ALVMNVS BOOK FVND 
 
SHE STOOD STILL, FRAMED IN THE DOORWAY" 
 
The Fair Lavinia 
 
 And Others < , 
 
 MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 MCMVII 
 
Copyright, 1902, 1904, 1905, 1906, 1907, by 
 HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 Published October, 1907. 
 
TO 
 MRS. ELIZA FREEMAN 
 

 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 - THE FAIR LAVINIA ......... 3 
 
 , AMARINA S ROSES .......... 43^ 
 
 EGLANTINA ............. 87-? 
 
 THE PINK SHAWLS ..... ? . ^. . . in >/- 
 
 WILLOW- WARE ...... Y ? . . 145 J 
 
 THE SECRET ............ 187 
 
 THE GOLD .............. 231 
 
 THE UNDERLING ........... 257 7 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "SHE STOOD STILL, FRAMED IN THE DOOR 
 WAY" Frontispiece 
 
 "SHE COULD SING MANY A SONG LIKE MARY 
 
 OF ARGYLE " Facing p. 14 
 
 "HE SEIZED AMARINA S HAND AND KISSED IT" " 54 
 
 "SHE PUSHED CHARLOTTE TOWARDS THE 
 
 STUDY DOOR" " 106 
 
 "SHE WAS THINKING OF THE YOUNG MAN 
 
 SHE HAD MET" " 162 
 
 " WHAT A GOOSE YOU ARE! SHE WHISPERED" " 220 
 
 "NO, ROSE, i CAN T. IT S NO USE; i CAN T " " 270 
 
 " l WILL GO THROUGH WITH IT IF YOU SAY 
 
 SO, MOANED ROSE" * 294 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 HPHE spring was wonderful that year: a 
 1 year long ago; it was late, there had been 
 many northeast storms, and frosts, but it was 
 at last fairly triumphant. The trees were 
 forth all together in a silently hustling crowd, 
 and it seemed as if many of them, instead of 
 taking their turns for flowering, and leafing as 
 usual, were pushing to the front, regardless of 
 all the laws of the vernal season. One looking 
 from his window saw leaves of maples deepen 
 ing from rose to green against the fixed green of 
 others which had more direct sunlight. The 
 dark limbs of oaks having dropped their last 
 year s shag of russet, which had endured so 
 long at their knotty knees, to be pierced by 
 violets and spring beauties, showed tufts of 
 gold. Between the greens, ranging in all tones, 
 were the cherry boughs, so aerial with white 
 blooms that it seemed as if they might float 
 away into space, and the slowly deepening gray 
 
 3 
 
AND OTHERS 
 
 and rose and white of the apple-trees. The 
 lilacs were tipped with brownish pink ; the snow 
 ball-bushes bore faint green spheres ; the birches 
 were clad as lightly as nymphs, revealing their 
 graceful limbs, white with the passion of the 
 spring, through dim clouds of amber green; the 
 willows wept with tears of liquid gold, and 
 everywhere were the gold bosses of the dande 
 lions upon the green shield of spring. 
 
 Young Harry Fielding, pacing up and down 
 before the house of Parson Samuel .Greene, where 
 he was being fitted for Harvard, could not keep 
 his mind upon the learned book in his hand. 
 
 /He too was affected by the mad, sweet turmoil 
 of the spring^ Greek imagery became real to 
 him, and he was one to whom the real became 
 always most fully evident through the lens of 
 fancy. It was as if he had come suddenly upon 
 a dance of nymphs led by the god Pan under the 
 green arch of the trees. Wild music filled his 
 brain : that music which the first man had heard 
 and followed. His own feet almost followed it. 
 This music began and ended in the earth and 
 the joy of life, but that in itself seemed eternal. 
 
 /The earth seemed no longer a passing and vain 
 
 ( show, but an endless pageant of rapture. Harry 
 
 felt that his state of mind must be sinful, lie 
 
 had always worn his New England conscience 
 
 as a species of stay for his moral back, as the 
 
 4 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 women of that day wore busks at their innocent 
 bosoms. Now it swayed like a birch branch, 
 bearing him along with it in a dizzy arc of de 
 light. Had he been a Catholic, he would have 
 crossed himself; as it was, his soul sent up a \ 
 petition to the stern Divinity of whom he had \ 
 been taught. But that stern God suddenly 
 assumed a smiling face. He looked upon him 
 through the eyes of countless \k5wers ; He breath 
 ed love and reassurance through all the soft 
 voices of the spring. Harry was gazing up with 
 great black eyes, as full of wondering delight 
 as a child s, at the blue crystal of the sky, 
 against which tossed the gold feathers of the 
 trees, when another young man, emerging from 
 the parson s gate, purposely collided with him. 
 Harry s hand which did not hold the book 
 clinched involuntarily, and he frowned; for 
 although destined for the ministry, he had 
 fighting blood in his veins. Then he laughed, 
 for it was only John Brooks, who was always 
 playing off a jest upon some one whenever he 
 was able. 
 
 John Brooks was tall and loose-jointed and 
 clumsy e His blond, streaky hair fell in straight 
 lines over his high stock, which cut his double 
 chin and forced his head back into a pose of 
 obstinacy which well expressed him, in spite 
 of the humorous twinkle in his prominent blue 
 
 5 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 eyes. He clapped a heavy hand upon the 
 other s shoulder. "What are you mooning 
 about, sir?" he asked. 
 
 "I am not mooning." 
 
 1 Not mooning? You are walking on the 
 moon instead of the earth, and the wool which 
 the moon-calves shed is clinging to you. The 
 spring fever has got in your blood, brother. 
 Purges both for the body and mind you need. 
 I will prescribe 
 
 Henry gave the other young man an im 
 patient shove. "Enough of this nonsense!" 
 he cried, angrily. 
 
 "Nay, but wait a bit, sir. You have not 
 heard my prescription. Tis no bitter pill, but 
 the sweetest morsel that ever was. Tis my 
 cousin Lavinia Creevy, otherwise known as 
 the fair Lavinia, and well she deserves to 
 be so known. She comes by stage this after 
 noon with my aunt Elizabeth, to be present 
 at the closing exercises. So look your best, 
 Harry, and be on the alert, for the fair Lavinia 
 is well versed in book-lore. She has some 
 knowledge of Latin even; and yet she is a 
 notable housewife. Shall I tell you how she 
 is favored, Harry?" 
 
 Fielding looked at his book. "I have no 
 time," he replied, in a curious, wavering, fas 
 cinated voice. 
 
 6 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 The other laughed. "That is what time is 
 for in the spring," he said. "The fair Lavinia 
 is tall and slender, but not too slender, and she 
 has the way of a gentle and good woman; and 
 yet she can laugh, when the matter be worth 
 laughter, not giggling at naught, as is the way 
 with some maids. She is discreet and modest, 
 and she is not shamefaced, since she knows 
 w r ell her own worth, though she is not puffed 
 up by it. She has no megrims, nor need to 
 dose with salts, and the like, for swooning, like 
 most of her sex. For the rest, she is as fair as 
 a lily, and it seems as if her veins ran silver; 
 and her eyes are like violets, and her throat is 
 long and white, and drooping in the swath of 
 lace which veils its fairness; and her hair is 
 long, with curls over the ears, and caught up 
 with a high comb, and shining like gold. And 
 her cheeks and lips are like blushing roses. 
 She is the belle of all Whitfield, and indeed of 
 the whole county; and yet she has seen no 
 one to whom her heart inclined, although she 
 is so gentle to all, and so pitying that she has 
 not love to give them. Sometimes it seems to 
 me that the maid will wed without loving, so 
 sorrowful she is for lack of love to return for 
 love, and so willing to bestow her sweetness 
 and kindness upon all." 
 
 "Nay, that she must not do," cried Fielding. 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Then his face flushed angrily at the other s 
 laugh. 
 
 " Caught you are already at the mere tale of 
 a maid s charms," cried John Brooks, with an 
 elfish twinkle, "and what will you be at the 
 sight of her? Your mouth is all ready for 
 sweets, Harry. Make ready yourself in your 
 best before the Whit field stage arrives. Is 
 any of your own family coming, Harry?" 
 
 "My father and Isabel Done." 
 
 "Isabel Done?" 
 
 "Isabel Done is a distant cousin, an orphan, 
 who has lived with us since my mother died, 
 and keeps hou e for my father." 
 
 "Young?" 
 
 "A year younger than I." 
 
 "Is she fair to see?" 
 
 "I know not." 
 
 "You know not? Why, have you not seen 
 her, man?" 
 
 "As often as the face of the clock." 
 
 "And you know not how she looks? Then 
 she is not fair." 
 
 "Who said she was not overfair? She is as 
 fair as any. None ever said Isabel was not fair. " 
 
 "And I dare say she has a disposition of the 
 best." 
 
 " Who said she had not would need to reckon 
 with me," cried Harry, hotly. 
 
 8 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 Brooks laughed. "Well, Harry," he said, 
 "put on that flowered waistcoat of yours be 
 fore the Whitfield stage comes in, bringing the 
 fair Lavinia." Brooks laughed again mock 
 ingly at the eager look in Harry s eyes, but the 
 boy was too possessed by the fair image which 
 his friend had conjured up to notice the mock 
 ery. A strong imagination had Harry Fielding, 
 and was given to writing poetry upon the sly, 
 and his mental vision projected itself towards 
 the future and the unseen to such an extent 
 that he had a species of mental short-sighted 
 ness, but knew it not./ Dreams were to him 
 more real than verities, and a verity to become ^ 
 substantial to hi < must needs be transposed / 
 into a dream. All this John Brooks, who had 
 a wit and understanding beyond his years, 
 knew, and regaled himself upon, although his 
 friend knew nothing of it. Being of such a 
 serious and enthusiastic nature, he had little 
 sense of humor. 
 
 After John Brooks had left him, he continued 
 to pace up and down before the parson s house, 
 with its hip-roof and projecting second story, 
 and its garden bordered by box, which was 
 coming forth bravely. Harry smelled the 
 strange acrid odor of the box, wrought into a 
 bouquet of perfume with musk and clove-pinks 
 and the almond of fruit blossoms and the vital 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 breath of new grass, and now he/ could also 
 realize emanating from his own soui a fragrance 
 which accorded well with that of the spring. 
 The fair Lavinia was what he had so innocently 
 and wonderingly missed. Now he had her 
 image close to his heart, as close as the maid 
 herself could ever be perhaps closer. He saw 
 her: that gentle, pitying creature of ivory and 
 rose and silver, fashioned like some sweet idol 
 of the emotions. He saw her before him with 
 the eyes of his spirit ; he noted the radiant droop 
 of her golden curls, the mottled shell of the 
 comb which crowned them, the wonderful soft 
 radiance of her blue eyes, and her tender smile, 
 which withheld nothing and offered nothing, 
 but was wholly maidenly, and he smiled at her 
 with his whole soul, and loved her with his 
 whole soul. 
 
 The Whitfield stage was half an hour late 
 that afternoon, on account of one of the lead 
 ers casting a shoe and having to delay at a 
 smithy. The Boston stage, which was prop 
 erly due some time later, arrived first. Harry, 
 in a brave-flowered waistcoat, was at the gate 
 with John Brooks l nd some other of his fellows. 
 Harry s face fell when the stage came fully into 
 sight, for he had thought it would come from 
 Whitfield, but he stepped forward to welcome 
 his father and Isabel Done. However, only 
 
 10 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 Isabel, clad in dove gray, with a little gray 
 mantle and a bonnet with a gray plume, alight 
 ed to greet him. His father had been detained 
 in Boston by a stress of business. Isabel paled 
 a little when she first saw Harry, although she 
 had but little color to lose in any case, but she 
 greeted him with a gentle dignity and kindness, 
 as was her wont, and pointed prettily her little 
 satin-shod foot as she advanced up the box- 
 bordered path to the parson s house, with Harry 
 by her side and the admiring glances of all the 
 young men upon her. She saw these glances 
 without seeming to see them, but she would 
 have given them all for one such glance from 
 Harry Fielding s eyes. She was a beauty, 
 albeit of a singular type. Not a trace of rose 
 was there in her smoothly curved cheek, which 
 had instead a warm ivory-color, perhaps ob 
 tained through some Spanish ancestor whose 
 blood had mixed with the Anglo-Saxon years 
 ago. Her eyes were blue, with thick fair brows 
 and lashes, and her hair rippling in great ripples 
 so matched her ivory-toned skin that she might 
 have been a statue for her whole coloring, ex 
 cept the faint rose of her lips. She was no 
 sooner in her bedroom removing the dust of 
 travel than John Brooks had Harry Fielding 
 by the velvet collar and was shaking him. 
 "And you knew not how that beauty looked," 
 
 ii 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 cried he. "Fie! man, hast no eyes in thine 
 head?" 
 
 /Fielding shook himself free. "Isabel is well 
 enough to see," he replied, "but I have always 
 seen her, and, to tell the truth, she looks to me 
 as like other girls as one of those pinks in the 
 bed yonder looks like all the other pinks." 
 With that Fielding pointed to a bed of pinks 
 which were bursting from their calyxes with 
 excess of bloom and exhaling a breath of honey 
 and cloves. 
 
 Brooks looked at him contemptuously. "As 
 much like other girls as one of the pinks like 
 the others!" mocked he. " She is a rose among 
 common blooms, or a lily. You are thinking 
 but of the fair Lavinia. How near is the cousin- 
 ship between you and that beauty?" 
 
 "Not near," replied Harry, absently, star 
 ing down the road, from which columns of 
 golden dust were slowly rising in the light of 
 the setting sun. "I hear the Whitfield stage." 
 
 "Yes, so do I," mocked Brooks; "and now 
 for the fair Lavinia, to whom without even one 
 glimpse of her you have fallen captive!" Then 
 the great stage rolled up with tramp of hoof and 
 toot of horn and crack of whip, and the pas 
 sengers swarmed forth. There were many, for 
 a number of the young men who attended Par 
 son Greene s school came from that section of 
 
 12 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 the country. Fielding watched with his heart 
 thumping. He saw his friend John Brooks step 
 forward and greet with a kiss a small maiden 
 who resembled him closely. Then he watched 
 for the fair Lavinia; but after John Brooks s 
 sister descended a monstrous stout lady, per 
 spiring in a purple shot silk, with a long, black 
 wrought-lace veil to her bonnet, which the wind 
 caught and so enveloped her that she was a 
 long time in getting untangled and being able 
 to alight at all. Then came two gentlemen, 
 with columnar necks stiffly set in high stocks, 
 and a little girl with tight braids of flaxen hair 
 tied with blue ribbons standing out at right 
 angles, and dragged at the hand of her mother, 
 then an elderly and thin woman in black who 
 greeted a young man with a burst of soft tears, 
 and divers others. At last the stage was 
 emptied, the driver gathered up his reins and 
 drove away, and there was no fair Lavinia. 
 Brooks s sister had entered the house with the 
 rest, and Harry approached him hesitatingly. 
 Brooks shot a queer side wise glance at him. 
 He was switching with his slender cane a clump 
 of heartsease which grew beside the path. 
 
 "Your sister came alone," said Harry, and 
 he also switched with his cane at the hearts 
 ease. 
 
 " Yes, Harry; the fair Lavinia has, what one 
 13 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 so fair should be exempt from, an attack of the 
 quinsy, and the doctor thought it not safe for 
 her to take the journey." 
 
 Harry s face fell. He did not look at his 
 friend, whose face was full of high enjoyment. 
 
 The two presently began pacing up and 
 down before the house, and again Brooks de 
 scanted upon the charms of Lavinia Creevy, 
 and poor Harry s face lengthened more and 
 more because she had not arrived. Then ap 
 peared Eliza Brooks, gayly arrayed in a shot 
 silk of olive green, wearing a fine gold chain 
 with a locket, and a high shell comb. Although 
 so much like her brother, she was so fair a copy 
 of him that she almost seemed a beauty beside 
 him. She courtesied prettily to Harry, and there 
 being yet some time before supper, she strolled 
 down the road with him, while Brooks went 
 back to the house. John Brooks s sister Eliza 
 echoed to the full her brother s praise of La 
 vinia Creevy. She said even more, were it pos 
 sible, and enlarged greatly upon her accom 
 plishments and sweetness of disposition. 
 
 "And there she lies at home suffering with 
 a quinsy, the sweetheart, while I am junketing 
 abroad," said she. "I would not have come 
 had she not so sweetly urged it upon me, and 
 had not dear Aunt Elizabeth, who is so good a 
 nurse, been with her and also urged it. Dear 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 Lavinia, she even wept at the thought that I 
 might lose my pleasure upon her account. 
 Never was such a darling and such a beauty." 
 
 When Harry Fielding seated himself at the 
 supper-table by the side of Eliza, he had no 
 thought for the light biscuits and preserves 
 and cakes and tea, and cream in silver jugs. 
 He had no thought for any one or any thing 
 except that fair Lavinia Creevy, although now 
 and then he looked with a kindly glance of 
 good-fellowship at Isabel Done, and saw to it 
 that she was well served. 
 
 Isabel looked to the mind of John Brooks, 
 and the minds of many others, wonderfully 
 fair in a gown of canary-colored silk, cut lowv 
 enough to reveal the beautiful nape of her 
 neck. After supper she was surrounded, and 
 especially when it was discovered that she had 
 a sweet voice, and could sing many a song like 
 "Mary of Argyle" and "Sweet Afton," accom 
 panying herself .upon the little piano inlaid 
 with mother-of-pearl. Harry sat in a window- 
 seat with Eliza Brooks and listened, and talked 
 between the songs, and always the talk turned 
 upon the fair Lavinia Creevy, although at last 
 Eliza spoke of Isabel Done. " How the young 
 men cluster about her! It is like bees around 
 a cherry blossom," said she. 
 
 Harry gave a start and a quick frown, and 
 15 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 looked at the cousin whose fair head gleamed 
 dully among her swarm of admiring swains. 
 Then his face relaxed as Eliza spoke again of 
 the fair Lavinia. "Rather, I should say, as 
 young men flock around Lavinia Creevy," said 
 she, and was upon her favorite topic again, 
 while Harry listened with intense interest, al 
 though now and then his eyes wandered tow 
 ards Isabel in her window with her cluster of 
 admirers around her. 
 
 After Isabel had played and sung again, 
 Harry turned to Eliza. "Can Miss Creevy 
 play music?" asked he. 
 
 "She plays the harp like an angel," replied 
 Eliza, fervently, but she shrugged her shoulders 
 a little and her eyes wandered towards the 
 other young men. Presently she slipped away 
 although Harry gazed ruefully after her, for 
 he wished to hear more of the fair Lavinia - 
 and sought her brother. He was about to seek 
 Isabel Done, but he turned at his sister s touch 
 on his arm. "John, John," whispered Eliza, 
 "find me some one save that youth, some one 
 who has not so much fancy and sharper eyes. 
 I have not worn my best gown for nothing, nor 
 my gold chain. I will not be looked past for 
 Lavinia." 
 
 John laughed again, and stayed, with a touch 
 on the elbow, a youth who was on his way to 
 
 16 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 Isabel. "William Preston," said he, and the 
 young man stopped, although with a passing 
 annoyance. However, when John presented him 
 to his sister, and Eliza made a pretty courtesy, 
 and flashed her shrewd bright eyes at him, and 
 smiled, he was not at all ill content, and fol 
 lowed her to another window-seat, and quitted 
 her not during the whole evening, nor indeed 
 for long for his whole life, since they were 
 affianced soon after, and married when he had 
 completed his college course. 
 
 Harry Fielding, being left by Eliza, sat a 
 moment by himself hesitating, then he also 
 sauntered over to his cousin, and sat down 
 upon the outskirts of the throng. He could 
 barely see the dull yellow gleam of her head, 
 and occasionally the soft flash of her blue eyes, 
 and the turn of her cheek as she spoke in an 
 swer to some question. 
 
 John Brooks came and sat beside him, but 
 gradually pushed his way into the inner circle. 
 Harry looked after him with a frown. For 
 some reason he did not like it that John Brooks 
 should so openly admire his cousin. Presently, 
 therefore, he, too, almost rudely, forced his 
 own way to Isabel, and spoke to her with al 
 most harsh authority. " Isabel, " said he, " pray 
 come with me. I have something to say to 
 you." 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 But Isabel looked at him gently and pleas 
 antly, and answered in her sweet, low voice 
 with a question. "What is it, Harry?" said 
 she. "Cannot the matter wait until to-mor 
 row?" 
 
 "No, it must be to-night," replied Harry. 
 He felt his face flushing before the half-indig 
 nant, half -wondering eyes of his mates, but 
 Isabel rose without another word and followed 
 him amid the crestfallen young men. 
 
 "Whither would you take me, Harry?" 
 asked she, and there was a slight reproach in 
 her tone, but at the same time a tender cadence. 
 
 "Come out and walk up and down before 
 the house with me; tis pleasant moonlight," 
 replied Harry. 
 
 "No, that I cannot do," said Isabel, firmly, 
 "for it would make talk, and I am here alone 
 with no older woman." 
 
 " But you are as my sister, Isabel." 
 
 "I am not your sister," said she, curtly. 
 " Come and sit with me in yonder window-seat, 
 and say what you have to say if you cannot 
 wait until to-morrow." 
 
 So saying, Isabel settled herself with a soft 
 flirt of canary-colored skirts in a window-seat, 
 and Harry sat beside her, but was silent for a 
 moment. Isabel looked away from him, and 
 spoke first. "Well, what is this so important 
 
 18 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 matter, Harry?" said she, and her ivory cheeks 
 were flushed with the faintest rose. 
 
 Then Harry spoke, not even looking at her, 
 and began asking, with a fine assumption of 
 anxiety, as to the cause of his father s not 
 coming. 
 
 Isabel tapped the carpet with her little foot, 
 the rose faded from her cheeks, and she an 
 swered with veiled impatience. " Why, Harry, 
 I have told you," said she. "The Lone Star 
 from the Indies has but just come on, and your 
 father had reason to think something wrong 
 with the cargo and could not leave. Was that 
 why you brought me over here, with such 
 an assumption of high authority before your 
 friends? I will not have it so again." 
 
 " Nay, but, sister," said Harry, catching at a 
 fold of her canary skirt, which she immediate 
 ly released gently but firmly, "I think it not 
 entirely proper for a young woman to be so 
 beset with young men." 
 
 "More proper than to be beset by one," re 
 plied she, with a toss of her head ; "but you can 
 remain and protect me, Harry, for, faith! I see 
 them all coming this way again." 
 
 As a matter of fact, the whole bevy of ad 
 mirers were near ing her with straggling steps. 
 Harry frowned, but he remained and listened 
 to what he esteemed the most foolish speeches 
 
 19 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 from his friends. However, he could find no 
 fault with Isabel, for she bore herself with such 
 modesty that it would have seemed prudery 
 had it not been for her gentleness, and kind 
 ness. Still, Harry was annoyed, for he had 
 wished to have her to himself, that he might 
 confide in her concerning the fair Lavinia 
 Creevy. Isabel had a power of grave under 
 standing and sympathy, and he anticipated 
 much comfort and encouragement from her. 
 He had no thought of confiding in his father 
 until all was settled. A stern man was Harry s 
 father, Deacon Cyrus Fielding, and withal had 
 a vein of whimsical humor and sarcasm which 
 further intimidated. But Isabel was different. 
 He could look to her, he was confident, although 
 she seemed somewhat contrary that night, for 
 the fullest sympathy and assistance when once 
 he should confide his secret to her. 
 
 Harry sat beside the girl, with the soft canary- 
 colored folds of her gown touching his velvet 
 knee, and thought of the fair Lavinia, and his 
 thought was like a sacred song. His whole 
 being was filled with such a rapture of bliss 
 that he became glorified in his own realization 
 of himself. He knew himself as the lover and 
 worshipper of that marvellous Lavinia, and it 
 was as if he had never known himself before. 
 He held his head high. He listened with con- 
 
 20 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 tempt to the talk of his mates. He thought 
 how differently he would talk to Her. But 
 when Isabel spoke he considered that no doubt 
 the fair Lavinia had a voice to the full as sweet 
 and low, and as full of maidenly dignity as hers, 
 He glanced at Isabel s delicate little hands, and 
 knew for certain that Lavinia s would not be 
 one whit less delicate and taper-fingered, and 
 he thought that Lavinia, who doubtless had 
 a fine taste for the adorning of such a lovely 
 person as hers, must of a surety possess a canary- 
 colored silk gown. It seemed to him that he 
 could not wait until he returned to Boston to 
 confide in Isabel; he hoped for an opportunity 
 to do so the next day. But not one moment 
 could he secure until the morning after their 
 return, when his father, who was an importer 
 of East India goods, had gone to his place of 
 business, and Isabel was about her usual morn 
 ing tasks, one of which was the cutting of a 
 loaf of sugar into regular blocks. This was 
 never intrusted to the black servants, lest they 
 be tempted to purloin the precious sweet. 
 Isabel that morning was cutting the sugar in 
 an arbor in the great garden behind the house 
 upon the bank of the Charles. Harry had in 
 veigled her there, for the sake of privacy, carry 
 ing the sugar and the implement for cutting. 
 There was a table in the arbor, and a bench 
 
 21 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 running around the sides. Harry sat beside 
 Isabel on this bench, and she began her task, 
 and the shadows of rose-leaves, so young that 
 they turned silvery in the wind, were over them, 
 and the sweetest odors of flowers were all about, 
 and the singing of birds, and beneath all the 
 racing ripples of the Charles, which gleamed 
 in the distance like a silver ribbon studded 
 with diamonds. Harry hesitated. Isabel cut 
 the sugar, and it was long before Harry could 
 make up his mind to speak. Finally he did, 
 looking away from Isabel. 
 
 "I have something which I have long wished 
 to say to you," he began, and Isabel s cheeks 
 flamed and her firm hands cutting the sugar 
 trembled. "It is about a wonderful lady of 
 whom John Brooks told me," he continued, 
 and Isabel s cheeks assumed their wonted hue 
 and her hands were as steady as ever. 
 
 " Yes ?" she said, with the loveliest and sweet 
 est tone of interrogation, just as Harry had 
 known that she would speak. 
 
 Then Harry began with his mad raving about 
 the fair Lavinia : that maid whom he had never 
 seen except through another man s account of 
 her. He poured out his love for this unen- 
 countered divinity with no restraint. Not a 
 muscle of Isabel Bone s beautiful mouth twitch 
 ed. If her eyes twinkled with the absurdity of 
 
 22 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 this headlong male of her species he could not 
 see, for her lids concealed them, so intent she 
 was upon her sugar-cutting. 
 
 Harry raved on and on. His cheeks burned, 
 his blue eyes gleamed. He made gestures with 
 his nervous hands. "How shall I get to see 
 her? For, oh, Isabel, I think I shall die if I 
 see her not soon!" finally stammered out this 
 foolish youth. And with that down on his 
 knees he went and hid his face in the creamy 
 folds of the girl s gown. 
 
 Isabel put forth one of her hands and push 
 ed gently but firmly his head away. "Rise, 
 Harry," said she. "It is over-familiarity, and 
 I like it not." 
 
 "But, Isabel, you are as a sister to me." 
 
 "I am not your sister, Harry." 
 
 " But you seem like one ; and, Isabel dear, 
 the fondest wish of my heart is that my fair 
 Lavinia may speak like you, and be like you 
 in character; and, Isabel, you must always 
 dwell with us, for I could never bear to live 
 apart from you, in such brotherly affection I 
 hold you." With that down went Harry s 
 head on her lap again and he was half weeping. 
 
 Isabel started and looked at the head in her 
 lap with a curious expression of mirth, of be 
 wilderment, and anger. "But, Harry," said 
 she, " it does not seem to come into your mind 
 3 23 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 that the poor Isabel Done may also have her 
 chance to wed and have her own home." 
 
 Then it was Harry s turn to start. He raised 
 his head and stared at her with such consterna 
 tion that it was all she could do to avoid down 
 right laughter. "But Isabel," stammered 
 Harry, "how can I keep house without you?" 
 
 " But you will have your fair Lavinia, Harry." 
 
 "But I have always had you, Isabel!" 
 
 "That is the very reason why you should 
 have me not. Why should I be debarred from 
 wedding, and remain a spinster all my life? 
 lAm I so monstrous to see?" 
 
 "No! For, oh, Isabel, I hope nay, I am 
 sure that Lavinia will have a look like you, 
 from what John said. But her hair shines like 
 gold and her cheeks are as rosy as if painted; 
 and, oh, Isabel, you must live with us! But, 
 oh, I have never seen her yet; and, oh, Isabel, 
 how shall I see her ? for I shall die if I do not 
 soon. Such a longing is in my soul that you 
 dream not what it is." 
 
 "Remove your head, Harry." 
 
 "Why? For you are like a sister, and the 
 [ hunger for Lavinia is less sore when I am near 
 1 you." 
 
 "For all that, remove your head, for I like 
 it not, and it is simple enough for you to see 
 her. 
 
 24 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 Harry raised his head and gazed eagerly at 
 Isabel. "How?" 
 
 "Miss Eliza Brooks invited me to spend a 
 week with her in Whitfield this summer, and 
 she said, moreover, that her brother would in 
 vite you, Harry." 
 
 "Oh, Isabel!" panted Harry. 
 
 "I declined," said Isabel "Still" 
 
 "Oh, Isabel, write and tell her that you will 
 go, for my sake," pleaded Harry, "for I shall 
 die if I see her not soon." 
 
 Isabel made a little impatient movement of 
 her shoulders as she cut the sugar. " People do 
 not die so easily," said she ; " but if your heart is 
 so set upon it, I will write to Miss Eliza Brooks 
 and say to her that upon reflection I accept 
 her kind invitation if she sees fit to renew it." 
 
 That very afternoon Harry Fielding took a 
 letter folded and sealed to the tavern whence 
 the Whitfield stage started. Then in due time 
 came a letter from Miss Eliza Brooks, and also 
 one from John, and it was settled that in mid 
 summer Harry and Isabel should spend a week 
 in Whitfield. 
 
 Such a store of flowered waistcoats and fine 
 shirts he had that his little hair trunk could 
 scarce!^ be closed. Isabel had made many 
 shirts for him and daintily hemstitched linen 
 handkerchiefs. 
 
 2 S 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 One day Deacon Fielding came upon the girl 
 as she sat sewing for Harry in the arbor; the 
 young man himself, who had been mooning 
 about the fair Lavinia, had retreated down a 
 box-alley towards the Charles at the sight of 
 his approaching father. 
 
 "Why not take a few stitches for yourself, 
 Isabel?" said Deacon Fielding. 
 
 Isabel smiled and took another dainty stitch. 
 " I have all I require, thanks to your generosity, 
 and all my needle-work was finished in the 
 spring," she said. 
 
 "Even if it be so, better stitch for yourself, 
 or for some man who has eyes in his head," 
 Deacon Fielding. 
 
 Isabel tried to laugh gayly. "Indeed, sir, 
 your son has eyes," she said. 
 
 "Eyes which see not," returned Deacon 
 Fielding, with a glance at the slender form of 
 the dreamer disappearing down the alley, and 
 another of acuteness at the girl, who looked 
 exceedingly fair to him, as she sat sewing with 
 the leaf -shadows playing over her. " There are 
 those who see and yet know not that they see, 
 and those who only come to know the real 
 through dreams," he added. "Maybe my son 
 is of that kind." 
 
 Isabel blushed until the soft red tinted all 
 the ivory of her face and neck. She bent her 
 
 26 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 head low, but there was a mischievous tilt to 
 her mouth. 
 
 The next day she and Harry started for Whit- 
 field. Harry sat beside Isabel in the stage 
 and dreamed all the way; but once he gazed 
 admiringly at his cousin, who looked wondrous 
 fair in her travelling-gown, and whispered in 
 her ear. "I am sure that my Lavinia will 
 resemble you, Isabel," he said, and Isabel 
 laughed, although a little sadly. 
 
 A grievous disappointment was before Harry 
 Fielding, for when they reached Whitfield, John 
 Brooks drew him aside and whispered that 
 Lavinia Creevy was not at home. " I know it 
 will be a sad disappointment to you, Harry," 
 John said, "but it was only this morning that 
 she went by stage to Sharon to nurse an aged 
 great-aunt who lies ill of a fever and lives 
 alone." 
 
 "When will she return?" asked Harry, piti 
 fully. 
 
 "Not while you are here, and for much 
 longer," replied John, "for her aunt has a 
 slow fever." 
 
 When Harry sat down to the well-spread 
 supper-table he glanced at Isabel, and knew 
 that she had heard the sad news. He received 
 in return a look of the sweetest commiseration, 
 and as soon as she could draw him apart after 
 
 27 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 the meal, a consoling word. Tis too bad, 
 Harry," said she, in a whisper. 
 
 "I had so counted upon it, Isabel." 
 
 "Do not despair, for I will invite Eliza and 
 her brother and your Lavinia to visit us." 
 
 "Oh, will you do that, Isabel, and before I 
 go to college?" cried Harry. 
 
 "Hush!" said she. "That I will. Take 
 heart, Harry." 
 
 But even that fine plan miscarried, for Eliza 
 and John indeed paid the promised visit to 
 Boston, but the fair Lavinia did not come; she 
 was so wearied, they said, with the nursing of 
 her great-aunt, who had died of the fever, and 
 left her only two silver teaspoons and a mourn 
 ing-ring, that she was unable to take the jour 
 ney. So Harry missed yet again seeing his 
 fair Lavinia, and in his distress he did not 
 notice John Brooks s infatuation for Isabel. 
 Indeed, Eliza helped to conceal the fact, for 
 she was ever at Harry s elbow talking about 
 Lavinia and increasing his mad imagination 
 and desire for her, that her brother might have 
 his chance to talk alone with Isabel The 
 afternoon of the day before they returned to 
 Whitfield, John Brooks, coming upon Isabel in 
 the arbor, spoke his mind, and went down on 
 his knees before her and asked her to marry 
 him. But to his astonishment she answered 
 
 28 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 not even courteously, but turned upon him in 
 a sudden anger strange to see in her, 
 
 "Think you I see not through your wiles, 
 Master John Brooks?" she cried, her face 
 flaming. 
 
 John Brooks stammered in reply that he 
 knew not what she meant. 
 
 " Well you know what I mean, you and your 
 sister Eliza," cried Isabel. "I would not be 
 discourteous to a guest, nor treat with un 
 graciousness an honest man who does me the 
 honor to ask me to be his wife, but well you 
 know what I mean, and Isabel Done weds with 
 no man who stoops to subterfuge to win her." 
 
 " What mean you ?" stammered John again. 
 1 Tis an idle question you ask, since you 
 know, but if you will have it, here it is : there 
 is no fair Lavinia Creevy, and you but invented 
 the tale for a jest, and also and also " Here 
 Isabel herself stopped short and paled, and 
 tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 But John Brooks gazed at her, and there 
 was nothing save honesty in his prominent 
 eyes. "You wrong me, Mistress Done," he 
 said, fervently, " for as I live there is a Lavinia 
 Creevy, and she lives with us, as I have said." 
 
 Isabel s pale face grew rigid as the dead. 
 "Are you speaking the truth, Master Brooks?" 
 
 "I am speaking the truth," declared John 
 29 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Brooks, "and Lavinia Creevy lives, and I have 
 not made a jest of Harry by pretending her 
 existence, and " 
 
 "But you cannot deny that you have so 
 descanted upon her fairness for a purpose," 
 said Isabel; but she stammered again, and 
 again the color stained her face. 
 
 Brooks regarded her curiously. His face 
 fell. "I descanted upon the fairness of La 
 vinia before I had ever seen you, Mistress 
 Done," he said, "and you have but to ask 
 Harry. 1 
 
 "I need not ask Harry," replied Isabel, in 
 a lifeless tone, and again she was pale. "I 
 have no interest in your fair Lavinia, except, 
 of course, pleasure that aught so wondrous fair 
 should grace the earth. Your word as to her 
 existence is sufficient, Master Brooks; but as 
 to the other which you asked of me, I crave 
 your pardon if I have done you an injustice, 
 and thank you humbly for the honor, but your 
 wife I cannot be. I have no wish to wed. I 
 am more content with a single life and shall 
 be more content." 
 
 "Then it is " began John Brooks, rising 
 and staring at her with a sort of repressed ury. 
 But she stopped him. 
 
 11 Not another word," said she. " Tis naught 
 to you nor any other man why I remain unwed, 
 
 30 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 but thee I should wed not in any case." Then 
 she was on her feet and moving away with a 
 stately tread. 
 
 Harry wondered why John Brooks was so 
 silent that night and unlike himself; but when 
 they met a few weeks later at Harvard, fair 
 even then, he was the same as ever, ready with 
 a jest and a quibble and singing still the praises 
 of the fair Lavinia. Harry stood well in his 
 class, in spite of the ever-present and ever- 
 ungratified romance of his heart. He grad 
 uated with high honors, but even his gradua 
 tion was marred of its glory, because of the 
 absence of the fair Lavinia, on whose appear 
 ance he had counted most confidently, having 
 been disappointed in meeting her through all 
 his college years. 
 
 He was so sadly taken aback by his disap 
 pointment that on his return home Isabel Done 
 was at her wit s end to comfort him. So dis 
 traught was he, sighing and sleepless and com 
 posing poetry, which had but small merit, and 
 threatening to relinquish his chosen profession 
 of the ministry and go to the world s end, ship 
 ping before the mast if his father forbade him 
 to go on business, that poor Isabel herself was 
 almost distracted. 
 
 One night, after Harry had gone to his room 
 and could be heard pacing overhead, Deacon 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Fielding spoke to Isabel. " I doubt if my son 
 has a call," he said; "so restless and so ill at 
 ease he seems that I doubt it much." 
 
 "Oh, sir," Isabel cried, eagerly, "I doubt it 
 not at all." 
 
 "I have questioned him well concerning his 
 belief in the doctrines," pursued Deacon Field 
 ing, " and so has Parson Ackley at my request, 
 and we doubt. He seemeth exceedingly weak 
 and even of a rebellious spirit concerning some 
 points. He has too many romantic irrtaginings 
 and too little of the steadfastness of faith which 
 regards not itself. I question whether it be 
 not wise to give up the dearest wish of my 
 heart to see my son standing in the pul 
 pit preaching the Word to the ungodly and 
 send him to the Indies for sugar and molas 
 ses." 
 
 But Isabel pleaded hard, saying that she had 
 no doubt whatever of Harry s calling, and 
 Deacon Fielding agreed to wait a few days 
 before making a decision. 
 
 The next morning Isabel proposed to Harry 
 that she should paint a miniature of the fair 
 Lavinia according to his and her conception of 
 her, and Harry snatched at the suggestion as 
 eagerly as a child. "Think you that you can 
 do it, Isabel?" he asked. "I know you have 
 a pretty skill at painting as pretty, perhaps, 
 
 32 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 as Lavinia herself but think you that you can 
 do it?" 
 
 Isabel replied that she could but try: that 
 she had heard the fair maiden described so 
 often that it seemed verily to her as if she were 
 before her very face. 
 
 "And so it seemeth to me!" cried Harry, 
 wildly, and his blue eyes blazed wistfully at 
 Isabel s face, which was strangely and palely 
 beautiful as ever. 
 
 So it happened that in some three days 
 time Isabel came to Harry with a miniature, 
 and she mentioned not how she had painted 
 it standing before her looking-glass, and her 
 heart beat wildly as she showed it to him. But 
 Harry snatched at it. "Tis she herself!" he 
 cried, and gazed with rapture. It was the 
 miniature of a great beauty, rosily tinted as to 
 cheeks and lips, with a color as of rose on pearl 
 on tip of chin, and eyes like blue gems, and 
 hair shining like gold. " Tis wonderful!" cried 
 Harry, and he kissed the miniature in a trans 
 port, while Isabel s face was at once distressed 
 and triumphant. 
 
 The miniature was painted on a small oval 
 of ivory, and Harry had it set in gold and wore 
 it always around his neck, concealed by his 
 linen, which Isabel had stitched, and it was such 
 a comfort as never was to the childlike man. 
 
 33 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Straightway, in spite of another disappoint 
 ment as to seeing in verity the fair Lavinia 
 for it had been arranged that he and Isabel 
 were to visit Whitfield during the summer, and 
 John wrote of a disastrous fire which had de 
 stroyed part of the house, and the spare bed 
 rooms being flooded with water and all the 
 plaster and paper off he said no more about 
 the Indies. He began his theological course in 
 the autumn with zealous spirit. The posses 
 sion of the miniature had seemed to assure him 
 of the ultimate possession of his dream. " Sure 
 am I now that my prayers will be answered, 
 and that I shall at last see in the flesh my fair 
 Lavinia," he said to Isabel on his first home 
 coming. Harry s faith remained intact, al 
 though he was always disappointed in his plans 
 for seeing the fair Lavinia during his stay at 
 the theological school. Always something hap 
 pened to prevent it. Still, he was not unhappy, 
 V - and he stood foremost in his class. It seemed 
 finally as if his whole soul became beautified 
 and purified by the non - possession of that 
 which he adored, and he was kept free from 
 all the temptations which might have beset 
 his youth by his fine imaginings. He obtained 
 a fine pastorate in Boston, upon the strength 
 of a trial sermon full of doctrines and yet red 
 olent of angelic love and faith and patience. 
 
 34 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 When he received his call to the Boston 
 church and had accepted, he came to Isabel 
 with a determined expression upon his face. 
 
 " Wilt pack my portmanteau for me, Isabel ?" 
 he said. 
 
 Isabel looked up at him and paled. She was 
 sitting at work in the south parlor of the Field 
 ing house. There were two windows facing 
 the street, and between them stood a great 
 century-plant. 
 
 "Where are you going? * asked Isabel. As 
 she spoke she looked past Harry at the great 
 century-plant, and it seemed to her that there 
 was something unusual about it. Even in the 
 midst of her sudden pain and distress she won 
 dered if it were going to blossom. 
 
 Harry answered with a firm voice. "I am 
 going to Whitfield," said he. "I am going to 
 Whitfield to see Lavinia Creevy." 
 
 "Very well, Harry, I will pack your port 
 manteau," said Isabel, in a quiet voice. "God 
 grant that you find her this time, and find her 
 all you have wished for so long." 
 
 Harry stared at her. "What is the matter, 
 Isabel?" he said, anxiously. 
 
 "Nothing; but I think the century-plant is 
 going to blossom," said Isabel, folding her work. 
 Then she went swiftly out of the room to pack 
 Harry s portmanteau, and it was not half an 
 
 35 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 hour before she bade him farewell at the front 
 door. 
 
 Harry took her hand, which w T as soft and 
 cold, and then he looked at her suddenly with 
 a look which she had never seen before in his 
 eyes. " After all," he said 
 
 "What, Harry?" 
 
 "After all, I have a mind not to go, Isabel." 
 
 "Nay, go you must, Harry," said Isabel, 
 "and may God speed you." 
 
 When she told Deacon Fielding upon his 
 return that night whither Harry had gone, he 
 frowned, and laughed, and frowned again. He 
 had overheard Harry in some of his wild rav 
 ings, and had long since guessed at the truth. 
 "When he returns from his wild-goose chase 
 perhaps he will chase swans," said he. 
 
 Isabel blushed. " He may find the lady, 
 and find her all that has been said," she re 
 plied. 
 
 """""It is time the boy grappled with truth in 
 stead of cobwebs," said Deacon Fielding, stern 
 ly. " He has his call, and to a fine pastorate, 
 and this vaporing " 
 
 "It may not be vaporing." 
 
