-- mrs. linde. and did your husband never get to know from your father that the money had not come from him? nora. no, never. papa died just at that time. i had meant to let him into the secret and beg him never to reveal it. but he was so ill then--alas, there never was any need to tell him. mrs. linde. and since then have you never told your secret to your husband? nora. good heavens, no! how could you think so? a man who has such strong opinions about these things! and besides, how painful and humiliating it would be for torvald, with his manly independence, to know that he owed me anything! it would upset our mutual relations altogether; our beautiful happy home would no longer be what it is now. mrs. linde. do you mean never to tell him about it? nora (meditatively, and with a half smile). yes--someday, perhaps, after many years, when i am no longer as nice-looking as i am now. don't laugh at me! i mean, of course, when torvald is no longer as devoted to me as he is now; when my dancing and dressing-up and reciting have palled on him; then it may be a good thing to have something in reserve--(breaking off.) what nonsense! that time will never come. now, what do you think of my great secret, christine? do you still think i am of no use? i can tell you, too, that this affair has caused me a lot of worry. it has been by no means easy for me to meet my engagements punctually. i may tell you that there is something that is called, in business, quarterly interest, and another thing called payment in installments, and it is always so dreadfully difficult to manage them. i have had to save a little here and there, where i could, you understand. i have not been able to put aside much from my housekeeping money, for torvald must have a good table. i couldn't let my children be shabbily dressed; i have felt obliged to use up all he gave me for them, the sweet little darlings! mrs. linde. so it has all had to come out of your own necessaries of life, poor nora? nora. of course. besides, i was the one responsible for it. whenever torvald has given me money for new dresses and such things, i have never spent more than half of it; i have always bought the simplest and cheapest things. thank heaven, any clothes look well on me, and so torvald has never noticed it. but it was often very hard on me, christine--because it is delightful to be really well dressed, isn't it? mrs. linde. quite so. nora. well, then i have found other ways of earning money. last winter i was lucky enough to get a lot of copying to do; so i locked myself up and sat writing every evening until quite late at night. many a time i was desperately tired; but all the same it was a tremendous pleasure to sit there working and earning money. it was like being a man. mrs. linde. how much have you been able to pay off in that way? nora. i can't tell you exactly. you see, it is very difficult to keep an account of a business matter of that kind. i only know that i have paid every penny that i could scrape together. many a time i was at my wits' end. (smiles.) then i used to sit here and imagine that a rich old gentleman had fallen in love with me-- mrs. linde. what! who was it? nora. be quiet!--that he had died; and that when his will was opened it contained, written in big letters, the instruction: "the lovely mrs. nora helmer is to have all i possess paid over to her at once in cash." mrs. linde. but, my dear nora--who could the man be? nora. good gracious, can't you understand? there was no old gentleman at all; it was only something that i used to sit here and imagine, when i couldn't think of any way of procuring money. but it's all the same now; the tiresome old person can stay where he is, as far as i am concerned; i don't care about him or his will either, for i am free from care now. (jumps up.) my goodness, it's delightful to think of, christine! free from care! to be able to be free from care, quite free from care; to be able to play and romp with the children; to be able to keep the house beautifully and have everything just as torvald likes it! and, think of it, soon the spring will come and the big blue sky! perhaps we shall be able to take a little trip--perhaps i shall see the sea again! oh, it's a wonderful thing to be alive and be happy. (a bell is heard in the hall.) mrs. linde (rising). there is the bell; perhaps i had better go. nora. no, don't go; no one will come in here; it is sure to be for torvald. servant (at the hall door). excuse me, ma'am--there is a gentleman to see the master, and as the doctor is with him-- nora. who is it? krogstad (at the door). it is i, mrs. helmer. (mrs. linde starts, trembles, and turns to the window.) nora (takes a step towards him, and speaks in a strained, low voice). you? what is it? what do you want to see my husband about? krogstad. bank business--in a way. i have a small post in the bank, and i hear your husband is to be our chief now-- nora. then it is-- krogstad. nothing but dry business matters, mrs. helmer; absolutely nothing else. nora. be so good as to go into the study, then. (she bows indifferently to him and shuts the door into the hall; then comes back and makes up the fire in the stove.) mrs. linde. nora--who was that man? nora. a lawyer, of the name of krogstad. mrs. linde. then it really was he. nora. do you know the man? mrs. linde. i used to--many years ago. at one time he was a solicitor's clerk in our town. nora. yes, he was. mrs. linde. he is greatly altered. nora. he made a very unhappy marriage. mrs. linde. he is a widower now, isn't he? nora. with several children. there now, it is burning up. (shuts the door of the stove and moves the rocking-chair aside.) mrs. linde. they say he carries on various kinds of business. nora. really! perhaps he does; i don't know anything about it. but don't let us think of business; it is so tiresome. doctor rank (comes out of helmer's study. before he shuts the door he calls to him). no, my dear fellow, i won't disturb you; i would rather go in to your wife for a little while. (shuts the door and sees mrs. linde.) i beg your pardon; i am afraid i am disturbing you too. nora. no, not at all. (introducing him). doctor rank, mrs. linde. rank. i have often heard mrs. linde's name mentioned here. i think i passed you on the stairs when i arrived, mrs. linde? mrs. linde. yes, i go up very slowly; i can't manage stairs well. rank. ah! some slight internal weakness? mrs. linde. no, the fact is i have been overworking myself. rank. nothing more than that? then i suppose you have come to town to amuse yourself with our entertainments? mrs. linde. i have come to look for work. rank. is that a good cure for overwork? mrs. linde. one must live, doctor rank. rank. yes, the general opinion seems to be that it is necessary. nora. look here, doctor rank--you know you want to live. rank. certainly. however wretched i may feel, i want to prolong the agony as long as possible. all my patients are like that. and so are those who are morally diseased; one of them, and a bad case too, is at this very moment with helmer-- mrs. linde (sadly). ah! nora. whom do you mean? rank. a lawyer of the name of krogstad, a fellow you don't know at all. he suffers from a diseased moral character, mrs. helmer; but even he began talking of its being highly important that he should live. nora. did he? what did he want to speak to torvald about? rank. i have no idea; i only heard that it was something about the bank. nora. i didn't know this--what's his name--krogstad had anything to do with the bank. rank. yes, he has some sort of appointment there. (to mrs. linde.) i don't know whether you find also in your part of the world that there are certain people who go zealously snuffing about to smell out moral corruption, and, as soon as they have found some, put the person concerned into some lucrative position where they can keep their eye on him. healthy natures are left out in the cold. mrs. linde. still i think the sick are those who most need taking care of. rank (shrugging his shoulders). yes, there you are. that is the sentiment that is turning society into a sick-house. (nora, who has been absorbed in her thoughts, breaks out into smothered laughter and claps her hands.) rank. why do you laugh at that? have you any notion what society really is? nora. what do i care about tiresome society? i am laughing at something quite different, something extremely amusing. tell me, doctor rank, are all the people who are employed in the bank dependent on torvald now? rank. is that what you find so extremely amusing? nora (smiling and humming). that's my affair! (walking about the room.) it's perfectly glorious to think that we have--that torvald has so much power over so many people. (takes the packet from her pocket.) doctor rank, what do you say to a macaroon? rank. what, macaroons? i thought they were forbidden here. nora. yes, but these are some christine gave me. mrs. linde. what! i?-- nora. oh, well, don't be alarmed! you couldn't know that torvald had forbidden them. i must tell you that he is afraid they will spoil my teeth. but, bah!--once in a way--that's so, isn't it, doctor rank? by your leave! (puts a macaroon into his mouth.) you must have one too, christine. and i shall have one, just a little one--or at most two. (walking about.) i am tremendously happy. there is just one thing in the world now that i should dearly love to do. rank. well, what is that? nora. it's something i should dearly love to say, if torvald could hear me. rank. well, why can't you say it? nora. no, i daren't; it's so shocking. mrs. linde. shocking? rank. well, i should not advise you to say it. still, with us you might. what is it you would so much like to say if torvald could hear you? nora. i should just love to say--well, i'm damned! rank. are you mad? mrs. linde. nora, dear--! rank. say it, here he is! nora (hiding the packet). hush! hush! hush! (helmer comes out of his room, with his coat over his arm and his hat in his hand.) nora. well, torvald dear, have you got rid of him? helmer. yes, he has just gone. nora. let me introduce you--this is christine, who has come to town. helmer. christine--? excuse me, but i don't know-- nora. mrs. linde, dear; christine linde. helmer. of course. a school friend of my wife's, i presume? mrs. linde. yes, we have known each other since then. nora. and just think, she has taken a long journey in order to see you. helmer. what do you mean? mrs. linde. no, really, i-- nora. christine is tremendously clever at book-keeping, and she is frightfully anxious to work under some clever man, so as to perfect herself-- helmer. very sensible, mrs. linde. nora. and when she heard you had been appointed manager of the bank--the news was telegraphed, you know--she travelled here as quick as she could. torvald, i am sure you will be able to do something for christine, for my sake, won't you? helmer. well, it is not altogether impossible. i presume you are a widow, mrs. linde? mrs. linde. yes. helmer. and have had some experience of book-keeping? mrs. linde. yes, a fair amount. helmer. ah! well, it's very likely i may be able to find something for you-- nora (clapping her hands). what did i tell you? what did i tell you? helmer. you have just come at a fortunate moment, mrs. linde. mrs. linde. how am i to thank you? helmer. there is no need. (puts on his coat.) but today you must excuse me-- rank. wait a minute; i will come with you. (brings his fur coat from the hall and warms it at the fire.) nora. don't be long away, torvald dear. helmer. about an hour, not more. nora. are you going too, christine? mrs. linde (putting on her cloak). yes, i must go and look for a room. helmer. oh, well then, we can walk down the street together. nora (helping her). what a pity it is we are so short of space here; i am afraid it is impossible for us-- mrs. linde. please don't think of it! goodbye, nora dear, and many thanks. nora. goodbye for the present. of course you will come back this evening. and you too, dr. rank. what do you say? if you are well enough? oh, you must be! wrap yourself up well. (they go to the door all talking together. children's voices are heard on the staircase.) nora. there they are! there they are! (she runs to open the door. the nurse comes in with the children.) come in! come in! (stoops and kisses them.) oh, you sweet blessings! look at them, christine! aren't they darlings? rank. don't let us stand here in the draught. helmer. come along, mrs. linde; the place will only be bearable for a mother now! (rank, helmer, and mrs. linde go downstairs. the nurse comes forward with the children; nora shuts the hall door.) nora. how fresh and well you look! such red cheeks like apples and roses. (the children all talk at once while she speaks to them.) have you had great fun? that's splendid! what, you pulled both emmy and bob along on the sledge?--both at once?--that was good. you are a clever boy, ivar. let me take her for a little, anne. my sweet little baby doll! (takes the baby from the maid and dances it up and down.) yes, yes, mother will dance with bob too. what! have you been snowballing? i wish i had been there too! no, no, i will take their things off, anne; please let me do it, it is such fun. go in now, you look half frozen. there is some hot coffee for you on the stove. (the nurse goes into the room on the left. nora takes off the children's things and throws them about, while they all talk to her at once.) nora. really! did a big dog run after you? but it didn't bite you? no, dogs don't bite nice little dolly children. you mustn't look at the parcels, ivar. what are they? ah, i daresay you would like to know. no, no--it's something nasty! come, let us have a game! what shall we play at? hide and seek? yes, we'll play hide and seek. bob shall hide first. must i hide? very well, i'll hide first. (she and the children laugh and shout, and romp in and out of the room; at last nora hides under the table, the children rush in and out for her, but do not see her; they hear her smothered laughter, run to the table, lift up the cloth and find her. shouts of laughter. she crawls forward and pretends to frighten them. fresh laughter. meanwhile there has been a knock at the hall door, but none of them has noticed it. the door is half opened, and krogstad appears, he waits a little; the game goes on.) krogstad. excuse me, mrs. helmer. nora (with a stifled cry, turns round and gets up on to her knees). ah! what do you want? krogstad. excuse me, the outer door was ajar; i suppose someone forgot to shut it. nora (rising). my husband is out, mr. krogstad. krogstad. i know that. nora. what do you want here, then? krogstad. a word with you. nora. with me?