 "God grant it may be, for I would have- 
 Deacon Fielding stopped his speech and held 
 out his Canton-china cup to be refilled. 
 
 Harry returned the next night from Whit- 
 36 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 field. Isabel, sitting with her work at the 
 window, saw him coming. She looked strange 
 ly change^for with a few slight touches she 
 had altered the whole character of her own 
 rare beauty, making it of quite another type. ; 
 A faint touch of rouge was on her cheeks and 
 lips, her thick, fair eyebrows were pencilled, 
 and she had dusted her hair with gold-powder 
 so that it glittered in the sunlight. Before her 
 stood the century-plant, and upon it was now 
 quite evident a bud ready to burst into blos-^ 
 som. Isabel gave a great start at sight of 
 Harry coming up the street. He walked brisk 
 ly and his head was up and he did not look 
 downcast. Isabel rose and went out of the 
 room into the front hall, with its beautiful 
 spiral of stair, and opened the front door and 
 stood waiting. She realized a faintness as of 
 death itself, but she stood still, framed in the 
 doorway, knowing that the happiness of her~~ 
 whole life hung upon the chance of the next 
 moment. 
 
 Harry approached the door and saw the girl 
 standing there, and a great wave of amazement 
 overspread his face. 
 
 "Well," said Isabel, "did you find the fair 
 Lavinia, Harry?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Harry, still staring at her 
 as if in a dream, "I found her." 
 
 37 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "And is she so fair?" asked Isabel. She 
 trembled in all her limbs, but her voice was 
 quiet and firm. 
 
 "Yes, she was fair," replied Harry. "She 
 is a great beauty, Isabel, and she is as John 
 said." 
 
 "Then it was not a jest?" 
 
 "A jest at first, for John sought to amuse 
 himself with me, knowing how easily my heart 
 might be turned by my imagination, but after 
 wards no jest, for for John loves you, Isabel, 
 and he would fain have had me turn to La- 
 vinia, for he he feared 
 
 "Never mind what he feared," said Isabel, 
 in a dull voice. " So you found her fair, and 
 all the miscarryings of plans to meet her were 
 true?" 
 
 "Yes, they were true, and Miss Creevy is 
 a great beauty, such as the world has seldom 
 seen, but -Isabel 
 
 "But what, Harry?" 
 
 "She is not the Lavinia of whom I have 
 thought all these years. I could love her not, 
 Isabel, even if she could love me." Harry 
 again stared at Isabel, and now upon his face 
 was a strange look as of one who awakens. 
 He followed her into the parlor like a man in 
 a dream. He drew the miniature from his 
 breast and gazed at it, then at Isabel. "It is 
 
 38 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA 
 
 your face," he whispered, breathlessly. "You 
 are the fair Lavinia, Isabel." 
 
 Isabel gave a short gasp. She was trem 
 bling from head to foot. " Wait, wait, Harry 1" 
 she panted, and ran out of the room. When 
 she returned the rouge was washed from her 
 fair cheeks and the gold-dust was shaken from 
 her hair. Then she stood before her cousin, 
 her head hanging. "There was paint on my 
 cheeks and there was gold on my hair, and I 
 am not the fair Lavinia," she said, pitifully, 
 and yet with a certain dignity. 
 
 Harry stood regarding her. "Oh, Isabel," 
 he said, "it was your miniature, and it was 
 you whom I loved and I knew it not. I sought 
 her afar, and all the time she sat on my own 
 hearthstone, so near that I saw her not. Can 
 you ever forgive me, Isabel, and can you ever 
 love a man who has been so blind?" 
 
 "I would that I were the fair Lavinia," said 
 Isabel. 
 
 Then Harry caught her in his arms. "You 
 are the fair Lavinia," said he. "You are for 
 ever until death do us part, and after if such 
 be the will of God, my fair Lavinia." 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
** 
 
 AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 IN the deep yard in front of and in the deep 
 garden behind the old Deering house was a 
 marvellous growth of roses. There were all the 
 old-fashioned varieties. There were the sweet- 
 brier, the hundred-leaved, the white, the deep 
 red, the Scotch blush roses, prairie-roses, and 
 rose-peonies which last are, of course, not 
 roses, but may reasonably be considered gigantic 
 symbolisms of them. Amarina herself was a 
 marvel. She had a wonderful blondness, al 
 though she tanned instead of freckled in the sun. 
 But there was something about that soft 
 creaminess of tint which her skin as that of her 
 foremothers had done assumed in the summer 
 time which had a beauty beyond that of mere 
 pink and pearl. Through this creamy tint was 
 always to be seen on the cheeks a flush of rose ; 
 and her eyes, which were brown, shaded into the 
 cream, and her lips were crimson. There had 
 been many intermarriages in the Deering 
 
 43 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 family. Amarina s own parents had been dis 
 tantly related, but she was an instance of en 
 durance instead of degeneration. She was as 
 perfect as one of the roses in her garden, which 
 had come of the reproduction of many genera 
 tions of bloom. Amarina had outlived her 
 immediate family, and lived alone with an aged 
 great-aunt and two old servants. She was 
 nearly thirty, and had never had a lover. But 
 it was not held in the least to Amarina Deering s 
 discredit that she remained single, for it was 
 universally conceded that there was nobody in 
 the village who could have aspired to her hand 
 without presumption. She was set up on a 
 pedestal like some goddess, and if she realized 
 a loneliness thereon nobody knew it, for she 
 had the pride of her family. 
 
 Amarina s great-aunt was very old, but she 
 seemed to have attained a pause of longevity 
 at the summit of her hill of years, and time now 
 seemed to make no further impression upon 
 her. She was dim - sighted, dim of compre 
 hension, and very hard of hearing, as she had 
 been for years; she had never been married. 
 Living with Amarina s great-aunt Margaret 
 Deering was scarcely like living with an ani 
 mated person, but the girl was fond of her, and 
 tended her with the greatest care. 
 
 Amarina at almost thirty was to the full as 
 44 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 lovely as at eighteen. People said that she did 
 not change in the least. And in truth there was 
 little difference. She looked as truly the same 
 as the new roses which appeared blooming on 
 the perennial stalks of the old ones in the garden 
 every June. 
 
 However, when Amarina neared thirty she 
 began to think of putting on caps. 
 
 All women, as a rule, of that age wore caps. 
 One summer afternoon she got out some fine 
 old lace and muslin, and sat on the porch be 
 side her great-aunt fashioning a cap. The old 
 woman cast a glance at the filmy stuff which 
 Amarina was manipulating. 
 
 Amarina answered the look as she would have 
 answered a question; she had come to under 
 stand her aunt s silences as she would have 
 understood speech. I am getting near thirty, 
 Aunt Margaret," said she, and I thought I 
 might as well be getting some caps ready." 
 She laughed as she said it and there was not 
 the slightest bitterness in her laugh, which was 
 that of one amused with Time while she makes 
 concessions to him. The old woman looked 
 away from Amarina and the cap, and her eyes 
 took on an odd blank of remembrance. 
 
 Amarina continued to gather the lace and sew 
 it to the muslin. She wore that day a lemon- 
 colored muslin gown, and her fair hair fell in 
 
 45 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 curls all over her neck and shoulders. Out of 
 them looked her round face, slightly browned 
 by the sun, with the rose-flush on the cheeks, 
 and the brown eyes which still regarded the 
 world and life itself with the surprise and trust 
 of youth. 
 
 Suddenly a man entered the gate at the end 
 of the yard and came up the path between the 
 rose-bushes and rose-peonies which bordered it. 
 Amarina glanced from her work at him with a 
 gentle surprise. The old aunt did not seem to 
 see him at all. She was trying to recall her own 
 first cap, which she had donned at thirty. 
 
 The man approached the porch; he lifted his 
 hat and spoke quite familiarly, with a pleasant, 
 almost mischievous, laugh. "All the pink roses 
 are in bloom in the yard," said he, "but the one 
 yellow one blooms on the porch." 
 
 Amarina arose and confronted him with a 
 slight hauteur. " Sir ?" said she. 
 
 "Then you have forgotten me," said the 
 stranger. "Well, I will forgive you; there are 
 many bees, but only one rose." 
 
 "I will admit that you have the advantage 
 of me, sir," Amarina said in her sweet, slightly 
 formal manner. 
 
 "Well, why should you remember?" replied 
 the man. "It was ten years ago that we met, 
 but the years have flown over your head like 
 
 46 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 a flock of humming - birds. I am Alonzo 
 Fair water." 
 
 A flash of recognition came into Amarina s 
 eyes. Alonzo Fair water was the distant cousin 
 of her one girl friend, Alicia Day, who lived 
 three miles away in a tiny suburb of the village, 
 which was named for her family " Day Corner. " 
 It was seldom that Amarina saw Alicia, since 
 she herself was kept at home by the care of her 
 aged aunt, and Alicia was away the greater part 
 of the year in the city. She was a beauty and a 
 belle. Some called her handsomer than Ama 
 rina, although she too had never married. 
 
 Amarina courtesied, and motioned Alonzo 
 Fair water to a chair. "Yes," she said, "I beg 
 your pardon. I remember you now; but ten 
 years is a long time." 
 
 "Not for you," replied Alonzo Fairwater, 
 seating himself, with eyes of open admiration 
 upon the girl s face. 
 
 "You are visiting at Alicia s?" said Amarina, 
 again with a slightly haughty air. 
 
 The young man explained his presence with 
 an odd eagerness. It seemed that he was out 
 of health, and country air had been recom 
 mended, and he had come on a visit to the Day 
 homestead. Alicia was away, as Amarina 
 knew, but Alonzo said that she was to return the 
 next day. He touched very lightly upon the 
 
 47 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 subject of Alicia, but said a great deal about 
 the beauty of the village and the sweetness and 
 health-giving properties of the air. 
 
 As the two sat there, with the silent great- 
 aunt in the background, a young man crossed 
 the front yard with a rake over his shoulder. 
 He cast one glance, which was almost surly, 
 towards the group on the porch, and only dipped 
 his head slightly in response to Amarina s 
 salutation, which was as marked as if he 
 had been any gentleman coming to call upon 
 her. 
 
 "Who is that sulky swain?" asked Alonzo 
 Fairwater, in a voice so loud that the young 
 man must have heard ; but he continued without 
 turning his head, and was soon seen moving 
 about, tossing up the newly mown hay in an 
 adjoining field. 
 
 Amarina colored. "He is one of my neigh 
 bors, Mr. Thomas Hetherly, and he makes hay 
 on my land on shares," she replied. 
 
 Fairwater gazed with a sort of supercilious 
 amusement at the young man moving in a green 
 and rosy foam of clover and timothy. "It is 
 very early to make hay, is it not ?" he said. 
 
 "Very early," replied Amarina. Then 
 Martha, the wife of old Jacob, the two being 
 the servants of the Deerings, came out with a 
 tray on which were a squat silver tea-service 
 
 48 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 and a plate of little cakes ; and nothing more was 
 said about Thomas Hetherly. 
 
 However, after Alonzo Fairwater had taken 
 his leave and the sun was low, Amarina gathered 
 up daintily her lemon-colored skirts and cross 
 ed the yard, and approached the haymaker. 
 Thomas Hetherly stopped when he saw her, and 
 waited with a sort of dignity which sat well upon 
 him ; for, in spite of his working-clothes and his 
 humble task, he was a masterly looking fellow 
 of great height, and with a handsome face so 
 strong as to be almost stern. 
 
 Amarina smiled pleasantly, albeit a little 
 timidly, up at him from the cloud of her yellow 
 curls. " How do you get on with the hay, Mr. 
 Hetherly?" asked she. 
 
 "Very well, Miss Deering, considering the 
 size of the field,," 
 
 "It is good hay weather," said Amarina. 
 
 "Very good." 
 
 Thomas s replies were almost curt. He 
 looked straight at her beautiful face with a sort 
 of defiance the defiance of the original man 
 for the wiles of the woman. - 
 
 Amarina turned away, then she hesitated. 
 " That gentleman who was sitting on the porch 
 is Alonzo Fa rwater," said she. 
 
 "Yes; I knew him. I saw him years ago," 
 replied Hetherly, quietly. 
 
 49 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Amarina hesitated still. A deep pink over 
 spread the cream of her cheeks. " I know you 
 must have overheard what he said," she faltered. 
 " I am sure he meant no harm, and I hope you 
 do not think 
 
 Hetherly turned from her and gave the hay a 
 little toss. "I think nothing at all about it," 
 he replied. 
 
 "I am very glad," said Amarina, with a 
 curious meekness, for she had a proud soul, and 
 she had met, in a sense, with a repulse. 
 
 "I did not intend to be surly towards you," 
 said Thomas Hetherly, tossing the hay steadily, 
 "and as for anything else, I never store in my 
 mind what was not meant for my ears." 
 
 "I am very glad," said Amarina again, and 
 still with that curious meekness. Then she was 
 gone, skimming the stubbed surface of the field 
 in her lemon - colored gown as lightly as a 
 butterfly, and Thomas Hetherly continued his 
 work until the sun was below the horizon and 
 the stars were shining; then he went home. 
 He was poor and lived alone. All his life until 
 the last year he had been burdened with the 
 care of his father, who had suffered with a 
 terrible incurable disease, and who required not 
 only great care, but great expense. When he 
 died, the small Hetherly estate was heavily en 
 cumbered, and Thomas was working to clear it. 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 When he reached home he built his kitchen fire, 
 set the kettle on, then washed himself and 
 changed his clothes. He did so on account of 
 Amarina Deering s daintiness, and because he 
 could not bear to compare himself to so much 
 disadvantage with the fine gentleman who had 
 sat on the porch with her that afternoon. After 
 his simple supper he sat down on his front door 
 step, and looked across the street at the old 
 Deering house. 
 
 It was a strange old pile, a conglomeration re 
 sulting from the tastes and needs of succeeding 
 generations of one race. Nearly everybody who 
 had dwelt in it, since the original founder, 
 Amarina s great-grandfather, had added some 
 thing to it. It was a multiplication of the first 
 simple theme, a house of eight square rooms on 
 two floors. Now there were ells and outbuild 
 ings, and rooms opening from one another by 
 unexpected steps, and the stairs and doors were 
 in such numbers that they were a matter of jest 
 in the village. The whole was an immense 
 aggregation of the tastes and needs of different 
 individuals of one race, consolidated in brick 
 and wood and plaster. There was, however, a 
 singular unanimity about the house in the midst 
 of variety. It was, in reality, harmonious 
 architecture, although not of any known school. 
 And the deep front yard and garden in the rear, 
 
 5 1 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 with their rank growths of roses, carried the 
 harmony further still, and Amarina, the true 
 daughter of the race, raised it to the utmost 
 pitch. Amarina s very name illustrated curi- 
 
 ously the tendency of her family to compound 
 and conserve. Her grandmother s name had 
 been Amanda, her mother s Marina, hers was 
 Amarina. There had been no strictly new name 
 in the family for generations, and there had 
 been hardly one new thing in the house. 
 
 Alonzo Fairwater, who came often, found a 
 charm in this conservation of the graceful old. 
 He viewed the furniture : chairs with harp backs, 
 the spindle-legged piano, the gilded candle 
 sticks, dangling with prisms, on the mantel ; the 
 pictures, darkly rich and mysterious old paint 
 ings in heavy dull frames, steel-engravings of 
 ultra-delicacy, and pencil drawings made by 
 Amarina s ancestresses and all fascinated the 
 man, who had an esthetic nature. Nothing 
 which had ever entered that old house, except 
 the people who had dwelt therein, had ever de 
 parted from it. And yet they had not been a 
 niggardly race not with money; they had al 
 ways been free with that. It was only with 
 that which money had bought that they had 
 been chary. It was as if their possessions had 
 
 x ^ acquired for them a worth beyond their in 
 trinsic ones, and became a part of their in- 
 
 5 2 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 dividtiality. Amarina s great -aunt Margaret 
 Deering, dull as she was, would have aroused to 
 enough life to break her heart had she been de 
 prived of aught of her old store, although noth 
 ing seemed very clearly present with her in the 
 aged dimness of her mind. 
 
 Alonzo Fairwater had called upon Amarina 
 many times before she fairly remembered the 
 first cap which she had donned when she passed 
 out of her girlhood. Then suddenly, one even 
 ing, when she and Amarina and Alonzo were all 
 in the sitting-room, and Amarina was embroid 
 ering a handkerchief by the light of a candle 
 in a tall silver stick, and Alonzo sat near, watch 
 ing her with half -bold, half -furtive admiration, 
 the old woman remembered, and when she did 
 remember, the tears rolled down her withered 
 cheeks as if she had been a child. 
 
 Amarina looked up and saw the tears, and, 
 dropping her work, ran to her. "Why, dear 
 Aunt Margaret," said she, "what is the mat 
 ter?" i 
 
 "It had three rows of thread lace, and there J 
 was a bow of lilac ribbon," sobbed the old 
 woman. 
 
 Alonzo stared, and the thought came to him 
 that the old soul had clean lost her wits, 
 but Amarina spoke soothingly. "What was 
 trimmed with three rows of thread lace and a 
 
 53 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 bow of lilac ribbon, dear aunt?" said she; "and 
 why do you weep about it?" 
 
 Three rows of thread lace and a bow of 
 lilac ribbon," repeated the old aunt, and she 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
 "On what, dear aunt?" 
 
 " On my cap, my first cap that I wore when 
 I was turned thirty," wailed the old woman. 
 
 Alonzo Fairwater turned his face aside and 
 laughed a little, but Amarina regarded her aunt 
 with entire sympathy. "Yes, I understand, 
 dear Aunt Margaret, now," said she, and indeed 
 she did understand as no one of alien blood 
 could have understood. 
 
 "And the lace dropped to pieces, although I 
 J mended it carefully, and the lilac ribbon bow 
 faded, and it is all gone," sobbed old Margaret 
 Deering, and she wept as if at the memory of 
 her dead mother or her dead sister or her dead 
 self. Amarina soothed her, Alonzo Fairwater 
 could not help thinking, like an angel. She 
 called Martha, and the old woman was led off 
 and put tenderly to bed, after she had been 
 given a cup of spiced cordial. 
 
 Alonzo Fairwater rose. " It would be worth 
 while being old and feeble if one could have 
 such care as yours," he said, and his voice 
 trembled a little, but Amarina only laughed. 
 She accompanied him to the door, and they 
 
 54 
 
HE SEIZED AMARINA S HAND AND KISSED IT 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 were standing in a stream of moonlight which 
 poured into the old hall, when suddenly he cut 
 his speech short it was of the probable weath 
 er the next day and seized Amarina s hand 
 and kissed it. "Oh, Amarina!" he sighed out, 
 but she drew back. 
 
 "Sir!" she said. 
 
 Alonzo Fairwater moved away from her 
 farther into the stream of silver moonlight. 
 "Forgive me, T beg you," he murmured, and 
 went quickly down the path between the rose- v 
 bushes, which were then past their bloom. 
 
 Amarina when she was in her own chamber 
 that night reflected. She had no doubt that 
 Alonzo Fairwater loved her, that what he had 
 said and done was equivalent to a declaration 
 of love, and that he would follow it up by more 
 precise avowals on the first opportunity. She 
 had no doubt, but no rapture. She considered 
 the matter gravely, its advantages and disad 
 vantages. While she was doing so, lying in 
 her little white bed, stiffened with strenuous 
 thought, plight shone in her eyes from a win 
 dow of the Uetherly house opposite. Then di 
 rectly her heart leaped to an understanding of\j 
 itself, and at the same time to indignation with 
 herself. She understood that if the question 
 had been of marriage with Thomas Hetherly, 
 such careful weighing of consequences would 
 5 55 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 have been almost out of her power, but she was 
 merciless with herself because of it. In the 
 first place, Thomas Hetherly had manifested 
 no inclination to marry her, and she accused 
 herself of indelicacy at the imagination of such 
 a thing. In the second place, the women of her 
 race had never married a simple, poor man like 
 him, and the conservatism which was born with 
 her held her like chain armor. She was a creat 
 ure of an almost majestic maidenliness. She 
 pressed back the involuntary leap of her heart, 
 . and reflected upon the subject of marriage with 
 " Alonzo, as if it had been an embroidery pat 
 tern. Although she had a keen mind and a 
 vivid imagination, the real significance of mar 
 riage itself, except as a matter of custom for 
 which she had hereditary instincts, and an es 
 tate which it became a woman to enter, and 
 which was held somewhat to her disparage 
 ment to miss, was scarcely present to her con 
 sideration at all. 
 
 Amarina fully expected that Alonzo Fair- 
 water would present himself the next day and 
 make a definite proposal for her hand ; the dig 
 nity of the Deering women had never been 
 affronted with a scene like that of the night 
 before except with such a sequel. All the time 
 she reflected, but was not able to make up her 
 mind concerning her answer, for, whether she 
 
 56 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 would or not, tJ^-^Jeam^j^gmtjgS^Ufi of 
 Thomas Hetherly s seemed to send her thoughts 
 adrift, and the image of him drove the image 
 of the other man from her heart. 
 
 But the next afternoon, instead of Alonzo, 
 Alicia Day came in the Day coach, and she was 
 out in a swirl of purple and gold-shot silk, for 
 she was of a dark and splendid beauty and fine 
 raiment became her, and she delighted in it. 
 A bird-of -paradise plume curled around her 
 hat, and her wrought veil of yellow lace drifted 
 to her waist before her lovely face as she ran 
 up the path between the rose-bushes to Ama- 
 rina hastening to meet her. "Oh, Amarina!" 
 sighed Alicia. 
 
 " Dearest Alicia!" said Amarina, and she held 
 her in her arms and kissed her fondly. Then 
 she led Alicia into the house and the best par 
 lor. Alicia sank into a corner of the sofa, draw 
 ing Amarina down beside her. " Oh , Amarina ! 
 she sighed again, and the brilliant flush upon 
 her cheeks deepened, and her dark eyes shone 
 with tears. 
 
 Amarina laughed. "This is the second time 
 you have said that, and what ails you, sweet 
 heart?" said she. 
 
 Alicia glanced up at Amarina in a sweet con- 
 fusion, like a rose in a gale of wind. " I know 
 it," said she. "I am silly as I never thought 
 
 57 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Alicia Day could be, but I am silly because I 
 am happy as Alicia Day never expected to be 
 happy, dear." Alicia had tossed back her long 
 veil, and her glowing, beautiful face was framed 
 by the floating lace flowers. Her blush mount 
 ed to the soft black curls on her forehead. " Can 
 not you guess what makes me so happy, dear?" 
 she whispered. 
 
 After all, Amarina, in spite of her almost 
 frozen maidenliness, was a woman. A blush 
 mounted high on her own cheeks, and she cast 
 down her brown eyes. "You are betrothed," 
 she whispered. 
 
 Alicia hid her face on her friend s shoulder. 
 "Yes," said she, "I am betrothed for some 
 months. Next year at this time I shall be 
 wed, and you shall be bridesmaid, Amarina." 
 
 "Who is he, sweetheart?" asked Amarina. 
 
 Alicia laughed with utter exultation of bliss. 
 "Who could he be but Alonzo Fairwater?" said 
 she. "Oh, Amarina, I have loved him ever 
 since I was a child, and thought there was no 
 one like him, and something came betwixt us, 
 and my heart broke, but now it is all over, and 
 we love each other and are to be wed. But 
 why do you say nothing, Amarina?" 
 
 "I wish you joy, sweetheart," replied the 
 other girl, and her voice was strange, but Alicia 
 in her excitement did not notice it. 
 
 58 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 "Joy I shall have, pressed down and run 
 ning over," said she. "There never was a man 
 like him; I thought you might guess, dear, 
 since you knew he was here, for he has told me 
 that he paid his respects to you, since you were 
 my friend, although he has been pining for my 
 return. I was obliged to remain in Boston for 
 Elizabeth Ware s wedding. But how little you 
 say, Amarina!" 
 
 Amarina roused herself, and she spoke fer 
 vently, although dissimulation was new to her. 
 "I hope you will be very happy, dear," she 
 said. 
 
 "Happy!" repeated Alicia. "Oh, Amarina, 
 did you ever see a man to equal Alonzo?" 
 
 "Not in your eyes, dear," replied Amarina, 
 evasively. 
 
 Then Alicia laughed gayly. "I verily be 
 lieve that you have seen some one who looks in 
 your eyes as Alonzo does in mine," said she. 
 "Own up to me, sweet." 
 
 But Amarina paled and sobered, and Alicia 
 could get nothing from her. That evening, 
 when she and Alonzo were sitting alone, she 
 said that she suspected that Amarina had her 
 self lost her heart to some one, and that she 
 hoped that such happiness as she herself had 
 might come to her, for she had but a dull life 
 alone with her old aunt. They were sitting 
 
 59 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 in the moonlight, and Alicia could not see the 
 expression on Alonzo s face, but it was one of 
 both pain and triumph. "I do not see who 
 he can be," said Alicia, reflectively; "there is 
 no one here for her. Do you not think her 
 very beautiful from what little you have seen 
 of her, Alonzo?" 
 
 "Very beautiful," replied Alonzo, with a 
 slight tremor in his voice, which Alicia did not 
 notice. She had the entire trust and con 
 fidence of a great beauty who had always seen 
 men at her feet. 
 
 The next afternoon, when Amarina was seen 
 driving up with her aunt in the old Deering 
 coach, Alonzo Fairwater, who had always es 
 teemed himself brave as men go, did what some 
 might have considered a cowardly thing. He 
 stole softly down the back stairs, and across 
 the garden into a thick wood behind it. There 
 fore, when Alicia sent to call him, he was not to 
 be found. " I thought Alonzo was in his room, " 
 said Alicia, "but he must have gone out." 
 
 Amarina murmured that she was sorry to 
 miss the pleasure, but her beautiful lips curled 
 with covert scorn. She was thankful for once 
 for her aunt s dulness, which prevented her 
 from any betrayal of Alonzo s frequent calls 
 upon herself. 
 
 It was not long after that that Alicia and 
 60 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 her mother went away to visit the Fairwater 
 family near Boston, and of course Alonzo went 
 also, and it so happened that Amarina saw Alicia 
 but seldom for a year, when it was June again 
 and the wedding-day at hand. The Day farm 
 remained for the greater part of the time in 
 charge of the farmer who managed it, and Alicia 
 and her mother remained away. Alicia was 
 fond of gayety, and she was preparing her 
 trousseau in Boston. Then, too, Alonzo, who 
 was a lawyer, had an important case, which 
 kept him closely confined in the city. 
 
 In the mean time Amarina had had her own 
 experiences. It was as if Alicia s betrothal had 
 furnished her with a key-note to which she 
 could not help but pipe and sing, whether she 
 would or not. She began to be cognizant, as 
 she had never been before, of Thomas Hether- 
 ly s comings and goings, his house being dis 
 tinctly visible from her sitting-room windows, 
 especially when the leaves were off the trees. 
 In the winter-time Thomas Hetherly had lit 
 tle work to do, except the care of the few 
 creatures which comprised his live-stock. She 
 watched him in the frosty mornings, with fur-/ 
 tive eyes turned from her embroidery, going 
 back and forth between the old red barn and 
 the well with buckets of water. Then she 
 watched him with a book under his arm of an 
 
 61 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 afternoon, setting forth for the village library. 
 The village library was but a poor affair, and 
 that set her thinking of her father s study, the 
 walls of which were lined with books not new 
 ones, but of a rare selection. Then one after 
 noon Mrs. Ephraim Janeway, a neighbor, came 
 in to call. She was an elderly woman with the 
 eye of a fox, and the whole village was as an 
 open book to her, in which she read to others 
 discredit and her own glory. It was this wom 
 an who spoke of Thomas Hetherly and his 
 haunting of the village library. " Tis said he 
 is bound to read it all through," said she, "but 
 to my mind he would not have such a hunger 
 and thirst for books were it not that Prudence 
 Emmons has the charge of them." This Pru 
 dence Emmons was a widow to whom the 
 charge of the little library had been given to 
 eke out her scanty income, and she was con 
 sidered very fair to see. 
 
 Amarina flushed angrily. "It seems hard 
 if a man cannot indulge a love for good books 
 without a suspicion of that kind," said she. 
 She spoke in a soft voice, and took another 
 stitch in her embroidery, but she was angry. 
 
 Mrs. Janeway was shrewd and never affronted 
 willingly . "Well, it may not be so," she ad 
 mitted. "I heard it at the se wing-circle the 
 other afternoon, and one can never tell what 
 
 62 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 the truth is when women are gabbling together ; 
 but the library is old, and Mrs. Prudence Em- 
 mons was always one whom gentlemen favored, 
 and she has lately taken to going without caps, 
 and she will never see thirty-five again." 
 
 After Mrs. Ephraim Jane way had gone, Ama- 
 rina went up to her own room and stood before 
 her looking-glass and pulled off her own cap 
 with an impatient gesture, and when her yellow 
 curls, being set free, tumbled about her face, 
 she .shook her head defiantly. " I will wait un- ; 
 til my face be thirty years old before I crown 
 it with a cap, and let them say what they will," 
 said she, quite aloud. 
 
 That evening, when the old servant- woman 
 Martha was out in the kitchen with her hus 
 band, she said to him that she wondered if 
 Amarina had anybody in mind, because she 
 had left off her cap, but the old man was smok 
 ing stupidly his after-supper pipe, and shook / 
 his head with a mumble meant to express his ^ 
 ignorance. It was the very next afternoon 
 that old Jacob came to her and told her, with 
 a chuckle half of amazement, half of suspicion, 
 that Amarina had asked him to step across the 
 road to the Hetherly house and ask if Mr. 
 Thomas Hetherly would do her the favor to 
 call some evening on a matter of business. The 
 old man eyed his wife roguishly for approbation 
 
 63 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 at his discovery of a confirmation of her own 
 suspicion, but she replied to him angrily. 
 
 "Good Lord!" said she, "are you gone clean 
 daft? Think you for one moment that one 
 like her would favor one like him? Not a col 
 lege-learned man in his whole family, and he 
 himself without money enough to do anything 
 but travel in the same track his father and 
 grandfather went before him. Tis a good 
 young man enough he is, but when it comes to 
 a husband for Amarina Deering The old 
 woman made a gesture expressive of the ut 
 most contempt. 
 
 " She sends in December to see about mo win 
 the fields!" said old Jacob, and he chuckled 
 openly. 
 
 "What of that? the Deerings were always 
 beforehand with their plans," returned Martha, 
 sharply. 
 
 Still, when Thomas Hetherly did not obey 
 her mistress s summons for some ten days 
 afterwards, she waxed indignant. "I would 
 like to know who he thinks he is," she said to 
 old Jacob. "One of the Hetherlys not to run 
 as fast as his feet could carry him when one of 
 the Deerings, and a lady too, sends for him!" 
 But old Jacob was smoking his pipe again after 
 supper, and he only grunted in reply. 
 
 Amarina herself was somewhat surprised at 
 64 
 
AMARiNA S ROSES 
 
 Thomas Hetherly s lack of haste to call in re 
 sponse to her request. The very first evening 
 after it was sent she had curled her hair care- 
 fully and put on her brown silk, and an em 
 broidered collar with a cameo brooch. The 
 next evening she had so arrayed herself again, 
 and the next after that she had put on a crim 
 son silk which had been said to become her. 
 Every evening she had arrayed herself, with a 
 view to Thomas Hetherly s appearance, and 
 not one item of her furbishing had escaped old 
 Martha. 
 
 It was that very evening when she had in 
 consistently complained of his non-appearance 
 that there came a tap on the old knocker, and 
 Martha pulled off her apron to answer it. " He 
 has come," said she. 
 
 Old Jacob roused himself. He removed his 
 pipe, which he seemed to suck with the blank 
 content of an infant. 
 
 "To see about mo win of the hay in De 
 cember!" said he, and chuckled. But his face 
 sobered at his wife s fierce glance, and he re 
 sumed his pipe while she went to the door to 
 admit Thomas Hetherly. 
 
 Amarina looked a little shy as she arose to 
 welcome Thomas. The old aunt had retired. 
 Thomas had made no preparations for his call 
 on Amarina. He wore his every-day clothes, 
 
 65 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 which were neat and whole, although coarse. 
 Still, he was a splendid figure of a man, and he 
 dominated his clothes as he stood there return 
 ing Amarina s greeting. He had come, in fact, 
 with a curious inward sulkiness and revolt of 
 pride. But no man could have found any 
 fault with his reception, which was as punctil 
 ious as towards any gentleman in the land. 
 
 "I pray you be seated, Mr. Hetherly," said 
 Amarina, and she indicated with her long, slim, 
 white hand a chair which was in some sense the 
 chair of state for a caller. But Hetherly re 
 mained standing. 
 
 " I thank you," he said, "but I have not long 
 to stay, and I will not sit if you will be so kind 
 as to tell me your business with me." 
 
 Amarina colored. She herself felt the ab 
 surdity of sending for Thomas on the only er 
 rand which she had been able to devise. She 
 hesitated a moment. "I wished to ask you 
 if you had any objection to farming my land 
 on shares as you did last year ?" she said, timidly, 
 and she saw the young man s start of surprise, 
 and colored to the roots of her yellow hair. 
 
 " None in the least," replied Thomas Hether 
 ly, and with that he turned to go, but Amarina 
 stopped him. She had come quite close to him, 
 and she held one of the silver candlesticks in 
 her hand. 
 
 66 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 "I wanted to ask," she said, "if if you 
 would not like to borrow some books from my 
 father s library. There are a great many, and 
 I should be very glad to loan them to you." 
 
 Thomas s own face colored. "Thank you," 
 he replied; "but I get books from the library." 
 
 His voice was fairly curt, but Amarina con 
 tinued. Somehow the curt ness pleased fye r bet 
 ter than subservience would have done. 
 
 "But the village library is small," said she, 
 "and I have heard the books were not well 
 chosen, and if you wished 
 
 "Thank you," said Thomas again, "but I 
 find very good books in the village library." 
 
 Amarina tried to look at him haughtily, but 
 the benefit thrust back upon her in such wise 
 hurt her, and in spite of herself her voice had 
 a piteous tone. "Very well, Mr. Hetherly," 
 she said; "it was only that I saw you going to 
 the library for books, and I had so many, and 
 I thought" 
 
 Then suddenly Thomas s own face softened. 
 In thinking of it afterwards he saw himself as 
 a churl, instead of a man well aware of his own 
 individual worth, and the slight estimate in 
 which it was probably held by this girl of a 
 gentle race. "Thank you," he said, "and per 
 haps, since you are so kind " 
 
 " Pray come directly into the library with 
 67 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 me," cried Amarina, eagerly. She held the 
 streaming candle high, and Thomas followed 
 her out of the warm sitting-room and through 
 the length of the icy hall into the library. 
 Amarina moved close to one of the book-lined 
 walls, holding the candle. "Please make your 
 choice," said she, "and please take as many as 
 you like." 
 
 Thomas Hetherly stood scrutinizing the books 
 over which the candle-light played uncertainly. 
 The room was very cold; his breath and Ama- 
 rina s mingled in a cloud of smoke. 
 
 She held the candle here and there that 
 Thomas might see the old books the better, and 
 her face was radiant, and her cheeks began to 
 glow with the cold. The windows were ex 
 panses of white frost-work which sent out here 
 and there sparkles like diamonds where the 
 light from the candle struck them. The books 
 which finally Thomas selected felt like blocks 
 of ice to his hand. Amarina scudded before 
 him to the sitting-room, and he followed her, 
 but he did not accept her invitation to sit 
 down. That night, after Amarina went to bed, 
 the light of his reading-lamp shone in her face. 
 She had in her heart the pleasant warmth of a 
 kindly deed to one beloved, although she still 
 never seriously entertained for one moment the 
 possibility of marriage with Thomas Hetherly. 
 
 68 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 It was not because she scorned him, for Ama- 
 rina had in one sense a humble heart, but sim 
 ply because he seemed to her of another sort. 
 She regarded him, when it came to a question 
 of mating, as a bird-of-paradise might regard 
 a sparrow. None of the Deerings had married 
 any but men with liberal educations and of 
 gentle antecedents. Thomas Hetherly s father, 
 before his health failed him, had been the village 
 painter, and many a time when she was a child 
 she had seen him in his stained white clothes 
 perched on a ladder before her own house. His 
 illness had been due to the poison in the white- 
 lead, and Amarina had heard from Mrs. Eph- 
 raim Jane way that he had made Thomas prom 
 ise on that account that he would never take 
 up his father s old trade. 
 
 "He could have made a better living at it," 
 Mrs. Jane way said; "I don t believe Thomas 
 more than makes two ends meet, though I hear 
 he sold a good deal of honey last year." Thomas 
 kept bees, and a long row of hives stretched be 
 hind his house. 
 
 In a week s time Thomas returned the books, 
 and took two more home with him, but he did 
 not accept Amarina s invitation to be seated. 
 The almost churlishness of his manner had gone, 
 but instead was a pride before which Amarina s ,/ 
 own shrunk, fairly dwarfed. 
 
 69 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "I d like to know who Thomas Hetherly 
 thinks he is?" said old Martha, one evening, 
 after he had taken his books and gone. She 
 had entered the sitting-room on an errand 
 about breakfast. " Anybody would think he 
 was a prince to see the way he acts." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Amarina. 
 
 "He holds up his head as if there wasn t 
 anybody in the country quite good enough to 
 speak to him," continued Martha; "and what 
 is he ? He just grubs along on that little land, 
 and farms yours on shares, and keeps bees. 
 H m!" 
 
 "He has a good deal of book-learning," said 
 Amarina, blushing, and timidly yet dignifiedly 
 on the defensive. 
 
 "He ain t college-l arnt. What college did 
 he ever go to, I d like to know?" 
 
 "He has read a great deal, and taught him 
 self a great deal. He can read Greek and 
 Latin, and he has studied mathematics." 
 
 "H m!" said Martha again. 
 
 When Martha was out in the kitchen she 
 sat down by the other side of the stove with a 
 face so glum that even old Jacob dropped his 
 peaceful pipe to stare at her and inquire thick 
 ly what was the matter. 
 
 " I know what is the matter," said old Martha, 
 She was a very large woman, and her small 
 
 70 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 eyes rolled with unwarranted accusation at her 
 husband from the placid curves of her dis 
 turbed face. 
 
 "What s to pay?" further asked old Jacob. 
 
 " Girls don t leave off caps when they re 
 turned thirty, and put on silk dresses, and 
 stand hours in freezin rooms a-holdin candles 
 for young men to pick out books for nothin ; 
 that s what s to pay," said she. 
 
 "You don t think- 
 
 " I think that when a body can t get a sweet 
 grape, a body will take a sour sometimes rather 
 than no grape at all," returned Martha; "and 
 to think of old Abel Hetherly s son a-holdin 
 up of his head when he comes, as if he was the 
 lord of all creation!" 
 
 "Abel Hetherly was a good man," remarked 
 Jacob. Old Abel Hetherly had been one of 
 his boyhood friends. 
 
 "Of course he was a good man. I d like to 
 know who s sayin anythin agin him," re 
 turned his wife, crossly; "but, Lord! who s his 
 son, to come over here puttin on sech airs, and 
 she a-dressin of herself up as if the President 
 was comin ? Her blue and white plaid silk 
 on to-night. Lord! Thomas Hetherly s moth- 
 er never had but one silk dress in her life, and 
 that was a cinnamon-brown one that made her 
 look as yaller as saffron, and she was laid out 
 6 71 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 in it. Thomas Hetherly ain t used to women 
 in silk dresses, and he ain t no call to come and 
 hold up his head so high afore them that wears 
 them. What if he does know a little book- 
 learnin ? What s book-learnin to an old fam 
 ily like the Deerin s? They re above book- 
 learnin , and always was. They had books jest 
 as they had bread and butter, but they was 
 above em. Books is nothin but ideas, and 
 not true at that, most of em, printed and put 
 betwixt covers, but folks is folks. Lord! 
 Thomas Hetherly and one of the Deerings, an 
 he a-seemin to look down on her at that. If I 
 was her mother I d give her a piece of my mind." 
 Amarina continued to dress her hair prettily, 
 yfco go without her cap, and to don a becoming 
 gown on the evenings on which she expected 
 Thomas Hetherly might come. However, all 
 this time, Thomas never presumed upon the 
 privilege which most men might have esteemed 
 offered to them. He never lingered a moment 
 beyond the time necessary to choose his books. 
 And Amarina never acknowledged to herself 
 that she would have it otherwise. Now and 
 then there was a word or two between them, 
 mostly with regard to the weather, and that 
 was all, save that now and then there was a 
 look in Thomas s eyes when he regarded Ama 
 rina, which caused her to lower hers quickly, 
 
 72 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 and him to turn his away with something of 
 brusqueness, for the truth was that he was 
 angry with himself for yielding to the spell 
 which she, unwittingly or not, cast upon him, 
 with her fair face and her gentle, high-bred 
 ways. And yet in time he came to have a 
 defiance of his own humbleness, and he argued 
 with himself that whether his worldly estate 
 fitted him to be her mate or not, yet his love 
 as a man was worthy of her esteem, and that 
 he should be lacking in self-respect did he 
 shrink from avowing it to her. So it happened 
 that in June, when the roses were in blossom^/ 
 and Alicia Day had come home, and, in fact, the 
 wedding was the next day but one, he sent 
 Amarina a letter, and this was the letter : 
 
 "DEAR MADAM AMARINA DEERING, He who in 
 dites the following does so for the sake of his own 
 self-esteem, believing that although his worldly es 
 tate be inferior, and an insurmountable obstacle to 
 his union with you, yet the affection which he cherish 
 es in his heart for your graces of face and mind ren 
 ders him the equal of any man, and that he confesses 
 himself less than himself if he fails to avow it. I 
 therefore beg leave to inform you, madam, that I 
 love you and you only, and shall so love you until 
 the day of my death, and I tell you this asking for 
 naught in return, and even scorning aught in return, 
 as a giver may scorn reward, and I remain your obe 
 dient servant to command, 
 
 "THOMAS HETHERLY." 
 
 73 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 When Amarina received this strange letter, 
 she read it and locked it up in her little desk, 
 and reflected upon it. There was something 
 in the haughty attitude of this poor lover who 
 scorned to woo which she seemed to understand 
 as she had before never understood anything 
 in another human soul. Amarina reflected 
 upon the letter while she finished her brides 
 maid gown for Alicia s wedding. She made 
 over an old India muslin which had belonged 
 J to her mother, and the fancy had seized her 
 to embroider over the pattern in colors. She 
 therefore went, with colored embroidery silks, 
 all over the delicate patterns of the muslin, 
 until it was blooming with garlands of bright 
 flowers. The gown was low cut, but there was 
 an embroidered scarf to wear over the neck, 
 ^ iand Amarina wore a wreath of tiny rosebuds 
 twisted among her curls. On the day of the 
 wedding she set out a long time before the 
 hour appointed, since she was to assist in dress 
 ing the bride. She had with her, laid carefully 
 on the seat of the coach, a great bouquet of 
 bride roses, gathered from her garden, and tied 
 with white lutestring ribbon, and the bride was 
 to carry it. Amarina had seen but little of 
 Alicia lately; Alonzo she had not seen at all. 
 Whenever she thought of him it was with a 
 shame and scorn which was almost vindictive, 
 
 74 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 but with no love. She had never loved him, 
 but she had, in response to his wooing, placed 
 herself in an attitude of receptivity towards 
 love, and for that she found it hard to forgive 
 him. 
 