--(to the children, gently.) go in to nurse. what? no, the strange man won't do mother any harm. when he has gone we will have another game. (she takes the children into the room on the left, and shuts the door after them.) you want to speak to me? krogstad. yes, i do. nora. today? it is not the first of the month yet. krogstad. no, it is christmas eve, and it will depend on yourself what sort of a christmas you will spend. nora. what do you mean? today it is absolutely impossible for me-- krogstad. we won't talk about that until later on. this is something different. i presume you can give me a moment? nora. yes--yes, i can--although-- krogstad. good. i was in olsen's restaurant and saw your husband going down the street-- nora. yes? krogstad. with a lady. nora. what then? krogstad. may i make so bold as to ask if it was a mrs. linde? nora. it was. krogstad. just arrived in town? nora. yes, today. krogstad. she is a great friend of yours, isn't she? nora. she is. but i don't see-- krogstad. i knew her too, once upon a time. nora. i am aware of that. krogstad. are you? so you know all about it; i thought as much. then i can ask you, without beating about the bush--is mrs. linde to have an appointment in the bank? nora. what right have you to question me, mr. krogstad?--you, one of my husband's subordinates! but since you ask, you shall know. yes, mrs. linde is to have an appointment. and it was i who pleaded her cause, mr. krogstad, let me tell you that. krogstad. i was right in what i thought, then. nora (walking up and down the stage). sometimes one has a tiny little bit of influence, i should hope. because one is a woman, it does not necessarily follow that--. when anyone is in a subordinate position, mr. krogstad, they should really be careful to avoid offending anyone who--who-- krogstad. who has influence? nora. exactly. krogstad (changing his tone). mrs. helmer, you will be so good as to use your influence on my behalf. nora. what? what do you mean? krogstad. you will be so kind as to see that i am allowed to keep my subordinate position in the bank. nora. what do you mean by that? who proposes to take your post away from you? krogstad. oh, there is no necessity to keep up the pretence of ignorance. i can quite understand that your friend is not very anxious to expose herself to the chance of rubbing shoulders with me; and i quite understand, too, whom i have to thank for being turned off. nora. but i assure you-- krogstad. very likely; but, to come to the point, the time has come when i should advise you to use your influence to prevent that. nora. but, mr. krogstad, i have no influence. krogstad. haven't you? i thought you said yourself just now-- nora. naturally i did not mean you to put that construction on it. i! what should make you think i have any influence of that kind with my husband? krogstad. oh, i have known your husband from our student days. i don't suppose he is any more unassailable than other husbands. nora. if you speak slightingly of my husband, i shall turn you out of the house. krogstad. you are bold, mrs. helmer. nora. i am not afraid of you any longer. as soon as the new year comes, i shall in a very short time be free of the whole thing. krogstad (controlling himself). listen to me, mrs. helmer. if necessary, i am prepared to fight for my small post in the bank as if i were fighting for my life. nora. so it seems. krogstad. it is not only for the sake of the money; indeed, that weighs least with me in the matter. there is another reason--well, i may as well tell you. my position is this. i daresay you know, like everybody else, that once, many years ago, i was guilty of an indiscretion. nora. i think i have heard something of the kind. krogstad. the matter never came into court; but every way seemed to be closed to me after that. so i took to the business that you know of. i had to do something; and, honestly, i don't think i've been one of the worst. but now i must cut myself free from all that. my sons are growing up; for their sake i must try and win back as much respect as i can in the town. this post in the bank was like the first step up for me--and now your husband is going to kick me downstairs again into the mud. nora. but you must believe me, mr. krogstad; it is not in my power to help you at all. krogstad. then it is because you haven't the will; but i have means to compel you. nora. you don't mean that you will tell my husband that i owe you money? krogstad. hm!--suppose i were to tell him? nora. it would be perfectly infamous of you. (sobbing.) to think of his learning my secret, which has been my joy and pride, in such an ugly, clumsy way--that he should learn it from you! and it would put me in a horribly disagreeable position-- krogstad. only disagreeable? nora (impetuously). well, do it, then!--and it will be the worse for you. my husband will see for himself what a blackguard you are, and you certainly won't keep your post then. krogstad. i asked you if it was only a disagreeable scene at home that you were afraid of? nora. if my husband does get to know of it, of course he will at once pay you what is still owing, and we shall have nothing more to do with you. krogstad (coming a step nearer). listen to me, mrs. helmer. either you have a very bad memory or you know very little of business. i shall be obliged to remind you of a few details. nora. what do you mean? krogstad. when your husband was ill, you came to me to borrow two hundred and fifty pounds. nora. i didn't know anyone else to go to. krogstad. i promised to get you that amount-- nora. yes, and you did so. krogstad. i promised to get you that amount, on certain conditions. your mind was so taken up with your husband's illness, and you were so anxious to get the money for your journey, that you seem to have paid no attention to the conditions of our bargain. therefore it will not be amiss if i remind you of them. now, i promised to get the money on the security of a bond which i drew up. nora. yes, and which i signed. krogstad. good. but below your signature there were a few lines constituting your father a surety for the money; those lines your father should have signed. nora. should? he did sign them. krogstad. i had left the date blank; that is to say, your father should himself have inserted the date on which he signed the paper. do you remember that? nora. yes, i think i remember-- krogstad. then i gave you the bond to send by post to your father. is that not so? nora. yes. krogstad. and you naturally did so at once, because five or six days afterwards you brought me the bond with your father's signature. and then i gave you the money. nora. well, haven't i been paying it off regularly? krogstad. fairly so, yes. but--to come back to the matter in hand--that must have been a very trying time for you, mrs. helmer? nora. it was, indeed. krogstad. your father was very ill, wasn't he? nora. he was very near his end. krogstad. and died soon afterwards? nora. yes. krogstad. tell me, mrs. helmer, can you by any chance remember what day your father died?--on what day of the month, i mean. nora. papa died on the th of september. krogstad. that is correct; i have ascertained it for myself. and, as that is so, there is a discrepancy (taking a paper from his pocket) which i cannot account for. nora. what discrepancy? i don't know-- krogstad. the discrepancy consists, mrs. helmer, in the fact that your father signed this bond three days after his death. nora. what do you mean? i don't understand-- krogstad. your father died on the th of september. but, look here; your father has dated his signature the nd of october. it is a discrepancy, isn't it? (nora is silent.) can you explain it to me? (nora is still silent.) it is a remarkable thing, too, that the words " nd of october," as well as the year, are not written in your father's handwriting but in one that i think i know. well, of course it can be explained; your father may have forgotten to date his signature, and someone else may have dated it haphazard before they knew of his death. there is no harm in that. it all depends on the signature of the name; and that is genuine, i suppose, mrs. helmer? it was your father himself who signed his name here? nora (after a short pause, throws her head up and looks defiantly at him). no, it was not. it was i that wrote papa's name. krogstad. are you aware that is a dangerous confession? nora. in what way? you shall have your money soon. krogstad. let me ask you a question; why did you not send the paper to your father? nora. it was impossible; papa was so ill. if i had asked him for his signature, i should have had to tell him what the money was to be used for; and when he was so ill himself i couldn't tell him that my husband's life was in danger--it was impossible. krogstad. it would have been better for you if you had given up your trip abroad. nora. no, that was impossible. that trip was to save my husband's life; i couldn't give that up. krogstad. but did it never occur to you that you were committing a fraud on me? nora. i couldn't take that into account; i didn't trouble myself about you at all. i couldn't bear you, because you put so many heartless difficulties in my way, although you knew what a dangerous condition my husband was in. krogstad. mrs. helmer, you evidently do not realise clearly what it is that you have been guilty of. but i can assure you that my one false step, which lost me all my reputation, was nothing more or nothing worse than what you have done. nora. you? do you ask me to believe that you were brave enough to run a risk to save your wife's life? krogstad. the law cares nothing about motives. nora. then it must be a very foolish law. krogstad. foolish or not, it is the law by which you will be judged, if i produce this paper in court. nora. i don't believe it. is a daughter not to be allowed to spare her dying father anxiety and care? is a wife not to be allowed to save her husband's life? i don't know much about law; but i am certain that there must be laws permitting such things as that. have you no knowledge of such laws--you who are a lawyer? you must be a very poor lawyer, mr. krogstad. krogstad. maybe. but matters of business--such business as you and i have had together--do you think i don't understand that? very well. do as you please. but let me tell you this--if i lose my position a second time, you shall lose yours with me. (he bows, and goes out through the hall.) nora (appears buried in thought for a short time, then tosses her head). nonsense! trying to frighten me like that!--i am not so silly as he thinks. (begins to busy herself putting the children's things in order.) and yet--? no, it's impossible! i did it for love's sake. the children (in the doorway on the left). mother, the stranger man has gone out through the gate. nora. yes, dears, i know. but, don't tell anyone about the stranger man. do you hear? not even papa. children. no, mother; but will you come and play again? nora. no, no,--not now. children. but, mother, you promised us. nora. yes, but i can't now. run away in; i have such a lot to do. run away in, my sweet little darlings. (she gets them into the room by degrees and shuts the door on them; then sits down on the sofa, takes up a piece of needlework and sews a few stitches, but soon stops.) no! (throws down the work, gets up, goes to the hall door and calls out.) helen! bring the tree in. (goes to the table on the left, opens a drawer, and stops again.) no, no! it is quite impossible! maid (coming in with the tree). where shall i put it, ma'am? nora. here, in the middle of the floor. maid. shall i get you anything else? nora. no, thank you. i have all i want. [exit maid.] nora (begins dressing the tree). a candle here-and flowers here--the horrible man! it's all nonsense--there's nothing wrong. the tree shall be splendid! i will do everything i can think of to please you, torvald!--i will sing for you, dance for you--(helmer comes in with some papers under his arm.) oh! are you back already? helmer. yes. has anyone been here? nora. here? no. helmer. that is strange. i saw krogstad going out of the gate. nora. did you? oh yes, i forgot, krogstad was here for a moment. helmer. nora, i can see from your manner that he has been here begging you to say a good word for him. nora. yes. helmer. and you were to appear to do it of your own accord; you were to conceal from me the fact of his having been here; didn't he beg that of you too? nora. yes, torvald, but-- helmer. nora, nora, and you would be a party to that sort of thing? to have any talk with a man like that, and give him any sort of promise? and to tell me a lie into the bargain? nora. a lie--? helmer. didn't you tell me no one had been here? (shakes his finger at her.) my little songbird must never do that again. a songbird must have a clean beak to chirp with--no false notes! (puts his arm round her waist.) that is so, isn't it? yes, i am sure it is. (lets her go.) we will say no more about it. (sits down by the stove.) how warm and snug it is here! (turns over his papers.) nora (after a short pause, during which she busies herself with the christmas tree.) torvald! helmer. yes. nora. i am looking forward tremendously to the fancy-dress ball at the stenborgs' the day after tomorrow. helmer. and i am tremendously curious to see what you are going to surprise me with. nora. it was very silly of me to want to do that. helmer. what do you mean? nora. i can't hit upon anything that will do; everything i think of seems so silly and insignificant. helmer. does my little nora acknowledge that at last? nora (standing behind his chair with her arms on the back of it). are you very busy, torvald? helmer. well-- nora. what are all those papers? helmer. bank business. nora. already? helmer. i have got authority from the retiring manager to undertake the necessary changes in the staff and in the rearrangement of the work; and i must make use of the christmas week for that, so as to have everything in order for the new year. nora. then that was why this poor krogstad-- helmer. hm! nora (leans against the back of his chair and strokes his hair). if you hadn't been so busy i should have asked you a tremendously big favour, torvald. helmer. what is that? tell me. nora. there is no one has such good taste as you. and i do so want to look nice at the fancy-dress ball. torvald, couldn't you take me in hand and decide what i shall go as, and what sort of a dress i shall wear? helmer. aha! so my obstinate little woman is obliged to get someone to come to her rescue? nora. yes, torvald, i can't get along a bit without your help. helmer. very well, i will think it over, we shall manage to hit upon something. nora. that is nice of you. (goes to the christmas tree. a short pause.) how pretty the red flowers look--. but, tell me, was it really something very bad that this krogstad was guilty of? helmer. he forged someone's name. have you any idea what that means? nora. isn't it possible that he was driven to do it by necessity? helmer. yes; or, as in so many cases, by imprudence. i am not so heartless as to condemn a man altogether because of a single false step of that kind. nora. no, you wouldn't, would you, torvald? helmer. many a man has been able to retrieve his character, if he has openly confessed his fault and taken his punishment. nora. punishment--? helmer. but krogstad did nothing of that sort; he got himself out of it by a cunning trick, and that is why he has gone under altogether. nora. but do you think it would--? helmer. just think how a guilty man like that has to lie and play the hypocrite with every one, how he has to wear a mask in the presence of those near and dear to him, even before his own wife and children. and about the children--that is the most terrible part of it all, nora. nora. how? helmer. because such an atmosphere of lies infects and poisons the whole life of a home. each breath the children take in such a house is full of the germs of evil. nora (coming nearer him). are you sure of that? helmer. my dear, i have often seen it in the course of my life as a lawyer. almost everyone who has gone to the bad early in life has had a deceitful mother. nora. why do you only say--mother? helmer. it seems most commonly to be the mother's influence, though naturally a bad father's would have the same result. every lawyer is familiar with the fact. this krogstad, now, has been persistently poisoning his own children with lies and dissimulation; that is why i say he has lost all moral character. (holds out his hands to her.) that is why my sweet little nora must promise me not to plead his cause. give me your hand on it. come, come, what is this? give me your hand. there now, that's settled. i assure you it would be quite impossible for me to work with him; i literally feel physically ill when i am in the company of such people. nora (takes her hand out of his and goes to the opposite side of the christmas tree). how hot it is in here; and i have such a lot to do. helmer (getting up and putting his papers in order). yes, and i must try and read through some of these before dinner; and i must think about your costume, too. and it is just possible i may have something ready in gold paper to hang up on the tree. (puts his hand on her head.) my precious little singing-bird! (he goes into his room and shuts the door after him.) nora (after a pause, whispers). no, no--it isn't true. it's impossible; it must be impossible. (the nurse opens the door on the left.) nurse. the little ones are begging so hard to be allowed to come in to mamma. nora. no, no, no! don't let them come in to me! you stay with them, anne. nurse. very well, ma'am. (shuts the door.) nora (pale with terror). deprave my little children? poison my home? (a short pause. then she tosses her head.) it's not true. it can't possibly be true. act ii (the same scene.--the christmas tree is in the corner by the piano, stripped of its ornaments and with burnt-down candle-ends on its dishevelled branches. nora's cloak and hat are lying on the sofa. she is alone in the room, walking about uneasily. she stops by the sofa and takes up her cloak.) nora (drops her cloak). someone is coming now! (goes to the door and listens.) no--it is no one. of course, no one will come today, christmas day--nor tomorrow either. but, perhaps--(opens the door and looks out). no, nothing in the letterbox; it is quite empty. (comes forward.) what rubbish! of course he can't be in earnest about it. such a thing couldn't happen; it is impossible--i have three little children. (enter the nurse from the room on the left, carrying a big cardboard box.) nurse. at last i have found the box with the fancy dress. nora. thanks; put it on the table. nurse (doing so). but it is very much in want of mending. nora. i should like to tear it into a hundred thousand pieces. nurse. what an idea! it can easily be put in order--just a little patience. nora. yes, i will go and get mrs. linde to come and help me with it. nurse. what, out again? in this horrible weather? you will catch cold, ma'am, and make yourself ill. nora. well, worse than that might happen. how are the children? nurse. the poor little souls are playing with their christmas presents, but-- nora. do they ask much for me? nurse. you see, they are so accustomed to have their mamma with them. nora. yes, but, nurse, i shall not be able to be so much with them now as i was before. nurse. oh well, young children easily get accustomed to anything. nora. do you think so? do you think they would forget their mother if she went away altogether? nurse. good heavens!--went away altogether? nora. nurse, i want you to tell me something i have often wondered about--how could you have the heart to put your own child out among strangers? nurse. i was obliged to, if i wanted to be little nora's nurse. nora. yes, but how could you be willing to do it? nurse. what, when i was going to get such a good place by it? a poor girl who has got into trouble should be glad to. besides, that wicked man didn't do a single thing for me. nora. but i suppose your daughter has quite forgotten you. nurse. no, indeed she hasn't. she wrote to me when she was confirmed, and when she was married. nora (putting her arms round her neck). dear old anne, you were a good mother to me when i was little. nurse. little nora, poor dear, had no other mother but me. nora. and if my little ones had no other mother, i am sure you would--what nonsense i am talking! (opens the box.) go in to them. now i must--. you will see tomorrow how charming i shall look. nurse. i am sure there will be no one at the ball so charming as you, ma'am. (goes into the room on the left.) nora (begins to unpack the box, but soon pushes it away from her). if only i dared go out. if only no one would come. if only i could be sure nothing would happen here in the meantime. stuff and nonsense! no one will come. only i mustn't think about it. i will brush my muff. what lovely, lovely gloves! out of my thoughts, out of my thoughts! one, two, three, four, five, six-- (screams.) ah! there is someone coming--. (makes a movement towards the door, but stands irresolute.) (enter mrs. linde from the hall, where she has taken off her cloak and hat.) nora. oh, it's you, christine. there is no one else out there, is there? how good of you to come! mrs. linde. i heard you were up asking for me. nora. yes, i was passing by. as a matter of fact, it is something you could help me with. let us sit down here on the sofa. look here. tomorrow evening there is to be a fancy-dress ball at the stenborgs', who live above us; and torvald wants me to go as a neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the tarantella that i learned at capri. mrs. linde. i see; you are going to keep up the character. nora. yes, torvald wants me to. look, here is the dress; torvald had it made for me there, but now it is all so torn, and i haven't any idea-- mrs. linde. we will easily put that right. it is only some of the trimming come unsewn here and there. needle and thread? now then, that's all we want. nora. it is nice of you. mrs. linde (sewing). so you are going to be dressed up tomorrow nora. i will tell you what--i shall come in for a moment and see you in your fine feathers. but i have completely forgotten to thank you for a delightful evening yesterday. nora (gets up, and crosses the stage). well, i don't think yesterday was as pleasant as usual. you ought to have come to town a little earlier, christine. certainly torvald does understand how to make a house dainty and attractive. mrs. linde. and so do you, it seems to me; you are not your father's daughter for nothing. but tell me, is doctor rank always as depressed as he was yesterday? nora. no; yesterday it was very noticeable. i must tell you that he suffers from a very dangerous disease. he has consumption of the spine, poor creature. his father was a horrible man who committed all sorts of excesses; and that is why his son was sickly from childhood, do you understand? mrs. linde (dropping her sewing). but, my dearest nora, how do you know anything about such things? nora (walking about). pooh! when you have three children, you get visits now and then from--from married women, who know something of medical matters, and they talk about one thing and another. mrs. linde (goes on sewing. a short silence). does doctor rank come here everyday? nora. everyday regularly. he is torvald's most intimate friend, and a great friend of mine too. he is just like one of the family. mrs. linde. but tell me this--is he perfectly sincere? i mean, isn't he the kind of man that is very anxious to make himself agreeable? nora. not in the least. what makes you think that? mrs. linde. when you introduced him to me yesterday, he declared he had often heard my name mentioned in this house; but afterwards i noticed that your husband hadn't the slightest idea who i was. so how could doctor rank--? nora. that is quite right, christine. torvald is so absurdly fond of me that he wants me absolutely to himself, as he says. at first he used to seem almost jealous if i mentioned any of the dear folk at home, so naturally i gave up doing so. but i often talk about such things with doctor rank, because he likes hearing about them. mrs. linde. listen to me, nora. you are still very like a child in many things, and i am older than you in many ways and have a little more experience. let me tell you this--you ought to make an end of it with doctor rank. nora. what ought i to make an end of? mrs. linde. of two things, i think. yesterday you talked some nonsense about a rich admirer who was to leave you money-- nora. an admirer who doesn't exist, unfortunately! but what then? mrs. linde. is doctor rank a man of means? nora. yes, he is. mrs. linde. and has no one to provide for? nora. no, no one; but-- mrs. linde. and comes here everyday? nora. yes, i told you so. mrs. linde. but how can this well-bred man be so tactless? nora. i don't understand you at all. mrs. linde. don't prevaricate, nora. do you suppose i don't guess who lent you the two hundred and fifty pounds? nora. are you out of your senses? how can you think of such a thing! a friend of ours, who comes here everyday! do you realise what a horribly painful position that would be? mrs. linde. then it really isn't he? nora. no, certainly not. it would never have entered into my head for a moment. besides, he had no money to lend then; he came into his money afterwards. mrs. linde. well, i think that was lucky for you, my dear nora. nora. no, it would never have come into my head to ask doctor rank. although i am quite sure that if i had asked him-- mrs. linde. but of course you won't. nora. of course not. i have no reason to think it could possibly be necessary. but i am quite sure that if i told doctor rank-- mrs. linde. behind your husband's back? nora. i must make an end of it with the other one, and that will be behind his back too. i must make an end of it with him. mrs. linde. yes, that is what i told you yesterday, but-- nora (walking up and down). a man can put a thing like that straight much easier than a woman-- mrs. linde. one's husband, yes. nora. nonsense! (standing still.) when you pay off a debt you get your bond back, don't you? mrs. linde. yes, as a matter of course. nora. and can tear it into a hundred thousand pieces, and burn it up--the nasty dirty paper! mrs. linde (looks hard at her, lays down her sewing and gets up slowly). nora, you are concealing something from me. nora. do i look as if i were? mrs. linde. something has happened to you since yesterday morning. nora, what is it? nora (going nearer to her). christine! (listens.) hush! there's torvald come home. do you mind going in to the children for the present? torvald can't bear to see dressmaking going on. let anne help you. mrs. linde (gathering some of the things together). certainly--but i am not going away from here until we have had it out with one another. (she goes into the room on the left, as helmer comes in from the hall.) nora (going up to helmer). i have wanted you so much, torvald dear. helmer. was that the dressmaker? nora. no, it was christine; she is helping me to put my dress in order. you will see i shall look quite smart. helmer. wasn't that a happy thought of mine, now? nora. splendid! but don't you think it is nice of me, too, to do as you wish? helmer. nice?--because you do as your husband wishes? well, well, you little rogue, i am sure you did not mean it in that way. but i am not going to disturb you; you will want to be trying on your dress, i expect. nora. i suppose you are going to work. helmer. yes. (shows her a bundle of papers.) look at that. i have just been into the bank. (turns to go into his room.) nora. torvald. helmer. yes. nora. if your little squirrel were to ask you for something very, very prettily--? helmer. what then? nora. would you do it? helmer. i should like to hear what it is, first. nora. your squirrel would run about and do all her tricks if you would be nice, and do what she wants. helmer. speak plainly. nora. your skylark would chirp about in every room, with her song rising and falling-- helmer. well, my skylark does that anyhow. nora. i would play the fairy and dance for you in the moonlight, torvald. helmer. nora--you surely don't mean that request you made to me this morning? nora (going near him). yes, torvald, i beg you so earnestly-- helmer. have you really the courage to open up that question again? nora. yes, dear, you must do as i ask; you must let krogstad keep his post in the bank. helmer. my dear nora, it is his post that i have arranged mrs. linde shall have. nora. yes, you have been awfully kind about that; but you could just as well dismiss some other clerk instead of krogstad. helmer. this is simply incredible obstinacy! because you chose to give him a thoughtless promise that you would speak for him, i am expected to-- nora. that isn't the reason, torvald. it is for your own sake. this fellow writes in the most scurrilous newspapers; you have told me so yourself. he can do you an unspeakable amount of harm. i am frightened to death of him-- helmer. ah, i understand; it is recollections of the past that scare you. nora. what do you mean? helmer. naturally you are thinking of your father. nora. yes--yes, of course. just recall to your mind what these malicious creatures wrote in the papers about papa, and how horribly they slandered him. i believe they would have procured his dismissal if the department had not sent you over to inquire into it, and if you had not been so kindly disposed and helpful to him. helmer. my little nora, there is an important difference between your father and me. your father's reputation as a public official was not above suspicion. mine is, and i hope it will continue to be so, as long as i hold my office. nora. you never can tell what mischief these men may contrive. we ought to be so well off, so snug and happy here in our peaceful home, and have no cares--you and i and the children, torvald! that is why i beg you so earnestly-- helmer. and it is just by interceding for him that you make it impossible for me to keep him. it is already known at the bank that i mean to dismiss krogstad. is it to get about now that the new manager has changed his mind at his wife's bidding-- nora. and what if it did? helmer. of course!