 When she reached the Day house, Alicia s > 
 mother, as graceful and fair to look upon as B.J 
 spray of lilacs in her shimmering lilac satin, 
 came to meet her, and her gentle face was pale 
 and distressed. "Oh, my dearest Amarina!" 
 she cried, " I am so glad you are come, for some 
 thing very sad has happened to us, and I am 
 looking forward to you, and you only, to set 
 matters right." 
 
 With that she drew Amarina wondering after 
 her into the house, and into the great parlor all 
 trimmed with flowers for the wedding. And 
 all the house was sweet with flowers and wine 
 and wedding-cake. 
 
 "My dear," said Alicia s mother, "she will 
 not be married; and, oh, the disgrace that has 
 come upon us this day, with the guests all 
 bidden and no wedding!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Amarina, her 
 self pale and gasping. 
 
 "She will not be married!" 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "She sits in her chamber, and her wedding- 
 gown lies on her bed, and she will not put it 
 
 75 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 on nor be married, nor tell any of us why; and 
 I have been looking for you, dear, thinking she 
 might be more open with one of her own age 
 and her closest friend than even with her own 
 mother." And as she said that, the poor lady 
 broke into sobs and lamentations. "Oh, go 
 up to Alicia s chamber and talk with her, my 
 dear," she begged; and Amarina forthwith ran 
 up the stairs, the carved balusters of which 
 were wound with green vines, and entered her 
 I friend s chamber. Alicia sat there alone in a 
 j rocking-chair, and she was dressed in an old 
 loose gown of sprigged pink-and- white muslin, 
 and her black hair was tumbling over her 
 shoulders, and she was rocking herself violent 
 ly back and forth, and her beautiful mouth was 
 set in a straight line. But when Amarina en 
 tered she sprang up and accosted her with a 
 sort of fury. 
 
 "You may have him! you may have him!" 
 said she. "Go down and marry him if you 
 j will! Put on my wedding-gown and my veil. 
 Go down and marry him, I say!" 
 
 Amarina looked at her friend sternly. Alicia, 
 what do you mean?" said she. 
 
 "Well you know what I mean. Tis you he 
 shall wed, and not me." 
 
 Then Amarina s own quick temper flashed. 
 "Know you, Mistress Alicia Day, I would not 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 wed with Alonzo Fairwater if he were the last 
 man in the world!" she cried out, and her face 
 flamed. 
 
 "Yes, tis you he shall wed, and not me." 
 
 "Alicia Day, have you lost your wits?" 
 
 "Tell me how many times Alonzo came to 
 call upon you last summer before I returned!" 
 
 "I cannot tell." 
 
 "Of course you cannot tell, for the times 
 passed count, but Alonzo told me that he called 
 but once to pay his respects. Tell me if he 
 spoke the truth?" 
 
 Amarina was silent. 
 
 "Tell me if he spoke the truth, Amarina 
 Deering?" 
 
 And again Amarina was silent, for she could 
 not reply. 
 
 " I knew it," Alicia said, with such an accent 
 of woe that Amarina shuddered. 
 
 "Alicia, sweetheart, he did come more than 
 once, but but he made no no avowal," stam 
 mered Amarina. 
 
 " Did he say or do anything that would have 
 caused you any disturbance had you been in my 
 place? answer me that," demanded Alicia. 
 
 Amarina was again silent a moment; then 
 she answered, although she felt in her heart 
 that she departed somewhat from the truth, 
 for as she spoke she seemed to see Alonzo s 
 
 77 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 ardent eyes upon her face, and feel his lips on 
 her hand. "No," said she. 
 
 "I do not believe you," said Alicia. "I 
 have found out that Alonzo was always at your 
 house last summer before my return, and 
 and the one who told me was passing, and she 
 saw him she saw him " 
 
 "Kiss my hand," said Amarina, coolly; "and 
 what of that? What does kissing the hand 
 mean? Nothing at all. And I know who told 
 you; it was Mrs. Ephraim Jane way." 
 
 " She thought it her duty to tell me, and not 
 let me marry the man with whom my dear 
 est friend was in love, when she was breaking 
 her heart over him," said Alicia, in the frozen, 
 stubborn tone which had come into her voice. 
 
 Amarina stared at her. " I am not breaking 
 my heart over him," said she again "on my 
 honor." 
 
 Alicia shook her head. 
 
 "Sweetheart, this is nonsense!" cried Ama 
 rina, and as she spoke she moved towards the 
 bed on which lay the wedding-gown and veil. 
 " Here, sweetheart, let us have no more of this," 
 she said. "Come here and let me dress you." 
 But Alicia began rocking back and forth again. 
 She was, between her love and jealousy, scarce 
 ly sane. Her face was burning and her eyes 
 were wild. " Come here, Alicia," said Amarina, 
 
 78 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 but Alicia would not stir. " But, sweetheart," 
 said Amarina, so bewildered that she scarcely 
 knew what to say or do, "you would marry 
 him if- 
 
 " Yes, I love him so that I would marry him 
 in spite of everything if I were sure you would 
 not." 
 
 I tell you I would not." 
 
 Alicia shook her head in her strange, stubborn 
 fashion. 
 
 "Come, sweetheart, if you love me, and be 
 dressed," begged Amarina, at her wits end. 
 
 " I tell you I will never wear that wedding- 
 dress, unless they put it on me when I am laid 
 in my coffin and I cannot help it," replied Alicia 
 Day, "unless" 
 
 "Unless what? Do not talk so, sweet." 
 
 "Unless I see you happily married to some 
 body else." 
 
 "Then would you believe?" 
 
 "Yes, then I should believe," said Alicia. 
 
 Amarina stood a moment reflecting. Her 
 face colored rosy red, then she paled. Then 
 she spoke with a strange note of fear and reso 
 lution: "Very well, dear," she said. "See me 
 married you shall." And with that she was 
 gone. 
 
 Alicia s mother, pale and trembling, caught / 
 hold of her white gown as she was going out of 
 
 79 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 the door. "Where are you going?" she whis 
 pered. "Will she?" 
 
 "I shall be back," replied Amarina. 
 
 "Will she? Oh, what shall I do?" 
 
 "She will when I come back." 
 
 As Amarina drove away in her coach she 
 had a glimpse of Alonzo Fairwater s face at a 
 window. He looked ghastly white and troubled, 
 and the sight of him strengthened her for her 
 purpose, for she was about to do what no wom 
 an of her family had ever done before. 
 
 Amarina bade old Jacob drive fast, and it 
 was not long before she reached the Deering 
 house; and she sprang out of her coach, and ran 
 in for her scissors and some white lutestring 
 ribbon, and was out in the garden cutting an 
 other bouquet of bride roses, the while old 
 Martha watched her furtively from a window; 
 and when she saw her hurry with her great 
 bunch of white roses to Thomas Hetherly s, 
 she thought she had gone clean mad. 
 I Amarina hurried across the road, and her 
 J garlanded dress floated out on either side like 
 the wings of a butterfly; and as she hurried 
 she heard a jangling yet somewhat rhythmic 
 sound, like barbaric music, for Thomas was 
 beating a tin pan behind his house in order to 
 settle a swarm of bees, which were overhead 
 in a humming cluster around their queen. 
 
 80 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 Amarina paid no heed to the bees, and she 
 ran up to him, and held out the bouquet of 
 white roses; and he, too, forgot his bees, and 
 stopped beating the tin pan, and looked at 
 her, and his face was as white as if he were 
 dead. 
 
 "I got your letter, Thomas," said she, in a 
 low voice, and stood extending the bunch of 
 roses towards him, as if it were some sword of 
 maidenhood which she was surrendering. Still, 
 Thomas did not speak; his head was swimming 
 with the perplexity of it all. 
 
 "I got your letter," Amarina faltered again, 
 and it w r as as if she were emerging from an at 
 mosphere in which she had been born into 
 another, which rent her with agony of new 
 life. Yet after a second she continued: "Alicia 
 will not marry Alonzo, because she has learned 
 that he has paid some slight attention to me, 
 and she will have it that my heart is broken," 
 and her voice had the appeal of a child s; "and 
 so and so " 
 
 Thomas did not speak. He stood holding 
 his pan, and the bees hummed angrily over 
 head. 
 
 "She will not marry him unless she is con 
 vinced by my marrying another man," cried 
 Amarina, tremulously. She held the roses tow 
 ards him, and they shook as if in a gale. " And 
 
 81 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 so, and so I came back, and I have your 
 letter, and I have made another bridal nose 
 gay, and if if 
 
 Then Thomas Hetherly seemed to fairly 
 tower over her. " So you come to me in order 
 that I may save your pride," he cried, "and in 
 order that " But his words were cut short, 
 for down came the bees in a buzzing mass, and 
 swarmed on the bunch of roses outstretched 
 in Amarina s hand. " Keep still ! oh, keep still 
 for God s sake!" shouted Thomas Hetherly. 
 And Amarina kept still, although she never in all 
 her life forgot that keeping still which seemed 
 to comprise in a few minutes an eternity. She 
 had nerve and courage, for she did not come of 
 the Deerings for nothing ; and she held the bunch 
 of roses, which a second before had so shaken, 
 with a clutch like a vise, although the muscles 
 on her girlish arms swelled with the weight and 
 stress, and there was a roaring in her ears above 
 the war-hum of the bees. Thomas ran for a 
 hive, and soon it was all over, and she had not 
 a sting ; but she dropped her roses, and put both 
 her little hands before her face and sobbed; 
 and in spite of himself, and influenced thereto 
 by a mightier and more primeval hunger for 
 ; sweets than those of the bees, Thomas came 
 v close to her and took her in his arms to com 
 fort her. " Tis all over, tis all over, and the 
 
 82 
 
AMARINA S ROSES 
 
 bees are in the hive," he said, "and don t be 
 afraid, sweetheart." 
 
 "Oh, tis cruel, tis cruel," she sobbed out; 
 " tis cruel, Thomas. For I came not because 
 of my pride, but because I loved you." 
 
 It became one of the village traditions: how 
 Amarina Deering went to seek Thomas Hether- 
 ly, and how his bees swarmed on her bridal bou 
 quet, and how he hived them, she never getting 
 one sting, and how he dressed himself in his 
 best, while she went home to tell her aunt, who, 
 it was said, never fairly understood until a 
 week later ; and then how Amarina and Thomas 
 drove in the coach back to the Day house, and / 
 how hastily the other bride was dressed, and 
 how there was a double wedding instead of a 
 single one, as there will sometimes unexpectedly 
 appear a double rose on a bush of single roses! 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 EGLANTINA, tall and fair, 
 Queen of Beauty and of Grace> 
 All my darkened house of life 
 Is illumined by thy face. 
 
 "Shineth thou unto my heart 
 
 As the dew in morning field, 
 
 When beneath the eastern sun 
 
 Gems of Zion blaze revealed. 
 
 " Sweet neth thou my every thought 
 
 Like the bud when night hath passed, 
 And she breaks her seal of bloom 
 To become a rose at last. 
 
 "Though in gloom thy lover sighs, 
 
 Eglantina, tall and fair, 
 Love the Blind hath touched his eyes, 
 And he sees thce past compare!" 
 
 These verses were cut and skilfully colored, 
 illuminated after a simple fashion, on a win- 
 7 87 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 dow-shutter in the east parlor of the old Litch- 
 field house, in Litchfield Village. 
 
 That was Eglantina s favorite room, and 
 there she used to sit with Roger Proctor. 
 Eglantina s father had married for the second 
 time when her mother had been dead ten years, 
 and she was eleven. The new wife had been a 
 widow with one child, Roger Proctor, a little 
 younger than Eglantina. Dr. Eliphalet Litch 
 field had been jealous of this son by a former 
 husband, and had insisted upon the mother s 
 practically separating from him upon her mar 
 riage with himself. 
 
 So the boy, who ad been blind from scarlet- 
 fever ever since his infancy, was put to board 
 with a distant relative of his mother s, and was 
 seldom seen by her. 
 
 The new wife was scarcely more than a girl, 
 although a widow with a son of ten. She was 
 a mild and delicate creature, whose only force 
 of character lay in loving devotion, and that 
 proved too strenuous for her fragile constitu 
 tion. She died a year after her marriage, and 
 her little daughter died with her. 
 
 Then Dr. Litchfield sent for the blind son 
 of the dead woman, and lavished upon him a 
 curious affection, which was at first not so 
 much affection as a sentiment of duty and 
 remorse. This man, given to fierce strains of 
 
 88 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 mood, chose to fancy that his young wife s un 
 timely death was a judgment of God for their 
 desertion of her blind son. From the time that 
 Roger Proctor came to live in the Litchfield 
 house his_^ lines were cast in pleasant places. -- 
 Dr. Litchfield enjoined upon his daughter Eg- 
 lantina that she was to treat the strange little 
 boy as her own brother, and he himself showed 
 more indulgence towards him than towards her. 
 However, Eglantina needed no such reminding. 
 From the minute that the blind child entered 
 the house, the other child was his willing slave. 
 Nothing was ever seen more appealing to old 
 and young than that little blind boy, Roger 
 Proctor. His hair, which hung in straight, 
 smooth lengths, had a wonderful high light 
 around his head which suggested an aureole. 
 His young face between these lines of gold was 
 an oval so pure that it had an effect of majesty 
 and peace, even in the child. His blind eyes, ^ 
 large and blue, seeming to give instead of re 
 ceive light, gazed with unswerving directness 
 from under a high forehead of innocent serious- ! 
 ness. Although his forehead seemed almost 
 frowning with gravity, Roger s mouth was al 
 ways smiling with a wonderful smile, before 
 which people shrank a little. "He looks like 
 an angel," they said. The blind boy gave, as 
 no seeing child could have done, an impression 
 
 89 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 of light and clearness. Soon his step-father 
 adored him, and as for Eglantina, she wor 
 shipped him from the first. 
 
 No greater contrast could have been im 
 agined than there was between the girl and 
 the boy. They were of about the same age, 
 but Eglantina was head and shoulders above 
 Roger, though he was not below the usual 
 height. But Eglantina was abnormally tall; 
 - her stature was almost a deformity, especially 
 since she was exceedingly slender. And that 
 was not all: crowning that slim height was a 
 head and face unfortunate not so much from 
 lack of beauty as from a mark on one cheek 
 which had been therefrom birth. A story was 
 told in the village of how Dr. Litchfield s wife 
 had longed for roses in winter when there were 
 none, and talked of the roses which climbed over 
 the front porch in the summer-time, and de 
 clared that she could smell them when none 
 were there; and how at last, when Eglantina 
 was born, there on one little cheek w r as that 
 hideous travesty of a red rose 7 , which she must 
 bear until the day of her death. The mother, 
 who had a strong vein of romance, had called 
 the child Eglantina, and mourned until she 
 died, not long after, because of her disfigure 
 ment, and often kissed, with tears of self-re 
 proach and the most passionate tenderness and 
 
 90 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 pity, the mark on the little cheek, as if she would 
 kiss it away. 
 
 Dr. Litchfield ever after hated roses; he 
 would have none in his garden, and the eglan 
 tine over the front porch was rooted up. Eg- 
 lantina herself had an antipathy to roses, and 
 never could she have a whiff of rose scent but 
 that she turned faint and ill. Nothing could 
 exceed the child s sensitiveness with regard to 
 the mark on her cheek. She.Jiever looked in 
 her glass without seeing that, and that only. 
 That dreadful blur of youth and beauty seemed 
 all her face; she^ was blind to all else. She 
 shrank from strangers with a shyness that was 
 almost panic. Eyes upon her face seemed to 
 scorch her very heart. But as she grew older, 
 although the inward suffering was much the 
 same, she learned to give less outward evidence 
 of it. She no longer shrank so openly from 
 strangers ; she even endured pitying glances or 
 repulsion with a certain gentleness, which gave 
 evidence to enormous patience rather than 
 bravery. When Roger had been in her father s 
 house some years, she became conscious of 
 a feeling which filled her with horror. She 
 strove against it, she tried to imagine that it 
 was not so, that she could not be such a mon 
 ster, but she knew all of a sudden that she 
 was glad that Roger W&s blind. Whenever she 
 
 9 1 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 looked at him came the wild, selfish triumph 
 and joy that he could not see her. Her con 
 sciousness of this came upon her in full force 
 for the first time one afternoon in August, when 
 she was eighteen and Roger a few months young 
 er. They were crossing a field behind the 
 house, hand in hand as usual, when Roger 
 turned his sightless eyes towards the sorrel, 
 and nodded and smiled as if he saw. "I have 
 made a poem to you, Eglantina," said he. 
 
 Eglantina colored until the rest of her face 
 was as red as the rose-mark on her left cheek; 
 then she turned pale, and that brought it into 
 stronger relief. "You must not," she said, 
 faintly. 
 
 "Why not? There is no one in the whole 
 world as beautiful as you are, Eglantina." 
 
 "No, I am not," she returned, in a pitiful, 
 hesitating voice, as if the truth were stifling 
 her. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You do not/know; you never saw me." 
 
 "I have seen you with my whole soul. You 
 are the most beautiful girl in the whole world, 
 Eglantina." 
 
 Eglantina shut her mouth hard. She pulled 
 her broad-brimmed hat over her face by the 
 green bridle-ribbon, and cast her disfigured 
 cheek into a deep shadpw. 
 
 92 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 Roger looked at her anxiously. "What is 
 the matter, Eglantina?" he asked, softly. 
 
 "Nothing," said she. 
 
 When they reached home, she ran up to her 
 own chamber. She went to her little mirror 
 over her white-draped dressing-table and gazed 
 long in it. Then she sank down before it on 
 the floor, in an agony of self-abasement. After 
 a while she rose and pulled the muslin drapery 
 over the glass, and did not look in it again. 
 When she went down-stairs there was Roger s 
 poem cut skilfully on the shutter in the east 
 parlor. Roger could not use pen or pencil to 
 much advantage, but he could cut the letters 
 plainly, feeling them with his long, sensitive 
 fingers. Eglantina held her cambric pocket- 
 handkerchief over her marred cheek, and read 
 every word, smiling tenderly. Then she put 
 the handkerchief to her eyes and leaned against 
 the shutter and sobbed softly. Then Roger 
 came into the room, feeling his way towards 
 her, and she choked her sobs back and dried 
 her eyes. Roger wished to color the letters of 
 his poem, and Eglantina sorted out the colors 
 from her paint-box, and he painted them. 
 
 Then, whenever she saw that poem to Eg 
 lantina tall and fair, she tried to picture her 
 self as Roger saw her, and not as she really was. 
 She tried to forget the birth-mark, she tried 
 
 93 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 not to think of it when she spoke to Roger, lest 
 ( the consciousness of it be evident in her voice, 
 * but that she could not compass. She thought 
 of it always, and the more she strove against 
 it the more she was conscious of it, until she 
 grew to feel as if the mark were on her very 
 soul. But her patience grew and grew to keep 
 pace with it. There was in her heart ceaseless 
 torture and suffering, but never rebellion. 
 
 Everybody who knew Eglantina spoke well 
 of her. They said what a pity that such a good 
 girl should be under such an affliction, and they 
 also said, when they saw the piteous couple 
 together, the man who could not see and the 
 woman who should not be seen, that there was 
 an ideal match. Eglantina s father began also 
 to have that fancy. He had grown old of late 
 years, and had the troubled persistency of a 
 child for his Way when once he had begun to 
 dwell upon it. It was not long after Roger had 
 cut his verses to Eglantina tall and fair on the 
 shutter that he called Eglantina back one 
 evenings/after she had started up-stairs with 
 her candle. " Eglantina, come here a mo 
 ment," he said, " I want to speak to you." 
 
 Eglantina returned and stood before him, 
 the candle-light illuminating her poor face, 
 which her father had never seen without a 
 qualm of pain and rebellion. That mark was 
 
 94 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 for him like a blot on the fair face of love itself, 
 and his will rose up against it in futile revolt. 
 Her father looked at her, his forehead con 
 tracted, then he turned towards the shutter, 
 and again towards her with a half -smile, while 
 one long finger pointed to the verses. "Have 
 you seen these, Eglantina?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Eglantina, gravely. She 
 looked full at her father with a look which was 
 fairly eloquent. "See what I am," it said. 
 "What have I to do with love- verses? Why 
 do you mock me by speaking of this?" 
 
 But her father shook his head stubbornly, 
 as if in direct answer to such unspoken speech 
 of hers. "If," he said, with a sort of stern 
 abashedness, for he had never spoken of such 
 things to his daughter "if your own heart 
 leads you in that direction, Eglantina, there 
 is no possible objection, and I should like to 
 see you settled. I am growing old." 
 
 Eglantina, still speechless, raised one arm, 
 her lace sleeve falling back from her wrist, and 
 pointed to her marred left cheek. There was 
 in the gesture utmost resignation and pride, 
 and her eyes reproved her father mutely. 
 
 Her father frowned and continued shaking 
 his head in denial. " I still say that under the 
 circumstances there can be no possible objec 
 tion," he said. "What difference can that 
 
 95 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 make to a blind man who has learned to es 
 teem you for your own true worth, and has in 
 vested you in his own mind with the graces of 
 person to correspond with those of your char 
 acter?" 
 
 Eglantina looked at him. After all, she was 
 eager to be persuaded. "I cannot keep it 
 secret from him," she faltered. 
 
 "How can you do aught else? How can 
 you describe your face to a blind man?" 
 
 Eglantina continued to regard her father 
 with eyes of painful searching, as one who 
 would discover hope against conviction and 
 find refutation for her own argument. 
 
 "Roger has been told repeatedly," said her 
 father. 
 
 Eglantina nodded. She herself had told him 
 and he had laughed at her. 
 
 "And the telling conveys no meaning to 
 him," said her father. "What does beauty or 
 deformity of the flesh signify to a blind man?" 
 
 " I can see, and I can see that which he loves 
 mistakenly," replied Eglantina, in a pitiful voice. 
 
 The two stood facing each other, both the 
 father and daughter above middle height, for 
 Eglantina got her height from her father. The 
 two faces were on a level. 
 
 "Do as your heart dictates, my daughter," 
 said her father, "and have no fear." 
 
 96 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 The next day, in the afternoon, when seated 
 in the arbor in the garden with her embroidery 
 work, she saw Roger coming, walking almost 
 as if he saw, with no outstretching of feeling 
 hands. In fact, he knew his way well enough 
 between the flower-beds, being guided by their 
 various odors. Eglantina, watching him ap 
 proach, swept a great bunch of brown curls 
 completely over her disfigured cheek, and sat 
 so when he entered. 
 
 Pass all the other lesser flowers by until 
 you find the rose," he said, laughing tenderly. 
 
 I am no rose," said Eglantina. 
 
 "The rose does not know she is herself, els 
 she would be no rose," said Roger. 
 
 "I am a poor mockery of a rose, from this 
 dreadful mark on my cheek," said Eglantina, 
 and she felt as if she were about to die, for it 
 seemed to her that such brutal frankness must 
 convince. 
 
 But Roger only laughed. "The rose has a 
 scratch from a thorn on one of her petals," he 
 returned, "or a bee has sucked too greedily 
 for honey. What of it? Is there not enough 
 beauty left? There is no one in the whole 
 world so beautiful as you, Eglantina. A mark 
 on your cheek ! What is a mark on your cheek 
 but a beauty, since it is a part of you? Fret 
 no more about it, sweetheart." 
 
 97 
 
THE FAIR LAV1NIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Eglantina looked at him, at the beautiful 
 face in a cloud of golden beard, at the sight 
 less blue eyes, and she pulled the curls closer 
 over her cheek and resisted no longer. 
 
 It was then the first of September, and it 
 was decided to have the marriage the next 
 month; there was no reason why they should 
 wait, and Dr. Litchfield was disposed to has 
 ten the wedding. Soon the simple preparations 
 were nearly finished. Roger s chamber had 
 been newly papered with a pale-green satin 
 paper, sprinkled with bouquets of flowers. 
 Roger s wedding suit was ready, and Eglan 
 tina s gow r n. The gown was a peach-blow silk, 
 and it lay in shimmering folds on the high bed 
 in the spare chamber, and from the tester 
 floated the veil, and a pair of little rose-colored 
 slippers toed out daintily beside the dimity 
 dresser, and in a little box thereon was a 
 brooch which Roger had given her a knot of 
 his fair hair set in a ring of pearls. 
 
 One evening, after a very warm day, Roger 
 and Eglantina returned from a long walk down 
 the country road and went into the house. 
 They kissed each other in the front entry, then 
 Roger went up-stairs, in the dark, and Eglan 
 tina lighted her chamber candle. 
 
 But her father called her again, and she went 
 into the east parlor as before, with the candle 
 
 98 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 ^^ 
 
 throwing an upward light upon her face. This 
 time Dr. Litchfield hesitated long before speak 
 ing, so long that she looked at him in surprise, 
 thinking that she had perhaps not understood, 
 and he had not called her. " Did you want to 
 see me, father?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, Eglantina," he replied ; but still he 
 hesitated, and she waited in growing wonder 
 and alarm. "Eglantina," Dr. Litchfield said, 
 presently. 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Dr. David Lyman is in the South Village. 
 He has been attending the daughter of Squire 
 Eggleston, who lost her sight from scarlet- 
 fever," her father said, abruptly. Eglantina 
 turned white, and gave a quick gasp. 
 
 "He will restore her sight," said her father, 
 and he paused. Eglantina was silent and mo 
 tionless. She stood with her mouth set hard 
 and her eyes averted. 
 
 "It might be well to have him see Roger," 
 said her father. He did not look at her. 
 
 Eglantina turned and went out of the room 
 without a word. She was awake all night, 
 pleading pitilessly for and against herself, as 
 if she had been a stranger. Monstrous as it 
 might seem, there was something to be said in 
 favor of letting the physician who might re 
 store Roger s sight pass by, and keeping her 
 
 99 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 lover blind until the day of his death. "If 
 Roger gains his sight, he loses love," she said; 
 " and he is one who, if love go amiss, will come 
 to harm in himself." And that was quite true, 
 for Roger Proctor was a man to be made or 
 marred by 16ve. 
 
 "Will he not lose more than he gains?" 
 Eglantina asked herself, and, though her judg 
 ment told her yes, yet she dared not trust to 
 her judgment when her inclination so swayed 
 her. Then, moreover, to such strength her 
 love had grown that all the old guilty secret 
 gladness over his blindness was gone, and in 
 stead was a great tenderness and pity for her 
 lover that he must go blind and miss so much. 
 "He can see a-plenty that is beautiful if he 
 miss the beauty in me," thought Eglantina; 
 "and who am I to say that no other woman 
 besides me can make him happy?" 
 
 But always she went back to the fear as to 
 how he would endure the awful shock when, 
 after his eyesight was restored, he should look 
 for the first time on her face, and see what he 
 had loved and kissed. She thought truly not 
 then of her own distress and humiliation, but 
 of him, and what he would suffer, and she could 
 not argue that away. Then all at once her 
 mind was at rest x for a great and unselfish, 
 though fantastic, plan had occurred to her, 
 
 100 
 
EGLANriNA 
 
 and she knew what she could do to spare 
 him. 
 
 The next morning there was an expression 
 in her face which dominated all disfigurement 
 and would have dominated beauty as well. 
 
 "When will he come?" she asked her father, 
 when Roger was not within hearing. 
 
 "This afternoon, if I go for him," replied her 
 father, with his eyes still on her face, "but you 
 had best not tell Roger until the doctor has 
 pronounced on the case. You had best not 
 hold up hope that may come to naught." 
 
 "It will not come to naught," she replied; 
 and after breakfast she told Roger that a doc 
 tor w r as coming who would cure his eyes and 
 he would see. 
 
 Roger received the news with a curious calm 
 ness at first, but as he reflected a great joy 
 grew and strengthened in his face. Then he 
 cried out, suddenly, "Then I shall see you, I 
 shall see you!" 
 
 "Yes," said Eglantina. 
 
 "Why do you speak so, Eglantina? Your 
 voice sounds strange." 
 
 There was a peculiar quality in Eglantina s 
 voice, a peculiarity of intonation, which made 
 it unmistakable among others, and just then it 
 had disappeared. 
 
 "Why strange?" said she. 
 101 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "It is strange now. Are you not glad that 
 I am to see to see you, sweetheart?" 
 
 "I am more than glad," replied Eglantina. 
 Then she went away hurriedly, though Roger 
 called wonderingly and. in a hurt fashion after 
 her. 
 
 That afternoon, before the doctor came, Eg 
 lantina sent a letter to her cousin, Charlotte 
 Wyatt, who lived in Boston, and who was to be 
 present at the wedding, to hasten her coming. 
 The two were great friends, though Charlotte 
 had visited Eglantina but once, when Roger 
 was away, and so had never seen him, but 
 Eglantina had often visited Boston, and the 
 two wrote frequent letters. 
 
 ".Come if you can in a fortnight s time, dear 
 Charlotte," wrote Eglantina, "though that be 
 a fortnight before the day set for the wedding, 
 for I am in sore trouble and distress of mind, 
 and only you can comfort and help me." And 
 she wrote not a word with regard to Roger s 
 eyes. And she did not mention Charlotte s 
 coming to Roger. 
 
 That afternoon Dr. David Lyman came at 
 Dr. Litchfield s bidding, and the operation on 
 Roger s eyes was performed with great hope of 
 success, though the result could not be cer 
 tainly known for the space of two weeks, when 
 Dr. Lyman would return and the bandages 
 
 102 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 would be removed. During those two weeks 
 Eglantina nursed Roger tenderly, and let no 
 trace of her own sadness appear. Indeed, she 
 began to feel that she should have joy enough 
 if Roger regained his sight, even if she lost him 
 thereby, for the blind man was full of delight, 
 and for the first time revealed how he had 
 suffered in his mind because of his loss of 
 sight. ^ 
 
 Then, the day before the one appointed for 
 the removing of the bandages, came Charlotte 
 Wyatt, stepping out of the stage-coach at the 
 door a tall and stately maiden, who was held 
 in great renown for her beauty. Charlotte 
 Wyatt, with all her beauty, bore a certain family 
 resemblance to her cousin. She was of the 
 same height, she was shaped like her, she moved 
 and spoke like her, having the same trick of 
 intonation in her grave, sweet voice. But this 
 resemblance only served to make Eglantina s 
 defects a more lamentable contrast to the 
 other s beauty. It was like a perfect and a 
 deformed rose on the same l3ush. The de- 
 fofmed flower was the worse deformed for 
 being a rose beside the other. 
 
 That night the two girls lay awake all night 
 in bed and talked, and Eglantina told the other 
 her trouble, and yet not all, for she did not dis 
 cover to her the plan which she had made. 
 
 s 103 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Charlotte held her cousin in her arms, and wept 
 over her, and pitied her with a pity which bore 
 a cruel sting in it. " I do not wonder that your 
 heart aches, sweetheart, for surely never was 
 a man like Roger, and you might well love him 
 better blind than any other man with his sight," 
 said Charlotte Wyatt, fervently. She had not 
 spoken to Roger, but she had peeped into the 
 room where he sat with his eyes bandaged, with 
 Eglantina reading to him. Eglantina shrank 
 from her suddenly when she said that. " What 
 is the matter? What have I said to hurt you, 
 sweet?" cried Charlotte. 
 
 "Nothing, dear," replied Eglantina, and held 
 the other girl close in her arms. 
 
 "I never loved any man overmuch, though 
 so many have said that they loved me, but I 
 can see how you love Roger," Charlotte said, 
 innocently. 
 
 " There is no one like him," Eglantina agreed, 
 and she began sobbing in a despairing fashion, 
 and Charlotte strove to comfort her. 
 
 "He will love you just the same when he 
 can see," she said. "Beauty is but skin deep, 
 sweetheart." 
 
 " I care not, oh, I care not, so he is not hurt," 
 sobbed Eglantina. 
 
 "How you love him!" whispered the other 
 girl. "If he be not true to love like yours, he 
 
 104 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 is more blind when he sees than when he saw 
 
 It was the next afternoon that the bandages 
 were to be removed from Roger Proctor s eyes, 
 and it would then be known if the operation 
 were a success. The great doctor and Eglan 
 tina s father and the nurse were in the room 
 with Roger. Eglantina and Charlotte waited 
 outside. Charlotte was dressed in a lilac satin 
 gown, falling in soft folds around her lovely 
 height, and her fair hair was twisted into a 
 great knot, from which fell a shower of loose 
 curls around her rosy face; and since she had 
 come away without a certain tucker of wrought 
 lace which she much affected, Eglantina had v 
 dressed her in one of her own, taking a sachet 
 of lavender, and she had fastened it with her 
 brooch of Roger s hair set in pearls. The two 
 moved about uneasily. 
 
 They listened to every sound from the next 
 room, the doctor s study, where Roger and the 
 two physicians were, and presently out came 
 Dr. Eliphalet Litchfield, not with the gladness 
 of his profession after a successful operation, 
 but falteringly, with pitiful eyes upon his 
 daughter. 
 
 "Well?" said Eglantina to him. 
 
 "He sees," replied Dr. Litchfield, in a husky 
 voice. He looked hesitatingly at Eglantina, 
 
 105 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 The door was opened again, and Dr. David 
 Lyman looked out. "He is asking for your 
 daughter," he said to Eliphalet Litchfield. 
 
 " Eglantina! Eglantina!" called Roger s voice, 
 high with nervousness. He was too weak to 
 stir; the strain had been severe, and he was of 
 a delicate physique. 
 
 "You had best come at once," whispered the 
 doctor. "He has been under a great stress, 
 and it is not advisable to cross him; even his 
 sight may depend upon it." 
 
 Eglantina laid a hand with a weight of steel 
 on her cousin s arm. "Go," she said. 
 
 Charlotte stared, pale and scared. 
 
 "Go," said Eglantina. 
 
 Dr. Litchfield made a motion forward, but Eg 
 lantina stopped him with a look. She pushed 
 Charlotte towards the study door, and whis 
 pered sharply in her ear: "You heard what the 
 doctor said. Don t let him know. Go." 
 
 Charlotte went into the room half by force, 
 half with bewildered acquiescence. Then the 
 three outside heard a great cry of rapture from 
 Roger, and Eglantina went away hurriedly, 
 leaving the men looking at each other. 
 
 It was nearly time for the stage - coach. 
 
 Eglantina was waiting for it at the turn of the 
 
 road. No one had seen her leave the house. 
 
 An hour later Dr. Litchfield found a letter pinned 
 
 106 
 
EGLANTINA 
 
 to his cloak, which hung in the entry. It was 
 very brief: "Dear father, this is to inform you 
 that I have gone to Aunt Pamela s. Do not 
 undeceive Roger at present, and do not let 
 Charlotte. Your respectful and obedient daugh 
 ter to command, Eglantina." 
 
 Eglantina had been with her aunt Pamela 
 a week, when one afternoon came Charlotte 
 riding in the doctor s chaise, herself driving 
 with a pretty skill, holding the reins high, slap 
 ping the white horse s back with them, and 
 clucking to him like a bird to hasten his pace. 
 And she, running into Miss Pamela Litchfield s 
 house, and finding Eglantina by herself em 
 broidering in the parlor, in the deep window- 
 seat, caught her round the waist and talked 
 fast, half laughing and half crying. "He will 
 have none of me," she said. "This morning 
 he told me, with as near tears as a man may, 
 that he accounted himself as worthy of great 
 blame, but held that he might be worthy of 
 more did he dissemble. This to me; and to 
 my uncle, your father, he said more. This he 
 said of me of me, who has had some praise, 
 whether deserved or not, for her looks that he 
 was disappointed in my poor face, that it was 
 not what he had deemed it to be, that it was 
 less fair. And then I, having heard what he 
 said to my uncle, and being, I will admit, some- 
 107 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 thing taken aback by such slighting I told him 
 that it was all a deception, that I was my poor 
 self instead of his beloved Eglantina, that she 
 had been unexpectedly called away, and that 
 we had deceived him for his health s sake; and, 
 Lord! had you but seen how he brightened! 
 And now you must go to him, sweetheart." 
 
 It was evening when Eglantina and Char 
 lotte rode into the yard of the Litchfield house, 
 and the next morning Eglantina went into the 
 east parlor and stood before Roger Proctor; 
 and a sunbeam from the east window, the let 
 tered shutter of which had been thrown open, 
 fell upon her poor face with the monstrous 
 travesty of a rose disfiguring her cheek; and 
 Roger gave one great, glad cry of recognition, 
 and she was in his arms, and he was covering 
 her face with kisses, and looking at it with 
 ecstasy as if it were the face of an angel. " Oh, 
 Eglantina!" he said. "It is you, sweetheart 
 you and no other! No other could have such 
 "beauty as thine, the beauty I have seen with 
 my soul, and now see with my twice-blessed 
 eyes." 
 
 Eglantina lived and died, and her long grave 
 is in the graveyard of Litchfield Village, and 
 at the head is a marble stone on which are 
 cut the verses beginning, "Eglantina, tall and 
 fair." 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 THE two Crosby sisters, Honora and Ellen, 
 their niece Annette, their deceased broth 
 er s daughter, and her brother Franklin were 
 all in the sitting-room the day before Christ 
 mas, at work on Christmas presents. Franklin 
 was whittling paper-knives out of whitewood, 
 and sniffling painfully and dejectedly the while. 
 He was only ten, and out of school on account 
 of a cold. He did not like to go to school, but 
 it was snowing hard, and he was eager to be 
 out-of-doors. 
 
 Honora was crocheting a shawl of pink wool, 
 Annette was dressing a doll, and Ellen was 
 covering a pincushion with blue silk. Later 
 she intended sticking in pins in letters repre 
 senting, "To Cora." Ellen was a conservative, 
 and that which always had been seemed the 
 best to her. Pincushions made in such wise 
 had been a fashion of her departed youth. 
 Honora crocheted with her lips set in a curi- 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 ous way which she always maintained when 
 at work. Annette dressed the doll listlessly. 
 She was a pretty girl, although to - day she 
 looked somewhat wan. A young man, Harry 
 Roel, who had been openly attentive to her, 
 had lately deserted her for another girl. That 
 very afternoon she had seen them pass in a 
 sleigh. She had said nothing, but her aunt 
 Honora had spoken. 
 
 " It seems to me folks must be in an awful 
 strait to go sleigh-riding in such a storm as 
 this," said she, with an odd mixture of sympathy 
 for her niece and indignation at the young man. 
 
 Franklin considered it a good opening for a 
 plea of his own. He spoke with a hoarse whine. 
 "Can t I just go out and coast down Adkin s 
 hill just twice if I tie my tippet over my ears?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I rather guess you can t," replied his aunt 
 Honora. 
 
 "I ll wear my thick coat, and something 
 under it." 
 
 "Don t you say another word. You keep 
 on with your paper-knives." 
 
 Franklin applied his damp handkerchief to 
 his nose, and the tears trickled down his rasped 
 cheeks. He was a fair little boy, and cold made 
 ravages in his appearance. " I m sick of these 
 old paper-knives," he muttered. 
 
 112 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 " No muttering," Honora said, sternly. 
 " Christmas is the one time of the year when we 
 ought to think of other people and not of our 
 selves. Just look at your aunt Ellen and your 
 sister and me working. Maybe we don t feel 
 any more like it than you do." 
 
 Annette, fitting in a fussy little sleeve to the 
 doll s dress, gave a weary sigh. "That is so," 
 she said. " If ever I hated to do anything, it 
 was to dress a doll." 
 
 "But she knows how tickled little Minnie 
 Green will be with it," said Honora; "and here 
 is your aunt Ellen making a pincushion for 
 Cora Abbot, and she w r oke up with a headache ; 
 and here I am crocheting a shawl to give away 
 to a lady in Bilchester, when I really need one 
 myself. Christmas isn t the time to think of 
 yourself." 
 
 "Pink was always so becoming to you, too," 
 said Ellen. 
 
 "It used to be," said Honora. In spite of 
 herself she could not resist placing the fluff of 
 pink wool under her chin and gazing at herself 
 in the glass opposite. Honora was old and her 
 hair was snow white, but she had the tints of 
 youth in her fine skin, and the pink wool cast its 
 roseate hues over her face and thick white locks. 
 
 "It s just as becoming as it ever was," said 
 Ellen. 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Honora could not avoid a conscious simper 
 at the charming reflection of herself. She had 
 always been covertly pleased to meet herself 
 in the glass. "Well," said she, "I shall have 
 to do without a pink shawl." 
 
 Ellen regarded her with a troubled expres 
 sion. "Oh, dear sister," said she. "I only 
 wish I had thought, for I could have got a pink 
 shawl for you as well as the present I have. 
 
 "So could I," said Annette. 
 
 "Well," said Honora, in a resigned voice, 
 " I know I shall like what you have for me. It 
 is only that I have always wanted a pink shawl, 
 and I have never seen the time when I felt 
 K that I could conscientiously get one for my 
 self." 
 
 "You have made so many for other people, 
 too," said Annette. 
 
 "Yes, I know I have," agreed Honora, "but 
 it always seemed to me that they needed them 
 more than I did. Here is poor Abby Judd. 
 She has just barely enough money to live on, 
 and she has the prayer-meeting at her house 
 every week since the church burned down, and 
 she has the sewing-circle at least once a month, 
 and her house is always chilly, and she really 
 needs a dressy shawl." 
 
 " You are always thinking of somebody else," 
 said Annette, and the remark pleased Honora. 
 114 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 Annette looked very much as Honora had done 
 at her age. Her hair was a brilliant brown, 
 with red lights in it, and her complexion was 
 really wonderful. Annette, as she worked, 
 cast every now and then a glance out at the 
 storm. It seemed to her that she constantly 
 heard sleigh-bells ever since that sleigh with 
 Harry Roel and the other girl had passed. 
 "It s an awful storm," she said, with a half- 
 sigh. This was the night of the week Wednes 
 day when Harry Roel had been accustomed 
 to call, and she had always made a wood fire 
 in the stove in the best parlor. She would not 
 need to do that to-night. 
 
 The next morning Franklin went about car 
 rying the presents on his sled. He was better, 
 and so wrapped up that he could scarcely walk. 
 He had to carry some of the parcels to the post- 
 office and the express-office, and some to houses 
 in the village. He was usually quite a trust 
 worthy errand-boy, but possibly this morning 
 the quinine which he had taken for the grippe, 
 or the grippe itself, confused his young mind. 
 Instead of taking the pink shawl, which was en 
 veloped daintily in pink tissue-paper tied with 
 pink ribbons, then enclosed in a nice white box, 
 to the express-office, he carried it to Harry 
 Reel s house. Harry lived with his widowed 
 mother, and the maid who came to the door 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 and took the box could not read English, and 
 she had no hesitation about receiving it. 
 
 "This is a Christmas present from my aunt 
 Honora," said Franklin. 
 
 The Swedish girl smiled at the beaming eyes 
 above the red tippet. Then she carried the 
 package into the kitchen to her mistress, who 
 was there superintending the pudding. Mrs. 
 Roel was an impetuous soul, and had never 
 gotten over her childish delight in presents. 
 She did not look at the address, but cut the 
 string with the first knife at hand. She un 
 folded the pink tissue-paper and shook out the 
 shawl. 
 
 "Oh, what a pretty shawl!" she cried, "and 
 it s just what I wanted, for I am going to have 
 the sewing-circle next week, and I ve got a cold." 
 
 Then she spied the card attached to the shawl 
 with pink ribbon, and read, "To Abby Judd, 
 with loving wishes for Christmas and the New- 
 year, from her old friend, Honora Crosby," 
 and her face fell. 
 