--if only this obstinate little person can get her way! do you suppose i am going to make myself ridiculous before my whole staff, to let people think that i am a man to be swayed by all sorts of outside influence? i should very soon feel the consequences of it, i can tell you! and besides, there is one thing that makes it quite impossible for me to have krogstad in the bank as long as i am manager. nora. whatever is that? helmer. his moral failings i might perhaps have overlooked, if necessary-- nora. yes, you could--couldn't you? helmer. and i hear he is a good worker, too. but i knew him when we were boys. it was one of those rash friendships that so often prove an incubus in afterlife. i may as well tell you plainly, we were once on very intimate terms with one another. but this tactless fellow lays no restraint on himself when other people are present. on the contrary, he thinks it gives him the right to adopt a familiar tone with me, and every minute it is "i say, helmer, old fellow!" and that sort of thing. i assure you it is extremely painful for me. he would make my position in the bank intolerable. nora. torvald, i don't believe you mean that. helmer. don't you? why not? nora. because it is such a narrow-minded way of looking at things. helmer. what are you saying? narrow-minded? do you think i am narrow-minded? nora. no, just the opposite, dear--and it is exactly for that reason. helmer. it's the same thing. you say my point of view is narrow-minded, so i must be so too. narrow-minded! very well--i must put an end to this. (goes to the hall door and calls.) helen! nora. what are you going to do? helmer (looking among his papers). settle it. (enter maid.) look here; take this letter and go downstairs with it at once. find a messenger and tell him to deliver it, and be quick. the address is on it, and here is the money. maid. very well, sir. (exit with the letter.) helmer (putting his papers together). now then, little miss obstinate. nora (breathlessly). torvald--what was that letter? helmer. krogstad's dismissal. nora. call her back, torvald! there is still time. oh torvald, call her back! do it for my sake--for your own sake--for the children's sake! do you hear me, torvald? call her back! you don't know what that letter can bring upon us. helmer. it's too late. nora. yes, it's too late. helmer. my dear nora, i can forgive the anxiety you are in, although really it is an insult to me. it is, indeed. isn't it an insult to think that i should be afraid of a starving quill-driver's vengeance? but i forgive you nevertheless, because it is such eloquent witness to your great love for me. (takes her in his arms.) and that is as it should be, my own darling nora. come what will, you may be sure i shall have both courage and strength if they be needed. you will see i am man enough to take everything upon myself. nora (in a horror-stricken voice). what do you mean by that? helmer. everything, i say-- nora (recovering herself). you will never have to do that. helmer. that's right. well, we will share it, nora, as man and wife should. that is how it shall be. (caressing her.) are you content now? there! there!--not these frightened dove's eyes! the whole thing is only the wildest fancy!--now, you must go and play through the tarantella and practise with your tambourine. i shall go into the inner office and shut the door, and i shall hear nothing; you can make as much noise as you please. (turns back at the door.) and when rank comes, tell him where he will find me. (nods to her, takes his papers and goes into his room, and shuts the door after him.) nora (bewildered with anxiety, stands as if rooted to the spot, and whispers). he was capable of doing it. he will do it. he will do it in spite of everything.--no, not that! never, never! anything rather than that! oh, for some help, some way out of it! (the door-bell rings.) doctor rank! anything rather than that--anything, whatever it is! (she puts her hands over her face, pulls herself together, goes to the door and opens it. rank is standing without, hanging up his coat. during the following dialogue it begins to grow dark.) nora. good day, doctor rank. i knew your ring. but you mustn't go in to torvald now; i think he is busy with something. rank. and you? nora (brings him in and shuts the door after him). oh, you know very well i always have time for you. rank. thank you. i shall make use of as much of it as i can. nora. what do you mean by that? as much of it as you can? rank. well, does that alarm you? nora. it was such a strange way of putting it. is anything likely to happen? rank. nothing but what i have long been prepared for. but i certainly didn't expect it to happen so soon. nora (gripping him by the arm). what have you found out? doctor rank, you must tell me. rank (sitting down by the stove). it is all up with me. and it can't be helped. nora (with a sigh of relief). is it about yourself? rank. who else? it is no use lying to one's self. i am the most wretched of all my patients, mrs. helmer. lately i have been taking stock of my internal economy. bankrupt! probably within a month i shall lie rotting in the churchyard. nora. what an ugly thing to say! rank. the thing itself is cursedly ugly, and the worst of it is that i shall have to face so much more that is ugly before that. i shall only make one more examination of myself; when i have done that, i shall know pretty certainly when it will be that the horrors of dissolution will begin. there is something i want to tell you. helmer's refined nature gives him an unconquerable disgust at everything that is ugly; i won't have him in my sick-room. nora. oh, but, doctor rank-- rank. i won't have him there. not on any account. i bar my door to him. as soon as i am quite certain that the worst has come, i shall send you my card with a black cross on it, and then you will know that the loathsome end has begun. nora. you are quite absurd today. and i wanted you so much to be in a really good humour. rank. with death stalking beside me?--to have to pay this penalty for another man's sin? is there any justice in that? and in every single family, in one way or another, some such inexorable retribution is being exacted-- nora (putting her hands over her ears). rubbish! do talk of something cheerful. rank. oh, it's a mere laughing matter, the whole thing. my poor innocent spine has to suffer for my father's youthful amusements. nora (sitting at the table on the left). i suppose you mean that he was too partial to asparagus and pate de foie gras, don't you? rank. yes, and to truffles. nora. truffles, yes. and oysters too, i suppose? rank. oysters, of course, that goes without saying. nora. and heaps of port and champagne. it is sad that all these nice things should take their revenge on our bones. rank. especially that they should revenge themselves on the unlucky bones of those who have not had the satisfaction of enjoying them. nora. yes, that's the saddest part of it all. rank (with a searching look at her). hm!-- nora (after a short pause). why did you smile? rank. no, it was you that laughed. nora. no, it was you that smiled, doctor rank! rank (rising). you are a greater rascal than i thought. nora. i am in a silly mood today. rank. so it seems. nora (putting her hands on his shoulders). dear, dear doctor rank, death mustn't take you away from torvald and me. rank. it is a loss you would easily recover from. those who are gone are soon forgotten. nora (looking at him anxiously). do you believe that? rank. people form new ties, and then-- nora. who will form new ties? rank. both you and helmer, when i am gone. you yourself are already on the high road to it, i think. what did that mrs. linde want here last night? nora. oho!--you don't mean to say you are jealous of poor christine? rank. yes, i am. she will be my successor in this house. when i am done for, this woman will-- nora. hush! don't speak so loud. she is in that room. rank. today again. there, you see. nora. she has only come to sew my dress for me. bless my soul, how unreasonable you are! (sits down on the sofa.) be nice now, doctor rank, and tomorrow you will see how beautifully i shall dance, and you can imagine i am doing it all for you--and for torvald too, of course. (takes various things out of the box.) doctor rank, come and sit down here, and i will show you something. rank (sitting down). what is it? nora. just look at those! rank. silk stockings. nora. flesh-coloured. aren't they lovely? it is so dark here now, but tomorrow--. no, no, no! you must only look at the feet. oh well, you may have leave to look at the legs too. rank. hm!--nora. why are you looking so critical? don't you think they will fit me? rank. i have no means of forming an opinion about that. nora (looks at him for a moment). for shame! (hits him lightly on the ear with the stockings.) that's to punish you. (folds them up again.) rank. and what other nice things am i to be allowed to see? nora. not a single thing more, for being so naughty. (she looks among the things, humming to herself.) rank (after a short silence). when i am sitting here, talking to you as intimately as this, i cannot imagine for a moment what would have become of me if i had never come into this house. nora (smiling). i believe you do feel thoroughly at home with us. rank (in a lower voice, looking straight in front of him). and to be obliged to leave it all-- nora. nonsense, you are not going to leave it. rank (as before). and not be able to leave behind one the slightest token of one's gratitude, scarcely even a fleeting regret--nothing but an empty place which the first comer can fill as well as any other. nora. and if i asked you now for a--? no! rank. for what? nora. for a big proof of your friendship-- rank. yes, yes! nora. i mean a tremendously big favour-- rank. would you really make me so happy for once? nora. ah, but you don't know what it is yet. rank. no--but tell me. nora. i really can't, doctor rank. it is something out of all reason; it means advice, and help, and a favour-- rank. the bigger a thing it is the better. i can't conceive what it is you mean. do tell me. haven't i your confidence? nora. more than anyone else. i know you are my truest and best friend, and so i will tell you what it is. well, doctor rank, it is something you must help me to prevent. you know how devotedly, how inexpressibly deeply torvald loves me; he would never for a moment hesitate to give his life for me. rank (leaning towards her). nora--do you think he is the only one--? nora (with a slight start). the only one--? rank. the only one who would gladly give his life for your sake. nora (sadly). is that it? rank. i was determined you should know it before i went away, and there will never be a better opportunity than this. now you know it, nora. and now you know, too, that you can trust me as you would trust no one else. nora (rises, deliberately and quietly). let me pass. rank (makes room for her to pass him, but sits still). nora! nora (at the hall door). helen, bring in the lamp. (goes over to the stove.) dear doctor rank, that was really horrid of you. rank. to have loved you as much as anyone else does? was that horrid? nora. no, but to go and tell me so. there was really no need-- rank. what do you mean? did you know--? (maid enters with lamp, puts it down on the table, and goes out.) nora--mrs. helmer--tell me, had you any idea of this? nora. oh, how do i know whether i had or whether i hadn't? i really can't tell you--to think you could be so clumsy, doctor rank! we were getting on so nicely. rank. well, at all events you know now that you can command me, body and soul. so won't you speak out? nora (looking at him). after what happened? rank. i beg you to let me know what it is. nora. i can't tell you anything now. rank. yes, yes. you mustn't punish me in that way. let me have permission to do for you whatever a man may do. nora. you can do nothing for me now. besides, i really don't need any help at all. you will find that the whole thing is merely fancy on my part. it really is so--of course it is! (sits down in the rocking-chair, and looks at him with a smile.) you are a nice sort of man, doctor rank!--don't you feel ashamed of yourself, now the lamp has come? rank. not a bit. but perhaps i had better go--for ever? nora. no, indeed, you shall not. of course you must come here just as before. you know very well torvald can't do without you. rank. yes, but you? nora. oh, i am always tremendously pleased when you come. rank. it is just that, that put me on the wrong track. you are a riddle to me. i have often thought that you would almost as soon be in my company as in helmer's. nora. yes--you see there are some people one loves best, and others whom one would almost always rather have as companions. rank. yes, there is something in that. nora. when i was at home, of course i loved papa best. but i always thought it tremendous fun if i could steal down into the maids' room, because they never moralised at all, and talked to each other about such entertaining things. rank. i see--it is their place i have taken. nora (jumping up and going to him). oh, dear, nice doctor rank, i never meant that at all. but surely you can understand that being with torvald is a little like being with papa--(enter maid from the hall.) maid. if you please, ma'am. (whispers and hands her a card.) nora (glancing at the card). oh! (puts it in her pocket.) rank. is there anything wrong? nora. no, no, not in the least. it is only something--it is my new dress-- rank. what? your dress is lying there. nora. oh, yes, that one; but this is another. i ordered it. torvald mustn't know about it-- rank. oho! then that was the great secret. nora. of course. just go in to him; he is sitting in the inner room. keep him as long as-- rank. make your mind easy; i won't let him escape. (goes into helmer's room.) nora (to the maid). and he is standing waiting in the kitchen? maid. yes; he came up the back stairs. nora. but didn't you tell him no one was in? maid. yes, but it was no good. nora. he won't go away? maid. no; he says he won't until he has seen you, ma'am. nora. well, let him come in--but quietly. helen, you mustn't say anything about it to anyone. it is a surprise for my husband. maid. yes, ma'am, i quite understand. (exit.) nora. this dreadful thing is going to happen! it will happen in spite of me! no, no, no, it can't happen--it shan't happen! (she bolts the door of helmer's room. the maid opens the hall door for krogstad and shuts it after him. he is wearing a fur coat, high boots and a fur cap.) nora (advancing towards him). speak low--my husband is at home. krogstad. no matter about that. nora. what do you want of me? krogstad. an explanation of something. nora. make haste then. what is it? krogstad. you know, i suppose, that i have got my dismissal. nora. i couldn't prevent it, mr. krogstad. i fought as hard as i could on your side, but it was no good. krogstad. does your husband love you so little, then? he knows what i can expose you to, and yet he ventures-- nora. how can you suppose that he has any knowledge of the sort? krogstad. i didn't suppose so at all. it would not be the least like our dear torvald helmer to show so much courage-- nora. mr. krogstad, a little respect for my husband, please. krogstad. certainly--all the respect he deserves. but since you have kept the matter so carefully to yourself, i make bold to suppose that you have a little clearer idea, than you had yesterday, of what it actually is that you have done? nora. more than you could ever teach me. krogstad. yes, such a bad lawyer as i am. nora. what is it you want of me? krogstad. only to see how you were, mrs. helmer. i have been thinking about you all day long. a mere cashier, a quill-driver, a--well, a man like me--even he has a little of what is called feeling, you know. nora. show it, then; think of my little children. krogstad. have you and your husband thought of mine? but never mind about that. i only wanted to tell you that you need not take this matter too seriously. in the first place there will be no accusation made on my part. nora. no, of course not; i was sure of that. krogstad. the whole thing can be arranged amicably; there is no reason why anyone should know anything about it. it will remain a secret between us three. nora. my husband must never get to know anything about it. krogstad. how will you be able to prevent it? am i to understand that you can pay the balance that is owing? nora. no, not just at present. krogstad. or perhaps that you have some expedient for raising the money soon? nora. no expedient that i mean to make use of. krogstad. well, in any case, it would have been of no use to you now. if you stood there with ever so much money in your hand, i would never part with your bond. nora. tell me what purpose you mean to put it to. krogstad. i shall only preserve it--keep it in my possession. no one who is not concerned in the matter shall have the slightest hint of it. so that if the thought of it has driven you to any desperate resolution-- nora. it has. krogstad. if you had it in your mind to run away from your home-- nora. i had. krogstad. or even something worse-- nora. how could you know that? krogstad. give up the idea. nora. how did you know i had thought of that? krogstad. most of us think of that at first. i did, too--but i hadn't the courage. nora (faintly). no more had i. krogstad (in a tone of relief). no, that's it, isn't it--you hadn't the courage either? nora. no, i haven't--i haven't. krogstad. besides, it would have been a great piece of folly. once the first storm at home is over--. i have a letter for your husband in my pocket. nora. telling him everything? krogstad. in as lenient a manner as i possibly could. nora (quickly). he mustn't get the letter. tear it up. i will find some means of getting money. krogstad. excuse me, mrs. helmer, but i think i told you just now-- nora. i am not speaking of what i owe you. tell me what sum you are asking my husband for, and i will get the money. krogstad. i am not asking your husband for a penny. nora. what do you want, then? krogstad. i will tell you. i want to rehabilitate myself, mrs. helmer; i want to get on; and in that your husband must help me. for the last year and a half i have not had a hand in anything dishonourable, amid all that time i have been struggling in most restricted circumstances. i was content to work my way up step by step. now i am turned out, and i am not going to be satisfied with merely being taken into favour again. i want to get on, i tell you. i want to get into the bank again, in a higher position. your husband must make a place for me-- nora. that he will never do! krogstad. he will; i know him; he dare not protest. and as soon as i am in there again with him, then you will see! within a year i shall be the manager's right hand. it will be nils krogstad and not torvald helmer who manages the bank. nora. that's a thing you will never see! krogstad. do you mean that you will--? nora. i have courage enough for it now. krogstad. oh, you can't frighten me. a fine, spoilt lady like you-- nora. you will see, you will see. krogstad. under the ice, perhaps? down into the cold, coal-black water? and then, in the spring, to float up to the surface, all horrible and unrecognisable, with your hair fallen out-- nora. you can't frighten me. krogstad. nor you me. people don't do such things, mrs. helmer. besides, what use would it be? i should have him completely in my power all the same. nora. afterwards? when i am no longer-- krogstad. have you forgotten that it is i who have the keeping of your reputation? (nora stands speechlessly looking at him.) well, now, i have warned you. do not do anything foolish. when helmer has had my letter, i shall expect a message from him. and be sure you remember that it is your husband himself who has forced me into such ways as this again. i will never forgive him for that. goodbye, mrs. helmer. (exit through the hall.) nora (goes to the hall door, opens it slightly and listens.) he is going. he is not putting the letter in the box. oh no, no! that's impossible! (opens the door by degrees.) what is that? he is standing outside. he is not going downstairs. is he hesitating? can he--? (a letter drops into the box; then krogstad's footsteps are heard, until they die away as he goes downstairs. nora utters a stifled cry, and runs across the room to the table by the sofa. a short pause.) nora. in the letter-box. (steals across to the hall door.) there it lies--torvald, torvald, there is no hope for us now! (mrs. linde comes in from the room on the left, carrying the dress.) mrs. linde. there, i can't see anything more to mend now. would you like to try it on--? nora (in a hoarse whisper). christine, come here. mrs. linde (throwing the dress down on the sofa). what is the matter with you? you look so agitated! nora. come here. do you see that letter? there, look--you can see it through the glass in the letter-box. mrs. linde. yes, i see it. nora. that letter is from krogstad. mrs. linde. nora--it was krogstad who lent you the money! nora. yes, and now torvald will know all about it. mrs. linde. believe me, nora, that's the best thing for both of you. nora. you don't know all. i forged a name. mrs. linde. good heavens--! nora. i only want to say this to you, christine--you must be my witness. mrs. linde. your witness? what do you mean? what am i to--? nora. if i should go out of my mind--and it might easily happen-- mrs. linde. nora! nora. or if anything else should happen to me--anything, for instance, that might prevent my being here-- mrs. linde. nora! nora! you are quite out of your mind. nora. and if it should happen that there were some one who wanted to take all the responsibility, all the blame, you understand-- mrs. linde. yes, yes--but how can you suppose--? nora. then you must be my witness, that it is not true, christine. i am not out of my mind at all; i am in my right senses now, and i tell you no one else has known anything about it; i, and i alone, did the whole thing. remember that. mrs. linde. i will, indeed. but i don't understand all this. nora. how should you understand it? a wonderful thing is going to happen! mrs. linde. a wonderful thing? nora. yes, a wonderful thing!--but it is so terrible, christine; it mustn't happen, not for all the world. mrs. linde. i will go at once and see krogstad. nora. don't go to him; he will do you some harm. mrs. linde. there was a time when he would gladly do anything for my sake. nora. he? mrs. linde. where does he live? nora. how should i know--? yes (feeling in her pocket), here is his card. but the letter, the letter--! helmer (calls from his room, knocking at the door). nora! nora (cries out anxiously). oh, what's that? what do you want? helmer. don't be so frightened. we are not coming in; you have locked the door. are you trying on your dress? nora. yes, that's it. i look so nice, torvald. mrs. linde (who has read the card). i see he lives at the corner here. nora. yes, but it's no use. it is hopeless. the letter is lying there in the box. mrs. linde. and your husband keeps the key? nora. yes, always. mrs. linde. krogstad must ask for his letter back unread, he must find some pretence-- nora. but it is just at this time that torvald generally-- mrs. linde. you must delay him. go in to him in the meantime. i will come back as soon as i can. (she goes out hurriedly through the hall door.) nora (goes to helmer's door, opens it and peeps in). torvald! helmer (from the inner room). well? may i venture at last to come into my own room again? come along, rank, now you will see-- (halting in the doorway.) but what is this? nora. what is what, dear? helmer. rank led me to expect a splendid transformation. rank (in the doorway). i understood so, but evidently i was mistaken. nora. yes, nobody is to have the chance of admiring me in my dress until tomorrow. helmer. but, my dear nora, you look so worn out. have you been practising too much? nora. no, i have not practised at all. helmer. but you will need to-- nora. yes, indeed i shall, torvald. but i can't get on a bit without you to help me; i have absolutely forgotten the whole thing. helmer. oh, we will soon work it up again. nora. yes, help me, torvald. promise that you will! i am so nervous about it--all the people--. you must give yourself up to me entirely this evening. not the tiniest bit of business--you mustn't even take a pen in your hand. will you promise, torvald dear? helmer. i promise. this evening i will be wholly and absolutely at your service, you helpless little mortal. ah, by the way, first of all i will just--(goes towards the hall door.) nora. what are you going to do there? helmer. only see if any letters have come. nora. no, no! don't do that, torvald! helmer. why not? nora. torvald, please don't. there is nothing there. helmer. well, let me look. (turns to go to the letter-box. nora, at the piano, plays the first bars of the tarantella. helmer stops in the doorway.) aha! nora. i can't dance tomorrow if i don't practise with you. helmer (going up to her). are you really so afraid of it, dear? nora. yes, so dreadfully afraid of it. let me practise at once; there is time now, before we go to dinner. sit down and play for me, torvald dear; criticise me, and correct me as you play. helmer. with great pleasure, if you wish me to. (sits down at the piano.) nora (takes out of the box a tambourine and a long variegated shawl. she hastily drapes the shawl round her. then she springs to the front of the stage and calls out). now play for me! i am going to dance! (helmer plays and nora dances. rank stands by the piano behind helmer, and looks on.) helmer (as he plays). slower, slower! nora. i can't do it any other way. helmer. not so violently, nora! nora. this is the way. helmer (stops playing). no, no--that is not a bit right. nora (laughing and swinging the tambourine). didn't i tell you so? rank. let me play for her. helmer (getting up). yes, do. i can correct her better then. (rank sits down at the piano and plays. nora dances more and more wildly. helmer has taken up a position beside the stove, and during her dance gives her frequent instructions. she does not seem to hear him; her hair comes down and falls over her shoulders; she pays no attention to it, but goes on dancing. enter mrs. linde.) mrs. linde (standing as if spell-bound in the doorway). oh!-- nora (as she dances). such fun, christine! helmer. my dear darling nora, you are dancing as if your life depended on it. nora. so it does. helmer. stop, rank; this is sheer madness. stop, i tell you! (rank stops playing, and nora suddenly stands still. helmer goes up to her.) i could never have believed it. you have forgotten everything i taught you. nora (throwing away the tambourine). there, you see. helmer. you will want a lot of coaching. nora. yes, you see how much i need it. you must coach me up to the last minute. promise me that, torvald! helmer. you can depend on me. nora. you must not think of anything but me, either today or tomorrow; you mustn't open a single letter--not even open the letter-box-- helmer. ah, you are still afraid of that fellow-- nora. yes, indeed i am. helmer. nora, i can tell from your looks that there is a letter from him lying there. nora. i don't know; i think there is; but you must not read anything of that kind now. nothing horrid must come between us until this is all over. rank (whispers to helmer). you mustn't contradict her. helmer (taking her in his arms). the child shall have her way. but tomorrow night, after you have danced-- nora. then you will be free. (the maid appears in the doorway to the right.) maid. dinner is served, ma'am. nora. we will have champagne, helen. maid. very good, ma'am. [exit. helmer. hullo!