 "Goodness! this isn t mine, after all," she 
 said. "It s for Abby Judd, in Bilchester. I 
 used to know her. She and Honora Crosby 
 were always intimate. Well, this must be done 
 up again, and when Harry comes in he must 
 take it down to the express-office." 
 
 It thus happened that poor Annette Crosby 
 116 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 heard the jingle of sleigh-bells that morning, 
 and she did not know that Harry was carrying 
 the pink shawl which her aunt Honora had 
 crocheted for Abby Judd to the express-office. 
 
 In due time Honora received a letter of 
 thanks from Abby Judd, along with a pretty 
 little pious book bound in white and gold. 
 Honora looked very sharply at the book, then 
 she laid it on the table with her other 
 gifts. 
 
 "It is very pretty," said she, "and Abby 
 was very kind to send it." There was an odd 
 tone in her voice. Franklin and Ellen were in 
 the room. After Franklin went out, Ellen 
 examined the book closely, then she looked at 
 her sister. 
 
 " It s one somebody gave her," she said. " I 
 can see where the name was rubbed out." 
 
 "Well, I don t suppose she could afford to 
 buy a new one," said Honora, generously. 
 "She has an awful time to make both ends 
 meet, and, of course, she had read it. All I 
 hope is that the one who gave it to her won t 
 see it." 
 
 "That is so," said Ellen. "I made out the 
 name; didn t you?" 
 
 Honora nodded. 
 
 "It was Mrs. Addison Roel." 
 
 " Yes, Etta Roel was the name. She scratch- 
 117 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 ed it out, and I suppose she thought nobody 
 would notice it." 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Addison Roel won t be very apt 
 to come in here now," said Ellen. 
 
 "That is so," assented Honora. 
 
 Ellen lowered her voice. She nodded tow 
 ards the kitchen, where Annette was making 
 some chocolate creams to please Franklin. 
 "Do you suppose she minds much?" she whis 
 pered. 
 
 "If she does, there won t nobody know it," 
 said Honora. 
 
 She was quite right nobody did know it. 
 Time went on, and Harry Roel never came to 
 see Annette, and it was reported that he was 
 constant in his attentions to the other girl, 
 that they were engaged, but Annette never 
 lowered her crest. She dressed just as pains 
 takingly and prettily as ever She went every 
 where. She did not in the least avoid meeting 
 her old lover and his new sweetheart. People 
 said that she did not care. It was even ru 
 mored that Annette had dismissed him, and 
 that he was paying attentions to Laura Ames 
 out of spite. His mother heard of it and told 
 him. She had just come home from the mission 
 circle one afternoon in December ; it was a year 
 later than the first Christmas when she had 
 received Honora s pink shawl by mistake. 
 118 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 " I heard something that made me mad this 
 afternoon," she said to her son when they sat 
 together at the tea-table. Mrs. Addison Roel 
 was a very pretty woman, astonishingly young 
 for her age, and when she was excited color 
 flushed her cheeks and her eyes sparkled like 
 a girl s. She was prettily dressed, too, in 
 a lace -trimmed silk waist and a black satin 
 skirt. 
 
 "What was it?" asked Harry. 
 
 " Well, I heard that Annette Crosby had jilted 
 you, and that was the reason you were going 
 with Laura." 
 
 Harry paled a little. He had inherited his 
 mother s good looks, and even her childishness 
 of expression. "Well, maybe it sounds better 
 to have it go so," he said. 
 
 " I don t think it sounds any better for you," 
 said his mother, hotly. 
 
 "It sounds better for Annette," said Harry, 
 and suddenly his pale face flushed. 
 
 Mrs. Addison Roel looked sharply at him. 
 "Goodness! you don t mean to say that you 
 are thinking of Annette now?" she said. 
 
 Harry said nothing. 
 
 "Well, I d stick to one thing two minutes," 
 said his mother. 
 
 " Maybe I am not the only one to be accused 
 of that," said Harry, gloomily. 
 
 9 119 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "Harry Roel!" cried his mother. " Annette 
 Crosby didn t" 
 
 " Never mind what she did or didn t," Harry 
 returned, and took his hat and went away, 
 leaving his mother staring after him. 
 
 " He didn t half eat his supper," she thought; 
 "and there was that chocolate cake he is so 
 fond of, too." She wondered if Annette Crosby 
 had really dismissed her son; she felt an active 
 dislike towards her, aroused by the mere im 
 agination of such a thing. " I wonder who she 
 thinks she is?" she thought; and yet she posi 
 tively disliked Laura Ames, and the anticipa 
 tion of having to live with her had really caused 
 her to lose some of her pretty, youthful curves. 
 She had always rather looked forward to liv 
 ing with Annette, who was exceedingly sweet- 
 tempered and a good housekeeper, whereas the 
 other girl was openly called a spitfire, if she 
 was pretty, and she had the name of letting 
 her mother do all the work. There was no 
 servant in the Ames house. However, the 
 possibility of Annette s having treated Harry 
 badly served to partly reconcile her with the 
 other girl. She resolved to ask Laura to tea 
 Christmas day, and it so happened that Annette 
 saw Harry drive past with her as she had the 
 year before. 
 
 The Crosbys had their gifts all finished and 
 1 20 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 despatched; it was four o clock in the after 
 noon, and their little tables were spread with 
 those which they had received. Honora had 
 two which rather nonplussed her. Annette 
 and Ellen each presented her with a pink 
 crocheted shawl. When the gifts were dis 
 played, and they saw that each had chosen 
 the same thing for Honora, they at first looked 
 sober, then they laughed, and Honora joined 
 them. 
 
 "Well, I declare, I ve got pink shawls now 
 if I never had any before," said she. 
 
 "It all happened because I went to that 
 church fair when I was in Norcross," said 
 Annette. She had been visiting the married 
 friend for whose little girl she had dressed the 
 doll the preceding Christmas. She had been a 
 little out of health, and they had thought a 
 change might benefit her. "I happened to 
 see that shawl at the fair," said Annette, "and 
 I knew it was just the shade Aunt Honora liked, 
 so I bought it. I was going to crochet one, 
 but I didn t feel quite up to it, and I thought 
 this would do just as well." 
 
 " I didn t dream you were going to give her 
 a pink shawl or I would have said something to 
 you about it," said Ellen. "I had made up 
 my mind to give her one, but you know I can t 
 crochet, and I happened to see this one in the 
 
 121 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Woman s Exchange in Winchester last Novem 
 ber when I went there shopping with Mrs. 
 Green; so I got it. I ve had it hidden away 
 ever since. I wish they weren t both the same 
 stitch." 
 
 "Never mind. I don t care anything about 
 that," said Honora. "I- always thought this 
 was the prettiest stitch there was, and I am 
 delighted with them. It is a great deal nicer 
 to have two, because I shall feel that I can 
 wear them all I want to. If I had only one, I 
 dare say I should have kept it done up in a 
 towel and hardly ever worn it." 
 
 "Well, there is something in that," agreed 
 Ellen. She looked admiringly at her sister, 
 who threw one of the shawls over her shoulder. 
 
 However, as she sat beside the window, a 
 boy came to the door and left a package for 
 her, and when it was opened her face changed. 
 "I declare, if Mrs. John Eggleston hasn t sent 
 me another pink shawl!" said Honora. 
 
 "And it is the same stitch," said Ellen. 
 
 Annette, in spite of her troubles, was young, 
 and had a sense of humor. She sank into a 
 chair and doubled over with laughter. In a 
 moment Honora and Ellen joined her. 
 
 Honora had a dainty little note enclosing a 
 Christmas card, and she read it. " At all events, 
 Mrs. Eggleston is honest," she said. " She tells 
 122 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 me right out that she had this shawl sent her 
 three years ago from a friend, and she had 
 never worn it, and she sends it to me with 
 Christmas greetings, because she heard me say 
 once that I wished I had a pink shawl." 
 
 "Yes, she is honest," said Ellen. "Maria 
 Eggleston always did speak right out." 
 
 "Well, I declare!" said Honora, looking at 
 the shawl with an odd expression. 
 
 "You will have to wear pink shawls morn 
 ing, noon, and night," said Annette. 
 
 It was not long after that when Franklin 
 came home; he had been sent to the office for 
 the night mail, and he brought several pack 
 ages, evidently presents for the two aunts and 
 the niece. Honora had two. One she opened 
 at once. 
 
 "What a lovely dolly!" said she. "Cora 
 sent it to me." 
 
 "What is in your other package?" asked 
 Annette. 
 
 Honora hesitated. She sat looking at the un 
 opened package in her lap with an expression 
 of chagrin, amusement, and distress. She had 
 caught a glimpse of rose-color through one end 
 of the parcel. It was not very carefully tied up. 
 
 "I declare, it looks like " began Ellen. 
 
 "I do believe it is," said Annette, with a 
 shriek of laughter. 
 
 123 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Honora lifted the parcel. "It is light and 
 soft," said she, in a resigned voice. 
 
 Then Annette caught sight of the pink color 
 at the end. "It is! it is!" she cried. 
 
 Honora opened the parcel and shook out an- 
 othjr pink shawl. 
 
 "Thank the Lord, it is a different stitch," 
 said Ellen, with a gasp. 
 
 "Ellen, you ought to be ashamed, bringing 
 the Lord into it," said Honora, reproachfully. 
 
 "Well, I can t help it. I do feel thankful, 
 < and I don t see any sin in being thankful for 
 little things as well as big ones," said Ellen. 
 
 Then they all looked at the shawl and laugh 
 ed. Franklin was a little bewildered. He did 
 not quite understand what the laughter was 
 about. 
 
 "Aunt Honora has got four pink shawls," 
 explained Annette to him. 
 
 Then Franklin bent over with laughter. 
 "Well, she s going to have another," said he. 
 "Willy Bennet s mother is going to give Aunt 
 Honora a pink shawl. I know, because Willy s 
 got a cold and can t come to bring it over, 
 and Mrs. Bennet wanted me to come over after 
 supper and get it. She hadn t got it done up. 
 Willy s mother said she heard Aunt Honora 
 say last year that she wanted a pink shawl, and 
 she made up her mind she should have one." 
 124 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 "I wonder if she made it herself?" said 
 Annette. 
 
 "She couldn t have," said Ellen. "Mrs. 
 Bennet doesn t know how to crochet, I know." 
 
 "I remember saying to Mrs. Bennet that I 
 wanted a pink shawl," remarked Honora, still 
 with that queer expression. 
 
 "Good land! five pink shawls," said Ellen. 
 
 "Maybe you will have another," said An 
 nette. "There is a letter you haven t opened, 
 Aunt Honora." 
 
 " Thank the Lord, there can t be a pink shawl 
 in that, anyhow," said Ellen. 
 
 Honora opened the letter. Then she laughed. 
 "There is something about a pink shawl in it, 
 anyhow," said she. "It s from Sarah Mills, 
 and she was always honest, too. She says she 
 has had a pink shawl sent her for a Christmas / 
 present, but she never wears pink, because it ^ 
 makes her look yellow; she doesn t say who 
 sent it; so she is sending it to me by ex 
 press." 
 
 "I begin to feel nervous," said Ellen. 
 
 "Yes, there is something awful about so 
 many pink shawls," said Annette. Then she 
 laughed again, her rather hysterical laugh. 
 She was really very unhappy. She did not get 
 over her unhappiness about Harry Roel, al 
 though she held her head high. 
 I2 5 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "Why don t you have a rummage sale and 
 get rid of them?" said Franklin. 
 
 " Franklin Crosby, I am ashamed of you," 
 said Honora; " a rummage sale of presents which 
 were given me by my friends! You must re 
 member that when Anything is given you there 
 is something sacreo. about it, because it is not 
 only the thing itself, but the love and kindness 
 that go with it from the giver, and it isn t any 
 thing to be treated lightly or to be made fun 
 of. Everything I have ever had given me 
 since I was a girl I have treasured up, and I 
 wouldn t part with them for any money, even 
 if they don t happen to be quite what I need. 
 The need is not the main thing." 
 
 Franklin was looking hard at a book which 
 he himself had just received. "Well, I sup 
 pose I ll have to treasure up this book," said 
 he. "I had one just like it year before last. 
 I don t want to read it, so I suppose I ll have 
 to treasure it." 
 
 "Of course you will," said his aunt, severely, 
 1 and you must remember that you treasure 
 up not only the book but your teacher s Jdnd 
 thought of you." 
 
 "Yes m," said Franklin, meekly, with in 
 ward reservations. " She gave Willy Bennet a 
 great box of candy," said he. "He s teacher s 
 favorite." 
 
 126 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 "Nonsense! Miss Lowny is a good woman, 
 and she hasn t any favorites," said his aunt 
 Honora, "and the book cost probably more 
 than the candy." 
 
 "No, it didn t," said Franklin, "for that 
 candy is fifty cents a pound, and there were 
 two pounds of it, and they are selling books 
 just like this for twenty- nine cents at White 
 & Adams s. I saw em in the window my own 
 self yesterday." 
 
 "Franklin Crosby, aren t you ashamed of 
 yourself?" cried his aunts and sister as one. 
 
 "I don t see why," returned Franklin, stout 
 ly. He had very good reasoning powers for 
 his age. "I don t see why kind thoughts and 
 a dollar ain t more than kind thoughts and 
 twenty-nine cents. So there 1" 
 
 "Franklin, you can go out to the woodshed 
 and bring in some wood and start up the fire 
 in the kitchen stove. It is almost time for sup 
 per, and let me hear no more of such talk," 
 said Honora, sternly. 
 
 However, she could not quite make up her 
 mind to wear the dainty rose-colored things as 
 often as she had planned. It happened that 
 all six shawls, were for the most of the time pack 
 ed carefully away, each folded in a clean white 
 towel, and that she only wore one, scented 
 strongly with camphor, on a state occasion. 
 
 127 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 When the next Christmas came, not one shawl 
 was the worse for wear. 
 
 " I hope to goodness you won t get any more 
 pink shawls this Christmas," said Ellen. The 
 two sisters and Annette were, as usual the day 
 before Christmas, engaged in finishing up some 
 presents and packing others to be sent. Frank 
 lin had some Christmas duties which were much 
 more acceptable to him than usual. He had 
 developed an amazing ability for a boy in 
 making candy, and the fragrant fumes of his 
 concoctions filled the house. 
 
 Honora was crocheting, putting the last 
 stitches to a head-tie for Abby Judd. 
 
 Ellen was finishing a centre-piece, and An 
 nette was tying up parcels in dainty white pa 
 per with ribbons and writing cards with loving 
 Christmas messages. Annette had grown dis 
 tinctly wan and thin, although she was still 
 pretty. She had heard that very morning 
 that Harry Roel was to be married in the 
 spring. The reflection of that seemed to be 
 pricking her heart all the time while she was 
 doing up the dainty parcels, but she forced 
 herself to talk and laugh as usual. She was 
 prettily dressed, too. She wore a pink cash 
 mere house-dress which she had made herself, 
 and which suited her wonderfully. Her aunt 
 
 128 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 Honora had looked at her with a little surprise 
 when, after the dinner dishes were cleared 
 away, she had appeared in that gown and 
 settled down to her afternoon work on the 
 Christmas presents. 
 
 Do you expect anybody?" she asked. 
 
 "No," replied Annette. "Why?" 
 
 "Why, you are so dressed up." 
 
 Annette laughed. Her thin, sweet face, un 
 der her soft puffs of brown hair, flushed. " Oh, 
 I just took a notion to put this dress on," 
 said she. She did not own the truth, that she 
 wore the dress from a species of self-defiance. 
 Harry Roel had always been accustomed to 
 come Christmas eve, and she had considered 
 that, if things were as they had been, she 
 would have worn that pretty pink dress. 
 Then she said to herself, " Well^ I will wear 
 the dress, anyhow." Therefore she had put 
 it on. 
 
 She felt her aunts looking at each other with 
 wonder and some suspicion, but she pretended 
 not to notice it. 
 
 "I think you had better put on an apron, 
 anyhow, with that dress," her aunt Honora 
 said, finally. 
 
 Annette obediently got one of her aunt s 
 aprons from the secretary drawer and tied it 
 around her waist. It was of a sheer white 
 
 129 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 material, and the pink of her gown showed 
 faintly through it. 
 
 It was about four o clock when a boy was 
 seen racing past the windows. He ran so fast 
 that he was not seen distinctly by any of them. 
 
 It was not two seconds before the flying 
 figure again passed the window, and Franklin 
 entered with a neat parcel. 
 
 " Here is something Gus Appleby brought for 
 Aunt Honora," said he. 
 
 Honora took it, and the others gathered 
 around. 
 
 "I wonder what it is, and who sent it?" said 
 Annette. 
 
 "Another pink shawl, perhaps," said Ellen. 
 " Honora hasn t had one this year so far." 
 
 Honora opened the nice white parcel, and 
 there was disclosed an inner parcel of white 
 tissue-paper tied with pink ribbon. Through 
 the tissue-paper a rosy gleam was evident. 
 
 "I declare, it is another pink shawl," said 
 Annette. 
 
 Honora untied the dainty pink bow, unrolled 
 the tissue-paper, and slowly shook out the pink 
 shawl. She laughed a little, then she looked 
 rather sober. 
 
 "Who sent this one?" said Ellen. 
 
 Honora took up a card which was tied to 
 the shawl with a bit of narrow pink ribbon. 
 130 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 "Christmas greetings from Caroline Roel, " 
 she read. Annette turned pale. 
 
 "I shouldn t have thought she would have 
 had the face!" gasped Ellen. 
 
 Annette said nothing. She turned again to 
 the table where were the parcels which she was 
 tying up, and she began working on them with 
 her mouth shut tightly. 
 
 Meanwhile Honora was closely examining 
 the pink shawl in a grim silence. She opened 
 her mouth as if to speak, then she closed it 
 again; then her desire to reveal something was 
 too much for her. "Franklin, go out in the 
 kitchen," said she, sharply. "I think that 
 candy is catching on." 
 
 When the door had closed behind the boy 
 she turned to her sister and her niece. "Do 
 you want me to tell you something?" said she. 
 
 "For goodness sake, what is it, Honora?" 
 asked Ellen, and Annette turned a pale, in 
 quiring face from her parcels. 
 
 "Well," said Honora, "I thought at first I 
 wouldn t speak, but I guess I can t help it. 
 This is the very identical shawl I sent to Abby 
 Judd two years ago." 
 
 Ellen gasped. "Why, Honora, how do you 
 know?" 
 
 "I know," replied Honora, conclusively. 
 
 "But how?" 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 J "I know. I made a wrong stitch in the 
 lower left-hand corner, and I have some of the 
 wool left, too." 
 
 "I don t believe it." 
 
 Honora went majestically over to the sec 
 retary. She took out of the lowest drawer a 
 neat little parcel labelled, " Pink wool left from 
 Abby Judd s shawl." "Look," said she. 
 
 "Yes, it is the same shade," said Ellen. 
 "Goodness!" 
 
 "But how on earth did Mrs. Roel get hold 
 of it?" asked Ellen, in a bewildered fashion. 
 
 "I know," said Honora, shortly. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Abby Judd gave it to her for a Christmas 
 present last year." 
 
 "My land!" exclaimed Ellen, gazing blankly 
 at her sister. 
 
 "It s so," said Honora. 
 
 "Why, I can t believe it." 
 
 "I can t help it whether you believe it or 
 not; it s so." 
 
 Just then there was a ring at the front door 
 bell, and a sudden hush pervaded the room. 
 
 "There s somebody at the door," whispered 
 Ellen, agitatedly. She began gathering up 
 scraps of ribbons and strings which littered 
 the floor and thrusting them into the adjoin 
 ing bedroom. Honora assisted. "This room 
 
 132 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 looks as if it were going to ride out," said she, 
 "but whoever it is has got to come in here. 
 The parlor isn t warm enough." Annette hur 
 riedly straightened the things on the table 
 where she was working. Honora peeked out 
 of the side window. "It s she," said she, in 
 a whisper. 
 
 "Who?" whispered Ellen. 
 
 "Mrs. Roel." 
 
 Annette made a motion as if to run from 
 the room, then she tied a little blue bow on 
 a package resolutely. 
 
 Honora glanced at Annette. "I ll go to the 
 door," said she, and just as she started the 
 bell rang again. Presently she ushered in Mrs. 
 Roel, who looked fluttered and embarrassed. 
 She did not accept the offer of the best rocking- 
 chair. 
 
 "No, thank you," said she. "I can t stop, 
 but I felt as if I must come over." She stopped 
 and hesitated, and her pretty, middle-aged face, 
 looking forth from the folds of a blue worsted 
 head-tie, flushed a deep pink. "I felt as if 
 I must come and explain," she said again. 
 Then she again stopped and hesitated, and her 
 face was blazing. She glanced at the pink 
 shawl on Honora s table. " I don t know what 
 you thought," she stammered, "and I I 
 felt as if I had better come right over here and 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 tell you the whole story. I felt as if maybe I 
 wasn t quite straightforward, but I didn t want 
 anybody else blamed, and I don t know now, 
 but well, I can t help it; I m going to tell 
 you." She addressed herself directly to Ho- 
 nora, and spoke rapidly. "Well," said she, 
 "two years ago last Christmas your nephew 
 brought that shawl to my house by mistake. 
 I opened it before I saw the direction on the 
 wrapper. When I saw it afterwards I did it 
 right up again, and my son carried it to the 
 express-office and sent it where it was meant 
 to go; and then the next Christmas Hannah 
 Mills must have had it sent to her for a present 
 from Abby Judd; at least, that s the way I 
 reasoned it out ; and this year Hannah and I 
 always exchange presents she sent it to me. 
 Hannah meant all right. She never wore pink ; 
 it always made her .Look ...yellow; and I don t 
 believe either she or Abby Judd ever had this 
 shawl on their backs. It has been kept just 
 as nice, and it s all scented with 1 camphor. You 
 can smell the camphor, though there was a real 
 strong sachet in with it. I kept the sachet. 
 Well, when I got it I knew it the very minute 
 I set my eyes on it. I never saw such a shade 
 of pink before, for one thing, and I always did 
 carry colors in my eyes very w r ell; and then 
 there was another thing. I always notice every 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 little thing, and I happened to notice it when 
 I saw it first a little tiny bit of white in the 
 pink at the neck; you know how it will happen " 
 so sometimes. I suppose the dye don t take, 
 and I knew it was the same shawl. And I ll 
 own up I felt kind of mad at first. There I d 
 worked and made an afghan for Hannah, and 
 she had sent me a shawl that somebody else 
 had given her; and as for Abby Judd, I didn t 
 think much of her giving it away, either. But 
 my first thought was that I wouldn t tell on 
 them, that I d just see to it that you had 
 your shawl back again. I thought maybe you 
 wouldn t know it was your shawl. So I called 
 in the Appleby boy and gave him five cents 
 for bringing it over. And then I got to think 
 ing it over, and I felt dreadful mean, and as 
 if you wouldn t know what to make of it; and 
 I began to think that Abby and Hannah meant, 
 all right, and Hannah always did look as 
 yellow as saffron_in pink, and I dare say 
 Abby Judd does, too she s something the -J 
 same complexion and I thought I d come 
 over and make a clean breast of the whole 
 thing." 
 
 Annette, very pale, continued tying her par 
 cels, but, in spite of her pallor and the shock of 
 having Harry s mother in the house, her mouth 
 twitched a little. Honora looked at the shawl, 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 then at Mrs. Roel, with an inexplicable face; 
 then she laughed. 
 
 "It s all right," said she, "but I wish you d 
 keep the shawl, Mrs. Roel." 
 
 "No; you keep it and wear it yourself." 
 
 Then Ellen laughed. "Land! I don t see 
 how she s going to," said she, "not if she lives 
 to be a hundred; she s got six more pink shawls 
 she had given her last Christmas." 
 
 "Good land!" cried Mrs. Roel. 
 
 "Do take it and keep it," said Honora. "I 
 know pink must be real becoming to you." 
 
 " Yes, it always was becoming," admitted Mrs. 
 Roel. " It never made me look yellow, but " 
 
 " You ve got to take this shawl or I shall feel 
 real hurt," said Honora. She tried to speak 
 pleasantly, but her manner was a little stiff. 
 She could not help thinking how Harry Roel 
 had treated Annette. 
 
 "Well, to tell the truth," said Mrs. Roel, 
 " when that shawl came, two years ago, it did 
 look so pretty, and I tried it on, and it was so 
 becoming that I sent right away for some wors 
 ted and made myself one. I always loved to 
 crochet. And I v# kept it real nice, so it is 
 just as good as new. But I thank you just as 
 much." 
 
 "Of course, then, you don t want this," said 
 Honora. 
 
 136 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 "I thank you just as much as if I took it," 
 said Mrs. Roel. She was going out, with a re 
 mark about the weather to make her exit easy 
 and graceful, when she stopped as if she had 
 made a sudden resolution, and turned upon 
 Annette. "Well," said she, "as long as I am 
 here I may as well have it out, and I suppose 
 your aunts know all about it. What made 
 you treat my son so awful mean?" 
 
 Annette looked at her. She blushed first, 
 then she looked ready to faint. "I don t 
 know what you mean," she said. 
 
 "Yes, you do; you needn t pretend you 
 don t." 
 
 * I don t, said Annette. Then she gave way. 
 Her nerves were strained to the utmost. She 
 sank upon a chair and began to weep. 
 
 Her aunt Honora came to her rescue. She 
 looked fiercely at Mrs. Roel. 
 
 "When it comes to treating mean," said she, 
 "there may be two ways of looking at it." 
 
 "Don t, Aunt Honora," sobbed Annette. 
 
 "Yes, I am going to have it out, now it is 
 begun," said Honora. "When it comes to ac 
 cusing you of treating Harry Roel mean, I am 
 going to say something. I call it treating a 
 girl pretty mean when a young man comes to 
 see her as steady as your son came to see An 
 nette, and then goes with another girl right 
 i37 
 
THE FAIR LAV1NIA AND OTHERS 
 
 before her face and eyes, without her giving 
 him any reason." 
 
 "She did give him reason," declared Mrs. 
 Roel. " She gave him a good deal of reason 
 reason enough for any young man if he had a 
 mite of pride." 
 
 "I d like to know what?" said Honora, and 
 even Annette stared inquiringly over her 
 handkerchief at Mrs. Roel. 
 
 "I call it reason enough," said Mrs. Roel, 
 " when a young man who has been going with 
 a girl the way my son Harry had been going 
 with Annette sees her coming out of a store 
 with another young man " 
 
 "What young man?" interpolated Annette, 
 curious in spite of herself. 
 
 "John Appleby. You needn t pretend you 
 have forgotten." 
 
 "I don t know what you mean, and I have 
 forgotten," Annette said, brokenly. 
 
 "Well, my son hasn t forgotten. He saw 
 you coming out of Rogers & Gray s with John 
 Appleby, and you had a little package, and 
 when he asked you what it was you just laughed 
 and wouldn t tell him, and made him think it 
 was something John had bought for you it 
 was two weeks before Christmas and there 
 you were as good as engaged to my son." 
 
 Annette completely lowered her handker- 
 138 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 chief. She looked brighter, although her eyes 
 were still brimming with tears. " I do remem 
 ber now," she said, "but I have never thought 
 of it since." 
 
 "Well, my son has thought of it a good deal, 
 I can tell you that." 
 
 " I never thought of it. I did it just to tease 
 him." 
 
 "Some folks don t take to teasing easy," 
 said Mrs. Roel. "My son is one who doesn t. 
 He takes everything serious." 
 
 "The package was just pink worsted that 
 Aunt Honora sent me for, to finish that pink 
 shawl," said Annette, and in spite of herself 
 she laughed. 
 
 "Well," said Honora, with acrimony, "your 
 son consoled himself pretty quick. I don t 
 see as he has much reason to find any fault." 
 
 "Who says he consoled himself?" 
 
 "Well, I should think he did, if he is going 
 to marry that other girl in the spring." 
 
 "He isn t going to marry her. She s going 
 to marry a man out West." 
 
 "So she s given him the mitten?" said 
 Honora. 
 
 " No, she hasn t," returned Mrs. Roel, angrily. 
 "My son doesn t take mittens. He was never 
 in earnest in going with her, and she knew he 
 wasn t, and he knew he wasn t. He knew all 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 the time about that other man out West. He 
 has felt used up over the whole thing," said 
 she. "He didn t think that Annette could 
 treat him so." 
 
 " I don t see that Annette has done anything 
 so very much out of the way," said Honora. 
 "It looks to me as if all the trouble was your 
 son s having a faculty of bringing his foot down 
 on a fly as if it were a sledge-hammer on a 
 rattlesnake. If a man can t take a little joke, 
 why, he s got to take the consequences." 
 
 " Harry always took things just as they were 
 said," returned his mother, but her face was 
 much softer. She looked at Annette. " Are you 
 going to be at home this evening?" said she. 
 
 Annette colored. "I am always at home," 
 she replied, in a low voice. 
 " ~Mrs. Roel turned again to Honora. " It s 
 queer, but it does seem as if that_shawl was at 
 the root of a good deal," said she; " I hope you 
 don t think I did anything out of the way com 
 ing to you about it." 
 
 "I think you did just right," said Honora. 
 
 That evening after supper Annette made up 
 a fire in the parlor stove. Her face had changed 
 wonderfully in a short time. She looked years 
 younger. Irrepressible dimples showed in her 
 pink cheeks. She fastened a little pjnk rosette 
 in her brown hair. She was fairly glowing and 
 140 
 
THE PINK SHAWLS 
 
 blooming with youth and happiness. About 
 eight o clock the door-bell rang, and she went 
 to the door. Then voices were heard in the 
 hall, and the parlor door closed. 
 
 It s he," said Honora. 
 
 "Yes, it is," said Ellen. "I am glad; the 
 poor child has tried to make the best of it, but 
 she s been real low in her mind, and she has 
 lost flesh. Ellen was examining happily a 
 handkerchief which she had just received in 
 the mail from Hannah Mills. "It s real fine," 
 said she. " If there s anything I do like, it s 
 a real nice, fine pocket-handkerchief." 
 
 Franklin was eating one of his chocolate 
 caramels, and enjoying intensely the sweet on 
 his tongue. 
 
 Honora looked at the pink shawl which was 
 lying in a rosy fluff on the table by her side. It 
 seems to me this room is kind of chilly," s 
 she, " and I ve a good mind to put that shawl on. " 
 
 "I would," said Ellen. 
 
 "I guess I ll just wear it and get the good 
 of it," said Honora. 
 
 "I would, so long as I had so many laid 
 away," said Ellen. 
 
 Honora took the shawl and put it over her 
 shoulders. Then she looked at her sister and 
 began to speak, and hesitated. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Ellen. 
 141 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "Will you promise me that you will never 
 tell as long as you live if I tell you something, 
 Ellen Crosby?" said Honora. 
 
 Ellen looked wonderingly at her. " Of course 
 I won t tell," said she. "What is it, Honora?" 
 
 " Nothing, only I made every one of those 
 pink shawls myself," said Honora. 
 
 "Honora Crosby!" 
 
 "Yes, I did. I know I am right. I can t 
 quite see how some of them got back to me, 
 but they did." 
 
 "Good land!" 
 
 " It s so. I don t suppose I shall ever know 
 the true inside of it ; but there s one thing sure 
 my friends did want to give me something I 
 wanted for a Christmas present, if they only 
 J knew what it was, and that s worth more than 
 anything else." 
 
 Ellen stared, then she laughed, but Honora, 
 in her pink shawl, did not seem amused at all. 
 There was the faintest murmur of voices from 
 the parlor. Honora had never had any love- 
 affair of her own, but as she listened to that 
 " jlow murmur of Annette and her lover, her face 
 rtl/*$ook on the expression which it might have 
 ! worn had she been in Annette s place. And 
 the pink shawl cast a rosy glow over her silvery 
 hair of age, all like. the joy of the giver upon 
 beholding the joy over the gift. 
 142 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 ADELINE WEAVER sat under the green 
 r\ trellis of the south door of the old Weaver 
 mansion, and sewed her seam of fine linen. 
 She did not like to sew, but her aunts, the 
 Misses Jane and Eliza Weaver, with whom she 
 lived, would have turned faint with horror had 
 she suggested the possibility of ready-made 
 garments. All the ladies of the Weaver family 
 had always made their own underwear, and the 
 custom had become, as a species of royal eti 
 quette, not to be lightly ignored. Adeline sewed 
 with a sort of surface patience. The green 
 trellis over her head was all interlaced with deli 
 cate green grape-vines. The grapes had just 
 begun to form. Tiny clusters of green glob 
 ules like jewels dotted the tracery over her 
 head. Adeline s aunts were sewing in the south 
 room. Adeline could hear the soft murmur of 
 their voices, but could seldom distinguish a 
 word. The women of the Weaver family had 
 MS 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 naturally low and gentle voices with no harsh 
 notes. There was a tradition that no women 
 of the family ever screamed. If protest they 
 had against pain or fear or injustice they kept 
 it locked in their own breasts. This young 
 Adeline was a true Weaver. She sat there in 
 her cool, lilac muslin gown, cut V-shaped at the 
 long, slender throat, and fastened with an 
 amethyst brooch, with her soft gold hair part 
 ed over her serene forehead, and she was the 
 very image of peaceful young womanhood at 
 a peaceful task, when inwardly her whole spirit 
 surged in a fierce revolt. Across the wide 
 street, overarched with elms, she could see a 
 row of neat little white cottages, each standing 
 in its green yard. Adeline looked at them, and 
 took another delicate stitch. She felt horribly 
 irritated by the row of little white cottages in 
 their green yards. She was eighteen years old, 
 and she had never spent a night away from 
 home, and her room faced those cottages, and 
 she had never waked in the morning to another 
 prospect. She had been educated by her 
 aunts and a governess who was a distant rela 
 tive of the family. The governess was a maid 
 en lady, and she had taught the girl in a stereo 
 typed fashion, as she and the Misses Weaver had 
 been taught. 
 
 Now that her education was finished, the one 
 146 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 thing which really asserted itself within her, 
 and which was beyond all education, was her 
 own youth, and her longing for her joy of life, 
 The straight-laced fashion in which she had been 
 trained made this almost abnormal. Adeline 
 was full of dreams, but so far they had been 
 dreams into which she could admit no man of 
 her acquaintance without sacrilege. Still she 
 dreamed with an innocent and almost holy 
 ardor. This young thing fastened, as it were, 
 by thongs of duty to age and conservatism, 
 pulled hard at her leash. If she had ever 
 known liberty, if she had ever had a change of 
 scene, and lovers, they would not have seemed 
 so precious to her. Adeline s dreams were not 
 wholly of lovers, she dreamed also of mates of 
 her own sex. She had never had any. Her 
 aunts were full of a gentle but none the less 
 obstinate pride of birth and education and. * 
 modest affluence, and they considered that|r 
 there were no fit mates for their niece in the 
 village. 
 
 Presently Adeline saw two young girls com 
 ing down the street. They had their arms 
 around each other s waists, and, although they 
 were as old as she, were advancing with a hop 
 and skip like children. Their shrill, sweet 
 voices sounded like bird-songs. Adeline watch 
 ed them enviously. One was the daughter of 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 the village cobbler, the other of a man who got 
 a frugal living from tending gardens, and doing 
 odd jobs. Both glanced at her, then looked 
 away and hushed their merry chatter and 
 laughter. They stood in awe of her. Adeline 
 felt hurt because of it. She did not feel in the 
 least above them. Her very heart leaped after 
 the other young things of her kind. She sigh 
 ed, and took another stitch. The air had been 
 very still. A breeze blew out of the west cross 
 ing two windows of the sitting-room. On the 
 wings of this west wind came her Aunt Eliza 
 Weaver s voice: "Of course, to-morrow after 
 noon as usual," she said. Adeline sighed wear 
 ily. She knew so well what that meant: an 
 other recurrence of one of the monotonies of 
 her life. The minister, Dr. Timothy Akers, 
 was coming to tea. Regularly once a week, on 
 Thursday, he came to tea. He was an old man, 
 older than either of her aunts, but still hale. 
 He liked the good things of life within clerical 
 limits. Invitations to tea were his especial de 
 lights; especially he enjoyed taking tea at the 
 Weaver mansion. He himself came of good 
 old stock. He felt himself in the presence of 
 his equals, and, moreover, he enjoyed a mild 
 sense of gallantry in his relations with the 
 Weaver ladies. He had never married. He 
 had never had a love affair, but feminine atten- 
 
 148 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 tion was dear to him. He always came care 
 fully brushed, with the faintest suggestion of 
 masculine coquetry in his greeting, and the 
 Weaver sisters never failed to meet him in kind 
 arrayed in their old laces, and rich silks, and 
 with their evanescent female coquetry of man 
 ner. Dr. Akers had come thus to tea ever 
 since Adeline could remember. There was a 
 time when village gossip had associated his 
 name with that of Miss Eliza Weaver, the young 
 er of the two sisters. Although she had long 
 been an old maid and he an old bachelor, even 
 when Adeline was a child still there were peo 
 ple who did not think a match between the 
 clergyman and Miss Eliza altogether a ridicu 
 lous assumption. In those days Miss Eliza 
 used possibly to dwell a little more upon her 
 faded yet still sweet reflection in her looking- 
 glass, and arrange with a trifle more care the 
 clusters of soft curls on either side of her deli 
 cate face. She used to play the piano for him 
 in her stilted lady-style, touching the yellow 
 ivory keys daintily with the tips of her taper 
 fingers. Now Adeline was called upon to do 
 that. Miss Eliza had suffered one winter from 
 rheumatism in her hands, and she was well 
 aware that they were veinous, and wrinkled. 
 She let soft lace fall over them, and did not 
 play the piano any more. Adeline always 
 149 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 * played one particular piece for Dr. Akers which 
 she disliked extremely. It was called "Dew- 
 fall/ There was a weakly, sentimental air 
 with weary variations. Adeline suspected that 
 Dr. Akers and her Aunt Eliza might have some 
 romantic associations with the piece. Once, 
 whirling around suddenly upon the piano stool, 
 when she had finished, she had caught the 
 coquettish simper upon her Aunt Eliza s face, 
 and the clergyman s gentle, languishing glance 
 at her. Adeline s first sensation had been one 
 of wondering amusement, then she had felt the 
 pathos of it. "Poor Aunt Liza," she said to 
 herself that night, when she was alone in her 
 room brushing out her shining lengths of hair. 
 Then she thought how easily her Aunt Eliza s 
 fate might be her own, and she pitied herself, 
 with a sort of fierce anger at herself for the 
 pity. "Maybe I shall not have even a Dr. 
 Akers, not even the ghost of a love affair, to 
 dwell upon when I am Aunt Eliza s age," she 
 reflected. 
 
 This afternoon, when she heard her aunts 
 talking about the clergyman s coming to tea, 
 a sensation of almost unbearable boredom which ( 
 fairly amounted to pain came over her. She 
 asked herself wearily how she could endure that 
 endless repetition of events which would ensue 
 the next evening. She knew just how the tea- 
 150 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 table would look decked with its fine damask, 
 its old cut glass, and thin silver, and the set of 
 blue and white willow- ware, which her great 
 grandfather Weaver had brought from over 
 seas. She knew just what they would have 
 for tea. The menu never varied. There would 
 be hot biscuits made with cream, cold ham cut 
 in thick, pink slices, an omelet made with sweet 
 herbs, a mould of quivering red jelly, pound 
 cake, fruit cake, and tea, and dainty little pats 
 of fresh butter. Once Adeline in sheer despera- 
 tion had endeavored to make a change in the 
 unvarying list of eatables. She had suggested 
 cold tongue instead of ham, and a salad. But 
 her aunts had regarded her with a gentle sur 
 prise and.. delicate chins set with obstinacy. 
 " We have always had cold ham, and Dr. Akers 
 prefers it," her Aunt Eliza had replied. Again 
 Adeline had detected the faint simper of senti- 
 rnentalism upon her aunt s face. Again she 
 felt at once amused and compassionate. " I 
 suppose they had cold ham when they had a 
 half-way love scene after Aunt Eliza played 
 DewfalL, " Adeline thought. This afternoon, 
 as she reviewed the unvarying programme for 
 the next evening, that lackadaisical piece call 
 ed "Dewfall" had jits own place in her painful 
 sense of monotony. She thought with sudden 
 desperation that she might hide the music, then 
 151 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 she reflected that nobody would believe that 
 she could not play it by rote, as indeed she 
 could. She took another stitch, and glanced 
 over her fine seam at the opposite cottages. 
 Again a soft puff of west wind roughed her 
 yellow hair, and she caught plainly the sense 
 of the conversation in the sitting-room. " I 
 must not forget to remind Hannah to mix up 
 the biscuits to rise to-night," her Aunt Jane 
 was saying. Adeline s lips curled scornfully, 
 "As if Hannah could forget," she fairly whis 
 pered. 
 