--are we going to have a banquet? nora. yes, a champagne banquet until the small hours. (calls out.) and a few macaroons, helen--lots, just for once! helmer. come, come, don't be so wild and nervous. be my own little skylark, as you used. nora. yes, dear, i will. but go in now and you too, doctor rank. christine, you must help me to do up my hair. rank (whispers to helmer as they go out). i suppose there is nothing--she is not expecting anything? helmer. far from it, my dear fellow; it is simply nothing more than this childish nervousness i was telling you of. (they go into the right-hand room.) nora. well! mrs. linde. gone out of town. nora. i could tell from your face. mrs. linde. he is coming home tomorrow evening. i wrote a note for him. nora. you should have let it alone; you must prevent nothing. after all, it is splendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen. mrs. linde. what is it that you are waiting for? nora. oh, you wouldn't understand. go in to them, i will come in a moment. (mrs. linde goes into the dining-room. nora stands still for a little while, as if to compose herself. then she looks at her watch.) five o'clock. seven hours until midnight; and then four-and-twenty hours until the next midnight. then the tarantella will be over. twenty-four and seven? thirty-one hours to live. helmer (from the doorway on the right). where's my little skylark? nora (going to him with her arms outstretched). here she is! act iii (the same scene.--the table has been placed in the middle of the stage, with chairs around it. a lamp is burning on the table. the door into the hall stands open. dance music is heard in the room above. mrs. linde is sitting at the table idly turning over the leaves of a book; she tries to read, but does not seem able to collect her thoughts. every now and then she listens intently for a sound at the outer door.) mrs. linde (looking at her watch). not yet--and the time is nearly up. if only he does not--. (listens again.) ah, there he is. (goes into the hall and opens the outer door carefully. light footsteps are heard on the stairs. she whispers.) come in. there is no one here. krogstad (in the doorway). i found a note from you at home. what does this mean? mrs. linde. it is absolutely necessary that i should have a talk with you. krogstad. really? and is it absolutely necessary that it should be here? mrs. linde. it is impossible where i live; there is no private entrance to my rooms. come in; we are quite alone. the maid is asleep, and the helmers are at the dance upstairs. krogstad (coming into the room). are the helmers really at a dance tonight? mrs. linde. yes, why not? krogstad. certainly--why not? mrs. linde. now, nils, let us have a talk. krogstad. can we two have anything to talk about? mrs. linde. we have a great deal to talk about. krogstad. i shouldn't have thought so. mrs. linde. no, you have never properly understood me. krogstad. was there anything else to understand except what was obvious to all the world--a heartless woman jilts a man when a more lucrative chance turns up? mrs. linde. do you believe i am as absolutely heartless as all that? and do you believe that i did it with a light heart? krogstad. didn't you? mrs. linde. nils, did you really think that? krogstad. if it were as you say, why did you write to me as you did at the time? mrs. linde. i could do nothing else. as i had to break with you, it was my duty also to put an end to all that you felt for me. krogstad (wringing his hands). so that was it. and all this--only for the sake of money! mrs. linde. you must not forget that i had a helpless mother and two little brothers. we couldn't wait for you, nils; your prospects seemed hopeless then. krogstad. that may be so, but you had no right to throw me over for anyone else's sake. mrs. linde. indeed i don't know. many a time did i ask myself if i had the right to do it. krogstad (more gently). when i lost you, it was as if all the solid ground went from under my feet. look at me now--i am a shipwrecked man clinging to a bit of wreckage. mrs. linde. but help may be near. krogstad. it was near; but then you came and stood in my way. mrs. linde. unintentionally, nils. it was only today that i learned it was your place i was going to take in the bank. krogstad. i believe you, if you say so. but now that you know it, are you not going to give it up to me? mrs. linde. no, because that would not benefit you in the least. krogstad. oh, benefit, benefit--i would have done it whether or no. mrs. linde. i have learned to act prudently. life, and hard, bitter necessity have taught me that. krogstad. and life has taught me not to believe in fine speeches. mrs. linde. then life has taught you something very reasonable. but deeds you must believe in? krogstad. what do you mean by that? mrs. linde. you said you were like a shipwrecked man clinging to some wreckage. krogstad. i had good reason to say so. mrs. linde. well, i am like a shipwrecked woman clinging to some wreckage--no one to mourn for, no one to care for. krogstad. it was your own choice. mrs. linde. there was no other choice--then. krogstad. well, what now? mrs. linde. nils, how would it be if we two shipwrecked people could join forces? krogstad. what are you saying? mrs. linde. two on the same piece of wreckage would stand a better chance than each on their own. krogstad. christine i... mrs. linde. what do you suppose brought me to town? krogstad. do you mean that you gave me a thought? mrs. linde. i could not endure life without work. all my life, as long as i can remember, i have worked, and it has been my greatest and only pleasure. but now i am quite alone in the world--my life is so dreadfully empty and i feel so forsaken. there is not the least pleasure in working for one's self. nils, give me someone and something to work for. krogstad. i don't trust that. it is nothing but a woman's overstrained sense of generosity that prompts you to make such an offer of yourself. mrs. linde. have you ever noticed anything of the sort in me? krogstad. could you really do it? tell me--do you know all about my past life? mrs. linde. yes. krogstad. and do you know what they think of me here? mrs. linde. you seemed to me to imply that with me you might have been quite another man. krogstad. i am certain of it. mrs. linde. is it too late now? krogstad. christine, are you saying this deliberately? yes, i am sure you are. i see it in your face. have you really the courage, then--? mrs. linde. i want to be a mother to someone, and your children need a mother. we two need each other. nils, i have faith in your real character--i can dare anything together with you. krogstad (grasps her hands). thanks, thanks, christine! now i shall find a way to clear myself in the eyes of the world. ah, but i forgot-- mrs. linde (listening). hush! the tarantella! go, go! krogstad. why? what is it? mrs. linde. do you hear them up there? when that is over, we may expect them back. krogstad. yes, yes--i will go. but it is all no use. of course you are not aware what steps i have taken in the matter of the helmers. mrs. linde. yes, i know all about that. krogstad. and in spite of that have you the courage to--? mrs. linde. i understand very well to what lengths a man like you might be driven by despair. krogstad. if i could only undo what i have done! mrs. linde. you cannot. your letter is lying in the letter-box now. krogstad. are you sure of that? mrs. linde. quite sure, but-- krogstad (with a searching look at her). is that what it all means?--that you want to save your friend at any cost? tell me frankly. is that it? mrs. linde. nils, a woman who has once sold herself for another's sake, doesn't do it a second time. krogstad. i will ask for my letter back. mrs. linde. no, no. krogstad. yes, of course i will. i will wait here until helmer comes; i will tell him he must give me my letter back--that it only concerns my dismissal--that he is not to read it-- mrs. linde. no, nils, you must not recall your letter. krogstad. but, tell me, wasn't it for that very purpose that you asked me to meet you here? mrs. linde. in my first moment of fright, it was. but twenty-four hours have elapsed since then, and in that time i have witnessed incredible things in this house. helmer must know all about it. this unhappy secret must be disclosed; they must have a complete understanding between them, which is impossible with all this concealment and falsehood going on. krogstad. very well, if you will take the responsibility. but there is one thing i can do in any case, and i shall do it at once. mrs. linde (listening). you must be quick and go! the dance is over; we are not safe a moment longer. krogstad. i will wait for you below. mrs. linde. yes, do. you must see me back to my door... krogstad. i have never had such an amazing piece of good fortune in my life! (goes out through the outer door. the door between the room and the hall remains open.) mrs. linde (tidying up the room and laying her hat and cloak ready). what a difference! what a difference! someone to work for and live for--a home to bring comfort into. that i will do, indeed. i wish they would be quick and come--(listens.) ah, there they are now. i must put on my things. (takes up her hat and cloak. helmer's and nora's voices are heard outside; a key is turned, and helmer brings nora almost by force into the hall. she is in an italian costume with a large black shawl around her; he is in evening dress, and a black domino which is flying open.) nora (hanging back in the doorway, and struggling with him). no, no, no!--don't take me in. i want to go upstairs again; i don't want to leave so early. helmer. but, my dearest nora-- nora. please, torvald dear--please, please--only an hour more. helmer. not a single minute, my sweet nora. you know that was our agreement. come along into the room; you are catching cold standing there. (he brings her gently into the room, in spite of her resistance.) mrs. linde. good evening. nora. christine! helmer. you here, so late, mrs. linde? mrs. linde. yes, you must excuse me; i was so anxious to see nora in her dress. nora. have you been sitting here waiting for me? mrs. linde. yes, unfortunately i came too late, you had already gone upstairs; and i thought i couldn't go away again without having seen you. helmer (taking off nora's shawl). yes, take a good look at her. i think she is worth looking at. isn't she charming, mrs. linde? mrs. linde. yes, indeed she is. helmer. doesn't she look remarkably pretty? everyone thought so at the dance. but she is terribly self-willed, this sweet little person. what are we to do with her? you will hardly believe that i had almost to bring her away by force. nora. torvald, you will repent not having let me stay, even if it were only for half an hour. helmer. listen to her, mrs. linde! she had danced her tarantella, and it had been a tremendous success, as it deserved--although possibly the performance was a trifle too realistic--a little more so, i mean, than was strictly compatible with the limitations of art. but never mind about that! the chief thing is, she had made a success--she had made a tremendous success. do you think i was going to let her remain there after that, and spoil the effect? no, indeed! i took my charming little capri maiden--my capricious little capri maiden, i should say--on my arm; took one quick turn round the room; a curtsey on either side, and, as they say in novels, the beautiful apparition disappeared. an exit ought always to be effective, mrs. linde; but that is what i cannot make nora understand. pooh! this room is hot. (throws his domino on a chair, and opens the door of his room.) hullo! it's all dark in here. oh, of course--excuse me--. (he goes in, and lights some candles.) nora (in a hurried and breathless whisper). well? mrs. linde (in a low voice). i have had a talk with him. nora. yes, and-- mrs. linde. nora, you must tell your husband all about it. nora (in an expressionless voice). i knew it. mrs. linde. you have nothing to be afraid of as far as krogstad is concerned; but you must tell him. nora. i won't tell him. mrs. linde. then the letter will. nora. thank you, christine. now i know what i must do. hush--! helmer (coming in again). well, mrs. linde, have you admired her? mrs. linde. yes, and now i will say goodnight. helmer. what, already? is this yours, this knitting? mrs. linde (taking it). yes, thank you, i had very nearly forgotten it. helmer. so you knit? mrs. linde. of course. helmer. do you know, you ought to embroider. mrs. linde. really? why? helmer. yes, it's far more becoming. let me show you. you hold the embroidery thus in your left hand, and use the needle with the right--like this--with a long, easy sweep. do you see? mrs. linde. yes, perhaps-- helmer. but in the case of knitting--that can never be anything but ungraceful; look here--the arms close together, the knitting-needles going up and down--it has a sort of chinese effect--. that was really excellent champagne they gave us. mrs. linde. well,--goodnight, nora, and don't be self-willed any more. helmer. that's right, mrs. linde. mrs. linde. goodnight, mr. helmer. helmer (accompanying her to the door). goodnight, goodnight. i hope you will get home all right. i should be very happy to--but you haven't any great distance to go. goodnight, goodnight. (she goes out; he shuts the door after her, and comes in again.) ah!--at last we have got rid of her. she is a frightful bore, that woman. nora. aren't you very tired, torvald? helmer. no, not in the least. nora. nor sleepy? helmer. not a bit. on the contrary, i feel extraordinarily lively. and you?--you really look both tired and sleepy. nora. yes, i am very tired. i want to go to sleep at once. helmer. there, you see it was quite right of me not to let you stay there any longer. nora. everything you do is quite right, torvald. helmer (kissing her on the forehead). now my little skylark is speaking reasonably. did you notice what good spirits rank was in this evening? nora. really? was he? i didn't speak to him at all. helmer. and i very little, but i have not for a long time seen him in such good form. (looks for a while at her and then goes nearer to her.) it is delightful to be at home by ourselves again, to be all alone with you--you fascinating, charming little darling! nora. don't look at me like that, torvald. helmer. why shouldn't i look at my dearest treasure?--at all the beauty that is mine, all my very own? nora (going to the other side of the table). you mustn't say things like that to me tonight. helmer (following her). you have still got the tarantella in your blood, i see. and it makes you more captivating than ever. listen--the guests are beginning to go now. (in a lower voice.) nora--soon the whole house will be quiet. nora. yes, i hope so. helmer. yes, my own darling nora. do you know, when i am out at a party with you like this, why i speak so little to you, keep away from you, and only send a stolen glance in your direction now and then?--do you know why i do that? it is because i make believe to myself that we are secretly in love, and you are my secretly promised bride, and that no one suspects there is anything between us. nora. yes, yes--i know very well your thoughts are with me all the time. helmer. and when we are leaving, and i am putting the shawl over your beautiful young shoulders--on your lovely neck--then i imagine that you are my young bride and that we have just come from the wedding, and i am bringing you for the first time into our home--to be alone with you for the first time--quite alone with my shy little darling! all this evening i have longed for nothing but you. when i watched the seductive figures of the tarantella, my blood was on fire; i could endure it no longer, and that was why i brought you down so early-- nora. go away, torvald! you must let me go. i won't-- helmer. what's that? you're joking, my little nora! you won't--you won't? am i not your husband--? (a knock is heard at the outer door.) nora (starting). did you hear--? helmer (going into the hall). who is it? rank (outside). it is i. may i come in for a moment? helmer (in a fretful whisper). oh, what does he want now? (aloud.) wait a minute! (unlocks the door.) come, that's kind of you not to pass by our door. rank. i thought i heard your voice, and felt as if i should like to look in. (with a swift glance round.) ah, yes!--these dear familiar rooms. you are very happy and cosy in here, you two. helmer. it seems to me that you looked after yourself pretty well upstairs too. rank. excellently. why shouldn't i? why shouldn't one enjoy everything in this world?--at any rate as much as one can, and as long as one can. the wine was capital-- helmer. especially the champagne. rank. so you noticed that too? it is almost incredible how much i managed to put away! nora. torvald drank a great deal of champagne tonight too. rank. did he? nora. yes, and he is always in such good spirits afterwards. rank. well, why should one not enjoy a merry evening after a well-spent day? helmer. well spent? i am afraid i can't take credit for that. rank (clapping him on the back). but i can, you know! nora. doctor rank, you must have been occupied with some scientific investigation today. rank. exactly. helmer. just listen!--little nora talking about scientific investigations! nora. and may i congratulate you on the result? rank. indeed you may. nora. was it favourable, then? rank. the best possible, for both doctor and patient--certainty. nora (quickly and searchingly). certainty? rank. absolute certainty. so wasn't i entitled to make a merry evening of it after that? nora. yes, you certainly were, doctor rank. helmer. i think so too, so long as you don't have to pay for it in the morning. rank. oh well, one can't have anything in this life without paying for it. nora. doctor rank--are you fond of fancy-dress balls? rank. yes, if there is a fine lot of pretty costumes. nora. tell me--what shall we two wear at the next? helmer. little featherbrain!--are you thinking of the next already? rank. we two? yes, i can tell you. you shall go as a good fairy-- helmer. yes, but what do you suggest as an appropriate costume for that? rank. let your wife go dressed just as she is in everyday life. helmer. that was really very prettily turned. but can't you tell us what you will be? rank. yes, my dear friend, i have quite made up my mind about that. helmer. well? rank. at the next fancy-dress ball i shall be invisible. helmer. that's a good joke! rank. there is a big black hat--have you never heard of hats that make you invisible? if you put one on, no one can see you. helmer (suppressing a smile). yes, you are quite right. rank. but i am clean forgetting what i came for. helmer, give me a cigar--one of the dark havanas. helmer. with the greatest pleasure. (offers him his case.) rank (takes a cigar and cuts off the end). thanks. nora (striking a match). let me give you a light. rank. thank you. (she holds the match for him to light his cigar.) and now goodbye! helmer. goodbye, goodbye, dear old man! nora. sleep well, doctor rank. rank. thank you for that wish. nora. wish me the same. rank. you? well, if you want me to sleep well! and thanks for the light. (he nods to them both and goes out.) helmer (in a subdued voice). he has drunk more than he ought. nora (absently). maybe. (helmer takes a bunch of keys out of his pocket and goes into the hall.) torvald! what are you going to do there? helmer. emptying the letter-box; it is quite full; there will be no room to put the newspaper in tomorrow morning. nora. are you going to work tonight? helmer. you know quite well i'm not. what is this? someone has been at the lock. nora. at the lock--? helmer. yes, someone has. what can it mean? i should never have thought the maid--. here is a broken hairpin. nora, it is one of yours. nora (quickly). then it must have been the children-- helmer. then you must get them out of those ways. there, at last i have got it open. (takes out the contents of the letter-box, and calls to the kitchen.) helen!--helen, put out the light over the front door. (goes back into the room and shuts the door into the hall. he holds out his hand full of letters.) look at that--look what a heap of them there are. (turning them over.) what on earth is that? nora (at the window). the letter--no! torvald, no! helmer. two cards--of rank's. nora. of doctor rank's? helmer (looking at them). doctor rank. they were on the top. he must have put them in when he went out. nora. is there anything written on them? helmer. there is a black cross over the name. look there--what an uncomfortable idea! it looks as if he were announcing his own death. nora. it is just what he is doing. helmer. what? do you know anything about it? has he said anything to you? nora. yes. he told me that when the cards came it would be his leave-taking from us. he means to shut himself up and die. helmer. my poor old friend! certainly i knew we should not have him very long with us. but so soon! and so he hides himself away like a wounded animal. nora. if it has to happen, it is best it should be without a word--don't you think so, torvald? helmer (walking up and down). he had so grown into our lives. i can't think of him as having gone out of them. he, with his sufferings and his loneliness, was like a cloudy background to our sunlit happiness. well, perhaps it is best so. for him, anyway. (standing still.) and perhaps for us too, nora. we two are thrown quite upon each other now. (puts his arms round her.) my darling wife, i don't feel as if i could hold you tight enough. do you know, nora, i have often wished that you might be threatened by some great danger, so that i might risk my life's blood, and everything, for your sake. nora (disengages herself, and says firmly and decidedly). now you must read your letters, torvald. helmer. no, no; not tonight. i want to be with you, my darling wife. nora. with the thought of your friend's death-- helmer. you are right, it has affected us both. something ugly has come between us--the thought of the horrors of death. we must try and rid our minds of that. until then--we will each go to our own room. nora (hanging on his neck). goodnight, torvald--goodnight! helmer (kissing her on the forehead). goodnight, my little singing-bird. sleep sound, nora. now i will read my letters through. (he takes his letters and goes into his room, shutting the door after him.) nora (gropes distractedly about, seizes helmer's domino, throws it round her, while she says in quick, hoarse, spasmodic whispers). never to see him again. never! never! (puts her shawl over her head.) never to see my children again either--never again. never! never!--ah! the icy, black water--the unfathomable depths--if only it were over! he has got it now--now he is reading it. goodbye, torvald and my children! (she is about to rush out through the hall, when helmer opens his door hurriedly and stands with an open letter in his hand.) helmer. nora! nora. ah!-- helmer. what is this? do you know what is in this letter? nora. yes, i know. let me go! let me get out! helmer (holding her back). where are you going? nora (trying to get free). you shan't save me, torvald! helmer (reeling). true? is this true, that i read here? horrible! no, no--it is impossible that it can be true. nora. it is true. i have loved you above everything else in the world. helmer. oh, don't let us have any silly excuses. nora (taking a step towards him). torvald--! helmer. miserable creature--what have you done? nora. let me go. you shall not suffer for my sake. you shall not take it upon yourself. helmer. no tragic airs, please. (locks the hall door.) here you shall stay and give me an explanation. do you understand what you have done? answer me! do you understand what you have done? nora (looks steadily at him and says with a growing look of coldness in her face). yes, now i am beginning to understand thoroughly. helmer (walking about the room). what a horrible awakening! all these eight years--she who was my joy and pride--a hypocrite, a liar--worse, worse--a criminal! the unutterable ugliness of it all!--for shame! for shame! (nora is silent and looks steadily at him. he stops in front of her.) i ought to have suspected that something of the sort would happen. i ought to have foreseen it. all your father's want of principle--be silent!--all your father's want of principle has come out in you. no religion, no morality, no sense of duty--. how i am punished for having winked at what he did! i did it for your sake, and this is how you repay me. nora. yes, that's just it. helmer. now you have destroyed all my happiness. you have ruined all my future. it is horrible to think of! i am in the power of an unscrupulous man; he can do what he likes with me, ask anything he likes of me, give me any orders he pleases--i dare not refuse. and i must sink to such miserable depths because of a thoughtless woman! nora. when i am out of the way, you will be free. helmer. no fine speeches, please. your father had always plenty of those ready, too. what good would it be to me if you were out of the way, as you say? not the slightest. he can make the affair known everywhere; and if he does, i may be falsely suspected of having been a party to your criminal action. very likely people will think i was behind it all--that it was i who prompted you! and i have to thank you for all this--you whom i have cherished during the whole of our married life. do you understand now what it is you have done for me? nora (coldly and quietly). yes. helmer. it is so incredible that i can't take it in. but we must come to some understanding. take off that shawl. take it off, i tell you. i must try and appease him some way or another. the matter must be hushed up at any cost. and as for you and me, it must appear as if everything between us were just as before--but naturally only in the eyes of the world. you will still remain in my house, that is a matter of course. but i shall not allow you to bring up the children; i dare not trust them to you. to think that i should be obliged to say so to one whom i have loved so dearly, and whom i still--. no, that is all over. from this moment happiness is not the question; all that concerns us is to save the remains, the fragments, the appearance-- (a ring is heard at the front-door bell.) helmer (with a start). what is that? so late! can the worst--? can he--? hide yourself, nora. say you are ill. (nora stands motionless. helmer goes and unlocks the hall door.) maid (half-dressed, comes to the door). a letter for the mistress. helmer. give it to me. (takes the letter, and shuts the door.) yes, it is from him. you shall not have it; i will read it myself. nora. yes, read it. helmer (standing by the lamp). i scarcely have the courage to do it. it may mean ruin for both of us. no, i must know. (tears open the letter, runs his eye over a few lines, looks at a paper enclosed, and gives a shout of joy.) nora! (she looks at him questioningly.) nora!--no, i must read it once again--. yes, it is true! i am saved! nora, i am saved! nora. and i? helmer. you too, of course; we are both saved, both you and i. look, he sends you your bond back. he says he regrets and repents--that a happy change in his life--never mind what he says! we are saved, nora! no one can do anything to you. oh, nora, nora!--no, first i must destroy these hateful things. let me see--. (takes a look at the bond.) no, no, i won't look at it. the whole thing shall be nothing but a bad dream to me. (tears up the bond and both letters, throws them all into the stove, and watches them burn.) there--now it doesn't exist any longer. he says that since christmas eve you--. these must have been three dreadful days for you, nora. nora. i have fought a hard fight these three days. helmer. and suffered agonies, and seen no way out but--. no, we won't call any of the horrors to mind. we will only shout with joy, and keep saying, "it's all over! it's all over!" listen to me, nora. you don't seem to realise that it is all over. what is this?--such a cold, set face! my poor little nora, i quite understand; you don't feel as if you could believe that i have forgiven you. but it is true, nora, i swear it; i have forgiven you everything. i know that what you did, you did out of love for me. nora. that is true. helmer. you have loved me as a wife ought to love her husband. only you had not sufficient knowledge to judge of the means you used. but do you suppose you are any the less dear to me, because you don't understand how to act on your own responsibility? no, no; only lean on me; i will advise you and direct you. i should not be a man if this womanly helplessness did not just give you a double attractiveness in my eyes. you must not think anymore about the hard things i said in my first moment of consternation, when i thought everything was going to overwhelm me. i have forgiven you, nora; i swear to you i have forgiven you. nora. thank you for your forgiveness. (she goes out through the door to the right.) helmer. no, don't go--. (looks in.) what are you doing in there? nora (from within). taking off my fancy dress. helmer (standing at the open door). yes, do. try and calm yourself, and make your mind easy again, my frightened little singing-bird. be at rest, and feel secure; i have broad wings to shelter you under. (walks up and down by the door.) how warm and cosy our home is, nora. here is shelter for you; here i will protect you like a hunted dove that i have saved from a hawk's claws; i will bring peace to your poor beating heart. it will come, little by little, nora, believe me. tomorrow morning you will look upon it all quite differently; soon everything will be just as it was before. very soon you won't need me to assure you that i have forgiven you; you will yourself feel the certainty that i have done so. can you suppose i should ever think of such a thing as repudiating you, or even reproaching you? you have no idea what a true man's heart is like, nora. there is something so indescribably sweet and satisfying, to a man, in the knowledge that he has forgiven his wife--forgiven her freely, and with all his heart. it seems as if that had made her, as it were, doubly his own; he has given her a new life, so to speak; and she has in a way become both wife and child to him. so you shall be for me after this, my little scared, helpless darling. have no anxiety about anything, nora; only be frank and open with me, and i will serve as will and conscience both to you--. what is this? not gone to bed? have you changed your things? nora (in everyday dress). yes, torvald, i have changed my things now. helmer. but what for?