 She wished sometimes that the old servant- 
 woman would forget something. It seemed to 
 the girl often as if she were nothing but an in 
 carnate memory of y^&rs of routine. Hannah 
 was old, older than Miss Jane Weaver. She 
 was large, and padded heavily about like a 
 cushion-footed animal. Her immense face look 
 ed vacant of everything except old memories. 
 Hannah, as it seemed to Adeline, would have 
 fallen prostrate, d shuddering heap of flesh, be 
 fore an Innovation. Once Adeline had pre 
 vailed upon her to try a new recipe for cake. 
 The cake had been a failure, and Hannah had 
 been nearly ill. "My dear," her Aunt Jane 
 had said to Adeline, "Hannah is used to doing 
 things one way. She does them very well. 
 Your Aunt Eliza and I think it best that you 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 should not disturb her. Hannah is not as 
 young as she has been." Adeline had ac 
 quiesced sweetly, but she had eaten the cake 
 failure, soggy as it was, with a sort of fierce 
 animal relish. At least it was something dif 
 ferent. Adeline was often conscious of a van 
 dal wish that Hannah s unfailing recipes would 
 fail. She almost felt at times, so weary she 
 was, that it would be good to eat grass like 
 Nebuchadnezzar. It was odd that the girl s 
 health should not have deserted her, such was 
 her weariness of spirit, but she came of a deli 
 cately healthy stock. She was fine in the grain, 
 but built to endure even monotony. Then too, 
 she was much in the open, and that served to 
 preserve her health. Adeline often felt that 
 had it not been for the variableness of weather, 
 which was the only variableness in her life, she 
 should have gone mad. Lately even nature had 
 grown monotonous. There had been day after 
 day of sweet serene weather. Light winds had 
 risen now and then and shifted, then died away 
 into a soft calm. It was neither cool nor hot. 
 The summer advanced surely, but so slowly 
 that one got little sense of change from that. 
 Adeline looked up at the gold-green grape 
 vine over her head. " It looked just as it does 
 now a week ago," she thought. Then again the 
 anticipation of the next evening: the bland 
 153 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 clergyman, the tea, and herself playing " Dew- 
 fall" came over her, and fairly stung her into 
 revolt. A bright red flamed out on her soft 
 cheeks. She put up one slim hand, and gave 
 the smooth folds of her hair an impatient push 
 4 back, revealing a bold, almost boyish fulness 
 of temples. She heard the faint "clink of silver 
 from the kitchen, where old Hannah was pre 
 paring tea, the invariable tea of that night of 
 the week, cream toast, dried beef, and sponge 
 cake. How she hated that, too! She made a 
 straight line of her sweet lips which curved like^ 
 a rose. She let her work fall into her lap/ and 
 threw herself back in her chair. She looked 
 rebelliously at thevwork. She hemstitched all 
 jf\ her fine linen handkerchiefs by hand. Her 
 aunts would have shuddered at the thought of 
 a machine-bordered handkerchief for a Weaver. 
 She had been listlessly* toiling at the square of 
 fine linen for days. She shrugged her sloping 
 shoulders contemptuously. What is the use ?" 
 she thought. "I would just as soon have ma- 
 chine- worked handkerchiefs for the rest of my 
 days. I would much rather than sit and sew 
 as I do." She thought again, a passion of 
 longing, of the skipping young girls who had 
 recently passed. How much better to run 
 along the street with them, and laugh and prate 
 with youth of the joys of youth, even the follies 
 
 A 
 ~ 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 of youth, than to have all her garments hand-j 
 made. The tragedy of a tight leash upon! 
 growth forced itself upon her consciousness. 
 The holiest force in the world, that of the growth 
 of youth, was being restrained. Angry tears 
 came into her eyes. "It is cruel," she said to 
 herself "cruel." Again she heard the clink 
 of silver. She smelled the bread toasting, she 
 smelled the choice green tea which her aunts 
 loved. She looked at the little gold watch 
 which had been her mother s, which was sus 
 pended around her neck by a slender gold 
 chain. It was almost tea time. A sudden; 
 resolve seized upon her. The spirit of rebel 
 lion grew. She made up her mind to do an un 
 heard-of thing: something which she had never 
 done. Punctuality was held as one of the car 
 dinal virtues by her aunts. "None of the 
 Weavers have ever been unpunctual," Miss! 
 Jane was wont to say. Miss Eliza often re 
 marked that she herself had always considered 
 it unworthy of a gentlewoman to be unpunct 
 ual. Adeline resolved to fly in the face of 
 this edict of the Weavers. She said to herself 
 that she would be late for tea. She folded her 
 work, and quilted in the needle. She placed j 
 
 ^ 
 
 it neatly in her little work-basket. Revolt 
 not yet fully asserted itself within her. She 
 had been taught that no gentlewoman was dis- v 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 / orderly. Order often wearied her, she had so 
 { much of it, but it had become involuntary. 
 \ She rose, and stole noiselessly under the green 
 | canopy of the porch into the side door; she 
 ; tiptoed noiselessly down the path; she skirted 
 # : \ the house out of range of the sitting-room win 
 dows. Then she gathered up her muslin skirts 
 and ran like a cat. She even kicked her heels 
 a little, flirting out the back breadths of her 
 skirts. If her aunts had only seen those un 
 seemly gambols of the slim, pointed Weaver 
 feet! 
 
 She ran in the direction which the two young 
 girls had taken: towards the village post-office, 
 which was in the big country store. Just as 
 she reached it the girls came out. One was 
 nibbling a barley sugar -stick; the other, one 
 of red and white peppermint both with the 
 frank enjoyment of children. The cobbler s 
 daughter carried a little paper bag and a letter. 
 Adeline entered the store, made a feint of 
 looking in the post-office, and was out, at the 
 heels of the other girls. Presently she caught 
 up with them. They looked at her and nodded 
 shyly. The cobbler s daughter, who was the 
 less self-conscious of the two, said, " Good-after 
 noon," in a thin, sweet little voice. Adeline 
 responded. Then she walked along with the 
 girls. She was the shyest of all. When su- 
 156 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 periority is shy, it is with intensity. Now and 
 then she glanced at her companions. Her 
 cheeks were burning. She said something about 
 the weather in a faltering voice, and nobody 
 could have understood the response which the 
 other girls made. Finally the cobbler s daugh 
 ter recovered herself. She extended the sticky 
 little paper bag, which she carried, towards 
 Adeline. "Have some candy?" she said, af 
 fably. The impulse of generosity gave her 
 self-poise. She was an honest, friendly little 
 soul. Adeline took a stick of candy and thank 
 ed her, and a specimen of familiarity was es 
 tablished. The girls had met on a common 
 ground of young girlhood: the love of sweets. 
 They looked indescribably young as they went 
 on sucking the sweeties. Adeline lost com 
 pletely her air of womanly serenity, which she 
 always wore over her youthful turbulence. 
 She looked the youngest, the freest of the three. 
 She laughed, now and then she gave a little 
 side wise spring like a kitten out of pure animal^ 
 
 r > +, - ^-E^-* -\--\_- v ^ I 
 
 spirits. Occasionally the other girls glanced 
 at each other with wonder. They could not 
 understand how it had happened that Miss 
 Adeline Weaver had so descended from her 
 height. However, at last, such was her spon 
 taneous sweetness, her gay innocence, that they 
 met her fully. They danced along, all linking 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 arms. Presently they saw a young man walk 
 ing towards them, and immediately feminine 
 instinct asserted themselves. They separated. 
 They walked demurely. When they passed the 
 young man there was just the merest glimpse 
 of dewy eyes between the modest droop of 
 lids. He was a stranger to all of them. He 
 was dressed after a different fashion from the 
 youths of the village. He was very handsome, 
 tall and fair-haired, with an aristocratic cast 
 of features, yet withal a mischievous glance of 
 appraisal at the girls. He was entirely out of 
 hearing before the cobbler s daughter spoke. 
 
 "He must be Dr. Aker s nephew," said she. 
 
 "Yes," assented the other girl. " I heard he 
 was coming. Dr. Aker s housekeeper told 
 mother that he was coming for a visit. He 
 lives in Boston, and his name is Farwell. He 
 is Dr. Aker s sister s son." 
 
 "Isn t he handsome?" 
 
 " He is beautiful," said the gardener s daugh 
 ter. 
 
 Adeline said nothing, but wonder and rap 
 ture were in her face. He was no stranger to 
 her. He was the man of her dreams. Color 
 suffused her face. She realized a sense of 
 shame that she should have met him thus. 
 They should have met in some green solitude 
 which had always been the background of her 
 158 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 dreams. Living constantly with her elders 
 had given the girl an old-fashioned habit of 
 thought. She had almost Elizabethap settings 
 for all her romantic imaginings. It fairly 
 shocked her that she should have met him on 
 the village street with two young girls, and all 
 three sucking sticks of candy like children. 
 She drew hers from her mouth, and threw it on 
 the ground. " Ain t it good?" asked the cob 
 bler s daughter. Adeline started confusedly. 
 Her courtesy was instinctive, and she had out 
 raged it. 
 
 1 Oh, very good indeed!" she cried, "very 
 good!" 
 
 "Then why did you throw it away?" 
 
 " I never eat much candy. I beg your par 
 don," said Adeline. 
 
 The other girls were perfectly good-natured 
 and merry. They laughed, but Adeline con 
 tinued to feel abashed. The old sense of aloof 
 ness reasserted itself. 
 
 She went along soberly with them a little 
 farther, then the cobbler s daughter reached 
 her own home, and said good-night, and turned 
 her steps into the path between two rows of 
 clove pinks, which led through the green front 
 yard to the -door. The gardener s daughter 
 lived a little farther on. Adeline looked at her 
 watch innocently and conscious of the awe 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 which the action inspired in her companion. 
 "I must go, too," said Adeline; "good-night." 
 
 The gardener s daughter stood looking after 
 her. The cobbler s daughter danced back be 
 tween the rows of clove-pinks for a last word. 
 "She didn t act a mite stuck up, and then she 
 did," she said. 
 
 "That s so," assented the other girl. 
 
 Adeline meantime hastened home. She was 
 already late for tea, but the fact, instead of 
 exhilarating her, as she had expected, alarmed 
 her. When she reached home both her aunts 
 were on the porch swathed, one in a fleecy white 
 shawl, the other in an ancient India- web. They 
 regarded Adeline with anxiety as she came 
 hurrying towards them. 
 
 " My dear," said her Aunt Jane. 
 
 "My dear," said her Aunt Eliza. 
 
 That was all that either said, but there was 
 a world of meaning in the two words. 
 
 "I am sorry," stammered Adeline. "It was 
 so pleasant, and I had had no exercise to day, 
 and I went to the post-office 
 
 She paused. Both her aunts appeared to 
 be waiting. Untruth or even the silence of 
 deceit was not in the girl. 
 
 "I met Flora Shaw and Lizzie Ellis," said 
 Adeline, "and I walked a little way down the 
 street with them." 
 
 160 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 Then Adeline waited. She knew there was 
 no storm for which to wait, only a calm, but it 
 was a calm which she had dreaded ever since 
 she could remember. 
 
 At last her Aunt Jane spoke. " Flora Shaw 
 and Lizzie Ellis." 
 
 Then her Aunt Eliza spoke. "Flora Shaw 
 and Lizzie Ellis." 
 
 "Yes, Aunts," responded Adeline. 
 
 There was another pause before another calm. 
 Then Miss Jane spoke again. " Come in, dear," 
 said she, " tea has been waiting for over half an 
 hour." 
 
 Adeline followed her two aunts, majestic in 
 their unruffled patience of exterior, trailing their 
 rich black skirts, holding their heads erect above 
 their soft laces, into the house. 
 
 She took her place at the table. She was 
 outwardly as serene as her aunts. Inwardly 
 the waves of youthful excitement and unrest 
 again surged. She felt a hysterical delight that 
 she was late, that she had successfully invaded 
 the monotony of things, and yet she was con 
 scious of remorse and grief that she had dis 
 turbed her aunts. She loved her aunts. Af 
 fection existed in the girl s soul as an essential 
 perfume. Without it her own self was incon 
 ceivable. And yet she had that delight in 
 rebellion against that which she loved. She 
 
 161 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 did not want any supper, yet she cleared her 
 plate daintily of all which was placed thereon. 
 It was one of the laws of the house that nothing 
 should be left on a plate. Adeline had been 
 taught that it was not lady-like. All the time 
 Adeline was eating, taking small mouthfuls, 
 scarcely moving her mouth, as she had been 
 taught, she was thinking of the young man 
 whom she had met: Dr. Aker s nephew. She 
 wondered if he might not be coming to tea 
 with his uncle the next afternoon. She felt 
 herself turn hot and cold at the supposition. 
 She kept waiting for one of her aunts to say 
 something with regard to it. When she woke 
 the next morning that was her first thought. 
 Every time she looked at her Aunt Eliza or her 
 Aunt Jane or even Hannah, there was an in 
 quiring expression on her face. However, not 
 a word was said with regard to Dr. Aker s 
 nephew during the day, although the prepara 
 tions for the company tea went on as they had 
 always gone on, with the same wearying mono 
 tony. It was always Adeline s task on these 
 occasions to polish the old silver, of which the 
 Weavers had a large stock. Of late years she 
 had also set the tea-table. She took especial 
 pains with it that day. She could not help 
 having a faint hope that Dr. Aker s nephew 
 might come, although not a word had been 
 162 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 said. In the middle of the afternoon she had 
 the table decked with the fine old damask and 
 silver, and a great china vase of roses adorned 
 the centre, when she overhead a conversation 
 between her aunts in the sitting-room: 
 
 "I met Mrs. Samuel Whitridge this morning 
 on the street," said Miss Eliza Weaver, "and 
 she told me that Dr. Aker s nephew from Bos 
 ton, Elias Farwell, had been spending two days 
 with him." 
 
 " Then we ought to send Hannah at once and 
 invite him to come to tea with Dr. Akers," re 
 sponded Jane, and Adeline s heart leaped. 
 
 It sank again at Eliza Weaver s reply: "Mrs. 
 Whitridge said he was going away on the noon 
 train," said she. 
 
 "It would have been strange if Dr. Akers 
 had not told us if his nephew were to be here," 
 said Jane, "and given us a chance to invite 
 him. He must be Dr. Akers s sister Lily s 
 son." 
 
 "Yes, she married a Farwell," assented Eliza.] 
 
 Adeline heard no more. She stood still with! 
 a drumming in her ears. Then it was all over:\ 
 the little chance of a break in the terrible, tragic^ 
 monotony of things. He was not coming. It 
 was all to be the way it had always been. The 
 girl s soft cheeks flushed, a strange glitter came 
 into her sweet blue eyes, an inconsequent rage \ 
 163 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 against existing conditions of things seized her. 
 She had not yet put the precious old willow- 
 ware on the table. She glanced around her. 
 Her aunts, already dressed, were in the sitting- 
 room. Old Hannah had gone to the store on 
 an errand. Adeline softly closed the dining- 
 room door. Then she did an awful thing. 
 She carried the willow - ware the whole set, 
 loading her slender arms with as many pieces 
 at a time as she could carry out into the garden 
 to the summer-house. In the floor of the sum 
 mer-house were two loose boards. She hid the 
 willow - ware under the floor, replacing the 
 boards, then she flew back to the house. 
 
 When she entered the dining-room ; her Aunt 
 Eliza was calling to her from the sitting-room: 
 
 "Is the table set, dear?" asked Aunt Eliza. 
 
 Adeline opened the door a little way, and 
 stood, her pallid, shocked young face peering 
 through. "All except the dishes," replied Ade 
 line, faintly. " I think I must go up to my 
 room and lie down a little while, Aunt Eliza." 
 
 "Why, what is the matter, aren t you well?" 
 inquired her aunt s soft, anxious voice. 
 
 "My head aches a little." 
 
 Then Miss Jane Weaver spoke. "Go up to 
 your room at once, then," said she, "and bathe 
 your head with cologne, and lie down until it 
 is time to dress for tea." 
 164 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 Yes, Aunt Jane, replied Adeline. She heard 
 dimly her Aunt Eliza saying something about 
 the dear child having been too long out in the 
 sun that morning as she fled up the spiral stairs. 
 When she reached her own room, and had closed 
 the door, she stood still in the midst of it. She 
 had never known before the awful delight of 
 wickedness. Now she realized that she knew 
 it. Hiding away that willow- ware, breaking 
 mj-ipon the sacred conservatism of the daily J 
 Weaver life, was to Tier Consciousness a deed 
 of the nature of sacrilege, let alone the deceit 
 and the secresy involved. She was frightened 
 as she had never been frightened, she was 
 wretched as she had never been wretched, and 
 yet she was conscious of a mad exhilaration^, 
 which was entrancing. She took off her gown, 
 put on a loose white wrapper, and lay down 
 on a couch under her window. Her room was 
 over the dining-room. She thought she might 
 overhear something of the consternation which 
 would arise when Hannah returned and the 
 loss of the willow -ware was discovered. She 
 thought, with a terrified pang, what she could 
 do if they should come and question her, but 
 she had not much fear of that. What she had 
 done would be so inconceivable to her aunts 
 that questioning would simply not occur to 
 them. 
 
 165 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Presently, as she lay there, she heard Hannah s 
 heavy shuffle on the gravel- walk. Then she 
 waited a long time. Then she heard a shrill 
 chorus: her aunts voices for once raised above 
 their gentle pitch, and Hannah s, loudly vocif 
 erous, almost hysterical. They had discov 
 ered the loss of the willow-ware. Adeline felt 
 as if she might faint. A chill crept over her in 
 the warm afternoon. Would they come at 
 once to her and inquire when she had last seen 
 the willow-ware if she knew aught concerning 
 its disappearance? Guilty of deceit although 
 she was, a downright falsehood was incon 
 ceivable to Adeline. She knew that if they 
 asked, she must answer truly. She lay tense 
 with fear, but gradually the tumult died away 
 and nobody came. Then she heard the far 
 away clink of china. "Hannah is setting the 
 table with the china with lavender sprigs," she 
 thought. The china with lavender-sprig pat 
 tern was regarded as the second best in the 
 ^ Weaver house. Adeline felt relieved. She re- 
 flected how the willow- ware had been kept by 
 itself in one of the china closets, the closet with 
 out a glass door. In the Weaver dining-room 
 were three china closets. The family was /ich 
 ^n china. Two of the closets had wood doors, 
 6ne had glass in leaded pane. In that was kept 
 odd pieces and tfie cut glass, for which there 
 
 166 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 was no room on the old Chippendale sideboard. 
 Adeline reasoned that no one would have 
 noticed that the willow- ware had disappeared 
 unless she had purposely gone to the closet for 
 it. It was a small closet, and had contained^ 
 nothing else. When she had robbed it she 
 had left the shelves entirely bare. 
 
 It had been two o clock when Adeline lay 
 down. She could not sleep, but she remained 
 on the couch in that odd state of terror and 
 guilty exhilaration until she heard the ^tall 
 clock in the hall below strike four. Dr. Akers 
 always arrived punctually at half -past four. 
 She realized that she must rise and dress. She 
 arranged her hair carefully before her little 
 muslin-draped mirror. She washed her flushed 
 face. She looked guilty to herself. She won 
 dered if anybody would notice. She lingered , 
 over her toilet . She got out an old sprigged mus- . 
 lin gown. "It does not make any difference) 
 what I wear," she said, rebelliously to herself. 
 She thought how different it would have been 
 had Dr. Akers nephew been coming. At half- 
 past four she was dressed. She had put on a 
 little coral necklace to brighten the old muslin. 
 She was about to go down when she heard 
 voices. She peeped around her dimity curtains, 
 and Dr. Akers was approaching the house, and 
 his nephew was with him. 
 
 i 167 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Adeline started violently. The first sensa 
 tion which she had was one of shame and 
 remorse. She felt like a naughty child wlio 
 had fought, to her own undoing, against wind. 
 Here she had done what she realized to be 
 almost something which savored of unreason, 
 because of disappointment and unhappiness, 
 and here there was no disappointment, no un 
 happiness save what she had brought upon her 
 self. 
 
 Adeline hesitated a second ; then she hurried- 
 ^ ly divested herself of the old muslin gown, and 
 got a pretty new one from her closet. The gown 
 was cross-barred muslin with a pattern of green 
 leaves. Adeline tied a green ribbon around 
 her waist. Then she paused irresolute before 
 her dressing-table. She owned a valuable orna 
 ment which she longed to wear, but she was not 
 quite sure what her aunts would think. She 
 had never worn it much. Her aunts had al 
 ways told her that it was not suitable for or 
 dinary occasions, and poor Adeline had ex 
 perienced very few occasions which did not 
 come under that head. Finally she could not 
 resist the temptation. She took out of a 
 drawer a case, opened it, and forthwith a green 
 light flashed in her eyes from an emerald neck 
 lace which had come down to her from her 
 great-grandmother, Adeline Weaver. She fas- 
 168 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 tened the ornament around her neck, and, in 
 spite of her secret guilt, smiled radiantly and 
 innocently at her reflected image in the glass. 
 The emeralds around her white throat gave the 
 finishing touch to the picture. She was com 
 plete, wonderful to see. She turned her head 
 this way and that; she smoothed the glossy 
 golden ripples of hair which concealed her ears 
 except the rosy tips. She perked anew the 4 
 bow of her green belt-ribbon^ Then she went 
 down-stairs. When she entered the stately 
 best parlor in which her aunts were seated with 
 their guests, she had forgotten the willow- ware 
 and the dreadful thing she had done. She 
 thought only of the radiant picture adorned., 
 with emeralds which she had seen in her glass. 
 She thought only of meeting not meeting, had 
 they not met already hundreds of times, in the 
 sacred intimacy of her maiden dreams ? Meet 
 ing was not the word to use with regard to her^ 
 coming sight of Dr. Akers s nephew. Incarna- < 
 tion better expressed her exalted passion "with 
 regard to it all. The gentlemen arose directly, 
 when Adeline crossed the parlor threshold. V 
 Dr. Akers saluted her with ceremonious polite 
 ness, and begged leave to present his nephew, 
 Mr. Elias Farwell. Adeline courtesied. She 
 felt the young man s hand enclosing hers. Her 
 heart beat hard, there was a singing in her ears, 
 169 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 but she was a gentlewoman born and bred. 
 She greeted Mr. Farwell with the gentle com 
 posure which she had been taught. Then she 
 seated herself beside a window. The window 
 was open, and a green vine outside partly veiled 
 it. The sun shone through the vine-leaves over 
 the girl with her gold hair. Her soft face glowed 
 with triumphant tints of rose and pearl in spite 
 of the green light. The emeralds at her throat 
 gleamed. She crossed her slim hands in her 
 lap, and an emerald on one of them also gleam 
 ed. Elias Farwell gazed at her with a startled 
 air. He thought that he had never before seen 
 such a beautiful girl, and he had seen many 
 girls. He had passed dreams into realities, al 
 though he was worthy of the stock from which 
 he came. 
 
 Dr. Timothy Akers had reason for the pride 
 with which he had presented his nephew to the 
 Weaver ladies. It was not long before tea 
 was announced. Young Farwell sat beside 
 Adeline. They talked a little about the village, 
 about Boston, how he was enjoying his visit, 
 the weather. The surface of the conversation 
 was prosaic enough, but there were depths be 
 low the surface. When Elias remarked upon 
 the beauty of the weather he looked at the girl s 
 beautiful face, he looked at the slim white 
 hand with its gleaming emerald, and his tone 
 170 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 took on almost a singing cadence, the cadence 
 of a love song. Adeline s cheeks deepened in 
 color; she scarcely raised her eyes. She heard 
 the sweet tone of the depths: how when Elias 
 said the weather was beautiful, he in reality 
 was saying, "How beautiful art thou, oh my 
 beloved, and how my heart leaps with joy at the 
 discovery of thee" 
 
 Yet Elias Far well was not all sentiment and 
 romance. He had a ready wit, and often Ade 
 line had sore work to keep her young laughter 
 within bounds, and not shock her aunts and 
 Dr. Akers. She had never been so happy in 
 her life, and yet beneath the happiness was 
 ever present the dreadful memory of the wil- 
 lowj- ware. Now that the maddening sgell of 
 monotony which had influenced her was broken ,. 
 the act seemed one of the most incredible follies |l 
 as well as of wickedness. 
 
 She had little fear that her aunts would men 
 tion it while at the tea-table; she knew that 
 they might account it a breach of good manners 
 to mention a loss under such circumstances. 
 However, when they were in the parlor again/ 
 she listened to Elias, with her ears ready for the 
 willow - ware. Presently it came. First Miss 
 Eliza mentioned the mysterious disappearance 
 of the household treasures, then Miss Jane. 
 Dr. Akers listened. Then he responded at once 
 171 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 with what seemed a solution of the problem. 
 A man had been at his own home a few days 
 before, and had tried by the most strenuous 
 means to induce him to sell a valuable old 
 clock and a table. He was a collector of an 
 tiques. Dr. Akers, with a charitable bias tow 
 ards doubt, voiced his suspicion of this man. 
 He had been aggressive, fairly impertinent, per 
 haps he 
 
 Miss Eliza immediately concurred with his 
 half-expressed view. She had little doubt that 
 some one had told the man of their willow- ware, 
 that the man had also been told that there was 
 no hope of his being able, to purchase. " We 
 often have the side door unlocked," said Miss 
 Eliza; "then if sister and I were in our rooms, 
 and Adeline out Hannah does not hear readily 
 it would be quite possible." 
 
 Miss Jane also became convinced. " In fut 
 ure we must keep that door locked," she said. 
 She did not even then express much grief for 
 the loss of the china. She felt grief, but she 
 held it to be ill-bred to manifest it. Miss Eliza, 
 too, was restrained/" Adeline said nothing. 
 Elias was watching her. He looked puzzled 
 and concerned. The girl s face was as pale as 
 chalk, her eyes were dilated as with fear. She 
 expected every moment a point-blank ques 
 tion, as to when she had last seen the china. 
 
 172 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 She felt that she could not bear it before him. 
 Elias leaned over and almost whispered in her 
 ear: 
 
 " Haven t you a garden behind the house?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Adeline nodded. She could not speak. 
 
 Just then Dr. Aker asked her to play. She 
 could not feel her feet as she walked towards 
 the ancient piano/ Dr. Akers asked for Dew- 
 fall," and Elias found the music and turned the 
 pages. Adeline always wondered how she ever 
 got through it. When she had finished, Elias 
 spoke rather peremptorily: 
 
 "It is charming," he said "charming; but 
 Miss Weaver cannot play again now. She has 
 promised to show me the garden before dark." 
 
 Miss Eliza looked politely dismayed. In 
 spite of her sentimental yearnings over the 
 piece of music called " Dewfall," she had passed 
 the age when she cared to be exposed to the 
 reality of the title. She thought of her rheu 
 matism, she felt a premonitory twinge, but she 
 rose at once. Of course Adeline could not be 
 allowed to walk in the garden with a young 
 man, so late, without a chaperon. " Please 
 get my white shawl, my dear," she said, pa 
 tiently to Adeline. 
 
 But Dr. Akers regarded her with more of 
 romantic reminiscence than usual. He begged 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 that she would remain. He had some matters 
 pertaining to the church to discuss with her. 
 Dr. Akers had a covert sympathy with his 
 nephew. Then it was Miss Jane s turn. She 
 rose and fluttered perceptibly like a bird for a 
 second. Then she sat down again. It was 
 manifest that she could not be in two places at 
 once. She also did not like to be from under 
 the shelter of a roof after dewfall, ~ancl she 
 considered that her sister as well as Adeline 
 required a chaperon. 
 
 It thus happened that young Elias Farwell 
 and young Adeline Weaver went forth alone 
 into the garden together. Adeline gathered 
 up her filmy muslin skirts, and flitted beside 
 the young man along the box-bordered paths. 
 The dark was coming rapidly, and a heavy 
 silver steam was at once rising and falling. 
 Clouds from the moist, warm earth met 
 1 shafts of cloud reaching down from the sky. 
 Through these shafts presently the moon shone 
 dimly, turning them from silver to a mystery 
 of gold. All around them was the subtle odor 
 of the box, and also of roses and heliotrope. 
 The pair walked on in this silver and gold mist 
 inhaling the bouquet of youth and summer. 
 Adeline had taken Elias s arm. Their talk at 
 first was commonplace enough. Elias inquired 
 if she were not afraid of the dampness, and 
 174 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 Adeline replied that she was not, and there 
 had been a world of tender solicitude and re 
 sponsive trust in the trite remarks. Then 
 Adeline said something about the odor of the 
 box being so evident, and that some people 
 considered it unhealthy, but she loved it, and 
 Elias replied, fervently, that he loved it too. 
 He felt in truth as if he loved everything which 
 had the slightest relation to this lovely creature 
 on his arm. They walked through the garden- 
 paths several times ; the mist deepened. Ade- 1 
 line s face was as dewy as a flower. Elias laid J 
 his hand on her muslin sleeve. "Why, your 
 sleeve is wet, fairly wet," said he. 
 
 " Perhaps we had better return to the house," 
 Adeline said. She spoke like a reluctant child. 
 A little laugh sounded at her side, a little laugh 
 of tender triumph and amusement. 
 
 " Nonsense, you do not want to go in and sit 
 with my uncle and your aunts," he said. 
 
 Adeline shrank away from him a little. " But 
 it is really very wet," she said, "such a heavy 
 dew." In reality she dreaded what her aunts 
 might think if she came in with her new muslin 
 limp and draggled. 
 
 Elias had an inspiration. " You do not want 
 to go into the house," he said. " Why not sit for 
 a while in that summer-house we just passed. 
 There will be a roof over our heads and floor 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 under our feet. Why?" He paused in amaze 
 ment at the violent start which the girl beside 
 him gave. Suddenly she remembered the wil 
 low-ware. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he inquired, anx 
 iously. 
 
 "Nothing," replied Adeline, faintly. 
 
 "Come, then," said Elias. Soon the two sat 
 side by side in the summer-house, gazing out 
 / into the pale luminousness which surrounded 
 them, and out of which the scent of the box 
 called like a voice with some mystic message. 
 "What is the name of the piece you pIayed? Tf 
 asked Elias. 
 
 "Dewfall." 
 
 Elias laughed out. "Who taught you to 
 play?" he asked. 
 
 "Aunt Eliza." 
 
 Elias laughed again. "That is the reason 
 why you touch the keys as if you had little 
 shell thimbles on your fingers," he said. 
 
 Adeline laughed, too. She was not at all 
 offended. " That is the way Aunt Eliza taught 
 me," she said "the way she used to play it. I 
 don t like the piece very well." 
 
 "Nor I. But when you play your fingers 
 ought to kiss the keys, not peck at them. Your 
 aunt s fingers are very tapering." 
 
 "Very." 
 
 176 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 Then Elias spoke like a boy, and indeed he 
 was little more. "I am twenty-three," said 
 he. " How old are you?" 
 
 "Eighteen." 
 
 "I think my Uncle Timothy used to be 
 rather in love with one of your aunts," said 
 Elias. 
 
 " I think so," Adeline admitted, tremulously. 
 
 "Your Aunt Eliza?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "If they had been married we should have 
 been as good as cousins," said Elias. "Your 
 Aunt Eliza must have been a pretty girl." 
 
 "I think she must have been." 
 
 "I wonder if they ever think of it now. It 
 must seem very far away, Elias said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The two looked at each other, their faces were 
 white blurs. They were almost a part of the 
 shadows around them, but they felt their 
 youth in every vein. They were something 
 apart from the elderly people in the house, 
 they triumphed over the faint languishing of 
 the night. 
 
 They sat so close that their shoulders touched. 
 Each tried to conceal the fact from self-con 
 sciousness and from the other. Each felt for 
 self, the most sacred modesty ; for the other, the 
 most sacred respect ; and yet their young shoul- 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 ders touched, and such thrills of sweetness 
 passed through their souls and their bodies 
 that it- seemed as if light and perfume and 
 music must come of it. 
 
 " I was going away this afternoon," Elias said, 
 in a whisper. Adeline shuddered a little at the 
 thought; they sat closer to each other. " I saw 
 you last night on the street with those two 
 girls," Elias went on, and I decided I 
 would not go. Uncle Timothy said he would 
 bring me here to tea to-night, and so I " 
 
 His voice trailed into nothingness. Sudden 
 ly the young man s arm was around the girl s 
 waist, his cheek against her soft cool one, his 
 panting whisper in her ear: "I I have only 
 known you a few hours, a few minutes," he said, 
 "but but I never saw any one like you. Can 
 you tell so soon ? Can you tell if you can ever 
 care? You have only known me a few min 
 utes can you 
 
 "I have known you forever," Adeline whis 
 pered back. 
 
 Then they kissed each other. Adeline s head 
 sank on the young man s shoulder. She was in 
 a sort of ecstasy. 
 
 "Then you can tell," stammered Elias. 
 "You can tell now that some day you can care 
 enough for me to marry me. I 
 
 Elias stopped in dismay. Adeline had torn 
 178 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 /*> 
 
 herself from his arms. She was on her feet. 
 She had remembered the dreadful thing she 
 had done. She remembered the blue china 4- 
 under the very floor on which they stood. How 
 could she tell him? And yet she could not 
 marry him unless she did tell. 
 
 "It is very damp and very late," Adeline 
 said, in a quivering but peremptory voice. " I 
 must return to the house." 
 
 With that she was already in the path, flitting 
 ahead, and naught for Elias to do but to follow 
 her, pressing her softly with anxious questions, 
 to which she paid no heed. Adeline fairly ran, 
 and soon they were in the parlor with their 
 elders, and Adeline was pale, and her aunts, 
 were feeling her damp muslin with dismay. 
 Soon Dr. Akers and his nephew took their 
 leave, and Adeline was made to drink a glass 
 of port to ward off a cold before she went to 
 bed. 
 
 The next day Elias Far well appeared again, 
 and the next, and the next. He was a most 
 ardent wooer, but he seemed to make no prog 
 ress. Adeline gave him no more solitary inter 
 views. She looked at him at times as if she 
 loved him, but also as if she were afraid. Young 
 Elias Far well did not underrate his attractions. 
 He was no faint heart. He remained in the 
 village as his uncle s guest, and he laid siege to 
 179 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Adeline day after day. But it was a full month 
 before he discovered the obstacle to his wooing. 
 One Thursday evening he was taking tea at the 
 Weaver mansion with his uncle, and the sub 
 ject of the willow- ware was broached again. 
 He happened to be looking at Adeline, and 
 something in her face betrayed her. He did 
 not know what the secret was, but he knew 
 that she had a secret concerning the missing 
 china which made her heart sore. 
 
 That evening for the first time Adeline weak 
 ened, and the two went out in the garden again. 
 Now the roses were gone, but the scent of the 
 box endured under a clear sky, through which 
 the great lustre of the moon floated. They sat 
 down in the summer-house again, and Elias 
 laid his hand resolutely on the girl s. 
 
 " Now you must tell me," said he. " I know 
 a good deal already. You have shunned me 
 because of the willow- ware. Why? What has 
 a set of blue and white china s disappearance 
 to do with you and me?" 
 
 "It is under this floor," Adeline said, in a 
 strained voice. 
 
 Elias stared at her. "Under this floor?" 
 
 Yes, there were two loose boards." 
 
 "You put it there?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 1 80 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 "Because I had seen you, and I thought 
 you had gone, and -because " 
 
 "Because what?" 
 
 "Because every day was like every other, 
 and I was tired of it." Adeline began to weep. 
 
 Elias broke into a peal of laughter, and caught 
 her in his arms. " Lord ! I should have smashed 
 the willow- ware, every dish of it, long before 
 now if I had had to live the way you do with 
 your dear old aunts, with every day the same, 
 except when Uncle came to tea, and you had 
 to play Dewfall !" said he. 
 
 "You understand?" faltered Adeline. 
 
 " I think you can never do anything which I 
 shall not be able to understand," said Elias 
 Far well. 
 
 The next Thursday evening the uncle and 
 nephew came again to the Weaver mansion to 
 tea. Adeline wore a pearl ring on her engagement 
 finger. Her aunts and Dr. Akers approved of 
 the match, and Elias s mother had written her 
 a beautiful letter. And the table was set with 
 the willow- ware. The Misses Weaver looked 
 years younger. They seemed to have gotten 
 renewed vitality. They talked quite loudly, 
 quite rapidly.^ 
 
 "Only think," said Miss Eliza, "Hannah 
 opened the door, and there was the willow- 
 ware." 
 
 181 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Jane, "every piece." 
 
 "Probably the man grew conscience stricken 
 and brought it back ; the side door was left un 
 locked the night before," said Miss Eliza. 
 
 "It is beautiful how much honesty and good 
 ness there is in this world, after all," said Miss 
 Jane. Her eyes sparkled with radiant excite 
 ment. Nobody knew what the disappearance 
 and mysterious recovery of the willow- ware 
 meant to the Misses Weaver. 
 
 They had probably not realized it in the 
 least, but the monotony of their lives had told 
 upon them as well as upon their niece. They 
 had become wearily stagnated. Now all was 
 changed. In spite of their natural grief, when 
 Adeline had married Elias Farwell and gone 
 away to live, they seemed to acquire an after- 
 bloom in their old age. It was all due to the 
 willow- ware. " It would be fairly cruel to tell 
 them," Elias often said to Adeline, when her 
 conscience smote her, and he was right. Not a 
 day but had its savor of mystery and excite 
 ment because who could tell if the willow- 
 ware would be on its accustomed shelves when 
 the china-closet door was opened or not? Jt^ 
 was a shock of happiness which acted like some 
 subtle stimulant for their spirits when they 
 found the china intact. The ever present won 
 der if they might not, was another. Even Dr. 
 
 182 
 
THE WILLOW-WARE 
 
 Akers wrote new sermons under this strange 
 influence. He went home in those days from 
 the Weaver mansion feeling an odd mental 
 strengthening after a discussion about the 
 willow-ware. Right or wrong, they had all 
 gotten a jolt towards happiness out of their 
 ruts of life, which had been wearing their very 
 souls bare of youth and hope. 
 13 
 
THE SECRET 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 CATHERINE GOULD came hurrying into 
 V_> the house at half -past eight. John Grea- 
 son, the man to whom she was engaged, sat in 
 the south room with her mother and her aunt 
 Sarah. There were a light and a fire in the 
 best parlor, but, since Catherine was not at 
 home when he arrived, John sat down with 
 her mother and aunt. They had all waited for 
 Catherine with a curious impatience. It was 
 not very late when John arrived, only quarter 
 of eight, but Catherine was always there to 
 welcome him, and this night she was not, and 
 for some reason it struck them all as being 
 singular. 
 
 "I don t see where Catherine is," her mother 
 kept saying, uneasily, as they waited. 
 
 " Maybe she ran down to the post-office or 
 
 the store," suggested Aunt Sarah. Aunt Sarah 
 
 was knitting some white, fleecy wool into aw 
 
 shawl. She also was perturbed, but nothing 
 
 187 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 ever stopped her knitting. She always kept 
 her hands employed at some little, soft, femi 
 nine task like that, and it had become as in 
 voluntary with her as breathing. So she knit 
 ted on, although she listened for Catherine s 
 step, and frequently glanced at the clock. 
 
 When she made her remark about the post- 
 office and the store, John Greason frowned. 
 He was a handsome young man with a square 
 jaw. He had brought a box of candy for 
 Catherine, and it was on his knees as he sat 
 waiting. 
 
 "The last mail comes in at five o clock," said 
 he. "I went into the store on my way here, 
 and Catherine wasn t there. And I should have 
 met her if she had been on her way home." 
 
 "That is so," said Catherine s mother. "I 
 don t see where she is. She never goes out 
 without telling where she is going, and she 
 expected you, too." 
 
 "Oh, I dare say she has just run out some 
 where," said John. He tried to speak easily, 
 but failed. In spite of himself, he frowned. 
 He was angry, albeit unwarrantably so. He 
 was an only son and things had always gone 
 his way. His mother and two sisters had al 
 ways made things go his way. If John had not 
 what he wanted when he wanted it, they would 
 have felt as if something was wrong with the 
 188 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 universe. Now it seemed inconceivable to him 
 that Catherine should have gone out when she 
 expected him, and when he always came at ex 
 actly quarter of eight. He tried to converse 
 easily about the weather and the village news. 
 He became every moment prouder and angrier 
 and more resolved that nobody should know. 
 If Catherine Gould chose to go out when she 
 knew he was coming, and not tell where she was 
 going, and keep him waiting, nobody should 
 know that he felt it in the least. 
 
 Catherine s mother kept looking out of a 
 window. He sat rigidly with his back to one. 
 The curtains were not drawn ; outside there was 
 snow on the ground and there was a full moon, 
 so looking out of the windows was like look 
 ing into a bright, white world. John would not 
 look. When Catherine s mother looked he grew 
 more and more incensed. He began to con 
 sider the advisability of his going home; then 
 at last, just after the clock had struck one for 
 half -past eight, Catherine s mother cried out 
 with joyful relief: 
 
 "Here she is!" 
 
 "Well, I do wonder where she has been," 
 said Sarah, also with joyful relief. 
 
 John said nothing. His face looked very 
 heavy and sullen. He was also quite pale. 
 
 Catherine came in all rosy and glowing with 
 189 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 the cold wind. She came in as if there had 
 been nothing unusual whatever about her dis 
 appearance. " Oh, it is cold," said she. " Good- 
 evening, John. Have you been here long?" 
 
 "He has been here ever since quarter of 
 eight," said her mother. "Where have you 
 been, Catherine?" 
 
 John said nothing. He glanced with cold 
 inquiry at Catherine from under his heavy lids. 
 Catherine was laughing. She was about to 
 answer, when she caught that look. Then she 
 laughed again and said nothing. She was a 
 very pretty, fairly a beautiful, girl. She was 
 j dressed all in red red hat, red coat, and red 
 ( gown; there were glints of red in her brown 
 hair. She removed her hat and coat, and, going 
 I to a glass which hung between the two front 
 windows, thrust her slender fingers into the 
 puff of brown hair over her forehead and fluffed 
 it out, still laughing. Then she turned and 
 looked at them. Her whole face was dimpling 
 with mischief. She was so beautiful that her 
 mother felt a thrill of worshipful pride in her, 
 and her aunt Sarah also. As for John Greason, 
 he looked at her, and his mouth straightened. 
 
 "Why don t you tell where you have been, 
 Catherine ? asked her mother. She tried to make 
 her voice chiding, but it was full of tenderness. 
 
 Catherine only laughed. 
 190 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 "Why, Catherine Gould, where have you 
 been?" asked her aunt. 
 
 Catherine answered for the first time, but 
 not satisfactorily. 
 
 "That is a secret," said she, and tossed her 
 head and laughed again. She moved towards 
 the door and looked gayly at John, evidently 
 expecting him to rise and follow her into the 
 parlor, but he sat still. " There s a light in the 
 parlor, John," said she. 
 
 Then he questioned her for the first time. 
 "Where have you been?" he asked. 
 
 Catherine looked at him. She hesitated. 
 Then she again gave her head that gay, defiant 
 toss. "That is a secret," said she. 
 
 "Why don t you tell him?" asked her moth 
 er, anxiously. 
 
 Martha Gould was a tall, ascetic - looking 
 woman, with great eyes sunken in deep hollows. 
 She had a curious way of puckering her mouth, 
 and at the same time wrinkling her forehead 
 between the two leaflike curves of her gray hair. 
 Her sister-in-law, Sarah Gould, who had been 
 in her day a very pretty girl, much like Cath 
 erine, but had never married, knitted and eyed 
 her niece. She had been engaged to be mar 
 ried in her late youth, but her lover had died. 
 Since then she had occupied herself with the 
 small interests of life. 
 
 191 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " Aren t you coming into the parlor, John?" 
 Catherine asked again. A deeper red blazed 
 out on her cheeks. 
 
 Where have you been?" asked John, stead 
 ily gazing at her. 
 
 "That is a secret," replied Catherine, but 
 this time she did not laugh. 
 
 "Why don t you tell John where you have 
 been, Catherine?" her mother asked, looking 
 uneasily from one to the other. At that mo 
 ment the two faces those of the man and girl 
 looked singularly alike, although none could 
 be more different in feature and coloring. But 
 they wore the same expression. A terrible 
 similarity of unyielding spirit shone forth from 
 both which marked them as mates. If they 
 had been brother and sister instead of lover 
 and sweetheart, the likeness could not have 
 been more evident. John rose slowly to his 
 feet. The little candy-box in his clinched 
 hand was an absurdity compared with his 
 whole bearing. He looked at Catherine, and 
 she looked back at him. The mother and 
 aunt looked at both of them. The mother 
 opened her mouth as if to speak again, then 
 closed it. The ball of white wool rolled from 
 the aunt s lap onto the floor. Catherine pick 
 ed it up and returned it. 
 
 11 Thank you," said the aunt, and there was 
 192 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 something awful about that commonplace act 
 and speech in the midst of the tensity of mood 
 which seemed to fill the little room like an 
 imminent explosive. Immediately John Grea- 
 son gave the box of candy a violent fling. It 
 just missed Catherine, although he certainly 
 did not aim it especially in her direction. The 
 box struck the floor, burst asunder, and all thej 
 sweet contents rolled out. Then John Grea- 
 son strodeTroin the room and the house without 
 another word. He closed the front door with 
 aggressive caution. One could scarcely hear it. 
 
 The women remained for a few seconds as if 
 petrified Catherine standing, with her mother 
 and aunt looking at her. They were all pale, 
 but different emotions were evident on their 
 faces. On Catherine s mother s were bewil 
 derment, terror, and anger; on the aunt s, be 
 wilderment and terror; on Catherine s, the ex 
 cess of angry obstinacy. 
 
 The mother spoke first. " Well, of all things!" 
 said she. 
 