--so late as this. nora. i shall not sleep tonight. helmer. but, my dear nora-- nora (looking at her watch). it is not so very late. sit down here, torvald. you and i have much to say to one another. (she sits down at one side of the table.) helmer. nora--what is this?--this cold, set face? nora. sit down. it will take some time; i have a lot to talk over with you. helmer (sits down at the opposite side of the table). you alarm me, nora!--and i don't understand you. nora. no, that is just it. you don't understand me, and i have never understood you either--before tonight. no, you mustn't interrupt me. you must simply listen to what i say. torvald, this is a settling of accounts. helmer. what do you mean by that? nora (after a short silence). isn't there one thing that strikes you as strange in our sitting here like this? helmer. what is that? nora. we have been married now eight years. does it not occur to you that this is the first time we two, you and i, husband and wife, have had a serious conversation? helmer. what do you mean by serious? nora. in all these eight years--longer than that--from the very beginning of our acquaintance, we have never exchanged a word on any serious subject. helmer. was it likely that i would be continually and forever telling you about worries that you could not help me to bear? nora. i am not speaking about business matters. i say that we have never sat down in earnest together to try and get at the bottom of anything. helmer. but, dearest nora, would it have been any good to you? nora. that is just it; you have never understood me. i have been greatly wronged, torvald--first by papa and then by you. helmer. what! by us two--by us two, who have loved you better than anyone else in the world? nora (shaking her head). you have never loved me. you have only thought it pleasant to be in love with me. helmer. nora, what do i hear you saying? nora. it is perfectly true, torvald. when i was at home with papa, he told me his opinion about everything, and so i had the same opinions; and if i differed from him i concealed the fact, because he would not have liked it. he called me his doll-child, and he played with me just as i used to play with my dolls. and when i came to live with you-- helmer. what sort of an expression is that to use about our marriage? nora (undisturbed). i mean that i was simply transferred from papa's hands into yours. you arranged everything according to your own taste, and so i got the same tastes as you--or else i pretended to, i am really not quite sure which--i think sometimes the one and sometimes the other. when i look back on it, it seems to me as if i had been living here like a poor woman--just from hand to mouth. i have existed merely to perform tricks for you, torvald. but you would have it so. you and papa have committed a great sin against me. it is your fault that i have made nothing of my life. helmer. how unreasonable and how ungrateful you are, nora! have you not been happy here? nora. no, i have never been happy. i thought i was, but it has never really been so. helmer. not--not happy! nora. no, only merry. and you have always been so kind to me. but our home has been nothing but a playroom. i have been your doll-wife, just as at home i was papa's doll-child; and here the children have been my dolls. i thought it great fun when you played with me, just as they thought it great fun when i played with them. that is what our marriage has been, torvald. helmer. there is some truth in what you say--exaggerated and strained as your view of it is. but for the future it shall be different. playtime shall be over, and lesson-time shall begin. nora. whose lessons? mine, or the children's? helmer. both yours and the children's, my darling nora. nora. alas, torvald, you are not the man to educate me into being a proper wife for you. helmer. and you can say that! nora. and i--how am i fitted to bring up the children? helmer. nora! nora. didn't you say so yourself a little while ago--that you dare not trust me to bring them up? helmer. in a moment of anger! why do you pay any heed to that? nora. indeed, you were perfectly right. i am not fit for the task. there is another task i must undertake first. i must try and educate myself--you are not the man to help me in that. i must do that for myself. and that is why i am going to leave you now. helmer (springing up). what do you say? nora. i must stand quite alone, if i am to understand myself and everything about me. it is for that reason that i cannot remain with you any longer. helmer. nora, nora! nora. i am going away from here now, at once. i am sure christine will take me in for the night-- helmer. you are out of your mind! i won't allow it! i forbid you! nora. it is no use forbidding me anything any longer. i will take with me what belongs to myself. i will take nothing from you, either now or later. helmer. what sort of madness is this! nora. tomorrow i shall go home--i mean, to my old home. it will be easiest for me to find something to do there. helmer. you blind, foolish woman! nora. i must try and get some sense, torvald. helmer. to desert your home, your husband and your children! and you don't consider what people will say! nora. i cannot consider that at all. i only know that it is necessary for me. helmer. it's shocking. this is how you would neglect your most sacred duties. nora. what do you consider my most sacred duties? helmer. do i need to tell you that? are they not your duties to your husband and your children? nora. i have other duties just as sacred. helmer. that you have not. what duties could those be? nora. duties to myself. helmer. before all else, you are a wife and a mother. nora. i don't believe that any longer. i believe that before all else i am a reasonable human being, just as you are--or, at all events, that i must try and become one. i know quite well, torvald, that most people would think you right, and that views of that kind are to be found in books; but i can no longer content myself with what most people say, or with what is found in books. i must think over things for myself and get to understand them. helmer. can you not understand your place in your own home? have you not a reliable guide in such matters as that?--have you no religion? nora. i am afraid, torvald, i do not exactly know what religion is. helmer. what are you saying? nora. i know nothing but what the clergyman said, when i went to be confirmed. he told us that religion was this, and that, and the other. when i am away from all this, and am alone, i will look into that matter too. i will see if what the clergyman said is true, or at all events if it is true for me. helmer. this is unheard of in a girl of your age! but if religion cannot lead you aright, let me try and awaken your conscience. i suppose you have some moral sense? or--answer me--am i to think you have none? nora. i assure you, torvald, that is not an easy question to answer. i really don't know. the thing perplexes me altogether. i only know that you and i look at it in quite a different light. i am learning, too, that the law is quite another thing from what i supposed; but i find it impossible to convince myself that the law is right. according to it a woman has no right to spare her old dying father, or to save her husband's life. i can't believe that. helmer. you talk like a child. you don't understand the conditions of the world in which you live. nora. no, i don't. but now i am going to try. i am going to see if i can make out who is right, the world or i. helmer. you are ill, nora; you are delirious; i almost think you are out of your mind. nora. i have never felt my mind so clear and certain as tonight. helmer. and is it with a clear and certain mind that you forsake your husband and your children? nora. yes, it is. helmer. then there is only one possible explanation. nora. what is that? helmer. you do not love me anymore. nora. no, that is just it. helmer. nora!--and you can say that? nora. it gives me great pain, torvald, for you have always been so kind to me, but i cannot help it. i do not love you any more. helmer (regaining his composure). is that a clear and certain conviction too? nora. yes, absolutely clear and certain. that is the reason why i will not stay here any longer. helmer. and can you tell me what i have done to forfeit your love? nora. yes, indeed i can. it was tonight, when the wonderful thing did not happen; then i saw you were not the man i had thought you were. helmer. explain yourself better. i don't understand you. nora. i have waited so patiently for eight years; for, goodness knows, i knew very well that wonderful things don't happen every day. then this horrible misfortune came upon me; and then i felt quite certain that the wonderful thing was going to happen at last. when krogstad's letter was lying out there, never for a moment did i imagine that you would consent to accept this man's conditions. i was so absolutely certain that you would say to him: publish the thing to the whole world. and when that was done-- helmer. yes, what then?--when i had exposed my wife to shame and disgrace? nora. when that was done, i was so absolutely certain, you would come forward and take everything upon yourself, and say: i am the guilty one. helmer. nora--! nora. you mean that i would never have accepted such a sacrifice on your part? no, of course not. but what would my assurances have been worth against yours? that was the wonderful thing which i hoped for and feared; and it was to prevent that, that i wanted to kill myself. helmer. i would gladly work night and day for you, nora--bear sorrow and want for your sake. but no man would sacrifice his honour for the one he loves. nora. it is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done. helmer. oh, you think and talk like a heedless child. nora. maybe. but you neither think nor talk like the man i could bind myself to. as soon as your fear was over--and it was not fear for what threatened me, but for what might happen to you--when the whole thing was past, as far as you were concerned it was exactly as if nothing at all had happened. exactly as before, i was your little skylark, your doll, which you would in future treat with doubly gentle care, because it was so brittle and fragile. (getting up.) torvald--it was then it dawned upon me that for eight years i had been living here with a strange man, and had borne him three children--. oh, i can't bear to think of it! i could tear myself into little bits! helmer (sadly). i see, i see. an abyss has opened between us--there is no denying it. but, nora, would it not be possible to fill it up? nora. as i am now, i am no wife for you. helmer. i have it in me to become a different man. nora. perhaps--if your doll is taken away from you. helmer. but to part!--to part from you! no, no, nora, i can't understand that idea. nora (going out to the right). that makes it all the more certain that it must be done. (she comes back with her cloak and hat and a small bag which she puts on a chair by the table.) helmer. nora, nora, not now! wait until tomorrow. nora (putting on her cloak). i cannot spend the night in a strange man's room. helmer. but can't we live here like brother and sister--? nora (putting on her hat). you know very well that would not last long. (puts the shawl round her.) goodbye, torvald. i won't see the little ones. i know they are in better hands than mine. as i am now, i can be of no use to them. helmer. but some day, nora--some day? nora. how can i tell? i have no idea what is going to become of me. helmer. but you are my wife, whatever becomes of you. nora. listen, torvald. i have heard that when a wife deserts her husband's house, as i am doing now, he is legally freed from all obligations towards her. in any case, i set you free from all your obligations. you are not to feel yourself bound in the slightest way, any more than i shall. there must be perfect freedom on both sides. see, here is your ring back. give me mine. helmer. that too? nora. that too. helmer. here it is. nora. that's right. now it is all over. i have put the keys here. the maids know all about everything in the house--better than i do. tomorrow, after i have left her, christine will come here and pack up my own things that i brought with me from home. i will have them sent after me. helmer. all over! all over!--nora, shall you never think of me again? nora. i know i shall often think of you, the children, and this house. helmer. may i write to you, nora? nora. no--never. you must not do that. helmer. but at least let me send you-- nora. nothing--nothing-- helmer. let me help you if you are in want. nora. no. i can receive nothing from a stranger. helmer. nora--can i never be anything more than a stranger to you? nora (taking her bag). ah, torvald, the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen. helmer. tell me what that would be! nora. both you and i would have to be so changed that--. oh, torvald, i don't believe any longer in wonderful things happening. helmer. but i will believe in it. tell me! so changed that--? nora. that our life together would be a real wedlock. goodbye. (she goes out through the hall.) helmer (sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in his hands). nora! nora! (looks round, and rises.) empty. she is gone. (a hope flashes across his mind.) the most wonderful thing of all--? (the sound of a door shutting is heard from below.)