 The aunt followed. " Throwing candy round !" 
 she said, and her tone was nearly idiotic. The 
 situation was in reality too much for her wits. 
 Mysteries had always overwhelmed her, and 
 here were mysteries upon mysteries a very 
 mountain of them. In the first place, where 
 had Catherine been? In the second place, 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 why would she not tell? In the third place, 
 why such a fuss about it, anyway ? Then, why 
 were Catherine and John so angry ? Why had 
 John flung the candy? Her pretty, faded eyes 
 settled upon the candy. "As much as two 
 pounds," she remarked, "all over the floor, 
 chocolates and bonbons." 
 
 Then Catherine spoke, and her voice was ter 
 rible. "I ll pick it up before it gets trodden 
 into the carpet," said she, and forthwith was 
 down upon her knees, gathering up the scat 
 tered sweets. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked her 
 mother, with a sort of gasp. 
 
 "Pick up this candy," replied Catherine, in 
 her terrible voice. 
 
 " No, I didn t mean about the candy about 
 John? Are you going with him again?" 
 
 "A girl doesn t go with a little boy, and 
 marry him after she finds it out," replied Cath 
 erine, picking up a pink bonbon. 
 
 The mother and aunt looked at each other. 
 They even nodded in pantomime for the other 
 to continue the questioning. 
 
 "Why wouldn t you tell him where you d 
 been?" the aunt asked finally, in her sweet, 
 scared little pipe. 
 
 "Because he asked," replied Catherine. 
 
 "Because he asked?" repeated Mrs. Gould. 
 194 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 Catherine turned a set face upon her. " Moth 
 er," said she, "let us have no more talk about 
 this. I have nothing more to say. There is 
 nothing more I will say. John suspected me 
 of going somewhere or doing something I should 
 not. HP qiipsfinnpH rnfi like a, slave - owner. 
 If he does so before I am married, what will he 
 do after ? My life would be a hell. If I see that 
 a door leads into hell, I don t propose to enter 
 it if I can keep out. That s all I have to say." 
 
 "Oh my, Catherine!" the aunt cried, in hor 
 ror. 
 
 But Catherine s mother supported her, after 
 a fashion. " I know what you mean," said she. 
 "I never saw a grown-up man do such a silly, 
 childish thing as to throw that candy on the 
 floor that way. There s another piece under 
 that rocking-chair. He has got an awful tem 
 per, and one you can t reckon with in a grown 
 man. If he was a child, you could spank him, 
 but as long as he s a man " 
 
 "I don t call him a man," interposed Cath 
 erine. 
 
 The aunt continued, "As long as he s a man,"*, 
 said she, "all a woman can do is to sit still 
 and do nothing." 
 
 " I am not going to sit still and do nothing," 
 Catherine said. She straightened herself and 
 puckered up her red dress skirt into a bag for 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 the candy and broken box, then went towards 
 the door. 
 
 " Where are you going now, Catherine?" 
 her mother inquired, anxiously. 
 
 " I am going to dispose of this candy." 
 
 Catherine opened the door into the icy en 
 try and closed it quickly behind her, lest the 
 cold air strike her mother and aunt. She was 
 very considerate. The two elder women looked 
 at each other. 
 
 "What do you suppose she s going to do 
 with it?" the aunt asked, feebly. 
 
 " I suppose she s going to give it a fling after 
 the one that brought it," replied Catherine s 
 mother, sternly. She was growing more and 
 more incensed. It always required some time 
 to work Martha Gould into her farthest height 
 of resentment, but, once there, her mental foot 
 ing was secure. 
 
 "Land!" said Sarah Gould. The word with 
 her meant a great deal. She could hardly 
 have gotten through the world without it. 
 
 The women heard the front outside door 
 open. Catherine s mother sprang to the win 
 dow. She saw a white object with a shower 
 of smaller ones describe an arc and land in the 
 glittering snow of the front yard. 
 
 "Has she?" hissed Sarah, in a whisper of 
 tragedy. 
 
 196 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 Martha turned towards her and nodded with 
 a jerk as Catherine came into the room again, 
 closing the door noiselessly and solicitously be 
 hind her. The girl held her head up proudly; 
 not a whit of her beautiful color was dimmed. 
 She was even laughing with apparently no ef 
 fort whatever and with no bitterness. "The 
 sparrows will have a good breakfast to-morrow," 
 said she. 
 
 Her mother gave a grim nod. Her aunt 
 made a little whimpering sound. 
 
 " I don t see how you can she began, 
 feebly, but her sister, Catherine s mother, in 
 terrupted her fiercely. 
 
 "What do you want?" she demanded. "Do 
 you want her to sit down and cry because that 
 good-for-nothing fellow has treated her mean?" 
 
 " No-o," protested Sarah, who was herself half 
 weeping "no-o, you know I don t, Martha." 
 
 "Then why are you talking so? And I de 
 clare, you are half crazy! Anybody would 
 think it was your beau." 
 
 Sarah began to weep in good earnest then, 
 putting her handkerchief to her working face. 
 "It is only because I do hate to see folks qua] 
 rel," she sobbed. "Folks feel bad when they 
 quarrel, especially after they have thought a 
 good deal of each other, no matter if they 
 do try to laugh it off." 
 197 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " There is no quarrel that I know of," said 
 Catherine, coolly. She laid some hat-pins side 
 by side on the table and straightened a bow on 
 her hat. "Miss Holmes ought to have put 
 some wire in this bow," she said. "Every 
 time I go out in the wind it flops." 
 
 "Yes, she ought," returned her mother. 
 
 Sarah gasped. Two people talking about 
 wire in a hat-bow in such a crisis struck her 
 like blasphemy. 
 
 "I thought you had quarrelled with him," 
 she ventured, in a faint voice, followed by a 
 little sob like a bewildered child s. 
 
 "Not at all," said Catherine, still engaged 
 in perking her hat-bow. "John Greason has 
 simply gone home in a huff like a six-year-old 
 boy because he was thwarted in his curiosity 
 and suspicion. A quarrel requires two parties, 
 and there is only one. I have not quarrelled 
 in the least." 
 
 "But" faltered the aunt, "I don t see why 
 you couldn t have told where you had been." 
 
 "So I could if I had been asked," replied 
 Catherine. 
 
 " You were asked." 
 
 ,/ No, I was suspected. I don t answer sus 
 picions. I am above suspicion. I have been 
 all my life, and I always shall be." Catherine 
 gave her beautiful head a toss. She seemed 
 198 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 taller. The steady gleam of her brown eyes 
 and the noble curves of her broad temples 
 seemed indeed to render suspicion something 
 far from her just due. Still, her mother began 
 to look anxious. When Catherine sat down 
 before the stove, turning up the skirt of her 
 red dress and displaying a beruffled silk petti 
 coat, and remarked casually that it was a bit 
 ter night outside and it did seem good to be 
 in where it was warm, her mother continued 
 to regard her with a doubtful and anxious 
 frown. After the aunt had gathered up her 
 work, lit her bedroom lamp, and retired, she 
 spoke her mind freely. 
 
 "I hope you have done right, Catherine," 
 she said. 
 
 Catherine gave her a quick glance over her 
 shoulder. "You don t think I ve been down 
 to the hotel drinking or any wild and desperate 
 thing, I hope, mother," she said. 
 
 "No, it isn t that, Catherine. I know wher 
 ever you were it was no harm, and in a way I 
 don t blame you for not telling when you were } 
 questioned the way you were. It was enough 
 to make anybody mad. It made me mad, but 
 I wonder if you have done right, after all, in 
 not telling him." 
 
 "I have done the only way a girl with any 
 pricfe could have done." 
 
 14 199 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " Maybe you have, but well, you know, 
 Catherine, John Greason is a good, steady fel 
 low." / 
 
 " So is a mule sometimes," interposed Cath 
 erine. 
 
 "Well, of course, you are only twenty-three, 
 and there are more chances than one " 
 
 " I had chances before John Greason, and I 
 didn t have to hunt for any of them," returned 
 Catherine. 
 
 "That is so." 
 
 " But I don t care about chances. What 
 earthly difference does it make? We have 
 enough to live on. I have all I want. What 
 > do I care if I never get married? Most of the 
 imarried women I know would say they wished 
 they were out of it, if they told the truth. It s 
 a lot of care and responsibility. A girl can 
 have a much better time." 
 
 " Yes, but a woman can t keep herself a girl 
 always," said Catherine s mother, and an odd 
 expression came over her face an expression 
 of reminiscent tenderness and softness, and also 
 a shade of embarrassment. 
 
 Catherine turned and looked at her moth 
 er keenly with her clear, proud young eyes. 
 "Mother," said she she hesitated a moment, 
 then she continued "did you never regret 
 that you got married?" 
 
 200 
 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 The mother blushed. She regarded her 
 daughter with a curious, dignified, yet shamed 
 expression. "Marriage is a divine institu-^ 
 tion," said she, and closed her lips tightly. 
 
 "Oh, nonsense!" cried Catherine. "Tell the 
 truth, mother, and let the divine institution 
 go. I know father was a fretful invalid two- 
 thirds of the time. I have heard all about 
 that from Aunt Sarah. I know until grand 
 mother died you had a hard struggle to get 
 along and make both ends meet, because she 
 didn t like your marrying father, and wouldn t 
 help you, and father never was much of a suc 
 cess as a doctor; he had such a temper and was 
 so miserable himself. And I know you had, 
 five children as fast as you could, and they all 
 died except me. Now tell me the truth if 
 you had it all to live over again, would you 
 marry father?" 
 
 The flush faded from Mrs. Gould s face. She 
 was quite pale. " Yes, I would, and thank the 
 Lord for His unspeakable mercy," she said, in 
 a low, oratorical voice, almost as if she were in 
 a pulpit. Then the red flashed over her face, 
 again, but the embarrassment was gone. Now 
 she looked at her daughter triumphantly, even 
 with superiority. " I was married when I was 
 eighteen years old, five years younger than 
 you are," said she. 
 
 201 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " I could have been if I had chosen, * replied 
 Catherine, with a look of wonder. 
 
 " I know you could. It is your own fault 
 if you have missed the best this life has for 
 any woman. It is your fault, now, and it will 
 be your fault. Where were you to-night?" 
 
 Catherine rose, frowning angrily. Then sud 
 denly her face relaxed, and she laughed a merry 
 peal. "You would go straight over and tell 
 John Greason, cold as it is, and scared as you 
 are to go out alone at night," said she. " No, 
 mother, I don t tell where I was, and as for 
 missing the best of life, I ll risk it. I m going 
 to bed. I m going to help Alice Leeds get her 
 house ready for her afternoon tea to-morrow, 
 and I promised to be over early." 
 
 " You might be getting your own house ready 
 for an afternoon tea." 
 
 Catherine laughed again. "As if this house 
 wasn t my home, and as pretty and enough 
 sight prettier than Alice Leeds s, and as if I 
 couldn t have an afternoon tea if I wanted it. 
 I think I will, next month." 
 
 "It isn t the same." 
 
 " I am satisfied. Alice Leeds s husband 
 doesn t want her to have it, and is as cranky 
 as fury for fear his dinner will be late on account 
 of it. I am going to try to get the people off 
 in season, and help Alice hustle away the com- 
 202 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 pany fixings, and get her precious husband s 
 dinner on the table so he won t scold. Her 
 Eliza is coming down with the grip, and she 
 can t depend too much on her. I told her Jane 
 would come over, but one maid is hardly enough 
 if Eliza should be laid up." 
 
 "Are men coming?" asked Mrs. Gould. 
 
 Catherine laughed again as she lit her candle, 
 and the soft light flared over her beautiful face. 
 "Men are asked," she replied, "but it is like 
 man supposes and God disposes. It is Satur 
 day afternoon, and there is no reason why men 
 can t come if they want to; but the question is, 
 Will they want to? I suppose John Greason 
 would have come if he hadn t insulted me with 
 suspecting that I could not be out for an hour 
 after dark without being in some awful mis 
 chief, if that is what you mean. Now I don t 
 suppose he will. I should not think he would. 
 Good- night, mother; don t worry over it." 
 
 If Catherine did not sleep that night, there 
 was no evidence of it in her brilliant face when 
 she came down to breakfast the next morning. 
 Her mother looked as if she had not closed her 
 eyes, and Catherine shot a quick glance of 
 anxiety and annoyance at her. 
 
 "For goodness sake, mother, lie down after 
 breakfast and see if you can t get a nap," she 
 said, when the maid had gone into the kitchen 
 203 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 for more muffins. "You will not be fit to go 
 this afternoon. * 
 
 "I thought maybe I wouldn t," Catherine s 
 mother replied, rather piteously. She had a 
 high spirit of her own, but not much physical 
 strength, and her indignation no longer served 
 as a tonic. 
 
 " Nonsense!" returned Catherine. " Of course 
 you are going. There you have that beautiful 
 dress all ready " 
 
 " I don t know " 
 
 " I know." 
 
 "I thought perhaps 7 wouldn t go either," 
 remarked Aunt Sarah, who was nibbling at some 
 cereal, with an injured air. 
 
 "Of course you are going too. Haven t you 
 got that handsome new bonnet on purpose? 
 Goodness! you two don t want Greason s folks 
 to think we are breaking our hearts because he 
 went home last night and flung a box of candy 
 at me. Mrs. Greason and Lottie and Mrs. 
 Ames are sure to be there, with their eyes and 
 ears open, too. Trust them. There is one 
 thing if I don t have to marry John, I shall 
 be rid of his family, and I must confess that I 
 always did wonder how I would get on with 
 my in-laws." 
 
 "John is the best of them," acceded Sarah 
 Gould, tearfully, taking another bit of well- 
 204 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 sweetened cereal. "I always said it wouldn t 
 be the easiest thing in the world to get on with 
 his folks." 
 
 "And I should have simply been obliged to 
 combine with the whole lot Thanksgivings and 
 Christmases and wedding anniversaries," said 
 Catherine. " There s no loss without a con 
 siderable gain. Small gain does not seem the 
 thing in this case. I think myself I have clear 
 ed a good six per cent." Catherine had con 
 siderable experience in business matters. She 
 managed the property which kept them in 
 comfort, young as she was. The two elder 
 women were entirely helpless in that respect. 
 After Catherine s father s death, his elder broth 
 er had taken charge, but since his death, two 
 years before, Catherine had proved herself 
 amply able to conduct matters. She was in 
 reality rather a masterly girl. When she was 
 out in the clear morning air, which bit like 
 steel, for the roads were frost-bound and every 
 thing glittering with ice crystals, she held her 
 head high and swung along with an instinct joy 
 of existence, although she was encountering the 
 first real trouble of her life. She could not re 
 member when her father died. She had not 
 particularly cared for her uncle, who had not 
 particularly cared for her, and his death had 
 not affected her. But she had been in love, 
 205 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 and was now, with John Greason, and what had 
 happened last night was no light matter to her ; 
 but her pride and her innate joy in existence 
 itself, aside from its conditions, sustained her 
 like a sort of spiritual backbone. She thought, 
 as she passed a house on the way and caught a 
 glimpse of a girl s blond head at a window be 
 hind a row of red geraniums a head which in 
 stantly ducked as if to avoid an exchange of 
 courtesies how foolish it was for any girl, and 
 how inexplicable even, to allow herself to lose 
 her health and good looks and all the other 
 sweets of life simply because of a man. The 
 girl with the blond head had been disappointed 
 in love a year ago. She never had been seen 
 out of the house after her lover married, and 
 was said to be in a decline. Catherine felt a 
 sort of joyous scorn for this girl as she swung 
 along. She realized herself upon a height of 
 emotional superiority. She contemplated the 
 possibility of John Greason marrying another 
 girl, and gave her head a proud toss. She could 
 endure even that. She jcnew herself to be 
 strong enough for anything. She thought of 
 a new red silk gown which she was to wear that 
 afternoon. She could see herself in it, and the 
 men, if men there were, were crowding around 
 her, and women too, for that matter. Women 
 liked Catherine. She had an easy good nature, 
 206 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 which kept them from jealousy of her beauty. 
 She thought that John Greason s mother and 
 his sister Lottie and his married sister, Mrs. 
 Edgar Ames, would be there, and how they 
 would admire her. She was quite sure that 
 John would have kept his own counsel, that he 
 would not even have told his family of his 
 broken engagement: that he would leave them 
 to find it out for themselves. She was sure that 
 her mother and aunt would have said nothing. 
 She knew that they could not do so without a 
 covert reflection upon herself, since, after all, 
 she had not told where she had been, and al 
 though they did not doubt her, others might 
 do so. Even popularity does not shield from 
 the delight of /a scandal, and Exbridge was a 
 dull little viHage. She knew, although people 
 liked her, they could no more resist talking 
 about her, if they had the chance, than they 
 could resist gazing at a sky-rocket on a July 
 night. Pyrotechnics of any kind were simply 
 irresistible to human beings deprived of the 
 natural food of excitement. She knew that 
 although her aunt was not shrewd, her mother 
 was, and she knew that her mother would not 
 tell, and would see to it that her aunt did not. 
 Catherine had a pleasant time decorating 
 her friend s house for the tea. She enjoyed 
 that sort of thing, and had really a genius for 
 207 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 it. She made the rooms charming, and headed 
 efficaciously her corps of workers. That after 
 noon she achieved a social success in her red 
 silk. Men came, and she was surrounded by 
 them. She glowed with merriment and health 
 ful enjoyment. John Greason s relatives were 
 there, and extremely friendly. She knew that 
 John had told nothing. In the midst of her 
 pride and indignation she felt a thrill of appro 
 bation for his reticence. It was exactly what 
 she herself would have done, what she did do. 
 She told nobody anything; her mother and 
 aunt told nobody; John continued to tell no 
 body. Of course his relatives first, then the 
 whole village, finally discovered that he no 
 longer went to see her, that the engagement 
 was presumably broken; but beyond that they 
 knew nothing. They surmised to the extent 
 of their imaginations, but their imaginations 
 failed them; they were always wide of the 
 truth. Catherine came to get a certain amuse 
 ment from the various reports which reached 
 her from time to time, but apparently John 
 Greason did not. He grew thin and old-look 
 ing. At last it was reported that Catherine 
 Gould had treated him badly, that she had jilted 
 him for a rich man in the city. When Cath 
 erine heard that, at a church supper, she turned 
 upon her informer a married friend of hers. 
 208 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 "There is not a word of truth in that, and 
 you can tell everybody so," she said, her cheeks 
 blazing. 
 
 "Then you didn t jilt him?" 
 
 "No, I did not." 
 
 The other girl stared at her with wondering 
 eyes. The conclusion was almost evident that 
 John had jilted Catherine, but in the face of 
 Catherine s radiant joy in life and beauty it 
 seemed ridiculous. However, gradually that 
 report gained ground. John s mother came 
 first to him with it. They were eating supper, 
 on a Friday night, about a year from the day 
 when he and Catherine had separated. John, 
 his mother, his unmarried sister, and his mar 
 ried sister, who was one of the household, her 
 husband being away on business most of the 
 time, were at the table. 
 
 "I heard something this afternoon at the 
 Improvement Club, " John s mother remark 
 ed, as she poured the tea. She was a large, 
 florid woman, and she looked imposing in her 
 gray brocade waist trimmed with beaded passe 
 menterie over her high-corseted bust. She was 
 the president of the " Exbridge Ladies Im-/ 
 provement Club." 
 
 John s sister Lottie, who was slender and 
 plain, cast a sly, scared glance at him with 
 her light, prominent blue eyes. The mar- 
 209 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 ried sister, who was like her mother, echoed 
 her. 
 
 "Yes, we heard a piece of news," said she. 
 "Pass the biscuits, Lottie, please." 
 
 John ate his scalloped oysters and made no 
 rejoinder. The women looked at one another 
 doubtfully, but Mrs. Greason was afraid of 
 nothing. 
 
 "We heard why you stopped going to see 
 Catherine Gould," said she. 
 
 John took another mouthful of scalloped 
 oysters. The mess was smoking hot and burn 
 ed his tongue and throat, but he swallowed it 
 grimly and said nothing. 
 
 Then Mrs. Ames spoke. "Yes, we heard you 
 jilted her because she was too fond of hav 
 ing other men hanging about her," said she, 
 with a slight repulsive smack of her full lips, 
 as though over a sweet morsel. 
 
 Then John looked slowly from one to an 
 other, and his face was ashy pale. "It is a 
 lie," said he, hoarsely. 
 
 "Then you didn t jilt her for that?" asked 
 his sister, undaunted. 
 
 " I didn t jilt her at all. It is a damned lie!" 
 said John, with almost a shout. 
 
 "Don t use such language as that, John," 
 said his mother, severely, as if he were a little 
 boy. 
 
 210 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 "We have just come from the club, and we 
 have been discussing the alarming growth of 
 profanity among men who call themselves 
 gentlemen," remarked Mrs. Ames, with a su 
 perior air, which was like the rasp of a saw. 
 
 "Then don t say things to encourage the 
 growth," sneered John. 
 
 "Then you didn t?" said Mrs. Greason. , 
 
 " Didn t what, for Heaven s sake? I won- ] 
 der how much men would use profane words / 
 if it were not for women!" 
 
 "That is right; heap all the blame upon the""l 
 women. That is what Annie Drinkwater said 
 was done, in the club this afternoon," said 
 Mrs. Ames, with undisturbed ponderosity. 
 
 John said something under his breath. 
 
 "Jilt Catherine Gould," said Mrs. Greason, 
 distinctly. 
 
 "No, I did not, once for all," replied John, 
 fiercely. 
 
 "But she did not" 
 
 "There was no jilting any way. Can t you 
 women ever drop a subject?" 
 
 "Well, a man cannot expect to go with a 
 girl as long as you went with Catherine Gould, 
 and have her get all ready to be married ex 
 cept her wedding-dress. I know she had her 
 underclothes ready, for she told Lottie so over 
 a year ago " 
 
 211 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " She showed them to me," interposed Lottie, 
 with a squeaky little voice. 
 
 "Yes, she showed them to her," said Mrs. 
 Greason, triumphantly. "What I was going 
 to say was, you can t expect " 
 
 But John had pushed his chair back violently 
 and left the table. They heard his heavy rush 
 up-stairs and the slam of his room door. 
 
 "He is just like his father," remarked Mrs. 
 Greason, with an odd tone, compounded of 
 respect for the dead and a remembrance of his 
 faults, which was simply due to her own dignity. 
 
 Mrs. Ames echoed her in a similar voice. 
 " Yes, father was close-mouthed just like John," 
 said she. 
 
 "We never knew what the trouble was be 
 tween father and Mr. Sears," Lottie said, in 
 her tiny squeak, which was not in the least 
 accusative, like the other voices. Lottie was 
 simply statistic, but for some reason that made 
 her more irritating to people. One can resent 
 accusation, but one is utterly helpless before 
 statistics, and especially statistics delivered in 
 a squeak. 
 
 " I should have found out if Mrs. Sears had 
 not died within a week after it happened," 
 said Mrs. Greason. "Eliza Sears never could 
 keep a thing to herself, but Amos Sears was 
 always a good deal like your father. I don t 
 
 212 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 suppose he ever let on to any human being be 
 fore he died what the trouble was." 
 
 "John won t either," said Mrs. Ames. 
 
 "I m sorry about it," her mother remarked, 
 although as she spoke she took another spoon 
 ful of scalloped oysters. "Catherine Gould is 
 a handsome girl, and she has money, and she 
 will have more. All that consoles me is, I al 
 ways have wondered how we should get along 
 with her. Unless I miss my guess, she has got 
 an awful temper." 
 
 "Yes, I know she has," assented Mrs. Ames. 
 " I shouldn t wonder if that was the trouble, 
 if they quarrelled over something." 
 
 "It never seemed to me that Catherine s 
 aunt Sarah was very close-mouthed," observed 
 Lottie. 
 
 "Well, Catherine and her mother are, and 
 they ll see to it that she is. Poor Sarah Gould 
 never dares speak unless those two women 
 say she may," returned Mrs. Greason. "Well, 
 your father was a good, upright man, although 
 of course he had his little faults like all of us, 
 and I can see them right over in your brother; 
 but, after all, it is better to be a stone jar than 
 a sieve." 
 
 " Not with your own folks," said Lottie. 
 
 "You can t expect a stone jar to turn into 
 a sieve even for your own folks," retorted her 
 213 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 mother. "You might have a much worse 
 brother than John." Mrs. Greason spoke with 
 some asperity. After all, John was her favor 
 ite. They were much alike. He had inherited 
 his close mouth and his disposition generally 
 from her to a much greater extent than from 
 his father, but Mrs. Greason was not given to 
 self -analysis, only to self-assertion, and she did 
 not see herself repeated in her son. 
 
 Another year went on. People talked less 
 about and speculated less about the breaking- 
 off of the engagement between John Greason 
 and Catherine Gould. Nobody had made any 
 discoveries concerning it. John and Catherine 
 went their ways as usual. Catherine seemed 
 to grow handsomer and more brilliant every 
 year. Everybody wondered why she did not 
 become engaged to some one else. As for John, 
 he was said never to look at a girl. This fact 
 probably hurt Catherine a little in spite of her 
 popularity. There were those who made in 
 sinuations that her temper had been the cause 
 of the trouble. However, men did not seem to 
 fear it. When a lawyer from New York came 
 to Exbridge on business concerning the set 
 tling of an old estate, and remained two sum 
 mer months at the village inn, and paid much 
 attention to Catherine, people assumed that 
 surely she would win him, or consent to be won. 
 214 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 But the lawyer went away, and the woman 
 who kept the village post-office said, after three 
 months had elapsed, that not one letter from 
 New York had arrived for Catherine, and thus 
 that matter was considered settled. Women be 
 gan to say that Catherine would live and die 
 unmarried in spite of her good looks and pros 
 perous circumstances, and they opined that 
 she felt slighted, for all her high bearing, and 
 all the more so when John Greason bought the 
 beautiful hill lot on the west side of the brook 
 which divided the village as with a silver rib 
 bon, and began building a house which to sim 
 ple village tastes was fairly palatial. The story 
 went abroad that John had met a girl in the 
 mountains the summer before, when the New 
 York lawyer had been hanging about Cath 
 erine, and that he was shortly to be married 
 in fact, immediately after the house was fin 
 ished. It was a mild winter, and the house 
 had been covered in before snow fell, and work 
 was progressing rapidly. People said John 
 would be married in April. None of the Grea- 
 sons said anything to confirm or deny this 
 rumor. In fact, they themselves were as much 
 puzzled, and more so, than people outside. 
 They had asked John, but he, as usual, was 
 non-communicative. They had imagined every 
 marriageable girl in the village as being his 
 is 215 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 prospective wife, but as he never went out even 
 ings they themselves were forced into the con 
 clusion that he might have met somebody in 
 the mountains. " I do hope she won t be 
 a tiffiky city girl who has been used to ser 
 vants all her life and won t know a blessed thing 
 about keeping that beautiful new house in 
 order," said Mrs. Greason to her daughters. 
 They were all secretly worried, although they 
 assumed airs of calm wisdom when abroad. 
 
 Catherine Gould could see the live glow of 
 the new roof from her own room, and she won 
 dered if, unhappily, she concealed it. She had 
 a new coat that winter, red and fur-lined, and 
 she looked more beautiful and radiant than 
 ever. 
 
 It was the last of March, one evening, when 
 the heretofore mild winter had suddenly turned 
 back fiercely upon its tracks, and the cold was 
 bitter in a white moonlit night, when John 
 came to see her. The Exbridge Improvement 
 Club" had met at the Gould house that after 
 noon, and Catherine had the best parlor deco 
 rated with carnations, and the lamps were still 
 lighted. A hot-air furnace had been put in 
 that winter, so all the rooms were warm. 
 Catherine, her mother, and aunt were sitting 
 in the parlor talking over the club meeting, 
 when the doorbell rang. The two elder women 
 216 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 scuttled across the hall to the sitting-room, and 
 closed the door, all except a crack, and Cath 
 erine answered the ring. The one maid was 
 out. There stood John Greason, as pale as 
 death, and seemingly enveloped in a column 
 of wintry air. Catherine stared at him in 
 credulously for a second, after he had said good- 
 evening in a hoarse voice. She could not be 
 lieve her eyes. 
 
 "May I come in?" he asked, and the girl re 
 gained command of herself. 
 
 "Certainly," she replied, in a crisp voice, 
 and stood aside, with the least perceptible 
 straightening of her graceful figure and toss 
 backward of her head. But poor John Grea 
 son did not even look at her. He fairly stum 
 bled over the threshold, and forgot to take 
 off his hat before removing clumsily his great 
 coat. Catherine, who was somewhat pale 
 herself, although perfectly self-possessed, stood 
 watching him. 
 
 When his coat and hat were in their old 
 places on the hat-tree he cast an appealing, 
 doglike glance at the girl, then at the parlor 
 door, 
 
 " Will you go into the parlor?" said Catherine. 
 
 As John followed her into the room, both he 
 and Catherine heard quite distinctly Mrs. Gould 
 say, in a tone of unmixed wonder, "It s John 
 217 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Greason," and they heard her sister-in-law say, 
 "Land!" 
 
 John turned after he had entered and closed 
 the parlor door softly. 
 
 "Why do you close the door?" asked Cath 
 erine, and there was hostility in her voice. 
 
 " I wanted to say something to you," replied 
 John, feebly. 
 
 " There can be nothing which you need say 
 to me which necessitates the door being closed," 
 replied Catherine. 
 
 Then suddenly something boyish, almost 
 childlike, in the man s piteous glance filled her 
 with compassion. "Very well," she said, and 
 motioned John towards a seat. She seated 
 herself at some little distance from him. The 
 lamplight shone full on his face, and she saw 
 how thin he had grown, what deep lines had 
 come in his forehead, and how pale and nervous 
 he looked. "Aren t you well?" she asked, ab 
 ruptly. 
 
 "Very well, thank you." Both sat still for 
 a few moments, then John rose and made a 
 plunge across the room, stumbling over a rug, 
 and almost fell into a chair beside Catherine. 
 "Will you promise not to speak until I have 
 said something?" he asked, in a voice which 
 Catherine hardly knew for his. 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 218 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 John commenced speaking rapidly, as if he 
 were repeating a lesson learned by rote. "My 
 new house is all done," said he, "and I have 
 been looking at furniture. I can have it all 
 ready to move into soon. I don t want you 
 to tell me where you went that night. Don t 
 speak. Will you marry me and live in my new 
 house with me? Don t tell me where you had 
 been that night. Don t speak. Will you?" 
 
 Catherine stared at him. "Are you out of 
 your senses, John Greason?" 
 
 "No; don t speak." 
 
 Catherine sat mute, gazing at him. She was 
 as pale as he now. 
 
 "Will you forgive me and marry me?" asked 
 John, and his voice was almost a groan. Great 
 drops stood on his forehead. 
 
 Catherine had a quick sense of humor. " How 
 can I tell you if I don t speak?" said she. 
 
 "I mean, don t tell me where you were that 
 night, but only if you will have me, after 
 all." 
 
 Catherine continued to stare at him. "John 
 Greason, how do you think I can marry you 
 if I don t tell?" said she. 
 
 "You can. Don t tell." 
 
 "But I must. It was all over nothing. I 
 got angry because you were so domineering. 
 I had only" 
 
 219 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "Don t speak, don t speak," cried John Grea- 
 son, in a kind of agony. 
 
 1 Well, why not? What is the matter with 
 you, John Greason?" 
 
 " If you speak, I can never have any opinion 
 of myself afterwards. After treating you as I 
 did, after suspecting I can never be a man in 
 my own eyes if you tell me, Catherine." 
 
 "It is the only condition under which I can 
 marry you." 
 
 "Then," said John, hopelessly, "I cannot 
 marry you, Catherine. I shall not be fit to 
 marry you afterwards." 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 "It is true. Oh, Catherine, don t speak, for 
 my sake!" 
 
 Catherine gazed at him. She was not a 
 subtle girl she could not understand but she 
 had strong maternal instincts, and she saw, as 
 if through a magnifying lens of sympathy and 
 pity, her lover s tragic face, with the pale, thin 
 cheeks and the sweat-beaded forehead; and, 
 moreover, although she had held her head high, 
 she had always loved him. Suddenly, with a 
 soft, birdlike movement, she rose, pulled his 
 head against her shoulder, and wiped his fore 
 head. "What a goose you are!" she whispered. 
 
 "Then you will, Catherine? you do love 
 me, after all?" 
 
 220 
 
WHAT A GOOSE YOU ARE! SHE WHISPERED" 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 "Love is not a thing one flings aside like a 
 glove," said Catherine. "I could have lived 
 in spite of it, and had a good time, too, but a 
 girl like me, when she loves, means it." 
 
 44 Then you will marry me?" 
 
 " I don t know whether I can or not, unless " 
 
 "Oh, Catherine, don t speak. Don t tell me, 
 for God s sake!" 
 
 "Then I must have a week to think it over," 
 said Catherine, leaving him and sitting down 
 again. "I can t make up my mind all in a 
 minute to marry you after all this time and 
 not tell you. I am not sure that you will not 
 always suspect me." 
 
 "Catherine, don t you see, don t you know, 
 that if you do tell, you must always suspect 
 me of suspecting, and that if you don t tell, 
 you will know I don t?" 
 
 Catherine sat pondering. "It is such awful 
 nonsense," she said at length, with a half-sigh. 
 
 "It is awful earnest to me. Catherine, I 
 can t marry you if you tell." 
 
 "Do you really mean that if I were to tell, 
 and you knew that it was all nothing at all, 
 that you would not love me enough to marry 
 me?" 
 
 " I should love you, but I would not let you 
 marry a man who suspected you." 
 
 Catherine laughed again. "Well, it is all 
 
 221 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 too much for me," she said, v** You split hairs, 
 where I only look at things. Well, John, I 
 think enough of you, but you must wait a 
 week." 
 
 "To-day is Friday. Will you let me know 
 a week from to-night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I ll go now," said John, rising. 
 
 Catherine wished him to remain longer, but 
 she would not say so. She went with him to 
 the door and assisted him to put on his coat. 
 He fumbled pitifully with the sleeves. The 
 sitting-room door was still ajar. When the 
 two stood in the outer door, John bent towards 
 Catherine. Then he drew back. 
 
 "No," he said, "I had better not until I 
 know. It isn t fair, and I have been unfair 
 enough as it is. Good-night, Catherine." 
 
 "Good-night, John," said Catherine. She 
 closed the door behind him and went into the 
 parlor. She sat down, her face a mask of re 
 flection. Presently her mother and aunt en 
 tered the room, almost timidly. 
 
 "Well?" said her mother, after she had 
 hemmed twice. 
 
 "It was John," said Catherine. 
 
 Her mother and aunt looked at each other. 
 
 "Well?" said her mother again. 
 
 "Mother, I can t say a word about it. I 
 
 222 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 can t tell you anything for a week," said Cath 
 erine. " I don t know myself what I am going 
 to do." 
 
 "Then he " began her mother. 
 
 "Mother, I can t tell you or Aunt Sarah a 
 word to-night," Catherine said, decisively. 
 
 Then she went out of the room, and soon 
 her bedroom lamp flashed as she went up-stairs, 
 and she called out good-night. 
 
 "Well, she s close enough," said Mrs. Gould. 
 
 " Her father was awful close, too," said Sarah. 
 
 "He was the best husband that ever lived, 
 if he was close," returned Mrs. Gould, defiantly. 
 
 " I ain t saying a word against him, Martha." 
 
 "You d better not. Catherine is quite right 
 in being close until she knows herself. You 
 aren t close at all, Sarah Gould, and she doesn t 
 want anything all over town until she knows." 
 
 " I never said a single word about their quar 
 relling," returned Sarah, with an injured air. 
 
 "You didn t dare to. You dropped your 
 yarn when you came in here, and it runs way 
 back to the sitting-room, twisted round all the 
 furniture. You ve got one piece of work get 
 ting it unsnarled. Wait. I ll help you." 
 
 That night, long after her mother and aunt 
 were asleep, Catherine Gould, muffled up in her 
 warm flannel dressing-gown, sat beside her win 
 dow gazing out at the wintry, moonlit night. 
 223 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 She was debating with herself whether she could 
 or could not live without the usual lot of women 
 which her lover had offered her that night. She 
 was quite sure that, if she did not marry John 
 Greason, she would never marry at all. He 
 had been so long in her dreams as her husband 
 that she could not violate them. Catherine 
 was an inherently constant girl. If she did 
 not marry John Greason, she would always love 
 him, unless, indeed, he should marry another 
 woman. In such a case it would go hard with 
 her, but she would wrench all love for him from 
 her heart. But she knew that John, if he did 
 not marry her, would never marry another 
 woman. He was as constant as she. She had 
 never, although he had deserted her, believed 
 in the rumors that he was about to marry some 
 one else. But she, on her part, was unwilling 
 to marry him unless all shadow of secrecy was 
 removed from between them. She told her 
 self that it was hard upon her. First he had 
 demanded that she tell; now he demanded that 
 she should not. Both demands were unreason 
 able. In spite of her love for him and pity for 
 him, she had a sense of wrath. She wondered 
 if she could not live her life without marriage 
 at all; if she had not better let it all slip away 
 from her, and give him an answer in the nega 
 tive the very next day. She said to herself 
 224 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 that there was no need whatever of prolonging 
 the agony. She had asked for a week, but a 
 few hours were in reality all that were neces 
 sary. She gazed out on the white level of the 
 square front yard, lit by snowlight and moon 
 light. She gazed up at the indeterminate col 
 ored sky through which the moon sailed in her 
 golden halo. She gazed at the few stars which 
 the brilliance of the moon left visible. Sparkles 
 as of precious crystals gleamed out here and 
 there from all the landscape. Everything was 
 white and pure and glittering, fuft~6f symbol- 
 ism"of the ineffable holiness and passionless of 
 tnat which is outside the heat of human life. 
 Srie realized dimly that if she were to say " No " 
 to her lover, that in spite of her radiant beauty, 
 which was of a kind to endure, in spite of her 
 triumphant philosophy of obtaining whatever 
 she could from the minor joys of existence, and 
 not allowing her body or soul to become lean 
 through deprivation of the larger ones, she 
 would, in reality, live her life and die her death, 
 as it were, in that cold glitter outside her win 
 dow. It would be peaceful and beautiful and 
 good, but she would miss the best and sweetest 
 of food for her heart. There was nothing of the 
 nun about her. She was religious, but she was 
 not ascetic. It would have been different if 
 she had never loved any man at all. Then she 
 225 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 might have been satisfied and quite content, but 
 the aspect of that cold and virgin radiance out 
 side seemed terrible to her with that leaping 
 flame in her heart. 
 
 The next day she gave in. She wrote to 
 John Greason and asked him to come that even 
 ing. Her mother and aunt could not go to 
 bed until he had left ; although it was late, they 
 were so curious. When the front door had 
 closed after him, Catherine went into the sit 
 ting-room and looked at the two elder women, 
 her eyes full of dark fire, her cheeks like roses, 
 her full lips breaking into smiles. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I am going to be mar 
 ried the 5th of April, and live in that new 
 house." 
 
 Catherine s mother turned pale, her aunt 
 trembled and flushed. Then they both rose 
 and solemnly kissed her. 
 
 " Oh, there is one thing," said Catherine, with 
 assumed carelessness. "You must neither of 
 you ever say anything about the trouble which 
 has been between John and me. It is all over 
 now." 
 
 "But where were you?" asked her mother, 
 in a whisper. Her aunt looked at her with 
 eyes which seemed able to pierce secrecy itself. 
 
 "That is never to be mentioned," replied 
 Catherine, with dignity. 
 226 
 
THE SECRET 
 
 " You don t mean you haven t told him yet ?" 
 gasped her mother. 
 
 " He did not wish me to." 
 
 " Won t you ever?" 
 
 " Not if he feels as he does now that he does 
 not want me to." 
 
 "Land!" said Sarah Gould. 
 
 " It does seem to me as if she might tell her 
 own mother, if she wouldn t tell him," said 
 Mrs. Gould, after the girl had gone up-stairs. 
 
 "She is close, just the way her father was," 
 said Sarah. 
 
 "Her father was the best man that ever / 
 lived, and she s got a right to keep her own 
 counsel if she wants to," said Mrs. Gould, sharp 
 ly. "I am glad she hasn t got to live with his 
 folks, and that new house is the handsomest 
 one in town." 
 
 "Yes, it is," said Sarah, "and I never could 
 see how she would get along with his folks." 
 
 "She could get along with anybody as far 
 as that goes," retorted Mrs. Gould, with in^ 
 consistency. 
 
 "I wasn t saying anything against her." 
 
 "I don t see why you should. She and her 
 father before her have been the salt of the 
 earth." 
 
 Catherine and John were married on the fifth 
 of April, and went to live in the new house. 
 227 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 People speculated as to what the quarrel be 
 tween them had been about, and how they hap 
 pened to become reconciled. They prophesied 
 that they would not be happy. " Both of them 
 are too set and too close to ever get along," said 
 they. But they became as a model of mar 
 ried happiness. They were radiant in love for 
 and utterly content in each other. And John 
 Greason, living with his wife as the years passed 
 and her beauty dimmed, and wontedness dulled 
 somewhat the first color of existence for both 
 of them, realized that the little secret of hers 
 which he had never known, that one bit of her 
 own individuality which was outside his ken, 
 caused her to always retain for his lifelong 
 charm her virgin mystery; and her lined but 
 sweet forehead between her silvering folds of 
 hair was always haloed by that thought be 
 hind it which he had never known and never 
 would know. 
 
THE GOLD 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 THE colonies had but recently declared war 
 with the old country ; and Abraham Duke, 
 being an able-bodied man, although no longer 
 young, was going to fight for the cause. He 
 was fastening on his old sword, which his father 
 before him had wielded well, and his wife Cath 
 erine was standing watching him, with an an 
 gry cant to her head. "Wherefore cannot you 
 tell me where the gold is, Abraham Duke?" said 
 she. 
 
 Abraham Duke regarded his wife with stern 
 melancholy, and his glance of fixedness in his 
 own purpose was more impregnable than any 
 fort. 
 
 "I can tell you not, Catherine," replied he, 
 "because no man can tell any woman anything 
 which he wants not the whole world to know, 
 and there are plenty of evil-disposed folk abroad 
 in these troublous times, and tis for your own 
 sake, since, in case robbers come, you can tell 
 16 231 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 them without perjury that you know not where 
 the gold is." 
 
 "For my sake!" returned Catherine, with a 
 high sniff. "You tell me not for fear I shall 
 spend the gold, and you always loved gold 
 better than your wife. You fear lest I should 
 buy a new gown to my back, or a new cap-rib 
 bon. Never fear, Abraham Duke, for I have 
 gone poorly clad so long that, faith, a new cap- 
 ribbon even would frighten me." 
 
 " I have given you all that I could, Cather 
 ine," returned Abraham, gravely. 
 
 " But now that you have all this wealth, five 
 thousand pounds, you hide it away, and tell 
 me not where it is me, your wife, who has 
 kept your house for scarce anything save a 
 poor measure of daily bread, all these years. 
 You wrong me, Abraham Duke." 
 
 But Abraham Duke only kept his mouth 
 shut more tightly. He was perhaps ten years 
 older than his wife, but he was handsome, with 
 a stern, almost a sad, majesty of carriage. It 
 was only some few weeks before that the money, 
 a legacy from his father in England, five thou 
 sand pounds in gold, had come on the English 
 ship The Queen Mary. It was the day after 
 wards that he had sent his wife away by stage 
 coach fifty miles inland on a visit to her sister, 
 Mistress Abigail Endicott. He had charged 
 232 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 her while on her visit to say nothing about the 
 five thousand pounds, but well he knew that 
 she had talked of nothing but the gold, and had 
 bragged much, and now, when she had returned 
 and her husband was about to join the army, 
 the gold was hidden, and she was to know noth 
 ing of it and have nothing of it all to spend 
 until her husband s return. He regarded her 
 at the last with the sort of restrained tender 
 ness of his kind. She was still a most charming 
 woman to look upon, fair-skinned and fair- 
 haired, and, in spite of her complaints, attired 
 daintily, although she had spun and woven the 
 blue petticoat which she wore, and worked her 
 self the lace kerchief which veiled her bosom, 
 and the cap which crowned her fair head. 
 "When I come home, you shall have what you 
 will to spend," said he, "but not now. Now 
 is a time when a good wife needs nothing ex 
 cept the wherewithal to live, with her good- 
 man away, and war in the land." 
 
 "Abraham, tell me where you have hid the 
 gold?" 
 
 " I will not tell you, Catherine," said Abra 
 ham Duke, and now he was all equipped to 
 start. "If, perchance, I should never come 
 back, you may go to Parson Rawson, who holds 
 a sealed letter for you, but in no case will he give 
 it to you unless I fall and he has ample proof 
 233 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 of it. He has promised me upon his honor, 
 and no man living ever knew Parson Ebenezer 
 Rawson to forswear his word." 
 
 "And in the mean time, while you fight I 
 am to stay alone at home and starve." 
 
 "There is no need for a woman of industry 
 to starve in a good home, with a bound boy to 
 cut wood and dig the garden for her, and 
 cows and sheep and chickens," said Abra 
 ham. 
 
 " But should the enemy come and take them 
 all, as they may do, since we are on the sea 
 shore!" cried Catherine. 
 
 "In that case you will go to your sister, 
 Mistress Endicott, in Rexham," replied Abra 
 ham. He was advancing towards his wife for 
 a decorous last embrace, should she be disposed 
 to yield it in her rancor, when little Harry 
 Evarts, the son of Abraham s friend and neigh 
 bor, the goldsmith, came rushing in, and he 
 was all bloody, and his pretty face was deadly 
 white, and his fair curls, like a girl s, seemed to 
 stand up and wave like plumes over his head, 
 he was in such a fright. Then Catherine Duke 
 forgot the gold, for she had no child of her own, 
 and she loved the boy. "Harry! Harry!" 
 she shrieked, running to him and holding him 
 to her breast. " What is it, child ? Speak ! Are 
 you hurt?" 
 
 234 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 "Father! father!" gasped the boy, and then 
 he hung almost lifeless on Catherine s arm. 
 
 "What ails your father? Speak!" cried 
 Catherine. 
 
 "Father is killed, 7 replied the boy, faintly. 
 
 "Killed! What, your father killed! Abra 
 ham, do you hear? Joseph Evarts is killed. 
 Hear what this child says! Run, quick, 
 Abraham!" 
 
 But when Catherine turned to look at her 
 husband there was no one there, and she for 
 the moment thought nothing of it, inferring 
 that at the child s first word he had hastened 
 to see what had happened to his friend. 
 
 But Abraham Duke did not return, and it 
 was known on good authority that he had 
 never set foot in Joseph Evarts house to as 
 certain what had happened to him, but had 
 made his way straight out of the village to the 
 army, the company of which he was a member 
 being assembled in Suffield, about ten miles 
 away. 
 
 Catherine, although she had had the differ 
 ence with her husband concerning the hiding 
 of the gold, felt hurt that he should have 
 slipped away in such wise without a word of 
 farewell while she was in such anxiety over the 
 bereft child, but she had no suspicions then, 
 or afterwards, and nobody spoke of suspicions 
 235 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 to her. But suspicions there were, although 
 they slumbered in the general excitement of 
 the war and the ever-recurring rumors of a 
 ship of the enemy in sight and about to land 
 in the harbor of the little village of South Suf- 
 field. It was said that Abraham Duke was the 
 last one seen entering and leaving the house of 
 Joseph Evarts the evening before his dead body 
 was found by his little son, who was returning 
 from a visit to his grandmother; his mother 
 was dead. Little Harry Evarts had, indeed, 
 found the door of his home blocked by some 
 thing, and pushed with all his childish strength, 
 and found, when the door yielded a gap, that 
 it was the body of his father, dead of a sword- 
 thrust in the side, which blocked the door. 
 Evarts had been a goldsmith by trade in the 
 old country ; since he had been in the new, find 
 ing little opportunity for the exercise of his 
 craft, he had supported himself and his little 
 son by working his farm. It was held that 
 Abraham Duke had gone the night before to 
 bid him farewell. Mistress Prudence Dexter, 
 who lived next door, had distinctly seen him 
 enter and leave, and she had seen no one else 
 that evening, and it was bright moonlight and 
 she had been sitting beside her window with 
 no light, to save candles. Still, in spite of the 
 sinister report, Abraham Duke s standing he 
 236 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 was tithing - man in the meeting - house, and 
 esteemed by all and the utter absence of any 
 known motive served to keep the suspicion 
 well within bounds, and would have done so 
 even had not everybody s mind been distracted 
 by the war and the rumors of strange sails on 
 the horizon. 
 
 Meantime Catherine Duke lived on alone, 
 save for the bound boy, who was none too 
 bright as to his wits, although strong and a 
 good worker, and night and day she searched 
 for the gold, which she was confident her hus 
 band had hidden somewhere about the house, 
 if he had not buried it in the field. Her hus 
 band had not been gone twenty - four hours 
 before all the usual hiding-places of treasure 
 were overhauled, such as old teapots, the draw 
 ers of dressers, secret drawers, and the clock. 
 She searched the clock particularly, since she 
 heard that her husband had been seen coming 
 from Joseph Evarts with some of the works 
 of the clock that night before he went away. 
 Prudence Dexter had averred that she had dis 
 tinctly seen the dangling pendulum of a clock 
 from under Abraham s cloak as he went down 
 the street. Catherine, knowing that the dead 
 man, Joseph Evarts, had been a cunning work 
 man in many ways, thought that he might have 
 rigged for his friend a secret closet in the clock, 
 237 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 and she searched it well, but found nothing. 
 She thought that it might have been possible 
 for her husband to carry the main body of the 
 clock under his cloak, for the purpose of the 
 secret closet, but, although she sounded every 
 inch and poked the inmost recesses of the clock 
 well over, no gold did she discover. She there 
 fore let it be, ticking with the solemn majesty 
 of its kind ; it was an eight-day clock, taller than 
 a man, standing like Time itself in the corner 
 of the living-room, and casting a shadow like 
 the shadow of a man across the floor every morn 
 ing when the sun shone into the room. But 
 she searched, after she had searched the clock, 
 every inch of the house. She even had the 
 hearthstones taken up, she and the dull-witted 
 bound boy, working by candlelight, with the 
 curtains drawn, that the neighbors might sus 
 pect nothing, and she replaced them in a mas 
 terly fashion; for Catherine Duke was in real 
 ity a masterly woman. And then she had out 
 many of the chimney bricks, as many as she 
 dared, and she even had up some of the floor 
 ing, but she found nothing. 
 
 Then she and the bound boy dug up the cel 
 lar bottom, and then the bound boy ploughed 
 every inch of land which had hitherto remained 
 uncultivated. She could do that openly, and 
 people began to say that Catherine would make 
 238 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 more of the farm than her husband nad done. 
 But the land that was too stony for the plough 
 she was more secret about, she and the boy 
 digging it up by moonlight and replacing the 
 sods. 
 
 Once she ventured forth with a lantern in her 
 impatience, but the light, seen flitting along the 
 field near the shore, occasioned a rumor in the 
 village that a ship of the British had landed 
 and a drum beat to arms. Then all the old men 
 and boys left in the place sallied forth, and 
 Catherine and the bound boy, whose name, 
 which belied his character, was Solomon last 
 name he had none at all that anybody knew, 
 for he was a foundling had hard work to reach 
 the house undiscovered, although she blew out 
 the lantern and scudded for her life with her 
 petticoats lifted, while the boy sped with her, 
 the more afraid that he knew not what he feared. 
 
 However, all Catherine s searching came to 
 nothing, although she worked hard and hard 
 work it was, with what she had to do on the 
 farm. No woman in South Suffield was con 
 sidered a better housewife than she, and she 
 had to live up to her reputation. She and the 
 boy sheared and washed sheep, and she spun 
 and wove the wool. She tended the flax and 
 made of that lengths of linen cloth; she made 
 her soap and her candles, and kept her house as 
 239 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 neat as wax, and all the while the search for 
 the hidden gold was in her mind. Many a time 
 in the dead of night would she, lying awake 
 and pondering over it, and striving to place 
 her own mind in the attitude of her husband s 
 when he had hidden the treasure, think of an 
 other place where she had not looked, and be 
 up, with her candle lit, and over the house, in 
 her bed-gown, to find nothing at all. 
 
 Catherine grew old with the loneliness and 
 the ever-increasing wrath with her husband, 
 who had so mistreated her after her years of 
 self-denial and toil for his sake. The sense of 
 injury is like a fermenting canker in the mind 
 when once it is allowed to work with no pro 
 test. Catherine s pretty, round face grew long 
 and sour, her smooth forehead knitted. Her 
 blue eyes got an expression of sharp peering 
 which never left them. She even looked at 
 her friends as if she suspected that the hiding- 
 place of the gold might be in their minds. And 
 yet all the time she had in reality no desire for 
 the gold itself, for she had enough and to spare. 
 Had she found the gold she would directly 
 have hid it again and spent not one shilling 
 until her husband s return, but the sense of in 
 jury ever spurred her on with a goading which 
 almost produced madness. She asked herself 
 over and over why she should not know why 
 240 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 her husband, for whom she had saved and toiled, 
 could not have trusted her ? Of a Sabbath-day, 
 when she went to meeting, she regarded the 
 parson, Ebenezer Rawson, with a covert hatred, 
 since he held the sealed letter, and had been 
 trusted to a greater extent than she. Some 
 times, although, in spite of her wrath and sense 
 of ill treatment, which warped her mind, she 
 still loved her husband and prayed for his 
 safety, the imagination would come to her how, 
 in the case of his falling before the enemy, she 
 should go to the parson and demand the sealed 
 letter, and know at last what she had a right 
 to know the hiding-place of the gold. 
 
 After her husband had been away some six 
 months and she had had one letter from him, 
 with not a word about the gold, she dressed 
 herself in her best in her red cloak, which she 
 had had as a bride and kept carefully, and a 
 hat with a plume which would have become 
 her had she not gotten the expression on her 
 fair face of the seeker after dross, which dis 
 figures more than aught in the world and she 
 made her way to the parson s house. He was 
 a widower, and always had a kindly word for 
 a pretty woman, although esteemed, as her hus 
 band had said, a man who kept his own coun 
 sel. Past the parson s housekeeper, an ancient 
 aunt of his, declaring that she had need of 
 241 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 spiritual consolation, and leaving her staring, 
 suspicious because of the red cloak and the 
 plume, she marched into the study, lined with 
 books which damned all mankind by reason of 
 the love of God, according to the tenets of the 
 day, and she found the parson at his desk, with 
 his forehead knitted over the tenthly of his 
 next Sabbath-day s sermon. And then calling 
 to her aid old blandishments of hers, she beset 
 the parson for the letter, although the condi 
 tions of its delivery were not fulfilled, and she 
 gave good and sufficient reasons why she should 
 know the secret, since lately the rumors of the 
 enemy on the coast had increased, and she 
 argued that she should know the hiding-place 
 of the treasure, that she might bury it safely 
 away from the greed of the redcoats. 
 
 But Parson Ebenezer Rawson, who was a 
 handsome man in a po\vdered wig, and had 
 something of the diplomat in him, only laughed, 
 and spoke to her with a pleasant chiding, the 
 while he noted that she was no longer, in spite of 
 her red cloak and her feather, as goodly to see 
 as she had been, and had an apposite verse 
 of Scripture concerning the frailty of the 
 flesh and the evanescence of beauty enter his 
 mind. 
 
 "Mistress Duke," said Parson Rawson, "it 
 truly seemeth to me that, since you yourself 
 242 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 cannot find the gold, no safer hiding-place can 
 be discovered from the enemy." 
 
 Catherine blushed high with anger. "But 
 I am in want of goods for household use," said 
 she. In response to that, Parson Rawson sur 
 veyed her rounded form and the sumptuous 
 folds of her red cloak, and said that he could 
 not betray his trust, since his word, once given, 
 was like a lock and seal upon his soul, and that 
 did she want for the necessaries of life he would 
 advance the money needful to her upon a loan. 
 
 At last Catherine Duke went away, still un 
 satisfied, and she walked for thoroughly femi 
 nine she was with a graceful movement, being 
 conscious of the carriage of her head and the 
 folds of her red cloak, until she was out of view 
 of the parson s windows, and then she broke 
 into an angry switch, and she even wept like 
 a crossed child, as she went along where there 
 were no houses. 
 
 Before she came to her own house, some 
 quarter of a mile distant, she had to pass 
 the house where Joseph Evarts had lived and 
 wherein he had come to his death by foul means. 
 Catherine Duke was not a nervous woman, nor 
 timid, but as stanch and stout-hearted as wom 
 en needed to be in those times. Still, for all 
 that, and although she had not heard of the 
 suspicions which were directed against her hus- 
 243 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 band, she never passed this house without an 
 involuntary quickening of her steps, especially 
 when it was nightfall, as now, and she was 
 alone. The house had remained deserted since 
 poor Joseph Evarts s dead body had been car 
 ried forth from it, for the little boy had been 
 taken to live with his grandmother in an 
 adjoining town. Now, in this gray, weather- 
 stained house seemed to abide the spirit of 
 mystery and murder, and to glare forth from 
 the desolate blanks of its windows upon all 
 passers-by. Thus Catherine Duke, stout-heart 
 ed as she was, quickened her steps that even 
 ing, and scudded by in her red cloak, with her 
 best plume waving in the breeze; but as she 
 passed she gave a terrified roll of her blue eyes 
 at the house, and she could have sworn that 
 she saw a gleam of light in one of the rooms of 
 the second story. She looked instinctively at 
 the opposite side of the road for a light which 
 could produce a reflection, but there was no 
 house there, and no bonfire. She looked again, 
 and it seemed certain to her that there was a 
 candlelight in the east room on the second 
 floor. Then she fairly ran, for a vague horror 
 was upon her, and it seemed to her that she 
 heard footsteps behind her, although, when she 
 reached her own door and turned around, with 
 the latch in her hand and Solomon gazing 
 244 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 at her from the lighted living-room, there was 
 not a person in sight on the road, which made 
 a sharp turn a short distance from the Duke 
 house. That turn swerved the road from the 
 sea, and gave room on both sides for houses. 
 The Evarts house was on the sea-side of the 
 road. All that could be seen from the front 
 door of the Duke house was the desolate, moan 
 ing waste of waters, which had lately acquired 
 a terrible significance as a possible highway for 
 the enemy, and the road, with no dwelling as 
 far as the turn. Catherine called Solomon to 
 the door. "Look," said she, sharply, "and see 
 if you can spy out anybody on the road." 
 
 Solomon came and stood beside her, project 
 ing his simple, gaping face, with its prominent 
 light-blue eyes, into the gathering gloom, and 
 whimpered for he had some vague idea that 
 he was being blamed, and he held his mistress 
 in awe that he saw no one. "Go as far as 
 the turn in the road," said Catherine, imperi 
 ously, "and see if you see anybody; and, if you 
 do, come back quickly and let us lock the door." 
 
 Solomon started, although he was afraid for 
 he was more afraid of his mistress s anger than 
 of any unknown quantity but she called him 
 back. "If you see no one on the road," said 
 she, " keep on until you reach the Evarts house, 
 and lock and see if you spy a light in the east 
 245 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 chamber." Solomon sped away, although his 
 legs trembled under him, for the fear in his 
 mistress s heart infected his own. 
 
 Catherine went into the house and hung 
 on the porridge-kettle, and very soon Solomon 
 came back, saying that he had seen no one, and 
 there was no light in the east chamber of the 
 Evarts house, but there was a boat moored be 
 hind the house, on the sea-shore. 
 
 "You cannot have seen rightly," said Cath 
 erine, for now her confidence had returned. 
 "You saw the old wreck that has lain behind 
 the house for the last three years." 
 
 "Nay, mistress, twas a boat," persisted the 
 boy; but when Catherine insisted that he had 
 seen wrongly, he yielded and agreed with her, 
 and said it was the wreck, for he had no mind 
 of his own when the pressure of another was 
 brought to bear upon it. 
 
 But the poor lad was right, and it had been 
 well for poor Catherine Duke had she heeded 
 him and taken the candle-gleam in the cham 
 ber of the deserted house and the boat on the 
 sand behind it as a warning, instead of recov 
 ering her bravery of outlook and going about 
 her evening tasks as usual. After supper she 
 set Solomon to paring apples to dry, and she 
 herself spun at her flax- wheel. They found her 
 hard by it the next day, and she was murdered 
 246 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 even as Joseph Evarts had been; but she had 
 not come to her death so easily, for she had been 
 tortured first, and there were the marks of fire 
 on her feet and hands. As for the bound boy, 
 he had leaped out of the window as the men 
 beat down the door, and he had sped away on 
 his long legs, with what little wit he had ever 
 owned wellnigh gone forever. When he was 
 found and brought back, he shook like one with 
 palsy, and he went through his life so, and he 
 could only speak in disjointed stammers. As 
 for answering questions to any purpose, there 
 was no hope of it from him, although the 
 people gathered some confirmation of what 
 they at first suspected, that Catherine had 
 been first tortured to make her reveal the hid 
 ing-place of her gold, and then, when she did 
 not reveal it, as she could not, poor soul, she 
 was finished. Then the whole house had been 
 ransacked for the gold, but the robbers and 
 murderers found it no more than Catherine had 
 done, although people were not sure of it. In 
 deed, it was said by many that the men, who 
 were supposed to have come ashore in the boat 
 which had been moored behind the Evarts 
 house, and which had been seen by a man pass 
 ing as well as by Solomon, had found the gold 
 and taken it away. Catherine had talked much, 
 to her own hurt, about the treasure, and there 
 17 247 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 were stragglers from the army, as well as the 
 enemy, to fear. Some said they were British 
 soldiers who had come ashore in the boat, and 
 some said they were men from the Colonial 
 army, a company of which had been recently 
 stationed for a short time at Suffield, but no 
 one ever knew certainly. 
 
 When Abraham Duke came home, with only 
 one arm, having lost the other by a British shot, 
 he found a deserted home and a devastated 
 farm, for there had been a raid by the ene 
 my after Catherine s death. They had left the 
 house standing, with its contents, but the live 
 stock had been taken. 
 
 Abraham lived on alone, and worked his poor 
 fields painfully, being so crippled with only one 
 sound arm and hand, and he barely kept soul 
 and body together, for, if the gold had not been 
 stolen, he made no use of it. Sometimes the 
 neighbors, albeit grudgingly and doubtfully, be 
 ing still uncertain as to whether he was hoard 
 ing his treasure or not, came and helped the 
 poor man with his scanty harvesting. How 
 ever, they seemed to meet with but little grati 
 tude, for Abraham Duke, always taciturn and 
 cold of bearing, had become more so. He spoke 
 to no man unless he were first spoken to, and 
 then he made scant reply. And although he 
 still attended all the services on the Sabbath- 
 248 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 day in the meeting-house, he had given up his 
 office of tithing-man, and would not have it; 
 and people said he had doctrinal doubts, be 
 cause of his afflictions, which were not to his 
 credit, even if he were innocent of the crime 
 which those who were more ready to think evil 
 laid at his door. 
 
 As time went on, people looked more and 
 more askance at him, for his face grew more 
 and more bitter and forbidding, even terrify 
 ing. The children became afraid of him, and 
 gradually the old suspicion became more as 
 sured. He was held (although no one had any 
 proof, and, there being no known motive for 
 the crime, there was no talk of bringing him to 
 justice) as a man accursed, and when he was 
 helped it was more and more grudgingly and 
 with serious doubts as to the blessings to be 
 received for the deed. 
 
 Joseph Evarts s son had grown up, and he 
 was living in his father s old house with his 
 grandmother, who still lived, although very old, 
 and never did Abraham Duke pass the house 
 that he was not conscious of the young man s 
 eyes upon him. Abraham had become aware 
 of the suspicion, and it looked more keenly from 
 Harry Evarts s eyes than any other s. Abra 
 ham rarely looked the young man in the face, 
 for it had become to him the face of an aveng- 
 
 249 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 ing fate. He went past the house with his 
 head bent, but always he knew there was an 
 eye upon him if not the young man s, his 
 grandmother s, for she too suspected, and voiced 
 her suspicions openly. Her old face, set in the 
 narrow window-frame, was as malignant as a 
 witch s upon Abraham Duke passing by, and 
 he felt it, although he did not look up. 
 
 Affairs grew worse and worse with him. 
 Rheumatism beset him one winter, and he was 
 crippled with that, as well as his maimed arm 
 and his age, for he was now an old man. He 
 sat all day by his fireless hearth ; for it was often 
 fireless, since he could not cut wood nor hire 
 it cut, and often he went a day without food, 
 for he was more and more abhorred for the 
 shadow of suspicion of an evil deed which had 
 fallen upon him. Old Parson Rawson had died 
 years before. He had given up the sealed letter 
 to Abraham when he returned from the army, 
 and Abraham had taken it without a word, and 
 nobody knew what had become of it. 
 
 Abraham Duke lived on, hanging to life with 
 a feeble clutch, like an old leaf to an autumn 
 bough, and he was near eighty, and suffering all 
 that one could suffer and live. He was slowly 
 freezing and starving to death, and the occa 
 sional aid from his kind only served to prolong 
 his misery. At last, when he was eighty, there 
 250 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 came a fierce winter, and one morning Harry 
 Evarts, who had lately married, and whose 
 heart, embittered with suspicion and the de 
 sire for vengeance, was somewhat softened by 
 the thankfulness for love, thought of the old 
 man, and, walking down to the turn of the 
 road, and seeing no smoke from the chimney, he 
 returned home for his hand-sled, and drew a 
 good store of fire- wood, with a basket of provi 
 sions, to the Duke house. 
 
 It was a bright, freezing morning, a day glit 
 tering as if strung with diamonds, and the wind 
 from the north was like a flail of death. Harry 
 Evarts shuddered as he dragged his sled up to 
 the door of the Duke house, and he hesitated 
 a second for dread of what he might find when 
 he entered. Then he heard a sweet voice from 
 behind calling, and the girl he had married 
 came running to join him, her fair face all glow 
 ing with the cold. 
 
 When she came alongside, Harry pounded on 
 the door, and a horrible, dull echo, as of the 
 vacancy of death itself, came in their ears. 
 The young wife, Elizabeth, caught hold of her 
 husband s arm, and she was almost weeping. 
 "Oh, Harry! oh, Harry!" she whispered. "The 
 poor old man must be dead." 
 
 Harry shut his mouth hard and pounded 
 again, and again came the echo like a voice 
 
 25 1 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 of desolate mockery from the outside of life. 
 Then Harry shut his mouth harder, and opened 
 the door, which was unlocked, as if the old man 
 had left it on the latch for death, and he en 
 tered, Elizabeth shrinking behind him. 
 
 And on the hearth sat old Abraham Duke, 
 frozen and starved, but his face had an expres 
 sion of such exceeding peace and humility that 
 even the girl was not frightened, but she began 
 to weep bitterly. " Poor old man! oh, poor old 
 man!" she sobbed. "And he does not look, 
 dead, as he did alive." 
 
 The room was full of brilliant sunlight, but 
 bitter cold, and on the hearth were only ashes, 
 but the andirons and the tops of the fire-set 
 caught the sunlight and glowed warmly. So 
 also did the ornaments on the desk and the 
 high-boy and the clock, and the pendulum of 
 the clock, which still ticked, seemed to swing 
 in an arc of gold. Harry was deadly white, 
 standing looking at the old man on the hearth. 
 Elizabeth continued to sob; then, being led by 
 her sweet, womanly instincts, she went nearer to 
 the old man, and placed one of her little hands 
 with a caressing gesture like a blessing on his 
 sunken forehead. Then she started. " Har 
 ry," she said "Harry, there is a letter in his 
 hand." 
 
 Harry did not stir. He was thinking of his 
 252 
 
THE GOLD 
 
 father, and how he had come home to find him 
 lying dead across the door. 
 
 " Harry," said the girl again, " there is a let 
 ter." Then she reached down and softly took 
 the letter from the dead man s hand, which 
 seemed to yield it up willingly. "Harry, the 
 letter is for you!" cried Elizabeth, in an awed 
 whisper. 
 
 Then she handed the letter to her husband. 
 "Open it," said she. 
 
 " I can t," said the young man, hoarsely, for 
 he was fighting a fight with himself. 
 
 "I will open it!" cried the girl, who was full 
 of quick impulses, and she broke the seal. There 
 were only a few words in the letter, which was, 
 in fact, more a memorandum than a letter, and 
 she read them aloud: "The andirons, the fire- 
 set, the handles on the high-boy, the handles 
 on the desk, the trimmings of the clock, the 
 pendulum, the trimmings on the best bed, the 
 handles on the dresser, the key of the desk 
 Gold." 
 
 " My father did the work; he made the things 
 of gold instead of brass, and he knew!" ex 
 claimed Harry. 
 
 The girl was ghastly white. She continued 
 
 to look with a wild gaze of awful understanding 
 
 at the old man sitting stark and dead on his 
 
 fireless hearth, where he had sat so long with 
 
 253 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 the great god Mammon, whom he had not dared 
 command to his own needs lest he destroy him. 
 She reflected how he had sat there and starved 
 with his wealth glittering in his eyes, and she 
 also reflected, considering the look on his dead 
 face, that perhaps his earthly retribution had 
 won him heavenly peace. But she shuddered 
 convulsively, and the gold light reflected from 
 the tops of the andirons seemed to wink at her 
 like eyes of infernal understanding and mock 
 ery. She looked at the letter again, and called 
 out its contents again in a voice shrill with 
 hysteria: " The andirons, the fire-set, the handles 
 on the high-boy, the handles on the desk, the 
 trimmings of the clock, the pendulum, the trim 
 mings on the best bed, the handles on the 
 dresser, the key of the desk Gold." 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 THERE were five of the Lynde family 
 three brothers and two sisters. One of 
 the sisters was a widow, one a spinster. The 
 sisters kept house for the brothers, who were all 
 unmarried. The brothers were working a large 
 farm on scientific principles. People said they 
 were getting rich. Their style of living gave 
 evidence of prosperity. 
 
 About six o clock one night the three broth 
 ers, with two hired men, came across the stub 
 ble of a recently mowed field towards the large 
 white house where supper was awaiting them. 
 The eldest brother, James, came first, walking 
 with a free majesty of carriage. He was a 
 handsome man, nearly forty. Behind James 
 Lynde came his brother Edgar, the youngest 
 of the three. He was also handsome, although 
 with a boyish sort of beauty. He was thirty- 
 257 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 five, and looked scarcely more than twenty. 
 The principal expression of his face was one 
 of unquestioning happiness. People said that 
 Edgar Lynde had the happiest disposition of 
 them all. He was a great favorite with every 
 body, and the hired men would do anything 
 for him. Unquestioning happiness has about 
 it a certain self -cent redness. The hired men 
 said that Mr. Edgar would not worry if all the 
 hay on the farm was out and a shower com 
 ing up. Women adored him. There was some 
 thing about this happy-faced man, so happy 
 that he felt no real need of anything more, even 
 of them, which fascinated and allured. The 
 two hired men came after Edgar, walking with 
 the loose, almost disjointed, hip-hop of their 
 kind. 
 
 Behind them, last of all, came William Lynde. 
 He was slightly younger than James, but he 
 looked much older. He was small, rather un 
 fitted for manual labor by his physical condi 
 tion. His delicate bones and muscles had be 
 come warped into unnatural shapes by exercise, 
 rather than strengthened. He was bent, and 
 moved with unmistakable weariness, yet with 
 a persistency which gave the impression of re 
 serve strength. His face, originally as hand 
 some as that of either of his brothers, was worn, 
 and had a look of dogged patience and humil- 
 
 258 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 ity which usually years alone bring. He sel 
 dom spoke. He was unfailingly industrious, but 
 was popularly supposed to accomplish nothing, 
 to know little, and to be "rather lacking." 
 The hired men held him in no respect. He 
 never raised a voice of authority. He crept 
 after the others several paces in the rear, with 
 his rake over his shoulder. As he walked 
 they were all moving towards the west he 
 gazed at the sunset sky. It was a sea of glory: 
 a daffodil radiance, with clouds like wings of 
 gold and silver and pearl. The man s face, 
 gazing at it, changed. He looked like one for 
 whom a trumpet of action had just sounded. 
 The other men did not notice the sunset at all. 
 u ^? t inally they reached the great white house 
 a fine structure, with a noble array of outbuild 
 ings, barns, and storehouses. The hired men 
 entered the kitchen door; the brothers, with 
 the exception of William, entered a side door, 
 and went directly to their rooms to wash and 
 change their linen before supper. William en 
 tered the kitchen door with the hired men. In 
 the kitchen was a masterful maid who had been 
 long with the family. She was capable with a 
 capability almost amounting to genius. The 
 two hired men washed their hands and faces 
 at the sink. William waited his turn, and the 
 maid, whose name was Emma, regarded him 
 259 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 with scorn. The kitchen table was set for 
 three. William always ate with the hired men. 
 Emma gave supper to the three men, and to the 
 two brothers and the sisters in the dining-room; 
 then she had her own supper. After she had 
 seen the three men in the kitchen eating, the 
 two hired men with loud gulps and gurgles, and 
 William silently, with his face bent with an in 
 describable gentle melancholy over his plate, 
 she put on a clean white apron, entered the 
 dining-room, and took up her station at the 
 table there until the others had finished. 
 
 Mrs. Meserve, by virtue of her former mar 
 ried estate, as well as her superior age, had the 
 head of the dining-table, which was of solid old 
 mahogany. The dining-room was really charm 
 ing. Beside the solid old mahogany table was 
 a marvellous old sideboard, and a corner cup 
 board filled with Canton china. The windows 
 had diamond-shaped panes. Annie Lynde, the 
 spinster sister, was artistic, and she had had 
 the old rectangular panes of distorting glass 
 changed. She had also had the walls papered 
 with dull blue, and there was a moulding with 
 more of the blue Cant on- ware. She was a year 
 older than William, very pretty, with a delicate 
 prettiness, and was well dressed. Mrs. Meserve 
 was stouter and older, with a fair hardness of 
 countenance, and she was well dressed. The 
 260 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 brothers, now they had changed their working- 
 clothes, appeared distinctly gentlemen. 
 
 The two meals progressed, the one in the 
 dining-room, the other in the kitchen. William, 
 of those in the kitchen, finished his supper first. 
 He had not much appetite, and, besides, the 
 alien company of the hired men irritated him 
 more than usual. He rose abruptly and went 
 out of the kitchen and the house, and back 
 across the stubbly field until he reached the 
 nine-acre lot a noble field, as level as a floor, 
 enclosed with well-kept stone walls, and bor 
 dered on two sides with sweeping elms. He 
 crossed to one of those sides, and seated him 
 self on the wall on a large flat stone, where he 
 had often sat before. Then his face took on 
 an almost happy expression. He_ looked at 
 fe^Jr^^pwhicnprbssed the horizon with ma 
 jestic arcs of gittce; he looked at the sky, which 
 had not yet lost all its sunset glory, but was 
 fading slowly with wonderful gradations of rose 
 and violet and primrose, and at the stubble of 
 the field. The mutilated stalks of grass show 
 ed rainbow lights, and the air was sweet and 
 cool. The trees, the sky, the field, the blessed 
 coolness, and the descending shade of the night 
 were all inexpressibly dear to the man. He 
 could just see, across the field, the roof of a 
 house. When he looked at that, his face be- 
 261 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 came at once yearning and benignant. He 
 could hear faintly across the field the sound of 
 a piano and a singing treble voice. It was 
 rather thin, but sweet, and carried far. The 
 song had a pretty air, somewhat plaintive; the 
 words were inaudible. William listened. That 
 was really what he had come to this place for. 
 He came there nearly every warm night, when 
 the windows were open and he could hear the 
 singing. 
 
 Miss Rose Willard lived in the house. She 
 was the music-teacher of the village, and sang 
 in the church choir every Sunday. She usually 
 practised the hour after supper. As he listen 
 ed, William seemed to see her seated at the 
 piano in the pretty little parlor, where he had 
 been a few times years ago. Rose Willard was 
 not so very young, but she was a beauty. He 
 could see just how her face looked: her sweet 
 eyes bent upon the lines of the song, the sing 
 ing curve of her parted lips. He sighed; and 
 yet not altogether sorrowfully. Suddenly the 
 music ceased; it usually lasted an hour. The 
 man s face fell disappointedly. Then he saw 
 a flutter of something ^vhite across the field. 
 It was now nearly dusk. William gazed at 
 the pale, moving flutter across the field, close 
 to the trees, where the stubble was not so try 
 ing to delicately shod feet. Then, before he 
 262 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 could realize it, Rose Willard stood before him. 
 Her dainty white gown was gathered up, re 
 vealing the lace on her petticoat ; a lilac ribbon 
 was tied around her waist; her gown was slight 
 ly open at the neck, revealing a firm, round 
 throat. Rose was rather below the middle 
 height; she was small and firm, with charming 
 curves. Her face was round, with large blue 
 eyes, and her curling yellow hair was twisted 
 into a little crest at the top of her head. 
 She stood looking at the man on the wall 
 in an odd fashion, half ashamed, half de 
 fiant. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Lynde," said she, finally. 
 
 Then William collected himself and rose. 
 "Good-evening, Miss Willard," he replied, and 
 all his miserable timidity and humility were 
 upon him again. 
 
 She continued to look at him, and now a 
 scorn and anger were in her look, as well as 
 shamefacedness and defiance. 
 
 "I want to ask you something," she said, 
 abruptly. 
 
 William bowed. 
 
 " I want to know if you weren t here last 
 evening." 
 
 "Yes, I believe I was," replied William. 
 
 "And the evening before that?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 263 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "Almost every evening this summer?" con 
 tinued the woman, pitilessly. 
 
 "I don t know but I was." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 William did not answer. 
 
 "Why?" insisted the woman. 
 
 Then William said something about its being 
 a cool place and pleasant to sit in. 
 
 " I should think you would sit on the piazza 
 at your own house with your brothers and 
 sisters," said Rose. Her voice in speaking was 
 almost a singing voice, loud and sweet, but en 
 tirely uncompromising. 
 
 William hung his head before her straight 
 blue gaze in a weary, patient fashion which 
 seemed to enrage her. 
 
 "Why don t you hold your head up?" she 
 burst out. "Why do you do so? William 
 Lynde, I am all out of patience with you." 
 
 William continued to stand before her as if 
 before a righteous judge. 
 
 Rose made an impatient movement, and 
 seated herself on the wall. " I am doing an 
 outrageous thing, and it would be town talk 
 if it got out," said she, "but I can t help it. 
 I ve stood this just as long as I can. Sit down 
 here beside me, William Lynde; I ve got some 
 thing to say to you." William moved slowly to 
 a stone at some distance from Rose. 
 264 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 "Now," said Rose, "I am going to ask you 
 some questions, and I want you to answer me. 
 I ve heard a good many things said, and now 
 I am coming straight to you to find out how 
 much is true and how much isn t." 
 
 William waited, his head turned away from 
 her. He was conscious of a faint, subtle per 
 fume from her garments, and the malodorous- 
 ness of his own came in his face and filled him 
 with a sort of despair. What was he to sit 
 beside this white-clad song-bird? 
 
 "Have you had your supper?" asked she. 
 
 "Yes," replied William. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 William hesitated. 
 
 "Where?" demanded the woman. 
 
 "In the kitchen." 
 
 " In the kitchen with the hired men?" 
 
 "Yes," admitted William, with a sort of gasp. 
 
 "Why didn t you eat in the dining-room 
 with the rest of the family? Why do you eat 
 in the kitchen with the servants ? Why don t 
 you dress like a gentleman as your brothers do ? 
 You must have your rights in the property as 
 well as they." 
 
 " I can t tell you why," William said, in a 
 muffled voice. 
 
 Nonsense ! Yes, you can tell me, too. 
 Why can t you tell me?" 
 265 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 William remained silent, but his face in the 
 dim light was as the face of a ghost, and he 
 was swallowing convulsively as if he were chok 
 ing back sobs. 
 
 "Before I d be an underling all the days of 
 my life, when I had as good a right to hold up 
 my head as anybody, I d " Rose stopped. 
 She had no expression forcible enough. 
 
 The two sat silently on the wall; then Rose 
 spoke again. " I am going to do a dreadful 
 thing, I suppose," said she. "I am mortified 
 and ashamed of myself for doing it, and you 
 needn t think I am not. Afterwards, when I 
 think it over, I shall be almost crazy, but I am 
 going to do it. I am going to ask you if you 
 remember a night when you walked home with 
 me from church, years ago, when we were very 
 young." 
 
 William nodded. "Yes," he replied, in a 
 choking voice. "I never forgot." 
 
 "It was just before your father died." 
 
 William nodded again, and again murmured 
 yes. 
 
 "Well," said Rose, "I didn t know but you 
 had forgotten. I am going to say right out 
 although, as I said before, when I think of it 
 afterwards I shall be most ready to kill my 
 self for it that I never forgot, and She 
 hesitated, then she went on with a sort of 
 266 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 shamed resolution. "Of course, I haven t 
 married" she bridled a little as she spoke 
 "but, of course, I ve had my chances, and 
 now 
 
 William trembled perceptibly. 
 
 "I have a good chance now," said Rose; 
 " perhaps you can guess who, but I guess I 
 am not made like a good many women. When 
 I have once She paused and hesitated, 
 then she continued, firmly: "When I admitted 
 what I did to you, that time," she said, "I 
 didn t do it in a flirty kind of way, like some 
 young girls. I was never that kind, and I 
 never forgot, and I have always felt bound to 
 myself because of it, if I didn t to you. Then 
 there was another thing. I have been scold 
 ing you for letting yourself be so put upon, but 
 I guess I am one of the kind of women who has 
 a liking for the under dog." Her defiant voice 
 trembled and broke. She began to weep soft 
 ly. Her dainty shoulders, turned from the 
 man beside her, were heaving. William looked 
 at her, and his face was convulsed and ghastly. 
 Then he spoke with determination. 
 
 " I have always wondered if I owed it to you 
 to tell you something," he said, "but I wasn t 
 quite sure. Now I know, and I am going to 
 tell you." 
 
 "You needn t on my account, if you have 
 267 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 changed your mind," said Rose, in a bitter, 
 sobbing voice. 
 
 "I have never changed my mind." In spite 
 of himself, William s voice was full of the ten- 
 derest inflections. " It wasn t that, but I didn t 
 know how much you had understood or meant, 
 you were so pretty, and there were so many " 
 
 " Enough was said for any girl who had any 
 self-respect to draw one conclusion," replied 
 Rose, with spirit. 
 
 " Yes, but it was a hard thing to tell. I knew 
 you thought I liked you, but you went on just 
 the same, pretty and laughing as ever, and 
 whether you meant 
 
 " I never was a girl to wear my heart on my 
 sleeve, nor say and do things of that kind un 
 less I did mean them." 
 
 "I didn t know quite what to do. I see 
 now I ought to have told you, but it was 
 hard." 
 
 "What was hard?" 
 
 "To tell you." 
 
 "To tell me what?" 
 
 "To tell you I had done something wrong, 
 so that I could never marry anybody." 
 
 "What have you done wrong, for Heaven s 
 
 sake? I don t believe you ever hurt a fly, 
 
 William Lynde. You were never that kind. 
 
 You always took the heavy end of things and 
 
 268 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 let yourself be put upon more or less. I don t 
 believe a word of it." 
 
 "It is the truth," said William, in a heavy 
 
 voice. 
 
 "You don t mean that you ever did any 
 thing that would make you liable to arrest, 
 or _ any thing of that kind, if you were found 
 out?" 
 
 "Yes," replied William. 
 
 "I don t believe a word of it," said Rose. 
 William remained silent. His face had a curi 
 ous doggedness the doggedness of a martyr 
 under fire. Rose moved a little nearer. "Well, 
 if you did," said she, "people can always over 
 look anything if one is sorry and never does 
 so again." 
 
 "I am not sorry," said William, "and I 
 should do so again." 
 
 Rose stared and shrank back. "William 
 Lynde," said she, "what on earth do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "I have committed a crime," said William, 
 in a voice so calm that it sounded hard. "I 
 was tempted, and I yielded, and I should do 
 so again." 
 
 The woman s face changed. She felt a lit 
 tle fear of him. "Do your folks know about 
 it?" asked she. 
 
 "They know what I did," replied William. 
 269 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 He spoke evasively, but Rose did not notice 
 that. 
 
 "And they have kept quiet about it? I 
 think they have stood by you pretty well." 
 
 "Yes, they have," assented William, wearily. 
 
 "Well, I am not going to urge you to tell 
 what you did, if you don t want to," said Rose, 
 and her voice was full of suspicious inflections, 
 and the singing quality had disappeared. 
 . "I ll tell you some time," said William. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "I can t tell you while I am living. I ll 
 leave a letter for you to read after I am dead." 
 
 "What nonsense!" said Rose, harshly. "Ten 
 chances to one you ll outlive me." 
 
 " No, I guess I sha n t. I am not as well as 
 I used to be." 
 
 "Not anything serious?" said Rose, and 
 again the tenderness was in her voice. 
 
 "No, I guess not," replied William, patient 
 ly, "but I ll write a letter, anyway." 
 
 Rose s whole body inclined towards him as 
 they sat there. "I am willing to overlook it, 
 not knowing," said she, in a low voice. 
 
 "No, Rose, I can t," said the man. "It s 
 no use; I can t." 
 
 Rose sprang to her feet. "Well, I guess I ve 
 humiliated myself enough for one night!" she 
 cried. "I wouldn t marry you now, William 
 
 270 
 
NO, ROSE, I CANT. ITS NO USE", I CANT 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 Lynde, if you were to tell me you hadn t done 
 anything worse than to steal a pin." 
 
 William was silent. 
 
 "I expect your brother to-night," she said. 
 "I don t know whether you know it or not, 
 but he has been after me for a long time." 
 
 "Yes, I know it," said William, in a choking 
 voice. 
 
 " Well, I guess I may as well tell him to-night 
 that I ll marry him." 
 
 "I hope you will be happy," said William, 
 and she could scarcely hear him. 
 
 " I guess I shall be as happy as most people," 
 said she. "Your brother is good-looking, and 
 has a good disposition, and he holds up his 
 head as if he wasn t ashamed of anything he 
 has ever done." 
 
 "He has no call to be," replied William. 
 
 Rose went slowly home across the field. 
 The stubble pricked her feet, and she set them 
 down with a gingerly impatience. She was 
 angry with William, she pitied him, and she 
 felt humiliated. She said to herself that it 
 had come to a pretty pass when she, Rose Wil- 
 lard, had in a measure thrown herself at a 
 man s head to be rejected. Then she won 
 dered what in the world he had done, and evil 
 surmises swarmed in her innocent mind like so 
 many unclean flies. She was a good woman, 
 271 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 and had led a pure life, but the imagination for 
 evil is dormant or rampant in all things human. 
 She really stained herself imagining what Will 
 iam might have done, as she crossed the field, her 
 dainty white go wn gatheredup, the lace of her pet 
 ticoat ruffling around her carefully stepping feet. 
 When she reached home she found her wid 
 owed aunt, Eliza Ames, and her sister, Gloria. 
 Gloria was a libellous name for Rose s elder 
 sister, but there had always been a Gloria in 
 the Willard family, and the name had fallen to 
 her lot, with none of the meaning implied by it. 
 Gloria was older than Rose, and a fac-simile 
 of her in everything except tints. Nothing 
 more sallow and, where it was not sallow, col 
 orless could be imagined than her face. She 
 seemed homelier than if she had not had Rose 
 for a sister. She had contrast to encounter as 
 well as her own defects. But Gloria did not 
 repine, at least openly. She had an even tem 
 perament, which was a blessing to her. Mar 
 riage had been dismissed finally from her 
 thoughts when she was eighteen and a young 
 man had walked home from evening meeting 
 with her, and the next week with another girl, 
 whom he had married in three months. Pri 
 vately Gloria regarded that as the chance which 
 every woman is said to have, and it was a taste 
 of sweet which comforted her. 
 272 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 When Gloria looked up at Rose, lovely as a 
 flower, in the choir, she had a curious pride of 
 proprietorship in her. It really seemed to her 
 that in some way Rose was dependent upon 
 her for her beauty and her sweet singing voice, 
 that to her were due the thanks for both. It 
 was also borne in upon Gloria s mind that 
 Rose owed all the comforts of life to her. She 
 took pleasure in thinking her sister unpractical. 
 Rose made all her own pretty gowns, but Gloria 
 never fairly realized that she herself did not 
 make them; she looked at a hat which Rose 
 had trimmed, and it seemed to her that she 
 was the one who had fastened on the knots of 
 ribbon and the flowers. She even had an odd 
 sense of singing instead of Rose, and, withal, she 
 was entirely sincere. Rose was good-nature it 
 self as regarded her sister. She was as sweet, 
 in fact, with loyalty as a rose is with its essential 
 perfume. 
 
 To-night, as Rose entered, Gloria was seated 
 in the lighted parlor, engaged on some fancy- 
 work. She looked at her beautiful sister, and 
 it was as good to her- as if she saw herself, and 
 yet not because of unselfishness. Rose seated 
 herself at the piano, and began to sing a foolish, 
 sentimental song, but in a moment her voice 
 broke. She leaned her head over against the 
 music-rack. 
 
 273 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " What on earth is the matter?" asked Gloria. 
 
 "Too many fools in the world," replied Rose, 
 in a voice which did not seem like her own, so 
 gibing and bitter was it. 
 
 "I don t see what there is to cry about in 
 that," said Gloria. 
 
 Rose laughed a little, and began to sing again. 
 Her voice was triumphantly sweet and clear. 
 
 "I guess there isn t much the matter," said 
 Gloria. Then the door-bell rang, pealing out 
 in the midst of Rose s song. 
 
 "I guess you ll be all right now," whispered 
 Gloria. She admired Edgar Lynde, and felt as 
 proud as if he had been her own lover. Then 
 she gathered up her work and went out of the 
 room. 
 
 When Edgar Lynde came in and had seated 
 himself, he begged Rose to go on with her 
 song. 
 
 "It is a silly thing," said Rose. "I don t 
 believe you will like it." 
 
 " It sounded very pretty as I was coming up 
 the walk," said Edgar. " What is it ?" 
 
 "Just a little thing I came across the other 
 day in Crosby s." 
 
 "You didn t tell me the name." 
 
 "The name is Who loves once loves for 
 aye, " said Rose, and there was an odd tone 
 of defiance in her voice. 
 274 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 Edgar laughed his unfailing laugh of merri 
 ment. There was to Rose something exasper 
 ating about Edgar Lynde s laugh. It did not 
 seem to her as if everything in life was provoca 
 tive of mirth, or even of good-nature. 
 
 " Sounds as if that might be a pretty song," 
 said Edgar. There was sentiment in his voice, 
 for he was, in his light-hearted way, fond of 
 Rose; still, he laughed. 
 
 " I don t see what you are laughing at," said 
 Rose. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," replied Edgar. "I was only 
 thinking how many widows and widowers, and 
 even folks who have had stacks of love-affairs, 
 would feel singing that song." There was 
 nothing whatever satirical in his voice, which 
 expressed simply good-humored and happy ac 
 quiescence with the laws of life. 
 
 Rose set her full lips firmly. "It may be 
 truer than you think, all the same," said she. 
 "You don t know what is at the bottom of 
 folk s hearts." 
 
 "Well," retorted Edgar, "if anything like 
 that is at the bottom of a heart, that man or 
 woman had better stick to the one it s meant 
 for; that s all I ve got to say." 
 
 A singular expression came over Rose s face; 
 her full lips tightened still more. " That s what 
 I say," said she. Then she began to sing. Her 
 275 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 voice rang out with unusual feeling and sweet 
 ness. 
 
 The music was light, and the words almost 
 foolish enough to be incomprehensible, but she 
 threw meaning into the song. 
 
 By Jove!" cried Edgar, after Rose had fin 
 ished, "that is one of the best things I have 
 heard for a long time." 
 
 "I am glad you like it," said Rose, moving 
 away from the piano. 
 
 "It is a pity you can t sing it in the choir," 
 said Edgar, with his laugh. 
 
 " I fear it would hardly answer," replied Rose. 
 She took some crochet - work of rose - colored 
 wool off the table and sat down. 
 
 "It would break up the meeting, I guess," 
 said Edgar, and he laughed again. He pulled 
 a chair close to her with easy grace. Then he 
 caught at her work. 
 
 "Edgar Lynde, you will snarl my wool so 
 I can never get it straight," said Rose, still 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, hang the wool!" said Edgar. Then he 
 pulled the work out of her lap and gave it a 
 toss onto the floor. Rose sat still, with an 
 odd expression as of some one who expects 
 something long looked for and is passive before 
 the fatality of its advance. 
 
 "I don t want you to work to-night; I want 
 276 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 you to attend to Edgar," said the man, and 
 there was a childlike tone of tenderness in his 
 voice. 
 
 Rose remained sitting, quietly waiting. 
 
 Edgar leaned over her. He took one of her 
 hands, which she immediately pulled away, 
 although so gently that the motion did not 
 savor of repulse. 
 
 "You are going to marry me, dear, aren t 
 you?" said Edgar. 
 
 Rose remained silent. She stared straight 
 ahead. Her face was pale except for red spots 
 on the cheeks; tears stood in her fixed eyes. 
 
 "Why don t you answer, dear?" 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 Edgar gave a little triumphant laugh and 
 flung an arm around Rose s waist. "You sup 
 pose so; I like that," he repeated. "That is 
 all a man gets after he has been hanging around 
 a girl as long as I have." 
 
 " That ought to be enough," said Rose, sober 
 ly. " Of course, I have understood, or thought 
 I did, what your attentions meant. There is 
 no use in pretending I didn t. We are not 
 children." 
 
 "Well, I have had my eye on you ever since 
 
 you were that high," said Edgar, indicating a 
 
 three - feet height from the floor. "I know, 
 
 dear, you would have been blind if you had 
 
 277 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 not supposed so. But >" Edgar hesitated a 
 second, Then he went on: "I will confess, 
 though, I thought at one time that William 
 had the best chance. That kept me back." 
 
 Rose turned on him abruptly. "What is it 
 about William?" she asked. 
 
 "You won t see much of William, anyway, 
 dear," replied Edgar. 
 
 "Why?" said Rose, and her tone was im 
 perative. 
 
 Edgar shrugged his shoulders. "William is 
 not much with the rest of the family," he said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Edgar s smiling lips became firm. He looked 
 down almost frowningly at her. "Rose," he 
 said, " I love you, and I am going to do every 
 thing I can to make you happy, but there is 
 one thing I cannot do, and none of the rest 
 of us can do, and you must never ask it nor 
 expect it." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "You must not ask why William lives as 
 he does, or why he is not, strictly speaking, one 
 of the family." 
 
 "He eats with the hired men, doesn t he?" 
 asked Rose. 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "And you cannot tell me why?" 
 
 "No, dear, and you must not ask me. We 
 278 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 have good and sufficient reasons for it all. I 
 know it looks as if we were treating William 
 terribly, but we are treating him better than 
 you may think." Suddenly Edgar s face, look 
 ing down at Rose s beautiful one, changed. 
 "Say, Rose, what are you going to be married 
 in?" said he. "White" and a veil?" 
 
 "If I am not too old," replied Rose, with a 
 curious angry blush. 
 
 " Stuff!" said Edgar. " There is not a young 
 girl in town who can compare with you. White 
 you wear, veil and all. Now I have waited all 
 this time, you need not think I am going to 
 miss anything." Edgar laughed again, exult- 
 ingly, and again his exultant laugh irritated 
 Rose. "Why did you make me wait so long, 
 dear?" he asked. "You never even gave me 
 a chance to ask you before." 
 
 "I wasn t in any hurry to get married," re 
 plied Rose, evasively. 
 
 "Hurry! I should think not," returned Ed 
 gar, laughing a loud peal. "Well," he said, 
 " you ve got to hurry now, dear; and I am going 
 to have the wedding march played like a jig, 
 and you will have to run up the aisle, with 
 your white veil streaming out behind." Edgar 
 leaned his face close to Rose to kiss her, but 
 she pushed him away. 
 
 "Don t!" said she. 
 
 19 279 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 Edgar regarded her with hurt astonishment. 
 "Why," said he, "aren t you going to let me 
 kiss you, now we are engaged?" 
 
 "Once, when you go home," said Rose. 
 
 That night when Edgar had gone it was 
 nearly midnight. Rose went up to her room, 
 and the door of Gloria s opposite was wide open. 
 The room was full of moonlight, and Rose saw 
 Gloria stir in her white bed. She entered soft 
 ly, setting her candle on a little table in the 
 entry. 
 
 "Are you awake, Gloria?" she whispered, 
 softly. 
 
 "Yes. What is it?" 
 
 "I am going to marry Edgar Lynde before 
 long." 
 
 "I hope you ll be real happy," Gloria whis 
 pered back. Rose went up to the bed, and 
 Gloria kissed her. Then Rose went out. 
 "Please shut my door," Gloria said, in a muf 
 fled voice. 
 
 After Rose had gone, Gloria still lay there 
 awake in the moonlight. Her cheeks were 
 quite wet with tears; and yet she was not con 
 scious of unhappiness or of envy because of 
 the sight of her sister s possessing a happiness 
 which she must miss. Still, her self - esteem 
 held her firm. She felt like the background of 
 gloom against which there is only possible the 
 280 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 true belief of happiness. She almost felt as if, 
 had there been no Gloria, with her calm self- 
 renunciation, there could have been no Rose 
 certainly no Rose to the extent of beauty and 
 happiness of which she was capable. She lay 
 awake a long time planning Rose s trousseau. 
 
 II 
 
 The next Sunday Rose dined with the Lyndes. 
 She was charming in her summer silk of a soft, 
 brown shade and her hat with the brim faced 
 with pink roses. There was a state dinner. 
 
 William as usual sat meekly with the hired 
 men in the kitchen, but he ate nothing. He 
 was ghastly pale. He had dressed himself, as 
 he always did on Sunday, in his best clothes. 
 After dinner he went across the field to his ac 
 customed seat on the stone-wall and thought 
 about what was coming, how Rose Willard was 
 going to marry Edgar and would live in the 
 house as his brother s wife. " I ve got to stop 
 feeling about her the way I have done," he said 
 to himself. "There is no use talking, it has 
 got to be done." 
 
 Sitting there, the man strove as resolutely 
 and with as much agony to pluck the love from 
 his heart as a wounded man to pluck a spear 
 281 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 from a wound. "It has got to be done," he 
 kept saying to himself over and over. 
 
 At last, when he rose and crept off home 
 across the fields he actually limped. He looked 
 like an old man. 
 
 The next afternoon William left the hay- 
 field early; the hay was nearly in, and he 
 considered that they could spare him. James 
 called after him in wonder. 
 
 "Where are you going, William?" he asked. 
 
 " I must drive over to Askam before sup 
 per," William replied, never turning his head, 
 as he strode across the field in his unwonted 
 self-assertion. 
 
 Edgar wiped his forehead, gazed towards the 
 west, where the sun was sinking, and thought 
 of Rose. He fairly laughed with love of her 
 and self - love. He worshipped at a double 
 shrine, and was in an ecstasy. He thought how 
 happy he was, and how happy he was making 
 Rose, and he laughed again. The hired men, 
 watching him furtively, grinned. 
 
 " He dunno whether he s on his head or his 
 heels," one grunted to the other. 
 
 Meanwhile William was driving a lame old 
 horse to Askam. He was going to buy a wed 
 ding-present for Rose. He had his own account 
 at the Askam bank. He drew generously upon 
 it, and carried home a service of solid silver. 
 
 282 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 When he reached home supper was over, and 
 Emma had relapsed from her frame of mind of 
 the day before. 
 
 " Supper is all over," she said, sternly, to him 
 when he entered by the kitchen door as usual. 
 
 4 It s all right," replied William, carrying his 
 large, neat package from the jeweller s. 
 
 Emma eyed it curiously. " I can t have sup 
 per standin round an hour on a washin -day," 
 said she. 
 
 " It s all right," repeated William. " I don t 
 want any supper." Then, much to her aston 
 ishment, he passed directly into the sitting- 
 room with his package. He produced as much 
 astonishment there. His sisters, seated near 
 the table with their work, and James with his 
 evening paper (Edgar had gone to see Rose), 
 started. William spoke to his elder sister, 
 Mrs. Meserve. "Will you come into the par 
 lor a minute?" said he. "I want to speak to 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Meserve cast a glance of wonder and 
 alarm at her sister and James, and rose and 
 followed William into the parlor. 
 
 "I got a present," said William, "and I 
 thought I would like to have you see it." 
 
 "A wedding- present ?" asked Mrs. Meserve. 
 William nodded. He was busy unwrapping 
 the package. 
 
 283 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " Well, you are in a hurry," said Mrs. Meserve. 
 
 William opened the box and displayed his 
 purchases in their Canton-flannel bags. 
 
 Mrs. Meserve gasped. "You don t mean 
 it s solid?" said she. 
 
 "You don t suppose I would give her any 
 thing that was not solid," said William. He 
 spoke in a tone of resentment new to him, but 
 Mrs. Meserve was so wrapped in her contem 
 plation of the shining silver pieces, which gave 
 off bluish lights in the room, that she did not 
 notice. 
 
 "It is magnificent," she said, in an awed 
 voice. "Magnificent. I never saw anything 
 to equal it." 
 
 "Then you think it is all right, that I could 
 not have got anything better?" asked William, 
 and his voice expressed a pathetic pleasure. 
 
 "Better? Goodness! I should think it was 
 a princess that was going to get married. I 
 never saw anything like it. I don t see when 
 she s going to use it, for my part." 
 
 "Well, I m glad it s all right," said William. 
 Then he returned, crossing the sitting-room in 
 his humble fashion, and they heard his steps 
 on the back stairs leading to his room. 
 
 Mrs. Meserve, who had followed him, spoke 
 as soon as the door was closed behind him. 
 " He has bought a solid-silver service, ever so 
 284 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 many pieces I never saw anything so mag 
 nificent for a wedding-present," said she. 
 
 Annie dropped her work. "A solid- silver ser 
 vice!" exclaimed she. 
 
 The handsomest one you ever laid your 
 eyes on." 
 
 Annie and James followed Mrs. Meserve into 
 the parlor to inspect William s wedding- present 
 to Rose. lie himself, sitting beside the win 
 dow in his little bedroom, reflected upon it 
 with a measure of self-gratulation new to him. 
 It was a hot night and overcast. There was 
 a fine misting rain. It blew into the open win 
 dow upon him until he was quite damp. He 
 seemed to see the blue lights of the silver pieces, 
 and he tried to see them as Rose might. At 
 last it seemed to him that he could do so. He 
 became sure that he was reflecting Upon the, 
 possession of the silver"exactly. ^as a woman 
 might do, and he smiled in the darkness, an 
 angelic v " smile of unselfish love. Theji^Jje 
 coughed. He had coughed a good deal lately, 
 but ndBbdy^had noticed it. He Batt" not "no 
 ticed it himself. However, his cough settled a 
 much-deliberated question when the night of 
 the wedding came, a month later. The Lyndes 
 had wondered whether it would be inevitable 
 that he should go. 
 
 "He has no clothes fit," said Mrs. Meserve, 
 285 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 " and it seems hardly advisable to get them for 
 just one occasion." 
 
 "That is so," replied Annie. 
 
 William himself had made up his mind. A 
 curious pride in going possessed him. The 
 worm turned. He ordered a suit of clothes in 
 Askam at his brother s tailor s, and the tailor 
 told Edgar. 
 
 When Edgar came home after trying on his 
 wedding suit, he told James. "Say," he said, 
 "William is going." 
 
 "To the wedding?" 
 
 "Yes; he is having some clothes made. The 
 tailor told me." 
 
 James frowned. " Well, perhaps it is better," 
 he said, at length. " People might think it sin 
 gular for him not to attend his own brother s 
 wedding, and might talk, and that is what we 
 don t want." 
 
 But when the day of the wedding came, 
 William s cough had so increased that it had 
 come to be noticed, and Annie and Mrs. Meserve 
 talked it over. 
 
 "It is no use," said Annie, positively; "leav 
 ing everything else out of the question, he can^ 
 not go for that reason alone. He coughs every 
 minute. It is incessant. Hear him now." In 
 fact, at that moment the sound of William s 
 persistent cough was heard from the kitchen, 
 286 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 "Such a cough as that right through the 
 ceremony," said Annie "why, it is ridiculous. 
 Of course he can t go." 
 
 "But his clothes have come home from the 
 tailor s, and everything," Mrs. Meserve said, 
 hesitating. 
 
 "Nonsense, Agnes; he can t go. You know 
 yourself that anybody that coughs like that 
 can t possibly go to a wedding." 
 
 That afternoon, when William was sitting 
 alone on the back porch, Mrs. Meserve came 
 out hesitatingly. She did not like what she 
 had to do. She told him that she and Annie 
 had been talking it over, and they both thought 
 that, coughing as he did, it was hardly advisable 
 for him to go to the wedding. William turned 
 his face towards her, and for the first time she 
 saw an expression of something like reproach 
 on it. She noticed, too, for the first time that 
 he had grown thin. He had shaved, and was 
 all ready to don the new suit which lay on his 
 bed up-stairs. 
 
 "We both think it best," said Mrs. Meserve, 
 again, in a faltering tone. Then she added: 
 " It will be a damp night, too, and it is hardly 
 safe for you to go out, coughing as you do, 
 William." 
 
 William looked away. "All right," he re 
 sponded. 
 
 287 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "You can put on your new clothes, and we 
 will send a carriage and you can go to the 
 reception afterwards at Rose s." 
 
 4 All right," said William. 
 
 When Mrs. Meserve joined Annie, she replied 
 rather soberly to her question as to whether 
 she had told William. 
 
 "He said all right," answered Mrs. Meserve. 
 "Annie" 
 
 "What is it?" said Annie. She was fasten 
 ing pink roses on the front of her dress. 
 
 "Do you suppose that cough ought to be 
 looked /out for? He has grown very thin. I 
 noticeu it for the first time just now." 
 
 "Nonsense! It is only a throat cough," re 
 plied Annie. "Has Edgar gone?" 
 
 " Yes; he started just before I came up-stairs. 
 He looked as handsome as a picture. I hope 
 you are right about William s cough." 
 
 But in the mean time something unforeseen 
 and unprecedented was happening at the Wil- 
 lard House. 
 
 Edgar had proceeded to the house of the 
 bride - elect, because of a note just received 
 from her aunt asking him to do so. The note 
 was evidently written hurriedly and had an 
 agitated air. " Please come at once instead of 
 going to the church first ; something has hap- 
 288 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 pened," it said. Edgar felt a little uneasy as 
 he rolled along the old, familiar road, with such 
 a feeling of strangeness in his heart that it al 
 most looked unfamiliar to him. He gazed out 
 at the leafless trees, whose branches gleamed 
 golden under the brilliant winter sun against 
 the blue of the sky, and it did not seem that 
 they could possibly be the same trees which he 
 had seen ever since he could remember, but, 
 instead, trees which had gotten their growth in 
 some unknown paradise. He was very fond 
 of Rose, and very happy. It is true that her 
 aunt s letter made him a little uneasy, but his 
 cheerful optimism sustained him. 
 
 When he reached Rose s house, her aunt s 
 face disappeared from the window, and the 
 front door opene.d directly. 
 
 Edgar sprang lightly out of the coach, and 
 ran up the walk and the steps. "Why, what 
 is the matter?" he asked, laughingly, 
 
 "Come in a minute," replied Mrs. Ames, 
 mysteriously. 
 
 Edgar followed her into the house and the 
 sitting-room. " What is the matter?" he asked 
 again, and he was still smiling. 
 
 Mrs. Ames, who was emotional, began to 
 cry. Even then Edgar s smiling face did not 
 change. "I don t know what has come over 
 Rose," Mrs. Ames sobbed out. 
 289 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "She isn t sick?" 
 
 " No, but she said she must see you before 
 she went to the church, and " 
 
 "And what?" 
 
 "Oh, she looks and acts so queer. I don t 
 know what is the matter." 
 
 Edgar laughed outright. "Oh, Lord! prob 
 ably her dress doesn t fit," said he, lightly. 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 "She s in the parlor with Gloria. She s all 
 dressed. It isn t that. It fits her beauti 
 fully. She s just like marble. I don t know 
 what the matter is. I guess she s told Gloria, 
 but she hasn t said a word to me, her own 
 aunt, that s been just like a mother to her." 
 Mrs. Ames began to weep weakly. 
 
 Edgar frowned a little; ttyen he laughed 
 his everlasting laugh of sheef^ optimism, and 
 slowly entered parlor. In the midst of the 
 parlor sat Rose enveloped in a cloud of fleecy 
 white, through which her face showed, as her 
 aunt had said, with the rigidity of marble. 
 Not a vestige of her lovely color remained. 
 Even her lips were white and closely com 
 pressed. Gloria, who was standing over her, 
 and dressed in her wine -colored silk, which 
 cast a glow over her own usually colorless face, 
 gave a terrified roll of her eyes at Edgar enter 
 ing. Then she murmured something about the 
 290 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 note which Rose had wished sent. Edgar made 
 one stride to Rose, and, thrusting aside her veil, 
 took her hands, which were as cold as ice. 
 
 "What on earth is to pay, dear?" he asked. 
 
 Gloria stood still, trembling visibly from 
 head to foot. Rose had told her the whole 
 story, and she made no motion to leave the 
 room. 
 
 Rose looked up at Edgar, and her features 
 contracted into an odd expression almost of 
 hate and repulsion. 
 
 "What is it, sweetheart?" Edgar said again, 
 but he was still smiling. It seemed as if noth- 
 ing_could subdue his expression of radiant tri 
 umph. 
 
 "I ve got to tell you something," Rose said, 
 and all the singing sweetness was gone from 
 her voice. It rang harsh and shrill. 
 
 Her aunt, out in the entry, heard every word. 
 
 "Well, Rose darling, what is it? How love 
 ly you look! But, say, you are awfully pale. 
 Aren t you well?" 
 
 "I am doing an awful thing," Rose replied, 
 in that voice which did not seem like hers. 
 
 "Why, Rose dear? Every girl gets married. 
 Say, sweetheart, you are nervous." 
 
 " No, I am not nervous. I must tell you the 
 truth. I am going to be married to you." 
 
 "Well, I rather guess you are." 
 291 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "I am going to be married to one man, to 
 promise things before God and man, when " 
 
 "When what?" 
 
 "When I love another with all my soul and 
 strength, and have, ever since I can remem 
 ber." 
 
 Edgar still smiled, but now the smile seemed 
 like simply a contraction of the muscles around 
 his handsome mouth. 
 
 " Who is he?" 
 
 "Your brother." 
 
 "My brother? James?" 
 
 "No; William." 
 
 "Good Lord! Why?" 
 
 "I don t know why. I know he has done 
 something dreadful. He told me so himself. 
 I know all that, but I can t break off the habit 
 of loving him. I have loved him ever since I 
 went to school with him." 
 
 "Nonsense, Rose; you are beside yourself. 
 If you knew " 
 
 " It wouldn t make any difference It 
 wouldn t ever make any difference to me. I 
 have imagined everything. Nobody can im 
 agine anything worse. He could not have done 
 anything worse than the things I have imagined, 
 but I love him just the same, more than any 
 body in the whole world, and I now feel as if 
 his sin, whatever it is, is mine too. I feel as 
 292 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 if I had done just what he did, and I can no 
 more hate him for it than I could hate myself. 
 I love him, and I shall love him just the same 
 after I am married to you." 
 
 " Good Lord!" ejaculated Edgar, still with his 
 mechanical smile. 
 
 1 Yes, I shall. I thought I should not, but 
 all at once, after I was dressed and looked at 
 myself in the glass, I saw there what would 
 always be a woman who was married to one 
 man when she loved another enough to die for 
 him; who loved him enough to love even what 
 ever he had done that was wrong, and to feel 
 that she would do it herself." 
 
 The smile slowly faded from Edgar s face, 
 and it was like the going-out of a light. " Do 
 you mean to back out, then, at this late date, 
 when the people must be in the church?" said 
 he. 
 
 " No, I don t back out. I will marry you if 
 you say so. I know I am putting you in an 
 awful light and doing you an awful wrong if I 
 don t, but I can t marry you without telling 
 you the truth." 
 
 Edgar Lynde had within him the capacity of 
 men of his make, who are uniformly good-nat 
 ured and optimistic, of almost devilish revolt 
 when pushed against the wall, of sudden moves 
 of almost incredible daring. His very opti- 
 293 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 mism had its root^in self-esteem. It seemed to 
 him preposterous, almost incredible, that any 
 thing like this could happen to him. At the 
 same time he was not a man to force a woman 
 into an unwilling marriage. A sort of contempt 
 was in his face as he gazed at Rose in her bri 
 dal attire, with her love for his brother in her 
 heart. He was almost brutal. He turned sud 
 denly and looked at Gloria. Her eyes fell. 
 She had all her life, ever since she could remem 
 ber, thought there was no one to equal Edgar 
 Lynde in the whole world. His own anger and 
 wonder at her sister were reflected in her face. 
 Her eyes, which were really lovely, were brill 
 iant with unshed tears. The unwonted glow 
 on her cheeks made her almost beautiful. 
 
 "Look here," said Edgar Lynde, "if you 
 think " He addressed that to Rose, then 
 stopped. 
 
 " I will go through with it if you say so," 
 moaned Rose, "but I had to tell you the 
 truth." 
 
 " If you think I would marry a woman after 
 she had confessed her love for my own broth 
 er, and a brother who is unworthy of it, you 
 are mistaken," said Edgar then. There was no 
 longer even the semblance of a laugh or even 
 a smile on his face. The hardening of their 
 old lines made it seem, instead, fierce. Then 
 294 
 
s$ 
 
 , 
 
 
 I WILL GO THROUGH WITH IT IF YOU SAY SO, MOANED 
 ROSE." 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 he continued: "But," he said, "if you think 
 I am going to have all those people turned 
 away and have them told that there is to be 
 no wedding " he paused again. He looked at 
 Gloria. Then he spoke again. "See here, 
 Gloria," said he, "I know second fiddle isn t 
 the best place in the orchestra, and I know I 
 am asking you to play it, but I ll promise you 
 to do all I can for you if you will." 
 
 Gloria stole a glance at him. The color 
 mounted all over her face. 
 
 Edgar went on quite calmly: "I know I 
 have been courting your sister a long time, and 
 I won t pretend that I haven t thought more 
 of her than of you, and I expected to marry 
 her, of course, and now she has decided at the 
 last moment to put me to shame in the face and 
 eyes of the whole town. You can make it right 
 if you will. People will only think a trick has 
 been played on them. I have always been 
 playing tricks on people, and they won t be 
 so surprised as if I were another man. I shall 
 like you well enough, Gloria, and I ll do my 
 best to make you a good husband, and you 
 have not much to look forward to here." 
 
 Gloria again glanced at him. She was so 
 agitated that she almost chattered like an idiot. 
 She was nearly in hysterics. 
 
 "Make up your mind quickly," Edgar said, 
 
 30 295 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 in a masterful voice. " There isn t any time 
 to lose. Rose s things will fit you. Go up 
 stairs with her, and change dresses, and go 
 and be married to me. Will you do it, Gloria ?" 
 
 " You don t love me," said Gloria then, with 
 a piteous cry her last cry of affronted mkiden- 
 hood. 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" said Edgar, "I shall love you 
 well enough. I dare say I should have loved 
 you instead of Rose in the first place if you had 
 been as good-looking, and in a few years what 
 do looks amount to? I shall like you well 
 enough. I am not one of the kind of men 
 who go into fits over a woman, anyway. I 
 shall be just as happy with you as with her. 
 Hurry, Gloria. There is the carriage for you 
 and your aunt and Rose now." In fact, a car 
 riage decorated with white ribbons just then 
 drove up before the parlor windows. Gloria 
 cast one more glance at Edgar a glance of 
 adoration, of shame, and something like guilt; 
 then she looked at her sister. Rose made an 
 almost imperceptible motion towards the door. 
 Gloria followed her. They both rustled out of 
 the room. "Be as quick as you can," Edgar 
 called after them. His face was very pale, 
 but it had resumed its look of pride at his 
 awards of life. He called to Mrs. Ames in the 
 entry, and was laughing when he accosted her. 
 296 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 "I have something to tell you," he said. She 
 stared at him, white-faced. "You thought I 
 was going to marry Rose all the time, didn t 
 you?" said Edgar. 
 
 "Of course," gasped Mrs. Ames. 
 
 14 Well, I m going to marry Gloria. I think 
 if you go up-stairs and help them change dresses, 
 it might help." 
 
 Mrs. Ames, ascending the stairs tremblingly, 
 cast a scared look over her shoulder at him. 
 
 41 It would be better for all concerned for 
 Rose and Gloria and me if nothing of this got 
 out," said Edgar. He began whistling as Mrs. 
 Ames kept on up the stairs. He then went out 
 of the house, got into his own carriage, and 
 drove to the church, where most of the wed 
 ding-guests were already assembled. 
 
 It is probable that there had never been such 
 a sensation in the village as that occasioned 
 by Edgar Lynde meeting Gloria in bridal array 
 instead of Rose, and being married to her. It 
 was a simple wedding. Rose sat in the au 
 dience, dressed in the wine-colored silk which 
 had been intended for her sister. Edgar had 
 whispered vehemently to his sisters and broth 
 er, and they maintained an outward calmness, 
 as if everything was going forward as had been 
 planned, as did Rose and her aunt. People 
 actually thought that it was one of the whim- 
 297 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 sical proceedings for which Edgar Lynde had 
 always been noted in the place; that he had 
 stolen a march upon them, and had been court 
 ing Gloria all the time instead of Rose, and 
 had meant to marry her. Still, they wondered. 
 Rose was, superficially at least, so superior to 
 Gloria. However, Gloria, in her bridal white, 
 looked better than she had ever done before. 
 The shock of happiness radiated her dull face; 
 her cheeks glowed. People whispered that she 
 was almost as pretty as Rose, after all, and 
 they guessed maybe she would make a better 
 wife. 
 
 William went to the reception, and moved 
 mechanically up to greet his brother and his 
 bride. When he saw Gloria s face under the 
 filmy veil instead of Rose s, his own turned 
 ghastly white, and he staggered. A man caught 
 his arm. 
 
 "What is the matter? Are you sick?" he 
 asked. 
 
 William wavered back amid the crowd. " No, 
 it isn t anything," he replied, choking back 
 his cough. 
 
 "You look dreadful pale," said the man, 
 kindly. He was a young farmer with a sym 
 pathetic nature. He steered William over to 
 a sofa. "You d better set down," said he, 
 "and I ll see if Almira can t scare you up a 
 298 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 cup of coffee." Almira was the farmer s wife. 
 Presently she came, bringing the coffee to 
 William, who remained sitting where he had 
 been placed, but whose look was aloof upon 
 Rose in her wine - colored silk, talking with 
 seeming gayety with a knot of people on the 
 other side of the room. Rose s manner was the 
 same as ever, but her look was strange, and 
 people remarked it. They whispered among 
 themselves. William heard a man say to an 
 other that Rose Willard had got left, he guessed ; 
 that it wasn t always the birds with the finest 
 feathers that got the nest. He himself was 
 fairly dizzy with bewilderment. Edgar had 
 said nothing to him. He had not, in fact, 
 considered it worth while. William gradually 
 gathered consciousness, sitting there on the 
 sofa sipping his coffee, that Rose was not, after 
 all, married; but he also seemed to gather a 
 stronger consciousness than ever before that 
 she was out of his own reach. She had never 
 seemed so far from him as that afternoon, as 
 she stood and chatted with the wedding-guests. 
 She never once looked at him at least, if she 
 did, he did not know it. He noticed the strange 
 look on her beautiful face, and wondered with 
 the rest what it meant. 
 
 It was not long after Edgar s marriage that 
 William moved out of the Lynde house into a 
 
 299 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 little shanty in the field. It had one room and 
 a chimney, and could be warmed, and was com 
 fortable enough. Gloria was the cause of his 
 moving. Now she was married and at a pitch 
 of happiness and success which she had never 
 anticipated, her character took on a higher 
 phase of self -satisfaction. She said openly to 
 Edgar that either they must have a new house 
 or William must live elsewhere. She showed 
 the true imperiousness which had always been 
 dormant in her nature. 
 
 "As for living in a family where one of the 
 sons has done some awful thing so he can t 
 live with the others, but has to eat with the 
 hired men, I won t," said she. 
 
 The Lynde property was undivided. It was 
 almost impossible for Edgar to separate his 
 portion from the rest and live separately. The 
 family discussed the matter, and William moved 
 his poor belongings into the little shanty in 
 the field. He was quite uncomplaining. Some 
 times he wished that Rose had owned the silver 
 service which glittered on the table when the 
 family entertained, which was quite frequent 
 ly since Edgar s marriage. However, he took 
 some comfort in the reflection that Rose at 
 least had the use of the silver sugar-bowl and 
 cream-pitcher. But soon he became very ill. 
 Then he was moved, in spite of his protest, into 
 
 300 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 the house, and James gave up his own chamber 
 a large, sunny room to him. A specialist 
 was consulted, a nurse was engaged, and Rose 
 stayed at the house a great deal to assist, al 
 though she never saw William. She had a 
 knack at delicate cookery, and she prepared the 
 greater part of his meals. She herself grew thin 
 and pale, and her beauty waned. She was torn 
 with grief and love, and horror of that unknown 
 something which William had done. She had 
 locked up in her little rosewood desk a letter 
 which William had written and sent to her the 
 day after their conversation in the field, when 
 he had thought she was to marry Edgar. It 
 was addressed to Miss Rose Willard, and that 
 envelope contained another, on which was in 
 scribed, "To be opened and read after my 
 death." 
 
 She often thought of this letter. William, 
 now he was so ill, seemed the centre around 
 which the whole family revolved. Their very 
 indignation towards him made them more 
 eager to do all that could be done. 
 
 At last it was said that William s death was 
 only a matter of days. He no longer left his 
 bed. It was then that Rose made up her 
 mind. She was a woman with a good head 
 and strong sense of justice, and that influenced 
 her as well as her love for the sick man. " I 
 301 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 don t know what William has done," she said 
 to herself, " and they will not tell me; but they 
 must think it is something dreadful or they 
 wouldn t have treated him as they have done. 
 Now it may be that they are mistaken, and 
 this letter which William wrote for me to read 
 after he was dead explains everything. If that 
 is the case, what folly it is for me to wait until 
 he is dead. I should regret it all the days 
 of my life." She considered her own possible 
 pain as well as the injustice to William when 
 she opened the letter the afternoon before he 
 died. 
 
 She locked herself into a room before open 
 ing it, although she was quite safe from in 
 trusion. James and Edgar had gone on busi 
 ness to Askam; Annie was lying down; Mrs. 
 Meserve had gone on an errand to the drug 
 store. Rose, having locked the door, opened 
 the letter and read it. It did not take long. 
 It was very short. Rose thrust the letter into 
 the bosom of her dress, and crossed the hall to 
 William s sick-room. She knocked, and the 
 nurse came to the door. "How is he?" she 
 whispered. She was trembling from head to 
 foot. 
 
 "He is quiet now," replied the nurse. "He 
 had a hard coughing-spell an hour ago, but he 
 has been quiet since." 
 
 302 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 "Is he asleep?" 
 
 The nurse cast a glance into the room. 
 William was lying very still, with eyes partly 
 closed and a ghastly streak of white visible 
 between the lids. "No, I don t think so," he 
 replied. 
 
 "I want to speak to him a moment," said 
 Rose, "and I want you to go down-stairs while 
 I do so. I have something particular to say 
 while he is able to understand it." 
 
 The nurse looked hesitatingly at her. "You 
 know it will not do to excite him," he said. 
 
 "I will not excite him to hurt him," said 
 Rose, "but I must speak to him." 
 
 The nurse went rather reluctantly down 
 stairs, and Rose entered the room. She went 
 straight to the bed where the sick man lay 
 a stark shape, dimly outlined beneath the bed 
 clothes, his head deeply sunken in the pillow 
 as if with an abnormal heaviness, his face ghast 
 ly, and his expression fixed in a sort of majestic 
 patience and melancholy. 
 
 1 William, said Rose William. 
 
 William opened his eyes and looked at her, 
 although seeming at the same time to look at 
 something past her. He essayed a smile, but 
 his face relapsed into its majestic melan 
 choly. He had almost done with the things of 
 earth. 
 
 303 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "William," said Rose. "I I opened your 
 letter." 
 
 A sudden light of interest leaped into the 
 sick man s face. He tried to speak, but the 
 cough choked him. He made a terrific effort 
 to subdue the cough, and succeeded. "Why 
 didn t you wait?" he asked, in a loud, clear 
 voice, which was startling, coming from those 
 lips, so straight and blue that they looked like 
 those of one already dead. 
 
 "I thought it over," said Rose, in her sweet, 
 singing voice, " and I made up my mind it 
 wasn t just to you to wait till you were gone. 
 I made up my mind that if I had been mis 
 taken I would not want to reproach myself 
 with it all my life." 
 
 William looked at her, and his look was half 
 reproachful, half joyful, as if, in spite of himself, 
 he was glad for what she had done. 
 
 Rose glanced at the door, and saw that it was 
 tightly closed. "William, I know it all now," 
 she said. " How you destroyed your father s 
 will because he had left everything to you, and 
 how they found it out, and thought it was the 
 other way around." 
 
 "If I had told them," said the sick man, 
 "they would all have gone off and had noth 
 ing, and left me here. You don t know how 
 proud " He struggled again with his cough. 
 304 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 "I know you have been put upon all these 
 years," said Rose, and her singing voice qua 
 vered. 
 
 " It was a dreadful thing I did. I made my 
 self liable " said the sick man. He cleared 
 his voice, which seemed to come not so much 
 from his throat as from his soul, such a far-off 
 quality was in it. "The sense of guilt has al 
 ways kept me down," he said. " It wasn t al 
 together the way they treated me; they had 
 reason. I had made myself an underling. I 
 knew I was guilty." 
 
 "Guilty," repeated Rose "guilty for a rea 
 son like that!" She began to weep softly, turn 
 ing away her head that William might not see 
 her. 
 
 "Father had a hasty temper," said William, 
 "and he and James quarrelled; then Edgar got 
 mixed up in it, and Annie, and he didn t like 
 Agnes s husband. He left them each a dollar 
 apiece, and all the rest to me. I couldn t have 
 it so. I don t believe but father has thought 
 better of it himself by this time." 
 
 Rose continued to weep softly. 
 
 " If the lawyer who drew up the will hadn t 
 died suddenly, just as father did, I couldn t 
 have done it," said William. "James was sus 
 picious, and he watched me that night when 
 I went down to father s desk. Father had told 
 305 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 me all about the will, and I couldn t get him to 
 change it. We had words about it, and James 
 had overheard something, and put the wrong 
 construction on it. Father was unconscious, 
 and I knew he wouldn t live till morning. 
 James caught me just as I put the will in the 
 fire, and he couldn t save it. It was blazing. 
 He accused me, and told the others. I couldn t 
 deny it. I was guilty." 
 
 Rose wiped her eyes, came close to William, 
 leaned over, and kissed his forehead. 
 
 "Now I will have you righted," said she. 
 
 But the sick man roused himself, and sat 
 up with a terrible effort. "Oh, Rose," he 
 begged, "don t tell them. Don t you see?" 
 
 "See what, William?" 
 
 "They will never get over it if they know, 
 and I only wanted you to know, and I am al 
 most through." 
 
 "Well," said Rose, "I won t tell them if you 
 say not to, William." 
 
 "There is no use in the living worrying over 
 the troubles of the dead, when they meant 
 right," said William. 
 
 Rose went over to the hearth, where there 
 was a fire burning, and dropped the letter. It 
 blazed up quickly. William smiled. He had 
 settled down again into a shrunken heap. Rose 
 went up to William and kissed him again. " I 
 306 
 
THE UNDERLING 
 
 didn t marry your brother because I loved you 
 so," said she. "I told him so at the last min 
 ute, and he asked Gloria. I loved you, sin and 
 all, William, and now I see, I love you, good 
 ness and all. I have never seen such a good 
 man as you, William, and loving you is better 
 than being married to anybody else." 
 
 Then the nurse came in and Rose went out, 
 and shortly afterwards William had a frightful 
 coughing-spell. He became unconscious soon 
 after midnight, in that wane of creation when 
 the vitality of things of the earth is low, and 
 died before morning. 
 
 It was the evening of the day of the funeral 
 that James told Rose what had been the cause 
 of the dead man s dissension with his family. 
 
 "We would not tell you, even though you 
 had become one of us," he said, "but, now that 
 the poor boy is gone, it can do him no harm, 
 and in a way we owe it to you and to our 
 selves." 
 
 They were all sitting in the best parlor, and 
 the sisters had reddened eyes. They had been 
 weeping. James spoke tenderly, even while re 
 lating what his dead brother had done. It 
 was evident that all rancor on the part of the 
 family had disappeared. 
 
 "Poor devil!" said Edgar. 
 307 
 
THE FAIR LAVINIA AND OTHERS 
 
 "He always had a sweet disposition," said 
 Mrs. Meserve, in a weeping voice. 
 
 " I think he was out of his mind when he did 
 it," said Annie, sobbingly. 
 
 It seemed incumbent upon Rose to speak. 
 "I never lay up anything against the dead," 
 said she. "He may have been better in his 
 heart than any of us." 
 
 "God alone sees the heart," observed Mrs. 
 Meserve, in a solemn voice. 
 
 "That is so," said Gloria. 
 
 Rose said no more. She sat beside the win 
 dow. It was a wonderfully bright moonlight 
 night, and they had not lit the lamps. The 
 field across the road from the house stretched 
 in vast levels of silver light. It seemed to 
 Rose that she could see the underling coming 
 across the field with a glory of his good motives 
 around his head, and bent no longer beneath 
 the burden of his earthly deeds, and she felt 
 like his bride. 
 
 THE END 
 
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